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THE  POEMS  OF 
JOHN  KEATS 


THE  POEMS 

OF 

JOHN    KEATS 

EDITED 

WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION 

AND  NOTES  BY 

E.    DE    S^LINCOURT 

WITH  A  FRONTISPIECE 
IN   PHOTOGRAVURE 


? 


NEW  YOEK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

1905. 


THIS   EDITION    OF   A 

FAVOURITE    POET 

THE    FIRST    THAT   WE    ENJOYED    TOGETHER 

I    SHOULD    LIKE    TO    DEDICATE 

TO 

MY    WIFE 


PREFACE 

THE  present  edition  of  the  Poetns  of  Keats  aims'at  i-bpro- 
ducing,  except  foi-  obvious  errors,  the  exact  text  of  the 
three  volumes  published  in  the  poet's  Iffi^time;  and  at  giving  for 
the  rest  of  his  work  what'  seems  to  be  the  most  appttrved'  text. 
I  have  left  the  irregularities  of  orthography  as  I  found  them  in  the 
fii-st  editions,  and  have  neither  consistently  modernised  theim, 
nor  followed  Mi-.  Forman  in  altering  the  spelling  of  certain  words 
so  as  to  make  them  fit  in  with  what  appears  to  be  Keats's  usual 
foi'm.  Keats's  predUection  for  Elizabethan  spelling  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  justify  its  introduction  in  passages  where  he  did  not 
actually  employ  it,  iand  it  is  at  least  no  more  chai-acteristic  of 
him  than  his  fluctuations  between  the  modem  and  archaic 
spelling  of  the  same  word,  which  are  noticeable  brith  in  his 
MSS.  and  in  his  printed  poems.  Similarly;  I  have  not  attempted 
to  revise  the  printing  of  the  -'d  or  -ed  of  the  past  participles. 
It  is  cleai',  as  Mr.  Fonnan  shows,  that  Keats's  "intention, 
speaking  broadly,  was  to  print  -ed  when  that  syllable  was  to 
be  pronounced,  and  to  I'eplace  the  e  by  an  apostrophe  in  the 
opposite  case " ;  it  is  clear  also  that  such  a  i-ule  was  not  con- 
sistently canied  out.  But  it  is  often  impossible  to  decide 
whether  Keats  wished  the  syllable  to  be  dropped  enth-ely,  oi- 
whether  he  desired  a  slightly  dissyllabic  effect  as  a  variation  of 
his  metre,  or  even  whether,  as  is  quite  possible,  by  the  retention 
of  the  e  he  wished  to  indicate  that  the  previous  syllable  should 
be  slightly  lingered  over  in  reading.  It  is  probable  also  that 
Keats  would  consult  the  eye  as  well  as  the  ear  in  deciding  which 
form  to  employ,  and  be  would  naturally  shi-ink  frcna  printir^ 
such  words  as  d^d  or  ey'd.    Moreover  it  must  be  remembered 


viii  PREFACE 

that  he  had  eveiy  opportunity  for  coiTecting  his  proofs,  and 
such  proof  copies  of  his  poems  as  are  now  extant  show  that  he 
not  only  coiTected  them  with  some  care,  but  also  obtained  the 
help  of  fiiends  in  their  coiTection.  It  is  hardly  likely  therefore 
that  he  would  have  left  as  many  as  sixty  incon-ectly  printed  in 
Endymkm,  and  yet  Mx.  Forman,  in  reducing  the  fonn  of  Keats's 
past  participles  to  rule,  has  found  it  necessaiy  to  alter  this 
number. 

A  word  must  be  said  in  explanation,  and  if  need  be  in 
defence,  of  the  arrangement  of  the  Posthumous  and  FtigiUve 
Poems.  It  is  a  practice  widely  followed  by  modem  scholarship 
to  collect  under  this  head  every  sa'ap  of  verse  that  can  be  dis- 
covered, and  to  produce  the  whole  under  the  title  of  "  Poems," 
and  there  is  much  to  be  said  for  the  aiTangement.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  cannot  help  agi-eeing  with  Mr.  Colvin  that  to 
print  snatches  of  doggerel  and  nonsense-vei'ses,  such  as  are  to  be 
found  in  the  Lettere  of  Keats,  "gi'avely,  among  the  poetical 
works,  is  to  punish  the  levities  of  genius  too  hard,"  and  I  am 
convinced  that  when  the  Ode  to  Mam  shares  a  page  with  Dawlish 
Fair,  and  La  Belle  Damie  sans  Merci  is  immediately  preceded 
by  Two  or  Three  Posies,  as  the  dates  of  composition  demand,  the 
mind  is  not  attuned  to  their  proper  appreciation,  and  chi-ono- 
logical  accui'acy  is  bought  at  a  heavy  price. 

Accoi-dingly  I  have  relegated  to  an  Appendix  those  verses 
which  do  not  seem  to  me  to  be  worthy  of  the  name  of  poetiy, 
and  would  not,  we  may  be  sure,  have  been  published  by  Keats 
as  such ;  the  remainder  I  have  aii-anged  as  far  as  possible  on  the 
principles  which  actuated  the  poet  in  the  an-angement  of  his 
volumes  of  1817  and  1820.  The  FaU  of  Hyperion  is  placed  first, 
for  pure  convenience,  that  it  may  stand  next  to  Hyperion  ,•  it  is 
followed  by  the  other  nan-ative  poems,  then  by  the  Odes,  by  the 
Sonffs  and  Lyrics,  by  the  Epistle  to  Reynolds,  then  by  the 
Sonnets  and  the  Dramas.  The  chronological  table  on  pp.  564-8 
will,  perhaps,  atone  for  this  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  pi-efer  tJhe  other 
plan.  The  Appendix  is  strictly  ckronologicaL  It  contains  much 
vei-se  which  could  well,  I  think,  be  spared,  and  it  is  only  added 
to  satisfy, those  readei-s  who  like  to  possess  not  merely  what  their 


PREFACE  ix 

author  wished  to  be  preserved,  but  that  which  he  would  willmgly 
have  let  die.  Even  so,  it  is  not  quite  complete,  for  certain  of 
the  poems  are  still  copyiight ;  but  Mr.  Forman,  with  character- 
istic generosity,  has  allowed  me  to  print  one  or  two  of  these 
which  possess  a  literary  as  distinct  &om  a  purely  pei-sonal 
interest,  and  they  contain  euQugh  to  show  how  badly  Keats  could 
write  when  he  was  not  inspired. 

The  same  feeling  as  prompted  the  arrangement  of  the  text 
has  induced  me  to  place  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  volume, 
rather  than,  as  would  perhaps  have  been  more  convenient,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  page.  "  Here  are  the  poems,"  wrote  Keats, 
in  despatching  to  his  brother  in  America  some  of  his  latest  com- 
positions, "they  will  explain  themselves — as  all  poetry  should 
do,  without  any  comment;"  and  though  notes  may  sometimes 
add  to  GUI-  knowledge  in  such  a  way  that  we  return  to  the  text 
with  a  fuller  appreciation  and  a  wider  power  of  sympathy,  for 
once  that  they  are  consulted  the  poems  wiU  be  read  many  times, 
and  in  moods — those  moods,  indeed,  in  which  poetry  makra  its 
surest  appeal — when  all  explanatory  comments  are  a  source  of 
weaiiness  and  mitation.  The  notes  are  both  textual  and  illus- 
trative. The  record  of  textual  variations  makes  no  pretence  at 
being  exhaustive ;  for  a  complete  account  of  the  difiFerent 
forms  through  which  the  poems  passed  before  Keats  left  them 
Ml".  Forman's  edition  will  always  remain  the  exact  and  unim- 
peachable authority,  and  it  would  have  been  wholly  unnecessaiy, 
even  if  the  material  at  my  disposal  had  made  it  possible,  for 
me  to  attempt  again  what  has  already  been  so  admii'ably  done. 
I  have  been  content,  therefore,  with  recording  those  variants 
which  are  espepially  interesting  in  the  light  they  throw  upon 
the  poet's  powers  of  self-criticism,  and  upon  the  gradual  growth, 
as  it  were,  of  a  work  of  art  to  the  form  in  which  the  artist 
thought  fit  to  give  it  to  the  world.  However,  the  fii-st  version 
of  the  Ode  to  a  Nightirigale,  which  has  come  to  light  since  the 
publication  of  Mr.  Fonnan's  edition,  is  given  in  eveiy  detail 
The  eai'lier  drafts  of  the  poems  of  Keats  ai'e  of  pai-ticulai'  value 
in  that  he  had  no  opportunities,  as,  e^.,  had  Wordsworth  or 
Tennyson,  to  revise  his  work  after  its  first  publication. 


X  PREFACE 

But  the  main  object  of  the  notes,  introduction,  and  ap- 
pendices is  to  discuss  and  illustrate  the  relation  of  Keats  with  his 
predecessoi-s,  and  to  establish  the  sources  of  his  inspii'ation.  The 
subject  is  one  of  special  interest  and  special  importance  to  a 
study  of  Keats,  and  much  has  from  time  to  time  been  written 
incidentally  upon  it;  but  it  has  never,  I  thinkj  been  treated 
systematically  in  all  its  bearings  upon  the  spirit  of  his  work  and 
upon  its  subject  mattei-,  style,  and  vocabulary.  Yet  such  a 
srtudy^  as  it  seems  to  me,  affords  one  of  the  surest  methods  by 
which  we  may  come  to  undei'stand  that  essential  element  of 
original '  genius  by  vii-tue  of  which  Keats  is  among  the  veiy 
greatest  of  our  poets. 

The  last  and  one  of  the  most  agi-eeable  duties  of  an  editor  is 
to  place  on  record  his  obligations  to  those  scholars,  both  dead 
and  living,  who  have  aided  him  in  his  task.  The  editors  and 
mtics  of  Keats,  judged  as  a  whole,  have  amply  atoned  for 
the  delinquencies  of  their  eai'liest  predecessors,  and  a  poet  who 
has  formed  the  study,  to  mention  no  others,  of  Charles  Cowden 
Clarkej  Leigh  Hunt,  Lord  Houghtcm,  Mrs.  Owen,  Matthew 
Arnold,  the  late  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold,  Mr.  Robei-t  Bridges,  Mi-. 
Buxton  Forman,  and  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin  has  been  fortunate 
indeed.  To  all  of  these  my  debt  is  necessarily  great,  and  has 
been  acknowledged  whenever  I  have  been  conscious  of  it.  But 
to  the  last  two  I  am  under  a  special  obligation ;  to  Mr.  Forman 
for  his  permission,  already  refen-ed  to,  to  print  certain  of  the 
poems  of  which  he  possesses  the  copyright,  in  particular  the 
beautiful  fragment  to  be  found  on  p.  254,  to  adopt  any  of 
his  corrections  and  emendations  in  the  text  of  Keats  (notably  in 
Endymion  and  Otho)  and  also  to  incorporate  in  my  notes  certain 
characteiTstic  rejected  passages  fix)m  Emh^mion  and  Lamia  which 
are  given  in  his  edition,  and  either  ai-e  based  upon  MSS.  in  his 
possession  or  were  otherwise  inaccessible  to  me;  to  Mr.  Colvin 
not  only  for  placing  at  my  disposal  all  the  valuable  manuscript 
mateiial  in  his  keeping,^  but  also  for  his  active  intei'est  in  my 

'  Particularly  thie  Woodhouse  Commonplace  Book  and  Keats's  Journal  Letters  to 
America,  which  contain  manuscript  copies  of  many  of  the  poems  and  supply  many 
variant  readings. 


PREFACE  xi 

book,  which  has  been  the  greatest  encotu'agement  to  me  in  its 
preparation.  I  have  always  found  him  i-eady  to  discuss  with  me 
any  problems  connected  with  the  life  and  work  of  Keats  which  I 
have  ventured  to  submit  to  him,  and  I  am  conscious  how  greatly 
I  have  profited  by  his  ripe  judgment  and  his  unrivalled 
knowledge  of  the  subject. 

I  should  like  also  to  express  my  thanks  to  Mr.  Boui'dillon  for 
allowing  me  to  make  use  of  his  copy  of  the  Poems  of  1817,  with 
its  interesting  annotations  in  the  handwriting  of  Woodhouse,  to 
Professor  A.  C.  Bradley  and  Mr.  Gilbert  Mun-ay  for  then* 
kindness  in  reading  my  MS.  and  making  several  valuable 
suggestions,  and  to  the  editoi-s  of  the  New  English  Dictionary  for 
allowing  me  to  consult  their  unpublished  material  upon  one  or 
two  difficult  words.  Finally  my  thanks  ai-e  due  to  several 
pei-sonal  friends,  particulai-ly  to  my  old  pupil  Miss  Helen 
Darbishh-e,  of  Somerville  College,  who  has  called  my  attention  to 
many  interesting  pai'allels  between  Keats  and  his  predecessore,  of 
which  I  have  availed  myself  in  the  notes,  and  has  othei-wise  given 
me  much  valued  assistance,  and  to  Mr.  H.  S.  Milford,  who  has 
I'ead  my  proofs  and  allowed  me  to  benefit  by  his  special  know- 
ledge and  expei-ience.  Without  then-  help  my  book  would  be 
faultier  than  it  is  ;  for  its  faults  I  alone  am  responsible. 

Oxford, 
August,  J 904 

P.S. — This  volume  was  on  point  of  publication  when  two 
impoi-tant  MSS.  came  to  light — ^tiie  autograph  MS.  of  Hyperion 
and  the  Woodhouse  transcript  of  The  Fail  of  Hyperion  and 
other  poems.  The  first  has  preserved  for  us  many  earlier  readings 
of  Hyperion  of  intense  interest  in  a  study  of  Keats's  art,  the 
second  enables  us  to  con-ect  the  printed  text  of  The  Fall  of 
Hyperion  in  several  important  places,  and  adds  twenty-one  new 
lines,  whilst  among  the  minor  poems  at  the  end  of  the  MS.  aie 
two  which  have  not  been  published  before.  This  edition  was 
therefore  held  back  in  oi-der  that  I  might  avail  myself  of  the  new 
material.  As  much  of  the  volume  had  already  been  printed  off 
it  was  found  impossible  to  alter  the  text,  but  the  new  matter  has 


xii  PREFACE 

been  incorporated  in  the  notes,  and  one  or  two  minor  poems 
added  as  Addenda  to  Posthumous  avd  Fugitive  Poems  (11).  My 
deepest  thanks  are  due  to  Lord  Crewe  for  his  kindness  in  placing 
the  Woodhouse  ti'anscript,  which  is  in  his  possession,  at  my 
disposal.  I  must  also  express  my  gi'atitude  to  Mr.  G.  Locker- 
Lampson  for  allowing  me  to  examine  the  valuable  Keats  MSS. 
in  his  collection. 

Oxford, 
December,  1904 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Intboduction xix 

Achievements  of  Keats's  genius  in  contrast  with  the  limitations  of  his  life  {ax)— 
Educative  importance  of  his  study  of  the  English  poets  (xx) — Special  value 
of  an  investigation  of  their  influence  upon  him  (xx) — Early  life  (xx) — 
Influence  upon  him  of  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  (xxi) — His  introduction  to 
Spenser  (xxi) — Influence  of  eighteenth-century  Spenserians  on  his  early  poetry 
(xxii) — First  reading  of  Chapman's  Bomer,  of  Milton,  Fletcher,  and  Browne 
(xxiii)— Introduction  to  Leigh  Hunt  (zziii) — Hunt's  conception  of  poetic  style 
and  versification  embodied  in  T?ie  Story  of  Bimini  and  its  preface  (xxiv) — 
Affinity  between  Hunt  and  Keats  (xxvi) — Expansion  of  Keats's  genius,  and 
exaggeration  of  its  worst  tendencies  under  Hunt's  influence  (xxvii) — The  1817 
volume,  its  failures  and  its  promise  (xxlx). 

Emancipation  from  Hunt's  influence  (xxx) — ^Poetic  regeneration  under  the  in- 
fluence of  Shakespeare  and  Wordsworth  (xxxii) — Nature  of  Shakespeare's 
influence  upon  his  mind  and  art  (xxzii) — Influence  of  William  Wordsworth 
upon  his  thought  and  upon  the  development  of  his  poetic  ideals  (xxxv) — 
Growth  of  these  ideals  traced  through  Sle^  and  Poetry  (zzziz) — JBndymion, 
Hyperion,  and  Lamia  (xl). 

Attitude  to  Greek  art  suggested  by  his  choice  and  treatment  of  Greek  themes  in 
these  poems  (xliii) — Fruit  of  his  study  of  the  Elgin  Marbles  in  his  mastery 
over  statuesque  effect  (xliii) — Elizabethan  poetry  not  Lempridre's  Dictionary 
the  source  of  his  classical  knowledge  and  inspiration  (xlv) — His  attitude 
towards  Greek  literature  essentially  romantic  not  classic  (xlvi) — Characteristic 
style  of  his  three  great  poems  upon  Greek  themes  determined  by  influence 
of  different  English  poets  (xlvi)  —  Endymion:  influence  of  Spenser  and 
eighteenth-century  Spenserians  on  style  and  structure  (xlvii) — Hyperion: 
influence  of  Milton  on  style  and  structure  (xlix) — Assertion  of  Keats's  in- 
dependent genius  and  rejection  of  Miltonic  model  in  FaXL  of  Hyperion  (li) — 
La/mia :  influence  of  Dryden  on  style  and  construction :  its  highest  poetic 
merits  to  be  found  in  romantic  elements  (lii). 

Full  expression  of  the  romantic  qualities  of  Keats's  genius  in  the  poems  of  mediseval 
inspiration  (Uv) — ItalbeUa,  or  The  Pat  of  Baiil  (liv) — JEve  of  St,  Agnei: 
the  influence  of  Chatterton  and  Spenser  (Iv) — Xa  Belle  Dame  sons  Herd: 
highwater  mark  of  romantic  poetry  reached  (Ivii). 


xiv  CONTENTS 

Interpretation  of  human  life  the  goal  of  Keats's  poetic  ambition  :  his  qualifioationg 
as  a  dramatist  (lix)— Full  and  independent  expression  of  his  genius  in  the 
Odes  (lix)— Close  kinship  of  the  Odes  in  style  and  thought  (Ix)— OtJe  to  a 
NigUmgaZe  (ix.)—Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  (Ixi)— Ode  on  Melanehaly  (Ixi)— Oife 
on  Indolence  (hd) — To  Autwmn  (Ixi). 

Keats's  poetic  treatment  of  Nature  (Ixii)— Artistic  presentation :  fidelity  to  actual 
observation  and  impression :  Nature  viewed  under  terms  of  human  emotion 
(Ixiu)— Keats's  affinity  to  Greek  attitude  towards  Nature  (Ixv)— Essentially 
romantic  element  in  his  view  of  Nature  (Ixvi) — His  conception  of  Nature's 
ultimate  ^meaning  for  man  (Ixvii). 

PAOE 

POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN  1817 

Dedication.     To  Leigk  Hunt,  Esq 2 

"  I  stood  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill " 3 

Specimen  of  an  Induction  to  a  Poem 8 

Calidore.     A  Fragment 10 

To  Some  Ladies 14 

On  receiving  a  curious  Shell,  and  a  Copy  of  Verses,  from  the 

same  Ladies 15 " 

To  ♦**♦(«  Hadst  thou  liv'd  in  daysof  old")   ....  16 

To  Hope 18 

Imitation  of  Spenser 19 

"  Woman  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain  "  .        .        .        .20 

Epistles  — 

To  George  Felton  Mathew 22 

To  my  Brother  George 24 

To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke 27 

Sonnets 

I.  To  my  Brother  George 31 

II.  To  *****  *  ("  Had  I  a  man's  fair  form  ")     .        .        .  31 

III.  Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison       .  32 

IV.  "  How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time ! "    .         .         .32 
V.  To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses        ....  33 

VI.  To  G.  A.  W.  (G«orgiana  Augusta  Wylie)         ...  33 

VIL"0  Solitude!  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell "        ...  34 

VIII.  To  my  Brothers 34 

IX.  "  Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there  "         .  35 

X.  "  To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent "        .         .         .35 

XI.  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer  ....  36 

XII.  On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an  early  Hour       ...  36 

XIII.  Addressed  to  HaydOn 37 

XIV.  Addressed  to  the  Same 37 

XV.  On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 38 

XVI.  To  Kosciusko 38 

iXVIL  "Happy  is  England!" ^      39 

/Sleep  and  Poetry 4(i 


CONTENTS  XV 

PAGE 

ENDYMION.    A  Poetic  Romance 

Preface 52 

Book  I 53 

Book  II 75 

Book  III 98 

Book  IV 122 

LAMIA,  ISABELLA,  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES,  AND  OTHER 

POEMS 145 

Lamia.     Part  I 147 

Lamia.     Part  II 156 

Isabella  or  the  Pot  of  Basil.     A  Story  from  Boccaccio.        .        .  164 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  .         .        . 180 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 191 

(!>fle  on  a  Grecian  Urn 194 

Ode  to  Psyche 196 

Fancy 198 

Ode  ("Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth")       .        .        .        .        .  201 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 202 

Robin  Hood.     To  a  Friend 203 

To  Autumn 205 

^Pde  on  Melancholy 206 

Hyperion.     A  Fragment 

Book  I  .        .        . 207 

Book  II 215 

Book  III 224 

POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS 

The  Fall  of  Hyperion.    A  Vision.     Canto  I         .        .        .        .229 

Canto  II 239 

The  Eve  of  Saint  Mark 241 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 244 

Odes 

Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia,  May,  1818      .  .        .248 

On  Indolence 249 

To  Fanny 261 

To ("  What  can  I  do  to  drive  away  ")       .        .        .  263 

Lines  supposed  to  have  been  addressed  to  Fanny  Brawne    .  264 

Songs  and  Lyrics 

On  .  .  .  ("Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so")        .        .        .  266 

Lines  ("Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen") 265 

"Where's  the  Poet.?" 256 

"  Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow  " 266 

On  a  Lock  of  Milton's  Hair  .        , 267 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS— Continued 

What  the  Thrush  said 258 

Faery  Songs.     I.  "  Shed  no  tear  ! " 269 

Faery  Songs.    II.  "  Ah  !  woe  is  me ! "         .        .        •        •  269 

Daisy's  Song 260 

Song  ("The  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed")     .        .        j  260 
"Asleep!  O  sleep  a  little  whUe"         .        .        .        .        .261 

"  Where  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  maid  ?  "    .        .        .        .  261 

Meg  Merrilies      .        .        .  ■- 261 

8ta£Fa .262 

A  Prophecy.     To  tis  brother  George  in  America          .  '      .  264 

Song  ("  In  a  drear-nighted  December  ")....  266 

Song  ("Hush,  hush!  tread  softly!") 266 

Song  ("I  had  a  dove") 266 

Song  of  Four  Fairies .267 

Epistle  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds 270 

Sonnets  ; 

I.  "  Oh  !  how  I  love  " 273 

II.  "After  dark  vapours" 273 

III.  Written  on  the  blank  space  of  a  leaf  at  the  end  of 

Chaucer's  tale  of  The  Flowre  and  the  Lefe       .        .  274 

IV.  To  Haydon 274 

V.  On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  for  the  first  time     .        .  276 

VI.  On  a  Picture  of  Leander 276 

VII.  On  the  Sea 276 

VIII.  On  Leigh  Hunt's,  Poem,  The  Story  of  Rimini       .        .  276 

IX.  On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once  again    .        .  277 

X.  "When  I  have  fears" 277 

XI.  To  the  Nile 278 

Xn.  To  Spenser 278 

XIII.  To ("Time's  sea") .279 

XIV.  Answer  to  a  Sonnet  by  J.  H.  Reynolds        .        .        .  279 
XV.  "  O  that  a  week  could  be  an  age  "         ....  280 

XVI.  The  Human  Seasons 280 

XVII.  To  Homer 281 

XVIIL  On  Visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns 281 

XIX.  To  Ailsa  Rock       . 282 

XX.  Written  upon  Ben  Nevis 282 

XXI.  Written  in  the  Cottage  where  Burns  was  bom     .        .  283 

XXII.  Fragment  of  a  sonnet  (translated  from  Ronsard) .        .  283 

XXIII.  To  Sleep .        .        .284 

XXIV.  "Why  did  I  laugh  to-night?" 284 

XXV.  On  a  Dream 286 


CONTENTS  xvii 

PAGE 

POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS— Continued 
Sonnets 

XXVI.  On  Fame  (I) 285 

XXVII.  On  Fame  (II) 286 

XXVIII.  "  If  by  dull  Thymes  our  English  must  be  chain'd"       .  286 

XXIX.  "The  day  is  gone" 287 

XXX.  " I  cry  your  mercy— pity— love!"        .        .        .        .287 
XXXI.  Written  on  a  Blank"  Page  in  Skakespeare's  Poems, 

facing  A  Lover's  Complaint 288 

Otho  the  Great.    A  Tragedy  in  five  Acts 

Act  I 291 

Act  II 303 

Act  III 312 

Act  IV 321 

ActV 330 

King  Stephen.     A  Dramatic  Fragment 

Act  I 341 

APPENDIX.     POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS  (II) 

On  Death 347 

Sonnet :  To  Byron 347 

Sonnet :  To  Chatterton 348 

Ode  to  Apollo 348 

Sonnet :  To  a  Young  Lady  who  sent  me  a  Laurel  Crown    .        .  349 

Hymn  to  Apollo 350 

Sonnet  ("  As  from  the  darkening  gloom  ") 361 

Sonnet :  Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition   .        .        .  351 

On  Oxford.     A  Parody 351 

Modern  Love 352 

Fragment  of  "The  Castle  Builder" 352 

Sonnet:  To  a  Cat 353 

A  Draught  of  Sunshine  ("  Hence  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port ")  353 

Extracts  from  an  Opera 354 

Song  ("Spirit  here  that  reignest!") 355 

"  Here  all  the  Summer  " 366 

"Over  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale"    .'.'....  367 

Acrostic 367 

Lines  written  in  the  Highlands 368 

Spenserian  Stanza 359 

An  Extempore 369 

Spenserian  Stanzas  on  Charles  Armitage  Brown  ....  361 

A  Party  of  Lovers 362 

The  Cap  and  Bells ;  or.  The  Jealousies.     A  Faery  Tale      .        .  363 
b 


xviii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ADDENDA :  POEMS  FOUND  IN  THE  WOODHOUSE  TRAN- 
SCRIPT OF  THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION  AND  OTHER 
POEMS 

"  Fill  for  me  a  brimming  bowl " 383 

SQng("St»y,  rubj-hreaSted  Wiarbler,  stay")      .         .         •         .384 

On  Peace 384 

To  Emma 385 

NOTES,  Etc. 

The  Poems  of  1817 387 

Endymion.    Introduction 410 

Endymion.     Notes  to  Book  I 420 

Endymion.    Notes  to  Book  II 429 

Endymion.     Notes  to  Book  III 436 

Endymion.    Notes  to  Book  IV 443 

Lamia,  Isabella,  etc. 

Lamia.     Parti 453 

Lamia.     Part  II 467 

Isabella         ,.        .  i 460 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes 464 

Poems  published  with  Lamia,  etc. 472 

Hyperion.     Introduction 484 

Hyperion.    Notes  to  Book  I 495 

Hyperion.    Notes  to  Book  JI 604 

Hyperion.    Notes  to  Book  III 612 

Posthumous  and  Fugitive  Poems 

The  Fall  of  Hyperioa 516 

The  Eve  of  St.  Mark 626 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 526 

Ofles,  qtc 529 

So.ngs  and  Lyrics 532 

Epistle  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds 637 

Sonnets 640 

Otho  the  Great 561 

King  Stephen 556 

Aj)pendix.     Posthumous  and  Fugitive  Poems  (II)        .        .         .  656 

Addenda.     Poems  found  in  Woodhouse  Traiiscript    .        .         .  662 

Appendix  B.    Chronological  Table  of  the  Life  of  John  Keats     .  664 

Note  on  Date  of  Hunt's  First  Acquaintance  with  Keats       .  568 

Aj)pendix  C.    On  the  Sources  of  Keats's  Poetic  Vocabulary       .  670 

Glossary    .        .        .         .■; ■.  685 

Index  op  Titles  and  First  Lines  op  Poems 601 

Gbnisral  Index 607 


INTRODUCTION 

WHEN  Shelley,  in  a  metaphor  of  exquisite  appropriateness, 
laments  the  dead  Adonais  as 

The  bloom  whose  petals^  nipt  before  they  blew. 
Died  on  the  piomise  of  the  fruit, 

he  suggests  two  thoughts  whidi  are  never  long  dissociated  in  the 
minds  of  those  who  love  the  poetry  of  Keats,  the  supreme  beauty 
of  what  his  genius  actually  achieved  and  the  pathos  of  his  "  un- 
fulfilled renown  ".  No  poet  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  has  pro- 
duced work  comparable  in  maturity  of  thought,  in  richness  of 
imagery,  in  easy  masteiy  of  execution,  with  the  cont^its  of  the 
1820  volume;  and  empty  but  irresistible  conjecture  can  only 
wonder  to  what  heights  of  song  he  might  have  attained  i{,  with 
no  advance  of  artistic  power,  but  merely  with  that  wider  ex- 
perience and  greater  inde{)endence  which  are  the  gift  of  time 
rather  than  of  genius,  he  had  reached  the  years  at  which  Shake- 
speare had  wiitten  Hamlet  or  Milton  Paradise  Lost.  And  yet  in 
Keats  there  was  no  taint  of  youthful  precocity.  He  did  not  lisp 
in  numbers.  He  wrote  nothing  in  his  teens  which  could  be  com- 
paj%d  with  the  earliest  works  of  Pope,  or  Chatteii»n,  or  Blake. 
He  had  indeed  but  three  yeare  of  serious  literary  apprenticeship, 
years  beset  by  difficulties  as  great  as  ever  hampered  the  path  of 
poet ;  but  not  his  vulgar  origin  and  his  banal  suiToundings,  nor 
the  hostility  of  i^esponsible  criticism,  nor  the  thiuldom  of  unsatis- 
fying love,  nor  the  haunting  presence  of  hereditaiy  disease  could 
check  the  ripening  of  his  poetic  powers  until,  a  year  before  his 
actual  death,  moiiality  had  set  her  cold  finger  upon  him,  and 
except  for  one  sonnet,  a  cry  for  release,  his  poetic  life  had  reached 
its  tragic  close. 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

Thei-e  is  no  need  to  tell  anew  the  beautiful  story  already 
familiar  in  the  Life  amd  Letters  and  in  the  biography  written 
with  fuller  knowledge  and  riper  literary  judgment  by  Mr.  Colvin ; 
it  is  rather  my  object  to  attempt  solbe  further  contribution  to 
the  study  of  Keats's  poetic  development  and  to  direct  attention 
to  the  principal  forces  which  moulded  his  mind  and  art.     In  the 
case  of  Keats  this  study  is  of  special  interest,  and,  I  think,  of 
special  impoi'tance.     "The  fair  pai-adise  of  Nature's  light"  is, 
doubtless,  the  inspiration  of  all  great  poetry,  but  the  mind 
which  nature  inspires  may  acquire  its  individuality  by  widely 
different  processes.      Whilst  each  of  his  gi-eat  contemporaries 
owed  no  little  debt  to  the  influence  of  a  culture  either  inherited 
or  acquired  naturally  ft-om  early  suiToundings,  and  to  a  wide  and 
generous  ti'aining  which  stimulated  the  mind  &om  many  sources, 
Keats  was  educated  almost  exclusively  by  the  English  poetg. 
His  studies,  and  he  was  a  deep  and  earnest  student,  were  con- 
centrated upon  their  works,  and  the  fiiendships  which  encouraged 
his  genius  were  sealed  in  a  common  enthusiasm  for  them.     The 
ideas  which  influenced  his  mind  most  vitally,  the  themes  which 
most  keenly  affected  his  imagination,  the  language  with  which 
he  widened  the  limited  vocabulary  of  his  ordinary  life  came  to 
him  from  the  same  channel.     To  his  English  predecessors  he 
served  a  willing  apprenticeship,  detecting  the  deficiencies  of  each 
thi-ough  his  appreciation  of  the  peculiar  excellences  of  the  rest, 
till  he  gained  at  last  that  complete  unfettered  independence 
which  had  always  been  the  goal  of  his  ambition. 

