Poems. Fanny Kemble

      Let me not die for ever, when I’m gone

         To the cold earth! but let my memory

      Live like the gorgeous western light that shone

         Over the clouds where sank day’s majesty.

      Let me not be forgotten! though the grave

         Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow.

      Let me not be forgotten! though the wave

         Of time’s dark current rolls above me now.

      Yet not in tears remembered be my name;

         Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,

      Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame

         Over my tomb spread immortality!

      The moment must come, when the hands that unite

         In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever;

      When the eyes that have beamed o’er us brightly to-night,

         Will have ceased to shine o’er us, for ever.

            Yet wreathe again the goblet’s brim

               With pleasure’s roseate crown!

            What though the future hour be dim—

               The present is our own!

      The moment is come, and again we are parting,

         To roam through the world, each our separate way;

      In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting,

         But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray.

            Then wreathe again the goblet’s brim

               With pleasure’s roseate crown!

            What though the present hour be dim—

               The future’s yet our own!

      The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us

         So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream;

      And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us,

         Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning’s first beam.

            Still wreathe once more the goblet’s brim!

               With pleasure’s roseate crown!

            What though all else beside be dim—

               The past has been our own!

      Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time

      Hadst been the star of many a poet’s dream!

      Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,

      Weddest the gentle graces that beseem

      Fair woman’s best! forgive the darling line

      That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye

      Glance o’er the vain attempt too scornfully;

      But, as thou read’st, think what a love was mine,

      That made me venture on a theme, that none

      Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.

      Thou art most fair, though sorrow’s chastening wing

      Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,

      And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing

      The splendour of thy beauty’s summer now.

      Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness

      That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;

      Thy beauty, is thy pure heart’s holiness;

      Thy grace, thy lofty spirit’s majesty.

      While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,

      Like some calm spirit o’er life’s troubled stream,

      With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side

      Together blossoming; I almost deem

      That I behold the loveliness and truth,

      That like fair visions hovered round my youth,

      Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.

      Let me not die for ever when I’m laid

         In the cold earth! but let my memory

      Live still among ye, like the evening shade,

         That o’er the sinking day steals placidly.

      Let me not be forgotten! though the knell

         Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;

      Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell

         For ever now in death’s obscurity.

      Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,

         Trace not a record, not a line for me,

      But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,

         And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

      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! daylight’s crimson veil

      Floats o’er the mountain tops, while twilight pale

      Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale;

         Why art thou sleeping?

      It is the night! o’er the moon’s 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 o’er

         I should forget.

      ’Till the broad foaming surge

         Warns me to fly,

      While despair’s whispers urge

         To stay and die.

      When the night’s solemn watch

         Falls on the seas,

      ’Tis thy voice that I catch

         In the low breeze;

      When