Poems - Fanny Kemble 2 стр.

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! daylights crimson veil
Floats oer the mountain tops, while twilight pale
Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale;
   Why art thou sleeping?

It is the night! oer the moons 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 shore
   Wander I yet;
Brooding those moments oer
   I should forget.
Till the broad foaming surge
   Warns me to fly,
While despairs whispers urge
   To stay and die.
When the nights 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?

         I sing the yellow leaf,
            That rustling strews
         The wintry path, where grief
            Delights to muse,
Springs early violet, that sweetly opes
   Its fragrant leaves to the young mornings kiss,
Type of our youths 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 summers rose, in whose rich hues we read
   Pleasures gay bloom, and loves enchanting bliss,
And glorys laurel, waving oer the dead,
   Will soon be this:
         A sere and yellow leaf,
            That rustling strews
         The wintry path, where grief
            Delights to muse.

Heres a health to thee, Bard of Erin!
   To the goblets brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
   Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever fond womans eyes eclipse
   The midnight moons soft ray;
Whenever around dear womans lips,
   The smiles of affection play:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
   To the goblets brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
   Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the warriors sword is bound
   With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriots brow is crowned
   With the halo of liberty:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
   To the goblets 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 goblets 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 wander
In forest paths, oerarched with oak and beech;
Where the suns 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!

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
   In one crystal sheet, like the summers 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 oer 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 beautys 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 wanderers hand
   Robbed of thy beautys short-lived sunny day;
   Didst thou but blow to gem the strangers way,
And bloom, to wither in the strangers 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 memorys eye as thou.
      The dew that on the mountain lies,
      The breeze that oer the mountain sighs,
         Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish;
      But thounot een those sunny eyes
      As 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 Hopes bright finger traces,
   All the fond visions Times 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 theyd 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 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.

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell
   Caged by the law of mans 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 lilys 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 mountains brow,
Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,
   And sail upon the sunsets 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 moons soft beam,
Hiding in blossoms from the suns fierce gleam,
   Whilst thou, in darkness, singst 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 singst 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,
Thoudst 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 oer 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!

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 limners 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 oer.

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 natures 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 fixdly with their golden eyes,
And a strange light played oer 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