Lines Written At Night.

Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live
Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light!
Spirit of harmony! that through the vast
And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading
Thy wings, that o'er our shadowy earth hang brooding,
Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon
And the world's darker orb: beautiful, hail!
Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether,
Night looks upon the slumbering universe.
There is no breeze on silver-crowned tree,
There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower,
There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave,
There is no sound hangs in the solemn air.
All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all,
Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth
Winking the slumberer's destinies.    The moon
Sails on the horizon's verge, a moving glory,
Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb
Approaches, to invade the sea of light
That lives around her; save yon little star,
That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds,
Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.

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

Lines For Music.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

The Red Indian.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Song.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To My Guardian Angel.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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Night.

'Tis eventide; the noisy brook is hushed
Or murmurs only as a tired child,
Worn out with play; the tangled weeds lie still
Within the marshy hollow.    Quaint and dark
The willows bend above the brooklet's tide,
Reflecting shadowy images therein.
The dark-browed trees, with faces to the sky,
Shut out the light that fades in crimson lines
Along the western sky.    And yonder shade
Of purple marks the cloud, the storm-god rides
In moods of angry fire.

            The woods are filled
With wild-wood blossoms drinking in the dew.
Their scented breath is sweeter than the maid's
Who stands at eve and drinks in love and hope
From every budding flower.

                All day the sun
With fiery breath has held his hot, long reign;
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Venice.

Night in her dark array
    Steals o'er the ocean,
And with departed day
    Hushed seems its motion.
Slowly o'er yon blue coast
    Onward she's treading,
'Till its dark line is lost,
    'Neath her veil spreading.
The bark on the rippling deep
    Hath found a pillow,
And the pale moonbeams sleep
    On the green billow.
Bound by her emerald zone
    Venice is lying,
And round her marble crown
    Night winds are sighing.
From the high lattice now
    Bright eyes are gleaming,
That seem on night's dark brow
    Brighter stars beaming.
Now o'er the bright lagune
    Light barks are dancing,
And 'neath the silver moon
    Swift oars are glancing.
Strains from the mandolin
    Steal o'er the water,
Echo replies ...

Frances Anne Kemble

Lines For Music.

Good night! from music's softest spell
    Go to thy dreams: and in thy slumbers,
Fairies, with magic harp and shell,
    Sing o'er to thee thy own sweet numbers.

Good night! from Hope's intense desire
    Go to thy dreams: and may to-morrow,
Love with the sun returning, fire
    These evening mists of doubt and sorrow.

Good night! from hours of weary waking
    I'll to my dreams: still in my sleep
To feel the spirit's restless aching,
    And ev'n with eyelids closed, to weep.

Frances Anne Kemble

A Night Scene.

The lights have faded from the little casement,
    As though her closing eyes had brought on night;
    And now she dreams--Ah! dreams supremely bright,
While silence reigns around from roof to basement.
    And slow the moon is mounting up the sky,
Drawing Heaven's myriads in her queenly train,
    Flinging rich largesse, as she passes by,
Of beauty freely over hill and plain.

Around the lattice creep the pure white roses,
    And one light bough rests gently on the pane,
    The diamond pane, through which the angel train
Gaze on the sister saint who there reposes;
    The moonlight silvers softly o'er it now;
And round the eaves the south wind whispers lowly,
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Night.

Lo! where the car of Day down slopes of flame
On burnished axle quits the drowsy skies!
And as his snorting steeds of glowing brass
Rush 'neath the earth, a glimmering dust of gold
From their fierce hoofs o'er heaven's azure meads
Rolls to yon star that burns beneath the moon.
With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound,
The Night steps in, sad votaress, like a nun,
To pace lone corridors of th' ebon-archéd sky.
How sad! how beautiful! her raven locks
Pale-filleted with stars that dance their sheen
On her deep, holy eyes, and woo to sleep,
Sleep or the easeful slumber of white Death!
How calm o'er this great water, in its flow
Silent and vast, smoothes yon cold sister sphere,
Her lucid chasteness feathering the wax-white foam!
As o'er a troubled brow falls c...

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Eastern Sunset.

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain,
    That floats through the evening sky:
With his note of love, he replies again,
    To the muezzin's holy cry;
As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air,
"Allah, il allah! come to prayer!"
Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing,
'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might,
While each rippling wave on the bright shore is throwing
Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light.
Each distant mosque and minaret
Is shining in the setting sun,
Whose farewell look is brighter yet,
Than that with which his course begun.
On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright,
It glows on the orange grove's waving height,
And breaks through its shade in long lines of light.
No sound on the earth, and no sound in...

Frances Anne Kemble