Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

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 corslet 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.