FANCY.

Me, oft hath Fancy, in her fitful dream,

Seated within a far sequestered dell,

What time upon the noiseless waters fell,

Mingled with length'ning leafy shade, a gleam

Of the departing sun's environ'd beam;

While all was hush'd, save that the lone death-bell

Would seem to beat, and pensive smite mine ear

Like spirit's wail, now distant far, now near:

Then the night-breeze would seem to chill my cheek,

And viewless beings flitting round, to speak!

And then, a throng of mournful thoughts would press

On this, my wild-ideal loneliness.

Me, oft hath Fancy too, in musing hour

Seated (what time the blithesome summer-day

Was burning 'neath the fierce meridian ray)

Within that self-same lonely woodland bow'r

So sultry and still; but then, the tower,

The hamlet tow'r, sent forth a roundelay;

I seem'd to hear, till feelings o'er me stole

Faintly and sweet, enwrapping all my soul,

Joy, grief, were strangely blended in the sound.

The light, warm sigh of summer, was around,

But ne'er may speech, such thoughts, such visions tell,

Then, perfect most, when indescribable!

M.L.B.