John  Keats  was  bom  a  member  of  that  section  of  the  com- 
munity in  which,  perhaps,  we  are  least  accustomed  to  suspect  the 
presence  of  poetic  thought  and  feeling.  His  father,  a  native  of  the 
west  country,  went  to  London  as  a  youth  and  became  ostler  to  Mr. 
Jennings,  a  liveiy-stableman  who  canied  on  a  prosperous  business 
at  the  Swan  and  Hoop,  Finsbuiy  Pavement,  maiiied  his  mastei'^s 
daughter,  and  in  course  of  time  succeeded  to  the  management  of 
the  business.  Here  it  was  that,  on  the  29th  or  31st  of  Octobei", 
1796,  the  poet  was  bom.  He  was  the  eldest  of  a  family  of  five, 
with  three  brothers,  one  of  whom  died  in  inffmcy,  and  a  sister. 
His  parents  are  repi'esented  as  possessed  of  a  talent  and  distinction 


INTRODUCTION  xx» 

unusual  in  their  class ;  and  ambitious  for  the  future,  they  intended 
at  one  time  to  send  their  boys  to  Harrow ;  finding,  however,  the 
expense  beyond  their  means,  they  decided  upon  a  private  school 
kept  at  Enfield  by  the  Rev.  John  Clarke.     Here  John  was  sent 
in  his  eighth  year,  and  was  soon  joined  by  his  brother  George. 
The  choice  was  in  many  respects  fortunate.     Charles  Cowden 
Clarke,  who  helped  his  father  in  the  school  and  in  all  probability 
taught  young  Keats  from  the  very  first,  took  a  keen  interest  in 
his  pupil,  and  fr'om  being  his  master  soon  became  his  warmest 
friend,  and  exercised  the  greatest  influence  upon  his  development. 
He  was  a  sound  scholar  and  an  accomplished  musician ;  above  all, 
he  was  an  enthusiastic  student  of  English  poetry.     To  him  we 
owe  most  of  our  knowledge  of  Keats's  school-days.     "In  the 
early  part  wf  his  sch««l  life,"  says  Clarke,  "  John  gave  no  extra- 
ordinary indications  of  intellectual  character  ;  it  was  in  the  last 
eighteen  months  or  so  that  he  became  an  omnivorous  reader. 
History,    voyages   and  travels  formed  the  bulk  of  the  school 
library  and  these  he  soon  exhausted,  but  the  books  that  he  read 
with  most  assiduity  were  Tooke's  Pantheon,  Lempriere's  Classical 
Dictionary,  which  he  seemed  to  leam,  and  Spence's  Poly  metis." 
But  before  he  reached  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  was  removed  from 
school,  and  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  in  practice  at  Edmonton. 
Hence  his  education,  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word,  must 
have  been  veiy  scanty.     Of  Greek  he  had  learned  nothing  ;  and 
though  he  had  some  knowledge  of  Latin,  for  he  had  already 
begun,  as  a  pastitne,  a  translation  of  Vergil's  Aeneid,  he  could 
hai-dly  have  reached   that  stage   of  scholai'ship  in  which  the 
influence  of  classical  literature  begins  to  make  itself  felt.     But 
if  he  had  not  laid  the  foundation  of  a  sound  literary  education 
he  had  at  least  acquu-ed  the  habit  of  reading.     After  he  had  left 
school  he  continued  to  pay  frequent  visits  to  Enfield  and  "  he 
rai-ely  came  empty-handed :   either  he  had  a  book  to  read,  or 
broughtione  to  be  exchanged  ".'     It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions, 
probably  in  1812  or  1813,  that  Clai-ke  read  to  him  the  Epitha- 
lamiura  of  Spenser,  and  the  ai-tistic  side  of  his  nature  received  its 

■  Recollections  of  Writers,  by  Charles  and  Mary  Cowden  Clarke,  1878. 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

first  definite  stimulus.  "  As  he  listened,"  we  «,« toM  "  his  featuues 
and  exclamations  were  ecstatic."  It  was  in  truth  the  revelatirai 
of  a  new  worldi,  but  one  which  was  his  natural  home  though  he 
had  been  bom  an  iexile  from  it.  And  now  for  ilie  first  time  he 
became  conscious  of  his  inheritance.  "That  ni^t,"  says  Clarke, 
'^  be  took  away  with  him  a  volume  of  the  Faerie  Queerte,  and  he 
went  through  it  as  a  young  horae  through  a  spring  meadow  rsAup- 
irag  !  Like  a  true  poet,  too,  he  especially  singled  out  epithets, 
for  that  felicity  and  power  in  which  Spenser  is  so  eminent.  He 
hoisted  himself  up,  and  looked  burly  and  dominant,  as  he  said, 
'  What  an  image  that  is — "  sea-shouldering  whales ! " ' "  "  It  was 
the  Faerie  Qiteem"  says  Brown,  a  fiiend  of  Eieats's  later  years, 
"  that  fii-st  awakened  his  geauus.  In  Spensei-'s  fairy  land  he  was 
enchanted,  bi-eathed  in  a  new  world  and  became  a  new  fodt^ ; 
till  enamoured  of  the  staiiza,  he  attempted  to  imitate  it  and 
succeeded." 

It  is  significant  that  Keats's  eaiiiest  known  composition  is  the 
Imitation  of  Spenser,  written  probably  in  1813,  and  Spenser 
never  lost  hold  upon  his  imagination.  I^ere  was  indeed  an 
essential  kinship  between  the  two  poets,  and  that  brooding 
love  of  sensuous  beauty,  that  fi^ank  i%spoiise  to  the  charm  of 
nature  and  romance,  that  luxuriance  of  fancy  ajui  fdicity  of 
expression  to  which  the  Faerie  Queene  owes  its  uxesistible 
fascination  were  soon  to  be  re-echoed  in  the  poems  of  Keals. 
But  Keats  was  not  the  first  poet  to  acknowledge  that  Spenser 
was  his  original.  Apart  from  those  who  may  justly  clfdm  so 
honouraible  a  lineage,  in  eveiy  succeeding  epoch  there  axe  to 
be  found  poetasters  who  have  attempted  to  catch,  though  horn 
afai-,  faint  echoes  of  his  melody,  and  to  inform  their  own  lifeless 
puppets  with  something  of  the  spirit  and  the  gesture  of  his 
magic  world.  Keats's  literaiy  education  did  not  enable  him 
to  distinguish  the  essential  qualities  of  Spenser  from  those  of 
his  latest  imitatore.  Naturally,  therefore,  the  influence  of  the 
eighteenth-century  allegorists  is  pai-amount  in  his  eai-liest  writ- 
ings. They  were  far  easier  to  reproduce,  and  he  could  hardly 
be  expected  to  i-ealise  when  allegory  devoid  of  imagination  had 
become  mere  idle  pei-sonification,  and  when  a  rich  exubei-ance 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii* 

and  easy  gi'ace  of  laxiguage  had  giTen  vf&j,  in  waiters  of  a  less 
intense  and  less  continuous  inspiration,  to  mere  licentious  fluency 
or  empty  verbiage.  In  this  he  was,  doubtless,  affected  by  the 
poetic  taste  of  his  time,  which,  as  yet  unconverted  to  the  revolu- 
tionary doctiines  of  Woi-dsworth  and  Coleridge,  still  clung  to 
the  milder  and  more  conventiontd  romanticism  counjtenanced 
by  the  age  of  reason.  Of  this  period  in  his  development  he 
wrote  later  "  Beattie  and  Mrs.  T%he  once  delighted  me,"  and  at 
the  same  time  he  showed  himself  to  be  momentarily  affected 
by  the  Jwveniiia  of  Byron  and  the  drawing-room  melodies  of 
Moore.  A  weak  sonnet  shows  that  already  he  had  come  under 
the  spell  of  Chatterton,  but  it  was  not  till  later  liiat  C3iatterton 
influenced  his  litosry  methods.  For  the  pvesent  he  was  an 
eighteeuLiJi-centmy  Spenseiian,  and  traces  of  the  diction  and 
style  of  the  eighteeath-centtiry  poets  still  linger  even  in  that 
poem  in  which  he  most  fiercely  denounces  them. 

But  this  phase  <of  his  development,  which  has  little  relation 
with  his  later  work,  was  soon  followed  by  one  of  more  lasting 
sighiflcance;  Early  in  1815  he  came  under  the  spdi  of  Chs^- 
man's  translation  of  Homer,  of  the  early  work  of  Milton,  and 
of  tiie  poems  of  Fletcher  and  of  William  Browne,  whilst  his  de- 
list in  the  seventeenth-century  Spenseriaius  became  inextiicfl^ly 
blended  with  his  admiration  for  the  most  prominent  of  Spenser's 
living  disciples,  the  chaiming  and  veraatile  Lei^  Hunt. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  1816  that  Keats  paid  his  first  visit 
to  the  Hampstead  cottage,  whei'e  Hunt  presided  over  a  lively 
circle  of  literary  and  artistic  spirits,  many  of  whom  were  soon 
to  be  numbered  among  Keats's  own  fiiends;  but  it  is  certain 
that  some  time  bdbre  this  Hunt  had  indir^tly  exercised  no 
small  influence  on  his  mind.  The  Clarkes  were  enthusiastic 
admirers  of  Hunt,  and  in  their  home  Keats  had  been  a  regular 
reader  of  Hunt's  weekly  paper,  The  Examiner,  from  which  he 
had  imbibed  much  of  Hunt's  radicalism  and  love  of  civil  and 
religious  liberty.  Moreover,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  to 
the  eyes  of  young  Clai-ke  Hunt  fulfilled  the  double  role  of  poet- 
patriot,  so  that  in  every  way  he  would  prepare  his  pupil  for  the 
greater  master.     And  when  in  February,  1815,  Hunt  was  released 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

from  prison  where  he  had  been  confined  for  two  yeans  "  for  dif- 
fering from  the  Morning  Post,  on  the  meiits  of  the  Prince 
Regent,  and  pointing  out  that  this  Adonis  in  loveliness  was 
in  i-eality  'a  coi-pulent  man  of  fifty,  without  a  single  claim  on 
the  gi-atitude  of  his  country,' "  Keats  expressed  his  delight  in  a 
sonnet  in  which  he  contrasted  the  eternity  of  the  patriot's  fame 
with  the  ti'ansient  power  of  the  "wretched  ci-ew,"  the  Tory 
ministiy  of  the  ci-own.  The  same  sonnet  gives  proof  that  Keats 
knew  Hunt  not  merely  as  a  politician,  but,  as  indeed  he  pre- 
feii-ed  to  be  regarded,  as  a  lover  of  our  litei-ature  who  "in 
Spenser's  halls  strayed  culling  enchanted  flowers,"  and  in 
pai-ticulai'  as  a  poet  whose  "genius  true  to  regions  of  his  own 
took  happy  flights".  In  1814  Hunt  had  reprinted  a  trifle  in 
veree  called  the  Feast  of  the  Poets,  a  light  satiric  criticism  on 
the  claims  of  his  poetic  contemporaries  to  fame,  adding  a  com- 
mentary more  important  than  the  text,  and  an  introduction, 
in  which  he  expressed  his  intention  of  reducing  to  practice  his 
own  conceptions  as  to  the  proper  style  of  poetry.  He  was  in 
fact  already  at  work  upon  the  Story  of  Rvmini,  which  he  had 
only  tempoi-arily  laid  aside.  Evidently  many  of  Hunt's  "lux- 
urious gossipings "  in  the  notes  to  the  Feast  of  the  Poets  were 
already  known  to  Keats,  and  if  he  had  not  seen  Rimim  in  manu- 
script it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  had  heard  through  Clarke 
something  of  the  general  principles  which  it  involved. 

In  the  spring  of^l816  Hunt's  poem  made  its  appearance 
with  a  preface  in  which  he  set  forth  at  length  his  conception 
of  poetic  style  and  versification.  The  heroic  couplet,  he  said, 
had  been  spoiled  as  a  measure  for  narrative  poeti-y  by  Pope  and 
the  Pi'ench  school  of  verification,  who  had  mistaken  smoothness 
for  harmony,  because  their  eai-s  were  only  sensible  of  a  marked 
and  unifoi-m  harmony.  He  desired  to  return  to  its  fi-eer  use, 
as  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  fables  of  Dryden,  in  Spenser,  and  in 
pai-ticular  in  Chaucer,  its  original  master.  "  With  the  endeavoui-," 
he  adds,  "  to  recui-  to  a  freer  spii'it  of  vei-sification,  I  have  proved 
one  of  still  greater  impoi-tance — that  of  having  a  free  and  idio- 
matic cast  of  language.  Thei-e  is  a  cant  of  ai-t  as  well  as  of 
nature.    But  the  proper  language  of  poetry  is  in  fact  nothing 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

different  fi'om  that  of  real  life,  emd  depends  for  dignity  upon 
the  sti'ength  and  sentiments  of  what  it  speaks.  It  is  only  adding 
musical  modulation  to  what  a  fine  understanding  might  actually 
utter  in  the  midst  of  its  giifefe  and  enjoyments.  The  poet 
should  do  as  Shakespeare  and  Chaucer  did,  not  copy  what  is 
obsolete  or  peculiar,  but  use  as  much  as  possible  an  actual 
existing  language,  omitting  mere  vulgarisms  and  fugitive  phrases 
which  ai"e  cant  of  ordinaiy  discourse." 

In  upholding  the  restitution  to  the  couplet  of  the  Alexan- 
diine,  the  double  or  feminine  rhyme,  the  tiiplet  and  the  i-un-on 
line  or  enjambement.  Hunt  set  an  example  which  was  to  be 
widely  and  on  the  whole  satisfactoiily  followed,  though  he  exag- 
gerated into  far  too  general  a  practice  what  was  after  all  only  an 
exceptional  variation  from  the  rule.  But  in  his  use  of  language 
his  own  interpretation  of  his  theory  led  to  most  disastrous 
results.  He  had  attacked  Wordsworth,  to  whom  he  was  obvi- 
ously indebted  for  all  that  is  really  valuable  in  the  preface,  for 
the  meanness  of  much  of  his  poetry ;  but  whereas  Wordsworth 
was  the  most  correct  writer  of  his  day,  and  was  never  led  by  his 
theories  to  treat  of  a  great  subject  in  other  than  a  great  manner. 
Hunt  confused  naturalness  with  triviality,  and  constioied  a  free- 
dom fi-om  the  use  of  a  specific  poetic  diction  into  the  right  to 
be  slipshod  in  language  and  vague  in  thought.  His  addiction 
to  abstract  terms  in  his  desaiption  of  the  concrete,  his  coinage 
of  adverbs  from  present  participles,  or  adjectives  from  nouns, 
and  his  reckless  use  of  one  part  of  speech  for  another  can  only  be 
regarded  as  expedients  by  which  to  save  himself  the  trouble 
of  thinking  clearly  and  definitely  on  any  subject,  whilst  he  forgot 
entu'ely  his  own  proviso  that  the  poet's  vocabulary  must  be 
freed  from  all  "mere  vulgarisms,  fugitive  phrases  and  the  cant 
of  ordinaiy  discourse  ". 

But  the  language  used  by  a  poet  cannot  be  considered  to 
any  pui-pose  apart  from  the  use  to  which  he  puts  it,  and  it  is 
here  that  Hunt  reveals  his  own  limitations  with  most  fatal 
results.  Absolutely  sincere  in  his  affections,  and  genuine  in  his 
convictions  both  in  life  and  litei-ature,  he  was  lacking  in  real 
depth :  he  was  content  with  a  purely  superficial  delight  and  was 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

never  able  to  comprdieiul  the  high  seriousness  of  passion  fiiom 
which  all  great  art  must  spring.  Conseqiuently  the  noMesr  the 
sulaject  he  was  considering  the  less  capable  he  was  of  communi- 
cating its  true  spirit.  The  fate  of  Paolo  and  Francesca,  recounted 
by  Dante  with  a  severe  restmint  pulsating  with  intense  tragic 
passion,  merely  offered  him  an  opportunity  for  exposing  his 
woi-st  faults.  The  Story  of  Bimiaii  reads  as  though  it  were 
intentionally  written  in  that  Bemesque  style  which  was  intro- 
duced only  a  little  later  by  Hookham  Frere  in  his  Monks  amd 
the  Giants,  and  became  the  model  on  which  Byi-on  executed  his 
most  brilliant  satires ;  but  a  manner  of  wiiting  which  was  a  fit 
veMcle  to  convey  their  typical  attitude  of  humorous  scepticism 
was  employed  by  Hunt  in  sober  earnest  and  perfect  good  faith, 
as  Uiough  it  were  suited  to  the  sympathetic  expression  ei  a  tragic 
iJieme.  In  an  easy  conversational  manner  we  are  told  of  Paolo's 
charms  "  that  ail  he  did  was  done  divinely,"  and  that  Francesca 
"  has  strict  notions  on  the  marrying  score  " ;  her  supreme  emotion 
ooneentaated  by  Dante  into  the  pregnant  "  tutto  ti-emente "  is, 
to  Hunt's  mind,  adequately  represented  in  tiie  essentially  vulgar 
phrase  "  all  of  a  tremble  ". 

Incomprehensible  as  it  may  seem  to  the  reader  of  the  Eve  of 
St.  AgneS'  or  the  Ode  to  a  Nightmgaie  there  was  a  natmul 
sympathy  already  existing  between  Hunt  and  the  youthful 
Keats.  Neither  of  them  had  looked  on  art  as  more  than  a 
delightful  pastime,  and  their  tastes  in  literature  were  similar. 
Both  had  feasted  in  youth  on  the  same  stories  of  classic  mytho- 
logy and  bad  read  1jiem  originally  in  the  same  soui'ce.  Both 
had  the  same  favourite  poet,  Spensei-,  and  both  delighted  in  him 
for  his  melody,  his  colour,  his  voluptuousness,  without  compi-e- 
hending  the  spirit  which  infoi-med  them.  That  tJiis  was  the 
case  with  Hunt  is  proved  by  his  almost  equal  passion  for  Ariosto 
— an  impossibility  for  one  who  had  truly  entered  into  the  spirit 
of  Spenser ;  and  though  Keats  had,  even  at  this  time,  intenser 
feelings,  he  had  not  yet  comprehended  their  significance  or  their 
necessaiy  influence  upon  his  ai-t.  "  He  admired  more  the 
external  decorations  than  felt  the  deeper  emotions  of  the  Muse. 
He  delighted  in  leading  you  through  the  mazes  of  elaborate 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

description,  but  was  less  conscious  of  tiie  sublime  and  the 
patiietic,"!  and  Hunt's  personal  charm  and  the  generous  en- 
couragement which  he  was  always  ready  to  extend  to  budding 
genius,  cemented  the  relationship.  "We  became  intimate," 
says  Hunt,  "on  the  spot,  and  I  found  the  young  poefs  heart 
as  warm  as  his  imagination.  We  read  and  walked  together 
and  used  to  write  verses  of  an  evening  upon  a  given  subject. 
No  imaginative  pleasure  was  left  untouched  by  us,  or  unenjoyed ; 
from  the  recollection  of  the  bards  and  patriots  of  old,  to  tiie 
luxury  of  a  summer  rain  at  our  window,  or  the  clicking  of  the 
coal  in  winteii:ime."  As  for  Keats,  he  expanded  under  the  genial 
influence  of  his  friend,  and  for  the  time  looked  to  him  with  the 
reverence  and  admiration  of  a  disciple  for  his  master. 

It  is  uncritical  to  father  upon  Hunt  all  the  vices  of  Eeats's 
early  work.  For  Hunt  could  never  have  gained  the  same  sway 
over  his  mind  had  there  not  been  a  natural  affinity  between  them. 
Keats  said  of  the  cancelled  pnefaee  to  Eadymion,  "  I  was 
not  aware  that  tiiere  was  anything  like  Hunt  in  it,  and  if  there 
is  it  is  my  natural  way  and  I  have  something  in  common  with 
Hunt "  and  the  remark  expres^d  a  truth  of  wider  application 
than  to  the  immediate  case  whidi  evoked  it.  But  it  is  calain 
that  the  theory  and  practice  of  his  friend  led  him  to  accentuate 
all  the  worst  features  of  his  genius  and  encouraged  him  in  those 
very  failings  which  a  sounds'  master  might  have  taught  him 
to  overcome.  Azid  the  superficial  similarity  between  them  made 
this  influence  all  the  more  dangerous.  Keats  from  the  first  went 
deeper  than  Hunt,  but,  leading  into  Hunt's  light-hearted  en- 
thusiasm some  of  his  own  intenser  feeling,  came  natundly  «iough 
to  regard  the  language  and  style  of  Rimmi  as  suited  to  the  ex- 
pression of  that  higher  emotion  of  which  its  author  had  never 
dreamed. 

Nowho-e  did  the  young  poet  need  more  guidance  than  in  his 
treatment  of  romantic  passion.  His  emotional  temperament 
made  it  inevitable  that  he  should  be  a  love  poet,  and  from  his 
boyhood  he  had  so  idealised  womfui  that  he  constantiy  found 

'Stephens's  Heminisrences  of  Keats,  Houghton  MSS.  (quoted  E.M.L.  p.  ao).    M 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

himself  ill-at-ease  in  the  presence  of  the  reality.  To  this  ideali- 
sation his  reading  of  Spenser  had  given  an  impetus.  It  was  as 
a  poet  of  chivalrous  love  that  Spenser  had  first  appealed  to  him. 
"  He  hotly  bums  to  be  a  Calidore,  a  very  Red  Cross  Knight,"  and 
reminiscences  and  vei'bal  echoes  of  Spenser  in  his  firet  love  poems 
make  it  evident  that  his  gi-eat  'poetic  ambition  was  to  be  for  his 
own  age  what  Spenser  had  been  for  the  Elizabethans. 

But  it  was  here  that  the  taint  of  vulgarity  in  his  own  origin 
and  the  ill-bred  tone  of  the  society  in  which  he  moved  were 
calculated  to  have  the  most  dangerous  effect  upon  his  work  ; 
and  the  literature  of  his  own  day  could  give  him  no  help  in 
emancipating  himself  from  it.  The  Delia  Cruscan  School  had, 
perhaps,  been  destroyed,  but  a  vapid  sentimentalism  was  still 
accepted  instead  of  genuine  passion,  and  permeated  not  only  the 
romantic  novel,  the  ballads  of  Moore,  and  the  early  poetry  of 
Byron,  but  had  even  touched  the  broad  and  healthy  mind  of 
Scott.  Woi-dsworth  alone  might  have  guided  him,  but  the 
sublime  Lucy  poems  were  invested  with  a  spirituality  which  was 
too  far  aloof  from  his  present  world  for  him  to  recognise  in  it 
the  consummation  of  his  own  more  obviously  sensuous  passion. 
A  deeper  and  more  independent  study  of  Spenser  would  un- 
doubtedly have  served  the  same  end ;  and  it  was  nothing  short 
of  disastrous  that  his  enthusiasm  for  Hunt  led  him  to  believe  that 
the  mantle  of  Spenser  had  fallen  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  poet 
of  Rimini.  For  woman  in  Hunt's  poetry  was  merely  a  lay  figure 
over  which  to  luxuriate  a  keen  but  often  vulgai"  sense  of  the 
beautiful  in  art  and  nature,  and  chivalry  was  always  more  of  an 
ecstasy  than  an  activity.  There  is  no  wonder  that  Keats  under 
his  influence  failed  to  realise  that  the  intense  sensuousness  of 
Spenser's  desciiptions  is  only  ai-tistically  justified  by  their 
spirituality,  and  instead  of  compi-ehending  the  full  significance 
of  Sir  Calidore  or  the  Red  Cross  Knight  was  satisfied  to  re- 
present them  Bs  though  they  were  lovesick  tradesmen  mas- 
querading in  a  picturesque  costume.  Later  Keats  came  to 
recognise  this.  "  One  cause,"  he  writes,  "  of  the  unpopularity  of 
my  book  is  the  tendency  to  class  women  in  my  books  with  roses 
and  sweatmeats,  they  never  see  themselves  dominant."     Under 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

othei'  guidance,  perhaps  with  no  guidance  at  all,  he  might  have 
discovered  it  eai-Iier. 

The  fii-st  poem  of  the  1817  volume  strikes  at  once  the 
dominant  note  of  the  whole.  Headed  with  a  characteristic 
quotation  from  the  Story  of  Rimim,  "  Places  of  nestling  green 
for  Poets  made,"  it  shows  the  influence  of  Hunt  in  its  most 
pronounced  fonn.  It  is  inspired  by  a  genuine  love  of  nature, 
blended,  as  always  in  Keats,  with  €m  intensely  real  feeliag  for 
literature  and  for  ancient  legend,  but  after  an  opening  of  happy 
delicacy  it  degenerates  into  an  indiscriminate  catalogue  of  natural 
delights  associated  with  the  vulgar  and  mawkish  sentiment  and 
expi-essed  with  all  the  indefiniteness  of  the  abstract  style  of  Hunt. 
The  poet  "* 

straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posey 
Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

He  tells  how  Apollo  "  kisses  the  dewiness  "  of  the  flowers,  and 
"kisses"  as  in  Hunt  rhymes  with  "blisses".  The  goldfinches 
"  pause  upon  their  yellow  flutteiings,"  and  the  rural  spot  is  not 
felt  to  be  complete  until  a  lovely  woman  of  the  peculiar  Huntian 
type  has  been  introduced  into  it;  the  whole  poem  is  replete 
with  adjectives  of  the  delicious  order  by  which  he  seeks  to  give 
utterance  to  his  keen  but  vague  delight,  while  its  versification 
exhibits  that  negligence  of  form  which  had  some  precedent 
in  Chapman  and  Browne,  but  received  its  special  sanction  fi'om 
the  theory  and  practice  of  Hunt.  And  yet  notwithstanding 
such  palpable  faults  of  style  and  temper  there  are  few  poems  in 
the  volume  which  do  not  give  some  promise  of  future  achieve- 
ment ;  either  in  their  imaginative  suggestion,  or  in  their  strangely 
felicitous  language,  betokening  the  poet  who  had  already  "  looked 
upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover  ".     Lines  such  as 

That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves  (Sonnet,  iv.  13) 

or 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars        (/  stood  iip-toe,  189t^ 

have  a  ring  about  them  which  recalls  the  harmony  of  some  old 
Elizabethan ;  the  pictures  of 


XXX  INTEOeUCTION 

the  moon  lifting  her  silvAr  rim 
Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 
Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light 

(/  stood  tip-toe,  113-15) 

and  of  the  sea  that 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'«r 
Its  j-Dckj'  ma];ge,  and  balances  once  more 
The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam 
Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home 

{Sleep  and  Poetry,  377-80) 

though  missing  the  perfecitiqn  of  his  later  studies  of  moon 
and  ocean  ai'e  touched  with  the  same  tenderness,  and  lit  up 
by  the  same  magic,  whilst  the  sonnet  On  first  loohw^  into 
ChapmarCs  Homer  proclaims  him  capable  already  of  reaching, 
in  supreme  moments,  the  heights  of  song. 

For  the  poet  who  could  wiite  like  this  the  influence  of  Hunt 
could  only  be  short-lived.  H«  was  soon  to  Tealise  that  the  way 
in  whidi  Hunt  *'  flaunted  bis  beauties  "  contrasted  unfavourably 
with  the  grand  unobtrusiveness  of  nature,  and  when  be  had 
learned  by  deep  and  reverent  study  in  very  truth  "to  hold 
high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead,"  he  found  less  inspiration 
in  the  society  of  the  loved  Libei-tas,  who  "el^atftly  chals  and 
talks  ".  But  thbiiig^  Humt^  influence  was  m  certain  ways  to  be 
deplored,  Keats  owed  him  an  inestimable  debt.  He  had  recog- 
nased  his  genius  from  the  &vt  -and  encouraged  him  at  0.  time 
when  raicouragem«it  was  of  greatest  value.  Aand  if  Hunt's 
superficial  view  of  things  failed  to  «8/tisfy  the  poet's  intellect 
and  beait,  it  was  through  his  genial  hospitality  that  he  fin^ 
met  <tii»se  friends  who  were  more  oapaiye  of  quickening  the 
intenser  side  of  his  nature. 

For  already  side  by  side  with  the  tendency  to  luxuriate  in 
agreeable  sensations,  to  "  lose  the  soul  in  pleasant  smotheiings," 
had  aiTsen  within  him  the  consciousness  that  if  poetry  was  to 
absorb  his  whole  life,  to  become  a  vocation  rather  than  a  pastime, 
it  must  coiTespond  with  his  whole  being  and  not  mei-ely  with  the 
least  esaenHal  ,pairt  of  it.  There  wei'e  elements  in  his  nature 
which  had  as  yet  found  but  paiiial  or  unsatisfactory  expression, 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

simply  because  (Uiiie>y  layfai'  ideejrax'  and  were  the  harder  to  ex- 
press. His  was  doubtless  a  supremely  sensuous  nature ;  such  is 
the  essential  ba^  on  which  all  poetry  builds,  and  it  was  bo  moiie 
promineni.  in  his  eady  work  ijian  it  was  in  the  early  work  of 
SSaakespeais ;  but  the  sk^ong  <common-sense,  tiie  sound  critical 
insight  into  the  faults  of  himself  and  others,  the  habitual 
tiiioughtfiidness  of  mind,  the  tender  devotion  to  his  family  and 
friends,  revealed  in  his  letters  and  amply  iattested  by  all  who 
knew  him,  are  quite  iacompafcible  with  a  complete  absorption  in 
the  luKuiy  of  his  owm  sensarfcions.  There  was  indeed  a  veiim  of 
melancholy  within  him  which  made  it  impossiMe  for  him  "to 

A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grieJF  or  care, 

Riding  thB  springy  htanches  of  an  elm.    (Sfesji  and  Poetry,  94,  SS.) 

However  much  be  might  delight  in  the  impressions  of  the 
senses  as  an  escape  feiom  the  broodings  of  his  mind  they  could 
never  satisfy  his  whole  nature ;  and  his  force  of  character,  to  which 
his  most  intimate  ftiends  bear  striking  witness,  not  only  helped 
him  to  realise  his  own  peculiar  dangers  but  supplied  the  determi- 
nation to  conquer  them.  He  had  a  high  conception  not  only  of 
the  pleasures  but  ,ako  of  the  duties  of  the  poetic  life  and  reso- 
lutely set  himself  to  bring  his  own  art  into  accord  with  his  ideals. 
And  though  to  the  mind  which  craves  for  beauty  thepe  is  tm 
inherent  shrinking  from  all  that  seems  to  combat  it,  yet,  as  his 
feeling  foi"  beauty  deepened  from  sensation  to  emotion,  and  from 
emotion  to  a  passion  which  embraced  his  whole  moral  and  intel- 
lectual being,  the  conviction  grew  upon  him  that  the  artist,  if 
only  for  the  sake  of  his  art,  must  be  ready  to  open  his  heart  aad 
mind  to  receive  all  impressions  thfit  the  world  has  to  offer,  even 
those  that  ai-e  in  themselves  unlovely. 

And  so  we  find  him  writing,  "  I  know  nothing,  I  have  read 
nothing — and  I  mean  to  follow  Solomon's  directions,  '  Get  know- 
ledge, get  underatanding '.  I  find  earlier  days  have  gone  by ; 
I  find  that  I  can  have  no  enjoyment  in  the  world  but  the  con- 
tinual drinking  of  knowledge.  I  find  there  is  no  wox-thy  purauit 
but  the  idea  of  doing  some  good  in  the  world.  ...  There  is  but 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

one  way  for  me.  The  road  lies  through  application,  study  and 
thought,  I  will  pursue  it.  ...  I  have  been  hovering  for  some 
time  between  an  exquisite  sense  of  the  luxurious,  and  a  love  for 
philosophy, — were  I  calculated  for  the  former  I  should  be  glad. 
But  as  I  am  not,  I  shall  turn  my  soul  to  the  latter."  ^  This 
utterance  is  chai'acteristic,  not  merely  of  a  vague  and  fitful 
desh-e  on  his  part,  but  of  his  steady  frame  of  mind,  and  of 
a  position  which  he  had  definitely  assumed  foi'  some  time  past ; 
and  even  those  passages  which  seem  to  combat  it,  as  for  example 
his  praise  of  indolence,  and  of  the  poetic  impulse  to  be  obtained 
fi'om  "the  beauty  of  the  morning  operating  on  a  sense  of  idle- 
ness,"" ai-e  by  no  means  incompatible  with  it,  but  have  their 
obvious  parallel  in  the  works  of  the  most  strenuous  votaries  of 
song.  Keats,  completely  absorbed  in  the  attainment  of  perfec- 
tion in  his  art,  realised  the  necessity  of  study,  not  merely  the 
technical  study  of  artistic  models,  but  of  life  and  its  problems, 
and  of  human  chai'acter  in  which  those  problems  are  illustrated. 

Criticism,  with  its  eye  fixed  on  the  development  of  style,  has 
often  failed  to  realise  the  deeper  influences  at  work  upon  his 
mind  of  which,  after  all,  his  style  is  only  the  expression.  Yet 
it  is  no  insignificant  fact  that  his  intellect  developed  in  the 
closest  relation  with  two  mastei-s  who  in  different  ways  could 
teach  him  what  he  needed  most  to  leant.  These  were  Shake- 
speare and  Woi-dsworth. 

