 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
TO FANCY.
“Fancy, my internal sight.”
Milton.
Milton.
Sweet Fancy! I have been thy favored child
From earliest infancy; and thou wert wont
To show me thy bright imagery, ere yet
My young lips could frame language to describe
The fair but fleeting shadows: thou hast nursed
Those warm and ardent feelings nature gave;
And though 'tis true that thou hast taught my heart
To heave the quickened throb of deeper anguish
Than cold ones e'er can feel, yet thou hast given
Joys they can never know. I love to see
The setting sun resting his broad bright rim
Upon the golden wave, as lingering there
To bid the world farewell; and when he sinks,
To watch the thousand summer clouds he leaves
Of strange fantastic shape and varied hue.
Then is thine hour, bright Fancy—then is felt
Thy softest, sweetest influence o'er the heart.
O! when I gaze upon th' unclouded heaven
Studded with gems of brilliancy, my soul
Forgets the lapse of time, and doth recall
The fantasies so proud and beautiful
Of ancient times: the stars were then in truth
“The poetry of heaven,” and had high power
O'er mortal fate. 'Tis sad that those sweet dreams
Are now denied us. O, how much more bliss
Lies in the legend of our infant years,
Than in the sad reality we learn!
From earliest infancy; and thou wert wont
To show me thy bright imagery, ere yet
My young lips could frame language to describe
The fair but fleeting shadows: thou hast nursed
Those warm and ardent feelings nature gave;
And though 'tis true that thou hast taught my heart
To heave the quickened throb of deeper anguish
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Joys they can never know. I love to see
The setting sun resting his broad bright rim
Upon the golden wave, as lingering there
To bid the world farewell; and when he sinks,
To watch the thousand summer clouds he leaves
Of strange fantastic shape and varied hue.
Then is thine hour, bright Fancy—then is felt
Thy softest, sweetest influence o'er the heart.
O! when I gaze upon th' unclouded heaven
Studded with gems of brilliancy, my soul
Forgets the lapse of time, and doth recall
The fantasies so proud and beautiful
Of ancient times: the stars were then in truth
“The poetry of heaven,” and had high power
O'er mortal fate. 'Tis sad that those sweet dreams
Are now denied us. O, how much more bliss
Lies in the legend of our infant years,
Than in the sad reality we learn!
Many would deem me weak; but I have gazed
Upon the fairy clouds and pictured there
Familiar forms and faces; and have felt
That I could almost weep to see them fade,
So like a presage of the transient date
Of all life's changeful joys. It may be vain
To yield to these impressions; but what heart
Could scorn such gentle dreams in early youth.
Upon the fairy clouds and pictured there
Familiar forms and faces; and have felt
That I could almost weep to see them fade,
So like a presage of the transient date
Of all life's changeful joys. It may be vain
To yield to these impressions; but what heart
Could scorn such gentle dreams in early youth.
I love to look upon the clouded sky,
When the fierce forked lightning flashes bright,
And the deep roar of heaven's artillery
Sounds fearfully; and I can calmly view
The strife of elements, and fancy then
I hear the shouts of proud rebellious spirits
Storming the towers and battlements of heaven.
O, what a depth of feeling lies within
The full, the o'erfraught heart in such an hour!
And this, too, is thine hour, bright Fancy, this
Thy proudest, mightiest power. In the sweet calm
Of evening, thou dost come with whispers bland,
And all its gentleness; but when the storm
Is raging thou dost speak in majesty,
And the full heart is lifted to the heavens,
While we can feel there yet is high communion
Between fallen man and pure angelic natures.
When the fierce forked lightning flashes bright,
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Sounds fearfully; and I can calmly view
The strife of elements, and fancy then
I hear the shouts of proud rebellious spirits
Storming the towers and battlements of heaven.
O, what a depth of feeling lies within
The full, the o'erfraught heart in such an hour!
And this, too, is thine hour, bright Fancy, this
Thy proudest, mightiest power. In the sweet calm
Of evening, thou dost come with whispers bland,
And all its gentleness; but when the storm
Is raging thou dost speak in majesty,
And the full heart is lifted to the heavens,
While we can feel there yet is high communion
Between fallen man and pure angelic natures.
Could but the skeptic feel the thrilling power
Of chastened Fancy at a time like this,
Surely the blush of shame would tinge his cheek.
Would not the deep emotions of his soul
Prove that high soul immortal? Can it be
That we should have such glimpses of a light
Not of this world, if we are ne'er to see
The fullness of its glory? Can the man
Who feels the restless workings of a mind
Aspiring after knowledge, think that earth
Can limit the expansion of his soul?
No; he must deem that there will come a time
When all shall be unfolded. 'Tis a proud,
An elevating thought. O, who would doubt?
Of chastened Fancy at a time like this,
Surely the blush of shame would tinge his cheek.
Would not the deep emotions of his soul
Prove that high soul immortal? Can it be
That we should have such glimpses of a light
Not of this world, if we are ne'er to see
The fullness of its glory? Can the man
Who feels the restless workings of a mind
Aspiring after knowledge, think that earth
Can limit the expansion of his soul?
No; he must deem that there will come a time
When all shall be unfolded. 'Tis a proud,
An elevating thought. O, who would doubt?
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |