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 spirit's majesty.
While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,
Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream,
With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side
Together blossoming; I almost deem
That I behold the loveliness and truth,
That like fair visions hovered round my youth,
Long sought - and then forgotten as a dream.

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

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

To The Wissahiccon.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Song.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

Sonnet.

Frances Anne Kemble, Simple Poetry

English

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To Mrs. ----

I never shall forget thee - 'tis a word
    Thou oft must hear, for surely there be none
    On whom thy wond'rous eyes have ever shone
But for a moment, or who e'er have heard
Thy voice's deep impassioned melody,
    Can lose the memory of that look or tone.
But, not as these, do I say unto thee,
    I never shall forget thee: - in thine eyes,
Whose light, like sunshine, makes the world rejoice,
    A stream of sad and solemn splendour lies;
And there is sorrow in thy gentle voice.
Thou art not like the scenes in which I found thee,
Thou art not like the beings that surround thee;
    To me, thou art a dream of hope and fear;
Yet why of fear? - oh sure! the Power that lent
Such gifts, to make thee fair, and excellent;
Still watches one whom it has deigned to ...

Frances Anne Kemble

To The Picture Of A Lady.

Lady, sweet lady, I behold thee yet,
With thy pale brow, brown eyes, and solemn air,
And billowy tresses of thy golden hair,
Which once to see, is never to forget!
But for short space I gazed, with soul intent
Upon thee; and the limner's art divine,
Meantime, poured all thy spirit into mine.
But once I gazed, then on my way I went:
And thou art still before me.    Like a dream
Of what our soul has loved, and lost for ever,
Thy vision dwells with me, and though I never
May be so blest as to behold thee more,
That one short look has stamped thee in my heart,
Of my intensest life a living part,
Which time, and death, shall never triumph o'er.

Frances Anne Kemble

Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant, Vain

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
Without that modest softening that enhances
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
That its mild light creates to heal again:
E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation dances
For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
Heavens! how desperately do I adore
Thy winning graces; to be thy defender
I hotly burn to be a Calidore
A very Red Cross Knight a stout Leander
Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
Till the fond, fixed eyes...

John Keats

To Mrs. Dulaney.

        What was thine errand here?
Thy beauty was more exquisite than aught
        That from this marred earth
        Takes its imperfect birth;
It was a radiant, heavenly beauty, caught
        From some far higher sphere,
And though an angel now, thou still must bear
The lovely semblance that thou here didst wear.

        What was thine errand here?
Thy gentle thoughts, and holy, humble mind,
        With earthly creatures coarse,
        Held not discourse,
But with fine spirits, of some purer kind,
        Dwelt in communion dear;
And sure they speak to thee that language now,
Which thou wert wont to speak to us below.

        What was thine errand here?
To adorn anguish, and ennoble death,
        And make infirmity
        A...

Frances Anne Kemble

Woman's Love.

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
    Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
    Truth's holy voice, with ev'ry balmy breath;
So journeys she along life's crowded way,
    Keeping her soul's sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
    Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
    Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
    Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
    Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
    And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.

Frances Anne Kemble

Sonnet.

I would I knew the lady of thy heart!
She whom thou lov'st perchance, as I love thee, -
She unto whom thy thoughts and wishes flee;
Those thoughts, in which, alas! I bear no part.
Oh, I have sat and sighed, thinking how fair,
How passing beautiful, thy love must be;
Of mind how high, of modesty how rare;
And then I've wept, I've wept in agony!
Oh, that I might but once behold those eyes,
That to thy enamour'd gaze alone seem fair;
Once hear that voice, whose music still replies
To the fond vows thy passionate accents swear:
Oh, that I might but know the truth and die,
Nor live in this long dream of misery!

Frances Anne Kemble