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THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS.

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POEMS OF FANCY.

I.

THE IMAGINATION.

FANTASY.

FROM "THE VISION OF DELIGHT."

BREAK, Fantasy, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings,
Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things;

Create of airy forms a stream,

It must have blood, and naught of phlegm; And though it be a waking dream,

Yet let it like an odor rise

To all the senses here,

And fall like sleep upon their eyes,

Or music in their ear.

HALLO, MY FANCY.

IN melancholic fancy,

Out of myself,

In the vulcan dancy,

BEN JONSON.

All the world surveying,

Nowhere staying,

Just like a fairy elf;

Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Out o'er the hills, the trees and valleys tripping, Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Amidst the misty vapors,

Fain would I know

What doth cause the tapers;

Why the clouds benight us,
And affright us

While we travel here below.

Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder, And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds.

asunder,

And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I know the reason

Why the little ant,

All the summer season,

Layeth up provision,

On condition

To know no winter's want:

And how these little fishes, that swim beneath salt

water,

Do never blind their eyes; methinks it is a matter An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater!

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I be resolved

How things are done;

And where the bull was calved

Of bloody Phalaris,

And where the tailor is

That works to the man i' the moon!

Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;

And how these little fairies do dance and leap so

lightly;

And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

In conceit like Phaeton,

I'll mount Phoebus' chair,

Having ne'er a hat on,
All my hair a-burning
In my journeying,

Hurrying through the air.

Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing,
And see how they on foamy bits are playing;
All the stars and planets I will be surveying!
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

O, from what ground of nature
Doth the pelican,

That self-devouring creature,

Prove so froward

And untoward,

Her vitals for to strain?

And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds is

lying,

Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by

crying;

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