Of  the  influence  of  Shakespeai'e,  though  it  is  the  most  import- 
ant, it  is  diflicult  to  speak  definitely  as  one  can  speak  of  the 
influence  of  Spenser  or  of  Leigh  Hunt,  for  it  is  not  primaiily  a 
literary  influence  at  all.  Shakespeare's  style,  where  it  is  not  itself 
imitative  of  others,  is  so  completely  at  one  with  its  subject  that 
it  defies  imitation,  and  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  catch  more 
than  an  occasional  ring  of  it.  Even  more  elusory  is  his  mental 
attitude.  His  unrivalled  breadth  and  sanity  are  the  wonder  of 
all  who  read  him,  but  they  make  no  disciple,  and  none  has  ever 
been  sealed  of  his  tribe.     Until  the  end  of  1816  Shakespeare 

1  Letter  to  John  Taylor,  34th  April,  1818. 

'  Letter  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  tc/Ca  February,  1818. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

counted  for  little  with  Keats.  Though  he  had  doubtless  read 
most  of  the  plays,  they  had  made  no  impression  on  his  mind, 
and  it  is  in  keeping  with  the  general  character  of  his  eai'ly  work 
that  apai-t  fi'om  two  supei-ficial  references  to  Lear,  and  a  repaini- 
scence  of  a  famous  passage  in  ^*  You  Like  It,  which  he  spoilt  in 
the  boiTowing,  all  the  allusions  are  to  A  Midsvmmer-NigMs 
Dream.  Shakespeare  is  to  him  the  poet  of  Titania  and  fairy- 
land. But  the  first  use  that  he  made  of  the  retirement  which 
followed  on  his  dedication  of  his  life  to  poetry,  was  to  begin  a 
real  study  of  Shakespeare.  The  vocabulary  and  phraseology  of 
Endymion  differ  chiefly  frota  that  of  the  1817  volume  in  the 
influx  of  Shakespearian  words,  allusions  and  reminiscences,  drawn 
horn  a  lai'ge  number  of  plays,  whilst  the  influence  of  Shakespeare's 
poems  is  shown  in  the  fact  that  though  the  larger  number  of 
Keats's  sonnets  are  in  Italian  form,  all  the  best,  with  the  e^eption 
of  the  Chapman  sonnet,  which  belongs  to  an  earlier  date,  are 
written  upon  the  model  of  Shakespeare.^ 

But  to  say  this  is  only  to  refer  to  the  superficial  signs  of  an 
influence  which  goes  far  deeper.  For  no  one  can  rise  fi'om  the 
reading  of  Shakespeai'e  the  same  man  as  he  sat  down,  and  least  of 
all  a  poet,  to  whom  the  language  cames  a  special  chai-m  and  the 
vivid  realisation  of  truth  makes  a  special  appeal.  During  all  the 
early  part  of  1 81 7  we  find  Keats  steeped  in  Shakespeare.  His  letters 
shew  that  his  passion  for  poetry  was  closely  associated  with  his 
study,  that  it  is  Shakespeai-e  who  is  educating  him,  inspiiing  him, 
comforting  him.  The  line  in  Lear,  "  Do  you  not  hear  the  sea," 
haunts  him  till  he  can  give  poetic  utterance  to  his  emotion.' 
"Whenever  you  write,"  he  tells  Reynolds,  of  all  his  friends, 
perhaps,  that  one  who  had  most  intellectual  sympathy  with 
him,  "say  a  word  or  two  on  some  passage  of  Shakespeare  that 

'  The  two  apparent  exceptions,  the  Sonnet  To  Sleep  and  On  the  Sonnet  are  ex- 
periments in  form,  and  though  beautiful  in  themselves  are  failures  if  regarded  as  sonnets. 
Keats  in  bis  use  of  the  different  forms  of  sonnet  offers  an  intensely  interesting  and 
significant  contrast  with  Wordsworth.  Wordsworth  wrote  more  Shdcespearian  than 
Petrarchan  sonnets,  but  never  succeeded  except  in  the  strict  Italian  form  or  the 
Miltonic  development  of  it. 

'^Letter  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,   17th  April,   iSiy.^On  Reynolds,  vide  p. 

537- 

C 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

may  have  come  rathei-  new  to  you,  which  must  constantly  be 
happening,  notwithstanding  that  we  read  the  same  play  forty 
times;  e^.,  the  following  never  struck  me  so  forcibly  as  at 

present : — 

urchins 
Shall  for  the  vast  of  night,  that  they  may  work, 
All  exercise  on  thee. 

How  can  I  help  brining  to  your  mind  the  line — 

In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  " 

Shakespeare  at  once  gives  him  an  unapproachable  standard, 
which  prevents  his  thinking  overmuch  of  his  own  productions, 
and  at  the  same  time  keeps  him  from  despondency.  "I  never 
quite  despair  and  I  read  Shakespeare — indeed,  I  think  I  shall 
never  read  any  other  book  much."^  It  is  in  reference  to 
Shakespeare  that  he  realises  a  ti'uth  fully  applicable  to  his  own 
poetry  that  the  "  excellence  of  every  art  is  its  intensity,  capable 
of  making  all  disagreeables  evaporate  from  their  being  in  close 
relationship  with  Beauty  and  Truth  "?  All  through  the  year  his 
study  continues,  and  eai'ly  in  1818  he  is  found  turning  again  to 
Lear.     And  as  once  more  he  bums  through  the  fierce  dispute 

Betwixt  damnation  and  impassioned  clay 

the  world  of  Spenser  seems  shadowy  and  dim.*  Later 
he  writes,  in  words  truer  of  himself  than  of  the  most  learned 
commentator,  "  I  have  reason  to  be  content,  for,  thank  God,  I 
can  read  and  perhaps  understand  Shakespeare  to  his  very 
depths  ".*  The  influence  of  other  poets  in  turn  grew  and  waned, 
but  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  opened  out  a  new  world  before 

'  Letter  to  Haydm,  loth  May,  1817.  The  passage  goes  on :  "  I  am  very  near 
agreeing  with  Hazlitt  that  Shakespeare  is  enough  for  us".  Earlier  in  the  letter  is 
another  significant  passage :  "I  remember  your  saying  that  you  had  notions  of  a 
gppd  genius  presiding  over  you.  I  have  of  late  had  the  same  thought,  for  things 
which  I  do  are  afterwards  confirmed  in  a  dozen  features  of  propriety.  Is  it  too  daring 
to  fancy  Shakespeare  this  Presider  ?  " 

"^Letter  to  George  and  Thomas  Keats,  aSth  Deo.  1817. 

'  Sonnet  On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once  again,  vide  p.  277. 

^  Letter  to  John  Taylor,  27th  Feb.  1818. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

his  eyes,  and  the  life  which  he  saw  in  the  pages  of  Shakespeare 
became  as  it  were  a  part  of  his  inner  experience.  And  as  his 
own  Kfe's  ti"agedy  drew  to  its  close  he  turned,  naturally,  in 
his  agony  of  mind  to  the  majestic  tranquillity  of  Shakespeare. 
His  last  poem,  Bright  star!  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou 
art,  was  written,  with  a  touching  suggestiveness,  on  a  blank 
page  in  a  copy  of  Shakespeare's  poems  facing  7%e  Lover''s 
Complaint. 

At  the  same  time  that  he  was  finding  in  Shakespeare  the 
greatest  examples  of  the  imaginative  presentation  of  life,  he  was 
turning  to  Wordsworth  not  only  as  the  one  living  poet  who  was 
fully  conscious  of  the  dignity  of  his  vocation,  but  even  more 
than  this  as  the  inspii-ed  commentator  on  the  poetic  faculty, 
who  traced  its  gi-owth  in  the  mind  of  the  poet,  and  inteipreted 
its  significance  to  the  world.  Wordsworth's  influence  was  never 
a  pei-sonal  one.  It  began  to  be  exerted  fuUy  a  year  before  the 
two  poets  had  met,  and  even  after  their  acquaintance  it  remained 
unchanged  in  character ;  it  was  never  cemented  by  the  ties  of 
friendship.  Still  less  was  it  a  literary  influence.  Eeats  gives 
expression  more  than  once  to  his  antipathy  to  the  artistic 
method  by  which  Wordsworth  chose  to  present  his  faith.  "  We 
hate  poetry,"  he  writes,  "that  has  a  palpable  design  upon  us. 
Poetiy  should  be  great  and  unobtrusive,  a  thing  which  enters 
into  one's  soul."  To  his  eyes  "the  egotistical  sublime  "  of  Words- 
worth contrasted  unfavourably  with  "  Shakespeai^'s  gi-eat  negative 
capability,  his  power  of  presenting  uncei-tainties,  mysteries  and 
doubts  without  an  in-itable  reaching  after  fact  and  reason  ".  But  | 
just  because  much  of  Wordswoi-th's  poetry  seemed  to  be  the 
studied  expression  of  a  definite  philosophy  of  life  and  art  rather  i 
than  the  cry  of  spontaneous  emotion,  it  had  all  the  more  effect  j 
upon  him.  He  stood  in  no  need  of  further  poetic  inspiration  ; 
what  he  desired  was  the  direction  of  his  intellect,  and  there  is 
continual  evidence  of  the  deep  hold  which  the  teaching  of  Words-  / 
woi-th  had  gained  over  his  mind.  The  Hymn  to  Pan  might 
perhaps  seem  to  Woi-dsworth  "  a  pretty  piece  of  paganism,"  yet 
it  was  Woi-dsworth's  interpretation  of  Greek  mythology  which 
I'eveaJed  to  Keats  the  spu-it  which  informed  it.     And  Wordsworth 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

affected  kim,  too,  in  his  attitude  to  subjects  with  which  he  is 
supposed  to  have  been  generally  unconcerned.  It  is  rarely,  for 
example,  that  he  touches  on  the  politics  of  the  hour.  Yet  his 
criticism  sent  to  his  brother  George,  to  whom  he  communicated 
all  his  thoughts,  could  only  have  come  from  the  student  of 
Wordsworth's  greatest  political  utterances.  "The  motives  of 
our  woret  men,"  he  wiites,  "  are  Interest  and  of  our  best  Vanity. 
We  have  no  Milton,  no  Algernon  Sidney.  Governors  in  these 
days  lose  the  title  of  man  in  exchange  for  that  of  Diplomat  and 
Minister.  .  .  .  All  these  departments  of  Government  have  strayed 
fai"  fi'om  Simplicity,  which  is  the  greatest  of  strength"  .  .  .  and 
he  goes  on  to  disjoin  himself  from  the  Liberal  party  in  a  denuncia- 
tion of  Napoleon  as  "one  who  has  done  more  harm  to  the  life 
of  Liberty  than  any  one  else  could  have  done  ".  It  is  evident 
fi'om  this  passage  how  the  cheery  Radicalism  of  Hunt  has  been 
tempered  by  the  spirit  of  the  Sormets  dedicated  to  National 
Independence  amd  Liberty?^ 

Even  more  suggestive  of  the  deep  hold  which  the  Words- 
worbhian  creed  had  gained  over  his  mind  are  the  words  in  which 
he  interprets  to  his  brother,  who  is  grieving  with  him  over  a 
common  loss,  the  meaning  of  man's  life  in  its  relation  with  what 
is  beyond. 

"The  common  cognomen  of  this  world  among  the  misguided 
and  superstitious  is  'a  vale  of  tears,'  from  which  we  are 
redeemed  by  a  certain  arbitrary  interposition  of  God  and  taken 
to  Heaven.  What  a  little  circumscribed  notion!  Call  the 
world,  if  you  please,  the  vale  of  Soul-making.  Then  you  will 
find  out  the  use  of  the  world.  ...  I  will  call  the  world  a  school 
instituted  for  the  pui-pose  of  teaching  little  children  to  read — I 

will  call  the  human  heart  the  hom-book  used  in  that  school 

and  I  will  call  the  child  able  to  read,  the  Soul  made  from  that 
school  and  its  hom-book.  Do  you  not  see  how  necessaiy  a 
world  of  pains  and  troubles  is  to  school  an  intelligence  and  make 

^Journal  Letter,  Oct.  i8i8.  Keats's  political  sympathies  are  with  the  Wotxls- 
worth  of  iSoi-s  and  not,  of  course,  with  the  Wordsworth  of  the  time  at  which  he 
writes.  Cf.  the  Sennets  deMcated  to  National  Independence  and  Liberty,  passim,  but 
especially  Nos.  iv. ,  xiii, ,  xiv. ,  xv. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii  - 

it  a  Soul?  A  place  where  the  heai"t  must  feel  and  suffer  in  a 
thousand  divei-se  ways."  ^  This  passage  might  well  be  taken  as  a  , 
commentary  on  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Im-  ^ 
nurrtalit^,  which,  as  Bailey  tells  us,  "he  was  never  weaiy  of 
repeating".  In  Wordswoiih,  indeed,  he  saw  a  poet  who,  like 
himself,  had  drawn  his  first  inspiration  from  the  beauty  of 
nature,  but  had  only  become  conscious  of 

how  exquisitely 
The  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind 

after  a  deep  and  sympathetic  study  of  humanity.  Through  a 
profound  contemplation  on  the  mysteries  of  being  Wordsworth 
had  at  last  attained  to  a  resolution  of  the  conflicting  elements  in 
his  natux-e,  in  an  impassioned  philosophy  in  which  "  thought  and 
feeling  ai-e  one  ".  This  resolution  was  never  attained  by  Keats, 
but  he  realised  that  the  gi-eatest  poetiy  sprang  from  the  desire 
for  it,  if  not  from  its  attainment ;  and  both  in  his  lettei-s  and 
in  his  poems  there  are  continual  signs  that  he  was  turning  to 
Wordsworth  for  help  and  guidance.  Even  that  famous  ejacula- 
tion, "  0  for  a  life  of  sensations  rather  than  of  Thoughts,"  which 
has  so  often  been  made  the  text  for  a  denunciation  of  his 
unbi-idled  sensuousness,  bears  a  totally  different  construction 
when  it  is  viewed  in  its  context,  in  its  true  place  in  the  de- 
velopment of  his  thought. 

"I  am  certain  of  nothing  but  of  the  holiness  of  the  heart's 
affections,  and  the  truth  of  imagination.  What  the  Imagination 
seizes  as  Beauty,  must  be  Ti-uth — whether  it  existed  before  or  not 
— for  I  have  the  same  idea  of  all  our  passions  as  of  love :  they 
ai'e  all,  in  their  sublime,  creative  of  essential  Beauty.  .  .  .  The 
Imagination  may  be  compared  *ith  Adam's  dream, — he  awoke 
and  found  it  truth.  I  am  more  zealous  in  this  affair  because  I 
have  never  been  able  to  perceive  how  anything  can  be  known  for 
truth  by  consecutive  reasoning — and  yet  it  must  be.  Can  it  be 
that  even  the  greatest  philosopher  ever  aixived  d,t  truth  without 
setting  aside  numerous  objections  ?     However  it  may  be,  O  for  a 

^Journal  Letter,  April,  1819. 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

life  of  sensations  rather  than  of  Thoughts !     It  is  a  vision  in  the 
form  of  youth,  'a  shadow  of  reality  to  come\"^ 

It  must  be  remembered  that  this  letter  is  addressed  to  Bailey, 
an  ai-dent  Wordsworthian  with  whom  but  a  few  months  before 
Keats  had  been  studying  in  the  Excursion  the  poet's  superb 
vindication  before  an  unbelieving  age  of  the  value  of  the  emo- 
tions in  the  attainment  of  the  highest  truth.  The  passage  is 
thus  a  passionate  exaltation  of  that  part  of  Wordsworth's  creed 
•with  which  Keats  had,  doubtless,  most  natural  sympathy,  the 

belief  that  we 

do  well  to  trust 
Imagination's  light  when  reason's  fails. 

In  wilting  to  a  friend  whose  orthodoxy  might  lead  him, 
perhaps,  to  accept  Wordsworth's  theory  of  imagination  with 
some  reserve,  he  tends  in  the  natural  spirit  of  controversy  to 
overstate  his  case,  and  to  throw  too  much  weight  upon  the 
emotions  as  opposed  to  the  reason.  But  this  does  not  express, 
even  for  Keats,  more  than  one  side  of  the  truth  (and  the  veiy 
form  in  which  his  desire  is  couched  is  itself  a  recognition  that 
the  life  of  sensation  apart  from  thought  is  impossible  for  any 
true  poet) ;  it  can  therefore  only  be  judged  aright  side  by  side 
with  those  of  his  utterances  which  show  him  to  be  fully  conscious 
of  those  other  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which  give  to  imagina- 
tion its  body — an  insight  into  human  life  and  a  sympathy  with 
its  sufferings,  together  with  an  extensive  knowledge  by  widening 
speculation  to  ease  the  "burden  of  the  mystery".^  "Words- 
worth," he  writes,  in  a  letter  whose  whole  spuit  is  that  of  a 

'  Leiier  to  Bailey,  22nd  Nov.  1817.  It  should  be  remembered  that  Keats  had  no 
exact  logical  training  and  cannot  therefore  be  expected  to  be  accurate  in  his  use  of 
philosophical  terminology.  The  word  intuition  would  express  his  meaning  far  more 
truly  than  sensation.  He  is,  obviously,  contrasting  what  Milton  calls  the  discursive 
and  intuitive  reason — or  the  manner  of  attaining  the  truth  characteristic  of  the  philo- 
sopher— by  consecutive  reasoning,  and  the  poet's  immediate  apprehension  of  it. 

"^Letter  to  Reynolds,  May,  1818.  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  ^Introduction  to  Keats's 
Poems  :  Muses'  Library)  has  pointed  out  the  analogy  of  thought  between  this  letter  and 
Wordsworth's  Lines  on  Tintern  Abbey  :  cf.  also  notes  to  Sleep  and  Poetry.  The 
Excursion,  the  last  poem  which  the  casual  reader  of  Keats  would  expect  him  to  admire, 
was  to  him  one  of  "the  three  things  to  rejoice  at  in  this  age".  Letter  to  Haydon, 
January,  1818. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiit 

disciple,  "  is  explorative  of  the  daa-k  passages  in  the  mansion  of 
human  life.  He  is  a  genius  superior  to  us  in  so  far  as  he  can, 
more  than  we,  make  discoveries  and  shed  a  light  in  them.  Now 
if  we  live  and  go  on  thinking,  we  too  shall  explore  them." 

The  influence  of  Wordswoi-th  appears  in  the  poems  of  Keats 
before  there  are  any  traces  of  it  in  his  correspondence.  Several 
Wordsworthian  echoes,^  which  seem  strangely  incongruous  with 
their  surroundings,  startle  the  reader  of  the  1817  volume  into 
the  conviction  that  even  whilst  the  young  poet  was  revelling 
in  the  luxuries  of  art  and  nature  under  the  guidance  of  Leigh 
Hunt,  he  was  gradually  absorbing  much  of  the  poetry  of  Words- 
worth. It  is  significant  that  he  associates  the  two  men  together, 
apparently  unconscious  of  their  essential  antagonism,  as  the 
champions  who  have  arisen  to  fi-ee  English  literatm-e  fi-om  the 
formalism  and  artificiality  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Sleep  and 
Poetry,  with  which  the  volume  closes,  is  at  the  same  time  a 
glowing  tribute  to  the  sympathetic  friendship  which  he  had 
enjoyed  at  the  Hampstead  cottage  and  an  attempt  to  express 
in  the  style  of  the  Story  of  Rimini  something  of  the  spirit  which 
had  informed  the  Lines  written  above  Tintern  Abbey.  Under 
the  inspiration  of  this  higher  seriousness  he  becomes  conscious 
that  he  too  is  "  disturbed  with  the  sense  of  elevated  thoughts  ". 
"  The  realm  of  Flora  and  old  Pan  "  in  which  he  spent  so  many 
pleasant  hours  of  comradeship  "  choosing  each  pleasure  that  the 
fancy  sees  "  must  now  be  I'enounced 

for  a  nobler  life 
Where  I  may  see  the  agonies,  the  strife 
Of  human  hearts ; 

and  the  ideal  of  which  he  has  been  vouchsafed  a  vision  is  only 

^  Cf.  specimen  of  an  Induction^  ^\,  with/  wandered  lonely  as  a  f  loud,  ii.  Sonnet 
to  Solitude,  ii,  with  Nuns  fret  not.  The  Sonnet  to  my  Brothers  (i8i6)  seems  a  reminis- 
cence of  Wordsworth's  /  am  not  one  who  much  or  oft  delights,  etc.  Sleep  and  Poetry, 
igo, "  The  blue  bared  its  eternal  bosom  "  is  both  in  thought  and  language  a  reproduction  of 
Wordsworth's,  The  world  is  too  much  with  us.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  all  these  poems 
of  Wordsworth's  are  to  be  found  in  his  1807  volume.  Lines  like  ' '  A  sense  of  real  things 
comes  doubly  strong  "and  "Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality  "(5to/ffi«rf/'«e/0',  157,  84) 
suggest  the  Ode  on  Intimations,  etc.       Vide  notes  to  the  poems,  passim. 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

to  be  attained  by  a  deeper  human  sympathy  and  a  more  eagei- 
scrutiny  of  the  mysteries  of  nature  and  of  life. 

In  Endymion  he  strives  to  treat  in  a  more  highly  poetic  fonn 
the  problem  continually  before  his  mind,  and  to  present  in  a  story 
whose  beauty  had  long  haunted  him  an  allegory  of  the  develop- 
ment of  the  poet's  soul  towai'ds  a  complete  realisation  of  itself. 
The  hero  is  first  pi-esented  in  ordinaiy  human  relations  ;  he  is 
the  beneficent  chieftain  of  his  people,  the  beloved  brother  of 
Peona  \%n\,  from  these  he  is  estranged  by  his  aspiration  after  the 
ideal,  as  typified  in  Cynthia,  who  has  found  a  secret  entrance 
into  his  heart  through  his  emotional  worship  of  the  loveliness 
of  nature.  In  pui-suit  of  Cynthia  he  leaves  the  world  of  action 
to  wander  through  the  realms  of  space.  But  his  whole-hearted 
devotion  to  the  quest  is  only  rewarded  by  fitful  visions  of  his 
love,  and  his  failure  is  really  due  to  his  absoiption  in  his  own 
fate,  and  to  his  delusion  that  the  ideal  can  be  gained  in  complete 
isolation  from  the  fates  of  othere ;  it  is  not  till  he  has  sympa- 
thised with  Alpheus  and  Arethusa  and  has  aided  Glaucus  to 
regain  his  lost  love  that  he  makes  any  progress  towards  his 
end.  But  even  now  the  immediate  result  seems  disastrous. 
For  his  reawakened  sympathy  with  humanity  is  followed  by  an 
absorbing  passion  for  an  Indian  maiden  whom  he  meets  in  the 
forest,  so  that  in  his  devotion  to  her  the  ideal  loses  its  hold 
upon  him  and  he  is  tortured  by  the  sense  of  his  infidelity  to  the 
highest  within  him.  Under  such  conditions  nothing  seems  left 
for  him  but  death,  and  he  prepares  to  depart,  leaving  the  maiden 
to  the  care  of  Peona ;  but  the  exclamation  which  he  had  uttered 
before,  half  ignorant  of  its  import,  "  I  have  a  triple  soul,"  is  now 
found  to  be  the  truth.  Cynthia  and  the  Indian  maid  ai-e  the 
same  being  in  difFertnt  foim,  his  woi-ship  for  nature  and  his 
passion  for  the  ideal  are  unified  in  his  love  for  humanity. 

It  is  hardly  safe  to  give  a  more  detailed  inteipretation  of  the 
allegory,  for  as  a  whole  Endymion  is  vague  and  obscure.  But 
the  vagueness  and  the  obscurity  do  not  prove  that  the  poet's 
interest  lay  merely  in  the  stoiy  and  its  decoration,  they  rather 
point  to  that  inability  to  portray  his  conceptions  in  dear 
outline,  which  accompanies  an   immaturity   of  artistic  power. 


INTRODUCTION  xH 

His  mind  at  that  time  was,  as  he  said  later,  like  a  pack  of 
scattered  cai-ds.  Thus  much  at  least  is  cei-tain,  that  in  the 
dark  wanderings  of  Endymion  we  may  trace  the  gropings  of  the 
spirit  after  the  ideal,  and  the  episodes  of  Arethusa  and  of 
Glaucus  could  have  no  possible  justification  in  the  scheme  of 
the  poem  had  they  not  been  introduced  to  emphasise  the  con- 
ception, already  presented  in  Sleep  and  Poetry,  that  only  by 
human  sympathy  can  the  poet  reach  the  summit  of  his  powei-. 

In  Hyperion  the  same  strain  of  thought  is  present."  The 
fruitless  struggle  of  H;h'e  Titans,  types  of  the  elemental  energies 
of  the  world,  against  that  dynasty  whose  rule  was  based  on 
higher  principle  than  mere  bitite  force,  is  to  Keats  essentially 
concentrated  in  the  fall  of  Hypexion,  the  flaming  sun-god, 
before  Apollo  the  god  of  light  and  song.  And  its  fundamental 
conception  that 

'tis  the  eternal  law 
That  first  in  beauty  should  he  first  in  might 

can  only  have  one  interpretation.  For  it  is  by  "  knowledge 
enormous '.'  that  Apollo  has  become  a  god,  and  if  his  knowledge 
has  given  him  divinity,  his  perfect  beauty  and  his  power  over 
song  have  come  to  him  from  the  humanising  influence  of  sym- 
pathy and  suifering.  When  Keats  came  to  recast  the  poem  in 
the  form  of  a  vision,  in  order  to  give  himself  a  freer  scope  for  the 
development  of  his  conception,  he  made  this  clearer  still.^  The 
ideal,  says  the  goddess  intei-preter,  is  only  to  be  attained  by 
those 

to  whom  the  miseries  of  the  world 
Are  miseries  and  will  not  let  them  rest. 

In  Lamia  he  lays  aside  for  the  time  the  question  of  the  place  6i 
human  sympathy  in  ai-t  and  concentrates  his  power  upon  a 
dramatic  pi%sentation  of  the  antagonism  between  reason  and 
emotion.  Here  we  have  no  longer  the  calm  reserve  and  self 
control  of  Hyperion^  in  its  expression  of  a  creed  from  which, 
in  reality,  Keats  never  wavered ;  but  a  passionate,  almost  mor- 
bid, expression  of  a  conflict  between  those  antagonistic  foi'ces 

'  Cf.  Introduction  to  Fall  of  Hyferion,  pp.  515  et  seq. 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

which  fought  out  their  battle  continually  within  his  breast ;  and 
though  with  a  true  poetic  feeling  he  keeps  his  own  pei-sonality 
out  of  the  poem,  it  lends  additional  passion  to  his  treatment  of 
the  subject.  The  significance  of  Lamia  in  its  relation  to  Keats's 
whole  tone  of  thought  is  by  no  means  summed  up,  as  often 
represented  even  by  his  most  sympathetic  critics,  in  the  well- 
known  lines 

Do  not  all  charms  fly 
At  the  mere  touch  of  cold  philosophy  ? 

for  the  poem  is  the  utterance  of  a  mood  rather  than  of  a  settled 
conviction.  Ti-ue  it  is  that  the  poet  wishes  to  enlist  our  sym- 
pathies on  the  side  of  Lycius ;  that  is  essential,  if  the  interest 
of  the  story  is  to  be  maintained ;  but  it  is  possible  for  the 
emotional  side  of  a  nature  to  upbraid  with  bitterness  the 
intellectual  even  while  i'j;  recognises  the  right  of  the  intellectual 
to  supremacy.  The  subject  in  this  respect  presents  itself  in 
some  measure  as  it  might  have  done  to  Shakespeare.  As  we 
read  the  early  acts  of  Troihis  and  Cressida  and  feel  the 
impending  tragedy,  we  cannot  remain  untouched  by  the  vain 
hope  that  Ti'oilus  may  live  on  to  the  end  believing  in  an 
illusion  which  seems  to  make  for  his  happiness.  Yet  at  the 
same  time  we  bow  before  the  remoreeless  supremacy  of  truth 
and  recognise  that  only  through  bitter  experience  can  Troilus 
reach  a  higher  plane  of  feeling.  Keats,  with  a  prophetic  con- 
sciousness that  he  will  not  live  to  attain  his  fuller  purpose, 
I  necessarily  lacks  the  serenity  of  Shakespeai^,  and  ends  his  poem 
on  a  note  of  tragic  despair.  And  as  he  follows  the  fate  of  his 
hero  he  represents  the  agony  of  the  struggle  in  the  soul  of  a 
man  who  clings  to  the  false  at  the  same  time  that  he  desii-es  the 
true,  who  aspires  after  the  ideal  even  whilst  he  is  unable  to 
relax  his  hold  of  those  very  shadows,  not  reaUties,  which  he 
knows  well  enough  to  despise.  Keats  realised  the  nature  of  the 
struggle  from  the  very  firat  and  set  himself  to  unify  the  con- 
flicting emotions  of  his  nature.  He  had  no  time  to  reach  the 
perfect  consummation  of  his  genius ;  the  widest  sympatliy  with 
the  world  about  him,  the  firmest  gi-asp  of  the. realities  of  human 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

life  and  character  were  not  yet  his  ;  but  his  whole  work  presents 
us  with  the  struggle  for  it,  and  presents  it  with  a  passion  and 
sincerity  which  is  itself  a  constituent  of  the  highest  genius.  For 
ai-t  itself  represents  a  straggle  after  an  infinite  perfection,  and 
in  no  one  of  our  poets  do  we  find  this  more  vitally  portrayed 
than  in  the  work  of  Keats.  -^ 

It  is  significant  that  in  these  three  poems,  which  are  the  most 
ambitious  of  his  works  and  i-eflect  most  fully  his  inner  experience 
and  his  poetic  ideals,  he  should  turn  for  his  source  and  much  of 
his  framework  to  the  world  of  Greece,  whose  legends  had  fascin- 
ated his  childhood,  and  had  never  lost  their  hold  upon  his 
imagination.  There  was  much  indeed  in  the  Greek  attitude  to 
life,  as  he  understood  it,  that  made  an  irresistible  appeal  to  him. 
The  expression  of  truth  in  forms  essentially  beautiful,  the  spon- 
taneous unquestioning  delight  in  the  life  of  nature  and  its 
incarnation  in  forms  human  but  of  more  than  human  loveliness, 
made  the  pagan  creed,  outworn  to  Wordsworth,  retain  for  Keats 
all  its  freshness  and  its  vitality.  And  when  he  came  to  study 
the  Elgin  marbles  he  learnt  something  of  the  principles  of  Greek 
art  where  they  ai-e  most  supei'bly  embodied  and  most  cleai'ly 
read.  Hei'e  Keats  owed  a  great  debt  to  his  friend  Haydon. 
Haydon  was  the  untiring  exponent  of  the  Elgin  mai-bles  as  the 
supreme  example  of  classic  art,  and  devoted  his  energies  to  im- 
pressing upon  all  young  artists  the  impoi-tance  of  sei-ving  thefr 
appi'enticeship  in  the  school  of  Phidias  rather  than  of  Michael 
Angelo.  Keats  learnt  under  his  direction  that  the  most  ideal 
representation  of  life  was  not  incompatible  with  the  minutest 
accuracy  of  detail  and  that  the  vagueness  characteristic  of  his 
eai'liest  work  must  give  place  to  clearer  outline  and  more  definite 
conception.  It  is  hardly  fanciful  to  associate  with  this  rapturous 
study  of  those 

heroes — not  yet  dead. 
But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful,  {End.  i.  318,  319) 

the  development  of  that  mastery  over  statuesque  effect  in  which 
Keats  has  no  rival  but  Landor  among  his  contemporaiies.  The 
figures  of 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood, 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  morn,      {End.  ii.  197,  igS) ; 

of  the  Naiad  who 

'mid  her  reeds 
Pressed  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips       {Hyp.  i.  13,  14) ; 

still  more,  perhaps,  the  wonderful  picture  of  Saturn, 

Upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred  ;  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ; 
While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  list'ning  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet  (Hyp.  i.  17-31), 

are  3xamples  of  his  power  of  concentrating  an  emotion  into  a 
supreme  moment  and  presenting  it  in  pure  outline  against  the 
sky,  with  the  calm  dignity  and  the  sublime  grace  which  is  the 
supreme  tiiumph  of  the  sculptor's  art. 

