Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad
In royal purple, which the parting beams
Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold
And lucid crimson. One might fancy it
A noble bird, that laves its graceful form,
And bathes its rosy bosom in the light.
Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crest
With haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse,
In smiling patience lets the boaster pass,
And swell his train with all the lazy vapours
That hover in the air: an easy prey
To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing,
Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky,
And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow!
Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness,
A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing,
Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front,
And drives thee downward to thy mother earth,
To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew. Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye
Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch
The pure, unclouded sky of certainty.
Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought,
And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity,
Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk,
And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues,
Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms
Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath
Of gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble,
And leaves us nought but vain regret behind. FEBRUARY 1, 1797.

[!-- RULE4 13 --] HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN.

When clouds and rain deform the sky, And light'nings glare around, Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene, Some comfort may be found. There will, at some far-distant spot, A streak of light appear, Or, when the sullen vapours break, The ether will be clear. And if the sun illumes the east, And sheds his gladsome ray, Some boding mist, or passing cloud Will threat the rising day. The heart rejoicing in the view, And dancing with delight, Oft feels the touch of palsied fear, And sinks at thought of night. So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines, Amidst surrounding gloom, And, beldame Fortune vainly throws Her mantle o'er the tomb. MARCH 15,1797.

[!-- RULE4 14 --] THE COMPLAINT OF FANCY.

To A.R.C.

As, musing, late I sat reclin'd,
And waking dreams absorb'd my mind,
A damsel came, of various dyes,
Like painted Iris from the skies;
A purfled saffron was her vest,
And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest;
In many a playful ring, her hair
Flew light and flossy in the air;
The mantle, blue and gold, she wore,
A rose of opals held before,
While, graceful in her fairy hand,
Appear'd a crimson-tufted wand,
Whose shade on every object threw
A glowing tint of roseate hue. "Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried,
And thus a tuneful voice replied:
"Men call me Fancy; at my shrine
Myriads confess my power divine;
There painters bend the willing knee,
And laurell'd poets sue to me:
For mine is every vivid ray,
Which partial Nature gave the day;
And, to the music of my song,
A thousand nameless charms belong. "The friend of Happiness, I dwell
Belov'd alike in court or cell;
Where Glory lifts her ardent eye,
With hasty, kindred zeal I fly,
In sun-beams place the hero's form,
And bid his arm command the storm;
On swelling clouds an altar raise,
And fan the tow'ring flame of praise. "Oft, from the lorn enthusiast's lyre,
My fingers strike etherial fire,
And give to sounds of piercing woe,
Extatic rapture's fervent glow.
Oft sooth the maniac's throbbing vein,
And grace her simple, wilder'd strain;
The tribe of Pain in fetters keep,
Lull wounded Memory to sleep,
And, in the mind of gloomy Care,
Bid Thought an angel's semblance wear. "Dear to each blest aerial pow'r,
E'en Wisdom calls me to her bow'r;
My songs her leisure hours beguile,
And teach her holy lip to smile.
And, when the Muse, with thoughtful care,
Has woven chaplets for her hair,
I let her, with her myrtles, twine,
Full many a fragrant rose of mine. "Then why, since all the wise and gay,
To me a grateful homage pay,
Since I to all my hand extend,
And, liberal, every heart befriend,
Does Nancy from the croud retire,
And rend my blossoms from her lyre?
Though every string the loss bewail,
And tones of mellow sweetness fail,
Which us'd to charm the pensive ear,
When list'ning Friendship bent to hear. "Tell her I wish not to intrude
Upon her sacred solitude,
Nor cast my undulating chain,
Around her glowing heart again;
No! every claim I now resign,
Yet let some small regard be mine;
Let one, who nurs'd her infant years,
And wip'd away some bitter tears,
Still animate the scenes around,
And make her tread on fairy ground;
Give playful sweetness to each lay,
And decorate the passing day. "Tell her, if now she scorns my strain,
She may invoke my name in vain;
In vain my proffered aid implore,
Contemn'd, I hardly pardon more." She said, and springing from the earth,
Attending found her suitor Mirth,
Who caught her hand, with lively air,
And plac'd her in his silver chair,
Which through the yielding ether flew,
And quickly bore them from my view.

[!-- RULE4 14 --] ON THE

EVE OF DEPARTURE

From O——

Loud beats the rain! The hollow groan Of rushing winds I hear, That with a deep and sullen moan, Pass slowly by the ear. Soon will my dying fire refuse To yield a cheerful ray, Yet, shivering still I sit and muse The latest spark away. Ah, what a night! the chilly air Bids comfort hence depart, While sad repining's clammy wings Cling icy, to my heart. To-morrow's dawn may fair arise, And lovely to the view; The sun with radiance gild the skies, Yet then—I say adieu! Oh, stay, dear Night, with cautious care, And lingering footsteps move, Though day may be more soft and fair, Not her, but thee, I love. Stay, wild in brow, severe in mien, Stay! and ward off the foe; Who, unrelenting smiles serene, Yet tells me I must go. Forsake these hospitable halls, Where Truth and Friendship dwell, To these high towers and ancient walls, Pronounce a long farewell. Alas! will Time's rapacious hand, These golden days restore? Or will he suffer me to taste These golden days no more? Will he permit that here again, I turn my willing feet? That my glad eyes may here again, The look of kindness meet? That here I ever may behold, Felicity to dwell, And often have the painful task Of sighing out farewell? Ah, be it so! my fears I lose, By hope's sweet visions fed; And as I fly to seek repose, She flutters round my bed. NOV. 17, 1796.