Frances Anne Kemble: Verses about Life

At morn—a mountain ne'er to be climbed o'er,
A horn of plenty, lengthening evermore;
At noon—the countless hour-sands pouring fast,
Waves that we scarce can see as they run past;
At night—a pageant over ere begun,
A course not even measured and yet run,
A short mysterious tale—suddenly done.
At first—a heap of treasure, heaven-high;
At last—a failing purse, shrunk, lean, and beggarly.

But to be still! oh, but to cease awhile
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life,
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife
Of hourly being; the sharp, biting file
Of action, fretting on the tightened chain
Of rough existence all that is not pain,
But utter weariness; oh to be free
But for a while from conscious entity!
To shut the banging doors and windows wide,
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide
Darkly and stilly, for a little space,
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race;
O heavens! to rest a moment, but to rest
From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest!

Have you not heard that in some deep-seal'd graves,
The Dead retain in beauty undisturb'd
The very countenance they living wore?
But if forbidden yearning vainly craves
To look upon the hidden face once more,
Lo! the sweet sleeping aspect is perturb'd,
The piercing light and the keen breath of life
Smite like a blow the features, and before
The hungry eyes of longing, Love, at strife
With Fate, efface the vision it desires,
And dust and ashes fill the friendly gloom
That might have kept immortal in its bloom,
What now again—and now for aye expires.
Leave we our buried pleasures in their tomb.

Blaspheme not thou thy sacred life, nor turn
O'er joys that God hath for a season lent,
Perchance to try thy spirit, and its bent,
Effeminate soul and base! weakly to mourn;
There lies no desert in the land of life,
For e'en that tract that barrenest doth seem,
Laboured of thee in faith and hope, shall teem
With heavenly harvests and rich gatherings, rife.
Haply no more, music and mirth and love,
And glorious things of old and younger art,
Shall of thy days make one perpetual feast;
But when these bright companions all depart,
Lay thou thy head upon the ample breast
Of Hope, and thou shalt hear the angels sing above.

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.

WHO FELL FROM A PRECIPICE INTO A MOUNTAIN TORRENT.


What said to thee those angels terrible,
Whose sudden pinions swept thee from our sight,
When o'er us all the awful horror fell,
That turned thy mid-day sunshine into night?
What mysteries ineffable and dread
Flashed in that aching moment o'er thy soul,
While with thee, 'twixt the living and the dead,
Our spirits hung, 'neath God's supreme control?
'Look on me, I am Life!' one angel cried—
'Love me, and use me well, I yet am thine!'
'Look on me, I am Death!' his peer replied—
'Forget me nevermore, thou must be mine!'
Oh, snatched from Death! may death to thee appear
Henceforth familiar, from all terrors free:
Oh, given back to Life!—be life more dear,
Holier and happier, from this hour to thee.

'Poeta volontieri
Parlerei a que' duo che' insieme vanno,
E pajon si al vento esser leggieri.'
Dell' Inferno, Canto .


Seer of the triple realm invisible,
When I behold that miserable twain,
By Rimini's sudden sword of justice slain,
Sweep through the howling hurricane of hell—
Light seems to me to rest upon their gloom,
More than upon this wretched earth above,
Falls on the path of many a living love,
Whose fate may envy their united doom.
There be, who wandering in this world, with heart
Riveted to some other heart for ever,
Past power of all eternity to sever,
The current of this life still drives apart,
Who, with strained eyes, and outstretched arms, and cry
Of bitterest longing, come each other nigh,
To look, to love, and to be swept asunder,
The breathless greeting of their agony
Lost in the pitiless world-storm's ceaseless thunder.

