Fain would I be resolved

How things are done;

And where the bull was calved

Of bloody Phalaris,

And where the tailor is

That works to the man i' the moon!

Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;

And how these little fairies do dance and leap so

lightly;

And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

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.

Fain 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!

If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning,
Or one turns another, continuing in journeying,

If rapid circles' motion be that which they call burning!

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go!

Fain also would I prove this,

By considering

What that, which you call love, is:

Whether it be a folly

Or a melancholy,

Or some heroic thing!

Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded,

And fully upon one his desire hath founded,

Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

To know this world's centre,

Height, depth, breadth, and length,

Fain would I adventure

To search the hid attractions

Of magnetic actions,

And adamantine strength.

Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain, Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or

fountain;

If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I have it tried

By experiment,

By none can be denied!

If in this bulk of nature,

There be voids less or greater,

Or all remains complete.

Fain would I know if beasts have any reason;
If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason;
If fear of winter's want make swallows fly the

season.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Hallo, my fancy, hallo!

Stay, stay at home with me,
I can thee no longer follow,
For thou hast betrayed me,
And bewrayed me;

It is too much for thee.

Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty

soaring;

Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be

poring;

For he that goes abroad lays little up in storing: Thou 'rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home

to me.

WILLIAM CLELAND.

IDEALITY.

THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair,
Green Ida never deemed the nurse of Jove ;
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert grove,
Had idly murmured to the idle air;
The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair

In Delphi's cell, and old Trophonius' cave,
And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave
Had never blended with the sweet despair
Of Sappho's death-song: if the sight inspired
Saw only what the visual organs show,

If heaven-born phantasy no more required
Than what within the sphere of sense may grow.
The beauty to perceive of earthly things,

The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

FANCY.

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 cloud ward 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-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;