The Project Gutenberg eBook ofPoemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: PoemsAuthor: Fanny KembleRelease date: January 7, 2008 [eBook #24216]Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: PoemsAuthor: Fanny KembleRelease date: January 7, 2008 [eBook #24216]Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price
Title: Poems
Author: Fanny Kemble
Author: Fanny Kemble
Release date: January 7, 2008 [eBook #24216]
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ***
Transcribed from the 1844 Henry Washbourne edition by David Price, ccx074@pglaf.org
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 byStewartandMurray,Old Bailey.
toKATHARINE SEDGWICK,this little volumeismost respectfully,gratefully,and affectionatelyinscribed.
August 9th, 1825.
Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost liveShrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!Spirit of harmony! that through the vastAnd cloud-embroidered canopy art spreadingThy wings, that o’er our shadowy earth hang brooding,Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moonAnd 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 forthWinking the slumberer’s destinies. The moonSails on the horizon’s verge, a moving glory,Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orbApproaches, to invade the sea of lightThat lives around her; save yon little star,That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds,Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.
Night in her dark arraySteals o’er the ocean,And with departed dayHushed seems its motion.Slowly o’er yon blue coastOnward she’s treading,’Till its dark line is lost,’Neath her veil spreading.The bark on the rippling deepHath found a pillow,And the pale moonbeams sleepOn the green billow.Bound by her emerald zoneVenice is lying,And round her marble crownNight winds are sighing.From the high lattice nowBright eyes are gleaming,That seem on night’s dark browBrighter stars beaming.Now o’er the bright laguneLight barks are dancing,And ’neath the silver moonSwift oars are glancing.Strains from the mandolinSteal o’er the water,Echo replies betweenTo mirth and laughter.O’er the wave seen afarBrilliantly shining,Gleams like a fallen starVenice reclining.
Time beckons on the hours: the expiring yearAlready feels old Winter’s icy breath;As with cold hands, he scatters on her bierThe 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 heartSometime 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 homeTo 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.
Night comes upon the earth; and fearfullyArise the mighty winds, and sweep alongIn 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 whereThe 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 eyeKnows nothing of thine awful majesty.We see all mute creation bow beforeThy viewless wings, as thou careerest o’erThis rocking world; that in the boundless skySuspended, 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 speaksFrom out the clouds when the loud thunder breaksOver the earth, like that which dwells in thee,Thou unseen tenant of immensity.
’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 throwingIts white crest, that breaks into showers of light.Each distant mosque and minaretIs 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 awhile, beautiful Italy!My lonely bark is launched upon the seaThat clasps thy shore, and the soft evening galeBreathes 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 dayUpon thy coast again will see me stray;Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leaveThy lovely shore behind me, as men grieveWhen 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 illThat 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!
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 sunIs 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 moreThe 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.
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 thoughTo meet their glance I may not dare,I know their light is on my brow,By the warm blood that mantles there.
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-morrowSmiles 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 shiningThrough 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.
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 disgraceAnd the scoff of the world, has faded.
First-born of nations! upon thy brow,Resistless and revenging,The fiery finger of God hath nowWritten 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 castLike chaff in the breath of the sweeping blast,To rally or rise again, never!
Let me not die for ever, when I’m goneTo the cold earth! but let my memoryLive like the gorgeous western light that shoneOver the clouds where sank day’s majesty.Let me not be forgotten! though the graveHas clasped its hideous arms around my brow.Let me not be forgotten! though the waveOf 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 fameOver my tomb spread immortality!
The moment must come, when the hands that uniteIn 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 brimWith 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 brimWith 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 usSo 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!
Oh lady! thou, who in the olden timeHadst been the star of many a poet’s dream!Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,Weddest the gentle graces that beseemFair woman’s best! forgive the darling lineThat falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eyeGlance 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 noneCan know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.Thou art most fair, though sorrow’s chastening wingHath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,And solemn thoughts are gently mellowingThe splendour of thy beauty’s summer now.Thou art most fair! but thine is lovelinessThat 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 sideTogether blossoming; I almost deemThat I behold the loveliness and truth,That like fair visions hovered round my youth,Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.
