Fancy Poem by James Logie Robertson

Thou sluggard body, that must sit on shore
While sleepless Fancy ranges space at will—
Now shooting boldly o'er the billowy hoar
That bounds the isle; now to some distant hill
Voyaging lightly with mercurial ease
Through the wide hyaline; anon in caves
Deep underground, whose black-arched vastnesses
Ring to the roar of subterranean waves,
Wandering and all but lost: What is thy claim,
Thou sluggard body, to companionship
With this ethereal essence, living flame,
Which cannot yet with perfect freedom slip
Its loose mysterious leash? What mystic spell
Hath pent within thy trunk this Ariel?