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diff --git a/23684.txt b/23684.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2bce7f --- /dev/null +++ b/23684.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6583 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Keats: Poems Published in 1820, by John +Keats, Edited by M. Robertson + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Keats: Poems Published in 1820 + + +Author: John Keats + +Editor: M. Robertson + +Release Date: December 2, 2007 [eBook #23684] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEATS: POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1820*** + + +E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Lisa Reigel, and the Project Gutenberg +Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file + which includes links to images of the original pages. + See 23684-h.htm or 23684-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/6/8/23684/23684-h/23684-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/6/8/23684/23684-h.zip) + + +Transcriber's note: + + Words in italics in the original are surrounded by _underscores_. + + The one Greek word has been transliterated and placed between + +plus signs+. + + Ellipses match the original. + + See the end of the text for a more detailed transcriber's note. + + + + + +KEATS + +POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1820 + +Edited with Introduction and Notes by + +M. ROBERTSON + + + + + + + +Oxford +At the Clarendon Press +1909 + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The text of this edition is a reprint (page for page and line for line) +of a copy of the 1820 edition in the British Museum. For convenience of +reference line-numbers have been added; but this is the only change, +beyond the correction of one or two misprints. + +The books to which I am most indebted for the material used in the +Introduction and Notes are _The Poems of John Keats_ with an +Introduction and Notes by E. de Selincourt, _Life of Keats_ (English Men +of Letters Series) by Sidney Colvin, and _Letters of John Keats_ edited +by Sidney Colvin. As a pupil of Dr. de Selincourt I also owe him special +gratitude for his inspiration and direction of my study of Keats, as +well as for the constant help which I have received from him in the +preparation of this edition. + M. R. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE +PREFACE ii + +LIFE OF KEATS v + +ADVERTISEMENT 2 + +LAMIA. PART I 3 + +LAMIA. PART II 27 + +ISABELLA; OR, THE POT OF BASIL. A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 47 + +THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 81 + +ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 107 + +ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 113 + +ODE TO PSYCHE 117 + +FANCY 122 + +ODE ['Bards of Passion and of Mirth'] 128 + +LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 131 + +ROBIN HOOD. TO A FRIEND 133 + +TO AUTUMN 137 + +ODE ON MELANCHOLY 140 + +HYPERION. BOOK I 145 + +HYPERION. BOOK II 167 + +HYPERION. BOOK III 191 + + NOTE ON ADVERTISEMENT 201 + +INTRODUCTION TO LAMIA 201 + + NOTES ON LAMIA 203 + +INTRODUCTION TO ISABELLA AND THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 210 + + NOTES ON ISABELLA 215 + + NOTES ON THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 224 + +INTRODUCTION TO THE ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE, ODE ON A GRECIAN + URN, ODE ON MELANCHOLY, AND TO AUTUMN 229 + + NOTES ON ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 232 + + NOTES ON ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 235 + +INTRODUCTION TO ODE TO PSYCHE 236 + + NOTES ON ODE TO PSYCHE 237 + +INTRODUCTION TO FANCY 238 + + NOTES ON FANCY 238 + + NOTES ON ODE ['Bards of Passion and of Mirth'] 239 + +INTRODUCTION TO LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 239 + + NOTES ON LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 239 + +INTRODUCTION TO ROBIN HOOD 240 + + NOTES ON ROBIN HOOD 241 + + NOTES ON 'TO AUTUMN' 242 + + NOTES ON ODE ON MELANCHOLY 243 + +INTRODUCTION TO HYPERION 244 + + NOTES ON HYPERION 249 + + + + +LIFE OF KEATS + + +Of all the great poets of the early nineteenth century--Wordsworth, +Coleridge, Scott, Byron, Shelley, Keats--John Keats was the last born +and the first to die. The length of his life was not one-third that of +Wordsworth, who was born twenty-five years before him and outlived him +by twenty-nine. Yet before his tragic death at twenty-six Keats had +produced a body of poetry of such extraordinary power and promise that +the world has sometimes been tempted, in its regret for what he might +have done had he lived, to lose sight of the superlative merit of what +he actually accomplished. + +The three years of his poetic career, during which he published three +small volumes of poetry, show a development at the same time rapid and +steady, and a gradual but complete abandonment of almost every fault and +weakness. It would probably be impossible, in the history of literature, +to find such another instance of the 'growth of a poet's mind'. + +The last of these three volumes, which is here reprinted, was published +in 1820, when it 'had good success among the literary people and . . . a +moderate sale'. It contains the flower of his poetic production and is +perhaps, altogether, one of the most marvellous volumes ever issued from +the press. + +But in spite of the maturity of Keats's work when he was twenty-five, he +had been in no sense a precocious child. Born in 1795 in the city of +London, the son of a livery-stable keeper, he was brought up amid +surroundings and influences by no means calculated to awaken poetic +genius. + +He was the eldest of five--four boys, one of whom died in infancy, and a +girl younger than all; and he and his brothers George and Tom were +educated at a private school at Enfield. Here John was at first +distinguished more for fighting than for study, whilst his bright, +brave, generous nature made him popular with masters and boys. + +Soon after he had begun to go to school his father died, and when he was +fifteen the children lost their mother too. Keats was passionately +devoted to his mother; during her last illness he would sit up all night +with her, give her her medicine, and even cook her food himself. At her +death he was brokenhearted. + +The children were now put under the care of two guardians, one of whom, +Mr. Abbey, taking the sole responsibility, immediately removed John from +school and apprenticed him for five years to a surgeon at Edmonton. + +Whilst thus employed Keats spent all his leisure time in reading, for +which he had developed a great enthusiasm during his last two years at +school. There he had devoured every book that came in his way, +especially rejoicing in stories of the gods and goddesses of ancient +Greece. At Edmonton he was able to continue his studies by borrowing +books from his friend Charles Cowden Clarke, the son of his +schoolmaster, and he often went over to Enfield to change his books and +to discuss those which he had been reading. On one of these occasions +Cowden Clarke introduced him to Spenser, to whom so many poets have owed +their first inspiration that he has been called 'the poets' poet'; and +it was then, apparently, that Keats was first prompted to write. + +When he was nineteen, a year before his apprenticeship came to an end, +he quarrelled with his master, left him, and continued his training in +London as a student at St. Thomas's Hospital and Guy's. Gradually, +however, during the months that followed, though he was an industrious +and able medical student, Keats came to realize that poetry was his true +vocation; and as soon as he was of age, in spite of the opposition of +his guardian, he decided to abandon the medical profession and devote +his life to literature. + +If Mr. Abbey was unsympathetic Keats was not without encouragement from +others. His brothers always believed in him whole-heartedly, and his +exceptionally lovable nature had won him many friends. Amongst these +friends two men older than himself, each famous in his own sphere, had +special influence upon him. + +One of them, Leigh Hunt, was something of a poet himself and a pleasant +prose-writer. His encouragement did much to stimulate Keats's genius, +but his direct influence on his poetry was wholly bad. Leigh Hunt's was +not a deep nature; his poetry is often trivial and sentimental, and his +easy conversational style is intolerable when applied to a great theme. +To this man's influence, as well as to the surroundings of his youth, +are doubtless due the occasional flaws of taste in Keats's early work. + +The other, Haydon, was an artist of mediocre creative talent but great +aims and amazing belief in himself. He had a fine critical faculty which +was shown in his appreciation of the Elgin marbles, in opposition to the +most respected authorities of his day. Mainly through his insistence +they were secured for the nation which thus owes him a boundless debt of +gratitude. He helped to guide and direct Keats's taste by his +enthusiastic exposition of these masterpieces of Greek sculpture. + +In 1817 Keats published his first volume of poems, including 'Sleep and +Poetry' and the well-known lines 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill'. +With much that is of the highest poetic value, many memorable lines and +touches of his unique insight into nature, the volume yet showed +considerable immaturity. It contained indeed, if we except one perfect +sonnet, rather a series of experiments than any complete and finished +work. There were abundant faults for those who liked to look for them, +though there were abundant beauties too; and the critics and the public +chose rather to concentrate their attention on the former. The volume +was therefore anything but a success; but Keats was not discouraged, for +he saw many of his own faults more clearly than did his critics, and +felt his power to outgrow them. + +Immediately after this Keats went to the Isle of Wight and thence to +Margate that he might study and write undisturbed. On May 10th he wrote +to Haydon--'I never quite despair, and I read Shakespeare--indeed I +shall, I think, never read any other book much'. We have seen Keats +influenced by Spenser and by Leigh Hunt: now, though his love for +Spenser continued, Shakespeare's had become the dominant influence. +Gradually he came too under the influence of Wordsworth's philosophy of +poetry and life, and later his reading of Milton affected his style to +some extent, but Shakespeare's influence was the widest, deepest and +most lasting, though it is the hardest to define. His study of other +poets left traces upon his work in turns of phrase or turns of thought: +Shakespeare permeated his whole being, and his influence is to be +detected not in a resemblance of style, for Shakespeare can have no +imitators, but in a broadening view of life, and increased humanity. + +No poet could have owed his education more completely to the English +poets than did John Keats. His knowledge of Latin was slight--he knew no +Greek, and even the classical stories which he loved and constantly +used, came to him almost entirely through the medium of Elizabethan +translations and allusions. In this connexion it is interesting to read +his first fine sonnet, in which he celebrates his introduction to the +greatest of Greek poets in the translation of the rugged and forcible +Elizabethan, George Chapman:-- + + _On first looking into Chapman's Homer._ + + Much have I travelled 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 stared at the Pacific--and all his men + Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- + Silent, upon a peak in Darien. + +Of the work upon which he was now engaged, the narrative-poem of +_Endymion_, we may give his own account to his little sister Fanny in a +letter dated September 10th, 1817:-- + +'Perhaps you might like to know what I am writing about. I will tell +you. Many years ago there was a young handsome Shepherd who fed his +flocks on a Mountain's Side called Latmus--he was a very contemplative +sort of a Person and lived solitary among the trees and Plains little +thinking that such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was growing mad in +Love with him.--However so it was; and when he was asleep she used to +come down from heaven and admire him excessively for a long time; and at +last could not refrain from carrying him away in her arms to the top of +that high Mountain Latmus while he was a dreaming--but I dare say you +have read this and all the other beautiful tales which have come down +from the ancient times of that beautiful Greece.' + +On his return to London he and his brother Tom, always delicate and now +quite an invalid, took lodgings at Hampstead. Here Keats remained for +some time, harassed by the illness of his brother and of several of his +friends; and in June he was still further depressed by the departure of +his brother George to try his luck in America. + +In April, 1818, _Endymion_ was finished. Keats was by no means +satisfied with it but preferred to publish it as it was, feeling it to +be 'as good as I had power to make it by myself'.--'I will write +independently' he says to his publisher--'I have written independently +_without judgment_. I may write independently and _with judgment_ +hereafter. In _Endymion_ I leaped headlong into the sea, and thereby +have become better acquainted with the soundings, the quicksands, and +the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly +pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.' He published it with a +preface modestly explaining to the public his own sense of its +imperfection. Nevertheless a storm of abuse broke upon him from the +critics who fastened upon all the faults of the poem--the diffuseness of +the story, its occasional sentimentality and the sometimes fantastic +coinage of words,[xiii:1] and ignored the extraordinary beauties of +which it is full. + +Directly after the publication of _Endymion_, and before the appearance +of these reviews, Keats started with a friend, Charles Brown, for a +walking tour in Scotland. They first visited the English lakes and +thence walked to Dumfries, where they saw the house of Burns and his +grave. They entered next the country of Meg Merrilies, and from +Kirkcudbrightshire crossed over to Ireland for a few days. On their +return they went north as far as Argyleshire, whence they sailed to +Staffa and saw Fingal's cave, which, Keats wrote, 'for solemnity and +grandeur far surpasses the finest Cathedral.' They then crossed Scotland +through Inverness, and Keats returned home by boat from Cromarty. + +His letters home are at first full of interest and enjoyment, but a +'slight sore throat', contracted in 'a most wretched walk of +thirty-seven miles across the Isle of Mull', proved very troublesome and +finally cut short his holiday. This was the beginning of the end. There +was consumption in the family: Tom was dying of it; and the cold, wet, +and over-exertion of his Scotch tour seems to have developed the fatal +tendency in Keats himself. + +From this time forward he was never well, and no good was done to either +his health or spirits by the task which now awaited him of tending on +his dying brother. For the last two or three months of 1818, until +Tom's death in December, he scarcely left the bedside, and it was well +for him that his friend, Charles Armitage Brown, was at hand to help and +comfort him after the long strain. Brown persuaded Keats at once to +leave the house, with its sad associations, and to come and live with +him. + +Before long poetry absorbed Keats again; and the first few months of +1819 were the most fruitful of his life. Besides working at _Hyperion_, +which he had begun during Tom's illness, he wrote _The Eve of St. +Agnes_, _The Eve of St. Mark_, _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_, and nearly +all his famous odes. + +Troubles however beset him. His friend Haydon was in difficulties and +tormenting him, poor as he was, to lend him money; the state of his +throat gave serious cause for alarm; and, above all, he was consumed by +an unsatisfying passion for the daughter of a neighbour, Mrs. Brawne. +She had rented Brown's house whilst they were in Scotland, and had now +moved to a street near by. Miss Fanny Brawne returned his love, but she +seems never to have understood his nature or his needs. High-spirited +and fond of pleasure she did not apparently allow the thought of her +invalid lover to interfere much with her enjoyment of life. She would +not, however, abandon her engagement, and she probably gave him all +which it was in her nature to give. Ill-health made him, on the other +hand, morbidly dissatisfied and suspicious; and, as a result of his +illness and her limitations, his love throughout brought him +restlessness and torment rather than peace and comfort. + +Towards the end of July he went to Shanklin and there, in collaboration +with Brown, wrote a play, _Otho the Great_. Brown tells us how they used +to sit, one on either side of a table, he sketching out the scenes and +handing each one, as the outline was finished, to Keats to write. As +Keats never knew what was coming it was quite impossible that the +characters should be adequately conceived, or that the drama should be a +united whole. Nevertheless there is much that is beautiful and promising +in it. It should not be forgotten that Keats's 'greatest ambition' was, +in his own words, 'the writing of a few fine plays'; and, with the +increasing humanity and grasp which his poetry shows, there is no reason +to suppose that, had he lived, he would not have fulfilled it. + +At Shanklin, moreover, he had begun to write _Lamia_, and he continued +it at Winchester. Here he stayed until the middle of October, excepting +a few days which he spent in London to arrange about the sending of some +money to his brother in America. George had been unsuccessful in his +commercial enterprises, and Keats, in view of his family's ill-success, +determined temporarily to abandon poetry, and by reviewing or journalism +to support himself and earn money to help his brother. Then, when he +could afford it, he would return to poetry. + +Accordingly he came back to London, but his health was breaking down, +and with it his resolution. He tried to re-write _Hyperion_, which he +felt had been written too much under the influence of Milton and in 'the +artist's humour'. The same independence of spirit which he had shown in +the publication of _Endymion_ urged him now to abandon a work the style +of which he did not feel to be absolutely his own. The re-cast he wrote +in the form of a vision, calling it _The Fall of Hyperion_, and in so +doing he added much to his conception of the meaning of the story. In no +poem does he show more of the profoundly philosophic spirit which +characterizes many of his letters. But it was too late; his power was +failing and, in spite of the beauty and interest of some of his +additions, the alterations are mostly for the worse. + +Whilst _The Fall of Hyperion_ occupied his evenings his mornings were +spent over a satirical fairy-poem, _The Cap and Bells_, in the metre of +the _Faerie Queene_. This metre, however, was ill-suited to the subject; +satire was not natural to him, and the poem has little intrinsic merit. + +Neither this nor the re-cast of _Hyperion_ was finished when, in +February, 1820, he had an attack of illness in which the first definite +symptom of consumption appeared. Brown tells how he came home on the +evening of Thursday, February 3rd, in a state of high fever, chilled +from having ridden outside the coach on a bitterly cold day. 'He mildly +and instantly yielded to my request that he should go to bed . . . On +entering the cold sheets, before his head was on the pillow, he slightly +coughed, and I heard him say--"that is blood from my mouth". I went +towards him: he was examining a single drop of blood upon the sheet. +"Bring me the candle, Brown, and let me see this blood." After regarding +it steadfastly he looked up in my face with a calmness of expression +that I can never forget, and said, "I know the colour of that blood;--it +is arterial blood; I cannot be deceived in that colour; that drop of +blood is my death warrant;--I must die."' + +He lived for another year, but it was one long dying: he himself called +it his 'posthumous life'. + +Keats was one of the most charming of letter-writers. He had that rare +quality of entering sympathetically into the mind of the friend to whom +he was writing, so that his letters reveal to us much of the character +of the recipient as well as of the writer. In the long journal-letters +which he wrote to his brother and sister-in-law in America he is +probably most fully himself, for there he is with the people who knew +him best and on whose understanding and sympathy he could rely. But in +none is the beauty of his character more fully revealed than in those to +his little sister Fanny, now seventeen years old, and living with their +guardian, Mr. Abbey. He had always been very anxious that they should +'become intimately acquainted, in order', as he says, 'that I may not +only, as you grow up, love you as my only Sister, but confide in you as +my dearest friend.' In his most harassing times he continued to write to +her, directing her reading, sympathizing in her childish troubles, and +constantly thinking of little presents to please her. Her health was to +him a matter of paramount concern, and in his last letters to her we +find him reiterating warnings to take care of herself--'You must be +careful always to wear warm clothing not only in Frost but in a +Thaw.'--'Be careful to let no fretting injure your health as I have +suffered it--health is the greatest of blessings--with _health_ and +_hope_ we should be content to live, and so you will find as you grow +older.' The constant recurrence of this thought becomes, in the light of +his own sufferings, almost unbearably pathetic. + +During the first months of his illness Keats saw through the press his +last volume of poetry, of which this is a reprint. The praise which it +received from reviewers and public was in marked contrast to the +scornful reception of his earlier works, and would have augured well for +the future. But Keats was past caring much for poetic fame. He dragged +on through the summer, with rallies and relapses, tormented above all by +the thought that death would separate him from the woman he loved. Only +Brown, of all his friends, knew what he was suffering, and it seems that +he only knew fully after they were parted. + +The doctors warned Keats that a winter in England would kill him, so in +September, 1820, he left London for Naples, accompanied by a young +artist, Joseph Severn, one of his many devoted friends. Shelley, who +knew him slightly, invited him to stay at Pisa, but Keats refused. He +had never cared for Shelley, though Shelley seems to have liked him, +and, in his invalid state, he naturally shrank from being a burden to a +mere acquaintance. + +It was as they left England, off the coast of Dorsetshire, that Keats +wrote his last beautiful sonnet on a blank leaf of his folio copy of +Shakespeare, facing _A Lover's Complaint_:-- + + Bright star! would I were steadfast 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 steadfast, 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 friends reached Rome, and there Keats, after a brief rally, rapidly +became worse. Severn nursed him with desperate devotion, and of Keats's +sweet considerateness and patience he could never say enough. Indeed +such was the force and lovableness of Keats's personality that though +Severn lived fifty-eight years longer it was for the rest of his life a +chief occupation to write and draw his memories of his friend. + +On February 23rd, 1821, came the end for which Keats had begun to long. +He died peacefully in Severn's arms. On the 26th he was buried in the +beautiful little Protestant cemetery of which Shelley said that it 'made +one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a +place'. + +Great indignation was felt at the time by those who attributed his +death, in part at least, to the cruel treatment which he had received +from the critics. Shelley, in _Adonais_, withered them with his scorn, +and Byron, in _Don Juan_, had his gibe both at the poet and at his +enemies. But we know now how mistaken they were. Keats, in a normal +state of mind and body, was never unduly depressed by harsh or unfair +criticism. 'Praise or blame,' he wrote, 'has but a momentary effect on +the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic +on his own works,' and this attitude he consistently maintained +throughout his poetic career. No doubt the sense that his genius was +unappreciated added something to the torment of mind which he suffered +in Rome, and on his death-bed he asked that on his tombstone should be +inscribed the words 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water'. But it +was apparently not said in bitterness, and the rest of the +inscription[xxiii:1] expresses rather the natural anger of his friends +at the treatment he had received than the mental attitude of the poet +himself. + +Fully to understand him we must read his poetry with the commentary of +his letters which reveal in his character elements of humour, +clear-sighted wisdom, frankness, strength, sympathy and tolerance. So +doing we shall enter into the mind and heart of the friend who, speaking +for many, described Keats as one 'whose genius I did not, and do not, +more fully admire than I entirely loved the man'. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[xiii:1] Many of the words which the reviewers thought to be coined were +good Elizabethan. + +[xxiii:1] This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English +Poet, who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart at the +Malicious Power of his Enemies, desired these Words to be engraven on +his Tomb Stone 'Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water' Feb. 24th +1821. + + + + +LAMIA, + +ISABELLA, + +THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, + +AND + +OTHER POEMS. + + +BY JOHN KEATS, +AUTHOR OF ENDYMION. + + +LONDON: +PRINTED FOR TAYLOR AND HESSEY, +FLEET-STREET. +1820. + + + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + + +If any apology be thought necessary for the appearance of the unfinished +poem of HYPERION, the publishers beg to state that they alone are +responsible, as it was printed at their particular request, and contrary +to the wish of the author. The poem was intended to have been of equal +length with ENDYMION, but the reception given to that work discouraged +the author from proceeding. + + _Fleet-Street, June 26, 1820._ + + + + +LAMIA. + + +PART I. + + 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 10 + 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. 20 + 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: 30 + 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 40 + 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; 50 + 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: 60 + 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, 70 + 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?" 80 + 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!" 90 + 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 100 + 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, 110 + 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. 120 + 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; 130 + 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, 140 + 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, 150 + 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: 160 + 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. 170 + + 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, 180 + 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: 190 + 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 200 + 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; 210 + 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 220 + 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 230 + 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 240 + 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: 250 + 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. 260 + 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:-- 270 + 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 280 + 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 290 + 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. 300 + 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 310 + 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, 320 + 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, 330 + 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, 340 + 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, 350 + 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 360 + 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?"-- 370 + "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 380 + 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 390 + 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. + + +PART II. + + 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. 10 + 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 20 + 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 30 + 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: 40 + "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 50 + 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 60 + 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 70 + 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 80 + 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, 90 + 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 100 + 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 110 + 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 120 + 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 130 + 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, 140 + 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, 150 + 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 160 + 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; 170 + 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 180 + 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 + Come 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. 190 + + 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 200 + 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, 210 + 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. 220 + + 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? 230 + 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, 240 + 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: 250 + '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. 260 + "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. 270 + "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, 280 + 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." 290 + "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, 300 + 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, 310 + And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.[45:A] + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[45:A] "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, described 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. + + + + +ISABELLA; + +OR, + +THE POT OF BASIL. + + +A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. + + + 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; 10 + 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; 20 + 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."-- 30 + 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." 40 + + 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, 50 + 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 60 + 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: 70 + 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. 80 + + XI. + + All close they met again, before the dusk + Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, + All close they met, all eyes, 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, 90 + 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, 100 + 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 110 + 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. 120 + + 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, 130 + 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 140 + 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, 150 + 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. 160 + + 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, 170 + 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, 180 + "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; 190 + 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. 