# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Hollo, My Fancy!

Hollo My Fancy.
Hollo, my Fancy! Thou art free— Nor bolt nor shackle fetters thee! Thy prison door is cleft in twain, And Nature claims her child again; Doff the base weeds of toil and strife, And hail the world's returning life!
Up and away! 'Tis Nature's voice Bids thee hie field ward and rejoice; She calls thee from unhallowed mirth To walk with beauty o'er the earth; Proudly she calls thee forth, and now Prints blandest kisses on thy brow; On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare, She pours the balmy morning air: The fulness of a mother's breast Swells for thee in this gracious hour; Up, Sluggard, up! from dreams unblest, And let thy heart its love outpour!
Up, Sluggard, up! all is awake With song and smile to welcome thee; The flower its timid buds would break Wert thou but once abroad to see! Teeming with love, earth, ocean, air Are musical with grateful prayer; Each measured sound, each glorious sight, Personifies intense delight! The breeze that crisps the summer seas. Or softly plains through leafy trees, Or, on the hill-side, stoops to chase The wild kid in its giddy race— The breeze that, like a lover's sigh, Of mingled fear and ecstacy, Plays amorous over brow and cheek, Methinks it has a voice to speak The joys of the awakening morn— When, on exulting pinion borne, The lark, sole monarch of the sky, Pours from his throat rich melody.
Hollo, my Fancy! Fast a-field, Aurora's face is just revealed: Night's shadows yet have scantly sped Midway up yonder mountain's head— While in the valley far below,
The misty billows, ebbing, show Where fairy isles in beauty glow; Delicious spots of elfin green, Emerging from a world unseen, Of dreams and quaintest phantasies— Spots that would the Faerye Queen To a very tittle please! Away the shadowy phantoms roll, Up-borne by the rising breeze, Fluttering like some banner scroll; While, peering o'er the silent seas Of yon far shore, thou may'st descry The red glance of the Day-Star's eye!
Hollo, my Fancy! Let us trace The breaking of the vestal dawn! Through dappled clouds, with stealthy pace, It travels over mount and lawn. Lacings of crimson and of gold, Threaded and twined an hundred-fold, Bar the far Orient, while the sea Of molten brass appears to be. And lo! upon that glancing tide Vessels of snowy whiteness glide: Some portward, self-impelled are steering, Some in the distance disappearing;
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,
Where sin rules rampant over all; To roam where greenwoods thickest grow, Where meadows spread and rivers flow, Where mountains loom in mist, or lie Clad in a sunshine livery; Wander through dingle and through dell, Which the sweet primrose loveth well; And where, in every ivied cranny Of mouldering crag, unseen by any, Clouds of busy birds are dinning Anthems that welcome day's beginning: Or, like lusty shepherd groom, Wade through seas of yellow broom; And, with foot elastic tread On the shrinking floweret's bead, As it droops with dew-drops laden, Like some tear-surcharged maiden: Skip it, trip it deftly, till Every flower-cup liquor spill, And green earth grows bacchanal, Freed from night's o'ershadowing pall; Or let us climb the steep, and know How the mountain breezes blow.
Hither, brave Fancy! Speed we on, Like Judah's bard to Lebanon!
Every step we take, more nigh Mounts the spirit to the sky. Sounds of life are waxing low As we high and higher go, And a deeper silence given For choice communing with heaven; On this eminence awhile Rest we from our vigorous toil: Forth our eyes, mind's scouts that be, Cull fresh food for fantasy! Like a map, beneath these skies, Fair the summer landscape lies— Sea, and sand, and brook, and tree, Meadow broad, and sheltered lea, Shade and sunshine intermarried, All deliciously varied: Goodly fields of bladed corn, Pastures green, where neatherd's horn Bloweth through the livelong day, Many a rudely jocund lay: There be rows of waving trees, Hymning saintliest homilies To the weary passer by, Till his heart mount to his eye, And his tingling feelings glow With deep love for all below,
While his soul, in rapturous prayer, Finds a temple everywhere. See, each headland hath its tower, Every nook its own love bower— While, from every sheltered glen, Peep the homes of rustic men; And apart, on hillock green, Is the hamlet's chapel seen: Mingled elms and yews surround Its most peaceful burial ground; Like sentinels the old trees stand, Guarding death's sleep-silent land. Adown the dell a brawling burn, With wimple manifold, doth spurn The shining pebbles in its course, Foaming like spur-fretted horse— A mighty voice in puny form, Miniature of blustering storm, It rates each shelving crag and tree That would abridge its liberty, And roundly swears it will be free! 'Tis even so, for now along The plain it sweeps with softened song And there, in summer, morn and noon. And eve, the village children wade, Oft wonderins if the streamlet's tune
Be by wave or pebble made; But, unresolved of doubt, they say Thus it tunes its pipe alway.
