POEMS OF THE FANCY. A MORNING EXERCISE. FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad, Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw; Sending sad shadows after things not sad, Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe; Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry Becomes an echo of man's misery. Blithe ravens croak of death; and when the owl Tries his two voices for a favourite strainTu-hit-Tu-whoo! the unsuspecting fowl Forebodes mishap, or seems but to complain : Fancy, intent to harass and annoy, Can thus pervert the evidence of joy. Through border wilds where naked Indians stray, Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill; A feathered task-master cries, "WORK AWAY!" What wonder? at her bidding ancient lays Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel; And that fleet messenger of summer days, The swallow, twittered subject to like spell ; But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant lark To melancholy service-hark! O hark! The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn, Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed; Bat He is risen, a later star of dawn, Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud; Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark; The happiest bird that sprang out of the ark! Hail, blest above all kinds!— Supremely skilled Restless with fixed to balance, high with low, Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build On such forbearance as the deep may show; Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties, Leavest to the wandering Bird of Paradise. To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! - that love-prompted strain, ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove; Yet more hath nature reconciled in thee; So constant with thy downward eye of love, Yet, in aerial singleness, so free; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice power of wing and never-wearied voice! How would it please old ocean to partake, With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony thy notes most gladly make Where earth resembles most his own domain ! Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear These matins mounting towards her native sphere. Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and mute; For not an eyelid could to sleep incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine! Whole summer fields are thine by right; In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane; If welcome thou countest it gain; Thou art not daunted, Nor carest if thou be set at naught: We meet thee like a pleasant thought, Be Violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Thou livest with less ambitious aim, If to a rock from rains he fly, Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Come steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, The homely sympathy that heeds When, smitten by the morning ray, And when, at dusk, by dews opprest And all day long I number yet, An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the year! that round dost run As morning Leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my Orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's Friends together. One have I marked, the happiest Guest In all this covert of the blest: Hail to Thee, far above the rest See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower In joy of voice and pinion, Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion. While Birds, and Butterflies, and Flowers, Art sole in thy employment; A Life, a Presence like the Air, Thyself thy own enjoyment. Upon yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Yet seeming still to hover; My dazzled sight the Bird deceives, Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes. But, exiled from Australian Bowers, She trills her song with tutored powers, Or mocks each casual note. No more of pity for regrets With which she may have striven! II. This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Strange places, coverts unendeared In which this Child of Spring was reared, To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender unexpected strain; That tells the Hermitess still lives, Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* Eyes of some men travel far Up and down the heavens they go, *Common Pilewort. Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the Thrush When we've little warmth or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! That they are all wanton Wooers; But 't is good enough for thee. Ill befall the yellow Flowers, They have done as worldlings do, Prophet of delight and mirth, TO THE SAME FLOWER. PLEASURES newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he, Often have I sighed to measure Blithe of heart from week to week Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Prized above all buds and bells THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice, "Nor dare to trust thy foolish self Between me and my choice." |