One after one, the shield, the sword, the spear,
The panoply that I was wont to wear,
My suit of proof, my wings that kept me free,
These, full of trust, delivered I to thee,
When, through all time, I swore that by thy side
I would henceforward walk:—I since have tried,
In hours of sadness, when my former life
Shone on me through thick gathering clouds of strife,
To wield my weapons bright, and wear again
My maiden corselet and free wings—in vain!
My hands have lost their strength and skill—my breast,
Beneath my mail throbs with a wild unrest;
My pinions trail upon the earth—my soul
Quails 'neath the heavy spell of thy control.
All that was living of my life seems fled,
My mortal part alone is not yet dead.
But since my nobler gifts have all been thine,
Trophies, or sacrifices, for thy shrine,
Pierce not the breast that stripped itself for thee
Of the fair means God gave it to be free;

Have yet some pity, and forbear to strike
One without power to strive, or fly alike,
Nor trample on a heart, which now must be
Towards all defenceless—most of all towards thee.

The water has flowed forth a year,
Since, sitting by the fountain's side,
We looked into the basin clear,
Where sparkles still the gushing tide,
And watched the crystal current pour,
During one bright enchanting hour.
The sun sloped low upon the plain—
The mellow southern winter sun—
And purple rose the mountain chain,
Which then I first did look upon;
While o'er its shadowy crests were seen
Bright, dazzling peaks of snowy sheen.
The limpid heavens o'er our head
Were clear as truth, and soft as love;
The dark-blue tufted pine-trees spread
Their solemn shade our rest above.
And, framed between their pillars gray,
The landscape's magic pictures lay.

A year that water hath flowed forth;
A year my golden hours have flowed:
And towards the regions of the north
I turn, to leave this blest abode,
Where I have dwelt in constant joy,
In peace and rest without alloy.
Pain has been far from me, and pleasure
Has kept the record of my days;
Glory and beauty, without measure,
Have haunted my familiar ways,
And made a year's existence seem
Bright, brief, and wondrous as a dream.
Now I depart, and bear with me
The gathered riches of these days;
No shade the sternest futurity
Upon their perfect brightness lays;
Life shall possess them to the last:
The blackest fate must spare the past.

O child! who to this evil world art come,
Led by the unseen hand of Him who guards thee,
Welcome unto this dungeon-house, thy home!
Welcome to all the woe this life awards thee!
Upon thy forehead yet the badge of sin
Hath worn no trace; thou look'st as though from heaven,
But pain, and guilt, and misery lie within;
Poor exile! from thy happy birth-land driven.
Thine eyes are sealed by the soft hand of sleep,
And like unruffled waves thy slumber seems;
The time's at hand when thou must wake to weep,
Or sleeping, walk a restless world of dreams.
How oft, as day by day life's burthen lies
Heavier and darker on thy fainting soul,
Wilt thou towards heaven turn thy weary eyes,
And long in bitterness to reach the goal!

How oft wilt thou, upon Time's flinty road,
Gaze at thy far-off early days, in vain!
Weeping, how oft wilt thou cast down thy load,
And curse and pray, then take it up again!
How many times shall the fiend Hope extend
Her poisonous chalice to thy thirsty lips!
How oft shall Love its withering sunshine lend,
To leave thee only a more dark eclipse!
How oft shall Sorrow strain thee in her grasp,—
How oft shall Sin laugh at thine overthrow—
How oft shall Doubt, Despair, and Anguish clasp
Their knotted arms around thine aching brow!
O living soul, hail to thy narrow cage!
Spirit of light, hail to thy gloomy cave!
Welcome to longing youth, to loathing age,
Welcome, immortal! welcome to the grave!

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 blessèd 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,
Over a fragrant land with flowers ywrought,
Where gush the living springs of poesy,
There speak the voices that I love to hear,
There smile the glances that I love to see,
There live the forms of those my soul holds dear,
For ever, in that secret world, with me.
They who have walked with me along life's way,
And severed been by fortune's adverse tide,
Who ne'er again, through time's uncertain day,
In weal or woe, may wander by my side;
These all dwell here: nor these, whom life alone
Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead;
Those weary ones who to their rest are gone,
Whose footprints from the earth have vanishèd;
Here dwell they all: and here, within this world,
Like light within a summer sun-cloud furled,
My spirit dwells. Therefore, this evil life,
With all its gilded snares, and fair deceivings,
Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings,
Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife.
O thou! who readest of thy courtesy,
Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee!

