The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems
Title: Poems
Author: Fanny Kemble
Release date: January 7, 2008 [eBook #24216]
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price
Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price, ccx074@pglaf.org
POEMS,
by
FRANCES ANNE BUTLER,
(late fanny kemble.)
LONDON:
(reprinted from the american
edition.)
HENRY WASHBOURNE, NEW BRIDGE STREET,
blackfriars.
oliver & boyd, edinburgh, machen &
co. dublin.
mdcccxliv.
LONDON:
Printed by Stewart and Murray,
Old Bailey.
to
KATHARINE SEDGWICK,
this little volume
is
most respectfully, gratefully,
and affectionately
inscribed.
LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT.
August 9th, 1825.
Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live
Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!
Spirit of harmony! that through the vast
And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading
Thy wings, that o’er our shadowy earth hang brooding,
Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon
And the world’s darker orb: beautiful, hail!
Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether,
Night looks upon the slumbering universe.
There is no breeze on silver-crownëd tree,
There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower,
There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave,
There is no sound hangs in the solemn air.
All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all,
Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth
Winking the slumberer’s destinies. The moon
Sails on the horizon’s verge, a moving glory,
Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb
Approaches, to invade the sea of light
That lives around her; save yon little star,
That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds,
Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.
VENICE.
Night in her dark array
Steals o’er the ocean,
And with departed day
Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o’er yon blue coast
Onward she’s treading,
’Till its dark line is lost,
’Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
On the green billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
Venice is lying,
And round her marble crown
Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night’s dark brow
Brighter stars beaming.
Now o’er the bright lagune
Light barks are dancing,
And ’neath the silver moon
Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
Steal o’er the water,
Echo replies between
To mirth and laughter.
O’er the wave seen afar
Brilliantly shining,
Gleams like a fallen star
Venice reclining.
TO MISS ---
Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year
Already feels old Winter’s icy breath;
As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier
The faded glories of her Autumn wreath.
As fleetly as the Summer’s sunshine past,
The Winter’s snow must melt; and the young
Spring,
Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last,
And in her train the hour of parting bring.
But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart
Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place,
Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart,
Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.
’Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home
To which you welcomed me, will be as gay,
As bright, as cheerful, when I’ve turned to roam,
Once more, upon life’s weary onward way.
But oh! if ever by the warm hearth’s blaze,
Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met,
Your fancy wanders back to former days,
Let my remembrance hover round you yet.
Then, while before you glides time’s shadowy train,
Of forms long vanished, days and hours long gone,
Perchance my name will be pronounced again,
In that dear circle where I once was one.
Think of me then, nor break kind memory’s spell,
By reason’s censure coldly o’er me
cast,
Think only, that I loved ye passing well!
And let my follies slumber with the past.
THE WIND.
Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully
Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along
In the full chorus of their midnight song.
The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky,
Roll like a murky scroll before them driven,
And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven.
No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star,
Darkness is on the universe; save where
The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far,
With day’s red embers dimly glowing there.
Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course,
And sweeping onward, with resistless force,
Howls through the silent space of starless skies,
And on the breast of the swol’n ocean dies.
Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power!
That rid’st destroying at the midnight hour!
We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye
Knows nothing of thine awful majesty.
We see all mute creation bow before
Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o’er
This rocking world; that in the boundless sky
Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by.
There is no terror in the lightning’s glare,
That breaks its red track through the trackless air;
There is no terror in the voice that speaks
From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks
Over the earth, like that which dwells in thee,
Thou unseen tenant of immensity.
EASTERN SUNSET.
’Tis only the nightingale’s warbled strain,
That floats through the evening sky:
With his note of love, he replies again,
To the muezzin’s holy cry;
As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air,
“Allah, il allah! come to prayer!”
Warm o’er the waters the red sun is glowing,
’Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might,
While each rippling wave on the bright shore is throwing
Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light.
Each distant mosque and minaret
Is shining in the setting sun,
Whose farewell look is brighter yet,
Than that with which his course begun.
On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright,
It glows on the orange grove’s waving height,
And breaks through its shade in long lines of light.
No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky,
Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh,
And the rustling flight of the evening breeze,
Who steals from his nest in the cypress trees,
And a thousand dewy odours fling,
As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer wing,
And flutters away through the spicy air,
At sound of a footstep drawing near.
FAREWELL TO ITALY.
Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy!
My lonely bark is launched upon the sea
That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale
Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail.
Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come,
And bear me onward to my northern home;
That home, where the pale sun is not so bright,
So glorious, at his noonday’s fiercest height,
As when he throws his last glance o’er the sea,
And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee.
Fair Italy! perchance some future day
Upon thy coast again will see me stray;
Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leave
Thy lovely shore behind me, as men grieve
When bending o’er a form, around whose charms,
Unconquered yet, Death winds his icy arms:
While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek,
Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak,
Life’s rosy flower just mantling into bloom,
Before it fades for ever in the tomb.
So I leave thee, oh! thou art lovely still!
Despite the clouds of infamy and ill
That gather thickly round thy fading form:
Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm,
Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand,
And Genius hails thee still her native land.
Land of my soul’s adoption! o’er the sea,
Thy sunny shore is fading rapidly:
Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies,
’Till like a line of distant light it lies,
A melting boundary ’twixt earth and sky,
And now ’tis gone;—farewell, fair Italy!
THE RED INDIAN.
Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,—
Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last,
Still rings upon the rushing blast,
That o’er thy grave sweeps drearily.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow,
Beneath the hand of death bends low,
Thy fiery glance is quenchëd now,
In the cold grave’s obscurity.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun
Is set in blood, thy day is done;
Like lightning flash thy race is run,
And thou art sleeping peacefully.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more
The boundless forest shall explore,
Or trackless cross the sandy shore,
Or chase the red deer rapidly.
Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe,
Like thy choice arrow, swift and true,
Shall part no more the waters blue,
That sparkle round it brilliantly.
Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,
Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last,
And all is silent, save the blast,
That o’er thy grave sweeps drearily.
TO ---
Oh, turn those eyes away from me!
Though sweet, yet fearful are their rays;
And though they beam so tenderly,
I feel, I tremble ’neath their gaze.
Oh, turn those eyes away! for though
To meet their glance I may not dare,
I know their light is on my brow,
By the warm blood that mantles there.
SONG.
Yet once again, but once, before we sever,
Fill we one brimming cup,—it is the last!
And let those lips, now parting, and for ever,
Breathe o’er this pledge, “the memory of
the past!”
Joy’s fleeting sun is set; and no to-morrow
Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast,
Yet, in the bitter cup, o’erfilled with sorrow,
Lives one sweet drop,—the memory of the
past.
But one more look from those dear eyes, now shining
Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their
last;
But one more strain of hands, in friendship twining,
Now farewell all, save memory of the past.
LAMENT FOR ISRAEL.
Where is thy home in thy promised land?
Desolate and forsaken!
The stranger’s arm hath seized thy brand,
Thou art bowed beneath the stranger’s hand,
And the stranger thy birthright hath taken.
Where is the mark of thy chosen race?
Infamous and degraded!
It hath fallen on thee, on thy dwelling-place,
And that heaven-stamped sign to a foul disgrace
And the scoff of the world, has faded.
First-born of nations! upon thy brow,
Resistless and revenging,
The fiery finger of God hath now
Written the sentence of thy wo,
The innocent blood avenging!
Lion of Judah! thy glory is past,
Vanished and fled for ever.
Homeless and scattered, thy race is cast
Like chaff in the breath of the sweeping blast,
To rally or rise again, never!
A WISH.
Let me not die for ever, when I’m gone
To the cold earth! but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
Over the clouds where sank day’s majesty.
Let me not be forgotten! though the grave
Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow.
Let me not be forgotten! though the wave
Of time’s dark current rolls above me now.
Yet not in tears remembered be my name;
Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame
Over my tomb spread immortality!
SONG.
The moment must come, when the hands that unite
In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;
When the eyes that have beamed o’er us brightly
to-night,
Will have ceased to shine o’er us, for
ever.
Yet wreathe again the
goblet’s brim
With
pleasure’s roseate crown!
What though the future hour be
dim—
The present is
our own!
The moment is come, and again we are parting,
To roam through the world, each our separate way;
In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting,
But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its
ray.
Then wreathe
again the goblet’s brim
With
pleasure’s roseate crown!
What though the present hour be
dim—
The
future’s yet our own!
The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us
So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream;
And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us,
Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning’s
first beam.
Still wreathe once more the
goblet’s brim!
With
pleasure’s roseate crown!
What though all else beside be
dim—
The past has
been our own!
TO MRS. ---
Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet’s dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman’s best! forgive the darling line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o’er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read’st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow’s chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty’s summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart’s holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spirit’s majesty.
