Poems. Fanny Kemble

               I sing the yellow leaf,

                  That rustling strews

               The wintry path, where grief

                  Delights to muse,

      Spring’s early violet, that sweetly opes

         Its 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 strews

               The wintry path, where grief

                  Delights to muse.

      The summer’s rose, in whose rich hues we read

         Pleasure’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 strews

               The wintry path, where grief

                  Delights 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 eclipse

         The 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 bound

         With the laurel of victory,

      Wherever the patriot’s brow is crowned

         With 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 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 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 wander

      In 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 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 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 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 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 hand

         Robbed 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,