The blossoms hang again upon the tree,
As when with their sweet breath they greeted me
Against my casement, on that sunny morn,
When thou, first blossom of my spring, wast born,
And as I lay, panting from the fierce strife
With death and agony that won thy life,
Their snowy clusters hung on their brown bough,
E'en as upon my breast, my May-bud, thou.
They seem to me thy sisters, O my child!
And now the air, full of their fragrance mild,
Recalls that hour; a tenfold agony
Pulls at my heart-strings, as I think of thee.
Was it in vain! Oh, was it all in vain!
That night of hope, of terror, and of pain,
When from the shadowy boundaries of death,
I brought thee safely, breathing living breath
Upon my heart—it was a holy shrine.
Full of God's praise—they laid thee, treasure mine
And from its tender depths the blue heaven smiled,
And the white blossoms bowed to thee, my child,
And solemn joy of a new life was spread,
Like a mysterious halo round that bed.
And now how is it, since eleven years
Have steeped that memory in bitterest tears?
Alone, heart-broken, on a distant shore,
Thy childless mother sits lamenting o'er
Flowers, which the spring calls from this foreign earth,
Thy twins, that crowned the morning of thy birth.
How is it with thee—lost—lost—precious one!
In thy fresh spring-time growing up alone?
What warmth unfolds thee?—what sweet dews are shed,
Like love and patience over thy young head?
What holy springs feed thy deep inner life?
What shelters thee from passion's deadly strife?
What guards thy growth, straight, strong, and full and free,
Lovely and glorious, O my fair young tree?
God—Father—Thou—who by this awful fate
Hast lopped, and stripped, and left me desolate!
In the dark bitter floods that o'er my soul
Their billows of despair triumphant roll,
Let me not be o'erwhelmed!—Oh, they are thine,
These jewels of my life—not mine—not mine!
So keep them, that the blossoms of their youth
Shall, in a gracious growth of love and truth,
With an abundant harvest honour Thee:
And bless the blight which Thou hast sent on me;
Withering and blasting, though it seem to fall,
Let it not, O my Father! drink up all
My spirit's sap—so from this fate shall grow
The palm branch for my hand and for my brow,
With which, a hopeful pilgrim, I may tread
The shadowy path where rest awhile the dead,
Ere they rise up, a glorious company,
To find their lost ones, and to worship Thee!

Sleep, Venice, sleep! the evening gun resounds
Over the waves that rock thee on their breast;
The bugle blare to kennel calls the hounds,
Who sleepless watch thy waking and thy rest.
Sleep till the night stars do the day star meet,
And shuddering echoes o'er the water run,
Rippling thro' every glass-green wavering street
The stern good-morrow of thy guardian Hun.
Still do thy stones, O Venice, bid rejoice
With their old majesty the gazer's eye,
In their consummate grace uttering a voice
From every line of blended harmony.
Still glows the splendour of each wondrous dream
Vouchsaf'd thy painters o'er each sacred shrine,
And from the radiant visions downward streams
In visible light an influence divine.

Still through thy golden days and silver nights
Sings his soft jargon thy gay gondolier,
And o'er thy floors of liquid malachite
Slide the black-hooded barks to mystery dear.
Like Spanish beauty in its sable veil,
They rustle sideling through the watery way,
The wild, monotonous cry, with which they hail
Each other's course, echoing far away.
As each bright prow grazes the island strands,
Still ring the sweet Venetian voices clear;
And wondering wanderers from far, free lands,
Entranc'd look round—enchanted listen here.
From the far lands of Liberty they come,
England's proud children and the younger race;
Those who possess the Past's most glorious home,
And those who own the Future's boundless space.
Pitying they stand—for thee who would not weep!
Well it beseems these men to weep for thee,
Whose flags as erst thine own control the deep,
Whose conquering sails o'ershadow every sea.
Yet not in pity only—but in hope,
Spring the hot tears the brave for thee may shed;
They watch the dawn that bids thy dungeon ope:
But sleep thou still—the sky is not yet red.

