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Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain;
For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still:
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet with fortitude resign'd,

I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow;
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.

FANCY.

ANONYMOUS.

WHEN every passion sunk to rest,
Together Hope and Fear are sleeping,
And Thought, within the tranquil breast,
Alone, his drowsy watch is keeping;

On tiptoe in that silent hour

(Sacred to solitary feeling,)

Young Fancy quits her secret bower,

Through the mind's inmost chambers stealing.

So light her tread that reason never
Awakes to stop the fugitive:

So swift her flight, with vain endeavour
He to pursue her track would strive.

Where pallid Fear would never venture,
There heedless lies the airy sprite:
And where Hope cannot, dare not enter,
She, hov'ring, wheels her rapid flight.
The name that timid Love, so fearful,
Ne'er suffers to escape. his tongue,
She dwells upon in accents cheerful,
And makes the burden of her song:
And when the lyre of Hope, forsaken,
No longer charms the ear of Care,
Again she bids each string awaken,
And sings away the friend Despair.
The clouds o'er distant prospects flying,
Take various forms at Fancy's will;

"They are but clouds," Hope tells her, sighing,
Fancy replies, "They're pleasing still.'
"Twas but the wind, that, proudly riding
"Over the bowing foliage past;"
But Fancy answers Reason chiding,
"There's music in the whistling blast."
In vain from yonder cliff depending,
Fear's shrinking eye the blossom meets;
But Fancy, steepest hills ascending,
Can, if not gather, taste its sweets:
And when the faded form of Pleasure
Fond Memory can no more retain,
Fancy, thy lyre, in plaintive measure,
Can win it from the shades again.
When Night begins her dark dominion,
The Senses' day-light empire o'er,
Then most she loves on wanton pinion,
Above this narrow sphere to soar.-
Thus not till all inferior voices

Are mute throughout the darkening wood,
In freedom Philomel rejoices,

And sings in moon-light solitude.

Come, Fancy! come! thy waking slumbers

Let me enjoy however vain ;

Still let me hear thy magic numbers,

Tho' Hope refuse to aid the strain.

Sing, sing of bliss,-though that be perish'd,
Of wealth, though not for that I sigh;
Of love, however vainly cherished;

Of fame, though mine with me may die.

Come seize the pencil! mildly glowing,
Bid a fair sun-shine landscape rise,
Over the distant prospects throwing

Thy sofest tints, thy brightest dies;
The sun, now past its zenith, beaming
With radiance mild,―an autumn day;
The clouds of care in distance gleaming,
Brilliant in his reflected ray.

There, far remote from care and riot,
Peeping amid embowering trees,
Place a neat cot, the nest of quiet,

And Health, who loves the western breeze. There let the rivulet, meand'ring,

At intervals relieve the green;

Near it be sheep or cattle wandering;
And the tall spire complete the scene.

Now for a nearer view:-transport me
Where yonder rosy cherubs play,

See! they advance!-they seem to court me!-
O tell me, Fancy! what they say.→→

Soft! Who approaches? Ah! how fleeting

The melting forms of pleasure shine! Fond, flutt'ring heart! cease, cease thy beating 'Twas only Fancy call'd her thine.

Chide me not, Reason!-Yes, I know it,
Such bliss on earth can never dwell:
Yet, Fancy, still befriend thy poet,
For Hope can never paint so well!
But while I'm gazing on thy beauty,
O never let my heart forget
The present good, the present duty,
Or gratitude's eternal debt.

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'TIS night; and on the hill of storms
Alone doth Colma stray,

While round her shriek fantastic forms
Of Ghosts that hate the day.

O'er rocks the torrent roars amain,
The whirlwind's voice is high!
To save her from the wind and rain,
No friendly shelter nigh!

Rise, moon kind stars! appear awhile,
And guide me to the place;
Where rests my love, o'ercome with toil,
And wearied with the chace.

Some light direct me, helpless maid!
Where sitting on the ground,
His how unstrung, is near him laid,
His panting dogs around.

Else by the rock, the stream beside,
I here must sit me down;

While howls the wind, and roars the tide,
My lover's call to drown.

Ah! why, my Salgar! this delay?
Where stray thy ling'ring feet?
Didst thou not promise in the day
Thy love at night to meet?

Here is the rock, and here the tree,
Thine own appointed spot;

Thy promise canst thou break with me?
And is my love forgot?

For thee I'd dare my brother's pride;
My father's house would fly;
For thee forsake my mother's side;
With thee to live and die.

Be hush'd, ye winds! how loud ye brawl!
Stream! stand a moment still,
Perhaps my love may hear me call
Upon the neighbouring hill.

Ho! Salgar! Salgar! mend thy pace;
To Colma haste away,

'Tis I, and this th' appointed place;
Ah! wherefore this delay?

Kind moon! thou giv'st a friendly light;
And lo! the glassy stream,

And the grey rocks, through dusky night
Reflect thy silver beam.

Yet I descry not Salgar's form;
No dogs before him run;-
Shall I not perish by the storm,
Before to-morrow's sun?

But what behold I on the heath?
My love! my brother! laid-

O speak my friends! nor hold your breath,
T'affright a trembling maid.

They answer not-they sleep-they're dead,
Alas! the horrid sight,-

Here lie their angry swords, still red,
And bleeding from the fight,

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