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Poems

By Frances Anne Kemble

Kemble, Fanny (1809-1893)

EARLY POEMS.

LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT, August 9th, 1825.

VENICE.

TO MISS SARAH SIDDONS.

TO MRS. HENRY SIDDONS.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

TO THE PICTURE OF A LADY.

FRAGMENT.

SONNET.

WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH.

TO HARRIET ST. LEGER.

SONNET.

THE VISION OF LIFE.

SONNET TO MRS. JAMESON,

TO MY GUARDIAN ANGEL.

SONNET.

SONNET TO HARRIET ST. LEGER.

LINES ON A SLEEPING CHILD.

SONNET.

TO A PICTURE.

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA.

SATURDAY NIGHT SONG AT SEA.

LINES TO MISS ST. LEGER.

BALLAD.

LINES.

WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS.

A LAMENT FOR THE WISSAHICCON.

TO THE WISSAHICCON.

THE DEATH-SONG.

WRITTEN AFTER LEAVING WEST POINT.

FRAGMENT

AN APOLOGY.

WRITTEN AFTER SPENDING A DAY AT WEST POINT.

ON A HOLLOW FRIENDSHIP.

“'TIS AN OLD TALE AND OFTEN TOLD.”

SONNET.

SONG.

THE PRAYER OF A LONELY HEART.

EPISTLE FROM THE RHINE.

SONNET.

LINES

WRITTEN AT TRENTON FALLS.

A LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

A REJECTED LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

LINES ON THE ANIO AT TIVOLI.

THE SIREN'S CAVE AT TIVOLI.

HADRIAN'S VILLA.

THE AUTUMN CYCLAMEN.

A ROOM IN THE VILLA TAVERNA.

THE LANDGRAFF.

THE FELLOWSHIP OF GENIUS.

ON A SYMPHONY OF BEETHOVEN.

EVENING.

UPON A BRANCH OF FLOWERING ACACIA.

VERSES ON ROME.

DESPAIR.

SCRAPS.

[Raise it to Heaven, when thine eye fills with tears]

[Youth with swift feet walks onward in the way]

LINES

CLOSE OF OUR SUMMER AT FRASCATI.

A SUMMONS.

TORRE NUOVO.

TO PIUS IX.

A VISION OF THE VATICAN.

DEPARTING.

THE YEAR'S PROGRESS.

THE BLACK WALLFLOWER.

DREAM-LAND.

TO MY SISTER

SONNET ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

THE FALL OF RICHMOND.

THE WRECK OF THE BIRKENHEAD,

SONNET.

WAKING.

TO LADY ANNABELLA NOEL.

LINES WRITTEN AT BELVOIR CASTLE, 1883.

SONNET ON AN EDELWEISS.

SONNET.

TRANSLATIONS.

FROM ALFRED DE MUSSET'S ODE TO MALIBRAN.

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262

LINES

ON A PURSE KNITTED AT FRASCATI DURING THE SUMMER OF 1846.

'Twas not an empty purse you gave;
Thro' the fine meshes shines a treasure,
Which henceforth here I safely have
The sum of a whole summer's pleasure.

Still as each firm fine silken thread
Your exquisite hands so deftly wove,
The royal hue of ruby red
Stood for the days of joy and love.

The white that round your fingers twin'd,
Kindred in hue and purity,
Brings back our calm hours to my mind,
In all their soft serenity.

Joining these bright threads, darker ones
Harmoniously and sadly blend,
Without whose deep mysterious tones
The work's significance would end.

263

Thus in the delicate web you wrought
The season when you wrought it lies,
A purse well stor'd with richest thought
A sum of golden memories.