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FANCY AND REALITY.
HE more I've view'd this world, the more I've
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
And such, I deem, the diff'rence between the real,
Which she assumes, when seen by poets' eyes,
I have a story of two lovers, fill'd
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world-what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
young Jew fabled of, in the' Indian Sea, By nothing but its name of Beauty known, And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, Her fairy kingdom-take its people, lands, And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite !
THE ENGLISH ABROAD.
ND is there then no earthly place,
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some curst, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision? 'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet ;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!
If up the Simplon's path we wind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As-" Baddish news from 'Change, my dearThe Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill!)— Are low ring fast-(what, higher still?)— And-(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)Will soon be down to sixty-seven."
Go where we may-rest where we will,
The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-
If Blues desert their coteries,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
To glide among the Pyramids-
And toast upon the Wall of China!
CLOUDS AND MOUNTAINS.
VEN here, in this region of wonders, I find
What a glory it seem'd the first evening I gazed!
Of high-towering Alps, touch'd still with a light
As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
That scene I have view'd it this evening again,
MONT BLANC in his awfulest pomp-and the whole,
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
T night, when all is still around,
Of footstep, coming soft and light!
That foot that comes so soft at night!
And then, at night, how sweet to say
""Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
Though still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress,
With those we love exchanged at night!