Poems

by Fanny Kemble

AN APOLOGY.

Blame not my tears, love: to you has been given
The brightest, best gift, God to mortals allows;
The sunlight of hope on your heart shines from Heaven,
And shines from your heart, on this life and its woes.

Blame not my tears, love: on you her best treasure
Kind nature has lavish’d, oh, long be it yours!
For how barren soe’er be the path you now measure,
The future still woos you with hands full of flowers.

Oh, ne’er be that gift, love, withdrawn from thy keeping!
The jewel of life, its strong spirit, its wings;
If thou ever must weep, may it shine through thy weeping,
As the sun his warm rays through a spring shower flings.

But blame not my tears, love: to me ’twas denied;
And when fate to my lips gave this life’s mingled cup,
She had filled to the brim, from the dark bitter tide,
And forgotten to pour in the only sweet drop.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

Were they but dreams? Upon the darkening world
Evening comes down, the wings of fire are furled,
On which the day soared to the sunny west:
The moon sits calmly, like a soul at rest,
Looking upon the never-resting earth;
All things in heaven wait on the solemn birth
Of night, but where has fled the happy dream
That at this hour, last night, our life did seem?
Where are the mountains with their tangled hair,
The leafy hollow, and the rocky stair?
Where are the shadows of the solemn hills,
And the fresh music of the summer rills?
Where are the wood-paths, winding, long and steep,
And the great, glorious river, broad and deep,
And the thick copses, where soft breezes meet,
And the wild torrent’s snowy, leaping feet,
The rustling, rocking boughs, the running streams,—
Where are they all? gone, gone! were they but dreams?

And where, oh where are the light footsteps gone,
That from the mountain-side came dancing down?
The voices full of mirth, the loving eyes,
The happy hearts, the human paradise,
The youth, the love, the life that revelled here,—
Are they too gone?—Upon Time’s shadowy bier,
The pale, cold hours of joys now past, are laid,
Perhaps, not soon from memory’s gaze to fade,
But never to be reckoned o’er again,
In all life’s future store of bliss and pain.
From the bright eyes the sunshine may depart,
Youth flies—love dies—and from the joyous heart
Hope’s gushing fountain ebbs too soon away,
Nor spares one drop for that disastrous day,
When from the barren waste of after life,
The weariness, the worldliness, the strife,
The soul looks o’er the desert of its way
To the green gardens of its early day:
The paradise, for which we vainly mourn,
The heaven, to which our ling’ring eyes still turn,
To which our footsteps never shall return.

SONG.

Pass thy hand through my hair, lore;
One little year ago,
In a curtain bright and rare, love,
It fell golden o’er my brow.
But the gold has passed away, love,
And the drooping curls are thin,
And cold threads of wintry gray, love,
Glitter their folds within:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

Fasten thine eyes on mine, love;
One little year ago,
Midsummer’s sunny shine, love,
Had not a warmer glow.
But the light is there no more, love,
Save in melancholy gleams,
Like wan moonlight wand’ring o’er, love,
Dim lands in troubled dreams:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

Lay thy cheek to my cheek, love,
One little year ago
It was ripe, and round, and sleek, love,
As the autumn peaches grow.
But the rosy hue has fled, love,
Save a flush that goes and comes,
Like a flow’r born from the dead, love,
And blooming over tombs:
How should this be, in one short year?
It is not age—can it be care?

TO MRS. DULANEY.

What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
That from this marred earth
Takes its imperfect birth;
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught
From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
With earthly creatures coarse,
Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.

What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
And make infirmity
A patient victory,
And crown life’s baseness with a glorious wreath,
That fades not on thy bier,
But fits, immortal soul! thy triumph still,
In that bright world where thou art gone to dwell.

IMPROMPTU,
Written among the ruins of the Sonnenberg.

Thou who within thyself dost not behold
Ruins as great as these, though not as old,
Can’st scarce through life have travelled many a year,
Or lack’st the spirit of a pilgrim here.
Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride;
Love, its warm hearth-stones; Hope, its prospects wide;
Life’s fortress in thee, held these one, and all,
And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall.

LINES,
Addressed to the Young Gentlemen leaving the Academy at Lenox, Massachusetts.

Life is before ye—and while now ye stand
Eager to spring upon the promised land,
Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod
But few light steps, upon a flowery sod;
Round ye are youth’s green bowers, and to your eyes
Th’ horizon’s line joins earth with the bright skies;
Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy,
Friendship unwavering, love without alloy,
Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won,
Like angels, beckon ye to venture on.
And if o’er the bright scene some shadows rise,
Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies;
The distant clouds, which of ye pause to fear?
Shall not a brightness gild them when more near?

Dismay and doubt ye know not, for the power
Of youth is strong within ye at this hour,
And the great mortal conflict seems to ye
Not so much strife as certain victory—
A glory ending in eternity.
Life is before ye—oh! if ye could look
Into the secrets of that sealëd book,
Strong as ye are in youth, and hope, and faith,
Ye should sink down, and falter, “Give us death!”
Could the dread Sphinx’s lips but once disclose,
And utter but a whisper of the woes
Which must o’ertake ye, in your lifelong doom,
Well might ye cry, “Our cradle be our tomb!”
Could ye foresee your spirit’s broken wings,
Earth’s brightest triumphs what despisëd things,
Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame,
Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame,
Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all,
Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall,
Fast gathering darkness, and fast waning light,—
Oh could ye see it all, ye might, ye might
Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife,
And die, but in beholding what is life.