Sleep till the mighty helmsman of the world,
By the Almighty set at Fortune's wheel,
Steers towards thy freedom, and once more unfurl'd
The banner of St. Mark the sun shall feel.
Then wake—then rise—then hurl away thy yoke,
And dye with life-blood that pale livery
Whose ghastly white has been thy jailor's cloak,
Covering for years thy shame and misery.
Rise with a shout that down thy giant stair
Shall thy old giants bring with thundering tread;
The blind Crusader standing stony there,
And him—the latest of thy mighty dead—
Whose patriot heart broke at the Austrian's foot,
Whose ashes under the black marble lie,
From whose dry dust stirr'd by thy voice shall shoot
A glorious tree of living Liberty.

Death and I,
On a hill so high,
Stood side by side:
And we saw below,
Running to and fro,
All things that be in the world so wide.
Ten thousand cries
From the gulf did rise,
With a wild discordant sound;
Laughter and wailing,
Prayer and railing,
As the ball spun round and round.
And over all
Hung a floating pall
Of dark and gory veils:
'Tis the blood of years,
And the sighs and tears,
Which this noisome marsh exhales.
All this did seem
Like a fearful dream,
Till Death cried with a joyful cry:
'Look down! look down!
It is all mine own,
Here comes life's pageant by!'

Like to a masque in ancient revelries,
With mingling sound of thousand harmonies,
Soft lute and viol, trumpet-blast and gong,
They came along, and still they came along!
Thousands, and tens of thousands, all that e'er
Peopled the earth, or ploughed th' unfathomed deep,
All that now breathe the universal air,
And all that in the womb of Time yet sleep.

Before this mighty host a woman came,
With hurried feet, and oft averted head;
With accursèd light
Her eyes were bright,
And with inviting hand them on she beckoned.
Her followed close, with wild acclaim,
Her servants three: Lust, with his eye of fire,
And burning lips, that tremble with desire,
Pale sunken cheek:—and as he staggered by,
The trumpet-blast was hushed, and there arose
A melting strain of such soft melody,
As breathed into the soul love's ecstasies and woes.
Loudly again the trumpet smote the air,
The double drum did roll, and to the sky
Bayed War's bloodhounds, the deep artillery;
And Glory,
With feet all gory,
And dazzling eyes, rushed by,
Waving a flashing sword and laurel wreath,
The pang, and the inheritance of death.

He passed like lightning—then ceased every sound
Of war triumphant, and of love's sweet song,
And all was silent.—Creeping slow along,
With eager eyes, that wandered round and round,
Wild, haggard mien, and meagre, wasted frame,
Bowed to the earth, pale, starving Av'rice came:
Clutching with palsied hands his golden god,
And tottering in the path the others trod.
These, one by one,
Came, and were gone:
And after them followed the ceaseless stream
Of worshippers, who, with mad shout and scream,
Unhallowed toil, and more unhallowed mirth,
Follow their mistress, Pleasure, through the earth.
Death's eyeless sockets glared upon them all,
And many in the train were seen to fall,
Livid and cold, beneath his empty gaze;
But not for this was stayed the mighty throng,
Nor ceased the warlike clang, or wanton lays,
But still they rushed—along—along—along!

Many a league of salt sea rolls
Between us, yet I think our souls,
Dear friend, are still as closely tied
As when we wandered side by side,
Some seven years gone, in that fair land
Where I was born. As hand in hand
We lived the showery spring away,
And when the sunny earth was gay
With all its blossoms, still together
We passed the pleasant summer weather,
We little thought the time would come,
When, from a Transatlantic home,
My voice should greet you lovingly
Across the deep dividing sea.

