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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;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its cellèd sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering
While the autumn breezes sing.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Everything is spoilt by use :
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let then winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the god of torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as Hebe's, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet

While she held the goblet sweet,

And Jove grew languid. · Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash;

HALLO, MY FANCY.

[1650.]

IN melancholic fancy,

Out of myself,

In the vulcan dancy,
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?

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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.

Fair 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;

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 fancy, 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, of one mind scarce a hun

dred ?

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!

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THE CLOUD.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
Lightning, my pilot, sits:

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;
It struggles and howls by fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills and the crags and the hills,

Over the lakes and plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains ;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead.

As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my
chair,

Is the million-colored bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of the earth and water;
And the nursling of the sky ;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

FANCY IN NUBIBUS.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea O, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease,

beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,
'Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go
From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gor-
geous land!

Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight,
Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

The stars peep behind her and peer;

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THE SUNSET CITY.

THERE's a city that lies in the Kingdom of Clouds,
In the glorious country on high,
Which an azure and silvery curtain enshrouds,
To screen it from mortal eye;

A city of temples and turrets of gold,
That gleam by a sapphire sea,

Like jewels more splendid than earth may behold,
Or are dreamed of by you and by me.

And about it are highlands of amber that reach
Far away till they melt in the gloom;
And waters that hem an immaculate beach
With fringes of luminous foam.

Aerial bridges of pearl there are,

And belfries of marvellous shapes, And lighthouses lit by the evening star, That sparkle on violet capes;

And hanging gardens that far away
Enchantedly float aloof;
Rainbow pavilions in avenues gay,
And banners of glorious woof!

When the Summer sunset's crimsoning fires
Are aglow in the western sky,
The pilgrim discovers the domes and spires
Of this wonderful city on high;

And gazing enrapt as the gathering shade Creeps over the twilight lea,

Sees palace and pinnacle totter and fade, And sink in the sapphire sea;

Till the vision loses by slow degrees

The magical splendor it wore ;

The silvery curtain is drawn, and he sees
The beautiful city no more!

HENRY SYLVESTER CORNWELL.

THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.

ADDRESSED TO A LADY WHO DATED HER LETTERS FROM "THE LITTLE CORNER OF THE WORLD."

IN the region of clouds, where the whirlwinds arise,

My castle of fancy was built.

The turrets reflected the blue of the skies,
And the windows with sunbeams were gilt.

The rainbow sometimes in its beautiful state Enamelled the mansion around;

And the figures that fancy in clouds can create Supplied me with gardens and ground.

I had grottos and fountains and orange-tree

groves;

I had all that enchantment has told;

I had sweet shady walks for the gods and their loves;

I had mountains of coral and gold.

But a storm that I felt not had risen and rolled,
While wrapped in a slumber I lay ;
And when I awoke in the morning, behold,
My castle was carried away!

It passed over rivers and valleys and groves;
The world, it was all in my view;

I thought of my friends, of their fates, of their loves,

And often, full often, of you.

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