Poems by John Keats

Poems

• A Draught Of Sunshine Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
  Away with old Hock and madeira,
  Too earthly ye are for my sport;
  There's a beverage brighter and clearer.
  
  Instead of a piriful rummer,
  My wine overbrims a whole summer;
  My bowl is the sky,
  And I drink at my eye,
  Till I feel in the brain
  A Delphian pain -
  Then follow, my Caius! then follow:
  On the green of the hill
  We will drink our fill
  Of golden sunshine,
  Till our brains intertwine
  With the glory and grace of Apollo!
  God of the Meridian,
  And of the East and West,
  To thee my soul is flown,
  And my body is earthward press'd.
  
  -
  It is an awful mission,
  A terrible division;
  And leaves a gulph austere
  To be fill'd with worldly fear.
  
  Aye, when the soul is fled
  To high above our head,
  Affrighted do we gaze
  After its airy maze,
  As doth a mother wild,
  When her young infant child
  Is in an eagle's claws -
  And is not this the cause
  Of madness?
  
  - God of Song,
  Thou bearest me along
  Through sights I scarce can bear:
  O let me, let me share
  With the hot lyre and thee,
  The staid Philosophy.
  
  Temper my lonely hours,
  And let me see thy bowers
  More unalarm'd!
  'These lines are part of an extract from a letter to Reynolds dated "Hampstead, Jan.
  
  31st, 1818," published in Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), but omitted from the first Life and Letters of 1867 as "a page of doggerel not worth transcription.
  
  " The time has now come when students will feel entitled to have even Keats's doggerel, some of which, by the bye, has far less reason (and rhyme too) than the present effusion -- to my mind rather a bright and happy specimen, notwithstanding Keats's own plea to his correspondent, "you must forgive all this ranting; but the fact is, I cannot write sense this morning.
  
  "  With the view of giving Reynolds "some sense" nevertheless, he proceeds to copy out his latest sonnet, "When I have fears" &c.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• A Galloway Song Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ah! ken ye what I met the day
  Out oure the Mountains
  A coming down by craggi[e]s grey
  An mossie fountains --
  A[h] goud hair'd Marie yeve I pray
  Ane minute's guessing --
  For that I met upon the way
  Is past expressing.
  
  As I stood where a rocky brig
  A torrent crosses
  I spied upon a misty rig
  A troup o' Horses --
  And as they trotted down the glen
  I sped to meet them
  To see if I might know the Men
  To stop and greet them.
  
  First Willie on his sleek mare came
  At canting gallop --
  His long hair rustled like a flame
  On board a shallop.
  
  Then came his brother Rab and then
  Young Peggy's Mither
  And Peggy too -- adown the glen
  They went togither --
  I saw her wrappit in her hood
  Fra wind and raining --
  Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood
  'Twixt growth and waning --
  She turn'd her dazed head full oft
  For there her Brithers
  Came riding with her Bridegroom soft
  And mony ithers.
  
  Young Tam came up an' eyed me quick
  With reddened cheek --
  Braw Tam was daffed like a chick --
  He coud na speak --
  Ah Marie they are all gane hame
  Through blustering weather
  An' every heart is full on flame
  Ah! Marie they are all gone hame
  Fra happy wedding,
  Whilst I -- Ah is it not a shame?
  
  Sad tears am shedding.

• A Party Of Lovers Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
  Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
  Or else forget the purpose of the night,
  Forget their tea -- forget their appetite.
  
  See with cross'd arms they sit -- ah! happy crew,
  The fire is going out and no one rings
  For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
  
  A fly is in the milk-pot -- must he die
  By a humane society?
  
  No, no; there Mr.
  
  Werter takes his spoon,
  Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
  The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
  Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
  
  Arise! take snuffers by the handle,
  There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
  
  A winding-sheet, ah me! I must away
  To No.
  
  7, just beyond the circus gay.
  
  'Alas, my friend! your coat sits very well;
  Where may your tailor live?
  
  '  'I may not tell.
  
  O pardon me -- I'm absent now and then.
  
  Where might my tailor live?
  
  I say again
  I cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd --
  He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleas'd.
  
  '
  'This is one of the many varieties of the Winchester journal-letter of September 1819, as published in the New York World on the 25th of June 1877.
  
  Keats characterizes the jeu d'esprit as "a few nonsense verses.
  
  " They were probably written on the 17th of September; and they illustrated the following passage in the journal-letter:--
  "Nothing strikes me so forcibly with a sense of ridiculous as love.
  
  A man in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure in the world.
  
  Even when I know a poor fool to be really in pain about it I could burst out laughing in his face.
  
  His pathetic visage becomes irresistable.
  
  Not that I take H.
  
  as a pattern for lovers; he is a very worthy man and a good friend.
  
  His love is very amusing.
  
  Somewhere in the Spectator is related an account of a man inviting a party of stutterers and squinters to his table.
  
  It would please me more to scrape together a party of lovers; not to dinner -- no, to tea.
  
  There would be no fighting as among knights of old.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• A Prophecy: To George Keats In America Read Poem Log in to favourite

  'Tis the witching hour of night,
  Orbed is the moon and bright,
  And the stars they glisten, glisten,
  Seeming with bright eyes to listen --
  For what listen they?
  
  For a song and for a charm,
  See they glisten in alarm,
  And the moon is waxing warm
  To hear what I shall say.
  
  Moon! keep wide thy golden ears --
  Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! --
  Hearken, thou eternal sky!
  I sing an infant's lullaby,
  A pretty lullaby.
  
  Listen, listen, listen, listen,
  Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
  And hear my lullaby!
  Though the rushes that will make
  Its cradle still are in the lake --
  Though the linen that will be
  Its swathe, is on the cotton tree --
  Though the woollen that will keep
  It warm, is on the silly sheep --
  Listen, starlight, listen, listen,
  Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
  And hear my lullaby!
  Child, I see thee!  Child, I've found thee
  Midst of the quiet all around thee!
  And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!
  But a Poet evermore!
  See, see, the lyre, the lyre,
  In a flame of fire,
  Upon the little cradle's top
  Flaring, flaring, flaring,
  Past the eyesight's bearing,
  Awake it from its sleep,
  And see if it can keep
  Its eyes upon the blaze --
  Amaze, amaze!
  It stares, it stares, it stares,
  It dares what no one dares!
  It lifts its little hand into the flame
  Unharm'd, and on the strings
  Paddles a little tune, and sings,
  With dumb endeavour sweetly --
  Bard art thou completely!
  Little child
  O' th' western wild,
  Bard art thou completely!
  Sweetly with dumb endeavour,
  A Poet now or never,
  Little child
  O' th' western wild,
  A Poet now or never!
  'These lines occur in a letter to George Keats dated the 29th of October 1818, first given by Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  , and appears to belong to that date.
  
  They follow immediately upon this message:--
  "If I had a prayer to make for any great good, next to Tom's recovery, it should be that one of your children should be the first American poet.
  
  I have a great mind to make a prophecy; and they say that prophecies work out their own fulfilment.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• A Song About Myself Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  There was a naughty boy,
  A naughty boy was he,
  He would not stop at home,
  He could not quiet be-
  He took
  In his knapsack
  A book
  Full of vowels
  And a shirt
  With some towels,
  A slight cap
  For night cap,
  A hair brush,
  Comb ditto,
  New stockings
  For old ones
  Would split O!
  This knapsack
  Tight at's back
  He rivetted close
  And followed his nose
  To the north,
  To the north,
  And follow'd his nose
  To the north.
  
  II.
  
  There was a naughty boy
  And a naughty boy was he,
  For nothing would he do
  But scribble poetry-
  He took
  An ink stand
  In his hand
  And a pen
  Big as ten
  In the other,
  And away
  In a pother
  He ran
  To the mountains
  And fountains
  And ghostes
  And postes
  And witches
  And ditches
  And wrote
  In his coat
  When the weather
  Was cool,
  Fear of gout,
  And without
  When the weather
  Was warm-
  Och the charm
  When we choose
  To follow one's nose
  To the north,
  To the north,
  To follow one's nose
  To the north!
  III.
  
  There was a naughty boy
  And a naughty boy was he,
  He kept little fishes
  In washing tubs three
  In spite
  Of the might
  Of the maid
  Nor afraid
  Of his Granny-good-
  He often would
  Hurly burly
  Get up early
  And go
  By hook or crook
  To the brook
  And bring home
  Miller's thumb,
  Tittlebat
  Not over fat,
  Minnows small
  As the stall
  Of a glove,
  Not above
  The size
  Of a nice
  Little baby's
  Little fingers-
  O he made
  'Twas his trade
  Of fish a pretty kettle
  A kettle-
  A kettle
  Of fish a pretty kettle
  A kettle!
  IV.
  
  There was a naughty boy,
  And a naughty boy was he,
  He ran away to Scotland
  The people for to see-
  There he found
  That the ground
  Was as hard,
  That a yard
  Was as long,
  That a song
  Was as merry,
  That a cherry
  Was as red,
  That lead
  Was as weighty,
  That fourscore
  Was as eighty,
  That a door
  Was as wooden
  As in England-
  So he stood in his shoes
  And he wonder'd,
  He wonder'd,
  He stood in his
  Shoes and he wonder'd.
  
  'In a letter to his sister, Keats makes a fresh start with -- "since I scribbled the Song we have walked through a beautiful Country to Kirkcudbright -- at which place I will write you a song about myself.
  
  "  He then proceeds with the very curious piece of doggerel now first given from the manuscript, and excuses himself on the plea of fatigue.
  
  My chief purpose in including these verses here is that students may note the variety of the pieces of this class addressed to different correspondents.
  
  Compare this with the Devon pieces sent to Haydon, and more particularly with The Gadfly, sent to Tom Keats a little later than this.
  
  I presume this piece should be dated the 3rd of July 1818.
  
  (stanza 2): This is a genuine autobiographic reminiscence of the time when the young Keatses lived with their grandmother after the death of their parents.
  
  (stanza 4): There is an under-current of dissatisfaction with things Caledonian in this fourth stanza; and indeed I do not think Keats ever got entirely rid of this during the whole of the tour, albeit he enjoyed many transient visitations of true enthusiasm inspired both by fine scenery and by associations.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion) Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
  Its loveliness increases; it will never
  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
  
  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
  Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
  Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
  Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
  From our dark spirits.
  
  Such the sun, the moon,
  Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
  For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
  With the green world they live in; and clear rills
  That for themselves a cooling covert make
  'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
  Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
  And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
  We have imagined for the mighty dead;
  All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
  An endless fountain of immortal drink,
  Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
  
  Nor do we merely feel these essences
  For one short hour; no, even as the trees
  That whisper round a temple become soon
  Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
  The passion poesy, glories infinite,
  Haunt us till they become a cheering light
  Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
  That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
  They always must be with us, or we die.
  
  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
  Will trace the story of Endymion.
  
  The very music of the name has gone
  Into my being, and each pleasant scene
  Is growing fresh before me as the green
  Of our own valleys: so I will begin
  Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
  Now while the early budders are just new,
  And run in mazes of the youngest hue
  About old forests; while the willow trails
  Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
  Bring home increase of milk.
  
  And, as the year
  Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
  My little boat, for many quiet hours,
  With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
  
  Many and many a verse I hope to write,
  Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
  Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
  Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
  I must be near the middle of my story.
  
  O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
  See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
  With universal tinge of sober gold,
  Be all about me when I make an end!
  And now at once, adventuresome, I send
  My herald thought into a wilderness:
  There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
  My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
  Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

• Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
  Exact in capitals your golden name;
  Or sue the fair Apollo and he will
  Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill
  Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
  
  Imagine not that greatest mastery
  And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,
  Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse
  And surety give to love and Brotherhood.
  
  Anthropophagi in Othello's mood;
  Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt
  Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt
  Unbosom'd so and so eternal made,
  Such tender incense in their laurel shade
  To all the regent sisters of the Nine
  As this poor offering to you, sister mine.
  
  Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
  Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
  And may it taste to you like good old wine,
  Take you to real happiness and give
  Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.
  
  'This acrostic seems to have been written at the foot of Helvellyn on the 27th of June 1818, for although it appears in the Winchester journal-letter of September 1819 as given in the New York World of the 25th of June 1877, it purports to be copied from an old letter which reached Liverpool after the George Keatses had sailed for America, and which was therefore returned to the poet.
  
  The words "Foot of Helvellyn, June 27th," are printed in The World as if they belonged to the next piece copied into the journal-letter; but the context indicates that the date really belongs to the acrostic.
  
  Keats (with his friend Charles Armitage Brown) was on the way to Carlisle, to take coach there for Dumfries and begin the walking tour in Scotland on which the first serious break-down of his health occurred.
  
  Leaving London about the middle of June, they had seen the George Keatses off from Liverpool for America, and had then started walking from Lancaster; so that, by the time Keats was writing the Acrostic, he had already been walking several days; and four days later the friends reached Carlisle, ending there the English portion of their walk.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• An Extempore Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When they were come into Faery's Court
  They rang -- no one at home -- all gone to sport
  And dance and kiss and love as faerys do
  For Faries be as human lovers true --
  Amid the woods they were so lone and wild
  Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd
  And where the very books as if affraid
  Hurry along to some less magic shade.
  
  'No one at home'! the fretful princess cry'd
  'And all for nothing such a dre[a]ry ride
  And all for nothing my new diamond cross
  No one to see my persian feathers toss
  No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool
  Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.
  
  Ape, Dwarf and Fool why stand you gaping there
  Burst the door open, quick -- or I declare
  I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.
  
  '
  The Dwarf began to tremble and the Ape
  Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape
  The Princess grasp'd her switch but just in time
  The Dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.
  
  "O mighty Princess did you ne'er hear tell
  What your poor servants know but too too well
  Know you the three great crimes in faery land
  The first alas! poor Dwarf I understand
  I made a whipstock of a faery's wand
  The next is snoring in their company
  The next the last the direst of the three
  Is making free when they are not at home.
  
  I was a Prince -- a baby prince -- my doom
  You see, I made a whipstock of a wand
  My top has henceforth slept in faery land.
  
  He was a Prince the Fool, a grown up Prince
  But he has never been a King's son since
  He fell a snoring at a faery Ball
  Your poor Ape was a Prince and he poor thing
  But ape -- so pray your highness stay awhile
  'Tis sooth indeed we know it to our sorrow --
  Persist and you may be an ape tomorrow --
  While the Dwarf spake the Princess all for spite
  Peal'd the brown hazel twig to lilly white
  Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart
  Try'd to look unconcerned with beating heart.
  
  They saw her highness had made up her mind
  And quaver'd like the reeds before the wind
  And they had had it, but O happy chance
  The Ape for very fear began to dance
  And grin'd as all his uglyness did ache--
  She staid her vixen fingers for his sake
  He was so very ugly: then she took
  Her pocket mirror and began to look
  First at herself and [then] at him and then
  She smil'd at her own beauteous face again.
  
  Yet for all this -- for all her pretty face
  She took it in her head to see the place.
  
  Women gain little from experience
  Either in Lovers, husbands or expense.
  
  The more their beauty the more fortune too
  Beauty before the wide world never knew.
  
  So each fair reasons -- tho' it oft miscarries.
  
  She thought her pretty face would please the fa[e]ries.
  
  "My darling Ape I wont whip you today
  Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.
  
  "
  They all three wept but counsel was as vain
  As crying cup biddy to drops of rain.
  
  Yet lingeringly did the sad Ape forth draw
  The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.
  
  The Princess took it and dismounting straight
  Trip'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate
  And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteously
  Opened -- she enter'd with her servants three.
  
  Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen
  But the Mule grasing on the herbage green.
  
  End of Canto xii.
  
  Canto the xiii.
  
  The Mule no sooner saw himself alone
  Than he prick'd up his Ears -- and said 'well done!
  At least unhappy Prince I may be free --
  No more a Princess shall side saddle me
  O King of Othaiete -- tho' a Mule
  'Aye every inch a King' -- tho' 'Fortune's fool.
  
  '
  Well done -- for by what Mr.
  
  Dwarfy said
  I would not give a sixpence for her head.
  
  '
  Even as he spake he trotted in high glee
  To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree
  And rub'd his sides against the mossed bark
  Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark
  Except his Bridle -- how get rid of that
  Buckled and tied with many a twist and plait.
  
  At last it struck him to pretend to sleep
  And then the thievish Monkies down would creep
  And filch the unpleasant trammels quite away.
  
  No sooner thought of than adown he lay
  Sham'd a good snore -- the Monkey-men descended
  And whom they thought to injure they befriended.
  
  They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough
  And of[f] he went run, trot, or anyhow--
  Found at the end of "Nonsense Verses" in Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Answer To A Sonnet By J.H.Reynolds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Dark eyes are dearer far
  Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.
  
  Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,—the domain
  Of Cynthia,—the wide palace of the sun,—
  The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,—
  The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun.
  
  Blue! 'Tis the life of waters:—Ocean
  And all its vassal streams, pools numberless,
  May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can
  Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.
  
  Blue! gentle cousin of the forest-green,
  Married to green in all the sweetest flowers—
  Forget-me-not,—the blue-bell,—and, that queen
  Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers
  Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great,
  When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!

• Apollo And The Graces Read Poem Log in to favourite

  APOLLO
  WHICH of the fairest three
  To-day will ride with me?
  
  My steeds are all pawing at the threshold of the morn:
  Which of the fairest three
  To-day will ride with me
  Across the gold Autumn's whole Kingdom of corn?
  
  THE GRACES all answer
  I will, I - I - I
  young Apollo let me fly
  Along with thee,
  I will- I, I, I,
  The many wonders see
  I - I - I - I
  And thy lyre shall never have a slackened string:
  I, I, I, I,
  Thro' the golden day will sing.

• Asleep! O Sleep A Little While, White Pearl! Read Poem Log in to favourite

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
  And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
  And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
  And let me breathe into the happy air,
  That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
  Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
  My sudden adoration, my great love!

• Ben Nevis: A Dialogue Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There was one Mrs.
  
  Cameron of 50 years of age and the fattest woman in all Inverness-shire who got up this Mountain some few years ago -- true she had her servants -- but then she had her self.
  
  She ought to have hired Sisyphus, -- "Up the high hill he heaves a huge round -- Mrs.
  
  Cameron.
  
  " 'Tis said a little conversation took place between the mountain and the Lady.
  
  After taking a glass of W[h]iskey as she was tolerably seated at ease she thus began --
  Mrs.
  
  C.
  
  Upon my Life Sir Nevis I am pique'd
  That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd
  To do an honour to your old bald pate
  And now am sitting on you just to bate,
  Without your paying me one compliment.
  
  Alas 'tis so with all, when our intent
  Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind
  We fair ones show a preference, too blind!
  You Gentle man immediately turn tail --
  O let me then my hapless fate bewail!
  Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd
  The pleasant Valleys -- have I not madbrain'd
  Deserted all my Pickles and preserves
  My China closet too -- with wretched Nerves
  To boot -- say wretched ingrate have I not
  Le[f]t my soft cushion chair and caudle pot.
  
  'Tis true I had no corns -- no! thank the fates
  My Shoemaker was always Mr.
  
  Bates.
  
  And if not Mr.
  
  Bates why I'm not old!
  Still dumb ungrateful Nevis -- still so cold!
  Here the Lady took some more w[h]iskey and was putting even more to her lips when she dashed [it] to the Ground for the Mountain began to grumble -- which continued for a few minutes before he thus began,
  Ben Nevis.
  
  What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus dares
  Disturb my slumber of a thousand years?
  
  Even so long my sleep has been secure --
  And to be so awakened I'll not endure.
  
  Oh pain -- for since the Eagle's earliest scream
  I've had a dam[n]'d confounded ugly dream,
  A Nightmare sure.
  
  What Madam was it you?
  
  It cannot be!  My old eyes are not true!
  Red-Crag, my Spectacles!  Now let me see!
  Good Heavens Lady how the gemini
  Did you get here?
  
  O I shall split my sides!
  I shall earthquake -----
  Mrs.
  
  C.
  
  Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love
  You[r] honest Countenance all things above
  Truly I should not like to be convey'd
  So far into your Bosom -- gentle Maid
  Loves not too rough a treatment gentle Sir --
  Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir
  No not a Stone or I shall go in fits--
  Ben Nevis.
  
  I must -- I shall -- I meet not such tid bits --
  I meet not such sweet creatures every day --
  By my old night cap night cap night and day
  I must have one sweet Buss -- I must and shall:
  Red Crag! -- What Madam can you then repent
  Of all the toil and vigour you have spent
  To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?
  
  Red Crag I say!  O I must have them close!
  Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe
  A vein of Sulphur -- go dear Red Crag, go--
  And rub your flinty back against it -- budge!
  Dear Madam I must kiss you, faith I must!
  I must Embrace you with my dearest gust!
  Block-head, d'ye hear -- Block-head I'll make her feel
  There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel
  A cave of young earth dragons -- well my boy
  Go thither quick and so complete my joy
  Take you a bundle of the largest pines
  And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines
  Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest --
  Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best
  Until ten thousand now no bigger than
  Poor Al[l]igators -- poor things of one span --
  Will each one swell to twice ten times the size
  Of northern whale -- then for the tender prize --
  The moment then -- for then will Red Crag rub
  His flinty back -- and I shall kiss and snub
  And press my dainty morsel to my breast.
  
  Block-head make haste!
  O Muses weep the rest --
  The Lady fainted and he thought her dead
  So pulled the clouds again about his head
  And went to sleep again -- soon she was rous'd
  By her affrighted servants -- next day hous'd
  Safe on the lowly ground she bless'd her fate
  That fainting fit was not delayed too late.
  
  But what surprises me above all is how this Lady got down again.

• Bright Star Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
  And watching, with eternal lids apart,
  Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
  The moving waters at their priestlike task
  Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
  Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
  No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
  Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
  To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
  And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

• Calidore: A Fragment Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake;
  His healthful spirit eager and awake
  To feel the beauty of a silent eve,
  Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave;
  The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly.
  
  He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky,
  And smiles at the far clearness all around,
  Until his heart is well nigh over wound,
  And turns for calmness to the pleasant green
  Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean
  So elegantly o'er the waters' brim
  And show their blossoms trim.
  
  Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow
  The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow,
  Delighting much, to see it half at rest,
  Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast
  'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon,
  The widening circles into nothing gone.
  
  And now the sharp keel of his little boat
  Comes up with ripple, and with easy float,
  And glides into a bed of water lillies:
  Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies
  Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.
  
  Near to a little island's point they grew;
  Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view
  Of this sweet spot of earth.
  
  The bowery shore
  Went off in gentle windings to the hoar
  And light blue mountains: but no breathing man
  With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan
  Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by
  Objects that look'd out so invitingly
  On either side.
  
  These, gentle Calidore
  Greeted, as he had known them long before.
  
  The sidelong view of swelling leafiness,
  Which the glad setting sun, in gold doth dress;
  Whence ever, and anon the jay outsprings,
  And scales upon the beauty of its wings.
  
  The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn,
  Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn
  Its long lost grandeur: fir trees grow around,
  Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground.
  
  The little chapel with the cross above
  Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove,
  That on the windows spreads his feathers light,
  And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.
  
  Green tufted islands casting their soft shades
  Across the lake; sequester’d leafy glades,
  That through the dimness of their twilight show
  Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow
  Of the wild cat’s eyes, or the silvery stems
  Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems
  A little brook.
  
  The youth had long been viewing
  These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing
  The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught
  A trumpet's silver voice.
  
  Ah! it was fraught
  With many joys for him: the warder's ken
  Had found white coursers prancing in the glen:
  Friends very dear to him he soon will see;
  So pushes off his boat most eagerly,
  And soon upon the lake he skims along,
  Deaf to the nightingale’s first under-song;
  Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly:
  His spirit flies before him so completely.
  
  And now he turns a jutting point of land,
  Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand:
  Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches,
  Before the point of his light shallop reaches
  Those marble steps that through the water dip:
  Now over them he goes with hasty trip,
  And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors:
  Anon he leaps along the oaken floors
  Of halls and corridors.
  
  Delicious sounds! those little bright-eyed things
  That float about the air on azure wings,
  Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang
  Of clattering hoofs; into the court he sprang,
  Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain,
  Were slanting out their necks with loosened rein;
  While from beneath the threat'ning portcullis
  They brought their happy burthens.
  
  What a kiss,
  What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand!
  How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann’d!
  Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone,
  While whisperings of affection
  Made him delay to let their tender feet
  Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet
  From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent:
  And whether there were tears of languishment,
  Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses,
  He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses
  With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye
  All the soft luxury
  That nestled in his arms.
  
  A dimpled hand,
  Fair as some wonder out of fairy land,
  Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers
  Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers:
  And this he fondled with his happy cheek
  As if for joy he would no further seek;
  When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond
  Came to his ear, like something from beyond
  His present being: so he gently drew
  His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new,
  From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending,
  Thank'd heaven that his joy was never ending;
  While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd
  A hand heaven made to succour the distress'd;
  A hand that from the world's bleak promontory
  Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory.
  
  Amid the pages, and the torches' glare,
  There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair
  Of his proud horse's mane: he was withal
  A man of elegance, and stature tall:
  So that the waving of his plumes would be
  High as the berries of a wild ash tree,
  Or as the winged cap of Mercury.
  
  His armour was so dexterously wrought
  In shape, that sure no living man had thought
  It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed
  It was some glorious form, some splendid weed,
  In which a spirit new come from the skies
  Might live, and show itself to human eyes.
  
  'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondibert,
  Said the good man to Calidore alert;
  While the young warrior with a step of grace
  Came up,--a courtly smile upon his face,
  And mailed hand held out, ready to greet
  The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat
  Of the aspiring boy; who as he led
  Those smiling ladies, often turned his head
  To admire the visor arched so gracefully
  Over a knightly brow; while they went by
  The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall were pendent,
  And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent.
  
  Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated;
  The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted
  All the green leaves that round the window clamber,
  To show their purple stars, and bells of amber.
  
  Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel,
  Gladdening in the free, and airy feel
  Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond
  Is looking round about him with a fond,
  And placid eye, young Calidore is burning
  To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning
  Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm
  Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm
  From lovely woman: while brimful of this,
  He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss,
  And had such manly ardour in his eye,
  That each at other look'd half staringly;
  And then their features started into smiles
  Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.
  
  Softly the breezes from the forest came,
  Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;
  Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower;
  Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;
  Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet's tone;
  Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:
  Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals,
  As that of busy spirits when the portals
  Are closing in the west; or that soft humming
  We hear around when Hesperus is coming.
  
  Sweet be their sleep.
  
  * * * * * * * * *

• Character Of Charles Brown Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  He is to weet a melancholy carle:
  Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair
  As hath the seeded thistle when in parle
  It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
  Its light balloons into the summer air;
  Therto his beard had not begun to bloom,
  No brush had touch'd his chin or razor sheer;
  No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom,
  But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom.
  
  II.
  
  Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half;
  Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl,
  And sauces held he worthless as the chaff,
  He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl;
  Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl,
  Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair;
  But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul
  Panted, and all his food was woodland air
  Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.
  
  III.
  
  The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
  Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek;
  He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue,
  Or nantz or cherry-brandy drank full meek
  By many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek;
  Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
  Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek
  For curled Jewesses with ankles neat,
  Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.

• Daisy's Song Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  The sun, with his great eye,
  Sees not so much as I;
  And the moon, all silver-proud,
  Might as well be in a cloud.
  
  II
  And O the spring- the spring
  I lead the life of a king!
  Couch'd in the teeming grass,
  I spy each pretty lass.
  
  III
  I look where no one dares,
  And I stare where no one stares,
  And when the night is nigh,
  Lambs bleat my lullaby

• Dawlish Fair Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Over the hill and over the dale,
  And over the bourn to Dawlish--
  Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale
  And gingerbread nuts are smallish.
  
  -------------
  Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill
  And kicked up her petticoats fairly;
  Says I I'll be Jack if you will be Gill--
  So she sat on the grass debonairly.
  
  Here's somebody coming, here's somebody coming!
  Says I 'tis the wind at a parley;
  So without any fuss any hawing and humming
  She lay on the grass debonairly.
  
  Here's somebody here and here's somebody there!
  Says I hold your tongue you young Gipsey;
  So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair
  And dead as a Venus tipsy.
  
  O who wouldn't hie to Dawlish fair,
  O who wouldn't stop in a Meadow,
  O who would not rumple the daisies there
  And make the wild fern for a bed do!
  'This scrap occurs in a letter to James Rice, written from Teignmouth on the 25th of March, 1818, and published by Lord Houghton in the first volume of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  Keats closes his letter with, "I went yesterday to Dawlish fair," and this quatrain.
  
  The hilly walk to Dawlish is recorded with topographical accuracy.
  
  Whether the rest is observation (as is more probable) mere rhyme, I cannot say.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Dedication To Leigh Hunt, Esq. Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Glory and loveliness have pass'd away;
  For if we wander out in early morn,
  No wreathed incense do we see upborne
  Into the east, to meet the smiling day:
  No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and young, and gay,
  In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
  Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
  The shrine of Flora in her early May.
  
  But there are left delights as high as these,
  And I shall ever bless my destiny,
  That in a time, when under pleasant trees
  Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
  A leafy luxury, seeing I could please
  With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
  
  Dedication of his Poems, 1817.
  
  'Keats's first volume, published early in 1817, is a foolscap octavo worked in half sheets.
  
  It was issued in drab boards, with a back label Keats's Poems, and consists of a blank leaf, fly-title Poems in heavy black letter, with imprint on verso, ''Printed by C.
  
  Richards, No.
  
  18, Warwick Street, Golden Square, London,' title-page given opposite.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  ' etc.
  
  'Readers of Charles Cowden Clarke's Recollections of Keats,.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  will remember the statement, still appropriate here, that, ''on the evening when the last proof sheet [of the 1817 volume] was brought from the printer, it was accompanied by the information that if a 'dedication to the book was intended it must be sent forthwith.
  
  ' Whereupon he withdrew to a side table, and in the buzz of a mixed conversation (for there were several friends in the room) he composed and brought to Charles Ollier, the publisher, the Dedication Sonnet to Leigh Hunt.
  
  ''  The first of the three Sonnets to Keats in Hunt's Foliage forms a fitting reply to this.
  
  ' ~ The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Endymion: Book I Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
  Its loveliness increases; it will never
  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
  
  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
  Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
  Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
  Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
  From our dark spirits.
  
  Such the sun, the moon,
  Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
  For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
  With the green world they live in; and clear rills
  That for themselves a cooling covert make
  'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
  Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
  And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
  We have imagined for the mighty dead;
  All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
  An endless fountain of immortal drink,
  Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
  
  Nor do we merely feel these essences
  For one short hour; no, even as the trees
  That whisper round a temple become soon
  Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
  The passion poesy, glories infinite,
  Haunt us till they become a cheering light
  Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
  That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
  They alway must be with us, or we die.
  
  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
  Will trace the story of Endymion.
  
  The very music of the name has gone
  Into my being, and each pleasant scene
  Is growing fresh before me as the green
  Of our own vallies: so I will begin
  Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
  Now while the early budders are just new,
  And run in mazes of the youngest hue
  About old forests; while the willow trails
  Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
  Bring home increase of milk.
  
  And, as the year
  Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
  My little boat, for many quiet hours,
  With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
  
  Many and many a verse I hope to write,
  Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
  Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
  Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
  I must be near the middle of my story.
  
  O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
  See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
  With universal tinge of sober gold,
  Be all about me when I make an end.
  
  And now at once, adventuresome, I send
  My herald thought into a wilderness:
  There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
  My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
  Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
  
  Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
  A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
  So plenteously all weed-hidden roots
  Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
  
  And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
  Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep
  A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
  Never again saw he the happy pens
  Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
  Over the hills at every nightfall went.
  
  Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,
  That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
  From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
  By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
  Until it came to some unfooted plains
  Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains
  Who thus one lamb did lose.
  
  Paths there were many,
  Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
  And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
  To a wide lawn, whence one could only see
  Stems thronging all around between the swell
  Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell
  The freshness of the space of heaven above,
  Edg'd round with dark tree tops?
  
  through which a dove
  Would often beat its wings, and often too
  A little cloud would move across the blue.
  
  Full in the middle of this pleasantness
  There stood a marble altar, with a tress
  Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
  Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
  Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
  And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
  
  For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire
  Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
  Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
  A melancholy spirit well might win
  Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
  Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
  Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
  The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
  To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
  Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
  Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
  To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.
  
  Now while the silent workings of the dawn
  Were busiest, into that self-same lawn
  All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped
  A troop of little children garlanded;
  Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry
  Earnestly round as wishing to espy
  Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited
  For many moments, ere their ears were sated
  With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then
  Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.
  
  Within a little space again it gave
  Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,
  To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking
  Through copse-clad vallies,—ere their death, oer-taking
  The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.
  
  And now, as deep into the wood as we
  Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light
  Fair faces and a rush of garments white,
  Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last
  Into the widest alley they all past,
  Making directly for the woodland altar.
  
  O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter
  In telling of this goodly company,
  Of their old piety, and of their glee:
  But let a portion of ethereal dew
  Fall on my head, and presently unmew
  My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
  To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.
  
  Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
  Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;
  Each having a white wicker over brimm'd
  With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,
  A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
  As may be read of in Arcadian books;
  Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
  When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
  Let his divinity o'er-flowing die
  In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
  Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,
  And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
  With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
  Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
  A venerable priest full soberly,
  Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye
  Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,
  And after him his sacred vestments swept.
  
  From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
  Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
  And in his left he held a basket full
  Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:
  Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
  Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
  
  His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
  Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth
  Of winter hoar.
  
  Then came another crowd
  Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
  Their share of the ditty.
  
  After them appear'd,
  Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd
  Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,
  Easily rolling so as scarce to mar
  The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:
  Who stood therein did seem of great renown
  Among the throng.
  
  His youth was fully blown,
  Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
  And, for those simple times, his garments were
  A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
  Was hung a silver bugle, and between
  His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.
  
  A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,
  To common lookers on, like one who dream'd
  Of idleness in groves Elysian:
  But there were some who feelingly could scan
  A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
  And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
  Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,
  And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,
  Of logs piled solemnly.
  
  —Ah, well-a-day,
  Why should our young Endymion pine away!
  Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,
  Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd
  To sudden veneration: women meek
  Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek
  Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.
  
  Endymion too, without a forest peer,
  Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,
  Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
  
  In midst of all, the venerable priest
  Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
  And, after lifting up his aged hands,
  Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
  Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
  Whether descended from beneath the rocks
  That overtop your mountains; whether come
  From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;
  Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
  Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
  Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
  Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
  Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn
  By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
  Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
  The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;
  And all ye gentle girls who foster up
  Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
  Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:
  Yea, every one attend! for in good truth
  Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
  
  Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
  Night-swollen mushrooms?
  
  Are not our wide plains
  Speckled with countless fleeces?
  
  Have not rains
  Green'd over April's lap?
  
  No howling sad
  Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
  Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
  
  The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
  His early song against yon breezy sky,
  That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.
  
  "
  Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
  Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
  Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
  With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.
  
  Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
  Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
  And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
  'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
  Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:
  "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
  From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
  Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
  Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
  Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
  Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
  And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
  The dreary melody of bedded reeds—
  In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
  The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
  Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
  Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx—do thou now,
  By thy love's milky brow!
  By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
  Hear us, great Pan!
  "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
  Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
  What time thou wanderest at eventide
  Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
  Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
  Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
  Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
  Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
  Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
  The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
  To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
  Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
  Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year
  All its completions—be quickly near,
  By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
  O forester divine!
  "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
  For willing service; whether to surprise
  The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;
  Or upward ragged precipices flit
  To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
  Or by mysterious enticement draw
  Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
  Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
  And gather up all fancifullest shells
  For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
  And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
  Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
  The while they pelt each other on the crown
  With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown—
  By all the echoes that about thee ring,
  Hear us, O satyr king!
  "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
  While ever and anon to his shorn peers
  A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
  When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
  Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
  To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:
  Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
  That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
  And wither drearily on barren moors:
  Dread opener of the mysterious doors
  Leading to universal knowledge—see,
  Great son of Dryope,
  The many that are come to pay their vows
  With leaves about their brows!
  Be still the unimaginable lodge
  For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
  Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
  Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
  That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
  Gives it a touch ethereal—a new birth:
  Be still a symbol of immensity;
  A firmament reflected in a sea;
  An element filling the space between;
  An unknown—but no more: we humbly screen
  With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
  And giving out a shout most heaven rending,
  Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,
  Upon thy Mount Lycean!
  Even while they brought the burden to a close,
  A shout from the whole multitude arose,
  That lingered in the air like dying rolls
  Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
  Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
  
  Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
  Young companies nimbly began dancing
  To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
  
  Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
  To tunes forgotten—out of memory:
  Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred
  Thermopylæ its heroes—not yet dead,
  But in old marbles ever beautiful.
  
  High genitors, unconscious did they cull
  Time's sweet first-fruits—they danc'd to weariness,
  And then in quiet circles did they press
  The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
  Of some strange history, potent to send
  A young mind from its bodily tenement.
  
  Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
  On either side; pitying the sad death
  Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
  Of Zephyr slew him,—Zephyr penitent,
  Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
  Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
  
  The archers too, upon a wider plain,
  Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,
  And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft
  Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
  Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
  Those who would watch.
  
  Perhaps, the trembling knee
  And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
  Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
  Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
  Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
  And very, very deadliness did nip
  Her motherly cheeks.
  
  Arous'd from this sad mood
  By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
  Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
  Many might after brighter visions stare:
  After the Argonauts, in blind amaze
  Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
  Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,
  There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
  Spangling those million poutings of the brine
  With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine
  From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
  A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
  
  Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
  Might turn their steps towards the sober ring
  Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
  'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd
  The silvery setting of their mortal star.
  
  There they discours'd upon the fragile bar
  That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
  And what our duties there: to nightly call
  Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;
  To summon all the downiest clouds together
  For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
  In ministring the potent rule of fate
  With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;
  To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons
  Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
  A world of other unguess'd offices.
  
  Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
  Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse
  Each one his own anticipated bliss.
  
  One felt heart-certain that he could not miss
  His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,
  Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows
  Her lips with music for the welcoming.
  
  Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,
  To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,
  Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:
  Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,
  And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;
  And, ever after, through those regions be
  His messenger, his little Mercury.
  
  Some were athirst in soul to see again
  Their fellow huntsmen o'er the wide champaign
  In times long past; to sit with them, and talk
  Of all the chances in their earthly walk;
  Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores
  Of happiness, to when upon the moors,
  Benighted, close they huddled from the cold,
  And shar'd their famish'd scrips.
  
  Thus all out-told
  Their fond imaginations,—saving him
  Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim,
  Endymion: yet hourly had he striven
  To hide the cankering venom, that had riven
  His fainting recollections.
  
  Now indeed
  His senses had swoon'd off: he did not heed
  The sudden silence, or the whispers low,
  Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe,
  Or anxious calls, or close of trembling palms,
  Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms:
  But in the self-same fixed trance he kept,
  Like one who on the earth had never stept.
  
  Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man,
  Frozen in that old tale Arabian.
  
  Who whispers him so pantingly and close?
  
  Peona, his sweet sister: of all those,
  His friends, the dearest.
  
  Hushing signs she made,
  And breath'd a sister's sorrow to persuade
  A yielding up, a cradling on her care.
  
  Her eloquence did breathe away the curse:
  She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse
  Of happy changes in emphatic dreams,
  Along a path between two little streams,—
  Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow,
  From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow
  From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small;
  Until they came to where these streamlets fall,
  With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush,
  Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush
  With crystal mocking of the trees and sky.
  
  A little shallop, floating there hard by,
  Pointed its beak over the fringed bank;
  And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank,
  And dipt again, with the young couple's weight,—
  Peona guiding, through the water straight,
  Towards a bowery island opposite;
  Which gaining presently, she steered light
  Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove,
  Where nested was an arbour, overwove
  By many a summer's silent fingering;
  To whose cool bosom she was used to bring
  Her playmates, with their needle broidery,
  And minstrel memories of times gone by.
  
  So she was gently glad to see him laid
  Under her favourite bower's quiet shade,
  On her own couch, new made of flower leaves,
  Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves
  When last the sun his autumn tresses shook,
  And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took.
  
  Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest:
  But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest
  Peona's busy hand against his lips,
  And still, a sleeping, held her finger-tips
  In tender pressure.
  
  And as a willow keeps
  A patient watch over the stream that creeps
  Windingly by it, so the quiet maid
  Held her in peace: so that a whispering blade
  Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling
  Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling
  Among seer leaves and twigs, might all be heard.
  
  O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,
  That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
  Till it is hush'd and smooth! O unconfin'd
  Restraint! imprisoned liberty! great key
  To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy,
  Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves,
  Echoing grottos, full of tumbling waves
  And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy world
  Of silvery enchantment!—who, upfurl'd
  Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour,
  But renovates and lives?
  
  —Thus, in the bower,
  Endymion was calm'd to life again.
  
  Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain,
  He said: "I feel this thine endearing love
  All through my bosom: thou art as a dove
  Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings
  About me; and the pearliest dew not brings
  Such morning incense from the fields of May,
  As do those brighter drops that twinkling stray
  From those kind eyes,—the very home and haunt
  Of sisterly affection.
  
  Can I want
  Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears?
  
  Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears
  That, any longer, I will pass my days
  Alone and sad.
  
  No, I will once more raise
  My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more
  Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar:
  Again my trooping hounds their tongues shall loll
  Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll
  The fair-grown yew tree, for a chosen bow:
  And, when the pleasant sun is getting low,
  Again I'll linger in a sloping mead
  To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed
  Our idle sheep.
  
  So be thou cheered sweet,
  And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat
  My soul to keep in its resolved course.
  
  "
  Hereat Peona, in their silver source,
  Shut her pure sorrow drops with glad exclaim,
  And took a lute, from which there pulsing came
  A lively prelude, fashioning the way
  In which her voice should wander.
  
  'Twas a lay
  More subtle cadenced, more forest wild
  Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;
  And nothing since has floated in the air
  So mournful strange.
  
  Surely some influence rare
  Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand;
  For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spann'd
  The quick invisible strings, even though she saw
  Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw
  Before the deep intoxication.
  
  But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon
  Her self-possession—swung the lute aside,
  And earnestly said: "Brother, 'tis vain to hide
  That thou dost know of things mysterious,
  Immortal, starry; such alone could thus
  Weigh down thy nature.
  
  Hast thou sinn'd in aught
  Offensive to the heavenly powers?
  
  Caught
  A Paphian dove upon a message sent?
  
  Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent,
  Sacred to Dian?
  
  Haply, thou hast seen
  Her naked limbs among the alders green;
  And that, alas! is death.
  
  No, I can trace
  Something more high perplexing in thy face!"
  Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand,
  And said, "Art thou so pale, who wast so bland
  And merry in our meadows?
  
  How is this?
  
  Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss!—
  Ah! thou hast been unhappy at the change
  Wrought suddenly in me.
  
  What indeed more strange?
  
  Or more complete to overwhelm surmise?
  
  Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize,
  That toiling years would put within my grasp,
  That I have sigh'd for: with so deadly gasp
  No man e'er panted for a mortal love.
  
  So all have set my heavier grief above
  These things which happen.
  
  Rightly have they done:
  I, who still saw the horizontal sun
  Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of the world,
  Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd
  My spear aloft, as signal for the chace—
  I, who, for very sport of heart, would race
  With my own steed from Araby; pluck down
  A vulture from his towery perching; frown
  A lion into growling, loth retire—
  To lose, at once, all my toil breeding fire,
  And sink thus low! but I will ease my breast
  Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest.
  
  "This river does not see the naked sky,
  Till it begins to progress silverly
  Around the western border of the wood,
  Whence, from a certain spot, its winding flood
  Seems at the distance like a crescent moon:
  And in that nook, the very pride of June,
  Had I been used to pass my weary eves;
  The rather for the sun unwilling leaves
  So dear a picture of his sovereign power,
  And I could witness his most kingly hour,
  When he doth lighten up the golden reins,
  And paces leisurely down amber plains
  His snorting four.
  
  Now when his chariot last
  Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast,
  There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed
  Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red:
  At which I wondered greatly, knowing well
  That but one night had wrought this flowery spell;
  And, sitting down close by, began to muse
  What it might mean.
  
  Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus,
  In passing here, his owlet pinions shook;
  Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook
  Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth,
  Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealth
  Came not by common growth.
  
  Thus on I thought,
  Until my head was dizzy and distraught.
  
  Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole
  A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul;
  And shaping visions all about my sight
  Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly light;
  The which became more strange, and strange, and dim,
  And then were gulph'd in a tumultuous swim:
  And then I fell asleep.
  
  Ah, can I tell
  The enchantment that afterwards befel?
  
  Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream
  That never tongue, although it overteem
  With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring,
  Could figure out and to conception bring
  All I beheld and felt.
  
  Methought I lay
  Watching the zenith, where the milky way
  Among the stars in virgin splendour pours;
  And travelling my eye, until the doors
  Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight,
  I became loth and fearful to alight
  From such high soaring by a downward glance:
  So kept me stedfast in that airy trance,
  Spreading imaginary pinions wide.
  
  When, presently, the stars began to glide,
  And faint away, before my eager view:
  At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue,
  And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge;
  And lo! from opening clouds, I saw emerge
  The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er
  A shell for Neptune's goblet: she did soar
  So passionately bright, my dazzled soul
  Commingling with her argent spheres did roll
  Through clear and cloudy, even when she went
  At last into a dark and vapoury tent—
  Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train
  Of planets all were in the blue again.
  
  To commune with those orbs, once more I rais'd
  My sight right upward: but it was quite dazed
  By a bright something, sailing down apace,
  Making me quickly veil my eyes and face:
  Again I look'd, and, O ye deities,
  Who from Olympus watch our destinies!
  Whence that completed form of all completeness?
  
  Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness?
  
  Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O Where
  Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair?
  
  Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun;
  Not—thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun
  Such follying before thee—yet she had,
  Indeed, locks bright enough to make me mad;
  And they were simply gordian'd up and braided,
  Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded,
  Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow;
  The which were blended in, I know not how,
  With such a paradise of lips and eyes,
  Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs,
  That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings
  And plays about its fancy, till the stings
  Of human neighbourhood envenom all.
  
  Unto what awful power shall I call?
  
  To what high fane?
  
  —Ah! see her hovering feet,
  More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet
  Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose
  From out her cradle shell.
  
  The wind out-blows
  Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion;
  'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million
  Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed,
  Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed,
  Handfuls of daisies.
  
  "—"Endymion, how strange!
  Dream within dream!"—"She took an airy range,
  And then, towards me, like a very maid,
  Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid,
  And press'd me by the hand: Ah! 'twas too much;
  Methought I fainted at the charmed touch,
  Yet held my recollection, even as one
  Who dives three fathoms where the waters run
  Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon,
  I felt upmounted in that region
  Where falling stars dart their artillery forth,
  And eagles struggle with the buffeting north
  That balances the heavy meteor-stone;—
  Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone,
  But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky.
  
  Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high,
  And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd;
  Such as ay muster where grey time has scoop'd
  Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side:
  There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I sigh'd
  To faint once more by looking on my bliss—
  I was distracted; madly did I kiss
  The wooing arms which held me, and did give
  My eyes at once to death: but 'twas to live,
  To take in draughts of life from the gold fount
  Of kind and passionate looks; to count, and count
  The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd
  A second self, that each might be redeem'd
  And plunder'd of its load of blessedness.
  
  Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dar'd to press
  Her very cheek against my crowned lip,
  And, at that moment, felt my body dip
  Into a warmer air: a moment more,
  Our feet were soft in flowers.
  
  There was store
  Of newest joys upon that alp.
  
  Sometimes
  A scent of violets, and blossoming limes,
  Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells,
  Made delicate from all white-flower bells;
  And once, above the edges of our nest,
  An arch face peep'd,—an Oread as I guess'd.
  
  "Why did I dream that sleep o'er-power'd me
  In midst of all this heaven?
  
  Why not see,
  Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark,
  And stare them from me?
  
  But no, like a spark
  That needs must die, although its little beam
  Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream
  Fell into nothing—into stupid sleep.
  
  And so it was, until a gentle creep,
  A careful moving caught my waking ears,
  And up I started: Ah! my sighs, my tears,
  My clenched hands;—for lo! the poppies hung
  Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung
  A heavy ditty, and the sullen day
  Had chidden herald Hesperus away,
  With leaden looks: the solitary breeze
  Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did teaze
  With wayward melancholy; and r thought,
  Mark me, Peona! that sometimes it brought
  Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus!—
  Away I wander'd—all the pleasant hues
  Of heaven and earth had faded: deepest shades
  Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny glades
  Were full of pestilent light; our taintless rills
  Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills
  Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown
  In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out-grown
  Like spiked aloe.
  
  If an innocent bird
  Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and stirr'd
  In little journeys, I beheld in it
  A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit
  My soul with under darkness; to entice
  My stumblings down some monstrous precipice:
  Therefore I eager followed, and did curse
  The disappointment.
  
  Time, that aged nurse,
  Rock'd me to patience.
  
  Now, thank gentle heaven!
  These things, with all their comfortings, are given
  To my down-sunken hours, and with thee,
  Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea
  Of weary life.
  
  "
  Thus ended he, and both
  Sat silent: for the maid was very loth
  To answer; feeling well that breathed words
  Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords
  Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps
  Of grasshoppers against the sun.
  
  She weeps,
  And wonders; struggles to devise some blame;
  To put on such a look as would say, Shame
  On this poor weakness! but, for all her strife,
  She could as soon have crush'd away the life
  From a sick dove.
  
  At length, to break the pause,
  She said with trembling chance: "Is this the cause?
  
  This all?
  
  Yet it is strange, and sad, alas!
  That one who through this middle earth should pass
  Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave
  His name upon the harp-string, should achieve
  No higher bard than simple maidenhood,
  Singing alone, and fearfully,—how the blood
  Left his young cheek; and how he used to stray
  He knew not where; and how he would say, nay,
  If any said 'twas love: and yet 'twas love;
  What could it be but love?
  
  How a ring-dove
  Let fall a sprig of yew tree in his path;
  And how he died: and then, that love doth scathe,
  The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses;
  And then the ballad of his sad life closes
  With sighs, and an alas!—Endymion!
  Be rather in the trumpet's mouth,—anon
  Among the winds at large—that all may hearken!
  Although, before the crystal heavens darken,
  I watch and dote upon the silver lakes
  Pictur'd in western cloudiness, that takes
  The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands,
  Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands
  With horses prancing o'er them, palaces
  And towers of amethyst,—would I so tease
  My pleasant days, because I could not mount
  Into those regions?
  
  The Morphean fount
  Of that fine element that visions, dreams,
  And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams
  Into its airy channels with so subtle,
  So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle,
  Circled a million times within the space
  Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace,
  A tinting of its quality: how light
  Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slight
  Than the mere nothing that engenders them!
  Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem
  Of high and noble life with thoughts so sick?
  
  Why pierce high-fronted honour to the quick
  For nothing but a dream?
  
  " Hereat the youth
  Look'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruth
  Was in his plaited brow: yet his eyelids
  Widened a little, as when Zephyr bids
  A little breeze to creep between the fans
  Of careless butterflies: amid his pains
  He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew,
  Full palatable; and a colour grew
  Upon his cheek, while thus he lifeful spake.
  
  "Peona! ever have I long'd to slake
  My thirst for the world's praises: nothing base,
  No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace
  The stubborn canvas for my voyage prepar'd—
  Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark bar'd
  And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope
  Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope,
  To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks.
  
  Wherein lies happiness?
  
  In that which becks
  Our ready minds to fellowship divine,
  A fellowship with essence; till we shine,
  Full alchemiz'd, and free of space.
  
  Behold
  The clear religion of heaven! Fold
  A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness,
  And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy stress
  Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds,
  And with a sympathetic touch unbinds
  Eolian magic from their lucid wombs:
  Then old songs waken from enclouded tombs;
  Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;
  Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave
  Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot;
  Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit,
  Where long ago a giant battle was;
  And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass
  In every place where infant Orpheus slept.
  
  Feel we these things?
  
  —that moment have we stept
  Into a sort of oneness, and our state
  Is like a floating spirit's.
  
  But there are
  Richer entanglements, enthralments far
  More self-destroying, leading, by degrees,
  To the chief intensity: the crown of these
  Is made of love and friendship, and sits high
  Upon the forehead of humanity.
  
  All its more ponderous and bulky worth
  Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth
  A steady splendour; but at the tip-top,
  There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop
  Of light, and that is love: its influence,
  Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense,
  At which we start and fret; till in the end,
  Melting into its radiance, we blend,
  Mingle, and so become a part of it,—
  Nor with aught else can our souls interknit
  So wingedly: when we combine therewith,
  Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith,
  And we are nurtured like a pelican brood.
  
  Aye, so delicious is the unsating food,
  That men, who might have tower'd in the van
  Of all the congregated world, to fan
  And winnow from the coming step of time
  All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime
  Left by men-slugs and human serpentry,
  Have been content to let occasion die,
  Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium.
  
  And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb,
  Than speak against this ardent listlessness:
  For I have ever thought that it might bless
  The world with benefits unknowingly;
  As does the nightingale, upperched high,
  And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves—
  She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives
  How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-grey hood.
  
  Just so may love, although 'tis understood
  The mere commingling of passionate breath,
  Produce more than our searching witnesseth:
  What I know not: but who, of men, can tell
  That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell
  To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,
  The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,
  The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,
  The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,
  Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,
  If human souls did never kiss and greet?
  
  "Now, if this earthly love has power to make
  Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake
  Ambition from their memories, and brim
  Their measure of content; what merest whim,
  Seems all this poor endeavour after fame,
  To one, who keeps within his stedfast aim
  A love immortal, an immortal too.
  
  Look not so wilder'd; for these things are true,
  And never can be born of atomies
  That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies,
  Leaving us fancy-sick.
  
  No, no, I'm sure,
  My restless spirit never could endure
  To brood so long upon one luxury,
  Unless it did, though fearfully, espy
  A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
  
  My sayings will the less obscured seem,
  When I have told thee how my waking sight
  Has made me scruple whether that same night
  Was pass'd in dreaming.
  
  Hearken, sweet Peona!
  Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,
  Which we should see but for these darkening boughs,
  Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows
  Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart,
  And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught,
  And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide
  Past them, but he must brush on every side.
  
  Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell,
  Far as the slabbed margin of a well,
  Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye
  Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky.
  
  Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set
  Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet
  Edges them round, and they have golden pits:
  'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits
  In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat,
  When all above was faint with mid-day heat.
  
  And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed,
  I'd bubble up the water through a reed;
  So reaching back to boy-hood: make me ships
  Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips,
  With leaves stuck in them; and the Neptune be
  Of their petty ocean.
  
  Oftener, heavily,
  When love-lorn hours had left me less a child,
  I sat contemplating the figures wild
  Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through.
  
  Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew
  A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver;
  So plainly character'd, no breeze would shiver
  The happy chance: so happy, I was fain
  To follow it upon the open plain,
  And, therefore, was just going; when, behold!
  A wonder, fair as any I have told—
  The same bright face I tasted in my sleep,
  Smiling in the clear well.
  
  My heart did leap
  Through the cool depth.
  
  —It moved as if to flee—
  I started up, when lo! refreshfully,
  There came upon my face, in plenteous showers,
  Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers,
  Wrapping all objects from my smothered sight,
  Bathing my spirit in a new delight.
  
  Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss
  Alone preserved me from the drear abyss
  Of death, for the fair form had gone again.
  
  Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain
  Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth
  On the deer's tender haunches: late, and loth,
  'Tis scar'd away by slow returning pleasure.
  
  How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure
  Of weary days, made deeper exquisite,
  By a fore-knowledge of unslumbrous night!
  Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,
  Than when I wander'd from the poppy hill:
  And a whole age of lingering moments crept
  Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept
  Away at once the deadly yellow spleen.
  
  Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment seen;
  Once more been tortured with renewed life.
  
  When last the wintry gusts gave over strife
  With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies
  Warm and serene, but yet with moistened eyes
  In pity of the shatter'd infant buds,—
  That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs,
  My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and smil'd,
  Chatted with thee, and many days exil'd
  All torment from my breast;—'twas even then,
  Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den
  Of helpless discontent,—hurling my lance
  From place to place, and following at chance,
  At last, by hap, through some young trees it struck,
  And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck
  In the middle of a brook,—whose silver ramble
  Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble,
  Tracing along, it brought me to a cave,
  Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave
  The nether sides of mossy stones and rock,—
  'Mong which it gurgled blythe adieus, to mock
  Its own sweet grief at parting.
  
  Overhead,
  Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread
  Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home.
  
  "Ah! impious mortal, whither do I roam?
  
  "
  Said I, low voic'd: "Ah whither! 'Tis the grot
  Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot,
  Doth her resign; and where her tender hands
  She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands:
  Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits,
  And babbles thorough silence, till her wits
  Are gone in tender madness, and anon,
  Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone
  Of sadness.
  
  O that she would take my vows,
  And breathe them sighingly among the boughs,
  To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head,
  Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed,
  And weave them dyingly—send honey-whispers
  Round every leaf, that all those gentle lispers
  May sigh my love unto her pitying!
  O charitable echo! hear, and sing
  This ditty to her!—tell her"—so I stay'd
  My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid,
  Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,
  And blushing for the freaks of melancholy.
  
  Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name
  Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came:
  ‘Endymion! the cave is secreter
  Than the isle of Delos.
  
  Echo hence shall stir
  No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise
  Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys
  And trembles through my labyrinthine hair.
  
  "
  At that oppress'd I hurried in.
  
  —Ah! where
  Are those swift moments?
  
  Whither are they fled?
  
  I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed
  Sorrow the way to death, but patiently
  Bear up against it: so farewel, sad sigh;
  And come instead demurest meditation,
  To occupy me wholly, and to fashion
  My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.
  
  No more will I count over, link by link,
  My chain of grief: no longer strive to find
  A half-forgetfulness in mountain wind
  Blustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt see,
  Dearest of sisters, what my life shall be;
  What a calm round of hours shall make my days.
  
  There is a paly flame of hope that plays
  Where'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis naught—
  And here I bid it die.
  
  Have not I caught,
  Already, a more healthy countenance?
  
  By this the sun is setting; we may chance
  Meet some of our near-dwellers with my car.
  
  "
  This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star
  Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:
  They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.
  
  ENDYMION.
  
  A Romance.
  
  "The stretched metre of an antique song.
  
  " ~
  Shakspeare's Sonnets.
  
  INSCRIBED,
  With Every Feeling Of Pride and Regret
  and With "A Bowed Mind,"
  To the Memory of
  The Most English of Poets Except Shakspeare,
  THOMAS CHATTERON.
  
  ------------------------
  (line 144): A lovely allusion to the story of Apollo's nine years' sojourn on earth as the herdsman of Admetus, when banished from Olympus for killing the Cyclops who had forged the thunder-bolts wherewith AEsculapius had been slain.
  
  (line 232): It was the Hymn to Pan beginning here that the young poet when engaged in the composition of Endymion was induced to recite in the presence of Wordsworth, on the 28th of December 1817, at Haydon's house.
  
  Leigh Hunt records that the elder poet pronounced it "a very pretty piece of paganism.
  
  "
  (line 319): Doubtless meant to refer specially to the Elgin marbles.
  
  (line 347): The reference here is to the passage from the second Book of the Argonautica of Apollonius Rhodius, beginning at verse 674 .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  which Shelley had in mind when (Prose Works, Vol.
  
  3, p.
  
  56) he alluded to the Apollo "so finely described by Apollonius Rhodius when the dazzling radiance of his beautiful limbs suddenly shone over the dark Euxine.
  
  "
  __ note found before the Preface of Endymion, in the Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  ,
  'In Woodhouse's copy of Endymion there is a note against the passage "so I will begin" &c.
  
  , line 39, Book I, to the effect that the poem was begun in the spring of 1817 and finished in the winter of 1817-18; and in the title-page he has inserted April before 1818.
  
  The statement corresponds with Keats's own record of May 1817, that he was busying himself at Margate with the commencement of Endymion.
  
  '
  PREFACE.
  
  Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public.
  
  What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished.
  
  The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good; -- it will not: the foundations are too sandy.
  
  It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.
  
  This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
  
  This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honor of English literature.
  
  The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages.
  
  I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewell.
  
  Teignmouth, April 10, 1818.
  
  [footnote] Woodhouse notes -- "[for I wish to try once more,] This alluded to his then intention of writing a poem on the fall of Hyperion.
  
  He commenced this poem: but, thanks to the critics who fell foul of this work, he discontinued it.
  
  The fragment was published in 1820.
  
  "

• Endymion: Book II Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
  All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
  And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
  For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
  Have become indolent; but touching thine,
  One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,
  One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.
  
  The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,
  Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,
  Struggling, and blood, and shrieks--all dimly fades
  Into some backward corner of the brain;
  Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain
  The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.
  
  Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!
  Swart planet in the universe of deeds!
  Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds
  Along the pebbled shore of memory!
  Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be
  Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified
  To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,
  And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.
  
  But wherefore this?
  
  What care, though owl did fly
  About the great Athenian admiral's mast?
  
  What care, though striding Alexander past
  The Indus with his Macedonian numbers?
  
  Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers
  The glutted Cyclops, what care?
  
  --Juliet leaning
  Amid her window-flowers,--sighing,—weaning
  Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,
  Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
  Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
  Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
  Are things to brood on with more ardency
  Than the death-day of empires.
  
  Fearfully
  Must such conviction come upon his head,
  Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread,
  Without one muse's smile, or kind behest,
  The path of love and poesy.
  
  But rest,
  In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear
  Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear
  Love's standard on the battlements of song.
  
  So once more days and nights aid me along,
  Like legion'd soldiers.
  
  Brain-sick shepherd-prince,
  What promise hast thou faithful guarded since
  The day of sacrifice?
  
  Or, have new sorrows
  Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?
  
  Alas! 'tis his old grief.
  
  For many days,
  Has he been wandering in uncertain ways:
  Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;
  Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes
  Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,
  Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill.
  
  Now he is sitting by a shady spring,
  And elbow-deep with feverous fingering
  Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree
  Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
  A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now
  He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!
  It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;
  And, in the middle, there is softly pight
  A golden butterfly; upon whose wings
  There must be surely character'd strange things,
  For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.
  
  Lightly this little herald flew aloft,
  Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands:
  Onward it flies.
  
  From languor's sullen bands
  His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies
  Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.
  
  It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;
  And like a new-born spirit did he pass
  Through the green evening quiet in the sun,
  O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,
  Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams
  The summer time away.
  
  One track unseams
  A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue
  Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew,
  He sinks adown a solitary glen,
  Where there was never sound of mortal men,
  Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences
  Melting to silence, when upon the breeze
  Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,
  To cheer itself to Delphi.
  
  Still his feet
  Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide,
  Until it reached a splashing fountain's side
  That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd
  Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd,
  And, downward, suddenly began to dip,
  As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip
  The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch
  Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch
  Even with mealy gold the waters clear.
  
  But, at that very touch, to disappear
  So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,
  Endymion sought around, and shook each bed
  Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung
  Himself along the grass.
  
  What gentle tongue,
  What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?
  
  It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
  In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood
  'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood.
  
  To him her dripping hand she softly kist,
  And anxiously began to plait and twist
  Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth!
  Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,
  The bitterness of love: too long indeed,
  Seeing thou art so gentle.
  
  Could I weed
  Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer
  All the bright riches of my crystal coffer
  To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,
  Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,
  Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;
  Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws
  A virgin light to the deep; my grotto-sands
  Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands
  By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,
  My charming rod, my potent river spells;
  Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup
  Meander gave me,—for I bubbled up
  To fainting creatures in a desert wild.
  
  But woe is me, I am but as a child
  To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,
  Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
  I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far
  In other regions, past the scanty bar
  To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en
  From every wasting sigh, from every pain,
  Into the gentle bosom of thy love.
  
  Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above:
  But, a poor Naiad, I guess not.
  
  Farewel!
  I have a ditty for my hollow cell.
  
  "
  Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze,
  Who brooded o'er the water in amaze:
  The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool
  Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,
  Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,
  And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill
  Had fallen out that hour.
  
  The wanderer,
  Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr
  Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;
  And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown
  Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,
  Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encamps
  To take a fancied city of delight,
  O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his,
  After long toil and travelling, to miss
  The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile:
  Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil;
  Another city doth he set about,
  Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt
  That he will seize on trickling honey-combs:
  Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams,
  And onward to another city speeds.
  
  But this is human life: the war, the deeds,
  The disappointment, the anxiety,
  Imagination's struggles, far and nigh,
  All human; bearing in themselves this good,
  That they are sill the air, the subtle food,
  To make us feel existence, and to shew
  How quiet death is.
  
  Where soil is men grow,
  Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,
  There is no depth to strike in: I can see
  Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand
  Upon a misty, jutting head of land—
  Alone?
  
  No, no; and by the Orphean lute,
  When mad Eurydice is listening to 't;
  I'd rather stand upon this misty peak,
  With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,
  But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love,
  Than be—I care not what.
  
  O meekest dove
  Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!
  From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,
  Glance but one little beam of temper'd light
  Into my bosom, that the dreadful might
  And tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd!
  Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd,
  Would give a pang to jealous misery,
  Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie
  Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out
  My love's far dwelling.
  
  Though the playful rout
  Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,
  Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow
  Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.
  
  O be propitious, nor severely deem
  My madness impious; for, by all the stars
  That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars
  That kept my spirit in are burst—that I
  Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!
  How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!
  How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep
  Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,
  How lithe! When this thy chariot attains
  Is airy goal, haply some bower veils
  Those twilight eyes?
  
  Those eyes!—my spirit fails—
  Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air
  Will gulph me—help!"—At this with madden'd stare,
  And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood;
  Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood,
  Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.
  
  And, but from the deep cavern there was borne
  A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;
  Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan
  Had more been heard.
  
  Thus swell'd it forth: "Descend,
  Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend
  Into the sparry hollows of the world!
  Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd
  As from thy threshold, day by day hast been
  A little lower than the chilly sheen
  Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms
  Into the deadening ether that still charms
  Their marble being: now, as deep profound
  As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd
  With immortality, who fears to follow
  Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow,
  The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"
  He heard but the last words, nor could contend
  One moment in reflection: for he fled
  Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
  From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.
  
  'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;
  Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite
  To dive into the deepest.
  
  Dark, nor light,
  The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,
  But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;
  A dusky empire and its diadems;
  One faint eternal eventide of gems.
  
  Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,
  Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,
  With all its lines abrupt and angular:
  Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,
  Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,
  Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof
  Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,
  It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss
  Fancy into belief: anon it leads
  Through winding passages, where sameness breeds
  Vexing conceptions of some sudden change;
  Whether to silver grots, or giant range
  Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge
  Athwart a flood of crystal.
  
  On a ridge
  Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath
  Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth
  A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come
  But as the murmuring surge.
  
  Chilly and numb
  His bosom grew, when first he, far away,
  Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray
  Old darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sun
  Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun
  Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,
  He saw not fiercer wonders—past the wit
  Of any spirit to tell, but one of those
  Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close,
  Will be its high remembrancers: who they?
  
  The mighty ones who have made eternal day
  For Greece and England.
  
  While astonishment
  With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went
  Into a marble gallery, passing through
  A mimic temple, so complete and true
  In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd
  To search it inwards, whence far off appear'd,
  Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,
  And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,
  A quiver'd Dian.
  
  Stepping awfully,
  The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eye
  Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old.
  
  And when, more near against the marble cold
  He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread
  All courts and passages, where silence dead
  Rous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:
  And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint
  Himself with every mystery, and awe;
  Till, weary, he sat down before the maw
  Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim
  To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.
  
  There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before,
  And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore
  The journey homeward to habitual self!
  A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
  Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar,
  Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
  Into the bosom of a hated thing.
  
  What misery most drowningly doth sing
  In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught
  The goal of consciousness?
  
  Ah, 'tis the thought,
  The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!
  He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow
  Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild
  In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,
  The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,
  Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest
  Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;
  But far from such companionship to wear
  An unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away,
  Was now his lot.
  
  And must he patient stay,
  Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?
  
  "No!" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?
  
  "
  No! loudly echoed times innumerable.
  
  At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell
  His paces back into the temple's chief;
  Warming and glowing strong in the belief
  Of help from Dian: so that when again
  He caught her airy form, thus did he plain,
  Moving more near the while.
  
  "O Haunter chaste
  Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,
  Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen
  Art thou now forested?
  
  O woodland Queen,
  What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?
  
  Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos
  Of thy disparted nymphs?
  
  Through what dark tree
  Glimmers thy crescent?
  
  Wheresoe'er it be,
  'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste
  Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste
  Thy loveliness in dismal elements;
  But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,
  There livest blissfully.
  
  Ah, if to thee
  It feels Elysian, how rich to me,
  An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name!
  Within my breast there lives a choking flame—
  O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!
  A homeward fever parches up my tongue—
  O let me slake it at the running springs!
  Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings—
  O let me once more hear the linnet's note!
  Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float—
  O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light!
  Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?
  
  O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice!
  Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice?
  
  O think how this dry palate would rejoice!
  If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice,
  Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers!—
  Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!
  Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"
  Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap
  His destiny, alert he stood: but when
  Obstinate silence came heavily again,
  Feeling about for its old couch of space
  And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face
  Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.
  
  But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill
  To its old channel, or a swollen tide
  To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,
  And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns
  Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns
  Itself, and strives its own delights to hide—
  Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride
  In a long whispering birth enchanted grew
  Before his footsteps; as when heav'd anew
  Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,
  Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all hoar,
  Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.
  
  Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,
  Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;
  So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes
  One moment with his hand among the sweets:
  Onward he goes—he stops—his bosom beats
  As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm
  Of which the throbs were born.
  
  This still alarm,
  This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe:
  For it came more softly than the east could blow
  Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;
  Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles
  Of thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyre
  To seas Ionian and Tyrian.
  
  O did he ever live, that lonely man,
  Who lov'd—and music slew not?
  
  'Tis the pest
  Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest;
  That things of delicate and tenderest worth
  Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth,
  By one consuming flame: it doth immerse
  And suffocate true blessings in a curse.
  
  Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,
  Is miserable.
  
  'Twas even so with this
  Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear;
  First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,
  Vanish'd in elemental passion.
  
  And down some swart abysm he had gone,
  Had not a heavenly guide benignant led
  To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head
  Brushing, awakened: then the sounds again
  Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain
  Over a bower, where little space he stood;
  For as the sunset peeps into a wood
  So saw he panting light, and towards it went
  Through winding alleys; and lo, wonderment!
  Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there,
  Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair.
  
  After a thousand mazes overgone,
  At last, with sudden step, he came upon
  A chamber, myrtle wall'd, embowered high,
  Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy,
  And more of beautiful and strange beside:
  For on a silken couch of rosy pride,
  In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
  Of fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,
  Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach:
  And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach,
  Or ripe October's faded marigolds,
  Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds—
  Not hiding up an Apollonian curve
  Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting swerve
  Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing light;
  But rather, giving them to the filled sight
  Officiously.
  
  Sideway his face repos'd
  On one white arm, and tenderly unclos'd,
  By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth
  To slumbery pout; just as the morning south
  Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose.
  
  Above his head,
  Four lily stalks did their white honours wed
  To make a coronal; and round him grew
  All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,
  Together intertwin'd and trammel'd fresh:
  The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh,
  Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine,
  Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine;
  Convolvulus in streaked vases flush;
  The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush;
  And virgin's bower, trailing airily;
  With others of the sisterhood.
  
  Hard by,
  Stood serene Cupids watching silently.
  
  One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd the strings,
  Muffling to death the pathos with his wings;
  And, ever and anon, uprose to look
  At the youth's slumber; while another took
  A willow-bough, distilling odorous dew,
  And shook it on his hair; another flew
  In through the woven roof, and fluttering-wise
  Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes.
  
  At these enchantments, and yet many more,
  The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and o'er;
  Until, impatient in embarrassment,
  He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went
  To that same feather'd lyrist, who straightway,
  Smiling, thus whisper'd: "Though from upper day
  Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here
  Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer!
  For 'tis the nicest touch of human honour,
  When some ethereal and high-favouring donor
  Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense;
  As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion.
  
  Hence
  Was I in no wise startled.
  
  So recline
  Upon these living flowers.
  
  Here is wine,
  Alive with sparkles—never, I aver,
  Since Ariadne was a vintager,
  So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears,
  Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears
  Were high about Pomona: here is cream,
  Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam;
  Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimm'd
  For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd
  By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums
  Ready to melt between an infant's gums:
  And here is manna pick'd from Syrian trees,
  In starlight, by the three Hesperides.
  
  Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know
  Of all these things around us.
  
  " He did so,
  Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre;
  And thus: "I need not any hearing tire
  By telling how the sea-born goddess pin'd
  For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind
  Him all in all unto her doting self.
  
  Who would not be so prison'd?
  
  but, fond elf,
  He was content to let her amorous plea
  Faint through his careless arms; content to see
  An unseiz'd heaven dying at his feet;
  Content, O fool! to make a cold retreat,
  When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn,
  Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born
  Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes
  Were clos'd in sullen moisture, and quick sighs
  Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small.
  
  Hush! no exclaim—yet, justly mightst thou call
  Curses upon his head.
  
  —I was half glad,
  But my poor mistress went distract and mad,
  When the boar tusk'd him: so away she flew
  To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew
  Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's beard;
  Whereon, it was decreed he should be rear'd
  Each summer time to life.
  
  Lo! this is he,
  That same Adonis, safe in the privacy
  Of this still region all his winter-sleep.
  
  Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen did weep
  Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower
  Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power,
  Medicined death to a lengthened drowsiness:
  The which she fills with visions, and doth dress
  In all this quiet luxury; and hath set
  Us young immortals, without any let,
  To watch his slumber through.
  
  'Tis well nigh pass'd,
  Even to a moment's filling up, and fast
  She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through
  The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew
  Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle.
  
  Look! how those winged listeners all this while
  Stand anxious: see! behold!"—This clamant word
  Broke through the careful silence; for they heard
  A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd
  Pigeons and doves: Adonis something mutter'd,
  The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh
  Lay dormant, mov'd convuls'd and gradually
  Up to his forehead.
  
  Then there was a hum
  Of sudden voices, echoing, "Come! come!
  Arise! awake! Clear summer has forth walk'd
  Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd
  Full soothingly to every nested finch:
  Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the blue-bell pinch
  To your dimpled arms.
  
  Once more sweet life begin!"
  At this, from every side they hurried in,
  Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,
  And doubling overhead their little fists
  In backward yawns.
  
  But all were soon alive:
  For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive
  In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair,
  So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air
  Odorous and enlivening; making all
  To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call
  For their sweet queen: when lo! the wreathed green
  Disparted, and far upward could be seen
  Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,
  Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of morn,
  Spun off a drizzling dew,—which falling chill
  On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still
  Nestle and turn uneasily about.
  
  Soon were the white doves plain, with necks stretch'd out,
  And silken traces lighten'd in descent;
  And soon, returning from love's banishment,
  Queen Venus leaning downward open arm'd:
  Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd
  A tumult to his heart, and a new life
  Into his eyes.
  
  Ah, miserable strife,
  But for her comforting! unhappy sight,
  But meeting her blue orbs! Who, who can write
  Of these first minutes?
  
  The unchariest muse
  To embracements warm as theirs makes coy excuse.
  
  O it has ruffled every spirit there,
  Saving love's self, who stands superb to share
  The general gladness: awfully he stands;
  A sovereign quell is in his waving hands;
  No sight can bear the lightning of his bow;
  His quiver is mysterious, none can know
  What themselves think of it; from forth his eyes
  There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes:
  A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who
  Look full upon it feel anon the blue
  Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls.
  
  Endymion feels it, and no more controls
  The burning prayer within him; so, bent low,
  He had begun a plaining of his woe.
  
