Poems by Frances Anne Kemble

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,

The waterfall is calling me

By the pure spring, whose haunted waters flow

In the dark, lonely night,

Life wanes, and the bright sunlight of our youth

It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes;

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

Let me not die for ever when I'm laid

Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander

What shall I do with all the days and hours

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given

Once more, once more into the sunny fields

Good night, love!

Come where the white waves dance along the shore

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain,

To Y ---, with a bowl of Bohemian glass.

Better trust all, and be deceived,

Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy!

From an epistle written when the thermometer stood at 98 degrees in the shade.

It was the harvest time: the broad, bright moon

Walking by moonlight on the golden margin

Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg.

You say you're glad I write - oh, say not so!

Where is thy home in thy promised land?

Good night! from music's softest spell

Oh, sunny Love!

Loud wind, strong wind, where art thou blowing?

Oh child! who to this evil world art come,

Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live

Life is before ye - and while now ye stand

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth

Struggle not with thy life! - the heavy doom

Flower of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand

Poor little sprite! in that dark, narrow cell

When the bright sun back on his yearly road

Never, oh never more! shall I behold

Yet once again, but once, before we sever,

When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes,

The moment must come, when the hands that unite

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;

I sing the yellow leaf,

Say thou not sadly, "never," and "no more,"

Spirit of all sweet sounds! who in mid air

Suggested by Sir Thomas Lawrence observing that we never dream of ourselves younger than we are.

There's not a fibre in my trembling frame

Thou poisonous laurel leaf, that in the soil

Though thou return unto the former things,

To a Lady who wrote under my likeness as Juliet, "Lieti giorni e felice."

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

Whene'er I recollect the happy time

Written at four o'clock in the morning, after a ball.

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!

Oft let me wander hand in hand with Thought,

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land,

Lady, whom my beloved loves so well!

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;

Cover me with your everlasting arms,

By jasper founts, whose falling waters make

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn

Away, away! bear me away, away,

Art thou already weary of the way?

Oh weary, weary world! how full thou art

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,

'Twas a fit hour for parting,

I am alone - oh be thou near to me,

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past, -

Death and I,

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,

When the dawn

When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,

When the glad sun looks smiling from the sky,

Oh, turn those eyes away from me!

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers

Is it a sin to wish that I may meet thee

I would I might be with thee, when the year

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds

Time beckons on the hours: the expiring year

I never shall forget thee - 'tis a word

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time

What was thine errand here?

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above

On the lone waters' shore

How passing sad! Listen, it sings again!

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,

Here's a health to thee, Bard of Erin!

Night in her dark array

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,

The hours are past, love,

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world

Farewell, old playmate! on thy sandy shore