But  if  at  times  he  showed  in  his  handling  of  classical  legends 
a  naivete  of  feeling  and  a  simple  lucidity  of  expression  sufficient 
to  win  the  enthusiastic  praise  of  Shelley,  "  He  was  a  Gi-eek ! ",  his 
attitude  to  his  subject  and  his  presentation  of  it  are  as  a  nde 
far  different  from  this.  Nor  can  it  be  wondered  at.  Keats  was 
no  scholai",  and  of  the  literature  in  which  the  Greek  spirit  found 
true  expi-ession  he  could  know  nothing.  But  just  as  it  was 
through  his  devotion  to  Spenser  that  he  became  a  poet,  so  was  it 
through  his  kinship,  both  in  spirit  and  taste,  with  the  Eliza- 
bethans, that  he  became  the  poet  of  ancient  Greece.  In  his  own 
day  he  was  accused  of  vereifying  Lempriere,  and  the  Dictionary- 
is  still  regarded  as  the  main  source  of  his  classical  inspiration. 
Yet  it  is  highly  probable  that  if  he  had  found  the  legends  of 
ancient  mythology  in  Lempriere  alone  he  would  have  left  them 
there,^  and  it  is  certain  that  if  he  had  never  seen  a  dictionary  his 
debt  to  the  world  of  Greece  would  have  been  the  same.     Homer 

1  He  had  read  Lempriire  at  school,  but  was  never,  as  far  as  we  know,  inspired  to 
write  poetry  till  he  read  Spenser,  and  if  Spenser  was  his  inspiration,  why  should  it  be 
supposed  that  he  drew  from  Lempriire  what  can  be  found  in  Spenser  and  kindred 
sources?  It  is  noticeable  moreover  that  bis  earliest  verses  have  very  little  classical 
allusion  in  them,  though  at  that  period  Lempriere  would  naturally  be  fresh  in  his  mind. 
It  is  only  after  he  has  become  soaked  in  the  Elizabethans  that  classical  story  and 
allusion  gain  a  real  bold  over  him.     C/.  notes  to  the  poems,  passim. 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

had  been  known  to  him  in  the  veraion  of  Pope,  at  least,  one 

would  have  thought,  as  inspiring  as  Lempriere,  but  had  left  him 

cold ;  the  Homer  that  he  came  to  love  appeared  to  him  in  the 

goi'geous  but  exuberant  phraseology  of  Chapman.      It  seems 

indeed  as  if  a  story  of  the  ancient  world  had  to  assume  an 

Elizabethan  dress  before  it  cguld  kindle  his  imagination.     A 

careful  examination  of  the  legends  which  he  employs  in  his 

poems  will  tend  to  show  that  though,  doubtless,  he  became  ferst 

acquainted  with  many  of  them  in  the  dull  pages  of  Lempriere 

or  Tooke  or  Spence,  and  continued  to  make  occasional  use  of  the 

Dictionary  as  a  work  of  reference,  there  is  hardly  an  allusion  that 

cannot  be  traced  to  an  Elizabethan  source.     The  legend  of 

Endymion  and   Cynthia  was  well  known  to  him   in   Lyly,  in 

Fletcher,  in  Drayton  ;  and  of  the  main  episodes  and  the  wealth  of 

illustration  to  which  the  poem  owes  much  of  its  beauty,  all  that 

cannot  be  trstced  to  Sj)enser  or  Chapman  or  Browne  can  be  found 

in  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid,  that  book  especially  dear  to  the 

Renaissance  and  known  to  Keats  in  a  late  Elizabethan  form. 

Keats  possessed  a'^opy  of  Ovid  in  the  original,  but  the  Ovid  that 

he  read  and  re-i'ead  was  the  famous  version  of  George  Sandys 

which  delighted  him  as  it  had  delighted  the  seventeenth  centmy 

by  "  the  sumptuous  bravery  of  that  rich  attire "  in  which  the 

translator  had  clothed  it.     Seeing  then  that  Lempriere  had  no 

material  to  give  him  that  he  could  not  have  met  elsewhere,  and 

often  in  the  Sandys  which  we  know  him  to  have  studied  with 

^assiduity,  whilst  Sandys  supplied  him  with  details  of  incident  and 

phrase  for  which  Lempriere  may  be  searched  in  vain,  we  are 

justified  in  the  inference  that  in  cases  where  both  Lempriere  and 

Sandys  are  possible  sources,  Keats  owed  his  inspii-ation  to  a  living 

work  of  art  and  not  to  a  museum  of  dead  antiquities. 

There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  the  case  is  different  with 
Hyperion  or  Lamia.  References  to  the  wai-  between  the  Titans 
and  the  Olympians  are  commonplaces  in  Elizabethan  literature, 
and  Keats  would  be  familial-  with  them  in  Spenser,  in  Shake- 
speare, in  Milton,  as  well  as  in  Chapman  and  Sandys.  Apart 
from  one  or  two  names  of  fallen  Titans,  there  is  no  detail  which 
cannot  be  traced  to  the  influence  of  some  passage  within  the 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION 

certain  limits  of  Keats's  poetic  reading.  In  the  general  conduct 
of  his  stoiy,  where  he  does  not  accept  hints  from  the  structure  of 
Paradise  Lost,  he  is  entirely  original,  and  it  is  surely  a  significant 
fact  that  the  only  passages  in  the  Iliad  which  allude  to  the 
Titans  are  suggestive  of  the  main  situations  of  the  first  and 
second  books  of  Hyperion.  ITie  picture  of  the  solitary  dejection 
of  Saturn,  buried  deep  from  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  noise 
of  the  breath  of  wind,  must  owe  something  to  Chapman's  beauti- 
ful rendering  of  the  arigiy  words  of  Zeus 

I  weigh  uot  thy  displeased  spleen,  tho'  to  th'  ertremest  bounds 
Of  earth  and  seas  it  carry  theie,  where  endless  night  confounds ' 
Japhet,  and  my  dejected  sire,  who  sit  so  far  beneath 
They  never  see  the  flying  sun,  nor  hear  the  winds  that  breathe. 
Near  to  profoundest  Tartarus.     (II.  viii.  420-24) ; 

and  in  the  slight  reference  to  "  the  gods  of  the  infernal  state, 
which  circled  Saturn  "  (Chap.  II.  xiv.  p.  230)  we  may  have  the 
bare  idea  of  the  marvellous  group  of  fallen  Titans  of  the  second 
book  with  which,  however,  Keats.has  blended,^y  an  iiresistible 
romantic  association,  a  reminiscence  of  a  scene  T^ich  had  ari'ested 
his  imagination  on  his  travels  in  the  English  lakes.  In  Lamia 
his  story,  which  had  more  affinity  with  mediaeval  magic  than 
with  Greek  mythology,  is  di-awn  fi-om  Burton's  Anatomy  of 
Melancholie,  and  its  classical  embellishments  Jshow  similar  traces 
of  Elizabethan  origin.  It  is  time,  indeed,  that  the  Lempriei-e 
myth  assumed  its  proper  proportions  and  that  it  was  fully  re- 
co^ised  that  Keats's  classical  inspiration  was  the  inspii^tion  of 
the  Renaissance,  as  it  appears  in  English  literature  &om  Spenser 
to  Milton.  And  what  is  true  of  the  matter  is  even  ti'uer  of  the 
spirit  which  informs  it.     He  had,  indeed,  travelled  around 

the  western  islands  .  .  . 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold 

'  It  is  worth  noting,  as  corroborative  evidence  of  the  impression  made  by  this 
'  passage  upon  the  mind  of  Keats,  that  the  phrase  nigAi  confounds,  though  with  a  dif- 
ferent application,  reappears  in  Hyperion  (ii.  80).     It  is  thus  that  a  great  poet  always 
borrows,  if  such  it  can  be  called,  from  his  predecessors. 

Both  the  phrase  "night  confounds"  and  the  epithet  "  dejected"  so  significant  in  its 
relation  to  Hyperion,  have  no  counterpart  in  the  Greek,  but  are  Chapman's  additions. 
Keats  had  been  reading  Chapman  just  before  he  started  for  the  Lakes,  for  almost  the 
last  letter  he  received  before  leaving  London  was  from  Haydon,  asking  him  to  return 
bis  copy  of  Chapman. 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

and  when  he  came  to  view  the  land  of  Apollo,  perfect  in  its 
limitation,  he  gazed  upon  it  with  the  eyes  of  a  romanticist — 

Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 
Here  is  expressed  the  sense  of  awe,  the  feeling  of  wonder,  some- 
thing, too,  of  the  spirit  of  adventui'e,  which  impelled  the  Eliza- 
bethan to  go  even  to  meet  his  death  as  a  traveller 

Goes  to  discover  countries  yet  unknown. 
And  for  Keats,  as  for  his  predecessors,  to  see  was  to  take  pos- 
session. The  world  of  ancient  mythology,  which  had  just  dawned 
on  theii"  horizon,  seemed  but  an  extension  of  their  own  kingdom. 
Their  vivid  imagination  absoi-bed  its  beauty  and  found  in  it  a 
wealth  of  material  by  which  to  illustrate  and  to  interpret  their 
own  most  deeply  felt  emotions,  so  that  it  became,  for  all  its 
apparent  aloofiiess,  only  another  means  of  passionate  self-ex- 
pression. For  them  the  distinctions  of  classic  and  ix)mantic,  aiid 
distinctions  of  the  schools,  would  appear  at  their  best  a  meaningless 
piece  of  pedantry,  and  at  their  y\rorst  a  denial  of  what  was  to  them 
a  vital  truth — the  essential  unity  of  human  feeling  and  human 
experience  wherever  and  whenever  it  is  to  be  found.  And  so  it  is 
for  Keats.  He  has  been  blamed,  for  example,  for  the  introduction 
of  the  figure  of  Hope  into  Hyperion,  but  the  criticism  by  which 
this  can  be  condemned  must  logically  include  in  its  attack  the 
work  of  every  writer,  except  perhaps  Ben  Jonson,  &om  the 
eai'liest  Elizabethan  who  caught  fii-e  at  the  recital  of  a  classic 
theme  down  to  Milton,  who  offended  the  piety  of  Di'.  Johnson 
by  his  blending  of  pagan  mythology  with  Christianity  ;  most  of 
all  must  it  denounce  Keats's  great  master  Spenser,  fifom  whom  in 
all  likelihood  this  very  picture  of  Hope  ^  was  drawn,  who  enriches 
his  poetry  with  stories  taken  at  random  from  fairy  lore,  &om 
Greek  legend,  and  from  tales  of  mediaeval  chivalry. 

It  is  no  surpiise  therefore  to  find  that  these  thi-ee  poems 
of  Greek  inspiration  exhibit  no  traces  of  the  influence  of  classical 
literature,  but  ai*  detei'mined  in  each  case  by  the  influence  of 

'  Cf.  Faerie  Queene,  i.  lo,  14 : — 

Upon  her  arme  a  silver  anchor  lay, 
^Hiereon  she  leaned  ever,  as  befell. 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION 

difFerent  models  of  English  poetry.  Endymion,  the  firat  fi-uits 
of  his  whole-hearted  devotion  to  his  art,  has  no  single  definite 
model,  but  shows  the  natural  influence  of  Spenser  and  the  seven- 
teenth-century Spenserians  upon  an  immature,  exuberant  genius, 
which  had  already  an  intuitive  sympathy  with  the  laxer  qualities 
of  their  style  and  method.  It  may  indeed  be  regarded  as  the 
consummation  of  his  early  work,  more  ambitious  in  design  than 
anything  he  had  hitherto  accomplished,  and  inspired  by  a  gi-eater 
purpose,  but  tainted  with  the  same  faults  of  style,  execution 
and  sentiment.  "  A  trial,"  he  calls  it,  "  of  my  powei-s  of  imagina- 
tion, by  which  I  must  make  4000  lines  of  one  bare  circumstance 
and  fill  them  with  poetry  " ;  and  the  statement  inevitably  suggests 
that  much  of  the  poetry  is  independent  of  the  real  subject.  For 
"  the  one  bare  circumstance  "  is  embellished  by  incidents  which 
retard  the  natural  development  of  the  action  and  by  episodes 
which  have  no  organic  relation  with  the  main  story,  but  are  only 
explicable  after  a  full  comprehension  of  their  application  and 
inner  meaning.  The  progress  of  the  involved  allegory,  itself 
sufficiently  unclassical,  finds  ample  precedent  in  seventeenth- 
century  poets,  and  bears  more  resemblance  to  the  rambling 
inconsequence  of  Britannia's  Pastorals  than  to  any  work  of  more 
definitely  artistic  construction  ;  and  whilst  the  inner  significance 
of  the  poem  gives  clear  evidence  of  the  spirit  in  which  Keats  had 
come  to  view  his  art,  its  general  conduct  shows  him  to  be  as  yet 
fai"  from  attaining  to  the  ideal  which  he  sets  forth  in  it.  When 
he  touches  upon  everyday  life,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the  third 
book,  he  is  vague  or  trivial,  and  the  general  characterisation  of 
Endymion  in  his  relations  with  Peona,  Cynthia  and  the  Indian 
maiden,  conceived  with  a  delicate  and  imaginative  insight  into  the 
ideal  beauty  of  the  legend,  is  vitiated  throughout  by  the  insipid 
sentimentality  of  expression,  which  the  influence  of  Hunt,  brought 
to  bear  upon  his  own  lack  of  training,  had  led  him  to  mistake 
for  the  universal  language  of  the  heart. 

But  there  is  nothing  in  this  criticism  which  Keats  did  not 
admit  himself,  at  least  after  he  had  completed  the  poem.  He 
speaks  of  the  mawkishness  of  his  imagination,  confessing  that  the 
work  shows  "  inexperience,  immaturity  and  every  enxir  denoting 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

a  feverish  attempt  rather  than  a  deed  accomplished,"  and  remai-ks 
in  a  letter,  "  I  have  most  likely  but  moved  into  the  go  cart  from 
the  leading  strings.  If  it  serves  me  as  a  pioneer  I  ought  to  be 
content."  Yet  notwithstanding  its  failure  as  a  whole,  its  ob- 
scurity, its  vicious  \ack  of  reticence,  its  banaUty,  it  is  redeemed 
by  passages  of  glowing  beauty  which  take  then*  place  with 
anything  of  their  kind  in  our  literature.  Nowhei-e  have  the 
subtle  influence  of  nature  on  the  imaginative  mind  and  a  mystic 
yearning  after  her  illimitable  beauty  found  more  impassioned 
expression,  and  however  often  the  elaborate  treatment  of  the 
main  characters  may  fail  in  truth  to  life  as  a  whole  and  to  the 
Greek  conceptions  in  particulai',  no  poet  has  ever  more  fully 
possessed  that  creative  power  by  which  in  a  few  lines,  at  times 
in  a  mere  phi-ase,  he  can  penetrate  to  the  heart  of  a  story  long 
since  dead  and  with  magic  touch  biing  it  back  to  Ufe,  so  that 
we  see  it  in  its  essential  and  vital  truth.  That  same  spirit  of 
old  piety  which  bi-eathes  in  the  allusion  to  Apollo's  shiine 

when  upon  the  breeze 
Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet 
To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi    (End.  ii.  80-82),     ,, 

the  same  tender  fancy  which  pictures  Aiiadne  as  become  a 
vintager  for  love  of  Bacchus,  and  recalls  the  music  of  "  Dryope's 
lone  lulling  of  her  child,"  finds  ample  scope  thi'oughout  the 
poem  for  revealing  the  universal  significance  of  ancient  legend. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful 
mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness :  for  I  wish  to  try 
once  more,  before  I  bid  it  fai-ewel."  So  wrote  Keats  in  his 
preface  to  Endymion  in  the  April  of  1818.  A  little  later  he  tells 
a  friend  that  he  is  meditating  on  the  charactei-s  of  Saturn  and 
Ops  and  before  the  end  of  the  year  he  was  at  work  upon 
Hyperion.  The  subject  that  ,he  had  chosen  was  well  calculated 
to  express  most  clearly  his  essential  kinship  with  the  thought  of^ 
Greece.  But  the  wonderful  advance  in  style  and  ti-eatment  was 
due  entu'ely  to  his  subservience  to  a  stricter  model,  and  the 
change  from  Endymion  to  Hyperion  is  not  the  change  from  a 
romance  to  a  classical  epic,  but  the  change  from  the  influence 
d 


I  INTRODUCTION 

pf  %^  Spenserians  to  thp  seyei-er  ^obopl  of  Milton.     Milton's 

eai'ly  ppems  h^  long  been  known  to  him;  now  for  the  fii'st 

tipifi  h^  came  upder  the  potent  spell  pf  Paradise  Lost.     And 

npw  he  learned  his  &;e^  gi'e^t  lesson  in  artistic  cpncentr^ti^n, 

and  constructed  his  poem  on  a  plan  which  bieai's  obvious  re- 

semblanipe  to  Milto^'^  Epic     His  style,  tpp,  was  deeply  affected. 

fj  Many  a  Mijtowc  echp  can  be  caught  in  fft/perion,  and  in  his 

;  vpcabwla^y  Rea,t?i  replaeies  the  limp  and  effeminate  coinage  and 

I  the  e;xvibeiant  Ayiprdiwess  pf  his  fprmer  work  by  a  vii-ility  of 

l^^igu^e  afld  fli  stern  compression  of  all  superfluity.     The  ex- 

Bimple  pf  MiUfPP  g^ve  ju^t  the  necessary  cm'b  to  the  fa,ults 

nailjUjra],  tP<  a  ppet  of  ^eats's  tempieraiment,  and  he  gain{e4  a 

stsfajigl^  and  a  dignity,  sp|Dpieitbipg>  as  Hunt,  remarked* 

Of  the  large  utteranee  ol'tlie  earlT  gods, 

for  which  Endymiprt  may  be  searched  in  vain.  It  is  only  by  the 
side  of  his  gi-eat  and  una,pproachable  model  that  the  blank  verse 
of  Hyperion  seems  at  times  to  be  monotonous,  that  the  debate 
of  the  fallen  Titans  seems  to  lack  something  both  in  subtleiy  and 
passion ;  and  if  Keats  cannot  rival  either  the  majesty  or  the  stu- 
pendous range  both  of  thought  and  melody  that  is  the  wonder 
pjf  Fana/^e  iiost,  there  is  in  Hyperion  that  ^lamtaur-  of  romance, 
thjai  same  exquislte>  reading  o£  the  magic  of  nature  which  gave 
ijf  E^ifi^mwn  i\s  piviceless  chai'iu.  Not  d»sskal,  certainly,  nor 
Miltoi^  either*  are  the  lines  that  tell  how  the 

Tall  oaks,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars. 
Dream,  and  so.  dii;eam  all!  night  without  a  stir ; 

or  the  picture  of  Hyperion  gazing  into  the  night — 

And  still  lit.^jr  were  the  same  l^ight,.  j^i^tient  stars  ; 

'    or  the  picture  of  the  &llen  Titans — 

like  a  dismal  cirque 
Of' Druid  stoves,  upon  a  forlorn  mooi*. 
When  the  chill  rain  begins  at  shut  of  eve, 
Iv,  dHll  No|ve|fal^er,.  an^  th^ir  phaujCQl  vault. 
The  H^a,ven  itself,  ig,  blinded  throughout  night, 

or  the  incomparable  opening  of  the  whole  poem ;  but  for  such  as 


FNTRODUCTION  li 

these,  in  some  moods  at  least,  we  would  gladly  give  all  but  the 
noblest  lines  of  Paradise  Lost. 

But  as  Keats  proceeded  with  his  work  he  became  more  and 
mwce  convinced  that  the  model  which  he  had  chosen  was  not  : 
suited  to  his  genius.    "  I  have  given  up  Hyperwm,"  he  writes ; 
"there  are  too  many  Miltonie  inversions  in  it — Mil  tonic  verse  : 
cannot  be  written  but  in  an  artful,  or  rather  artist's  humour.     I 
wish  to  give  myself  up  to  other  sensations.     English  ought  to  be  , 
kept  up."  1     Milton's  classicism  of  style,  though  it  was  the  natural 
expression  of  a  scholar  to  whom  Greek  and  Latin  were  as  familiar^ 
as  his  mother  tongue,  could  never  be  the  language  of  a  purely 
native  poet,  and  much  as  he  admired  the  form  in  which  Milton 
had  cast  the  woi'k,  it  was  too  much  aloof  from  his  own  sphere  of 
methods,  and  so  he  broke  off  his  poem  abruptly  just  as  he 
appi-oached  the  central  conception  of  the  whole. 

Later,  when  the  hand  of  death  was  akeady  laid  upon  him, 
he  took  up  Hyperion  once  more  and  attempted  to  remodel  it 
in  the  form  of  an  allegorical  vision  expounded  to  him  by  one  of 
the  fallen  goddesses.     Criticism  is  right  in  pointing  out  that  thet' 
attempt  was  not  successful,  that  he  spoilt  many  lines  in  the  pro-j  \ 
cess,  and  that  the  Fall  of  Hyperion,  as  it  is  called,  shows  a 
distinct  decline  of  artistic  power.     But  it  is  at  least  a  question  i 
whether  if  his  powers  had  i-emained  at  their  height,  he  would 
not  have  done  the  same  thing  and  succeeded,  whether  he  would 
not  have  tui-ned  what  is,  after  all,  a  magnificent  literary  torn-  de  | 
force,  into  a  poem  fully  expressive  of  the  essential  qualities  of  | 
his  own  peculiar  genius.     For  an  artist  is  never  at  his  highest ' 
when  he  is  forcing  his  ast  into  an  uncongenial  channel,  and  if  he 

'  Letter  to  Reynolds,  22nd  September,  1819.  In  the  same  strain  he  wrote  to  h^ 
brother :  "  The  Paradise  Lost,  though  so  fine  in  itself,  is  a  corruption  of  our  language.  I 
It  should  be  Kept  as  it  is,  unique,  a  curiosity,  a  beautiful  and  grand  curiosity,  the  most  I 
remarkable  production  of  the  world ;  a  northern  dialect  accommodating  itself  to  Greek  I 
and  Latin  inversions  and  intonations.  The  purest  English,  I  think— or  what  ought  to  / 
be  purest — is  Chatterton's.  The  language  had  existed  long  enough  to  be  entirely  incor-  \ 
rupted  of  Chaucer's  Gallicisms,  and  still  the  old  words  are  used.  Chatterton's  language  t 
is  entirely  northern.  I  prefer  t&e  native  music  of  it  to  Milton's,  cut  by  feet.  I  have  but  h^ 
lately  stood  on  my  guard  against  Milton.  Life  to  him  would  be  death  to  me.  Miltonie  j 
verse  cannot  be  written,  but  is  the  verse  of  art.  I  wish  to  devote  myself  to  another  verse » 
alone."    Letter  to  Geo.  Keats,  September,  18*9. 


Hi  INTRODUCTION 

spoiled  some  of  his  earlier  lines  it  must  also  be  remembered 
that  some  of  those  which  he  added  in  the  Vision  are  among  the 
finest  that  he  ever  wrote.  For  Keats,  romantic  to  the  core, 
could  find  no  freedom  in  the  restraint  of  a  classical  or  even  a 
Miltonic  Epic. 

For  his  model  in  Lamia  he  turned  to  the  Fables  of  Diyden,  the 
best  modeiTi  example  of  the  use  of  the  heroic  couplet  in  nsirrative 
verae.  The  versification  and  style  of  Lamia  give  clear  evidence 
that  he  had  made  a  careful  study  of  Dryden.  In  contrast  with 
the  eai'lier  couplets  of  the  1817  volume  and  of  EndymUm  his 
employment  of  the  run-on  line  and  the  feminine  and  weak  endings 
is  now  cai-efuUy  controlled,  and  he  trusts  to  a  careful  use  of  the 
tiiplet  and  the  Alexandrine  to  give  his  vei"se  the  necessaiy  variety. 
Moreover,  without  direct  imitation,  such  as  would  allow  a  com- 
parison of  special  passages  in  the  two  poets,  thei'e  ai-e  lines  in 
Lamia  which  have  caught  with  great  eflect  the  ring  and  the 
rapidity  which  are  essential  chai'acteristics  of  Dryden's  best  work. 
Descriptions  such  as  that  of  the  nymph — 

At  whose  white  feet  the  languid  Tritons  poured  . 
Pearls,  while  on  land  they  witber'd  and  adored  ; 

or  of  the  angry  god  of  love,  who 

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 ; 

or  still  more,  perhaps,  of  the 

song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres. 
While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  panting  fires, 

suggest  the  rhythmical  use  of  language  peculiarly  i-emai'kable 
in  Dryden,  whilst  they  are  touched  with  a  glowing  imagination 
which  is  fai'  beyond  his  reach. 

Equally  evident  is  the  influence  of  Dryden  on  the  construc- 
tion of  the  poem.  The  story  instead  of  being  tm-gid,  involved, 
incomprehensible,  is  related  simply  and  effectively  with  emphasis 
only  upon  the  more  important  dramatic  effects.  We  pass  from 
the  finding  of  the  snake  by  Hermes,  her  metamorphosis  (with 


INTRODUCTION  liii 

the  skilfully  introduced  digression  to  explain  the  antecedent 
action)  and  her  meeting  with  Lycius,  to  the  arrival  at  Corinth, 
the  preparation  for  the  fatal  banquet  and  the  tragic  close.  It  is 
a  masterpiece  of  naiTative,  in  construction  not  equalled  elsewhere 
by  Keats,  whilst  the  conflict  of  emotion  between  the  worehip  of 
beauty  and  the  calls  of  higher  reason  gives  a  passionate  force  to 
the  whole. 

But  his  close  study  of  Dryden  was  perhaps  responsible  for 
the  recurrence  of  certain  faults  which  mar  the  effect  of  an 
otherwise  perfect  work  of  art.  His  desire  to  attain  to  the 
masterly  ease  and  fluency  of  Dryden's  manner  led  him  into 
frequent  false  rhymes  and  to  some  return  of  the  unhappy 
characteristics  of  his  early  vocabulary.  And  the  careless  levity 
expected  of  a  Restoration  poet  in  his  treatment  of  love,  and 
rarely  present  in  Dryden  without  the  compensating  charm  of 
urbanity  and  airy  grace,  appears  in  Keats  in  the  form  of 
that  vulgarity  which  he  seemed  elsewhere  to  have  out-grown. 
The  execrable  taste  of  the  description  of  a  woman's  charms 
(i.  329-339)  and  the  feeble  cynicism  of  the  opening  to  the 
second  book,  both,  in  all  probability,  traceable  to  this  cause, 
are  alien  to  the  whole  spiiit  in  which  Lamia  was  conceived. 

It  is  where  Lamia  is  farthest  removed  from  the  Greek  spirit, 
farthest  too  from  the  spirit  of  Diyden,  that  it  is  most 
characteristic  of  Keats.  The  brilliant  picture  oif  midnight 
Coiinth,  the  glowing  magnificence  of  the  phantasmal  palace  ai-e 
triumphs  of  romantic  description ;  nor  is  theiie  wanting  to  the 
poem  that  magical  felicity  of  phi-ase,  that  singular  power  over 
the  deeply  charged  epithet,  something,  too,  of  the  mood  which 
loves  "to  touch  the  stiings  into  a  mysteiy"  and  by  its  tender 
imaginative  insight  go  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  situation. 
Such  is  the  wistful  thought  of  Hermes  as  he  seeks  for  the 
nymph : — 

Ah,  what  a  world  of  love  was  at  her  feet ! 
Or  the  poet's  own  reflection  on  the  pathos  of  Lamia's  beauty — 

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. 


liv  INTRODUCTION 

Itese  qualities  find  their  fullest  and  most  unfettered 
expression  where  Keats  is  freest  ffom  external  restrictions  erf 
style  and  method,  in  the  treatment  of  romantic  themes  di-awn 
from  mediasval  sources — in  Isabella,  in  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  in 
the  fragmentai-y  Eve  of  St.  Mark  and  in  La  Belle  Dame  sans 
Merci. 

Of  these  Isabella,  or  the  Pot  of  Basil  was  the  first  to  be 
written  and  was  finished  only  a  month  after  the  final  revision  of 
Endymian.  Keats  turned  to  Italy  for  his  source,  on  the 
suggestion  of  his  friend  Reynolds,  who  was  planning  a  volume 
of  the  Tales  of  Boccaccio,  retold  in  English  vei-se ;  and  it  is 
significant  of  the  bent  of  his  mind  at  this  time  that  Keats's  only 
contribution  was  this  weird  and  fantastic  story,  in  tone  and 
conception  belonging  to  the  age  which  Boccaccio  had  arisen  to 
supersede.  But  whereas  to  the  novelist  the  interest  lay  wholly 
in  the  incidents  of  the  plot,  Keats  concentrated  all  his  powers  on 
realising  the  passion  which  it  implied.  The  poem  is  uneven  in 
execution,  and  it  would  be  easy  to  point  out  faults  both  in  the 
taste  and  in  the  workmanship,  which  are  all  the  more  noticeable 
in  compaiison  with  their  suiToundings.  Moreover  the  studied 
emphasis  which  he  lays  upon  the  avaaice  and  piide  of  the  wicked 
brothers  and  upon  the  limp  ecstasy  of  Lorenzo's  passion,  serves 
in  reality  to  weaken  that  very  effect  which  he  desired  to 
intensify.  But  these  flaws  are  easily  outweighed  by  the  vivid 
poetic  feeling  and  essential  truth  with  which  he  has  grasped  the 
fundamental  emotion  of  tiie  stoiy.  The  opening  stanzas,  in 
their  delineation  of  the  delicate  susceptibility  of  the  lovers  to 
each  other's  presence,  ai-e  in  their  way  perfect,  and  form  a  fitting 
prelude  to  the  marvellous  picture  of  the  tragic  climax.  And 
never,  perhaps,,  has  the  complete  absoiption  of  grief  found  a  more 
impassioned  and  at  the  same  time  a  more  ideal  utteiunce  than  in 
the  lines  in  which  the  poet  presents  Isabella  weeping  beside  her 
pot  of  basil,  oblivious  of  that  changeful  loveliness  in  the  world 
.  about  her,  which  is  creative  of  all  the  pleasure  and  the  health  of 
life,  but  canies  now  no  meaning  to  her  heart: — 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun, 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees. 


INTRODUCTION  Iv 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  runj 

And  she  forgot  the  chiUy  autumn  breeze  ; 
She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 

And  the  new  morn  she  saw  not. 

With  imagination  still  more  penetrative,  turning  again  to  the 
natural  world  as  the  only  means  of  effectual  expression,  the  poet 
reveals  the  tragic  loneliness  of  the  muitlered  lover  by  dwelling  on 
his  dim  ghostlike  perception  of  the  sounds  and  sights  of  eai"th : — 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas  I  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  iieldward  pass. 

And  nlany  a  chapel  btsll  the  houl-  is  telling, 
Paining  me  through :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me. 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity." 

Poetiy  such  as  this,  alike  by  its  beaiily  of  latiguage  and  its 
sympathy  with  the  sUbjfect,  raises  the  tale  which  in  Boccaccio  is 
merely  horrible,  into  tiie  i«g5on  of  genuihe  ttagedjr. 

But  fai-  more  suctessful  as  a  whole  is  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes, 
which  stands  chronologically  in  the  same  relation  to  Hyperion  as 
did  Isabella  to  Endymion,  and  is^i3jltlessly  executed  in  the  s|jiiit 
of  the  legend  which  inspired  it_in  his  revulsion  from  the  magnifi- 
eence  Of  Paradise  Lost,  Keats  had  tumed  his  tiioughts  once  more 
to  Chatterton,  who  had  fascinated  his  youth ;  and  it  was  Chatter- 
ton,  doubtless,  that  guided  him  both  here  and  in  the  companion 
fragment  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  to  seek  a  subject  in  mediaeval 
legend  and  to  invest  it  with  an  atmosphere  of  mystery  and  en- 
chantment. To  his  admu-ation  for  the  Rowley  dialect  naa^, 
probably  be  traced  the  unfortuhate  littetBpE,  in  the  later  poem, 
to  reproduce_tbfi  hrtnnl  InnguwcT*  ftf  thf  Mi<lHI°  -Ages  On  the 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes  heis_contgiL  J^tir-earbdHBg-  art-  daWotial 
~cadence~from  the^  ExceUent  Battad  of  Charitie  and  leaving  the 
fStto  Els  power  over  a  diction  chosen  not  for  its  antiquity  but 
for  its  intrinsic  beauty.  Rut  if  he  owed  something  to  Chatter- 
top  hejowed  still  more. to  Spenser,  and  there  are  clear  indications 
both  in  the  wealth  of  imagery  and  vivid  colouring  of  the  diction 
and  in  the  use  of  the  metre,  never  before  seriously  attempted 


lyi  'INTRODUCTION 

by  him,  that  he  was  renewing  the  study  of  his  earlier  master. 
The  stanza  is  not  mei-ely  fonnally  Spenserian,  i^is  employed 
with  a  truly  Spenserian  effect;  and  the  subtle  Stdulation  of 
the  melody,  and  in  particular  the  lingering  sweetness  of  the 
Alexandrine,  are  nowhere  else  so  effective  outside  the  Faerie 
Queer^^  With  the  fonn  Keats  has  at  last  perhaps  caught  some- 
thing of  that  spuit  of  chivaUy  inherent  in  Spenser  which  from 
the  firet  he  had  desu-ed  to  emulate.  Qn  his  conception  of 
Madeline,  whose  deeply  felt  sensuous  beauty  is  expressive  of 
a  beauty  of  soul  which  breathes  its  pure  influence  over  all  that 
meet  it,  and  whilst  it  fires  the  blood  sanctifies  the  heai't,  Eeats 
had  realised  the  fi-ame  of  mind  which  conceived  of  Una  or 
Pastorella,  and  which  inspired  the  Epithalammm,  and  is  free  at 
last  from  the  mawkish  sentimentality  and  misdii-ected  sensuous- 
ness  of  his  early  love-poetr;^~) 

To  a  full  sympathy  with,  the  dominant  emotion  of  the  poem  he 
YAttunes  us  by  his  consummate  mastery  over  the  nicest  methods 
of  romantic  art,  heightening  the  effect  throughout  by  a  series 
of  vivid  contrasts,  and  enveloping  the  whole  in  a  di'eamlike 
atmosphere  of  enchantment  and  wonder.  Young  Poiphyi-o, 
his  heai-t  on  fire  for  Madeline,  who  braves  m  their  castle  the 
whole  bloodthii-sty  race  of  foemen,  stands  out  in  fine  relief 
against  the  figm-e  of  the  ancient  beadsman,  and  of  the  beldame 
Angela :— ^^ 

a  feeble  soul, 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing. 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll. 