  But Venus, bending forward, said: "My child,
  Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild
  With love—he—but alas! too well I see
  Thou know'st the deepness of his misery.
  
  Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true,
  That when through heavy hours I used to rue
  The endless sleep of this new-born Adon',
  This stranger ay I pitied.
  
  For upon
  A dreary morning once I fled away
  Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray
  For this my love: for vexing Mars had teaz'd
  Me even to tears: thence, when a little eas'd,
  Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood,
  I saw this youth as he despairing stood:
  Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind:
  Those same full fringed lids a constant blind
  Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw
  Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though
  Death had come sudden; for no jot he mov'd,
  Yet mutter'd wildly.
  
  I could hear he lov'd
  Some fair immortal, and that his embrace
  Had zoned her through the night.
  
  There is no trace
  Of this in heaven: I have mark'd each cheek,
  And find it is the vainest thing to seek;
  And that of all things 'tis kept secretest.
  
  Endymion! one day thou wilt be blest:
  So still obey the guiding hand that fends
  Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends.
  
  'Tis a concealment needful in extreme;
  And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam
  Thou shouldst mount up to with me.
  
  Now adieu!
  Here must we leave thee.
  
  "—At these words up flew
  The impatient doves, up rose the floating car,
  Up went the hum celestial.
  
  High afar
  The Latmian saw them minish into nought;
  And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he caught
  A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.
  
  When all was darkened, with Etnean throe
  The earth clos'd—gave a solitary moan—
  And left him once again in twilight lone.
  
  He did not rave, he did not stare aghast,
  For all those visions were o'ergone, and past,
  And he in loneliness: he felt assur'd
  Of happy times, when all he had endur'd
  Would seem a feather to the mighty prize.
  
  So, with unusual gladness, on he hies
  Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore,
  Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois floor,
  Black polish'd porticos of awful shade,
  And, at the last, a diamond balustrade,
  Leading afar past wild magnificence,
  Spiral through ruggedest loopholes, and thence
  Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er
  Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar,
  Streams subterranean tease their granite beds;
  Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads
  Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash
  The waters with his spear; but at the splash,
  Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose
  Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to enclose
  His diamond path with fretwork, streaming round
  Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound,
  Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells
  Welcome the float of Thetis.
  
  Long he dwells
  On this delight; for, every minute's space,
  The streams with changed magic interlace:
  Sometimes like delicatest lattices,
  Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping trees,
  Moving about as in a gentle wind,
  Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refin'd,
  Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies,
  Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries
  Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair.
  
  Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare;
  And then the water, into stubborn streams
  Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams,
  Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof,
  Of those dusk places in times far aloof
  Cathedrals call'd.
  
  He bade a loth farewel
  To these founts Protean, passing gulph, and dell,
  And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes,
  Half seen through deepest gloom, and griesly gapes,
  Blackening on every side, and overhead
  A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread
  With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and strange,
  The solitary felt a hurried change
  Working within him into something dreary,—
  Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary,
  And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds.
  
  But he revives at once: for who beholds
  New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough?
  
  Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below,
  Came mother Cybele! alone—alone—
  In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown
  About her majesty, and front death-pale,
  With turrets crown'd.
  
  Four maned lions hale
  The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed maws,
  Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws
  Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails
  Cowering their tawny brushes.
  
  Silent sails
  This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away
  In another gloomy arch.
  
  Wherefore delay,
  Young traveller, in such a mournful place?
  
  Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace
  The diamond path?
  
  And does it indeed end
  Abrupt in middle air?
  
  Yet earthward bend
  Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne
  Call ardently! He was indeed wayworn;
  Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost;
  To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost
  Towards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose wings,
  Without one impious word, himself he flings,
  Committed to the darkness and the gloom:
  Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom,
  Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell
  Through unknown things; till exhaled asphodel,
  And rose, with spicy fannings interbreath'd,
  Came swelling forth where little caves were wreath'd
  So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd
  Large honey-combs of green, and freshly teem'd
  With airs delicious.
  
  In the greenest nook
  The eagle landed him, and farewel took.
  
  It was a jasmine bower, all bestrown
  With golden moss.
  
  His every sense had grown
  Ethereal for pleasure; 'bove his head
  Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread
  Was Hesperèan; to his capable ears
  Silence was music from the holy spheres;
  A dewy luxury was in his eyes;
  The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs
  And stirr'd them faintly.
  
  Verdant cave and cell
  He wander'd through, oft wondering at such swell
  Of sudden exaltation: but, "Alas!
  Said he, "will all this gush of feeling pass
  Away in solitude?
  
  And must they wane,
  Like melodies upon a sandy plain,
  Without an echo?
  
  Then shall I be left
  So sad, so melancholy, so bereft!
  Yet still I feel immortal! O my love,
  My breath of life, where art thou?
  
  High above,
  Dancing before the morning gates of heaven?
  
  Or keeping watch among those starry seven,
  Old Atlas' children?
  
  Art a maid of the waters,
  One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters?
  
  Or art, impossible! a nymph of Dian's,
  Weaving a coronal of tender scions
  For very idleness?
  
  Where'er thou art,
  Methinks it now is at my will to start
  Into thine arms; to scare Aurora's train,
  And snatch thee from the morning; o'er the main
  To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off
  From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff
  Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee mid fresh leaves.
  
  No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives
  Its powerless self: I know this cannot be.
  
  O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee
  To her entrancements: hither sleep awhile!
  Hither most gentle sleep! and soothing foil
  For some few hours the coming solitude.
  
  "
  Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued
  With power to dream deliciously; so wound
  Through a dim passage, searching till he found
  The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where
  He threw himself, and just into the air
  Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss!
  A naked waist: "Fair Cupid, whence is this?
  
  "
  A well-known voice sigh'd, "Sweetest, here am I!"
  At which soft ravishment, with doating cry
  They trembled to each other.
  
  —Helicon!
  O fountain'd hill! Old Homer's Helicon!
  That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er
  These sorry pages; then the verse would soar
  And sing above this gentle pair, like lark
  Over his nested young: but all is dark
  Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount
  Exhales in mists to heaven.
  
  Aye, the count
  Of mighty Poets is made up; the scroll
  Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll
  Is in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyes
  Have seen a new tinge in the western skies:
  The world has done its duty.
  
  Yet, oh yet,
  Although the sun of poesy is set,
  These lovers did embrace, and we must weep
  That there is no old power left to steep
  A quill immortal in their joyous tears.
  
  Long time in silence did their anxious fears
  Question that thus it was; long time they lay
  Fondling and kissing every doubt away;
  Long time ere soft caressing sobs began
  To mellow into words, and then there ran
  Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips.
  
  "O known Unknown! from whom my being sips
  Such darling essence, wherefore may I not
  Be ever in these arms?
  
  in this sweet spot
  Pillow my chin for ever?
  
  ever press
  These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess?
  
  Why not for ever and for ever feel
  That breath about my eyes?
  
  Ah, thou wilt steal
  Away from me again, indeed, indeed—
  Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed
  My lonely madness.
  
  Speak, my kindest fair!
  Is—is it to be so?
  
  No! Who will dare
  To pluck thee from me?
  
  And, of thine own will,
  Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me.
  
  Still
  Let me entwine thee surer, surer—now
  How can we part?
  
  Elysium! who art thou?
  
  Who, that thou canst not be for ever here,
  Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere?
  
  Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace,
  By the most soft completion of thy face,
  Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling eyes,
  And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties—
  These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine,
  The passion"————"O lov'd Ida the divine!
  Endymion! dearest! Ah, unhappy me!
  His soul will 'scape us—O felicity!
  How he does love me! His poor temples beat
  To the very tune of love—how sweet, sweet, sweet.
  
  Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;
  Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by
  In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell
  Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell
  Its heavy pressure, and will press at least
  My lips to thine, that they may richly feast
  Until we taste the life of love again.
  
  What! dost thou move?
  
  dost kiss?
  
  O bliss! O pain!
  I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive;
  And so long absence from thee doth bereave
  My soul of any rest: yet must I hence:
  Yet, can I not to starry eminence
  Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own
  Myself to thee.
  
  Ah, dearest, do not groan
  Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy,
  And I must blush in heaven.
  
  O that I
  Had done it already; that the dreadful smiles
  At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles,
  Had waned from Olympus' solemn height,
  And from all serious Gods; that our delight
  Was quite forgotten, save of us alone!
  And wherefore so ashamed?
  
  'Tis but to atone
  For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes:
  Yet must I be a coward!—Horror rushes
  Too palpable before me—the sad look
  Of Jove—Minerva's start—no bosom shook
  With awe of purity—no Cupid pinion
  In reverence veiled—my crystaline dominion
  Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity!
  But what is this to love?
  
  O I could fly
  With thee into the ken of heavenly powers,
  So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours,
  Press me so sweetly.
  
  Now I swear at once
  That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce—
  Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown—
  O I do think that I have been alone
  In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing,
  While every eve saw me my hair uptying
  With fingers cool as aspen leaves.
  
  Sweet love,
  I was as vague as solitary dove,
  Nor knew that nests were built.
  
  Now a soft kiss—
  Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss,
  An immortality of passion's thine:
  Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine
  Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade
  Ourselves whole summers by a river glade;
  And I will tell thee stories of the sky,
  And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy.
  
  My happy love will overwing all bounds!
  O let me melt into thee; let the sounds
  Of our close voices marry at their birth;
  Let us entwine hoveringly—O dearth
  Of human words! roughness of mortal speech!
  Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach
  Thine honied tongue—lute-breathings, which I gasp
  To have thee understand, now while I clasp
  Thee thus, and weep for fondness—I am pain'd,
  Endymion: woe! woe! is grief contain'd
  In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life?
  
  "—
  Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife
  Melted into a languor.
  
  He return'd
  Entranced vows and tears.
  
  Ye who have yearn'd
  With too much passion, will here stay and pity,
  For the mere sake of truth; as 'tis a ditty
  Not of these days, but long ago 'twas told
  By a cavern wind unto a forest old;
  And then the forest told it in a dream
  To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam
  A poet caught as he was journeying
  To Phoebus' shrine; and in it he did fling
  His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space,
  And after, straight in that inspired place
  He sang the story up into the air,
  Giving it universal freedom.
  
  There
  Has it been ever sounding for those ears
  Whose tips are glowing hot.
  
  The legend cheers
  Yon centinel stars; and he who listens to it
  Must surely be self-doomed or he will rue it:
  For quenchless burnings come upon the heart,
  Made fiercer by a fear lest any part
  Should be engulphed in the eddying wind.
  
  As much as here is penn'd doth always find
  A resting place, thus much comes clear and plain;
  Anon the strange voice is upon the wane—
  And 'tis but echo'd from departing sound,
  That the fair visitant at last unwound
  Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep.
  
  —
  Thus the tradition of the gusty deep.
  
  Now turn we to our former chroniclers.
  
  —
  Endymion awoke, that grief of hers
  Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'd
  How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd
  His empty arms together, hung his head,
  And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed
  Sat silently.
  
  Love's madness he had known:
  Often with more than tortured lion's groan
  Moanings had burst from him; but now that rage
  Had pass'd away: no longer did he wage
  A rough-voic'd war against the dooming stars.
  
  No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars:
  The lyre of his soul Eolian tun'd
  Forgot all violence, and but commun'd
  With melancholy thought: O he had swoon'd
  Drunken from pleasure's nipple; and his love
  Henceforth was dove-like.
  
  —Loth was he to move
  From the imprinted couch, and when he did,
  'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid
  In muffling hands.
  
  So temper'd, out he stray'd
  Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd
  Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen
  Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean
  Over eclipsing eyes: and at the last
  It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast,
  O'er studded with a thousand, thousand pearls,
  And crimson mouthed shells with stubborn curls,
  Of every shape and size, even to the bulk
  In which whales arbour close, to brood and sulk
  Against an endless storm.
  
  Moreover too,
  Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue,
  Ready to snort their streams.
  
  In this cool wonder
  Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder
  On all his life: his youth, up to the day
  When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay,
  He stept upon his shepherd throne: the look
  Of his white palace in wild forest nook,
  And all the revels he had lorded there:
  Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair,
  With every friend and fellow-woodlander—
  Pass'd like a dream before him.
  
  Then the spur
  Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans
  To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans:
  That wondrous night: the great Pan-festival:
  His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all,
  Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd:
  Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd
  High with excessive love.
  
  "And now," thought he,
  "How long must I remain in jeopardy
  Of blank amazements that amaze no more?
  
  Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core
  All other depths are shallow: essences,
  Once spiritual, are like muddy lees,
  Meant but to fertilize my earthly root,
  And make my branches lift a golden fruit
  Into the bloom of heaven: other light,
  Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight
  The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark,
  Dark as the parentage of chaos.
  
  Hark!
  My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells;
  Or they are but the ghosts, the dying swells
  Of noises far away?
  
  —list!"—Hereupon
  He kept an anxious ear.
  
  The humming tone
  Came louder, and behold, there as he lay,
  On either side outgush'd, with misty spray,
  A copious spring; and both together dash'd
  Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd
  Among the conchs and shells of the lofty grot,
  Leaving a trickling dew.
  
  At last they shot
  Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise
  As of some breathless racers whose hopes poize
  Upon the last few steps, and with spent force
  Along the ground they took a winding course.
  
  Endymion follow'd—for it seem'd that one
  Ever pursued, the other strove to shun—
  Follow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh
  He had left thinking of the mystery,—
  And was now rapt in tender hoverings
  Over the vanish'd bliss.
  
  Ah! what is it sings
  His dream away?
  
  What melodies are these?
  
  They sound as through the whispering of trees,
  Not native in such barren vaults.
  
  Give ear!
  "O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear
  Such tenderness as mine?
  
  Great Dian, why,
  Why didst thou hear her prayer?
  
  O that I
  Were rippling round her dainty fairness now,
  Circling about her waist, and striving how
  To entice her to a dive! then stealing in
  Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin.
  
  O that her shining hair was in the sun,
  And I distilling from it thence to run
  In amorous rillets down her shrinking form!
  To linger on her lily shoulders, warm
  Between her kissing breasts, and every charm
  Touch raptur'd!—See how painfully I flow:
  Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe.
  
  Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead,
  A happy wooer, to the flowery mead
  Where all that beauty snar'd me.
  
  "—"Cruel god,
  Desist! or my offended mistress' nod
  Will stagnate all thy fountains:—tease me not
  With syren words—Ah, have I really got
  Such power to madden thee?
  
  And is it true—
  Away, away, or I shall dearly rue
  My very thoughts: in mercy then away,
  Kindest Alpheus for should I obey
  My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane.
  
  "—
  "O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a pain
  Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn
  And be a criminal.
  
  "—"Alas, I burn,
  I shudder—gentle river, get thee hence.
  
  Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense
  Of mine was once made perfect in these woods.
  
  Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods,
  Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave;
  But ever since I heedlessly did lave
  In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow
  Grew strong within me: wherefore serve me so,
  And call it love?
  
  Alas, 'twas cruelty.
  
  Not once more did I close my happy eyes
  Amid the thrush's song.
  
  Away! Avaunt!
  O 'twas a cruel thing.
  
  "—"Now thou dost taunt
  So softly, Arethusa, that I think
  If thou wast playing on my shady brink,
  Thou wouldst bathe once again.
  
  Innocent maid!
  Stifle thine heart no more;—nor be afraid
  Of angry powers: there are deities
  Will shade us with their wings.
  
  Those fitful sighs
  'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour
  A dewy balm upon them!—fear no more,
  Sweet Arethusa! Dian's self must feel
  Sometimes these very pangs.
  
  Dear maiden, steal
  Blushing into my soul, and let us fly
  These dreary caverns for the open sky.
  
  I will delight thee all my winding course,
  From the green sea up to my hidden source
  About Arcadian forests; and will shew
  The channels where my coolest waters flow
  Through mossy rocks; where, 'mid exuberant green,
  I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen
  Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim
  Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim
  Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees
  Buzz from their honied wings: and thou shouldst please
  Thyself to choose the richest, where we might
  Be incense-pillow'd every summer night.
  
  Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,
  And let us be thus comforted; unless
  Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream
  Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam,
  And pour to death along some hungry sands.
  
  "—
  "What can I do, Alpheus?
  
  Dian stands
  Severe before me: persecuting fate!
  Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late
  A huntress free in"—At this, sudden fell
  Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell.
  
  The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more,
  Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er
  The name of Arethusa.
  
  On the verge
  Of that dark gulph he wept, and said: "I urge
  Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage,
  By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage,
  If thou art powerful, these lovers pains;
  And make them happy in some happy plains.
  
  He turn'd—there was a whelming sound—he stept,
  There was a cooler light; and so he kept
  Towards it by a sandy path, and lo!
  More suddenly than doth a moment go,
  The visions of the earth were gone and fled—
  He saw the giant sea above his head.
  
  (line 31): The reference is of course not to the story of Hero and Leander but to the tears of Hero in Much Ado About Nothing, shed when she was falsely accused; and Imogen must, equally of course, be Shakespeare's heroine in Cymbeline, though she is not the only Imogen of fiction who has swooned.
  
  For Pastorella see Faerie Queene, Book VI, Canto II, stanza I.
  
  et seq.
  
  (line 168): For the three occasions which Endymion had seen Diana, refer to the account given to Peona; beginning with line 540, Book I, -- to the passage about the well, line 896, Book I, -- and to the passage in which he hurried into the grotto, line 971, Book I.
  
  (line 430): In the draft, Endymion was described as The mortal Latmian.
  
  (line 434): It was a peculiarly happy piece of poetic realism to translate Ariadne's relations with Bacchus into her becoming a vintager; and I presume this was Keats's own thought, as well as the idea immediately following, that the God of Orchards conciliated Love with a gift of pears when paying his addresses to Pomona.
  
  (line 676) Hesperèan, I presume, not Hespèrean as invariably accented by Milton.
  
  The precise value of 'capable' as used here is of course regulated by past and not by present custom.
  
  In this case it simply stands for receptive, able to receive, as in Hamlet (Act III, Scene IV).
  
  (lines 689-92) Endymion conjectures whether his unknown love is one of the Hours, or one of the nymph Pleione's daughters by Atlas, transferred to heaven as the Pleiades.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Endymion: Book III Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
  With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
  Their baaing vanities, to browse away
  The comfortable green and juicy hay
  From human pastures; or, O torturing fact!
  Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd
  Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe
  Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes.
  
  With not one tinge
  Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight
  Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
  By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,
  And crowns, and turbans.
  
  With unladen breasts,
  Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount
  To their spirit's perch, their being's high account,
  Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones—
  Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
  Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums,
  And sudden cannon.
  
  Ah! how all this hums,
  In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone—
  Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,
  And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks.
  
  —
  Are then regalities all gilded masks?
  
  No, there are throned seats unscalable
  But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
  Or by ethereal things that, unconfin'd,
  Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
  And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
  To watch the abysm-birth of elements.
  
  Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate
  A thousand Powers keep religious state,
  In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;
  And, silent as a consecrated urn,
  Hold sphery sessions for a season due.
  
  Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!
  Have bared their operations to this globe—
  Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
  Our piece of heaven—whose benevolence
  Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every sense
  Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude,
  As bees gorge full their cells.
  
  And, by the feud
  'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,
  Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair
  Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest.
  
  When thy gold breath is misting in the west,
  She unobserved steals unto her throne,
  And there she sits most meek and most alone;
  As if she had not pomp subservient;
  As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent
  Towards her with the Muses in thine heart;
  As if the ministring stars kept not apart,
  Waiting for silver-footed messages.
  
  O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees
  Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
  O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
  The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
  
  Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip
  Kissing dead things to life.
  
  The sleeping kine,
  Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
  Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
  Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
  And yet thy benediction passeth not
  One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
  Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
  Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken,
  And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
  Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief
  To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps
  Within its pearly house.
  
  —The mighty deeps,
  The monstrous sea is thine—the myriad sea!
  O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee,
  And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous load.
  
  Cynthia! where art thou now?
  
  What far abode
  Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine
  Such utmost beauty?
  
  Alas, thou dost pine
  For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale
  For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail
  His tears, who weeps for thee.
  
  Where dost thou sigh?
  
  Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye,
  Or what a thing is love! 'Tis She, but lo!
  How chang'd, how full of ache, how gone in woe!
  She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveliness
  Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress
  Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees,
  Dancing upon the waves, as if to please
  The curly foam with amorous influence.
  
  O, not so idle: for down-glancing thence
  She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about
  O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out
  The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning
  Their savage eyes with unaccustomed lightning.
  
  Where will the splendor be content to reach?
  
  O love! how potent hast thou been to teach
  Strange journeyings! Wherever beauty dwells,
  In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells,
  In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun,
  Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won.
  
  Amid his toil thou gav'st Leander breath;
  Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death;
  Thou madest Pluto bear thin element;
  And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent
  A moon-beam to the deep, deep water-world,
  To find Endymion.
  
  On gold sand impearl'd
  With lily shells, and pebbles milky white,
  Poor Cynthia greeted him, and sooth'd her light
  Against his pallid face: he felt the charm
  To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm
  Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stay'd
  His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid
  His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,
  To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,
  Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.
  
  And so he kept, until the rosy veils
  Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand
  Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd
  Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came
  Meekly through billows:—when like taper-flame
  Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
  He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare
  Along his fated way.
  
  Far had he roam'd,
  With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd
  Above, around, and at his feet; save things
  More dead than Morpheus' imaginings:
  Old rusted anchors, helmets, breast-plates large
  Of gone sea-warriors; brazen beaks and targe;
  Rudders that for a hundred years had lost
  The sway of human hand; gold vase emboss'd
  With long-forgotten story, and wherein
  No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin
  But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering scrolls,
  Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls
  Who first were on the earth; and sculptures rude
  In ponderous stone, developing the mood
  Of ancient Nox;—then skeletons of man,
  Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,
  And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw
  Of nameless monster.
  
  A cold leaden awe
  These secrets struck into him; and unless
  Dian had chaced away that heaviness,
  He might have died: but now, with cheered feel,
  He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to steal
  About the labyrinth in his soul of love.
  
  "What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move
  My heart so potently?
  
  When yet a child
  I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smil'd.
  
  Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
  From eve to morn across the firmament.
  
  No apples would I gather from the tree,
  Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
  No tumbling water ever spake romance,
  But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
  No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
  Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
  In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
  Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
  And, in the summer tide of blossoming,
  No one but thee hath heard me blithly sing
  And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
  
  No melody was like a passing spright
  If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
  
  Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
  By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;
  And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
  With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen;
  Thou wast the mountain-top—the sage's pen—
  The poet's harp—the voice of friends—the sun;
  Thou wast the river—thou wast glory won;
  Thou wast my clarion's blast—thou wast my steed—
  My goblet full of wine—my topmost deed:—
  Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
  O what a wild and harmonized tune
  My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
  On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
  Myself to immortality: I prest
  Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest.
  
  But, gentle Orb! there came a nearer bliss—
  My strange love came—Felicity's abyss!
  She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away—
  Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway
  Has been an under-passion to this hour.
  
  Now I begin to feel thine orby power
  Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind,
  Keep back thine influence, and do not blind
  My sovereign vision.
  
  —Dearest love, forgive
  That I can think away from thee and live!—
  Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize
  One thought beyond thine argent luxuries!
  How far beyond!" At this a surpris'd start
  Frosted the springing verdure of his heart;
  For as he lifted up his eyes to swear
  How his own goddess was past all things fair,
  He saw far in the concave green of the sea
  An old man sitting calm and peacefully.
  
  Upon a weeded rock this old man sat,
  And his white hair was awful, and a mat
  Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin feet;
  And, ample as the largest winding-sheet,
  A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones,
  O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans
  Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form
  Was woven in with black distinctness; storm,
  And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar
  Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape
  That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape.
  
  The gulphing whale was like a dot in the spell,
  Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell
  To its huge self; and the minutest fish
  Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish,
  And show his little eye's anatomy.
  
  Then there was pictur'd the regality
  Of Neptune; and the sea nymphs round his state,
  In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait.
  
  Beside this old man lay a pearly wand,
  And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd
  So stedfastly, that the new denizen
  Had time to keep him in amazed ken,
  To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe.
  
  The old man rais'd his hoary head and saw
  The wilder'd stranger—seeming not to see,
  His features were so lifeless.
  
  Suddenly
  He woke as from a trance; his snow-white brows
  Went arching up, and like two magic ploughs
  Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large,
  Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,
  Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile.
  
  Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil
  Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage,
  Who had not from mid-life to utmost age
  Eas'd in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul,
  Even to the trees.
  
  He rose: he grasp'd his stole,
  With convuls'd clenches waving it abroad,
  And in a voice of solemn joy, that aw'd
  Echo into oblivion, he said:—
  "Thou art the man! Now shall I lay my head
  In peace upon my watery pillow: now
  Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.
  
  O Jove! I shall be young again, be young!
  O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierc'd and stung
  With new-born life! What shall I do?
  
  Where go,
  When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe?
  
  —
  I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen
  Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten;
  Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be,
  That writhes about the roots of Sicily:
  To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail,
  And mount upon the snortings of a whale
  To some black cloud; thence down I'll madly sweep
  On forked lightning, to the deepest deep,
  Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd
  With rapture to the other side of the world!
  O, I am full of gladness! Sisters three,
  I bow full hearted to your old decree!
  Yes, every god be thank'd, and power benign,
  For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.
  
  Thou art the man!" Endymion started back
  Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom the rack
  Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
  Mutter'd: "What lonely death am I to die
  In this cold region?
  
  Will he let me freeze,
  And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas?
  
  Or will he touch me with his searing hand,
  And leave a black memorial on the sand?
  
  Or tear me piece-meal with a bony saw,
  And keep me as a chosen food to draw
  His magian fish through hated fire and flame?
  
  O misery of hell! resistless, tame,
  Am I to be burnt up?
  
  No, I will shout,
  Until the gods through heaven's blue look out!—
  O Tartarus! but some few days agone
  Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
  Her voice I hung like fruit among green leaves:
  Her lips were all my own, and—ah, ripe sheaves
  Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,
  But never may be garner'd.
  
  I must stoop
  My head, and kiss death's foot.
  
  Love! love, farewel!
  Is there no hope from thee?
  
  This horrid spell
  Would melt at thy sweet breath.
  
  —By Dian's hind
  Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind
  I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,
  I care not for this old mysterious man!"
  He spake, and walking to that aged form,
  Look'd high defiance.
  
  Lo! his heart 'gan warm
  With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept.
  
  Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept?
  
  Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought
  Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought,
  Convulsion to a mouth of many years?
  
  He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.
  
  The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt
  Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt
  About his large dark locks, and faultering spake:
  "Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' sake!
  I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel
  A very brother's yearning for thee steal
  Into mine own: for why?
  
  thou openest
  The prison gates that have so long opprest
  My weary watching.
  
  Though thou know'st it not,
  Thou art commission'd to this fated spot
  For great enfranchisement.
  
  O weep no more;
  I am a friend to love, to loves of yore:
  Aye, hadst thou never lov'd an unknown power
  I had been grieving at this joyous hour
  But even now most miserable old,
  I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold
  Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case
  Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays
  As dancingly as thine.
  
  Be not afraid,
  For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd,
  Now as we speed towards our joyous task.
  
  "
  So saying, this young soul in age's mask
  Went forward with the Carian side by side:
  Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide
  Hung swollen at their backs, and jewel'd sands
  Took silently their foot-prints.
  
  "My soul stands
  Now past the midway from mortality,
  And so I can prepare without a sigh
  To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain.
  
  I was a fisher once, upon this main,
  And my boat danc'd in every creek and bay;
  Rough billows were my home by night and day,—
  The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had
  No housing from the storm and tempests mad,
  But hollow rocks,—and they were palaces
  Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease:
  Long years of misery have told me so.
  
  Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago.
  
  One thousand years!—Is it then possible
  To look so plainly through them?
  
  to dispel
  A thousand years with backward glance sublime?
  
  To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime
  From off a crystal pool, to see its deep,
  And one's own image from the bottom peep?
  
  Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall,
  My long captivity and moanings all
  Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum,
  The which I breathe away, and thronging come
  Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures.
  
  "I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures:
  I was a lonely youth on desert shores.
  
  My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars,
  And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive cry
  Plaining discrepant between sea and sky.
  
  Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes unseen
  Would let me feel their scales of gold and green,
  Nor be my desolation; and, full oft,
  When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft
  Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe
  To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe
  My life away like a vast sponge of fate,
  Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state,
  Has dived to its foundations, gulph'd it down,
  And left me tossing safely.
  
  But the crown
  Of all my life was utmost quietude:
  More did I love to lie in cavern rude,
  Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice,
  And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice!
  There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer
  My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear
  The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep,
  Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his sheep:
  And never was a day of summer shine,
  But I beheld its birth upon the brine:
  For I would watch all night to see unfold
  Heaven's gates, and Aethon snort his morning gold
  Wide o'er the swelling streams: and constantly
  At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea,
  My nets would be spread out, and I at rest.
  
  The poor folk of the sea-country I blest
  With daily boon of fish most delicate:
  They knew not whence this bounty, and elate
  Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach.
  
  "Why was I not contented?
  
  Wherefore reach
  At things which, but for thee, O Latmian!
  Had been my dreary death?
  
  Fool! I began
  To feel distemper'd longings: to desire
  The utmost privilege that ocean's sire
  Could grant in benediction: to be free
  Of all his kingdom.
  
  Long in misery
  I wasted, ere in one extremest fit
  I plung'd for life or death.
  
  To interknit
  One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff
  Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
  Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
  And buoyant round my limbs.
  
  At first I dwelt
  Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
  Forgetful utterly of self-intent;
  Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
  
  Then, like a new fledg'd bird that first doth shew
  His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
  I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
  
  'Twas freedom! and at once I visited
  The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed.
  
  No need to tell thee of them, for I see
  That thou hast been a witness—it must be
  For these I know thou canst not feel a drouth,
  By the melancholy corners of that mouth.
  
  So I will in my story straightway pass
  To more immediate matter.
  
  Woe, alas!
  That love should be my bane! Ah, Scylla fair!
  Why did poor Glaucus ever—ever dare
  To sue thee to his heart?
  
  Kind stranger-youth!
  I lov'd her to the very white of truth,
  And she would not conceive it.
  
  Timid thing!
  She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing,
  Round every isle, and point, and promontory,
  From where large Hercules wound up his story
  Far as Egyptian Nile.
  
  My passion grew
  The more, the more I saw her dainty hue
  Gleam delicately through the azure clear:
  Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear;
  And in that agony, across my grief
  It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief—
  Cruel enchantress! So above the water
  I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughter.
  
  Aeaea's isle was wondering at the moon:—
  It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon
  Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power.
  
  "When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower;
  Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees,
  Stole through its verdurous matting of fresh trees.
  
  How sweet, and sweeter! for I heard a lyre,
  And over it a sighing voice expire.
  
  It ceased—I caught light footsteps; and anon
  The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon
  Push'd through a screen of roses.
  
  Starry Jove!
  With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove
  A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all
  The range of flower'd Elysium.
  
  Thus did fall
  The dew of her rich speech: "Ah! Art awake?
  
  O let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake!
  I am so oppress'd with joy! Why, I have shed
  An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead;
  And now I find thee living, I will pour
  From these devoted eyes their silver store,
  Until exhausted of the latest drop,
  So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop
  Here, that I too may live: but if beyond
  Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond
  Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme;
  If thou art ripe to taste a long love dream;
  If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour mute,
  Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit,
  O let me pluck it for thee.
  
  " Thus she link'd
  Her charming syllables, till indistinct
  Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul;
  And then she hover'd over me, and stole
  So near, that if no nearer it had been
  This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen.
  
  "Young man of Latmos! thus particular
  Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how far
  This fierce temptation went: and thou may'st not
  Exclaim, How then, was Scylla quite forgot?
  
  "Who could resist?
  
  Who in this universe?
  
  She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse
  My fine existence in a golden clime.
  
  She took me like a child of suckling time,
  And cradled me in roses.
  
  Thus condemn'd,
  The current of my former life was stemm'd,
  And to this arbitrary queen of sense
  I bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence
  Have mov'd, even though Amphion's harp had woo'd
  Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude.
  
  For as Apollo each eve doth devise
  A new appareling for western skies;
  So every eve, nay every spendthrift hour
  Shed balmy consciousness within that bower.
  
  And I was free of haunts umbrageous;
  Could wander in the mazy forest-house
  Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer,
  And birds from coverts innermost and drear
  Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow—
  To me new born delights!
  "Now let me borrow,
  For moments few, a temperament as stern
  As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn
  These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell
  How specious heaven was changed to real hell.
  
  "One morn she left me sleeping: half awake
  I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake
  My greedy thirst with nectarous camel-draughts;
  But she was gone.
  
  Whereat the barbed shafts
  Of disappointment stuck in me so sore,
  That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er.
  
  Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom
  Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to boom
  A sound of moan, an agony of sound,
  Sepulchral from the distance all around.
  
  Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and rumbled
  That fierce complain to silence: while I stumbled
  Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd.
  
  I came to a dark valley.
  
  —Groanings swell'd
  Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew,
  The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt blue,
  That glar'd before me through a thorny brake.
  
  This fire, like the eye of gordian snake,
  Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near
  A sight too fearful for the feel of fear:
  In thicket hid I curs'd the haggard scene—
  The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen,
  Seated upon an uptorn forest root;
  And all around her shapes, wizard and brute,
  Laughing, and wailing, groveling, serpenting,
  Shewing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting!
  O such deformities! Old Charon's self,
  Should he give up awhile his penny pelf,
  And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian,
  It could not be so phantasied.
  
  Fierce, wan,
  And tyrannizing was the lady's look,
  As over them a gnarled staff she shook.
  
  Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out,
  And from a basket emptied to the rout
  Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick
  And roar'd for more; with many a hungry lick
  About their shaggy jaws.
  
  Avenging, slow,
  Anon she took a branch of mistletoe,
  And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial:
  Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial
  Was sharpening for their pitiable bones.
  
  She lifted up the charm: appealing groans
  From their poor breasts went sueing to her ear
  In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier
  She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil.
  
  Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil,
  Increasing gradual to a tempest rage,
  Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pilgrimage;
  Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat
  And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat:
  Then was appalling silence: then a sight
  More wildering than all that hoarse affright;
  For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen,
  Went through the dismal air like one huge Python
  Antagonizing Boreas,—and so vanish'd.
  
  Yet there was not a breath of wind: she banish'd
  These phantoms with a nod.
  
  Lo! from the dark
  Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark,
  With dancing and loud revelry,—and went
  Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent.
  
  —
  Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd
  Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud
  In human accent: "Potent goddess! chief
  Of pains resistless! make my being brief,
  Or let me from this heavy prison fly:
  Or give me to the air, or let me die!
  I sue not for my happy crown again;
  I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;
  I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife;
  I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,
  My children fair, my lovely girls and boys!
  I will forget them; I will pass these joys;
  Ask nought so heavenward, so too—too high:
  Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die,
  Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh,
  From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,
  And merely given to the cold bleak air.
  
  Have mercy, Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!"
  That curst magician's name fell icy numb
  Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come
  Naked and sabre-like against my heart.
  
  I saw a fury whetting a death-dart;
  And my slain spirit, overwrought with fright,
  Fainted away in that dark lair of night.
  
  Think, my deliverer, how desolate
  My waking must have been! disgust, and hate,
  And terrors manifold divided me
  A spoil amongst them.
  
  I prepar'd to flee
  Into the dungeon core of that wild wood:
  I fled three days—when lo! before me stood
  Glaring the angry witch.
  
  O Dis, even now,
  A clammy dew is beading on my brow,
  At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse.
  
  "Ha! ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a nurse
  Made of rose leaves and thistledown, express,
  To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: yes,
  I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch:
  My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch.
  
  So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies
  Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries
  Upon some breast more lily-feminine.
  
  Oh, no—it shall not pine, and pine, and pine
  More than one pretty, trifling thousand years;
  And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears
  Cut short its immortality.
  
  Sea-flirt!
  Young dove of the waters! truly I'll not hurt
  One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh,
  That our heart-broken parting is so nigh.
  
  And must we part?
  
  Ah, yes, it must be so.
  
  Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe,
  Let me sob over thee my last adieus,
  And speak a blessing: Mark me! thou hast thews
  Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race:
  But such a love is mine, that here I chase
  Eternally away from thee all bloom
  Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb.
  
  Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast;
  And there, ere many days be overpast,
  Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then
  Thou shalt not go the way of aged men;
  But live and wither, cripple and still breathe
  Ten hundred years: which gone, I then bequeath
  Thy fragile bones to unknown burial.
  
  Adieu, sweet love, adieu!"—As shot stars fall,
  She fled ere I could groan for mercy.
  
  Stung
  And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung
  A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell.
  
  A hand was at my shoulder to compel
  My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes
  Moved on with pointed finger.
  
  In this guise
  Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam
  I found me; by my fresh, my native home.
  
  Its tempering coolness, to my life akin,
  Came salutary as I waded in;
  And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave
  Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave
  Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd
  Hale strength, nor from my bones all marrow drain'd.
  
  "Young lover, I must weep—such hellish spite
  With dry cheek who can tell?
  
  While thus my might
  Proving upon this element, dismay'd,
  Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid;
  I look'd—'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe!
  O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy?
  
  Could not thy harshest vengeance be content,
  But thou must nip this tender innocent
  Because I lov'd her?
  
  —Cold, O cold indeed
  Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed
  The sea-swell took her hair.
  
  Dead as she was
  I clung about her waist, nor ceas'd to pass
  Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine,
  Until there shone a fabric crystalline,
  Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl.
  
  Headlong I darted; at one eager swirl
  Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold!
  'Twas vast, and desolate, and icy-cold;
  And all around—But wherefore this to thee
  Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see?
  
  —
  I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled.
  
  My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread
  Met palsy half way: soon these limbs became
  Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and lame.
  
  "Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space,
  Without one hope, without one faintest trace
  Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble
  Of colour'd phantasy; for I fear 'twould trouble
  Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell
  How a restoring chance came down to quell
  One half of the witch in me.
  
  On a day,
  Sitting upon a rock above the spray,
  I saw grow up from the horizon's brink
  A gallant vessel: soon she seem'd to sink
  Away from me again, as though her course
  Had been resum'd in spite of hindering force—
  So vanish'd: and not long, before arose
  Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose.
  
  Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen,
  But could not: therefore all the billows green
  Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds.
  
  The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds
  In perilous bustle; while upon the deck
  Stood trembling creatures.
  
  I beheld the wreck;
  The final gulphing; the poor struggling souls:
  I heard their cries amid loud thunder-rolls.
  
  O they had all been sav'd but crazed eld
  Annull'd my vigorous cravings: and thus quell'd
  And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit
  Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit
  Against that hell-born Circe.
  
  The crew had gone,
  By one and one, to pale oblivion;
  And I was gazing on the surges prone,
  With many a scalding tear and many a groan,
  When at my feet emerg'd an old man's hand,
  Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand.
  
  I knelt with pain—reached out my hand—had grasp'd
  These treasures—touch'd the knuckles—they unclasp'd—
  I caught a finger: but the downward weight
  O'erpowered me—it sank.
  
  Then 'gan abate
  The storm, and through chill aguish gloom outburst
  The comfortable sun.
  
  I was athirst
  To search the book, and in the warming air
  Parted its dripping leaves with eager care.
  
  Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on
  My soul page after page, till well-nigh won
  Into forgetfulness; when, stupefied,
  I read these words, and read again, and tried
  My eyes against the heavens, and read again.
  
  O what a load of misery and pain
  Each Atlas-line bore off!—a shine of hope
  Came gold around me, cheering me to cope
  Strenuous with hellish tyranny.
  
  Attend!
  For thou hast brought their promise to an end.
  
  "In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch,
  Doom'd with enfeebled carcase to outstretch
  His loath'd existence through ten centuries,
  And then to die alone.
  
  Who can devise
  A total opposition?
  
  No one.
  
  So
  One million times ocean must ebb and flow,
  And he oppressed.
  
  Yet he shall not die,
  These things accomplish'd:—If he utterly
  Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds
  The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds;
  If he explores all forms and substances
  Straight homeward to their symbol-essences;
  He shall not die.
  
  Moreover, and in chief,
  He must pursue this task of joy and grief
  Most piously;—all lovers tempest-tost,
  And in the savage overwhelming lost,
  He shall deposit side by side, until
  Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil:
  Which done, and all these labours ripened,
  A youth, by heavenly power lov'd and led,
  Shall stand before him; whom he shall direct
  How to consummate all.
  
  The youth elect
  Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd.
  
  "—
  "Then," cried the young Endymion, overjoy'd,
  "We are twin brothers in this destiny!
  Say, I intreat thee, what achievement high
  Is, in this restless world, for me reserv'd.
  
  What! if from thee my wandering feet had swerv'd,
  Had we both perish'd?
  
  "—"Look!" the sage replied,
  "Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide,
  Of divers brilliances?
  
  'tis the edifice
  I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies;
  And where I have enshrined piously
  All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die
  Throughout my bondage.
  
  " Thus discoursing, on
  They went till unobscur'd the porches shone;
  Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight.
  
  Sure never since king Neptune held his state
  Was seen such wonder underneath the stars.
  
  Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars
  Has legion'd all his battle; and behold
  How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold
  His even breast: see, many steeled squares,
  And rigid ranks of iron—whence who dares
  One step?
  
  Imagine further, line by line,
  These warrior thousands on the field supine:—
  So in that crystal place, in silent rows,
  Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes.
  
  —
  The stranger from the mountains, breathless, trac'd
  Such thousands of shut eyes in order plac'd;
  Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips
  All ruddy,—for here death no blossom nips.
  
  He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw their hair
  Put sleekly on one side with nicest care;
  And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence,
  Put cross-wise to its heart.
  
  "Let us commence,
  Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, even now.
  
  "
  He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough,
  Began to tear his scroll in pieces small,
  Uttering the while some mumblings funeral.
  
  He tore it into pieces small as snow
  That drifts unfeather'd when bleak northerns blow;
  And having done it, took his dark blue cloak
  And bound it round Endymion: then struck
  His wand against the empty air times nine.
  
  —
  "What more there is to do, young man, is thine:
  But first a little patience; first undo
  This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue.
  
  Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein;
  And shouldst thou break it—What, is it done so clean?
  
  A power overshadows thee! Oh, brave!
  The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave.
  
  Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me,
  Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery—
  Canst thou read aught?
  
  O read for pity's sake!
  Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break
  This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal.
  
  "
  'Twas done: and straight with sudden swell and fall
  Sweet music breath'd her soul away, and sigh'd
  A lullaby to silence.
  
  —"Youth! now strew
  These minced leaves on me, and passing through
  Those files of dead, scatter the same around,
  And thou wilt see the issue.
  
  "—'Mid the sound
  Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart,
  Endymion from Glaucus stood apart,
  And scatter'd in his face some fragments light.
  
  How lightning-swift the change! a youthful wight
  Smiling beneath a coral diadem,
  Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem,
  Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse,
  Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force
  Press'd its cold hand, and wept—and Scylla sigh'd!
  Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied—
  The nymph arose: he left them to their joy,
  And onward went upon his high employ,
  Showering those powerful fragments on the dead.
  
  And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head,
  As doth a flower at Apollo's touch.
  
  Death felt it to his inwards; 'twas too much:
  Death fell a weeping in his charnel-house.
  
  The Latmian persever'd along, and thus
  All were re-animated.
  
  There arose
  A noise of harmony, pulses and throes
  Of gladness in the air—while many, who
  Had died in mutual arms devout and true,
  Sprang to each other madly; and the rest
  Felt a high certainty of being blest.
  
  They gaz'd upon Endymion.
  
  Enchantment
  Grew drunken, and would have its head and bent.
  
  Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers,
  Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full showers
  Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine.
  
  The two deliverers tasted a pure wine
  Of happiness, from fairy-press ooz'd out.
  
  Speechless they eyed each other, and about
  The fair assembly wander'd to and fro,
  Distracted with the richest overflow
  Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven.
  
  ——"Away!"
  Shouted the new-born god; "Follow, and pay
  Our piety to Neptunus supreme!"—
  Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream,
  They led on first, bent to her meek surprise,
  Through portal columns of a giant size,
  Into the vaulted, boundless emerald.
  
  Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd,
  Down marble steps; pouring as easily
  As hour-glass sand—and fast, as you might see
  Swallows obeying the south summer's call,
  Or swans upon a gentle waterfall.
  
  Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor far,
  Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar,
  Just within ken, they saw descending thick
  Another multitude.
  
  Whereat more quick
  Moved either host.
  
  On a wide sand they met,
  And of those numbers every eye was wet;
  For each their old love found.
  
  A murmuring rose,
  Like what was never heard in all the throes
  Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit
  To tell; 'tis dizziness to think of it.
  
  This mighty consummation made, the host
  Mov'd on for many a league; and gain'd, and lost
  Huge sea-marks; vanward swelling in array,
  And from the rear diminishing away,—
  Till a faint dawn surpris'd them.
  
  Glaucus cried,
  "Behold! behold, the palace of his pride!
  God Neptune's palaces!" With noise increas'd,
  They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east.
  
  At every onward step proud domes arose
  In prospect,—diamond gleams, and golden glows
  Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling.
  
  Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring,
  Still onward; still the splendour gradual swell'd.
  
  Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld
  By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts
  A blush of coral.
  
  Copious wonder-draughts
  Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more near:
  For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere
  As marble was there lavish, to the vast
  Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd,
  Even for common bulk, those olden three,
  Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh.
  
  As large, as bright, as colour'd as the bow
  Of Iris, when unfading it doth shew
  Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch
  Through which this Paphian army took its march,
  Into the outer courts of Neptune's state:
  Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate,
  To which the leaders sped; but not half raught
  Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought,
  And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes
  Like callow eagles at the first sunrise.
  
  Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze
  Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze,
  And then, behold! large Neptune on his throne
  Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone;
  At his right hand stood winged Love, and on
  His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon.
  
  Far as the mariner on highest mast
  Can see all round upon the calmed vast,
  So wide was Neptune's hall: and as the blue
  Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew
  Their doming curtains, high, magnificent,
  Aw'd from the throne aloof;—and when storm-rent
  Disclos'd the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air;
  But sooth'd as now, flash'd sudden everywhere,
  Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering
  Death to a human eye: for there did spring
  From natural west, and east, and south, and north,
  A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth
  A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head.
  
  Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread
  As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe
  Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through
  The delicatest air: air verily,
  But for the portraiture of clouds and sky:
  This palace floor breath-air,—but for the amaze
  Of deep-seen wonders motionless,—and blaze
  Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes,
  Globing a golden sphere.
  
  They stood in dreams
  Till Triton blew his horn.
  
  The palace rang;
  The Nereids danc'd; the Syrens faintly sang;
  And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head.
  
  Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed
  On all the multitude a nectarous dew.
  
  The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew
  Fair Scylla and her guides to conference;
  And when they reach'd the throned eminence
  She kist the sea-nymph's cheek,—who sat her down
  A toying with the doves.
  
  Then,—"Mighty crown
  And sceptre of this kingdom!" Venus said,
  "Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid:
  Behold!"—Two copious tear-drops instant fell
  From the God's large eyes; he smil'd delectable,
  And over Glaucus held his blessing hands.
  
  —
  "Endymion! Ah! still wandering in the bands
  Of love?
  
  Now this is cruel.
  
  Since the hour
  I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power
  Have I put forth to serve thee.
  
  What, not yet
  Escap'd from dull mortality's harsh net?
  
  A little patience, youth! 'twill not be long,
  Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue,
  A humid eye, and steps luxurious,
  Where these are new and strange, are ominous.
  
  Aye, I have seen these signs in one of heaven,
  When others were all blind; and were I given
  To utter secrets, haply I might say
  Some pleasant words:—but Love will have his day.
  
  So wait awhile expectant.
  
  Pr'ythee soon,
  Even in the passing of thine honey-moon,
  Visit my Cytherea: thou wilt find
  Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind;
  And pray persuade with thee—Ah, I have done,
  All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son!"—
  Thus the fair goddess: while Endymion
  Knelt to receive those accents halcyon.
  
  Meantime a glorious revelry began
  Before the Water-Monarch.
  
  Nectar ran
  In courteous fountains to all cups outreach'd;
  And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, pleach'd
  New growth about each shell and pendent lyre;
  The which, in disentangling for their fire,
  Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture
  For dainty toying.
  
  Cupid, empire-sure,
  Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng
  Made a delighted way.
  
  Then dance, and song,
  And garlanding grew wild; and pleasure reign'd.
  
  In harmless tendril they each other chain'd,
  And strove who should be smother'd deepest in
  Fresh crush of leaves.
  
  O 'tis a very sin
  For one so weak to venture his poor verse
  In such a place as this.
  
  O do not curse,
  High Muses! let him hurry to the ending.
  
  All suddenly were silent.
  
  A soft blending
  Of dulcet instruments came charmingly;
  And then a hymn.
  
  "KING of the stormy sea!
  Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor
  Of elements! Eternally before
  Thee the waves awful bow.
  
  Fast, stubborn rock,
  At thy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock
  Its deep foundations, hissing into foam.
  
  All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home
  Of thy capacious bosom ever flow.
  
  Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe
  Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint
  Of all his rebel tempests.
  
  Dark clouds faint
  When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam
  Slants over blue dominion.
  
  Thy bright team
  Gulphs in the morning light, and scuds along
  To bring thee nearer to that golden song
  Apollo singeth, while his chariot
  Waits at the doors of heaven.
  
  Thou art not
  For scenes like this: an empire stern hast thou;
  And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet now,
  As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit
  To blend and interknit
  Subdued majesty with this glad time.
  
  O shell-borne King sublime!
  We lay our hearts before thee evermore—
  We sing, and we adore!
  "Breathe softly, flutes;
  Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes;
  Nor be the trumpet heard! O vain, O vain;
  Not flowers budding in an April rain,
  Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow,—
  No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow,
  Can mingle music fit for the soft ear
  Of goddess Cytherea!
  Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes
  On our souls' sacrifice.
  
  "Bright-winged Child!
  Who has another care when thou hast smil'd?
  
  Unfortunates on earth, we see at last
  All death-shadows, and glooms that overcast
  Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions.
  
  O sweetest essence! sweetest of all minions!
  God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair,
  And panting bosoms bare!
  Dear unseen light in darkness! eclipser
  Of light in light! delicious poisoner!
  Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until
  We fill—we fill!
  And by thy Mother's lips——"
  Was heard no more
  For clamour, when the golden palace door
  Opened again, and from without, in shone
  A new magnificence.
  
  On oozy throne
  Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old,
  To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold,
  Before he went into his quiet cave
  To muse for ever—Then a lucid wave,
  Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea,
  Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty
  Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse—
  Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs,
  Theban Amphion leaning on his lute:
  His fingers went across it—All were mute
  To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls,
  And Thetis pearly too.
  
  —
  The palace whirls
  Around giddy Endymion; seeing he
  Was there far strayed from mortality.
  
  He could not bear it—shut his eyes in vain;
  Imagination gave a dizzier pain.
  
  "O I shall die! sweet Venus, be my stay!
  Where is my lovely mistress?
  
  Well-away!
  I die—I hear her voice—I feel my wing—"
  At Neptune's feet he sank.
  
  A sudden ring
  Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife
  To usher back his spirit into life:
  But still he slept.
  
  At last they interwove
  Their cradling arms, and purpos'd to convey
  Towards a crystal bower far away.
  
  Lo! while slow carried through the pitying crowd,
  To his inward senses these words spake aloud;
  Written in star-light on the dark above:
  Dearest Endymion! my entire love!
  How have I dwelt in fear of fate: 'tis done—
  Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won.
  
  Arise then! for the hen-dove shall not hatch
  Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch
  Thee into endless heaven.
  
  Awake! awake!
  The youth at once arose: a placid lake
  Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green,
  Cooler than all the wonders he had seen,
  Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast.
  
  How happy once again in grassy nest!
  (line 1): Woodhouse notes that "Keats said, with much simplicity, 'It will be easily seen what I think of the present ministers, by the beginning of the third Book.
  
  '"
  (line 407): Whether the reference is to the Pillars of Hercules, the confluence of the Mediterranean and Atlantic, or to the scene of the Death of Hercules, is not very clear; but probably "wound up his story" refers rather to his last labour than to his death on Mount Œta.
  
  (lines 863-65): This simile must surely be a reminiscence of Perrin's Fables Amusantes or some similar book used in Mr.
  
  Clarke's School.
  
  I remember the Fable of the old eagle and her young stood first in the book I used at school.
  
  The draft gives line 860 thus -- 'But soon like eagles natively their gaze.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  '
  At the end of this Book Keats wrote in the draft, "Oxf: Sept.
  
  26.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Endymion: Book IV Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
  O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
  Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
  Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
  While yet our England was a wolfish den;
  Before our forests heard the talk of men;
  Before the first of Druids was a child;--
  Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild
  Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude.
  
  There came an eastern voice of solemn mood:--
  Yet wast thou patient.
  
  Then sang forth the Nine,
  Apollo's garland:--yet didst thou divine
  Such home-bred glory, that they cry'd in vain,
  "Come hither, Sister of the Island!" Plain
  Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she spake
  A higher summons:--still didst thou betake
  Thee to thy native hopes.
  
  O thou hast won
  A full accomplishment! The thing is done,
  Which undone, these our latter days had risen
  On barren souls.
  
  Great Muse, thou know'st what prison
  Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets
  Our spirit's wings: despondency besets
  Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn
  Seems to give forth its light in very scorn
  Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
  
  Long have I said, how happy he who shrives
  To thee! But then I thought on poets gone,
  And could not pray:—nor can I now--so on
  I move to the end in lowliness of heart.
  
  --
  "Ah, woe is me! that I should fondly part
  From my dear native land! Ah, foolish maid!
  Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade
  Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields!
  To one so friendless the clear freshet yields
  A bitter coolness, the ripe grape is sour:
  Yet I would have, great gods! but one short hour
  Of native air—let me but die at home.
  
  "
  Endymion to heaven's airy dome
  Was offering up a hecatomb of vows,
  When these words reach'd him.
  
  Whereupon he bows
  His head through thorny-green entanglement
  Of underwood, and to the sound is bent,
  Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn.
  
  "Is no one near to help me?
  
  No fair dawn
  Of life from charitable voice?
  
  No sweet saying
  To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing?
  
  No hand to toy with mine?
  
  No lips so sweet
  That I may worship them?
  
  No eyelids meet
  To twinkle on my bosom?
  
  No one dies
  Before me, till from these enslaving eyes
  Redemption sparkles!—I am sad and lost.
  
  "
  Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost
  Into a whirlpool.
  
  Vanish into air,
  Warm mountaineer! for canst thou only bear
  A woman's sigh alone and in distress?
  
  See not her charms! Is Phoebe passionless?
  
  Phoebe is fairer far—O gaze no more:—
  Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store,
  Behold her panting in the forest grass!
  Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass
  For tenderness the arms so idly lain
  Amongst them?
  
  Feelest not a kindred pain,
  To see such lovely eyes in swimming search
  After some warm delight, that seems to perch
  Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond
  Their upper lids?
  
  —Hist!             "O for Hermes' wand
  To touch this flower into human shape!
  That woodland Hyacinthus could escape
  From his green prison, and here kneeling down
  Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown!
  Ah me, how I could love!—My soul doth melt
  For the unhappy youth—Love! I have felt
  So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender
  To what my own full thoughts had made too tender,
  That but for tears my life had fled away!—
  Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day,
  And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true,
  There is no lightning, no authentic dew
  But in the eye of love: there's not a sound,
  Melodious howsoever, can confound
  The heavens and earth in one to such a death
  As doth the voice of love: there's not a breath
  Will mingle kindly with the meadow air,
  Till it has panted round, and stolen a share
  Of passion from the heart!"—
  Upon a bough
  He leant, wretched.
  
  He surely cannot now
  Thirst for another love: O impious,
  That he can even dream upon it thus!—
  Thought he, "Why am I not as are the dead,
  Since to a woe like this I have been led
  Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea?
  
  Goddess! I love thee not the less: from thee
  By Juno's smile I turn not—no, no, no—
  While the great waters are at ebb and flow.
  
  —
  I have a triple soul! O fond pretence—
  For both, for both my love is so immense,
  I feel my heart is cut in twain for them.
  
  "
  And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain.
  
  The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see
  Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously.
  
  He sprang from his green covert: there she lay,
  Sweet as a muskrose upon new-made hay;
  With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes
  Shut softly up alive.
  
  To speak he tries.
  
  "Fair damsel, pity me! forgive that I
  Thus violate thy bower's sanctity!
  O pardon me, for I am full of grief—
  Grief born of thee, young angel! fairest thief!
  Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith
  I was to top the heavens.
  
  Dear maid, sith
  Thou art my executioner, and I feel
  Loving and hatred, misery and weal,
  Will in a few short hours be nothing to me,
  And all my story that much passion slew me;
  Do smile upon the evening of my days:
  And, for my tortur'd brain begins to craze,
  Be thou my nurse; and let me understand
  How dying I shall kiss that lily hand.
  
  —
  Dost weep for me?
  
  Then should I be content.
  
  Scowl on, ye fates! until the firmament
  Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth
  Crumbles into itself.
  
  By the cloud girth
  Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst
  To meet oblivion.
  
  "—As her heart would burst
  The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied:
  "Why must such desolation betide
  As that thou speakest of?
  
  Are not these green nooks
  Empty of all misfortune?
  
  Do the brooks
  Utter a gorgon voice?
  
  Does yonder thrush,
  Schooling its half-fledg'd little ones to brush
  About the dewy forest, whisper tales?
  
  —
  Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails
  Will slime the rose to night.
  
  Though if thou wilt,
  Methinks 'twould be a guilt—a very guilt—
  Not to companion thee, and sigh away
  The light—the dusk—the dark—till break of day!"
  "Dear lady," said Endymion, "'tis past:
  I love thee! and my days can never last.
  
  That I may pass in patience still speak:
  Let me have music dying, and I seek
  No more delight—I bid adieu to all.
  
  Didst thou not after other climates call,
  And murmur about Indian streams?
  
  "—Then she,
  Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree,
  For pity sang this roundelay———
  "O Sorrow,
  Why dost borrow
  The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?
  
  —
  To give maiden blushes
  To the white rose bushes?
  
  Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
  
  "O Sorrow,
  Why dost borrow
  The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?
  
  —
  To give the glow-worm light?
  
  Or, on a moonless night,
  To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry?
  
  "O Sorrow,
  Why dost borrow
  The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?
  
  —
  To give at evening pale
  Unto the nightingale,
  That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
  
  "O Sorrow,
  Why dost borrow
  Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
  
  —
  A lover would not tread
  A cowslip on the head,
  Though he should dance from eve till peep of day—
  Nor any drooping flower
  Held sacred for thy bower,
  Wherever he may sport himself and play.
  
  "To Sorrow
  I bade good-morrow,
  And thought to leave her far away behind;
  But cheerly, cheerly,
  She loves me dearly;
  She is so constant to me, and so kind:
  I would deceive her
  And so leave her,
  But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
  
  "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
  I sat a weeping: in the whole world wide
  There was no one to ask me why I wept,—
  And so I kept
  Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
  Cold as my fears.
  
  "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side,
  I sat a weeping: what enamour'd bride,
  Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
  But hides and shrouds
  Beneath dark palm trees by a river side?
  
  "And as I sat, over the light blue hills
  There came a noise of revellers: the rills
  Into the wide stream came of purple hue—
  'Twas Bacchus and his crew!
  The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
  From kissing cymbals made a merry din—
  'Twas Bacchus and his kin!
  Like to a moving vintage down they came,
  Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame;
  All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,
  To scare thee, Melancholy!
  O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!
  And I forgot thee, as the berried holly
  By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June,
  Tall chesnuts keep away the sun and moon:—
  I rush'd into the folly!
  "Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,
  Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,
  With sidelong laughing;
  And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
  His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white
  For Venus' pearly bite;
  And near him rode Silenus on his ass,
  Pelted with flowers as he on did pass
  Tipsily quaffing.
  
  "Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye!
  So many, and so many, and such glee?
  
  Why have ye left your bowers desolate,
  Your lutes, and gentler fate?
  
  —
  ‘We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing?
  
  A conquering!
  Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,
  We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:—
  Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
  To our wild minstrelsy!'
  "Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye!
  So many, and so many, and such glee?
  
  Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left
  Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?
  
  —
  ‘For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;
  For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,
  And cold mushrooms;
  For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;
  Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth!—
  Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
  To our mad minstrelsy!'
  "Over wide streams and mountains great we went,
  And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,
  Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,
  With Asian elephants:
  Onward these myriads—with song and dance,
  With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance,
  Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,
  Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,
  Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil
  Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil:
  With toying oars and silken sails they glide,
  Nor care for wind and tide.
  
  "Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes,
  From rear to van they scour about the plains;
  A three days' journey in a moment done:
  And always, at the rising of the sun,
  About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,
  On spleenful unicorn.
  
  "I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
  Before the vine-wreath crown!
  I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing
  To the silver cymbals' ring!
  I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce
  Old Tartary the fierce!
  The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail,
  And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;
  Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,
  And all his priesthood moans;
  Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale.
  
  —
  Into these regions came I following him,
  Sick hearted, weary—so I took a whim
  To stray away into these forests drear
  Alone, without a peer:
  And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
  
  "Young stranger!
  I've been a ranger
  In search of pleasure throughout every clime:
  Alas! 'tis not for me!
  Bewitch'd I sure must be,
  To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
  
  "Come then, Sorrow!
  Sweetest Sorrow!
  Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
  I thought to leave thee
  And deceive thee,
  But now of all the world I love thee best.
  
  "There is not one,
  No, no, not one
  But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
  Thou art her mother,
  And her brother,
  Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.
  
  "
  O what a sigh she gave in finishing,
  And look, quite dead to every worldly thing!
  Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her;
  And listened to the wind that now did stir
  About the crisped oaks full drearily,
  Yet with as sweet a softness as might be
  Remember'd from its velvet summer song.
  
  At last he said: "Poor lady, how thus long
  Have I been able to endure that voice?
  
  Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice;
  I must be thy sad servant evermore:
  I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.
  
  Alas, I must not think—by Phoebe, no!
  Let me not think, soft Angel! shall it be so?
  
  Say, beautifullest, shall I never think?
  
  O thou could'st foster me beyond the brink
  Of recollection! make my watchful care
  Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair!
  Do gently murder half my soul, and I
  Shall feel the other half so utterly!—
  I'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth;
  O let it blush so ever! let it soothe
  My madness! let it mantle rosy-warm
  With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm.
  
  —
  This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;
  And this is sure thine other softling—this
  Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near!
  Wilt fall asleep?
  
  O let me sip that tear!
  And whisper one sweet word that I may know
  This is this world—sweet dewy blossom!"—Woe!
  Woe! Woe to that Endymion! Where is he?
  
  —
  Even these words went echoing dismally
  Through the wide forest—a most fearful tone,
  Like one repenting in his latest moan;
  And while it died away a shade pass'd by,
  As of a thunder cloud.
  
  When arrows fly
  Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek forth
  Their timid necks and tremble; so these both
  Leant to each other trembling, and sat so
  Waiting for some destruction—when lo,
  Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime
  Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time
  Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down he dropt
  Towards the ground; but rested not, nor stopt
  One moment from his home: only the sward
  He with his wand light touch'd, and heavenward
  Swifter than sight was gone—even before
  The teeming earth a sudden witness bore
  Of his swift magic.
  
  Diving swans appear
  Above the crystal circlings white and clear;
  And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise,
  How they can dive in sight and unseen rise—
  So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black,
  Each with large dark blue wings upon his back.
  
  The youth of Caria plac'd the lovely dame
  On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame
  The other's fierceness.
  
  Through the air they flew,
  High as the eagles.
  
  Like two drops of dew
  Exhal'd to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone,
  Far from the earth away—unseen, alone,
  Among cool clouds and winds, but that the free,
  The buoyant life of song can floating be
  Above their heads, and follow them untir'd.
  
  —
  Muse of my native land, am I inspir'd?
  
  This is the giddy air, and I must spread
  Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread
  Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance
  Precipitous: I have beneath my glance
  Those towering horses and their mournful freight.
  
  Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await
  Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid?
  
  —
  There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade
  From some approaching wonder, and behold
  Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils bold
  Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to tire,
  Dying to embers from their native fire!
  There curl'd a purple mist around them; soon,
  It seem'd as when around the pale new moon
  Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow:
  'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow.
  
  For the first time, since he came nigh dead born
  From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn
  Had he left more forlorn; for the first time,
  He felt aloof the day and morning's prime—
  Because into his depth Cimmerian
  There came a dream, shewing how a young man,
  Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin,
  Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win
  An immortality, and how espouse
  Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house.
  
  Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate,
  That he might at the threshold one hour wait
  To hear the marriage melodies, and then
  Sink downward to his dusky cave again.
  
  His litter of smooth semilucent mist,
  Diversely ting'd with rose and amethyst,
  Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought;
  And scarcely for one moment could be caught
  His sluggish form reposing motionless.
  
  Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress
  Of vision search'd for him, as one would look
  Athwart the sallows of a river nook
  To catch a glance at silver throated eels,—
  Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals
  His rugged forehead in a mantle pale,
  With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale
  Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far.
  
  These raven horses, though they foster'd are
  Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop
  Their full-veined ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop;
  Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread
  Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead,—
  And on those pinions, level in mid air,
  Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair.
  
  Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle
  Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile
  The mournful wanderer dreams.
  
  Behold! he walks
  On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks
  To divine powers: from his hand full fain
  Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain:
  He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow,
  And asketh where the golden apples grow:
  Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield,
  And strives in vain to unsettle and wield
  A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings
  A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings
  And tantalizes long; at last he drinks,
  And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks,
  Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand.
  
  He blows a bugle,—an ethereal band
  Are visible above: the Seasons four,—
  Green-kyrtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store
  In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar,
  Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast,
  In swells unmitigated, still doth last
  To sway their floating morris.
  
  "Whose is this?
  
  Whose bugle?
  
  " he inquires: they smile—"O Dis!
  Why is this mortal here?
  
  Dost thou not know
  Its mistress' lips?
  
  Not thou?
  
  —'Tis Dian's: lo!
  She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she,
  His very goddess: good-bye earth, and sea,
  And air, and pains, and care, and suffering;
  Good-bye to all but love! Then doth he spring
  Towards her, and awakes—and, strange, o'erhead,
  Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
  Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
  Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods;
  And Phoebe bends towards him crescented.
  
  O state perplexing! On the pinion bed,
  Too well awake, he feels the panting side
  Of his delicious lady.
  
  He who died
  For soaring too audacious in the sun,
  Where that same treacherous wax began to run,
  Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
  
  His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
  To that fair shadow'd passion puls'd its way—
  Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well a day!
  So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow,
  He could not help but kiss her: then he grew
  Awhile forgetful of all beauty save
  Young Phoebe's, golden hair'd; and so 'gan crave
  Forgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to look
  At the sweet sleeper,—all his soul was shook,—
  She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more
  He could not help but kiss her and adore.
  
  At this the shadow wept, melting away.
  
  The Latmian started up: "Bright goddess, stay!
  Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue,
  I have no dædale heart: why is it wrung
  To desperation?
  
  Is there nought for me,
  Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery?
  
  "
  These words awoke the stranger of dark tresses:
  Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses
  With 'haviour soft.
  
  Sleep yawned from underneath.
  
  "Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more breathe
  This murky phantasm! thou contented seem'st
  Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st
  What horrors may discomfort thee and me.
  
  Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery!—
  Yet did she merely weep—her gentle soul
  Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole
  In tenderness, would I were whole in love!
  Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above,
  Even when I feel as true as innocence?
  
  I do, I do.
  
  —What is this soul then?
  
  Whence
  Came it?
  
  It does not seem my own, and I
  Have no self-passion or identity.
  
  Some fearful end must be: where, where is it?
  
  By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit
  Alone about the dark—Forgive me, sweet:
  Shall we away?
  
  " He rous'd the steeds: they beat
  Their wings chivalrous into the clear air,
  Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair.
  
  The good-night blush of eve was waning slow,
  And Vesper, risen star, began to throe
  In the dusk heavens silvery, when they
  Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy.
  
  Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange—
  Eternal oaths and vows they interchange,
  In such wise, in such temper, so aloof
  Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof,
  So witless of their doom, that verily
  'Tis well nigh past man's search their hearts to see;
  Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or griev'd, or toy'd—
  Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd.
  
  Full facing their swift flight, from ebon streak,
  The moon put forth a little diamond peak,
  No bigger than an unobserved star,
  Or tiny point of fairy scymetar;
  Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie
  Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
  She bow'd into the heavens her timid head.
  
  Slowly she rose, as though she would have fled,
  While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd,
  To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd
  This beauty in its birth—Despair! despair!
  He saw her body fading gaunt and spare
  In the cold moonshine.
  
  Straight he seiz'd her wrist;
  It melted from his grasp: her hand he kiss'd,
  And, horror! kiss'd his own—he was alone.
  
  Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then
  Dropt hawkwise to the earth.
  
  There lies a den,
  Beyond the seeming confines of the space
  Made for the soul to wander in and trace
  Its own existence, of remotest glooms.
  
  Dark regions are around it, where the tombs
  Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce
  One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce
  Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart:
  And in these regions many a venom'd dart
  At random flies; they are the proper home
  Of every ill: the man is yet to come
  Who hath not journeyed in this native hell.
  
  But few have ever felt how calm and well
  Sleep may be had in that deep den of all.
  
  There anguish does not sting; nor pleasure pall:
  Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate,
  Yet all is still within and desolate.
  
  Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear
  No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier
  The death-watch tick is stifled.
  
  Enter none
  Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is won.
  
  Just when the sufferer begins to burn,
  Then it is free to him; and from an urn,
  Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught—
  Young Semele such richness never quaft
  In her maternal longing.
  
  Happy gloom!
  Dark Paradise! where pale becomes the bloom
  Of health by due; where silence dreariest
  Is most articulate; where hopes infest;
  Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep
  Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep.
  
  O happy spirit-home! O wondrous soul!
  Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
  In thine own depth.
  
  Hail, gentle Carian!
  For, never since thy griefs and woes began,
  Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud
  Hath let thee to this Cave of Quietude.
  
  Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although upborne
  With dangerous speed: and so he did not mourn
  Because he knew not whither he was going.
  
  So happy was he, not the aerial blowing
  Of trumpets at clear parley from the east
  Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast.
  
  They stung the feather'd horse: with fierce alarm
  He flapp'd towards the sound.
  
  Alas, no charm
  Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd
  A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude,—
  And silvery was its passing: voices sweet
  Warbling the while as if to lull and greet
  The wanderer in his path.
  
  Thus warbled they,
  While past the vision went in bright array.
  
  "Who, who from Dian's feast would be away?
  
  For all the golden bowers of the day
  Are empty left?
  
  Who, who away would be
  From Cynthia's wedding and festivity?
  
  Not Hesperus: lo! upon his silver wings
  He leans away for highest heaven and sings,
  Snapping his lucid fingers merrily!—
  Ah, Zephyrus! art here, and Flora too!
  Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew,
  Young playmates of the rose and daffodil,
  Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill
  Your baskets high
  With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines,
  Savory, latter-mint, and columbines,
  Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme;
  Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime,
  All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie
  Away! fly, fly!—
  Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven,
  Aquarius! to whom king Jove has given
  Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings,
  Two fan-like fountains,—thine illuminings
  For Dian play:
  Dissolve the frozen purity of air;
  Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
  Shew cold through watery pinions; make more bright
  The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night:
  Haste, haste away!—
  Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see!
  And of the Bear has Pollux mastery:
  A third is in the race! who is the third,
  Speeding away swift as the eagle bird?
  
  The ramping Centaur!
  The Lion's mane's on end: the Bear how fierce!
  The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce
  Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent
  Into the blue of heaven.
  
  He'll be shent,
  Pale unrelentor,
  When he shall hear the wedding lutes a playing.
  
  —
  Andromeda! sweet woman! why delaying
  So timidly among the stars: come hither!
  Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither
  They all are going.
  
  Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd,
  Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.
  
  Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral:
  Ye shall for ever live and love, for all
  Thy tears are flowing.
  
  —
  By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo!—"
  More
  Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore,
  Prone to the green head of a misty hill.
  
  His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill.
  
  "Alas!" said he, "were I but always borne
  Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn
  A path in hell, for ever would I bless
  Horrors which nourish an uneasiness
  For my own sullen conquering: to him
  Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim,
  Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see
  The grass; I feel the solid ground—Ah, me!
  It is thy voice—divinest! Where?
  
  —who?
  
  who
  Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew?
  
  Behold upon this happy earth we are;
  Let us ay love each other; let us fare
  On forest-fruits, and never, never go
  Among the abodes of mortals here below,
  Or be by phantoms duped.
  
  O destiny!
  Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly,
  But with thy beauty will I deaden it.
  
  Where didst thou melt too?
  
  By thee will I sit
  For ever: let our fate stop here—a kid
  I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid
  Us live in peace, in love and peace among
  His forest wildernesses.
  
  I have clung
  To nothing, lov'd a nothing, nothing seen
  Or felt but a great dream! O I have been
  Presumptuous against love, against the sky,
  Against all elements, against the tie
  Of mortals each to each, against the blooms
  Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs
  Of heroes gone! Against his proper glory
  Has my own soul conspired: so my story
  Will I to children utter, and repent.
  
  There never liv'd a mortal man, who bent
  His appetite beyond his natural sphere,
  But starv'd and died.
  
  My sweetest Indian, here,
  Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast
  My life from too thin breathing: gone and past
  Are cloudy phantasms.
  
  Caverns lone, farewel!
  And air of visions, and the monstrous swell
  Of visionary seas! No, never more
  Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore
  Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast.
  
  Adieu, my daintiest Dream! although so vast
  My love is still for thee.
  
  The hour may come
  When we shall meet in pure elysium.
  
  On earth I may not love thee; and therefore
  Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store
  All through the teeming year: so thou wilt shine
  On me, and on this damsel fair of mine,
  And bless our simple lives.
  
  My Indian bliss!
  My river-lily bud! one human kiss!
  One sigh of real breath—one gentle squeeze,
  Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees,
  And warm with dew at ooze from living blood!
  Whither didst melt?
  
  Ah, what of that!—all good
  We'll talk about—no more of dreaming.
  
  —Now,
  Where shall our dwelling be?
  
  Under the brow
  Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun
  Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none;
  And where dark yew trees, as we rustle through,
  Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew?
  
  O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place;
  Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace
  Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclin'd:
  For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find,
  And by another, in deep dell below,
  See, through the trees, a little river go
  All in its mid-day gold and glimmering.
  
  Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring,
  And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee,—
  Cresses that grow where no man may them see,
  And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag:
  Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag,
  That thou mayst always know whither I roam,
  When it shall please thee in our quiet home
  To listen and think of love.
  
  Still let me speak;
  Still let me dive into the joy I seek,—
  For yet the past doth prison me.
  
  The rill,
  Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill
  With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn,
  And thou shalt feed them from the squirrel's barn.
  
  Its bottom will I strew with amber shells,
  And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells.
  
  Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine,
  And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine.
  
  I will entice this crystal rill to trace
  Love's silver name upon the meadow's face.
  
  I'll kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire;
  And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre;
  To Empress Dian, for a hunting spear;
  To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear,
  That I may see thy beauty through the night;
  To Flora, and a nightingale shall light
  Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods,
  And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods
  Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright tress.
  
  Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveliness!
  Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be
  'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear love, to thee:
  Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak
  Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek,
  Trembling or stedfastness to this same voice,
  And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice:
  And that affectionate light, those diamond things,
  Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl springs,
  Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure.
  
  Say, is not bliss within our perfect seisure?
  
  O that I could not doubt?
  
  "
  The mountaineer
  Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear
  His briar'd path to some tranquillity.
  
  It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye,
  And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow;
  Answering thus, just as the golden morrow
  Beam'd upward from the vallies of the east:
  "O that the flutter of this heart had ceas'd,
  Or the sweet name of love had pass'd away.
  
  Young feather'd tyrant! by a swift decay
  Wilt thou devote this body to the earth:
  And I do think that at my very birth
  I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly;
  For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee,
  With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven.
  
  Art thou not cruel?
  
  Ever have I striven
  To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do!
  When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
  Favour from thee, and so I kisses gave
  To the void air, bidding them find out love:
  But when I came to feel how far above
  All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
  All earthly pleasure, all imagin'd good,
  Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss,—
  Even then, that moment, at the thought of this,
  Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers,
  And languish'd there three days.
  
  Ye milder powers,
  Am I not cruelly wrong'd?
  
  Believe, believe
  Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave
  With my own fancies garlands of sweet life,
  Thou shouldst be one of all.
  
  Ah, bitter strife!
  I may not be thy love: I am forbidden—
  Indeed I am—thwarted, affrighted, chidden,
  By things I trembled at, and gorgon wrath.
  
  Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: henceforth
  Ask me no more! I may not utter it,
  Nor may I be thy love.
  
  We might commit
  Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die;
  We might embrace and die: voluptuous thought!
  Enlarge not to my hunger, or I'm caught
  In trammels of perverse deliciousness.
  
  No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless,
  And bid a long adieu.
  
  "
  The Carian
  No word return'd: both lovelorn, silent, wan,
  Into the vallies green together went.
  
  Far wandering, they were perforce content
  To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree;
  Nor at each other gaz'd, but heavily
  Por'd on its hazle cirque of shedded leaves.
  
  Endymion! unhappy! it nigh grieves
  Me to behold thee thus in last extreme:
  Ensky'd ere this, but truly that I deem
  Truth the best music in a first-born song.
  
  Thy lute-voic'd brother will I sing ere long,
  And thou shalt aid—hast thou not aided me?
  
  Yes, moonlight Emperor! felicity
  Has been thy meed for many thousand years;
  Yet often have I, on the brink of tears,
  Mourn'd as if yet thou wert a forester,—
  Forgetting the old tale.
  
  He did not stir
  His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse
  Of joy he might have felt.
  
  The spirit culls
  Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays
  Through the old garden-ground of boyish days.
  
  A little onward ran the very stream
  By which he took his first soft poppy dream;
  And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant
  A crescent he had carv'd, and round it spent
  His skill in little stars.
  
  The teeming tree
  Had swollen and green'd the pious charactery,
  But not ta'en out.
  
  Why, there was not a slope
  Up which he had not fear'd the antelope;
  And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade
  He had not with his tamed leopards play'd.
  
  Nor could an arrow light, or javelin,
  Fly in the air where his had never been—
  And yet he knew it not.
  
  O treachery!
  Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye
  With all his sorrowing?
  
  He sees her not.
  
  But who so stares on him?
  
  His sister sure!
  Peona of the woods!—Can she endure—
  Impossible—how dearly they embrace!
  His lady smiles; delight is in her face;
  It is no treachery.
  
  "Dear brother mine!
  Endymion, weep not so! Why shouldst thou pine
  When all great Latmos so exalt wilt be?
  
  Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly;
  And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more.
  
  Sure I will not believe thou hast such store
  Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again.
  
  Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain,
  Come hand in hand with one so beautiful.
  
  Be happy both of you! for I will pull
  The flowers of autumn for your coronals.
  
  Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls;
  And when he is restor'd, thou, fairest dame,
  Shalt be our queen.
  
  Now, is it not a shame
  To see ye thus,—not very, very sad?
  
  Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad:
  O feel as if it were a common day;
  Free-voic'd as one who never was away.
  
  No tongue shall ask, whence come ye?
  
  but ye shall
  Be gods of your own rest imperial.
  
  Not even I, for one whole month, will pry
  Into the hours that have pass'd us by,
  Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.
  
  O Hermes! on this very night will be
  A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light;
  For the soothsayers old saw yesternight
  Good visions in the air,—whence will befal,
  As say these sages, health perpetual
  To shepherds and their flocks; and furthermore,
  In Dian's face they read the gentle lore:
  Therefore for her these vesper-carols are.
  
  Our friends will all be there from nigh and far.
  
  Many upon thy death have ditties made;
  And many, even now, their foreheads shade
  With cypress, on a day of sacrifice.
  
  New singing for our maids shalt thou devise,
  And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows.
  
  Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse
  This wayward brother to his rightful joys!
  His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise
  His fate most goddess-like.
  
  Help me, I pray,
  To lure—Endymion, dear brother, say
  What ails thee?
  
  " He could bear no more, and so
  Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow,
  And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said:
  "I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid!
  My only visitor! not ignorant though,
  That those deceptions which for pleasure go
  'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be:
  But there are higher ones I may not see,
  If impiously an earthly realm I take.
  
  Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake
  Night after night, and day by day, until
  Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.
  
  Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me
  More happy than betides mortality.
  
  A hermit young, I'll live in mossy cave,
  Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave
  Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell.
  
  Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well;
  For to thy tongue will I all health confide.
  
  And, for my sake, let this young maid abide
  With thee as a dear sister.
  
  Thou alone,
  Peona, mayst return to me.
  
  I own
  This may sound strangely: but when, dearest girl,
  Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl
  Will trespass down those cheeks.
  
  Companion fair!
  Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share
  This sister's love with me?
  
  " Like one resign'd
  And bent by circumstance, and thereby blind
  In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown:
  "Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown,
  Of jubilee to Dian:—truth I heard!
  Well then, I see there is no little bird,
  Tender soever, but is Jove's own care.
  
  Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware,
  Behold I find it! so exalted too!
  So after my own heart! I knew, I knew
  There was a place untenanted in it:
  In that same void white Chastity shall sit,
  And monitor me nightly to lone slumber.
  
  With sanest lips I vow me to the number
  Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady,
  With thy good help, this very night shall see
  My future days to her fane consecrate.
  
  "
  As feels a dreamer what doth most create
  His own particular fright, so these three felt:
  Or like one who, in after ages, knelt
  To Lucifer or Baal, when he'd pine
  After a little sleep: or when in mine
  Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends
  Who know him not.
  
  Each diligently bends
  Towards common thoughts and things for very fear;
  Striving their ghastly malady to cheer,
  By thinking it a thing of yes and no,
  That housewives talk of.
  
  But the spirit-blow
  Was struck, and all were dreamers.
  
  At the last
  Endymion said: "Are not our fates all cast?
  
  Why stand we here?
  
  Adieu, ye tender pair!
  Adieu!" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare,
  Walk'd dizzily away.
  
  Pained and hot
  His eyes went after them, until they got
  Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw,
  In one swift moment, would what then he saw
  Engulph for ever.
  
  "Stay!" he cried, "ah, stay!
  Turn, damsels! hist! one word I have to say.
  
  Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again.
  
  It is a thing I dote on: so I'd fain,
  Peona, ye should hand in hand repair
  Into those holy groves, that silent are
  Behind great Dian's temple.
  
  I'll be yon,
  At vesper's earliest twinkle—they are gone—
  But once, once, once again—" At this he press'd
  His hands against his face, and then did rest
  His head upon a mossy hillock green,
  And so remain'd as he a corpse had been
  All the long day; save when he scantly lifted
  His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted
  With the slow move of time,—sluggish and weary
  Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary,
  Had reach'd the river's brim.
  
  Then up he rose,
  And, slowly as that very river flows,
  Walk'd towards the temple grove with this lament:
  "Why such a golden eve?
  
  The breeze is sent
  Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall
  Before the serene father of them all
  Bows down his summer head below the west.
  
  Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest,
  But at the setting I must bid adieu
  To her for the last time.
  
  Night will strew
  On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves,
  And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves
  To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.
  
  Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
  Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,
  Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour roses;
  My kingdom's at its death, and just it is
  That I should die with it: so in all this
  We miscal grief, bale, sorrow, heartbreak, woe,
  What is there to plain of?
  
  By Titan's foe
  I am but rightly serv'd.
  
  " So saying, he
  Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee;
  Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun,
  As though they jests had been: nor had he done
  His laugh at nature's holy countenance,
  Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance,
  And then his tongue with sober seemlihed
  Gave utterance as he entered: "Ha!" I said,
  "King of the butterflies; but by this gloom,
  And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom,
  This dusk religion, pomp of solitude,
  And the Promethean clay by thief endued,
  By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head
  Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
  Myself to things of light from infancy;
  And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die,
  Is sure enough to make a mortal man
  Grow impious.
  
  " So he inwardly began
  On things for which no wording can be found;
  Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd
  Beyond the reach of music: for the choir
  Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough briar
  Nor muffling thicket interpos'd to dull
  The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full,
  Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.
  
  He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles,
  Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight
  By chilly finger'd spring.
  
  "Unhappy wight!
  Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here!
  What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?
  
  "
  Then he embrac'd her, and his lady's hand
  Press'd, saying:" Sister, I would have command,
  If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate.
  
  "
  At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate
  And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love,
  To Endymion's amaze: "By Cupid's dove,
  And so thou shalt! and by the lily truth
  Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth!"
  And as she spake, into her face there came
  Light, as reflected from a silver flame:
  Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in display
  Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day
  Dawn'd blue and full of love.
  
  Aye, he beheld
  Phoebe, his passion! joyous she upheld
  Her lucid bow, continuing thus; "Drear, drear
  Has our delaying been; but foolish fear
  Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate;
  And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state
  Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd for change
  Be spiritualiz'd.
  
  Peona, we shall range
  These forests, and to thee they safe shall be
  As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee
  To meet us many a time.
  
  " Next Cynthia bright
  Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night:
  Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown
  Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon.
  
  She gave her fair hands to him, and behold,
  Before three swiftest kisses he had told,
  They vanish'd far away!—Peona went
  Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment.
  
  (line 2): This line originally began with 'O Mountain-born in the draft, where also 'while' stands cancelled in favour of 'by.
  
  '
  (line 158): Keats has been supposed to have invented the variant 'spry' for 'spray' for convenience of rhyming, just as Shelley has been accused of inventing for like reasons the word 'uprest', for example, in Laon And Cythna, Canto III, Stanza xxi.
  
  Sandys, the translator of Ovid, may not be a very good authority; but he is not improbably Keats's authority for 'spry', and will certainly do in default of a better.
  
  (line 273): The biblical dissyllabic form 'mayest' is clearly used by deliberate preference, for the line originally stood thus in the draft :
  And I have told thee all that thou canst hear.
  
  (line 298): Remember'd from its velvet summer song : The gentleness of summer wind seems to have been a cherished idea with Keats.
  
  Compare with Sleep And Poetry, line 1 --
  'What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
  
  '
  (line 585): This was originally a short line consisting of the words "Thine illuminings" alone.
  
  The whole stanza, .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  was sent by Keats to his friend Baily for his "vote, pro or con," in a letter dated the 22nd of November 1817.
  
  (line 668): An imagination in which Hunt would have found it difficult to discover the reality; but probably Keats had never seen the miserable platform of dry twigs that serves for "a dove's nest among summer trees.
  
  "
  (line 672): Endymion's imaginary home and employments as pictured in the next fifty lines may be compared with Shelley's AEgean island described so wonderfully in Epipsychidion.
  
  Both passages are thoroughly characteristic; and they show the divergence between the modes of thought and sentiment of the two men in a very marked way.
  
  (line 885-86): A curious importation from Hebrew theology into a subject from Greek mythology.
  
  Compare St.
  
  Matthew, X, 29: "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?
  
  and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father.
  
  " Or, as made familiar to our childhood by the popular hymn-wright,---
  'A little sparrow cannot fall,
  Unnoticed, Lord, by Thee.
  
  '
  In the finished manuscript the word "kist" occurs twice instead of "kiss'd" as in the first edition; but "bless'd" is not similarly transformed to "blest.
  
  "
  At the end of the draft Keats wrote "Burford Bridge Nov.
  
  28, 1817--".
  
  The imprint of Endymion is as follows:-- T.
  
  Miller, Printer, Noble Street, Cheapside.

• Epistle To John Hamilton Reynolds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Dear Reynolds, as last night I lay in bed,
  There came before my eyes that wonted thread
  Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances,
  That every other minute vex and please:
  Things all disjointed come from north and south,--
  Two witch's eyes above a cherub's mouth,
  Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon,
  And Alexander with his nightcap on;
  Old Socrates a-tying his cravat,
  And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's cat;
  And Junius Brutus, pretty well so-so,
  Making the best of's way towards Soho.
  
  Few are there who escape these visitings--
  Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings,
  And through whose curtains peeps no hellish nose,
  No wild-boar tushes, and no mermaid's toes;
  But flowers bursting out with lusty pride,
  And young AEolian harps personified;
  Some Titian colours touch'd into real life,--
  The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife
  Gleams in the sun, the milk-white heifer lows,
  The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows:
  A white sail shows above the green-head cliff,
  Moves round the point, and throws her anchor stiff;
  The mariners join hymn with those on land.
  
  You know the Enchanted Castle -- it doth stand
  Upon a rock on the border of a lake,
  Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake
  From some old magic like Urganda's sword.
  
  O Phoebus! that I had thy sacred word
  To show this Castle in fair dreaming wise
  Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies!
  You know it well enough, where it doth seem
  A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream;
  You know the clear lake, and the little isles,
  The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour rills--
  All which elsewhere are but half animate,
  Here do they look alive to love and hate,
  To smiles and frowns; they seem a lifted mound
  Above some giant, pulsing underground.
  
  Part of the building was a chosen See
  Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee;
  The other part, two thousand years from him,
  Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim;
  Then there's a little wing, far from the sun,
  Built by a Lapland witch turn'd maudlin nun;
  And many other juts of aged stone
  Founded with many a mason-devil's groan.
  
  The doors all look as if they op'd themselves,
  The windows as if latch'd by fays and elves,
  And from them comes a silver flash of light
  As from the westward of a summer's night;
  Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes
  Gone mad through olden songs and poesies.
  
  See what is coming from the distance dim!
  A golden galley all in silken trim!
  Three rows of oars are lightening, moment whiles,
  Into the verdurous bosoms of those isles;
  Towards the shade under the Castle wall
  It comes in silence -- now 'tis hidden all.
  
  The clarion sounds, and from a postern-gate
  An echo of sweet music doth create
  A fear in the poor herdsman who doth bring
  His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring,--
  He tells of the sweet music and the spot
  To all his friends, and they believe him not.
  
  O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake,
  Would all their colours from the sunset take:
  From something of material sublime,
  Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time
  In the dark void of night.
  
  For in the world
  We jostle- but my flag is not unfurl'd
  On the Admiral-staff -- and to philosophize
  I dare not yet! Oh, never will the prize,
  High reason, and the lore of good and ill,
  Be my award! Things cannot to the will
  Be settled, but they tease us out of thought;
  Or is it that Imagination brought
  Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
  Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,
  Cannot refer to any standard law
  Of either earth or heaven?
  
  It is a flaw
  In happiness to see beyond our bourn,--
  It forces us in summer skies to mourn,
  It spoils the singing of the Nightingale.
  
  Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale
  And cannot speak it.
  
  The first page I read
  Upon a lampit rock of green sea-weed
  Among the breakers; 'twas a quiet eve,
  The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave
  An untumultuous fringe of silver foam
  Along the flat brown sand; I was at home
  And should have been most happy,-- but I saw
  Too far into the sea, where every maw
  The greater on the less feeds evermore.
  
  --
  But I saw too distinct into the core
  Of an eternal fierce destruction,
  And so from happiness I far was gone.
  
  Still am I sick of it, and though to-day
  I've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay
  Of periwinkle and wild strawberry,
  Still do I that most fierce destruction see,--
  The Shark at savage prey, the Hawk at pounce,--
  The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,
  Ravening a worm -- Away, ye horrid moods!
  Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well.
  
  You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell
  To some Kamschatcan Missionary Church,
  Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.
  
  Do you get health -- and Tom the same -- I'll dance,
  And from detested moods in new Romance
  Take refuge.
  
  Of bad lines a Centaine dose
  Is sure enough -- and so "here follows prose.
  
  "
  'This epistle with a few lines of introduction in prose was written at Teignmouth, and is dated the 25 of March 1818 in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  where it first appeared.
  
  Keats says to his friend --
  "In hopes of cheering you through a minute or two, I was determined, will he nill he, to send you some lines, so you will excuse the unconnected subject and careless verse.
  
  You know, I am sure, Claude's 'Enchanted Castle,' and I wish you may be pleased with my remembrance of it.
  
  "
  Some thirty years ago this picture emerged from Lord Overstone's collection at Wickham Park, Bromley, and was exhibited at the British Institution.
  
  It was a favourite in Keats's circle.
  
  Hunt, in Imagination and Fancy, says of the "perilous seas in faery lands forlorn" passage in the Ode to a Nightingale, "This beats Claude's Enchanted Castle, and the story of King Beder in the Arabian Nights.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Epistle To My Brother George Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Full many a dreary hour have I past,
  My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
  With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
  No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
  From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
  On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
  Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
  Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
  That I should never hear Apollo's song,
  Though feathery clouds were floating all along
  The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
  The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
  That the still murmur of the honey bee
  Would never teach a rural song to me:
  That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
  Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
  Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
  Some tale of love and arms in time of old.
  
  But there are times, when those that love the bay,
  Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
  A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
  In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
  
  It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
  (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
  That when a Poet is in such a trance,
  In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
  Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
  Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
  And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
  Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
  When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
  Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
  
  When these enchanted portals open wide,
  And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
  The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
  And view the glory of their festivals:
  Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
  Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
  Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
  Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
  And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
  Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
  
  Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
  Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
  And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
  'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
  
  All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
  Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
  As gracefully descending, light and thin,
  Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
  When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
  And sports with half his tail above the waves.
  
  These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
  Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
  
  Should he upon an evening ramble fare
  With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
  Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
  With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
  
  Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
  Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
  And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
  Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
  
  Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
  The revelries and mysteries of night:
  And should I ever see them, I will tell you
  Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.
  
  These are the living pleasures of the bard:
  But richer far posterity's reward.
  
  What does he murmur with his latest breath,
  While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
  
  "What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
  Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
  With after times.
  
  —The patriot shall feel
  My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
  Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
  To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
  
  The sage will mingle with each moral theme
  My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
  With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
  And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
  
  Lays have I left of such a dear delight
  That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
  
  Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
  When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
  And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
  And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
  Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
  Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
  For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
  Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
  Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
  A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
  Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
  A little book,—and then a joy awakes
  About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
  And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
  For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
  One that I fostered in my youthful years:
  The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
  Must ever and anon with silent creep,
  Lured by the innocent dimples.
  
  To sweet rest
  Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
  Be lulled with songs of mine.
  
  Fair world, adieu!
  Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
  Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
  Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
  
  Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
  That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
  And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
  Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
  For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
  Happier, and dearer to society.
  
  At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
  When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
  Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
  Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
  
  As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
  I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
  
  Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
  Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
  Of scribbling lines for you.
  
  These things I thought
  While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
  
  E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
  That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
  Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
  Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
  
  On one side is a field of drooping oats,
  Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
  So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
  The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
  
  And on the other side, outspread, is seen
  Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
  
  Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
  Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
  
  I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest,
  And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
  For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
  His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
  
  Now I direct my eyes into the west,
  Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
  Why westward turn?
  
  'Twas but to say adieu!
  'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
  Written in August, 1816.

• Extracts From An Opera Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O! were I one of the Olympian twelve,
  Their godships should pass this into law,--
  That when a man doth set himself in toil
  After some beauty veiled far away,
  Each step he took should make his lady's hand
  More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more fair;
  And for each briar-berry he might eat,
  A kiss should bud upon the tree of love,
  And pulp and ripen richer every hour,
  To melt away upon the traveller's lips.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  1.
  
  The sun, with his great eye,
  Sees not so much as I;
  And the moon, all silve-proud,
  Might as well be in a cloud.
  
  2.
  
  And O the spring -- the spring!
  I lead the life of a king!
  Couch'd in the teeming grass,
  I spy each pretty lass.
  
  3.
  
  I look where no one dares,
  And I stare where no one stares,
  And when the night is nigh,
  Lambs bleat my lullaby.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  Folly's Song.
  
  When wedding fiddles are a-playing,
  Huzza for folly O!
  And when maidens go a-Maying,
  Huzza for folly O!
  When a milk-pail is upset,
  Huzza for folly O!
  And the clothes left in the wet,
  Huzza for folly O!
  When the barrel's set abroach,
  Huzza for folly O!
  When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach,
  Huzza for folly O!
  When the pig is over-roasted,
  Huzza for folly O!
  And the cheese is over-toasted,
  Huzza for folly O!
  When Sir Snap is with his lawyer,
  Huzza for folly O!
  And Miss Chap has kiss'd the sawyer,
  Huzza for folly O!
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  Oh, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts!
  Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's,
  Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl;
  Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know,
  Not longer than the May-fly's small fan-horns;
  There may not be one dimple on her hand;
  And freckles many; ah! a careless nurse,
  In haste to teach the little thing to walk,
  May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs,
  And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  Song.
  
  1.
  
  The stranger lighted from his steed,
  And ere he spake a word,
  He seiz'd my lady's lily hand,
  And kiss'd it all unheard.
  
  2.
  
  The stranger walk'd into the hall,
  And ere he spake a word,
  He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips,
  And kiss'd 'em all unheard.
  
  3.
  
  The stranger walk'd into the bower,--
  But my lady first did go,--
  Aye hand in hand into the bower,
  Where my lord's roses blow.
  
  4.
  
  My lady's maid had a silken scarf,
  And a golden ring had she,
  And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went
  Again on his fair palfrey.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
  And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
  And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
  And let me breathe into the happy air,
  That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
  Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
  My sudden adoration, my great love!
  'First given among the Literary Remains in Volume II of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), and assigned to the year 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Faery Songs Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
  The flower will bloom another year.
  
  Weep no more! oh, weep no more!
  Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
  
  Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes!
  For I was taught in Paradise
  To ease my breast of melodies,--
  Shed no tear.
  
  Overhead! look overhead!
  'Mong the blossoms white and red--
  Look up, look up! I flutter now
  On this fresh pomegranate bough.
  
  See me! 'tis this silvery bill
  Ever cures the good man's ill.
  
  Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear!
  The flower will bloom another year.
  
  Adieu, adieu -- I fly -- adieu!
  I vanish in the heaven’s blue,--
  Adieu, adieu!
  II.
  
  Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!
  That I must chant thy lady's dirge,
  And death to this fair haunt of spring,
  Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,--
  Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!
  That I must see
  These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall!
  Go, pretty page! and in her ear
  Whisper that the hour is near!
  Softly tell her not to fear
  Such calm favonian burial!
  Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,--
  The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
  And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice
  Upon her closed eyes,
  That now in vain are weeping their last tears,
  At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green,--
  Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres,
  Alas! poor Queen!
  'These two songs appeared in the Life, Letters &c (1848) among the Literary Remains; and a fac-simile of the manuscript of No.
  
  1 was inserted in the second volume by way of frontispiece.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Fancy Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Ever let the Fancy roam,
  Pleasure never is at home:
  At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
  Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
  Then let winged Fancy wander
  Through the thought still spread beyond her:
  Open wide the mind's cage-door,
  She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
  
  O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
  Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
  And the enjoying of the Spring
  Fades as does its blossoming;
  Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
  Blushing through the mist and dew,
  Cloys with tasting: What do then?
  
  Sit thee by the ingle, when
  The sear faggot blazes bright,
  Spirit of a winter's night;
  When the soundless earth is muffled,
  And the caked snow is shuffled
  From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
  When the Night doth meet the Noon
  In a dark conspiracy
  To banish Even from her sky.
  
  Sit thee there, and send abroad,
  With a mind self-overaw'd,
  Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her!
  She has vassals to attend her:
  She will bring, in spite of frost,
  Beauties that the earth hath lost;
  She will bring thee, all together,
  All delights of summer weather;
  All the buds and bells of May,
  From dewy sward or thorny spray;
  All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
  With a still, mysterious stealth:
  She will mix these pleasures up
  Like three fit wines in a cup,
  And thou shalt quaff it:—thou shalt hear
  Distant harvest-carols clear;
  Rustle of the reaped corn;
  Sweet birds antheming the morn:
  And, in the same moment, hark!
  'Tis the early April lark,
  Or the rooks, with busy caw,
  Foraging for sticks and straw.
  
  Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
  The daisy and the marigold;
  White-plum'd lillies, and the first
  Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
  Shaded hyacinth, alway
  Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
  And every leaf, and every flower
  Pearled with the self-same shower.
  
  Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
  Meagre from its celled sleep;
  And the snake all winter-thin
  Cast on sunny bank its skin;
  Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
  Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
  When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
  Quiet on her mossy nest;
  Then the hurry and alarm
  When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
  Acorns ripe down-pattering,
  While the autumn breezes sing.
  
  Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
  Every thing is spoilt by use:
  Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
  Too much gaz'd at?
  
  Where's the maid
  Whose lip mature is ever new?
  
  Where's the eye, however blue,
  Doth not weary?
  
  Where's the face
  One would meet in every place?
  
  Where's the voice, however soft,
  One would hear so very oft?
  
  At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
  Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
  
  Let, then, winged Fancy find
  Thee a mistress to thy mind:
  Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter,
  Ere the God of Torment taught her
  How to frown and how to chide;
  With a waist and with a side
  White as Hebe's, when her zone
  Slipt its golden clasp, and down
  Fell her kirtle to her feet,
  While she held the goblet sweet
  And Jove grew languid.
  
  —Break the mesh
  Of the Fancy's silken leash;
  Quickly break her prison-string
  And such joys as these she'll bring.
  
  —
  Let the winged Fancy roam,
  Pleasure never is at home.

• Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Fill for me a brimming bowl
  And in it let me drown my soul:
  But put therein some drug, designed
  To Banish Women from my mind:
  For I want not the stream inspiring
  That fills the mind with—fond desiring,
  But I want as deep a draught
  As e'er from Lethe's wave was quaff'd;
  From my despairing heart to charm
  The Image of the fairest form
  That e'er my reveling eyes beheld,
  That e'er my wandering fancy spell'd.
  
  In vain! away I cannot chace
  The melting softness of that face,
  The beaminess of those bright eyes,
  That breast—earth's only Paradise.
  
  My sight will never more be blest;
  For all I see has lost its zest:
  Nor with delight can I explore,
  The Classic page, or Muse's lore.
  
  Had she but known how beat my heart,
  And with one smile reliev'd its smart
  I should have felt a sweet relief,
  I should have felt ``the joy of grief.
  
  ''
  Yet as the Tuscan mid the snow
  Of Lapland dreams on sweet Arno,
  Even so for ever shall she be
  The Halo of my Memory.

• Fragment Of "The Castle Builder" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  To-night I'll have my friar -- let me think
  About my room, -- I'll have it in the pink;
  It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
  Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
  Should look thro' four large windows and display
  Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way,
  Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor;
  The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
  To see what else the moon alone can show;
  While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
  My terrace is well bower'd with oranges.
  
  Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
  A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove
  Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love;
  A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
  All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair;
  A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon
  A glorious folio of Anacreon;
  A skull upon a mat of roses lying,
  Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying;
  An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
  Of passion-flower; -- just in time there sails
  A cloud across the moon, -- the lights bring in!
  And see what more my phantasy can win.
  
  It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad;
  The draperies are so, as tho' they had
  Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet;
  And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet
  A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face,
  In letters raven-sombre, you may trace
  Old "Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin.
  
  "
  Greek busts and statuary have ever been
  Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far
  Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar;
  Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste
  That I should rather love a Gothic waste
  Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay,
  Than on the marble fairness of old Greece.
  
  My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece
  And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought,
  Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.
  
  My ebon sofas should delicious be
  With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
  
  My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
  Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new,
  Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence.
  
  My wine -- O good! 'tis here at my desire,
  And I must sit to supper with my friar.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  'This is the third of the undated fragments at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Fragment Of An Ode To Maia. Written On May Day 1818 Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!
  May I sing to thee
  As thou wast hymned on the shores of Baiae?
  
  Or may I woo thee
  In earlier Sicilian?
  
  or thy smiles
  Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles,
  By bards who died content on pleasant sward,
  Leaving great verse unto a little clan?
  
  O give me their old vigour! and unheard
  Save of the quiet primrose, and the span
  Of heaven, and few ears,
  Rounded by thee, my song should die away
  Content as theirs,
  Rich in the simple worship of a day.
  
  'First given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848) in a letter to Reynolds from Teignmouth, dated the 3rd of May 1818, wherein Keats says --
  "it is impossible to know how far knowledge will console us for the death of a friend, and the 'ills that flesh is heir to.
  
  ' With respect to the affections and poetry, you must know by sympathy my thoughts that way, and I dare say these few lines will be but a ratification.
  
  I wrote them on May-day, and intend to finish the ode all in good time.
  
  "
  Lord Houghton observes,-- "It is much to be regretted he did not finish this Ode; this commencement is in his best manner: the sentiment and expression perfect, as every traveller in modern Greece will recognize.
  
  "  An Ode so propitiously begun would, if completed, have been a worthy ending for the Devonshire series, though including what I believe I am not alone in regarding as Keats's masterpiece, -- Isabella.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Fragment. Welcome Joy, And Welcome Sorrow Read Poem Log in to favourite

  "Under the flag
  Of each his faction, they to battle bring
  Their embryo atoms.
  
  " ~ Milton.
  
  Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
  Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather;
  Come to-day, and come to-morrow,
  I do love you both together!
  I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
  And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
  Fair and foul I love together.
  
  Meadows sweet where flames are under,
  And a giggle at a wonder;
  Visage sage at pantomine;
  Funeral, and steeple-chime;
  Infant playing with a skull;
  Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;
  Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
  Serpents in red roses hissing;
  Cleopatra regal-dress'd
  With the aspic at her breast;
  Dancing music, music sad,
  Both together, sane and mad;
  Muses bright and muses pale;
  Sombre Saturn, Momus hale;--
  Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
  Oh the sweetness of the pain!
  Muses bright, and muses pale,
  Bare your faces of the veil;
  Let me see; and let me write
  Of the day, and of the night -
  Both together: - let me slake
  All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
  Let my bower be of yew,
  Interwreath'd with myrtles new;
  Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
  And my couch a low grass-tomb.
  
  'This is the fourth of the undated fragments at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Fragment. Where's The Poet? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Where's the Poet?
  
  show him! show him,
  Muses nine! that I may know him.
  
  'Tis the man who with a man
  Is an equal, be he King,
  Or poorest of the beggar-clan
  Or any other wonderous thing
  A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
  'Tis the man who with a bird,
  Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
  All its instincts; he hath heard
  The Lion's roaring, and can tell
  What his horny throat expresseth,
  And to him the Tiger's yell
  Come articulate and presseth
  Or his ear like mother-tongue.
  
  'This is one of a group of undated fragments given at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Fragment: Modern Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  And what is love?
  
  It is a doll dress'd up
  For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
  A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
  That silly youth doth think to make itself
  Divine by loving, nad so goes on
  Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
  Till Miss's comb is made a perfect tiara,
  And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
  Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
  And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
  
  Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,
  If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
  It is no reason why such agonies
  Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
  
  Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
  The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
  That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.
  
  '"Modern Love" follows "Where's the Poet?
  
  " in the group of undated fragments at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Give Me Women, Wine, And Snuff Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Give me women, wine, and snuff
  Until I cry out "hold, enough!"
  You may do so sans objection
  Till the day of resurrection;
  For bless my beard they aye shall be
  My beloved Trinity.

• Hither, Hither, Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hither hither, love--
  'Tis a shady mead--
  Hither, hither, love!
  Let us feed and feed!
  Hither, hither, sweet--
  'Tis a cowslip bed--
  Hither, hither, sweet!
  'Tis with dew bespread!
  Hither, hither, dear
  By the breath of life,
  Hither, hither, dear!--
  Be the summer's wife!
  Though one moment's pleasure
  In one moment flies--
  Though the passion's treasure
  In one moment dies;--
  Yet it has not passed--
  Think how near, how near!--
  And while it doth last,
  Think how dear, how dear!
  Hither, hither, hither
  Love its boon has sent--
  If I die and wither
  I shall die content!

• Hymn To Apollo Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  God of the golden bow,
  And of the golden lyre,
  And of the golden hair,
  And of the golden fire,
  Charioteer
  Of the patient year,
  Where—-where slept thine ire,
  When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
  Thy laurel, thy glory,
  The light of thy story,
  Or was I a worm—-too low crawling for death?
  
  O Delphic Apollo!
  2.
  
  The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
  The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
  The eagle's feathery mane
  For wrath became stiffen'd—-the sound
  Of breeding thunder
  Went drowsily under,
  Muttering to be unbound.
  
  O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
  
  Why touch thy soft lute
  Till the thunder was mute,
  Why was I not crush'd—-such a pitiful germ?
  
  O Delphic Apollo!
  3.
  
  The Pleiades were up,
  Watching the silent air;
  The seeds and roots in Earth
  Were swelling for summer fare;
  The Ocean, its neighbour,
  Was at his old labour,
  When, who—-who did dare
  To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,
  And grin and look proudly,
  And blaspheme so loudly,
  And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?
  
  O Delphic Apollo!
  This also was first given in the Literary Remains in the second volume of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  1848, where it stood next to the Ode To Apollo, though undated.
  
  As Lord Houghton retains it between the Ode To Apollo and the stanzas To Hope (dated February 1815) in the chronological Aldine edition, the date February 1815 may be presumed to be that of the Hymn as well as that of the Ode.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Hyperion, A Vision: Attempted Reconstruction Of The Poem Read Poem Log in to favourite

  CANTO I.
  
  Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
  A paradise for a sect; the savage, too,
  From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
  Guesses at heaven; pity these have not
  Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
  The shadows of melodious utterance,
  But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
  For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,--
  With the fine spell of words alone can save
  Imagination from the sable chain
  And dumb enchantment.
  
  Who alive can say,
  "Thou art no Poet -- may'st not tell thy dreams?
  
  "
  Since every man whose soul is not a clod
  Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved,
  And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
  
  Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse
  Be poet's or fanatic's will be known
  When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the grave.
  
  Methought I stood where trees of every clime,
  Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,
  With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a screen,
  In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise
  Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch
  Of scent) not far from roses.
  
  Twining round
  I saw an arbour with a drooping roof
  Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,
  Like floral censers, swinging light in air;
  Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound
  Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,
  Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal
  By angel tasted or our Mother Eve;
  For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass,
  And grapestalks but half-bare, and remnants more
  Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.
  
  Still was more plenty than the fabled horn
  Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting,
  For Prosperine return'd to her own fields,
  Where the white heifers low.
  
  And appetite,
  More yearning than on earth I ever felt,
  Growing within, I ate deliciously,--
  And, after not long, thirsted; for thereby
  Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice
  Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took,
  And pledging all the mortals of the world,
  And all the dead whose names are in our lips,
  Drank.
  
  That full draught is parent of my theme.
  
  No Asian poppy nor elixir fine
  Of the soon-fading, jealous, Caliphat,
  No poison gender'd in close monkish cell,
  To thin the scarlet conclave of old men,
  Could so have rapt unwilling life away.
  
  Among the fragment husks and berries crush'd
  Upon the grass, I struggled hard against
  The domineering potion, but in vain.
  
  The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank,
  Like a Silenus on an antique vase.
  
  How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess.
  
  When sense of life return'd, I started up
  As if with wings, but the fair trees were gone,
  The mossy mound and arbour were no more;
  I look'd around upon the curved sides
  Of an old sanctuary, with roof august,
  Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds
  Might spread beneath as o'er the stars of heaven.
  
  So old the place was, I remember'd none
  The like upon the earth: what I had seen
  Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers,
  The superannuations of sunk realms,
  Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds,
  Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things
  To that eternal domed monument.
  
  Upon the marble at my feet there lay
  Store of strange vessels and large draperies,
  Which needs have been of dyed asbestos wove,
  Or in that place the moth could not corrupt,
  So white the linen, so, in some, distinct
  Ran imageries from a sombre loom.
  
  All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay
  Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish,
  Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
  
  Turning from these with awe, once more I raised
  My eyes to fathom the space every way:
  The embossed roof, the silent massy range
  Of columns north and south, ending in mist
  Of nothing; then to eastward, where black gates
  Were shut against the sunrise evermore;
  Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off
  An image, huge of feature as a cloud,
  At level of whose feet an altar slept,
  To be approach'd on either side by steps
  And marble balustrade, and patient travail
  To count with toil the innumerable degrees.
  
  Towards the altar sober-pac'd I went,
  Repressing haste as too unholy there;
  And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine
  One ministering; and there arose a flame
  When in mid-day the sickening east-wind
  Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
  Melts out of the frozen incense from all flowers,
  And fills the air with so much pleasant health
  That even the dying man forgets his shroud;--
  Even so that lofty sacrificial fire,
  Sending forth Maian incense, spread around
  Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
  And clouded all the altar with soft smoke;
  From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
  Language pronounc'd: "If thou canst not ascend
  These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
  
  Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust,
  Will parch for lack of nutriment; thy bones
  Will wither in few years, and vanish so
  That not the quickest eye could find a grain
  Of what thou now art on that pavement cold.
  
  The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
  And no hand in the universe can turn
  Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt
  Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.
  
  "
  I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once,
  So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny
  Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed.
  
  Prodigious seem'd the toil; the leaves were yet
  Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill
  Struck from the paved level up my limbs.
  
  And was ascending quick to put cold grasp
  Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat.
  
  I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek
  Stung my own ears; I strove hard to escape
  The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step.
  
  Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold
  Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart;
  And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not.
  
  One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd
  The lowest stair; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd
  To pour in at the toes; I mounted up
  As once fair angels on a ladder flew
  From the green turf to heaven.
  
  "Holy Power,"
  Cry'd I, approaching near the horned shrine,
  "What am I that another death come not
  To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here?
  
  "
  Then said the veiled shadow: "Thou hast felt
  What 'tis to die and live again before
  Thy fated hour; that thou hadst power to do so
  Is thine own safety; thou hast dated on
  Thy doom.
  
  " "High Prophetess," said I, "purge off,
  Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.
  
  "
  "None can usurp this height," return'd that shade,
  "But those to whom the miseries of the world
  Are misery, and will not let them rest.
  
  All else who find a haven in the world,
  Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,
  If by a chance into this fane they come,
  Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.
  
  "
  "Are there not thousands in the world," said I,
  Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
  "Who love their fellows even to the death,
  Who feel the giant agony of the world,
  And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
  Labour for mortal good?
  
  I sure should see
  Other men here, but I am here alone.
  
  "
  "Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,"
  Rejoin'd that voice; "they are no dreamers weak;
  They seek no wonder but the human face,
  No music but a happy-noted voice:
  They come not here, they have no thought to come;
  And thou art here, for thou art less than they.
  
  What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,
  To the great world?
  
  Thou art a dreaming thing,
  A fever of thyself: think of the earth;
  What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee?
  
  What haven?
  
  every creature hath its home,
  Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
  Whether his labours be sublime or low --
  The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct:
  Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
  Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
  
  Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared,
  Such things as thou art are admitted oft
  Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,
  And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause
  Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.
  
  "
  "That I am favour'd for unworthiness,
  But such propitious parley medicined
  In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,
  Aye, and could weep for love of such award.
  
  "
  So answer'd I, continuing, "If it please,
  Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,
  Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls;
  What image this whose face I cannot see
  For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,
  Of accent feminine so courteous?
  
  "
  Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd,
  Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath
  Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung
  About a golden censer from her hand
  Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed
  Long-treasured tears.
  
  "This temple, sad and lone,
  Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war
  Foughten long since by giant hierarchy
  Against rebellion: this old image here,
  Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,
  Is Saturn's; I, Moneta, left supreme,
  Sole goddess of this desolation.
  
  "
  I had no words to answer, for my tongue,
  Useless, could find about its roofed home
  No syllable of a fit majesty
  To make rejoinder of Moneta's mourn:
  There was a silence, while the altar's blaze
  Was fainting for sweet food.
  
  I look'd thereon,
  And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled
  Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps
  Of other crisped spicewood: then again
  I look'd upon the altar, and its horns
  Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame,
  And then upon the offerings again;
  And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cry'd:
  "The sacrifice is done, but not the less
  Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.
  
  My power, which to me is still a curse,
  Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes
  Still swooning vivid through my globbed brain,
  With an electral changing misery,
  Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold
  Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.
  
  "
  As near as an immortal's sphered words
  Could to a mother's soften were these last:
  And yet I had a terror of her robes,
  And chiefly of the veils that from her brow
  Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries,
  That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
  
  This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand
  Parted the veils.
  
  Then saw I a wan face,
  Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd
  By an immortal sickness which kills not;
  It works a constant change, which happy death
  Can put no end to; deathwards progressing
  To no death was that visage; it had past
  The lilly and the snow; and beyond these
  I must not think now, though I saw that face.
  
  But for her eyes I should have fled away;
  They held me back with a benignant light,
  Soft, mitigated by divinest lids
  Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd
  Of all external things; they saw me not,
  But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild moon,
  Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not
  What eyes are upward cast.
  
  As I had found
  A grain of gold upon a mountain's side,
  And, twing'd with avarice, strain'd out my eyes
  To search its sullen entrails rich with ore,
  So, at the sad view of Moneta's brow,
  I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow
  Behind environ'd: what high tragedy
  In the dark secret chambers of her skull
  Was acting, that could give so dread a stress
  To her cold lips, and fill with such a light
  Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice
  With such a sorrow?
  
  "Shade of Memory!"
  Cried I, with act adorant at her feet,
  "By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house,
  By this last temple, by the golden age,
  By Great Apollo, thy dear Foster-child,
  And by thyself, forlorn divinity,
  The pale Omega of a wither'd race,
  Let me behold, according as thou saidst,
  What in thy brain so ferments to and fro!"
  No sooner had this conjuration past
  My devout lips, than side by side we stood
  (Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine)
  Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
  Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
  Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star.
  
  Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs,
  And saw what first I thought an image huge,
  Like to the image pedestall'd so high
  In Saturn's temple; then Moneta's voice
  Came brief upon mine ear.
  
  "So Saturn sat
  When he had lost his realms;" whereon there grew
  A power within me of enormous ken
  To see as a god sees, and take the depth
  Of things as nimbly as the outward eye
  Can size and shape pervade.
  
  The lofty theme
  Of those few words hung vast before my mind
  With half-unravell'd web.
  
  I sat myself
  Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see,
  And seeing ne'er forget.
  
  No stir of life
  Was in this shrouded vale, -- not so much air
  As in the zoning of a summer's day
  Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass;
  But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest.
  
  A stream went noiseless by, still deaden'd more
  By reason of the fallen divinity
  Spreading more shade; the Naiad 'mid her reeds
  Prest her cold finger closer to her lips.
  
  Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went
  No further than to where old Saturn's feet
  Had rested, and there slept how long a sleep!
  Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground
  His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
  Unsceptred, and his realmless eyes were closed;
  While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth,
  His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
  
  It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
  But there came one who, with a kindred hand,
  Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
  With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
  
  Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne,
  And griev'd I hearken'd.
  
  "That divinity
  Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood,
  And with slow pace approach our fallen king,
  Is Thea, softest-natured of our brood.
  
  "
  I mark'd the Goddess, in fair statuary
  Surpassing wan Moneta by the head,
  And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears.
  
  There was a list'ning fear in her regard,
  As if calamity had but begun;
  As if the venom'd clouds of evil days
  Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
  Was with its stored thunder labouring up,
  One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
  Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
  Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain;
  The other upon Saturn's bended neck
  She laid, and to the level of his ear
  Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke
  In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone;
  Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
  Would come in this like accenting; how frail
  To that large utterance of the early gods!
  "Saturn, look up! and for what, poor lost king?
  
  I have no comfort for thee; no, not one;
  I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou?
  
  For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth
  Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a god.
  
  The Ocean, too, with all its solemn noise,
  Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
  Is emptied of thy hoary majesty.
  
  Thy thunder, captious at the new command,
  Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
  And thy sharp lightning, in unpractis'd hands,
  Scourges and burns our once serene domain.
  
  "With such remorseless speed still come new woes,
  That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
  
  Saturn! sleep on: me thoughtless, why should I
  Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
  
  Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
  
  Saturn! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.
  
  "
  As when upon a tranced summer-night
  Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
  Dream, and so dream all night without a noise,
  Save from one gradual solitary gust
  Swelling upon the silence, dying off,
  As if the ebbing air had but one wave,
  So came these words and went; the while in tears
  She prest her fair large forehead to the earth,
  Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls,
  A soft and silken net for Saturn's feet.
  
  Long, long these two were postured motionless,
  Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave
  Or their own power.
  
  A long awful time
  I look'd upon them: still they were the same;
  The frozen God still bending to the earth,
  And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet;
  Moneta silent.
  
  Without stay or prop
  But my own weak mortality, I bore
  The load of this eternal quietude,
  The unchanging gloom and the three fixed shapes
  Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon;
  For by my burning brain I measured sure
  Her silver seasons shedded on the night.
  
  And every day by day methought I grew
  More gaunt and ghostly.
  
  Oftentimes I pray'd
  Intense, that death would take me from the vale
  And all its burthens; gasping with despair
  Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself,
  Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes,
  And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone,
  And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
  And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet.
  
  As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves,
  Fills forest-dells with a pervading air,
  Known to the woodland nostril, so the words
  Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around,
  Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks,
  And to the windings of the foxes' hole,
  With sad, low tones, while thus he spoke, and sent
  Strange moanings to the solitary Pan.
  
  "Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd up
  And buried from all godlike exercise
  Of influence benign on planets pale,
  And peaceful sway upon man's harvesting,
  And all those acts which Deity supreme
  Doth ease its heart of love in.
  
  Moan and wail;
  Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres
  Spin round; the stars their ancient courses keep;
  Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth,
  Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon;
  Still buds the tree, and still the seashores murmur;
  There is no death in all the universe,
  No smell of death.
  
  -- There shall be death.
  
  Moan, moan,
  Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious babes
  Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice.
  
  Oh! Oh! the pain, the pain of feebleness;
  Moan, moan, for still I thaw; or give me help;
  Throw down those imps, and give me victory.
  
  Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown
  Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival,
  From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled clouds;
  Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
  Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
  Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
  Of the sky-children.
  
  "  So he feebly ceased,
  With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause,
  Methought I heard some old man of the earth
  Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
  And ears act with that unison of sense
  Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
  And dolorous accent from a tragic harp
  With large-limb'd visions.
  
  More I scrutinized.
  
  Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees,
  Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms
  With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there
  (Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie
  To what I erewhile heard: only his lips
  Trembled amid the white curls of his beard;
  They told the truth, though round the snowy locks
  Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven
  A mid-day fleece of clouds.
  
  Thea arose,
  And stretcht her white arm through the hollow dark,
  Pointing some whither: whereat he too rose,
  Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea
  To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight.
  
  They melted from my sight into the woods;
  Ere I could turn, Moneta cry'd, "These twain
  Are speeding to the families of grief,
  Where, rooft in by black rocks, they waste in pain
  And darkness, for no hope.
  
  "  And she spake on,
  As ye may read who can unwearied pass
  Onward from the antechamber of this dream,
  Where, even at the open doors, awhile
  I must delay, and glean my memory
  Of her high phrase -- perhaps no further dare.
  
  CANTO II.
  
  "Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright,
  I humanize my sayings to thine ear,
  Making comparisons of earthly things;
  Or thou might'st better listen to the wind,
  Whose language is to thee a barren noise,
  Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees.
  
  In melancholy realms big tears are shed,
  More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
  Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe.
  
  The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound,
  Groan for the old allegiance once more,
  Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice.
  
  But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps
  His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty:
  Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
  Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up
  From Man to the Sun's God -- yet insecure.
  
  For as upon the earth dire prodigies
  Fright and perplex, so also shudders he;
  Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's hated screech,
  Or the familiar visiting of one
  Upon the first toll of his passing bell,
  Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
  But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve,
  Make great Hyperion ache.
  
  His palace bright,
  Bastion'd with pyramids of shining gold,
  And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
  Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts,
  Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
  And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
  Flash angerly; when he would taste the wreaths
  Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills,
  Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes
  Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick;
  Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West,
  After the full completion of fair day,
  For rest divine upon exalted couch,
  And slumber in the arms of melody,
  He paces through the pleasant hours of ease,
  With strides colossal, on from hall to hall,
  While far within each aisle and deep recess
  His winged minions in close clusters stand
  Amaz'd, and full of fear; like anxious men,
  Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops,
  When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
  
  Even now where Saturn, rous'd from icy trance,
  Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods,
  Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
  Is sloping to the threshold of the West.
  
  Thither we tend.
  
  "  Now in the clear light I stood,
  Reliev'd from the dusk vale.
  
  Mnemosyne
  Was sitting on a square-edg'd polish'd stone,
  That in its lucid depth reflected pure
  Her priestess' garments.
  
  My quick eyes ran on
  From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
  Through bow'rs of fragrant and enwreathed light,
  And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades.
  
  Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion;
  His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
  And gave a roar as if of earthy fire,
  That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours,
  And made their dove-wings tremble.
  
  On he flared.
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

• Hyperion. Book I Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
  Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
  Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
  Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
  Still as the silence round about his lair;
  Forest on forest hung about his head
  Like cloud on cloud.
  
  No stir of air was there,
  Not so much life as on a summer's day
  Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
  But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
  
  A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
  By reason of his fallen divinity
  Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
  Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.
  
  Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
  No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
  And slept there since.
  
  Upon the sodden ground
  His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
  Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
  While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth,
  His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
  
  It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
  But there came one, who with a kindred hand
  Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
  With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
  
  She was a Goddess of the infant world;
  By her in stature the tall Amazon
  Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en
  Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;
  Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
  
  Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
  Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,
  When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore.
  
  But oh! how unlike marble was that face:
  How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
  Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
  
  There was a listening fear in her regard,
  As if calamity had but begun;
  As if the vanward clouds of evil days
  Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
  Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
  
  One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
  Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
  Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:
  The other upon Saturn's bended neck
  She laid, and to the level of his ear
  Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
  In solemn tenor and deep organ tone:
  Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
  Would come in these like accents; O how frail
  To that large utterance of the early Gods!
  "Saturn, look up!—-though wherefore, poor old King?
  
  I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
  I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou?
  
  '
  For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
  Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
  And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
  Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
  Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
  
  Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
  Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
  And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands
  Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
  
  O aching time! O moments big as years!
  All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
  And press it so upon our weary griefs
  That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
  
  Saturn, sleep on:—-O thoughtless, why did I
  Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
  
  Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
  
  Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep.
  
  "
  As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
  Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
  Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
  Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
  Save from one gradual solitary gust
  Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
  As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
  So came these words and went; the while in tears
  She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground,
  Just where her fallen hair might be outspread
  A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
  
  One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
  Her silver seasons four upon the night,
  And still these two were postured motionless,
  Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern;
  The frozen God still couchant on the earth,
  And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet:
  Until at length old Saturn lifted up
  His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,
  And all the gloom and sorrow ofthe place,
  And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then spake,
  As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
  Shook horrid with such aspen-malady:
  "O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
  Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;
  Look up, and let me see our doom in it;
  Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
  Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice
  Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,
  Naked and bare of its great diadem,
  Peers like the front of Saturn?
  
  Who had power
  To make me desolate?
  
  Whence came the strength?
  
  How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth,
  While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp?
  
  But it is so; and I am smother'd up,
  And buried from all godlike exercise
  Of influence benign on planets pale,
  Of admonitions to the winds and seas,
  Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
  And all those acts which Deity supreme
  Doth ease its heart of love in.
  
  —-I am gone
  Away from my own bosom: I have left
  My strong identity, my real self,
  Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
  Here on this spot of earth.
  
  Search, Thea, search!
  Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
  Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of light;
  Space region'd with life-air; and barren void;
  Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.
  
  —-
  Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
  A certain shape or shadow, making way
  With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
  A heaven he lost erewhile: it must—-it must
  Be of ripe progress—-Saturn must be King.
  
  Yes, there must be a golden victory;
  There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
  Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
  Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,
  Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
  Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
  Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
  Of the sky-children; I will give command:
  Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?
  
  "
  This passion lifted him upon his feet,
  And made his hands to struggle in the air,
  His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
  His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.
  
  He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep;
  A little time, and then again he snatch'd
  Utterance thus.
  
  —-"But cannot I create?
  
  Cannot I form?
  
  Cannot I fashion forth
  Another world, another universe,
  To overbear and crumble this to nought?
  
  Where is another Chaos?
  
  Where?
  
  "—-That word
  Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
  The rebel three.
  
  —-Thea was startled up,
  And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
  As thus she quick-voic'd spake, yet full of awe.
  
  "This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,
  O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;
  I know the covert, for thence came I hither.
  
  "
  Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
  With backward footing through the shade a space:
  He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way
  Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
  Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.
  
  Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
  More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
  Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe:
  The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
  Groan'd for the old allegiance once more,
  And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice.
  
  But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept
  His sov'reigny, and rule, and majesy;—-
  Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
  Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming up
  From man to the sun's God: yet unsecure:
  For as among us mortals omens drear
  Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he—-
  Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech,
  Or the familiar visiting of one
  Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,
  Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
  But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,
  Oft made Hyperion ache.
  
  His palace bright,
  Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold,
  And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
  Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
  Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
  And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
  Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagles' wings,
  Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
  Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds were heard
  Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
  
  Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths
  Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills,
  Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
  Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick:
  And so, when harbor'd in the sleepy west,
  After the full completion of fair day,—-
  For rest divine upon exalted couch,
  And slumber in the arms of melody,
  He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease
  With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;
  While far within each aisle and deep recess,
  His winged minions in close clusters stood,
  Amaz'd and full offear; like anxious men
  Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
  When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
  
  Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy trance,
  Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
  Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
  Came slope upon the threshold of the west;
  Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope
  In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,
  Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
  And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies;
  And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
  In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
  That inlet to severe magnificence
  Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.
  
  He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath;
  His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
  And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
  That scar'd away the meek ethereal Hours
  And made their dove-wings tremble.
  
  On he flared
  From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
  Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
  And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
  Until he reach'd the great main cupola;
  There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
  And from the basements deep to the high towers
  Jarr'd his own golden region; and before
  The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas'd,
  His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
  To this result: "O dreams of day and night!
  O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain!
  O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!
  O lank-eared phantoms of black-weeded pools!
  Why do I know ye?
  
  why have I seen ye?
  
  why
  Is my eternal essence thus distraught
  To see and to behold these horrors new?
  
  Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?
  
  Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
  This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
  This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
  These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
  Of all my lucent empire?
  
  It is left
  Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
  
  The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry,
  I cannot see but darkness, death, and darkness.
  
  Even here, into my centre of repose,
  The shady visions come to domineer,
  Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.
  
  —-
  Fall!—-No, by Tellus and her briny robes!
  Over the fiery frontier of my realms
  I will advance a terrible right arm
  Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove,
  And bid old Saturn take his throne again.
  
  "—-
  He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat
  Held struggle with his throat but came not forth;
  For as in theatres of crowded men
  Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!"
  So at Hyperion's words the phantoms pale
  Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold;
  And from the mirror'd level where he stood
  A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.
  
  At this, through all his bulk an agony
  Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown,
  Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
  Making slow way, with head and neck convuls'd
  From over-strained might.
  
  Releas'd, he fled
  To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours
  Before the dawn in season due should blush,
  He breath'd fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
  Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
  Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams.
  
  The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
  Each day from east to west the heavens through,
  Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds;
  Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid,
  But ever and anon the glancing spheres,
  Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
  Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark
  Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep
  Up to the zenith,—-hieroglyphics old,
  Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers
  Then living on the earth, with laboring thought
  Won from the gaze of many centuries:
  Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
  Of stone, or rnarble swart; their import gone,
  Their wisdom long since fled.
  
  —-Two wings this orb
  Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings,
  Ever exalted at the God's approach:
  And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
  Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were;
  While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse,
  Awaiting for Hyperion's command.
  
  Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
  And bid the day begin, if but for change.
  
  He might not:—-No, though a primeval God:
  The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd.
  
  Therefore the operations of the dawn
  Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told.
  
  Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
  Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide
  Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night
  And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes,
  Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent
  His spirit to the sorrow of the time;
  And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
  Upon the boundaries of day and night,
  He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint.
  
  There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
  Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice
  Of Coelus, from the universal space,
  Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear:
  "O brightest of my children dear, earth-born
  And sky-engendered, son of mysteries
  All unrevealed even to the powers
  Which met at thy creating; at whose joys
  And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,
  I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence;
  And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,
  Distinct, and visible; symbols divine,
  Manifestations of that beauteous life
  Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal space:
  Of these new-form'd art thou, O brightest child!
  Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses!
  There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion
  Of son against his sire.
  
  I saw him fall,
  I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne!
  To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
  Found way from forth the thunders round his head!
  Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.
  
  Art thou, too, near such doom?
  
  vague fear there is:
  For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.
  
  Divine ye were created, and divine
  In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd,
  Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv'd and ruled:
  Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath;
  Actions of rage and passion; even as
  I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
  In men who die.
  
  —-This is the grief, O son!
  Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall!
  Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
  As thou canst move about, an evident God;
  And canst oppose to each malignant hour
  Ethereal presence:—-I am but a voice;
  My life is but the life of winds and tides,
  No more than winds and tides can I avail:—-
  But thou canst.
  
  —-Be thou therefore in the van
  Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb
  Before the tense string murmur.
  
  —-To the earth!
  For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes.
  
  Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun,
  And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.
  
  "—-
  Ere half this region-whisper had come down,
  Hyperion arose, and on the stars
  Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
  Until it ceas'd; and still he kept them wide:
  And still they were the same bright, patient stars.
  
  Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
  Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
  Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore,
  And plung'd all noiseless into the deep night.
  
  'Lord Houghton records, on the authority of Brown, that "Hyperion" was begun after the death of Tom Keats, when the poet took up his residence at Wentworth Place.
  
  (line 14): It seems to me that the power of realization shown in the first decade, and indeed throughout the fragment, answers all objections to the subject, and is the most absolute security for the nobility of the result which Keats would have achieved had he finished the poem.
  
  It is impossible to over-estimate the value of such a landscape, so touched in with a few strokes of titanic meaning and completeness; and the whole sentiment of gigantic despair reflected around the fallen god of the Titan dynasty, and permeating the landscape, is resumed in the most perfect manner in the incident of the motionless fallen leaf, a line almost as intense and full of the essence of poetry as any line in our language.
  
  It were ungracious to take exception to the poor Naiad; but she has not the convincing appropriateness of the rest of this sublime opening.
  
  '
  (line 51): Leigh Hunt's remarks upon Keats's failure to finish the poem are specially appropriate to this passage, "If any living poet could finish this fragment, we believe it is the author himself.
  
  But perhaps he feels that he ought not.
  
  A story which involves passion, almost of necessity involves speech; and though we may well enough describe beings greater than ourselves by comparison, unfortunately we cannot make them speak by comparison.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Hyperion. Book II Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings
  Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
  And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place
  Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd.
  
  It was a den where no insulting light
  Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans
  They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
  Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
  Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
  
  Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd
  Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
  Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;
  And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
  Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.
  
  Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
  Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
  Stubborn'd with iron.
  
  All were not assembled:
  Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.
  
  Caus, and Gyges, and Briareus,
  Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,
  With many more, the brawniest in assault,
  Were pent in regions of laborious breath;
  Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep
  Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs
  Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd;
  Without a motion, save of their big hearts
  Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd
  With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
  
  Mnemosyne was straying in the world;
  Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered;
  And many else were free to roam abroad,
  But for the main, here found they covert drear.
  
  Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
  Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque
  Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor,
  When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
  In dull November, and their chancel vault,
  The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night.
  
  Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave
  Or word, or look, or action of despair.
  
  Creus was one; his ponderous iron mace
  Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock
  Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined.
  
  Iapetus another; in his grasp,
  A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue
  Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length
  Dead: and because the creature could not spit
  Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove.
  
  Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin uppermost,
  As though in pain; for still upon the flint
  He ground severe his skull, with open mouth
  And eyes at horrid working.
  
  Nearest him
  Asia, born of most enormous Caf,
  Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
  Though feminine, than any of her sons:
  More thought than woe was in her dusky face,
  For she was prophesying of her glory;
  And in her wide imagination stood
  Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes
  By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles.
  
  Even as Hope upon her anchor leans,
  So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk
  Shed from the broadest of her elephants.
  
  Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve,
  Upon his elbow rais'd, all prostrate else,
  Shadow'd Enceladus; once tame and mild
  As grazing ox unworried in the meads;
  Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth,
  He meditated, plotted, and even now
  Was hurling mountains in that second war,
  Not long delay'd, that scar'd the younger Gods
  To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird.
  
  Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone
  Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons.
  
  Neighbour'd close
  Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap
  Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair.
  
  In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet
  Of Ops the queen; all clouded round from sight,
  No shape distinguishable, more than when
  Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds:
  And many else whose names may not be told.
  
  For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread,
  Who shall delay her flight?
  
  And she must chaunt
  Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd
  With damp and slippery footing from a depth
  More horrid still.
  
  Above a sombre cliff
  Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew
  Till on the level height their steps found ease:
  Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms
  Upon the precincts of this nest of pain,
  And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face:
  There saw she direst strife; the supreme God
  At war with all the frailty of grief,
  Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,
  Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.
  
  Against these plagues he strove in vain; for Fate
  Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head,
  A disanointing poison: so that Thea,
  Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass
  First onwards in, among the fallen tribe.
  
  As with us mortal men, the laden heart
  Is persecuted more, and fever'd more,
  When it is nighing to the mournful house
  Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise;
  So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst,
  Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest,
  But that he met Enceladus's eye,
  Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once
  Came like an inspiration; and he shouted,
  "Titans, behold your God!" at which some groan'd;
  Some started on their feet; some also shouted;
  Some wept, some wail'd, all bow'd with reverence;
  And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil,
  Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan,
  Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes.
  
  There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines
  When Winter lifts his voice; there is a noise
  Among immortals when a God gives sign,
  With hushing finger, how he means to load
  His tongue with the filll weight of utterless thought,
  With thunder, and with music, and with pomp:
  Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines;
  Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world,
  No other sound succeeds; but ceasing here,
  Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom
  Grew up like organ, that begins anew
  Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short,
  Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly.
  
  Thus grew it up—-"Not in my own sad breast,
  Which is its own great judge and searcher out,
  Can I find reason why ye should be thus:
  Not in the legends of the first of days,
  Studied from that old spirit-leaved book
  Which starry Uranus with finger bright
  Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when the waves
  Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom;—-
  And the which book ye know I ever kept
  For my firm-based footstool:—-Ah, infirm!
  Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent
  Of element, earth, water, air, and fire,—-
  At war, at peace, or inter-quarreling
  One against one, or two, or three, or all
  Each several one against the other three,
  As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods
  Drown both, and press them both against earth's face,
  Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath
  Unhinges the poor world;—-not in that strife,
  Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep,
  Can I find reason why ye should be thus:
  No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search,
  And pore on Nature's universal scroll
  Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities,
  The first-born of all shap'd and palpable Gods,
  Should cower beneath what, in comparison,
  Is untremendous might.
  
  Yet ye are here,
  O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here!
  O Titans, shall I say 'Arise!'—-Ye groan:
  Shall I say 'Crouch!'—-Ye groan.
  
  What can I then?
  
  O Heaven wide! O unseen parent dear!
  What can I?
  
  Tell me, all ye brethren Gods,
  How we can war, how engine our great wrath!
  O speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear
  Is all a-hunger'd.
  
  Thou, Oceanus,
  Ponderest high and deep; and in thy face
  I see, astonied, that severe content
  Which comes of thought and musing: give us help!"
  So ended Saturn; and the God of the sea,
  Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove,
  But cogitation in his watery shades,
  Arose, with locks not oozy, and began,
  In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue
  Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands.
  
  "O ye, whom wrath consumes!  who, passion-stung,
  Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies!
  Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears,
  My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
  
  Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof
  How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop:
  And in the proof much comfort will I give,
  If ye will take that comfort in its truth.
  
  We fall by course of Nature's law, not force
  Of thunder, or of Jove.
  
  Great Saturn, thou
  Hast sifted well the atom-universe;
  But for this reason, that thou art the King,
  And only blind from sheer supremacy,
  One avenue was shaded from thine eyes,
  Through which I wandered to eternal truth.
  
  And first, as thou wast not the first of powers,
  So art thou not the last; it cannot be:
  Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
  
  From Chaos and parental Darkness came
  Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil,
  That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends
  Was ripening in itself.
  
  The ripe hour came,
  And with it Light, and Light, engendering
  Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd
  The whole enormous matter into life.
  
  Upon that very hour, our parentage,
  The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest:
  Then thou first born, and we the giant race,
  Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms.
  
  Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain;
  O folly! for to bear all naked truths,
  And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
  That is the top of sovereignty.
  
  Mark well!
  As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
  Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs;
  And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth
  In form and shape compact and beautiful,
  In will, in action free, companionship,
  And thousand other signs of purer life;
  So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
  A power more strong in beauty, born of us
  And fated to excel us, as we pass
  In glory that old Darkness: nor are we
  Thereby more conquer'd, than by us the rule
  Of shapeless Chaos.
  
  Say, doth the dull soil
  Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
  And feedeth still, more comely than itself?
  
  Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves?
  
  Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
  Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings
  To wander wherewithal and find its joys?
  
  We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
  Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
  But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower
  Above us in their beauty, and must reign
  In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law
  That first in beauty should be first in might:
  Yea, by that law, another race may drive
  Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
  
  Have ye beheld the young God of the seas,
  My dispossessor?
  
  Have ye seen his face?
  
  Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along
  By noble winged creatures he hath made?
  
  I saw him on the calmed waters scud,
  With such a glow of beauty in his eyes,
  That it enforc'd me to bid sad farewell
  To all my empire: farewell sad I took,
  And hither came, to see how dolorous fate
  Had wrought upon ye; and how I might best
  Give consolation in this woe extreme.
  
  Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.
  
  "
  Whether through pos'd conviction, or disdain,
  They guarded silence, when Oceanus
  Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell?
  
  But so it was, none answer'd for a space,
  Save one whom none regarded, Clymene;
  And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd,
  With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild,
  Thus wording timidly among the fierce:
  "O Father! I am here the simplest voice,
  And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,
  And this thing woe crept in among our hearts,
  There to remain for ever, as I fear:
  I would not bode of evil, if I thought
  So weak a creature could turn off the help
  Which by just right should come of mighty Gods;
  Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell
  Of what I heard, and how it made me weep,
  And know that we had parted from all hope.
  
  I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore,
  Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land
  Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers.
  
  Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief;
  Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth;
  So that I felt a movement in my heart
  To chide, and to reproach that solitude
  With songs of misery, music of our woes;
  And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell
  And murmur'd into it, and made melody—-
  O melody no more! for while I sang,
  And with poor skill let pass into the breeze
  The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand
  Just opposite, an island of the sea,
  There came enchantment with the shifting wind,
  That did both drown and keep alive my ears.
  
  I threw my shell away upon the sand,
  And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd
  With that new blissful golden melody.
  
  A living death was in each gush of sounds,
  Each family of rapturous hurried notes,
  That fell, one after one, yet all at once,
  Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string:
  And then another, then another strain,
  Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,
  With music wing'd instead of silent plumes,
  To hover round my head, and make me sick
  Of joy and grief at once.
  
  Grief overcame,
  And I was stopping up my frantic ears,
  When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands,
  A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,
  And still it cried, 'Apollo! young Apollo!
  The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo!'
  I fled, it follow'd me, and cried 'Apollo!'
  O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt
  Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thou felt,
  Ye would not call this too indulged tongue
  Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard.
  
  "
  So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook
  That, lingering along a pebbled coast,
  Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met,
  And shudder'd; for the overwhelming voice
  Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath:
  The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves
  In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks,
  Came booming thus, while still upon his arm
  He lean'd; not rising, from supreme contempt.
  
  "Or shall we listen to the over-wise,
  Or to the over-foolish, Giant-Gods?
  
  Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all
  That rebel Jove's whole armoury were spent,
  Not world on world upon these shoulders piled,
  Could agonize me more than baby-words
  In midst of this dethronement horrible.
  
  Speak! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all.
  
  Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile?
  
  Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm?
  
  Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the waves,
  Thy scalding in the seas?
  
  What! have I rous'd
  Your spleens with so few simple words as these?
  
  O joy! for now I see ye are not lost:
  O joy! for now I see a thousand eyes
  Wide-glaring for revenge!"—-As this he said,
  He lifted up his stature vast, and stood,
  Still without intermission speaking thus:
  "Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how to burn,
  And purge the ether of our enemies;
  How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire,
  And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove,
  Stifling that puny essence in its tent.
  
  O let him feel the evil he hath done;
  For though I scorn Oceanus's lore,
  Much pain have I for more than loss of realms:
  The days of peace and slumbrous calm are fled;
  Those days, all innocent of scathing war,
  When all the fair Existences of heaven
  Carne open-eyed to guess what we would speak:—-
  That was before our brows were taught to frown,
  Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds;
  That was before we knew the winged thing,
  Victory, might be lost, or might be won.
  
  And be ye mindful that Hyperion,
  Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced—-
  Hyperion, lo! his radiance is here!"
  All eyes were on Enceladus's face,
  And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name
  Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,
  A pallid gleam across his features stern:
  Not savage, for he saw full many a God
  Wroth as himself.
  
  He look'd upon them all,
  And in each face he saw a gleam of light,
  But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks
  Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel
  When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove.
  
  In pale and silver silence they remain'd,
  Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn,
  Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps,
  All the sad spaces of oblivion,
  And every gulf, and every chasm old,
  And every height, and every sullen depth,
  Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams:
  And all the everlasting cataracts,
  And all the headlong torrents far and near,
  Mantled before in darkness and huge shade,
  Now saw the light and made it terrible.
  
  It was Hyperion:—-a granite peak
  His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view
  The misery his brilliance had betray'd
  To the most hateful seeing of itself.
  
  Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,
  Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
  In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk
  Of Memnon's image at the set of sun
  To one who travels from the dusking East:
  Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp
  He utter'd, while his hands contemplative
  He press'd together, and in silence stood.
  
  Despondence seiz'd again the fallen Gods
  At sight of the dejected King of day,
  And many hid their faces from the light:
  But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes
  Among the brotherhood; and, at their glare,
  Uprose Iapetus, and Creus too,
  And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode
  To where he towered on his eminence.
  
  There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name;
  Hyperion from the peak loud answered, "Saturn!"
  Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,
  In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods
  Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn!"

• Hyperion. Book III Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Thus in altemate uproar and sad peace,
  Amazed were those Titans utterly.
  
  O leave them, Muse!  O leave them to their woes;
  For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire:
  A solitary sorrow best befits
  Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.
  
  Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find
  Many a fallen old Divinity
  Wandering in vain about bewildered shores.
  
  Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
  And not a wind of heaven but will breathe
  In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute;
  For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse.
  
  Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue,
  Let the rose glow intense and warm the air,
  And let the clouds of even and of morn
  Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills;
  Let the red wine within the goblet boil,
  Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells,
  On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn
  Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid
  Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surpris'd.
  
  Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,
  Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,
  And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech,
  In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song,
  And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade:
  Apollo is once more the golden theme!
  Where was he, when the Giant of the sun
  Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers?
  
  Together had he left his mother fair
  And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
  And in the morning twilight wandered forth
  Beside the osiers of a rivulet,
  Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
  
  The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars
  Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush
  Began calm-throated.
  
  Throughout all the isle
  There was no covert, no retired cave,
  Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,
  Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.
  
  He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears
  Went trickling down the golden bow he held.
  
  Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,
  While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by
  With solemn step an awful Goddess came,
  And there was purport in her looks for him,
  Which he with eager guess began to read
  Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said:
  "How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea?
  
  Or hath that antique mien and robed form
  Mov'd in these vales invisible till now?
  
  Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er
  The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone
  In cool mid-forest.
  
  Surely I have traced
  The rustle of those ample skirts about
  These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
  Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd.
  
  Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before,
  And their eternal calm, and all that face,
  Or I have dream'd.
  
  "—-"Yes," said the supreme shape,
  "Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up
  Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
  Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast
  Unwearied ear of the whole universe
  Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth
  Of such new tuneful wonder.
  
  Is't not strange
  That thou shouldst weep, so gifted?
  
  Tell me, youth,
  What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad
  When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs
  To one who in this lonely isle hath been
  The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life,
  From the young day when first thy infant hand
  Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm
  Could bend that bow heroic to all times.
  
  Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power
  Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
  For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
  Of loveliness new born.
  
  "—-Apollo then,
  With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
  Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat
  Throbb'd with the syllables.
  
  —-"Mnemosyne!
  Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;
  Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?
  
  Why should I strive to show what from thy lips
  Would come no mystery?
  
  For me, dark, dark,
  And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:
  I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
  Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;
  And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,
  Like one who once had wings.
  
  —-O why should I
  Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the liegeless air
  Yields to my step aspirant?
  
  why should I
  Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet?
  
  Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing:
  Are there not other regions than this isle?
  
  What are the stars?
  
  There is the sun, the sun!
  And the most patient brilliance of the moon!
  And stars by thousands!  Point me out the way
  To any one particular beauteous star,
  And I will flit into it with my lyre,
  And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss.
  
  I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power?
  
  Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
  Makes this alarum in the elements,
  While I here idle listen on the shores
  In fearless yet in aching ignorance?
  
  O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp,
  That waileth every morn and eventide,
  Tell me why thus I rave about these groves!
  Mute thou remainest—-Mute! yet I can read
  A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:
  Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
  
  Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions,
  Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,
  Creations and destroyings, all at once
  Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,
  And deify me, as if some blithe wine
  Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
  And so become immortal.
  
  "—-Thus the God,
  While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
  Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept
  Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.
  
  Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush
  All the immortal fairness of his limbs;
  Most like the struggle at the gate of death;
  Or liker still to one who should take leave
  Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
  As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse
  Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd:
  His very hair, his golden tresses famed,
  Kept undulation round his eager neck.
  
  During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
  Her arms as one who prophesied.
  
  At length
  Apollo shriek'd;—-and lo! from all his limbs
  Celestial  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  (last lines): 'Leigh Hunt says of this part of the fragment, "It strikes us that there is something too effeminate and human in the way in which Apollo receives the exaltation which his wisdom is giving him.
  
  He weeps and wonders somewhat too fondly; but his powers gather nobly on him as he proceeds.
  
  " I confess that I should be disposed to rank all these symptoms of convulsion and hysteria in the same category as the fainting of lovers which Keats so frequently represented, -- a kind of thing which his astonishing powers of progress would infallibly have' outgrown had he lived a year or two longer.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
  The air was cooling, and so very still,
  That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
  Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
  Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
  Had not yet lost those starry diadems
  Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
  
  The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
  And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
  On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
  A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
  Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
  For not the faintest motion could be seen
  Of all the shades that slanted o’er the green.
  
  There was wide wand’ring for the greediest eye,
  To peer about upon variety;
  Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim,
  And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
  To picture out the quaint, and curious bending
  Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
  Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
  Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
  
  I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free
  As though the fanning wings of Mercury
  Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
  And many pleasures to my vision started;
  So I straightway began to pluck a posey
  Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy.
  
  A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
  Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
  And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
  And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
  Moist, cool and green; and shade the violets,
  That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
  
  A filbert hedge with wildbriar overtwined,
  And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
  Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
  The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
  That with a score of light green breth[r]en shoots
  From the quaint mossiness of aged roots:
  Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
  Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters
  The spreading blue bells: it may haply mourn
  That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
  From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
  By infant hands, left on the path to die.
  
  Open afresh your round of starry folds,
  Ye ardent marigolds!
  Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
  For great Apollo bids
  That in these days your praises should be sung
  On many harps, which he has lately strung;
  And when again your dewiness he kisses,
  Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
  So haply when I rove in some far vale,
  His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
  
  Here are sweet peas, on tip-toe for a flight:
  With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,
  And taper fingers catching at all things,
  To bind them all about with tiny rings.
  
  Linger awhile upon some bending planks
  That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks,
  And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings:
  They will be found softer than ring-dove’s cooings.
  
  How silent comes the water round that bend;
  Not the minutest whisper does it send
  To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of grass
  Slowly across the chequer’d shadows pass.
  
  Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
  To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
  A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
  Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
  Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,
  To taste the luxury of sunny beams
  Temper’d with coolness.
  
  How they ever wrestle
  With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle
  Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand.
  
  If you but scantily hold out the hand,
  That very instant not one will remain;
  But turn your eye, and they are there again.
  
  The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,
  And cool themselves among the em’rald tresses;
  The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,
  And moisture, that the bowery green may live:
  So keeping up an interchange of favours,
  Like good men in the truth of their behaviours.
  
  Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop
  From low hung branches; little space they stop;
  But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;
  Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:
  Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings
  Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
  
  Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
  That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
  Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown
  Fanning away the dandelion’s down;
  Than the light music of her nimble toes
  Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
  
  How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught
  Playing in all her innocence of thought.
  
  O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,
  Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;
  O let me for one moment touch her wrist;
  Let me one moment to her breathing list;
  And as she leaves me may she often turn
  Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
  
  What next?
  
  A tuft of evening primroses,
  O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
  O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
  But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
  Of buds into ripe flowers; or by the flitting
  Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting;
  Or by the moon lifting her silver rim
  Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
  Coming into the blue with all her light.
  
  O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
  Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
  Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
  Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
  Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
  Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
  Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
  Thee must I praise above all other glories
  That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
  
  For what has made the sage or poet write
  But the fair paradise of Nature’s light?
  
  In the calm grandeur of a sober line,
  We see the waving of the mountain pine;
  And when a tale is beautifully staid,
  We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade:
  When it is moving on luxurious wings,
  The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings:
  Fair dewy roses brush against our faces,
  And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases;
  O’erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar,
  And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire;
  While at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles
  Charms us at once away from all our troubles:
  So that we feel uplifted from the world,
  Walking upon the white clouds wreath’d and curl’d.
  
  So felt he, who first told, how Psyche went
  On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment;
  What Psyche felt, and Love, when their full lips
  First touch’d; what amorous and fondling nips
  They gave each other’s cheeks; with all their sighs,
  And how they kist each other’s tremulous eyes:
  The silver lamp,—the ravishment,—the wonder—
  The darkness,—loneliness,—the fearful thunder;
  Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown,
  To bow for gratitude before Jove’s throne.
  
  So did he feel, who pull’d the boughs aside,
  That we might look into a forest wide,
  To catch a glimpse of Fawns, and Dryades
  Coming with softest rustle through the trees;
  And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet,
  Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet:
  Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled
  Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
  
  Poor Nymph,—poor Pan,—how did he weep to find,
  Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
  Along the reedy stream; a half heard strain,
  Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.
  
  What first inspired a bard of old to sing
  Narcissus pining o’er the untainted spring?
  
  In some delicious ramble, he had found
  A little space, with boughs all woven round;
  And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
  Than e’er reflected in its pleasant cool,
  The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping
  Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.
  
  And on the bank a lonely flower he spied,
  A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,
  Drooping its beauty o’er the watery clearness,
  To woo its own sad image into nearness:
  Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move;
  But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.
  
  So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot,
  Some fainter gleamings o’er his fancy shot;
  Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
  Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo’s bale.
  
  Where had he been, from whose warm head out-flew
  That sweetest of all songs, that ever new,
  That aye refreshing, pure deliciousness,
  Coming ever to bless
  The wanderer by moonlight?
  
  to him bringing
  Shapes from the invisible world, unearthly singing
  From out the middle air, from flowery nests,
  And from the pillowy silkiness that rests
  Full in the speculation of the stars.
  
  Ah! surely he had burst our mortal bars;
  Into some wond’rous region he had gone,
  To search for thee, divine Endymion!
  He was a Poet, sure a lover too,
  Who stood on Latmus’ top, what time there blew
  Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below;
  And brought in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow
  A hymn from Dian’s temple; while upswelling,
  The incense went to her own starry dwelling.
  
  But though her face was clear as infant’s eyes,
  Though she stood smiling o’er the sacrifice,
  The Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
  Wept that such beauty should be desolate:
  So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won,
  And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion.
  
  Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely queen
  Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen!
  As thou exceedest all things in thy shine,
  So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
  
  O for three words of honey, that I might
  Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night!
  Where distant ships do seem to show their keels,
  Phoebus awhile delayed his mighty wheels,
  And turned to smile upon thy bashful eyes,
  Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize.
  
  The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
  That men of health were of unusual cheer;
  Stepping like Homer at the trumpet’s call,
  Or young Apollo on the pedestal:
  And lovely women were as fair and warm,
  As Venus looking sideways in alarm.
  
  The breezes were ethereal, and pure,
  And crept through half closed lattices to cure
  The languid sick; it cool’d their fever’d sleep,
  And soothed them into slumbers full and deep.
  
  Soon they awoke clear eyed: nor burnt with thirsting
  Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples bursting:
  And springing up, they met the wond’ring sight
  Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight;
  Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss and stare,
  And on their placid foreheads part the hair.
  
  Young men, and maidens at each other gaz’d
  With hands held back, and motionless, amaz’d
  To see the brightness in each others’ eyes;
  And so they stood, fill’d with a sweet surprise,
  Until their tongues were loos’d in poesy.
  
  Therefore no lover did of anguish die:
  But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken,
  Made silken ties, that never may be broken.
  
  Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses,
  That follow’d thine, and thy dear shepherd’s kisses:
  Was there a Poet born?
  
  —but now no more,
  My wand’ring spirit must no further soar.
  
  I stood tip-toe upon a little hill : Leigh Hunt tells us in 'Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries' that "this poem was suggested to Keats by a delightful summer's-day, as he stood beside the gate that leads from the Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood.
  
  "
  (lines 37-41) Of this passage Hunt says, "Any body who has seen a throng of young beeches, furnishing those natural clumpy seats at the root, must recognize the truth and grace of this description.
  
  " He adds that the remainder of the poem, especially verses 47 to 86, "affords an exquisite proof of close observation of nature as well as the most luxuriant fancy.
  
  "
  (lines 61-80) Charles Cowden Clarke says Keats told him this passage was the recollection of the friends' "having frequently loitered over the rail of a foot-bridge that spanned .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  a little brook in the last field upon entering Edmonton.
  
  " Keats, he says, "thought the picture correct, and acknowledged to a partiality for it.
  
  "
  ~The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Imitation Of Spenser Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Now Morning from her orient chamber came,
  And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;
  Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
  Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
  Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distill,
  And after parting beds of simple flowers,
  By many streams a little lake did fill,
  Which round its marge reflected woven bowers,
  And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
  
  There the king-fisher saw his plumage bright
  Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below;
  Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light
  Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:
  There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,
  And oar'd himself along with majesty;
  Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show
  Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony,
  And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.
  
  Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle
  That in that fairest lake had placed been,
  I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile;
  Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen:
  For sure so fair a place was never seen,
  Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye:
  It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen
  Of the bright waters; or as when on high,
  Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.
  
  And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
  Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
  Which, as it were in gentle amity,
  Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
  As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
  Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem!
  Haply it was the workings of its pride,
  In strife to throw upon the shore a gem
  Outviewing all the buds in Flora's diadem.
  
  'The copy of these stanzas in Tom Keats's copy-book has a reading in line 12 which ought perhas to supersede the printed text of 1817, namely, 'golden scalès light.
  
  ' It seems highly likely that Keats really meant to carry his archaism to the extent of making scales a dissyllable, especially as the metre is thus corrected.
  
  Lord Houghton states on the authority of the notes of Charles Armitage Brown, given to his lordship in 1832, that this is the earliest known composition of Keats, and was written while he was living at Edmonton.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Isabella; Or, The Pot Of Basil: A Story From Boccaccio Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
  Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye!
  They could not in the self-same mansion dwell
  Without some stir of heart, some malady;
  They could not sit at meals but feel how well
  It soothed each to be the other by;
  They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep
  But to each other dream, and nightly weep.
  
  II.
  
  With every morn their love grew tenderer,
  With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
  He might not in house, field, or garden stir,
  But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
  And his continual voice was pleasanter
  To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
  Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
  She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.
  
  III.
  
  He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,
  Before the door had given her to his eyes;
  And from her chamber-window he would catch
  Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
  And constant as her vespers would he watch,
  Because her face was turn'd to the same skies;
  And with sick longing all the night outwear,
  To hear her morning-step upon the stair.
  
  IV.
  
  A whole long month of May in this sad plight
  Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:
  "To morrow will I bow to my delight,
  "To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.
  
  "—
  "O may I never see another night,
  "Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune.
  
  "—
  So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
  Honeyless days and days did he let pass;
  V.
  
  Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek
  Fell sick within the rose's just domain,
  Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek
  By every lull to cool her infant's pain:
  "How ill she is," said he, "I may not speak,
  "And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:
  "If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,
  "And at the least 'twill startle off her cares.
  
  "
  VI.
  
  So said he one fair morning, and all day
  His heart beat awfully against his side;
  And to his heart he inwardly did pray
  For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide
  Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve away—
  Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride,
  Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:
  Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!
  VII.
  
  So once more he had wak'd and anguished
  A dreary night of love and misery,
  If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed
  To every symbol on his forehead high;
  She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
  And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly,
  "Lorenzo!"—here she ceas'd her timid quest,
  But in her tone and look he read the rest.
  
  VIII.
  
  "O Isabella, I can half perceive
  "That I may speak my grief into thine ear;
  "If thou didst ever any thing believe,
  "Believe how I love thee, believe how near
  "My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve
  "Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear
  "Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live
  "Another night, and not my passion shrive.
  
  IX.
  
  "Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
  "Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,
  "And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
  "In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.
  
  "
  So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
  And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme:
  Great bliss was with them, and great happiness
  Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress.
  
  X.
  
  Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air,
  Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart
  Only to meet again more close, and share
  The inward fragrance of each other's heart.
  
  She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
  Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart;
  He with light steps went up a western hill,
  And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill.
  
  XI.
  
  All close they met again, before the dusk
  Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
  All close they met, all eves, before the dusk
  Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,
  Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
  Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.
  
  Ah! better had it been for ever so,
  Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.
  
  XII.
  
  Were they unhappy then?
  
  —It cannot be—
  Too many tears for lovers have been shed,
  Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
  Too much of pity after they are dead,
  Too many doleful stories do we see,
  Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;
  Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse
  Over the pathless waves towards him bows.
  
  XIII.
  
  But, for the general award of love,
  The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;
  Though Dido silent is in under-grove,
  And Isabella's was a great distress,
  Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove
  Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less—
  Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
  Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
  
  XIV.
  
  With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
  Enriched from ancestral merchandize,
  And for them many a weary hand did swelt
  In torched mines and noisy factories,
  And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt
  In blood from stinging whip;—with hollow eyes
  Many all day in dazzling river stood,
  To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.
  
  XV.
  
  For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
  And went all naked to the hungry shark;
  For them his ears gush'd blood; for them in death
  The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
  Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
  A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:
  Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel,
  That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.
  
  XVI.
  
  Why were they proud?
  
  Because their marble founts
  Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears?
  
  —
  Why were they proud?
  
  Because fair orange-mounts
  Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs?
  
  —
  Why were they proud?
  
  Because red-lin'd accounts
  Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?
  
  —
  Why were they proud?
  
  again we ask aloud,
  Why in the name of Glory were they proud?
  
  XVII.
  
  Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
  In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,
  As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
  Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies,
  The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired
  And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies—
  Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away,—
  Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
  
  XVIII.
  
  How was it these same ledger-men could spy
  Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
  
  How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye
  A straying from his toil?
  
  Hot Egypt's pest
  Into their vision covetous and sly!
  How could these money-bags see east and west?
  
  —
  Yet so they did—and every dealer fair
  Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
  
  XIX.
  
  O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!
  Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon,
  And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,
  And of thy roses amorous of the moon,
  And of thy lilies, that do paler grow
  Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune,
  For venturing syllables that ill beseem
  The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.
  
  XX.
  
  Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale
  Shall move on soberly, as it is meet;
  There is no other crime, no mad assail
  To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet:
  But it is done—succeed the verse or fail—
  To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet;
  To stead thee as a verse in English tongue,
  An echo of thee in the north-wind sung.
  
  XXI.
  
  These brethren having found by many signs
  What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
  And how she lov'd him too, each unconfines
  His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad
  That he, the servant of their trade designs,
  Should in their sister's love be blithe and glad,
  When 'twas their plan to coax her by degrees
  To some high noble and his olive-trees.
  
  XXII.
  
  And many a jealous conference had they,
  And many times they bit their lips alone,
  Before they fix'd upon a surest way
  To make the youngster for his crime atone;
  And at the last, these men of cruel clay
  Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;
  For they resolved in some forest dim
  To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.
  
  XXIII.
  
  So on a pleasant morning, as he leant
  Into the sun-rise, o'er the balustrade
  Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent
  Their footing through the dews; and to him said,
  "You seem there in the quiet of content,
  "Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade
  "Calm speculation; but if you are wise,
  "Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.
  
  XXIV.
  
  "To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount
  "To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;
  "Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count
  "His dewy rosary on the eglantine.
  
  "
  Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,
  Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine;
  And went in haste, to get in readiness,
  With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress.
  
  XXV.
  
  And as he to the court-yard pass'd along,
  Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft
  If he could hear his lady's matin-song,
  Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;
  And as he thus over his passion hung,
  He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
  When, looking up, he saw her features bright
  Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.
  
  XXVI.
  
  "Love, Isabel!" said he, "I was in pain
  "Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow:
  "Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain
  "I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow
  "Of a poor three hours' absence?
  
  but we'll gain
  "Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.
  
  "Good bye! I'll soon be back.
  
  "—"Good bye!" said she:—
  And as he went she chanted merrily.
  
  XXVII.
  
  So the two brothers and their murder'd man
  Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream
  Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan
  Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream
  Keeps head against the freshets.
  
  Sick and wan
  The brothers' faces in the ford did seem,
  Lorenzo's flush with love.
  
  —They pass'd the water
  Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
  
  XXVIII.
  
  There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,
  There in that forest did his great love cease;
  Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,
  It aches in loneliness—is ill at peace
  As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:
  They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease
  Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,
  Each richer by his being a murderer.
  
  XXIX.
  
  They told their sister how, with sudden speed,
  Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands,
  Because of some great urgency and need
  In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
  
  Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow's weed,
  And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands;
  To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,
  And the next day will be a day of sorrow.
  
  XXX.
  
  She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;
  Sorely she wept until the night came on,
  And then, instead of love, O misery!
  She brooded o'er the luxury alone:
  His image in the dusk she seem'd to see,
  And to the silence made a gentle moan,
  Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,
  And on her couch low murmuring, "Where?
  
  O where?
  
  "
  XXXI.
  
  But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long
  Its fiery vigil in her single breast;
  She fretted for the golden hour, and hung
  Upon the time with feverish unrest—
  Not long—for soon into her heart a throng
  Of higher occupants, a richer zest,
  Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,
  And sorrow for her love in travels rude.
  
  XXXII.
  
  In the mid days of autumn, on their eves
  The breath of Winter comes from far away,
  And the sick west continually bereaves
  Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay
  Of death among the bushes and the leaves,
  To make all bare before he dares to stray
  From his north cavern.
  
  So sweet Isabel
  By gradual decay from beauty fell,
  XXXIII.
  
  Because Lorenzo came not.
  
  Oftentimes
  She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale,
  Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes
  Could keep him off so long?
  
  They spake a tale
  Time after time, to quiet her.
  
  Their crimes
  Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale;
  And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud,
  To see their sister in her snowy shroud.
  
  XXXIV.
  
  And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
  But for a thing more deadly dark than all;
  It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance,
  Which saves a sick man from the feather'd pall
  For some few gasping moments; like a lance,
  Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall
  With cruel pierce, and bringing him again
  Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain.
  
  XXXV.
  
  It was a vision.
  
  —In the drowsy gloom,
  The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot
  Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
  Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot
  Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom
  Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute
  From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears
  Had made a miry channel for his tears.
  
  XXXVI.
  
  Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake;
  For there was striving, in its piteous tongue,
  To speak as when on earth it was awake,
  And Isabella on its music hung:
  Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake,
  As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung;
  And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song,
  Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among.
  
  XXXVII.
  
  Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright
  With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof
  From the poor girl by magic of their light,
  The while it did unthread the horrid woof
  Of the late darken'd time,—the murderous spite
  Of pride and avarice,—the dark pine roof
  In the forest,—and the sodden turfed dell,
  Where, without any word, from stabs he fell.
  
  XXXVIII.
  
  Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet!
  "Red whortle-berries droop above my head,
  "And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet;
  "Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed
  "Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat
  "Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
  "Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom,
  "And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
  
  XXXIX.
  
  "I am a shadow now, alas! alas!
  "Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling
  "Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,
  "While little sounds of life are round me knelling,
  "And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
  "And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
  "Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,
  "And thou art distant in Humanity.
  
  XL.
  
  "I know what was, I feel full well what is,
  "And I should rage, if spirits could go mad;
  "Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss,
  "That paleness warms my grave, as though I had
  "A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss
  "To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad;
  "Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel
  "A greater love through all my essence steal.
  
  "
  XLI.
  
  The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!"—dissolv'd, and left
  The atom darkness in a slow turmoil;
  As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft,
  Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil,
  We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft,
  And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil:
  It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache,
  And in the dawn she started up awake;
  XLII.
  
  "Ha! ha!" said she, "I knew not this hard life,
  "I thought the worst was simple misery;
  "I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife
  "Portion'd us—happy days, or else to die;
  "But there is crime—a brother's bloody knife!
  "Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy:
  "I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes,
  "And greet thee morn and even in the skies.
  
  "
  XLIII.
  
  When the full morning came, she had devised
  How she might secret to the forest hie;
  How she might find the clay, so dearly prized,
  And sing to it one latest lullaby;
  How her short absence might be unsurmised,
  While she the inmost of the dream would try.
  
  Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse,
  And went into that dismal forest-hearse.
  
  XLIV.
  
  See, as they creep along the river side,
  How she doth whisper to that aged Dame,
  And, after looking round the champaign wide,
  Shows her a knife.
  
  —"What feverous hectic flame
  "Burns in thee, child?
  
  —What good can thee betide,
  "That thou should'st smile again?
  
  "—The evening came,
  And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed;
  The flint was there, the berries at his head.
  
  XLV.
  
  Who hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard,
  And let his spirit, like a demon-mole,
  Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,
  To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole;
  Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,
  And filling it once more with human soul?
  
  Ah! this is holiday to what was felt
  When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.
  
  XLVI.
  
  She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
  One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
  Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
  Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
  Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow,
  Like to a native lily of the dell:
  Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
  To dig more fervently than misers can.
  
  XLVII.
  
  Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon
  Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies,
  She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone,
  And put it in her bosom, where it dries
  And freezes utterly unto the bone
  Those dainties made to still an infant's cries:
  Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care,
  But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
  
  XLVIII.
  
  That old nurse stood beside her wondering,
  Until her heart felt pity to the core
  At sight of such a dismal labouring,
  And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,
  And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:
  Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore;
  At last they felt the kernel of the grave,
  And Isabella did not stamp and rave.
  
  XLIX.
  
  Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance?
  
  Why linger at the yawning tomb so long?
  
  O for the gentleness of old Romance,
  The simple plaining of a minstrel's song!
  Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
  For here, in truth, it doth not well belong
  To speak:—O turn thee to the very tale,
  And taste the music of that vision pale.
  
  L.
  
  With duller steel than the Persèan sword
  They cut away no formless monster's head,
  But one, whose gentleness did well accord
  With death, as life.
  
  The ancient harps have said,
  Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord:
  If Love impersonate was ever dead,
  Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd.
  
  'Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned.
  
  LI.
  
  In anxious secrecy they took it home,
  And then the prize was all for Isabel:
  She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb,
  And all around each eye's sepulchral cell
  Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam
  With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,
  She drench'd away:—and still she comb'd, and kept
  Sighing all day—and still she kiss'd, and wept.
  
  LII.
  
  Then in a silken scarf,—sweet with the dews
  Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby,
  And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
  Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully,—
  She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose
  A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by,
  And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set
  Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
  
  LIII.
  
  And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
  And she forgot the blue above the trees,
  And she forgot the dells where waters run,
  And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
  She had no knowledge when the day was done,
  And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
  Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
  And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
  
  LIV.
  
  And so she ever fed it with thin tears,
  Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew,
  So that it smelt more balmy than its peers
  Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew
  Nurture besides, and life, from human fears,
  From the fast mouldering head there shut from view:
  So that the jewel, safely casketed,
  Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread.
  
  LV.
  
  O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
  O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
  O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
  Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
  Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
  Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,
  And make a pale light in your cypress glooms,
  Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs.
  
  LVI.
  
  Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
  From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!
  Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
  And touch the strings into a mystery;
  Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;
  For simple Isabel is soon to be
  Among the dead: She withers, like a palm
  Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm.
  
  LVII.
  
  O leave the palm to wither by itself;
  Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—
  It may not be—those Baalites of pelf,
  Her brethren, noted the continual shower
  From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf,
  Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower
  Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside
  By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride.
  
  LVIII.
  
  And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much
  Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,
  And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch;
  Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean:
  They could not surely give belief, that such
  A very nothing would have power to wean
  Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay,
  And even remembrance of her love's delay.
  
  LIX.
  
  Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift
  This hidden whim; and long they watch'd in vain;
  For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift,
  And seldom felt she any hunger-pain;
  And when she left, she hurried back, as swift
  As bird on wing to breast its eggs again;
  And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there
  Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair.
  
  LX.
  
  Yet they contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot,
  And to examine it in secret place:
  The thing was vile with green and livid spot,
  And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face:
  The guerdon of their murder they had got,
  And so left Florence in a moment's space,
  Never to turn again.
  
  —Away they went,
  With blood upon their heads, to banishment.
  
  LXI.
  
  O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away!
  O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!
  O Echo, Echo, on some other day,
  From isles Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!
  Spirits of grief, sing not your "Well-a-way!"
  For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
  Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
  Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet.
  
  LXII.
  
  Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things,
  Asking for her lost Basil amorously:
  And with melodious chuckle in the strings
  Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
  After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
  To ask him where her Basil was; and why
  'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she,
  "To steal my Basil-pot away from me.
  
  "
  LXIII.
  
  And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,
  Imploring for her Basil to the last.
  
  No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
  In pity of her love, so overcast.
  
  And a sad ditty of this story born
  From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd:
  Still is the burthen sung—"O cruelty,
  "To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"
  (stanza XXIV): Leigh Hunt cites the "exquisite metaphor" of lines 3 and 4 as an instance in which Keats "over-informs the occasion or the speaker.
  
  " But I doubt whether it is fair to class this kind of "over-informing" as an error.
  
  If poeple of this kind are to be denied one element of poetry, they must be denied another; and it is scarcely more strange to find the vile brethren of Isabella talking in metaphor than to find them talking in rhyme and metre.
  
  For the rest, a common-place Italian, even a villainous Italian, feels so intensely the sunlight of his land, that we need not object to the metaphor even on dramatic grounds.
  
  (stanza XXXIII): For Hinnom's Vale see Second Book of Chronicles of the Kings of Israel, Chapter XXVIII, verse 3: "Moreover he burnt incense in the valley of the son of Hinnom, and burnt his children in the fire, after the abominations of the heathen whom the Lord had cast out before the children of Israel.
  
  "
  (stanza XLVII): The sixth line has been a topic of censure; but I think wrongly.
  
  Taken in itself apart from the poem, it might be held to be an inopportune description; but in the context of this most tragic and pathetic story, it has to me a surpassing fitness -- a fitness astonishing in the work of a youth of Keats's age in 1818.
  
  The idea of maternity thus connected as it were by chance with the image of this widowed girl on the borders of insanity emphasizes in the most beautiful way the helpless misery of a life wrecked by the wickedness of others, and throws into ghastly contrast the joy of what should have been and the agony of what was.
  
  (stanza XLVIII): Hunt observes here - "It is curious to see how the simple pathos of Boccaccio, or (which is the same thing) the simple intensity of the heroine's feelings, suffices our author more and more, as he gets to the end of his story.
  
  And he has related it as happily, as if he had never written any poetry but that of the heart.
  
  "
  (stanza LIV): Whether the "savage and tartarly" assailants of Keats's day availed themselves of the word "leafits" in the 8th line for an accusation of word-coining, I do not know; but as far as I have been able to ascertain this diminutive of "leaf" is peculiar to the present passage.
  
  (stanza LXII): Hunt says - "The passage about the tone of her voice, -- the poor lost-witted coaxing, -- the 'chuckle,' in which she asks after her Pilgrim and her Basil,-- is as true and touching an instance of the effect of a happy familiar word, as any in all poetry.
  
  " It is difficult to imagine that these sentences of Hunt's were not somehow misprinted; but, as the review occurs only in the original issue of The Indicator, one has no means of testing this passage by comparison with later editions.
  
  It can hardly be supposed that Hunt really thought the Pilgrim meant Lorenzo; and it ought not to be necessary to explain that the poor lost girl called after any pilgrim whom chance sent her way, enquiring of him where her Basil was.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• King Stephen Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A FRAGMENT OF A TRAGEDY
  ACT I.
  
  SCENE I.
  
  Field of Battle.
  
  Alarum.
  
  Enter King STEPHEN, Knights, and Soldiers.
  
  Stephen.
  
  If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll’n front
  Spread deeper crimson than the battle's toil,
  Blush in your casing helmets! for see, see!
  Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war,
  Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm array,
  Are routed loose about the plashy meads,
  Of honour forfeit.
  
  O that my known voice
  Could reach your dastard ears, and fright you more!
  Fly, cowards, fly! Glocester is at your backs!
  Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried manes,
  Ply well the rowel with faint trembling heels,
  Scampering to death at last!
  First Knight.
  
  The enemy
  Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear.
  
  Second Knight.
  
  Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens
  Will swamp them girth-deep.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Over head and ears,
  No matter! 'Tis a gallant enemy;
  How like a comet he goes streaming on.
  
  But we must plague him in the flank, hey, friends?
  
  We are well breathed, follow!
  Enter Earl BALDWIN and Soldiers, as defeated.
  
  Stephen.
  
  De Redvers!
  What is the monstrous bugbear that can fright
  Baldwin?
  
  Baldwin.
  
  No scare-crow, but the fortunate star
  Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon now
  Points level to the goal of victory.
  
  This way he comes, and if you would maintain
  Your person unaffronted by vile odds,
  Take horse, my Lord.
  
  Stephen.
  
  And which way spur for life?
  
  Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils,
  That soldiers may bear witness how my arm
  Can burst the meshes.
  
  Not the eagle more
  Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast,
  Than I to meet the torrent of my foes.
  
  This is a brag, be 't so, but if I fall,
  Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre.
  
  On, fellow soldiers! Earl of Redvers, back!
  Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow-beat
  The diadem.
  
  [Exeunt.
  
  Alarum.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  Another part of the Field.
  
  Trumpets sounding a Victory.
  
  Enter GLOCESTER.
  
  Knights, and Forces.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Now may we lift our bruised vizors up,
  And take the flattering freshness of the air,
  While the wide din of battle dies away
  Into times past, yet to be echoed sure
  In the silent pages of our chroniclers.
  
  First Knight.
  
  Will Stephen's death be marked there, my good
  Lord,
  Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers?
  
  Glocester.
  
  Fain would I know the great usurper's fate.
  
  Enter two Captains severally.
  
  First Captain.
  
  My Lord!
  Second Captain.
  
  Most noble Earl!
  First Captain.
  
  The King
  Second Captain.
  
  The Empress greets
  Glocester.
  
  What of the King?
  
  First Captain.
  
  He sole and lone maintains
  A hopeless bustle mid our swarming arms,
  And with a nimble savageness attacks,
  Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew
  Eludes death, giving death to most that dare
  Trespass within the circuit of his sword!
  He must by this have fallen.
  
  Baldwin is taken;
  And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag
  He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down.
  
  God save the Empress!
  Glocester.
  
  Now our dreaded Queen:
  What message from her Highness?
  
  Second Captain.
  
  Royal Maud
  From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath look'd down,
  Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion,
  And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet.
  
  She greets most noble Glocester from her heart,
  Intreating him, his captains, and brave knights,
  To grace a banquet.
  
  The high city gates
  Are envious which shall see your triumph pass;
  The streets are full of music.
  
  Enter Second Knight.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Whence come you?
  
  Second Knight.
  
  From Stephen, my good Prince, Stephen!
  Stephen!
  Glocester.
  
  Why do you make such echoing of his name?
  
  Second Knight.
  
  Because I think, my lord, he is no man,
  But a fierce demon, Anointed safe from wounds,
  And misbaptized with a Christian name.
  
  Glocester.
  
  A mighty soldier! Does he still hold out?
  
  Second Knight.
  
  He shames our victory.
  
  His valour still
  Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords,
  And holds our bladed falchions all aloof
  His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter-sick,
  Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight,
  Broke short in his hand; upon the which he flung
  The heft away with such a vengeful force,
  It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, who then
  Spleen-hearted came in full career at him.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Did no one take him at a vantage then?
  
  Second Knight.
  
  Three then with tiger leap upon him flew,
  Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and nimbly held,
  He stung away again, and stood to breathe,
  Smiling.
  
  Anon upon him rush'd once more
  A throng of foes, and in this renew'd strife,
  My sword met his and snapp'd off at the hilts.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Come, lead me to this Mars and let us move
  In silence, not insulting his sad doom
  With clamorous trumpets.
  
  To the Empress bear
  My salutation as befits the time.
  
  [Exeunt GLOCESTER and Forces.
  
  SCENE III.
  
  The Field of Battle.
  
  Enter STEPHEN unarmed.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Another sword! And what if I could seize
  One from Bellona's gleaming armoury,
  Or choose the fairest of her sheaved spears!
  Where are my enemies?
  
  Here, close at hand,
  Here come the testy brood.
  
  O for a sword!
  I'm faint a biting sword! A noble sword!
  A hedge-stake or a ponderous stone to hurl
  With brawny vengeance, like the labourer Cain.
  
  Come on! Farewell my kingdom, and all hail
  Thou superb, plum'd, and helmeted renown,
  All hail I would not truck this brilliant day
  To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard
  Come on!
  Enter DE KAIMS and Knights, &c.
  
  De Kaims.
  
  Is 't madness, or a hunger after death,
  That makes thee thus unarm'd throw taunts at us?
  
  Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dip in
  "he gloomy current of a traitor's heart.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Do it, De Kaims, I will not budge an inch.
  
  De Kaims.
  
  Yes, of thy madness thou shalt take the meed.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Darest thou?
  
  De Kaims.
  
  How dare, against a man disarmed?
  
  Stephen.
  
  What weapons has the lion but himself?
  
  Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the price
  Of all the glory I have won this day,
  Being a king, I will not yield alive
  To any but the second man of the realm,
  Robert of Glocester.
  
  De Kaims.
  
  Thou shalt vail to me.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Shall I, when I have sworn against it, sir?
  
  Thou think'st it brave to take a breathing king,
  That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty Maud,
  The awed presence-chamber may be bold
  To whisper, there's the man who took alive
  Stephen me prisoner.
  
  Certes, De Kaims,
  The ambition is a noble one.
  
  De Kaims.
  
  'Tis true,
  And, Stephen, I must compass it.
  
  Stephen.
  
  No, no,
  Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge,
  Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast,
  Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and full
  For lordship.
  
  A Soldier.
  
  Is an honest yeoman's spear
  Of no use at a need?
  
  Take that.
  
  Stephen.
  
  Ah, dastard!
  De Kaims.
  
  What, you are vulnerable! my prisoner I
  Stephen.
  
  No, not yet.
  
  I disclaim it, and demand
  Death as a sovereign right unto a king
  Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer,
  If not in title, yet in noble deeds,
  The Earl of Glocester.
  
  Stab to the hilts, De Kaims,
  For I will never by mean hands be led
  From this so famous field.
  
  Do ye hear! Be quick!
  [Trumpets.
  
  Enter the Earl of CHESTER and Knights.
  
  SCENE IV.
  
  A Presence Chamber.
  
  Queen MAUD in a Chair of State, the
  Earls of GLOCESTER and CHESTER, Lords, Attendants.
  
  Maud.
  
  Glocester, no more: I will behold that Boulogne:
  Set him before me.
  
  Not for the poor sake
  Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour,
  As thou with wary speech, yet near enough,
  Hast hinted.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Faithful counsel have I given ;
  If wary, for your Highness' benefit.
  
  Maud.
  
  The Heavens forbid that I should not think so,
  For by thy valour have I won this realm,
  Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep.
  
  To sage advisers let me ever bend
  "A meek attentive ear, so that they treat
  Of the wide kingdom's rule and government,
  Not trenching on our actions personal.
  
  Advis'd, not school'd, I would be; and henceforth
  Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms,
  Not side-ways sermon'd at.
  
  Glocester.
  
  Then, in plain terms,
  Once more for the fallen king
  Maud.
  
  Your pardon, Brother,
  I would no more of that; for, as I said,
  ‘Tis not for worldly pomp I wish to see
  The rebel, but as dooming judge to give
  A sentence something worthy of his guilt.
  
  Glocester.
  
  If 't must be so, I'll bring him to your presence.
  
  [Exit GLOCESTER,
  Maud.
  
  A meaner summoner might do as well
  My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I hear
  Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner,
  That he, as a fit penance for his crimes,
  Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food
  Off Glocester's golden dishes drinks pure wine,
  Lodgest soft?
  
  Chester.
  
  More than that, my gracious Queen,
  Has anger'd me.
  
  The noble Earl, methinks,
  Full soldier as he is, and without peer
  In counsel, dreams too much among his books.
  
  It may read well, but sure 'tis out of date
  To play the Alexander with Darius.
  
  Maud.
  
  Truth! I think so.
  
  By Heavens it shall not last!
  Chester.
  
  It would amaze your Highness now to mark
  How Glocester overstrains his courtesy
  To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne
  Maud.
  
  That ingrate!
  Chester.
  
  For whose vast ingratitude
  To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire,
  The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps,
  And with a sort of lackeying friendliness,
  Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow,
  Woos him to hold a duet in a smile,
  Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess
  Maud.
  
  A perjured slave!
  Chester.
  
  And for his perjury,
  Glocester has fit rewards nay, I believe,
  He sets his bustling household's wits at work
  For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours,
  And make a heaven of his purgatory ;
  Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss
  Of feasts and music, and all idle shows
  Of indoor pageantry; while syren whispers,
  Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half-check'd
  From lips the courtliest and the rubiest
  Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds.
  
  Maud.
  
  A frost upon his summer!
  Chester.
  
  A queen's nod
  Can make his June December.
  
  Here he comes.

• La Belle Dame Sans Merci Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  Alone and palely loitering?
  
  The sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.
  
  2.
  
  Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
  So haggard and so woe-begone
  The squirrel's granary is full,
  And the harvest's done.
  
  3.
  
  I see a lily on thy brow
  With anguish moist and fever dew,
  And on thy cheek a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.
  
  4.
  
  I met a lady in the meads,
  Full beautiful, a faery's child:
  Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,
  And her eyes were wild.
  
  5.
  
  I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
  For sideways would she lean, and sing
  A faery's song.
  
  6.
  
  I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
  She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.
  
  7.
  
  She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna dew,
  And sure in language strange she said,
  "I love thee true!"
  8.
  
  She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she gazed and sighed deep,
  And there I shut her wild, sad eyes—-
  So kissed to sleep.
  
  9.
  
  And there we slumbered on the moss,
  And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
  The latest dream I ever dreamed
  On the cold hill side.
  
  10.
  
  I saw pale kings, and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
  Who cried—-"La belle Dame sans merci
  Hath thee in thrall!"
  11.
  
  I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
  And I awoke and found me here,
  On the cold hill side.
  
  12.
  
  And that is why I sojourn here,
  Alone and palely loitering,
  Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

• La Belle Dame Sans Merci (Original version ) Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  Alone and palely loitering?
  
  The sedge has withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.
  
  Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  So haggard and so woe-begone?
  
  The squirrel's granary is full,
  And the harvest's done.
  
  I see a lily on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever-dew,
  And on thy cheeks a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.
  
  I met a lady in the meads,
  Full beautiful - a faery's child,
  Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.
  
  I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
  She looked at me as she did love,
  And made sweet moan.
  
  I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long,
  For sidelong would she bend, and sing
  A faery's song.
  
  She found me roots of relish sweet,
  And honey wild, and manna-dew,
  And sure in language strange she said -
  'I love thee true'.
  
  She took me to her elfin grot,
  And there she wept and sighed full sore,
  And there I shut her wild wild eyes
  With kisses four.
  
  And there she lulled me asleep
  And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
  The latest dream I ever dreamt
  On the cold hill side.
  
  I saw pale kings and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
  They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
  Hath thee in thrall!'
  I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
  With horrid warning gaped wide,
  And I awoke and found me here,
  On the cold hill's side.
  
  And this is why I sojourn here
  Alone and palely loitering,
  Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

• Lamia. Part I Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Upon a time, before the faery broods
  Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,
  Before King Oberon's bright diadem,
  Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,
  Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns
  From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns,
  The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
  His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft:
  From high Olympus had he stolen light,
  On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight
  Of his great summoner, and made retreat
  Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
  
  For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt
  A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt;
  At whose white feet the languid Tritons poured
  Pearls, while on land they wither’d and adored.
  
  Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont,
  And in those meads where sometime she might haunt,
  Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse,
  Though Fancy’s casket were unlock’d to choose.
  
  Ah, what a world of love was at her feet!
  So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat
  Burnt from his winged heels to either ear,
  That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
  Blush’d into roses ’mid his golden hair,
  Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare.
  
  From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew,
  Breathing upon the flowers his passion new,
  And wound with many a river to its head,
  To find where this sweet nymph prepar’d her secret bed:
  In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found,
  And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
  Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
  Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees.
  
  There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice,
  Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys
  All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake:
  “When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake!
  “When move in a sweet body fit for life,
  “And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife
  “Of hearts and lips! Ah, miserable me!”
  The God, dove-footed, glided silently
  Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed,
  The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
  Until he found a palpitating snake,
  Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake.
  
  She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
  Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
  Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
  Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr’d;
  And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
  Dissolv’d, or brighter shone, or interwreathed
  Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries—
  So rainbow-sided, touch’d with miseries,
  She seem’d, at once, some penanced lady elf,
  Some demon’s mistress, or the demon’s self.
  
  Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
  Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne’s tiar:
  Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
  She had a woman’s mouth with all its pearls complete:
  And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there
  But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
  
  As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air.
  
  Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake
  Came, as through bubbling honey, for Love’s sake,
  And thus; while Hermes on his pinions lay,
  Like a stoop’d falcon ere he takes his prey.
  
  “Fair Hermes, crown’d with feathers, fluttering light,
  “I had a splendid dream of thee last night:
  “I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold,
  “Among the Gods, upon Olympus old,
  “The only sad one; for thou didst not hear
  “The soft, lute-finger’d Muses chaunting clear,
  “Nor even Apollo when he sang alone,
  “Deaf to his throbbing throat’s long, long melodious moan.
  
  “I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes,
  “Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks,
  “And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart,
  “Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou art!
  “Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid?
  
  ”
  Whereat the star of Lethe not delay’d
  His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired:
  “Thou smooth-lipp’d serpent, surely high inspired!
  “Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy eyes,
  “Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise,
  “Telling me only where my nymph is fled,—
  “Where she doth breathe!” “Bright planet, thou hast said,”
  Return’d the snake, “but seal with oaths, fair God!”
  “I swear,” said Hermes, “by my serpent rod,
  “And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown!”
  Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown.
  
  Then thus again the brilliance feminine:
  “Too frail of heart! for this lost nymph of thine,
  “Free as the air, invisibly, she strays
  “About these thornless wilds; her pleasant days
  “She tastes unseen; unseen her nimble feet
  “Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet;
  “From weary tendrils, and bow’d branches green,
  “She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen:
  “And by my power is her beauty veil’d
  “To keep it unaffronted, unassail’d
  “By the love-glances of unlovely eyes,
  “Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear’d Silenus’ sighs.
  
  “Pale grew her immortality, for woe
  “Of all these lovers, and she grieved so
  “I took compassion on her, bade her steep
  “Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep
  “Her loveliness invisible, yet free
  “To wander as she loves, in liberty.
  
  “Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone,
  “If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!”
  Then, once again, the charmed God began
  An oath, and through the serpent’s ears it ran
  Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian.
  
  Ravish’d, she lifted her Circean head,
  Blush’d a live damask, and swift-lisping said,
  “I was a woman, let me have once more
  “A woman’s shape, and charming as before.
  
  “I love a youth of Corinth—O the bliss!
  “Give me my woman’s form, and place me where he is.
  
  “Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow,
  “And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now.
  
  ”
  The God on half-shut feathers sank serene,
  She breath’d upon his eyes, and swift was seen
  Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green.
  
  It was no dream; or say a dream it was,
  Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass
  Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
  
  One warm, flush’d moment, hovering, it might seem
  Dash’d by the wood-nymph’s beauty, so he burn’d;
  Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn’d
  To the swoon’d serpent, and with languid arm,
  Delicate, put to proof the lythe Caducean charm.
  
  So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent,
  Full of adoring tears and blandishment,
  And towards her stept: she, like a moon in wane,
  Faded before him, cower’d, nor could restrain
  Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower
  That faints into itself at evening hour:
  But the God fostering her chilled hand,
  She felt the warmth, her eyelids open’d bland,
  And, like new flowers at morning song of bees,
  Bloom’d, and gave up her honey to the lees.
  
  Into the green-recessed woods they flew;
  Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do.
  
  Left to herself, the serpent now began
  To change; her elfin blood in madness ran,
  Her mouth foam’d, and the grass, therewith besprent,
  Wither’d at dew so sweet and virulent;
  Her eyes in torture fix’d, and anguish drear,
  Hot, glaz’d, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear,
  Flash’d phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear.
  
  The colours all inflam’d throughout her train,
  She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain:
  A deep volcanian yellow took the place
  Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace;
  And, as the lava ravishes the mead,
  Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede;
  Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars,
  Eclips’d her crescents, and lick’d up her stars:
  So that, in moments few, she was undrest
  Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst,
  And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,
  Nothing but pain and ugliness were left.
  
  Still shone her crown; that vanish’d, also she
  Melted and disappear’d as suddenly;
  And in the air, her new voice luting soft,
  Cried, “Lycius! gentle Lycius!”—Borne aloft
  With the bright mists about the mountains hoar
  These words dissolv’d: Crete’s forests heard no more.
  
  Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright,
  A full-born beauty new and exquisite?
  
  She fled into that valley they pass o’er
  Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas’ shore;
  And rested at the foot of those wild hills,
  The rugged founts of the Peraean rills,
  And of that other ridge whose barren back
  Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack,
  South-westward to Cleone.
  
  There she stood
  About a young bird’s flutter from a wood,
  Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
  By a clear pool, wherein she passioned
  To see herself escap’d from so sore ills,
  While her robes flaunted with the daffodils.
  
  Ah, happy Lycius!—for she was a maid
  More beautiful than ever twisted braid,
  Or sigh’d, or blush’d, or on spring-flowered lea
  Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy:
  A virgin purest lipp’d, yet in the lore
  Of love deep learned to the red heart’s core:
  Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain
  To unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain;
  Define their pettish limits, and estrange
  Their points of contact, and swift counterchange;
  Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart
  Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art;
  As though in Cupid’s college she had spent
  Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent,
  And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment.
  
  Why this fair creature chose so fairily
  By the wayside to linger, we shall see;
  But first ’tis fit to tell how she could muse
  And dream, when in the serpent prison-house,
  Of all she list, strange or magnificent:
  How, ever, where she will’d, her spirit went;
  Whether to faint Elysium, or where
  Down through tress-lifting waves the Nereids fair
  Wind into Thetis’ bower by many a pearly stair;
  Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine,
  Stretch’d out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine;
  Or where in Pluto’s gardens palatine
  Mulciber’s columns gleam in far piazzian line.
  
  And sometimes into cities she would send
  Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend;
  And once, while among mortals dreaming thus,
  She saw the young Corinthian Lycius
  Charioting foremost in the envious race,
  Like a young Jove with calm uneager face,
  And fell into a swooning love of him.
  
  Now on the moth-time of that evening dim
  He would return that way, as well she knew,
  To Corinth from the shore; for freshly blew
  The eastern soft wind, and his galley now
  Grated the quaystones with her brazen prow
  In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle
  Fresh anchor’d; whither he had been awhile
  To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there
  Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare.
  
  Jove heard his vows, and better’d his desire;
  For by some freakful chance he made retire
  From his companions, and set forth to walk,
  Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth talk:
  Over the solitary hills he fared,
  Thoughtless at first, but ere eve’s star appeared
  His phantasy was lost, where reason fades,
  In the calm’d twilight of Platonic shades.
  
  Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near—
  Close to her passing, in indifference drear,
  His silent sandals swept the mossy green;
  So neighbour’d to him, and yet so unseen
  She stood: he pass’d, shut up in mysteries,
  His mind wrapp’d like his mantle, while her eyes
  Follow’d his steps, and her neck regal white
  Turn’d—syllabling thus, “Ah, Lycius bright,
  “And will you leave me on the hills alone?
  
  “Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.
  
  ”
  He did; not with cold wonder fearingly,
  But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice;
  For so delicious were the words she sung,
  It seem’d he had lov’d them a whole summer long:
  And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up,
  Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup,
  And still the cup was full,—while he afraid
  Lest she should vanish ere his lip had paid
  Due adoration, thus began to adore;
  Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure:
  “Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, Goddess, see
  “Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee!
  “For pity do not this sad heart belie—
  “Even as thou vanishest so I shall die.
  
  “Stay! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay!
  “To thy far wishes will thy streams obey:
  “Stay! though the greenest woods be thy domain,
  “Alone they can drink up the morning rain:
  “Though a descended Pleiad, will not one
  “Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune
  “Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine?
  
  “So sweetly to these ravish’d ears of mine
  “Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade
  “Thy memory will waste me to a shade:—
  “For pity do not melt!”—“If I should stay,”
  Said Lamia, “here, upon this floor of clay,
  “And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough,
  “What canst thou say or do of charm enough
  “To dull the nice remembrance of my home?
  
  “Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam
  “Over these hills and vales, where no joy is,—
  “Empty of immortality and bliss!
  “Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know
  “That finer spirits cannot breathe below
  “In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth,
  “What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
  “My essence?
  
  What serener palaces,
  “Where I may all my many senses please,
  “And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease?
  
  “It cannot be—Adieu!” So said, she rose
  Tiptoe with white arms spread.
  
  He, sick to lose
  The amorous promise of her lone complain,
  Swoon’d, murmuring of love, and pale with pain.
  
  The cruel lady, without any show
  Of sorrow for her tender favourite’s woe,
  But rather, if her eyes could brighter be,
  With brighter eyes and slow amenity,
  Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh
  The life she had so tangled in her mesh:
  And as he from one trance was wakening
  Into another, she began to sing,
  Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing,
  A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres,
  While, like held breath, the stars drew in their panting fires
  And then she whisper’d in such trembling tone,
  As those who, safe together met alone
  For the first time through many anguish’d days,
  Use other speech than looks; bidding him raise
  His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt,
  For that she was a woman, and without
  Any more subtle fluid in her veins
  Than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains
  Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his.
  
  And next she wonder’d how his eyes could miss
  Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said,
  She dwelt but half retir’d, and there had led
  Days happy as the gold coin could invent
  Without the aid of love; yet in content
  Till she saw him, as once she pass’d him by,
  Where ’gainst a column he leant thoughtfully
  At Venus’ temple porch, ’mid baskets heap’d
  Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap’d
  Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before
  The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,
  But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?
  
  Lycius from death awoke into amaze,
  To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;
  Then from amaze into delight he fell
  To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;
  And every word she spake entic’d him on
  To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.
  
  Let the mad poets say whate’er they please
  Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,
  There is not such a treat among them all,
  Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,
  As a real woman, lineal indeed
  From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.
  
  Thus gentle Lamia judg’d, and judg’d aright,
  That Lycius could not love in half a fright,
  So threw the goddess off, and won his heart
  More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,
  With no more awe than what her beauty gave,
  That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.
  
  Lycius to all made eloquent reply,
  Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;
  And last, pointing to Corinth, ask’d her sweet,
  If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.
  
  The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness
  Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease
  To a few paces; not at all surmised
  By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.
  
  They pass’d the city gates, he knew not how
  So noiseless, and he never thought to know.
  
  As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
  Throughout her palaces imperial,
  And all her populous streets and temples lewd,
  Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,
  To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.
  
  Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,
  Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,
  Companion’d or alone; while many a light
  Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,
  And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
  Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade
  Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.
  
  Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,
  Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near
  With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,
  Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown:
  Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,
  Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,
  While hurried Lamia trembled: “Ah,” said he,
  “Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?
  
  “Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?
  
  ”—
  “I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “tell me who
  “Is that old man?
  
  I cannot bring to mind
  “His features:—Lycius! wherefore did you blind
  “Yourself from his quick eyes?
  
  ” Lycius replied,
  “’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide
  “And good instructor; but to-night he seems
  “The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.
  
  While yet he spake they had arrived before
  A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door,
  Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow
  Reflected in the slabbed steps below,
  Mild as a star in water; for so new,
  And so unsullied was the marble hue,
  So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,
  Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine
  Could e'er have touch'd there.
  
  Sounds Aeolian
  Breath'd from the hinges, as the ample span
  Of the wide doors disclos'd a place unknown
  Some time to any, but those two alone,
  And a few Persian mutes, who that same year
  Were seen about the markets: none knew where
  They could inhabit; the most curious
  Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house:
  And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,
  For truth's sake, what woe afterwards befel,
  'Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,
  Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.
  
  (line 48): Originally, "Cerulean-spotted.
  
  " Leigh Hunt says of this passage, "The admiration, pity, and horror, to be excited by humanity in a brute shape, were never perhaps called upon by a greater mixture of beauty and deformity than in the picture of this creature.
  
  Our pity and suspicions are begged by the first word: the profuse and vital beauties with which she is covered seem proportioned to her misery and natural rights; and lest we should lose sight of them in this gorgeousness, the 'woman's mouth' fills us at once with shuddering and compassion.
  
  "
  (line 158): The manuscript reads "vulcanian," the first edition "volcanian.
  
  " It seems to me more likely that the manuscript accords with the poet's intention than that printed text does, for this old orthography is the more characteristic of the vocabulary of this particular poem, as introducing the more conspicuously the mythic personal origin of the common noun "volcano" or "vulcano.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lamia. Part II Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
  Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust;
  Love in a palace is perhaps at last
  More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast:—
  That is a doubtful tale from faery land,
  Hard for the non-elect to understand.
  
  Had Lycius liv’d to hand his story down,
  He might have given the moral a fresh frown,
  Or clench’d it quite: but too short was their bliss
  To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.
  
  Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare,
  Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,
  Hover’d and buzz’d his wings, with fearful roar,
  Above the lintel of their chamber door,
  And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.
  
  For all this came a ruin: side by side
  They were enthroned, in the even tide,
  Upon a couch, near to a curtaining
  Whose airy texture, from a golden string,
  Floated into the room, and let appear
  Unveil’d the summer heaven, blue and clear,
  Betwixt two marble shafts:—there they reposed,
  Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,
  Saving a tythe which love still open kept,
  That they might see each other while they almost slept;
  When from the slope side of a suburb hill,
  Deafening the swallow’s twitter, came a thrill
  Of trumpets—Lycius started—the sounds fled,
  But left a thought, a buzzing in his head.
  
  For the first time, since first he harbour’d in
  That purple-lined palace of sweet sin,
  His spirit pass’d beyond its golden bourn
  Into the noisy world almost forsworn.
  
  The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,
  Saw this with pain, so arguing a want
  Of something more, more than her empery
  Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh
  Because he mused beyond her, knowing well
  That but a moment’s thought is passion’s passing bell.
  
  “Why do you sigh, fair creature?
  
  ” whisper’d he:
  “Why do you think?
  
  ” return’d she tenderly:
  “You have deserted me;—where am I now?
  
  “Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow:
  “No, no, you have dismiss’d me; and I go
  “From your breast houseless: ay, it must be so.
  
  ”
  He answer’d, bending to her open eyes,
  Where he was mirror’d small in paradise,
  “My silver planet, both of eve and morn!
  “Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn,
  “While I am striving how to fill my heart
  “With deeper crimson, and a double smart?
  
  “How to entangle, trammel up and snare
  “Your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there
  “Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose?
  
  “Ay, a sweet kiss—you see your mighty woes.
  
  “My thoughts! shall I unveil them?
  
  Listen then!
  “What mortal hath a prize, that other men
  “May be confounded and abash’d withal,
  “But lets it sometimes pace abroad majestical,
  “And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice
  “Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth’s voice.
  
  “Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar,
  “While through the thronged streets your bridal car
  “Wheels round its dazzling spokes.
  
  ”—The lady’s cheek
  Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and meek,
  Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain
  Of sorrows at his words; at last with pain
  Beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung,
  To change his purpose.
  
  He thereat was stung,
  Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim
  Her wild and timid nature to his aim:
  Besides, for all his love, in self despite,
  Against his better self, he took delight
  Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.
  
  His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue
  Fierce and sanguineous as ’twas possible
  In one whose brow had no dark veins to swell.
  
  Fine was the mitigated fury, like
  Apollo’s presence when in act to strike
  The serpent—Ha, the serpent! certes, she
  Was none.
  
  She burnt, she lov’d the tyranny,
  And, all subdued, consented to the hour
  When to the bridal he should lead his paramour.
  
  Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth,
  “Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my truth,
  “I have not ask’d it, ever thinking thee
  “Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny,
  “As still I do.
  
  Hast any mortal name,
  “Fit appellation for this dazzling frame?
  
  “Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth,
  “To share our marriage feast and nuptial mirth?
  
  ”
  “I have no friends,” said Lamia, “no, not one;
  “My presence in wide Corinth hardly known:
  “My parents’ bones are in their dusty urns
  “Sepulchred, where no kindled incense burns,
  “Seeing all their luckless race are dead, save me,
  “And I neglect the holy rite for thee.
  
  “Even as you list invite your many guests;
  “But if, as now it seems, your vision rests
  “With any pleasure on me, do not bid
  “Old Apollonius—from him keep me hid.
  
  ”
  Lycius, perplex’d at words so blind and blank,
  Made close inquiry; from whose touch she shrank,
  Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade
  Of deep sleep in a moment was betray’d.
  
  It was the custom then to bring away
  The bride from home at blushing shut of day,
  Veil’d, in a chariot, heralded along
  By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song,
  With other pageants: but this fair unknown
  Had not a friend.
  
  So being left alone,
  (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin)
  And knowing surely she could never win
  His foolish heart from its mad pompousness,
  She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress
  The misery in fit magnificence.
  
  She did so, but ’tis doubtful how and whence
  Came, and who were her subtle servitors.
  
  About the halls, and to and from the doors,
  There was a noise of wings, till in short space
  The glowing banquet-room shone with wide-arched grace.
  
  A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone
  Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan
  Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade.
  
  Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade
  Of palm and plantain, met from either side,
  High in the midst, in honour of the bride:
  Two palms and then two plantains, and so on,
  From either side their stems branch’d one to one
  All down the aisled place; and beneath all
  There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall to wall.
  
  So canopied, lay an untasted feast
  Teeming with odours.
  
  Lamia, regal drest,
  Silently paced about, and as she went,
  In pale contented sort of discontent,
  Mission’d her viewless servants to enrich
  The fretted splendour of each nook and niche.
  
  Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first,
  Came jasper pannels; then, anon, there burst
  Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees,
  And with the larger wove in small intricacies.
  
  Approving all, she faded at self-will,
  And shut the chamber up, close, hush’d and still,
  Complete and ready for the revels rude,
  When dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude.
  
  The day appear’d, and all the gossip rout.
  
  O senseless Lycius! Madman! wherefore flout
  The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister’d hours,
  And show to common eyes these secret bowers?
  
  The herd approach’d; each guest, with busy brain,
  Arriving at the portal, gaz’d amain,
  And enter’d marveling: for they knew the street,
  Remember’d it from childhood all complete
  Without a gap, yet ne’er before had seen
  That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne;
  So in they hurried all, maz’d, curious and keen:
  Save one, who look’d thereon with eye severe,
  And with calm-planted steps walk’d in austere;
  ’Twas Apollonius: something too he laugh’d,
  As though some knotty problem, that had daft
  His patient thought, had now begun to thaw,
  And solve and melt:—’twas just as he foresaw.
  
  He met within the murmurous vestibule
  His young disciple.
  
  “’Tis no common rule,
  “Lycius,” said he, “for uninvited guest
  “To force himself upon you, and infest
  “With an unbidden presence the bright throng
  “Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,
  “And you forgive me.
  
  ” Lycius blush’d, and led
  The old man through the inner doors broad-spread;
  With reconciling words and courteous mien
  Turning into sweet milk the sophist’s spleen.
  
  Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,
  Fill’d with pervading brilliance and perfume:
  Before each lucid pannel fuming stood
  A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,
  Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,
  Whose slender feet wide-swerv’d upon the soft
  Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke
  From fifty censers their light voyage took
  To the high roof, still mimick’d as they rose
  Along the mirror’d walls by twin-clouds odorous.
  
  Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,
  High as the level of a man’s breast rear’d
  On libbard’s paws, upheld the heavy gold
  Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told
  Of Ceres’ horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
  Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine.
  
  Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,
  Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.
  
  When in an antichamber every guest
  Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press’d,
  By minist’ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,
  And fragrant oils with ceremony meet
  Pour’d on his hair, they all mov’d to the feast
  In white robes, and themselves in order placed
  Around the silken couches, wondering
  Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.
  
  Soft went the music the soft air along,
  While fluent Greek a vowel’d undersong
  Kept up among the guests discoursing low
  At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;
  But when the happy vintage touch’d their brains,
  Louder they talk, and louder come the strains
  Of powerful instruments:—the gorgeous dyes,
  The space, the splendour of the draperies,
  The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,
  Beautiful slaves, and Lamia’s self, appear,
  Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,
  And every soul from human trammels freed,
  No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,
  Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.
  
  Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;
  Flush’d were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:
  Garlands of every green, and every scent
  From vales deflower’d, or forest-trees branch rent,
  In baskets of bright osier’d gold were brought
  High as the handles heap’d, to suit the thought
  Of every guest; that each, as he did please,
  Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow’d at his ease.
  
  What wreath for Lamia?
  
  What for Lycius?
  
  What for the sage, old Apollonius?
  
  Upon her aching forehead be there hung
  The leaves of willow and of adder’s tongue;
  And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him
  The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim
  Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage,
  Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage
  War on his temples.
  
  Do not all charms fly
  At the mere touch of cold philosophy?
  
  There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
  We know her woof, her texture; she is given
  In the dull catalogue of common things.
  
  Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,
  Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,
  Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—
  Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made
  The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.
  
  By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,
  Scarce saw in all the room another face,
  Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took
  Full brimm’d, and opposite sent forth a look
  ’Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance
  From his old teacher’s wrinkled countenance,
  And pledge him.
  
  The bald-head philosopher
  Had fix’d his eye, without a twinkle or stir
  Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,
  Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.
  
  Lycius then press’d her hand, with devout touch,
  As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:
  ’Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;
  Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains
  Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.
  
  “Lamia, what means this?
  
  Wherefore dost thou start?
  
  “Know’st thou that man?
  
  ” Poor Lamia answer’d not.
  
  He gaz’d into her eyes, and not a jot
  Own’d they the lovelorn piteous appeal:
  More, more he gaz’d: his human senses reel:
  Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;
  There was no recognition in those orbs.
  
  “Lamia!” he cried—and no soft-toned reply.
  
  The many heard, and the loud revelry
  Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;
  The myrtle sicken’d in a thousand wreaths.
  
  By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;
  A deadly silence step by step increased,
  Until it seem’d a horrid presence there,
  And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.
  
  “Lamia!” he shriek’d; and nothing but the shriek
  With its sad echo did the silence break.
  
  “Begone, foul dream!” he cried, gazing again
  In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein
  Wander’d on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom
  Misted the cheek; no passion to illume
  The deep-recessed vision:—all was blight;
  Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.
  
  “Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!
  “Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban
  “Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
  “Here represent their shadowy presences,
  “May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn
  “Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,
  “In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright
  “Of conscience, for their long offended might,
  “For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,
  “Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.
  
  “Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch!
  “Mark how, possess’d, his lashless eyelids stretch
  “Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!
  “My sweet bride withers at their potency.
  
  ”
  “Fool!” said the sophist, in an under-tone
  Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan
  From Lycius answer’d, as heart-struck and lost,
  He sank supine beside the aching ghost.
  
  “Fool! Fool!” repeated he, while his eyes still
  Relented not, nor mov’d; “from every ill
  “Of life have I preserv’d thee to this day,
  “And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey?
  
  Then Lamia breath’d death breath; the sophist’s eye,
  Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,
  Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well
  As her weak hand could any meaning tell,
  Motion’d him to be silent; vainly so,
  He look’d and look’d again a level--No!
  “A Serpent!” echoed he; no sooner said,
  Than with a frightful scream she vanished:
  And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,
  As were his limbs of life, from that same night.
  
  On the high couch he lay!—his friends came round--
  Supported him—no pulse, or breath they found,
  And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.
  
  (line 50): Keats adopted here, in the manuscript, a pointing notice before: he placed the note of interrogation at the end of this line, a semi-colon at the end of line 51, and a full-stop at the end of line 54.
  
  The pointing of the text is from the first edition.
  
  (lines 124-6): Leigh Hunt notes - "This is the very quintessence of the romantic.
  
  "
  (line 140): Rejected reading, "wainscoated" for "marbled plain.
  
  "
  (line 239): In the Autobiography of Haydon, as edited by the late Mr.
  
  Tom Taylor, we read at page 354 of Volume 1 (edition of 1853) that Keats and Lamb, at one of the meetings at Haydon's house, agreed that Newton "had destroyed all the poetry of the rainbow, by reducing it to the prismatic colours.
  
  "  This meeting was what Haydon calls "the immortal dinner" of the 28th of December 1817; so that the idea appears to have persisted in Keats's mind.
  
  Last line: The following extract is appended in Keats's edition as a note to the last line of Lamia:--
  "Philostratus, in his fourth book 'de Vita Apollonii', hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age, that going betwixt Cenchreas and Corinth, met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, which taking him by the hand, carried him home to her house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and told him she was a Phoenician by birth, and if he would tarry with her, he should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as never any drank, and no man should molest him; but she, being fair and lovely, would live and die with him, that was fair and lovely to behold.
  
  The young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, though not this of love, tarried with her a while to his great content, and at last married her, to whose wedding, amongst other guests, came Apollonius; who, by some probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia; and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, descried by Homer, no substance but mere illusions.
  
  When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished in an instant: many thousands took notice of this fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece.
  
  " ~ Burton's 'Anatomy of Melancholy.
  
  ' Part 3.
  
  Sect.
  
  2.
  
  Memb.
  
  1.
  
  Subs.
  
  1.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lines Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Unfelt unheard, unseen,
  I've left my little queen,
  Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
  Ah! through their nestling touch,
  Who -- who could tell how much
  There is for madness -- cruel, or complying?
  
  2.
  
  Those faery lids how sleek!
  Those lips how moist! -- they speak,
  In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
  Into my fancy's ear
  Melting a burden dear,
  How "Love doth know no fullness, nor no bounds.
  
  "
  3.
  
  True -- tender monitors!
  I bend unto your laws:
  This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
  So, without more ado,
  I'll feel my heaven anew,
  For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
  
  'These lines stand next to 'Think not of it, sweet one, so' in the Literary Remains (1848), and are also assigned to the year 1817.
  
  Lord Houghton gave the quotation in the last line of stanza 2 as,
  "Love doth know no fullness and no bounds.
  
  "
  In the Aldine edition it was corrected by the substitution of 'nor' for 'and.
  
  ' From the manuscript it would not appear that Keats was responsible for misquoting Shakespeare.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lines On Seeing A Lock Of Milton's Hair Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Chief of organic Numbers!
  Old Scholar of the Spheres!
  Thy spirit never slumbers,
  But rolls about our ears
  For ever and for ever.
  
  O, what a mad endeavour
  Worketh he
  Who, to thy sacred and ennobled hearse,
  Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
  And Melody!
  How heavenward thou soundedst
  Live Temple of sweet noise;
  And discord unconfoundedst:
  Giving delight new joys,
  And Pleasure nobler pinions--
  O where are thy Dominions!
  Lend thine ear
  To a young delian oath--aye, by thy soul,
  By all that from thy mortal Lips did roll;
  And by the Kernel of thine earthly Love,
  Beauty, in things on earth and things above,
  When every childish fashion
  Has vanish'd from my rhyme
  Will I grey-gone in passion
  Give to an after-time
  Hymning and harmony
  Of thee, and of thy Words and of thy Life:
  But vain is now the bruning and the strife--
  Pangs are in vain -- until I grow high-rife
  With Old Philosophy
  And mad with glimpses at futurity!
  For many years my offerings must be hush'd:
  When I do speak I'll think upon this hour,
  Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd,
  Even at the simplest vassal of thy Power,--
  A Lock of thy bright hair!
  Sudden it came,
  And I was startled when I heard thy name
  Coupled so unaware--
  Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood:
  Methought I had beheld it from the flood.
  
  'In a letter to his friend Bailey, dated 23rd of January 1818 (Life, Letters &c.
  
  , 1848), Keats says --
  "I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised me with a real authenticated lock of Milton's hair.
  
  I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here it is -- as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book.
  
  "
  And after transcribing the poem he adds --
  "This I did at Hunt's, at his request.
  
  Perhaps I should have done something better alone and at home.
  
  "
  In the folio Shakespeare in Sir Charles Dilke's possession these Lines are written in Keats's autograph, and there is another manuscript at the end of the copy of Endymion mentioned several times in these notes.
  
  The date given by Keats to the poem is the 21st of January 1818.
  
  I presume Lord Houghton gave the poem from the Bailey letter: the variations are inconsiderable.
  
  Medwin records in his Life of Shelley (Volume II, page 106) the belief that this poem had appeared in a periodical, though not at that time included in Keats's works.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lines On The Mermaid Tavern Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Souls of Poets dead and gone,
  What Elysium have ye known,
  Happy field or mossy cavern,
  Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
  
  Have ye tippled drink more fine
  Than mine host's Canary wine?
  
  Or are fruits of Paradise
  Sweeter than those dainty pies
  Of venison?
  
  O generous food!
  Drest as though bold Robin Hood
  Would, with his maid Marian,
  Sup and bowse from horn and can.
  
  I have heard that on a day
  Mine host's sign-board flew away,
  Nobody knew whither, till
  An astrologer's old quill
  To a sheepskin gave the story,
  Said he saw you in your glory,
  Underneath a new old sign
  Sipping beverage divine,
  And pledging with contented smack
  The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
  
  Souls of Poets dead and gone,
  What Elysium have ye known,
  Happy field or mossy cavern,
  Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
  
  'When Mr.
  
  Palgrave issued his beautiful Golden Treasury he felt it necessary to explain in connexion with this poem that "the Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other choice spirits of that age.
  
  "' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lines Rhymed In A Letter From Oxford Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  The Gothic looks solemn,
  The plain Doric column
  Supports an old Bishop and Crosier;
  The mouldering arch,
  Shaded o'er by a larch
  Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.
  
  II.
  
  Vice--that is, by turns,--
  O'er pale faces mourns
  The black tassell'd trencher and common hat;
  The Chantry boy sings,
  The Steeple-bell rings,
  And as for the Chancellor--dominat.
  
  III.
  
  There are plenty of trees,
  And plenty of ease,
  And plenty of fat deer for Parsons;
  And when it is venison,
  Short is the benison,--
  Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.

• Lines To Fanny Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What can I do to drive away
  Remembrance from my eyes?
  
  for they have seen,
  Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
  Touch has a memory.
  
  O say, love, say,
  What can I do to kill it and be free
  In my old liberty?
  
  When every fair one that I saw was fair
  Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
  Not keep me there:
  When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
  My muse had wings,
  And ever ready was to take her course
  Whither I bent her force,
  Unintellectual, yet divine to me;--
  Divine, I say! -- What sea-bird o'er the sea
  Is a philosopher the while he goes
  Winging along where the great water throes?
  
  How shall I do
  To get anew
  Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
  Above, above
  The reach of fluttering Love,
  And make him cower lowly while I soar?
  
  Shall I gulp wine?
  
  No, that is vulgarism,
  A heresy and schism,
  Foisted into the canon law of love;--
  No,-- wine is only sweet to happy men;
  More dismal cares
  Seize on me unawares,--
  Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
  
  To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
  Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
  Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
  That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour
  Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
  Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
  Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
  Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
  Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
  Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
  Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
  There flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
  And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
  
  O, for some sunny spell
  To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
  Say they are gone,-- with the new dawning light
  Steps forth my lady bright!
  O, let me once more rest
  My soul upon that dazzling breast!
  Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,
  The tender gaolers of thy waist!
  And let me feel that warm breath here and there
  To spread a rapture in my very hair,--
  O, the sweetness of the pain!
  Give me those lips again!
  Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
  To dream of thee!
  'These lines, first given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  , were there dated October 1819; and I should be disposed to assign them to the 12th of that month, the day before that on which Keats posted a letter at Westminster to Miss Brawne, saying 'inter alia' that he has set himself to copy some verses out fair, and adding "I cannot proceed with any degree of content.
  
  I must write you a line or two and see if that will assist in dismissing you from my Mind for ever so short a time.
  
  " The text appears to me to need revision in certain points; but I know of no authority for change.
  
  Thus, in line 3, the word 'and' or 'but' has probably dropped out after 'Aye.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Lines Written In The Highlands After A Visit To Burns's Country Read Poem Log in to favourite

  There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
  Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;
  There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,
  Where mantles grey have rustled by and swept the nettles green;
  There is a joy in every spot made known by times of old,
  New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;
  There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
  More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
  When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
  Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,
  Toward the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
  One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
  
  Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;
  Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, -- the Sun may hear this lay;
  Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,
  But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;
  Blood-red the Sun may set behind the black mountain peaks;
  Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks;
  Eagles may seem to sleep wing-side upon the air;
  Ring-dove may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair;
  But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
  As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.
  
  At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain;
  Forgotten is the worldly heart -- alone, it beats in vain.
  
  --
  Aye, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day
  To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay,
  He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth
  To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North!
  Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay
  Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way:
  O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face,
  Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow -- constant to every place;
  Filling the air, as on we move, with portraiture intense;
  More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense,
  When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,
  Locks shining black, hair scanty grey, and passions manifold.
  
  No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's length
  Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens in its strength:--
  One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall,
  But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial:--
  He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down
  Upon rough marble diadem -- that hill's eternal crown.
  
  Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer
  That man may never lose his mind on mountains black and bare;
  That he may stray league after league some great birth-place to find
  And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
  
  'After leaving Ayr Keats and Brown appear to have been detained by rain at some place twelve miles along the road, when Keats took the opportunity of going on with his letter to Reynolds begun at Maybole.
  
  They were enroute for Glasgow (casually mentioned in a letter to Bailey begun at Inverary on the 18th of July), which they took on their way from Ayr to Loch Lomond and Inverary.
  
  The poem given above is mentioned to Bailey as having been written within a few days of the sonnet in Burns's cottage, so that, although it is headed as above in the manuscript written at the end of Sir Charles Dilke's copy of Endymion, it seems more probable that the term Highlands was used in a lax popular sense than that the poem was composed after the visit to Staffa.
  
  Indeed in the letter to Bailey he speaks of the whole tour as in the Highlands.
  
  Keats expected to be by Loch Lomond about the 15th of July, and may have written this poem on high ground anywhere about the Loch, with the scenery of which he was very much impressed.
  
  They did not ascend Ben Lomond as intended, being deterred by expense and need of rest.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Meg Merrilies Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
  And liv'd upon the Moors:
  Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
  And her house was out of doors.
  
  Her apples were swart blackberries,
  Her currants pods o' broom;
  Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
  Her book a churchyard tomb.
  
  Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
  Her Sisters larchen trees—
  Alone with her great family
  She liv'd as she did please.
  
  No breakfast had she many a morn,
  No dinner many a noon,
  And 'stead of supper she would stare
  Full hard against the Moon.
  
  But every morn of woodbine fresh
  She made her garlanding,
  And every night the dark glen Yew
  She wove, and she would sing.
  
  And with her fingers old and brown
  She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
  And gave them to the Cottagers
  She met among the Bushes.
  
  Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
  And tall as Amazon:
  An old red blanket cloak she wore;
  A chip hat had she on.
  
  God rest her aged bones somewhere—
  She died full long agone!

• Ode On Melancholy Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
  Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
  Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
  Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
  Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
  Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
  A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
  For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
  And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
  
  2.
  
  But when the melancholy fit shall fall
  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
  That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
  Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
  Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
  Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
  And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
  
  3.
  
  She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
  And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
  Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
  Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
  Ay, in the very temple of delight
  Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
  Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
  tongue
  Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
  His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
  And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

• Ode On A Grecian Urn Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
  Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
  Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
  A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
  What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
  Of deities or mortals, or of both,
  In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
  
  What men or gods are these?
  
  What maidens loth?
  
  What mad pursuit?
  
  What struggle to escape?
  
  What pipes and timbrels?
  
  What wild ecstasy?
  
  2.
  
  Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
  Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
  Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
  Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
  Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
  Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
  Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
  Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
  She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
  For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
  3.
  
  Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
  Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
  And, happy melodist, unwearied,
  For ever piping songs for ever new;
  More happy love! more happy, happy love!
  For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
  For ever panting, and for ever young;
  All breathing human passion far above,
  That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
  A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
  
  4.
  
  Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
  
  To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
  Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
  And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
  
  What little town by river or sea shore,
  Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
  Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
  
  And, little town, thy streets for evermore
  Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
  Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
  
  5.
  
  O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
  Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
  With forest branches and the trodden weed;
  Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
  As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
  When old age shall this generation waste,
  Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
  Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
  "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
  
  "
  This Ode is mentioned by Lord Houghton in connexion with the Ode To a Nightingale as belonging to the Spring of 1819; and we are informed of both alike that, soon after they were composed, Keats "repeated, or rather chanted, them to Mr.
  
  Haydon, in the sort of recitative that so well suited his deep grave voice, as they strolled together through Kilburn meadows, leaving an indelible impression on the mind of his surviving friend.
  
  "
  There is some reason for thinking that the particular urn which inspired this beautiful poem is a somewhat weather-beaten work in marble still preserved in the garden of Holland House, and figured in Piranesi's Vasi e Candelabri.
  
  (stanza 5):
  "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
  
  "
  This seems to confirm the limitation of the Urn's moral to the five words indicated in the text, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty"
  "-- that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
  
  "
  [seems] a part of the Urn's lesson, and not as the poet's personal comment.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode On Indolence Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  One morn before me were three figures seen,
  I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
  And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
  In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
  They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
  When shifted round to see the other side;
  They came again; as when the urn once more
  Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
  And they were strange to me, as may betide
  With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
  
  2.
  
  How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
  
  How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
  
  Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
  To steal away, and leave without a task
  My idle days?
  
