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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427505" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode to Fancy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">O parent of each lovely Muse,<br>Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,<br>O'er all my artless songs preside,<br>My footsteps to thy temple guide.<br>To offer at thy turf-built shrine,<br>In golden cups no costly wine,<br>No murder'd fatling of the flock,<br>But flowers and honey from the rock.<br>O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair,<br>With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare,<br>Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,<br>Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,<br>Waving in thy snowy hand<br>An all-commanding magic wand,<br>Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,<br>'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,<br>Whose rapid wings thy flight convey<br>Through air, and over earth and sea,<br>While the vast various landscape lies<br>Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.<br>O lover of the desert, hail!<br>Say, in what deep and pathless vale,<br>Or on what hoary mountain's side,<br>'Mid fall of waters, you reside,<br>'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,<br>With green and grassy dales between,<br>'Mid forests dark of aged oak,<br>Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,<br>Where never human art appear'd,<br>Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,<br>Where Nature seems to sit alone,<br>Majestic on a craggy throne;<br>Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,<br>To thy unknown sequester'd cell,<br>Where woodbines cluster round the door,<br>Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,<br>And on whose top an hawthorn blows,<br>Amid whose thickly-woven boughs<br>Some nightingale still builds her nest,<br>Each evening warbling thee to rest:<br>There lay me by the haunted stream,<br>Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,<br>In converse while methinks I rove<br>With Spenser through a fairy grove;<br>'Till suddenly awoke, I hear<br>Strange whisper'd music in my ear,<br>And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd<br>By the sweetly-soothing sound!<br>Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,<br>Sometimes through the yellow mead,<br>Where Joy and white-rob'd Peace resort,<br>And Venus keeps her festive court,<br>Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,<br>And lightly trip with nimble feet,<br>Nodding their lily-crowned heads,<br>Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads;<br>Where Echo walks steep hills among,<br>List'ning to the shepherd's song:<br>Yet not those flowery fields of joy<br>Can long my pensive mind employ,<br>Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly,<br>To meet the matron Melancholy,<br>Goddess of the tearful eye,<br>That loves to fold her arms, and sigh!<br>Let us with silent footsteps go<br>To charnels and the house of woe,<br>To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,<br>Where each sad night some virgin comes,<br>With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,<br>Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek;<br>Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs,<br>Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,<br>The naked beggar shivering lies,<br>While whistling tempests round her rise,<br>And trembles lest the tottering wall<br>Should on her sleeping infants fall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now let us louder strike the lyre,<br>For my heart glows with martial fire,<br>I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,<br>My big tumultuous bosom beat,<br>The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear,<br>A thousand widows' shrieks I hear,<br>Give me another horse, I cry,<br>Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;<br>Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say,<br>To battle hurries me away?<br>'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,<br>Transports me to the thickest war,<br>There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,<br>Where Tumult and Destruction reign;<br>Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed<br>Tramples the dying and the dead;<br>Where giant Terror stalks around,<br>With sullen joy surveys the ground,<br>And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,<br>Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O guide me from this horrid scene<br>To high-arch'd walks and alleys green,<br>Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun<br>The fervours of the mid-day sun;<br>The pangs of absence, O remove!<br>For thou canst place me near my love,<br>Canst fold in visionary bliss,<br>And let me think I steal a kiss,<br>While her ruby lips dispense<br>Luscious nectar's quintessence!<br>When young-ey'd Spring profusely throws<br>From her green lap the pink and rose,<br>When the soft turtle of the dale<br>To Summer tells her tender tale,<br>When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,<br>And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;<br>When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,<br>Shakes his silver beard with cold;<br>At every season let my ear<br>Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.<br>O warm, enthusiastic maid,<br>Without thy powerful, vital aid,<br>That breathes an energy divine,<br>That gives a soul to every line,<br>Ne'er may I strive with lips profane<br>To utter an unhallow'd strain,<br>Nor dare to touch the sacred string,<br>Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.<br>O hear our prayer, O hither come<br>From thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,<br>On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,<br>Musing o'er thy darling's grave;<br>O queen of numbers, once again<br>Animate some chosen swain,<br>Who, fill'd with unexhausted fire,<br>May boldly smite the sounding lyre,<br>Who with some new, unequall'd song,<br>May rise above the rhyming throng,<br>O'er all our list'ning passions reign,<br>O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain;<br>With terror shake, with pity move,<br>Rouse with revenge, or melt with love.<br>O deign t' attend his evening walk,<br>With him in groves and grottoes talk;<br>Teach him to scorn with frigid art<br>Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart;<br>Like lightning, let his mighty verse<br>The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;<br>With native beauties win applause,<br>Beyond cold critics' studied laws;<br>O let each Muse's fame increase,<br>O bid Britannia rival Greece!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Joseph+Warton">Joseph Warton</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=427505" data-title="Ode to Fancy de Joseph Warton" data-description="O parent of each lovely Muse,
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide.
To offer at thy turf-built shrine,
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murder'd fatling of the flock,
But flowers and..."></div>
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