Cwith  similar  effect,  the  boisterous  riot  of  the  wassailere,  fit 
echo  to  the  howling  of  the  elfin  storm  without,  breaks  upon 
our  ears  "  though  but  in  dying  tone "  to  deepen  oui-  sense  of 
peace  which  reigns  where  Madeline  sleeps  "an  azure-lidded 
sleep  ".  But  nowhere  is  this  sense  of  contrast  more  exquisitely 
developed  than  in  the  treatment  of  the  shifting  moonhght  whidi 
pervades  the  poem,  at  times  adding  the  last  supreme  touch  of 
colour  to  a  picture  of  cai-efuUy  elaborated  detail,  at  times,  by 
its  weird  suggestiveness,  rendering  all  detail  superfluous.  No 
description  of  the  castle  is  given   us,  yet  as  Porphyix)  stands 


i'(i*fr 


INTRODUCTION  *  Ivii 


"  buttress'ahom  moonlight "  we  see  it  outlined  in  black  massive- 
ness  against  ^e  sky ;  languid  shines  the  moon  upon  the  little 
room,  "  pale,"attic'd,  chill,"  where  he  unfolds  his  plan  to  the 
beldame,  and  awaits  the  moment  of  its  fulfilment ;  its  full  glory 
is  veiled  until  it  gleams  upon  the  lusti'ous  salvei-s  of  the  mysteri- 
ous feast,  or  bui-sts  in  magic  splendour  through  the  casement  of 
the  shrine  of  love  :—j 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast. 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst,  . 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint. 

(^Thus,  over  the  whole,  the  moon  sits  arbiti-ess,  shedding  sweet 
influence  upon  Madeline,  though  cold  to  all  but  her,  moving 
the  poet's  heaii;  as  potently  as  in  Endyrmm,  and  now  receiving 
frona^him  his  ripest  tiibute  to  her  powei-s  of  inspiration^/? 

r  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  expresses,  as  perfectly  as  Keats  could 
express  it,  the  romance  and  the  delight  of  a  love  satisfying  and 
victorious.  But  side  by  side  with  it  he  gave  the  picture  of  a  love 
which  is  at  once  a  fascination  and  a  doom,  delineated  in  the  same 
mediaeval  atmosphere,  with  the  same  passionate  conviction,  and 
with  even  deeper  significance  in  its  reflection  upon  actual  life. 
Whilst  he  was  still  at  work  on  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  the  com- 
panion picture  was  in  his  mind.  For  he  tells  how  Porphyro 
took  Madeline's  lute 

Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 

He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 

In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy^     > 

In  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  the  oiediaeval  revival  reaches  its 
consummation.  The  depth  of  passion  which  it  expresses,  or  rather 
implies,  for  thei-e  is  not  the  least  suspicion  of  raving,  the  intense 
lyrical  feeling,  though  the  poet's  personality  is  absolutely  merged 
in  the  dramatic  conception,  the  exquisite  art  by  which  eveiy 
detail  of  the  weird  landscape  and  every  cadence  of  the  wild  but 
subtle  melody  contribute  to  the  general  effect  of  mysteiy  and 
of  desolation,  produce  together  an  effect  elsewhere  unequalled  in 
the  poetry  of  romance. 


Iviii  INTRODUCTION 

After  reading  such  a  work  one  is  tettljjted  to  ask  whether  art 
can  go  further  than  this,  or  what  room  there  is  for  development 
in  an  artist  who  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  can  produce  such  a 
masteipiece.  And  perhaps  if  art  could  be  viewed  in  itself,  apart 
from  all  other  consideration*,  an  answer  would  be  difficult.  But 
the  gr-eatest  aitists  have  always  been  in  the  fullest  sense  realists, 
have  lit  up  with  their  imagination  the  real  woi'ld  and  not  been 
satisfied  with  reflecting,  however  beautifully,  a  world  of  dreams. 
And  Keats  was  not  satisfied.  However  much  he  might  turn 
away  from  his  own  life  to  an  ideal  past,  he  knew,  with  Words- 
worth, that  "  beauty  was  a  living  presence  in  the  earth,"  and  that 
both  the  subject  and  the  atmosphere  for  the  greatest  art  was 
this  world 

Which  is  the  world  of  all  of  us^  wherein 

We  find  or  happiness  our  not  at  all, 

a  happiness  to  the  aitist,  and  to  all  men  if  they  only  knew  it, 
only  obtainable  by  recognising  in  it  the  presence  of  ideal  beauty, 
hether  he  turned  to  the  Elgin  marbles  or  to  the  tragedies  of 
Shakespeare,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  same  great 
truth,  in  the  light  of  which  he  looked  upon  his  mediaeval  poems, 
in  spite  of  all  their  magic  loveliness,  as  a  stepping  stone  by  which 
he  was  to  reach  the  summit  of  his  ambition  and  become  indeed 
"  the  mighty  poet  of  the  human  heai't ".  The  mai'vellous  was 
still  "  the  most  enticiqg  and  the  surest  guarantee  of  haiTnonious 
numbers".  But  the  marvellous  alone  no  longer  satisfied  him. 
"  Wondera,"  he  writes,  "  ai-e  no  wonders  to  me ;  I  am  more  at 
home  amongst  men  and  women.  I  had  rather  I'ead  Chaucer  than 
Aiiosto.  The  little  dramatic  skill  I  may  as  yet  have,  however 
badly  it  might  show  in  a  drama,  would  I  think  be  sufficient  for 
a  poem.  I  wish  to  diffuse  the  coloming  of  St.  Agnes  Eve 
thi'oughout  a  poem  in  which  character  and  sentiment  would  be 
the  figures  to  such  drapery.  Two  or  three  such  poems,  if  God 
should  spare  me,  written  in  the  course  of  the  next  six  yeai-s  would 
be  a  famous  gradus  ad  Parnassum  altissimum.  I  mean  they 
would  neiTe^me  up  to  the  writing  of  a  few  fine  plays — my  gi'eatest 
ambition."^  J 

1  To  John  Taylor,  17th  November,  1819. 


UliJ 


INTRODUCTION  lis 

How  far  he  might  have  realised  this  ambition  it  is  difficult  to 
coDJectwe.  Genius  for  dramatic  writing  is  never  developed 
eai'ly,  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  in  the  nan-ative  poems  that 
he  had  already  written  he  had  exhibited  as  subtle  and  sympathetic 
an  insight  into  certain  phases  of  human  emotion  as  is  exemplified 
in  Venus  and  Adonis  or  the  Rape  <of  Lucrece^  and  a  far  keener 
sense  of  dramatic  propiiety.  Otho  the  Great,  the  only  drama  he 
lived  to  finish,  was  written  in  collaboration  with  Brown,  under 
circumstances  which  pi'ecluded  the  possibility  of  successful  charac- 
teiisation ;  but  its  versification,  at  least,  shows  him  to  have  studied 
with  profit  in  the  finest  school  of  dramatic  art,  and  he  did  not 
shai-e  that  contempt  for  the  stage  under  which  not  a  few  of  our 
poets  have  veiled  their  chagrin  at  failure  in  di-amatic  composi- 
tion. Lastly  it  must  be  admitted  that  of  all  his  contem- 
poraiies  he  had  the  gi-eatest  objective  power.  "As  to  the 
poetical  chai-acter,"  he  writes,  "(I  mean  that  sort  of  whidi,  if 
I  am  anything  I  am  a  member),  it  is  not  itself,  it  has  no  self, 
it  has  no  character,  it  enjoys  light  and  shade ;  it  lives  in 
gusto,  be  it  foul  or  fair,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  mean  or 
elevated.  It  has  as  much  delight  in  conceiving  an  lago  as  an 
Imogen.  What  shocks  the  virtuous  philosopher  delights  the 
chameleon  poet  ...  a  poet  is  the  most  unpoetical  of  anything 
in  existence,  because  he  has  no  identity — he  is  continually  in  for 
and  filling  some  other  body."  ^  This  Protean  quality  of  mind, 
an  essential  characteristic  of  the  dramatic  genius,  he  possessed 
in  an  eminent  degree. 

But  whatever  might  have  been  his  success  in  the  drama,  he 
had  already  discovered,  in  the  Ode,  a  form  of  lyrical  utterance 
well  fitted  to  give  expression  to  the  essential  qualities  of  his 
genius.  In  simple  outbui-sts  of  unpremeditated  art  he  could 
equal  neither  the  spontaneity  of  the  Elizabethan  Ivrist  nor  the 
glowing  intensity  of  Shelley,  and  despite  his  success  in  using  an 
occasional  short  line,  he  could  never  gain  the  lightness  of  touch 
which  gave  an  unfailing  sweetness  and  grace  to  the  foui'-accent  verse 
of  Fletcher  and  Milton.     But  in  his  freedom  from  the  faults  that 

'  To  Woodkouse,  aTth  October,  1818. 


Ls  INTRODUCTION 

spriftg  from  too  close  a  dependence  on  classic  models — that  stiff- 
ness of  phraseology  and  over-elaboration  of  form  which  mar  the 
veree  of  Diyden,  of  Gray,  even  at  times  of  Collins — ^he  stands 
without  a  rival  as  the  poet  of  the  richly  meditative  Ode.  It  is 
here  that  the  long  drawn  out  line  which  seems  to  bi-ood  over  its 
own  sweetness  is  used  with  most  effect,  that  his  poetry  suiprises 
with  a  fine  excess,  yet  never  cloys  with  exaggeration,  that  all 
the  different  elements  that  moulded  or  inspired  his  genius  are 
completely  harmonised  in  the  imaginative  expression  of  his  present 
mood.  The  independence  for  which  from  the  fii-st  he  had  sbiven 
is  gloriously  attained.  In  the  Odes  he  has  no  master ;  and  their 
indefinable  beauty  is  so  direct  and  so  distinctive  an  effluence  of 
his  soul  that  he  can  have  no  disciple. 

His  first  poem  of  sustained  perfect  loveliness  had  been  the 
Ode  to  Sorrow,  to  be  found  in  the  fourth  book  of  End^mion,  and 
the  exquisite  fragment  of  an  Ode  to  Maia  had  followed  in  the 
next  year.  The  rest  belong  to  1819,  the  maturest  period  of  his 
workmanship,  and  all  but  Autumn  to  the  early  months  of  the 
year.  Bound  together  not  only  by  a  continual  recunience  of 
phrase  and  cadence  but  by  a  similar  train  of  thought  and  a  unity 
of  feeling  they  sum  np  hi^  ftfti+nHpfn  life.  They  are  the  ex- 
pression in  vai'ying  keys  of  emotiMi  of^a  mind  which  has  loved 
the  principle  ofjieauty  in  all  things,  and  seeks  in  a  world  of 
change  and  decay,  among  the  fleetmg  foi-ms  of  loveliness,  for 
something  permanmt  and  eternalr— 

The  Ode  to  a  N^iJikigale,  the  fii-st  of  them  to  be  given 
to  the  world,  is  the  most  deeply  chai'ged  with  human  feeh'ng. 
Bowed  down  beneath  a  crushing  pei'sonal  bereavement,  the  poet 
is  tortured  by,  the  mystery  of  human  suffering  and  decay  in  a 
world 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  diesj 

_aad  in  the  song  of  the  bird  he  detects,  for  the  time  at  least,  a 
symbol  of  the  beauty  for  which  there  is  no  death  nor  change ; 
which^as  power  by  reason  of  its  subtle  chai-m  to  dtffiwth6.ffi0i:lds 
of  nature  and  romance  closer  to  that  stem  reality  ip_  which,  wor- 
shipper of  beauty  though  he  be,  he  has  yet  perforce  to  bear  his 
part. 


INTRODUCTION  Ixi 

In  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  the  mutability  of  life  finds  its 
contrast  with  the  immortali^  of  the  principle  of  beauty  as  ex- 
pressed in  art 

All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

Art  is  thus  emotion  recollected  in  tranquillity ;  the  eternal  type, 
true  for  all  time,  of  that  beauty  which  gives  the  key  to  the 
interpretation  of  life.  But  though  he  does  not  falter  in  his 
fidelity  to  the  idealyits  contrast  with  the  sadness  of  hisexperience 
weighs  heavy  upon  hiip,^o  that-his  prevailing  temper  at  this 
period  is  perhaps  most  clearly  expr^sed  in  the  Ode  onMelanch^._ 
True  Melancholy,  he  writej_is  no  vulgar  passion  exerted  upon  the 
common  objects  of  son'ow. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die  ; 
And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 

Bidding  adieu. 

It  is  an  emotion  which  none  can  ^gerience  save  him  who 
Can  burst  Joy's  grape  against  his  palate  iine. 

And  yet,  if  this  is  profoun^y  true,  it  is  true  also  that  the  heart 
which  feels  it  has  its-4HKn  compensations.  Beauty  as  we  see  it 
may  be  transient,  but  it  carries  with  it  the  power  to  rise  above 
that  very  melancholy  which  the  thought  of  its  transience  must  \ 
often  bring.  The  conti'adiction  is  only  apparent,  not  real.  For 
the  poet  who  loves  beauty  enough  to  be  troubled  by  the  thought 
that  its  diiFerent  manifestations  are  visionary  loves  it  enough  to 
lose  himself  in  the  vision.  The  immediate  appeal  of  nature  or 
art  or  romance  is  irresigtible ;  and  the  moment,  enjoyed  for  its 
own  sake,  gives  comfort  and  sustaining  strength  to.  the  mind  for 
its  jomney  towards  tha.^oal. — Stieh  a  mood  as  this  is  reflected 
in  the  Ode  on  Indolence,  wherein  not  Love,  nor  Ambition,  nor 
even  Poesy  can  draw  him  from  his  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the 
pi-esent ;  they  cannot  raise  his 

head  cool-bedded  in  the  flowery  grass. 

And  in  the  Ode  to  Autumn  his  serenity  of  mind,  as  truly 
characteristic  of  him  as  the  passionate  sense  of  change,  reaches  its 
perfect  expression  ;  and  all  vain  questioning  laid  aside,  he  is  now 
content  to  enjoy  the  beauty  and  the  peace  of  the  season. 


bdi  INTRODUCTION 

jWher©  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?    Ay>  where  are  they  ? 

Xhink  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 

While  barr6d  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue. 

Even  the  gathering  swallows,  sure  harbingers  of  winter,  suggest 
no  soiTow  to  Jbis  heart;  he  is  intuitively  consdous  of  the  im- 
mortality of  beauty  as  the  eternal  possession  of  him  who  has 
realised  it. 

How  gladly  would  we  sacrifice  even  the  recast  of  Hyperion 
and  the  superb  last  sonnet  if  this  poem  could  have  been  indeed 
his  swan-songj  as  it  is  assuredly  his  last  work  of  full  and  conscious 
power,  if  he  could  have  been  spai-ed  the  agony  of  mind  which  can 
be  read  in  the  fevered  attempts  at  self-expression  and  still  more 
ominously  in  the  months  of  silence  that  followed,  when  he  could 
find  no  "heart-easing  things"  to  allay  the  tortures  of  a  pos- 
thumous life !  It  was  otherwise  decreed. :  yet  the  significanoe  of 
the  Ode  to  Autvmm.  in  its  place  among  his  poem^  should  not  be 
forgotten  either  in  a  consideration  of  what  he  might  have  become, 
or  in  a  final  estimate  of  what  he  had  actually  achieved.  For  as 
an  interpreter  of  nature  to  the  heart  of  man  he  was  already,  in 
his  way,  unapproachable. 

Of  his  treatment  of  nature  so  much  has  been  said  incL- 
dfentally  that  little  need  be  added.  Here,  as  in  his  relation  with 
litei-ature  and  art,  he  owes  his  distinctive  qualities  to  a  delicate 
sensitiveness  to  impression,  rai-e  even  among  poets.  Several  of 
his  friends  testify  to  it.  Brown  bore  witness  to  the  ecstasy  with 
which  he  caught  his  firat  glimpse  of  the  mountains,  and  Severn, 
with  an  artist's  instinct,  loved  to  watch  his  fece  as  they  walked 
together,  and  to  notice  reflected  in  his  wondei-ftil  eyes  his  acute 
perception  of  each  dletail  aa-ound'  him.  "  Nothing  seemed  to 
escape  him,  the  song  of  a  bird  and  the  undemote  of  response 
from  covert  or  hedge,  the  rustle  of  some  animal,  the  changing 
of  the  green  and  brown  lights  and  furtive  shadows,  the  motions 
of  the  wind — ^^just  how  it  took  certain  tall  flowera  and  plants 
— the  wayfaring  of  the  clouds :  even  the  featui"es  and  gestures 
of  passing  tramps,  the  colour  of  one  woman?s  hair,  the  smile 
on  one  child's  face,  the  fui-tive  animalism  below  the  dec^tive 


INTRODUCTION  Ixiii 

humanity  in  many  of  the  vagrants,  even  the  hat,  clothes,  shoes, 
wherever  these  conveyed  the  remotest  hint  as  to  the  real  self 
of  the  weai-er.  .  .  .  Cei-tain  things  affected  him  exb-emely,  pai-- 
ticularly  when  'a  wave  was  billowing  thi'ough  a  tree,'  as  he 
described  the  uplifting  surge  of  air  among  swaying  masses  of 
chestnut  or  oak  foliage,  or  when,  afar  off,  he  heard  the  wind 
coming  across  woodlands.  '  The  tide !  the  tide ! '  he  would  cry 
delightedly,  and  spiing  on  to  some  stile,  or  upon  the  low  bough 
of  a  wayside  tree,  and  watoh  the  passage  of  the  wind  upon  the 
meadow-gi'asses  or  young  corn,  not  stining  till  the  flow  of  air 
was  all  around  him,  while  an  expression  of  rapture  made  his  eyes 
gleam  and  his  face  glow  till  he  would  look  'like  a  wild  fawn 
waiting  for  some  ciry  from  the  forest  depths,'  or  like  '  a  young 
eagle  staling  with  proud  joy,'  before  taking  flight."^  With 
such  vivid  sensations  he  had  no  need  to  picture  imaginaay  scenes ; 
he  had  only  to  draw  upon  his  actual  experience.  The  epithet 
"Cockney,"  justifiable  in  its  application  to  certain  qualities  of 
his  early  style,  is  wholly  misleading  wben  it  cojijveys  the  jpiprea- 
sion  of  a  town-bred  poet  Keats  had  known  the  country  from 
boyhood ;  the  woods,  the  meadows,  the  birds,  "  the  simple 
flowei-s  of  spring,"  had  been  his  constant  delight,  and  the 
peculiar  charm  of  an  English  stream  had  so  deeply  affected 
his  imagination  that  even  of  the  river  Nile  he  can  only  think 
in  terms  of  what  he  has,  himself  serai  and  loved : — 

Thou  dost  bedew 
Green  rushes  like,  our  rivers,  and  dost  taste 
The  pleasant  8iui,-riAe.    Gtreeti^  isles  ha^t  thou  too, 
And  to  the  sea  as  happily  dost  haste. 

The  richness  of  hi»  poetry  ought  have  led  us  to  expect  him  to 
be  aiTested  by  the  colour  and  magnificence  of  Oriental  scenery. 
Yet  in  the  Ode  to  Sorrow  the  gorgeous  pageant  of  Baqchus  and 

'ii/fe  and  Letters  of  Joseph  Severn,  ed.  William  Sharp,  189a,  pp.  ao,  ai.  The 
passage  i$  not  given  by  Mr.  Sharp  entirely,  in  the  words  q{  Severn,  bi^  is  put  together  by 
him  from  Severn's  diaries  and  reminiscences.  Cf.,  too,  Haydon's  well-known  descrip- 
tion of  Keats :  "  He  was  in  bis  glory  in  the  fields.  The  hummmg  of  a  bee,  the  sight  of 
a  flower,  the  glitter  of  the  sun,  seemed  to  malca  his  nature  tremble ;  then  his  ^es  Sashed, 
his  cheek  glowed,  his  mouth  quivered  "  (Life  ofHaydon,  ed.  T.  Taylor,  ^8^.  "•  ?)• 


Ixiv  INTRODUCTION 

his  crew  is  for  him,  as  for  the  Indian  maiden  thiiough  whom 
he  speaks,  only  a  passing  splendour — ^it  has  no  power  to  touch 
his  heart.     It  may  induce  forgetfulness 

as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when,  in  June, 
Tall  chesnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  ; 

(End.  iv.  206-8) 

but  the  dominant  emotion  of  the  Ode,  to  which  the  mood  of 
Bacchus  affords  no  more  than  a  glowing  contrast,  is  felt  in  the 
allusions  to  the  wild  rose,  the  daisy  and  the  cowshp,  to  the 
glowworm  and  the  nightingale.  Phoebe  has  strayed  far  to  seek 
her  poet — she  has  found  him  in  an  English  wood. 

Keats's  sea  pictures  are  in  the  same  chai'acteristic  manner 
transcripts  of  actual  expexience.     When  he  tells  how 

Old  Ocean  rolls  a  lengthened  wave  to  the  shore, 

Down  whose  green  back  the  short-Iiv'd  foam,  all  hoar. 

Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence,  {End.  ii.  348-50) 

or  relates  to  Reynolds  how  he  sate 

Upon  a  Lampit  rock  of  green  sea-weed 

Among  the  breakers ;  'twas  a  quiet  eve. 

The  rocks  were  silent,  the  wide  sea  did  weave 

An  untumultous  fringe  of  silver  foam 

Along  the  flat  brown  sand,  (£/>.  to  Reynolds  88-92) 

— ^in  every  case  the  impression  owes  its  power  not  to  its  strange- 
ness but  to  its  essential  truth  and  to  its  exquisite  familiarity. 
Yet  these  pictures  ax-gue  no  mex-e  seixsitiveness  to  literal  fact, 
they  exhibit  a  special  power  of  x'ealising  the  emotion  which  the 
bare  fact  expresses.  The  poet,  Keats  tells  us,  is  one  who  "  finds 
his  way  to  all  the  instincts"  of  wx-en  or  eagle,  to  whom  the 

tiger's  yell 

Comes  articulate  and  presseth 
On  his  ear  like  mother-tongue, 

{Where's  the  Poet?  14,  16) ; 

who  has  no  identity,  but  is  often  mex-ely  the  ix-x<esponsible  medium 
between  the  natural  wox4d  and  univex-sal  human  feeling.  This 
being  so,  his  power  of  catching  xiatui-e's  mood  must  lax'gely 
depend,  not  only  upon  his  sympathy  with  nature,  but  also  upon 


INTRODUCTION  kv 

his  wide  and  sympathetic  understanding  of  humanity,  and  the 
«ffectiveness  of  his  expression  will  depend  upon  his  sympathy 
with  both.  And  we  may,  in  fact,  trace  in  his  poetry  an  ever 
gi'owing  sense  of  their  intimate  relationship.  At  first  there 
is  noticeable  in  his  descriptions  a  definite  and  even  awkward 
"transition  fi'om  a  fresh  and  chai-ming  landscape  to  the  human 
iSgure  ill  sorted  with  its  environment ;  then,  as  his  understanding 
of  human  life  became  more  real  and  more  intense,  his  insight 
into  the  heart  of  nature  grew  deeper,  and  his  pictures  of  nature 
gathered  emotional  force,  so  that  when  he  is  at  his  greatest 
he  can  only  speak  of  the  one  in  terms  of  the  other.  Just  as 
his  feeling  for  nature  can  only  find  voice  in  language  applicable 
to  human  emotion,  so  the  beauty  of  nature  is  his  unfailing 
resource  for  the  expression  of  the  deepest  and  subtlest  emotions 
of  the  soul.  Herein  lay  the  secret  of  the  spell  which  Greek 
nlythology  exercised  over  him.  He  realised  instinctively  the 
spirit  in  which  the  legends  had  taken  theh  rise,  and  by  that 
same  artistic  sense  which  led  the  Greek  to  incarnate  in  human 
form  the  spirit  recognised  by  his  religion  in  the  beauty  and  the 
power  about  him,  Keats  made  it  his  own.  When  he  tells  how 
the  dead  lovers  lifted  their  heads  at  the  passing  of  Endymion 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch 

here  is  no  idle  personification ;  he  has  embodied  in  an  image  of 
perfect  simplicity  and  truth  his  sense  of  the  healing  power  of  a 
radiant  presence.  And  the  reality  of  these  stories  to  his  imag- 
ination is  strikingly  coiToborated  by  the  fact  that  nowhere  does 
he  more  faithfully  depict  the  actual  appeai-ance  of  moon  and 
sun  than  in  his  dramatic  account  of  them  under  the  names  of 
Cynthia  and  Hyperion. 

'Tis  She,  but  lo  ! 
How  chang'd,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe  ! 
She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 
Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue  ;  yet  there's  a  stress 
Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees. 
Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 
The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence.  {End.  iii.  79-86.) 

This  is  not  the  less  true  to  fact  because  it  is  painted  to  the 


Ixvi  INTRODUCTION 

imagination,  because  it  associates  the  loveliness  of  the  moon 
with  the  yearning  of  human  passion.  So  too  Hypexion's  final 
depai-ture  from  his  palace,  of  tragic  import  in  the  development 
of  the  stoiy,  is  only  realised  in  a  vivid  conception  of  a  gloomy 
sunrise,  the  ominous  prelude  to  a  day  of  darkness  and  storm. 

Those  silver  wiugs  expanded  sisterly, 

Eager  to  sail  their  orh ;  the  porches  wide 

Open'd  upon  the  dusk  demesnes  of  night ; 

And  the  bright  Titan,  phrenzied  with  new  woes, 

Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent 

His  spirit  to  the  sorrow  of  the  time ; 

And  all  along  a  dismal  rack  of  clouds. 

Upon  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

He  stretch'd  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint. 

{Hyp.  i.  296-304.} 

It  is,  by  but  a  slight  extension  of  this  same  poetic  instinct 
that  the  whole  spirit  of  Autumn  seems  to  pass  into  the  figui-es 
of  the  reaper,  the  gleaner,  the  maiden  at  the  cider-press,  and 
they  are  touched  wilii  a  sublime  grace  which  is  not  their  own. 
Keats  did  not  labour  after  this  effect,  it  was  natural  to  his  vision 

Yet  even  in  these  days  so  far  retir'd 

From  happy  pieties.  .  .  . 
I  see,  and  sing,  by  my  own  eyes  inspired. 

{Ode  to  Psyche,  40-43.) 

He  has  resumed,  unconsciously,  something  of  the  naivete  of  the 
ancient  world. 

But  remarkable  as  is  his  affinity  in  cei-tain  respects  with  the 
Greek  attitude  to  nature,  he  is  at  the  same  time  in  the  closest 
sympathy  with  the  temper  of  his  own  day.  For  in  an  age  whose 
ideals  find  fittest  utterance  in  the  "  Renascence  of  Wonder,"  it 
was  given  to  him,  pei-haps,  most  of  all,  to  interpret  the  wonders 
of  the  natural  world.     Whether  he  leads  us 

Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun, 

Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 

The  summer  time  away  {End.  ii.  71-73) 

or  calls  upon  us  to  gaze  with  him 

on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors         {Sonnet,  p.  288) 


INTRODUCTION 

— whatever  his  imagination  has  touched  thrills  us  with  a  sense  of 
the  mystery  and  awe  which  underlie  the  common  things  of  earth ; 
in  aJl  nature  we  read  with  him,  as  on  the  face  of  night,  the 
symbols  of  a  high  romance,  which  finite  language  can  never 
utter,  but  which  answers  none  the  less  to  the  infinite  longings 
of  the  human  soul. 

In  all  this  there  is  no  attempt  at  explanation.     Even  th& 
most  philosophic  of  our  poets  delighted  to  picture  himself  as 

Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 

The  things  which  others  understand, 

and  in  the  poetry  of  Keats  this  mood  is  entirely  dominant.  "  Un- 
less poetry  come  like  leaves  to  the  tree  it  had  better  not  come  at 
all,"  he  writes,  and  there  is  something  of  defiance  in  his  tone 
when  he  claims  as  the  inalienable  prerogative  of  the  poet  identifi- 
cation with  his  subject  rather  than  criticism  of  it. 

What  sea-bird  o'er  the  sea 

Is  a  philosopher  the  while  he  goes 

Winging  his  way  where  the  great  water  throes  ? 

Nature  presents  perforce  analogies  with  human  life,  on  which 
othei-s  may  speculate  as  they  will,  it  may  even  suggest  lessons  of 
direct  beaiing  upon  conduct ;  but  the  supreme  truth  to  the  poet 
is  not  to  be  found  in  the  lessons  of  nature,  but  in  her  mysterious 
beauty,  and  in  her  never  failing  power,  whehcesoever  it  may 
spring,  to  respond  to  every  mood  of  the  changing  heart  of  man. 
Nature  does  not  call  upon  him  to  understand  this,  but  simply  to 
recognise  it.  The  message  of  the  thrush,  heard  by  Eeats  in  the 
glory  of  a  February  morning,  was  but  the  echo  of  Nature's 
voice : — 

O  fret  not  after  knowledge.     I  have  none, 

And  yet  my  song  comes  native  with  the  warmth. 

O  fret  not  after  knowledge !     I  have  none. 

And  yet  the  evening  listens. 

Here  lies  the  mystery  :  here,  too,  in  a  world  of  baiTen  facts,  of 
arid  controvei-sies,  of  idle  speculations,  the  iiTesistible  appeal.  In 
moments  of  supreme  enjoyment,  when  the  heart  seems  to  beat 
in  consonance  with  the  mighty  heart  of  the  universe,  it  is  difScult 
to  deny  a  belief  in  the  conscious  life  and  conscious  sympathy 


bcviii  INTRODUCTION 

of  nature,  but  her  sovereignty  depends  on  no  such  faith.  Even 
if  she  beam  upon  us  in  blank  splendour, 

like  the  mild  moon. 
Who  comforts  those  she  sees  not,  who  knows  not 
What  eyes  are  upward  cast,  (Fall  of  Hyp.  i.  246-47) 

the  ti'uth  remains  immutable,  unassailed,  that  the  eyes  are  still 
cast  upward,  that  the  splendour  is  thei-e,  that  the  comfort  is 
never  sought  in  vain.  Keats  knew,  no  less  than  Wordsworth, 
that  "  Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her,"  and 
that  the  true  worehip  of  beauty,  associated,  as  he  had  learnt  to 
associate  it,  with  a  passionate  sense  of  the  son-ows  of  the  world, 
is  its  own  justification,  and  its  own  reward. 


POEMS 

PUBLISHED  IN  1817 


"  What  more  felicity  can  fall  to  creatureQ 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  liberty  " 

Fate  of  the  Butterfly — Spenser 


DEDICATION 

/ 

TO  LEIGH  HUNT,  ESQ 

GLORY  and  loveliness  have  passed  away 
For  if  we  wander  o^t  in  early  mom, 

No  wreathed  incense  do  we  see  upborne 
Into  the  east,  to  meet  the  smiling  day  : 
No  crowd  of  nymphs  soft  voic'd  and  young,  and  gay. 

In  woven  baskets  bringing  ears  of  com, 

Roses,  and  pinks,  and  violets,  to  adorn 
The  shrine  of  Flora  in  her  early  May. 
But  there  are  left  delights  as  high  as  these. 

And  I  shall  ever  bless  my  destiny. 
That  in  a  time,  when  under  pleasant  trees 

Pan  is  no  longer  sought,  I  feel  a  free 
A  leafy  luxury,  seeing  I  could  please 

With  these  poor  offerings,  a  man  hke  thee. 


[The  Short  Pieces  in  the  middle  of  the  Book,  as  well  as  some  of  the  Sonnets,  were 
written  at  an  earlier  periqd  thaq  the  rest  of  the  Poems.] 


POEMS 

"  Places  of  nestling  green  for  Poets  made." 

Story  of  Rimini.      ''. 

I  STOOD  tip-toe  upon  a  little  hill. 
The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still. 
That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  pride 
Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside. 
Their  scantly  leaved,  and  finely  tapering  stems. 
Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  whiteasHocSTiew  shorn. 
And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook J'swggH^ they  slept 
On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept  lo 

A  little  noiseless j^e  among  the  leaves. 
Bom  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves  : 
For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 
Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 
There  was  wide  wand'ring  for  the  greediest  eye. 
To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 
Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim. 
And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim  ; 
To  picture  out  the  quaint,  and  curious  bending 
Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley,  never  ending ;  20 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 
Guess  where  the  jaimty  streams  refresh  themselves. 
I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light,  and  free 
As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 
Had  played  upon  my  heels  :  I_w^Jight-heMted, 
And  many  pleasures  to  my  visiOTi"starte37 
So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posey 
Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May  flowers  with  the  bees  about  them  ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  would  be  without  them  ;  30 


]^ 


JOHN  KEATS 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them. 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool  and  green  ;  and  shade  the  violets. 

That  they  may  bend  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert  hedge  with  wUd  briar  overtwined. 

And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 

Upon  their  summer  thrones ;  there  too  should  be 

The  frequent  chequer  of  a  youngUng  tree. 

That  with  a  score  of  light  green  brethren  shoots 

From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots :  40 

Round  which  is  heard  »  spring-head  of  clear  waters 

Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters 

The  spreading  blue  bells  :  it  may  haply  mourn 

That  such  feir  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 

From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 

By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds. 

Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids. 

For  great  Apollo  bids  .  50 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 

And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses. 

Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 

So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale. 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  (on  tip- toe  for  a  flight :! 

With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white. 

And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things. 

To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings.  60 

I 

Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 

That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  rushy  banks. 

And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings  : 

They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-dove's  cooings. 

How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend  ; 

Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 

To  the  o'erhanging  sallows  :  blades  of  grass 

Slowly  across  the  chequer'd  shadows  pass. 

Why,  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they  reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach  70 

A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  ; 

Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little  heads. 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  'gainst  the  streams, 


I  STOOD  TIP-TOE  UPON  A  LITTLE  HILL         5 

To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 

Temper'd  with  coolness.     How  they  ever  wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever  nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand. 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand. 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain  ; 

But  turn  your- eye,  and  they  are  there  again.  80 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those  cresses. 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  em'rald  tresses  ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  freshness  give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live  : 

So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favours. 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  behaviours. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 

From  low  hung  branches  ;  little  space  they  stop ; 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 

Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a  wanton  freak  :  go 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black,  and  golden  wings. 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I  in  such  a  place,  I  sure  should  pray 

That  nought  less  sweet,  might  call  my  thoughts  away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a  maiden's  gown 

Fanning  away  the  dandelion's  down  ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 

Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start,  and  blush,  thus  to  be  caught 

Playing  in  aU  her  innocence  of  thought.  100 

O  let  me  lead  her  gently  o'er  the  brook. 

Watch  her  half-smiling  lips,  and  downward  look  ; 

O  let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 

Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 

And  as  she  leaves  me  may  she  often  turn 

Her  feir  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  aubitrne. 

What  next }     A  tuft  of  evening  primroses. 

O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes  ; 

O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep. 

But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap  no 

Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers  ;  or  by  the  flitting 

Of  diverse  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quitting ; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 

Above  a  cloud,  and  with  a  gradual  swim 

Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

O  Maker  of  sweet  poets,  dear  delight 

Of  this  fair  world,  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 

Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 

Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew  and  tumbling  streams. 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams,  120 


JOHN  KEATS 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering. 
Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering ! 
Thee  must  I  praise  above  all  other  glories 
That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 
^  forwKaTKas  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 
But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light  ? 
In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a  sober  line. 
We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine  ; 
And  when  a  tale  is  beautifully  staid. 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a  hawthorn  glade  :  130 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings. 
The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings : 
Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  feces. 
And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond  vases  ; 
O'er  head  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet  briar. 
And  bloomy  gra;^eslaughing  from  green  attire  ; 
While  at  our  feeVtEevoiceof  crystal  bubbles 
Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  troubles  : 
So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world. 

Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreath'd  and  curl'd.  140 

So  felt  he,  who  first  told,  how  Psyche  went 
On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonderment ; 
What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full  lips 
First  touch'd ;  what  amorous,  and  fondling  nips 
They  gave  each  other's  cheeks ;  with  all  their  sighs. 
And  how  they  kist  each  other's  tremulous  eyes  : 
The  silver  lamp, — the  ravishment, — ^the  wonder — 
The  darkness, — loneliness, — the  fearful  thunder ; 
Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  upflown. 
To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove's  throne.  150 

So  did  he  feel,  who  puU'd  the  boughs  aside. 
That  we  might  look  into  a  forest  wide. 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  Fawns,  and  Dryades 
Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees ; 
And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and  sweet. 
Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet : 
Telling  us  how  feir,  trembling  Syrinx  fled 
Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a  fearful  dread. 
Poor  nymph, — poor  Pan, — how  he  did  weep  to  find. 
Nought  but  a  lovely  sighing  of  the  wind  160 

Along  the  reedy  stream  ;  a  half  heard  strain. 
Full  of  sweet  desolation — ^balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a  bard  of  old  to  sing  }|- 

Narcissus  pining  o'er  the  untainted  spring.''  ,. ,»' 
In  some  delicious  ramble,  he  had  found 
A  little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round ; 


1  STOOD  TIP-TOE  UPON  A  LITTLE  HILL        7 

And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  clearer  pool 

Than  e'er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool, 

The  blue  sky  here,  and  there,  serenely  peeping 

Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creeping.  170 

And  on  the  bank  a  lonely  flower  he  spied, 

A  meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  naught  of  pride. 

Drooping  its  beauty  o'er  the  watery  clearness. 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness  : 

Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move ; 

But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to  love. 

So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot. 

Some  fainter  gleamings  o'er  his  fancy  shot ; 

Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 

Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo's  bale.  180 

Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm  head  out-flew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  new. 

That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness. 

Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight .''  to  him  bringing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly  singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 

And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 

Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars. 

Ah  !  surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars  ;  igo 

Into  some  wond'rous  region  he  had  gone. 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion  ! 

He  was  a  Poet,  sure  a  lover  too. 

Who  stood  on  Latmus'  top,  what  time  there  blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below  ; 

And  brought  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and  slow 

A  hymn  from  Dian's  temple  ;  while  upswelling. 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwelling. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infant's  eyes, 

Though  she  stood  smilmg_o'er  the  sacrifice,  200 

The  Poet  wept  at  ner  so  piteous  fate. 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate  : 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he  won. 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ;  thou  most  lovely  queen 

Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have  seen  ! 

As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 

So  every  tale,  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 

O  for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I  might 

Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night !  210 


JOHN  KEATS 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  their  keels, 

Phoebus  awhile  delayed  his  mighty  wheels. 

And  turned  tD,|nule  upon  thy  bashful  eyes. 

Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 

The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear. 

That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer ; 

Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet's  call. 

Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal : 

And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 

As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm.  220 

The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure. 

And  crept  through  half-closed  lattices  to  cure 

The  languid  sick ;  it  cool'd  their  fever'd  sleep. 

And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and  deep. 

Soon  they  awoke  clear  eyed  :  nor  burnt  with  thirsting. 

Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  bursting : 

And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wond'ring  sight 

Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  delight  ; 

Who  feel  their  arms,  and  breasts,  and  kiss  and  stare. 

And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair.  230 

Young  men,  and  maidens  at  each  other  gaz'd 

With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless,  amaz'd 

To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other's  eyes  ; 

And  so  they  stood,  fiU'd  with  a  sweet  surprise, 

Until  their  tongues  were  loos'd  in  poesy. 

Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die  : 

But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken. 

Made  silken  ties,  that  never  may  be  broken. 

Cynthia  !  I  cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses. 

That  follow'd  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd's  kisses  :  240 

Was  there  a  poet  born  ? — but  now  no  more. 

My  wand'ring  spirit  must  no  farther  soar. — 


SPECIMEN 

OF   AN 

jINDUCTION  TO  A  POEM 

LO  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 
For  large  white  plumes  are  dancing  in  mine  eye. 
ike  the  formal  crest  of  latter  days  : 
But  bending  in  a  thousand  graceful  ways  ; 
So  graceful,  that  it  seems  no  mortal  hand, 
Or  e'en  the  touch  of  Archimago's  wand. 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION  TO  A  POEM        9 

Could  charm  them  into  such  an  attitude. 
We  must  think  rather,  that  in  playful  mood, 
Some  mountain  breeze  had  tum'd  its  chief  delight, 
To  show  this  wonder  of  its  gentle  might.  lo 

Lo  !  I  must  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry ; 
For  while  I  muse,  the  lance  points  slantingly 
Athwart  the  morning  air :  some  lady  sweet,  ? 
Who  cannot  feel  for  cold  her  tender  feet. 
From  the  worn  top  of  some  old  battlement 
Hails  it  with  tears,  her  stout  defender  sent : 
And  from  her  own  pure  self  no  joy  dissembling. 
Wraps  round  her  ample  robe  with  happy  trembling. 
Sometimes,  when  the  good  Knight  his  rest  would  take. 
It  is  reflected,  clearly,  in  a  lake,  20 

With  the  yoimg  ashen  boughs,  'gainst  which  it  rests. 
And  th'  half  seen  mossiness  of  linnets'  nests. 
Ah  !  shall  I  ever  tell  its  cruelty. 
When  the  fire  flashes  from  a  warrior's  eye. 
And  his  tremendous  hand  is  grasping  it. 
And  his  dark  brow  for  very  wrath  is  knit  ? 
Or  when  his  spirit,  with  more  calm  intent. 
Leaps  to  the  honors  of  a  tournament. 
And  makes  the  gazers  round  about  the  ring 
Stare  at  the  grandeur  of  the  ballancing .''  30 

No,  no !  this  is  far  off": — then  how  shall  I 
.  Revive  the  dying  tones  of  minstrelsy. 
Which  linger  yet  about  long  gothic  arches. 
In  dark  green  ivy,  and  among  wild  larches  ? 
How  sing  the  splendoiu-  of  the  revelries. 
When  buts  of  wine  are  drunk  off"  to  the  lees  ? 
And  that  bright  lance,  against  the  fretted  waU, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  stately  banneral, 
Is  slung  with  shining  cuirass,  sword,  and  shield  ? 
Where  ye  may  see  a  spur  in  bloody  field.  40 

Light-footed  damsels  move  with  gentle  paces 
Round  the  wide  hall,  and  show  their  happy  faces  ; 
Or  stand  in  courtly  talk  by  fives  and  sevens : 
Like  those  fair  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  heavens. 
Yet  must  I  tell  a  tale  of  chivalry : 
Or  wherefore  comes  that  steed  so  proudly  by  ? 
Wherefore  more  proudly  does  the  gentle  knight. 
Rein  in  the  swelling  of  his  ample  might  ? 

Spenser !  thy  brows  are  arched,  open,  kind. 

And  come  like  a  clear  sun-rise  to  my  mind ;  50 

And  always  does  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance. 

When  I  think  on  thy  noble  countenance  : 


10  JOHN  KEATS 

Where  never  yet  was  ought  more  earthly  seen 

Than  the  pure  freshness  of  thy  laurels  green. 

Therefore,  great  bard,  I  not  so  fearfully 

Call  on  thy  geintle  spirit  to  hover  nigh 

My  daring  steps  :  or  if  thy  tender  care. 

Thus  startled  unaware. 

Be  jealous  that  the  foot  of  other  wight 

Should  madly  follow  that  bright  path  of  light  60 

Trac'd  by  thy  lov'd  Libertas  ;  he  will  speak. 

And  tell  thee  that  my  prayer  is  very  meek ; 

That  I  will  follow  with  due  reverence. 

And  start  with  awe  at  mine  own  strange  pretence. 

Him  thou  wilt  hear ;  so  I  wiU  rest  in  hope 

To  see  wide  plains,  fair  trees  and  lawny  slope : 

The  mom,  the  eve,  the  light,  the  shade,  the  flowers ; 

Clear  streams,  smooth  lakes,  and  overlooking  towers. 


CALIDORE 

A  Fragment 

YOUNG  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake  ; 
His  healthful  spirit  eager  and  awake 
To  feel  the  beauty  of  a  silent  eve. 
Which  seem'd  full  loath  this  happy  world  to  leave  ; 
The  light  dwelt  o'er  the  scene  so  lingeringly. 
He  bares  his  forehead  to  the  cool  blue  sky. 
And  smiles  at  the  far  clearness  all  around, 
Until  his  heart  is  well  nigh  over  wound. 
And  turns  for  calmness  to  the  pleasant  green 
Of  easy  slopes,  and  shadowy  trees  that  lean 
So  elegantly  o'er  the  waters'  brim 
And  show  their  blossoms  trim. 
Scarce  can  his  clear  and  nimble  eye-sight  follow 
The  freaks,  and  dartings  of  the  black-wing'd  swallow. 
Delighting  much,  to  see  it  half  at  rest. 
Dip  so  refreshingly  its  wings,  and  breast 
'Gainst  the  smooth  surface,  and  to  mark  anon. 
The  widening  circles  into  nothing  gone. 

And  now  the  sharp  keel  of  his  little  boat 
Comes  up  with  ripple,  and  with  easy  float. 
And  glides  into  a  bed  of  water  lillies  : 
Broad  leav'd  are  they  and  their  white  canopies 


CALIBORE  11 

Are  upward  tum'd  to  catch  the  heavens'  dew. 

Near  to  a  little  island's  point  they  grew  ; 

Whence  Calidore  might  have  the  goodliest  view 

Of  this  sweet  spot  of  earth.     The  bowery  shore 

Went  off  in  gentle  windings  to  the  hoar 

And  light  blue  mountains :  but  no  breathing  man 

With  a  warm  heart,  and  eye  prepared  to  scan 

Natiu-e's  clear  beauty,  could  pass  lightly  by  30 

Objects  that  look'd  out  so  invitingly 

On  either  side.     These,  gentle  Cadidore 

Greeted,  as  he  had  known  them  long  before. 

The  sidelong  view  of  swelling  leafiness. 
Which  the  glad  setting  sun,  in  gold  tloth  dress  ; 
Whence  ever,  and  anon  the  jay  outsprings. 
And  scales  upon  the  beauty  of  its  wings. 

The  lonely  turret,  shatter' d,  and  outworn. 

Stands  venerably  proud ;  too  proud  to  mourn 

Its  long  lost  grandeur :  fir  trees  grow  around,  40 

Aye  dropping  their  hard  fruit  upon  the  ground. 

The  little  chapel  with  the  cross  above 

Upholding  wreaths  of  ivy  ;  the  white  dove. 

That  on  the  window  spreads  his  feathers  light. 

And  seems  from  purple  clouds  to  wing  its  flight. 

Green  tufted  islands  casting  their  soft  shades 

Across  the  lake  ;  sequester'd  leafy  glades. 

That  through  the  dimness  of  their  twilight  show 

Large  dock  leaves,  spiral  foxgloves,  or  the  glow 

Of  the  wild  cat's  eyes,  or  the  silvery  stems  50 

Of  delicate  birch  trees,  or  long  grass  which  hems 

A  little  brook.     The  youth  had  long  been  viewing 

These  pleasant  things,  and  heaven  was  bedewing 

The  mountain  flowers,  when  his  glad  senses  caught 

A  trumpet's  silver  voice.     Ah  !  it  was  fraught 

With  many  joys  for  him :  the  warder's  ken 

Had  found  white  coursers  prancing  in  the  glen  : 

Friends  very  dear  to  him  he  soon  will  see ; 

So  pushes  off  his  boat  most  eagerly. 

And  soon  upon  the  lake  he  skims  along,  60 

Deaf  to  the  nightingale's  first  under-song ; 

Nor  minds  he  the  white  swans  that  dream  so  sweetly : 

His  spirit  flies  before  him  so  completely. 

And  now  he  turns  a  jutting  point  of  land. 

Whence  may  be  seen  the  Castle  gloomy,  and  grand : 


12  JOHN  KEATS 

Nor  will  a  bee  buzz  round  two  swelling  peaches. 

Before  the  point  of  his  light  shallop  reaches 

Those  marble  steps  that  through  the  water  dip  : 

Now  over  them  he  goes  with  hasty  trip. 

And  scarcely  stays  to  ope  the  folding  doors ;  70 

Anon  he  leaps  along  the  oaken  floors 

Of  halls  and  corridors. 

Delicious  sounds !  those  little  bright-eyed  things 

That  float  about  the  air  on  azure  wings. 

Had  been  less  heartfelt  by  him  than  the  clang 

Of  clattering  hoofs ;  into  the.court  he  sprang, 

Just  as  two  noble  steeds,  and  palfreys  twain. 

Were  slanting  out  their  necks  with  loosened  rein ; 

While  from  beneath  the  threat'ning  portcullis 

They  brought  their  happy  burthens.     What  a  kiss,  80 

What  gentle  squeeze  he  gave  each  lady's  hand  ! 

How  tremblingly  their  delicate  ancles  spann'd  ! 

Into  how  sweet  a  trance  his  soul  was  gone. 

While  whisperings  of  affection 

Made  him  delay  to  let  their  tender  feet 

Come  to  the  earth ;  with  an  incline  so  sweet 

From  their  low  palfreys  o'er  his  neck  they  bent : 

And  whether  there  were  tears  of  languishinent. 

Or  that  the  evening  dew  had  pearl'd  their  tresses. 

He  feels  a  moisture  on  his  cheek,  and  blesses  go 

With  lips  that  tremble,  and  with  glistening  eye. 

All  the  soft  luxury 

That  nestled  in  his  arms.     A  dimpled  hand. 

Fair  as  some  wonder  out  of  fairy  laud. 

Hung  from  his  shoulder  like  the  drooping  flowers 

Of  whitest  Cassia,  fresh  from  summer  showers  : 

And  this  he  fondled  with  his  happycheek 

As  if  for  joy  he  would  no  further  seek  ; 

When  the  kind  voice  of  good  Sir  Clerimond 

Came  to  his  ear,  like  something  from  beyond  100 

His  present  being :  so  he  gently  drew 

His  warm  arms,  thrilling  now  with  pulses  new. 

From  their  sweet  thrall,  and  forward  gently  bending, 

Thank'd  heaven  that  his  joy  was  never  ending  ; 

While  'gainst  his  forehead  he  devoutly  press'd 

A  hand  heaven  made  to  succour  the  distress'd ; 

A  hand  that  from  the  world's  bleak  promontory 

Had  lifted  Calidore  for  deeds  of  glory. 

Amid  the  pages,  and  the  torches'  glare. 

There  stood  a  knight,  patting  the  flowing  hair  no 

Of  his  proud  horse's  mane  :  he  was  withal 


CALIDORE  13 

A  man  of  elegance,  and  stature  tall : 

So  that  the  waving  of  his  plumes  would  be 

High  as  the  berries  of  a  wild  ash  tree. 

Or  as  the  winged  cap  of  Mercury. 

His  armour  was  so  dexterously  wrought 

In  shape,  that  sure  no  living  man  had  thought 

It  hard,  and  heavy  steel :  but  that  indeed 

It  was  some  glorious  form,  some  splendid  weed. 

In  which  a  spirit  new  come  from  the  skies  120 

Might  live,  and  show  itself  to  human  eyes. 

'Tis  the  fer-fam'd,  the  brave  Sir  Gondibert, 

Said  the  good  man  to  Calidore  alert ; 

While  the  young  warrior  with  a  step  of  grace 

Came  up, — a  courtly  smile  upon  his  fiice. 

And  mailed  hand  held  out,  ready  to  greet 

The  large-eyed  wonder,  and  ambitious  heat 

Of  the  aspiring  boy ;  who  as  he  led 

Those  snuUng  ladies,  often  turned  his  head 

To  admire  the  visor  arched  so  gracefully  130 

Over  a  knightly  brow ;  while  they  went  by 

The  lamps  that  from  the  high  roof  d  hall  were  pendent. 

And  gave  the  steel  a  shining  quite  transcendent. 

Soon  in  a  pleasant  chamber  they  are  seated ; 

The  sweet-lipp'd  ladies  have  already  greeted 

All  the  green  leaves  that  round  the  window  clamber. 

To  show  their  purple  stars,  and  bells  of  amber. 

Sir  Gondibert  has  dofiTd  his  shining  steel, 

Qlgddening  in  the  free,  and  airy  feel 

Of  aEght  mantle  ;  and  while  Clerimond  140 

Is  looking  round  about  him  with  a  fond. 

And  placid  eye,  young  Calidore  is  burning 

To  hear  of  knightly  deeds,  and  gallant  spuming 

Of  all  unworthiness  ;  and  how  the  strong  of  arm 

Kept  off  dismay,  and  terror,  and  alarm 

From  lovely  woman :  while  brimful  of  this. 

He  gave  each  damsel's  hand  so  warm  a  kiss. 

And  had  such  manly  ardour  in  his  eye. 

That  each  at  other  look'd  half  staringly ; 

And  then  their  features  startgdinto  smiles  150 

Sweet  as  blue  heavens  o'er  encKanfed  isles. 

Softly  the  breezes  from  the  forest  came. 
Softly  they  blew  aside  the  taper's  flame  ; 
Clear  was  the  soi^  from  Philomel's  far  bower ; 
Grateful  the  incense  from  the  lime-tree  flower ; 
Mysterious,  wild,  the  far  heard  trumpet's  tone ; 


14  JOHN  KEATS 

Lovely  the  moon  in  ether,  all  alone : 

Sweet  too  the  converse  of  these  happy  mortals. 

As  that  of  busy  spirits  when  the  portals 

Are  closing  in  the  west ;  or  that  soft  humming  i6o 

We  hear  around  when  Hesperus  is  coming. 

Sweet  be  their  sleep.  ********* 


SOME  LADIES 

WHAT  though  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring, 
I  cannot  your  light,  mazy  footsteps  attend ; 
Nor  listen  to  accents,  that  almost  adoring. 
Bless  Cynthia's  face,  the  enthusiast's  friend  : 

Yet  over  the  steep,  whence  the  mountain  stream  rushes. 

With  you,  kindest  friends,  in  idea  I  rove ; 
Mark  the  clear  tumbling  crystal,  its  passionate  gushes, 

Its  spray  that  the  wild  flower  kindly  bedews. 

Why  linger  you  so,  the  wild  lab)nrinth  strolling  ? 

Why  breathless,  unable  your  bliss  to  declare .'  jo 

Ah  !  you  list  to  the  nightingale's  tender  condohng. 

Responsive  to  sylphs,  in  the  moon  beamy  air. 

'Tis  mom,  and  the  flowers  with  dew  are  yet  drooping, 

I  see  you  are  treading  the  verge  of  the  sea  : 
And  now  !  ah,  I  see  it — you  just  now  are  stooping 

To  pick  up  the  keep-sake  intended  for  me. 

If  a  cherub,  on  pinions  of  silver  descending. 

Had  brought  me  a  gem  from  the  fret-work  of  heaven  ; 

And  smiles,  with  his  star-cheering  voice  sweetly  blending. 
The  blessings  of  Tighe  had  melodiously  given ;  20 

It  had  not  created  a  warmer  emotion 

Than  the  present,  fair  n3rmphs,  I  was  blest  with  from  you, 
Than  the  shell,  from  the  bright  golden  sands  of  the  ocean 

Which  the  emerald  waves  at  your  feet  gladly  threw, 

/  For,  indeed,  'tis  a  sweet  and  peculiar  pleasure, 
'        (And  blissful  is  he  who  such  happiness  finds,) 
To  possess  but  a  span  of  the  hour  of  leisure, 
In  elegant,  pure,  and  aerial  minds. 


ON  RECEIVING  A  CURIOUS  SHELL  15 


On  receiving  a  curious  Shell,  and  a  Copy  of  Verses,  from   the  same 

Ladies 

HAST  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Pure  as  the  ice-drop  that  froze  on  the  mountain  ? 
Bright  as  the  humming-bird's  green  diadem. 

When  it  flutters  in  sun-beams  that  shine  through  a  fountain  ? 

Hast  thou  a  goblet  for  dark  sparkling  wine  ? 

That  goblet  right  heavy,  and  massy,  and  gold  ? 
And  splendidly  mark'd  with  the  story  divine 

Of  Armida  the  &ir,  and  Rinaldo  the  bold  ? 

Hast  thou  a  steed  with  a  mane  richly  flowing  ? 

Hast  thou  a  sword  that  thine  enemy's  smart  is  ?  lo 

Hast  thou  a  trumpet  rich  melodies  blowing  ? 

And  wear'st  thou  the  shield  of  the  fam'd  Britomartis  ? 

What  is  it  that  hangs  from  thy  shoulder,  so  brave. 
Embroidered  with  many  a  spring  peering  flower  ? 

Is  it  a  scarf  that  thy  fair  lady  gave  ? 

And  hastest  thou  now  to  that  fair  lady's  bower  ? 

Ah  !  courteous  Sir  Knight,  with  large  joy  thou  art  crown'd ; 

Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth  ! 
I  will  tell  thee  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 

In  magical  powers  to  bless,  and  to  sooth,  20 

On  this  scroll  thou  seest  written  in  characters  fair 

A  sun-beamy  tale  of  a  wreath,  and  a  chain ; 
And,  warrior,  it  nurtures  the  property  rare 

Of  charming  ray  mind  from  the  trammels  of  pain. 

This  canopy  mark :  'tis  the  work  of  a  fay ; 

Beneath  its  rich  shade  did  King  Oberon  languish. 
When  lovely  Titania  was  far,  far  away. 

And  cruelly  left  him  to  sorrow,  and  anguish. 

There,  oft  would  he  bring  from  his  soft  sighing  lute 

Wild  strains  to  which,  spell-bound,  the  nightingales  listened ;  30 

The  wondering  spirits  of  heaven  were  mute. 
And  tears  'mong  the  dewdrops  of  morning  oft  glistened. 


16  JOHN  EEATS 

In  this  little  dome,  all  those  melodies  strange. 
Soft,  plaintive,  and  melting,  for  ever  will  sigh ; 

Nor  e'er  will  the  notes  from  their  tenderness  change ; 
Nor  e'er  will  the  music  of  Oberon  die. 

So,  when  I  am  in  a  voluptuous  vein, 

I  pillow  my  head  on  the  sweets  of  the  rose. 
And  list  to  the  tale  of  the  wreath,  and  the  chsiu, 

TiU  its  echoes  depart ;  then  I  sSrik  to  repose.  40 

Adieu,  valiant  Eric  !  withjoy^ou  art  crown'd  ; 
Full  many  the  glories  that  brighten  thy  youth, 
I  too  have  my  blisses,  which  richly  abound 
•  In  magical  powers,  to  bless  atnd  to'  sootji. 


TO  *  *  *  * 

HADST  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old, 
O  what  wonders  had  been  told 
Of  thy  lively  countenance. 
And  thy  humid  eyes  that  dance 
In  the  midst  of  their  own  brightness  ; 
In  the  very  fane  of  lightness. 
Over  which  thine  eyebrows,  leaning. 
Picture  out  each  lovely  meaning : 
In  a  dainty  bend  they  lie. 

Like  to  streaks  across  the  sky,  10 

Or  the  feathers  from  a  crow, 
Fallen  on  a  bed  of  snow. 
Of  thy  dark  hair  that  extends 
Into  many  graceful  bends : 
As  the  leaves  of  Hellebore 
Turn  to  whence  they  sprung  before. 
And  behind  each  ample  curl 
Peeps  the  richness  of  a  pearl 
Downward  too  flows  many  a  tress 

With  a  glossy  waviness ;  ao 

Full,  and  round  like  globes  that  rise 
From  the  censer  to  the  skies 
Through  sunny  air.     Add  too,  the  sweetness 
Of  thy  honied  voice  ;  the  neatness 
Of  thine  ankle  lightly  tum'd  : 
With  those  beauties,  scarce  discem'd, 
Kept  with  such  sweet  privacy, 
That  they  seldom  meet  the  eye 


fO  »  *  *  *  17 

Of  the  little  loves  that  fly 

Round  about  with  eager  pry.  30 

Saving  when,  with  freshening  lave, 

Thou  dipp'st  them  in  the  taintless  wave  ; 

Like  twin  water  lillies,  bom 

In  the  coolness  of  the  morn. 

O,  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then. 

Now  the  Muses  had  been  ten. 

Couldst  thou  wish  for  lineage  higher 

Than  twin  sister  of  Thalia  ? 

At  least  for  ever,  evermore, 

Will  I  call  the  Graces  four.  40 

Hadst  thou  liv'd  when  chivalry 

Lifted  up  her  lance  on  high. 

Tell  me  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  ? 

Ah  !  I  see  the  silver  sheen 

Of  thy  broidered,  floating  vest 

Cov'ring  half  thine  ivory  breast ; 

Which,  O  heavens  !  I  should  see. 

But  that  cruel  destiny 

Has  placed  a  golden  cuirass  there ; 

Keeping  secret  what  is  &ir.  50 

Like  sunbeams  in  a  cloudlet  nested 

Thy  locks  in  knightly  casque  are  rested  : 

O'er  which  bend  four  milky  plumes 

Like  the  gentle  lilly's  blooms 

Springing  from  a  costly  vase. 

See  with  what  a  stately  pace 

Comes  thine  alabaster  steed ; 

Servant  of  heroic  deed ! 

O'er  his  loins,  his  trappings  glow 

Like  the  northern  lights  on  snow.  60 

Moimt  his  back !  thy  sword  unsheath ! 

Sign  of  the  enchanter's  death  ; 

Bane  of  every  wicked  spell ; 

Silencer  of  dragon's  yelL 

Alas !  thou  this  wilt  never  do : 

Thou  art  an  enchantress  too. 

And  wilt  surely  never  spill 

Blood  of  those  whose  eyes  can  kill. 


18  JOHN  KEATS 


hope/- 

WHEN  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit. 
And  hateful  thoughts  enwrap  my  soul  in  gloom  ; 
When  no  fair  dreams  before  my  "  mind's  eye  "  flit. 
And  the  bare  heath  of  life  presents  no  bloom  ; 
Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed. 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 

Whene'er  I  wander,  at  the  fall  of  night. 

Where  woven  boughs  shut  out  the  moon's  bright  ray. 
Should  sad  Despondency  my  musings  fright. 

And  frown,  to  drive  fair  Cheerfulness  away,  lo 

Peep  with  the  moon-beams  through  the  leafy  roof. 
And  keep  that  fiend  Despondence  far  aloof. 

Should  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair, 

Strive  for  her  son  to  seize  my  careless  heart ; 
When,  like  a  cloud,  he  sits  upon  the  air. 
Preparing  on  his  spell-bound  prey  to  dart : 

Chace  him  away,  sweet  Hope,  with  visage  bright, 
And  fright  him  as  the  morning  frightens  night ! 

Whene'er  the  fate  of  those  I  hold  most  dear 

Tells  to  my  fearful  breast  a  tale  of  sorrow,  20 

O  bright-eyed  Hope,  my  morbid  fancy  cheer ; 
Let  me  awhile  thy  sweetest  comforts  borrow  : 
Thy  heaven-born  radiance  around  me  shed. 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head  ! 

Should  e'er  unhappy  love  my  bosom  pain. 

From  cruel  parents,  or  relentless  fair ; 
O  let  me  think  it  is  not  quite  in  vain 
To  sigh  out  sonnets  to  the  midnight  air  ! 
Sweet  Hope,  ethereal  balm  upon  me  shed. 
And  wave  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head  !  3° 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  years  to  roll. 

Let  me  not  see  our  country's  honour  fede  : 
O  let  me  see  our  land  retain  her  soul. 

Her  pride,  her  freedom  ;  and  not  freedom's  shade. 
From  thy  bright  eyes  unusual  brightness  shed — 
Beneath  thy  pinions  canopy  my  head ! 


IMITATION  OF  SPENSER  19 

Let  me  not  see  the  patriot's  high  bequest. 

Great  liberty  !  how  great  in  plain  attire  ! 
With  the  base  purple  of  a  court  oppress' d. 

Bowing  her  head,  and  ready  to  expire :  40 

But  let  me  see  thee  stoop  from  heaven  on  wings 
That  fill  the  skies  with  silver  gUtterings  ! 

And  as,  in  sparkling  majesty,  a  star 

Gilds  the  bright  summit  of  some  gloomy  cloud  ; 
Brightening  the  half  veil'd  face  of  heaven  a&r : 
So,  when  dark  thoughts  my  boding  spirit  shroud. 
Sweet  Hope,  celestial  influence  round  me  shed. 
Waving  thy  silver  pinions  o'er  my  head. 
February,  1815. 

IMITATION  OF  SPENSER 

******* 

NOW  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came. 
And  her  first  footsteps  touch'd  a  verdant  hill ; 
Crowning  its  lawny  crest  with  amber  flame, 
Silv'ring  the  untainted  gushes  of  its  rill ; 
Which,  pure  from  mossy  beds,  did  down  distill. 
And  after  parting  beds  of  simple  flowers. 
By  many  streams  a  little  lake  did  fill, 
Which  round  its  marge  reflected  woven  bowers. 
And,  in  its  middle  space,  a  sky  that  never  lowers.. 

There  the  king-fisher  saw  his  plumage  bright  10 

Vieing  with  fish  of  brilUant  dye  below  ; 
Whose  silken  fins,  and  golden  scales'  Ught 
Cast  upward,  through  the  waves,  a  ruby  glow : 
There  saw  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow. 
And  oar'd  himself  along  with  majesty  ; 
Sparkled  his  jetty  eyes ;  his  feet  did  show 
Beneath  the  waves  like  Afric's  ebony. 
And  on  his  back  a  fay  reclined  voluptuously. 

Ah  !  could  I  tell  the  wonders  of  an  isle  | 

That  in  that  fairest  lake  had  placed  been, 
I  could  e'en  Dido  of  her  grief  beguile ; 
Or  rob  from  aged  Lear  his  bitter  teen  : 
For  sure  so  fair  a  place  was  never  seen. 

Of  all  that  ever  charm'd  romantic  eye : 

It  seem'd  an  emerald  in  the  silver  sheen      I  J^ 
Of  the  bright  waters ;  or  as  when  on  highj   ' 
Through  clouds  of  fleecy  white,  laughs  the  ccErulean  sky. 


20  JOHN  KEATS 

And  all  Ground  it  dipp'd  luxuriously 
Slopings  of  verdure  through  the  glossy  tide, 
WWeh,  as  it  were  in  gentle  amity,  30 

Rippled  delighted  up  the  flowery  side  ; 
As  if  to  glean  the  ruddy  tears,  it  tried. 
Which  fell  profusely  from  the  rose-tree  stem  ! 
Haply  it  was  the  workings  of  its  pride. 
In  strife  to  throw  upon  the  shore  a  gem 
Outvieing  all  the  buds  in  Flora's  diadem. 
******* 


WOMAN  !  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain. 
Inconstant,  childish,  proud,  and  full  of  fancies ; 

Without  that  modest  softening  that  enhances 
The  downcast  eye,  repentant  of  the  pain 
That  its  mild  light  creates  to  heal  again  : 

E'en  then,  elate,  my  jmntkaps^^nd  prances. 