  Ripe was the drowsy hour;
  The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
  Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
  Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower:
  O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
  Unhaunted quite of all but—-nothingness?
  
  3.
  
  A third time came they by;—-alas! wherefore?
  
  My sleep had been embroider'd with dim dreams;
  My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o'er
  With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
  The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
  Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
  The open casement press'd a new-leav'd vine,
  Let in the budding warmth and throstle's lay;
  O Shadows! 'twas a time to bid farewell!
  Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
  
  4.
  
  A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, turn'd
  Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
  Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd
  And ached for wings, because I knew the three;
  The first was a fair maid, and Love her name;
  The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
  And ever watchful with fatigued eye;
  The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
  Is heap'd upon her, maiden most unmeek,—-
  I knew to be my demon Poesy.
  
  5.
  
  They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
  O folly! What is Love! and where is it?
  
  And for that poor Ambition—-it springs
  From a man's little heart's short fever-fit;
  For Poesy!—-no,—-she has not a joy,—-
  At least for me,—-so sweet as drowsy noons,
  And evenings steep'd in honied indolence;
  O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy,
  That I may never know how change the moons,
  Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
  6.
  
  So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
  My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
  For I would not be dieted with praise,
  A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
  Fade sofdy from my eyes, and be once more
  In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
  Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
  And for the day faint visions there is store;
  Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
  Into the clouds, and never more return!
  'First given by Lord Houghton among the Literary Remains in 1848, with the date 1819.
  
  Among the many debts of these notes to the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, I must not fail to record the indication of the following passage from Keats's letter begun on the 14th of February 1819 as anticipating the Ode on Indolence:--
  "This morning I am in a sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless; I long after a stanza or two of Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence;' my passions are all asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over me, to a delightful sensation, about three degrees on this side of faintness.
  
  If I had teeth or pearl, and the breath of lilies, I should call it languor; but, as I am, I must call it laziness.
  
  In this state of effeminacy, the fibres of the brain are relaxed, in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree, that pleasure has no show of enticement, and pain no unbearable frown; neither Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love, have any alterness of countenance; as they pass by me, they seem rather like three figures on a Greek vase, two men and a woman, whom no one but myself could distinguish in their disguisement.
  
  This is the only happiness, and is a rare instance of advantage in the body overpowering the mind.
  
  "
  The date under which this passage occurs in the journal letter is the 19th of March.
  
  It seems almost certain therefore that the Ode must have been composed after the fragment of The Eve Of St.
  
  Mark, -- not before it as usually given.
  
  (stanza 6.
  
  ): It is no doubt owing to the want of opportunity to revise the poem finally that this beautiful stanza comes down to us disfigured by the bad rhyme 'grass' and 'farce.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode To A Nightingale Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
  Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
  'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in thy happiness,—-
  That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
  In some melodious plot
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
  Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
  
  O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
  Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
  Tasting of Flora and the country green,
  Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!
  O for a beaker full of the warm South,
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
  And purple-stained mouth;
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
  And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
  Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,
  The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
  Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
  And leaden-eyed despairs;
  Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
  Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
  
  Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
  But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
  Already with thee! tender is the night,
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
  Clustered around by all her starry fays;
  But here there is no light,
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
  
  I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
  But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
  Wherewith the seasonable month endows
  The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
  Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
  And mid-May's eldest child,
  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
  The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
  
  Darkling I listen; and for many a time
  I have been half in love with easeful Death,
  Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
  To take into the air my quiet breath;
  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
  In such an ecstasy!
  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—-
  To thy high requiem become a sod
  Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
  The voice I hear this passing night was heard
  In ancient days by emperor and clown:
  Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
  The same that oft-times hath
  Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
  Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
  
  Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
  To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
  Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
  As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
  
  Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
  Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
  In the next valley-glades:
  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
  
  Fled is that music:—-do I wake or sleep?
  
  Haydon, in one of his letters to Miss Mitford (Corresp.
  
  &c.
  
  , Vol.
  
  2, pg.
  
  72) says of Keats-- "The death of his brother wounded him deeply, and it appeared to me from that hour he began to droop.
  
  He wrote his exquisite 'Ode to the Nightingale' at this time, and as we were one evening walking in the Kilburn meadows he repeated it to me, before he put it to paper, in a low, tremulous undertone which affected me extremely.
  
  "
  Lord Houghton says the Ode was suggested by the continued song of a nightingale which, in the spring of 1819, had built its nest close to Wentworth Place.
  
  "Keats," says his Lordship (Aldine ed.
  
  , 1876, pg.
  
  237), "took great pleasure in her song, and one morning took his chair from the breakfast-table to the grass plot under a plum tree, where he remained between two and three hours.
  
  He then reached the house with some scraps of paper in his hand, which he soon put together in the form of his Ode.
  
  "
  (stanza 2): Of Keats's partiality for claret enough and too much has been made; but with his delightful list of desiderata given to his sister in a letter, now before me, it is impossible to resist citing as a prose parallel to these two splendid lines of poetry the words, "and, please heaven, a little claret wine cool out of a cellar a mile deep -- with a few or a good many ratafia cakes.
  
  "
  (stanza 3): The sixth line very clearly bears out Haydon's words connecting the sadness of the poem with the death of Tom Keats, and should be compared with the passage about his sister in the letter to Brown written from Rome on the 30th November, 1820,-- "my sister - who walks about my imagination like a ghost - she is so like Tom.
  
  " In the same letter he says "it runs in my head we shall all die young.
  
  "
  (stanza 7): In the last line of this stanza the word "fairy" instead of "faery" stands in the manuscript and in the Annals; but the Lamia volume reads "faery", which enhances the poetic value of the line in the subtlest manner -- eliminating all possible connexion of fairy-land with Christmas trees, tinsel, and Santa Claus, and carrying out the imagination safely back to the middle ages.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode To Apollo Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  In thy western halls of gold
  When thou sittest in thy state,
  Bards, that erst sublimely told
  Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,
  With fervour seize their adamantine lyres,
  Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.
  
  2.
  
  Here Homer with his nervous arms
  Strikes the twanging harp of war,
  And even the western splendour warms,
  While the trumpets sound afar:
  But, what creates the most intense surprise,
  His soul looks out through renovated eyes.
  
  3.
  
  Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
  The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre:
  The soul delighted on each accent dwells,--
  Enraptur'd dwells,--not daring to respire,
  The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.
  
  4.
  
  'Tis awful silence then again;
  Expectant stand the spheres;
  Breathless the laurell'd peers,
  Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,
  Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,
  And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.
  
  5.
  
  Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand,
  And quickly forward spring
  The Passions--a terrific band--
  And each vibrates the string
  That with its tyrant temper best accords,
  While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.
  
  6.
  
  A silver trumpet Spenser blows,
  And, as its martial notes to silence flee,
  From a virgin chorus flows
  A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.
  
  'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Aeolian lyre
  Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
  
  7.
  
  Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
  Float along the pleased air,
  Calling youth from idle slumbers,
  Rousing them from Pleasure's lair:--
  Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
  And melt the soul to pity and to love.
  
  8.
  
  But when  Thou  joinest with the Nine,
  And all the powers of song combine,
  We listen here on earth:
  Thy dying tones that fill the air,
  And charm the ear of evening fair,
  From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.
  
  'First given among the Literary Remains in the second volume of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  1848.
  
  The date to which Lord Houghton assigns the poem is February 1815.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode To Autumn Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
  Conspiring with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
  To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
  To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
  And still more, later flowers for the bees,
  Until they think warm days will never cease,
  For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
  
  2.
  
  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
  
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
  Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
  Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
  Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
  And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;
  Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
  Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
  
  3.
  
  Where are the songs of Spring?
  
  Ay, where are they?
  
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
  While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
  Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
  And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

• Ode To Fanny Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Physician Nature! Let my spirit blood!
  O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;
  Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
  Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
  
  A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
  Let me begin my dream.
  
  I come — I see thee, as thou standest there,
  Beckon me not into the wintry air.
  
  2.
  
  Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
  And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, —
  To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
  A smile of such delight,
  As brilliant and as bright,
  As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
  Lost in soft amaze,
  I gaze, I gaze!
  3.
  
  Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
  
  What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
  Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
  Let, let, the amorous burn —
  But pr'ythee, do not turn
  The current of your heart from me so soon.
  
  O! save, in charity,
  The quickest pulse for me.
  
  4.
  
  Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
  Voluptuous visions into the warm air;
  Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,
  Be like an April day,
  Smiling and cold and gay,
  A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
  Then, Heaven! there will be
  A warmer June for me.
  
  5.
  
  Why, this, you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
  Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
  Where the heart beats: confess — 'tis nothing new —
  Must not a woman be
  A feather on the sea,
  Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
  
  Of as uncertain speed
  As blow-ball from the mead?
  
  6.
  
  I know it — and to know it is despair
  To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
  Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
  Nor, when away you roam,
  Dare keep its wretched home,
  Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
  Then, loveliest! keep me free,
  From torturing jealousy.
  
  7.
  
  Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
  The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
  Let none profane my Holy See of love,
  Or with a rude hand break
  The sacramental cake:
  Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
  If not — may my eyes close,
  Love! on their lost repose.
  
  'This poem was first given among the Literary Remains in 1848 without any date; .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  but it seems very likely that the early part of 1819 would be the time.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode To Psyche Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
  By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
  And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
  Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
  Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
  The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
  
  I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
  And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
  Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
  In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
  Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
  A brooklet, scarce espied:
  Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
  Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
  They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
  Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
  Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
  As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
  And ready still past kisses to outnumber
  At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
  The winged boy I knew;
  But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
  
  His Psyche true!
  O latest born and loveliest vision far
  Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
  Fairer than Ph{oe}be's sapphire-region'd star,
  Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
  Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
  Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
  Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
  Upon the midnight hours;
  No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
  From chain-swung censer teeming;
  No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
  Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
  
  O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
  Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
  When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
  Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
  Yet even in these days so far retir'd
  From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
  Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
  I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
  
  So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
  Upon the midnight hours;
  Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
  From swinged censer teeming;
  Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
  Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
  
  Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
  In some untrodden region of my mind,
  Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
  Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
  Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
  Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
  And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
  The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
  And in the midst of this wide quietness
  A rosy sanctuary will I dress
  With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
  With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
  With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
  Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
  And there shall be for thee all soft delight
  That shadowy thought can win,
  A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
  To let the warm Love in!
  'Under the date 15th of April [1819] Keats writes to his brother George and his wife, of this Ode, "The following poem, the last I have written, is the first and only one with which I have taken even moderate pains; I have, for the most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry; this one I have done leisurely; I think it reads the more richly for it, and it will I hope encourage me to write other things in even a more peaceable and healthy spirit.
  
  You must recollect that Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived after the Augustan age, and consequently the goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to with any of the ancient fervour, and perhaps never thought of in the old religion: I am more orthodox than to let a heathen goddess be so neglected.
  
  "
  This is an instance in which Keats seems to have gone beyond Lempriere's Classical Dictionary for his information; but I presume we may not unsafely take the portraiture of Cupid and Psyche in the first stanza as an adapted reminiscence of his other favourite text book, Spence's Polymetis, in Plate VI of which the well known kissing Cupid and Psyche are admirably engraved from the statue at Florence.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Ode. Written On The Blank Page Before Beaumont And Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid Of The In Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
  Ye have left your souls on earth!
  Have ye souls in heaven too,
  Doubled-lived in regions new?
  
  Yes, and those of heaven commune
  With the spheres of sun and moon;
  With the noise of fountains wondrous,
  And the parle of voices thund'rous;
  With the whisper of heaven's trees
  And one another, in soft ease
  Seated on Elysian lawns
  Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
  Underneath large blue-bells tented,
  Where the daisies are rose-scented,
  And the rose herself has got
  Perfume which on earth is not;
  Where the nightingale doth sing
  Not a senseless, tranced thing,
  But divine melodious truth;
  Philosophic numbers smooth;
  Tales and golden histories
  Of heaven and its mysteries.
  
  Thus ye live on high, and then
  On the earth ye live again;
  And the souls ye left behind you
  Teach us, here, the way to find you,
  Where your other souls are joying,
  Never slumber'd, never cloying.
  
  Here, your earth-born souls still speak
  To mortals, of their little week;
  Of their sorrows and delights;
  Of their passions and their spites;
  Of their glory and their shame;
  What doth strengthen and what maim.
  
  Thus ye teach us, every day,
  Wisdom, though fled far away.
  
  Bards of Passion and of Mirth,
  Ye have left your souls on earth!
  Ye have souls in heaven too,
  Double-lived in regions new!
  'From the fact that this poem is written in Keats's Beaumont and Fletcher, now in Sir Charles Dilke's possession, and from internal evidence, we may judge it to be addressed to the brother poets of passion and mirth who wrote the tragi-comedy of The Fair Maid Of The Inn, and not to poets at large, as indicated by the title given in the Golden Treasury, to wit Ode on the Poets.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• On A Dream Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As Hermes once took to his feathers light
  When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept,
  So on a Delphic reed my idle spright
  So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft
  The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes,
  And, seeing it asleep, so fled away:
  Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
  Nor unto Tempe where Jove griev'd a day;
  But to that second circle of sad hell,
  Where 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
  Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
  Their sorrows.
  
  Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
  Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form
  I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

• On Death Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
  And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
  
  The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
  And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.
  
  2.
  
  How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
  And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
  His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
  His future doom which is but to awake.
  
  'George Keats assigns these stanzas to the year 1814.
  
  Their interest is in the somewhat thoughtful vein they display for a youth of Keast's age at that time - eighteen or nineteen years.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• On Hearing The Bag-Pipe And Seeing "The Stranger" Played At Inverary Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Of late two dainties were before me plac'd
  Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
  From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
  That Gods might know my own particular taste:
  First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste,
  The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
  Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,
  Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
  
  O Bag-pipe thou didst steal my heart away --
  O Stranger thou didst re-assert thy sway --
  Again thou Stranger gav'st me fresh alarm --
  Alas! I could not choose.
  
  Ah! my poor heart
  Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part.
  
  'It would seem to have been still the 17th of July when Keats and Brown "came round the end of Loch Fyne to Inverary," as the poet tells his brother Tom in continuing the letter begun at Cairndow; for he makes a fresh start with "last evening," and lower down another fresh start dated July 20th in which he speaks of the lapse of two days.
  
  The letter to Bailey is also dated "Inverary, July 18;" and that was doubtless the day on which he recounted Tom the arrival at Inverary.
  
  Keats had been excruciated by a solo on the bag-pipe on the way, "I thought," he says, "the brute would never have done -- yet was I doomed to hear another.
  
  On entering Inverary we saw a Play Bill -- Brown was knock'd up from the new shoes -- so I went to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe.
  
  There they went on about 'interesting creaters' and 'human nater' -- till the curtain fell and then came the Bag-pipe.
  
  When Mrs.
  
  Haller fainted down went the curtain and out came the Bag-pipe -- at the heartrending, shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew amain.
  
  I never read or saw this play before; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched players themselves were little in comparison with it -- thank heaven it has been scoffed at lately almost to a fashion.
  
  "
  The sonnet given above follows this passage without a break; and I presume we may safely assign it to the 18th of July 1818.
  
  It has already been published, in The Athenaeum of the 7th of June 1873.
  
  Without being in any sense a good sonnet, it is highly interesting as the record of a mood, and of Keats's attitude towards the wretched but once renowned work of August von Kotzebue, translated into English and performed at Drury Lane as long ago as 1798.
  
  The part of Mrs.
  
  Haller has been graced by no less a player than Mrs.
  
  Siddons.
  
  The manuscript of the sonnet shows a cancelled reading in line 8, 'sighed in discontent,' rejected of course as upsetting the metre.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• On Receiving A Curious Shell Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem
  Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?
  
  Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,
  When it flutters in sun-beams that shine through a fountain?
  
  Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
  
  That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
  
  And splendidly mark'd with the story divine
  Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?
  
  Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
  
  Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?
  
  Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?
  
  And wear'st thou the shield of the fam’d Britomartis?
  
  What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,
  Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?
  
  Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?
  
  And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?
  
  Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;
  Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!
  I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
  In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.
  
  On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
  A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain;
  And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare
  Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.
  
  This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;
  Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,
  When lovely Titania was far, far away,
  And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.
  
  There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute
  Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listened;
  The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,
  And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glistened.
  
  In this little dome, all those melodies strange,
  Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh;
  Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change;
  Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.
  
  So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,
  I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose,
  And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,
  Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.
  
  Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;
  Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,
  I too have my blisses, which richly abound
  In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.
  
  On Receiving A Curious Shell, And A Copy Of Verses, From The Same Ladies : The very same as in the poem 'To Some Ladies'
  'Leigh Hunt calls these verses a "string of magistrate-interrogatories about a shell and a copy of verses.
  
  " In Tom Keats's book of transcripts,.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  the poem is headed merely "On receiving a curious shell and a copy of verses;" but another transcript, in the hand-writing of George Keats, is subscribed (not headed) "Written on receiving a copy of Tom Moore's 'Golden Chain,' and a most beautiful Dome shaped shell from a Lady.
  
  " The reference is no doubt to The Wreath and the Chain; and this small revelation is satisfactory as accounting for the Tom Moorish triviality of the two pieces.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• On Receiving A Laurel Crown From Leigh Hunt Read Poem Log in to favourite

  MINUTES are flying swiftly, and as yet
  Nothing unearthly has enticed my brain
  Into a delphic Labyrinth I would fain
  Catch an unmortal thought to pay the debt
  I owe to the kind Poet who has set
  Upon my ambitious head a glorious gain.
  
  Two bending laurel Sprigs 'tis nearly pain
  To be conscious of such a Coronet.
  
  Still time is fleeting, and no dream arises
  Gorgeous as I would have it only I see
  A Trampling down of what the world most prizes
  Turbans and Crowns, and blank regality;
  And then I run into most wild surmises
  Of all the many glories that may be.

• On Seeing The Elgin Marbles For The First Time Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My spirit is too weak; mortality
  Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
  And each imagined pinnacle and steep
  Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
  Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
  
  Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
  That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
  Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
  
  Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
  Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
  So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
  That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
  Wasting of old Time -with a billowy main,
  A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.

• On Visiting The Tomb Of Burns Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun,
  The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
  Though beautiful, cold- strange- as in a dream
  I dreamed long ago, now new begun.
  
  The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won
  From winter's ague for one hour's gleam;
  Through sapphire warm their stars do never beam:
  All is cold Beauty; pain is never done.
  
  For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
  The real of Beauty, free from that dead hue
  Sickly imagination and sick pride
  Cast wan upon it?
  
  Burns! with honour due
  I oft have honour'd thee.
  
  Great shadow, hide
  Thy face; I sin against thy native skies.
  
  'This sonnet, with which the poems of the Scotch tour with Brown begins, was not a very "prosperous opening.
  
  " It seems to have been written on the 2nd of July 1818, and was first given by Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  in 1848 as part of a letter to Tom Keats, wherein the poet sufficiently explains the comparative poverty of the production, thus: --
  "You will see by this sonnet that I am at Dumfries.
  
  We have dined in Scotland.
  
  Burns's tomb is in the church-yard corner, not very much to my taste, though on a scale large enough to show they wanted to honour him.
  
  Mrs.
  
  Burns lives in this place; most likely we shall see her to-morrow.
  
  This sonnet I have written in a strange mood, half-asleep.
  
  I know not how it is, the clouds, the sky, the houses, all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish.
  
  I will endeavour to get rid of my prejudices and tell you fairly about the Scotch.
  
  "
  It is well to say at once that the precise dates assigned to this series of poems are not absolutely certain; for Keats himself was notoriously inexact about dates, and, according to his own confession, "never knew.
  
  "  Thus the next published letter, containing the Meg Merrilies poem, is dated "Auchtercairn, 3rd July;" and in it we read "yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright," without any fresh date, though probably this statement belongs to the day on which Keats was at Newton Stewart.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Otho The Great - Act I Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A TRAGEDY
  IN FIVE ACTS
  DRAMATIS PERSONS
  OTHO THE GREAT, Emperor of Germany.
  
  LUDOLPH, his Son.
  
  CONRAD, Duke of Franconia.
  
  ALBERT, a Knight, favoured by Otho.
  
  SIGIFRED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph.
  
  THEODORE,  an Officer
  GONFRED,  an Officer
  ETHELBERT.
  
  an Abbot.
  
  GERSA, Prince of Hungary.
  
  An Hungarian Captain.
  
  Physician.
  
  Page.
  
  Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Soldiers.
  
  ERMINIA, Niece of Otho.
  
  AURANTHE, Conrad's Sister.
  
  Ladies and Attendants.
  
  SCENE.
  
  The Castle of Friedburg, its vicinity, and the Hungarian Camp.
  
  TIME.
  
  One Day.
  
  SCENE I.
  
  An Apartment in the Castle.
  
  Enter CONRAD.
  
  Conrad.
  
  So, I am safe emerged from these broils!
  Amid the wreck of thousands I am whole;
  For every crime I have a laurel-wreath,
  For every lie a lordship.
  
  Nor yet has
  My ship of fortune furl'd her silken sails,
  Let her glide on! This danger'd neck is saved,
  By dexterous policy, from the rebel's axe;
  And of my ducal palace not one stone
  Is bruised by the Hungarian petards.
  
  Toil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser-earth
  Bring forth once more my bullion, treasured deep,
  With ah  my jewell'd salvers, silver and gold,
  And precious goblets that make rich the wine.
  
  But why do I stand babbling to myself?
  
  Where is Auranthe?
  
  I have news for her
  Shall-
  Enter AURANTHE.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Conrad! what tidings?
  
  Good, if I may guess
  From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows.
  
  What tidings of the battle?
  
  Albert?
  
  Ludolph?
  
  Otho?
  
  Conrad.
  
  You guess aright.
  
  And, sister, slurring o'er
  Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart
  Is beating with a child's anxiety,
  To make our golden fortune known to you.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  So serious?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Yes, so serious, that before
  I utter even the shadow of a hint
  Concerning what will make that sin-worn cheek
  Blush joyous blood through every lineament,
  You must make here a solemn vow to me.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I prythee, Conrad, do not overact
  The hypocrite what vow would you impose?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Trust me for once, that you may be assured
  'Tis not confiding to a broken reed,
  A poor Court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost,
  Revolve these facts in your acutest mood,
  In such a mood as now you listen to me:
  A few days since, I was an open rebel
  Against the Emperor, had suborn'd his son,
  Drawn off his nobles to revolt, and shown
  Contented fools causes for discontent
  Fresh hatch'd in my ambition's eagle nest
  So thrived I as a rebel, and behold
  Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend,
  His right hand, his brave Conrad.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I confess
  You have intrigued with these unsteady times
  To admiration; but to be a favourite
  Conrad.
  
  I saw my moment.
  
  The Hungarians,
  Collected silently in holes and corners,
  Appeared, a sudden host, in the open day.
  
  I should have perish'd in our empire's wreck,
  But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith
  To most believing Otho; and so helped
  His blood-stained ensigns to the victory
  In yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd
  The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kindness.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  So far yourself.
  
  But what is this to me
  More than that I am glad?
  
  I gratulate you.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Yes, sister, but it does regard you greatly,
  Nearly, momentously, aye, painfully!
  Make me this vow
  Auranthe.
  
  Concerning whom or what?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Albert!
  Auranthe.
  
  I would inquire somewhat of him:
  You had a letter from me touching him?
  
  No treason 'gainst his head in deed or word!
  Surely you spar'd him at my earnest prayer?
  
  Give me the letter it should not exist!
  Conrad.
  
  At one pernicious charge of the enemy,
  I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta'en
  And rifled, stuff! the horses' hoofs have minc'd it!
  Auranthe.
  
  He is alive?
  
  Conrad.
  
  He is! but here make oath
  To alienate him from your scheming brain,
  Divorce him from your solitary thoughts,
  And cloud him in such utter banishment,
  That when his person meets again your eye,
  Your vision shall quite lose its memory,
  And wander past him as through vacancy.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I'll not be perjured.
  
  Conrad.
  
  No, nor great, nor mighty;
  You would not wear a crown, or rule a kingdom.
  
  To you it is indifferent.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  What means this?
  
  Conrad.
  
  You'll not be perjured! Go to Albert then,
  That camp-mushroom dishonour of our house.
  
  Go, page his dusty heels upon a march,
  Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps,
  And share his mouldy ration in a siege.
  
  Yet stay, perhaps a charm may call you back,
  And make the widening circlets of your eyes
  Sparkle with healthy fevers.
  
  The Emperor
  Hath given consent that you should marry Ludolph!
  Auranthe.
  
  Can it be, brother?
  
  For a golden crown
  With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank you!
  This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell
  Thou clod of yesterday 'twas not myself!
  Not till this moment did I ever feel
  My spirit's faculties! I'll flatter you
  For this, and be you ever proud of it;
  Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead,
  And from the teeming marrow of thy brain
  I spring complete Minerva! But the prince
  His highness Ludolph where is he?
  
  Conrad.
  
  I know not:
  When, lackeying my counsel at a beck,
  The rebel lords, on bended knees, received
  The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof,
  Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride;
  Yet, for all this, I never saw a father
  In such a sickly longing for his son.
  
  We shall soon see him, for the Emperor
  He will be here this morning.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  That I heard
  Among the midnight rumours from the camp.
  
  Conrad.
  
  You give up Albert to me?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Harm him not!
  E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry hand,
  I would not Albert suffer any wrong.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Have I not laboured, plotted ?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  See you spare him:
  Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor,
  On all the many bounties of your hand,
  'Twas for yourself you laboured not for me!
  Do you not count, when I am queen, to take
  Advantage of your chance discoveries
  Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod
  Over my life?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Let not this slave this villain
  Be cause of feud between us.
  
  See! he comes!
  Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite safe!
  In haste it seems.
  
  Now shall I be in the way,
  And wish'd with silent curses in my grave,
  Or side by side with 'whelmed mariners.
  
  Enter ALBERT.
  
  Albert.
  
  Fair on your graces fall this early morrow!
  So it is like to do, without my prayers,
  For your right noble names, like favourite tunes,
  Have fallen full frequent from our Emperor's lips,
  High commented with smiles.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Noble Albert!
  Conrad (aside).
  
  Noble!
  Auranthe.
  
  Such salutation argues a glad heart
  In our prosperity.
  
  We thank you, sir.
  
  Albert.
  
  Lady! O, would to Heaven your poor servant
  Could do you better service than mere words!
  But I have other greeting than mine own,
  From no less man than Otho, who has sent
  This ring as pledge of dearest amity;
  'Tis chosen I hear from Hymen's jewel'ry,
  And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not,
  Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come.
  
  To you great duke
  Conrad.
  
  To me! What of me, ha?
  
  Albert.
  
  What pleas'd your grace to say?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Your message, sir!
  Albert.
  
  You mean not this to me?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Sister, this way;
  For there shall be no '''gentle Alberts" now, [Aside.
  
  No "sweet Auranthes!"
  [Exeunt CONRAD and AURANTHE.
  
  Albert (solus).
  
  The duke is out of temper; if he knows
  More than a brother of a sister ought,
  I should not quarrel with his peevishness.
  
  Auranthe Heaven preserve her always fair!
  Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein;
  I bicker not with her, bid her farewell!
  She has taken flight from me, then let her soar,
  He is a fool who stands at pining gaze!
  But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sorrow:
  No levelling bluster of my licens'd thoughts,
  No military swagger of my mind,
  Can smother from myself the wrong I've done him,
  Without design, indeed, yet it is so,
  And opiate for the conscience have I none! [Exit.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  The Court-yard of the Castle.
  
  Martial Music.
  
  Enter, from the outer gate, OTHO, Nobles, Knights, and
  Attendants.
  
  The Soldiers halt at the gate, with Banners in sight.
  
  Otho.
  
  Where is my noble herald?
  
  Enter CONRAD, from the Castle, attended by two Knights and
  Servants.
  
  ALBERT following.
  
  Well, hast told
  Auranthe our intent imperial?
  
  Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden shown,
  Should fright her silken casements, and dismay
  Her household to our lack of entertainment.
  
  A victory!
  Conrad.
  
  God save illustrious Otho!
  Otho.
  
  Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all grey hairs;
  It is the best physician for the spleen;
  The courtliest inviter to a feast;
  The subtlest excuser of small faults;
  And a nice judge in the age and smack of wine.
  
  Enter, from the Castle, AURANTHE, followed by Pages holding
  up her robes, and a tram of Women.
  
  She kneels.
  
  Hail my sweet hostess! I do thank the stars,
  Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes,
  That, after such a merry battle fought,
  I can, all safe in body and in soul,
  Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too.
  
  My ring! now, on my life, it doth rejoice
  These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory!
  Keep it, my brightest daughter; it may prove
  The little prologue to a line of kings.
  
  I strove against thee and my hot-blood son,
  Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind,
  But now my sight is clear; forgive me, lady.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  My lord, I was a vassal to your frown,
  And now your favour makes me but more humble;
  In wintry winds the simple snow is safe,
  But fadeth at the greeting of the sun:
  Unto thine anger I might well have spoken,
  Taking on me a woman's privilege,
  But this so sudden kindness makes me dumb.
  
  Otho.
  
  What need of this?
  
  Enough, if you will be
  A potent tutoress to my wayward boy,
  And teach him, what it seems his nurse could not
  To say, for once, I thank you.
  
  Sigifred!
  Albert.
  
  He has not yet return'd, my gracious liege.
  
  Otho.
  
  What then! No tidings of my friendly Arab?
  
  Conrad.
  
  None, mighty Otho.
  
  [To one of his Knights, who goes out.
  
  Send forth instantly
  An hundred horsemen from my honoured gates,
  To scour the plains and search the cottages.
  
  Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring
  News of that vanished Arabian,
  A full-heap'd helmet of the purest gold.
  
  Otho.
  
  More thanks, good Conrad; for, except my son's,
  There is no face I rather would behold
  Than that same quick-eyed pagan's.
  
  By the saints,
  This coming night of banquets must not light
  Her dazzling torches; nor the music breathe
  Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of peace
  And in-door melodies; nor the ruddy wine
  Ebb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not
  In my first cup, that Arab!
  Albert.
  
  Mighty Monarch,
  I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds
  So, hang upon your spirit.
  
  Twice in the fight
  It was my chance to meet his olive brow,
  Triumphant in the enemy's shatter 'd rhomb;
  And, to say truth, in any Christian arm
  I never saw such prowess.
  
  Otho.
  
  Did you ever?
  
  O, 'tis a noble boy! tut! what do I say?
  
  I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes,
  When in the glorious scuffle they met mine,
  Seem'd to say "Sleep, old man, in safety sleep;
  I am the victory!"
  Conrad.
  
  Pity he's not here.
  
  Otho.
  
  And my son too, pity he is not here.
  
  Lady Auranthe, I would not make you blush,
  But can you give a guess where Ludolph is?
  
  Know you not of him?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Indeed, my liege, no secret
  Otho.
  
  Nay, nay, without more words, dost know of him?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I would I were so over-fortunate,
  Both for his sake and mine, and to make glad
  A father's ears with tidings of his son.
  
  Otho.
  
  I see 'tis like to be a tedious day.
  
  Were Theodore and Gonfred and the rest
  Sent forth with my commands?
  
  Albert.
  
  Aye, my lord.
  
  Otho.
  
  And no news! No news! 'Faith! 'tis very strange
  He thus avoids us.
  
  Lady, is't not strange?
  
  Will he be truant to you too?
  
  It is a shame.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Will 't please your highness enter, and accept
  The unworthy welcome of your servant's house?
  
  Leaving your cares to one whose diligence
  May in few hours make pleasures of them all.
  
  Otho.
  
  Not so tedious, Conrad.
  
  No, no, no,
  I must see Ludolph or the What's that shout!
  Voices without.
  
  Huzza! huzza! Long live the Emperor!
  Other Voices.
  
  Fall back! Away there!
  Otho.
  
  Say, what noise is that?
  
  [ALBERT advancing from the bark of the Stage, whither he had
  hastened on hearing the cheers of the soldiery.
  
  Albert.
  
  It is young Gersa, the Hungarian prince,
  Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd
  Of prisoners.
  
  Poor prince, forlorn he steps,
  Slow, and demure, and proud in his despair.
  
  If I may judge by his so tragic bearing,
  His eye not downcast, and his folded arm,
  He doth this moment wish himself asleep
  Among his fallen captains on yon plains.
  
  Enter GERSA, in chains, and guarded,
  Otho.
  
  Well said, Sir Albert.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Not a word of greeting.
  
  No welcome to a princely visitor,
  Most mighty Otho?
  
  Will not my great host
  Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids
  His gentlemen conduct me with all care
  To some securest lodgings?
  
  cold perhaps!
  Otho.
  
  What mood is this?
  
  Hath fortune touch'd thy brain?
  
  Gersa.
  
  kings and princes of this fev'rous world,
  What abject things, what mockeries must ye be,
  What nerveless minions of safe palaces!
  When here, a monarch, whose proud foot is used
  To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup,
  Must needs exclaim that I am mad forsooth,
  Because I cannot flatter with bent knees
  My conqueror!
  Otho.
  
  Gersa, I think you wrong me:
  I think I have a better fame abroad.
  
  Gersa.
  
  I prythee mock me not with gentle speech,
  But, as a favour, bid me from thy presence;
  Let me no longer be the wondering food
  Of all these eyes; prythee command me hence!
  Otho.
  
  Do not mistake me, Gersa.
  
  That you may not,
  Come, fair Auranthe, try if your soft hands
  Can manage those hard rivets to set free
  So brave a prince and soldier.
  
  Auranthe (sets him free).
  
  Welcome task!
  Gersa.
  
  I am wound up in deep astonishment!
  Thank you, fair lady.
  
  Otho! emperor!
  You rob me of myself; my dignity
  Is now your infant; I am a weak child.
  
  Otho.
  
  Give me your hand, and let this kindly grasp
  Live in our memories.
  
  Gersa.
  
  In mine it will.
  
  I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue;
  But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost
  Of all our slain battalions.
  
  Sire, reflect,
  And pardon you will grant, that, at this hour,
  The bruised remnants of our stricken camp
  Are huddling undistinguish'd my dear friends,
  With common thousands, into shallow graves.
  
  Otho.
  
  Enough, most noble Gersa.
  
  You are free
  To cheer the brave remainder of your host
  By your own healing presence, and that too,
  Not as their leader merely, but their king;
  For, as I hear, the wily enemy,
  Who eas'd the crownet from your infant brows,
  Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Then I retire, so generous Otho please,
  Bearing with me a weight of benefits
  Too heavy to be borne.
  
  Otho.
  
  It is not so;
  Still understand me, King of Hungary,
  Nor judge my open purposes awry.
  
  Though I did hold you high in my esteem
  For your self's sake, I do not personate
  The stage-play emperor to entrap applause,
  To set the silly sort o' the world agape,
  And make the politic smile; no, I have heard
  How in the Council you condemn 'd this war,
  Urging the perfidy of broken faith,
  For that I am your friend.
  
  Gersa.
  
  If ever, sire,
  You are mine enemy, I dare here swear
  'Twill not be Gersa's fault.
  
  Otho, farewell!
  Otho.
  
  Will you return, Prince, to our banqueting?
  
  Gersa.
  
  As to my father's board I will return.
  
  Otho.
  
  Conrad, with all due ceremony, give
  The prince a regal escort to his camp;
  Albert, go thou and bear him company.
  
  Gersa, farewell!
  Gersa.
  
  All happiness attend you!
  Otho.
  
  Return with what good speed you may; for soon
  We must consult upon our terms of peace.
  
  [Exeunt GERSA and ALBERT with others.
  
  And thus a marble column do I build
  To prop my empire's dome.
  
  Conrad, in thee
  I have another stedfast one, to uphold
  The portals of my state; and, for my own
  Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive
  To keep thy strength upon its pedestal.
  
  For, without thee, this day I might have been
  A show-monster about the streets of Prague,
  In chains, as just now stood that noble prince:
  And then to me no mercy had been shown,
  For when the conquered lion is once dungeon'd,
  Who lets him forth again?
  
  or dares to give
  An old lion sugar-cates of mild reprieve?
  
  Not to thine ear alone I make confession,
  But to all here, as, by experience,
  I know how the great basement of all power
  Is frankness, and a true tongue to the world;
  And how intriguing secrecy is proof
  Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state.
  
  Conrad, I owe thee much.
  
  Conrad.
  
  To kiss that hand,
  My emperor, is ample recompense,
  For a mere act of duty.
  
  Otho.
  
  Thou art wrong;
  For what can any man on earth do more?
  
  We will make trial of your house's welcome,
  My bright Auranthe!
  Conrad.
  
  How is Friedburg honoured!
  Enter ETHELBERT and six Monks.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  The benison of heaven on your head,
  Imperial Otho!
  Otho.
  
  Who stays me?
  
  Speak! Quick!
  Ethelbert.
  
  Pause but one moment, mighty conqueror
  Upon the threshold of this house of joy.
  
  Otho.
  
  Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, but speak
  What is your purpose.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  The restoration of some captive maids,
  Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries,
  Who, being driven from their religious cells,
  And kept in thraldom by our enemy,
  When late this province was a lawless spoil,
  Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp,
  Though hemm'd around by thy victorious arms.
  
  Otho.
  
  Demand the holy sisterhood in our name
  From Gersa's tents.
  
  Farewell, old Ethelbert.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  The saints will bless you for this pious care.
  
  Otho.
  
  Daughter, your hand; Ludolph's would fit it best.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Ho ! let the music sound !
  [Music.
  
  ETHELBERT raises his hands, as in benediction of OTHO.
  
  Exeunt severally.
  
  The scene closes on them.
  
  SCENE III.
  
  The Country, with the Castle in the distance.
  
  Enter LUDOLPH and SIGIFRED.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  You have my secret; let it not be breath 'd.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Still give me leave to wonder that the Prince
  Ludolph and the swift Arab are the same ;
  Still to rejoice that 'twas a German arm
  Death doing in a turban'd masquerade.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  The Emperor must not know it, Sigifred.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  I prythee, why?
  
  What happier hour of time
  Could thy pleas’d star point down upon from heaven
  With silver index, bidding thee make peace?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Still it must not be known, good Sigifred;
  The star may point oblique.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  If Otho knew
  His son to be that unknown Mussulman
  After whose spurring heels he sent me forth,
  With one of his well-pleas'd Olympian oaths,
  The charters of man's greatness, at this hour
  He would be watching round the castle walls,
  And, like an anxious warder, strain his sight
  For the first glimpse of such a son return 'd
  Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians,
  That Saracenic meteor of the fight,
  That silent fury, whose fell Scymitar
  Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head,
  And left him space for wonder.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Say no more.
  
  Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim,
  But as a son.
  
  The bronz'd centurion,
  Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high deeds
  Are shaded in a forest of tall spears,
  Known only to his troop, hath greater plea
  Of favour with my sire than I can have.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  My lord, forgive me that I cannot see
  How this proud temper with clear reason squares.
  
  What made you then, with such an anxious love,
  Hover around that life, whose bitter days
  You vext with bad revolt?
  
  Was 't opium,
  Or the mad-fumed wine?
  
  Nay, do not frown,
  I rather would grieve with you than upbraid.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I do believe you.
  
  No, 'twas not to make
  A father his son's debtor, or to heal
  His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child.
  
  Twas done in memory of my boyish days,
  Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth,
  For all his calming of my childish griefs,
  And all his smiles upon my merriment.
  
  No, not a thousand foughten fields could sponge
  Those days paternal from my memory,
  Though now upon my head he heaps disgrace.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  My Prince, you think too harshly
  Ludolph.
  
  Can I so?
  
  Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick?
  
  And with a sullen rigour obstinate
  Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults?
  
  Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar,
  Driven me to the very edge o' the world,
  And almost put a price upon my head?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Remember how he spar'd the rebel lords.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Yes, yes, I know he hath a noble nature
  That cannot trample on the fallen.
  
  But his
  Is not the only proud heart in his realm.
  
  He hath wrong'd me, and I have done him wrong;
  He hath lov'd me, and I have shown him kindness;
  We should be almost equal.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Yet, for all this,
  I would you had appear 'd among those lords,
  And ta'en his favour.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Ha! till now I thought
  My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour dear.
  
  What ! would you have me sue before his throne
  And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk steps?
  
  Or hug the golden housings of his steed,
  Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I dar'd
  But yesterday?
  
  And, at the trumpet sound,
  Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag,
  And lick the soiled grass?
  
  No, no, my friend,
  I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap,
  And bless indemnity with all that scum,
  Those men I mean, who on my shoulders propped
  Their weak rebellion, winning me with lies,
  And pitying forsooth my many wrongs;
  Poor self-deceived wretches, who must think
  Each one himself a king in embryo,
  Because some dozen vassals cry'd my lord!
  Cowards, who never knew their little hearts,
  Till flurried danger held the mirror up,
  And then they own'd themselves without a blush,
  Curling, like spaniels, round my father's feet.
  
  Such things deserted me and are forgiven,
  While I, least guilty, am an outcast still,
  And will be, for I love such fair disgrace.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  I know the clear truth; so would Otho see,
  For he is just and noble.
  
  Fain would I
  Be pleader for you
  Ludolph.
  
  He'll hear none of it;
  You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate;
  Endanger not yourself so uselessly.
  
  I will encounter his thwart spleen myself,
  To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he keeps
  His crowded state after the victory.
  
  There will I be, a most unwelcome guest,
  And parley with him, as a son should do,
  Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny;
  Tell him how feeble is that tyranny;
  How the relationship of father and son
  Is no more valid than a silken leash
  Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not
  From interchanged love through many years.
  
  Aye, and those turreted Franconian walls,
  Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl
  My fair Auranthe! Yes, I will be there.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Be not so rash; wait till his wrath shall pass,
  Until his royal spirit softly ebbs
  Self-influenced ; then, in his morning dreams
  He will forgive thee, and awake in grief
  To have not thy good morrow.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Yes, to-day
  I must be there, while her young pulses beat
  Among the new-plum'd minions of the war.
  
  Have you seen her of late?
  
  No?
  
  Auranthe,
  Franconia's fair sister, 'tis I mean.
  
  She should be paler for my troublous days
  And there it is my father's iron lips
  Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my right.
  
  Sigifred (aside).
  
  Auranthe! I had hop'd this whim had pass'd.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  And, Sigifred, with all his love of justice,
  When will he take that grandchild in his arms,
  That, by my love I swear, shall soon be his?
  
  This reconcilement is impossible,
  For see but who are these?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  They are messengers
  From our great emperor; to you, I doubt not,
  For couriers are abroad to seek you out.
  
  Enter THEODORE and GONFRED.
  
  Theodore.
  
  Seeing so many vigilant eyes explore
  The province to invite your highness back
  To your high dignities, we are too happy.
  
  Gonfred.
  
  We have no eloquence to colour justly
  The emperor's anxious wishes.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Go.
  
  I follow you.
  
  [Exeunt THEODORE and GONFRED.
  
  I play the prude : it is but venturing
  Why should he be so earnest?
  
  Come, my friend,
  Let us to Friedburg castle.

• Otho The Great - Act II Read Poem Log in to favourite

  SCENE I.
  
  An Ante-chamber in the Castle.
  
  Enter LUDOLPH and SIGIFRED.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  No more advices, no more cautioning:
  I leave it all to fate to any thing!
  I cannot square my conduct to time, place,
  Or circumstances; to me 'tis all a mist!
  Sigifred.
  
  I say no more.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  It seems I am to wait
  Here in the ante-room; that may be a trifle.
  
  You see now how I dance attendance here,
  Without that tyrant temper, you so blame,
  Snapping the rein.
  
  You have medicin'd me
  With good advices; and I here remain,
  In this most honourable ante-room,
  Your patient scholar.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Do not wrong me, Prince.
  
  By Heavens, I'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's slipper,
  When in the morning he doth yawn with pride,
  Than see you humbled but a half-degree!
  Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss
  The nobles ere he sees you.
  
  Enter GONFRED from the Council-room.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Well, sir! What?
  
  Gonfred.
  
  Great honour to the Prince! The Emperor,
  Hearing that his brave son had re-appeared,
  Instant dismiss 'd the Council from his sight,
  As Jove fans off the clouds.
  
  Even now they pass.
  
  [Exit.
  
  Enter the Nobles from the Council-room.
  
  They cross the stage,
  bowing unth respect to LUDOLPH, he frowning on them.
  
  CONRAD follows.
  
  Exeunt Nobles.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Not the discoloured poisons of a fen,
  Which he who breathes feels warning of his death,
  Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense,
  As these prodigious sycophants disgust
  The soul's fine palate.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Princely Ludolph, hail!
  Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the realm!
  Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden buds,
  That they, against the winter of thy sire,
  May burst, and swell, and flourish round thy brows,
  Maturing to a weighty diadem!
  Yet be that hour far off; and may he live,
  Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth for rain.
  
  Set my life's star! I have lived long enough,
  Since under my glad roof, propitiously,
  Father and son each other re-possess.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Fine wording, Duke! but words could never yet
  Forestall the fates; have you not learnt that yet?
  
  Let me look well: your features are the same;
  Your gait the same; your hair of the same shade;
  As one I knew some passed weeks ago,
  Who sung far different notes into mine ears.
  
  I have mine own particular comments on 't;
  You have your own, perhaps.
  
  Conrad.
  
  My gracious Prince,
  All men may err.
  
  In truth I was deceived
  In your great father's nature, as you were.
  
  Had I known that of him I have since known,
  And what you soon will learn, I would have turned
  My sword to my own throat, rather than held
  Its threatening edge against a good King's quiet:
  Or with one word fever'd you, gentle Prince,
  Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then went,
  Indeed too much oppress'd.
  
  May I be bold
  To tell the Emperor you will haste to him?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Your Dukedom's privilege will grant so much.
  
  [Exit CONRAD
  He's very close to Otho, a tight leech!
  Your hand I go.
  
  Ha! here the thunder comes
  Sullen against the wind! If in two angry brows
  My safety lies, then Sigifred, I'm safe.
  
  Enter OTHO and CONRAD.
  
  Otho.
  
  Will you make Titan play the lackey-page &
  To chattering pigmies?
  
  I would have you know
  That such neglect of our high Majesty
  Annuls all feel of kindred.
  
  What is son,
  Or friend, or brother, or all ties of blood,
  When the whole kingdom, centred in ourself,
  Is rudely slighted ?
  
  Who am I to wait ?
  
  By Peter's chair! I have upon my tongue
  A word to fright the proudest spirit here!
  Death! and slow tortures to the hardy fool,
  Who dares take such large charter from our smiles!
  Conrad, we would be private.
  
  Sigifred!
  Off! And none pass this way on pain of death!
  [Exeunt CONRAD and SIGIFRED,
  Ludolph.
  
  This was but half expected, my good sire,
  Yet I am griev'd at it, to the full height,
  As though my hopes of favour had been whole.
  
  Otho.
  
  How you indulge yourself! What can you hope for?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Nothing, my liege ; I have to hope for nothing.
  
  I come to greet you as a loving son,
  And then depart, if I may be so free,
  Seeing that blood of yours in my warm veins
  Has not yet mitigated into milk.
  
  Otho.
  
  What would you, sir?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  A lenient banishment;
  So please you let me unmolested pass
  This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again.
  
  I want no more.
  
  A rebel wants no more.
  
  Otho.
  
  And shall I let a rebel loose again
  To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my head?
  
  No, obstinate boy, you shall be kept cag'd up,
  Serv'd with harsh food, with scum for Sunday-drink.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Indeed!
  Otho.
  
  And chains too heavy for your life:
  I'll choose a gaoler, whose swart monstrous face
  Shall be a hell to look upon, and she
  Ludolph.
  
  Ha!
  Otho.
  
  Shall be your fair Auranthe.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Amaze! Amaze!
  Otho.
  
  To-day you marry her.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  This is a sharp jest!
  Otho.
  
  No.
  
  None at all.
  
  When have I said a lie?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  If I sleep not, I am a waking wretch.
  
  Otho.
  
  Not a word more.
  
  Let me embrace my child.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I dare not.
  
  'Twould pollute so good a father!
  heavy crime! that your son's blinded eyes
  Could not see all his parent's love aright,
  As now I see it.
  
  Be not kind to me
  Punish me not with favour.
  
  Otho.
  
  Are you sure,
  Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  My father, none!
  Otho.
  
  Then you astonish me.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  No, I have no plea.
  
  Disobedience,
  Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy,
  Are all my counsellors.
  
  If they can make
  My crooked deeds show good and plausible,
  Then grant me loving pardon, but not else,
  Good Gods! not else, in any way, my liege!
  Otho.
  
  You are a most perplexing, noble boy.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  You not less a perplexing noble father.
  
  Otho.
  
  Well, you shall have free passport through the gates.
  
  Farewell!
  Ludolph.
  
  Farewell! and by these tears believe,
  And still remember, I repent in pain
  All my misdeeds!
  Otho.
  
  Ludolph, I will! I will!
  But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would enquire
  If you, in all your wandering, ever met
  A certain Arab haunting in these parts.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  No, my good lord, I cannot say I did.
  
  Otho.
  
  Make not your father blind before his time;
  Nor let these arms paternal hunger more
  For an embrace, to dull the appetite
  Of my great love for thee, my supreme child!
  Come close, and let me breathe into thine ear.
  
  knew you through disguise.
  
  You are the Arab!
  You can't deny it.
  
  [Embracing him.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Happiest of days!
  Otho.
  
  We'll make it so.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  'Stead of one fatted calf
  Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last,
  Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stunning mace
  Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast
  Nobly as Nimrod's masons, when the towers
  Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clouds!
  Otho.
  
  Large as a God speak out, where all is thine.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Aye, father, but the fire in my sad breast
  Is quench 'd with inward tears! I must rejoice
  For you, whose wings so shadow over me
  In tender victory, but for myself
  I still must mourn.
  
  The fair Auranthe mine!
  Too great a boon! I prythee let me ask I
  What more than I know of could so have changed
  Your purpose touching her?
  
  Otho.
  
  At a word, this:
  In no deed did you give me more offense
  Than your rejection of Erminia.
  
  To my appalling, I saw too good proof
  Of your keen-eyed suspicion, she is naught!
  Ludolph.
  
  You are convinced?
  
  Otho.
  
  Aye, spite of her sweet looks.
  
  O, that my brother's daughter should so fall!
  Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips
  Of soldiers in their cups.
  
  Lndolph.
  
  'Tis very sad.
  
  Otho.
  
  No more of her.
  
  Auranthe Ludolph, come!
  This marriage be the bond of endless peace! [Exeunt.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  The Entrance of GERSA'S Tent in the Hungarian Camp.
  
  Enter ERMINIA.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Where! where! where shall I find a messenger?
  
  A trusty soul?
  
  A good man in the camp?
  
  Shall I go myself?
  
  Monstrous wickedness!
  O cursed Conrad   devilish Auranthe!
  Here is proof palpable as the bright sun!
  O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears!
  [Shouts in the Camp.
  
  Enter an HUNGARIAN CAPTAIN.
  
  Captain.
  
  Fair prisoner, hear you those joyous shouts?
  
  The king aye, now our king, but still your slave,
  Young Gersa, from a short captivity
  Has just return'd.
  
  He bids me say, bright Dame,
  That even the homage of his ranged chiefs
  Cures not his keen impatience to behold
  Such beauty once again.
  
  What ails you, lady?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Say, is not that a German, yonder?
  
  There!
  Captain.
  
  Methinks by his stout bearing he should be
  Yes 'tis one Albert; a brave German knight,
  And much in the emperor's favour.
  
  Erminia.
  
  I would fain
  Enquire of friends and kinsfolk; how they fared
  In these rough times.
  
  Brave soldier, as you pass
  To royal Gersa with my humble thanks,
  Will you send yonder knight to me?
  
  Captain.
  
  I will.
  
  [Exit.
  
  Ermina.
  
  Yes, he was ever known to be a man
  Frank, open, generous; Albert I may trust.
  
  proof! proof! proof! Albert's an honest man;
  Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here,
  Would I hold more trustworthy.
  
  Now!
  Enter ALBERT.
  
  Albert.
  
  Good Gods!
  Lady Erminia! are you prisoner
  In this beleaguer 'd camp?
  
  Or are you here
  Of your own will?
  
  You pleas'd to send for me.
  
  By Venus, 'tis a pity I knew not
  Your plight before, and, by her Son, I swear
  To do you every service you can ask.
  
  What would the fairest?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Albert, will you swear?
  
  Albert.
  
  I have.
  
  Well?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Albert, you have fame to lose.
  
  If men, in court and camp, lie not outright,
  You should be, from a thousand, chosen forth
  To do an honest deed.
  
  Shall I confide?
  
  Albert.
  
  Aye, anything to me, fair creature.
  
  Do;
  Dictate my task.
  
  Sweet woman,
  Erminia.
  
  Truce with that.
  
  You understand me not; and, in your speech,
  see how far the slander is abroad.
  
  Without proof could you think me innocent?
  
  Albert.
  
  Lady, I should rejoice to know you so.
  
  Erminia.
  
  If you have any pity for a maid,
  Suffering a daily death from evil tongues;
  Any compassion for that Emperor's niece,
  Who, for your bright sword and clear honesty,
  Lifted you from the crowd of common men
  Into the lap of honour; save me, knight!
  Albert.
  
  How?
  
  Make it clear; if it be possible,
  I, by the banner of Saint Maurice, swear
  To right you.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Possible! Easy.
  
  O my heart!
  This letter's not so soil'd but you may read it;
  Possible! There that letter! Read read it,
  [Gives him a letter.
  
  Albert (reading).
  
  "To the Duke Conrad.
  
  Forget the threat you
  made at parting, and I will forget to send the Emperor letters and
  papers of your's I have become possessed of.
  
  His life is no trifle to
  me; his death you shall find none to yourself.
  
  " (Speaks to himself
  ‘Tis me my life that's pleaded for! (Reads.
  
  ) "He, for his
  own sake, will be dumb as the grave.
  
  Erminia has my shame fix'd
  upon her, sure as a wen.
  
  We are safe.
  
  AURANTHE.
  
  "A she-devil! A dragon! I her imp!
  Fire of Hell! Auranthe lewd demon!
  Where got you this?
  
  Where?
  
  When?
  
  Erminia.
  
  I found it in the tent, among some spoils
  Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot.
  
  Come in, and see.
  
  [They go in and return.
  
  Albert.
  
  Villainy! Villainy!
  Conrad's sword, his corslet, and his helm,
  And his letter.
  
  Caitiff, he shall feel
  Erminia.
  
  I see you are thunderstruck.
  
  Haste, haste away!
  Albert.
  
  O I am tortured by this villainy.
  
  Erminia.
  
  You needs must be.
  
  Carry it swift to Otho;
  Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner
  Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood,
  Forc'd from their quiet cells, are parcell'd out
  For slaves among these Huns.
  
  Away! Away!
  Albert.
  
  I am gone.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Swift be your steed! Within this hour
  The Emperor will see it.
  
  Albert.
  
  Ere I sleep:
  That I can swear.
  
  [Hurries out.
  
  Gersa (without).
  
  Brave captains! thanks.
  
  Enough
  Of loyal homage now!
  Enter GERSA.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Hail, royal Hun!
  Gersa.
  
  What means this, fair one?
  
  Why in such alarm?
  
  Who was it hurried by me so distract?
  
  It seem'd you were in deep discourse together;
  Your doctrine has not been so harsh to him
  As to my poor deserts.
  
  Come, come, be plain.
  
  I am no jealous fool to kill you both,
  Or, for such trifles, rob the adorned world
  Of such a beauteous vestal.
  
  Erminia.
  
  I grieve, my Lord,
  To hear you condescend to ribald phrase.
  
  Gersa.
  
  This is too much! Hearken, my lady pure!
  Erminia.
  
  Silence! and hear the magic of a name
  Erminia! I am she, the Emperor's niece!
  Prais'd be the Heavens, I now dare own myself!
  Gersa.
  
  Erminia! Indeed! I've heard of her.
  
  Prythee, fair lady, what chance brought you here?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Ask your own soldiers.
  
  Gersa.
  
  And you dare own your name.
  
  For loveliness you may and for the rest
  My vein is not censorious.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Alas! poor me!
  ‘Tis false indeed.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Indeed you are too fair:
  the swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast,
  When to the stream she launches, looks not back
  With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings
  So white as your soul is, if that but be
  Twin-picture to your face.
  
  Erminia!
  To-day, for the first day, I am a king,
  Yet would I give my unworn crown away
  To know you spotless.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Trust me one day more,
  Generously, without more certain guarantee,
  Than this poor face you deign to praise so much;
  After that, say and do whate'er you please.
  
  If I have any knowledge of you, sir,
  I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve much
  To hear my story.
  
  O be gentle to me,
  For I am sick and faint with many wrongs,
  Tir'd out, and weary-worn with contumelies.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Poor lady!
  Enter ETHELBERT.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Gentle Prince, 'tis false indeed.
  
  Good morrow, holy father! I have had
  Your prayers, though I look'd for you in vain.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Blessings upon you, daughter! Sure you look
  Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days.
  
  Young man, you heard this virgin say 'twas false,
  ‘Tis false, I say.
  
  What! can you not employ
  Your temper elsewhere, 'mong these burly tents,
  But you must taunt this dove, for she hath lost
  The Eagle Otho to beat off assault?
  
  Fie! fie! But I will be her guard myself;
  In the Emperor's name.
  
  I here demand of you
  Herself, and all her sisterhood.
  
  She false!
  Gersa.
  
  Peace! peace, old man! I cannot think she is.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Whom I have known from her first infancy,
  Baptized her in the bosom of the Church,
  Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the grain,
  From the first shoot till the unripe mid-May,
  Then to the tender ear of her June days,
  Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid green,
  Is blighted by the touch of calumny;
  You cannot credit such a monstrous tale.
  
  Gersa.
  
  I cannot.
  
  Take her.
  
  Fair Erminia,
  I follow you to Friedburg, is't not so?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Aye, so we purpose.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Daughter, do you so?
  
  How's this?
  
  I marvel! Yet you look not mad.
  
  Erminia.
  
  I have good news to tell you, Ethelbert.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Ho! ho, there! Guards!
  Your blessing, father! Sweet Erminia,
  Believe me, I am well nigh sure
  Erminia .
  
  Farewell!
  Short time will show.
  
  [Enter Chiefs.
  
  Yes, father Ethelbert,
  I have news precious as we pass along.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Dear daughter, you shall guide me.
  
  Erminia.
  
  To no ill.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Command an escort to the Friedburg lines.
  
  [Exeunt Chiefs.
  
  Pray let me lead.
  
  Fair lady, forget not
  Gersa, how he believ'd you innocent.
  
  I follow you to Friedburg with all speed.
  
  [Exeunt.

• Otho The Great - Act III Read Poem Log in to favourite

  SCENE I.
  
  The Country.
  
  Enter ALBERT.
  
  Albert.
  
  O that the earth were empty, as when Cain
  Had no perplexity to hide his head!
  Or that the sword of some brave enemy
  Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath,
  And hurl'd me down the illimitable gulph
  Of times past, unremember'd! Better so
  Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare,
  The white limbs of a wanton.
  
  This the end
  Of an aspiring life! My boyhood past
  In feud with wolves and bears, when no eye saw
  The solitary warfare, fought for love
  Of honour 'mid the growling wilderness.
  
  My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword,
  Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring
  Of shields upon the pavement, when bright-mail'd
  Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of Prague,
  Was't to this end I louted and became
  The menial of Mars, and held a spear
  Sway'd by command, as corn is by the wind?
  
  Is it for this, I now am lifted up
  By Europe's throned Emperor, to see
  My honour be my executioner,
  My love of fame, my prided honesty
  Put to the torture for confessional?
  
  Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the world
  A woman's secret! Though a fiend she be,
  Too tender of my ignominious life;
  But then to wrong the generous Emperor
  In such a searching point, were to give up
  My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday!
  I must confess, and cut my throat, to-day?
  
  To-morrow?
  
  Ho! some wine!
  Enter SIGIFRED.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  A fine humour
  Albert.
  
  Who goes there?
  
  Count Sigifred?
  
  Ha! Ha!
  Sigifred.
  
  What, man, do you mistake the hollow sky
  For a throng 'd tavern, and these stubbed trees
  For old serge hangings, me, your humble friend,
  For a poor waiter?
  
  Why, man, how you stare!
  What gipsies have you been carousing with?
  
  No, no more wine; methinks you've had enough.
  
  Albert.
  
  You well may laugh and banter.
  
  What a fool
  An injury may make of a staid man!
  You shall know all anon.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Some tavern brawl?
  
  Albert.
  
  'Twas with some people out of common reach;
  Revenge is difficult.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  I am your friend;
  We meet again to-day, and can confer
  Upon it.
  
  For the present I'm in haste.
  
  Albert.
  
  Whither?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  To fetch King Gersa to the feast.
  
  The Emperor on this marriage is so hot,
  Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy!
  The very porters, as I pass'd the doors,
  Heard his loud laugh, and answer 'd in full choir.
  
  I marvel, Albert, you delay so long
  From those bright revelries; go, show yourself,
  You may be made a duke.
  
  Albert.
  
  Aye, very like:
  Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd upon?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  For what?
  
  Albert.
  
  The marriage.
  
  What else can I mean?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  To-day! O, I forgot, you could not know;
  The news is scarce a minute old with me.
  
  Albert.
  
  Married to-day! To-day! You did not say so?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Now, while I speak to you, their comely heads
  Are bow'd before the mitre.
  
  Albert.
  
  O! Monstrous!
  Sigifred.
  
  What is this?
  
  Albert.
  
  Nothing, Sigifred.
  
  Farewell!
  We'll meet upon our subject.
  
  Farewell, count!
  [Exit.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Is this clear-headed Albert?
  
  He brain-turned!
  ‘Tis as portentous as a meteor.
  
  [Exit.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  An Apartment in the Castle.
  
  Enter, as from the Marriage, OTHO, LUDOLPH, AURANTHE, CONRAD,
  Nobles, Knights, Ladies, &c.
  
  Music.
  
  Otho.
  
  Now, Ludolph! Now, Auranthe! Daughter fair!
  What can I find to grace your nuptial day
  More than my love, and these wide realms in fee?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I have too much.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  And I, my liege, by far.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Auranthe! I have! O, my bride, my love!
  Not all the gaze upon us can restrain
  My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy face,
  From adoration, and my foolish tongue
  From uttering soft responses to the love
  I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth!
  Fair creature, bless me with a single word!
  All mine!
  Auranthe.
  
  Spare, spare me, my Lord! I swoon else.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Soft beauty! by to-morrow I should die,
  Wert thou not mine.
  
  [They talk apart,
  First Lady.
  
  How deep she has bewitch'd him!
  First Knight.
  
  Ask you for her recipe for love philtres.
  
  Second Lady.
  
  They hold the Emperor in admiration,
  Otho.
  
  If ever king was happy, that am I!
  What are the cities 'yond the Alps to me,
  The provinces about the Danube's mouth,
  The promise of fair soil beyond the Rhone;
  Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes,
  To those fair children, stars of a new age?
  
  Unless perchance I might rejoice to win
  This little ball of earth, and chuck it them
  To play with!
  Auranthe.
  
  Nay, my Lord, I do not know.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Let me not famish.
  
  Otho (to Conrad).
  
  Good Franconia,
  You heard what oath I sware, as the sun rose,
  That unless Heaven would send me back my son,
  My Arab, no soft music should enrich
  The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's smack;
  Now all my empire, barter 'd for one feast,
  Seems poverty.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Upon the neighbour-plain
  The heralds have prepar'd a royal lists;
  Your knights, found war-proof in the bloody field,
  Speed to the game.
  
  Otho.
  
  Well, Ludolph, what say you?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  My lord!
  Otho.
  
  A tourney?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Or, if't please you best
  Ludolph.
  
  I want no morel
  First Lady.
  
  He soars!
  Second Lady.
  
  Past all reason.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Though heaven's choir
  Should in a vast circumference descend
  And sing for my delight, I'd stop my ears!
  Though bright Apollo's car stood burning here,
  And he put out an arm to bid me mount,
  His touch an immortality, not I!
  This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe!
  Otho.
  
  This is a little painful; just too much.
  
  Conrad, if he flames longer in this wise,
  I shall believe in wizard-woven loves
  And old romances; but I'll break the spell.
  
  Ludolph!
  Conrad.
  
  He will be calm, anon.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  You call'd?
  
  Yes, yes, yes, I offend.
  
  You must forgive me;
  Not being quite recover'd from the stun
  Of your large bounties.
  
  A tourney, is it not?
  
  {A senet heard faintly.
  
  Conrad.
  
  The trumpets reach us.
  
  Ethelbert (without).
  
  On your peril, sirs,
  Detain us!
  First Voice (without).
  
  Let not the abbot pass.
  
  Second Voice (without).
  
  No,
  On your lives!
  First Voice (without).
  
  Holy Father, you must not.
  
  Ethelbert (without).
  
  Otho!
  Otho.
  
  Who calls on Otho?
  
  Ethelhert (without).
  
  Ethelbert!
  Otho.
  
  Let him come in.
  
  Enter ETHELBERT leading in ERMINIA.
  
  Thou cursed abbot, why
  Hast brought pollution to our holy rites?
  
  Hast thou no fear of hangman, or the faggot?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  What portent what strange prodigy is this?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Away!
  Ethelbert.
  
  You, Duke?
  
  Ermmia.
  
  Albert has surely fail'd me!
  Look at the Emperor's brow upon me bent!
  Ethelbert.
  
  A sad delay!
  Conrad.
  
  Away, thou guilty thing!
  Ethelbert.
  
  You again, Duke?
  
  Justice, most mighty Otho!
  You go to your sister there and plot again,
  A quick plot, swift as thought to save your heads;
  For lo! the toils are spread around your den,
  The word is all agape to see dragg'd forth
  Two ugly monsters.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  What means he, my lord?
  
  Conrad.
  
  I cannot guess.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Best ask your lady sister,
  Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond
  The power of utterance.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Foul barbarian, cease;
  The Princess faints!
  Ludolph.
  
  Stab him!  , sweetest wife!
  [Attendants bear off AURANTHE,
  Erminia.
  
  Alas!
  Ethelbert.
  
  Your wife?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Aye, Satan! does that yerk ye?
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Wife! so soon!
  Ludolph.
  
  Aye, wife! Oh, impudence!
  Thou bitter mischief! Venomous mad priest!
  How dar'st thou lift those beetle brows at me?
  
  Me the prince Ludolph, in this presence here,
  Upon my marriage-day, and scandalize
  My joys with such opprobrious surprise?
  
  SO
  Wife! Why dost linger on that syllable,
  As if it were some demon's name pronounc'd
  To summon harmful lightning, and make roar
  The sleepy thunder?
  
  Hast no sense of fear?
  
  No ounce of man in thy mortality?
  
  Tremble! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe
  Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the roots,
  Those grey lids wink, and thou not know it more!
  Ethelbert.
  
  O, poor deceived Prince! I pity thee!
  Great Otho! I claim justice
  Ludolph.
  
  Thou shalt hav 't!
  Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire
  Shall sprawl distracted! O that that dull cowl
  Were some most sensitive portion of thy life,
  That I might give it to my hounds to tear!
  Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve
  To girth my saddle! And those devil's beads
  Each one a life, that I might, every day,
  Crush one with Vulcan's hammer!
  Otho.
  
  Peace, my son;
  You far outstrip my spleen in this affair.
  
  Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea
  For this intrusion.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I am silent, sire.
  
  Otho.
  
  Conrad, see all depart not wanted here.
  
  [Exeunt Knights, Ladies, &c.
  
  Ludolph, be calm.
  
  Ethelbert, peace awhile.
  
  This mystery demands an audience
  Of a just judge, and that will Otho be.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Why has he time to breathe another word?
  
  Otho.
  
  Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, comes not
  To beard us for no cause ; he's not the man
  To cry himself up an ambassador
  Without credentials.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I’ll chain up myself.
  
  Otho.
  
  Old Abbot, stand here forth.
  
  Lady Erminia,
  Sit.
  
  And now, Abbot! what have you to say?
  
  Our ear is open.
  
  First we here denounce
  Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found
  The cause for which you have disturb 'd us here,
  Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing
  Of little moment.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  See this innocent!
  Otho! thou father of the people call'd,
  Is her life nothing?
  
  Her fair honour nothing?
  
  Her tears from matins until even-song
  Nothing?
  
  Her burst heart nothing?
  
  Emperor!
  Is this your gentle niece the simplest flower
  Of the world's herbal this fair lilly blanch 'd
  Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady
  Here sitting like an angel newly-shent,
  Who veils its snowy wings and grows all pale,
  Is she nothing?
  
  Otho.
  
  What more to the purpose, abbot?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Whither is he winding?
  
  Conrad.
  
  No clue yet!
  Ethelbert.
  
  You have heard, my Liege, and so, no
  doubt, all here,
  Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings;
  Nay open speech, rude mockery grown common,
  Against the spotless nature and clear fame
  Of the princess Erminia, your niece.
  
  I have intruded here thus suddenly,
  Because I hold those base weeds, with tight hand,
  Which now disfigure her fair growing stem,
  Waiting but for your sign to pull them up
  By the dark roots, and leave her palpable,
  To all men's sight, a Lady, innocent.
  
  The ignominy of that whisper'd tale
  About a midnight gallant, seen to climb
  A window to her chamber neighboured near,
  I will from her turn off, and put the load
  On the right shoulders; on that wretch's head,
  Who, by close stratagems, did save herself,
  Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room
  A rope-ladder for false witness.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Most atrocious!
  Otho.
  
  Ethelbert, proceed.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  With sad lips I shall:
  For in the healing of one wound, I fear
  To make a greater.
  
  His young highness here
  To-day was married.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Good.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Would it were good!
  Yet why do I delay to spread abroad
  The names of those two vipers, from whose jaws
  A deadly breath went forth to taint and blast
  This guileless lady?
  
  Otho.
  
  Abbot, speak their names.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  A minute first.
  
  It cannot be but may
  I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put
  A letter by unread?
  
  Otho.
  
  Does 'tend in this?
  
  Conrad.
  
  Out with their names!
  Ethelbert.
  
  Bold sinner, say you so?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Out, tedious monk!
  Otho.
  
  Confess, or by the wheel
  Ethelbert.
  
  My evidence cannot be far away;
  And, though it never come, be on my head
  The crime of passing an attaint upon
  The slanderers of this virgin.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Speak aloud!
  Ethelbert.
  
  Auranthe, and her brother there.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Amaze!
  Ludolph.
  
  Throw them from the windows!
  Otho.
  
  Do what you will!
  Ludolph.
  
  What shall I do with them?
  
  Something of quick dispatch, for should she hear,
  My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would
  Prevail against my fury.
  
  Damned priest!
  What swift death wilt thou die?
  
  As to the lady
  I touch her not.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Illustrious Otho, stay!
  An ample store of misery thou hast,
  Choak not the granary of thy noble mind
  With more bad bitter grain, too difficult
  A cud for the repentance of a man
  Grey-growing.
  
  To thee only I appeal,
  Not to thy noble son, whose yeasting youth
  Will clear itself, and crystal turn again.
  
  A young man's heart, by Heaven's blessing, is
  A wide world, where a thousand new-born hopes
  Empurple fresh the melancholy blood;
  But an old man's is narrow, tenantless
  Of hopes, and stuff’d with many memories,
  Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy pulse
  Painful, clog up and stagnate.
  
  Weigh this matter
  Even as a miser balances his coin ;
  And, in the name of mercy, give command
  That your knight Albert be brought here before you.
  
  He will expound this riddle ; he will show
  A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt.
  
  Otho.
  
  Let Albert straight be summon 'd.
  
  [Exit one of the Nobles.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Impossible !
  I cannot doubt I will not no to doubt
  Is to be ashes! wither 'd up to death!
  Otho.
  
  My gentle Ludolph, harbour not a fear;
  You do yourself much wrong.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  O, wretched dolt!
  Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck,
  Wilt thou infuriate me?
  
  Proof! thou fool!
  Why wilt thou teaze impossibility
  With such a thick-skull'd persevering suit?
  
  Fanatic obstinacy! Prodigy!
  Monster of folly! Ghost of a turn'd brain!
  You puzzle me, you haunt me, when I dream
  Of you my brain will split! Bald sorcerer!
  Juggler! May I come near you?
  
  On my soul
  I know not whether to pity, curse, or laugh.
  
  Enter ALBERT, and the Nobleman.
  
  Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a proof!
  Give him his proof! A camel's load of proofs!
  Otho.
  
  Albert, I speak to you as to a man
  Whose words once utter 'd pass like current gold;
  And therefore fit to calmly put a close
  To this brief tempest.
  
  Do you stand possess 'd
  Of any proof against the honourableness
  Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daughter?
  
  Albert.
  
  You chill me with astonishment.
  
  How's this?
  
  My Liege, what proof should I have 'gainst a fame
  Impossible of slur?
  
  [Otho rises.
  
  Erminia.
  
  O wickedness!
  Ethelbert.
  
  Deluded monarch, 'tis a cruel lie.
  
  Otho.
  
  Peace, rebel-priest!
  Conrad.
  
  Insult beyond credence!
  Erminia.
  
  Almost a dream!
  Ludolph.
  
  We have awaken'd from
  A foolish dream that from my brow hath wrung
  A wrathful dew.
  
  O folly! why did I
  So act the lion with this silly gnat?
  
  Let them depart.
  
  Lady Erminia!
  I ever griev'd for you, as who did not?
  
  But now you have, with such a brazen front,
  So most maliciously, so madly striven
  To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest clouds
  Should be unloop'd around to curtain her;
  I leave you to the desert of the world
  Almost with pleasure.
  
  Let them be set free
  For me! I take no personal revenge
  More than against a nightmare, which a man
  forgets in the new dawn.
  
  [Exit LUDOLPH.
  
  Otho.
  
  Still in extremes! No, they must not be loose.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Albert, I must suspect thee of a crime
  So fiendish
  Otho.
  
  Fear'st thou not my fury, monk?
  
  Conrad, be they in your sure custody
  Till we determine some fit punishment.
  
  It is so mad a deed, I must reflect
  And question them in private ; for perhaps,
  By patient scrutiny, we may discover
  Whether they merit death, or should be placed
  In care of the physicians.
  
  [Exeunt OTHO and Nobles, ALBERT following.
  
  Conrad.
  
  My guards, ho!
  Erminia.
  
  Albert, wilt thou follow there?
  
  Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back,
  And slink away from a weak woman's eye?
  
  Turn, thou court-Janus! thou forget'st thyself;
  Here is the Duke, waiting with open arms,
  [Enter Guards.
  
  To thank thee; here congratulate each other;
  Wring hands; embrace; and swear how lucky 'twas
  That I, by happy chance, hit the right man
  Of all the world to trust in.
  
  Albert.
  
  Trust! to me!
  Conrad (aside).
  
  He is the sole one in this mystery.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Well, I give up, and save my prayers for Heaven!
  You, who could do this deed, would ne'er relent,
  Though, at my words, the hollow prison-vaults
  Would groan for pity.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Manacle them both!
  Ethelbert.
  
  I know it—it must be I see it all!
  Albert, thou art the minion!
  Erminia.
  
  Ah ! too plain
  Conrad.
  
  Silence! Gag up their mouths! I cannot bear
  More of this brawling.
  
  That the Emperor
  Had plac'd you in some other custody!
  Bring them away.
  
  [Exeunt all but ALBERT.
  
  Albert.
  