200 + + 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. + Goodbye! I'll soon be back."--"Goodbye!" 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 210 + 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 220 + 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; 230 + 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?" 240 + + 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, 250 + 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 260 + 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 270 + 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. 280 + + 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 290 + 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 300 + 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, 310 + 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." 320 + + 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; 330 + 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; 340 + 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, 350 + 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 scull, 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. 360 + + 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, 370 + 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, 380 + 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 390 + To speak:--O turn thee to the very tale, + And taste the music of that vision pale. + + L. + + With duller steel than the Persean 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. 400 + + 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, 410 + 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; 420 + 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: 430 + 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. 440 + + 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!-- 450 + It may not be--those Baaelites 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: 460 + 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; 470 + 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. 480 + + 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; 490 + 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. 500 + 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!" + + + + +THE + +EVE OF ST. AGNES. + + + 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; 10 + 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 20 + 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, 30 + 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 40 + 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. + + 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; 50 + 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, 60 + 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, 70 + 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; 80 + 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. 90 + + 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; 100 + 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, 110 + 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, 120 + 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 wond'rous riddle-book, 130 + 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: 140 + 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; 150 + 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 woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 160 + 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, 170 + 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." 180 + + 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, 190 + 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. + + XXIII. + + Out went the taper as she hurried in; + Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 200 + 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. + + 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, 210 + 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, 220 + 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 boddice; by degrees + Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 230 + 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; 240 + 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 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, 250 + 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 cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:-- + O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! + The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, + The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, + Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:-- 260 + 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. 270 + + 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 280 + 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, 290 + 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 300 + 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: 310 + 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 320 + 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? 330 + 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 340 + 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 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, 350 + 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. 360 + + 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 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. + + XLII. + + And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 370 + 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. + + + + +POEMS. + + + + +ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. + + + 1. + + 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. 10 + + 2. + + 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 Provencal 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: 20 + + 3. + + 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. 30 + + 4. + + 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. 40 + + 5. + + 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. 50 + + 6. + + 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. 60 + + 7. + + 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. 70 + + 8. + + 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? 80 + + + + +ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. + + + 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? 10 + + 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! 20 + + 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. 30 + + 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. 40 + + 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. 50 + + + + +ODE TO PSYCHE. + + + 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 10 + 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: 20 + 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 30 + 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 40 + From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, + Fluttering among the faint Olympians, + I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. + 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 50 + 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, 60 + 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! + + + + +FANCY. + + + 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, 10 + 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 20 + 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; 30 + 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; 40 + 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 lilies, and the first + Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 50 + 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, 60 + 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 70 + 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: 80 + Dulcet-eyed 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; 90 + Quickly break her prison-string + And such joys as these she'll bring.-- + Let the winged Fancy roam + Pleasure never is at home. + + + + +ODE. + + + Bards of Passion and of Mirth, + Ye have left your souls on earth! + Have ye souls in heaven too, + Double-lived in regions new? + Yes, and those of heaven commune + With the spheres of sun and moon; + With the noise of fountains wond'rous, + And the parle of voices thund'rous; + With the whisper of heaven's trees + And one another, in soft ease 10 + Seated on Elysian lawns + Brows'd 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; 20 + 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; 30 + 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! 40 + + + + +LINES +ON +THE MERMAID TAVERN. + + + 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 10 + 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, 20 + 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? + + + + +ROBIN HOOD. + +TO A FRIEND. + + + 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. 10 + + 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, 20 + 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; 30 + 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 "grene shawe;" + All are gone away and past! + And if Robin should be cast + Sudden from his turfed grave, + And if Marian should have 40 + 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! 50 + 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! 60 + Though their days have hurried by + Let us two a burden try. + + + + +TO AUTUMN. + + + 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, 10 + 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; 20 + 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; 30 + Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft + The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; + And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. + + + + +ODE ON MELANCHOLY. + + + 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 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. 10 + + 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. 20 + + 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 + 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 shall taste the sadness of her might, + And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 30 + + + + +HYPERION. + +A FRAGMENT. + + +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. 10 + 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, 20 + 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. 30 + 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 40 + 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 50 + 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, 60 + 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? 70 + 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, 80 + 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, 90 + 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, 100 + 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, 110 + 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.-- 120 + 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 130 + 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 140 + 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, 150 + 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: 160 + 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-- 170 + 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; 180 + 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, 190 + 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. 200 + 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, 210 + 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, 220 + 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! 230 + 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. 240 + 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."-- 250 + 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, 260 + 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, 270 + 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 labouring thought + Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280 + 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 290 + 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 300 + 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 310 + 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, oh brightest child! + Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses! 320 + 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, 330 + 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; 340 + 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 350 + 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. + + +BOOK II. + + 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 10 + 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. + Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareues, + Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 20 + 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; 30 + 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. 40 + Creues 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. + Iaepetus 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 50 + 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. 60 + 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, 70 + 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: 80 + 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, 90 + 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. 100 + + 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; 110 + 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 full weight of utterless thought, 120 + 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, 130 + 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,-- 140 + 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, no-where can unriddle, though I search, 150 + 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, 160 + 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, 170 + 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. 180 + 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. 190 + 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, 200 + 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, 210 + 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? 220 + 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 230 + 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 240 + 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 poz'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, 250 + 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, 260 + 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 270 + 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. 280 + 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, 290 + 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 300 + 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? 310 + 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 320 + 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, 330 + 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 slumberous calm are fled; + Those days, all innocent of scathing war, + When all the fair Existences of heaven + Came 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; 340 + 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 350 + 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 splendour, like the morn, + Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps, + All the sad spaces of oblivion, + And every gulf, and every chasm old, 360 + 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. 370 + 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, 380 + And many hid their faces from the light: + But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes + Among the brotherhood; and, at their glare, + Uprose Iaepetus, and Creues 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 390 + Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn!" + + +BOOK III. + + Thus in alternate 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, 10 + 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 every thing 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 20 + 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? 30 + 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, 40 + 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? 50 + 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, 60 + 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 70 + 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, 80 + 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, 90 + 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, 100 + And I will flit into it with my lyre, + And make its silvery splendour 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! 