Wood-ward, brave Fancy! Over-head The Sun is waxing fiery red; No cloud is floating on the sky To interrupt his brilliancy, Or mar the glory of his ray While journeying on his lucid way. But here, within this forest chase, We'll wander for a fleeting space, 'Mid walks beneath whose clustering leaves Bright noontides wane to sober eves; And where, 'mong roots of timbers old, Pale flowers are seen like virgins cold— (Virgins fearful of the Sun, Most beautiful to look upon)— In some soft and mossy nook, Where dwells the wanderer's eager look. Until the Sun hath sunken down Over the folly-haunting town, And curious Stars are forth to peer With frost-like brilliance, silvery clear, From the silent firmament— Here be our walk of sweet content.
Around is many a sturdy oak Never scaithed by woodman's stroke; Many a stalwart green-wood tree, Loved of Waithman bold and free, When the arrow at his side, And the bow he bent with pride, Gave the right to range at will, And lift whate'er broad shaft might kill. Here, belike famed Robin Hood, Or other noble of the wood, Clym of the Cleuch, or Adam Bell,— Young Gandelyn that shot full well,— Will Cloudeslie, and Little John, Or Bertram, wight of blood and bone, Plied their woodcraft, maugre law: Raking through the greenwood shaw, Bow in hand, and sword at knee, They lived true thieves, and Waithmen free. In the twilight of this wood— And, awe-breathing solitude— Heathens of majestic mind, Might a fitting temple find Underneath some far-spread oak, Nature blindly to invoke. What is groined arch to this Mass of moveless leafiness?
What are clustered pillars to The gnarled trunk of silvery hue, That, Titan-like, heaves its huge form Through centuries of change and storm, And stands as it were planted there, Alike for shelter and for prayer?
Hither, my jocund Fancy! Turn, And note how Heaven's pure watchfires burn In yonder fields of deepest blue, Investing space with glories new! And hark how in the bosky dell Warbles mate-robbed Philomel! Every sound from that glade stealing Sadness woos with kindred feeling— The notes of a love-broken heart Surpass the dull appeal of art; Here rest awhile, for every where, On lake, lawn, tower, and forest tree, Falleth in floods the moonshine fair— How beautiful night's glories be! No stir is heard upon the land, No murmur from the sea; The pulse of life seems at a stand As nature quaffeth, rapturously,
From yonder ambient worlds of light, Deep draughts of passionate delight.
Hollo, my Fancy! It is well To ponder on the spheres above— To bid each fount of feeling swell Responsive to the glance of love. See! trooping in a gladsome row, How steadfastly these tapers glow; And light up hill and darksome glen To cheer the path of wand'ring men, And eke of frolic elf and fay That haunt the hollow hill, or play By crystal brook, or gleaming lake, Or dance until the green wood shake To fits of choicest minstrelsie, Under the cope of the witch elm-tree. When all is hush around and above, Then is the hour to carpe of love; When not an eye but ours is waking, Nor even the lightest leaflet shaking— When, like a newly-captured bird, The fluttering of the heart is heard; When tears come to the eye unbidden, And blushing cheeks are in bosom hidden!
While hand seeks softer hand, and there Seems spell-bound by the amorous air— When love, in very silence, finds The tone that pleads, the pledge that binds.
Hollo, my Fancy! Whither bounding? Go where rolling orbs are sounding, This dull nether world astounding With celestial symphonies; Inhale no more the soft replies Which gurgling rills and fountains make, Nor feed upon the fervid sighs Of winds that fan the reedy lake; Leave all terrestrial harmonies That flow for pining minstrel's sake.
Skyward, adventurous Fancy! Dare To cleave the ocean of the air; Soaring on thy vane-like wings Bise o'er earth and clod-like things. Smite the rolling clouds that bar Thy progress to those realms afar; Career it with the Sisters seven, Pace it through the star-paved heaven; Snatch Orion's baldrick,—then, Astride upon the Dragon, dare
To hunt the lazy-footed Bear Around the pole and back again; Scourge him tightly, scourge him faster, Let the savage know his master! And, to close the mighty feat, Light thy lamp of brave conceit With some grim, red-bearded star, (Sign of Famine, Fire, and War,) And hang it on the young moon's horn To show how poet thought is born.