While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,
Like some calm spirit o’er life’s troubled stream,
With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem
That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.
A WISH.
Let me not die for ever when I’m laid
In the cold earth! but let my memory
Live still among ye, like the evening shade,
That o’er the sinking day steals placidly.
Let me not be forgotten! though the knell
Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;
Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell
For ever now in death’s obscurity.
Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,
Trace not a record, not a line for me,
But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,
And in your hearts enshrine my memory!
A SPIRIT’S VOICE.
It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;
From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes,
And through the heavens her early pathway takes;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the noon! the sun looks laughing down
On hamlet still, on busy shore, and town,
On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the sunset! daylight’s crimson veil
Floats o’er the mountain tops, while twilight pale
Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale;
Why art thou sleeping?
It is the night! o’er the moon’s livid brow,
Like shadowy locks, the clouds their darkness throw,
All evil spirits wake to wander now;
Why art thou sleeping?
TO THE DEAD.
On the lone waters’ shore
Wander I yet;
Brooding those moments o’er
I should forget.
’Till the broad foaming surge
Warns me to fly,
While despair’s whispers urge
To stay and die.
When the night’s solemn watch
Falls on the seas,
’Tis thy voice that I catch
In the low breeze;
When the moon sheds her light
On things below,
Beams not her ray so bright,
Like thy young brow?
Spirit immortal! say,
When wilt thou come,
To marshal me the way
To my long home?
SONG.
I sing
the yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path,
where grief
Delights to muse,
Spring’s early violet, that sweetly opes
Its fragrant leaves to the young morning’s
kiss,
Type of our youth’s fond dreams, and cherished hopes,
Will soon be this:
A sere and
yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path,
where grief
Delights to muse.
The summer’s rose, in whose rich hues we read
Pleasure’s gay bloom, and love’s
enchanting bliss,
And glory’s laurel, waving o’er the dead,
Will soon be this:
A sere and
yellow leaf,
That rustling strews
The wintry path,
where grief
Delights to muse.
TO THOMAS MOORE, Esq.
Here’s a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever fond woman’s eyes eclipse
The midnight moon’s soft ray;
Whenever around dear woman’s lips,
The smiles of affection play:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the warrior’s sword is bound
With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot’s brow is crowned
With the halo of liberty:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
In thy strains is dearer still.
A WISH.
Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o’erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun’s yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset ’mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
THE MINSTREL’S GRAVE.
Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summer’s sky
bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths
swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
And the burthen it sings to me, nought but
“farewell!”
Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
May throw the first night-glance that silvers the
glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so
well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs o’er my
pillow,
From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one
farewell.
TO ---
When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beauty’s pride wert blooming,
And my young heart knew hope without a fear.
When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no
more.
ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,
Brought from Switzerland.
Flower of the mountain! by the wanderer’s hand
Robbed of thy beauty’s short-lived sunny
day;
Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger’s
way,
And bloom, to wither in the stranger’s land?
Hueless and scentless as thou
art,
How much that
stirs the memory,
How much, much more, that thrills
the heart,
Thou faded
thing, yet lives in thee!
Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade,
There lives more fragrance, and more freshness
now;
Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade,
Are half so dear to memory’s eye as thou.
The dew that on the mountain
lies,
The breeze that o’er the
mountain sighs,
Thy parent stem
will nurse and nourish;
But thou—not e’en
those sunny eyes
As bright, as blue, as thine own
skies,
Thou faded
thing! can make thee flourish.
SONNET.
’Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,
All the fond visions Hope’s bright finger
traces,
All the fond visions Time’s dark wing
effaces,
But very dreams! but morning buds, that fall
Withered and blighted, long before the night:
Strewing the paths they should have made more
bright,
With mournful wreaths, whose light hath past away,
That can return to life and beauty never,
And yet, of whom it was but yesterday,
We deemed they’d bloom as fresh and fair for
ever.
Oh then, when hopes, that to thy heart are dearest,
Over the future shed their sunniest beam,
When round thy path their bright wings hover nearest,
Trust not too fondly!—for ’tis but a
dream!
SONNET.
Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art
Of sin, of sorrow, and all evil things!
In thy fierce turmoil, where shall the sad heart,
Released from pain, fold its unrested wings?
