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And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she's a-dying.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I conclude this,

At least make essay,

What similitude is;

Why fowls of a feather

Flock and fly together,

And lambs know beasts of prey :

How Nature's alchymists, these small laborious creatures,

Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters, And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features.

Hallo, my faney, whither wilt thou go?

I'm rapt with admiration,

When I do ruminate,

Men of an occupation,

How each one calls him brother,

Yet each envieth other,

And yet still intimate!

Yea, I admire to see some natures farther sun

d'red,

Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wond'red?

In myriads ye 'll find,

dred?

of one mind scarce a hun

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

What multitude of notions

Doth perturb my pate,

Considering the motions,

How the heavens are preserved,
And this world served

In moisture, light, and heat!

If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning,
Or one turns another, continuing in journeying,

If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning!

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go!

Fain also would I prove this,

By considering

What that, which you call love, is:

Whether it be a folly

Or a melancholy,

Or some heroic thing!

Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded,

And fully upon one his desire hath founded, Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

To know this world's centre,

Height, depth, breadth, and length,

Fain would I adventure

To search the hid attractions

Of magnetic actions,

And adamantine strength.

Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain;

If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I have it tried
By experiment,

By none can be denied!

If in this bulk of nature,

There be voids less or greater,

Or all remains complete.

Fain would I know if beasts have any reason;

If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason;
If fear of winter's want make swallows fly the

season.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Hallo, my fancy, hallo!

Stay, stay at home with me,
I can thee no longer follow,
For thou hast betrayed me,
And bewrayed me;

It is too much for thee.

Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty

soaring;

Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be

poring;

For he that goes abroad lays little up in storing: Thou 'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home

to me.

WILLIAM CLELAND.

IDEALITY.

THE Vale of Tempe had in vain been fair,
Green Ida never deemed the nurse of Jove;
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove,

Had idly murmured to the idle air;
The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair

In Delphi's cell, and old Trophonius' cave,
And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave
Had never blended with the sweet despair
Of Sappho's death-song: if the sight inspired
Saw only what the visual organs show,

If heaven-born phantasy no more required
Than what within the sphere of sense may grow.
The beauty to perceive of earthly things,

The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

FANCY.

EVER let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;

Then let wingèd Fancy wander

Through the thought still spread beyond her:

Open wide the mind's cage-door,

She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming:
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting. What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear fagot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy

To banish Even from her sky.

-Sit thee there, and send abroad
With a mind self-overawed

Fancy, high-commissioned:-send her!
She has vassals to attend her;
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May
From dewy sward or thorny spray ;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,

And thou shalt quaff it;-thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;

Rustle of the reaped corn;

Sweet birds antheming the morn;

And in the same moment-hark!

"T is the early April lark,

Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;

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