  Though my name perish from the book of honour,
  Almost before the recent ink is dry,
  And be no more remember'd after death,
  Than any drummer's in the muster-roll;
  Yet shall I season high my sudden fall
  With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke!
  He shall feel what it is to have the hand
  Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat.
  
  Enter GERSA and SIGIFRED.
  
  Gersa.
  
  What discord is at ferment in this house?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  We are without conjecture; not a soul
  We met could answer any certainty.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Young Ludolph, like a fiery arrow, shot
  By us.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  The Emperor, with cross'd arms, in thought.
  
  Gersa.
  
  In one room music, in another sadness,
  Perplexity every where!
  Albert.
  
  A trifle more!
  Follow; your presences will much avail
  To tune our jarred spirits.
  
  I'll explain.
  
  [Exeunt.

• Otho The Great - Act IV Read Poem Log in to favourite

  SCENE I.
  
  AURANTHE'S Apartment.
  
  AURANTHE and CONRAD discovered.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Well, well, I know what ugly jeopardy
  We are cag'd in; you need not pester that
  Into my ears.
  
  Prythee, let me be spared
  A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me
  Of remedies with some deliberation.
  
  You cannot doubt but 'tis in Albert's power
  To crush or save us?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  No, I cannot doubt.
  
  He has, assure yourself, by some strange means,
  My secret ; which I ever hid from him,
  Knowing his mawkish honesty.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Curs'd slave!
  Auranthe.
  
  Ay, I could almost curse him now myself.
  
  Wretched impediment! Evil genius!
  A glue upon my wings, that cannot spread,
  When they should span the provinces! A snake,
  A scorpion, sprawling on the first gold step,
  Conducting to the throne, high canopied.
  
  Conrad.
  
  You would not hear my council, when his life
  Might have been trodden out, all sure and hush'd;
  Now the dull animal forsooth must be
  Intreated, managed! When can you contrive
  The interview he demands?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  As speedily
  It must be done as my brib'd woman can
  Unseen conduct him to me; but I fear
  Twill be impossible, while the broad day
  Comes through the panes with persecuting glare.
  
  Methinks, if 't now were night I could intrigue
  With darkness, bring the stars to second me,
  And settle all this trouble.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Nonsense! Child!
  See him immediately; why not now?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Do you forget that even the senseless door-posts
  Are on the watch and gape through all the house?
  
  How many whispers there are about,
  Hungry for evidence to ruin me ;
  Men I have spurn 'd, and women I have taunted?
  
  Besides, the foolish prince sends, minute whiles,
  His pages so they tell me to enquire
  After my health, entreating, if I please,
  To see me.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Well, suppose this Albert here;
  What is your power with him?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  He should be
  My echo, my taught parrot! but I fear
  He will be cur enough to bark at me ;
  Have his own say ; read me some silly creed
  'Bout shame and pity.
  
  Conrad.
  
  What will you do then?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  What I shall do, I know not: what L would
  Cannot be done; for see, this chain her-floor
  Will not yield to the pick-axe and the spade,
  Here is no quiet depth of hollow ground.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Sister, you have grown sensible and wise,
  Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now,
  I hope, resolv'd between us.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Say, what is 't?
  
  Conrad.
  
  You need not be his sexton too: a man
  May carry that with him shall make him die
  Elsewhere, give that to him; pretend the while
  You will to-morrow succumb to his wishes,
  Be what they may, and send him from the Castle
  On some fool's errand; let his latest groan
  Frighten the wolves!
  Auranthe.
  
  Alas! he must not die!
  Conrad.
  
  Would you were both hears'd up in stifling lead!
  Detested
  Auranthe.
  
  Conrad, hold! I would not bear
  The little thunder of your fretful tongue,
  Tho; I alone were taken in these toils,
  And you could free me; but remember, sir,
  You live alone in my security:
  So keep your wits at work, for your own sake,
  Not mine, and be more mannerly.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Thou wasp!
  If my domains were emptied of these folk,
  And I had thee to starve
  Auranthe.
  
  O, marvellous!
  But Conrad, now be gone; the Host is look'd for;
  Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords,
  And, do ye mind, above all things, proclaim
  My sickness, with a brother's sadden'd eye,
  Condoling with Prince Ludolph.
  
  In fit time
  Return to me.
  
  Conrad.
  
  I leave you to your thoughts.
  
  [Exit.
  
  Auranthe (sola) Down, down, proud temper! down,
  Auranthe's pride!
  Why do I anger him when I should kneel?
  
  Conrad! Albert! help! help! What can I do?
  
  wretched woman! lost, wreck'd, swallow'd up,
  Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown,
  Orbing along the serene firmament
  Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon;
  And thou, bright sceptre! lustrous in my eyes,
  There as the fabled fair Hesperian tree,
  Bearing a fruit more precious! graceful thing.
  
  Delicate, godlike, magic! must I leave
  Thee to melt in the visionary air,
  Ere, by one grasp, this common hand is made
  Imperial?
  
  I do not know the time
  When I have wept for sorrow; but methinks
  I could now sit upon the ground, and shed
  Tears, tears of misery.
  
  O, the heavy day!
  How shall I bear my life till Albert comes?
  
  Ludolph! Erminia! Proofs! O heavy day!
  Bring me some mourning weeds, that I may 'tire
  Myself, as fits one wailing her own death:
  Cut off these curls, and brand this lilly hand,
  And throw these jewels from my loathing sight,
  Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads,
  A cup of bitter'd water, and a crust,
  I will confess, O holy Abbot How!
  What is this?
  
  Auranthe! thou fool, dolt,
  Whimpering idiot! up! up! act and quell!
  I am safe! Coward! why am I in fear?
  
  Albert! he cannot stickle, chew the cud
  In such a fine extreme, impossible!
  Who knocks?
  
  [Goes to the Door, listens, and opens it.
  
  Enter ALBERT.
  
  Albert, I have been waiting for you here
  With such an aching heart, such swooning throbs
  On my poor brain, such cruel cruel sorrow,
  That I should claim your pity! Art not well?
  
  Albert.
  
  Yes, lady, well.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  You look not so, alas!
  But pale, as if you brought some heavy news.
  
  Albert.
  
  You know full well what makes me look so pale.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  No! Do I?
  
  Surely I am still to learn
  Some horror; all I know, this present, is
  I am near hustled to a dangerous gulph,
  Which you can save me from, and therefore safe,
  So trusting in thy love; that should not make
  Thee pale, my Albert.
  
  Albert.
  
  It doth make me freeze.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Why should it, love?
  
  Albert.
  
  You should not ask me that,
  But make your own heart monitor, and save
  Me the great pain of telling.
  
  You must know.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Something has vexed you, Albert.
  
  There are times
  When simplest things put on a sombre cast;
  A melancholy mood will haunt a man,
  Until most easy matters take the shape
  Of unachievable tasks; small rivulets
  Then seem impassable.
  
  Albert.
  
  Do not cheat yourself
  With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant action,
  Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten 'd death,
  Can alter my resolve.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  You make me tremble;
  Not so much at your threats, as at your voice.
  
  Untun'd.
  
  and harsh, and barren of all love.
  
  Albert.
  
  You suffocate me! Stop this devil's parley,
  And listen to me; know me once for all.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I thought I did.
  
  Alas! I am deceiv'd.
  
  Albert.
  
  No, you are not deceiv'd.
  
  You took me for
  A man detesting all inhuman crime;
  And therefore kept from me your demon's plot
  Against Erminia.
  
  Silent?
  
  Be so still;
  For ever! Speak no more; but hear my words,
  Thy fate.
  
  Your safety I have bought to-day
  By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn
  I expiate with truth.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  O cruel traitor!
  Albert.
  
  For I would not set eyes upon thy shame;
  I would not see thee dragg'd to death by the hair,
  Penanc'd, and taunted on a scaffolding!
  To-night, upon the skirts of the blind wood
  That blackens northward of these horrid towers,
  I wait for you with horses.
  
  Choose your fate.
  
  Farewell.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Albert, you jest; I'm sure you must.
  
  You, an ambitious Soldier! I, a Queen,
  One who could say, Here, rule these Provinces!
  Take tribute from those cities for thyself!
  Empty these armouries, these treasuries,
  Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod !
  Go! conquer Italy!
  Albert.
  
  Auranthe, you have made
  The whole world chaff to me.
  
  Your doom is fix'd.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Out, villain! dastard!
  Albert.
  
  Look there to the door!
  Who is it?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Conrad, traitor!
  Albert.
  
  Let him in.
  
  Enter CONRAD.
  
  Do not affect amazement, hypocrite,
  At seeing me in this chamber.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Auranthe?
  
  Albert.
  
  Talk not with eyes, but speak your curses out
  Against me, who would sooner crush and grind
  A brace of toads, than league with them to oppress
  An innocent lady, gull an Emperor,
  More generous to me than autumn's sun
  To ripening harvests.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  No more insult, sir!
  Albert.
  
  Aye, clutch your scabbard; but, for prudence sake,
  Draw not the sword; 'twould make an uproar, Duke,
  You would not hear the end of.
  
  At nightfall
  Your lady sister, if I guess aright,
  Will leave this busy castle.
  
  You had best
  Take farewell too of worldly vanities.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Vassal!
  Albert.
  
  To-morrow, when the Emperor sends
  For loving Conrad, see you fawn on him.
  
  Good even !
  Auranthe.
  
  You'll be seen!
  Albert.
  
  See the coast clear then.
  
  Auranthe (as he goes).
  
  Remorseless Albert! Cruel,
  cruel wretch!
  [She lets him out.
  
  Conrad.
  
  So, we must lick the dust?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  I follow him.
  
  Conrad.
  
  How?
  
  Where?
  
  The plan of your escape?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  He waits
  For me with horses by the forest-side,
  Northward.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Good, good! he dies.
  
  You go, say you?
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Perforce.
  
  Conrad.
  
  Be speedy, darkness! Till that comes,
  Fiends keep you company! [Exit.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  And you! And you!
  And all men! Vanish!
  [Retires to an inner Apartment.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  An Apartment in the Castle.
  
  Enter LUDOLPH and Page.
  
  Page.
  
  Still very sick, my Lord; but now I went
  Knowing my duty to so good a Prince;
  And there her women in a mournful throng
  Stood in the passage whispering: if any
  Mov'd 'twas with careful steps and hush'd as death;
  They bid me stop.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Good fellow, once again
  Make soft enquiry; prythee be not stay'd
  By any hindrance, but with gentlest force
  Break through her weeping servants, till thou com'st
  E'en to her chamber door, and there, fair boy,
  If with thy mother's milk thou hast suck'd in
  Any diviner eloquence ; woo her ears
  With plaints for me more tender than the voice
  Of dying Echo, echoed.
  
  Page.
  
  Kindest master!
  To know thee sad thus, will unloose my tongue
  In mournful syllables.
  
  Let but my words reach
  Her ears and she shall take them coupled with
  Moans from my heart and sighs not counterfeit.
  
  May I speed better! [Exit Page.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Auranthe! My Life!
  Long have I lov'd thee, yet till now not lov'd:
  Remembering, as I do, hard-hearted times
  When I had heard even of thy death perhaps,
  And thoughtless, suffered to pass alone
  Into Elysium! now I follow thee
  A substance or a shadow, wheresoe'er
  Thou leadest me, whether thy white feet press,
  With pleasant weight, the amorous-aching earth,
  Or thro' the air thou pioneerest me,
  A shade! Yet sadly I predestinate!
  O unbenignest Love, why wilt thou let
  Darkness steal out upon the sleepy world
  So wearily; as if night's chariot wheels
  Were clog'd in some thick cloud.
  
  O, changeful Love,
  Let not her steeds with drowsy-footed pace
  Pass the high stars, before sweet embassage
  Comes from the pillow 'd beauty of that fair
  Completion of all delicate nature's wit.
  
  Pout her faint lips anew with rubious health
  And with thine infant fingers lift the fringe
  Of her sick eyelids ; that those eyes may glow
  With wooing light upon me, ere the Morn
  Peers with disrelish, grey, barren, and cold.
  
  Enter GERSA and Courtiers.
  
  Otho calls me his Lion should I blush
  To be so tam'd, so
  Gersa.
  
  Do me the courtesy
  Gentlemen to pass on.
  
  Courtier.
  
  We are your servants.
  
  [Exeunt Courtiers.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  It seems then, Sir, you have found out the man
  You would confer with; me?
  
  Gersa.
  
  If I break not
  Too much upon your thoughtful mood, I will
  Claim a brief while your patience.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  For what cause
  Soe'er I shall be honour 'd.
  
  Gersa.
  
  I not less.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  What may it be?
  
  No trifle can take place
  Of such deliberate prologue, serious 'haviour.
  
  But be it what it may I cannot fail
  To listen with no common interest
  For though so new your presence is to me,
  I have a soldier's friendship for your fame
  Please you explain.
  
  Gersa.
  
  As thus for, pardon me,
  I cannot in plain terms grossly assault
  A noble nature ; and would faintly sketch
  What your quick apprehension will fill up
  So finely I esteem you.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I attend
  Gersa.
  
  Your generous Father, most illustrious Otho,
  Sits in the Banquet room among his chiefs
  His wine is bitter, for you are not there
  His eyes are fix'd still on the open doors,
  And every passer in he frowns upon
  Seeing no Ludolph comes.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I do neglect
  Gersa.
  
  And for your absence, may I guess the cause?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Stay there! no guess?
  
  more princely you must be
  Than to make guesses at me.
  
  ‘Tis enough,
  I'm sorry I can hear no more.
  
  Gersa.
  
  And I
  As griev'd to force it on you so abrupt;
  Yet one day you must know a grief whose sting
  Will sharpen more the longer 'tis concealed.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Say it at once, sir, dead, dead, is she dead?
  
  Gersa.
  
  Mine is a cruel task : she is not dead
  And would for your sake she were innocent
  Ludolph.
  
  Thou liest! thou amazest me beyond
  All scope of thought; convulsest my heart's blood
  To deadly churning Gersa you are young
  As I am ; let me observe you face to face ;
  Not grey-brow'd like the poisonous Ethelbert,
  No rheumed eyes, no furrowing of age,
  No wrinkles where all vices nestle in
  Like crannied vermin no, but fresh and young
  And hopeful featured.
  
  Ha! by heaven you weep
  Tears, human tears Do you repent you then
  Of a curs'd torturer's office! Why shouldst join
  Tell me, the league of Devils?
  
  Confess confess
  The Lie.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Lie!- but begone all ceremonious points
  Of honour battailous.
  
  I could not turn
  My wrath against thee for the orbed world.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Your wrath, weak boy?
  
  Tremble at mine unless
  Retraction follow close upon the heels
  Of that late stounding insult: why has my sword
  Not done already a sheer judgment on thee?
  
  Despair, or eat thy words.
  
  Why, thou wast nigh
  Whimpering away my reason: hark ye, Sir,
  It is no secret; that Erminia,
  Erminia, Sir, was hidden in your tent;
  O bless 'd asylum! comfortable home!
  Begone, I pity thee, thou art a Gull
  Erminia's last new puppet
  Gersa.
  
  Furious fire!
  Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst flame!
  And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie!
  Thou liest! Thou, Auranthe's fool, a wittol
  Ludolph.
  
  Look! look at this bright sword;
  There is no part of it to the very hilt
  But shall indulge itself about thine heart
  Draw but remember thou must cower thy plumes,
  As yesterday the Arab made thee stoop
  Gersa.
  
  Patience! not here, I would not spill thy blood
  Here underneath this roof where Otho breathes,
  Thy father almost mine
  Ludolph.
  
  O faltering coward
  Re-enter PAGE.
  
  Stay, stay, here is one I have half a word with
  Well What ails thee child?
  
  Page.
  
  My lord,
  Ludolph.
  
  Good fellow
  Page.
  
  They are fled!
  Ludolph.
  
  They who?
  
  Page.
  
  When anxiously
  I hasten 'd back, your grieving messenger,
  I found the stairs all dark, the lamps extinct,
  And not a foot or whisper to be heard.
  
  I thought her dead, and on the lowest step
  Sat listening; when presently came by
  Two muffled up, one sighing heavily,
  The other cursing low, whose voice I knew
  For the Duke Conrad's.
  
  Close I follow'd them
  Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open air;
  And, as I follow'd, heard my lady speak.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Thy life answers the truth!
  Page.
  
  The chamber's empty!
  Ludolph.
  
  As I will be of mercy! So, at last,
  This nail is in my temples!
  Gersa.
  
  Be calm in this.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I am.
  
  Gersa.
  
  And Albert too has disappeared;
  Ere I met you, I sought him everywhere ;
  You would not hearken.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Which way went they, boy?
  
  Gersa.
  
  I'll hunt with you.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  No, no, no.
  
  My senses are
  Still whole.
  
  I have surviv'd.
  
  My arm is strong
  My appetite sharp for revenge! I'll no sharer
  In my feast; my injury is all my own,
  And so is my revenge, my lawful chattels!
  Terrier, ferret them out! Burn burn the witch!
  Trace me their footsteps! Away!
  [Exeunt.

• Otho The Great - Act V Read Poem Log in to favourite

  SCENE I.
  
  A part of the Forest.
  
  Enter CONRAD and AURANTHE.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Go no further; not a step more; thou art
  A master-plague in the midst of miseries.
  
  Go I fear thee.
  
  I tremble every limb,
  Who never shook before.
  
  There's moody death
  In thy resolved looks Yes, I could kneel
  To pray thee far away.
  
  Conrad, go, go
  There! yonder underneath the boughs I see
  Our horses!
  Conrad.
  
  Aye, and the man.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Yes, he is there.
  
  Go, go, no blood, no blood; go, gentle Conrad!
  Conrad.
  
  Farewell!
  Auranthe.
  
  Farewell, for this Heaven pardon you.
  
  [Exit AURANTHE,
  Conrad.
  
  If he survive one hour, then may I die
  In unimagined tortures or breathe through
  A long life in the foulest sink of the world!
  He dies 'tis well she do not advertise
  The caitiff of the cold steel at his back.
  
  [Exit CONRAD.
  
  Enter LUDOLPH and PAGE.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Miss'd the way, boy, say not that on your peril!
  Page.
  
  Indeed, indeed I cannot trace them further.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Must I stop here?
  
  Here solitary die?
  
  Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade
  Of these dull boughs, this oven of dark thickets,
  Silent, without revenge?
  
  pshaw! bitter end,
  A bitter death, a suffocating death,
  A gnawing silent deadly, quiet death!
  Escaped?
  
  fled?
  
  vanish'd?
  
  melted into air?
  
  She's gone! I cannot clutch her! no revenge!
  A muffled death, ensnar'd in horrid silence!
  Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm!
  O, where is that illustrious noise of war,
  To smother up this sound of labouring breath,
  This rustle of the trees!
  [AURANTHE shrieks at a distance.
  
  Page.
  
  My Lord, a noise!
  This way hark!
  Ludolph.
  
  Yes, yes! A hope! A music!
  A glorious clamour! How I live again! [Exeunt.
  
  SCENE II.
  
  Another part of the Forest,
  Enter ALBERT (wounded).
  
  Albert.
  
  O for enough life to support me on
  To Otho's feet
  Enter LUDOLPH.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Thrice villainous, stay there
  Tell me where that detested woman is
  Or this is through thee!
  Albert.
  
  My good Prince, with me
  The sword has done its worst; not without worst
  Done to another Conrad has it home
  I see you know it all
  Ludolph.
  
  Where is his sister?
  
  AURANTHE rushes in.
  
  Auranthe.
  
  Albert!
  Ludolph.
  
  Ha! There! there! He is the paramour I
  There hug him dying! O, thou innocence,
  Shrine him and comfort him at his last gasp,
  Kiss down his eyelids! Was he not thy love?
  
  Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour?
  
  Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze,
  His most uneasy moments, when cold death
  Stands with the door ajar to let him in?
  
  Albert.
  
  O that that door with hollow slam would close
  Upon me sudden, for I cannot meet,
  In all the unknown chambers of the dead,
  Such horrors
  Ludolph.
  
  Auranthe! what can he mean?
  
  What horrors?
  
  Is it not a joyous time?
  
  Am I not married to a paragon
  "Of personal beauty and untainted soul"?
  
  A blushing fair-eyed Purity! A Sylph,
  Whose snowy timid hand has never sin'd
  Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself?
  
  Albert, you do insult my Bride your Mistress
  To talk of horrors on our wedding night.
  
  Albert.
  
  Alas! poor Prince, I would you knew my heart.
  
  'Tis not so guilty
  Ludolph.
  
  Hear you he pleads not guilty
  You are not?
  
  or if so what matters it?
  
  You have escap'd me, free as the dusk air
  Hid in the forest safe from my revenge;
  I cannot catch you--You should laugh at me,
  Poor cheated Ludolph, make the forest hiss
  With jeers at me You tremble; faint at once,
  You will come to again.
  
  O Cockatrice,
  I have you.
  
  Whither wander those fair eyes
  To entice the Devil to your help, that he
  May change you to a Spider, so to crawl
  Into some cranny to escape my wrath?
  
  Albert.
  
  Sometimes the counsel of a dying man
  Doth operate quietly when his breath is gone
  Disjoin those hands part--part, do not destroy
  Each other forget her our miseries
  Are equal shar'd, and mercy is
  Ludolph.
  
  A boon
  When one can compass it.
  
  Auranthe, try
  Your oratory your breath is not so hitch'd
  Aye, stare for help
  [ALBERT groans and dies.
  
  There goes a spotted soul
  Howling in vain along the hollow night
  Hear him he calls you Sweet Auranthe, come!
  Auranthe.
  
  Kill me.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  No! What?
  
  upon our Marriage-night!
  The earth would shudder at so foul a deed
  A fair Bride, a sweet Bride, an innocent Bride!
  No, we must revel it, as 'tis in use
  In times of delicate brilliant ceremony:
  Come, let me lead you to our halls again
  Nay, linger not make no resistance sweet
  Will you Ah wretch, thou canst not, for I have
  The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a lamb
  Now one adieu for Albert come away.
  
  [Exeunt.
  
  SCENE III.
  
  An inner Court of the Castle.
  
  Enter SIGIFRED, GONFRED, and THEODORE meeting.
  
  Theodore.
  
  Was ever such a night?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  What horrors more?
  
  Things unbeliev'd one hour, so strange they are,
  The next hour stamps with credit.
  
  Theodore.
  
  Your last news ?
  
  Gonfred.
  
  After the Page's story of the death
  Of Albert and Duke Conrad?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  And the return
  Of Ludolph with the Princess.
  
  Gonfred.
  
  No more save
  Prince Gersa's freeing Abbot Ethelbert,
  And the sweet lady, fair Erminia,
  From prison.
  
  Theodore.
  
  Where are they now?
  
  hast yet heard?
  
  Gonfred.
  
  With the sad Emperor they are closeted ;
  I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs,
  The lady weeping, the old Abbot cowl'd.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  What next?
  
  Thedore.
  
  I ache to think on't.
  
  Gonfred.
  
  ‘Tis with fate.
  
  Theodore.
  
  One while these proud towers are hush'd as death.
  
  Gonfred.
  
  The next our poor Prince fills the arched rooms
  With ghastly ravings.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  I do fear his brain.
  
  Gonfred.
  
  I will see more.
  
  Bear you so stout a heart?
  
  [Exeunt into the Castle.
  
  SCENE IV.
  
  A Cabinet, opening towards a Terrace.
  
  OTHO, ERMINIA, ETHELBERT, and a Physician, discovered.
  
  Otho.
  
  O, my poor Boy! my Son! my Son! My Ludolph!
  Have ye no comfort for me, ye Physicians
  Of the weak Body and Soul?
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  ‘Tis not the Medicine
  Either of heaven or earth can cure unless
  Fit time be chosen to administer
  Otho.
  
  A kind forbearance, holy Abbot come
  Erminia, here sit by me, gentle Girl;
  Give me thy hand hast thou forgiven me?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Would I were with the saints to pray for you!
  Otho.
  
  Why will ye keep me from my darling child?
  
  Physician.
  
  Forgive me, but he must not see thy face
  Otho.
  
  Is then a father's countenance a Gorgon?
  
  Hath it not comfort in it?
  
  Would it not
  Console my poor Boy, cheer him, heal his spirits?
  
  Let me embrace him, let me speak to him
  I will who hinders me?
  
  Who's Emperor?
  
  Physician.
  
  You may not, Sire 'twould overwhelm him quite,
  He is so full of grief and passionate wrath,
  Too heavy a sigh would kill him or do worse.
  
  He must be sav'd by fine contrivances
  And most especially we must keep clear
  Out of his sight a Father whom he loves
  His heart is full, it can contain no more,
  And do its ruddy office.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Sage advice;
  We must endeavour how to ease and slacken
  The tight-wound energies of his despair,
  Not make them tenser
  Otho.
  
  Enough! I hear, I hear.
  
  Yet you were about to advise more I listen.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  This learned doctor will agree with me,
  That not in the smallest point should he be thwarted
  Or gainsaid by one word his very motions,
  Nods, becks and hints, should be obey'd with care,
  Even on the moment: so his troubled mind
  May cure itself
  Physician.
  
  There is no other means.
  
  Otho.
  
  Open the door: let's hear if all is quiet
  Physician.
  
  Beseech you, Sire, forbear.
  
  Erminia.
  
  Do, do.
  
  Otho.
  
  I command!
  Open it straight hush! quiet my lost Boy!
  My miserable Child!
  Ludolph (indistinctly without).
  
  Fill, fill my goblet,
  Here's a health!
  Erminia.
  
  O, close the door!
  Otho.
  
  Let, let me hear his voice; this cannot last
  And fain would I catch up his dying words
  Though my own knell they be this cannot last
  O let me catch his voice for lo! I hear
  This silence whisper me that he is dead!
  It is so.
  
  Gersa?
  
  Enter GERSA.
  
  Physician.
  
  Say, how fares the prince?
  
  Gersa.
  
  More calm his features are less wild and flushed
  Once he complain'd of weariness
  Physician.
  
  Indeed!
  'Tis good 'tis good let him but fall asleep,
  That saves him.
  
  Otho.
  
  Gersa, watch him like a child
  Ward him from harm and bring me better news
  Physician.
  
  Humour him to the height.
  
  I fear to go;
  For should he catch a glimpse of my dull garb,
  It might affright him fill him with suspicion
  That we believe him sick, which must not be
  Gersa.
  
  I will invent what soothing means I can.
  
  [Exit GERSA.
  
  Physician.
  
  This should cheer up your Highness weariness
  Is a good symptom, and most favourable
  It gives me pleasant hopes.
  
  Please you walk forth
  Onto the Terrace; the refreshing air
  Will blow one half of your sad doubts away.
  
  [Exeunt.
  
  SCENE V.
  
  A Banqueting Hall, brilliantly illuminated, and set forth
  with all costly magnificence, with Supper-tables, laden with services
  of Gold and Silver.
  
  A door in the back scene, guarded by two Soldiers.
  
  Lords, Ladies, Knights, Gentlemen, &c.
  
  , whispering sadly,
  and ranging themselves; part entering and part discovered.
  
  First Knight.
  
  Grievously are we tantaliz'd, one and all
  Sway'd here and there, commanded to and fro
  As though we were the shadows of a dream
  And link'd to a sleeping fancy.
  
  What do we here?
  
  Gonfred.
  
  I am no Seer you know we must obey
  The prince from A to Z though it should be
  To set the place in flames.
  
  I pray hast heard
  Where the most wicked Princess is?
  
  First Knight.
  
  There, Sir,
  In the next room have you remark'd those two
  Stout soldiers posted at the door?
  
  Gonfred.
  
  For what?
  
  [They whisper.
  
  First Lady.
  
  How ghast a train!
  Second Lady.
  
  Sure this should be some splendid burial.
  
  First Lady.
  
  What fearful whispering! See, see, Gersa there.
  
  Enter GERSA.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Put on your brightest looks; smile if you can;
  Behave as all were happy; keep your eyes
  From the least watch upon him ;
  if he speaks
  To any one, answer collectedly,
  Without surprise, his questions, howe'er strange.
  
  Do this to the utmost, though, alas! with me
  The remedy grows hopeless! Here he comes,
  Observe what I have said, show no surprise.
  
  Enter LUDOLPH, followed by SIGIFRED and Page.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  A splendid company! rare beauties here!
  I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's fancy,
  Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre,
  Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth,
  To give fit salutation.
  
  Methought I heard,
  As I came in, some whispers, what of that?
  
  'Tis natural men should whisper; at the kiss
  Of Psyche given by Love, there was a buzz
  Among the gods! and silence is as natural.
  
  These draperies are fine, and, being a mortal,
  I should desire no better; yet, in truth,
  There must be some superiour costliness,
  Some wider-domed high magnificence!
  I would have, as a mortal I may not,
  Hanging of heaven's clouds, purple and gold,
  Slung from the spheres; gauzes of silver mist,
  Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed light,
  And tassell'd round with weeping meteors!
  These pendent lamps and chandeliers are bright
  As earthly fires from dull dross can be cleansed;
  Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams
  Undazzled, this is darkness, when I close
  These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances,
  Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting stars,
  And spouting exhalations, diamond fires,
  And panting fountains quivering with deep glows!
  Yes this is dark is it not dark?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  My Lord,
  'Tis late; the lights of festival are ever
  Quench'd in the morn.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  'Tis not to-morrow then?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  ‘Tis early dawn.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Indeed full time we slept;
  Say you so, Prince?
  
  Ludolph.
  
  I say I quarreled with you ; We did not tilt each other, that's a blessing,
  Good gods! no innocent blood upon my head!
  Sigifred.
  
  Retire, Gersa!
  Ludolph.
  
  There should be three more here:
  For two of them, they stay away perhaps,
  Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair revels,
  They know their own thoughts best.
  
  As for the third,
  Deep blue eyes semi-shaded in white lids,
  Finished with lashes fine for more soft shade,
  Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon brows
  White temples of exactest elegance,
  Of even mould felicitous and smooth
  Cheeks fashioned tenderly on either side,
  So perfect, so divine that our poor eyes
  Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning,
  And wonder that 'tis so, the magic chance!
  Her nostrils, small, fragrant, faery-delicate;
  Her lips -I swear no human bones e'er wore
  So taking a disguise you shall behold her!
  We'll have her presently; aye, you shall see her,
  And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair
  She is the world's chief Jewel, and by heaven
  She's mine by right of marriage she is mine!
  Patience, good people, in fit time I send
  A Summoner she will obey my call,
  Being a wife most mild and dutiful.
  
  First I would hear what music is prepared
  To herald and receive her let me hear!
  Sigifred.
  
  Bid the musicians soothe him tenderly.
  
  [A soft strain of Music.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Ye have none better no I am content;
  'Tis a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs
  Full and majestic; it is well enough,
  And will be sweeter, when ye see her pace
  Sweeping into this presence, glisten'd o'er
  With emptied caskets, and her train upheld
  By ladies, habited in robes of lawn,
  Sprinkled with golden crescents; (others bright
  In silks, with spangles shower'd,) and bow'd to
  By Duchesses and pearled Margravines
  Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth
  I pray you mind me not 'tis sad, I say,
  That the extremest beauty of the world
  Should so entrench herself away from me,
  Behind a barrier of engender 'd guilt!
  Second Lady.
  
  Ah! what a moan!
  First Knight.
  
  Most piteous indeed!
  Ludolph.
  
  She shall be brought before this company,
  And then then
  First Lady.
  
  He muses.
  
  Gersa.
  
  O, Fortune, where will this end?
  
  Sigifred.
  
  I guess his purpose! Indeed he must not have
  That pestilence brought in, that cannot be,
  There we must stop him.
  
  Gersa.
  
  I am lost! Hush, hushl
  He is about to rave again.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  A barrier of guilt! I was the fool.
  
  She was the cheater! Who's the cheater now,
  And who the fool?
  
  The entrapp'd, the caged fool,
  The bird-limy raven?
  
  She shall croak to death
  Secure! Methinks I have her in my fist,
  To crush her with my heel! Wait, wait! I marvel
  My father keeps away: good friend, ah! Sigifred!
  Do bring him to me and Erminia
  I fain would see before I sleep and Ethelbert,
  That he may bless me, as I know he will
  Though I have curs'd him.
  
  Sigifred.
  
  Rather suffer me
  To lead you to them
  Ludolph.
  
  No, excuse me, no
  The day is not quite done go bring them hither.
  
  [Exit SIGIFRED.
  
  Certes, a father's smile should, like sunlight,,
  Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss
  Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely Bride
  In a deep goblet: let me see what wine?
  
  The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek?
  
  Or pale Calabrian?
  
  Or the Tuscan grape?
  
  Or of old Ætna's pulpy wine presses,
  Black stain'd with the fat vintage, as it were
  The purple slaughter-house, where Bacchus' self
  Prick'd his own swollen veins?
  
  Where is my Page?
  
  Page.
  
  Here, here!
  Ludolph.
  
  Be ready to obey me; anon thou shalt
  Bear a soft message for me for the hour
  Draws near when I must make a winding up
  Of bridal Mysteries a fine-spun vengeance!
  Carve it on my Tomb, that when I rest beneath
  Men shall confess This Prince was gulled and cheated,
  But from the ashes of disgrace he rose
  More than a fiery Phoenix and did burn
  His ignominy up in purging fires
  Did I not send, Sir, but a moment past,
  For my Father?
  
  Gersa.
  
  You did.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  Perhaps 'twould be
  Much better he came not.
  
  Gersa.
  
  He enters now!
  Enter OTHO, ERMINIA, ETHELBERT, SIGIFRED, and Physician.
  
  Ludolph.
  
  O thou good Man, against whose sacred head
  I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too
  For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife,
  Now to be punish'd, do not look so sad!
  Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart,
  Those tears will wash away a just resolve,
  A verdict ten times sworn! Awake awake
  Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue
  Made iron-stern by habit! Thou shalt see
  A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold!
  Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce
  What I alone will execute!
  Otho.
  
  Dear son,
  What is it?
  
  By your father's love, I sue
  That it be nothing merciless!
  Ludolph.
  
  To that demon?
  
  Not so! No! She is in temple-stall
  Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I,
  The Priest of Justice, will immolate her
  Upon the altar of wrath! She stings me through!-
  Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut,
  So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain!
  I feel her gnawing here! Let her but vanish,
  Then, father, I will lead your legions forth,
  Compact in steeled squares, and speared files,
  And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke
  To nations drows'd in peace!
  Otho.
  
  To-morrow, Son,
  Be your word law forget to-day
  Ludolph.
  
  I will
  When I have finish 'd it now! now! I'm pight,
  Tight-footed for the deed!
  Erminia.
  
  Alas! Alas!
  Ludolph.
  
  What Angel’s voice is that?
  
  Erminia!
  Ah! gentlest creature, whose sweet innocence
  Was almost murder'd; I am penitent,
  Wilt thou forgive me?
  
  And thou, holy Man,
  Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with you?
  
  Erminia.
  
  Die, my lord!
  Ludolph.
  
  I feel it possible.
  
  Otho.
  
  Physician?
  
  Physician.
  
  I fear me he is past my skill.
  
  Otho.
  
  Not so!
  Ludolph.
  
  I see it, I see it I have been wandering
  Half-mad not right here I forget my purpose.
  
  Bestir, bestir, Auranthe! ha! ha! ha!
  Youngster! Page! go bid them drag her to me!
  Obey! This shall finish it! [Draws a dagger.
  
  Otho.
  
  O my Son! my Son!
  Sigifred.
  
  This must not be stop there!
  Ludolph.
  
  Am I obey'd?
  
  A little talk with her no harm haste ! haste !
  [Exit Page.
  
  Set her before me never fear I can strike.
  
  Several Voices.
  
  My Lord! My Lord!
  Gersa.
  
  Good Prince!
  Ludolph.
  
  Why do ye trouble me?
  
  out-out-out away!
  There she is! take that! and that! no, no-
  That's not well done Where is she?
  
  The doors open.
  
  Enter Page.
  
  Several women are seen grouped
  about AURANTHE in the inner room.
  
  Page.
  
  Alas! My Lord, my Lord! they cannot move her!
  Her arms are stiff, her fingers clench'd and cold
  Ludolph.
  
  She's dead!
  [Staggers and jails into their arms.
  
  Ethelbert.
  
  Take away the dagger.
  
  Gersa.
  
  Softly; so!
  Otho.
  
  Thank God for that!
  Sigifred.
  
  I fear it could not harm him.
  
  Gersa.
  
  No! brief be his anguish!
  Ludolph.
  
  She's gone I am content Nobles, good night!
  We are all weary faint set ope the doors
  I will to bed! To-morrow [Dies.
  
  THE CURTAIN FALLS.

• Robin Hood Read Poem Log in to favourite

  No! those days are gone away
  And their hours are old and gray,
  And their minutes buried all
  Under the down-trodden pall
  Of the leaves of many years:
  Many times have winter's shears,
  Frozen North, and chilling East,
  Sounded tempests to the feast
  Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
  Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
  
  No, the bugle sounds no more,
  And the twanging bow no more;
  Silent is the ivory shrill
  Past the heath and up the hill;
  There is no mid-forest laugh,
  Where lone Echo gives the half
  To some wight, amaz'd to hear
  Jesting, deep in forest drear.
  
  On the fairest time of June
  You may go, with sun or moon,
  Or the seven stars to light you,
  Or the polar ray to right you;
  But you never may behold
  Little John, or Robin bold;
  Never one, of all the clan,
  Thrumming on an empty can
  Some old hunting ditty, while
  He doth his green way beguile
  To fair hostess Merriment,
  Down beside the pasture Trent;
  For he left the merry tale
  Messenger for spicy ale.
  
  Gone, the merry morris din;
  Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
  Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
  Idling in the "grenè shawe";
  All are gone away and past!
  And if Robin should be cast
  Sudden from his turfed grave,
  And if Marian should have
  Once again her forest days,
  She would weep, and he would craze:
  He would swear, for all his oaks,
  Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
  Have rotted on the briny seas;
  She would weep that her wild bees
  Sang not to her—strange! that honey
  Can't be got without hard money!
  
  So it is: yet let us sing,
  Honour to the old bow-string!
  Honour to the bugle-horn!
  Honour to the woods unshorn!
  Honour to the Lincoln green!
  Honour to the archer keen!
  Honour to tight little John,
  And the horse he rode upon!
  Honour to bold Robin Hood,
  Sleeping in the underwood!
  Honour to maid Marian,
  And to all the Sherwood-clan!
  Though their days have hurried by
  Let us two a burden try.

• Sharing Eve's Apple Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  O Blush not so! O blush not so!
  Or I shall think you knowing;
  And if you smile the blushing while,
  Then maidenheads are going.
  
  2.
  
  There's a blush for want, and a blush for shan't,
  And a blush for having done it;
  There's a blush for thought, and a blush for nought,
  And a blush for just begun it.
  
  3.
  
  O sigh not so! O sigh not so!
  For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin;
  By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips
  And fought in an amorous nipping.
  
  4.
  
  Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
  For it only will last our youth out,
  And we have the prime of the kissing time,
  We have not one sweet tooth out.
  
  5.
  
  There's a sigh for aye, and a sigh for nay,
  And a sigh for "I can't bear it!"
  O what can be done, shall we stay or run?
  
  O cut the sweet apple and share it!
  'This song, belonging to the year 1818, has not, I believe, been published till now (1881).
  
  It seems to me neither more nor less worthy of Keats's reputation than the Daisy's Song in the Extracts from an Opera; but, notwithstanding the brilliant qualities of some of the stanzas, I should have hesitated to be instrumental in adding it to the poet's published works, had it not been handed about in manuscript and more than once copied.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sleep And Poetry Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete
  Was unto me, but why that I ne might
  Rest I ne wist, for there n'as erthly wight
  [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese
  Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese.
  
  ~ Chaucer
  What is more gentle than a wind in summer?
  
  What is more soothing than the pretty hummer
  That stays one moment in an open flower,
  And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower?
  
  What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing
  In a green island, far from all men's knowing?
  
  More healthful than the leafiness of dales?
  
  More secret than a nest of nightingales?
  
  More serene than Cordelia's countenance?
  
  More full of visions than a high romance?
  
  What, but thee Sleep?
  
  Soft closer of our eyes!
  Low murmurer of tender lullabies!
  Light hoverer around our happy pillows!
  Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows!
  Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses!
  Most happy listener! when the morning blesses
  Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes
  That glance so brightly at the new sun-rise.
  
  But what is higher beyond thought than thee?
  
  Fresher than berries of a mountain tree?
  
  More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal,
  Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle?
  
  What is it?
  
  And to what shall I compare it?
  
  It has a glory, and naught else can share it:
  The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy,
  Chasing away all worldliness and folly;
  Coming sometimes like fearful claps of thunder,
  Or the low rumblings earth's regions under;
  And sometimes like a gentle whispering
  Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing
  That breathes about us in the vacant air;
  So that we look around with prying stare,
  Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial limning,
  And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard hymning;
  To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended,
  That is to crown our name when life is ended.
  
  Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice,
  And from the heart up-springs, rejoice! rejoice!
  Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things,
  And die away in ardent mutterings.
  
  No one who once the glorious sun has seen,
  And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
  For his great Maker's presence, but must know
  What 'tis I mean, and feel his being glow:
  Therefore no insult will I give his spirit,
  By telling what he sees from native merit.
  
  O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen
  That am not yet a glorious denizen
  Of thy wide heaven- Should I rather kneel
  Upon some mountain-top until I feel
  A glowing splendour round about me hung,
  And echo back the voice of thine own tongue?
  
  O Poesy! for thee I grasp my pen
  That am not yet a glorious denizen
  Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
  Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air,
  Smooth'd for intoxication by the breath
  Of flowering bays, that I may die a death
  Of luxury, and my young spirit follow
  The morning sun-beams to the great Apollo
  Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear
  The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fair
  Visions of all places: a bowery nook
  Will be elysium- an eternal book
  Whence I may copy many a lovely saying
  About the leaves, and flowers- about the playing
  Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and the shade
  Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid;
  And many a verse from so strange influence
  That we must ever wonder how, and whence
  It came.
  
  Also imaginings will hover
  Round my fire-side, and haply there discover
  Vistas of solemn beauty, where I'd wander
  In happy silence, like the clear Meander
  Through its lone vales; and where I found a spot
  Of awfuller shade, or an enchanted grot,
  Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress
  Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness,
  Write on my tablets all that was permitted,
  All that was for our human senses fitted.
  
  Then the events of this wide world I'd seize
  Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze
  Till at its shoulders it should proudly see
  Wings to find out an immortality.
  
  Stop and consider! life is but a day;
  A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
  From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
  While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
  Of Montmorenci.
  
  Why so sad a moan?
  
  Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
  The reading of an ever-changing tale;
  The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
  A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
  A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,
  Riding the springy branches of an elm.
  
  O for ten years, that I may overwhelm
  Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed
  That my own soul has to itself decreed.
  
  Then will I pass the countries that I see
  In long perspective, and continually
  Taste their pure fountains.
  
  First the realm I'll pass
  Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass,
  Feed upon apples red, and strawberries,
  And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees;
  Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
  To woo sweet kisses from averted faces,-
  Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white
  Into a pretty shrinking with a bite
  As hard as lips can make it: till agreed,
  A lovely tale of human life we'll read.
  
  And one will teach a tame dove how it best
  May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest;
  Another, bending o'er her nimble tread,
  Will set a green robe floating round her head,
  And still will dance with ever varied ease,
  Smiling upon the flowers and the trees:
  Another will entice me on, and on
  Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon;
  Till in the bosom of a leafy world
  We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd
  In the recesses of a pearly shell.
  
  And can I ever bid these joys farewell?
  
  Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life,
  Where I may find the agonies, the strife
  Of human hearts: for lo! I see afar,
  O'ersailing the blue cragginess, a car
  And steeds with streamy manes- the charioteer
  Looks out upon the winds with glorious fear:
  And now the numerous tramplings quiver lightly
  Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly
  Wheel downward come they into fresher skies,
  Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes.
  
  Still downward with capacious whirl they glide;
  And now I see them on the green-hill's side
  In breezy rest among the nodding stalks.
  
  The charioteer with wond'rous gesture talks
  To the trees and mountains; and there soon appear
  Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear,
  Passing along before a dusky space
  Made by some mighty oaks: as they would chase
  Some ever- fleeting music on they sweep.
  
  Lo! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, and weep:
  Some with upholden hand and mouth severe;
  Some with their faces muffled to the ear
  Between their arms; some, clear in youthful bloom,
  Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom;
  Some looking back, and some with upward gaze;
  Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways
  Flit onward- now a lovely wreath of girls
  Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls;
  And now broad wings.
  
  Most awfully intent
  The driver of those steeds is forward bent,
  And seems to listen: O that I might know
  All that he writes with such a hurrying glow.
  
  The visions all are fled- the car is fled
  Into the light of heaven, and in their stead
  A sense of real things comes doubly strong,
  And, like a muddy stream, would bear along
  My soul to nothingness: but I will strive
  Against all doubtings, and will keep alive
  The thought of that same chariot, and the strange
  Journey it went.
  
  Is there so small a range
  In the present strength of manhood, that the high
  Imagination cannot freely fly
  As she was wont of old?
  
  prepare her steeds,
  Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds
  Upon the clouds?
  
  Has she not shown us all?
  
  From the clear space of ether, to the small
  Breath of new buds unfolding?
  
  From the meaning
  Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening
  Of April meadows?
  
  Here her altar shone,
  E'en in this isle; and who could paragon
  The fervid choir that lifted up a noise
  Of harmony, to where it aye will poise
  Its mighty self of convoluting sound,
  Huge as a planet, and like that roll round,
  Eternally around a dizzy void?
  
  Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
  With honors; nor had any other care
  Than to sing out and sooth their wavy hair.
  
  Could all this be forgotten?
  
  Yes, a schism
  Nurtured by foppery and barbarism,
  Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
  
  Men were thought wise who could not understand
  His glories: with a puling infant's force
  They sway'd about upon a rocking horse,
  And thought it Pegasus.
  
  Ah dismal soul'd!
  The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd
  Its gathering waves- ye felt it not.
  
  The blue
  Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
  Of summer nights collected still to make
  The morning precious: beauty was awake!
  Why were ye not awake?
  
  But ye were dead
  To things ye knew not of,- were closely wed
  To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
  And compass vile: so that ye taught a school
  Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
  Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
  Their verses tallied.
  
  Easy was the task:
  A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
  Of Poesy.
  
  Ill-fated, impious race!
  That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
  And did not know it,- no, they went about,
  Holding a poor, decrepid standard out
  Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large
  The name of one Boileau!
  O ye whose charge
  It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
  Whose congregated majesty so fills
  My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
  Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,
  So near those common folk; did not their shames
  Affright you?
  
  Did our old lamenting Thames
  Delight you?
  
  Did ye never cluster round
  Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
  And weep?
  
  Or did ye wholly bid adieu
  To regions where no more the laurel grew?
  
  Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
  To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
  Their youth away, and die?
  
  'Twas even so:
  But let me think away those times of woe:
  Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed
  Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed
  Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
  In many places;- some has been upstirr'd
  From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
  By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,
  Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
  Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
  About the earth: happy are ye and glad.
  
  These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had
  Strange thunders from the potency of song;
  Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong,
  From majesty: but in clear truth the themes
  Are ugly clubs, the Poets' Polyphemes
  Disturbing the grand sea.
  
  A drainless shower
  Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;
  'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.
  
  The very archings of her eye-lids charm
  A thousand willing agents to obey,
  And still she governs with the mildest sway:
  But strength alone though of the Muses born
  Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,
  Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
  Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,
  And thorns of life; forgetting the great end
  Of poesy, that it should be a friend
  To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.
  
  Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than
  E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds
  Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
  A silent space with ever sprouting green.
  
  All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,
  Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
  Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
  
  Then let us clear away the choking thorns
  From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,
  Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,
  Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
  With simple flowers: let there nothing be
  More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;
  Nought more ungentle than the placid look
  Of one who leans upon a closed book;
  Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
  Between two hills.
  
  All hail delightful hopes!
  As she was wont, th' imagination
  Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
  And they shall be accounted poet kings
  Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
  
  O may these joys be ripe before I die.
  
  Will not some say that I presumptuously
  Have spoken?
  
  that from hastening disgrace
  'Twere better far to hide my foolish face?
  
  That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
  Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
  
  How!
  If I do hide myself, it sure shall be
  In the very fane, the light of Poesy:
  If I do fall, at least I will be laid
  Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;
  And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;
  And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
  
  But off Despondence! miserable bane!
  They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
  A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
  
  What though I am not wealthy in the dower
  Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
  The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow
  Hither and thither all the changing thoughts
  Of man: though no great minist'ring reason sorts
  Out the dark mysteries of human souls
  To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
  A vast idea before me, and I glean
  Therefrom my liberty; thence too I've seen
  The end and aim of Poesy.
  
  'Tis clear
  As anything most true; as that the year
  Is made of the four seasons- manifest
  As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest,
  Lifted to the white clouds.
  
  Therefore should I
  Be but the essence of deformity,
  A coward, did my very eye-lids wink
  At speaking out what I have dared to think.
  
  Ah! rather let me like a madman run
  Over some precipice; let the hot sun
  Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me down
  Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
  Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
  
  An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
  Spreads awfully before me.
  
  How much toil!
  How many days! what desperate turmoil!
  Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
  
  Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
  I could unsay those- no, impossible!
  Impossible!
  For sweet relief I'll dwell
  On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
  Begun in gentleness die so away.
  
  E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:
  I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
  That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,
  And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
  
  The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
  Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
  The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
  And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:
  The message certain to be done to-morrow.
  
  'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
  Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
  To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
  
  Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs
  Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;
  Many delights of that glad day recalling,
  When first my senses caught their tender falling.
  
  And with these airs come forms of elegance
  Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,
  Careless, and grand-fingers soft and round
  Parting luxuriant curls;- and the swift bound
  Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
  Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
  
  Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
  Of words at opening a portfolio.
  
  Things such as these are ever harbingers
  To trains of peaceful images: the stirs
  Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:
  A linnet starting all about the bushes:
  A butterfly, with golden wings broad parted,
  Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it smarted
  With over pleasure- many, many more,
  Might I indulge at large in all my store
  Of luxuries: yet I must not forget
  Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet:
  For what there may be worthy in these rhymes
  I partly owe to him: and thus, the chimes
  Of friendly voices had just given place
  To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace
  The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.
  
  It was a poet's house who keeps the keys
  Of pleasure's temple.
  
  Round about were hung
  The glorious features of the bards who sung
  In other ages- cold and sacred busts
  Smiled at each other.
  
  Happy he who trusts
  To clear Futurity his darling fame!
  Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
  At swelling apples with a frisky leap
  And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap
  Of vine-leaves.
  
  Then there rose to view a fane
  Of liny marble, and thereto a train
  Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:
  One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward
  The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet
  Bending their graceful figures till they meet
  Over the trippings of a little child:
  And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
  Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.
  
  See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
  Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;-
  A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims
  At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion
  With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
  Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er
  Its rocky marge, and balances once more
  The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam
  Feel all about their undulating home.
  
  Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down
  At nothing; just as though the earnest frown
  Of over thinking had that moment gone
  From off her brow, and left her all alone.
  
  Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
  As if he always listened to the sighs
  Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn
  By horrid suffrance- mightily forlorn.
  
  Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
  Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean
  His eyes from her sweet face.
  
  Most happy they!
  For over them was seen a free display
  Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
  The face of Poesy: from off her throne
  She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.
  
  The very sense of where I was might well
  Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came
  Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
  Within my breast; so that the morning light
  Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
  And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,
  Resolving to begin that very day
  These lines; and howsoever they be done,
  I leave them as a father does his son.
  
  THE END
  (lines 250-1): An idea, says Leigh Hunt.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  "of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words.
  
  "
  (line 354): Leigh Hunt's house: he says .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  the poem "originated in sleeping in a room adorned with busts and pictures," -- "many a bust from Shout," as Shelley wrote to Mrs.
  
  Gisborne.
  
  In Hunt's Correspondence (Volume i, page 289) we read "Keats's Sleep and Poetry is a description of a parlour that was mine, no bigger than an old mansion's closet.
  
  " Charles Cowden Clarke says (Gentleman's Magazine, February 1874) "It was in the library at Hunt's cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Song Of Four Faries Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Fire, Air, Earth, and Water,
  Salamander, Zephyr, Dusketha, and Breama.
  
  Salamander.
  
  Happy, happy glowing fire!
  Zephyr.
  
  Fragrant air! delicious light!
  Dusketha.
  
  Let me to my glooms retire!
  Breama.
  
  I to the green-wood rivers bright!
  Salamander.
  
  Happy, happy glowing fire!
  Dazzling bowers of soft retire,
  Ever let my nourish'd wing,
  Like a bat's, still wandering,
  Faintly fan your fiery spaces,
  Spirit sole in deadly places.
  
  In unhaunted roar and blaze,
  Open eyes that never daze,
  Let me see the myriad shapes
  Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes,
  Portray'd in many a fiery den,
  And wrought by spumy bitumen.
  
  On the deep intenser roof,
  Arched every way aloof,
  Let me breathe upon their skies,
  And anger their live tapestries;
  Free from cold, and every care,
  Of chilly rain, and shivering air.
  
  Zephyr.
  
  Spirit of Fire! away! away!
  Or your very roundelay
  Will sear my plumage newly budded
  From its quilled sheath, all studded
  With the self-same news that fell
  On the May-grown Asphodel.
  
  Spirit of Fire -- away! away!
  Breama.
  
  Spirit of Fire -- away! away!
  Zephyr, blue-ey'd Faery turn,
  And see my cool sedge-bury'd urn,
  Where it rests its mossy brim
  'Mid water-mint and cresses dim;
  And the flowers, in sweet troubles,
  Lift their eyes above the bubbles,
  Like our Queen, when she would please
  To sleep, and Oberon will teaze.
  
  Love me, blue-ey'd Faery, true!
  Soothly I am sick for you.
  
  Zephyr.
  
  Gentle Breama! by the first
  Violet young nature nurst,
  I will bathe myself with thee,
  So you sometimes follow me
  To my home, far, far, in west,
  Beyond the nimble-wheeled quest
  Of the golden-browed sun:
  Come with me, o'er tops of trees,
  To my fragrant palaces,
  Where they ever floating are
  Beneath the cherish of a star
  Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil
  Ever hides his brilliance pale,
  Ever gently-drows'd doth keep
  Twilight for the Fayes to sleep.
  
  Fear not that your watery hair
  Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there;
  Clouds of stored summer rains
  Thou shalt taste, before the stains
  Of the mountain soil they take,
  And too unlucent for thee make.
  
  I love thee, crystal Faery, true!
  Sooth I am as sick for you!
  Salamander.
  
  Out, ye aguish Faeries, out!
  Chilly lovers, what a rout
  Keep ye with your frozen breath,
  Colder than the mortal death.
  
  Adder-eye'd Dusketha, speak,
  Shall we leave these, and go seek
  In the earth's wide entrails old
  Couches warm as their's are cold?
  
  O for a fiery gloom and thee,
  Dusketha, so enchantingly
  Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided!
  Dusketha.
  
  By thee, Sprite, will I be guided!
  I care not for cold or heat;
  Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet,
  To my essence are the same;--
  But I honour more the flame.
  
  Spirit of Fire, I follow thee
  Wheresoever it may be,
  To the torrid spouts and fountains,
  Underneath earth-quaked mountains;
  Or, at thy supreme desire,
  Touch the very pulse of fire
  With my bare unlidded eyes.
  
  Salamander.
  
  Sweet Dusketha! paradise!
  Off, ye icy Spirits, fly!
  Frosty creatures of the sky!
  Dusketha.
  
  Breathe upon them, fiery sprite!
  Zephyr and Breama.
  
  Away! away to our delight!
  Salamander.
  
  Go, feed on icicles, while we
  Bedded in tongue-flames will be.
  
  Dusketha.
  
  Lead me to those feverous glooms,
  Sprite of Fire!
  Breama.
  
  Me to the blooms,
  Blue-ey'd Zephyr, of those flowers
  Far in the west where the May-cloud lowers;
  And the beams of still Vesper, when winds are all wist,
  Are shed thro' the rain and the milder mist,
  And twilight your floating bowers.

• Song Of The Indian Maid, From 'Endymion' Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O SORROW!
  Why dost borrow
  The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?
  
  --
  To give maiden blushes
  To the white rose bushes?
  
  Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
  
  O Sorrow!
  Why dost borrow
  The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?
  
  --
  To give the glow-worm light?
  
  Or, on a moonless night,
  To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?
  
  O Sorrow!
  Why dost borrow
  The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?
  
  --
  To give at evening pale
  Unto the nightingale,
  That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
  
  O Sorrow!
  Why dost borrow
  Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
  
  --
  A lover would not tread
  A cowslip on the head,
  Though he should dance from eve till peep of day--
  Nor any drooping flower
  Held sacred for thy bower,
  Wherever he may sport himself and play.
  
  To Sorrow
  I bade good morrow,
  And thought to leave her far away behind;
  But cheerly, cheerly,
  She loves me dearly;
  She is so constant to me, and so kind:
  I would deceive her
  And so leave her,
  But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
  
  Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
  I sat a-weeping: in the whole world wide
  There was no one to ask me why I wept,--
  And so I kept
  Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
  Cold as my fears.
  
  Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
  I sat a-weeping: what enamour'd bride,
  Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds,
  But hides and shrouds
  Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side?
  
  And as I sat, over the light blue hills
  There came a noise of revellers: the rills
  Into the wide stream came of purple hue--
  'Twas Bacchus and his crew!
  The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills
  From kissing cymbals made a merry din--
  'Twas Bacchus and his kin!
  Like to a moving vintage down they came,
  Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame;
  All madly dancing through the pleasant valley,
  To scare thee, Melancholy!
  O then, O then, thou wast a simple name!
  And I forgot thee, as the berried holly
  By shepherds is forgotten, when in June
  Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:--
  I rush'd into the folly!
  Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood,
  Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood,
  With sidelong laughing;
  And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
  His plump white arms and shoulders, enough white
  For Venus' pearly bite;
  And near him rode Silenus on his ass,
  Pelted with flowers as he on did pass
  Tipsily quaffing.
  
  'Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye,
  So many, and so many, and such glee?
  
  Why have ye left your bowers desolate,
  Your lutes, and gentler fate?
  
  '--
  'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wing,
  A-conquering!
  Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide,
  We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:--
  Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
  To our wild minstrelsy!'
  'Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs! whence came ye,
  So many, and so many, and such glee?
  
  Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left
  Your nuts in oak-tree cleft?
  
  '--
  'For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree;
  For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms,
  And cold mushrooms;
  For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth;
  Great god of breathless cups and chirping mirth!
  Come hither, lady fair, and joined be
  To our mad minstrelsy!'
  Over wide streams and mountains great we went,
  And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent,
  Onward the tiger and the leopard pants,
  With Asian elephants:
  Onward these myriads--with song and dance,
  With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance,
  Web-footed alligators, crocodiles,
  Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files,
  Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil
  Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil:
  With toying oars and silken sails they glide,
  Nor care for wind and tide.
  
  Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes,
  From rear to van they scour about the plains;
  A three days' journey in a moment done;
  And always, at the rising of the sun,
  About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn,
  On spleenful unicorn.
  
  I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown
  Before the vine-wreath crown!
  I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing
  To the silver cymbals' ring!
  I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce
  Old Tartary the fierce!
  The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail,
  And from their treasures scatter pearled hail;
  Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans,
  And all his priesthood moans,
  Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale.
  
  Into these regions came I, following him,
  Sick-hearted, weary--so I took a whim
  To stray away into these forests drear,
  Alone, without a peer:
  And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
  
  Young Stranger!
  I've been a ranger
  In search of pleasure throughout every clime;
  Alas! 'tis not for me!
  Bewitch'd I sure must be,
  To lose in grieving all my maiden prime.
  
  Come then, Sorrow,
  Sweetest Sorrow!
  Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
  I thought to leave thee,
  And deceive thee,
  But now of all the world I love thee best.
  
  There is not one,
  No, no, not one
  But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
  Thou art her mother,
  And her brother,
  Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade.

• Song. I Had A Dove Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;
  And I have thought it died of grieving:
  O, what could it grieve for?
  
  its feet were tied
  With a single thread of my own hand's weaving;
  Sweet little red feet, why should you die--
  Why should you leave me, sweet bird, why?
  
  You lived alone in the forest tree,
  Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
  
  I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas;
  Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
  
  'This song was given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  , among the Literary Remains in Volume II, under the date 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Song. Hush, Hush! Tread Softly! Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!
  All the house is asleep, but we know very well
  That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear.
  
  Tho' you've padded his night-cap -- O sweet Isabel!
  Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet,
  Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,--
  Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear!
  For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.
  
  2.
  
  No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
  On the river, -- all's still, and the night's sleepy eye
  Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
  Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly;
  And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
  Hath fled to her bower, well knowing I want
  No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
  But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.
  
  3.
  
  Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly -- sweet!
  We are dead if that latchet gives one little chink!
  Well done -- now those lips, and a flowery seat --
  The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink;
  The shut rose shall dream of our loves, and awake
  Full blown, and such warmth for the morning's take;
  The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace and shall coo,
  While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!
  'As far as I have been able to trace this poem, it appeared for the first time in the Life, Letters, and Literary Remains (1848), where it is dated 1818.
  
  The statement in the Aldine Edition of 1876 that it was first printed in The Literary Pocket-book or Companion for the Lover of Nature and Art, for 1818, must derive from some misapprehension, as there is no such book.
  
  The Pocket-book was started, by Hunt in 1819; and in a copy of the book for that year now in Sir Charles Dilke's possession Keats wrote the Song; but it is not printed in that or in either of the four later Pocket-books which complete the series.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Song. Written On A Blank Page In Beaumont And Fletcher's Works Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Spirit here that reignest!
  Spirit here that painest!
  Spirit here that burneth!
  Spirit here that mourneth!
  Spirit! I bow
  My forehead low,
  Enshaded with thy pinions!
  Spirit! I look
  All passion struck,
  Into thy pale dominions!
  2.
  
  Spirit here that laughest!
  Spirit here that quaffest!
  Spirit here that danceth!
  Spirit here that pranceth!
  Spirit! with thee
  I join in the glee,
  While nudging the elbow of Momus!
  Spirit! I flush
  With a Bacchanal blush,
  Just fresh from the banquet of Comus!
  Song.
  
  Written On A Blank Page In Beaumont And Fletcher's Works, Between "Cupid's Revenge" and "The Two Noble Kinsmen"
  'First given among the Literary Remains in 1848 as an independent song; but included in the Aldine edition of Faery Songs.
  
  The fact that the Song was written where it was leads me to prefer the earlier arrangement.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet I. To My Brother George Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Many the wonders I this day have seen:
  The sun, when first he kissed away the tears
  That filled the eyes of Morn;—the laurelled peers
  Who from the feathery gold of evening lean;—
  The ocean with its vastness, its blue green,
  Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears,
  Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears
  Must think on what will be, and what has been.
  
  E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write,
  Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping
  So scantly, that it seems her bridal night,
  And she her half-discovered revels keeping.
  
  But what, without the social thought of thee,
  Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?
  
  'Among the late Joseph Severn's Keats relics were a few leaves torn from a small oblong pocket note-book, bearing pencilled sketches by Keats of rude figures &c.
  
  and what seem to be first drafts (in pencil also) of his sonnet and the two quatrains of the sonnet To My Brothers.
  
  The erasures are not such as to indicate any want of fluency.
  
  I have collated this draft with a careful transcript made by George Keats himself, and with another in Tom Keats's copy-book.
  
  This last does not vary from the printed text, and bears no date; but the other transcript, like that of the Epistle to George Keats, is subscribed "Margate, August, 1816.
  
  " In the draft, line 3 at first stood unfinished --
  That trembled on the morning's eye
  and then --
  That trembled in the eye of Morn
  and finally --
  That hung on Morning's cheek -- the laurell'd Peers,
  which is the reading of George Keats's transcript.
  
  In line 4 we have That for Who in the transcript; while the draft reads That in the Paleing (altered to feathery) gold.
  
  In line 6 of the draft, Dangers stands cancelled in favour of Rocks.
  
  Line 8 in both draft and transcript is --
  Must muse on what's to come and what has bee.
  
  In line 10 the draft reads silver for silken, and there is a cancelled line 11: --
  Giving the world such snatches of delight,
  for which the reading of the text is substituted.
  
  The final couplet was originally --
  The Sights have warmed me but without thy love,
  What Joy in Earth or Sea or Heaven above?
  
  This is cancelled in the draft in favour of the reading of the text.
  
  In line 13 the transcript has 'thoughts' for 'thought.
  
  ' Even the small beginning of lunar impersonation that we see in lines 10 to 12 has its interest in the mental history of one who was born to luxuriate through such a harvest of luscious thought and imagery as Endymion.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet II. To ****** Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs
  Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
  Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
  Would passion arm me for the enterprize:
  But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
  No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
  I am no happy shepherd of the dell
  Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.
  
  Yet must I doat upon thee,--call thee sweet,
  Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses
  When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
  
  Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
  And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
  I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.
  
  'Tom Keats's copy-book contains a transcript of this sonnet showing no variation in the text, except by a copyist's error at the end, -- the last word being 'incantations.
  
  ' There is no heading beyond the word Sonnet, no date, and no clue to the identity of the person addressed.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet III. Written On The Day That Mr. Leigh Hunt Left Prison Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,
  Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,
  In his immortal spirit, been as free
  As the sky-searching lark, and as elate.
  
  Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?
  
  Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,
  Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?
  
  Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate!
  In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair,
  Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew
  With daring Milton through the fields of air:
  To regions of his own his genius true
  Took happy flights.
  
  Who shall his fame impair
  When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?
  
  'The Hunts left prison on the 2nd of February 1815, according to Leigh Hunt's own account, though Thornton Hunt says the 3rd at page 99, Volume I.
  
  , of the Correspondence (1862).
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  An article celebrating "The Departure of the Proprietors of this Paper from Prison" occupied the first page of The Examiner for Sunday, the 5th of February, 1815.
  
  The opening is as follows: --
  "The two years' imprisonment inflicted on the Proprietors of this Paper for differing with the Morning Post on the merits of the Prince Regent, expired on Thursday last; and on that day accordingly we quitted our respective Jails.
  
  " On  the subject of how they felt on the occasion, Hunt excuses himself from particularity, but observes with characteristic pleasantness, "there is a feeling of space and of airy clearness about everything, which is alternately delightful and painful.
  
  " .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  Hunt adduces the first line .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  as an example of Keats's "sense of the proper variety of versification without a due consideration of its principles," and very justly adds, "by no contrivance of any sort can we prevent this from jumping out of the heroic measure into mere rhythmicality.
  
  "
  Clarke records that when this and one or two other early poems of Keats were first shown by him to Hunt, Horace Smith, being present, remarked on the 13th line, "What a well-condensed expression for a youth so young!"
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet IV. How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time! Read Poem Log in to favourite

  How many bards gild the lapses of time!
  A few of them have ever been the food
  Of my delighted fancy,—I could brood
  Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
  And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
  These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
  But no confusion, no disturbance rude
  Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
  
  So the unnumbered sounds that evening store;
  The songs of birds—the whispering of the leaves—
  The voice of waters—the great bell that heaves
  With solemn sound,—and thousand others more,
  That distance of recognizance bereaves,
  Makes pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

• Sonnet IX. Keen, Fitful Gusts Are Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
  Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
  The stars look very cold about the sky,
  And I have many miles on foot to fare.
  
  Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
  Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
  Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
  Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
  For I am brimfull of the friendliness
  That in a little cottage I have found;
  Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
  And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
  Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
  And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
  
  'Clarke records that this sonnet was written on the occasion of Keats's first becoming acquainted with Leigh Hunt at the Cottage in the Vale of Health, Hampstead.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet On Sitting Down To Read King Lear Once Again Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O GOLDEN tongued Romance, with serene lute!
  Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far-away!
  Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
  Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
  Adieu! for, once again, the fierce dispute
  Betwixt damnation and impassion 'd clay
  Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
  The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit:
  Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
  Begetters of our deep eternal theme!
  When through the old oak Forest I am gone,
  Let me not wander in a barren dream,
  But, when I am consumed in the fire,
  Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

• Sonnet To Byron Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody!
  Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
  As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
  Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
  Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.
  
  O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less
  Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
  With a bright halo, shining beamily,
  As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
  Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent glow,
  Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
  And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
  Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
  The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
  
  'First given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), Volume 1, page 13, under the date December 1814.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To Chatterton Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Chatterton! how very sad thy fate!
  Dear child of sorrow -- son of misery!
  How soon the film of death obscur'd that eye,
  Whence Genius mildly falsh'd, and high debate.
  
  How soon that voice, majestic and elate,
  Melted in dying numbers!  Oh! how nigh
  Was night to thy fair morning.
  
  Thou didst die
  A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.
  
  But this is past: thou art among the stars
  Of highest heaven: to the rolling spheres
  Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning mars,
  Above the ingrate world and human fears.
  
  On earth the good man base detraction bars
  From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.
  
  'This sonnet was also first given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  in 1848.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To George Keats: Written In Sickness Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Brother belov'd if health shall smile again,
  Upon this wasted form and fever'd cheek:
  If e'er returning vigour bid these weak
  And languid limbs their gladsome strength regain,
  Well may thy brow the placid glow retain
  Of sweet content and thy pleas'd eye may speak
  The conscious self applause, but should I seek
  To utter what this heart can feel, Ah! vain
  Were the attempt!  Yet kindest friends while o'er
  My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness
  The being whom your cares could e'en restore,
  From the cold grasp of Death, say can you guess
  The feelings which these lips can ne'er express;
  Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store.
  
  'This sonnet is from a transcript in the handwriting of George Keats, which bears the date 1819; but I am disposed to think this date must have been wrongly affixed from memory.
  
  The entire absence of high poetic feeling indicates a time of utter physical prostration; and I should imagine that the sonnet might possibly have been written in February 1820, when Keats was still so ill as to be forbidden to write, and that it might have been sent to George with the announcement of the illness; but it seems likelier that it was composed later on in the year, in reply to some letter written by George on receiving hat news -- a letter in which reply the younger brother might have reproached himself for leaving the elder, low in health and funds, and for rushing back to America to mend his own fortunes.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To Homer Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
  Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
  As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
  To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
  
  So thou wast blind; -- but then the veil was rent,
  For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live,
  And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,
  And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;
  Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
  And precipices show untrodden green
  There is a budding morrow in the midnight,
  There is a triple sight in blindness keen;
  Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel
  To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.
  
  'This admirable sonnet also occurs in manuscript in Sir Charles Dilke's copy of Endymion, and was included, like the Sonnet "When I have fears", in the Literary Remains (1848).
  
  The date given in both places is 1818.
  
  The evidence of the manuscript on this point is of consequence as bearing on the relative positions of this sonnet and that 'On first looking into Chapman's Homer'.
  
  I understand the "giant ignorance" of line I to have reference to Keats's inability to enjoy Homer in the original Greek, and not to an entire ignorance of the Iliad and Odyssey such as might have characterized the period before the sonnet on Chapman's version was written in 1816.
  
  Indeed the second quatrain seems to me to be too well felt for so vague an attitude as Keats's must have been towards Homer before he knew any version at all; but the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, whose intuitions in such matters were of the keenest, and entitled to the most careful consideration, held that the present sonnet must have preceded that of 1816, and received with considerable reserve the evidence as to the date which I communicated to him in the course of our correspondence.
  
  It will be of interest to many lovers both of Keats and of Rossetti to learn that the latter poet whom we have but lately lost considered this sonnet to contain Keats's finest single line of poetry --
  'There is a budding morrow in midnight,'
  a line which Rossetti told me he thought one of the finest "in all poetry.
  
  " No one will dispute that it is a most astonishing line, more particularly for a young man of Keats's years in 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To John Hamilton Reynolds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O that a week could be an age, and we
  Felt parting and warm meeting every week,
  Then one poor year a thousand years would be,
  The flush of welcome ever on the cheek:
  So could we live long life in little space,
  So time itself would be annihilate,
  So a day's journey in oblivious haze
  To serve ourjoys would lengthen and dilate.
  
  O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind!
  To land each Tuesday from the rich Levant!
  In little time a host of joys to bind,
  And keep our souls in one eternal pant!
  This morn, my friend, and yester-evening taught
  Me how to harbour such a happy thought.
  
  'First given among the Literary Remains, in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), not dated, but standing next to the sonnet on blue eyes, which is dated February 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To Mrs. Reynolds's Cat Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric,
  How many mice and rats hast in thy days
  Destroy'd?
  
  How many tit bits stolen?
  
  Gaze
  With those bright languid segments green, and prick
  Those velvet ears -- but pr'ythee do not stick
  Thy latent talons in me -- and upraise
  Thy gentle mew -- and tell me all thy frays,
  Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
  
  Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists--
  For all thy wheezy asthma -- and for all
  Thy tail's tip is nick'd off -- and though the fists
  Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
  Still is that fur as soft, as when the lists
  In youth thou enter'dest on glass bottled wall.

• Sonnet To Sleep Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
  Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
  Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
  Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
  O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
  In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes.
  
  Or wait the Amen, ere thy poppy throws
  Around my bed its lulling charities;
  Then save me, or the passed day will shine
  Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
  Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards
  Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
  Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
  And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

• Sonnet To Spenser Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Spenser! a jealous honourer of thine,
  A forester deep in thy midmost trees,
  Did last eve ask my promise to refine
  Some English that might strive thine ear to please.
  
  But Elfin Poet 'tis impossible
  For an inhabitant of wintry earth
  To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
  Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his mirth.
  
  It is impossible to escape from toil
  O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting:
  The flower must drink the nature of the soil
  Before it can put forth its blossoming:
  Be with me in the summer days, and I
  Will for thine honour and his pleasure try.
  
  'Lord Houghton, who first gave this sonnet in Volume 1 of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  , 1848, appended in the Aldine edition of 1876 the following note: -- "I am enabled by the kindness of Mr.
  
  W.
  
  A.
  
  Longmore, nephew of Mr.
  
  J.
  
  W.
  
  [sic, but quoere H.
  
  ] Reynolds, to give an exact transcript of this sonnet as written and given to his mother, by the poet, at his father's house in Little Britain.
  
  The poem is dated, in Mrs.
  
  Longmore's hand, Feb.
  
  5th, 1818, but it seems to me impossible that it can have been other than an early production and of the especially Spenserian time.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet To The Nile Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Son of the old Moon-mountains African!
  Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile!
  We call thee fruitful, and that very while
  A desert fills our seeing's inward span:
  Nurse of swart nations since the world began,
  Art thou so fruitful?
  
  or dost thou beguile
  Such men to honour thee, who, worn with toil,
  Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and Decan?
  
  O may dark fancies err! They surely do;
  'Tis ignorance that makes a barren waste
  Of all beyond itself.
  
  Thou dost bedew
  Green rushes like our rivers, and dost taste
  The pleasant sunrise.
  
  Green isles hast thou too,
  And to the sea as happily dost haste.
  
  'This sonnet seems to have been composed on the 4th of February 1818; for in writing to his brothers (Life, Letters &c.
  
  , 1848, Volume 1, page 98) on the 16th of that month, a Monday, Keats says --
  "The Wednesday before last, Shelley, Hunt and I, wrote each a sonnet on the river Nile: some day you shall read them all.
  
  "
  Lord Houghton appended Keats's sonnet to the letter, together with Leigh Hunt's, and Shelley's "Ozymandias.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet V. To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As late I rambled in the happy fields,
  What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
  From his lush clover covert;—when anew
  Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
  I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
  A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
  Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
  As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
  
  And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
  I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
  But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
  My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
  Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
  Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.
  