Peace hath no dwelling here, but evermore
Loud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earth
With fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirth
Shrieks frantic laughter forth, leading along,
Whirling in dizzy trance the eager throng,
Who bear aloft the overflowing cup,
With tears, forbidden joys, and blood filled up,
Quaffing long draughts of death; in lawless might,
Drunk with soft harmonies, and dazzling light,
So rush they down to the eternal night.
ON A MUSICAL BOX.
Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell
Caged by the law of man’s resistless might!
With thy sweet liquid notes, by some strong spell,
Compelled to minister to his delight!
Whence, what art thou? art thou a fairy wight
Caught sleeping in some lily’s snowy bell,
Where thou hadst crept, to rock in the moonlight,
And drink the starry dew-drops, as they fell?
Say, dost thou think, sometimes when thou art singing,
Of thy wild haunt upon the mountain’s brow,
Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,
And sail upon the sunset’s amber glow?
When thou art weary of thy oft-told theme,
Say, dost thou think of the clear pebbly stream,
Upon whose mossy brink thy fellows play,
Dancing in circles by the moon’s soft beam,
Hiding in blossoms from the sun’s fierce gleam,
Whilst thou, in darkness, sing’st thy life
away?
And canst thou feel when the spring-time returns,
Filling the earth with fragrance and with glee;
When in the wide creation nothing mourns,
Of all that lives, save that which is not free?
Oh! if thou couldst, and we could hear thy prayer,
How would thy little voice beseeching cry,
For one short draught of the sweet morning air,
For one short glimpse of the clear azure sky!
Perchance thou sing’st in hope thou shalt be free,
Sweetly and patiently thy task fulfilling;
While thy sad thoughts are wandering with the bee,
To every bud with honey dew distilling.
That hope is vain: for even couldst thou wing
Thy homeward flight back to the greenwood gay,
Thou’dst be a shunned and a forsaken thing,
’Mongst the companions of thy happier day.
For fairy sprites, like many other creatures,
Bear fleeting memories, that come and go;
Nor can they oft recall familiar features,
By absence touched, or clouded o’er with
woe.
Then rest content with sorrow: for there be
Many that must that lesson learn with thee;
And still thy wild notes warble cheerfully,
Till, when thy tiny voice begins to fail,
For thy lost bliss sing but one parting wail,
Poor little sprite! and then sleep peacefully!
TO THE PICTURE OF A LADY.
Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,
With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air,
And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,
Which once to see, is never to forget!
But for short space I gazed, with soul intent
Upon thee; and the limner’s art divine,
Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.
But once I gazed, then on my way I went:
And thou art still before me. Like a dream
Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,
Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never
May be so blest as to behold thee more,
That one short look has stamped thee in my heart,
Of my intensest life a living part,
Which time, and death, shall never triumph o’er.
FRAGMENT.
Walking by moonlight on the golden margin
That binds the silver sea, I fell to thinking
Of all the wild imaginings that man
Hath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;
Making fair nature’s solitary haunts
Alive with beings, beautiful and fearful.
And as the chain of thought grew link by link,
It seemed, as though the midnight heavens waxed brighter,
The stars gazed fix’dly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light played o’er each sleeping billow,
That laid its head upon the sandy beach.
Anon there came along the rocky shore
A far-off sound of sweetest minstrelsy.
From no one point of heaven, or earth, it came;
But under, over, and about it breathed,
Filling my soul with thrilling, fearful pleasure.
It swelled, as though borne on the floating wings
Of the midsummer breeze: it died away
Towards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,
That one by one melted like flakes of snow
In the moonbeams. Then came a rushing sound,
Like countless wings of bees, or butterflies;
And suddenly, as far as eye might view,
The coast was peopled with a world of elves,
Who in fantastic ringlets danced around,
With antic gestures, and wild beckoning motion,
Aimed at the moon. White was their snowy vesture,
And shining as the Alps, when that the sun
Gems their pale robes with diamonds. On their heads
Were wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.
They were all fair, and light as dreams; anon
The dance broke off; and sailing through the air,
Some one way, and some other, they did each
Alight upon some waving branch, or flower,
That garlanded the rocks upon the shore.
One, chiefly, did I mark, one tiny sprite,
Who crept into an orange flower-bell,
And there lay nestling, whilst his eager lips
Drank from its virgin chalice the night dew,
That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.
SONNET.
Cover me with your everlasting arms,
Ye guardian giants of this solitude!
From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude,
Tumultuous din of yon wide world’s alarms!
Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above,
And close me in for ever! let me dwell
With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell
That ever with your verdant locks ye wove.
The air is full of countless voices, joined
In one eternal hymn; the whispering wind,
The shuddering leaves, the hidden water-springs,
The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wings
Hang in the golden tresses of the lime,
Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.
WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH.
Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shore
My lingering feet will leave their print no more;
To thy loved side I never may return.
I pray thee, old companion, make due mourn
For the wild spirit who so oft has stood
Gazing in love and wonder on thy flood.
The form is now departing far away,
That half in anger oft, and half in play,
Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of foam.
Thy waters daily will besiege the home
I loved among the rocks; but there will be
No laughing cry, to hail thy victory,
Such as was wont to greet thee, when I fled,
With hurried footsteps, and averted head,
Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand,
Chased by thy billows far along the sand.
And when at eventide thy warm waves drink
The amber clouds that in their bosom sink;
When sober twilight over thee has spread
Her purple pall, when the glad day is dead
My voice no more will mingle with the dirge
That rose in mighty moaning from thy surge,
Filling with awful harmony the air,
When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.
SONNET.
Away, away! bear me away, away,
Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind!
That rushest on thy midnight way,
And leav’st this weary world, far, far behind!
Away, away! bear me away, away,
To the wide strandless deep,
Ye headlong waters! whose mad eddies leap
From the pollution of your bed of clay!
Away, away, bear me away, away,
Into the fountains of eternal light,
Ye rosy clouds! that to my longing sight
Seem melting in the sun’s devouring ray!
Away, away! oh, for some mighty blast,
To sweep this loathsome life into the past!
FRAGMENT.
It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon
Was at her full, and shone upon the fields
Where we had toiled the livelong day, to pile
In golden sheaves the earth’s abundant treasure.
The harvest task had given place to song
And merry dance; and these in turn were chased
By legends strange, and wild, unearthly tales
Of elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that haunt
The woods and caves; where they do sleep all day,
And then come forth i’ the witching hour of night,
To dance by moonlight on the green thick sward.
The speaker was an aged villager,
In whom his oft-told tale awoke no fears,
Such as he filled his gaping listeners with.
Nor ever was there break in his discourse,
Save when with gray eyes lifted to the moon,
He conjured from the past strange instances
Of kidnapp’d infants, from their cradles snatch’d,
And changed for elvish sprites; of blights, and
blains,
Sent on the cattle by the vengeful fairies;
Of blasted crops, maim’d limbs, and unsound minds,
All plagues inflicted by these angered sprites.
Then would he pause, and wash his story down
With long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while all
The rest came crowding under the wide oak tree,
Piling the corn sheaves closer round the ring,
Whispering and shaking, laughing too, with fear;
And ever, if an acorn bobb’d from the boughs,
Or grasshopper from out the stubble chirrupp’d,
Blessing themselves from Robin Goodfellow!
SONNET.
Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,
In woodland paths, and lone sequester’d shades,
What time the sunny banks and mossy glades,
With dewy wreaths of early violets wrought,
Into the air their fragrant incense fling,
To greet the triumph of the youthful Spring.
Lo, where she comes! ’scaped from the icy lair
Of hoary Winter; wanton, free, and fair!
Now smile the heavens again upon the earth,
Bright hill, and bosky dell, resound with mirth,
And voices, full of laughter and wild glee,
Shout through the air pregnant with harmony;
And wake poor sobbing Echo, who replies
With sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies.
SONNET.
I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov’st perchance, as I love thee,—
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I’ve wept, I’ve wept in agony!
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamour’d gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery!
A PROMISE.
By the pure spring, whose haunted waters
flow
Through thy sequester’d dell unto the sea,
At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:
Not troubling the still fount with
drops of woe,
As when I last took leave of it and thee,
But gazing up at thee with tranquil brow,
And eyes full of life’s early happiness,
Of strength, of hope, of joy, and tenderness.
Beneath the shadowy tree, where thou and I
Were wont to sit, studying the harmony
Of gentle Shakspeare, and of Milton high,
At sunny noon I will be heard by thee;
Not sobbing forth each oft-repeated sound,
As when I last faultered them o’er to thee,
But uttering them in the air around,
With youth’s clear laughing voice of melody.
