Xeniola Poems, including Translations from Schiller and De la Motte Fouqube. By John Anster |
 |
ODE TO FANCY. |
 |
|
 | Xeniola |  |
62
ODE TO FANCY.
Oh Fancy, hither bend thy flight,
Hither steer thy car of light,
Tho' its rainbow colours flee
Ere they have shone a moment on my sight;
Come Fancy, come and bring with thee
The light-winged forms of air, that glance
Upon the Poet's dizzy view,
Which, when he waketh from his rapturous trance,
No effort can renew,
No tongue their beauty can declare,
No thought conceive how wondrous fair;
Like the thin clouds, whose folds are drest
With rose-light tints on summer eve,
Their hues are changed, before the breast
Distinctly can receive
A settled thought of what they were,—
She knows alone that they were fair!
Hither steer thy car of light,
Tho' its rainbow colours flee
Ere they have shone a moment on my sight;
Come Fancy, come and bring with thee
The light-winged forms of air, that glance
Upon the Poet's dizzy view,
Which, when he waketh from his rapturous trance,
No effort can renew,
No tongue their beauty can declare,
No thought conceive how wondrous fair;
Like the thin clouds, whose folds are drest
With rose-light tints on summer eve,
Their hues are changed, before the breast
Distinctly can receive
A settled thought of what they were,—
She knows alone that they were fair!
Oh, Fancy, let such forms delight
Thy votary's longing eye;
Or, if they may not meet my sight,
Come thou, tho' all the wings of night
Around thy chariot fly;
Come, tho' dark Horrour come with thee,
And the pale fiend, distracted Fear,
Unfold to my congealing ear
His tale of mystery!
Yes! I will listen, while his breath
Tells of the dagger, on whose blade
Still lingers the red stain of death,
Tho' long the day since Murder laid
Upon the deadly dirk his desperate grasp,
And watched his victim's last faint grasp,
While, with unshivering hand, he prest
The dagger in the sleeper's breast;
Yes! I will hark, though Fear may tell
In piercing tone, the tales of hell—
Will listen, Fancy, if thy faintest gleam
Tinge the dark and dreadful theme!
Thy votary's longing eye;
Or, if they may not meet my sight,
63
Around thy chariot fly;
Come, tho' dark Horrour come with thee,
And the pale fiend, distracted Fear,
Unfold to my congealing ear
His tale of mystery!
Yes! I will listen, while his breath
Tells of the dagger, on whose blade
Still lingers the red stain of death,
Tho' long the day since Murder laid
Upon the deadly dirk his desperate grasp,
And watched his victim's last faint grasp,
While, with unshivering hand, he prest
The dagger in the sleeper's breast;
Yes! I will hark, though Fear may tell
In piercing tone, the tales of hell—
Will listen, Fancy, if thy faintest gleam
Tinge the dark and dreadful theme!
Fancy, with thee I love to stray,
With thee would seek the dungeon's gloom,
Renounce for aye the visions gay
That Pleasure's tints illume;
Would listen to the owlet's cry,
Would hear the winds of winter sigh
Amid the leafless trees;
Would hark the Spirit shrilly scream,
Would view the meteor's boding beam,
Would court thy most terrific dream,
Till my heart's blood did freeze;
Would, where the Alpine hunter fears to breathe,
Lie down the tremulous avalanche beneath,
If thy rich visions swam before mine eye!
Would launch the light skiff, where the wild waves sweep
Down Niagara's dizzy steep,
If thy angelic form were nigh!
If with thy hues the mountain-snows were bright,
If thou didst tinge the wave with thy rich lines of light!
With thee would seek the dungeon's gloom,
Renounce for aye the visions gay
That Pleasure's tints illume;
Would listen to the owlet's cry,
Would hear the winds of winter sigh
Amid the leafless trees;
Would hark the Spirit shrilly scream,
Would view the meteor's boding beam,
Would court thy most terrific dream,
64
Would, where the Alpine hunter fears to breathe,
Lie down the tremulous avalanche beneath,
If thy rich visions swam before mine eye!