E'en  then  my  soul  wimexultationTdances 
For  that  to  love,  so  long,  I've  dormant  lain  : 
But  when  I  see  thee  meek,  and  kind,  and  tender. 

Heavens  !  how  desperately  do  I  adore  10 

Thy  winning  graces ; — to  be  thy  defender 

I  hotly  bum — to  be  a  Calidore — 
A  very  Red  Cross  Knight — a  stout  Leander — 

Might  I  be  loved  by  thee  like  these  of  yore. 

Light  feet,  dark  violet  eyes,  and  parted  hair ; 

Soft  dimpled  hands,  white  neck,  and  creamy  breast. 

Are  things  on  which  the  dazzled  senses  rest 
Till  the  fond,  fixed  eyes,  forget  they  stare. 
From  such  fine  pictures,  heavens  !  I  cannot  dare 

To  turn  my  admiration,  though  unpossess'd  20 

They  be  of  what  is  worthy, — though  not  drest 
In  lovely  modesty,  and  virtues  rare. 
Yet  these  I  leave  as  thoughtless  as  a  lark ; 

These  lures  I  straight  forget, — e'en  ere  I  dine, 
Or  thrice  my  palate  moisten :  but  when  I  mark 

Such  charms  with  mild  intelligences  shine, 
My  ear  is  open  like  a  greedy  shark, 

To  catch  the  tunings  of  a  voice  divine. 

Ah  !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being .' 

Who  can  forget  her  half  retiring  sweets  ?  30 

God !  she  is  like  a  milk-white  lamb  that  bleats 


WOMAN!  WHEN  I  BEHOLD  THEE  21 

For  man's  protection.     Surely  the  All-seeing, 
Who  joys  to  see  us  with  his  gifts  agreeing, 

Will  never  give  him  pinions,  who  intreats 

Such  innocence  to  ruin, — who  vilely  cheats 
A  dove-like  bosom.     In  truth  there  is  no  freeing 
One's  thoughts  from  such  a  beauty  ;  when  I  hear 

A  lay  that  once  I  saw  her  hand  awake. 
Her  form  seems  floating  palpable,  and  near  ; 

Had  I  e'er  seen  her  from  an  arbour  take  40 

A  dewy  flower,  oft  would  that  hand  appear. 

And  o'er  my  eyes  the  trembling  moisture  shake. 


JOHN  KEATS 


EPISTLES 


"  Among  the  rest  a  shepheard  (though  but  young 
Yet  hartned  to  his  pipe)  with  all  the  skill 
His  few  yeeres  could,  began  to  fit  his  quill." 

Britannia's  Pastorals. — Browne. 


TO 

GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW 

SWEET  are  the  pleasures  that  to  verse  belong. 
And  doubly  sweet  a  brotherhood  in  song  ; 
Nor  can  remembrance,  Mathew  !  bring  to  view 
A  fate  more  pleasing,  a  delight  more  true 
Than  that  in  which  the  brother  Poets  joy'd. 
Who  with  combined  powers,  their  wit  employ' d 
To  raise  a  trophy  to  the  drama's  muses. 
The  thought  of  this  great  partnership  diffuses 
Over  the  genius  loving  heart,  a  feeling 
Of  all  that's  high,  and  great,  and  good,  and  healing. 

Too  partial  friend  !  fain  would  I  follow  thee 
Past  each  horizon  of  fine  poesy  ; 
Fain  would  I  echo  back  each  pleasant  note 
As  o'er  Sicilian  seas,  clear  anthems  float 
'Mong  the  light  skimming  gondolas  far  parted, 
Just  when  the  sun  his  ferewell  beam  has  darted  : 
But  'tis  impossible  ;  far  different  cares 
Beckon  me  sternly  from  soft  "  Lydian  airs," 
And  hold  my  faculties  so  long  in  thrall, 
That  I  am  oft  in  doubt  whether  at  all 
I  shall  again  see  Phoebus  in  the  morning  : 
Or  flush'd  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning ! 
Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream  ; 
Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam ; 
Or  again  witness  what  with  thee  I've  seen, 
The  dew  by  fairy  feet  swept  from  the  green, 


EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  FELTON  MATHEW       23 

After  a  night  of  some  quaint  jubilee 

Which  every  elf  and  fey  had  come  to  see  : 

When  bright  processions  took  their  airy  march 

Beneath  the  curved  moon's  triumphal  arch.  30 

But  might  I  now  each  passing  moment  give 

To  the  coy  muse,  with  me  she  would  not  live 

In  this  dark  city,  nor  would  condescend 

'Mid  contradictions  her  delights  to  lend. 

Should  e'er  the  fine-eyed  maid  to  me  be  kind, 

Ah !  surely  it  must  be  whene'er  I  find 

Some  flowery  spot,  sequester' d,  wUd,  romantic. 

That  often  must  have  seen  a  poet  frantic ; 

Where  oaks,  that  erst  the  Druid  knew,  are  growing. 

And  flowers,  the  glory  of  one  day,  are  blowing ;  40 

Where  the  dark-leav'd  laburnum's  drooping  dusters 

Reflect  athwart  the  stream  their  yellow  lustres. 

And  intertwin'd  the  cassia's  arms  unite. 

With  its  own  drooping  buds,  but  very  white. 

Where  on  one  side  are  covert  branches  himg, 

'Along  which  the  nightingales  have  always  sung 

In  leafy  quiet :  where  to  pry,  aloof, 

Atween  the  pillars  of  the  sylvan  roof. 

Would  be  to  find  where  violet  beds  were  nestUng, 

And  where  the  bee  with  cowslip  bells  was  wrestling.  50 

There  must  be  too  a  ruin  dark,  and  gloomy. 

To  say  "joy  not  too  much  in  all  that's  bloomy." 

Yet  this  is  vain — O  Mathew  lend  thy  aid 

To  find  a  place  where  I  may  greet  the  maid — 

Where  we  may  soft  humanity  put  on. 

And  sit,  and  rhyme  and  thix^  on  Chatterton ; 

And  that  warm-hearted  Shakspeare  sent  to  meet  him 

Four  laurell'd  spirits,  heaven-ward  to  intreat  him. 

With  reverence  would  we  speak  of  all  the  sages 

Who  have  left  streaks  of  light  athwart  their  ages :  60 

And  thou  shouldst  moralize  on  Milton's  blindness. 

And  mourn  the  fearfiil  dearth  of  human  kindness 

To  those  who  strove  with  the  bright  golden  wing 

Of  genius,  to  flap  away  each  sting 

Thrown  by  the  pitiless  world.     We  next  could  tell 

Of  those  who  in  the  cause  of  freedom  fell ; 

Of  our  own  Alfred,  of  Helvetian  Tell ; 

Of  him  whose  name  to  ev'ry  heart's  a  solace. 

High-minded  and  unbending  William  Wallace. 

While  to  the  rugged  north  our  musing  turns  70 

We  well  might  drop  a  tear  for  him,  and  Bums. 


24  JOHN  KEATS 

Felton  !  without  incitements  such  as  these, 

How  vain  for  me  the  niggard  Muse  to  tease : 

For  thee,  she  will  thy  every  dwelling  grace. 

And  make  "  a  sun-sUne  in  a  shady  place  : " 

For  thou  wast  once  a  flowret  blooming  wild. 

Close  to  the  source,  bright,  pure,  and  undefil'd. 

Whence  gush  the  streams  of  song :  in  happy  hour 

Came  chaste  Diana  from  her  shady  bower. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  from  the  east  uprising ;  80 

And,  as  for  him  some  gift  she  was  devising. 

Beheld  thee,  pluck'd  thee,  cast  thee  in  the  stream 

To  meet  her  glorious  brother's  greeting  beam. 

I  marvel  much  that  thou  hast  never  told 

How,  from  a  flower,  into  a  fish  of  gold 

Apollo  chang'd  thee  ;  how  thou  next  didst  seem 

A  black-eyed  swan  upon  the  widening  stream ; 

And  when  thou  first  didst  in  that  mirror  trace 

The  placid  features  of  a  human  fe,ce  : 

That  thou  hast  never  told  thy  travels  strange,  go 

And  all  the  wonders  of  the  mazy  range 

O'er  pebbly  crystal,  and  o'er  golden  sands ; 

Kissing  thy  daily  food  from  Naiad's  pearly  hands. 

November,   1815. 


MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 

FULL  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past. 
My  brain  bewilder'd,  and  my  mind  o'ercast 
With  heaviness  ;  in  seasons  when  I've  thought 
No  spherey  strains  by  me  could  e'er  be  caught 
From  the  blue  dome,  though  I  to  dimness  gaze 
On  the  far  depth  where  sheeted  lightning  plays ; 
Or,  on  the  wavy  grass  outstretch'd  supinely. 
Pry  'mong  the  stars,  to  strive  to  think  divinely  : 
That  I  should  never  hear  Apollo's  song. 
Though  feathery  clouds  were  floating  all  along 
The  purple  west,  and,  two  bright  streaks  between. 
The  golden  lyre  Itself  were  dimly  seen : 
That  the  still  murmur  of  the  honey  bee 
Would  never  teach  a  rural  song  to  me  : 
That  the  bright  glance  from  beauty's  eyelids  slanting 
Would  never  ijiake  a  lay  of  mipe  enchanting. 


EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  KEATS  25 

Or  warm  my  breast  with  ardour  to  unfold 
Some  tale  of  love  and  arms  in  time  of  old. 

But  there  are  times,  when  those  that  love  the  bay. 

Fly  from  aU  sorrowing  far,  fer  away ;  20 

A  sudden  glow  comes  on  them,  nought  they  see 

In  water,  earth,  or  air,  but  poesy. 

It  has  been  said,  dear  George,  and  true  I  hold  it, 

(For  knightly  Spenser  to  Libertas  told  it,) 

That  when  a  Poet  is  in  such  a  trance, 

In  air  he  sees  white  coursers  paw,  and  prance, 

Bestridden  of  gay  knights,  in  gay  apparel. 

Who  at  each  other  tilt  in  playful  quarrel. 

And  what  we,  ignorantly,  sheet-lightning  call. 

Is  the  swift  opening  of  their  wide  portal,  30 

When  the  bright  warder  blows  his  trumpet  clear. 

Whose  tones  reach  nought  on  earth  but  Poet's  ear. 

When  these  enchanted  portals  open  wide. 

And  through  the  light  the  horsemen  swiftly  glide. 

The  Poet's  eye  can  reach  those  golden  halls. 

And  view  the  glory  of  their  festivals  : 

Their  ladies  £iir,  that  in  the  distance  seem 

Fit  for  the  silv'ring  of  a  seraph's  dream ; 

Their  rich  brimm'd  goblets,  that  incessant  run 

Like  the  bright  spots  that  move  about  the  sun ;  40 

And,  when  upheld,  the  wine  from  each  bright  jar 

Pours  with  the  lustre  of  a  falling  star. 

Yet  further  off,  are  dimly  seen  their  bowers. 

Of  which,  no  mortal  eye  can  reach  the  flowers ; 

And  'tis  right  just,  for  well  Apollo  knows 

'Twould  make  the  Poet  quarrel  with  the  rose. 

All  that's  reveal'd  fi'om  that  far  seat  of  blisses. 

Is,  the  clear  fountains'  interchanging  kisses. 

As  gracefully  descending,  light  and  thin. 

Like  silver  streaks  across  a  dolphin's  fin,  50 

When  he  upswimmeth  from  the  coral  caves. 

And  sports  with  half  his  tail  above  the  waves. 

These  wonders  strange  he  sees,  and  many  more. 

Whose  head  is  pregnant  with  poetic  lore. 

Should  he  upon  an  evening  ramble  fare 

With  forehead  to  the  soothing  breezes  bare. 

Would  he  naught  see  but  the  dark,  silent  blue 

With  all  its  diamonds  trembling  through  and  through  ? 

Or  the  coy  moon,  when  in  the  waviness 

Of  whitest  clouds  she  does  her  beauty  dress,  60 

And  staidly  paces  higher  up,  and  higher, 


26  JOHN  KEATS 

Like  a  sweet  nun  in  holy-day  attire  ? 

Ah,  yes  !  much  more  would  start  into  his  sight — 

The  revebies,  and  mysteries  of  night : 

And  should  I  ever  see  them,  I  will  tell  you 

Such  tales  as  needs  must  with  amazement  spell  you. 

These  are  the  living  pleasures  of  the  bard  : 

But  richer  far  posterity's  award. 

What  does  he  murmur  with  his  latest  breath. 

While  his  proud  eye  looks  through  the  film  of  death .'  70 

"What  though  I  leave  this  dull,  and  earthly  mould. 

Yet  shall  my  spirit  lofty  converse  hold 

With  after  times. — The  patriot  shall  feel 

My  stem  alarum,  and  unsheath  his  steel ; 

Or,  in  the  senate  thunder  out  my  numbers 

To  startle  princes  from  their  easy  slumbers. 

The  sage  will  mingle  with  each  moral  theme 

My  happy  thoughte  sententious  ;  he  will  teem 

With  lofty  periods  when  my  verses  fire  him. 

And  then  I'll  stoop  from  heaven  to  inspire  him.  go 

Lays  have  I  left  of  such  a  dear  delight 

That  maids  will  sing  them  on  their  bridal  night. 

Gay  villagers,  upon  a  morn  of  May, 

When  they  have  tir'd  their  gentle  limbs  with  play. 

And  form'd  a  snowy  circle  on  the  grass. 

And  plac'd  in  midst  of  all  that  lovely  lass 

Who  chosen  is  their  queen, — with  her  fine  head 

Crowned  with  flowers  purple,  white,  and  red  : 

For  there  the  lily,  and  the  musk-rose,  sighing. 

Are  emblems  true  of  hapless  lovers  dying :  90 

Between  her  breasts,  that  never  yet  felt  trouble, 

A  bunch  of  violets  full  blown,  and  double. 

Serenely  sleep : — she  from  a  casket  takes 

A  little  book, — and  then  a  joy  awakes 

About  each  youthftd  heart, — with  stifled  cries. 

And  rubbing  of  white  hands,  and  sparkling  eyes : 

For  she's  to  read  a  tale  of  hopes,  and  fears  ; 

One  that  I  foster'd  in  my  youthful  years : 

The  pearls,  that  on  each  glist'ning  circlet  sleep. 

Gush  ever  and  anon  with  silent  creep,  i»o 

Lur'd  by  the  innocent  dimples.     To  sweet  rest 

Shall  the  dear  babe,  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

Be  lull'd  with  songs  of  mine.     Fair  world,  adieu  ! 

Thy  dales,  and  hills,  are  fading  £rom  my  view : 

Swiftly  I  mount,  upon  wide  spreading  .pinions. 

Far  from  the  narrow  bounds  of  thy  dominions. 

Full  joy  I  feel,  while  thus  I  cleave  the  air, 


EPISTLE  TO  GEORGE  KEATS  27 

That  my  soft  verse  will  charm  thy  daughters  fair. 

And  warm  thy  sons ! "     Ah,  my  dear  friend  and  brother. 

Could  I,  at  once,  my  mad  ambition  smother,  no 

For  tasting  joys  like  these,  sure  I  should  be 

Happier,  and  dearer  to  society. 

At  times,  'tis  true,  I've  felt  relief  from  pain 

When  some  bright  thought  has  darted  through  my  brain  : 

Through  all  that  day  I've  felt  a  greater  pleasure 

Than  if  I'd  brought  to  light  a  hidden  treasure. 

As  to  my  sonnets,  though  none  else  should  heed  them, 

I  feel  delighted,  still,  that  you  should  read  them. 

Of  late,  too,  I  have  had  much  calm  enjoyment, 

Stretch'd  on  the  grass  at  my  best  lov'd  employment  120 

Of  scribbling  lines  for  you.     These  things  I  thought 

While,  in  my  &ce,  the  freshest  breeze  I  caught. 

E'en  now  I'm  pillow'd  on  a  bed  of  flowers 

That  crowns  a  lofty  clift,  which  proudly  towers 

Above  the  ocean-waves.     The  stalks,  and  blades. 

Chequer  my  tablet  with  their  quivering  shades. 

On  one  side  is  a  field  of  drooping  oats. 

Through  which  the  poppies  show  their  scarlet  coats  ; 

So  pert  and  useless,  that  they  bring  to  mind 

The  scarlet  coats  that  pester  human-kind.  130 

And  on  the  other  side,  outspread,  is  seen 

Ocean's  blue  mantle  streak'd  with  purple,  and  green. 

Now  'tis  I  see  a  canvass'd  ship,  and  now 

Mark  the  bright  silver  curling  round  her  prow. 

I  see  the  lark  down-dropping  to  his  nest. 

And  the  broad  winged  sea-gull  never  at  rest ; 

For  when  no  more  he  spreads  his  feathers  free, 

His  breast  is  dancing  on  the  restless  sea. 

Now  I  direct  my  eyes  into  the  west. 

Which  at  this  moment  is  in  sunbeams  drest :  140 

Why  westward  turn  ?     'Twas  but  to  say  adieu  ! 

'Twas  but  to  kiss  my  hand,  dear  George,  to  you  ! 

August,  1816. 


TO 

CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE 

OFT  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning. 
And  with  proud  breast  his  own  white  shadow  crowning ; 
He  slants  his  neck  beneath  the  waters  bright 
So  silently,  it  seems  a  beam  of  light 


28  JOHN  KEATS 

Come  from  the  galaxy  :  anon  he  sports, — 

With  outspread  wings  the  Naiad  Zephyr  courts. 

Or  ruffles  all  the  surface  of  the  lake 

In  striving  from  its  crystal  face  to  take 

Some  diamond  water  drops,  and  them  to  treasure 

In  milky  nest,  and  sip  them  off  at  leisure.  lo 

But  not  a  moment  can  he  there  insure  them, 

Nor  to  such  downy  rest  can  he  allure  them ; 

For  down  they  rush  as  though  they  would  be  free. 

And  drop  like  hours  into  eternity. 

Just  like  that  bird  am  I  in  loss  of  time. 

Whene'er  I  venture  on  the  stream  of  rhyme  ; 

With  shatter'd  boat,  oar  snapt,  and  canvass  rent, 

I  slowly  sail,  scarce  knowing  my  intent ; 

Still  scooping  up  the  water  with  my  fingers, 

In  which  a  trembling  diamond  never  lingers.  jo 

By  this,  friend  Charles,  you  may  fuU  plainly  see 

Why  I  have  never  penn'd  a  line  to  thee : 

Because  my  thoughts  were  never  free,  and  clear. 

And  little  fit  to  please  a  classic  ear ; 

Because  my  wine  was  of  too  poor  a  savour 

For  one  whose  palate  gladdens  in  the  flavour 

Of  sparkling  Helicon : — small  good  it  were 

To  take  him  to  a  desert  rude,  and  bare. 

Who  had  on  Baiae's  shore  reclin'd  at  ease. 

While  Tasso's  page  was  floating  in  a  breeze  30 

That  gave  soft  music  from  Armida's  bowers, 

Mingled  with  fragrance  from  her  rarest  flowers  : 

Small  good  to  one  who  had  by  Mulla's  stream 

Fondled  the  maidens  with  the  breasts  of  cream  ; 

Who  had  beheld  Belphcebe  in  a  brook. 

And  lovely  Una  in  a  leafy  nook. 

And  Archimago  leaning  o'er  his  book  : 

Who  had  of  all  that's  sweet  tasted,  and  seen. 

From  silv'ry  ripple,  up  to  beauty's  queen  ; 

From  the  sequester'd  haunts  of  gay  Titania,  40 

To  the  blue  dwelling  of  divine  Urania  : 

One,  who,  of  late,  had  ta'en  sweet  forest  walks 

With  him  who  elegantly  chats,  and  talks — 

The  wrong'd  Libertas, — who  has  told  you  stories 

Of  laurel  chaplets,  and  Apollo's  glories ; 

Of  troops  chivalrous  prancing  through  a  city, 

And  tearful  ladies  made  for  love,  and  pity : 

With  many  else  which  I  have  never  known. 

Thus  have  I  thought ;  and  days  on  days  have  flown 

Slowly,  or  rapidly — unwilling  still  50 


EPISTLE  TO  CHARLES  COWDEN  CLARKE       29 

For  you  to  try  my  dull,  unlearned  quill. 

Nor  should  I  now,  but  that  I've  known  you  long  ; 

That  you  first  taught  me  aU  the  sweets  of  song : 

The  grand,  the  sweet,  the  terse,  the  free,  the  fine  ; 

What  swell'd  with  pathos,  and  what  right  divine : 

Spenserian  vowels  that  elope  with  ease. 

And  float  along  Uke  birds  o'er  summer  seas  ; 

Miltonian  storms,  and  more,  Miltonian  tenderness  ; 

Michael  in  arms,  and  more,  meek  Eve's  feir  slendemess. 

Who  read  for  me  the  sonnet  swelling  loudly  60 

Up  to  its  climax  and  then  dying  proudly  ? 

Who  found  for  me  the  grandeur  of  the  ode. 

Growing,  like  Atlas,  stronger  from  its  load  ? 

Who  let  me  taste  that  more  than  cordial  dram. 

The  sharp,  the  rapier-pointed  epigram  ? 

Show'd  me  that  epic  was  of  all  the  king. 

Round,  vast,  and  spanning  all  like  Saturn's  ring  ? 

You  too  upheld  the  veil  from  Clio's  beauty. 

And  pointed  out  the  patriot's  stem  duty ; 

The  might  of  Alfred,  and  the  shaft  of  "reU ;  70 

The  hand  of  Brutus,  that  so  grandly  fell 

Upon  a  tj^'ant's  head.     Ah !  had  I  never  seen 

O*  known  your  kindness,  what  might  I  have  been  ? 

What  my  enjojnnents  in  my  youthful  years. 

Bereft  of  all  that  now  my  life  endears  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  these  benefits  forget  ? 

And  can  I  e'er  repay  the  friendly  debt } 

No,  doubly  no ; — yet  should  these  rhymings  please, 

I  shall  roll  on  the  grass  with  two-fold  ease  : 

For  I  have  long  time  been  my  fancy  feeding  80 

With  hopes  that  you  would  one  day  think  the  reading 

Of  my  rough  verses  not  an  hour  misspent ; 

Should  it  e'er  be  so,  what  a  rich  content ! 

Some  weeks  have  pass'd  since  last  I  saw  the  spires 

In  lucent  Thames  reflected  : — warm  desires 

To  see  the  sun  o'erpeep  the  eastern  dimness. 

And  morning  shadows  streaking  into  slimness 

Across  the  lawny  fields,  and  pebbly  water  ; 

To  mark  the  time  as  they  grow  broad,  and  shorter  ; 

To  feel  the  air  that  plays  about  the  hills,  go 

And  sips  its  freshness  from  the  little  rills ; 

To  see  high,  golden  com  wave  in  the  light 

When  Cynthia  smiles  upon  a  summer's  night. 

And  peers  among  the  cloudlets  jet  and  white. 

As  though  she  were  reclining  in  a  bed 

Of  bean  blossoms,  in  heaven  freshly  shed. 

No  sooner  had  I  stepp'd  into  these  pleasures 


30  JOHN  KEATS 

Than  1  began  to  think  of  rhymes  and  measures  : 

The  air  that  floated  by  me  seem'd  to  say 

"Write  !  thou  wilt  never  have  a  better  day."  loo 

And  so  I  did.     When  many  lines  I'd  ■written. 

Though  with  their  grace  I  was  not  oversmitten. 

Yet,  as  my  hand  was  warm,  I  thought  I'd  better 

Trust  to  my  feelings,  and  4vrite  you  a  letter. 

Such  an  attempt  requir'd  an  inspiration 

Of  a  peculiar  sort, — a  consummation  ; — 

Which,  had  I  felt,  these  scribblings  might  have  been 

Verses  from  which  the  soul  would  never  wean  : 

But  many  days  have  passed  since  last  my  heart 

Was  warm'd  luxuriously  by  divine  Mozart ;  no 

By  Ame  delighted,  or  by  Handel  madden'd  ; 

Or  by  the  song  of  Erin  pierc'd  and  sadden'd  : 

What  time  you  were  before  the  music  sitting. 

And  the  rich  notes  to  each  sensation  fitting. 

Since  I  have  walk'd  with  you  through  shady  lanes 

That  freshly  terminate  in  open  plains. 

And  revel'd  in  a  chat  that  ceased  not 

When  at  night-&ll  among  your  books  we  got : 

No,  nor  when  supper  came,  nor  after  that, — 

Nor  when  reluctantly  I  took  my  hat ;  120 

No,  nor  till  cordially  you  shook  my  hand 

Mid-way  between  our  homes : — ^your  accents  bland 

Still  sounded  in  my  ears,  when  I  no  more 

Could  hear  your  footsteps  touch  the  grav'ly  floor. 

Sometimes  I  lost  them,  and  then  found  again ; 

You  chang'd  the  footpath  for  the  grassy  plain^ 

In  those  still  moments  I  have  wish'd  you  joys 

That  well  you  know  to  honor : — "  Life's  very  toys 

With  him,"  said  I,  "will  take  a  pleasant  charm  ; 

It  cannot  be  that  ought  will  work  him  harm."  130 

These  thoughts  now  come  o'er  me  with  all  their  might : — 

Again  I  shake  your  hand, — friend  Charles,  good  night. 

September,  1816. 


SONNETS 


TO  MY  BROTHER  GEORGE 

MANY  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen : 
The  sun,  when  first  he  kist  away  the  tears 

That  fill'd  the  eyes  of  mom  ; — the  laurel'd  peers 
Who  from  the  feathery  gold  of  evening  lean  ; — 
The  ocean  with  its  vastness,  its  blue  green, 

Its  ships,  its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  hopes,  its  fears,— 

Its  voice  mysterious,  which  whoso  hears 
Must  think  on  what  will  Gte>sand  what  has  been, 
E'en  now,  dear  George,  while  this  for  you  I  write, 

Cynthia  is  from  her  silken  curtains  peeping 
So  scantly,  that  it  seems  her  bridal  night. 

And  she  her  half-discover'd  revels  keeping. 
But  what,  without  the  social  thought  of  thee. 
Would  be  the  wonders  of  the  sky  and  sea  > 


II 

TO  ****** 

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


JOHN  KEATS 


III 

Written  on  the  day  thai  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison 

WHAT  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state. 
Kind  Hunt  was  shut  in  prison,  yet  has  he. 

In  his  immortal  spirit,  been  as  free 
As  the  sky-searching  lark,  and  as  elate. 
Minion  of  grandeur !  think  you  he  did  wait  ? 

Think  you  he  nought  but  prison  walls  did  see. 

Till,  so  unwilling,  thou  untum'dst  the  key  ? 
Ah,  no  !  far  happier,  nobler  was  his  fate  ! 
In  Spenser's  halls  he  strayed,  and  bowers  fair. 

Culling  enchanted  flowers  ;  and  he  flew 
With  daring  Milton  through  the  fields  of  air : 

To  regions  of  his  own  his  genius  true 
Took  happy  flights.     Who  shall  his  fame  impair 

When  thou  art  dead,  and  all  thy  wretched  crew  } 


IV 

HOW  many  bards  gQd  the  lapses  of  time  !     "^ 
A  few  of  them  have  ever  been  the  food    '~ 
Of  my  delighted  fancy, — I  could  brood   a  . 
Over  their  beauties,  earthly,  or  sublime  :  «^ 
And  often,  when  I  sit  me  down  to  rhyme,  '•> 
These  will  in  throngs  before  my  mind  intrude  s 
But  no  confusion,  no  disturbance  rude  »■ 
Do  they  occasion  ;  'tis  a  pleasing  chime.  ^ 
So  the  unnumber'd  sounds  that  evening  store :  - 
The  songs  of  birds — ^the  whisp'ring  of  the  leaves-^^ 
The  voice  of  waters — the  great  bell  that  heaves    ' 
With  solemn  sound, — and  thousand  others  more. 

That  distance  of  recognizance  bereaves,    " 
Make  pleasing  music,  and  not  wild  uproar. 


SONNETS  33 


To  a  Friend  who  sent  me  some  Roses 

AS  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields. 
What  time  the  sky-lark  shakes  the  tremulous  dew 

From  his  lush  clover  covert ; — ^when  anew 
Adventurous  knights  take  up  their  dinted  shields : 
I  saw  the  sweetest  flower  wild  nature  jdelds, 

A  fresh-blown  musk-rose ;  'twas'  the  first  that  threw 

Its  sweets  upon  the  summer :  graceful  it  grew 
As  is  the  wand  that  queen  Titania  wields. 
And,  as  I  feasted  on  its  fiagrancy, 

I  thought  the  garden-rose  it  far  excell'd  : 
But  when,  O  Wells !  thy  roses  came  to  me 

My  sense  with  their  deliciousness  was  spell'd  : 
Soft  voices  had  they,  that  with  tender  plea 

Whisper'd  of  peace,  and  truth,  and  fnendliness  unquell'd. 


VI 
TO  G.  A.  W. 

N'  YMPH  of  the  downward  smUe,  and  sidelong  glance. 
In  what  diviner  moments  of  the  day 

Art  thou  most  lovely  ? — when  gone  fer  astray 
Into  the  labjrrinths  of  sweet  utterance. 
Or  when  serenely  wand' ring  in  a  trance 

Of  sober  thought  ? — or  when  starting  away 

With  careless  robe,  to  meet  the  morning  ray. 
Thou  spar'st  the  flowers  in  thy  mazy  dance  ? 
Haply  'tis  when  thy  ruby  lips  part  sweetly. 

And  so  remain,  because  thou  listenest : 
But  thou  to  please  wert  nurtured  so  completely 

That  I  can  never  tell  what  mood  is  best. 
I  shall  as  soon  pronounce  which  Grace  more  neatly 

Trips  it  before  Apollo  than  the  rest. 


34  JOHN  KEATS 


VII 


O  SOLITUDE !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell. 
Let  it  not  be  among  the  jumbled  heap 
Of  murky  buildings ;  climb  with  me  the  steep, — 

Nature's  observatory — whence  the  dell. 

Its  flowery  slopes,  its  river's  crystal  swell. 
May  seem  a  span  ;  let  me  thy  vigils  keep 
'Mongst  boughs  pavillion'd,  where  the  deer's  swift  leap 

Startles  the  wild  bee  from  the  fox-glove  bell. 

But  though  I'll  gladly  trace  these  scenes  with  thee, 
Yet  the  sweet  converse  of  an  innocent  mind. 
Whose  words  are  images  of  thoughts  refin'd. 

Is  my  soul's  pleasure ;  and  it  sure  must  be 
Almost  the  highest  bliss  of  human-kind. 

When  to  thy  haunts  two  kindred  spirits  flee. 


VIII 
TO  MY  BROTHERS 

SMALL,  busy  flames  play  through  the  fresh  laid  coals. 
And  their  faint  cracklings  o'er  our  silence  creep 

Like  whispers  of  the  household  gods  that  keep 
A  gentle  empire  o'er  fraternal  souls. 
And  while,  for  rhymes,  I  search  around  the  poles. 

Your  eyes  are  fix'd,  as  in  poetic  sleep. 

Upon  the  lore  so  voluble  and  deep. 
That  aye  at  fall  of  night  our  care  condoles. 
This  is  your  birth-day  Tom,  and  I  rejoice 

That  thus  it  passes  smoothly,  quietly. 
Many  such  eves  of  gently  whisp'ring  noise 

May  we  together  pass,  and  calmly  try 
What  are  this  world's  true  joys, — ere  the  great  voice, 

From  its  fair  face,  shall  bid  our  spirits  fly. 

ffovember  i8,  x8i6, 


SONNETS  35 


IX 

KEEN,  fitfol  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there 
Among  the  bushes  half  leafless,  and  dry ; 

The  stars  look  very  cold  about  the  sky. 
And  I  have  many  miles  on  foot  to  fere. 
Yet  feel  I  little  of  the  cool  bleak  air. 

Or  of  the  dead  leaves  rustling  drearily. 

Or  of  those  silver  lamps  that  bum  on  high. 
Or  of  the  distance  from  home's  pleasant  1^: 
For  I  am  brimfull  of  the  friendliness 

That  in  a  little  cottage  I  have  found ; 
Of  feir-hair'd  Milton's  eloquent  distress. 

And  all  his  love  for  gentle  Lycid  drown'd ; 
Of  lovely  Laura  in  her  light  green  dress. 

And  faithful  Petrarch  gloriously  crown'd. 


TO  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  feir 
And  open  fece  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 
FuU  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament 
Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
'T'afegueS'^esinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 

Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment } 
Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 

Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career. 
He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by : 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  fells  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 


36  JOHN  KEATS 

XI 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

MUCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold. 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold.  \iS 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told  C  jlP 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  'demesne  ; 

Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene  ^- 

TiU  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  ;  iwA. 

