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And some, through mingled light and shade,
Like visions gleam—like visions fade.
Strange are these ocean mysteries!
No helmsman on the poop one sees,
No sailor nestled in the shrouds,
Singing to the passing clouds.
But let us leave old Neptune's show,
And to the dewy uplands go!
Now skyward, in a chequered crowd,
Rolls each rosy-edged cloud,
Flaunting in the upper air
Many a tabard rich and rare;
And mantling, as they onward rush,
Every hill top with a blush,
To dissolve, streak after streak,
Like rose tints on a maiden's cheek,
When, in wanton waggish folly,
The chord of love's sweet melancholy
Is rudely smitten, and the cheek
Tells tales the lip might never speak.
Hollo, my Fancy! It is good
To seek soul-soothing solitude;
To leave the city, and the mean,
Cold, abject things that crawl therein;
Flee crowded street and painted hall,
