FANNY KEMBLE'S CHILD.
As I was fain to wile a summer's dayWith Shakspeare's Juliet folded in my lap,And for her accents, strove to call up thine,An unexpected music to my thoughtsAnswered—the matchless laugh of Maidenhood;While looking from the pondered page, I sawOf the strange growths of Time and Nature, one.It had thy brow in little, and thine eyesBut new created, offering gentleness;Ev'n thy brown locks, with youth's half risen sunStill gilding them aslant. "Who should this beBut Fanny Kemble's Daughter?" said my heart,Ere others came to tell her parentage.
Tears waited on the vision. Woful child!Thy Mother scarcely knows thy countenance,Remodelled from its baby lineaments;And I, a stranger, hold with grasp profaneA hand, that she should almost die to touch.Wherefore is she thy Mother? unto her
