Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall, The fairies' palace beside the stream; Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall

The waterfall is calling me With its merry gleesome flow, And the green boughs are beckoning me,

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow Through thy sequester'd dell unto the sea, At sunny noon, I will appear to thee:

In the dark, lonely night, When sleep and silence keep their watch o'er men; False love! in thy despite,

Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth Sets o'er the mountain-tops, where once Hope stood. Oh, Innocence! oh, Trustfulness! oh, Truth!

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;

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,

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

What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows; The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,

Once more, once more into the sunny fields Oh, let me stray! And drink the joy that young existence yields

Good night, love! May Heaven's brightest stars watch over thee! Good angels spread their wings, and cover thee,

Come where the white waves dance along the shore Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas; Whose golden sands by mortal foot before

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain, That floats through the evening sky: With his note of love, he replies again,

To Y ---, with a bowl of Bohemian glass. From rocky hills, where climbs the vine; Where on his waves the wandering Rhine

Better trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust, and that deceiving; Than doubt one heart, that if believed,

Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy! My lonely bark is launched upon the sea That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale

From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98 degrees in the shade. Oh! for the temperate airs that blow Upon that darling of the sea,

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

Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg. Thou who within thyself dost not behold Ruins as great as these, though not as old,

You say you're glad I write - oh, say not so! My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well; And when the numbers freely from it flow,

Where is thy home in thy promised land? Desolate and forsaken! The stranger's arm hath seized thy brand,

Good night! from music's softest spell Go to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers, Fairies, with magic harp and shell,

Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing? Into the air, the viewless air, To be lost there:

Oh child! who to this evil world art come, Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee, Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!

Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light! Spirit of harmony! that through the vast

Life is before ye - and while now ye stand Eager to spring upon the promised land, Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth But as the visions light of one who dreameth, Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind;

Struggle not with thy life! - the heavy doom Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave: Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb

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,

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,

When the bright sun back on his yearly road Comes towards us, his great glory seems to me, As from the sky he pours it all abroad,

Never, oh never more! shall I behold Thy form so fair, Or loosen from its braids the rippling gold

I sing the yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief

Away, away! bear me away, away, Into the boundless void, thou mighty wind! That rushest on thy midnight way,

Art thou already weary of the way? Thou who hast yet but half the way gone o'er: Get up, and lift thy burthen: lo, before

Mother, mother! my heart is wild, Hold me upon your bosom dear, Do not frown on your own poor child,

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,

'Twas a fit hour for parting, For athwart the leaden sky The heavy clouds came gathering

I am alone - oh be thou near to me, Great God! from whom the meanest are not far. Not in presumption of the daring spirit,

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past, - Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last, Still rings upon the rushing blast,

Death and I, On a hill so high, Stood side by side:

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along In the full chorus of their midnight song.

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed, Those we let fall over the silent dead? Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,

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,

Is it a sin to wish that I may meet thee In that dim world whither our spirits stray, When sleep and darkness follow life and day?

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light, The burning rays that mine pour into ye, Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark, as night -

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed; First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year Already feels old Winter's icy breath; As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier

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,

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

What was thine errand here? Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught That from this marred earth

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth With me, poor child of sin! - Angel of love!

On the lone waters' shore Wander I yet; Brooding those moments o'er

How passing sad!    Listen, it sings again! Art thou a spirit, that amongst the boughs, The livelong day dost chaunt that wond'rous strain

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet, With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air, And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,

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.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side, When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water, Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin! To the goblet's brim we will fill; For all that to life is endearing,

Night in her dark array Steals o'er the ocean, And with departed day

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes, Full of eternal constancy and faith, And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs

The hours are past, love, Oh, fled they not too fast, love! Those happy hours, when down the mountain side,

Were they but dreams?    Upon the darkening world Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled, On which the day soared to the sunny west:

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shore My lingering feet will leave their print no more; To thy loved side I never may return.