Impromptu.

You say you're glad I write - oh, say not so!
    My fount of song, dear friend, 's a bitter well;
And when the numbers freely from it flow,
    'Tis that my heart, and eyes, o'erflow as well.

Castalia, fam'd of yore, - the spring divine,
    Apollo's smile upon its current wears:
Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
    To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.

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

To The Spring.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Lines Written At Night.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Song.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

A Lament For The Wissahiccon.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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To ----

The fountain of my life, which flowed so free,
    The plenteous waves, which brimming gushed along,
    Bright, deep, and swift, with a perpetual song,
Doubtless have long since seemed dried up to thee:
How should they not? from the shrunk, narrow bed,
    Where once that glory flowed, have ebbed away
    Light, life, and motion, and along its way
The dull stream slowly creeps a shallow thread, -
Yet, at the hidden source, if hands unblest
    Disturb the wells whence that sad stream takes birth,
    The swollen waters once again gush forth,
Dark, bitter floods, rolling in wild unrest.

Frances Anne Kemble

Anacreontic.

I filled to thee, to thee I drank,
    I nothing did but drink and fill;
The bowl by turns was bright and blank,
    'Twas drinking, filling, drinking still.

At length I bade an artist paint
    Thy image in this ample cup,
That I might see the dimpled saint,
    To whom I quaffed my nectar up.

Behold, how bright that purple lip
    Now blushes through the wave at me;
Every roseate drop I sip
    Is just like kissing wine from thee.

And still I drink the more for this;
    For, ever when the draught I drain,
Thy lip invites another kiss,
    And--in the nectar flows again.

So, here's to thee, my gentle dear,
    And may that eyelid never shine
Beneath a darker, bitterer tear
    Than bathes it in this bowl of mine!

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LX.

^[1]


Awake to life, my sleeping shell,
To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour
To him who gathers wisdom's flower.
Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,
And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,
Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,
Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet.
'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,
Down the Cayster's current floats,
While amorous breezes linger round,
And sigh responsive sound for sound.

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;
And hallowed is the harp I bear,
And hallowed is the wreath I wear,
Hallowed by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze.

Thomas Moore

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,

Frances Anne Kemble

To George Morgan, Esq. Of Norfolk, Virginia.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.


Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!--
    High mountain waves and foamy showers,
And battling winds whose savage blast
    But ill agrees with one whose hours
    Have past in old Anacreon's bowers,
Yet think not poesy's bright charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm;^[1]--
When close they reefed the timid sail,
    When, every plank complaining loud,
We labored in the midnight gale;
And even our haughty mainmast bowed,
Even then, in that unlovely hour,
The Muse still brought her soothing power,
And, midst the war of waves and wind,
In song's Elysium lapt my mind.
Nay, when no numbers of my own
Responded to her wakening tone,
She opened, with her golden key,
    The casket where my memory lays
...

Thomas Moore

Anacreontic.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
    'Twill chase that pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
    But, oh! 'tis more sincere.

    Like her delusive beam,
        'Twill steal away thy mind:
    But, truer than love's dream,
        It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
    These flowers were culled at noon;--
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
    But, ah! not half so soon.
        For though the flower's decayed,
            Its fragrance is not o'er;
        But once when love's betrayed,
            Its sweet life blooms no more.

Thomas Moore