O friend! my heart is sad: 'tis strange,
As I sit musing on the change
That has come o'er my fate, and cast
A longing look upon the past,
That pleasant time comes back again
So freshly to my heart and brain,

That I half think the things I see
Are but a dream, and I shall be
Lying beside you, when I wake,
Upon the lawn beneath the brake,
With the hazel copse behind my head,
And the new-mown fields before me spread.

It is just twilight : that sweet time
Is short-lived in this radiant clime,—
Where the bright day and night more bright,
Upon th' horizon's verge unite,
Nor leave those hours of ray serene,
In which we think of what has been:
And it is well; for here no eye
Turns to the distant days gone by:
They have no legendary lore
Of deeds of glory done of yore,—
No knightly marvel-haunted years,
The nursery tales of adult ears:
The busy present, bright to come,
Of all their thoughts make up the sum:
Little their little past they heed;
Therefore of twilight have no need.

Yet wherefore write I thus? In the short span
Of narrow life doled out to every man,
Though he but reach the threshold of the track,
Where, from youth's better path, strikes out the worse,
If he has breathed so long, nor once look'd back,
He has not borne life's load, nor known God's curse.

And yet, but for that glance that o'er and o'er
Goes tearfully, where we shall go no more;
Counting the sunny spots, where, for a day,
Our bark has found a harbour on its way;
Oh! but for this, this pow'r of conjuring
Hours, days, and years into the magic ring,
Bidding them yield the show of happiness,
To make our real misery seem less,
Life would be dreary. But these memories start,
Sometimes, unbidden on the mourner's heart;
Unwish'd, unwelcome, round his thoughts they cling,—
In vain flung off, still dimly gathering,
Like melancholy ghosts, upon the path
Where he goes sadly, seeking only death.

Then live again the forms of those who lie
Gather'd into the grave's dark mystery.
Vainly at reason's voice the phantom flies,—
It comes, it still comes back to the fond eyes,—
Still, still the yearning arms are spread to clasp
The blessing that escapes their baffled grasp:
Still the bewildering memory mutters 'Gone!'
Still, still the clinging, aching heart loves on.
Oh, bitter! that the lips on which we pour
Love's fondest kisses, feel the touch no more;
Oh, lonely! that the voice on which we call
In agony, breaks not its silent thrall;
Oh, fearful! that the eyes in which we gaze
With desperate hope through their thick filmy haze,

Return no living look to bless our sight!
O God! that it were granted that one might
But once behold the secret of the grave,—
That but one voice from the all-shrouding cave
Might speak,—that but one sleeper might emerge
From the deep death-sea's overwhelming surge!
Speak, speak from the gray coffins where ye lie
Fretting to dust your foul mortality!
Speak, from your homes of darkness and dismay,—
To what new being do ye pass away?—
Oh, do ye live, indeed?—speak, if on high
One atom springs whose doom is not to die!—
Where have I wandered?

WRITTEN FOR THE 22 OF AUGUST 1834—THE BERKSHIRE JUBILEE.


Darkness upon the mountain and the vale—
Forest and field are bathed in dewy sleep,
And the night angels vigil o'er them keep.
No sound, no motion; over hill and dale,
A calm and lovely Death seems to embrace
Earth's fairest realms, and heaven's unmeasured space.

The dark wood slumbers; leaf, and branch, and bough,
High feathery crest, and lowliest grassy blade;
All restless wandering wings are folded now,
That swept the sky, and in the sunshine played.
The lake's wild waves rest in their rocky bowl,
Harmonious silence breathes from nature's soul,
And night's wide star-sown wings brood o'er the whole.
In the deep trance of the hushed universe
The dark death-mystery doth man rehearse.
Now for awhile, cease the swift thoughts to run
From task to task—tired labour, overdone,

With lighter toil than that of brain or heart,
In the sweet pause of outward life takes part;
And hope, and fear,—desire, love, joy, and sorrow,
Wait, 'neath sleep's downy wings, the coming morrow.
Peace upon earth, profoundest peace in heaven,
Praises the God of Peace, by whom 'tis given.

