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

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 Picture Of A Lady.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

The Wind.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Return.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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To The Wissahiccon.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,
    When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,
Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,
    Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter.
But often in my dreams, when I am gone
    Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,
    Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,
And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.
And when the burden of existence lies
    Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,
I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,
    Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.
Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,
    Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;
And as thou wanderest on to meet the river
    Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!
I never shall come back to the...

Frances Anne Kemble

To ----

When we first met, dark wintry skies were glooming,
    And the wild winds sang requiem to the year;
But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming,
    And my young heart knew hope without a fear.

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling,
    And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore;
But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,
    For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no more.

Frances Anne Kemble

The Forest Rill.

Young Naiad of the sparry grot,
    Whose azure eyes before me burn,
In what sequestered lonely spot
    Lies hid thy flower-enwreathed urn?
Beneath what mossy bank enshrined,
    Within what ivy-mantled nook,
Sheltered alike from sun and wind,
    Lies hid thy source, sweet murmuring brook?

Deep buried lies thy airy shell
    Beneath thy waters clear;
Far echoing up the woodland dell
    Thy wind-swept harp I hear.
I catch its soft and mellow tones
    Amid the long grass gliding,
Now broken 'gainst the rugged stones,
    In hoarse, deep accents chiding.

The wandering breeze that stirs the grove,
    In plaintive moans replying,
To every leafy bough above
    His tender tale is sighing;
Ruffled beneath his viewless wing
  ...

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Sonnet.

Like one who walketh in a plenteous land,
    By flowing waters, under shady trees,
    Through sunny meadows, where the summer bees
Feed in the thyme and clover; on each hand
Fair gardens lying, where of fruit and flower
The bounteous season hath poured out its dower:
Where saffron skies roof in the earth with light,
And birds sing thankfully towards Heaven, while he
With a sad heart walks through this jubilee,
Beholding how beyond this happy land,
Stretches a thirsty desert of gray sand,
Where all the air is one thick, leaden blight,
Where all things dwarf and dwindle, - so walk I,
Through my rich, present life, to what beyond doth lie.

Frances Anne Kemble

To Mrs. ----

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time
Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream!
Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,
Weddest the gentle graces that beseem
Fair woman's best! forgive the darling line
That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye
Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully;
But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine,
That made me venture on a theme, that none
Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.
Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing
Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,
And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing
The splendour of thy beauty's summer now.
Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness
That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;
Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness;
Thy grace, thy lofty spir...

Frances Anne Kemble

Lines, In Answer To A Question.

I'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth
But as the visions light of one who dreameth,
Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind;
Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly,
In me awakeneth no melancholy,
Nor leaveth shade, or sadness, on my mind.
'Tis not that with an undiscerning eye
I see the pageant wild go dancing by,
Mistaking that which falsest is, for true;
'Tis not that pleasure hath entwined me,
'Tis not that sorrow hath enshrined me;
I bear no badge of roses or of rue,
But in the inmost chambers of my soul
There is another world, a blessed home,
O'er which no living power holdeth control,
Anigh to which ill things do never come.
There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought,
With hope, and faith, holding communion high,
...

Frances Anne Kemble