Lo! here a cloud comes sailing, richly clad In royal purple, which the parting beams Of bounteous Phoebus edge with tints of gold And lucid crimson. One might fancy it A noble bird, that laves its graceful form, And bathes its rosy bosom in the light. Look! how it swells and rears its snowy crest With haughty grandeur; while the blue expanse, In smiling patience lets the boaster pass, And swell his train with all the lazy vapours That hover in the air: an easy prey To the gigantic phantom, whose curl'd wing, Sweeps in these worthless triflers of the sky, And wraps them in his bosom. Go, vain shadow! Sick with the burthen of thy fancied greatness, A breath of zephyr wafts thee into nothing, Scatters thy spreading plumes, uncrowns thy front, And drives thee downward to thy mother earth, To mix with vapour and dissolve in dew. Such are the dreams of hope, which to the eye Of youthful inexperience, seem to touch The pure, unclouded sky of certainty. Buoy'd up by the fond eloquence of thought, And nurtur'd by the smile of vanity, Each hour the air-born vision gathers bulk, And Fancy decks it with a thousand hues, Varied and wild, till it abounds in charms Which sink the soul to sadness, when the breath Of gentle Reason breaks the beauteous bubble, And leaves us nought but vain regret behind. FEBRUARY 1, 1797. HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN. When clouds and rain deform the sky, And light'nings glare around, Amidst the dreary, cheerless scene, Some comfort may be found. There will, at some far-distant spot, A streak of light appear, Or, when the sullen vapours break, The ether will be clear. And if the sun illumes the east, And sheds his gladsome ray, Some boding mist, or passing cloud Will threat the rising day. The heart rejoicing in the view, And dancing with delight, Oft feels the touch of palsied fear, And sinks at thought of night. So Hope's bright torch more clearly shines, Amidst surrounding gloom, And, beldame Fortune vainly throws Her mantle o'er the tomb. MARCH 15,1797. THE COMPLAINT OF FANCY. To A.R.C. As, musing, late I sat reclin'd, And waking dreams absorb'd my mind, A damsel came, of various dyes, Like painted Iris from the skies; A purfled saffron was her vest, And sweet gum-cistus form'd her crest; In many a playful ring, her hair Flew light and flossy in the air; The mantle, blue and gold, she wore, A rose of opals held before, While, graceful in her fairy hand, Appear'd a crimson-tufted wand, Whose shade on every object threw A glowing tint of roseate hue. "Whence art thou, blooming nymph?" I cried, And thus a tuneful voice replied: "Men call me Fancy; at my shrine Myriads confess my power divine; There painters bend the willing knee, And laurell'd poets sue to me: For mine is every vivid ray, Which partial Nature gave the day; And, to the music of my song, A thousand nameless charms belong.