Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AN ODE TO FANCY, by                    
First Line: Tell me, blyth fancy, shall I chuse
Last Line: A tragic theme for such a muse?
Subject(s): Imagination; Odes (as Poetic Form); Fancy


Tell me, blyth Fancy, shall I chuse
A tragic subject for my muse?
Her flowing tresses shall the willow bind,
While fading roses at her feet expire,
Shall she to love-lorn sonnets be confin'd,
Or tune to elegiac strains her lyre?
Then, as sweetly responsive sad Philomel sings,
Thrilling cadences float on calm night's dewy wings,
While the stars to her sorrow-dim'd eyes faint appear,
And the pallid moon trembling, is drown'd in a tear.

Or in melancholy's cell,
Shall I make the songstress dwell,
To weave a tragic scene of woe,
Such as Horror's children know?
There, Jealousy with raging soul,
Mixes poison in the bowl,
Swift to the mad'ning brain it flies,
The victim raves, burns, freezes, dies.
There, pierc'd by anguish hopeless love expires,
There wild ambition fans destructive fires:
She sees the steelly dagger gleam,
She hears the murd'rers' hollow tread!
Hears the birds of omen scream,
Wheeling o'er his guilty head!
While, wrapt in terror's shadowy veil,
Gliding spectres grace the tale,

Or, when tremendous thunders roll,
Light'nings flash, and tempests howl,
Shall she climb the pendant rock,
Its rude base trembling at the shock,
And from the cloud-capt summit view
The scatter'd fleet, the death-devoted crew!
Some on foaming billows rise,
And whirl amidst inclement skies,
Then, rushing down the wat'ry steep,
Beneath the stormy ocean sleep!
Others, with rudder broke, and shatter'd mast,
Emerging from the deep,
Reel before the northern blast;
While she sails, in shivers torn,
Useless o'er the surges sweep:
On the tempest's rapid wing,
Swift to the fatal rock the wrecks are borne,
The rock! where never smil'd the verdant spring!
On its flinty side they dash,
Bulging with a fearful crash!
Happier those the sea entomb'd,
Than these to lingering misery doom'd!
Whom famine seizes for his prey,
And slowly drags the struggling life away.

Or shall she toil o'er barren lands,
Deserts drear, and burning sands?
Where the Volcano's flaming head,
Fills the awe-struck soul with dread!
When it vomits liquid fire,
Spreading conflagration dire,
Who can tread the scorching ground?
The air blows scalding steam around.
Turn,——and on the ocean gaze,
The flames reflected in its bosom blaze,
While o'er the earth, the air, the main,
Fire, usurping seems to reign.

Or shall she bend her lonely way,
Thro' woods impervious to the beams of day,
Where wolves howl, and lions roar,
Thirsting after human gore,
Where the fierce banditti hide,
Cavern'd in the mountain's side,
Disgrace and terror of mankind,
With human form, and savage mind!
Who, ere their bleeding victim dies,
Rapacious share their lawless prize.

Or shall she mount Bellona's car,
And drive amidst the din of war,
Fearless of the whizzing ball,
Tho' dying heros round her fall.
And, when the approach of sable night
Stops the still-uncertain sight,
By the pale moon's languid ray,
O'er the field of horror stray.
And wading through the ensanguin'd plain,
View the pride of manhood slain?
Exposed, neglected, the brave warrior lies,
Life's purple current stains his livid breast:
With pious hand, say, shall she close his eyes,
And wrap him decent in his martial vest?
Shall she from the sacred ground,
Chace the vultures hov'ring round,
Then, on each corse, grief's pearly sorrows shed,
And sing a requiem o'er the silent dead!

Or to the cold, dark, charnel house repair,
And breathe its clammy, its infectious air?
While she opes the grating door,
Death's last mansion to explore,
The rushing wind terrific groans,
And aweful shakes the mould'ring bones.
Shall she dauntless there remain,
While a deep chilling silence reigns around,
And chaunting forth a solemn strain,
From the dank walls hear Echo's dreary sound?

No Fancy, no, she loves to sport,
In gay Thalia's comic court,
There her airy numbers sings,
While she lightly sweeps the strings.
Jocund, easy, unconfin'd,
Leaving haggard Care behind.
To a loftier muse belong,
The graces of the tragic song.
Mine from the cradle to the tomb,
Strives to dissipate the gloom:
Tho' nor skilful, nor sublime,
She can smooth the brow of Time,
Charm his sombrous frowns away,
And with the tedious minutes play.
Then tell me Fancy, can I chuse,
A tragic theme for such a muse?





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net