 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
198
THE VIGILS OF FANCY
NO. I
The wind is high, and mortals sleep;
And through the woods, resounding deep,
The wasting winds of Autumn sweep,
While waves remurmur hollowly.
And through the woods, resounding deep,
The wasting winds of Autumn sweep,
While waves remurmur hollowly.
Beside this lake's sequester'd shore,
Where foam-crown'd billows heave and roar,
And pines, that shelter'd bards of yore,
Wave their primeval canopy,
Where foam-crown'd billows heave and roar,
And pines, that shelter'd bards of yore,
Wave their primeval canopy,
At midnight hour I rove alone,
And think on days for ever flown,
When not a trace of care was known,
To break my soul's serenity.
And think on days for ever flown,
When not a trace of care was known,
To break my soul's serenity.
To me, when day's loud cares are past,
And coldly blows th' autumnal blast,
And yellow leaves around are cast
In melancholy revelry,
And coldly blows th' autumnal blast,
And yellow leaves around are cast
In melancholy revelry,
While Cynthia rolls through fields of blue,
'Tis sweet these fading groves to view,
With ev'ry rich and varied hue
Of foliage smiling solemnly.
'Tis sweet these fading groves to view,
With ev'ry rich and varied hue
Of foliage smiling solemnly.
Matur'd by Time's revolving wing,
These fading groves more beauties bring
Than all the budding flow'rs of Spring,
Or Summer's glowing pageantry.
These fading groves more beauties bring
Than all the budding flow'rs of Spring,
Or Summer's glowing pageantry.
199
All hail! ye breezes wild and drear,
That peal the death song of the year,
And with the waters thund'ring near
Combine in awful harmony!
That peal the death song of the year,
And with the waters thund'ring near
Combine in awful harmony!
Methinks, as round your murmurs sail,
I hear a spirit in the gale,
That seems to whisper many a tale
Of dark and ancient mystery.
I hear a spirit in the gale,
That seems to whisper many a tale
Of dark and ancient mystery.
Ye bards, that in these sacred shades,
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!
Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery,
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery,
And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wand'ring winds respire
A more than mortal symphony?
With viewless hands the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wand'ring winds respire
A more than mortal symphony?
Come, Fancy, come, romantic maid!
No more in rainbow vest array'd,
But robed to suit the sacred shade
Of midnight's deep sublimity.
No more in rainbow vest array'd,
But robed to suit the sacred shade
Of midnight's deep sublimity.
By thee inspir'd, I seem to hold
High converse with the good and bold,
Who fought and fell, in days of old,
To guard their country's liberty.
High converse with the good and bold,
Who fought and fell, in days of old,
To guard their country's liberty.
200
Roused from Oblivion's mould'ring urn,
The chiefs of ancient times return;
Again the battle seems to burn,
And rings the sounding panoply!
The chiefs of ancient times return;
Again the battle seems to burn,
And rings the sounding panoply!
And while the war-storm rages loud,
In yonder darkly rolling cloud
Their forms departed minstrels shroud,
And wake the hymns of victory.
In yonder darkly rolling cloud
Their forms departed minstrels shroud,
And wake the hymns of victory.
Far hence all earthly thoughts be hurl'd!
Thy regions, Fancy, shine unfurl'd,
Amid the visionary world
I lose the sad reality.
Thy regions, Fancy, shine unfurl'd,
Amid the visionary world
I lose the sad reality.
Led by thy magic pow'r sublime,
From shore to shore, from clime to clime,
Uncheck'd by distance or by time,
My steps shall wander rapidly.
From shore to shore, from clime to clime,
Uncheck'd by distance or by time,
My steps shall wander rapidly.
Thy pow'r can all the past restore,
Bid present ills afflict no more,
And teach the spirit to explore
The volume of futurity.
Bid present ills afflict no more,
And teach the spirit to explore
The volume of futurity.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |