Classic Poem

Sweet Fancy, golden-pinioned bird,
Once left awhile his starry nest,
To float upon the breeze, that stirred
The plumage of his glistening breast.
Sometimes in gem-hung caves delaying,
And then through spicy forests straying,
He wandered 'mid those blessed isles
That dimple ocean's cheek, like smiles;
He dallied with the merry wave,
And, diving through the glassy water,
Brought in his beak, from its shell cave,
A pearl, Circassia's loveliest daughter,
In the rich clustering of her hair,
Might blush with very pride to wear!

Then, tired of sport like this, he flew
Along the deep, in beauty sleeping,
To that sweet clime, whose sky of blue
Is with its chastened splendor steeping
A land, whose river's rosy tide
Is blushing like a virgin bride—
Whose mountains high, and emerald vales,
Are kissed by incense-laden gales.
And there, o'er ruins, ivy-wreathed,
He heard rich music sweetly breathed,
O'er moss-decked arch, and broken shrine,
He saw their ancient glory shine;
Yet here, amid his favorite bowers,
Where once he dearly loved to dwell—
In this delicious land of flowers,
Where Memory, with magic spell,
Creates new forms of joy and light—
He could not stay his restless wing;
But, shaking thence the dew-drops bright,
He plucked the first red rose of spring:
Then, blending with the heavenly blue,
Like arrowy gleam, away he flew!

Where next did gold-plumed Fancy roam?
He sought the bright star's brightest ray
That gilds his own celestial home,
And bore it in his glance away.
Then, when the sunset richly burned,
Unto the earth once more he turned:
And as his wing grew tired and weak,
He found a lovely lady's bower,
And on her lip, and o'er her cheek,
Softly suffused the pearl and flower;
Then, in her pure eye's brilliancy,
He shot the star-gleam from his own;
And, charmed as much as bird can be,
Flew back to his far, starry throne!

This happened long ago;—but now,
Each pretty maiden, when she hears
Of locks that cluster round a brow
Which like the stainless snow appears—
Of cheeks, whose mingled red and white
Seem like pink roses crushed on pearl—
Of eyes, whose soft and mellow light
Is like a star's, where clouds unfurl—
Looks archly up, and answers you:
That “on the very homeliest face
Can Fancy shed his brilliant hue,
And in a tame expression trace
A smile as soft as Heaven's own blue!
That he will seek through earth and air
For charms to make divinely fair,
And statue-like, a little creature
Who has a twist in every feature;
And deck her so (your pardon craving)
That she might set ten poets raving.”