FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. I. TO SHAKESPEARE. OFT, when my lips I open to rehearse The vain presumption of my own weak deed; O, if it might be so, my master dear! With what beseeching would I pray to thee, To make me equal to my noble task! Thy worthiest works to utter worthily! II. WHAT is my lady like? thou fain wouldst know. Bound with blue ribbon, lying on the snow. She's like the noonday smell of a pine wood; To which the day its earliest light doth lend; She's like a pleasant path without an end; Like a strange secret, and a sweet surprise ; Like a sharp axe of doom, wreathed with blush-roses. A casket full of gems whose key one loses; Like a hard saying, wonderful and wise. III. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. How passing sad! Listen, it sings again! Out of the clouds to hear thee? Who shall say, Let him come listen now to that one note And filled my weary eyes with the soul's rain. IV. TO SHAKESPEARE. IF from the height of that celestial sphere V. By jasper founts, whose falling waters make Eternal music to the silent hours; Or 'neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers, How oft I dream I see thee wandering, With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes, And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies, And shining tresses of soft rippling gold, |