Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
Poems of Fancy: I. The ImaginationHallo, my Fancy
William Cleland (1661?–1689)I
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?
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?
Why the little ant,
All the summer season,
Layeth up provision,
On condition
To know no winter’s want:
And how these little fishes, that swim beneath salt water,
Do never blind their eyes; methinks it is a matter
An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater!
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
How things are done;
And where the bull was calved
Of bloody Phalaris,
And where the tailor is
That works to the man i’ the moon!
Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;
And how these little fairies do dance and leap so lightly;
And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
I ’ll mount Phœbus’ chair,
Having ne’er a hat on,
All my hair a-burning
In my journeying,
Hurrying through the air.
Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing,
And see how they on foamy bits are playing;
All the stars and planets I will be surveying!
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
Doth the pelican,
That self-devouring creature,
Prove so froward
And untoward,
Her vitals for to strain?
And why the subtle fox, while in death’s wounds is lying,
Doth not lament his pangs by howling and by crying;
And why the milk-white swan doth sing when she ’s a-dying.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
At least make essay,
What similitude is;
Why fowls of a feather
Flock and fly together,
And lambs know beasts of prey:
How Nature’s alchymists, these small laborious creatures,
Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters,
And suffer none to live, who slothing lose their features.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
When I do ruminate,
Men of an occupation,
How each one calls him brother,
Yet each envieth other,
And yet still intimate!
Yea, I admire to see some natures farther sund’red,
Than antipodes to us. Is it not to be wond’red?
In myriads ye ’ll find, of one mind scarce a hundred?
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
Doth perturb my pate,
Considering the motions,
How the heavens are preserved,
And this world served
In moisture, light, and heat!
If one spirit sits the outmost circle turning,
Or one turns another, continuing in journeying,
If rapid circles’ motion be that which they call burning!
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go!
By considering
What that, which you call love, is:
Whether it be a folly
Or a melancholy,
Or some heroic thing!
Fain I ’d have it proved, by one whom love hath wounded,
And fully upon one his desire hath founded,
Whom nothing else could please though the world were rounded.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
Height, depth, breadth, and length,
Fain would I adventure
To search the hid attractions
Of magnetic actions,
And adamantine strength.
Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain,
Where the moon sojourns, if there be trees or fountain;
If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
By experiment,
By none can be denied!
If in this bulk of nature,
There be voids less or greater,
Or all remains complete.
Fain would I know if beasts have any reason;
If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason;
If fear of winter’s want make swallows fly the season.
Hallo, my fancy, whither wilt thou go?
Stay, stay at home with me,
I can thee no longer follow,
For thou hast betrayed me,
And bewrayed me;
It is too much for thee.
Stay, stay at home with me; leave off thy lofty soaring;
Stay thou at home with me, and on thy books be poring;
For he that goes abroad lays little up in storing:
Thou ’rt welcome home, my fancy, welcome home to me.