Would launch the light skiff, where the wild waves sweep
Down Niagara's dizzy steep,
If thy angelic form were nigh!
If with thy hues the mountain-snows were bright,
If thou didst tinge the wave with thy rich lines of light!
But sweeter, Fancy, is the trance,
When thy hues of splendour glance
On the dim and aching eye
That weeps o'er sad reality;
Thy visions cheer the hapless breast,
That, braving in unequal strife
The dark and stormy sea of life,
Sighs for the haven of its rest.
Though Fortune o'er the scene may throw
The wintry cloud of want and woe,
Yet thou, Enchantress, thou canst fling
The tints of visionary spring
Upon thy votary's sight,
And paint in hues divinely bright
An after-season of delight.
When thy hues of splendour glance
On the dim and aching eye
That weeps o'er sad reality;
Thy visions cheer the hapless breast,
That, braving in unequal strife
The dark and stormy sea of life,
Sighs for the haven of its rest.
Though Fortune o'er the scene may throw
The wintry cloud of want and woe,
Yet thou, Enchantress, thou canst fling
The tints of visionary spring
Upon thy votary's sight,
And paint in hues divinely bright
An after-season of delight.
What, tho' they say thy magic hand
Depicts the Future fair,
When suddenly the figures bland
Fade into empty air,—
That thou bid'st the blood-streaked eye
Redden in feverish agony,—
Yet is the man thy woes oppress
Gifted with heightened happiness;
In rapture's hour his heart will melt
With feelings by the throng unfelt!
'Tis his, in phantom-worlds to live,
'Mong joys, more dear than earth can give!
And his are arbours, rainbow-hued,
Where nought unholy may intrude!
His is an Eden of delight,
For ever screened from vulgar sight!
Depicts the Future fair,
65
Fade into empty air,—
That thou bid'st the blood-streaked eye
Redden in feverish agony,—
Yet is the man thy woes oppress
Gifted with heightened happiness;
In rapture's hour his heart will melt
With feelings by the throng unfelt!
'Tis his, in phantom-worlds to live,
'Mong joys, more dear than earth can give!
And his are arbours, rainbow-hued,
Where nought unholy may intrude!
His is an Eden of delight,
For ever screened from vulgar sight!
The traveller thus, in Arab sands,
Whose lips are parched, whose limbs are faint,
Whose troubled thoughts for ever paint
The tiger's spring, the Bedouin bands,
Whose camel now, with faltering pace,
Strives the burning path to trace,
See in that wanderer's looks expressed
The hopeless anguish of his breast;
—But now! mark! mark that start of joy—
Mark how he strains his swollen eye;
He sees yon distant speck of green
Shine circled with the Desert sea—
Mark, mark, empictured in his mien,
The flush of Hope, of Ecstacy:
The fall and flash of waters near
Delight the heart, and eye, and ear!
Now has his weary journey ceased,
And, sheltered by the bowering palm,
He spreads his simple feast!
Was ever bliss thus perfect known
In scenes, where Luxury alone
Had plumed the silken couch of ease,
And fanned the air with pleasure's breeze?
Whose lips are parched, whose limbs are faint,
Whose troubled thoughts for ever paint
The tiger's spring, the Bedouin bands,
Whose camel now, with faltering pace,
Strives the burning path to trace,
See in that wanderer's looks expressed
The hopeless anguish of his breast;
—But now! mark! mark that start of joy—
Mark how he strains his swollen eye;
He sees yon distant speck of green
Shine circled with the Desert sea—
66
The flush of Hope, of Ecstacy:
The fall and flash of waters near
Delight the heart, and eye, and ear!
Now has his weary journey ceased,
And, sheltered by the bowering palm,
He spreads his simple feast!
Was ever bliss thus perfect known
In scenes, where Luxury alone
Had plumed the silken couch of ease,
And fanned the air with pleasure's breeze?
But chiefly on the Poet's mind
Thine influence is shed,
His eye expatiates unconfined
Upon thy vast expanse,
He views with kindling glance
Thy peopled scenes before him spread!