Let me not die for ever when I’m laidIn the cold earth! but let my memoryLive still among ye, like the evening shade,That o’er the sinking day steals placidly.Let me not be forgotten! though the knellHas tolled for me its solemn lullaby;Let me not be forgotten! though I dwellFor 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!
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 downOn 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 veilFloats o’er the mountain tops, while twilight paleCalls 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?
On the lone waters’ shoreWander I yet;Brooding those moments o’erI should forget.’Till the broad foaming surgeWarns me to fly,While despair’s whispers urgeTo stay and die.When the night’s solemn watchFalls on the seas,’Tis thy voice that I catchIn the low breeze;When the moon sheds her lightOn things below,Beams not her ray so bright,Like thy young brow?Spirit immortal! say,When wilt thou come,To marshal me the wayTo my long home?
I sing the yellow leaf,That rustling strewsThe wintry path, where griefDelights to muse,Spring’s early violet, that sweetly opesIts 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 strewsThe wintry path, where griefDelights to muse.The summer’s rose, in whose rich hues we readPleasure’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 strewsThe wintry path, where griefDelights to muse.
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 eclipseThe 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 boundWith the laurel of victory,Wherever the patriot’s brow is crownedWith 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 endearingThy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,On the listening ear of night,Wherever the soul of wit hath flungIts 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.
Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wanderIn 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 breathOf 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 outFrom the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,While one by one the evening stars shine forthAmong the gathering clouds, that strew the heavensLike floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
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 pillowLet 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 willowHang 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.
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.
Flower of the mountain! by the wanderer’s handRobbed 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 eyesAs bright, as blue, as thine own skies,Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.
’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 fallWithered 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!
Oh weary, weary world! how full thou artOf 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 evermoreLoud discord, strife, and envy, fill the earthWith fearful riot, whilst unhallowed mirthShrieks 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.
Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cellCaged 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 wightCaught 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 wingThy 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 beMany 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!
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 intentUpon 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 dreamOf what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,Thy vision dwells with me, and though I neverMay 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.
Walking by moonlight on the golden marginThat binds the silver sea, I fell to thinkingOf all the wild imaginings that manHath peopled heaven, and earth, and ocean with;Making fair nature’s solitary hauntsAlive 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 shoreA 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 wingsOf the midsummer breeze: it died awayTowards heaven, as though it sank into the clouds,That one by one melted like flakes of snowIn 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 sunGems their pale robes with diamonds. On their headsWere wreaths of crimson and of yellow foxglove.They were all fair, and light as dreams; anonThe dance broke off; and sailing through the air,Some one way, and some other, they did eachAlight 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 lipsDrank from its virgin chalice the night dew,That glistened, like a pearl, in its white bosom.
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 dwellWith the wood spirits, in the darkest cellThat ever with your verdant locks ye wove.The air is full of countless voices, joinedIn one eternal hymn; the whispering wind,The shuddering leaves, the hidden water-springs,The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wingsHang in the golden tresses of the lime,Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.
Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shoreMy lingering feet will leave their print no more;To thy loved side I never may return.I pray thee, old companion, make due mournFor the wild spirit who so oft has stoodGazing 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 homeI loved among the rocks; but there will beNo 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 drinkThe amber clouds that in their bosom sink;When sober twilight over thee has spreadHer purple pall, when the glad day is deadMy voice no more will mingle with the dirgeThat rose in mighty moaning from thy surge,Filling with awful harmony the air,When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.
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 leapFrom 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 sightSeem melting in the sun’s devouring ray!Away, away! oh, for some mighty blast,To sweep this loathsome life into the past!
It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moonWas at her full, and shone upon the fieldsWhere we had toiled the livelong day, to pileIn golden sheaves the earth’s abundant treasure.The harvest task had given place to songAnd merry dance; and these in turn were chasedBy legends strange, and wild, unearthly talesOf elves, and gnomes, and fairy sprites, that hauntThe 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 instancesOf 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 downWith long-drawn draughts of amber ale; while allThe 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!
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 lairOf 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 repliesWith sleepy voice, that softly, slowly dies.
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 repliesTo 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!
By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flowThrough 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 IWere wont to sit, studying the harmonyOf 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 longWatching 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.
