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I care for nobody, no not I, if nobody cares for Care-charming sleep, thou easer of all woes,

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Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers ; . . . sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain.

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The

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༠{ འ་ཅཡ་བས།
A moumful rustting is the dark.
Sdemy W. Longfellow

POEMS OF FANCY.

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.

BEN JONSON.

DELIGHTS OF FANCY.

FROM “THE PLEAsures of IMAGINATION.”

As Memnon's marble harp renowned of old
By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch
Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string
Consenting, sounded through the warbling air
Unbidden strains; e'en so did Nature's hand
To certain species of external things
Attune the finer organs of the mind;
So the glad impulse of congenial powers,
Or of sweet sound, or fair-proportioned form,
The grace of motion, or the bloom of light,
Thrills through imagination's tender frame,
From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive
They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul
At length discloses every tuneful spring,
To that harmonious movement from without,
Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain
Diffuses its enchantment; Fancy dreams
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
And vales of bliss; the Intellectual Power
Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear,
And smiles; the passions gently soothed away,
Sink to divine repose, and love and joy
Alone are waking; love and joy serene
As airs that fan the summer. O attend,
Whoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch,

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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 cakèd 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.

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