110 + 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, 120 + While his enkindled eyes, with level glance + Beneath his white soft temples, stedfast 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: 130 + 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 * * * * * + * * * * * * * + +THE END. + + +NOTE. + +PAGE 184, l. 310. over-foolish, Giant-Gods? _MS._: over-foolish giant, +Gods? _1820._ + + + + +NOTES. + + +ADVERTISEMENT. + +PAGE 2. See Introduction to _Hyperion_, p. 245. + + +INTRODUCTION TO LAMIA. + +_Lamia_, like _Endymion_, is written in the heroic couplet, but the +difference in style is very marked. The influence of Dryden's +narrative-poems (his translations from Boccaccio and Chaucer) is clearly +traceable in the metre, style, and construction of the later poem. Like +Dryden, Keats now makes frequent use of the Alexandrine, or 6-foot line, +and of the triplet. He has also restrained the exuberance of his +language and gained force, whilst in imaginative power and felicity of +diction he surpasses anything of which Dryden was capable. The flaws in +his style are mainly due to carelessness in the rimes and some +questionable coining of words. He also occasionally lapses into the +vulgarity and triviality which marred certain of his early poems. + +The best he gained from his study of Dryden's _Fables_, a debt perhaps +to Chaucer rather than to Dryden, was a notable advance in constructive +power. In _Lamia_ he shows a very much greater sense of proportion and +power of selection than in his earlier work. There is, as it were, more +light and shade. + +Thus we find that whenever the occasion demands it his style rises to +supreme force and beauty. The metamorphosis of the serpent, the entry +of Lamia and Lycius into Corinth, the building by Lamia of the Fairy +Hall, and her final withering under the eye of Apollonius--these are the +most important points in the story, and the passages in which they are +described are also the most striking in the poem. + +The allegorical meaning of the story seems to be, that it is fatal to +attempt to separate the sensuous and emotional life from the life of +reason. Philosophy alone is cold and destructive, but the pleasures of +the senses alone are unreal and unsatisfying. The man who attempts such +a divorce between the two parts of his nature will fail miserably as did +Lycius, who, unable permanently to exclude reason, was compelled to face +the death of his illusions, and could not, himself, survive them. + +Of the poem Keats himself says, writing to his brother in September, +1819: 'I have been reading over a part of a short poem I have composed +lately, called _Lamia_, and I am certain there is that sort of fire in +it that must take hold of people some way; give them either pleasant or +unpleasant sensation--what they want is a sensation of some sort.' But +to the greatest of Keats's critics, Charles Lamb, the poem appealed +somewhat differently, for he writes, 'More exuberantly rich in imagery +and painting [than _Isabella_] is the story of _Lamia_. It is of as +gorgeous stuff as ever romance was composed of,' and, after enumerating +the most striking pictures in the poem, he adds, '[these] are all that +fairy-land can do for us.' _Lamia_ struck his imagination, but his heart +was given to _Isabella_. + + +NOTES ON LAMIA. + +PART I. + +PAGE 3. ll. 1-6. _before the faery broods . . . lawns_, i.e. before +mediaeval fairy-lore had superseded classical mythology. + +l. 2. _Satyr_, a horned and goat-legged demi-god of the woods. + +l. 5. _Dryads_, wood-nymphs, who lived in trees. The life of each +terminated with that of the tree over which she presided. Cf. Landor's +'Hamadryad'. + +l. 5. _Fauns._ The Roman name corresponding to the Greek Satyr. + +l. 7. _Hermes_, or Mercury, the messenger of the Gods. He is always +represented with winged shoes, a winged helmet, and a winged staff, +bound about with living serpents. + +PAGE 4. l. 15. _Tritons_, sea-gods, half-man, half-fish. Cf. Wordsworth, +'Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn' (Sonnet--'The World is too +much with us'). + +l. 19. _unknown to any Muse_, beyond the imagination of any poet. + +PAGE 5. l. 28. _passion new._ He has often before been to earth on +similar errands. Cf. _ever-smitten_, l. 7, also ll. 80-93. + +l. 42. _dove-footed._ Cf. note on l. 7. + +PAGE 6. l. 46. _cirque-couchant_, lying twisted into a circle. Cf. +_wreathed tomb_, l. 38. + +l. 47. _gordian_, knotted, from the famous knot in the harness of +Gordius, King of Phrygia, which only the conqueror of the world was to +be able to untie. Alexander cut it with his sword. Cf. _Henry V_, I. i. +46. + +l. 58. _Ariadne's tiar._ Ariadne was a nymph beloved of Bacchus, the god +of wine. He gave her a crown of seven stars, which, after her death, was +made into a constellation. Keats has, no doubt, in his mind Titian's +picture of Bacchus and Ariadne in the National Gallery. Cf. _Ode to +Sorrow_, _Endymion_. + +PAGE 7. l. 63. _As Proserpine . . . air._ Proserpine, gathering flowers +in the Vale of Enna, in Sicily, was carried off by Pluto, the king of +the underworld, to be his queen. Cf. _Winter's Tale_, IV. iii, and +_Paradise Lost_, iv. 268, known to be a favourite passage with Keats. + +l. 75. _his throbbing . . . moan._ Cf. _Hyperion_, iii. 81. + +l. 77. _as morning breaks_, the freshness and splendour of the youthful +god. + +PAGE 8. l. 78. _Phoebean dart_, a ray of the sun, Phoebus being the god +of the sun. + +l. 80. _Too gentle Hermes._ Cf. l. 28 and note. + +l. 81. _not delay'd_: classical construction. See Introduction to +Hyperion. + +_Star of Lethe._ Hermes is so called because he had to lead the souls of +the dead to Hades, where was Lethe, the river of forgetfulness. Lamb +comments: '. . . Hermes, the _Star of Lethe_, as he is called by one of +those prodigal phrases which Mr. Keats abounds in, which are each a poem +in a word, and which in this instance lays open to us at once, like a +picture, all the dim regions and their habitants, and the sudden coming +of a celestial among them.' + +l. 91. The line dances along like a leaf before the wind. + +l. 92. Miltonic construction and phraseology. + +PAGE 9. l. 98. _weary tendrils_, tired with holding up the boughs, heavy +with fruit. + +l. 103. _Silenus_, the nurse and teacher of Bacchus--a demigod of the +woods. + +PAGE 10. l. 115. _Circean._ Circe was the great enchantress who turned +the followers of Ulysses into swine. Cf. _Comus_, ll. 46-54, and +_Odyssey_, x. + +PAGE 11. l. 132. _swoon'd serpent._ Evidently, in the exercise of her +magic, power had gone out of her. + +l. 133. _lythe_, quick-acting. + +_Caducean charm._ Caduceus was the name of Hermes' staff of wondrous +powers, the touch of which, evidently, was powerful to give the serpent +human form. + +l. 136. _like a moon in wane._ Cf. the picture of Cynthia, _Endymion_, +iii. 72 sq. + +l. 138. _like a flower . . . hour._ Perhaps a reminiscence of Milton's +'at shut of evening flowers.' _Paradise Lost_, ix. 278. + +PAGE 12. l. 148. _besprent_, sprinkled. + +l. 158. _brede_, embroidery. Cf. _Ode on a Grecian Urn_, v. 1. + +PAGE 13. l. 178. _rack._ Cf. _The Tempest_, IV. i. 156, 'leave not a +rack behind.' _Hyperion_, i. 302, note. + +l. 180. This gives us a feeling of weakness and weariness as well as +measuring the distance. + +PAGE 14. l. 184. Cf. Wordsworth: + + And then my heart with pleasure fills + And dances with the daffodils. + +ll. 191-200. Cf. _Ode on Melancholy_, where Keats tells us that +melancholy lives with Beauty, joy, pleasure, and delight. Lamia can +separate the elements and give beauty and pleasure unalloyed. + +l. 195. _Intrigue with the specious chaos_, enter on an understanding +with the fair-looking confusion of joy and pain. + +l. 198. _unshent_, unreproached. + +PAGE 15. l. 207. _Nereids_, sea-nymphs. + +l. 208. _Thetis_, one of the sea deities. + +l. 210. _glutinous_, referring to the sticky substance which oozes from +the pine-trunk. Cf. _Comus_, l. 917, 'smeared with gums of glutinous +heat.' + +l. 211. Cf. l. 63, note. + +l. 212. _Mulciber_, Vulcan, the smith of the Gods. His fall from Heaven +is described by Milton, _Paradise Lost_, i. 739-42. + +_piazzian_, forming covered walks supported by pillars, a word coined by +Keats. + +PAGE 16. l. 236. _In the calm'd . . . shades._ In consideration of +Plato's mystic and imaginative philosophy. + +PAGE 17. l. 248. Refers to the story of Orpheus' attempt to rescue his +wife Eurydice from Hades. With his exquisite music he charmed Cerberus, +the fierce dog who guarded hell-gates, into submission, and won Pluto's +consent that he should lead Eurydice back to the upper world on one +condition--that he would not look back to see that she was following. +When he was almost at the gates, love and curiosity overpowered him, and +he looked back--to see Eurydice fall back into Hades whence he now might +never win her. + +PAGE 18. l. 262. _thy far wishes_, your wishes when you are far off. + +l. 265. _Pleiad._ The Pleiades are seven stars making a constellation. +Cf. Walt Whitman, 'On the beach at night.' + +ll. 266-7. _keep in tune Thy spheres._ Refers to the music which the +heavenly bodies were supposed to make as they moved round the earth. Cf. +_Merchant of Venice_, V. i. 60. + +PAGE 20. l. 294. _new lips._ Cf. l. 191. + +l. 297. _Into another_, i.e. into the trance of passion from which he +only wakes to die. + +PAGE 21. l. 320. _Adonian feast._ Adonis was a beautiful youth beloved +of Venus. He was killed by a wild boar when hunting, and Venus then had +him borne to Elysium, where he sleeps pillowed on flowers. Cf. +_Endymion_, ii. 387. + +PAGE 22. l. 329. _Peris_, in Persian story fairies, descended from the +fallen angels. + +ll. 330-2. The vulgarity of these lines we may attribute partly to the +influence of Leigh Hunt, who himself wrote of + + The two divinest things the world has got-- + A lovely woman and a rural spot. + +It was an influence which Keats, with the development of his own +character and genius, was rapidly outgrowing. + +l. 333. _Pyrrha's pebbles._ There is a legend that, after the flood, +Deucalion and Pyrrha cast stones behind them which became men, thus +re-peopling the world. + +PAGE 23. ll. 350-4. Keats brings the very atmosphere of a dream about us +in these lines, and makes us hear the murmur of the city as something +remote from the chief actors. + +l. 352. _lewd_, ignorant. The original meaning of the word which came +later to mean dissolute. + +PAGE 24. l. 360. _corniced shade._ Cf. _Eve of St. Agnes_, ix, +'Buttress'd from moonlight.' + +ll. 363-77. Note the feeling of fate in the first appearance of +Apollonius. + +PAGE 25. l. 377. _dreams._ Lycius is conscious that it is an illusion +even whilst he yields himself up to it. + +l. 386. _Aeolian._ Aeolus was the god of the winds. + +PAGE 26. l. 394. _flitter-winged._ Imagining the poem winging its way +along like a bird. _Flitter_, cf. flittermouse = bat. + +PART II. + +PAGE 27. ll. 1-9. Again a passage unworthy of Keats's genius. Perhaps +the attempt to be light, like his seventeenth-century model, Dryden, led +him for the moment to adopt something of the cynicism of that age about +love. + +ll. 7-9. i.e. If Lycius had lived longer his experience might have +either contradicted or corroborated this saying. + +PAGE 28. l. 27. _Deafening_, in the unusual sense of making inaudible. + +ll. 27-8. _came a thrill Of trumpets._ From the first moment that the +outside world makes its claim felt there is no happiness for the man +who, like Lycius, is living a life of selfish pleasure. + +PAGE 29. l. 39. _passing bell._ Either the bell rung for a condemned man +the night before his execution, or the bell rung when a man was dying +that men might pray for the departing soul. + +PAGE 31. ll. 72-4. _Besides . . . new._ An indication of the selfish +nature of Lycius's love. + +l. 80. _serpent._ See how skilfully this allusion is introduced and our +attention called to it by his very denial that it applies to Lamia. + +PAGE 32. l. 97. _I neglect the holy rite._ It is her duty to burn +incense and tend the sepulchres of her dead kindred. + +PAGE 33. l. 107. _blushing._ We see in the glow of the sunset a +reflection of the blush of the bride. + +PAGE 34. ll. 122-3. _sole perhaps . . . roof._ Notice that Keats only +says 'perhaps', but it gives a trembling unreality at once to the magic +palace. Cf. Coleridge's _Kubla Khan_: + + With music loud and long + I would build that dome in air. + +PAGE 36. l. 155. _demesne_, dwelling. More commonly a domain. +_Hyperion_, i. 298. _Sonnet_--'On first looking into Chapman's Homer.' + +PAGE 38. l. 187. _Ceres' horn._ Ceres was the goddess of harvest, the +mother of Proserpine (_Lamia_, i. 63, note). Her horn is filled with the +fruits of the earth, and is symbolic of plenty. + +PAGE 39. l. 200. _vowel'd undersong_, in contrast to the harsh, guttural +and consonantal sound of Teutonic languages. + +PAGE 40. l. 213. _meridian_, mid-day. Bacchus was supreme, as is the sun +at mid-day. + +ll. 215-29. Cf. _The Winter's Tale_, IV. iv. 73, &c., where Perdita +gives to each guest suitable flowers. Cf. also Ophelia's flowers, +_Hamlet_, IV. v. 175, etc. + +l. 217. _osier'd gold._ The gold was woven into baskets, as though it +were osiers. + +l. 224. _willow_, the weeping willow, so-called because its branches +with their long leaves droop to the ground, like dropping tears. It has +always been sacred to deserted or unhappy lovers. Cf. _Othello_, IV. +iii. 24 seq. + +_adder's tongue._ For was she not a serpent? + +l. 226. _thyrsus._ A rod wreathed with ivy and crowned with a fir-cone, +used by Bacchus and his followers. + +l. 228. _spear-grass . . . thistle._ Because of what he is about to do. + +PAGE 41. ll. 229-38. Not to be taken as a serious expression of Keats's +view of life. Rather he is looking at it, at this moment, through the +eyes of the chief actors in his drama, and feeling with them. + +PAGE 43. l. 263. Notice the horror of the deadly hush and the sudden +fading of the flowers. + +l. 266. _step by step_, prepares us for the thought of the silence as a +horrid presence. + +ll. 274-5. _to illume the deep-recessed vision._ We at once see her dull +and sunken eyes. + +PAGE 45. l. 301. _perceant_, piercing--a Spenserian word. + + +INTRODUCTION TO ISABELLA AND THE EVE OF ST. AGNES + +In _Lamia_ and _Hyperion_, as in _Endymion_, we find Keats inspired by +classic story, though the inspiration in each case came to him through +Elizabethan writers. Here, on the other hand, mediaeval legend is his +inspiration; the 'faery broods' have driven 'nymph and satyr from the +prosperous woods'. Akin to the Greeks as he was in spirit, in his +instinctive personification of the lovely manifestations of nature, his +style and method were really more naturally suited to the portrayal of +mediaeval scenes, where he found the richness and warmth of colour in +which his soul delighted. + +The story of _Isabella_ he took from Boccaccio, an Italian writer of the +fourteenth century, whose _Decameron_, a collection of one hundred +stories, has been a store-house of plots for English writers. By +Boccaccio the tale is very shortly and simply told, being evidently +interesting to him mainly for its plot. Keats was attracted to it not so +much by the action as by the passion involved, so that his enlargement +of it means little elaboration of incident, but very much more dwelling +on the psychological aspect. That is to say, he does not care so much +what happens, as what the personages of the poem think and feel. + +Thus we see that the main incident of the story, the murder of Lorenzo, +is passed over in a line--'Thus was Lorenzo slain and buried in,' the +next line, 'There, in that forest, did his great love cease,' bringing +us back at once from the physical reality of the murder to the thought +of his love, which is to Keats the central fact of the story. + +In the delineation of Isabella, her first tender passion of love, her +agony of apprehension giving way to dull despair, her sudden wakening to +a brief period of frenzied action, described in stanzas of incomparable +dramatic force, and the 'peace' which followed when she + + Forgot the stars, the moon, the 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-- + +culminating in the piteous death 'too lone and incomplete'--in the +delineation of all this Keats shows supreme power and insight. + +In the conception, too, of the tragic loneliness of Lorenzo's ghost we +feel that nothing could be changed, added, or taken away. + +Not quite equally happy are the descriptions of the cruel brothers, and +of Lorenzo as the young lover. There is a tendency to exaggerate both +their inhumanity and his gentleness, for purposes of contrast, which +weakens where it would give strength. + +_The Eve of St. Agnes_, founded on a popular mediaeval legend, not being +a tragedy like _Isabella_, cannot be expected to rival it in depth and +intensity; but in every other poetic quality it equals, where it does +not surpass, the former poem. + +To be specially noted is the skilful use which Keats here makes of +contrast--between the cruel cold without and the warm love within; the +palsied age of the Bedesman and Angela, and the eager youth of Porphyro +and Madeline; the noise and revel and the hush of Madeline's bedroom, +and, as Mr. Colvin has pointed out, in the moonlight which, chill and +sepulchral when it strikes elsewhere, to Madeline is as a halo of glory, +an angelic light. + +A mysterious charm is given to the poem by the way in which Keats endows +inanimate things with a sort of half-conscious life. The knights and +ladies of stone arouse the bedesman's shuddering sympathy when he thinks +of the cold they must be enduring; 'the carven angels' '_star'd_' +'_eager-eyed_' from the roof of the chapel, and the scutcheon in +Madeline's window '_blush'd_ with blood of queens and kings'. + +Keats's characteristic method of description--the way in which, by his +masterly choice of significant detail, he gives us the whole feeling of +the situation, is here seen in its perfection. In stanza 1 each line is +a picture and each picture contributes to the whole effect of painful +chill. The silence of the sheep, the old man's breath visible in the +frosty air,--these are things which many people would not notice, but it +is such little things that make the whole scene real to us. + +There is another method of description, quite as beautiful in its way, +which Coleridge adopted with magic effect in _Christabel_. This is to +use the power of suggestion, to say very little, but that little of a +kind to awaken the reader's imagination and make him complete the +picture. For example, we are told of Christabel-- + + Her gentle limbs did she undress + And lay down in her loveliness. + +Compare this with stanza xxvi of _The Eve of St. Agnes_. + +That Keats was a master of both ways of obtaining a romantic effect is +shown by his _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_, considered by some people his +masterpiece, where the rich detail of _The Eve of St. Agnes_ is replaced +by reserve and suggestion. + +As the poem was not included in the volume published in 1820, it is +given here. + + LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. + + 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 look'd 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 sigh'd full sore, + And there I shut her wild, wild eyes + With kisses four. + + And there she lulled me asleep, + And there I dream'd, 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, + Thee hath in thrall. + + I saw their starv'd 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. . .. + + +NOTES ON ISABELLA. + +_Metre._ The _ottava rima_ of the Italians, the natural outcome of +Keats's turning to Italy for his story. This stanza had been used by +Chaucer and the Elizabethans, and recently by Hookham Frere in _The +Monks and the Giants_ and by Byron in _Don Juan_. Compare Keats's use of +the form with that of either of his contemporaries, and notice how he +avoids the epigrammatic close, telling in satire and mock-heroic, but +inappropriate to a serious and romantic poem. + +PAGE 49. l. 2. _palmer_, pilgrim. As the pilgrim seeks for a shrine +where, through the patron saint, he may worship God, so Lorenzo needs a +woman to worship, through whom he may worship Love. + +PAGE 50. l. 21. _constant as her vespers_, as often as she said her +evening-prayers. + +PAGE 51. l. 34. _within . . . domain_, where it should, naturally, have +been rosy. + +PAGE 52. l. 46. _Fever'd . . . bridge._ Made his sense of her worth more +passionate. + +ll. 51-2. _wed To every symbol._ Able to read every sign. + +PAGE 53. l. 62. _fear_, make afraid. So used by Shakespeare: e.g. 'Fear +boys with bugs,' _Taming of the Shrew_, I. ii. 211. + +l. 64. _shrive_, confess. As the pilgrim cannot be at peace till he has +confessed his sins and received absolution, so Lorenzo feels the +necessity of confessing his love. + +PAGE 54. ll. 81-2. _before the dusk . . . veil._ A vivid picture of the +twilight time, after sunset, but before it is dark enough for the stars +to shine brightly. + +ll. 83-4. The repetition of the same words helps us to feel the +unchanging nature of their devotion and joy in one another. + +PAGE 55. l. 91. _in fee_, in payment for their trouble. + +l. 95. _Theseus' spouse._ Ariadne, who was deserted by Theseus after +having saved his life and left her home for him. _Odyssey_, xi. 321-5. + +l. 99. _Dido._ Queen of Carthage, whom Aeneas, in his wanderings, wooed +and would have married, but the Gods bade him leave her. + +_silent . . . undergrove._ When Aeneas saw Dido in Hades, amongst those +who had died for love, he spoke to her pityingly. But she answered him +not a word, turning from him into the grove to Lychaeus, her former +husband, who comforted her. Vergil, _Aeneid_, Bk. VI, l. 450 ff. + +l. 103. _almsmen_, receivers of alms, since they take honey from the +flowers. + +PAGE 56. l. 107. _swelt_, faint. Cf. Chaucer, _Troilus and Cressida_, +iii. 347. + +l. 109. _proud-quiver'd_, proudly girt with quivers of arrows. + +l. 112. _rich-ored driftings._ The sand of the river in which gold was +to be found. + +PAGE 57. l. 124. _lazar_, leper, or any wretched beggar; from the +parable of Dives and Lazarus. + +_stairs_, steps on which they sat to beg. + +l. 125. _red-lin'd accounts_, vividly picturing their neat +account-books, and at the same time, perhaps, suggesting the human blood +for which their accumulation of wealth was responsible. + +l. 130. _gainful cowardice._ A telling expression for the dread of loss +which haunts so many wealthy people. + +l. 133. _hawks . . . forests._ As a hawk pounces on its prey, so they +fell on the trading-vessels which put into port. + +ll. 133-4. _the untired . . . lies._ They were always ready for any +dishonourable transaction by which money might be made. + +l. 134. _ducats._ Italian pieces of money worth about 4_s._ 4_d._ Cf. +Shylock, _Merchant of Venice_, II. vii. 15, 'My ducats.' + +l. 135. _Quick . . . away._ They would undertake to fleece unsuspecting +strangers in their town. + +PAGE 58. l. 137. _ledger-men._ As if they only lived in their +account-books. Cf. l. 142. + +l. 140. _Hot Egypt's pest_, the plague of Egypt. + +ll. 145-52. As in _Lycidas_ Milton apologizes for the introduction of +his attack on the Church, so Keats apologizes for the introduction of +this outburst of indignation against cruel and dishonourable dealers, +which he feels is unsuited to the tender and pitiful story. + +l. 150. _ghittern_, an instrument like a guitar, strung with wire. + +PAGE 59. ll. 153-60. Keats wants to make it clear that he is not trying +to surpass Boccaccio, but to give him currency amongst English-speaking +people. + +l. 159. _stead thee_, do thee service. + +l. 168. _olive-trees._ In which (through the oil they yield) a great +part of the wealth of the Italians lies. + +PAGE 60. l. 174. _Cut . . . bone._ This is not only a vivid way of +describing the banishment of all their natural pity. It also, by the +metaphor used, gives us a sort of premonitory shudder as at Lorenzo's +death. Indeed, in that moment the murder is, to all intents and +purposes, done. In stanza xxvii they are described as riding 'with their +murder'd man'. + +PAGE 61. ll. 187-8. _ere . . . eglantine._ The sun, drying up the dew +drop by drop from the sweet-briar is pictured as passing beads along a +string, as the Roman Catholics do when they say their prayers. + +PAGE 62. l. 209. _their . . . man._ Cf. l. 174, note. Notice the +extraordinary vividness of the picture here--the quiet rural scene and +the intrusion of human passion with the reflection in the clear water of +the pale murderers, sick with suspense, and the unsuspecting victim, +full of glowing life. + +l. 212. _bream_, a kind of fish found in lakes and deep water. Obviously +Keats was not an angler. + +_freshets_, little streams of fresh water. + +PAGE 63. l. 217. Notice the reticence with which the mere fact of the +murder is stated--no details given. Keats wants the prevailing feeling +to be one of pity rather than of horror. + +ll. 219-20. _Ah . . . loneliness._ We perpetually come upon this old +belief--that the souls of the murdered cannot rest in peace. Cf. +_Hamlet_, I. v. 8, &c. + +l. 221. _break-covert . . . sin._ The blood-hounds employed for tracking +down a murderer will find him under any concealment, and never rest till +he is found. So restless is the soul of the victim. + +l. 222. _They . . . water._ That water which had reflected the three +faces as they went across. + +_tease_, torment. + +l. 223. _convulsed spur_, they spurred their horses violently and +uncertainly, scarce knowing what they did. + +l. 224. _Each richer . . . murderer._ This is what they have gained by +their deed--the guilt of murder--that is all. + +l. 229. _stifling_: partly literal, since the widow's weed is +close-wrapping and voluminous--partly metaphorical, since the acceptance +of fate stifles complaint. + +l. 230. _accursed bands._ So long as a man hopes he is not free, but at +the mercy of continual imaginings and fresh disappointments. When hope +is laid aside, fear and disappointment go with it. + +PAGE 64. l. 241. _Selfishness, Love's cousin._ For the two aspects of +love, as a selfish and unselfish passion, see Blake's two poems, _Love +seeketh only self to please_, and, _Love seeketh not itself to please_. + +l. 242. _single breast_, one-thoughted, being full of love for Lorenzo. + +PAGE 65. ll. 249 seq. Cf. Shelley's _Ode to the West Wind_. + +l. 252. _roundelay_, a dance in a circle. + +l. 259. _Striving . . . itself._ Her distrust of her brothers is shown +in her effort not to betray her fears to them. + +_dungeon climes._ Wherever it is, it is a prison which keeps him from +her. Cf. _Hamlet_, II. ii. 250-4. + +l. 262. _Hinnom's Vale_, the valley of Moloch's sacrifices, _Paradise +Lost_, i. 392-405. + +l. 264. _snowy shroud_, a truly prophetic dream. + +PAGE 66. ll. 267 seq. These comparisons help us to realize her +experience as sharp anguish, rousing her from the lethargy of despair, +and endowing her for a brief space with almost supernatural energy and +willpower. + +PAGE 67. l. 286. _palsied Druid._ The Druids, or priests of ancient +Britain, are always pictured as old men with long beards. The conception +of such an old man, tremblingly trying to get music from a broken harp, +adds to the pathos and mystery of the vision. + +l. 288. _Like . . . among._ Take this line word by word, and see how +many different ideas go to create the incomparably ghostly effect. + +ll. 289 seq. Horror is skilfully kept from this picture and only tragedy +left. The horror is for the eyes of his murderers, not for his love. + +l. 292. _unthread . . . woof._ His narration and explanation of what has +gone before is pictured as the disentangling of woven threads. + +l. 293. _darken'd._ In many senses, since their crime was (1) concealed +from Isabella, (2) darkly evil, (3) done in the darkness of the wood. + +PAGE 68. ll. 305 seq. The whole sound of this stanza is that of a faint +and far-away echo. + +l. 308. _knelling._ Every sound is like a death-bell to him. + +PAGE 69. l. 316. _That paleness._ Her paleness showing her great love +for him; and, moreover, indicating that they will soon be reunited. + +l. 317. _bright abyss_, the bright hollow of heaven. + +l. 322. _The atom . . . turmoil._ Every one must know the sensation of +looking into the darkness, straining one's eyes, until the darkness +itself seems to be composed of moving atoms. The experience with which +Keats, in the next lines, compares it, is, we are told, a common +experience in the early stages of consumption. + +PAGE 70. l. 334. _school'd my infancy._ She was as a child in her +ignorance of evil, and he has taught her the hard lesson that our misery +is not always due to the dealings of a blind fate, but sometimes to the +deliberate crime and cruelty of those whom we have trusted. + +l. 344. _forest-hearse._ To Isabella the whole forest is but the +receptacle of her lover's corpse. + +PAGE 71. l. 347. _champaign_, country. We can picture Isabel, as they +'creep' along, furtively glancing round, and then producing her knife +with a smile so terrible that the old nurse can only fear that she is +delirious, as her sudden vigour would also suggest. + +PAGE 72. st. xlvi-xlviii. These are the stanzas of which Lamb says, +'there is nothing more awfully simple in diction, more nakedly grand and +moving in sentiment, in Dante, in Chaucer, or in Spenser'--and again, +after an appreciation of _Lamia_, whose fairy splendours are 'for +younger impressibilities', he reverts to them, saying: 'To _us_ an +ounce of feeling is worth a pound of fancy; and therefore we recur +again, with a warmer gratitude, to the story of Isabella and the pot of +basil, and those never-cloying stanzas which we have cited, and which we +think should disarm criticism, if it be not in its nature cruel; if it +would not deny to honey its sweetness, nor to roses redness, nor light +to the stars in Heaven; if it would not bay the moon out of the skies, +rather than acknowledge she is fair.'--_The New Times_, July 19, 1820. + +l. 361. _fresh-thrown mould_, a corroboration of her fears. Mr. Colvin +has pointed out how the horror is throughout relieved by the beauty of +the images called up by the similes, e.g. 'a crystal well,' 'a native +lily of the dell.' + +l. 370. _Her silk . . . phantasies_, i.e. which she had embroidered +fancifully for him. + +PAGE 73. l. 385. _wormy circumstance_, ghastly detail. Keats envies the +un-self-conscious simplicity of the old ballad-writers in treating such +a theme as this, and bids the reader turn to Boccaccio, whose +description of the scene he cannot hope to rival. Boccaccio writes: 'Nor +had she dug long before she found the body of her hapless lover, whereon +as yet there was no trace of corruption or decay; and thus she saw +without any manner of doubt that her vision was true. And so, saddest of +women, knowing that she might not bewail him there, she would gladly, if +she could, have carried away the body and given it more honourable +sepulture elsewhere; but as she might not do so, she took a knife, and, +as best she could, severed the head from the trunk, and wrapped it in a +napkin and laid it in the lap of the maid; and having covered the rest +of the corpse with earth, she left the spot, having been seen by none, +and went home.' + +PAGE 74. l. 393. _Persean sword._ The sword of sharpness given to +Perseus by Hermes, with which he cut off the head of the Gorgon Medusa, +a monster with the head of a woman, and snaky locks, the sight of whom +turned those who looked on her into stone. Perseus escaped by looking +only at her reflection in his shield. + +l. 406. _chilly_: tears, not passionate, but of cold despair. + +PAGE 75. l. 410. _pluck'd in Araby._ Cf. Lady Macbeth, 'All the perfumes +of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,' _Macbeth_, V. ii. 55. + +l. 412. _serpent-pipe_, twisted pipe. + +l. 416. _Sweet Basil_, a fragrant aromatic plant. + +ll. 417-20. The repetition makes us feel the monotony of her days and +nights of grief. + +PAGE 76. l. 432. _leafits_, leaflets, little leaves. An old botanical +term, but obsolete in Keats's time. Coleridge uses it in l. 65 of 'The +Nightingale' in _Lyrical Ballads_. In later editions he altered it to +'leaflets'. + +l. 436. _Lethean_, in Hades, the dark underworld of the dead. Compare +the conception of melancholy in the _Ode on Melancholy_, where it is +said to neighbour joy. Contrast Stanza lxi. + +l. 439. _cypress_, dark trees which in Italy are always planted in +cemeteries. They stand by Keats's own grave. + +PAGE 77. l. 442. _Melpomene_, the Muse of tragedy. + +l. 451. _Baaelites of pelf_, worshippers of ill-gotten gains. + +l. 453. _elf_, man. The word is used in this sense by Spenser in _The +Faerie Queene_. + +PAGE 78. l. 