On the wild shore of the eternal deep,
Where we have stray’d so oft, and stood so long
Watching the mighty waters conquering sweep,
And listening to their loud triumphant song,
At sunny noon, dearest! I’ll be with thee:
Not as when last I linger’d on the strand,
Tracing our names on the inconstant sand;
But in each bright thing that around shall be:
My voice shall call thee from the ocean’s breast,
Thou’lt see my hair in its bright, showery crest,
In its dark, rocky depths, thou’lt see my
eyes,
My form, shall be the light cloud in the skies,
My spirit shall be with thee, warm and bright,
And flood thee o’er with
love, and life, and light.
A PROMISE.
In the dark, lonely night,
When sleep and silence keep their watch o’er men;
False love! in thy despite,
I will be with thee then.
When in the world of dreams thy spirit strays,
Seeking, in vain, the peace it finds not here,
Thou shalt be led back to thine early days
Of life and love, and I will meet thee there.
I’ll come to thee, with the bright, sunny brow,
That was Hope’s throne before I met with thee;
And then I’ll show thee how ’tis furrowed now
By the untimely age of misery.
I’ll speak to thee, in the fond, joyous tone,
That wooed thee still with love’s impassioned spell;
And then I’ll teach thee how I’ve learnt to moan,
Since last upon thine ear its accents fell.
I’ll come to thee in all youth’s brightest
power,
As on the day thy faith to mine was plighted,
And then I’ll tell thee weary hour by hour,
How that spring’s early promise has been blighted.
I’ll tell thee of the long, long, dreary years,
That have passed o’er me hopeless, objectless;
My loathsome days, my nights of burning tears,
My wild despair, my utter loneliness,
My heart-sick dreams upon my feverish bed,
My fearful longing to be with the dead;—
In the dark lonely night,
When sleep and silence keep their watch o’er men;
False love! in thy despite,
We two shall meet again!
SONNET.
Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid air
Sittest enthroned, vouchsafe to hear my prayer!
Let all those instruments of music sweet,
That in great nature’s hymn bear burthen meet,
Sing round this mossy pillow, where my head
From the bright noontide sky is sheltered.
Thou southern wind! wave, wave thy od’rous wings;
O’er your smooth channels gush, ye crystal springs!
Ye laughing elves! that through the rustling corn
Run chattering; thou tawny-coated bee,
Who at thy honey-work sing’st drowsily;
And ye, oh ye! who greet the dewy morn,
And fragrant eventide, with melody,
Ye wild wood minstrels, sing my lullaby!
TO ---
I would I might be with thee, when the year
Begins to wane, and that thou walk’st alone
Upon the rocky strand, whilst loud and clear,
The autumn wind sings, from his cloudy throne,
Wild requiems for the summer that is gone.
Or when, in sad and contemplative mood,
Thy feet explore the leafy-paven wood:
I would my soul might reason then with thine,
Upon those themes most solemn and most strange,
Which every falling leaf and fading flower,
Whisper unto us with a voice divine;
Filling the brief space of one mortal hour,
With fearful thoughts of death, decay, and change,
And the high mystery of that after birth,
That comes to us, as well as to the earth.
SONNET.
By jasper founts, whose falling waters make
Eternal music to the silent hours;
Or ’neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers,
Through whose dark screen no prying sunbeams break:
How oft I dream I see thee wandering,
With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes,
And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies,
And shining tresses of soft rippling gold,
Like to some shape beheld in days of old
By seer or prophet, when, as poets sing,
The gods had not forsaken yet the earth,
But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove;
When ev’ry breeze was the soft breath of love,
When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth,
And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth.
THE VISION OF LIFE.
Death and I,
On a hill so high,
Stood side by side:
And we saw below,
Running to and fro,
All things that be in the world so wide.
Ten thousand cries
From the gulf did rise,
With a wild discordant sound;
Laughter and wailing,
Prayer and railing,
As the ball spun round and round.
And over all
Hung a floating pall
Of dark and gory veils:
’Tis the blood of years,
And the sighs and tears,
Which this noisome marsh exhales.
All this did seem
Like a fearful dream,
Till Death cried with a joyful cry:
“Look down! look down!
It is all mine own,
Here comes life’s pageant by!”
Like to a masque in ancient revelries,
With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,
They came along, and still they came along!
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e’er
Peopled the earth, or ploughed th’ unfathomed deep,
All that now breathe the universal air,
And all that in the womb of Time yet sleep.
Before this mighty host a woman came,
With hurried feet, and oft-averted head;
With accursed light
Her eyes were bright,
And with inviting hand them on she beckoned.