  'This sonnet was addressed to Charles Wells, the author of Stories After Nature, Joseph and His Brethren, and a few fugitive compositions.
  
  His great dramatic poem, Joseph and His Brethren, probably came out late in 1823 .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  The book was left in oblivion till within the last few years.
  
  Wells, however, lived to find himself famous in 1876, on the issue of a revised edition.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  He died at Marseilles on the 17th of February 1879, in his 78th year, having finally corrected and interpolated a copy of the new edition of his great work for some future re-edition.
  
  In Tom Keats's copy-book this sonnet is headed "To Charles Wells on receiving a bunch of roses," and dated "June 29, 1816.
  
  " In this heading the word 'full-blown' stands cancelled before roses.
  
  The only variation beyond spelling and pointing is in the last line, which is --
  Whispered of truth, Humanity and Friendliness unquell'd.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet VI. To G. A. W. Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong glance!
  In what diviner moments of the day
  Art thou most lovely?
  
  -- when gone far astray
  Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance,
  Or when serenely wandering in a trance
  Of sober thought?
  
  -- Or when starting away,
  With careless robe to meet the morning ray,
  Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance?
  
  Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,
  And so remain, because thou listenest:
  But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
  That I can never tell what mood is best;
  I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly
  Trips it before Apollo than the rest.
  
  'The subject of this sonnet was Miss Georgiana Augusta Wylie, afterwards the wife of Keats's brother George, and now (1881) Mrs.
  
  Jeffrey.
  
  I should not have connected the sonnet positively with this lady had I not seen the manuscript in Keats's writing, headed "To Miss Wylie.
  
  "  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet VII. To Solitude Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
  Let it not be among the jumbled heap
  Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,—
  Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
  In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
  May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
  'Mongst boughs pavilioned, where the deer's swift leap
  Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
  
  But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
  Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
  Whose words are images of thoughts refined,
  Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
  Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
  When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
  
  'This Sonnet, published in The Examiner for the 5th of May 1816, signed "J.
  
  K.
  
  ," is stated by Charles Cowden Clarke (Gentleman's Magazine for February 1874) to be "Keats's first published poem.
  
  " In Tom Keats's copy-book it is headed "Sonnet to Solitude," and undated.
  
  The only variation is in line 9,-- "I'd" for "I'll.
  
  "  The Examiner reads "rivers" for "river's" in line 5, and lines 9 and 10 stand thus --
  Ah! fain would I frequent such scenes with thee;
  But the sweet converse of an innocent mind.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet VIII. To My Brothers Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid coals,
  And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep
  Like whispers of the household gods that keep
  A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
  
  And while, for rhymes, I search around the poles,
  Your eyes are fix d, as in poetic sleep,
  Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
  That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
  
  This is your birth-day Tom, and I rejoice
  That thus it passes smoothly, quietly.
  
  Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise
  May we together pass, and calmly try
  What are this world s true joys, ere the great voice,
  From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
  
  'In Tom Keats's copy-book this sonnet is headed "Written to his Brother Tom on his Birthday," and dated, "Nov.
  
  18, 1816.
  
  " In the last line the transcript reads "place" for "face.
  
  " The sonnet seems to have been originally written in pencil in the note-book .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  immediately after the sonnet to George Keats; but the two quatrains, which fill one page, are all that I found of this sonnet among the Keats relics of Severn.
  
  The quatrains stand finally thus in the draft: --
  Small flames are peeping through the fresh laid coals
  And their faint Crackling o'er our Silence creeps
  Like Whispers of the Household God that keeps
  A gentle empire o'er fraternal Souls
  And while for Rhymes I search around the Poles
  Your Eyes are fixéd as in poetic sleep
  Upon the Pages Voluble and deep
  That aye at fall of Night our care condoles.
  
  There is a cancelled reading at line 2, unfinished--
  'With a faint Crackling head distract .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  '
  and another at line 5 --
  'And while I am thinking of a Rhyme;'
  and here "searching" was substituted for "thinking of", before the whole was cancelled in favour of the reading of the text.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet X. To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent Read Poem Log in to favourite

  To one who has been long in city pent,
  'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
  And open face of heaven -- to breathe a prayer
  Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
  
  Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
  Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
  Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
  And gentle tale of love and languishment?
  
  Returning home at evening, with an ear
  Catching the notes of Philomel,-- an eye
  Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
  He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
  E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
  That falls through the clear ether silently.
  
  'In a transcript in the hand-writing of George Keats this sonnet is subscribed as "Written in the Fields -- June 1816.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XI. On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
  And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
  Round many western islands have I been
  Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
  
  Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
  That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
  Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
  Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
  Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
  When a new planet swims into his ken;
  Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
  He star'd at the Pacific -- and all his men
  Look'd at each other with a wild surmise --
  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
  
  'Charles Cowden Clarke says, in the article in The Gentleman's Magazine [Feb.
  
  1874], that this sonnet was sent to him by Keats so as to reach him at 10 o'clock one morning when they two had parted "at day-spring" after a night encounter with a copy of Chapman's Homer belonging to Mr.
  
  Alsager of The Times.
  
  Mr.
  
  F.
  
  Locker possess an undated manuscript of the sonnet in Keast's writing, headed "On the first looking into Chapman's Homer;" while in Tom Keats's copy-book the heading is "Sonnet on looking into Chapman's Homer," and the date "1816.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XII. On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
  On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
  Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
  Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen
  The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
  And let there glide by many a pearly car
  Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
  And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
  
  The while let music wander round my ears,
  And as it reaches each delicious ending,
  Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
  And full of many wonders of the spheres:
  For what a height my spirit is contending!
  'Tis not content so soon to be alone.
  
  'This sonnet also belongs to the Cottage in the Vale of Health, as we are led to infer from Charles Cowden Clarke's mention of it in connexion with No.
  
  IX.
  
  and No.
  
  XV.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XIII. Addressed To Haydon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  High-mindedness, a jealousy for good,
  A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
  Dwells here and there with people of no name,
  In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
  And where we think the truth least understood,
  Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
  That ought to frighten into hooded shame
  A money-mongering, pitiable brood.
  
  How glorious this affection for the cause
  Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly!
  What when a stout unbending champion awes
  Envy and malice to their native sty?
  
  Unnumbered souls breathe out a still applause,
  Proud to behold him in his country's eye.
  
  'Benjamin Robert Haydon, historical painter, was born on the 26th of January 1786, and died by his own hand on the 22nd of June 1846.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XIV. Addressed To The Same (Haydon) Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Great spirits now on earth are sojourning;
  He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake,
  Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake,
  Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing:
  He of the rose, the violet, the spring,
  The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake:
  And lo!--whose stedfastness would never take
  A meaner sound than Raphael’s whispering.
  
  And other spirits there are standing apart
  Upon the forehead of the age to come;
  These, these will give the world another heart,
  And other pulses.
  
  Hear ye not the hum
  Of mighty workings?
  
  -------
  Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
  
  'In Tom Keats's copy-book this Sonnet is headed simply "Sonnet" and is dated 1816 merely.
  
  There are no variations.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  the two men referred to in the first six lines -- Wordsworth and Leigh Hunt.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XV. On The Grasshopper And Cricket Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The poetry of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
  From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
  That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
  In summer luxury, -- he has never done
  With his delights; for when tired out with fun
  He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
  
  The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
  Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
  The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
  The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
  
  'Charles Cowden Clarke records that this sonnet was written at Leigh Hunt's cottage, on a challenge from Hunt.
  
  ' Both Hunt's and Keats's sonnets 'appeared together in The Examiner for the 21st of September 1817; but Keats's volume [Poems] had already appeared in June of that year.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XVI. To Kosciusko Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
  Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;
  It comes upon us like the glorious pealing
  Of the wide spheres -- an everlasting tone.
  
  And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
  The names of heroes, burst from clouds concealing,
  And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing
  Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne.
  
  It tells me too, that on a happy day,
  When some good spirit walks upon the earth,
  Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore
  Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth
  To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away
  To where the great God lives for evermore.
  
  'This sonnet was published in The Examiner for the 16th of February 1817.
  
  The punctuation differs slightly from that of the 1817 volume; and in the eighth line we read "around" for "and around".
  
  The date "Dec.
  
  1816" and the initials "J.
  
  K.
  
  " appear under the sonnet in The Examiner.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet XVII. Happy Is England Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Happy is England! I could be content
  To see no other verdure than its own;
  To feel no other breezes than are blown
  Through its tall woods with high romances blent:
  Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment
  For skies Italian, and an inward groan
  To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,
  And half forget what world or worldling meant.
  
  Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;
  Enough their simple loveliness for me,
  Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:
  Yet do I often warmly burn to see
  Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,
  And float with them about the summer waters.

• Sonnet. Written Before Re-Read King Lear Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
  Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
  Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
  Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
  Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
  Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
  Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
  The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
  
  Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
  Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
  When through the old oak forest I am gone,
  Let me not wander in a barren dream,
  But when I am consumed in the fire,
  Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.
  
  'This sonnet appears to have been written on the 22nd of January 1818, in the folio Shakespeare containing the manuscript of the preceding poem; but I think Keats must have drafted it before writing it in the Shakespeare; and there is a second manuscript in Sir Charles Dilke's copy of Endymion.
  
  A third may perhaps be presumed to be in America, as Keats, writing to his brothers on the 23rd of January 1818, transcribed the sonnet for them with the following remarks: --
  "I think a little change has taken place in my intellect lately; I cannot bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so long a time have been addicted to passiveness.
  
  Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
  
  As an instance of this -- observe -- I sat down yesterday to read 'King Lear' once again: the thing appeared to demand the prologue of a sonnet.
  
  I wrote it, and began to read.
  
  (I know you would like to see it.
  
  )"
  A copy of the sonnet follows, and then the words, "So you see I am getting at it with a sort of determination and strength,.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  "  So far ass I have ascertained, the first appearance of the sonnet was with this letter, in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), Volume I, pages 96 and 97; but Medwin, in his Life of Shelley (1847, Volume II, page 106) records the belief that the sonnet had already appeared in a periodical.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. A Dream, After Reading Dante's Episode Of Paulo And Francesca Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
  When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept,
  So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
  So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft
  The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
  And seeing it asleep, so fled away--
  Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
  Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day;
  But to that second circle of sad Hell,
  Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
  Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
  Their sorrows.
  
  Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
  Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form
  I floated with, about that melancholy storm.
  
  'This beautiful Sonnet seems to have been written originally in the first volume of the miniature Cary's Dante which Keats carried throughout Scotland in his knapsack; and the composition should probably be assigned to the early part of April 1819.
  
  There is a fair transcript written on one of the blank leaves at the end of the copy of Endymion in Sir Charles Dilke's possession.
  
  The sonnet was published over the signature "Caviare" in The Indicator for the 28th of June 1820.
  
  Inside the recto cover of the little Inferno Keats began by writing the words 'Amid a thousand;' and he then seems to have turned the book round for a fresh start; for inside the verso cover he has written --
  'Full in the midst of bloomless hours my}spright/soul
  Seeing one night the dragon world asleep
  Arose like Hermes.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  '
  The sonnet is finally written in a cramped manner on the last end-paper, and is almost identical with the fair copy; but it shows the cancelled seventh line
  'But not olympus-ward to serene skies.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
  And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
  Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
  Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
  Sandals more interwoven and complete
  To fit the naked foot of poesy;
  Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
  Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
  By ear industrious, and attention meet:
  Misers of sound and syllable, no less
  Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
  Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
  So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
  She will be bound with garlands of her own.
  
  Form: Sonnet (abcabdcabcdede).
  
  (line 2): Andromeda: Ethiopian princess who was rescued from a monster by Perseus, her husband-to-be.
  
  (line 11): Midas: Phrygian king who wished for gold, more than anything, and was granted the ambiguous gift of turning everything he touched into gold.
  
  'This experiment in sonnet metre appears to have been written on or very shortly before the 3rd of May 1819, and was first given in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  It was the last poem transcribed in the journal letter to George Keats and his wife begun on the 14th of February and ended on the 3rd of May, and stood immediately over the words "This is the third of May," and under the following paragraph --
  "I have been endeavouring to discover a better Sonnet stanza than we have.
  
  The legitimate does not suit the language well, from the pouncing rhymes; the other appears too elegiac, and the couplet at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect.
  
  I do not pretend to have succeeded.
  
  It will explain itself.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. On A Picture Of Leander Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Come hither all sweet Maidens soberly
  Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light
  Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
  And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
  As if so gentle that ye could not see,
  Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
  Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
  Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
  
  'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
  
  Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
  For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
  
  O horrid dream! see how his body dips
  Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
  He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
  'This sonnet appeared in the year 1829 both in The Gem, A Literary Annal, edited by Thomas Hood, and in Galignani's edition of Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. On Leigh Hunt's Poem 'The Story of Rimini' Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Who loves to peer up at the morning sun,
  With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
  Let him with this sweet tale full often seek
  For meadows where the little rivers run;
  Who loves to linger with that brightest one
  Of Heaven -- Hesperus -- let him lowly speak
  These numbers to the night and starlight meek,
  Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.
  
  He who knows these delights, and, too, is prone
  To moralize upon a smile or tear,
  Will find at once a region of his own,
  A bower for his spirit, and will steer
  To alleys where the fir-tree drops its cone,
  Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.
  
  'First given among the Literary Remains in Volume II of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), next to the Sonnet On The Sea, dated 1817.
  
  '  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. On Peace Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O PEACE! and dost thou with thy presence bless
  The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle;
  Soothing with placid brow our late distress,
  Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?
  
  Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail
  The sweet companions that await on thee;
  Complete my joy let not my first wish fail,
  Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be,
  With England's happiness proclaim Europa's Liberty.
  
  O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see
  That thou must shelter in thy former state;
  Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free;
  Give thy kings law leave not uncurbed the great ;
  So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!

• Sonnet. On The Sea Read Poem Log in to favourite

  It keeps eternal whisperings around
  Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
  Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
  Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
  
  Often 'tis in such gentle temper found
  That scarcely will the very smallest shell
  Be mov'd for days from whence it sometime fell,
  When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
  
  Oh ye! who have your eye-balls vex'd and tir'd,
  Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea;
  Oh ye! whose ears are dinn'd with uproar rude,
  Or fed too much with cloying melody,--
  Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
  Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quir'd!
  'First given among the Literary Remains in Volume II of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), and dated August 1817.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. The Day Is Gone Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
  Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
  Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
  Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
  Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
  Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
  Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
  Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise--
  Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
  When the dusk holiday -- or holinight
  Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
  The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
  But, as I've read love's missal through today,
  He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
  
  'This sonnet was first given among the Literary Remains in 1848, with the date 1819.
  
  There is a letter to Miss Brawne posted on the 11th of October at Westminster, which corresponds with the sonnet in subject; so that this poem may very well belong to the 10th of October 1819.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. The Human Seasons Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
  There are four seasons in the mind of man:
  He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
  Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
  He has his Summer, when luxuriously
  Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
  To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
  Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
  His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
  He furleth close; contented so to look
  On mists in idleness—to let fair things
  Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
  
  He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
  Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
  
  'This sonnet and that to Ailsa Rock were first published, with the signature "I," in Leigh Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book; or, Companion for the Lover of Nature and Art, -- the first number, that for 1819.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. To A Lady Seen For A Few Moments At Vauxhall Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
  Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,
  Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,
  And snared by the ungloving of thine hand.
  
  And yet I never look on midnight sky,
  But I behold thine eyes' well memory'd light;
  I cannot look upon the rose's dye,
  But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight.
  
  I cannot look on any budding flower,
  But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips
  And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour
  Its sweets in the wrong sense: -- Thou dost eclipse
  Every delight with sweet remembering,
  And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.
  
  'Published in Hood's Magazine for April 1844, headed "Sonnet by the late John Keats," and given by Lord Houghton in 1848 among the Literary Remains, undated, and headed "To ----.
  
  " with a foot-note to the effect of the heading here adopted.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. To A Young Lady Who Sent Me A Laurel Crown Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Fresh morning gusts have blown away all fear
  From my glad bosom, -- now from gloominess
  I mount for ever -- not an atom less
  Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
  
  No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here
  In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
  Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless
  By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
  
  Lo! who dares say,  "Do this"?
  
  Who dares call down
  My will from its high purpose?
  
  Who say,"Stand,"
  Or, "Go"?
  
  This mighty moment I would frown
  On abject Caesars -- not the stoutest band
  Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
  Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!
  'First given by Lord Houghton among the Literary Remains in Volume II of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848).
  
  It appears to belong to the year 1816.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Why Did I Laugh Tonight? Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Why did I laugh to-night?
  
  No voice will tell
  No God, no Demon of severe response,
  Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell
  Then to my human heart I turn at once:
  Heart!  Thou and I are here sad and alone;
  I say, why did I laugh?
  
  O mortal pain!
  O Darkness!  Darkness! ever must I moan,
  To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
  
  Why did I laugh?
  
  I know this Being's lease,
  My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
  Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
  And all the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
  Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
  But Death intenser -- Death is Life's high meed.
  
  'This sonnet, first given in Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), was probably composed between the 19th of March and the 15 of April 1819.
  
  Keats says in a letter, that he had intended not to send the Sonnet to his brother George and his wife, on account of their anxieties about his temperament; but he refers to other passages in his letter as "the best comment" on the sonnet, and ends the subject with a triumphant "I went to bed and enjoyed uninterrupted sleep: sane I went to bed, and sane I arose.
  
  "  A man might well go to bed sane after writing the final couplet, which is a thoroughly self-contained and contemplative vein -- strangely so for the end of such a bitter series of "obstinate questionings.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Written In Answer To A Sonnet By J. H. Reynolds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven,--the domain
  Of Cynthia,--the wide palace of the sun,--
  The tent of Hesperus, and all his train,--
  The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and dun.
  
  Blue! 'Tis the life of waters: -- Ocean
  And all its vassal streams, pools numberless,
  May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can
  Subside, if not to dark-blue nativeness.
  
  Blue! Gentle cousin of the forest-green,
  Married to green in all the sweetest flowers,--
  Forget-me-not,--the Blue bell,--and, that Queen
  Of secrecy, the Violet: what strange powers
  Hast thou, as a mere shadow!  But how great,
  When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!
  Written in answer to a Sonnet ending thus : --
  " Dark eyes are dearer far
  Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell--"
  'The sonnet of John Hamilton Reynolds to which this is a reply appeared in 1821 in The Garden of Florence &c.
  
  From a letter signed "A.
  
  J.
  
  Horwood" which was published in The Anthenoeum of the 3rd of June 1876, it would seem that this poem, like many others, must have been written out more than once by Keats; for, in a copy of The Garden of Florence mentioned in that letter, Keats's sonnet is transcribed, seemingly, from a different manuscript from that used by Lord Houghton when he gave the sonnet in the Life, Letters and Literary Remains (Vol.
  
  II, page 295) in 1848.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  Lord Houghton dates the sonnet February 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Written In Disgust Of Vulgar Superstition Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The church bells toll a melancholy round,
  Calling the people to some other prayers,
  Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
  More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
  
  Surely the mind of man is closely bound
  In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
  Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
  And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
  
  Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,--
  A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
  That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
  That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
  Into oblivion; -- that fresh flowers will grow,
  And many glories of immortal stamp.
  
  'In Tom Keats's copy-book this sonnet is headed as above and dated "Sunday Evening, Dec.
  
  24, 1816.
  
  " In the Aldine edition it is headed "Written on a Summer Evening.
  
  " I give the text from the transcript, which varies in some details from the Aldine text.
  
  The latter reads 'toll'd' for 'toll' in line I.
  
  , 'To some blind spell' in line 6, 'Fond' for 'And' in line 8, and 'as' for 'ere' in line 12.
  
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Written On A Blank Page In Shakespeare's Poems, Facing 'A Lover's Complaint' Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art --
  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
  And watching, with eternal lids apart,
  Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
  The moving waters at their priest-like task
  Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
  Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors --
  No -- yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
  Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
  To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
  And so live ever -- or else swoon to death.
  
  'Lord Houghton records that, after Keats had embarked for Italy he "landed once more in England, on the Dorsetshire coast, after a weary fortnight spent in beating about the Channel; the bright beauty of the day and the scene revived the poet's drooping heart, and the inspiration remained on him for some time even after his return to the ship.
  
  It was then that he composed that sonnet of solemn tenderness,
  'Bright star! would I were stedfast as thou art,' &c.
  
  and wrote it out in a copy of Shakespeare's Poems he had given to Severn a few days before.
  
  I know nothing written afterwards.
  
  "
  The copy of Shakespeare's Poetical Works had been given to Keats by John Hamilton Reynolds, and is now in the possession of Sir Charles Dilke [rather was in 125 years ago].
  
  It is a royal 8vo volume "printed for Thomas Wilson, No.
  
  10, London-House-yard, St.
  
  Paul's," in 1806; and this sonnet, of which a fac-simile is here given, is written upon the verso of the fly-title to A Lover's Complaint.
  
  It seems fair to assume that the reason of its being so high up on the page is that it thus faces a space of equal size containing no words except a boldly printed heading of Shakespeare's poem, A Lover's Complaint, as if in that mournful moment Keats desired to appropriate to his last poetic utterance a style and title already immortal.
  
  Lord Houghton gives a variant of the last line --
  'Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.
  
  '
  As there is no trace of this in the Shakespeare, there must have been another manuscript -- perhaps a pencilled draft -- and it is to be presumed that the words 'fall and swell', in line 11 of Lord Houghton's text occurred in that, 'swell and fall', the reading of the Shakespeare, being in that case an error of transcription on Keats's part.
  
  The date of the poem is about the end of September or beginning of October 1820.
  
  It was published in February 1846, with a letter from Severn, in The Union Magazine.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Written On A Blank Space At The End Of Chaucer's Tale Of 'The Floure And The Lefe' Read Poem Log in to favourite

  This pleasant tale is like a little copse:
  The honied lines do freshly interlace,
  To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
  So that he here and there full hearted stops;
  And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops
  Come cool and suddenly against his face,
  And by the wandering melody may trace
  Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
  
  Oh! What a power hath white simplicity!
  What mighty power has this gentle story!
  I, that for ever feel athirst for glory,
  Could at this moment be content to lie
  Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
  Were heard of none beside the mournful robbins.
  
  'This sonnet was published in The Examiner for the 16th of March 1817, having been written in February 1817 in the late Charles Cowden Clarke's "miniature 18mo.
  
  copy of Chaucer," as recorded in Clarke's Recollections of Keats in The Gentleman's Magazine.
  
  When Clarke died, he bequeathed the Chaucer to Alexander Ireland, author of the Leigh Hunt, Lamb, and Hazlitt Bibliography.
  
  The sonnet is said to have been "an extempore effusion, and without the alteration of a single word;" but as Clarke seems to have been asleep when it was written we are justified in construing the word 'extempore' with a certain latitude.
  
  It was certainly most unusual for Keats to write that much without a single erasure, and it is quite possible that he jotted the sonnet down in pencil in a note-book which he certainly carried at that time and certainly did draft sonnets in.
  
  In any case he probably had ample time and quiet, while Clarke was sleeping, to elaborate the two highly finished quatrains in his mind: the third quatrain and the couplet are of inferior merit, and might well be extemporary.
  
  This early performance seems to have quite won the heart of the genial critic Hunt, for in inserting it in his paper he characterized it as "exquisite," and added that the author might "already lay true claim to that title: --
  'The youngest he
  That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet. Written Upon The Top Of Ben Nevis Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
  Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist!
  I look into the chasms, and a shroud
  Vapourous doth hide them, -- just so much I wist
  Mankind do know of hell; I look o'erhead,
  And there is sullen mist, -- even so much
  Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread
  Before the earth, beneath me, -- even such,
  Even so vague is man's sight of himself!
  Here are the craggy stones beneath my feet,--
  Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf,
  I tread on them, -- that all my eye doth meet
  Is mist and crag, not only on this height,
  But in the world of thought and mental might!
  'At Oban, apparently on the 26th of July, the decision was taken by Keats and Brown to rest in their travels "a day or two" before pushing on to Fort William and Inverness.
  
  I find no precise record of the date of the ascent of Ben Nevis; but it was probably about the 1st of August 1818.
  
  Lord Houghton says in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  , where this sonnet first appeared, --
  "From Fort William Keats mounted Ben Nevis.
  
  When on the summit a cloud enveloped him, and sitting on the stones, as it slowly wafted away, showing a tremendous precipice into the valley below, he wrote these lines.
  
  "
  The late Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote to me of this sonnet as "perhaps the most thoughtful of Keats, and greatly superior in execution to the draft on the Ailsa Crag.
  
  " It was certainly by no means an unworthy finish to the tour, though I must confess to finding a little wand of spontaneity -- not to be wondered at when we consider that Keats, though writing so bravely to his friends, had undertaken a task far beyond his physical strength, and probably one which laid the foundations of his mortal illness.
  
  He speaks to Tom lightly enough of "a slight sore throat;" but in a letter which Brown wrote from Inverness on the 7th of August, he says,
  "Mr.
  
  Keats will leave me, and I am full of sorrow about it;.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  a violent cold and an ulcerated throat make it a matter of prudence that he should go to London in the Packet: he has been unwell for some time, and the Physician here is of opinion he will not recover if he journeys on foot thro' all weathers and under so many privations.
  
  "  So Brown went on to walk another 1200 miles alone, and Keats having accomplished 600 and odd, "went on board the smack from Cromarty," as he says in a hitherto unpublished letter to his sister dated "Hampstead, August 18th" and "after a nine days passage .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  landed at London Bridge" on the 17th of August 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet: After Dark Vapors Have Oppress'd Our Plains Read Poem Log in to favourite

  After dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
  For a long dreary season, comes a day
  Born of the gentle South, and clears away
  From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
  
  The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
  Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May;
  The eyelids with the passing coolness play
  Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains.
  
  The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves
  Budding -- fruit ripening in stillness -- Autumn suns
  Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves --
  Sweet Sappho's cheek -- a smiling infant's breath --
  The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs --
  A woodland rivulet -- a Poet's death.
  
  'This sonnet appeared in The Examiner for the 23rd of February 1817, and is dated January 1817 in Lord Houghton's editions.
  
  In line 5 The Examiner reads 'relieving of;' his Lordship reads 'relieved from,' and again 'And' for 'The' at the beginning of line 9, and 'sleeping' for 'smiling' at line 12.
  
  The word 'relieving' in the earlier version must, I think, have been a slip, and not an intentional use of 'relieve' as an intransitive verb, though Keats was perhaps capable of such use in his early strife after freshness of speech.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet: As From The Darkening Gloom A Silver Dove Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
  Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
  On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
  So fled thy soul into the realms above,
  Regions of peace and everlasting love;
  Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright
  Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,
  Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove.
  
  There thou or joinest the immortal quire
  In melodies that even heaven fair
  Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,
  Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air
  On holy message sent -- What pleasure's higher?
  
  Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?
  
  'Lord Houghton gave this sonnet in the Aldine edition of 1876, with the date 1816.
  
  There is nothing to show to whose death the poet refers.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet: Before He Went Read Poem Log in to favourite

  BEFORE he went to feed with owls and bats
  Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream,
  Worse than an Hus'if's when she thinks her cream
  Made a Naumachia for mice and rats.
  
  So scared, he sent for that "Good King of Cats"
  Young Daniel, who soon did pluck away the beam
  From out his eye, and said he did not deem
  The sceptre worth a straw his Cushions old door-mats.
  
  A horrid nightmare similar somewhat
  Of late has haunted a most motley crew,
  Most loggerheads and Chapmen we are told
  That any Daniel tho' he be a sot
  Can make the lying lips turn pale of hue
  By belching out "ye are that head of Gold.
  
  "

• Sonnet: Oh! How I Love, On A Fair Summer's Eve Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oh! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
  When streams of light pour down the golden west,
  And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
  The silver clouds, far -- far away to leave
  All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
  From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
  A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
  And there into delight my soul deceive.
  
  There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
  Musing on Milton's fate -- on Sydney's bier --
  Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
  Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,
  Full often dropping a delicious tear,
  When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.
  
  'First given among the Literary Remains in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), with the date 1816.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Sonnet: When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I have fears that I may cease to be
  Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
  Before high piled books, in charactry,
  Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
  When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
  Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
  And think that I may never live to trace
  Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
  And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
  That I shall never look upon thee more,
  Never have relish in the faery power
  Of unreflecting love; -- then on the shore
  Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
  Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

• Specimen Of An Induction To A Poem Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
  For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.
  
  Not like the formal crest of latter days:
  But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
  So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,
  Or e’en the touch of Archimago’s wand,
  Could charm them into such an attitude.
  
  We must think rather, that in playful mood,
  Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,
  To show this wonder of its gentle might.
  
  Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
  For while I muse, the lance points slantingly
  Athwart the morning air: some lady sweet,
  Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
  From the worn top of some old battlement
  Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
  And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,
  Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.
  
  Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,
  It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,
  With the young ashen boughs, ’gainst which it rests,
  And th’ half seen mossiness of linnets’ nests.
  
  Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,
  When the fire flashes from a warrior’s eye,
  And his tremendous hand is grasping it,
  And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?
  
  Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,
  Leaps to the honors of a tournament,
  And makes the gazers round about the ring
  Stare at the grandeur of the ballancing?
  
  No, no! this is far off:—then how shall I
  Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,
  Which linger yet about lone gothic arches,
  In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?
  
  How sing the splendour of the revelries,
  When but[t]s of wine are drunk off to the lees?
  
  And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,
  Beneath the shade of stately banneral,
  Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?
  
  Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.
  
  Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces
  Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;
  Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:
  Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.
  
  Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:
  Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?
  
  Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,
  Rein in the swelling of his ample might?
  
  Spenser! thy brows are arched, open, kind,
  And come like a clear sun-rise to my mind;
  And always does my heart with pleasure dance,
  When I think on thy noble countenance:
  Where never yet was ought more earthly seen
  Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green.
  
  Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully
  Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh
  My daring steps: or if thy tender care,
  Thus startled unaware,
  Be jealous that the foot of other wight
  Should madly follow that bright path of light
  Trac’d by thy lov’d Libertas; he will speak,
  And tell thee that my prayer is very meek;
  That I will follow with due reverence,
  And start with awe at mine own strange pretence.
  
  Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope
  To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope:
  The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers;
  Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.

• Spenserian Stanza. Written At The Close Of Canto II, Book V, Of "The Faerie Queene" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  In after-time, a sage of mickle lore
  Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took,
  And did refit his limbs as heretofore,
  And made him read in many a learned book,
  And into many a lively legend look;
  Thereby in goodly themes so training him,
  That all his brutishness he quite forsook,
  When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim,
  The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim.
  
  'This stanza, given by Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), Volume I, page 281, was preceded by the following note:--
  "The copy of Spenser which Keats had in daily use, contains the following stanza, inserted at the close of Canto II, Book V.
  
  His sympathies were very much on the side of the revolutionary 'Gyant,' who 'undertook for to repair' the 'realms and nations run awry,' and to suppress 'tyrants that make men subject to their law', 'and lordings curbe that commons over-aw,' while he grudged the legitamate victory, as he rejected the conservative philosophy, of the 'righteous Artegall' and ex post facto prophecy, his conviction of the ultimate triumph of freedom and equality by the power of transmitted knowledge.
  
  "
  I have no data whereby to fix the period of this commentary of Keats on the political attitude of Spenser; but I should judge it to belong to the end of 1818 or thereabouts.
  
  The copy of Spenser in which the stanza was written is not now forthcoming: it passed into the hands of Miss Brawne, and was lost, with other books, many years after Keats's death.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Spenserian Stanzas On Charles Armitage Brown Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  He is to weet a melancholy carle:
  Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair,
  As hath the seeded thistle when in parle
  It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair
  Its light balloons into the summer air;
  Therto his beard had not begun to bloom,
  No brush had touch'd his chin or razor sheer;
  No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom,
  But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Persian loom.
  
  II.
  
  Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half;
  Ne cared he for fish or flesh, or fowl;
  And sauces held he worthless as the chaff;
  He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl;
  Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl;
  Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair;
  But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul
  Panted, and all his food was woodland air;
  Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare.
  
  III.
  
  The slang of cities in no wise he knew,
  Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek;
  He sipp'd no "olden Tom," or "ruin blue,"
  Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drank full meek
  By many a damsel brave, and rouge of cheek;
  Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat,
  Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek
  For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat,
  Who as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.
  
  'It is a brusque transition from the fervour and preternatural beauty of the dream sonnet to these amusing stanzas on Brown; but under the same date as that on which Keats told his brother of the dream, namely the 15th of April 1819, he records that "Brown, this morning, is writing some Spenserian stanzas against" Miss Brawne and the poet; "so," says the poet, "I shall amuse myself with him a little, in the manner of Spenser.
  
  " It would not be fair to assume that all here is ironical; but the first stanza suggests that Keats's estimable friend was a "jolly" man, bald-headed, and "a trifle wider in the waist than formerly;" while, generally, one would suppose him to have been alive to the good things of the world.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Staffa Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Not Aladdin magian
  Ever such a work began;
  Not the wizard of the Dee
  Ever such a dream could see;
  Not St.
  
  John, in Patmos' Isle,
  In the passion of his toil,
  When he saw the churches seven,
  Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven,
  Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder.
  
  As I stood its roofing under
  Lo! I saw one sleeping there,
  On the marble cold and bare.
  
  While the surges wash'd his feet,
  And his garments white did beat.
  
  Drench'd about the sombre rocks,
  On his neck his well-grown locks,
  Lifted dry above the main,
  Were upon the curl again.
  
  "What is this?
  
  and what art thou?
  
  "
  Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow;
  "What art thou?
  
  and what is this?
  
  "
  Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss
  The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes;
  Up he started in a trice:
  "I am Lycidas," said he,
  "Fam'd in funeral minstrely!
  This was architectur'd thus
  By the great Oceanus!--
  Here his mighty waters play
  Hollow organs all the day;
  Here by turns his dolphins all,
  Finny palmers great and small,
  Come to pay devotion due--
  Each a mouth of pearls must strew.
  
  Many a mortal of these days,
  Dares to pass our sacred ways,
  Dares to touch audaciously
  This Cathedral of the Sea!
  I have been the pontiff-priest
  Where the waters never rest,
  Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
  Soars for ever; holy fire
  I have hid from mortal man;
  Proteus is my Sacristan.
  
  But the dulled eye of mortal
  Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal;
  So for ever will I leave
  Such a taint, and soon unweave
  All the magic of the place.
  
  "
  *   *   *   *   *   *
  So saying, with a Spirit's glance
  He dived!
  'After a detention of a few hours at Inverary owing to Brown's suffering from sore feet, the travellers started again on the 19th of July, walked along "20 miles by the side of Loch Awe" -- southward, I suppose, for they next paused "between Loch Craignish and the sea just opposite Long Island," where Keats gives a very minute account to Tom of the locale.
  
  They then pushed on to Oban, "15 miles in a soaking rain" -- due north again.
  
  At Oban Keats finished the unpublished letter to Tom containing The Gadfly and the Stranger sonnet, and posted it, announcing that the travellers had given up the idea of Mull and Staffa on account of the expense.
  
  This was probably on the 22nd of July.
  
  On the 23rd he begins a fresh letter (Life, Letters &c.
  
  ) stating that just after he had posted the other the guide to Mull came in and made a bargain with them.
  
  This latter letter is dated the 23rd of July, "Dunancullen" in the Life: "Dimancullen" is the name given in the same connexion in the New York World, where some Keats documents appeared; but probably the place indicated is Derrynaculen, which is at a situation on the walk through the southern part of the Isle of Mull corresponding with Keats's narrative.
  
  This narrative seems to show that on the 23rd of July they crossed from Oban to Kerrera by one ferry and from Kerrera to Mull by another, and walked across the south of the Island to the western extremity to cross to Iona by boat.
  
  By the 26th, Keats resumed his letter to Tom at Oban, and narrated that the thirty-seven miles of walking had been very miserable, and that he and Brown had taken a boat at a bargain to carry them from Iona to Staffa, and land them finally at the head of Loch Nakeal, whence they could return to Oban by a better route.
  
  He vividly describes Staffa, including Fingal's Cave, breaks into verse with the lines given above, and resumes prose with,
  "I am sorry I am so indolent as to write such stuff as this.
  
  " Probably the poem should be dated the 26th of July, 1818.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Stanzas To Miss Wylie Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  O come Georgiana! the rose is full blown,
  The riches of Flora are lavishly strown,
  The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,
  The West is resplendently clothed in beams.
  
  2.
  
  O come! let us haste to the freshening shades,
  The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades;
  Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,
  And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims.
  
  3.
  
  And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed,
  Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head:
  And there Georgiana I'll sit at thy feet,
  While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat.
  
  4.
  
  So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh,
  Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh:
  Yet no -- as I breathe I will press thy fair knee,
  And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.
  
  5.
  
  Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses?
  
  That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses:
  So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,
  With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.
  
  'These stanzas, which are from the series of transcripts made by George Keats, are addressed to the object of the Sonnet to G.
  
  A.
  
  W.
  
  published in Keats's volume of 1817 -- to wit the lady who was afterwards the wife of George Keats.
  
  Though not so good as the Sonnet, they are on an equality with the verses in Keats's Tom Moore manner addressed to some ladies who sent him a shell and a copy of verses.
  
  They belong to the year 1816.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Stanzas. In A Drear-Nighted December Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  In drear-nighted December,
  Too happy, happy tree,
  Thy branches ne'er remember
  Their green felicity:
  The north cannot undo them
  With a sleety whistle through them;
  Nor frozen thawings glue them
  From budding at the prime.
  
  2.
  
  In drear-nighted December,
  Too happy, happy brook,
  Thy bubblings ne'er remember
  Apollo's summer look;
  But with a sweet forgetting,
  They stay their crystal fretting,
  Never, never petting
  About the frozen time.
  
  3.
  
  Ah! would 'twere so with many
  A gentle girl and boy!
  But were there ever any
  Writhed not at passed joy?
  
  The feel of not to feel it,
  When there is none to heal it
  Nor numbed sense to steel it,
  Was never said in rhyme.
  
  'I have not succeeded in tracing this poem further back than to Galignani's edition of Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge (1829).
  
  In 1830 it appeared in The Gem, a Literary Annual.
  
  Some years ago a correspondent sent me for inspection a manuscript varying slightly from the received text: thus, each stanza began with 'In drear nighted December;'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Teignmouth: "Some Doggerel," Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Here all the summer could I stay,
  For there's Bishop's teign
  And King's teign
  And Coomb at the clear Teign head--
  Where close by the stream
  You may have your cream
  All spread upon barley bread.
  
  II.
  
  There's Arch Brook
  And there's Larch Brook
  Both turning many a mill,
  And cooling the drouth
  Of the salmon's mouth
  And fattening his silver gill.
  
  III.
  
  There is Wild wood,
  A Mild hood
  To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
  Where the golden furze,
  With its green, thin spurs,
  Doth catch at the maiden's gown.
  
  IV.
  
  There is Newton Marsh
  With its spear grass harsh--
  A pleasant summer level
  Where the maidens sweet
  Of the Market Street
  Do meet in the dusk to revel.
  
  V.
  
  There's the Barton rich
  With dyke and ditch
  And hedge for the thrush to live in,
  And the hollow tree
  For the buzzing bee
  And a bank for the wasp to hive in.
  
  VI.
  
  And O, and O
  The daisies blow
  And the primroses are waken'd,
  And violets white
  Sit in silver plight,
  And the green bud's as long as the spike end.
  
  VII.
  
  Then who would go
  Into dark Soho,
  And chatter with dack'd-hair'd critics,
  When he can stay
  For the new-mown hay,
  And startle the dappled Prickets?
  
  Dack'd-hair'd = shock-headed;
  Prickets = two-year-old deer.
  
  'Keats's correspondence for the Spring of 1818 shows that on arrival in Devonshire he had on his hands, besides attendance on his sick brother, the final work connected with the publication of Endymion.
  
  At the end of the first ten days he writes to Haydon of having copied the fourth book for the press; and between the completion of that operation and the end of April, when the poem was out, he must have been more or less busy with it.
  
  Probably also the greater part of Isabella was composed at Teignmouth, seeing that it was from that place that he wrote of it to Reynolds towards the end of his stay, as about to be copied out.
  
  These circumstances would account for the limited extent of the series of poems special to Devonshire.
  
  These, although inferior in interest to the Scottish series of the Summer of 1818, are full of individuality of Keats.
  
  The first piece we may safely assign to the 14th of March, 1818.
  
  It occurs in a letter to Haydon published by Mr.
  
  Tom Taylor in Haydon's Autobiography without any date beyond "Teignmouth, Saturday morning;" but the verses form, with the next song, the staple of the letter, and appear from the context to have been written off as a part of it, and not copied into it.
  
  The date of the letter is to be fixed thus: Keats says in the prose paragraph of which the verses are the continuation -- "The six first days I was here it did nothing but rain; and at that time, having to write to a friend, I gave Devonshire a good blowing-up.
  
  It has been fine for almost three days, and I was coming round a bit, but to-day it rains again.
  
  With me the county is on its good behaviour.
  
  I have enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, beautiful enough to make me content.
  
  "
  Now on the 25th of March Keats wrote to Reynolds of the weather as if the county's trial had lasted three weeks: this gives the 4th as the day of his arrival; and the tenth day from that (when he was writing to Haydon) would be the 14th, which was a Saturday, Keats described these verses as "some doggere.
  
  "  If he had gathered all their local details in the three fine days, he had not been idle; for he had been exploring both sides of the Estuary of the Teign.
  
  Starting from Teignmouth along the right-hand bank he would come to Bishop's Teignton about three miles distant, and King's Teignton or Teignton Regis about five miles distant; and crossing the ferry at Teignmouth to get to the left-hand bank he would go through Shaldon and Ringmore to get to the village of Coomb-in-Teign-Head -- perhaps three or four miles from his lodgings.
  
  He could not have had his cream and barley bread close to the stream in the village proper; but twenty or thirty years later, and onwards, there was certainly every accomodation of that kind in a group of curious old cottages perched up over the mud-banks, and known as Coomb Cellars -- a favourite place for pic-nics, not so celebrated for the cream as for cockles, raked out of the mud bottom of the Estuary at low tide.
  
  There were two brooks in and near Teignmouth -- one in Brimley Vale and the other in Coomb Vale (nothing to do with Coomb-in-Teign-Head on the Shaldon bank); but I never heard these called Arch Brook and Larch Brook.
  
  The "Wild word" of stanza 3 answers to any of the thick plantations of Little Haldon on the Exeter road, -- a down such as Keats describes -- furze and all.
  
  Newton Abbott or Newton Bushel, about six miles from Teignmouth, lies in a marshy situation enough, though the name of "the Marsh" has been appropriated to a spot near the Railway station.
  
  The town still has, like most country towns of any consequence, a Market Street.
  
  Of the dykes, ditches, &c.
  
  , of "the Barton" I can give no account, as I do not know to what particular manor-house and demesne the term was ever applied at Teignmouth.
  
  There is a touch of "local colour" in the white violets of stanza 6; for though primroses and violets are found in almost all parts of the country, white violets are not quite common about Teignmouth, but are to be found at Bishop's Teignton.
  
  It is a pity that this choice little bit of trifling should be disfigured by the false rhyme 'critics' and 'Prickets'.
  
  Keats does not seem to have been quite certain when he despatched his letter whether his "doggerel" had been written seriously or not; for he resumes prose with --
  "I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything: it will be safe with you, if worthy to put among my Lyrics.
  
  "
  We must consider these trifles worthy to go among his lyrics, in virtue of their fine sense of rhythm and their keen relish for out of door life.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• The Cap And Bells; Or, The Jealousies: A Faery Tale -- Unfinished Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,
  There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air,
  A faery city 'neath the potent rule
  Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere
  For love of mortal women, maidens fair,
  Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made
  Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,
  To tamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:
  He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.
  
  II.
  
  This was a crime forbidden by the law;
  And all the priesthood of his city wept,
  For ruin and dismay they well foresaw,
  If impious prince no bound or limit kept,
  And faery Zendervester overstept;
  They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on,
  They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept;
  In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne,
  Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.
  
  III.
  
  Which seeing, his high court of parliament
  Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet,
  Praying his royal senses to content
  Themselves with what in faery land was sweet,
  Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:
  Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon
  From mortal tempters all to make retreat,--
  Aye, even on the first of the new moon,
  An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon.
  
  IV.
  
  Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy
  To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign,
  To half beg, and half demand, respectfully,
  The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine;
  An audience had, and speeching done, they gain
  Their point, and bring the weeping bride away;
  Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain
  Upon their wings, they bore in bright array,
  While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay.
  
  V.
  
  As in old pictures tender cherubim
  A child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear,
  So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim
  With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair,
  Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair;
  And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake,
  Save when, for healthful exercise and air,
  She chose to "promener à l'aile," or take
  A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake.
  
  VI.
  
  "Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud,"
  Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant,
  "Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud,
  Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant?
  
  He hears a whisper plainer than a rant:
  Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue;
  He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant,
  His running, lying, flying foot-man too,--
  Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you!
  VII.
  
  "Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess,
  With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse;
  Show him a garden, and with speed no less,
  He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling house,
  And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse
  The owner out of it; show him a" --- "Peace!
  Peace! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse!"
  Return'd the Princess, "my tongue shall not cease
  Till from this hated match I get a free release.
  
  VIII.
  
  "Ah, beauteous mortal!"  "Hush!" quoth Coralline,
  "Really you must not talk of him, indeed.
  
  "
  "You hush!" reply'd the mistress, with a shinee
  Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed
  In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread:
  'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch,
  But of its threat she took the utmost heed;
  Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch,
  Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch.
  
  IX.
  
  So she was silenc'd, and fair Bellanaine,
  Writhing her little body with ennui,
  Continued to lament and to complain,
  That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be
  Ravish'd away far from her dear countree;
  That all her feelings should be set at nought,
  In trumping up this match so hastily,
  With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought
  Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought.
  
  X.
  
  Sorely she griev'd, and wetted three or four
  White Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears,
  But not for this cause; -- alas! she had more
  Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears
  In the fam'd memoirs of a thousand years,
  Written by Crafticant, and published
  By Parpaglion and Co.
  
  , (those sly compeers
  Who rak'd up ev'ry fact against the dead,)
  In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head.
  
  XI.
  
  Where, after a long hypercritic howl
  Against the vicious manners of the age,
  He goes on to expose, with heart and soul,
  What vice in this or that year was the rage,
  Backbiting all the world in every page;
  With special strictures on the horrid crime,
  (Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,)
  Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime
  To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime.
  
  XII.
  
  Turn to the copious index, you will find
  Somewhere in the column, headed letter B,
  The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind;
  Then pray refer to the text, and you will see
  An article made up of calumny
  Against this highland princess, rating her
  For giving way, so over fashionably,
  To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr
  Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir.
  
  XIII.
  
  There he says plainly that she lov'd a man!
  That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd,
  Before her marriage with great Elfinan;
  That after marriage too, she never joy'd
  In husband's company, but still employ'd
  Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land;
  Where liv'd the youth, who worried and annoy'd
  Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd
  To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand.
  
  XIV.
  
  But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle
  To waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries,
  Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle.
  
  Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease,
  Let us resume his subject if you please:
  For it may comfort and console him much,
  To rhyme and syllable his miseries;
  Poor Elfinan! whose cruel fate was such,
  He sat and curs'd a bride he knew he could not touch.
  
  XV.
  
  Soon as (according to his promises)
  The bridal embassy had taken wing,
  And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees,
  The Emperor, empierc'd with the sharp sting
  Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring
  Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen,
  Into his cabinet, and there did fling
  His limbs upon a sofa, full of spleen,
  And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin.
  
  XVI.
  
  "I'll trounce some of the members," cry'd the Prince,
  "I'll put a mark against some rebel names,
  I'll make the Opposition-benches wince,
  I'll show them very soon, to all their shames,
  What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames;
  That ministers should join in it, I own,
  Surprises me! -- they too at these high games!
  Am I an Emperor?
  
  Do I wear a crown?
  
  Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown!
  XVII.
  
  "I'll trounce 'em! -- there's the square-cut chancellor,
  His son shall never touch that bishopric;
  And for the nephew of old Palfior,
  I'll show him that his speeches made me sick,
  And give the colonelcy to Phalaric;
  The tiptoe marquis, mortal and gallant,
  Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick;
  And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt,
  She sha'n't be maid of honour,-- by heaven that she sha'n't!
  XVIII.
  
  "I'll shirk the Duke of A.
  
  ; I'll cut his brother;
  I'll give no garter to his eldest son;
  I won't speak to his sister or his mother!
  The Viscount B.
  
  shall live at cut-and-run;
  But how in the world can I contrive to stun
  That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any,
  That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun,
  Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany,--
  That vulgar commoner, Esquire Biancopany?
  
  XIX.
  
  "Monstrous affair!  Pshaw! pah! what ugly minx
  Will they fetch from Imaus for my bride?
  
  Alas! my wearied heart within me sinks,
  To think that I must be so near ally'd
  To a cold dullard fay,--ah, woe betide!
  Ah, fairest of all human loveliness!
  Sweet Bertha! what crime can it be to glide
  About the fragrant plaintings of thy dress,
  Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress?
  
  "
  XX.
  
  So said, one minute's while his eyes remaind'
  Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent;
  But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd,
  Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent.
  
  Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent:
  He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell,
  And order'd some death-warrants to be sent
  For signature: -- somewhere the tempest fell,
  As many a poor fellow does not live to tell.
  
  XXI.
  
  "At the same time, Eban," -- (this was his page,
  A fay of colour, slave from top to toe,
  Sent as a present, while yet under age,
  From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, -- wise, slow,
  His speech, his only words were "yes" and "no,"
  But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,--)
  "At the same time, Eban, this instant go
  To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see
  Among the fresh arrivals in our empery.
  
  XXII.
  
  "Bring Hum to me! But stay -- here, take my ring,
  The pledge of favour, that he not suspect
  Any foul play, or awkward murdering,
  Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect;
  Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect
  One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp,
  And the next after that shall see him neck'd,
  Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp,--
  And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp.
  
  "
  XXIII.
  
  These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet,
  Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide,
  Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret,
  Fell on the sofa on his royal side.
  
  The slave retreated backwards, humble-ey'd,
  And with a slave-like silence clos'd the door,
  And to old Hun thro' street and alley hied;
  He "knew the city," as we say, of yore,
  And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more.
  
  XXIV.
  
  It was the time when wholesale dealers close
  Their shutters with a moody sense of wealth,
  But retail dealers, diligent, let loose
  The gas (objected to on score of health),
  Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth,
  And make it flare in many a brilliant form,
  That all the powers of darkness it repell'th,
  Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm,
  And superseded quite the use of the glow-worm.
  
  XXV.
  
  Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks,
  (Of pastry he got store within the palace,)
  With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks,
  Incognito upon his errand sallies,
  His smelling-bottle ready for the allies;
  He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain,
  Vowing he'd have them sent on board the gallies;
  Just as he made his vow; it 'gan to rain,
  Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain.
  
  XXVI.
  
  "I'll pull the string," said he, and further said,
  "Polluted Jarvey!  Ah, thou filthy hack!
  Whose springs of life are all dry'd up and dead,
  Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack,
  Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack;
  And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter;
  Whose glass once up can never be got back,
  Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter,
  That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter.
  
  XXVII.
  
  "Thou inconvenience! thou hungry crop
  For all corn! thou snail-creeper to and fro,
  Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop,
  And fiddle-faddle standest while you go;
  I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe,
  Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest,
  And in the evening tak'st a double row
  Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest,
  Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west.
  
  XXVIII.
  
  "By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien,
  An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge;
  Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign,
  Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge,
  School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge,
  A dull-ey'd Argus watching for a fare;
  Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge
  To whisking Tilburies, or Phaetons rare,
  Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare.
  
  "
  XXIX.
  
  Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check,
  And bade the Coachman wheel to such a street,
  Who, turning much his body, more his neck,
  Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet:
  "Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet,
  Seeing his servant can no further drive
  For press of coaches, that to-night here meet,
  Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive,
  When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive.
  
  "
  XXX.
  
  Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went
  To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass
  With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament
  Show'd in the pearl-pav'd street, as in a glass;
  His purple vest, that ever peeping was
  Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak,
  His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash
  Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took
  Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look.
  
  XXXI.
  
  He smil'd at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth,
  And seeing his white teeth, he smil'd the more;
  Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath,
  Show'd teeth again, and smil'd as heretofore,
  Until he knock'd at the magician's door;
  Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen,
  In the clear panel more he could adore,--
  His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green,
  Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen.
  
  XXXII.
  
  "Does not your master give a rout to-night?
  
  "
  Quoth the dark page.
  
  "Oh, no!" return'd the Swiss,
  "Next door but one to us, upon the right,
  The Magazin des Modes now open is
  Against the Emperor's wedding;--and, sir, this
  My master finds a monstrous horrid bore;
  As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis,
  With his best beard and brimstone, to explore
  And cast a quiet figure in his second floor.
  
  XXXIII.
  
  "Gad! he's oblig'd to stick to business!
  For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price;
  And as for aqua vitae -- there's a mess!
  The dentes sapientiae of mice,
  Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,--
  Tinder's a lighter article, -- nitre pure
  Goes off like lightning, -- grains of Paradise
  At an enormous figure! -- stars not sure! --
  Zodiac will not move without a slight douceur!
  XXXIV.
  
  "Venus won't stir a peg without a fee,
  And master is too partial, entre nous,
  To" -- "Hush -- hush!" cried Eban, "sure that is he
  Coming down stairs, -- by St.
  
  Bartholomew!
  As backwards as he can, -- is't something new?
  
  Or is't his custom, in the name of fun?
  
  "
  "He always comes down backward, with one shoe"--
  Return'd the porter -- "off, and one shoe on,
  Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!"
  XXXV.
  
  It was indeed the great Magician,
  Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair,
  And retrograding careful as he can,
  Backwards and downwards from his own two pair:
  "Salpietro!" exclaim'd Hum, "is the dog there?
  
  He's always in my way upon the mat!"
  "He's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,"--
  Reply'd the Swiss, -- "the nasty, yelping brat!"
  "Don't beat him!" return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat.
  
  XXXVI.
  
  Then facing right about, he saw the Page,
  And said: "Don't tell me what you want, Eban;
  The Emperor is now in a huge rage,--
  'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan!
  Let us away!"  Away together ran
  The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor,
  Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan,
  And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's chamber door,
  When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore.
  
  XXXVII.
  
  "I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesy'd,
  That's Majesty was in a raving fit?
  
  "
  "He dreams," said Hum, "or I have ever lied,
  That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit.
  
  "
  "He's not asleep, and you have little wit,"
  Reply'd the page; "that little buzzing noise,
  Whate'er your palmistry may make of it,
  Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor's choice,
  From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys.
  
  "
  XXXVIII.
  
  Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer:
  Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless,
  Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear,
  Crept silently, and waited in distress,
  Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness;
  Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan
  Tremble and quake to death,-- he feared less
  A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon
  Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger-Organ.
  
  XXXIX.
  
  They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face
  Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green,
  Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace
  A silver tissue, scantly to be seen,
  As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in green;
  Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand
  Of majesty, by dint of passion keen,
  Doubled into a common fist, went grand,
  And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand.
  
  XL.
  
  Then turning round, he saw those trembling two:
  "Eban," said he, "as slaves should taste the fruits
  Of diligence, I shall remember you
  To-morrow, or next day, as time suits,
  In a finger conversation with my mutes,--
  Begone! -- for you, Chaldean! here remain!
  Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits
  A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain?
  
  Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne?
  
  "
  XLI.
  
  "Commander of the faithful!" answer'd Hum,
  "In preference to these, I'll merely taste
  A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.
  
  "
  "A simple boon!" said Elfinan; "thou may'st
  Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's lac'd.
  
  "
  "I'll have a glass of Nantz, then," -- said the Seer,--
  "Made racy -- (sure my boldness is misplac'd!)--
  With the third part -- (yet that is drinking dear!)--
  Of the least drop of crème de citron, crystal clear.
  
  "
  XLII.
  
  "I pledge you, Hum! and pledge my dearest love,
  My Bertha!"  "Bertha! Bertha!" cry'd the sage,
  "I know a many Berthas!"  "Mine's above
  All Berthas!" sighed the Emperor.
  
  "I engage,"
  Said Hum, "in duty, and in vassalage,
  To mention all the Berthas in the earth;--
  There's Bertha Watson, -- and Miss Bertha Page,--
  This fam'd for languid eyes, and that for mirth,--
  There's Bertha Blount of York, -- and Bertha Knox of Perth.
  
  "
  XLIII.
  
  "You seem to know" -- "I do know," answer'd Hum,
  "Your Majesty's in love with some fine girl
  Named Bertha; but her surname will not come,
  Without a little conjuring.
  
  "  "'Tis Pearl,
  'Tis Bertha Pearl!  What makes my brain so whirl?
  
  And she is softer, fairer than her name!"
  "Where does she live?
  
  " ask'd Hum.
  
  "Her fair locks curl
  So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!--
  Live?
  
  -- O! at Canterbury, with her old grand-dame.
  
  "
  XLIV.
  
  "Good! good!" cried Hum, "I've known her from a child!
  She is a changeling of my management;
  She was born at midnight in an Indian wild;
  Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent,
  While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent
  Into the jungles; and her palanquin,
  Rested amid the desert's dreariment,
  Shook with her agony, till fair were seen
  The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars serene.
  
  "
  XLV.
  
  "I can't say," said the monarch; "that may be
  Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam!
  Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me,
  Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am;
  And if your science is not all a sham.
  
  Tell me some means to get the lady here.
  
  "
  "Upon my honour!" said the son of Cham,
  "She is my dainty changeling, near and dear,
  Although her story sounds at first a little queer.
  
  "
  XLVI.
  
  "Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown,
  My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe,
  I'll knock you" -- "Does your majesty mean -- down?
  
  No, no, you never could my feelings probe
  To such a depth!" The Emperor took his robe,
  And wept upon its purple palatine,
  While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,--
  "In Canterbury doth your lady shine?
  
  But let me cool your brandy with a little wine.
  
  "
  XLVII.
  
  Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took,
  That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt,
  Admir'd it with a connoisseuring look,
  And with the ripest claret crowned it,
  And, ere the lively bead could burst and flit,
  He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down,
  His mouth being held conveniently fit
  To catch the treasure: "Best in all the town!"
  He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown.
  
  XLVIII.
  
  "Ah! good my Prince, weep not!"  And then again
  He filled a bumper.
  
  "Great Sire, do not weep!
  Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain.
  
  "
  "Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep
  Your voice low," said the Emperor; "and steep
  Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine;
  And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep
  For the rose-water vase, magician mine!
  And sponge my forehead, -- so my love doth make me pine.
  
  XLIX.
  
  "Ah, cursed Bellanaine!"  "Don't think of her,"
  Rejoin'd the Mago, "but on Bertha muse;
  For, by my choicest best barometer,
  You shall not throttled be in marriage noose;
  I've said it, Sire; you only have to choose
  Bertha or Bellanaine.
  
  "  So saying, he drew
  From the left pocket of his threadbare hose,
  A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new,
  Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view.
  
  L.
  
  "Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work,
  Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one.
  
  "
  Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk,
  And wept as if he never would have done,
  Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun;
  Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes,
  And long-tail'd pheasants, and a rising sun,
  Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies
  Bigger than stags,-- a moon,-- with other mysteries.
  
  LI.
  
  The monarch handled o'er and o'er again
  Those day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh;
  Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main,
  Till this oracular couplet met his eye
  Astounded -- Cupid, I do thee defy!
  It was too much.
  
  He shrunk back in his chair,
  Grew pale as death, and fainted -- very nigh!
  "Pho! nonsense!" exclaim'd Hum, "now don't despair;
  She does not mean it really.
  
  Cheer up, hearty -- there!
  LII.
  
  "And listen to my words.
  
  You say you won't,
  On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine;
  It goes against your conscience -- good!  Well, don't.
  
  You say you love a mortal.
  
  I would fain
  Persuade your honour's highness to refrain
  From peccadilloes.
  
  But, Sire, as I say,
  What good would that do?
  
  And, to be more plain,
  You would do me a mischief some odd day,
  Cut off my ears and limbs, or head too, by my fay!
  LIII.
  
  "Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any
  Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince
  Who should indulge his genius, if he has any,
  Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince.
  
  Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince
  Your Majesty there is no crime at all
  In loving pretty little Bertha, since
  She's very delicate,-- not over tall, --
  A fairy's hand, and in the waist why -- very small.
  
  "
  LIV.
  
  "Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!"  "'Tis five,"
  Said the gentle Hum; "the nights draw in apace;
  The little birds I hear are all alive;
  I see the dawning touch'd upon your face;
  Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?
  
  "
  "Do put them out, and, without more ado,
  Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,--
  How you can bring her to me.
  
  "  "That's for you,
  Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true.
  
  "
  LV.
  
  "I fetch her!" -- "Yes, an't like your Majesty;
  And as she would be frighten'd wide awake
  To travel such a distance through the sky,
  Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make,
  For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake;
  Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon,
  Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take;
  You must away this morning.
  
  "  "Hum! so soon?
  
  "
  "Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon.
  
  "
  LVI.
  
  At this great Caesar started on his feet,
  Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise.
  
  "Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,
  If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize.
  
  Look in the Almanack -- Moore never lies --
  April the twenty- fourth, -- this coming day,
  Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,
  Will end in St.
  
  Mark's Eve; -- you must away,
  For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.
  
  "
  LVII.
  
  Then the magician solemnly 'gan to frown,
  So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low,
  Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown
  Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
  Forth from his hood that hung his neck below,
  He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
  Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow,
  Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old
  And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.
  
  LVIII.
  
  "Take this same book,-- it will not bite you, Sire;
  There, put it underneath your royal arm;
  Though it's a pretty weight it will not tire,
  But rather on your journey keep you warm:
  This is the magic, this the potent charm,
  That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit!
  When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm,
  But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit
  Back to your palace.
  
  * * * * * * * * * *
  LIX.
  
  "What shall I do with that same book?
  
  "  "Why merely
  Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside
  Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly;
  I say no more.
  
  "  "Or good or ill betide,
  Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!"
  Exclaim'd the Emperor.
  
  "When I return,
  Ask what you will, -- I'll give you my new bride!
  And take some more wine, Hum; -- O Heavens! I burn
  To be upon the wing!  Now, now, that minx I spurn!"
  LX.
  
  "Leave her to me," rejoin'd the magian:
  "But how shall I account, illustrious fay!
  For thine imperial absence?
  
  Pho! I can
  Say you are very sick, and bar the way
  To your so loving courtiers for one day;
  If either of their two archbishops' graces
  Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say
  You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases,
  Which never should be used but in alarming cases.
  
  "
  LXI.
  
  "Open the window, Hum; I'm ready now!"
  Zooks!" exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew.
  
  "Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow
  Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!"  "Whew!
  The monster's always after something new,"
  Return'd his Highness, "they are piping hot
  To see my pigsney Bellanaine.
  
  Hum! do
  Tighten my belt a little, -- so, so, -- not
  Too tight, -- the book! -- my wand! -- so, nothing is forgot.
  
  "
  LXII.
  
  "Wounds! how they shout!" said Hum, "and there, -- see, see!
  Th' ambassador's return'd from Pigmio!
  The morning's very fine, -- uncommonly!
  See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go,
  Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below
  The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines
  They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow
  Along the forest side! Now amber lines
  Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines.
  
  "
  LXIII.
  
  "Why, Hum, you're getting quite poetical!
  Those 'nows' you managed in a special style.
  
  "
  "If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall
  See scraps of mine will make it worth your while,
  Tid-bits for Phoebus! -- yes, you well may smile.
  
  Hark! hark! the bells!"  "A little further yet,
  Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil.
  
  "
  Then the great Emperor full graceful set
  His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonnette.
  
  LXIV.
  
  The morn is full of holiday; loud bells
  With rival clamours ring from every spire;
  Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells
  In echoing places; when the winds respire,
  Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire;
  A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm,
  Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire
  Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm;
  While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm.
  
  LXV.
  
  And now the fairy escort was seen clear,
  Like the old pageant of Aurora's train,
  Above a pearl-built minister, hovering near;
  First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain,
  Balanc'd upon his grey-grown pinions twain,
  His slender wand officially reveal'd;
  Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain;
  Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held,
  The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, -- one mouse in argent field.
  
  LXVI.
  
  Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them,
  A troop of winged Janizaries flew;
  Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem;
  Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two;
  And next a chaplain in a cassock new;
  Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels
  For pleasure?
  
  ) -- the fair Princess in full view,
  Borne upon wings, -- and very pleas'd she feels
  To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels.
  
  LXVII.
  
  For there was more magnificence behind:
  She wav'd her handkerchief.
  
  "Ah, very grand!"
  Cry'd Elfinan, and clos'd the window-blind;
  "And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand,--
  Adieu! adieu! I'm off for Angle-land!
  I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing
  About you, -- feel your pockets, I command,--
  I want, this instant, an invisible ring,--
  Thank you, old mummy! -- now securely I take wing.
  
  "
  LXVIII.
  
  Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor,
  And lighted graceful on the window-sill;
  Under one arm the magic book he bore,
  The other he could wave about at will;
  Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill;
  He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said -- "Poor Bell!
  Farewell! farewell! and if for ever! still
  For ever fare thee well!" -- and then he fell
  A laughing! -- snapp'd his fingers! -- shame it is to tell!
  LXIX.
  
  "By'r Lady! he is gone!" cries Hum, "and I --
  (I own it) -- have made too free with his wine;
  Old Crafticant will smoke me.
  
  By-the-bye!
  This room is full of jewels as a mine,--
  Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine!
  Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute,
  If Mercury propitiously incline,
  To examine his scutoire, and see what's in i,
  For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it.
  
  LXX.
  
  "The Emperor's horrid bad; yes, that's my cue!"
  Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech;
  That, being fuddled, he went reeling through
  The corridor, and scarce upright could reach
  The stair-head; that being glutted as a leech,
  And us'd, as we ourselves have just now said,
  To manage stairs reversely, like a peach
  Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head
  With liquor and the staircase: verdict -- found stone dead.
  
  LXXI.
  
  This as a falsehood Crafticanto treats;
  And as his style is of strange elegance,
  Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits,
  (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance
  At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance
  His woven periods into careless rhyme;
  O, little faery Pegasus! rear -- prance --
  Trot round the quarto -- ordinary time!
  March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime!
  LXXII.
  
  Well, let us see, -- tenth book and chapter nine,--
  Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:--
  "'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine,
  Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry
  A flight of starlings making rapidly
  Towards Thibet.
  
  Mem.
  
  : -- birds fly in the night;
  From twelve to half-past -- wings not fit to fly
  For a thick fog -- the Princess sulky quite;
  Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite.
  
  LXXIII.
  
  "Five minutes before one -- brought down a moth
  With my new double-barrel -- stew'd the thighs
  And made a very tolerable broth --
  Princess turn'd dainty, to our great surprise,
  Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice;
  Seeing her pleasant, try'd her with a pun,
  She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies
  About this time, -- a sad old figure of fun;
  Bad omen -- this new match can't be a happy one.
  
  LXXIV.
  
  "From two to half-past, dusky way we made,
  Above the plains of Gobi, -- desert, bleak;
  Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade
  Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak),
  Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak,
  A fan-shap'd burst of blood-red, arrowy fire,
  Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek,
  Solid and black from that eternal pyre,
  Upon the laden winds that scantly could respire.
  
  LXXV.
  
  "Just upon three o'clock a falling star
  Created an alarm among our troop,
  Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar,
  A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop,
  Then passing by the princess, singed her hoop:
  Could not conceive what Coralline was at,
  She clapp'd her hands three times and cry'd out 'Whoop!'
  Some strange Imaian custom.
  
  A large bat
  Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat.
  
  LXXVI.
  
  "Five minutes thirteen seconds after three,
  Far in the west a mighty fire broke out,
  Conjectur'd, on the instant, it might be,
  The city of Balk -- 'twas Balk beyond all doubt:
  A griffin, wheeling here and there about,
  Kept reconnoitring us -- doubled our guard --
  Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout,
  Till he sheer'd off -- the Princess very scar'd --
  And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar'd.
  
  LXXVII.
  
  "At half-past three arose the cheerful moon--
  Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud --
  Where from the earth we heard a lively tune
  Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud,
  While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd
  Cinque-parted danc'd, some half asleep reposed
  Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud
  In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed,
  Or on the opera turf their soothed eyelids closed.
  
  LXXVIII.
  
  "Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettledrum--
  It went for apoplexy -- foolish folks! --
  Left it to pay the piper -- a good sum --
  (I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,)
  To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax
  Her Highness' pug-dog -- got a sharp rebuff --
  She wish'd a game at whist -- made three revokes --
  Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff;
  His majesty will know her temper time enough.
  
  LXXIX.
  
  "She cry'd for chess -- I play'd a game with her --
  Castled her king with such a vixen look,
  It bodes ill to his Majesty -- (refer
  To the second chapter of my fortieth book,
  And see what hoity-toity airs she took).
  
  At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam --
  Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook --
  The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream,
  Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem.
  
  LXXX.
  
  "About this time, -- making delightful way,--
  Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing --
  Wish'd, trusted, hop'd 'twas no sign of decay --
  Thank heaven, I'm hearty yet! -- 'twas no such thing:--
  At five the golden light began to spring,
  With fiery shudder through the bloomed east;
  At six we heard Panthea's churches ring --
  The city wall his unhiv'd swarms had cast,
  To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd.
  
  LXXXI.
  
  "As flowers turn their faces to the sun,
  So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze,
  And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run,
  With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze;
  Sweet in the air a mild-ton'd music plays,
  And progresses through its own labyrinth;
  Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days,
  They scatter'd, -- daisy, primrose, hyacinth,--
  Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth.
  
  LXXXII.
  
  "Onward we floated o'er the panting streets,
  That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved;
  Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets
  Legions of holiday; bright standards waved,
  And fluttering ensigns emulously craved
  Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar,
  From square to square, among the buildings raved,
  As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more
  The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore.
  
  LXXXIII.
  
  "And 'Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they,
  While that fair Princess, from her winged chair,
  Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay
  Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair,
  Still emptied at meet distance, here and there,
  A plenty horn of jewels.
  
  And here I
  (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare
  Against that ugly piece of calumny,
  Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly.
  
  LXXXIV.
  
  "Still 'Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide
  'Slant to a light Ionic portico,
  The city's delicacy, and the pride
  Of our Imperial Basilic; a row
  Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show
  Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,
  All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo!
  The strangest sight -- the most unlook'd for chance --
  All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance.
  
  LXXXV.
  
  "'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court
  At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,
  Congèes and scrape-graces of every sort,
  And all the smooth routine of gallantries,
  Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
  A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall,
  Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries
  Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall,
  Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.
  
  LXXXVI.
  
  "Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor
  Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds,
  The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor
  Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads;
  Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads
  Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;
  Toe crush'd with heel ill-natur'd fighting breeds,
  Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother,
  And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.
  
  LXXXVII.
  
  "A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back,
  Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,
  And close into her face, with rhyming clack,
  Began a Prothalamion; -- she reels,
  She falls, she faints! while laughter peels
  Over her woman's weakness.
  
  'Where!' cry'd I,
  'Where is his Majesty?
  
  '  No person feels
  Inclin'd to answer; wherefore instantly
  I plung'd into the crowd to find him or die.
  
  LXXXVIII.
  
  "Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran
  To the first landing, where, incredible!
  I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,
  That vile impostor Hum.
  
  ----"
  So far so well,--
  For we have prov'd the Mago never fell
  Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence;
  And therefore duly shall proceed to tell,
  Plain in our own original mood and tense,
  The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense!
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  'Lord Houghton first gave this composition in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), and in Volume II, page 51, refers to it as "the last of Keats's literary labours.
  
  " The poet says in a letter to Brown, written after the first attack of blood-spitting,
  "I shall soon begin upon 'Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.
  
  ' I do not begin composition yet, being willing, in case of a relapse, to have nothing to reproach myself with.
  
  "
  I presume, therefore, that the composition may be assigned to the Spring or Summer of 1820.
  
  In August of that year, Leigh Hunt seems to have had the manuscript in his hands, for, in the first part of his article on Coaches, which fills The Indicator for the 23rd of August 1820, he quotes four stanzas and four lines from the poem, as by "a very good poetess, of the name of Lucy V---- L----, who has favoured us with a sight of a manuscript poem," &c.
  
  The stanzas quoted are XXV to XXIX.
  
  Lord Houghton gives, in the Aldine Edition of 1876, the following note by Brown: --
  "This Poem was written subject to future amendments and omissions: it was begun without a plan, and without any prescribed laws for the supernatural machinery.
  
  "
  His Lordship adds an interesting passage from a letter written to him by Lord Jeffrey: --
  "There are beautiful passages and lines of ineffable sweetness in these minor pieces, and strange outbursts of individual fancy and felicitous expressions in the 'Cap and Bells,' though the general extravagance of the poetry is more suited to an Italian than to an English taste.
  
  "
  The late Dante Gabriel Rossetti wrote to me of this poem as "the only unworthy stuff Keats ever wrote except an early trifle or two," and again as "the to me hateful Cap and Bells.
  
  " I confess that it seems to me entirely unworthy of Keats, though certainly a proof, if proof were needed, of his versatility.
  
  It has the character of a mere intellectual and mechanical exercise, performed at a time when those higher forces constituting the mainspring of poetry were exhausted; but even so I find it difficult to figure Keats as doing anything so aimless as this appears when regarded solely as an effort of the fancy.
  
  He probably had a satirical under-current of meaning; and it needs no great stretch of the imagination to see the illicit passion of Emperor Elfinan, and his detestation for his authorized bride-elect, an oblique glance at the martial relations of George IV.
  
  It is not difficult to suggest prototypes for many of the faery-land statesmen against whom Elfinan vows vengeance; and there are many particulars in which earthly incidents are too thickly strewn to leave one in the settled belief that the poet's programme was wholly unearthly.
  
  --- H.
  
  B.
  
  F.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• The Devon Maid: Stanzas Sent In A Letter To B. R. Haydon Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Where be ye going, you Devon maid?
  
  And what have ye there i' the basket?
  
  Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
  Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?
  
  2.
  
  I love your meads, and I love your flowers,
  And I love your junkets mainly,
  But 'hind the door, I love kissing more,
  O look not so disdainly!
  3.
  
  I love your hills, and I love your dales,
  And I love your flocks a-bleating;
  But O, on the heather to lie together,
  With both our hearts a-beating!
  4.
  
  I'll put your basket all safe in a nook,
  Your shawl I'll hang up on this willow,
  And we will sigh in the daisy's eye,
  And kiss on a grass-green pillow.
  
  'In the letter of Saturday the 14th of March 1818, embodying the verses headed "Teignmouth," this song also occurs after a prose break consisting merely of the words which Mr.
  
  Taylor printed as -- "There's a bit of doggrel; you would like a bit of botheral.
  
  "
  The first line of the song is not of the most authentic Devonian diction, though 'have ye' and 'Will ye' are, essentially; but these forms are always pronounced by the indigenous Devon maid "have 'e" and "will 'e.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• The Eve Of Saint Mark. A Fragment Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
  Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell
  That call'd the folk to evening prayer;
  The city streets were clean and fair
  From wholesome drench of April rains;
  And, on the western window panes,
  The chilly sunset faintly told
  Of unmatur'd green vallies cold,
  Of the green thorny bloomless hedge,
  Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge,
  Of primroses by shelter'd rills,
  And daisies on the aguish hills.
  
  Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell:
  The silent streets were crowded well
  With staid and pious companies,
  Warm from their fire-side orat'ries,
  And moving with demurest air
  To even-song and vesper prayer.
  
