The Charm of Fiction

The Charm of Fiction

Oh, tell me not that I love too well
The legends of ancient days to trace;
And blame me not when I fondly dwell
On the fabled deeds of the fairy race.

When my spirit has mourned over hopes grown cold,
How dear have these tales of enchantment been;
For it seemed as they cast a mantle's fold
Myself and the altered world between.

Thus, when by the wild and wintry storms
I have seen the beauty of Nature defaced,
I have gazed with delight on the fanciful forms,
By the thick hoar-frost on the casement traced.

I have grieved to think that these beauties must all
Fade with the breath of the first bright hour;
Rock, forest, and silvery waterfall,
And diamond palace, and rose-hung bower.

If these fragile pictures more brilliant are,
Than the landscape beyond, which they veil from sight,
Oh, how shall the tedium of life compare
With the visions that sparkle in fairy light?
Then wherefore should I the spell destroy,
Which can soothe the hour of grief or pain
I had rather live in this fancied joy,
Than turn to the dark, cold world again!

Unattributed

2:10, p. 78

1828.05.30