FROM "THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION." As Memnon's marble harp renowned of old Whose candid bosom the refining love MARK AKENSIDE. HALLO, MY FANCY. 1650. IN melancholic fancy, Out of myself, In the vulcan dancy, 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 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; We shall walk wo more through the sorten plain 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 But perhaps I thall mus thin& know there afan And why the lazy drones to them do prove dis- | And fully upon one his desire hath founded, 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. |