Frances Anne Kemble

Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse Thy wondrous spell of wisdom, and of power, And that my voice, and thy immortal verse, On listening ears, and hearts, I mingled pour, I shrink dismayed – and awful doth appear The vain presumption of my own weak deed; Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near, That suddenly I tremble as I read – Thee an invisible auditor I fear: Oh, if it might be so, my master dear! With what beseeching would I pray to thee, To make me equal to my noble task, Succor from thee, how humbly would I ask, Thy worthiest works to utter worthily.

Cover me with your everlasting arms, Ye guardian giants of this solitude! From the ill-sight of men, and from the rude, Tumultuous din of yon wild world’s alarms! Oh, knit your mighty limbs around, above, And close me in for ever! let me dwell With the wood spirits, in the darkest cell That ever with your verdant locks ye wove. The air is full of countless voices, joined In one eternal hymn; the whispering wind, The shuddering leaves, the hidden water springs, The work-song of the bees, whose honeyed wings Hang in the golden tresses of the lime, Or buried lie in purple beds of thyme.

Better trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust, and that deceiving; Than doubt one heart, that, if believed, Had blessed one’s life with true believing. Oh, in this mocking world, too fast The doubting fiend o’ertakes our youth! Better be cheated to the last, Than lose the blessèd hope of truth.