Her followed close, with wild acclaim,
Her servants three: Lust, with his eye of fire,
And burning lips, that tremble with desire,
Pale sunken cheek:—and as he staggered by,
The trumpet-blast was hush’d, and there arose
A melting strain of such soft melody,
As breath’d into the soul love’s ecstacies and
woes.
Loudly again the trumpet smote the air,
The double drum did roll, and to the sky
Bay’d War’s bloodhounds, the deep artillery;
And Glory,
With feet all gory,
And dazzling eyes, rushed by,
Waving a flashing sword and laurel wreath,
The pang, and the inheritance of death.
He pass’d like lightning—then ceased every
sound
Of war triumphant, and of love’s sweet song,
And all was silent—Creeping slow along,
With eager eyes, that wandered round and round,
Wild, haggard mien, and meagre, wasted frame,
Bow’d to the earth, pale, starving Av’rice came:
Clutching with palsied hands his golden god,
And tottering in the path the others trod.
These, one by one,
Came and were gone:
And after them followed the ceaseless stream
Of worshippers, who, with mad shout and scream,
Unhallow’d toil, and more unhallow’d mirth,
Follow their mistress, Pleasure, through the earth.
Death’s eyeless sockets glared upon them all,
And many in the train were seen to fall,
Livid and cold, beneath his empty gaze;
But not for this was stay’d the mighty throng,
Nor ceased the warlike clang, or wanton lays,
But still they
rush’d—along—along—along!
SONNET.
To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, “Lieti giorni e felice.”
Whence should they come, lady! those happy days
That thy fair hand and gentle heart invoke
Upon my head? Alas! such do not rise
On any, of the many, who with sighs
Bear through this journey-land of wo, life’s yoke.
The light of such lives not in thine own lays;
Such were not hers, that girl, so fond, so fair,
Beneath whose image thou hast traced thy pray’r.
Evil, and few, upon this darksome earth,
Must be the days of all of mortal birth;
Then why not mine? Sweet lady! wish again,
Not more of joy to me, but less of pain;
Calm slumber, when life’s troubled hours are past,
And with thy friendship cheer them while they last.
TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL.
Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o’er me from my birth,
And who still walk’st unwearied by my side,
How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold! Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,
And followed still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And though all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.
SONNET.
Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.
Not in our dreams, not even in our dreams,
May we return to that sweet land of youth,
That home of hope, of innocence, and truth,
Which as we farther roam but fairer seems.
In that dim shadowy world, where the soul strays
When she has laid her mortal charge to rest,
We oft behold far future hours and days,
But ne’er live o’er the past, the happiest,
How oft will fancy’s wild imaginings
Bear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen!
But ah! not e’en unfettered fancy’s wings
Can lead us back to aught that we have been,
Or waft us to that smiling, sunny shore,
Which e’en in slumber we may tread no more.
SONNET.
Whene’er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year’s prime;
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od’rous lime and silver hawthorn twined,
And many a noonday woodland wandering.
There’s not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky;
’Tis wafted on the blackbird’s sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
’Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.
TO THE SPRING.
Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;
Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide
Our mortal year along Time’s rapid tide.
Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth
Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,
Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,
A thousand germs of light and beauty come.
Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap
From their bright winter-woven fetters free;
Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,
And greet thee with a gush of melody.
The air is full of music, wild and sweet,
Made by the joyous waving of the trees,
Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,
And by the work-song of the early bees,
In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,
And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;
Hail to thee! maiden, with the bright blue eyes!
And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;
Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,
Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!
Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs,
The livelong day dost chaunt that wond’rous strain
Making wan Dian stoop her silver brows
Out of the clouds to hear thee? Who shall say,
Thou lone one! that thy melody is gay,
Let him come listen now to that one note,
That thou art pouring o’er and o’er
again
Through the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,
With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain,
I prithee cease thy song! for from my heart
Thou hast made memory’s bitter waters start,
And filled my weary eyes with the soul’s
rain.
SONNET.
Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!
When on his clasping arm thy head reclineth,
When on thy lips his ardent kisses dwell,
And the bright flood of burning light, that
shineth
In his dark eyes, is poured into thine;
When thou shalt lie enfolded to his heart,
In all the trusting helplessness of love;
If in such joy sorrow can find a part,
Oh, give one sigh unto a doom like mine!
Which I would have thee pity, but not prove.
