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FROM "THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION."

As Memnon's marble harp renowned of old
By fabling Nilus, to the quivering touch
Of Titan's ray, with each repulsive string
Consenting, sounded through the warbling air
Unbidden strains; e'en so did Nature's hand
To certain species of external things
Attune the finer organs of the mind;
So the glad impulse of congenial powers,
Or of sweet sound, or fair-proportioned form,
The grace of motion, or the bloom of light,
Thrills through imagination's tender frame,
From nerve to nerve; all naked and alive
They catch the spreading rays; till now the soul
At length discloses every tuneful spring,
To that harmonious movement from without,
Responsive. Then the inexpressive strain
Diffuses its enchantment; Fancy dreams
Of sacred fountains and Elysian groves,
And vales of bliss; the Intellectual Power
Bends from his awful throne a wondering ear,
And smiles; the passions gently soothed away,
Sink to divine repose, and love and joy
Alone are waking; love and joy serene
As airs that fan the summer. O attend,
Whoe'er thou art whom these delights can touch,

Whose candid bosom the refining love
Of nature warms; O, listen to my song,
And I will guide thee to her favorite walks,
And teach thy solitude her voice to hear,
And point her loveliest features to thy view.

MARK AKENSIDE.

HALLO, MY FANCY.

1650.

IN melancholic fancy,

Out of myself,

In the vulcan dancy,
All the world surveying,
Nowhere staying,

Just like a fairy elf;

Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping, Out o'er the hills, the trees and valleys tripping, Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping. Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Amidst the misty vapors,

Fain would I know
What doth cause the tapers;
Why the clouds benight us
And affright us,

While we travel here below. Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder,

And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder,

And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder.

Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I know the reason

Why the little ant,

All the summer season,

Layeth up provision,

On condition

To know no winter's want:

And how housewives, that are so good and

painful, Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful;

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We shall walk wo more through the sorten plain
With the faved bents c'erspread,

We shall and no have

one by

which the dark wrach strives

the Seething main verhead ;

We shall park no more in this bound & the Wiin
to here thy last farewell was said

But perhaps I thall mus thin& know there afan
When the sea graves up her dead
Jean hilllow

And why the lazy drones to them do prove dis- | And fully upon one his desire hath founded,

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I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 't is my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits:

Fain I'd have it proved, by one whom love hath In a cavern under is fettered the thunder;

wounded,

It struggles and howls by fits.

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