The Death-Song.

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
    Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
    Death is darkly drawing near.

Mother, mother! the bitter shame
    Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
    Burns me away without control.

Mother, mother! upon my brow
    The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
    Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!

Mother, mother! sing me the song
    They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley-fields along,
    Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.

Mother, mother!    I do not hear
    Your voice - but his, - oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
    His clasping arms are round me still.

Mother, mother! unbind my vest,
    Upon my heart lies his first token:
Now lay me in my narrow nest,
    Your withered blossom, crushed and broken.

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

An Evening Song.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

The Wind.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To My Guardian Angel.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To The Spring.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Star.

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
    Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
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Frances Anne Kemble

Supper At The Mill.

Mother.
Well, Frances.

Frances.
Well, good mother, how are you?

M. I'm hearty, lass, but warm; the weather's warm:
I think 'tis mostly warm on market days.
I met with George behind the mill: said he,
"Mother, go in and rest awhile."

F.    Ay, do,
And stay to supper; put your basket down.

M. Why, now, it is not heavy?

F.    Willie, man,
Get up and kiss your Granny. Heavy, no!
Some call good churning luck; but, luck or skill,
Your butter mostly comes as firm and sweet
As if 'twas Christmas. So you sold it all?

M. All but this pat that I put by for George;
He always loved my butter.

F.    That he did.

M. And has your speckled hen brought o...

Jean Ingelow

Tis An Old Tale And Often Told.

Are they indeed the bitterest tears we shed,
Those we let fall over the silent dead?
Can our thoughts image forth no darker doom,
Than that which wraps us in the peaceful tomb?
Whom have ye laid beneath that mossy grave,
Round which the slender, sunny, grass-blades wave?
Who are ye calling back to tread again
This weary walk of life? towards whom, in vain,
Are your fond eyes and yearning hearts upraised;
The young, the loved, the honoured, and the praised?
Come hither; - look upon the faded cheek
Of that still woman, who with eyelids meek
Veils her most mournful eyes; - upon her brow
Sometimes the sensitive blood will faintly glow,
When reckless hands her heart-wounds roughly tear,
But patience oftener sits palely there.
Beauty has left her - hope and joy have...

Frances Anne Kemble

A Ballad.

    I.

    I cannot rest o' the night, Mother,
        For my heart is cold and wan:
    I fear the return o' light, Mother,
        Since my own true love is gone.
    O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
        And tender his bright blue eye;
    But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
        Beneath the dark earth do lie.


    II.

    They tell me that I am young, Mother,
        That joy will return once more;
    But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
        And I feel the wound full sore.
    The tree at the root frost-bitten
        Will flourish never again,
    And the woe that my life hath smitten
        Hath frozen each inmost vein.


    III.

    Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother,

Edward Woodley Bowling

The Foundling

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
        And I am wearied. And the day is done.
        Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows--fading, gold to gray,
    Their laughters turned to musing--ah, let me
    Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
        Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
        Along the meadows and the paling foam,
        All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
    The silence of the earth; and from the warm
    Face of the field the upward savors swarm
        Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
        The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
        Mad-mane and...

Josephine Preston Peabody

The Gift Of The Sea

The dead child lay in the shroud,
And the widow watched beside;
And her mother slept, and the Channel swept
The gale in the teeth of the tide.

But the mother laughed at all.
"I have lost my man in the sea,
And the child is dead. Be still," she said,
"What more can ye do to me?"

The widow watched the dead,
And the candle guttered low,
And she tried to sing the Passing Song
That bids the poor soul go.

And "Mary take you now," she sang,
"That lay against my heart."
And "Mary smooth your crib to-night,"
But she could not say "Depart."

Then came a cry from the sea,
But the sea-rime blinded the glass,
And "Heard ye nothing, mother?" she said,
"'Tis the child that waits to pass."

And the nodding mother sighed:
"'...

Rudyard