Ever let the Fancy roam!
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged 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-lipp'd fruitage too Blushing through the mist and dew Cloys with tasting: What do then? Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot 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-commission'd:-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 reapéd corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn : And in the same moment-hark! 'Tis 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; And every leaf, and every flower Pearléd with the self-same shower. Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep Meagre from its celléd 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 wingéd 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; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring : -Let the wingéd Fancy roam! Pleasure never is at home.
HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE
Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them;
And thy smiles before they dwindle
Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those locks, where whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes.
Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning
Through the veil which seems to hide them, As the radiant lines of morning
Through thin clouds, ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
Fair are others: none beholds Thee;
But thy voice sounds low and tender
Like the fairest, for it folds thee
From the sight, that liquid splendour; And all feel, yet see thee never,- As I feel now, lost for ever!
Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness Till they fail, as I am failing,
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!
I heard a thousand blended notes While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think What Man has made of Man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure— But the least motion which they made It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What Man has made of Man? W. Wordsworth
RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE
When Ruth was left half desolate Her father took another mate; And Ruth, not seven years old, A slighted child, at her own will Went wandering over dale and hill, In thoughtless freedom bold.
And she had made a pipe of straw, And music from that pipe could draw Like sounds of winds and floods; Had built a bower upon the green, As if she from her birth had been An infant of the woods.
Beneath her father's roof, alone
She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own; Herself her own delight:
Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
She pass'd her time; and in this way
Grew up to woman's height.
There came a youth from Georgia's shore
A military casque he wore
With splendid feathers drest;
He brought them from the Cherokees;
The feathers nodded in the breeze
And made a gallant crest.
From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
But no! he spake the English tongue And bore a soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.
With hues of genius on his cheek,
In finest tones the youth could speak :
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