Poems. Fanny Kemble

      ’Twas but a dream! and oh! what are they all,

         All the fond visions Hope’s bright finger traces,

         All the fond visions Time’s 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 they’d 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 man’s 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 lily’s 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 mountain’s brow,

      Where thou wert wont to list the heath-bells ringing,

         And sail upon the sunset’s 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 moon’s soft beam,

      Hiding in blossoms from the sun’s fierce gleam,

         Whilst thou, in darkness, sing’st 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 sing’st 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,

      Thou’dst 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 o’er 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 limner’s 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 o’er.

      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 nature’s 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 fix’dly with their golden eyes,

      And a strange light played o’er 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