Then, Fancy, bid my page to gleam
With some faint colouring from thy beam;
To thee the Poet's hopes belong,
Bid then thy light illume my song!
I call thee by thy Collins' rage,
By thy Warton's Gothic page,
By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers,
By thy Shakspeare's witching numbers;—
Or, Spirit, if, with partial ear,
A later name thou lovest to hear,
Then be the spell thy Southey's lay;—
Shed, Fancy, shed thy solemn ray!
Oh, move me far from Mirth's vain folly,
To the haunts of Melancholy,
Where Echoes, at the close of day,
Oft talk of empires passed away;—
Come, like the maid that loves to weep
On lone Parnassus' misty steep,
When, in the silent time of night,
She hovers o'er the Poet's sleep,
And mingles with his slumbers deep
Dreams of indefinite delight,
That float with morning's gale along,
Or live but in the breath of song!—
—Then shall I view the air around,
Haunted by many a spectral form,
Shall hear the boding Spirit sound,
Amid the howlings of the storm:
Shall tremble at the night-bird's cry,
Drear prophetess of destiny;
And, as the meteor's beams appal,
Behold the coming funeral,
Or view the ancient chieftain's lance
With momentary lustre glance,
As sitting in his cloudy car
He thinks upon his days of war!
Thine influence is shed,
His eye expatiates unconfined
Upon thy vast expanse,
He views with kindling glance
Thy peopled scenes before him spread!
Then, Fancy, bid my page to gleam
With some faint colouring from thy beam;
To thee the Poet's hopes belong,
Bid then thy light illume my song!
I call thee by thy Collins' rage,
By thy Warton's Gothic page,
By thy Spenser's faerie slumbers,
By thy Shakspeare's witching numbers;—
Or, Spirit, if, with partial ear,
A later name thou lovest to hear,
67
Shed, Fancy, shed thy solemn ray!
Oh, move me far from Mirth's vain folly,
To the haunts of Melancholy,
Where Echoes, at the close of day,
Oft talk of empires passed away;—
Come, like the maid that loves to weep
On lone Parnassus' misty steep,
When, in the silent time of night,
She hovers o'er the Poet's sleep,
And mingles with his slumbers deep
Dreams of indefinite delight,
That float with morning's gale along,
Or live but in the breath of song!—
—Then shall I view the air around,
Haunted by many a spectral form,
Shall hear the boding Spirit sound,
Amid the howlings of the storm:
Shall tremble at the night-bird's cry,
Drear prophetess of destiny;
And, as the meteor's beams appal,
Behold the coming funeral,
Or view the ancient chieftain's lance
With momentary lustre glance,
As sitting in his cloudy car
He thinks upon his days of war!
—And, when the moon, at middle night,
With mild and melancholy ray,
Streams over earth a sweeter light,
Than ever soothed the flaunting day,
Pale mourner! I can half believe,
That she for human woes doth grieve,
Or,—for such dreams soon disappear—
When thoughts more playful hover near,
May deem her snowy splendour shed
Upon the moat's moss-covered bed,
To gild the dance of gentle fays,
Who sport beneath the holy blaze.
Then shall the thoughts of other times
Rouse me to try adventurous rhymes,
And to the harp's deep music chaunt
The story of some old romaunt;
Thus my rapt soul, with Gothic glories fraught,
In Fancy's bower shall muse and court Poetic Thought.
With mild and melancholy ray,
68
Than ever soothed the flaunting day,
Pale mourner! I can half believe,
That she for human woes doth grieve,
Or,—for such dreams soon disappear—
When thoughts more playful hover near,
May deem her snowy splendour shed
Upon the moat's moss-covered bed,
To gild the dance of gentle fays,
Who sport beneath the holy blaze.
Then shall the thoughts of other times
Rouse me to try adventurous rhymes,
And to the harp's deep music chaunt
The story of some old romaunt;
Thus my rapt soul, with Gothic glories fraught,
In Fancy's bower shall muse and court Poetic Thought.
1813.
| Xeniola | |