Poems. Fanny Kemble

      Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live

      Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!

      Spirit of harmony! that through the vast

      And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading

      Thy wings, that o’er our shadowy earth hang brooding,

      Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon

      And the world’s darker orb: beautiful, hail!

      Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether,

      Night looks upon the slumbering universe.

      There is no breeze on silver-crownëd tree,

      There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower,

      There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave,

      There is no sound hangs in the solemn air.

      All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all,

      Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth

      Winking the slumberer’s destinies.  The moon

      Sails on the horizon’s verge, a moving glory,

      Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb

      Approaches, to invade the sea of light

      That lives around her; save yon little star,

      That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds,

      Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.

      Night in her dark array

         Steals o’er the ocean,

      And with departed day

         Hushed seems its motion.

      Slowly o’er yon blue coast

         Onward she’s treading,

      ’Till its dark line is lost,

         ’Neath her veil spreading.

      The bark on the rippling deep

         Hath found a pillow,

      And the pale moonbeams sleep

         On the green billow.

      Bound by her emerald zone

         Venice is lying,

      And round her marble crown

         Night winds are sighing.

      From the high lattice now

         Bright eyes are gleaming,

      That seem on night’s dark brow

         Brighter stars beaming.

      Now o’er the bright lagune

         Light barks are dancing,

      And ’neath the silver moon

         Swift oars are glancing.

      Strains from the mandolin

         Steal o’er the water,

      Echo replies between

         To mirth and laughter.

      O’er the wave seen afar

         Brilliantly shining,

      Gleams like a fallen star

         Venice reclining.

      Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year

         Already feels old Winter’s icy breath;

      As with cold hands, he scatters on her bier

         The faded glories of her Autumn wreath.

      As fleetly as the Summer’s sunshine past,

         The Winter’s snow must melt; and the young Spring,

      Strewing the earth with flowers, will come at last,

         And in her train the hour of parting bring.

      But, though I leave the harbour, where my heart

         Sometime had found a peaceful resting-place,

      Where it lay calmly moored; though I depart,

         Yet, let not time my memory quite efface.

      ’Tis true, I leave no void, the happy home

         To which you welcomed me, will be as gay,

      As bright, as cheerful, when I’ve turned to roam,

         Once more, upon life’s weary onward way.

      But oh! if ever by the warm hearth’s blaze,

         Where beaming eyes and kindred souls are met,

      Your fancy wanders back to former days,

         Let my remembrance hover round you yet.

      Then, while before you glides time’s shadowy train,

         Of forms long vanished, days and hours long gone,

      Perchance my name will be pronounced again,

         In that dear circle where I once was one.

      Think of me then, nor break kind memory’s spell,

         By reason’s censure coldly o’er me cast,

      Think only, that I loved ye passing well!

         And let my follies slumber with the past.

      Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully

      Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along

      In the full chorus of their midnight song.

      The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky,

      Roll like a murky scroll before them driven,

      And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven.

      No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star,

      Darkness is on the universe; save where

      The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far,

      With day’s red embers dimly glowing there.

      Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course,

      And sweeping onward, with resistless force,

      Howls through the silent space of starless skies,

      And on the breast of the swol’n ocean dies.

      Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power!

      That rid’st destroying at the midnight hour!

      We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye

      Knows nothing of thine awful majesty.

      We see all mute creation bow before

      Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o’er

      This rocking world; that in the boundless sky

      Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by.

      There is no terror in the lightning’s glare,

      That breaks its red track through the trackless air;

      There is no terror in the voice that speaks

      From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks

      Over the earth, like that which dwells in thee,

      Thou unseen tenant of immensity.

      ’Tis only the nightingale’s warbled strain,

         That floats through the evening sky:

      With his note of love, he replies again,