But that his notes met no regard: Strait to the shaw he spread his wing, Resolv'd again no more to sing, Where princely bounty is supprest By such with whom They are opprest; Who cannot bear (because they want it) That ought should be to merit granted. FOOTNOTE: [10] Written before the year 1600. O D E TO FANCY. BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON. 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 fatling 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 magic 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, 'Midst falls of water you reside: 'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between: 'Midst forest dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke; Where never human art appear'd, Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd; Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic 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 ev'ning warbling thee to rest. Then lay me by the haunted stream, Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream; In converse while methinks I rove With Spencer thro' a fairy grove; Till suddenly awak'd, I hear Strange whisper'd music 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 flow'ry fields of joy, Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, FANCY, from the 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;