Life is before ye—from the fated road
Ye cannot turn: then take ye up your load.

Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o’er it, meet ye what ye may.
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,
Angels, and fellow-spirits, bid ye speed!
What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,
The glory wane,—oh! not of these is made
The awful life that to your trust is given.
Children of God! inheritors of heaven!
Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy,
Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy,
To suffer, which is nobler than to dare;
A sacred burthen is this life ye bear,
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly,
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win;
God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way,
Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day!

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

I am alone—oh be thou near to me,
Great God! from whom the meanest are not far.
Not in presumption of the daring spirit,
Striving to find the secrets of itself,
Make I my weeping prayer; in the deep want
Of utter loneliness, my God! I seek thee;
If the worm may creep up to thy fellowship,
Or dust, instinct with yearning, rise towards thee.
I have no fellow, Father! of my kind;
None that be kindred, none companion to me,
And the vast love, and harmony, and brotherhood,
Of the dumb creatures thou hast made below me,
Vexes my soul with its own bitter lot.
Around me grow the trees, each by the other;
Innumerable leaves, each like the other,
Whisper and breathe, and live and move together.
Around me spring the flowers; each rosy cup
Hath sisters, leaning their fair cheeks against it.
The birds fly all above me; not alone,
But coupled in free fellowship, or mustering
A joyous band, weeping in companies
The wide blue fields between the clouds;—the clouds

Troop in society, each on the other
Shedding, like sympathy, reflected light.
The waves, a multitude, together run
To the great breast of the receiving sea:
Nothing but hath its kind, its company,
Oh God! save I alone! then, let me come,
Good Father! to thy feet, when even as now,
Tears, that no human hand is near to wipe,
O’erbrim my eyes, oh wipe them, thou, my Father!
When in my heart the stores of its affections,
Piled up unused, locked fast, are like to burst
The fleshly casket, that may not contain them,
Let me come nigh to thee;—accept thou them,
Dear Father!—Fount of Love! Compassionate God!
When in my spirit burns the fire, the power,
That have made men utter the words of angels,
And none are near to bid me speak and live:
Hearken, oh Father! Maker of my spirit!
God of my soul, to thee I will outpour
The hymns resounding through my troubled mind,
The sighs and sorrows of my lonely heart,
The tears, and weeping, of my weary eyes:
Be thou my fellow, glorious, gracious God!
And fit me for such fellowship with thee!

ABSENCE.

What shall I do with all the days and hours
That must be counted ere I see thy face?
How shall I charm the interval that lowers
Between this time and that sweet time of grace?

Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,
Weary with longing?—shall I flee away
Into past days, and with some fond pretence
Cheat myself to forget the present day?

Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin
Of casting from me God’s great gift of time;
Shall I these mists of memory locked within,
Leave, and forget, life’s purposes sublime?

Oh! how, or by what means, may I contrive
To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?
How may I teach my drooping hope to live
Until that blessed time, and thou art here?

I’ll tell thee: for thy sake, I will lay hold
Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,
In worthy deeds, each moment that is told
While thou, beloved one! art far from me.

For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try
All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;
For thy dear sake I will walk patiently
Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task time, and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o’ertake
More good than I have won, since yet I live.

So may this doomed time build up in me
A thousand graces which shall thus be thine;
So may my love and longing hallowed be,
And thy dear thought an influence divine.

RETURN.

When the bright sun back on his yearly road
Comes towards us, his great glory seems to me,
As from the sky he pours it all abroad,
A golden herald, my beloved, of thee.

When from the south the gentle winds do blow,
Calling the flowers that sleep beneath the earth,
It sounds like sweetest music, that doth go
Before thy coming, full of love and mirth.

When one by one the violets appear,
Opening their purple vests so modestly,
To greet the virgin daughter of the year,
Each seems a fragrant prophecy of thee.

For with the spring thou shalt return again;
Therefore the wind, the flower, and clear sunshine,
A double worship from my heart obtain,
A love and welcome not their own, but thine.

LINES,
Written in London.

Struggle not with thy life!—the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne’er so brave.

Complain not of thy life!—for what art thou
More than thy fellows, that thou should’st not weep?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life!—patience shall see
The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

TO ---

What recks the sun, how weep the heavy flowers
All the sad night, when he is far away?
What recks he, how they mourn, through those dark hours,
Till back again he leads the smiling day?

As lifts each watery bloom its tearful eye,
And blesses from its lowly seat, the god,
In his great glory he goes through the sky,
And recks not of the blessing from the sod.

And what is it to thee, oh, thou, my fate!
That all my hope, and joy, remains with thee?
That thy departing, leaves me desolate,
That thy returning, brings back life to me?

I blame not thee, for all the strife, and woe,
That for thy sake daily disturbs my life;
I blame not thee, that Heaven has made me so,
That all the love I can, is woe, and strife.

I blame not thee, that I may ne’er impart
The tempest, and the death, and the despair,
That words, and looks, of thine make in my heart,
And turn by turn, riot and stagnate there.

Oh! I have found my sin’s sharp scourge in thee,
For loving thee, as one should love but Heaven;
Therefore, oh, thou beloved! I blame not thee,
But by my anguish hope to be forgiven.