But hark! the woody depths of green Begin to stir,
Light thrills of life creep fresh between Oak, beech, and fir—
Faint rustling sounds of trembling leaves Whisper around,
The world at waking slowly heaves A sigh profound.
And showers of tears, Night gathered in her eyes,
Fall from fair Nature's face as she doth rise.

A ripple roughens on the lake,
The cradled lilies shivering wake,
Small crisping waves lift themselves up and break Along the laurelled shore;
And woods and waters, answering each other, make Silence no more.
And lo! the East turns pale—
Night's dusky veil Thinner and thinner grows;
Till the bright morning star
From hill to hill, afar,

His fire glance throws.
Gold streaks run through the sky,
Higher, and yet more high,
The glory streams—
Flushes of rosy hue,
Long lines of palest blue,
And amber gleams.
From the green valleys rise
The silver mists like spray,
Catch and give back the ray
In opal dyes;
Light floods the sky, light pours upon the earth,
In glorious light the joyful day takes birth.

Hail to the day that brings ye home,
Ye distant wand'rers from the mountain land!
Hail to the day that bids ye come
Again upon your native hills to stand!
Hail, hail! from rocky peak,
And wood-embowered dale,
A thousand voices welcome speak,
Hail, home-turned pilgrims, hail!
Oh welcome! from the meadow and the hill Glad greetings rise,
From flowing river, and from bounding rill,
Smooth sunny field, and gloomy wood-depth still,
And the sharp thunder-splintered crag, that strikes
Its rocky spikes,
Into the skies;

Gray Lock, cloud-girdled, from his purple throne
A shout of gladness sends,
And up soft meadow slopes, a warbling tone
The Housatonic blends.

Welcome, ye absent long, and distant far!
Who from the roof-tree of your childhood turned,
Have waged 'mid strangers life's relentless war,
While at your hearts the ancient home-love burned.
Ye that have ploughed the barren, briny foam,
And reaped hard fortunes from the stormy sea,
The golden grain-fields rippling round your home,
Roll their ripe billows from fierce tempests free.
Ye, from those western deadly blooming fields
Where Pestilence in Plenty's bosom lies,
The sterner rock-soil of your mountains yields
Health's rosy blossoms, to these purer skies.
And ye, who on the accursèd southern plain,
Barren, not fruitful, with the sweat of slaves,
Have breathed awhile the tainted air in pain,
'Mid human forms, their spirits' living graves,
Here fall the fetters—by his cottage door,
Lord of the lordliest life, each dweller stands,
Lifting to God, as did his sires of yore,
A heart of love, and free laborious hands.

On each bold granite peak, and forest crest,
Each stony hill-path, and each lake's smooth shore,
Blessings of noble exiled patriots rest,

Liberty's altars are they evermore.
And on this air there lingers yet the tone
Of those last sacred words to freedom given,
The parting utterance of that holy one,

Whose spirit from these mountains rose to Heaven.
Ye that have prospered, bearing hence with ye
The virtues that command prosperity,
To the green threshold of your youth oh come,
And hang your trophies round your early home.
Ye that have suffered, and whose weary eyes
Have turned with sadness to your happier years,
Come to the fountain of sweet memories,
And by its healing waters dry your tears.
Ye that departed young, and old return,
Ye who went forth with hope, and hopeless come,—
If still unquenched within your hearts hath burned
The sacred love and longing for your home—

Hail, hail!
Bright hill and dale
With mirth resound;
Join in the joyful strain,
Ye have not wept in vain,
The parted meet again,
The lost are found!

And may God guard thee, O thou lovely land!
Evil, nor danger, nigh thy borders come!
Green towers of freedom may thy hills still stand,
Still be thy valleys peace and virtue's home;
The blessing of the stranger rest on thee,
Unmoved as Heaven be thy prosperity!