467. _chapel-shrift_, confession. Cf. l. 64. + +ll. 469-72. _And when . . . hair._ The pathos of this picture is +intensified by its suggestions of the wife- and mother-hood which Isabel +can now never know. Cf. st. xlvii, where the idea is still more +beautifully suggested. + +PAGE 79. l. 475. _vile . . . spot._ The one touch of descriptive +horror--powerful in its reticence. + +PAGE 80. l. 489. _on . . . things._ Her love and her hope is with the +dead rather than with the living. + +l. 492. _lorn voice._ Cf. st. xxxv. She is approaching her lover. Note +that in each case the metaphor is of a stringed instrument. + +l. 493. _Pilgrim in his wanderings._ Cf. st. i, 'a young palmer in +Love's eye.' + +l. 503. _burthen_, refrain. Cf. _Tempest_, I. ii. Ariel's songs. + + +NOTES ON THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. + +See Introduction to _Isabella_ and _The Eve of St. Agnes_, p. 212. + +St. Agnes was a martyr of the Christian Church who was beheaded just +outside Rome in 304 because she refused to marry a Pagan, holding +herself to be a bride of Christ. She was only 13--so small and slender +that the smallest fetters they could find slipped over her little wrists +and fell to the ground. But they stripped, tortured, and killed her. A +week after her death her parents dreamed that they saw her in glory with +a white lamb, the sign of purity, beside her. Hence she is always +pictured with lambs (as her name signifies), and to the place of her +martyrdom two lambs are yearly taken on the anniversary and blessed. +Then their wool is cut off and woven by the nuns into the archbishop's +cloak, or pallium (see l. 70). + +For the legend connected with the Eve of the Saint's anniversary, to +which Keats refers, see st. vi. + +_Metre._ That of the _Faerie Queene_. + +PAGE 83. ll. 5-6. _told His rosary._ Cf. _Isabella_, ll. 87-8. + +l. 8. _without a death._ The 'flight to heaven' obscures the simile of +the incense, and his breath is thought of as a departing soul. + +PAGE 84. l. 12. _meagre, barefoot, wan._ Such a compression of a +description into three bare epithets is frequent in Keats's poetry. He +shows his marvellous power in the unerring choice of adjective; and +their enumeration in this way has, from its very simplicity, an +extraordinary force. + +l. 15. _purgatorial rails_, rails which enclose them in a place of +torture. + +l. 16. _dumb orat'ries._ The transference of the adjective from person +to place helps to give us the mysterious sense of life in inanimate +things. Cf. _Hyperion_, iii. 8; _Ode to a Nightingale_, l. 66. + +l. 22. _already . . . rung._ He was dead to the world. But this hint +should also prepare us for the conclusion of the poem. + +PAGE 85. l. 31. _'gan to chide._ l. 32. _ready with their pride._ l. 34. +_ever eager-eyed._ l. 36. _with hair . . . breasts._ As if trumpets, +rooms, and carved angels were all alive. See Introduction, p. 212. + +l. 37. _argent_, silver. They were all glittering with rich robes and +arms. + +PAGE 86. l. 56. _yearning . . . pain_, expressing all the exquisite +beauty and pathos of the music; and moreover seeming to give it +conscious life. + +PAGE 87. l. 64. _danc'd_, conveying all her restlessness and impatience +as well as the lightness of her step. + +l. 70. _amort_, deadened, dull. Cf. _Taming of the Shrew_, IV. iii. 36, +'What sweeting! all amort.' + +l. 71. See note on St. Agnes, p. 224. + +l. 77. _Buttress'd from moonlight._ A picture of the castle and of the +night, as well as of Porphyro's position. + +PAGE 88. ll. 82 seq. Compare the situation of these lovers with that of +Romeo and Juliet. + +l. 90. _beldame_, old woman. Shakespeare generally uses the word in an +uncomplimentary sense--'hag'--but it is not so used here. The word is +used by Spenser in its derivative sense, 'Fair lady,' _Faerie Queene_, +ii. 43. + +PAGE 89. l. 110. _Brushing . . . plume._ This line both adds to our +picture of Porphyro and vividly brings before us the character of the +place he was entering--unsuited to the splendid cavalier. + +l. 113. _Pale, lattic'd, chill._ Cf. l. 12, note. + +l. 115. _by the holy loom_, on which the nuns spin. See l. 71 and note +on St. Agnes, p. 224. + +PAGE 90. l. 120. _Thou must . . . sieve._ Supposed to be one of the +commonest signs of supernatural power. Cf. _Macbeth_, I. iii. 8. + +l. 133. _brook_, check. An incorrect use of the word, which really means +_bear_ or _permit_. + +PAGE 92. ll. 155-6. _churchyard . . . toll._ Unconscious prophecy. Cf. +_The Bedesman_, l. 22. + +l. 168. _While . . . coverlet._ All the wonders of Madeline's +imagination. + +l. 171. _Since Merlin . . . debt._ Referring to the old legend that +Merlin had for father an incubus or demon, and was himself a demon of +evil, though his innate wickedness was driven out by baptism. Thus his +'debt' to the demon was his existence, which he paid when Vivien +compassed his destruction by means of a spell which he had taught her. +Keats refers to the storm which is said to have raged that night, which +Tennyson also describes in _Merlin and Vivien_. The source whence the +story came to Keats has not been ascertained. + +PAGE 93. l. 173. _cates_, provisions. Cf. _Taming of the Shrew_, II. i. +187:-- + + Kate of Kate Hall--my super-dainty Kate, + For dainties are all cates. + +We still use the verb 'to cater' as in l. 177. + +l. 174. _tambour frame_, embroidery-frame. + +l. 185. _espied_, spying. _Dim_, because it would be from a dark corner; +also the spy would be but dimly visible to her old eyes. + +l. 187. _silken . . . chaste._ Cf. ll. 12, 113. + +l. 188. _covert_, hiding. Cf. _Isabella_, l. 221. + +PAGE 94. l. 198. _fray'd_, frightened. + +l. 203. _No uttered . . . betide._ Another of the conditions of the +vision was evidently silence. + +PAGE 95. ll. 208 seq. Compare Coleridge's description of Christabel's +room: _Christabel_, i. 175-83. + +l. 218. _gules_, blood-red. + +PAGE 96. l. 226. _Vespers._ Cf. _Isabella_, l. 21, ll. 226-34. See +Introduction, p. 213. + +l. 237. _poppied_, because of the sleep-giving property of the +poppy-heads. + +l. 241. _Clasp'd . . . pray._ The sacredness of her beauty is felt here. + +_missal_, prayer-book. + +PAGE 97. l. 247. _To wake . . . tenderness._ He waited to hear, by the +sound of her breathing, that she was asleep. + +l. 250. _Noiseless . . . wilderness._ We picture a man creeping over a +wide plain, fearing that any sound he makes will arouse some wild beast +or other frightful thing. + +l. 257. _Morphean._ Morpheus was the god of sleep. + +_amulet_, charm. + +l. 258. _boisterous . . . festive._ Cf. ll. 12, 112, 187. + +l. 261. _and . . . gone._ The cadence of this line is peculiarly adapted +to express a dying-away of sound. + +PAGE 98. l. 266. _soother_, sweeter, more delightful. An incorrect use +of the word. Sooth really means truth. + +l. 267. _tinct_, flavoured; usually applied to colour, not to taste. + +l. 268. _argosy_, merchant-ship. Cf. _Merchant of Venice_, I. i. 9, +'Your argosies with portly sail.' + +PAGE 99. l. 287. Before he desired a 'Morphean amulet'; now he wishes to +release his lady's eyes from the charm of sleep. + +l. 288. _woofed phantasies._ Fancies confused as woven threads. Cf. +_Isabella_, l. 292. + +l. 292. '_La belle . . . mercy._' This stirred Keats's imagination, and +he produced the wonderful, mystic ballad of this title (see p. 213). + +l. 296. _affrayed_, frightened. Cf. l. 198. + +PAGE 100. ll. 298-9. Cf. Donne's poem, _The Dream_:-- + + My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it. + +l. 300. _painful change_, his paleness. + +l. 311. _pallid, chill, and drear._ Cf. ll. 12, 112, 187, 258. + +PAGE 101. l. 323. _Love's alarum_, warning them to speed away. + +l. 325. _flaw_, gust of wind. Cf. _Coriolanus_, V. iii. 74; _Hamlet_, +V. i. 239. + +l. 333. _unpruned_, not trimmed. + +PAGE 102. l. 343. _elfin-storm._ The beldame has suggested that he must +be 'liege-lord of all the elves and fays'. + +l. 351. _o'er . . . moors._ A happy suggestion of a warmer clime. + +PAGE 103. l. 355. _darkling._ Cf. _King Lear_, I. iv. 237: 'So out went +the candle and we were left darkling.' Cf. _Ode to a Nightingale_, l. +51. + +l. 360. _And . . . floor._ There is the very sound of the wind in this +line. + +PAGE 104. ll. 375-8. _Angela . . . cold._ The death of these two leaves +us with the thought of a young, bright world for the lovers to enjoy; +whilst at the same time it completes the contrast, which the first +introduction of the old bedesman suggested, between the old, the poor, +and the joyless, and the young, the rich, and the happy. + + +INTRODUCTION TO THE ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE, ODE ON A GRECIAN URN, ODE ON +MELANCHOLY, AND TO AUTUMN. + +These four odes, which were all written in 1819, the first three in the +early months of that year, ought to be considered together, since the +same strain of thought runs through them all and, taken all together, +they seem to sum up Keats's philosophy. + +In all of them the poet looks upon life as it is, and the eternal +principle of beauty, in the first three seeing them in sharp contrast; +in the last reconciling them, and leaving us content. + +The first-written of the four, the _Ode to a Nightingale_, is the most +passionately human and personal of them all. For Keats wrote it soon +after the death of his brother Tom, whom he had loved devotedly and +himself nursed to the end. He was feeling keenly the tragedy of a world +'where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies', and the song of +the nightingale, heard in a friend's garden at Hampstead, made him long +to escape with it from this world of realities and sorrows to the world +of ideal beauty, which it seemed to him somehow to stand for and +suggest. He did not think of the nightingale as an individual bird, but +of its song, which had been beautiful for centuries and would continue +to be beautiful long after his generation had passed away; and the +thought of this undying loveliness he contrasted bitterly with our +feverishly sad and short life. When, by the power of imagination, he had +left the world behind him and was absorbed in the vision of beauty +roused by the bird's song, he longed for death rather than a return to +disillusionment. + +So in the _Grecian Urn_ he contrasts unsatisfying human life with art, +which is everlastingly beautiful. The figures on the vase lack one thing +only--reality,--whilst on the other hand they are happy in not being +subject to trouble, change, or death. The thought is sad, yet Keats +closes this ode triumphantly, not, as in _The Nightingale_, on a note of +disappointment. The beauty of this Greek sculpture, truly felt, teaches +us that beauty at any rate is real and lasting, and that utter belief in +beauty is the one thing needful in life. + +In the _Ode on Melancholy_ Keats, in a more bitter mood, finds the +presence, in a fleeting world, of eternal beauty the source of the +deepest melancholy. To encourage your melancholy mood, he tells us, do +not look on the things counted sad, but on the most beautiful, which are +only quickly-fading manifestations of the everlasting principle of +beauty. It is then, when a man most deeply loves the beautiful, when he +uses his capacities of joy to the utmost, that the full bitterness of +the contrast between the real and the ideal comes home to him and +crushes him. If he did not feel so much he would not suffer so much; if +he loved beauty less he would care less that he could not hold it long. + +But in the ode _To Autumn_ Keats attains to the serenity he has been +seeking. In this unparalleled description of a richly beautiful autumn +day he conveys to us all the peace and comfort which his spirit +receives. He does not philosophize upon the spectacle or draw a moral +from it, but he shows us how in nature beauty is ever present. To the +momentary regret for spring he replies with praise of the present hour, +concluding with an exquisite description of the sounds of autumn--its +music, as beautiful as that of spring. Hitherto he has lamented the +insecurity of a man's hold upon the beautiful, though he has never +doubted the reality of beauty and the worth of its worship to man. Now, +under the influence of nature, he intuitively knows that beauty once +seen and grasped is man's possession for ever. He is in much the same +position that Wordsworth was when he declared that + + Nature never did betray + The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, + Through all the years of this our life, to lead + From joy to joy: for she can so inform + The mind that is within us, so impress + With quietness and beauty, and so feed + With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, + Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, + Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all + The dreary intercourse of daily life, + Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb + Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold + Is full of blessings. + +This was not the last poem that Keats wrote, but it was the last which +he wrote in the fulness of his powers. We can scarcely help wishing +that, beautiful as were some of the productions of his last feverish +year of life, this perfect ode, expressing so serene and untroubled a +mood, might have been his last word to the world. + + +NOTES ON THE ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. + +In the early months of 1819 Keats was living with his friend Brown at +Hampstead (Wentworth Place). In April a nightingale built her nest in +the garden, and Brown writes: 'Keats felt a tranquil and continual joy +in her song; and one morning he took his chair from the breakfast table +to the grass-plot under a plum, where he sat for two or three hours. +When he came into the house I perceived he had some scraps of paper in +his hand, and these he was quietly thrusting behind the books. On +inquiry, I found those scraps, four or five in number, contained his +poetic feeling on the song of our nightingale. The writing was not well +legible, and it was difficult to arrange the stanza on so many scraps. +With his assistance I succeeded, and this was his _Ode to a +Nightingale_.' + +PAGE 107. l. 4. _Lethe._ Cf. _Lamia_, i. 81, note. + +l. 7. _Dryad._ Cf. _Lamia_, i. 5, note. + +PAGE 108. l. 13. _Flora_, the goddess of flowers. + +l. 14. _sunburnt mirth._ An instance of Keats's power of concentration. +The _people_ are not mentioned at all, yet this phrase conjures up a +picture of merry, laughing, sunburnt peasants, as surely as could a long +and elaborate description. + +l. 15. _the warm South._ As if the wine brought all this with it. + +l. 16. _Hippocrene_, the spring of the Muses on Mount Helicon. + +l. 23. _The weariness . . . fret._ Cf. 