One cold, calm, careless, wintry look, that fell
Haply by chance on me, is all that he
E’er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwell
In one eternal pang of memory.
TO ---
When the dawn
O’er hill and dale
Throws her bright veil,
Oh, think of me!
When the rain
With starry showers
Fills all the flowers,
Oh, think of me!
When the wind
Sweeps along,
Loud and strong,
Oh, think of me!
When the laugh
With silver sound
Goes echoing round,
Oh, think of me!
When the night
With solemn eyes
Looks from the skies,
Oh, think of me!
When the air
Still as death
Holds its breath,
Oh, think of me!
When the earth
Sleeping sound
Swings round and round,
Oh, think of me!
When thy soul
O’er life’s dark sea
Looks gloomily,
Oh, think of me!
WOMAN’S LOVE.
A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth’s holy voice, with ev’ry balmy
breath;
So journeys she along life’s crowded way,
Keeping her soul’s sweet counsel from all
sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or
bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.
TO MRS. ---
I never shall forget thee—’tis a word
Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
On whom thy wond’rous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e’er have heard
Thy voice’s deep impassioned melody,
Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
I never shall forget thee:—in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear?—oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to bless
With such a dower of grace and loveliness;
Over the dangerous waves ’twill surely
steer
The richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,
And guide it safely to the port at last.
Such is my prayer; ’tis warm as ever fell
From off my lips: accept it, and farewell!
And though in this strange world where first I met thee;
We meet no more—I never shall forget thee.
AN ENTREATY.
Once more, once more into the sunny fields
Oh, let me stray!
And drink the joy that young existence yields
In a bright, cloudless day.
Once more let me behold the summer sky,
With its blue eyes,
And join the wild wind’s voice of melody,
As far and free it flies.
Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear
The gushing spring,
As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear,
And in the sunshine sing.
Once more, oh let me list the soft sweet breeze
At evening mourn:
Let me, oh let me say farewell to these,
And to my task I gaily will return.
Oh, lovely earth! oh, blessed smiling sky!
Oh, music of the wood, the wave, the wind!
I do but linger till my ear and eye
Have traced ye on the tablets of my mind—
And then, fare ye well!
Bright hill and bosky dell,
Clear spring and haunted well,
Night-blowing flowers pale,
Smooth lawn and lonely vale,
Sleeping lakes and sparkling fountains,
Shadowy woods and sheltering mountains,
Flowery land and sunny sky,
And echo sweet, my playmate shy;
Fare ye well!—fare ye well!
LINES FOR MUSIC.
Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing?
Into the air, the viewless air,
To be lost there:
There am I blowing.
Clear wave, swift wave, where art thou flowing?
Unto the sea, the boundless
sea,
To be whelm’d there:
There am I flowing.
Young life, swift life, where art thou going?
Down to the grave, the loathsome
grave,
To moulder there:
There am I going.
TO ---
When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,
Upon each shadowy glen and woody height,
And that you tread those well known paths where I
Have stray’d with you,—do not forget me
quite.
When the warm hearth throws its bright glow around,
On many a smiling cheek, and glance of light,
And the gay laugh wakes with its joyous sound
The soul of mirth,—do not forget me quite.
You will not miss me; for with you remain
Hearts fond and warm, and spirits young and
bright,
’Tis but one word—“farewell;” and all
again
Will seem the same,—yet don’t forget me
quite.
THE PARTING.
’Twas a fit hour for parting,
For athwart the leaden sky
The heavy clouds came gathering
And sailing gloomily:
The earth was drunk with heaven’s tears,
And each moaning autumn breeze
Shook the burthen of its weeping
Off the overladen trees.
The waterfall rushed swollen down,
In the gloaming, still and gray;
With a foam-wreath on the angry brow
Of each wave that flashed away.
My tears were mingling with the rain,
That fell so cold and fast,
And my spirit felt thy low deep sigh
Through the wild and roaring blast.
The beauty of the summer woods
Lay rustling round our feet,
And all fair things had passed away—
’Twas an hour for parting meet.
SONG.
When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes,
That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away,
On some bright orb that seems, through the still sapphire
skies,
In beauty and splendour to roll on its way:
Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar,
Appears wrapt in a halo as soft, and as bright,
As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star,
Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night.
And at this very midnight, perhaps some poor heart,
That is aching, or breaking, in that distant
sphere;
Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart
From its own dismal home, to a happier one here.