Faith.

Better trust all, and be deceived,
    And weep that trust, and that deceiving;
Than doubt one heart, that if believed,
    Had blessed one's life with true believing.

Oh, in this mocking world, too fast
    The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth!
Better be cheated to the last,
    Than loose the blessed hope of truth.

Frances Anne Kemble

Frances Anne Kemble, also known as Fanny, was a notable British actress and writer born on November 27, 1809, and died on January 15, 1893. She was a prominent figure in the 19th century literary and theatrical circles. Kemble was known for her acting prowess and her detailed journals and memoirs, which provide valuable insights into the life and times of her era.

Frances Anne Kemble

Lament For Israel.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

On A Musical Box.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Fragment.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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Blondine.

I wandered through a careless world
    Deceived when not deceiving,
And never gave an idle heart
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The smiles, the sighs, the glancing eyes,
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Swept by me, light as rose-leaves blown
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But never eyes so deep and bright
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And never smiles so full of light
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    Is safely shrined beneath them.

Ah! do they shine, those eyes of thine,
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Faith in God

Have faith in God. For whosoever lists
To calm conviction in these days of strife,
Will learn that in this steadfast stand exists
The scholarship severe of human life.

This face to face with doubt! I know how strong
His thews must be who fights and falls and bears,
By sleepless nights and vigils lone and long,
And many a woeful wraith of wrestling prayers.

Yet trust in Him! Not in an old man throned
With thunders on an everlasting cloud,
But in that awful Entity enzoned
By no wild wraths nor bitter homage loud.

When from the summit of some sudden steep
Of speculation you have strength to turn
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Written In A Friend's Album.

Trust not Hope's illusive ray,
Trust not Joy's deceitful smiles;
Oft they reckless youth betray
With their bland, seductive wiles.

I have proved them all, alas!
Transient as the hues of eve;
Meteor-like, they quickly pass
Through the bosoms they deceive.

Let not Love thy prospects gild;
Soon they will be clouded o'er,
And the budding heart once chilled,
It can brightly bloom no more.

Slumber not in Pleasure's beam;
It may sparkle for a while,
But 'tis transient as a dream,
Faithless as a foeman's smile.

There's a light that's brighter far,
Soothes the soul by anguish riven,
'Tis Religion's guiding star
Glittering on the verge of Heaven.

Oh! this beam divine is worth
All the charm that life can give;
'...

Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

See?

If one proves weak who you fancied strong,
    Or false who you fancied true,
Just ease the smart of your wounded heart
    By the thought that it is not you!

If many forget a promise made,
    And your faith falls into the dust,
Then look meanwhile in your mirror and smile,
    And say, 'I am one to trust!'

If you search in vain for an ageing face
    Unharrowed by fretful fears,
Then make right now (and keep) a vow
    To grow in grace with the years.

If you lose your faith in the word of man
    As you go from the port of youth,
Just say as you sail, 'I will not fail
    To keep to the course of truth!'

For this is the way, and the only way -
    At least so it seems to me.
IT IS UP TO YOU, TO BE, AND DO,
    WHAT YOU ...

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Faith

Let a valiant Faith cross swords with Death,
And Death is certain to fall;
For the dead arise with joy in their eyes -
They were not dead at all.
If this were only a world of chance,
Then faith, with its strong white spark
Could burn through the sod and fashion a God,
And set Him to shine in the dark.

So in troublesome days, and in shadowy ways,
In the dire and difficult time,
We must cling, we must cling to our Faith, and bring
Our courage to heights sublime.
It is not a matter of hugging a creed
That will lift us up to the light,
But in keeping our trust that Love is just,
And that whatever is, is right.

When the hopes of this world into chaos are hurled,
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Sonnet.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
    O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
    Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn.
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music, and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

Frances Anne Kemble