Poems by Fanny Kemble Part 7

And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world, Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered, Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled, And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?

Perchance they do not die, that dwell in thee, Perchance theirs is a darker doom than ours; Unchanging woe, and endless misery, And mourning that hath neither days nor hours.

Horrible dream!--Oh dark and dismal path, Where I now weeping walk, I will not leave thee; Earth has one boon for all her children--death: Open thy arms, oh mother! and receive me!

Take off the bitter burthen from the slave, Give me my birthright! give--the grave, the grave!

SONNET.

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil Of life, which I am doomed to till full sore, Spring'st like a noisome weed! I do not toil For thee, and yet thou still com'st dark'ning o'er My plot of earth with thy unwelcome shade.

Thou nightshade of the soul, beneath whose boughs All fair and gentle buds hang withering!

Why hast thou wreathed thyself around my brows, Casting from thence the blossoms of my spring, Breathing on youth's sweet roses till they fade?

Alas! thou art an evil weed of woe, Watered with tears and watched with sleepless care, Seldom doth envy thy green glories spare; And yet men covet thee--ah, wherefore do they so!

SONNET.

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods; Listen, it says: "Decay, decay, decay!"

I hear it in the murmuring of the floods, And the wind sighs it as it flies away.

Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies, The stormy light of his fierce lurid eyes?

Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod, Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod.

The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade Wandering along, delicious music made.

A flood of glory hangs upon the world, Summer's bright wings s.h.i.+ning ere they are furled.

TO ---

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?

Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee With all that love that I must die concealing?

Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing The agony that preys upon my soul?

Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day, To hold each look, and word, in stern control?

May I not wish the staring sunlight gone, Day and its thousand torturing moments done, And prying sights and sounds of men away?

Oh, still and silent Night! when all things sleep, Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep: Come, with thy vision'd hopes and blessings now!

I dream the only happiness I know.

SONNET.

Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball.

Oh, modest maiden morn! why dost thou blush, Who thus betimes art walking in the sky?

'Tis I, whose cheek bears pleasure's sleepless flush, Who shame to meet thy gray, cloud-lidded eye, Shadowy, yet clear: from the bright eastern door, Where the sun's shafts lie bound with thongs of fire, Along the heaven's amber-paved floor, The glad hours move, hymning their early choir.

O, fair and fragrant morn! upon my brow Press thy fresh lips, shake from thy dropping hair Cold showers of balmy dew on me, and ere Day's chariot-wheels upon th' horizon glow, Wrap me within thy sober cloak of gray, And bear me to thy twilight bowers away.

LINES, In answer to a question.

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth But as the visions light of one who dreameth, Which pa.s.s like clouds, leaving no trace behind; Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly, In me awakeneth no melancholy, Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind.

'Tis not that with an undiscerning eye I see the pageant wild go dancing by, Mistaking that which falsest is, for true; 'Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me, 'Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me; I bear no badge of roses or of rue, But in the inmost chambers of my soul There is another world, a blessed home, O'er which no living power holdeth control, Anigh to which ill things do never come.

There s.h.i.+neth the glad sunlight of clear thought, With hope, and faith, holding communion high, Over a fragrant land with flowers wrought, Where gush the living springs of poesy; There speak the voices that I love to hear, There smile the glances that I love to see, There live the forms of those my soul holds dear, For ever, in that secret world, with me.

They who have walked with me along life's way, And sever'd been by Fortune's adverse tide, Who ne'er again, through Time's uncertain day, In weal or woe, may wander by my side; These all dwell here: nor these, whom life alone Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead; Those weary ones who to their rest are gone, Whose footprints from the earth have vanished; Here dwell they all: and here, within this world, Like light within a summer sun cloud furled, My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life, With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings, Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings, Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.

O thou! who readest, of thy courtesy, Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

A FAREWELL.

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall, The fairies' palace beside the stream; Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn, When the young moon hangs on the brow of night, Nor see the morning, at early dawn, Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed, O'er the springing sward,--through the twilight wood; Nor reign my courser, and check my speed, By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more 'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell: The sun is set,--the day is o'er,-- The summer is past;--farewell!--farewell!

TO A PICTURE.

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-- Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?

Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell, Hath love's warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell To waken sense in ye?--oh, misery!-- Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?

Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain; I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears, Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.

Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply To my fond prayers and wild idolatry?

SONNET.

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame That does not vibrate when thy step draws near, There's not a pulse that throbs not when I hear Thy voice, thy breathing, nay, thy very name.

When thou art with me, every sense seems dull, And all I am, or know, or feel, is thee; My soul grows faint, my veins run liquid flame, And my bewildered spirit seems to swim In eddying whirls of pa.s.sion, dizzily.