'The fretful stir unprofitable +and the fever of the world' in Wordsworth's _Tintern Abbey_, which Keats +well knew. + +PAGE 109. l. 26. _Where youth . . . dies._ See Introduction to the Odes, +p. 230. + +l. 29. _Beauty . . . eyes._ Cf. _Ode on Melancholy_, 'Beauty that must +die.' + +l. 32. _Not . . . pards._ Not wine, but poetry, shall give him release +from the cares of this world. Keats is again obviously thinking of +Titian's picture (Cf. _Lamia_, i. 58, note). + +l. 40. Notice the balmy softness which is given to this line by the use +of long vowels and liquid consonants. + +PAGE 110. ll. 41 seq. The dark, warm, sweet atmosphere seems to enfold +us. It would be hard to find a more fragrant passage. + +l. 50. _The murmurous . . . eves._ We seem to hear them. Tennyson, +inspired by Keats, with more self-conscious art, uses somewhat similar +effects, e.g.: + + The moan of doves in immemorial elms, + And murmuring of innumerable bees. + + _The Princess_, vii. + +l. 51. _Darkling._ Cf. _The Eve of St. Agnes_, l. 355, note. + +l. 61. _Thou . . . Bird._ Because, so far as we are concerned, the +nightingale we heard years ago is the same as the one we hear to-night. +The next lines make it clear that this is what Keats means. + +l. 64. _clown_, peasant. + +l. 67. _alien corn._ Transference of the adjective from person to +surroundings. Cf. _Eve of St. Agnes_, l. 16; _Hyperion_, iii. 9. + +ll. 69-70. _magic . . . forlorn._ Perhaps inspired by a picture of +Claude's, 'The Enchanted Castle,' of which Keats had written before in a +poetical epistle to his friend Reynolds--'The windows [look] as if +latch'd by Fays and Elves.' + +PAGE 112. l. 72. _Toll._ To him it has a deeply melancholy sound, and it +strikes the death-blow to his illusion. + +l. 75. _plaintive._ It did not sound sad to Keats at first, but as it +dies away it takes colour from his own melancholy and sounds pathetic to +him. Cf. _Ode on Melancholy_: he finds both bliss and pain in the +contemplation of beauty. + +ll. 76-8. _Past . . . glades._ The whole country speeds past our eyes in +these three lines. + + +NOTES ON THE ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. + +This poem is not, apparently, inspired by any one actual vase, but by +many Greek sculptures, some seen in the British Museum, some known only +from engravings. Keats, in his imagination, combines them all into one +work of supreme beauty. + +Perhaps Keats had some recollection of Wordsworth's sonnet 'Upon the +sight of a beautiful picture,' beginning 'Praised be the art.' + +PAGE 113. l. 2. _foster-child._ The child of its maker, but preserved +and cared for by these foster-parents. + +l. 7. _Tempe_ was a famous glen in Thessaly. + +_Arcady._ Arcadia, a very mountainous country, the centre of the +Peloponnese, was the last stronghold of the aboriginal Greeks. The +people were largely shepherds and goatherds, and Pan was a local +Arcadian god till the Persian wars (c. 400 B.C.). In late Greek and in +Roman pastoral poetry, as in modern literature, Arcadia is a sort of +ideal land of poetic shepherds. + +PAGE 114. ll. 17-18. _Bold . . . goal._ The one thing denied to the +figures--actual life. But Keats quickly turns to their rich +compensations. + +PAGE 115. ll. 28-30. _All . . . tongue._ Cf. Shelley's _To a Skylark_: + + Thou lovest--but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + +ll. 31 seq. Keats is now looking at the other side of the urn. This +verse strongly recalls certain parts of the frieze of the Parthenon +(British Museum). + +PAGE 116. l. 41. _Attic_, Greek. + +_brede_, embroidery. Cf. _Lamia_, i. 159. Here used of carving. + +l. 44. _tease us out of thought._ Make us think till thought is lost in +mystery. + + +INTRODUCTION TO THE ODE TO PSYCHE. + +In one of his long journal-letters to his brother George, Keats writes, +at the beginning of May, 1819: 'The following poem--the last I have +written--is the first and the only one with which I have taken even +moderate pains. I have for the most part dashed off my lines in a hurry. +This I have done leisurely--I think it reads the more richly for it, and +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.' _The Ode to Psyche_ follows. + +The story of Psyche may be best told in the words of William Morris in +the 'argument' to 'the story of Cupid and Psyche' in his _Earthly +Paradise_: + + 'Psyche, a king's daughter, by her exceeding beauty caused the + people to forget Venus; therefore the goddess would fain have + destroyed her: nevertheless she became the bride of Love, yet + in an unhappy moment lost him by her own fault, and wandering + through the world suffered many evils at the hands of Venus, + for whom she must accomplish fearful tasks. But the gods and + all nature helped her, and in process of time she was + re-united to Love, forgiven by Venus, and made immortal by the + Father of gods and men.' + +Psyche is supposed to symbolize the human soul made immortal through +love. + + +NOTES ON THE ODE TO PSYCHE. + +PAGE 117. l. 2. _sweet . . . dear._ Cf. _Lycidas_, 'Bitter constraint +and sad occasion dear.' + +l. 4. _soft-conched._ Metaphor of a sea-shell giving an impression of +exquisite colour and delicate form. + +PAGE 118. l. 13. _'Mid . . . eyed._ Nature in its appeal to every sense. +In this line we have the essence of all that makes the beauty of flowers +satisfying and comforting. + +l. 14. _Tyrian_, purple, from a certain dye made at Tyre. + +l. 20. _aurorean._ Aurora is the goddess of dawn. Cf. _Hyperion_, i. +181. + +l. 25. _Olympus._ Cf. _Lamia_, i. 9, note. + +_hierarchy._ The orders of gods, with Jupiter as head. + +l. 26. _Phoebe_, or Diana, goddess of the moon. + +l. 27. _Vesper_, the evening star. + +PAGE 119. l. 34. _oracle_, a sacred place where the god was supposed to +answer questions of vital import asked him by his worshippers. + +l. 37. _fond believing_, foolishly credulous. + +l. 41. _lucent fans_, luminous wings. + +PAGE 120. l. 55. _fledge . . . steep._ Probably a recollection of what +he had seen in the Lakes, for on June 29, 1818, he writes to Tom from +Keswick of a waterfall which 'oozes out from a cleft in perpendicular +Rocks, all fledged with Ash and other beautiful trees'. + +l. 57. _Dryads._ Cf. _Lamia_, l. 5, note. + + +INTRODUCTION TO FANCY. + +This poem, although so much lighter in spirit, bears a certain relation +in thought to Keats's other odes. In the _Nightingale_ the tragedy of +this life made him long to escape, on the wings of imagination, to the +ideal world of beauty symbolized by the song of the bird. Here finding +all real things, even the most beautiful, pall upon him, he extols the +fancy, which can escape from reality and is not tied by place or season +in its search for new joys. This is, of course, only a passing mood, as +the extempore character of the poetry indicates. We see more of settled +conviction in the deeply-meditative _Ode to Autumn_, where he finds the +ideal in the rich and ever-changing real. + +This poem is written in the four-accent metre employed by Milton in +_L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_, and we can often detect a similarity of +cadence, and a resemblance in the scenes imagined. + + +NOTES ON FANCY. + +PAGE 123. l. 16. _ingle_, chimney-nook. + +PAGE 126. l. 81. _Ceres' daughter_, Proserpina. Cf. _Lamia_, i. 63, +note. + +l. 82. _God of torment._ Pluto, who presides over the torments of the +souls in Hades. + +PAGE 127. l. 85. _Hebe_, the cup-bearer of Jove. + +l. 89. _And Jove grew languid._ Observe the fitting slowness of the +first half of the line, and the sudden leap forward of the second. + + +NOTES ON ODE + +['BARDS OF PASSION AND OF MIRTH']. + +PAGE 128. l. 1. _Bards_, poets and singers. + +l. 8. _parle_, French _parler_. Cf. _Hamlet_, I. i. 62. + +l. 12. _Dian's fawns._ Diana was the goddess of hunting. + + +INTRODUCTION TO LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. + +The Mermaid Tavern was an old inn in Bread Street, Cheapside. Tradition +says that the literary club there was established by Sir Walter Raleigh +in 1603. In any case it was, in Shakespeare's time, frequented by the +chief writers of the day, amongst them Ben Jonson, Beaumont, Fletcher, +Selden, Carew, Donne, and Shakespeare himself. Beaumont, in a poetical +epistle to Ben Jonson, writes: + + What things have we seen + Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been + So nimble and so full of subtle flame, + As if that any one from whence they came + Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, + And has resolved to live a fool the rest + Of his dull life. + + +NOTES ON LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. + +PAGE 131. l. 10. _bold Robin Hood._ Cf. _Robin Hood_, p. 133. + +l. 12. _bowse_, drink. + +PAGE 132. ll. 16-17. _an astrologer's . . . story._ The astrologer would +record, on parchment, what he had seen in the heavens. + +l. 22. _The Mermaid . . . Zodiac._ The zodiac was an imaginary belt +across the heavens within which the sun and planets were supposed to +move. It was divided into twelve parts corresponding to the twelve +months of the year, according to the position of the moon when full. +Each of these parts had a sign by which it was known, and the sign of +the tenth was a fish-tailed goat, to which Keats refers as the Mermaid. +The word _zodiac_ comes from the Greek +zodion+, meaning +a little animal, since originally all the signs were animals. + + +INTRODUCTION TO ROBIN HOOD. + +Early in 1818 John Hamilton Reynolds, a friend of Keats, sent him two +sonnets which he had written 'On Robin Hood'. Keats, in his letter of +thanks, after giving an appreciation of Reynolds's production, says: 'In +return for your Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, I hope +they'll look pretty.' Then follow these lines, entitled, 'To J. H. R. in +answer to his Robin Hood sonnets.' At the end he writes: 'I hope you +will like them--they are at least written in the spirit of outlawry.' + +Robin Hood, the outlaw, was a popular hero of the Middle Ages. He was a +great poacher of deer, brave, chivalrous, generous, full of fun, and +absolutely without respect for law and order. He robbed the rich to give +to the poor, and waged ceaseless war against the wealthy prelates of the +church. Indeed, of his endless practical jokes, the majority were played +upon sheriffs and bishops. He lived, with his 'merry men', in Sherwood +Forest, where a hollow tree, said to be his 'larder', is still shown. + +Innumerable ballads telling of his exploits were composed, the first +reference to which is in the second edition of Langland's _Piers +Plowman_, c. 1377. Many of these ballads still survive, but in all these +traditions it is quite impossible to disentangle fact from fiction. + + +NOTES ON ROBIN HOOD. + +PAGE 133. l. 4. _pall._ Cf. _Isabella_, l. 268. + +l. 9. _fleeces_, the leaves of the forest, cut from them by the wind as +the wool is shorn from the sheep's back. + +PAGE 134. l. 13. _ivory shrill_, the shrill sound of the ivory horn. + +ll. 15-18. Keats imagines some man who has not heard the laugh hearing +with bewilderment its echo in the depths of the forest. + +l. 21. _seven stars_, Charles's Wain or the Big Bear. + +l. 22. _polar ray_, the light of the Pole, or North, star. + +l. 30. _pasture Trent_, the fields about the Trent, the river of +Nottingham, which runs by Sherwood forest. + +PAGE 135. l. 33. _morris._ A dance in costume which, in the Tudor +period, formed a part of every village festivity. It was generally +danced by five men and a boy in girl's dress, who represented Maid +Marian. Later it came to be associated with the May games, and other +characters of the Robin Hood epic were introduced. It was abolished, +with other village gaieties, by the Puritans, and though at the +Restoration it was revived it never regained its former importance. + +l. 34. _Gamelyn._ The hero of a tale (_The Tale of Gamelyn_) attributed +to Chaucer, and given in some MSS. as _The Cook's Tale_ in _The +Canterbury Tales_. The story of Orlando's ill-usage, prowess, and +banishment, in _As You Like It_, Shakespeare derived from this source, +and Keats is thinking of the merry life of the hero amongst the outlaws. + +l. 36. '_grene shawe_,' green wood. + +PAGE 136. l. 53. _Lincoln green._ In the Middle Ages Lincoln was very +famous for dyeing green cloth, and this green cloth was the +characteristic garb of the forester and outlaw. + +l. 62. _burden._ Cf. _Isabella_, l. 503. + + +NOTES ON 'TO AUTUMN'. + +In a letter written to Reynolds from Winchester, in September, 1819, +Keats says: 'How beautiful the season is now--How fine the air. A +temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste +weather--Dian skies--I never liked stubble-fields so much as now--Aye +better than the chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stubble-field +looks warm--in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me +so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.' What he composed +was the Ode _To Autumn_. + +PAGE 137. ll. 1 seq. The extraordinary concentration and richness of +this description reminds us of Keats's advice to Shelley--'Load every +rift of your subject with ore.' The whole poem seems to be painted in +tints of red, brown, and gold. + +PAGE 138. ll. 12 seq. From the picture of an autumn day we proceed to +the characteristic sights and occupations of autumn, personified in the +spirit of the season. + +l. 18. _swath_, the width of the sweep of the scythe. + +ll. 23 seq. Now the sounds of autumn are added to complete the +impression. + +ll. 25-6. Compare letter quoted above. + +PAGE 139. l. 28. _sallows_, trees or low shrubs of the willowy kind. + +ll. 28-9. _borne . . . dies._ Notice how the cadence of the line fits +the sense. It seems to rise and fall and rise and fall again. + + +NOTES ON ODE ON MELANCHOLY. + +PAGE 140. l. 1. _Lethe._ See _Lamia_, i. 81, note. + +l. 2. _Wolf's-bane_, aconite or hellebore--a poisonous plant. + +l. 4. _nightshade_, a deadly poison. + +_ruby . . . Proserpine._ Cf. Swinburne's _Garden of Proserpine_. + +_Proserpine._ Cf. _Lamia_, i. 63, note. + +l. 5. _yew-berries._ The yew, a dark funereal-looking tree, is +constantly planted in churchyards. + +l. 7. _your mournful Psyche._ See Introduction to the _Ode to Psyche_, +p. 236. + +PAGE 141. l. 12. _weeping cloud._ l. 14. _shroud._ Giving a touch of +mystery and sadness to the otherwise light and tender picture. + +l. 16. _on . . . sand-wave_, the iridescence sometimes seen on the +ribbed sand left by the tide. + +l. 21. _She_, i.e. Melancholy--now personified as a goddess. Compare +this conception of melancholy with the passage in _Lamia_, i. 190-200. +Cf. also Milton's personifications of Melancholy in _L'Allegro_ and _Il +Penseroso_. + +PAGE 142. l. 30. _cloudy_, mysteriously concealed, seen of few. + + +INTRODUCTION TO HYPERION. + +This poem deals with the overthrow of the primaeval order of Gods by +Jupiter, son of Saturn the old king. There are many versions of the +fable in Greek mythology, and there are many sources from which it may +have come to Keats. At school he is said to have known the classical +dictionary by heart, but his inspiration is more likely to have been due +to his later reading of the Elizabethan poets, and their translations of +classic story. One thing is certain, that he did not confine himself to +any one authority, nor did he consider it necessary to be circumscribed +by authorities at all. He used, rather than followed, the Greek fable, +dealing freely with it and giving it his own interpretation. + +The situation when the poem opens is as follows:--Saturn, king of the +gods, has been driven from Olympus down into a deep dell, by his son +Jupiter, who has seized and used his father's weapon, the thunderbolt. A +similar fate has overtaken nearly all his brethren, who are called by +Keats Titans and Giants indiscriminately, though in Greek mythology the +two races are quite distinct. These Titans are the children of Tellus +and Coelus, the earth and sky, thus representing, as it were, the first +birth of form and personality from formless nature. Before the +separation of earth and sky, Chaos, a confusion of the elements of all +things, had reigned supreme. One only of the Titans, Hyperion the +sun-god, still keeps his kingdom, and he is about to be superseded by +young Apollo, the god of light and song. + +In the second book we hear Oceanus and Clymene his daughter tell how +both were defeated not by battle or violence, but by the irresistible +beauty of their dispossessors; and from this Oceanus deduces 'the +eternal law, that first in beauty should be first in might'. He recalls +the fact that Saturn himself was not the first ruler, but received his +kingdom from his parents, the earth and sky, and he prophesies that +progress will continue in the overthrow of Jove by a yet brighter and +better order. Enceladus is, however, furious at what he considers a +cowardly acceptance of their fate, and urges his brethren to resist. + +In Book I we saw Hyperion, though still a god, distressed by portents, +and now in Book III we see the rise to divinity of his successor, the +young Apollo. The poem breaks off short at the moment of Apollo's +metamorphosis, and how Keats intended to complete it we can never know. + +It is certain that he originally meant to write an epic in ten books, +and the publisher's remark[245:1] at the beginning of the 1820 volume +would lead us to think that he was in the same mind when he wrote the +poem. This statement, however, must be altogether discounted, as Keats, +in his copy of the poems, crossed it right out and wrote above, 'I had +no part in this; I was ill at the time.' + +Moreover, the last sentence (from 'but' to 'proceeding') he bracketed, +writing below, 'This is a lie.' + +This, together with other evidence external and internal, has led Dr. de +Selincourt to the conclusion that Keats had modified his plan and, when +he was writing the poem, intended to conclude it in four books. Of the +probable contents of the one-and-half unwritten books Mr. de Selincourt +writes: 'I conceive that Apollo, now conscious of his divinity, would +have gone to Olympus, heard from the lips of Jove of his newly-acquired +supremacy, and been called upon by the rebel three to secure the kingdom +that awaited him. He would have gone forth to meet Hyperion, who, struck +by the power of supreme beauty, would have found resistance impossible. +Critics have inclined to take for granted the supposition that an actual +battle was contemplated by Keats, but I do not believe that such was, at +least, his final intention. In the first place, he had the example of +Milton, whom he was studying very closely, to warn him of its dangers; +in the second, if Hyperion had been meant to fight he would hardly be +represented as already, before the battle, shorn of much of his +strength; thus making the victory of Apollo depend upon his enemy's +unnatural weakness and not upon his own strength. One may add that a +combat would have been completely alien to the whole idea of the poem as +Keats conceived it, and as, in fact, it is universally interpreted from +the speech of Oceanus in the second book. The resistance of Enceladus +and the Giants, themselves rebels against an order already established, +would have been dealt with summarily, and the poem would have closed +with a description of the new age which had been inaugurated by the +triumph of the Olympians, and, in particular, of Apollo the god of light +and song.' + +The central idea, then, of the poem is that the new age triumphs over +the old by virtue of its acknowledged superiority--that intellectual +supremacy makes physical force feel its power and yield. Dignity and +moral conquest lies, for the conquered, in the capacity to recognize the +truth and look upon the inevitable undismayed. + +Keats broke the poem off because it was too 'Miltonic', and it is easy +to see what he meant. Not only does the treatment of the subject recall +that of _Paradise Lost_, the council of the fallen gods bearing special +resemblance to that of the fallen angels in Book II of Milton's epic, +but in its style and syntax the influence of Milton is everywhere +apparent. It is to be seen in the restraint and concentration of the +language, which is in marked contrast to the wordiness of Keats's early +work, as well as in the constant use of classical constructions,[247:1] +Miltonic inversions[247:2] and repetitions,[247:3] and in occasional +reminiscences of actual lines and phrases in _Paradise Lost_.