Poems by Fanny Kemble Part 5

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: l.u.s.t, 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 flas.h.i.+ng sword and laurel wreath, The pang, and the inheritance of death.

He pa.s.s'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 G.o.d, And tottering in the path the others trod.

These, one by one, Came and were gone: And after them followed the ceaseless stream Of wors.h.i.+ppers, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 compa.s.sionate! 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 sh.o.r.e 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 pa.s.sing 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 s.h.i.+neth 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!