The Minstrel's Grave.

Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
    In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
    May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
    Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
    And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
    The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
    May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow
    Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so well,
That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs o'er my pillow,
    From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one farewell.

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 Mrs. Dulaney.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

A Wish.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Epistle From The Rhine.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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An Entreaty.

Once more, once more into the sunny fields
    Oh, let me stray!
And drink the joy that young existence yields
    In a bright, cloudless day.

Once more let me behold the summer sky,
    With its blue eyes,
And join the wild wind's voice of melody,
    As far and free it flies.

Once more, once more, oh let me stand and hear
    The gushing spring,
As its bright drops fall starlike, fast and clear,
    And in the sunshine sing.

Once more, oh let me list the soft sweet breeze
    At evening mourn:
Let me, oh let me say farewell to these,
    And to my task I gaily will return.

Oh, lovely earth! oh, blessed smiling sky!
    Oh, music of the wood, the wave, the wind!
I do but linger till my ear and eye
    Have traced ye on t...

Frances Anne Kemble

A Wish.

Let me not die for ever when I'm laid
    In the cold earth! but let my memory
Live still among ye, like the evening shade,
    That o'er the sinking day steals placidly.
Let me not be forgotten! though the knell
    Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby;
Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell
    For ever now in death's obscurity.
Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame,
    Trace not a record, not a line for me,
But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name,
    And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

Frances Anne Kemble

A Farewell.

I shall come no more to the Cedar Hall,
    The fairies' palace beside the stream;
Where the yellow sun-rays at morning fall
    Through their tresses dark, with a mellow gleam.

I shall tread no more the thick dewy lawn,
    When the young moon hangs on the brow of night,
Nor see the morning, at early dawn,
    Shake the fading stars from her robes of light.

I shall fly no more on my fiery steed,
    O'er the springing sward, - through the twilight wood;
Nor reign my courser, and check my speed,
    By the lonely grange, and the haunted flood.

At fragrant noon, I shall lie no more
    'Neath the oak's broad shade, in the leafy dell:
The sun is set, - the day is o'er, -
    The summer is past; - farewell! - farewell!

Frances Anne Kemble

The Countess - To E. W.

I know not, Time and Space so intervene,
Whether, still waiting with a trust serene,
Thou bearest up thy fourscore years and ten,
Or, called at last, art now Heavens citizen;
But, here or there, a pleasant thought of thee,
Like an old friend, all day has been with me.
The shy, still boy, for whom thy kindly hand
Smoothed his hard pathway to the wonder-land
Of thought and fancy, in gray manhood yet
Keeps green the memory of his early debt.
To-day, when truth and falsehood speak their words
Through hot-lipped cannon and the teeth of swords,
Listening with quickened heart and ear intent
To each sharp clause of that stern argument,
I still can hear at times a softer note
Of the old pastoral music round me float,
While through the hot gleam of our civil strife

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A Wish.

Let me not die for ever, when I'm gone
    To the cold earth! but let my memory
Live like the gorgeous western light that shone
    Over the clouds where sank day's majesty.
Let me not be forgotten! though the grave
    Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow.
Let me not be forgotten! though the wave
    Of time's dark current rolls above me now.
Yet not in tears remembered be my name;
    Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me,
Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame
    Over my tomb spread immortality!

Frances Anne Kemble

To A Star.

Thou little star, that in the purple clouds
    Hang'st, like a dew-drop, in a violet bed;
First gem of evening, glittering on the shrouds,
    'Mid whose dark folds the day lies pale and dead:
As through my tears my soul looks up to thee,
    Loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
There comes a fearful thought that misery
    Perhaps is found, even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
    The heritage of death, disease, decay,
A wilderness, like that we wander in,
    Where all things fairest, soonest pass away?
And are there graves in thee, thou radiant world,
    Round which life's sweetest buds fall withered,
Where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled,
    And living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
Perchance ...

Frances Anne Kemble