FANCY.
O Swiftly flies the shuttle now,
Swift as an arrow from the bow:
But swifter than the thread is wrought,
Is soon the flight of busy thought;
For Fancy leaves the mill behind,
And seeks some novel scenes to find.
And now away she quickly hies—
O'er hill and dale the truant flies.
Stop, silly maid! where dost thou go?
Thy road may be a road of woe:
Some hand may crush thy fairy form,
And chill thy heart so lately warm.
"Oh no," she cries in merry tone,
"I go to lands before unknown;
I go in scenes of bliss to dwell,
Where ne'er is heard a factory bell."
Away she went; and soon I saw,
That Fancy's wish was Fancy's law;
For where the leafless trees were seen,
And Fancy wished them to be green,
Her wish she scarcely had made known,
Before green leaves were on them grown.
She spake—and there appear'd in view,
Bright manly youths, and maidens, too.
And Fancy called for music rare—
And music filled the ravished air.
And then the dances soon began,
And through the mazes lightly ran
The footsteps of the fair and gay—
For this was Fancy's festal day.
On, on they move, a lovely group!
Their faces beam with joy and hope;
Nor dream they of a danger nigh,
Beneath their bright and sunny sky.
One of the fair ones is their queen,
For whom they raise a throne of green;
And Fancy weaves a garland now,
To place upon the maiden's brow;
And fragrant are the blooming flowers,
In her enchanted fairy-bowers.
And Fancy now away may slip,
And o'er the green-sward lightly skip,
And to her airy castle hie—
For Fancy hath a castle nigh.
The festal board she quick prepares,
And every guest the bounty shares,—
And seated at the festal board,
Their merry voices now are heard,
As each youth places to his lips,
And from the golden goblet sips
A draught of the enchanting wine
That came from Fancy's fruitful vine.
But hark! what sound salutes mine ear?
A distant rumbling now I hear.
Ah, Fancy! 'tis no groundless fear,
The rushing whirlwind draweth near!
Thy castle walls are rocking fast,—
The glory of thy feast is past;
Thy guests are now beneath the wave,—
Oblivion is their early grave,
Thy fairy bower has vanished—fled:
Thy leafy tree are withered—dead!
Thy lawn is now a barren heath,
Thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death!
Those manly youth that were so gay,
Have vanished in the self-same way!
Oh Fancy! now remain at home,
And be content no more to roam;
For visions such as thine are vain,
And bring but discontent and pain.
Remember, in thy giddy whirl,
That I am but a factory girl:
And be content at home to dwell,
Though governed by a "factory bell."
Fiducia.