[247:4] + +In _Hyperion_ we see, too, the influence of the study of Greek +sculpture upon Keats's mind and art. This study had taught him that the +highest beauty is not incompatible with definiteness of form and +clearness of detail. To his romantic appreciation of mystery was now +added an equal sense of the importance of simplicity, form, and +proportion, these being, from its nature, inevitable characteristics of +the art of sculpture. So we see that again and again the figures +described in _Hyperion_ are like great statues--clear-cut, massive, and +motionless. Such are the pictures of Saturn and Thea in Book I, and of +each of the group of Titans at the opening of Book II. + +Striking too is Keats's very Greek identification of the gods with the +powers of Nature which they represent. It is this attitude of mind which +has led some people--Shelley and Landor among them--to declare Keats, in +spite of his ignorance of the language, the most truly Greek of all +English poets. Very beautiful instances of this are the sunset and +sunrise in Book I, when the departure of the sun-god and his return to +earth are so described that the pictures we see are of an evening and +morning sky, an angry sunset, and a grey and misty dawn. + +But neither Miltonic nor Greek is Keats's marvellous treatment of nature +as he feels, and makes us feel, the magic of its mystery in such a +picture as that of the + + tall oaks + Branch-charmed by the earnest stars, + +or of the + + 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. + +This Keats, and Keats alone, could do; and his achievement is unique in +throwing all the glamour of romance over a fragment 'sublime as +Aeschylus'. + + +NOTES ON HYPERION. + +BOOK I. + +PAGE 145. ll. 2-3. By thus giving us a vivid picture of the changing +day--at morning, noon, and night--Keats makes us realize the terrible +loneliness and gloom of a place too deep to feel these changes. + +l. 10. See how the sense is expressed in the cadence of the line. + +PAGE 146. l. 11. _voiceless._ As if it felt and knew, and were +deliberately silent. + +ll. 13, 14. Influence of Greek sculpture. See Introduction, p. 248. + +l. 18. _nerveless . . . dead._ Cf. _Eve of St. Agnes_, l. 12, note. + +l. 19. _realmless eyes._ The tragedy of his fall is felt in every +feature. + +ll. 20, 21. _Earth, His ancient mother._ Tellus. See Introduction, p. +244. + +PAGE 147. l. 27. _Amazon._ The Amazons were a warlike race of women of +whom many traditions exist. On the frieze of the Mausoleum (British +Museum) they are seen warring with the Centaurs. + +l. 30. _Ixion's wheel._ For insolence to Jove, Ixion was tied to an +ever-revolving wheel in Hell. + +l. 31. _Memphian sphinx._ Memphis was a town in Egypt near to which the +pyramids were built. A sphinx is a great stone image with human head and +breast and the body of a lion. + +PAGE 148. ll. 60-3. The thunderbolts, being Jove's own weapons, are +unwilling to be used against their former master. + +PAGE 149. l. 74. _branch-charmed . . . stars._ All the magic of the +still night is here. + +ll. 76-8. _Save . . . wave._ See how the gust of wind comes and goes in +the rise and fall of these lines, which begin and end on the same sound. + +PAGE 150. l. 86. See Introduction, p. 248. + +l. 94. _aspen-malady_, trembling like the leaves of the aspen-poplar. + +PAGE 151. ll. 98 seq. Cf. _King Lear_. Throughout the figure of +Saturn--the old man robbed of his kingdom--reminds us of Lear, and +sometimes we seem to detect actual reminiscences of Shakespeare's +treatment. Cf. _Hyperion_, i. 98; and _King Lear_, I. iv. 248-52. + +l. 102. _front_, forehead. + +l. 105. _nervous_, used in its original sense of powerful, sinewy. + +ll. 107 seq. In Saturn's reign was the Golden Age. + +PAGE 152. l. 125. _of ripe progress_, near at hand. + +l. 129. _metropolitan_, around the chief city. + +l. 131. _strings in hollow shells._ The first stringed instruments were +said to be made of tortoise-shells with strings stretched across. + +PAGE 153. l. 145. _chaos._ The confusion of elements from which the +world was created. See _Paradise Lost_, i. 891-919. + +l. 147. _rebel three._ Jove, Neptune, and Pluto. + +PAGE 154. l. 152. _covert._ Cf. _Isabella_, l. 221; _Eve of St. Agnes_, +l. 188. + +ll. 156-7. All the dignity and majesty of the goddess is in this +comparison. + +PAGE 155. l. 171. _gloom-bird_, the owl, whose cry is supposed to +portend death. Cf. Milton's method of description, 'Not that fair +field,' etc. _Paradise Lost_, iv. 268. + +l. 172. _familiar visiting_, ghostly apparition. + +PAGE 157. ll. 205-8. Cf. the opening of the gates of heaven. _Paradise +Lost_, vii. 205-7. + +ll. 213 seq. See Introduction, p. 248. + +PAGE 158. l. 228. _effigies_, visions. + +l. 230. _O . . . pools._ A picture of inimitable chilly horror. + +l. 238. _fanes._ Cf. _Psyche_, l. 50. + +PAGE 159. l. 246. _Tellus . . . robes_, the earth mantled by the salt +sea. + +PAGE 160. ll. 274-7. _colure._ One of two great circles supposed to +intersect at right angles at the poles. The nadir is the lowest point in +the heavens and the zenith is the highest. + +PAGE 161. ll. 279-80. _with labouring . . . centuries._ By studying the +sky for many hundreds of years wise men found there signs and symbols +which they read and interpreted. + +PAGE 162. l. 298. _demesnes._ Cf. _Lamia_, ii. 155, note. + +ll. 302-4. _all along . . . faint._ As in l. 286, the god and the +sunrise are indistinguishable to Keats. We see them both, and both in +one. See Introduction, p. 248. + +l. 302. _rack_, a drifting mass of distant clouds. Cf. _Lamia_, i. 178, +and _Tempest_, IV. i. 156. + +PAGE 163. ll. 311-12. _the powers . . . creating._ Coelus and Terra (or +Tellus), the sky and earth. + +PAGE 164. l. 345. _Before . . . murmur._ Before the string is drawn +tight to let the arrow fly. + +PAGE 165. l. 349. _region-whisper_, whisper from the wide air. + +BOOK II. + +PAGE 167. l. 4. _Cybele_, the wife of Saturn. + +PAGE 168. l. 17. _stubborn'd_, made strong, a characteristic coinage of +Keats, after the Elizabethan manner; cf. _Romeo and Juliet_, IV. i. 16. + +ll. 22 seq. Cf. i. 161. + +l. 28. _gurge_, whirlpool. + +PAGE 169. l. 35. _Of . . . moor_, suggested by Druid stones near +Keswick. + +l. 37. _chancel vault._ As if they stood in a great temple domed by the +sky. + +PAGE 171. l. 66. _Shadow'd_, literally and also metaphorically, in the +darkness of his wrath. + +l. 70. _that second war._ An indication that Keats did not intend to +recount this 'second war'; it is not likely that he would have +forestalled its chief incident. + +l. 78. _Ops_, the same as Cybele. + +l. 79. _No shape distinguishable._ Cf. _Paradise Lost_, ii. 666-8. + +PAGE 172. l. 97. _mortal_, making him mortal. + +l. 98. _A disanointing poison_, taking away his kingship and his +godhead. + +PAGE 173. ll. 116-17. _There is . . . voice._ Cf. i. 72-8. The +mysterious grandeur of the wind in the trees, whether in calm or storm. + +PAGE 174. ll. 133-5. _that old . . . darkness._ Uranus was the same as +Coelus, the god of the sky. The 'book' is the sky, from which ancient +sages drew their lore. Cf. i. 277-80. + +PAGE 175. l. 153. _palpable_, having material existence; literally, +touchable. + +PAGE 176. l. 159. _unseen parent dear._ Coelus, since the air is +invisible. + +l. 168. _no . . . grove._ 'Sophist and sage' suggests the philosophers +of ancient Greece. + +l. 170. _locks not oozy._ Cf. _Lycidas_, l. 175, 'oozy locks'. This use +of the negative is a reminiscence of Milton. + +ll. 171-2. _murmurs . . . sands._ In this description of the god's +utterance is the whole spirit of the element which he personifies. + +PAGE 177. ll. 182-7. Wise as Saturn was, the greatness of his power had +prevented him from realizing that he was neither the beginning nor the +end, but a link in the chain of progress. + +PAGE 178. ll. 203-5. In their hour of downfall a new dominion is +revealed to them--a dominion of the soul which rules so long as it is +not afraid to see and know. + +l. 207. _though once chiefs._ Though Chaos and Darkness once had the +sovereignty. From Chaos and Darkness developed Heaven and Earth, and +from them the Titans in all their glory and power. Now from them +develops the new order of Gods, surpassing them in beauty as they +surpassed their parents. + +PAGE 180. ll. 228-9. The key of the whole situation. + +ll. 237-41. No fight has taken place. The god has seen his doom and +accepted the inevitable. + +PAGE 181. l. 244. _poz'd_, settled, firm. + +PAGE 183. l. 284. _Like . . . string._ In this expressive line we hear +the quick patter of the beads. Clymene has had much the same experience +as Oceanus, though she does not philosophize upon it. She has succumbed +to the beauty of her successor. + +PAGE 184. ll. 300-7. We feel the great elemental nature of the Titans in +these powerful similes. + +l. 310. _Giant-Gods?_ In the edition of 1820 printed 'giant, Gods?' Mr. +Forman suggested the above emendation, which has since been discovered +to be the true MS. reading. + +PAGE 185. l. 328. _purge the ether_, clear the air. + +l. 331. As if Jove's appearance of strength were a deception, masking +his real weakness. + +PAGE 186. l. 339. Cf. i. 328-35, ii. 96. + +ll. 346-56. As the silver wings of dawn preceded Hyperion's rising so +now a silver light heralds his approach. + +PAGE 187. l. 357. See how the light breaks in with this line. + +l. 366. _and made it terrible._ There is no joy in the light which +reveals such terrors. + +PAGE 188. l. 374. _Memnon's image._ Memnon was a famous king of Egypt +who was killed in the Trojan war. His people erected a wonderful statue +to his memory, which uttered a melodious sound at dawn, when the sun +fell on it. At sunset it uttered a sad sound. + +l. 375. _dusking East._ Since the light fades first from the eastern +sky. + +BOOK III. + +PAGE 191. l. 9. _bewildered shores._ The attribute of the wanderer +transferred to the shore. Cf. _Nightingale_, ll. 14, 67. + +l. 10. _Delphic._ At Delphi worship was given to Apollo, the inventor +and god of music. + +PAGE 192. l. 12. _Dorian._ There were several 'modes' in Greek music, of +which the chief were Dorian, Phrygian, and Lydian. Each was supposed to +possess certain definite ethical characteristics. Dorian music was +martial and manly. Cf. _Paradise Lost_, i. 549-53. + +l. 13. _Father of all verse._ Apollo, the god of light and song. + +ll. 18-19. _Let the red . . . well._ Cf. _Nightingale_, st. 2. + +l. 19. _faint-lipp'd._ Cf. ii. 270, 'mouthed shell.' + +l. 23. _Cyclades._ Islands in the Aegean sea, so called because they +surrounded Delos in a circle. + +l. 24. _Delos_, the island where Apollo was born. + +PAGE 193. l. 31. _mother fair_, Leto (Latona). + +l. 32. _twin-sister_, Artemis (Diana). + +l. 40. _murmurous . . . waves._ We hear their soft breaking. + +PAGE 196. ll. 81-2. Cf. _Lamia_, i. 75. + +l. 82. _Mnemosyne_, daughter of Coelus and Terra, and mother of the +Muses. Her name signifies Memory. + +l. 86. Cf. _Samson Agonistes_, ll. 80-2. + +l. 87. Cf. _Merchant of Venice_, I. i. 1-7. + +l. 92. _liegeless_, independent--acknowledging no allegiance. + +l. 93. _aspirant_, ascending. The air will not bear him up. + +PAGE 197. l. 98. _patient . . . moon._ Cf. i. 353, 'patient stars.' +Their still, steady light. + +l. 113. So Apollo reaches his divinity--by knowledge which includes +experience of human suffering--feeling 'the giant-agony of the world'. + +PAGE 198. l. 114. _gray_, hoary with antiquity. + +l. 128. _immortal death._ Cf. Swinburne's _Garden of Proserpine_, st. 7. + + Who gathers all things mortal + With cold immortal hands. + +PAGE 199. l. 136. Filled in, in pencil, in a transcript of _Hyperion_ by +Keats's friend Richard Woodhouse-- + + Glory dawn'd, he was a god. + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[245:1] 'If any apology be thought necessary for the appearance of the +unfinished poem of Hyperion, the publishers beg to state that they alone +are responsible, as it was printed at their particular request, and +contrary to the wish of the author. The poem was intended to have been +of equal length with Endymion, but the reception given to that work +discouraged the author from proceeding.' + +[247:1] + + e.g. i. 56 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a god + i. 206 save what solemn tubes . . . gave + ii. 70 that second war + Not long delayed. + +[247:2] + + e.g. ii. 8 torrents hoarse + 32 covert drear + i. 265 season due + 286 plumes immense + +[247:3] + + e.g. i. 35 How beautiful . . . self + 182 While sometimes . . . wondering men + ii. 116, 122 Such noise . . . pines. + +[247:4] e.g. ii. 79 No shape distinguishable. Cf. _Paradise Lost_, ii. +667. + +i. 2 breath of morn. Cf. _Paradise Lost_, iv. 641. + + +HENRY FROWDE, M.A. +PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD +LONDON, EDINBURGH, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE + + + + * * * * * * * + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + +Line numbers are placed every ten lines. In the original, due to space +constraints, this is not always the case. + +On page 237, the note for l. 25 refers to "_Lamia_, i. 9, note". There +is no such note. + +The following words appear with and without hyphens. They have been left +as in the original. + + bed-side bedside + church-yard churchyard + death-bell deathbell + demi-god demigod + no-where nowhere + re-united reunited + sun-rise sunrise + under-grove undergrove + under-song undersong + +The following words have variations in spelling. They have been left as +in the original. + + AEolian Aeolian + Amaz'd Amazed + branch-charmed Branch-charmed + faery fairy + should'st shouldst + splendor splendour + +The following words use an oe ligature in the poems but not in the notes +section. + + Coeus + Coelus + Phoebe Phoebe's Phoebean + Phoenician + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEATS: POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1820*** + + +******* This file should be named 23684.txt or 23684.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/6/8/23684 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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