Fanny Kemble - Poems

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,
The breeze that o’er the mountain sighs,
Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish;
But thou—not e’en those sunny eyes
As bright, as blue, as thine own skies,
Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.

’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!