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, In moisture, light, and heat! If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning, 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 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; season. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go? Hallo, my fancy, hallo! Stay, stay at home with 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, Had idly murmured to the idle air; In Delphi's cell, and old Trophonius' cave, If heaven-born phantasy no more required The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. FANCY. EVER let the Fancy roam, At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 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; When the soundless earth is muffled, To banish Even from her sky. -Sit thee there, and send abroad Fancy, high-commissioned:-send her! And thou shalt quaff it;-thou shalt hear 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, Sapphire queen of the mid-May; |