  Each arched porch and entry low
  Was fill'd with patient folk and slow,
  With whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
  While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
  
  The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun,
  And Bertha had not yet half done
  A curious volume, patch'd and torn,
  That all day long, from earliest morn,
  Had taken captive her two eyes
  Among its golden broideries;
  Perplex'd her with a thousand things,--
  The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings,
  Martyrs in a fiery blaze,
  Azure saints in silver rays,
  Moses' breastplate, and the seven
  Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,
  The winged Lion of Saint Mark,
  And the Covenantal Ark
  With its many mysteries,
  Cherubim and golden mice.
  
  Bertha was a maiden fair,
  Dwelling in the old Minster-square;
  From her fire-side she could see
  Sidelong its rich antiquity,
  Far as the Bishop's garden-wall;
  Where sycamores and elm-trees tall,
  Full-leav'd, the forest had outstript,
  By no sharp north-wind ever nipt,
  So shelter'd by the mighty pile.
  
  Bertha arose, and read awhile
  With forehead 'gainst the window-pane.
  
  Again she try'd, and then again,
  Until the dusk eve left her dark
  Upon the legend of St.
  
  Mark.
  
  From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin,
  She lifted up her soft warm chin,
  With aching neck and swimming eyes,
  And daz'd with saintly imageries.
  
  All was gloom, and silent all,
  Save now and then the still foot-fall
  Of one returning homewards late
  Past the echoing minster-gate.
  
  The clamorous daws, that all the day
  Above tree-tops and towers play,
  Pair by pair had gone to rest,
  Each in its ancient belfry-nest,
  Where asleep they fall betimes
  To music of the drowsy chimes.
  
  All was silent, all was gloom
  Abroad and in the homely room:
  Down she sat, poor cheated soul!
  And struck a lamp from the dismal coal;
  Lean'd forward with bright drooping hair
  And slant book full against the glare.
  
  Her shadow, in uneasy guise,
  hover'd about, a giant size,
  On ceiling-beam and old oak chair,
  The parrot's cage, and panel square;
  And the warm angled winter screen,
  On which were many monsters seen,
  Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
  And legless birds of Paradise,
  Macaw, and tender Avadavat,
  And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
  
  Untir'd she read, her shadow still
  Glower'd about as it would fill
  The room with wildest forms and shades,
  As though some ghostly queen of spades
  Had come to mock behind her back,
  And dance, and ruffle her garments black.
  
  Untir'd she read the legend page
  Of holy Mark, from youth to age,
  On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
  Rejoicing for his many pains.
  
  Sometimes the learned Eremite
  With golden star, or dagger bright,
  Referr'd to pious poesies
  Written in smallest crow-quill size
  Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
  Was parcell'd out from time to time:
  ---- "Als writith he of swevenis,
  Men han beforne they wake in bliss,
  Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound
  In crimped shroude farre under grounde;
  And how a litling child mote be
  A saint er its nativitie,
  Gif that the modre (God her blesse!)
  Kepen in solitarinesse,
  And kissen devoute the holy croce.
  
  Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,--
  He writith; and thinges many mo
  Of swiche thinges I may not show.
  
  Bot I must tellen verilie
  Somdel of Sainte Cicilie,
  And chieftie what he auctorethe
  Of Sainte Markis life and dethe:"
  At length her constant eyelids come
  Upon the fervent martyrdom;
  Then lastly to his holy shrine,
  Exalt amid the tapers' shine
  At Venice,--
  'It should be borne in mind that the eve of St.
  
  Mark is the 24th of April.
  
  "The Eve of St.
  
  Mark" was probably begun in the winter of 1818-19; for in a letter to George Keats and his wife the poet says under date February 14, "In my next packet I shall send you .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  , if I should have finished it, a little thing, called the 'Eve of St.
  
  Mark.
  
  '" Lord Houghton first published the poem among the Literary Remains in 1848, with the date 1819.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• The Eve Of St. Agnes Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  St.
  
  Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
  The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
  And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
  Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
  His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
  Like pious incense from a censer old,
  Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
  Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
  
  II.
  
  His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
  Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
  And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
  Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
  The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
  Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
  Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
  He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
  To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
  
  III.
  
  Northward he turneth through a little door,
  And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
  Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
  But no--already had his deathbell rung
  The joys of all his life were said and sung:
  His was harsh penance on St.
  
  Agnes' Eve:
  Another way he went, and soon among
  Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
  And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
  
  IV.
  
  That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
  And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
  From hurry to and fro.
  
  Soon, up aloft,
  The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
  The level chambers, ready with their pride,
  Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
  The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
  Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
  With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
  
  V.
  
  At length burst in the argent revelry,
  With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
  Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
  The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
  Of old romance.
  
  These let us wish away,
  And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there,
  Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
  On love, and wing'd St Agnes' saintly care,
  As she had heard old dames full rnany times declare.
  
  VI.
  
  They told her how, upon St Agnes' Eve,
  Young virgins might have visions of delight,
  And soft adorings from their loves receive
  Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
  If ceremonies due they did aright;
  As, supperless to bed they must retire,
  And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
  Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
  Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
  
  VII.
  
  Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
  The music, yearning like a God in pain,
  She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
  Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
  Pass by--she heeded not at all: in vain
  Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
  And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
  But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere;
  She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
  
  VIII.
  
  She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
  Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
  The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
  Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
  Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
  'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
  Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
  Save to St Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
  And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
  
  IX.
  
  So, purposing each moment to retire,
  She linger'd still.
  
  Meantime, across the moors,
  Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
  For Madeline.
  
  Beside the portal doors,
  Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
  All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
  But for one moment in the tedious hours,
  That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
  Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—-in sooth such things have been.
  
  X.
  
  He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
  All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
  Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
  For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
  Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
  Whose very dogs would execrations howl
  Against his lineage: not one breast affords
  Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
  Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
  
  XI.
  
  Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
  Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
  To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
  Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
  The sound of merriment and chorus bland.
  
  He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
  And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
  Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
  "They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
  XII.
  
  "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
  He had a fever late, and in the fit
  He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
  Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
  More tame for his gray hairs--Alas me! flit!
  Flit like a ghost away.
  
  "--Ah, gossip dear,
  We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
  And tell me how"--"Good saints! not here, not here;
  Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.
  
  "
  XIII.
  
  He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
  Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
  And as she mutter'd "Well-a-well-a-day!"
  He found him in a little moonlight room,
  Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
  
  "Now tell me where is Madeline", said he,
  "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
  Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
  "When they St Agnes' wool are weaving piously.
  
  "
  XIV.
  
  "St Agnes! Ah! it is St Agnes' Eve--
  Yet men will murder upon holy days:
  Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
  And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays
  To venture so: it fills me with amaze
  To see thee, Porphyro!--St Agnes' Eve!
  God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
  This very night: good angels her deceive!
  But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve.
  
  "
  XV.
  
  Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
  While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
  Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
  Who keepeth clos'd a wondrous riddle-book,
  As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
  
  But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
  His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
  Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold
  And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
  
  XVI.
  
  Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
  Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
  Made purple riot: then doth he propose
  A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
  "A cruel man and impious thou art:
  Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
  Alone with her good angels, far apart
  From wicked men like thee.
  
  Go, go!--I deem
  Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.
  
  "
  XVII.
  
  "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
  Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
  When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
  If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
  Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
  Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
  Or I will, even in a moment's space,
  Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
  And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.
  
  "
  XVIII.
  
  "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
  
  A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
  Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
  Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
  Were never miss'd.
  
  " Thus plaining, doth she bring
  A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
  So woeful, and of such deep sorrowing,
  That Angela gives promise she will do
  Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
  
  XIX.
  
  Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
  Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
  Him in a closet, of such privacy
  That he might see her beauty unespied,
  And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
  While legion'd fairies pac'd the coverlet,
  And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed.
  
  Never on such a night have lovers met,
  Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
  
  XX.
  
  "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
  "All cates and dainties shall be stored there
  Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
  Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
  For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
  On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
  
  Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
  The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
  Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.
  
  "
  XXI.
  
  So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
  
  The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
  The Dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
  To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
  From fright of dim espial.
  
  Safe at last
  Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
  The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste;
  Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
  
  His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
  
  XXII.
  
  Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
  Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
  When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed maid,
  Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
  With silver taper's light, and pious care,
  She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
  To a safe level matting.
  
  Now prepare,
  Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
  She comes, she comes again, like dove fray'd and fled.
  
  XXIII.
  
  Out went the taper as she hurried in;
  Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
  She closed the door, she panted, all akin
  To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
  No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide!
  But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
  Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
  As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
  Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
  
  XXIV.
  
  A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
  All garlanded with carven imag'ries
  Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
  And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
  Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
  As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
  And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
  And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
  A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
  
  XXV.
  
  Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
  And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
  As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
  Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
  And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
  And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
  She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
  Save wings, for heaven:--Porphyro grew faint:
  She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
  
  XXVI.
  
  Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
  Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
  Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
  Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
  Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
  Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
  Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
  In fancy, fair St Agnes in her bed,
  But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
  
  XXVII.
  
  Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
  In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
  Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
  Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
  Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
  Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
  Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
  Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
  As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
  
  XXVIII.
  
  Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
  Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
  And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
  To wake into a slumbrous tenderness;
  Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
  And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
  Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
  And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
  And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!--how fast she slept!
  XXIX.
  
  Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
  Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
  A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
  A doth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:--
  O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
  The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
  The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
  Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:--
  The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
  
  XXX.
  
  And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
  In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
  While he from forth the closet brought a heap
  Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd
  With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
  And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
  Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
  From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
  From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
  
  XXXI.
  
  These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
  On golden dishes and in baskets bright
  Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
  In the retired quiet of the night,
  Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
  
  --
  "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
  Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
  Open thine eyes, for meek St Agnes' sake,
  Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
  
  "
  XXXII.
  
  Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
  Sank in her pillow.
  
  Shaded was her dream
  By the dusk curtains:--'twas a midnight charm
  Impossible to melt as iced stream:
  The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
  Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
  It seem'd he never, never could redeem
  From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
  So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
  
  XXXIII.
  
  Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,--
  Tumultuous,--and, in chords that tenderest be,
  He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
  In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy:"
  Close to her ear touching the melody:--
  Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
  He ceased--she panted quick--and suddenly
  Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
  Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
  
  XXXIV.
  
  Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
  Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
  There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
  The blisses of her dream so pure and deep,
  At which fair Madeline began to weep,
  And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
  While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
  Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
  Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
  
  XXXV.
  
  "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
  Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
  Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
  And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
  How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
  Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
  Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
  Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
  For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.
  
  "
  XXXVI.
  
  Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
  At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
  Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
  Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose
  Into her dream he melted, as the rose
  Blendeth its odour with the violet,--
  Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
  Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
  Against the window-panes; St Agnes' moon hath set.
  
  XXXVII.
  
  Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
  "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
  'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
  "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
  Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.
  
  --
  Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
  
  I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine
  Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;--
  A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.
  
  "
  XXXVIII.
  
  "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
  Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
  
  Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
  
  Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
  After so many hours of toil and quest,
  A famish'd pilgrim,--saved by miracle.
  
  Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
  Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
  To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
  
  XXXIX.
  
  "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
  Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
  Arise--arise! the morning is at hand;--
  The bloated wassailers will never heed:--
  Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
  There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,--
  Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
  Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
  For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
  
  "
  XL.
  
  She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
  For there were sleeping dragons all around,
  At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears--
  Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
  
  --
  In all the house was heard no human sound.
  
  A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
  The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
  Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
  And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
  
  XLI.
  
  They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
  Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
  Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
  With a huge empty flagon by his side:
  The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
  But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
  By one, and one, the bolts fill easy slide:--
  The chains lie silent on the footworn stones,--
  The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
  
  XLII.
  
  And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
  These lovers fled away into the storm.
  
  That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
  And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
  Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
  Were long be-nightmar'd.
  
  Angela the old
  Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
  The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
  For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.
  
  In a letter to George Keats and his wife dated the 14th of February [1819], Keats says that he took with him to Chichester, where he had been staying in January, "some of the thin paper, and wrote on it a little poem called 'St.
  
  Agnes' Eve,' which you will have as it is, when I have finished the blank part of the rest for you.
  
  "  Lord Houghton says the poem "was begun on a visit in Hampshire, at the commencement of this year [1819], and finished on his return to Hampstead.
  
  "
  (stanza II.
  
  ): Leigh Hunt says "The germ of the thought, or something like it, is in Dante, where he speaks of the figures that perform the part of sustaining columns in architecture.
  
  Keats had read Dante in Mr.
  
  Carey's translation, for which he had a great respect.
  
  He began to read him afterwards in Italian, which language he was mastering with surprising quickness.
  
  (stanza XV): Hunt's comment is as follows: "He almost shed tears - of sympathy, to think how his treasure is exposed to the cold - and of delight and pride to think of her sleeping beauty, and her love for himself.
  
  THis passage 'asleep in lap of legends old' is in the highest imaginative taste, fusing together the imaginative and the spiritual, the remote and the near.
  
  "
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• The Gadfly Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  All gentle folks who owe a grudge
  To any living thing
  Open your ears and stay your t[r]udge
  Whilst I in dudgeon sing.
  
  2.
  
  The Gadfly he hath stung me sore--
  O may he ne'er sting you!
  But we have many a horrid bore
  He may sting black and blue.
  
  3.
  
  Has any here an old grey Mare
  With three legs all her store,
  O put it to her Buttocks bare
  And straight she'll run on four.
  
  4.
  
  Has any here a Lawyer suit
  Of 1743,
  Take Lawyer's nose and put it to't
  And you the end will see.
  
  5.
  
  Is there a Man in Parliament
  Dum[b-] founder'd in his speech,
  O let his neighbour make a rent
  And put one in his breech.
  
  6.
  
  O Lowther how much better thou
  Hadst figur'd t'other day
  When to the folks thou mad'st a bow
  And hadst no more to say.
  
  7.
  
  If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en
  His seat * * * * * * * * *
  And put thee to a little pain
  To save thee from a worse.
  
  8.
  
  Better than Southey it had been,
  Better than Mr.
  
  D-------,
  Better than Wordsworth too, I ween,
  Better than Mr.
  
  V-------.
  
  9.
  
  Forgive me pray good people all
  For deviating so --
  In spirit sure I had a call --
  And now I on will go.
  
  10.
  
  Has any here a daughter fair
  Too fond of reading novels,
  Too apt to fall in love with care
  And charming Mister Lovels,
  11.
  
  O put a Gadfly to that thing
  She keeps so white and pert --
  I mean the finger for the ring,
  And it will breed a wort.
  
  12.
  
  Has any here a pious spouse
  Who seven times a day
  Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse
  And have her holy way --
  13.
  
  O let a Gadfly's little sting
  Persuade her sacred tongue
  That noises are a common thing,
  But that her bell has rung.
  
  14.
  
  And as this is the summon bo
  num of all conquering,
  I leave "withouten wordes mo"
  The Gadfly's little sting.
  
  'On the 17th of July 1818 [Keats and Brown] were approaching Inverary, and Keats began a letter to his brother Tom at "Cairn-something," having walked fifteen miles to breakfast through "two tremendous Glens.
  
  "  One of these was Glencroe and the other perhaps a smaller glen at the southern extremity of Glenfyne: Glencroe is mentioned later on in the letter and is also identifiable by a place called "Rest and be thankful" which the poet names; and at the end of the smaller glen is Cairndow not far from the northern extremity of Loch Fyne, a bathe in which was the occasion of the ballad given above -- a bathe to which the gadflies were the only drawback.
  
  This ballad, now I believe first published, seems to me one of the brightest and most humorous of the pieces which Keats classified as doggerel; and I presume it may be assigned to the 17th of July 1818.
  
  (stanza 4) Line 2 is of course to be read "Of seventeen forty three," not "Of seventeen hundred and forty three.
  
  "
  (stanzas 6-8): I have not met with any account of the particular circumstances in which one of the members of Westmoreland figured in the manner described in stanza 6; but probably the contemporary newspaper press might show what episode Keats was contemplating in the memorable campaign in which the whigs tried to upset the then time-honoured influence of the House of Lowther, which had nominated the two county members, undisputedly, for a long time.
  
  The particular Lowther of stanza 6 was probably the Treasury Lord who was afterwards second Earl of Lonsdale.
  
  Wordsworth's Two Addresses To The Freeholders of Westmoreland are probably glanced at in stanza 8; "Mr.
  
  V----" would doubtless be the then Chancellor of the Exchequer, Nicholas Vansittart; and "Mr.
  
  D-----" may perhaps have been Mr.
  
  Dundas, who had held office in a previous ministry; but this last name rests upon mere conjecture.
  
  (stanza 10): The reference is probably to the hero of Scott's novel The Antiquary, properly the Honourable William Geraldin, heir of the Earl of Glenallan, but known throughout the book as Mr.
  
  Lovel.
  
  (stanza 12): Perhaps the reference is to Psalm cix, verse 164, "Seven times a day do I praise thee because of thy righteous judgements;" but there is certainly no intentional disrespect to David, the word 'chouse' being the exclusive property of the pious scold.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• This Living Hand Read Poem Log in to favourite

  This living hand, now warm and capable
  Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
  And in the icy silence of the tomb,
  So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
  That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
  So in my veins red life might stream again,
  And thou be conscience-calmed - see here it is -
  I hold it towards you.

• To **** Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,
  O what wonders had been told
  Of thy lively countenance,
  And thy humid eyes that dance
  In the midst of their own brightness;
  In the very fane of lightness.
  
  Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
  Picture out each lovely meaning:
  In a dainty bend they lie,
  Like to streaks across the sky,
  Or the feathers from a crow,
  Fallen on a bed of snow.
  
  Of thy dark hair that extends
  Into many graceful bends:
  As the leaves of Hellebore
  Turn to whence they sprung before.
  
  And behind each ample curl
  Peeps the richness of a pearl.
  
  Downward too flows many a tress
  With a glossy waviness;
  Full, and round like globes that rise
  From the censer to the skies
  Through sunny air.
  
  Add too, the sweetness
  Of thy honied voice; the neatness
  Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:
  With those beauties, scarce discern'd,
  Kept with such sweet privacy,
  That they seldom meet the eye
  Of the little loves that fly
  Round about with eager pry.
  
  Saving when, with freshening lave,
  Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;
  Like twin water lillies, born
  In the coolness of the morn.
  
  O, if thou hadst breathed then,
  Now the Muses had been ten.
  
  Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
  Than twin sister of Thalia?
  
  At least for ever, evermore,
  Will I call the Graces four.
  
  Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry
  Lifted up her lance on high,
  Tell me what thou wouldst have been?
  
  Ah! I see the silver sheen
  Of thy broidered, floating vest
  Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;
  Which, O heavens! I should see,
  But that cruel destiny
  Has placed a golden cuirass there;
  Keeping secret what is fair.
  
  Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested
  Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
  O’er which bend four milky plumes
  Like the gentle lilly’s blooms
  Springing from a costly vase.
  
  See with what a stately pace
  Comes thine alabaster steed;
  Servant of heroic deed!
  O'er his loins, his trappings glow
  Like the northern lights on snow.
  
  Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!
  Sign of the enchanter's death;
  Bane of every wicked spell;
  Silencer of dragon's yell.
  
  Alas! thou this wilt never do:
  Thou art an enchantress too,
  And wilt surely never spill
  Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

• To -------. Read Poem Log in to favourite

  1.
  
  Think not of it, sweet one, so;--
  Give it not a tear;
  Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
  Any, any where.
  
  2.
  
  Do not look so sad, sweet one,--
  Sad and fadingly;
  Shed one drop then, it is gone,
  O 'twas born to die!
  3.
  
  Still so pale?
  
  then, dearest, weep;
  Weep, I'll count the tears,
  And each one shall be a bliss
  For thee in after years.
  
  4.
  
  Brighter has it left thine eyes
  Than a sunny rill;
  And thy whispering melodies
  Are tenderer still.
  
  5.
  
  Yet -- as all things mourn awhile
  At fleeting blisses,
  E'en let us too! but be our dirge
  A dirge of kisses.
  
  'Given by Lord Houghton among the Literary Remains in Volume II of the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848), with the date 1817.
  
  Hitherto this poem has been headed "On.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  "; but it is so distinctly an address that 'To' seems to be the right preposition.
  
  It is not stated to whom the verses are addressed.
  
  In Woodhouse's interleaved copy of Endymion is a transcript evidently made from a working draft.
  
  Woodhouse has copied in his careful and minute way the whole manuscript with its erasures, the first of which is a cancelled opening quatrain: --
  "Think not of it gentle sweet
  It is not worth a tear
  Will thine heart less warmly beat
  Thy voice less clear?
  
  "
  Stanza 2 appears to have been originally written with the two final lines,
  "Shed one drop then only one
  Sweetly did it die,"
  which are cancelled in favour of those of the text.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• To Ailsa Rock Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid!
  Give answer by thy voice, the sea-fowls' screams!
  When were thy shoulders mantled in huge streams?
  
  When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid?
  
  How long is't since the mighty Power bid
  Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams?
  
  Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams,
  Or when grey clouds are thy cold coverlid.
  
  Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead asleep;
  Thy life is but two dead eternities--
  The last in air, the former in the deep;
  First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies--
  Drowned wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep,
  Another cannot wake thy giant-size!
  'From Kirkcudbright [Keats and Brown] went to Newton Stewart and thence through Wigtonshire to Port Patrick, visiting Glenluce and Stranraer on the way.
  
  From Port Patrick they crossed in the mail packet to Ireland, reaching Donaghadee on the 5th of July.
  
  They walked from Donaghadee to Belfast and back, having abandoned the idea of seeing the Giant's Causeway on account of the expense,-- crossed again so as to sleep at Port Patrick on the 8th, and then resumed their Scotch walk.
  
  Lord Houghton says,--
  "Returning from Ireland, the travellers proceeded northwards by the coast, Ailsa Rock constantly in their view.
  
  That fine object first appeared to them, in the full sunlight, like a transparent tortoise asleep upon the calm water, then, as they advanced, displaying its lofty shoulders, and, as they still went on, losing its distinctness in the mountains of Arran and the extent of Cantire that rose behind.
  
  "
  His Lordship records that the sonnet to Ailsa Rock was written in the inn at Girvan; and, as Keats was at Maybole on the 11th, and Girvan is more than three quarters of the way from Port Patrick to Maybole, the sonnet should be dated the 10th or 11th of July 1818.
  
  It appeared in Leigh Hunt's Literary Pocket-book for 1819.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• To Charles Cowden Clarke Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
  And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
  He slants his neck beneath the waters bright
  So silently, it seems a beam of light
  Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,--
  With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,
  Or ruffles all the surface of the lake
  In striving from its crystal face to take
  Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure
  In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.
  
  But not a moment can he there insure them,
  Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;
  For down they rush as though they would be free,
  And drop like hours into eternity.
  
  Just like that bird am I in loss of time,
  Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;
  With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,
  I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
  Still scooping up the water with my fingers,
  In which a trembling diamond never lingers.
  
  By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see
  Why I have never penn’d a line to thee:
  Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,
  And little fit to please a classic ear;
  Because my wine was of too poor a savour
  For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour
  Of sparkling Helicon:--small good it were
  To take him to a desert rude, and bare,
  Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,
  While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze
  That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,
  Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:
  Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream
  Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;
  Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,
  And lovely Una in a leafy nook,
  And Archimago leaning o'er his book:
  Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,
  From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;
  From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,
  To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:
  One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks
  With him who elegantly chats, and talks--
  The wrong'd Libertas,--who has told you stories
  Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories;
  Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city,
  And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:
  With many else which I have never known.
  
  Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown
  Slowly, or rapidly--unwilling still
  For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.
  
  Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
  That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
  The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;
  What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:
  Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,
  And float along like birds o'er summer seas;
  Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;
  Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve’s fair slenderness.
  
  Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
  Up to its climax and then dying proudly?
  
  Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
  Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?
  
  Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,
  The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?
  
  Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,
  Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?
  
  You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
  And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;
  The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;
  The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell
  Upon a tyrant's head.
  
  Ah! had I never seen,
  Or known your kindness, what might I have been?
  
  What my enjoyments in my youthful years,
  Bereft of all that now my life endears?
  
  And can I e'er these benefits forget?
  
  And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
  
  No, doubly no;--yet should these rhymings please,
  I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:
  For I have long time been my fancy feeding
  With hopes that you would one day think the reading
  Of my rough verses not an hour mis[s]pent;
  Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!
  Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires
  In lucent Thames reflected:—warm desires
  To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,
  And morning shadows streaking into slimness
  Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;
  To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;
  To feel the air that plays about the hills,
  And sips its freshness from the little rills;
  To see high, golden corn wave in the light
  When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,
  And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,
  As though she were reclining in a bed
  Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.
  
  No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures
  Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
  The air that floated by me seem’d to say
  "Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
  
  "
  And so I did.
  
  When many lines I’d written,
  Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,
  Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d better
  Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.
  
  Such an attempt required an inspiration
  Of a peculiar sort,--a consummation;--
  Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been
  Verses from which the soul would never wean:
  But many days have past since last my heart
  Was warm’d luxuriously by divine Mozart;
  By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;
  Or by the song of Erin pierc’d and sadden'd:
  What time you were before the music sitting,
  And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
  
  Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes
  That freshly terminate in open plains,
  And revel'd in a chat that ceased not
  When at night-fall among your books we got:
  No, nor when supper came, nor after that,--
  Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;
  No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
  Mid-way between our homes:--your accents bland
  Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
  Could hear your footsteps touch the grav’ly floor.
  
  Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
  You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.
  
  In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
  That well you know to honour:--"Life's very toys
  "With him," said I, "will take a pleasant charm;
  "It cannot be that ought will work him harm.
  
  "
  These thoughts now come o’er me with all their might:--
  Again I shake your hand,--friend Charles, good night.
  
  Written in September, 1816.
  
  'Charles Cowden Clarke was born at Enfield on the 15th of December 1787; so that he was in his twenty-ninth year when the young poet addressed this epistle to him.
  
  He died at Villa Novello, Genoa, on the 13th of March 1877, in his ninetieth year.
  
  (line 44): 'Mrs.
  
  Charles Cowden Clarke, speaking from knowledge derived from her husband, tells me there is no doubt whatever about Libertas being, as one would naturally imagine, a name for Leigh Hunt.
  
  '
  (line 130): 'Hunt says .
  
  .
  
  .
  
  in evident allusion to Keats's prowess as a boxer and readiness to back his friends -- "we can only add, without any disrespect to the graver warmth of our young poet, that if Ought attempted it, Ought would find he had stout work to do with more than one person.
  
  " The student will probably turn to the posthumous poems and compare these epistles with that to John Hamilton Reynolds written in 1818.
  
  '
  ~~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• To Fanny Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I cry your mercy—pity—love! Aye, love!
  Merciful love that tantalizes not,
  One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
  Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!
  O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
  That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
  Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
  That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—
  Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
  Withhold no atom’s atom or I die,
  Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
  Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
  Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind
  Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

• To George Felton Mathew Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
  And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
  Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view
  A fate more pleasing, a delight more true
  Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd,
  Who with combined powers, their wit employ'd
  To raise a trophy to the drama's muses.
  
  The thought of this great partnership diffuses
  Over the genius loving heart, a feeling
  Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.
  
  Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee
  Past each horizon of fine poesy;
  Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
  As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float
  'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,
  Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted:
  But 'tis impossible, far different cares
  Beckon me sternly from soft "Lydian airs,"
  And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
  That I am oft in doubt whether at all
  I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:
  Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!
  Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;
  Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;
  Or again witness what with thee I've seen,
  The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,
  After a night of some quaint jubilee
  Which every elf and fay had come to see:
  When bright processions took their airy march
  Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch.
  
  But might I now each passing moment give
  To the coy muse, with me she would not live
  In this dark city, nor would condescend
  'Mid contradictions her delights to lend.
  
  Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind,
  Ah! surely it must be whene'er I find
  Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic,
  That often must have seen a poet frantic;
  Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,
  And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;
  Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's drooping clusters
  Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,
  And intertwined the cassia's arms unite,
  With its own drooping buds, but very white.
  
  Where on one side are covert branches hung,
  'Mong which the nightingales have always sung
  In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof,
  Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof,
  Would be to find where violet beds were nestling,
  And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling.
  
  There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy,
  To say "joy not too much in all that's bloomy.
  
  "
  Yet this is vain--O Mathew lend thy aid
  To find a place where I may greet the maid--
  Where we may soft humanity put on,
  And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;
  And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to meet him
  Four laurell'd spirits, heaven-ward to intreat him.
  
  With reverence would we speak of all the sages
  Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages:
  And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness,
  And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness
  To those who strove with the bright golden wing
  Of genius, to flap away each sting
  Thrown by the pitiless world.
  
  We next could tell
  Of those who in the cause of freedom fell;
  Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell;
  Of him whose name to ev'ry heart's a solace,
  High-minded and unbending William Wallace.
  
  While to the rugged north our musing turns
  We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns.
  
  Felton! without incitements such as these,
  How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease;
  For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace,
  And make "a sunshine in a shady place:"
  For thou wast once a flowret blooming wild,
  Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefil'd,
  Whence gush the streams of song: in happy hour
  Came chaste Diana from her shady bower,
  Just as the sun was from the east uprising;
  And, as for him some gift she was devising,
  Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream
  To meet her glorious brother’s greeting beam.
  
  I marvel much that thou hast never told
  How, from a flower, into a fish of gold
  Apollo chang'd thee; how thou next didst seem
  A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream;
  And when thou first didst in that mirror trace
  The placid features of a human face:
  That thou hast never told thy travels strange,
  And all the wonders of the mazy range
  O’er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands;
  Kissing thy daily food from Naiad’s pearly hands.
  
  Written in November, 1815.

• To Hope Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When by my solitary hearth I sit,
  And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
  When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
  And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
  Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
  And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
  Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
  Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
  Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
  And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
  Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
  And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!
  Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
  Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
  When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
  Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
  Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
  And fright him as the morning frightens night!
  Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
  Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
  O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
  Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
  Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
  And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
  Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
  From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
  O let me think it is not quite in vain
  To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
  Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
  And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!
  In the long vista of the years to roll,
  Let me not see our country's honour fade:
  O let me see our land retain her soul,
  Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
  
  From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed—-
  Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!
  Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
  Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
  With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
  Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
  But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
  That fill the skies with silver glitterings!
  And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
  Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
  Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
  So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
  Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
  Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!
  Written February, 1815.
  
  Published in his Poems of 1817.

• To Some Ladies Read Poem Log in to favourite

  What though while the wonders of nature exploring,
  I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;
  Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring,
  Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast’s friend:
  Yet over the steep, whence the mountain stream rushes,
  With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove;
  Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,
  Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.
  
  Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?
  
  Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare?
  
  Ah! you list to the nightingale’s tender condoling,
  Responsive to sylphs, in the moon beamy air.
  
  'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,
  I see you are treading the verge of the sea:
  And now! ah, I see it--you just now are stooping
  To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.
  
  If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
  Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;
  And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,
  The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;
  It had not created a warmer emotion
  Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you
  Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean
  Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.
  
  For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure,
  (And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)
  To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,
  In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.
  
  (line 20) 'The reference to Mrs.
  
  Tighe, the authoress of the now almost forgotten poem of Psyche, is significant as an indication of hte poet's taste in verse at this period.
  
  ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• To The Ladies Who Saw Me Crowned Read Poem Log in to favourite

  WHAT is there in the universal Earth
  More lovely than a Wreath from the bay tree?
  
  Haply a Halo round the Moon a glee
  Circling from three sweet pair of Lips in Mirth;
  And haply you will say the dewy birth
  Of morning Roses ripplings tenderly
  Spread by the Halcyon's breast upon the Sea
  But these Comparisons are nothing worth
  Then is there nothing in the world so fair?
  
  The silvery tears of April?
  
  Youth of May?
  
  Or June that breathes out life for butterflies?
  
  No none of these can from my favourite bear
  Away the Palm yet shall it ever pay
  Due Reverence to your most sovereign eyes.

• Translated From A Sonnet Of Ronsard Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies
  For more adornment a full thousand years;
  She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes,
  And shap'd and tinted her above all Peers:
  Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings,
  And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes
  With such a richness that the cloudy Kings
  Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs.
  
  When from the Heavens I saw her first descend
  My heart took fire, and only burning pains
  They were my pleasures -- they my Life's sad end;
  Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins.
  
  .
  
  .
  
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
  'I presume this translation was made about September 1818.
  
  It was first given by Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  (1848) in a letter to Reynolds, undated, but belonging to that time.
  
  The sonnet follows the words "Here is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ronsard, which I think will please you.
  
  I have the loan of his works -- they have great beauties.
  
  " Lord Houghton supplied the couplet thus:--
  "So that her image in my soul upgrew,
  The only thing adorable and true.
  
  "
  In the copy of Shakespeare's Poetical Works to Keats by Reynolds, and containing the manuscript of Keats's last sonnet, there is also a manuscript of these three quatrains, wanting, like the version adopted by Lord Houghton, the last two lines.
  
  '
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Two Or Three Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Two or three Posies
  With two or three simples--
  Two or three Noses
  With two or three pimples--
  Two or three wise men
  And two or three ninny's--
  Two or three guineas--
  Two or three raps
  At two or three doors--
  Two or three naps
  Of two or three hours--
  Two or three Cats
  And two or three mice--
  Two or three sprats
  At a very great price--
  Two or three sandies
  And two or three tabbies--
  Two or three dandies
  And two Mrs.
  
  ------
  Two or three Smiles
  And two or three frowns--
  Two or three Miles
  To two or three towns--
  Two or three pegs
  For two or three bonnets--
  Two or three dove eggs
  To hatch into sonnets.

• Two Sonnets On Fame Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy
  To those who woo her with too slavish knees,
  But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy,
  And dotes the more upon a heart at ease;
  She is a Gypsy,—will not speak to those
  Who have not learnt to be content without her;
  A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close,
  Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her;
  A very Gypsy is she, Nilus-born,
  Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
  Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn;
  Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are!
  Make your best bow to her and bid adieu,
  Then, if she likes it, she will follow you.
  
  II.
  
  "You cannot eat your cake and have it too.
  
  "~Proverb.
  
  How fever'd is the man, who cannot look
  Upon his mortal days with temperate blood,
  Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book,
  And robs his fair name of its maidenhood;
  It is as if the rose should pluck herself,
  On the ripe plum finger its misty bloom,
  As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf,
  Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom:
  But the rose leaves herself upon the briar,
  For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed,
  And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire,
  The undisturbed lake has crystal space;
  Why then should man, teasing the world for grace,
  Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed?

• Two Sonnets. To Haydon, With A Sonnet Written On Seeing The Elgin Marbles Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I.
  
  Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
  Definitively of these mighty things;
  Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
  That what I want I know not where to seek,
  And think that I would not be over-meek,
  In rolling out upfollowed thunderings,
  Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,
  Were I of ample strength for such a freak.
  
  Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine;
  Whose else?
  
  In this who touch thy vesture's hem?
  
  For, when men stared at what was most divine
  With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm,
  Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
  Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them.
  
  II.
  
  On Seeing The Elgin Marbles.
  
  My spirit is too weak - mortality
  Weighs heavily upon me like unwilling sleep,
  And each imagined pinnacle and steep
  Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
  Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
  
  Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep
  That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
  Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
  
  Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
  Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
  So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
  That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
  Wasting of old Time -- with a billowy main --
  A sun -- a shadow of a magnitude.
  
  'In regard to this subject it will be remembered that Haydon had been most energetic in preaching the gospel of the Elgin Marbles, and that his friends claimed for him the distinction of being the first to apply to modern art the "principles" of those immortal works.
  
  These two sonnets appeared in The Examiner for the 9th of March 1817, signed "J.
  
  K.
  
  ;" but this did not prevent Mr.
  
  James Elmes from letting them do duty for "Original Poetry" in his Annals of the Fine Arts, where they re-appeared in No.
  
  8 (that, seemingly, for April 1818), with the full signature "John Keats.
  
  " ' ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• What The Thrush Said. Lines From A Letter To John Hamilton Reynolds Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
  Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist
  And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars,
  To thee the spring will be a harvest-time.
  
  O thou, whose only book has been the light
  Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on
  Night after night when Phoebus was away,
  To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
  
  O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
  And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
  
  O fret not after knowledge -- I have none,
  And yet the Evening listens.
  
  He who saddens
  At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
  And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.
  
  'In an undated letter to Reynolds bearing the postmark "Hampstead, Feb.
  
  19, 1818" (Life, Letters &c.
  
  , 1848, Volume 1, page 87), occurs the passage --
  "I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of idleness.
  
  I have not read any books -- the morning said I was right -- I had no idea but of the morning, and the thrush said I was right, seeming to say,"--
  and these fourteen lines of blank verse follow immediately on the word 'say', so that the title I have ventured to give to the lines accords at all events with the facts.
  
  Keats seems to have been really writing in a kind of spiritual parallelism with the thrush's song : it will be noted that line 5 repeats the form of line 1, line 8 of line 4, while lines 11 and 12 are a still closer repetition of lines 9 and 10; so that the poem follows in a sense the thrush's method of repetition.
  
  A later poet, perhaps a closer and more conscious observer than Keats, namely Robert Browning, says of the same bird in his 'Home--Thoughts from Abroad' --
  "That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
  Lest you should think he never could recapture
  The first line careless rapture!"'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• Woman! When I Behold Thee Flippant, Vain Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain,
  Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;
  Without that modest softening that enhances
  The downcast eye, repentant of the pain
  That its mild light creates to heal again:
  E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and prances,
  E'en then my soul with exultation dances
  For that to love, so long, I've dormant lain:
  But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender,
  Heavens! how desperately do I adore
  Thy winning graces;--to be thy defender
  I hotly burn--to be a Calidore--
  A very Red Cross Knight--a stout Leander--
  Might I be loved by thee like these of yore.
  
  Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair;
  Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and creamy breast,
  Are things on which the dazzled senses rest
  Till the fond, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
  
  From such fine pictures, heavens! I cannot dare
  To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd
  They be of what is worthy,--though not drest
  In lovely modesty, and virtues rare.
  
  Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;
  These lures I straight forget--e'en ere I dine,
  Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I mark
  Such charms with mild intelligences shine,
  My ear is open like a greedy shark,
  To catch the tunings of a voice divine.
  
  Ah! who can e'er forget so fair a being?
  
  Who can forget her half retiring sweets?
  
  God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
  For man's protection.
  
  Surely the All-seeing,
  Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing,
  Will never give him pinions, who intreats
  Such innocence to ruin,--who vilely cheats
  A dove-like bosom.
  
  In truth there is no freeing
  One's thoughts from such a beauty; when I hear
  A lay that once I saw her hand awake,
  Her form seems floating palpable, and near;
  Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take
  A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear,
  And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

• Written In The Cottage Where Burns Was Born Read Poem Log in to favourite

  This mortal body of a thousand days
  Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,
  Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,
  Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!
  My pulse is warm with thine old barley-bree,
  My head is light with pledging a great soul,
  My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,
  Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;
  Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,
  Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find
  The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,--
  Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,--
  Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,--
  O smile among the shades, for this is fame!
  'In giving this sonnet in the Life, Letters &c.
  
  next to that on Visiting the Tomb of Burns, Lord Houghton recorded that it was written "in the whisky-shop into which the cottage where Burns was born was converted.
  
  "  The date however is not the same as that of the other, as the travellers made the detour to the coast and across to Ireland, before coming to Burns' birthplace.
  
  The following extract from a letter of Keats's accompanies the sonnet in the Life: --
  "The 'bonnie Doon' is the sweetest river I ever saw -- overhung with fine trees as far as we could see.
  
  We stood some time on the 'brig' o'er which Tam o' Shanter fled -- we took a pinch of snuff on the key stone -- then we proceeed to the auld Kirk of Alloway.
  
  Then we went to the cottage in which Burns was born; there was a board to that effect by the door's side; it had the same effect as the same sort of memorial at Stratford-upon-Avon.
  
  We drank some toddy to Burns's memory with an old man who knew him.
  
  There was something good in his description of Burns's melancholy the last time he saw him.
  
  I was determined to write a sonnet in the cottage: I did, but it was so bad I cannot venture it here.
  
  "
  Lord Houghton gave this as from a letter to Haydon; it is really an edited extract from a letter to Tom Keats which happens to have been pasted into Haydon's journal.
  
  On the 11th of July, at Maybole, Keats began a letter to Reynolds, the whole of which is very interesting; but the following passage is, in this connexion, peculiarly so: --
  "I begin a letter to you because I am approaching Burns's cottage very fast.
  
  We have made continual enquiries from the time we left his tomb at Dumfries.
  
  His name, of course, is known all about: his great reputation among the plodding people is, 'that he wrote a good mony sensible things.
  
  ' One of the pleasantest ways of annulling self is approaching such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns: we need not think of his misery -- that is all gone, bad luck to it! I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, as I do on my Stratford-upon-Avon day with Bailey.
  
  I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further than this, till I get to the town of Ayr, which will be a nine miles walk to tea.
  
  "'
  ~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed.
  
  H.
  
  Buxton Forman, Crowell publ.
  
  1895.

• You Say You Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I
  You say you love ; but with a voice
  Chaster than a nun's, who singeth
  The soft Vespers to herself
  While the chime-bell ringeth-
  O love me truly!
  II
  You say you love; but with a smile
  Cold as sunrise in September,
  As you were Saint Cupid 's nun,
  And kept his weeks of Ember.
  
  O love me truly!
  III
  You say you love but then your lips
  Coral tinted teach no blisses,
  More than coral in the sea
  They never pout for kisses
  O love me truly!
  IV
  You say you love ; but then your hand
  No soft squeeze for squeeze returneth,
  It is like a statue's dead
  While mine to passion burneth
  O love me truly!
  V
  O breathe a word or two of fire!
  Smile, as if those words should burn me,
  Squeeze as lovers should O kiss
  And in thy heart inurn me!
  O love me truly!

• “Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art” Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
  Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
  And watching, with eternal lids apart,
  Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
  The moving waters at their priestlike task
  Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
  Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
  Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
  No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
  Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
  To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
  Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
  Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
  And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

• "The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
  Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
  Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
  Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
  Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
  Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
  Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
  Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –
  Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
  When the dusk holiday – or holinight
  Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave
  The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
  But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,
  He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

• fromEndymion Read Poem Log in to favourite

  BOOK I
  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
  Its loveliness increases; it will never
  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
  
  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
  A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
  Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
  Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
  Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
  Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
  Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
  From our dark spirits.
  
  Such the sun, the moon,
  Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
  For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
  With the green world they live in; and clear rills
  That for themselves a cooling covert make
  'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
  Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
  And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
  We have imagined for the mighty dead;
  All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
  An endless fountain of immortal drink,
  Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
  
  Nor do we merely feel these essences
  For one short hour; no, even as the trees
  That whisper round a temple become soon
  Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
  The passion poesy, glories infinite,
  Haunt us till they become a cheering light
  Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
  That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast;
  They always must be with us, or we die.
  
  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
  Will trace the story of Endymion.
  
  The very music of the name has gone
  Into my being, and each pleasant scene
  Is growing fresh before me as the green
  Of our own valleys: so I will begin
  Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
  Now while the early budders are just new,
  And run in mazes of the youngest hue
  About old forests; while the willow trails
  Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
  Bring home increase of milk.
  
  And, as the year
  Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
  My little boat, for many quiet hours,
  With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
  
  Many and many a verse I hope to write,
  Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
  Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
  Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
  I must be near the middle of my story.
  
  O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
  See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold,
  With universal tinge of sober gold,
  Be all about me when I make an end.
  
  And now, at once adventuresome, I send
  My herald thought into a wilderness:
  There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
  My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
  Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

• The Eve of St. Agnes Read Poem Log in to favourite

  St.
  
  Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
  The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
  The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
  And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
  Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
  His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
  Like pious incense from a censer old,
  Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
  Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
  
  His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
  Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
  And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
  Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
  The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
  Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
  Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
  He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
  To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
  
  Northward he turneth through a little door,
  And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
  Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
  But no—already had his deathbell rung;
  The joys of all his life were said and sung:
  His was harsh penance on St.
  
  Agnes' Eve:
  Another way he went, and soon among
  Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
  And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.
  
  That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
  And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
  From hurry to and fro.
  
  Soon, up aloft,
  The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
  The level chambers, ready with their pride,
  Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:
  The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,
  Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,
  With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.
  
  At length burst in the argent revelry,
  With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
  Numerous as shadows haunting faerily
  The brain, new stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
  Of old romance.
  
  These let us wish away,
  And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
  Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
  On love, and wing'd St.
  
  Agnes' saintly care,
  As she had heard old dames full many times declare.
  
  They told her how, upon St.
  
  Agnes' Eve,
  Young virgins might have visions of delight,
  And soft adorings from their loves receive
  Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
  If ceremonies due they did aright;
  As, supperless to bed they must retire,
  And couch supine their beauties, lily white;
  Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require
  Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.
  
  Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
  The music, yearning like a God in pain,
  She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
  Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
  Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain
  Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,
  And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,
  But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:
  She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.
  
  She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
  Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
  The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
  Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
  Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
  'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
  Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,
  Save to St.
  
  Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
  And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.
  
  So, purposing each moment to retire,
  She linger'd still.
  
  Meantime, across the moors,
  Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire
  For Madeline.
  
  Beside the portal doors,
  Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores
  All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
  But for one moment in the tedious hours,
  That he might gaze and worship all unseen;
  Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been.
  
  He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
  All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
  Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
  For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
  Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
  Whose very dogs would execrations howl
  Against his lineage: not one breast affords
  Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
  Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.
  
  Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
  Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
  To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
  Behind a broad half-pillar, far beyond
  The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
  He startled her; but soon she knew his face,
  And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,
  Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place;
  They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!
  
  "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand;
  He had a fever late, and in the fit
  He cursed thee and thine, both house and land:
  Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit
  More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit!
  Flit like a ghost away.
  
  "—"Ah, Gossip dear,
  We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit,
  And tell me how"—"Good Saints! not here, not here;
  Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.
  
  "
  
  He follow'd through a lowly arched way,
  Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume,
  And as she mutter'd "Well-a—well-a-day!"
  He found him in a little moonlight room,
  Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb.
  
  "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he,
  "O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
  Which none but secret sisterhood may see,
  When they St.
  
  Agnes' wool are weaving piously.
  
  "
  
  "St.
  
  Agnes! Ah! it is St.
  
  Agnes' Eve—
  Yet men will murder upon holy days:
  Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve,
  And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays,
  To venture so: it fills me with amaze
  To see thee, Porphyro!—St.
  
  Agnes' Eve!
  God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays
  This very night: good angels her deceive!
  But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve.
  
  "
  
  Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon,
  While Porphyro upon her face doth look,
  Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
  Who keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle-book,
  As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
  
  But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told
  His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook
  Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold,
  And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
  
  Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
  Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart
  Made purple riot: then doth he propose
  A stratagem, that makes the beldame start:
  "A cruel man and impious thou art:
  Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream
  Alone with her good angels, far apart
  From wicked men like thee.
  
  Go, go!—I deem
  Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem.
  
  "
  
  "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,"
  Quoth Porphyro: "O may I ne'er find grace
  When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer,
  If one of her soft ringlets I displace,
  Or look with ruffian passion in her face:
  Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
  Or I will, even in a moment's space,
  Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears,
  And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears.
  
  "
  
  "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul?
  
  A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing,
  Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll;
  Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening,
  Were never miss'd.
  
  "—Thus plaining, doth she bring
  A gentler speech from burning Porphyro;
  So woful, and of such deep sorrowing,
  That Angela gives promise she will do
  Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe.
  
  Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy,
  Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide
  Him in a closet, of such privacy
  That he might see her beauty unespy'd,
  And win perhaps that night a peerless bride,
  While legion'd faeries pac'd the coverlet,
  And pale enchantment held her sleepy-ey'd.
  
  Never on such a night have lovers met,
  Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt.
  
  "It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame:
  "All cates and dainties shall be stored there
  Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame
  Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare,
  For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare
  On such a catering trust my dizzy head.
  
  Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer
  The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed,
  Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.
  
  "
  
  So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear.
  
  The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
  The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear
  To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
  From fright of dim espial.
  
  Safe at last,
  Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
  The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste;
  Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain.
  
  His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain.
  
  Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade,
  Old Angela was feeling for the stair,
  When Madeline, St.
  
  Agnes' charmed maid,
  Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware:
  With silver taper's light, and pious care,
  She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led
  To a safe level matting.
  
  Now prepare,
  Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed;
  She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled.
  
  Out went the taper as she hurried in;
  Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
  She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
  To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
  No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
  But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
  Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
  As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
  Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
  
  A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
  All garlanded with carven imag'ries
  Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
  And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
  Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
  As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
  And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
  And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
  A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.
  
  Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
  And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
  As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
  Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
  And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
  And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
  She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
  Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint:
  She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
  
  Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
  Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
  Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
  Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees
  Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees:
  Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
  Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees,
  In fancy, fair St.
  
  Agnes in her bed,
  But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled.
  
  Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
  In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay,
  Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd
  Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
  Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
  Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain;
  Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
  Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
  As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
  
  Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced,
  Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,
  And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced
  To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
  Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
  And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept,
  Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
  And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept,
  And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo!—how fast she slept.
  
  Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
  Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
  A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
  A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—
  O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
  The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
  The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarinet,
  Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—
  The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.
  
  And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
  In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd,
  While he forth from the closet brought a heap
  Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
  With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
  And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
  Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
  From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
  From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon.
  
  These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand
  On golden dishes and in baskets bright
  Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
  In the retired quiet of the night,
  Filling the chilly room with perfume light.
  
  —
  "And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
  Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
  Open thine eyes, for meek St.
  
  Agnes' sake,
  Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.
  
  "
  
  Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
  Sank in her pillow.
  
  Shaded was her dream
  By the dusk curtains:—'twas a midnight charm
  Impossible to melt as iced stream:
  The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
  Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
  It seem'd he never, never could redeem
  From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes;
  So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies.
  
  Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—
  Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be,
  He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute,
  In Provence call'd, "La belle dame sans mercy":
  Close to her ear touching the melody;—
  Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan:
  He ceas'd—she panted quick—and suddenly
  Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
  Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.
  
  Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
  Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
  There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd
  The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
  At which fair Madeline began to weep,
  And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
  While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
  Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
  Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly.
  
  "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now
  Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
  Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
  And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
  How chang'd thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
  Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
  Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
  Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
  For if thy diest, my Love, I know not where to go.
  
  "
  
  Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far
  At these voluptuous accents, he arose
  Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star
  Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose;
  Into her dream he melted, as the rose
  Blendeth its odour with the violet,—
  Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
  Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet
  Against the window-panes; St.
  
  Agnes' moon hath set.
  
  'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
  "This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!"
  'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
  "No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
  Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.
  
  —
  Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
  
  I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
  Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—
  A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.
  
  "
  
  "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
  Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
  
  Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and vermeil dyed?
  
  Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
  After so many hours of toil and quest,
  A famish'd pilgrim,—sav'd by miracle.
  
  Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
  Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well
  To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
  
  "Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
  Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
  Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;—
  The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—
  Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
  There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—
  Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
  Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
  For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
  
  "
  
  She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
  For there were sleeping dragons all around,
  At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—
  Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
  
  —
  In all the house was heard no human sound.
  
  A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door;
  The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
  Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar;
  And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
  
  They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
  Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
  Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
  With a huge empty flaggon by his side:
  The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
  But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
  By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—
  The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—
  The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
  
  And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
  These lovers fled away into the storm.
  
  That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
  And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
  Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
  Were long be-nightmar'd.
  
  Angela the old
  Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;
  The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
  For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.

• The Human Seasons Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
  There are four seasons in the mind of man:
  He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
  Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
  He has his Summer, when luxuriously
  Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
  To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
  Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
  His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
  He furleth close; contented so to look
  On mists in idleness—to let fair things
  Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
  
  He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
  Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

• Hyperion Read Poem Log in to favourite

  BOOK I
  Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
  Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
  Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
  Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
  Still as the silence round about his lair;
  Forest on forest hung about his head
  Like cloud on cloud.
  
  No stir of air was there,
  Not so much life as on a summer's day
  Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
  But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
  
  A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
  By reason of his fallen divinity
  Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
  Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.
  
  Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
  No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
  And slept there since.
  
  Upon the sodden ground
  His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
  Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
  While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth,
  His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
  
  It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
  But there came one, who with a kindred hand
  Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
  With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
  
  She was a Goddess of the infant world;
  By her in stature the tall Amazon
  Had stood a pigmy's height; she would have ta'en
  Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;
  Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
  
  Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
  Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,
  When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore.
  
  But oh! how unlike marble was that face:
  How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
  Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
  
  There was a listening fear in her regard,
  As if calamity had but begun;
  As if the vanward clouds of evil days
  Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
  Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
  
  One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
  Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
  Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:
  The other upon Saturn's bended neck
  She laid, and to the level of his ear
  Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
  In solemn tenour and deep organ tone:
  Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
  Would come in these like accents; O how frail
  To that large utterance of the early Gods!
  "Saturn, look up!—though wherefore, poor old King?
  
  I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
  I cannot say, "O wherefore sleepest thou?
  
  "
  For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
  Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
  And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
  Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
  Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
  
  Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
  Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
  And thy sharp lightning in unpractis'd hands
  Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
  
  O aching time! O moments big as years!
  All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
  And press it so upon our weary griefs
  That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
  
  Saturn, sleep on:—O thoughtless, why did I
  Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
  
  Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
  
  Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep.
  
  "
  
  As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
  Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
  Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
  Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
  Save from one gradual solitary gust
  Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
  As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
  So came these words and went; the while in tears
  She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground,
  Just where her falling hair might be outspread
  A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
  
  One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
  Her silver seasons four upon the night,
  And still these two were postured motionless,
  Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern;
  The frozen God still couchant on the earth,
  And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet:
  Until at length old Saturn lifted up
  His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,
  And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
  And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then spake,
  As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
  Shook horrid with such aspen-malady:
  "O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
  Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;
  Look up, and let me see our doom in it;
  Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
  Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice
  Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,
  Naked and bare of its great diadem,
  Peers like the front of Saturn.
  
  Who had power
  To make me desolate?
  
  whence came the strength?
  
  How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth,
  While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp?
  
  But it is so, and I am smother'd up,
  And buried from all godlike exercise
  Of influence benign on planets pale,
  Of admonitions to the winds and seas,
  Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
  And all those acts which Deity supreme
  Doth ease its heart of love in.
  
  —I am gone
  Away from my own bosom: I have left
  My strong identity, my real self,
  Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
  Here on this spot of earth.
  
  Search, Thea, search!
  Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
  Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of light;
  Space region'd with life-air; and barren void;
  Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.
  
  —
  Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
  A certain shape or shadow, making way
  With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
  A heaven he lost erewhile: it must—it must
  Be of ripe progress—Saturn must be King.
  
  Yes, there must be a golden victory;
  There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
  Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
  Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,
  Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
  Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
  Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
  Of the sky-children; I will give command:
  Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?
  
  "
  
  This passion lifted him upon his feet,
  And made his hands to struggle in the air,
  His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
  His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.
  
  He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep;
  A little time, and then again he snatch'd
  Utterance thus.
  
  —"But cannot I create?
  
  Cannot I form?
  
  Cannot I fashion forth
  Another world, another universe,
  To overbear and crumble this to nought?
  
  Where is another chaos?
  
  Where?
  
  "—That word
  Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
  The rebel three.
  
  —Thea was startled up,
  And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
  As thus she quick-voic'd spake, yet full of awe.
  
  "This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,
  O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;
  I know the covert, from thence came I hither.
  
  "
  Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
  With backward footing through the shade a space:
  He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way
  Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
  Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.
  
  Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
  More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
  Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe:
  The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
  Groan'd for the old allegiance once more,
  And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice.
  
  But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept
  His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty;—
  Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
  Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming up
  From man to the sun's God; yet unsecure:
  For as among us mortals omens drear
  Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he—
  Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech,
  Or the familiar visiting of one
  Upon the first toll of his passing bell,
  Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
  But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,
  Oft made Hyperion ache.
  
  His palace bright
  Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold,
  And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
  Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
  Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
  And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
  Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagle's wings,
  Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
  Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds were heard,
  Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
  
  Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths
  Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills,
  Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
  Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick:
  And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west,
  After the full completion of fair day,—
  For rest divine upon exalted couch
  And slumber in the arms of melody,
  He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease
  With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;
  While far within each aisle and deep recess,
  His winged minions in close clusters stood,
  Amaz'd and full of fear; like anxious men
  Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
  When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
  
  Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy trance,
  Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
  Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
  Came slope upon the threshold of the west;
  Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope
  In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,
  Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
  And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies;
  And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
  In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
  That inlet to severe magnificence
  Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.
  
  He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath;
  His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
  And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
  That scar'd away the meek ethereal Hours
  And made their dove-wings tremble.
  
  On he flared,
  From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
  Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
  And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
  Until he reach'd the great main cupola;
  There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
  And from the basements deep to the high towers
  Jarr'd his own golden region; and before
  The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas'd,
  His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
  To this result: "O dreams of day and night!
  O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain!
  O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!
  O lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools!
  Why do I know ye?
  
  why have I seen ye?
  
  why
  Is my eternal essence thus distraught
  To see and to behold these horrors new?
  
  Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?
  
  Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
  This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
  This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
  These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
  Of all my lucent empire?
  
  It is left
  Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
  
  The blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry,
  I cannot see—but darkness, death and darkness.
  
  Even here, into my centre of repose,
  The shady visions come to domineer,
  Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.
  
  —
  Fall!—No, by Tellus and her briny robes!
  Over the fiery frontier of my realms
  I will advance a terrible right arm
  Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove,
  And bid old Saturn take his throne again.
  
  "—
  He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat
  Held struggle with his throat but came not forth;
  For as in the theatres of crowded men
  Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!"
  So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale
  Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold;
  And from the mirror'd level where he stood
  A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.
  
  At this, through all his bulk an agony
  Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown,
  Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
  Making slow way, with head and neck convuls'd
  From over-strained might.
  
  Releas'd, he fled
  To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours
  Before the dawn in season due should blush,
  He breath'd fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
  Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
  Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams.
  
  The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
  Each day from east to west the heavens through,
  Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds;
  Nor therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid,
  But ever and anon the glancing spheres,
  Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
  Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark
  Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep
  Up to the zenith,—hieroglyphics old
  Which sages and keen-ey'd astrologers
  Then living on the earth, with labouring thought
  Won from the gaze of many centuries:
  Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
  Of stone, or marble swart; their import gone,
  Their wisdom long since fled.
  
  —Two wings this orb
  Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings,
  Ever exalted at the God's approach:
  And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
  Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were;
  While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse,
  Awaiting for Hyperion's command.
  
  Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
  And bid the day begin, if but for change.
  
  He might not:—No, though a primeval God:
  The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd.
  
  Therefore the operations of the dawn
  Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told.
  
  Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
  Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide
  Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night;
  And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes,
  Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent
  His spirit to the sorrow of the time;
  And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
  Upon the boundaries of day and night,
  He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint.
  
  There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
  Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice
  Of Coelus, from the universal space,
  Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear.
  
  "O brightest of my children dear, earth-born
  And sky-engendered, Son of Mysteries
  All unrevealed even to the powers
  Which met at thy creating; at whose joys
  And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,
  I, C{oe}lus, wonder, how they came and whence;
  And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,
  Distinct, and visible; symbols divine,
  Manifestations of that beauteous life
  Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal space:
  Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child!
  Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses!
  There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion
  Of son against his sire.
  
  I saw him fall,
  I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne!
  To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
  Found way from forth the thunders round his head!
  Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face
  Art thou, too, near such doom?
  
  vague fear there is:
  For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.
  
  Divine ye were created, and divine
  In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd,
  Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv'd and ruled:
  Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath;
  Actions of rage and passion; even as
  I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
  In men who die.
  
  —This is the grief, O Son!
  Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall!
  Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
  As thou canst move about, an evident God;
  And canst oppose to each malignant hour
  Ethereal presence:—I am but a voice;
  My life is but the life of winds and tides,
  No more than winds and tides can I avail:—
  But thou canst.
  
  —Be thou therefore in the van
  Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb
  Before the tense string murmur.
  
  —To the earth!
  For there thou wilt find Saturn and his woes.
  
  Meanwhile I will keep watch on thy bright sun,
  And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.
  
  "—
  Ere half this region-whisper had come down,
  Hyperion arose, and on the stars
  Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
  Until it ceas'd; and still he kept them wide:
  And still they were the same bright, patient stars.
  
  Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
  Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
  Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore,
  And plung'd all noiseless into the deep night.

• "I cry your mercy-pity-love! -aye, love!" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!
  Merciful love that tantalizes not,
  One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
  Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!
  O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
  That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
  Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
  That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,
  Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
  Withhold no atom’s atom or I die
  Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
  Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
  Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind
  Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

• If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd Read Poem Log in to favourite

  If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
  And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
  Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
  Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
  Sandals more interwoven and complete
  To fit the naked foot of poesy;
  Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
  Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
  By ear industrious, and attention meet:
  Misers of sound and syllable, no less
  Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
  Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
  So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
  She will be bound with garlands of her own.

• La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  Alone and palely loitering?
  
  ThesedgesedgeGrasslike or rushlike plant that grows in wet areas.
  
  has withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.
  
  O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
  SohaggardhaggardWild lookingand so woe-begonebegoneTo happen, occur, transpire?
  
  The squirrel’s granary is full,
  And the harvest’s done.
  
  I see a lily on thy brow,
  With anguish moist and fever-dew,
  And on thy cheeks a fading rose
  Fast withereth too.
  
  I met a lady in themeadsmeadsMeadow,
  Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
  Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.
  
  I made a garland for her head,
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
  She looked at me as she did love,
  Andmade sweet moanmade sweet moanCompare "virgin-choir to make delicious moan" fromOde to Psyche(30), written between April 21 and 30, 1819.
  
  Noted by John Barnard inJohn Keats: The Complete Poems(Penguin, 2003).
  
  I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long,
  For sidelong would she bend, and sing
  A faery’s song.
  
  She found me roots of relish sweet,
  Andhoney wild, and manna-dewhoney wild, and manna-dewEchoes manna in the Bible, first described in Exodus, 16:14-21, 31.
  
  The Israelites eat the manna, a food miraculously supplied in the wilderness after the dew has lifted, in the morning: “The house of Israel called it manna; it was like coriander seed, white, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey” (Exodus 16:31, NRSV).
  
  ,
  And sure in language strange she said—
  ‘I love thee true’.
  
  She took me to herElfin grotElfin grotAn elf’s grotto,
  And there she wept and sighed full sore,
  And there I shut her wild wild eyes
  With kisses four.
  
  And there she lullèd me asleep,
  And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
  The latest dream I ever dreamt
  On the cold hill side.
  
  I saw pale kings and princes too,
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
  They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans MerciLa Belle Dame sans MerciThis phrase—and the poem’s title—is from Alain Chartier’s courtly French ballad, “La Belle Dame sans Merci” (1424).
  
  Keats wrote the poem in a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, April 21, 1819.
  
  Thee hathThee hathThe version of this poem has “Thee hath” (seeThe Letters of John Keats, 1814-1821, ed.
  
  H.
  
  E.
  
  Rollins, 1958); though other versions of this poem reads “Hath thee”in thrall!’
  
  I saw their starved lips in thegloamgloamTwilight; Keats coined the word from “gloaming”,
  With horrid warning gapèd wide,
  And I awoke and found me here,
  On the cold hill’s side.
  
  And this is why IsojournsojournTo stay or visit temporarilyhere,
  Alone and palely loitering,
  Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
  And no birds sing.

• Lines on the Mermaid Tavern Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Souls of Poets dead and gone,
  What Elysium have ye known,
  Happy field or mossy cavern,
  Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
  
  Have ye tippled drink more fine
  Than mine host's Canary wine?
  
  Or are fruits of Paradise
  Sweeter than those dainty pies
  Of venison?
  
  O generous food!
  Drest as though bold Robin Hood
  Would, with his maid Marian,
  Sup and bowse from horn and can.
  
  I have heard that on a day
  Mine host's sign-board flew away,
  Nobody knew whither, till
  An astrologer's old quill
  To a sheepskin gave the story,
  Said he saw you in your glory,
  Underneath a new old sign
  Sipping beverage divine,
  And pledging with contented smack
  The Mermaid in the Zodiac.
  
  Souls of Poets dead and gone,
  What Elysium have ye known,
  Happy field or mossy cavern,
  Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

• Modern Love Read Poem Log in to favourite

  And what is love?
  
  It is a doll dress’d up
  For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
  A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
  That silly youth doth think to make itself
  Divine by loving, and so goes on
  Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
  Till Miss’s comb is made a pearl tiara,
  And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
  Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
  And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
  
  Fools! if some passions high have warm’d the world,
  If Queens and Soldiers have play’d deep for hearts,
  It is no reason why such agonies
  Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
  
  Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
  The Queen of Egypt melted, and I’ll say
  That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.

• Ode on a Grecian Urn Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
  Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
  Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
  A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
  What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
  Of deities or mortals, or of both,
  In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
  
  What men or gods are these?
  
  What maidens loth?
  
  What mad pursuit?
  
  What struggle to escape?
  
  What pipes and timbrels?
  
  What wild ecstasy?
  
  Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
  Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
  Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
  Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
  Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
  Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
  Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
  Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
  She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
  For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
  
  Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
  Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
  And, happy melodist, unwearied,
  For ever piping songs for ever new;
  More happy love! more happy, happy love!
  For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
  For ever panting, and for ever young;
  All breathing human passion far above,
  That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
  A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
  
  Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
  
  To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
  Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
  And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
  
  What little town by river or sea shore,
  Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
  Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
  
  And, little town, thy streets for evermore
  Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
  Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
  
  O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
  Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
  With forest branches and the trodden weed;
  Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
  As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
  When old age shall this generation waste,
  Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
  Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
  "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
  Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
  
  "

• Ode on Indolence Read Poem Log in to favourite

  One morn before me were three figures seen,
  With bowèd necks, and joinèd hands, side-faced;
  And one behind the other stepp’d serene,
  In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
  They pass’d, like figures on a marble urn,
  When shifted round to see the other side;
  They came again; as when the urn once more
  Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
  And they were strange to me, as may betide
  With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.
  
  How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
  
  How came ye muffled in so hush a mask?
  
  Was it a silent deep-disguisèd plot
  To steal away, and leave without a task
  My idle days?
  
  Ripe was the drowsy hour;
  The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
  Benumb’d my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
  Pain had no sting, and pleasure’s wreath no flower:
  O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense
  Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?
  
  A third time pass’d they by, and, passing, turn’d
  Each one the face a moment whiles to me;
  Then faded, and to follow them I burn’d
  And ached for wings, because I knew the three;
  The first was a fair Maid, and Love her name;
  The second was Ambition, pale of cheek,
  And ever watchful with fatiguèd eye;
  The last, whom I love more, the more of blame
  Is heap’d upon her, maiden most unmeek,—
  I knew to be my demon Poesy.
  
  They faded, and, forsooth! I wanted wings:
  O folly! What is Love?
  
  and where is it?
  
  And for that poor Ambition! it springs
  From a man’s little heart’s short fever-fit;
  For Poesy!—no,—she has not a joy,—
  At least for me,—so sweet as drowsy noons,
  And evenings steep’d in honey’d indolence;
  O, for an age so shelter’d from annoy,
  That I may never know how change the moons,
  Or hear the voice of busy common-sense!
  
  And once more came they by:—alas! wherefore?
  
  My sleep had been embroider’d with dim dreams;
  My soul had been a lawn besprinkled o’er
  With flowers, and stirring shades, and baffled beams:
  The morn was clouded, but no shower fell,
  Tho’ in her lids hung the sweet tears of May;
  The open casement press’d a new-leaved vine,
  Let in the budding warmth and throstle’s lay;
  O Shadows! ’twas a time to bid farewell!
  Upon your skirts had fallen no tears of mine.
  
  So, ye three Ghosts, adieu! Ye cannot raise
  My head cool-bedded in the flowery grass;
  For I would not be dieted with praise,
  A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce!
  Fade softly from my eyes, and be once more
  In masque-like figures on the dreamy urn;
  Farewell! I yet have visions for the night,
  And for the day faint visions there is store;
  Vanish, ye Phantoms! from my idle spright,
  Into the clouds, and never more return!

• Ode on Melancholy Read Poem Log in to favourite

  No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
  Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
  Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
  By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
  Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
  Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
  Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
  A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
  For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
  And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
  
  But when the melancholy fit shall fall
  Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
  That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
  And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
  Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
  Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
  Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
  Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
  Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
  And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
  
  She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
  And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
  Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
  Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
  Ay, in the very temple of Delight
  Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
  Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
  Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
  His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
  And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

• Ode to a Nightingale Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
  Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
  'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in thine happiness,—
  That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
  In some melodious plot
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
  Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
  
  O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
  Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
  Tasting of Flora and the country green,
  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
  O for a beaker full of the warm South,
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
  With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
  And purple-stained mouth;
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
  And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
  
  Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,
  The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
  Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
  Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
  And leaden-eyed despairs,
  Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
  Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
  
  Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
  Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
  But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
  Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
  Already with thee! tender is the night,
  And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
  Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
  But here there is no light,
  Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
  Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
  
  I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
  But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
  Wherewith the seasonable month endows
  The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
  White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
  Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
  And mid-May's eldest child,
  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
  The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
  
  Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
  I have been half in love with easeful Death,
  Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
  To take into the air my quiet breath;
  Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
  To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
  While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
  In such an ecstasy!
  Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
  To thy high requiem become a sod.
  
  Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
  No hungry generations tread thee down;
  The voice I hear this passing night was heard
  In ancient days by emperor and clown:
  Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
  Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
  She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
  The same that oft-times hath
  Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
  Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
  
  Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
  To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
  Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
  As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
  
  Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
  Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
  Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
  In the next valley-glades:
  Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
  
  Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

• Ode to Psyche Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
  By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
  And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
  Even into thine own soft-conched ear:
  Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
  The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes?
  
  I wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly,
  And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
  Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side
  In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof
  Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
  A brooklet, scarce espied:
  
  Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
  Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
  They lay calm-breathing, on the bedded grass;
  Their arms embraced, and their pinions too;
  Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu,
  As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
  And ready still past kisses to outnumber
  At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love:
  The winged boy I knew;
  But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
  
  His Psyche true!
  
  O latest born and loveliest vision far
  Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
  Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,
  Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
  Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
  Nor altar heap'd with flowers;
  Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
  Upon the midnight hours;
  No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
  From chain-swung censer teeming;
  No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
  Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
  
  O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
  Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
  When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
  Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
  Yet even in these days so far retir'd
  From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
  Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
  I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd.
  
  So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
  Upon the midnight hours;
  Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
  From swinged censer teeming;
  Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
  Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming.
  
  Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
  In some untrodden region of my mind,
  Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
  Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
  Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
  Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep;
  And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
  The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
  And in the midst of this wide quietness
  A rosy sanctuary will I dress
  With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,
  With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
  With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
  Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
  And there shall be for thee all soft delight
  That shadowy thought can win,
  A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
  To let the warm Love in!

• On a Dream Read Poem Log in to favourite

  As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
  When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon’d and slept,
  So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
  So play’d, so charm’d, so conquer’d, so bereft
  The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
  And seeing it asleep, so fled away,
  Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
  Nor unto Tempe where Jove griev’d that day;
  But to that second circle of sad Hell,
  Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
  Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
  Their sorrows—pale were the sweet lips I saw,
  Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form
  I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

• On First Looking into Chapman's Homer Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
  And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
  Round many western islands have I been
  Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
  
  Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
  That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
  Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
  Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
  Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
  When a new planet swims into his ken;
  Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
  He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
  Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
  Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

• On Seeing the Elgin Marbles Read Poem Log in to favourite

  My spirit is too weak—mortality
  Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
  And each imagined pinnacle and steep
  Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
  Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
  
  Yet ’tis a gentle luxury to weep
  That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
  Fresh for the opening of the morning’s eye.
  
  Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
  Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
  So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
  That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
  Wasting of old time—with a billowy main—
  A sun—a shadow of a magnitude.

• On Sitting Down to Read King Lear Once Again Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
  Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
  Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
  Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
  Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
  Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
  Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
  The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
  
  Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
  Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
  When through the old oak forest I am gone,
  Let me not wander in a barren dream,
  But when I am consumed in the fire,
  Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

• On the Grasshopper and Cricket Read Poem Log in to favourite

  The Poetry of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
  From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
  That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead
  In summer luxury,—he has never done
  With his delights; for when tired out with fun
  He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
  
  The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
  Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
  The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
  The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

• "This living hand, now warm and capable" Read Poem Log in to favourite

  This living hand, now warm and capable
  Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
  And in the icy silence of the tomb,
  So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
  That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
  So in my veins red life might stream again,
  And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
  I hold it towards you.

• To - Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Had I a man’s fair form, then might my sighs
  Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell
  Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
  Would passion arm me for the enterprise;
  But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
  No cuirass glistens on my bosom’s swell;
  I am no happy shepherd of the dell
  Whose lips have trembled with a maiden’s eyes.
  
  Yet must I dote upon thee—call thee sweet,
  Sweeter by far than Hybla’s honied roses
  When steep’d in dew rich to intoxication.
  
  Ah! I will taste that dew, for me ‘tis meet,
  And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
  I’ll gather some by spells, and incantation.

• To Autumn Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
  ConspiringConspiringWorking together; literally, to conspire is “to breathe together” (OED)with him how to load and bless
  With fruit the vines that round thethatch-evesthatch-evesThatch-eaves, the edge of thatched roofsrun;
  To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
  To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
  And still more, later flowers for the bees,
  Until they think warm days will never cease,
  For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
  
  Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
  
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
  Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
  Thy hair soft-lifted by thewinnowingwinnowingSeparating the wheat from the chaff, the heavy from the lightwind;
  Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
  Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thyhookhookScythe
  Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
  And sometimes like agleanergleanerOne who gathers the remaining food after the reaper has harvested the fieldthou dost keep
  Steady thyladenladenLoaded downhead across a brook;
  Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
  Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
  
  Where are the songs of spring?
  
  Ay,Where are they?
  
  Where are they?
  
  Rhetorical convention known asubi sunt, often appearing in poems that meditate on the transitory nature of life and the inevitability of death.
  
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
  While barred cloudsbloombloom“to colour with a soft warm tint or glow” (OED)the soft-dying day,
  And touch thestubble-plainsstubble-plainsFields made up of stubble, the remaining stumps of grain left after reapingwith rosy hue;
  Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
  Among the riversallowssallowsWillow trees, borne aloft
  Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
  And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The red-breast whistles from agarden-croftgarden-croftA croft is a small enclosed field;
  And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

• To Homer Read Poem Log in to favourite

  Standing aloof in giant ignorance,
  Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades,
  As one who sits ashore and longs perchance
  To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas.
  
  So thou wast blind;—but then the veil was rent,
  For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee live,
  And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent,
  And Pan made sing for thee his forest-hive;
  Aye on the shores of darkness there is light,
  And precipices show untrodden green,
  There is a budding morrow in midnight,
  There is a triple sight in blindness keen;
  Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befel
  To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, and Hell.

• To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent Read Poem Log in to favourite

  To one who has been long in city pent,
  'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
  And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
  Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
  
  Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
  Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
  Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
  And gentle tale of love and languishment?
  
  Returning home at evening, with an ear
  Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
  Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
  He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
  E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
  That falls through the clear ether silently.

• To Sleep Read Poem Log in to favourite

  O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
  Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
  Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
  Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
  O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
  In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
  Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
  Around my bed its lulling charities.
  
  Then save me, or the passed day will shine
  Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
  Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
  Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
  Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
  And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

• When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be Read Poem Log in to favourite

  When I have fears that I may cease to be
  Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
  Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
  Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
  When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
  Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
  And think that I may never live to trace
  Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
  And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
  That I shall never look upon thee more,
  Never have relish in the faery power
  Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
  Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
  Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

• from Endymion Read Poem Log in to favourite

  A Poetic Romance  (excerpt)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  BOOK I A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
  
  Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits.
  
  Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake, Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms: And such too is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead; All lovely tales that we have heard or read: An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
  
  Nor do we merely feel these essences For one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast; They always must be with us, or we die.
  
  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion.
  
  The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk.
  
  And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer My little boat, for many quiet hours, With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
  
  Many and many a verse I hope to write, Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, I must be near the middle of my story.
  
  O may no wintry season, bare and hoary, See it half finish'd: but let Autumn bold, With universal tinge of sober gold, Be all about me when I make an end.
  
  And now, at once adventuresome, I send My herald thought into a wilderness: There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress My uncertain path with green, that I may speed Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.