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 daysOf 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 nowBy 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!
Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid airSittest 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 headFrom 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 cornRun 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!
I would I might be with thee, when the yearBegins to wane, and that thou walk’st aloneUpon 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.
By jasper founts, whose falling waters makeEternal 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 oldBy 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.
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 criesFrom the gulf did rise,With a wild discordant sound;Laughter and wailing,Prayer and railing,As the ball spun round and round.
And over allHung a floating pallOf dark and gory veils:’Tis the blood of years,And the sighs and tears,Which this noisome marsh exhales.
All this did seemLike 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’erPeopled 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 lightHer 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 aroseA 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 skyBay’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 soundOf 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 streamOf 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!
To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, “Lieti giorni e felice.”
Whence should they come, lady! those happy daysThat thy fair hand and gentle heart invokeUpon my head? Alas! such do not riseOn any, of the many, who with sighsBear 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.
Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne aboveHast left, to wander through this dismal earthWith 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 mournOver the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,That thy pure eyes behold! Yet not asideFrom thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,And followed still, striving with the divinePowers of thy soul for mastery over mine;And though all line of human hope be past,Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.
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 straysWhen 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 imaginingsBear us in sleep to times and worlds unseen!But ah! not e’en unfettered fancy’s wingsCan 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.
Whene’er I recollect the happy timeWhen 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 mindWith 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 alongSome 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.
Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;Youngest and fairest of the four, who guideOur mortal year along Time’s rapid tide.Spirit of life! the old decrepid earthHas 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 leapFrom 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.
How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs,The livelong day dost chaunt that wond’rous strainMaking wan Dian stoop her silver browsOut 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 againThrough the sweet echoes of thy mellow throat,With such a sobbing sound of deep, deep pain,I prithee cease thy song! for from my heartThou hast made memory’s bitter waters start,And filled my weary eyes with the soul’s rain.
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 shinethIn 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 fellHaply by chance on me, is all that heE’er gave my love; round that, my wild thoughts dwellIn one eternal pang of memory.
When the dawnO’er hill and daleThrows her bright veil,Oh, think of me!When the rainWith starry showersFills all the flowers,Oh, think of me!When the windSweeps along,Loud and strong,Oh, think of me!When the laughWith silver soundGoes echoing round,Oh, think of me!When the nightWith solemn eyesLooks from the skies,Oh, think of me!When the airStill as deathHolds its breath,Oh, think of me!When the earthSleeping soundSwings round and round,Oh, think of me!When thy soulO’er life’s dark seaLooks gloomily,Oh, think of me!
A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,Full of eternal constancy and faith,And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighsTruth’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 stayThose whom she meeteth mourning, for her heartKnows 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.
I never shall forget thee—’tis a wordThou oft must hear, for surely there be noneOn whom thy wond’rous eyes have ever shoneBut for a moment, or who e’er have heardThy 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 lentSuch gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;Still watches one whom it has deigned to blessWith such a dower of grace and loveliness;Over the dangerous waves ’twill surely steerThe richly freighted bark, through storm and blast,And guide it safely to the port at last.Such is my prayer; ’tis warm as ever fellFrom 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.
Once more, once more into the sunny fieldsOh, let me stray!And drink the joy that young existence yieldsIn 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 hearThe 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 breezeAt 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 eyeHave 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!
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.
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 IHave 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 soundThe soul of mirth,—do not forget me quite.
You will not miss me; for with you remainHearts fond and warm, and spirits young and bright,’Tis but one word—“farewell;” and all againWill seem the same,—yet don’t forget me quite.
’Twas a fit hour for parting,For athwart the leaden skyThe heavy clouds came gatheringAnd sailing gloomily:The earth was drunk with heaven’s tears,And each moaning autumn breezeShook the burthen of its weepingOff the overladen trees.The waterfall rushed swollen down,In the gloaming, still and gray;With a foam-wreath on the angry browOf 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 sighThrough the wild and roaring blast.The beauty of the summer woodsLay rustling round our feet,And all fair things had passed away—’Twas an hour for parting meet.
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 departFrom its own dismal home, to a happier one here.