ODE to FANCY. Joseph Warton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T131163 K104099.003 Dodsley, Robert, 1703-1764. A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes. By Several Hands. Vol. III. London printed by J. Hughs, for R. and J. Dodsley 1763 [1st ed. 1758] pp. 109-114. 6v.: music; 8⁰.

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ODE to FANCY . By the Same . 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 fat'ling of the flock , But flowers and honey from the rock . O Nymph with loosely-flowing hair , With buskin'd leg , and bosom bare , Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound , Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd , Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magick wand , Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow ' Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow , Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Thro' air , and over earth and sea , While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes . O lover of the desart , hail ! Say , in what deep and pathless vale , Or on what hoary mountain's side , 'Mid fall of waters you reside , 'Mid broken rocks , a rugged scene , With green and grassy dales between , 'Mid forests dark of aged oak , Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke , Where never human art appear'd , Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cott was rear'd , Where NATURE seems to sit alone , Majestick on a craggy throne ; Tell me the path , sweet wand'rer , tell , To thy unknown sequester'd cell , Where woodbines cluster round the door , Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor , And on whose top an hawthorn blows , Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest , Each evening warbling thee to rest : There lay me by the haunted stream , Rapt in some wild , poetick dream , In converse while methinks I rove With SPENSER thro' a fairy grove ; Till suddenly awoke , I hear Strange whisper'd musick in my ear , And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd By the sweetly-soothing sound ! Me , Goddess , by the right-hand lead , Sometimes thro' the yellow mead , Where JOY and white-rob'd PEACE resort , And VENUS keeps her festive court , Where MIRTH and YOUTH each evening meet , And lightly trip with nimble feet , Nodding their lilly-crowned heads , Where LAUGHTER rose-lip'd HEBE leads ; Where ECHO walks steep hills among , List'ning to the shepherd's song : Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ , Haste , FANCY , from these scenes of folly To meet the matron MELANCHOLY , Goddess of the tearful eye , That loves to fold her arms and sigh ! Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of woe , To Gothick churches , vaults , and tombs , Where each sad night some virgin comes , With throbbing breast , and faded cheek , Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek ; Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs , Where to avoid cold wintry show'rs , The naked beggar shivering lies , While whistling tempests round her rise , And trembles lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall . Now let us louder strike the lyre , For my heart glows with martial fire , I feel , I feel , with sudden heat , My big tumultuous bosom beat ; The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear , A thousand widows' shrieks I hear , Give me another horse , I cry , Lo ! the base GALLIC squadrons fly ; Whence is this rage ? — what spirit , say , To battle hurries me away ? 'Tis FANCY , in her fiery car , Transports me to the thickest war , There whirls me o'er the hills of slain , Where Tumult and Destruction reign ; Where mad with pain , the wounded steed Tramples the dying and the dead : Where giant Terror stalks around , With sullen joy surveys the ground , And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field , Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield ! O guide me from this horrid scene To high-arch'd walks and alleys green , Which lovely LAURA seeks , to shun The fervors of the mid-day sun ; The pangs of absence , O remove , For thou can'st place me near my love , Can'st fold in visionary bliss , And let me think I steal a kiss , While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence ! When young-ey'd SPRING profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose , When the soft turtle of the dale To SUMMER tells her tender tale , To AUTUMN cooling caverns seeks , And stains with wine his jolly cheeks , When WINTER , like poor pilgrim old , Shakes his silver beard with cold , At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers , FANCY , hear . O warm , enthusiastick maid , Without thy powerful , vital aid , That breathes an energy divine , That gives a soul to every line , Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallow'd strain , Nor dare to touch the sacred string , Save when with smiles thou bid'st me sing . O hear our prayer , O hither come From thy lamented SHAKESPEAR'S tomb , On which thou lov'st to sit at eve , Musing o'er thy darling's grave ; O queen of numbers , once again Animate some chosen swain , Who fill'd with unexhausted fire , May boldly smite the sounding lyre , May rise above the rhyming throng , Who with some new , unequall'd song O'er all our list'ning passions reign , O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain ; With terror shake , with pity move , Rouse with revenge , or melt with love . O deign t' attend his evening walk , With him in groves and grottos talk : Teach him to scorn with frigid art Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart ; Like lightning , let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce ; With native beauties win applause , Beyond cold criticks' studied laws : O let each muse's fame increase , O bid BRITANNIA rival GREECE !