Dear, wild illusions of creative mind! Whose varying hues arise to Fancy's art, And by her magic force are swift combined In forms that please, and scenes that touch the heart: Oh! whether at her voice ye soft assume The pensive grace of sorrow drooping low; Or rise sublime on terror's lofty plume, And shake the soul with wildly thrilling woe; Or, sweetly bright, your gayer tints ye spread, -- Bid scenes of pleasure steal upon my view, Love wave his purple pinions o'er my head, And wake the tender thought to passion true; O! still -- ye shadowy forms! attend my lonely hours, Still chase my real cares with your illusive powers! |