Or  like  stout  Cortez  when  with  eagle  eyes      ifNT^'^'"^ 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men    ^ 


Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise- 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 


XII 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an  early  Hour 

GIVE  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean 
On  heap'd  up  flowers,  in  regions  clear,  and  far ; 
Bring  me  a  tablet  whiter  than  a  star. 
Or  hand  of  hymning  angel,  when  'tis  seen 
The  silver  strings  of  heavenly  harp  atween : 
And  let  there  glide  by  many  a  pearly  car. 
Pink  robes,  and  wavy  hair,  and  diamond  jar. 
And  half 'discovered  wings,  and  glances  keen. 
The  while  let  music  wander  round  my  ears. 
And  as  it  reaches  each  delicious  ending. 
Let  me  write  down  a  line  of  glorious  tone. 
And  full  of  many  wonders  of  the  spheres  : 
For  what  a  heightjay  spirit  is  contending  ! 
"  Tis  nolt  content  so  soon  to  be  alone. 


SONNETS  37 


XIII 
ADDRESSED  TO  HAYDON 

HIGHMINDEDNESS,  a  jealousy  for  good, 
A  loving-kindness  for  the  great  nuin's  £ime. 

Dwells  here  and  there  with  people  of  no  name. 
In  noisome  alley,  and  in  pathless  wood : 
And  where  we  think  the  truth  least  understood. 

Oft  may  be  found  a  "  singleness  of  aim," 

That  ought  to  frighten  into  hooded  shame 
A  money-mong'ring,  pitiable  brood. 
How  glorious  this  affection  for  the  cause 

t)f  sted£>tst  genius,  toiling  gallantly ! 
What  when  a  stout  unbending  champion  awes 

Envy,  and  Malice  to  their  native  sty  ? 
Unnnmber'd  souls  breathe  out  a  still  applause. 

Proud  to  behold  him  in  his  country's  eye. 


XIV 
ADDRESSED  TO  THE  SAME 

GREAT  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning ; 
He  of  the  cloud,  the  cataract,  the  lake, 

Who  on  HelveUyn's  summit,  wide  awake. 
Catches  his  freshness  from  Archangel's  wing : 
He  of  the  rose,  the  violet,  the  spring. 

The  social  smile,  the  chain  for  Freedom's  sake : 

AndTot— whose  stedfastness  would  never  take 
A  meaner  sound  than  Raphael's  whispering. 
And  other  spirits  there  are  standing  apart 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  age  to  come ; 
These,  these  will  give  the  world  another  heart. 

And  other  pulses.     Hear  ye  not  the  hum 
Of  mighty  workings .' 

Listen  awhile  ye  nations,  and  be  dumb. 


38  JOHN  KEATS 

XV 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket 

THE  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  : 
When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 
And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 
From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead ; 
That  is  the  Grasshopper's — he  takes  the  lead 
In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights  ;  for  when  tired_out  with  fun 
He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never  : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stqve  there  shrills 
The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever. 
And  seems  to  one  in  drowsiness  half -lost. 
The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills. 
December  30,  1816. 

XVI 
TO  KOSCIUSKO 

GOOD  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone 
Is  a  full  harvest  whence  to  reap  high  feeling  ; 
It  comes  upon  us  like  the  glorious  pealing 
Of  the  wide  spheres — an  everlasting  tone. 
And  now  it  tells  me,  that  in  worlds  unknown, 
■  The  names  of  heroes  burst  from  clouds  concealing. 
And  change  to  harmonies,  for  ever  stealing 
Through  cloudless  blue,  and  round  each  silver  throne. 
It  tells  me  too,  that  on  a  happy  day. 

When  some  good  spirit  walks  upon  the  earth. 

Thy  name  with  Alfred's,  and  the  great  of  yore' 
Gently  commingling,  gives  tremendous  birth 
To  a  loud  hymn,  that  sounds  &r,  far  away 

To  where  the  great  God  lives  for  evermore. 


SONNETS  39 


XVII 


pPY  is.  England !     I  could  be  content 
_      To  see  no  other  verdure  than  its  own ; 
To  feel  no  other  breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent : 
Yet  do  I  sometimes  feel  a  languishment 
For  skies  Italian,  and  an  inward  groan 
To  sit  upon  an  Alp  as  on  a  throne. 
And  half  forget  what  world  or  worldling  meant. 
Happy  is  England,  sweet  her  artless  daughters  ; 
Enough  their  simple  loveliness  for  me. 

Enough  their  whitest  arms  in  silence  clinging  : 
Yet  do  I  often  warmly  bum  to  see 

Beauties  of  deeper  glance,  and  hear  their  singing. 
And  float  with  them  about  the  summer  waters. 


40  JOHN  KEATS 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY 

"  As  I  lay  in  my  bed  slepe  full  unmete 
Was  unto  me;  but  why  that  I  ne  might 
Rest  I  ne  wist,  for  there  n'as  erthly  wight 
[As  I  suppose]  had  more  of  hertis  ese 
Than  I,  for  I  n'ad  sicknesse  nor  disese." 

Chaucer. 

WHAT  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 
What  is  more  soothing  than  the  pretty  hummer 
That  stays  one  moment  in  an  open  flower. 
And  buzzes  ^emlj  from  bower  to  bower  ? 
What  is  more  tranquil  than  a  musk-rose  blowing 
In  a  green  island,  far  from  all  men's  knowing  ? 
More  healthful  than  the  leafiuess  of  dales  ? 
More  secret  than  a  nest  of  nightingales  ? 
More  serene  than  Cordelia's  countenance  ? 
More  frill  of  visions  than  a  high  romance  ?  lo 

What,  but  thee  Sleep  ?     Soft  closer  of  our  eyes  ! 
Low  murmurer  of  tender  lullabies  ! 
Light  hoverer  around  our  happy  pillows ! 
Wreather  of  poppy  buds,  and  weeping  willows  ! 
Silent  entangler  of  a  beauty's  tresses ! 
Most^ljaggy  listener  !  when  the  morning  blesses 
Thee  for  enlivening  all  the  cheerful  eyes 
That  glance  so  brightly  at  the  new  sun-rise. 

But  what  is  higher  beyond  thought  than  thee  ? 

Fresher  than  berries  of  a  mountain  tree  ?  20 

More  strange,  more  beautiful,  more  smooth,  more  regal. 

Than  wings  of  swans,  than  doves,  than  dim-seen  eagle  ? 

What  is  it  }    And  to  what  shall  I  compare  it .' 

It  has  a  glory,  and  nought  else  can  share  it : 

The  thought  thereof  is  awful,  sweet,  and  holy, 

Chacing  away  all  worldliness  and  folly  ; 

Coming  sometimes  like  fearful  claps  of  thunder. 

Or  the  low  rumblings  earth's  regions  under ; 

And  sometimes  like  a  gentle  whispering 

Of  all  the  secrets  of  some  wond'rous  thmg'  30 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY  41 

That  breathes  about  us  in  the  vacant  air ; 

So  that  we  look  around  with  prying  stare. 

Perhaps  to  see  shapes  of  light,  aerial  Ijnnning, 

And  catch  soft  floatings  from  a  faint-heard  hymning ; 

To  see  the  laurel  wreath,  on  high  suspended, 

That  is  to  crown  our  name  when  life  is  ended. 

Sometimes  it  gives  a  glory  to  the  voice. 

And  from  the  heart  up-springs,^j:gjjjicg_Lj^ice  ! 

Sounds  which  will  reach  the  Framer  of  all  things. 

And  die  away  in  ardent  mutterings.  40 

No  one  who  once  the  glorious  sun  has  seen. 
And  all  the  clouds,  and  felt  his  bosom  clean 
For  his  great  Maker's  presence,  but  must  know 
What  'tis  I  mean,  and  feel  his  being  glow  : 
Therefore  no  insult  will  I  give  his  spirit, 
By  telling  what  he  sees  from  native  merit. 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  hold  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven — Should  I  rather  kneel 

Upon  some  mountain-top  until  I  feel  50 

A  glowing  splendour  round  about  me  hung. 

And  echo  back  the  voice  of  thine  own  tongue  ? 

O  Poesy  !  for  thee  I  grasp  my  pen 

That  am  not  yet  a  glorious  denizen 

Of  thy  wide  heaven ;  yet,  to  my  ardent  prayer. 

Yield  from  thy  sanctuary  some  clear  air. 

Smoothed  for  intoxication  by  the  breath 

Of  flowering  bays,  that  I  may  die  a  death 

Of  luxury,  and  my  young  spirit  follow 

The  morning  sun-beams  to  the  great  Apollo  60 

Like  a  fresh  sacrifice  ;  or,  if  I  can  bear 

The  o'erwhelming  sweets,  'twill  bring  to  me  the  fair 

Visions  of  all  places  :  a  bowery  nook 

Will  be  elysium — an  eternal  book 

Whence  I  may  copy  many  a  lovely  saying 

About  the  leaves,  and  flowers — about  the  playing 

Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains  ;  and  the  shade 

Keeping  a  silence  round  a  sleeping  maid ; 

And  many  a  verse  from  so  strange  influence 

That  we  must  ever  wonder  how,  and  whence  70 

It  came.     Also  imaginings  will  hover 

Roimd  my  fire-side,  and  haply  there  discover 

Vistas  of  solemn  beauty,  where  I'd  wander 

In  happy  silence,  like  the  clear  Meander 


42  JOHN  KEATS 

Through  its  lone  vales ;  and  where  I  found  a  spot 

Of  awfuUer  shade,  or  an  enchanted  grot. 

Or  a  green  hill  o'erspread  with  chequered  dress 

Of  flowers,  and  fearful  from  its  loveliness. 

Write  on  my  tablets  all  that  was  permitted. 

All  that  was  for  our  human  senses  fitted.  80 

Then  the  events  of  this  wide  world  I'd  seize 

Like  a  strong  giant,  and  my  spirit  teaze 

Till  at  its  shoulders  it  should  proudly  see 

Wings  to  find  out  an  immortality. 

Stop  and  consider  !  life  is  but  a  day  ; 

A  fragile  dew-drop  on  its  perilous  way 

From  a  tree's  summit ;  a  poor  Indian's  sleep 

While  his  boat  hastens  to  the  monstrous  steep 

Of  Montmorenci.     WhYsosadjt_moan  ? 

Life  is  the  rose's  hopewhileyet  unblown  ;  90 

The  reading  of  an  ever-changing  tale  ; 

The  light  uplifting  of  a  maiden's  veil ; 

A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air ; 

A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 

Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 

O  for  ten  years,  that  I  may  overwhelm 

Myself  in  poesy  ;  so  I  may  do  the  deed 

That  my  own  soul  has  to  itself  decreed. 

Then  will  I  pass  the  countries  that  I  see 

In  long  perspective,  and  continually  100 

Taste  their  pure  fountains.     First  the  realm  I'll  pass 

Of  Flora,  and  old  Pan  :  sleep  in  the  grass, 

Feed  upon  apples  red,  and  strawberries. 

And  choose  each  pleasure  that  my  fancy  sees ; 

Catch  the  white-handed  nymphs  in  shady  places. 

To  woo  sweet  kisses  from  averted  faces, — 

Play  with  their  fingers,  touch  their  shoulders  white 

Into  a  pretty  shrinking  with  a  bite 

As  hard  as  lips  can  make  it :  till  agreed, 

A  lovely  tale  of  human  life  we'll  read.  no 

And  one  will  teach  a  tame  dove  how  it  best 

May  fan  the  cool  air  gently  o'er  my  rest ; 

Another,  bending  o'er  her  nimble  tread. 

Will  set  a  green  robe  floating  round  her  head. 

And  still  will  dance  with  ever  varied  ease, 

Sjniling  upon  the  flowers  and  the  trees  : 

An9flr8r'will  entice  me  on,  and  on 

Through  almond  blossoms  and  rich  cinnamon  ; 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY  43 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  a  leafy  world 

We  rest  in  silence,  Uke  two  gems  upcurl'd  120 

In  the  recesses  of  a  pearly  shell. 

And  can  I  eY§r.bjid,_the§e4oy§,fee3«ell  ? 

Yes,  I  must  pass  them  for  a  nobler  life. 

Where  I  may  find  the  agonies,  the  strife 

Of  human  hearts  :  for  I'o !  I  see  afar. 

O'er  sailing  the  blue  cragginess,  a  car 

And  steeds  with  streamy  manes — the  charioteer 

Looks  out  upon  the  winds  with  glorious  fear : 

And  now  the  numerous  tramplings  quiver  lightly 

Along  a  huge  cloud's  ridge  ;  and  now  with  sprightly  130 

Wheel  downward  come  they  into  fresher  skies, 

Tipt  round  with  silver  from  the  sun's  bright  eyes. 

Still  downward  with  capacious  whirl  they  glide  ; 

And  now  I  see  them  on  a  green-hill's  side 

In  breezy  rest  among  the  nodding  stalks. 

The  charioteer  with  wond'rous  gesture  talks 

To  the  trees  and  mountains ;  and  there  soon  appear 

Shapes  of  delight,  of  mystery,  and  fear. 

Passing  along  before  a  dusky  space 

Made  by  some  mighty  oaks  :  as  they  would  chase  140 

Some  ever-fleeting  music  on  they  sweep. 

Lo  !  how  they  murmur,  laugh,  and  smUe,  and  weep  : 

Some  with  upholden  hand  and  mouth  severe ; 

Some  with  their  faces  muiHed  to  the  ear 

Between  their  arms ;  some,  clear  in  youthful  bloom. 

Go  glad  and  smilingly  athwart  the  gloom  ; 

Some  looking  back,  and  some  with  upward  gaze  ; 

Yes,  thousands  in  a  thousand  different  ways 

Flit  onward — now  a  lovely  wreath  of  girls 

Dancing  their  sleek  hair  into  tangled  curls  ;  130 

And  now  broad  wings.     Most  awfully  intent 

The  driver  of  those  steeds  is  forward  bent. 

And  seems  to  listen :  O  that  I  might  know 

All  that  he  writes  with  such  a  hurrying  glow. 

The  visions  all  are  fled — the  car  is  fled 

Into  the  light  of  heaven,  and  in  their  stead 

A  sense  of  real  things  comes  doubly  strong, 

And,  like  a  muddy  stream,  would  bear  along 

My  soul  to  nothingness  :  but  I  will  sthve 

Against  all  doubtings,  and  wiU  keep  alive  160 

The  thought  of  that  same  chariot,  and  the  strange 

Journey  it  went. 


44  JOHN  KEATS 

Is  there  so  small  a  range 
In  the  present  strength  of  manhood,  that  the  high 
Imagination  cannot  freely  fly 
As  she  was  wont  of  old  ?  prepare  her  steeds, 
Paw  up  against  the  light,  and  do  strange  deeds 
Upon  the  clouds  ?     Has  she  not  shown  us  all  ? 
From  the  clear  space  of  ether,  to  the  small 
Breath  of  new  buds  unfolding  ?     From  the  meaning 
Of  Jove's  large  eye-brow,  to  the  tender  greening  170 

Of  April  meadows  ?     Here  her  altar  shone. 
E'en  in  this  isle ;  and  who  could  paragon 
The  fervid  choir  that  lifted  up  a  noise 
Of  harmony,  to  where  it  aye  will  poise 
Its  mighty  self  of  convoluting  sound, 
Huge  as  a  planet,  and  like  that  roll  round, 
Eternally  around  a  dizzy  void  ? 
Ay,  in  those  days  the  Muses  were  nigh  cloy'd 
With  honors  ;"  nor  had  any  other  care 
Than  to  sing  out  and  sooth  their  wavy  hair.  180 

Could  all  this  be  forgotten  ?     Yes,  a  schism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism. 
Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land- 
Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 
His  glories  :  with^a  puling  infant's  force 
They  sway'd  about  upon  a  rocking  horse. 
And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah  dismal  soul'd  ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  roU'd 
Its  gathering  waves — ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 
Bared  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew  19a 

Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 
The  morning  precious  :  beauty  was  awake  ! 
Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 
To  things  ye  knew  not  of, — were  closely  wed 
To  musty  laws  lined  out  with  wretched  rule 
And  compass  vile :  so  that  ye  taught  a  school 
Of  dolts  to  smooth,  inlay,  and  clip,  and  fit. 
Till,  like  the  certain  wands  of  Jacob's  wit. 
Their  verses  tallied.     Easy  was  the  task : 
A  thousand  handicraftsmen  wore  the  mask  200 

Of  Poesy.     Ill-fated,  impious  race  1 
That  blasphemed  the  bright  Lyrist  to  his  face. 
And  did  not  know  it, — no,  they  went  about, 
Holding  a  poor,  decrepid  standard  out 
Mark'd  with  most  flimsy  mottos,  and  in  large 
The  name  of  one  Boileau  ! 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY  45 

Oh  ye  whose  charge 
It  is  to  hover  round  our  pleasant  hills  ! 
Whose  congregated  majesty  so  fills 
My  boundly  reverence,  that  I  cannot  trace 
Your  hallowed  names,  in  this  unholy  place,  210 

So  near  those  common  folk ;  did  not  their  shames 
Aflfright  you  ?     Did  our  old  lamenting  Thames  . 
Delight  you  ?     Did  ye  never  cluster  round 
Delicious  Avon,  with  a  mournful  sound. 
And  weep  ?     Or  did  ye  wholly  bid  adieu 
To  regions  where  no  more  the  laurel  grew  ? 
Or  did  ye  stay  to  give  a  welcoming 
To  some  lone  spirits  who  could  proudly  Sing 
Their  youth  away,  and  die  ?     'Twas  even  so  : 
But  let  me  think  away  those  times  of  woe  :  220 

Now  'tis  a  fairer  season  ;  ye  have  breathed 
Rich  benedictions  o'er  us  ;  ye  have  wreathed 
Fresh  garlands :  for  sweet  music  has  been  heard 
In  many  places  ; — some  has  been  upstirr'd 
From  out  its  crystal  dwelling  in  a  lake. 
By  a  swan's  ebon  bill ;  from  a  thick  brake. 
Nested  and  quiet  in  a  valley  mild. 
Bubbles  a  pipe  ;  fine  sounds  are  floating  wild 
About  the  earth  :  hagmr  are  ye  and  glad. 

These  things  are  doubtless :  yet  in  truth  we've  had  230 

Strange  thunders  from  the  potency  of  song  ; 

Mingled  indeed  with  what  is  sweet  and  strong. 

From  majesty  :  but  in  clear  truth  the  themes 

Are  ugly  clubs,  the  Poets  Polyphemes 

Disturbing  the  grand  sea.     A  drainless  shower 

Of  light  is  poesy  ;  'tis  the  supreme  of  power ; 

'Tis  might  half  slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm. 

The  very  archings  of  her  eye-lids  charm 

A  thousand  willing  agents  to  obey. 

And  still  she  governs  with  the  mildest  sway :  240 

But  strength  alone  though  of  the  Muses  bom 

Is  like  a  fallen  angel :  trees  uptom. 

Darkness,  and  worms,  and  shrouds,  and  sepulchres 

Delight  it ;  for  it  feeds  upon  the  burrs. 

And  thorns  of  life  ;  forgetting  the  great  end 

Of  poesy,  that  it  should  be  a  friend 

To  soQth  the  cares,  and  lift  the  thoughts  of  man. 

Yet  I  rejoice  :  a  myrtle  fairer  than 
E'er  grew  in  Paphos,  from  the  bitter  weeds 
Lifts  its  sweet  head  into  the  air,  and  feeds  250 


46  JOHN  KEATS 

A  silent  space  with  ever  sprouting  green. 

All  tenderest  birds  there  find  a  pleasant  screen. 

Creep  through  the  shade  with  jaunty  fluttering. 

Nibble  the  little  cupped  flowers  and  sing. 

Then  let  us  clear  away  the  choaking  thorns 

From  round  its  gentle  stem ;  let  the  young  fawns. 

Yeaned  in  after  times,  when  we  are  flown, 

Find  a  fresh  sward  beneath  it,  overgrown 

With  simple  flowers  :  let  there  nothing  be 

^QjjeJjoistCTOusthan  a  lover's  bended  knee ;  260 

Nought  more  ungentle  than  the  placid  look 

Of  one  who  leans  upon  a  closed  book ; 

Nought  more  untranquil  than  the  grassy  slopes 

Between  two  hills.     All  hail  delightful  hopes  ! 

As  she  was  wont,  th'  imagination 

Into  most  lovely  labyrinths  will  be  gone. 

And  they  shall  be  accounted  poet  kings 

Who  simply  tell  the  most  heart-easing  things. 

O  may  these  joys  be  ripe  before  I  die. 

Will  not  some  say  that  I  presumptuously  270 

Have  spoken  ?  that  from  hastening  disgrace 

'Twere  better  far  to  hide  my  foolish  face  ? 

That  whining  boyhood  should  with  reverence  bow 

Ere  the  dread  thunderbolt  could  reach  ?     How  ! 

If  I  do  hide  myself,  it  sure  shall  be 

In  the  very  fane,  the  light  of  Poesy : 

If  I  do  fall,  at  least  I  will  be  laid 

Beneath  the  silence  of  a  poplar  shade  ; 

And  over  me  the  grass  shall  be  smooth  shaven ; 

And  there  shall  be  a  kind  memorial  graven.  280 

But  oiF  Despondence  !  miserable  bane  ! 

They  should  not  know  thee,  who  athirst  to  gain 

A  noble  end,  are  thirsty  every  hour. 

What  though  I  am  not  wealthy  in  the  dower 

Of  spanning  wisdom  ;  though  I  do  not  know 
The  shiftings  of  the  mighty  winds  that  blow 

Hither  and  thither  all  the  changing  thoughts 

Of  man  :  though  no  great  minist'ring  reason  sorts 

Out  the  dark  mysteries  of  human  souls 

*To  clear  conceiving :  yet  there  ever  rolls  ssgo 

A  vast  idea  before  me,  and  I  glean 

Therefrom  my  liberty  ;  thence  too  I've  seen 

The  end  and  aim  of  Poesy.     'Tis  clear 

As  anything  most  true  ;  as  that  the  year 

Is  made  of  the  four  seasons — manifest 

As  a  large  cross,  some  old  cathedral's  crest, 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY  47 

Lifted  to  the  white  clouds.     Therefore  should  I 

Be  but  the  essence  of  deformity, 

A  coward,  did  my  very  eye-lids  wink 

At  speaking  out  what  I  have  dared  to  think.  300 

Ah !  rather  let  me  like  a  madman  run 

Over  some  precipice ;  let  the  hot  sun 

Melt  my  Dedalian  wings,  and  drive  me  down 

Convuls'd  arid  headlong !     Stay !  an  inward  frown 

Of  conscience  bids  me  be  more  calm  awhile. 

An  ocean  dim,  sprinkled  with  many  an  isle. 

Spreads  awfully  before  me.     How  much  toil  ] 

How  many  days  !  what  desperate  turmoil ! 

Ere  I  can  have  explored  its  widenesses. 

Ah,  what  a  task !  upon  my  bended  knees,  310 

I  could  unsay  those — no,  impossible  ! 

Impossible ! 

For  sweet  relief  I'll  dwell 
On  humbler  thoughts,  and  let  this  strange  assay 
Begun  in  gentleness  die  so  away. 
E'en  now  all  tumult  from  my  bosom  fades  : 
I  turn  full  hearted  to  the  friendly  aids 
That  smooth  the  path  of  honour  ;  brotherhood. 
And  friendliness  the  nurse  of  mutual  good. 
The  hearty  grasp  that  sends  a  pleasant  sonnet 
Into  the  brain  ere  one  can  think  upon  it ;  320 

The  silence  when  some  rhymes  are  coming  out ; 
And  when  they're  come,  the  very  pleasant  rout : 
The  message  certain  to  be  done  to-morrow. 
'Tis  perhaps  as  well  that  it  should  be  to  borrow 
Some  precious  book  from  out  its  snug  retreat. 
To  cluster  round  it  when  we  next  shall  meet. 
Scarce  can  I  scribble  on  ;  for  lovely  airs 
Are  fluttering  round  the  room  like  doves  in  pairs ; 
Many  delights  of  that  glad  day  recalling. 
When  first  my  senses  caught  their  tender  falling.  330 

And  with  these  airs  come  forms  of  elegance 
Stooping  their  shoulders  o'er  a  horse's  prance. 
Careless,  and  grand — fingers  soft  and  round 
Parting  luxuriant  curls  ; — and  the  swift  bound 
Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  when  his  eye 
Made  Ariadne's  cheek  look  blushingly. 
Thus  I  remember  all  the  pleasant  flow 
Of  words  at  opening  a  portfolio. 

Things  such  as  these  are  ever  harbingers 

To  trains  of  peaceful  images :  the  stirs  340 

Of  a  swan's  neck  unseen  among  the  rushes  ; 

A  linnet  starting  all  about  the  bushes  :- 


48  JOHN  KEATS 

A  butterfly,  with  golden  wings  broad  parted. 

Nestling  a  rose,  convuls'd  as  though  it  smarted 

With  over  pleasure — many,  many  more, 

Might  I  indulge  at  large  in  all  my  store 

Of  luxuries  :  yet  I  must  not  forget 

Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet : 

For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 

I  partly  owe  to  him :  and  thus,  the  chimes  350 

Of  friendly  voices  had  just  given  place 

To  as  sweet  a  silence,  when  I  'gan  retrace 

The  pleasant  day,  upon  a  couch  at  ease. 

It  was  a  poet's  house  who  keeps  the  keys 

Of  pleasure's  temple.     Round  about  were  hung 

The  glorious  features  of  the  bards  who  sung 

In  other  ages — cold  and  sacred  busts 

Smiled  at  each  other.     Happy  he  who  trusts 

To  clear  Futurity  his  darling  fame ! 

Then  there  were  fauns  and  satyrs  taking  aim  3^0 

At  swelling  apples  with  a  frisky  leap 

And  reaching  fingers,  'mid  a  luscious  heap 

Of  vine-leaves.     Then  there  rose  to  view  a  fane 

Of  liny  marble,  and  thereto  a  train 

Of  nymphs  approaching  fairly  o'er  the  sward  : 

One,  loveliest,  holding  her  white  hand  toward 

The  dazzling  sun-rise  :  two  sisters  sweet 

Bending  their  graceful  figures  till  they  meet 

Over  the  trippings  of  a  little  child : 

And  some  are  hearing,  eagerly,  the  wild  370 

Thrilling  liquidity  of  dewy  piping. 

See,  in  another  picture,  nymphs  are  wiping 

Cherishingly  Diana's  timorous  limbs ; — 

A  fold  of  lawny  mantle  dabbling  swims 

At  the  bath's  edge,  and  keeps  a  gentle  motion 

With  the  subsiding  crystal :  as  when  ocean 

Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 

Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 

The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  unshent  by  foam 

Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home.  380 

Sappho's  meek  head  was  there  half  smiling  down 
At  nothing;  just  as  though  the  earnest  frown 
Of  over  thinking  had  that  moment  gone 
From  off  her  brow,  and  left  her  all  alone. 

Great  Alfred's  too,  with  anxious,  pit3ring  eyes. 
As  if  he  always  listened  to  the  sighs 
Of  the  goaded  world  ;  and  Kosciusko's  worn 
By  horrid  suffrance— Rjightily  forlorn. 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY  49 

Petrarch,  outstepping  from  the  shady  green. 

Starts  at  the  sight  of  Laura ;  nor  can  wean  390 

His  eyes  from  her  sweet  face.     Most  happy  they ! 

For  over  them  was  seen  a  free  display 

Of  out-spread  wings,  and  from  between  them  shone 

The  face  of  Poesy  :  from  off  her  throne 

She  overlook'd  things  that  I  scarce  could  tell. 

The  very  sense  of  where  I  was  might  well 

Keep  Sleep  aloof :  but  more  than  that  there  came 

Thought  after  thought  to  nourish  up  the  flame 

Within  my  breast ;  so  that  the  morning  light 

Surprised  me  even  from  a  sleepless  night ;  400 

And  up  I  rose  refresh'd,  and  glad,  and  gay. 

Resolving  to  begin  that  very  day 

These  lines  ;  and  howsoever  they  be  done, 

I  leave  them  as  a  father  does  his  son. 


ENDYMION 

a  ipoetic  IRomance 

'  THE   STRETCHED   METRE   OF  A^f  ANTIQUE  SONG  " 


INSCRIBED 

TO   THE    MEMORY 

OF 

THOMAS    CHATTERTON 


ENDYMION 


PREFACE 


KNOWING  within  myself  the  manner  in  which  this  Poem  has 
been  produced,  it  is  not  without  a  feeling  of  regret  that  I 
make  it  public. 

What  manner  I  mean,  will  be  quite  clear  to  the  reader,  who  must 
soon  perceive  great  inexperience,  immaturity,  and  every  error  de- 
noting a  feverish  attempt,  rather  than  a  deed  accomplished.  The 
two  first  books,  and  indeed  the  two  last,  I  feel  sensible  are  not  of 
'  such  completion  as  to  warrant  their  passing  the  press  ;  nor  should 
they  if  I  thought  a  year's  castigation  would  do  them  any  good ; — 
it  will  not :  the  foundations  are  too  sandy.  It  is  just  that  this 
youngster  should  die  away :  a  sad  thought  for  me,  if  I  had  not 
some  hope  that  while  it  is  dwindling  I  may  be  plotting,  and  fitting 
myself  for  verses  fit  to  live. 

This  may  be  speaking  too  presumptuously,  and  may  deserve  a 
punishment :  but  no  feeling  man  will  be  forward  to  inflict  it :  he 
^  will  leave  me  alone,  with  the  conviction  that  there  is  not  a  fiercer 
t  hell  than  the  failure  in  a  great  object.  This  is  not  written  with 
the  least  atom  of  purpose  to  forestall  criticisms  of  course,  but  from 
the  desire  I  have  to  conciliate  men  who  are  competent  to  look, 
and  who  do  look  with  a  zealous  eye,  to  the  honour  of  EngUsh 
literature.  ' 

The  imagination  of  a  boy  is  healthy,  and  the  mature  imagination 
of  a  man  is  healthy ;  but  there  is  a  space  of  life  between,  in  which 
the  soul  is  in  a  ferment,  the  character  undecided,  the  way  of  life 
uncertain,  the  ambition  thick-sighted  :  thence  proceeds  mawkish- 
ness,  and  all  the  thousand  bitters  which  those  men  I  speak  of  must 
necessarily  taste  in  going  over  the  following  pages. 

I  hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful 
mythology  of  Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness :  for  I  wish  to  try 
once  more,  before  I  bid  it  farewel. 

Tiignmouth, 
April  lo,  1818. 


ENDYMION 

BOOK  I 

A    THING  of  beauty  i|g,jjsx_^».  ever  ^ 
jr\_     Its  loveliness  increases ;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness ;  but  still  will  keep 
A  bower  quiet  for  us,  and  a  sleep 
Full  of  sweet  dreams,  and  health,  and  quiet  breathing. 
Therefore,  on  every  morrow,  are  we  wreathing 
A  flowery  band  to  bind  us  to  the  earth. 
Spite  of  despondence,  of  the  inhuman  dearth 
Of  noble  natures,  of  the  gloomy  days. 
Of  all  the  imhealthy  and  o'er-darkened  ways 
Made  for  our  searching :  yes,  in  spite  of  aU, 


I  moon. 

Trees  old,  and  young,  sprouting  a  shady  boon 
For  simple  sheep ;  and  such  are  daiFodik 
With  the  green  world  they  live  in  ;  and  clear  rills 
That  for  themselves  a  cooling  covert  make 
'Gainst  the  hot  season ;  the  mid  forest  brake. 
Rich  with  a  sprinkling  of  fa'ir  musk-rose  blooms  : 
And  such  too  is  the  grandeur- of  the  dooms 
We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead  ; 
All  lovely  tales  that  we  have  heard  or  read  : 
An  endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink, 
Pouring  unto  us  from  the  heaven's  brink. 

Nor  do  we  merely  feel  these  essences 
For  one  short  hoiu" ;  no,  even  as  the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self,  so  does  the  moon. 
The  passion  poesy,  glories  infinite. 
Haunt  us  till  they  become  a  cheering  light 
Unto  our  souls,  and  bound  to  us~so  fast. 
That,  whether  there  be  shine,  or  gloom  o'ercast, 
They  al-«fay  must  be  with  us,  or  yfe  die, 


Si  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

Therefore,  'tis  with  full  happiness  that  I 
Will  trace  the  story  of  Endymion. 
The  very  music  of  the  name  has  gone 
Into  my  being,  and  each  pleasant  scene 
Is  growing,  fresh  before  me  as  the  green 
Of  our  own  vallies  :  so  I  wiU  begin 

Now  while  I  cannot  hear  the  city's  din  ;  40 

Now  while  the  early  budders  are  just  new, 
And  run  in  mazes  of  the  youngest  hue 
About  old  forests ;  while  the  willow  trails 
Its  delicate  amber  ;  and  the  dairy  pails 
Bring  home  increase  of  milk.     And,  as  the  year 
Grows  lush  in  juicy  stalks,  I'll  smoothly  steer 
My  little  boat,  for  many  quiet  hours. 
With  streams  that  deepen  freshly  into  bowers. 
Many  and  many  a  verse  I  hope  to  write. 

Before  the  daisies,  vermeil  rimm'd  and  white,  50 

Hide  in  deep  herbage  ;  and  ere  yet  the  bees 
Hum  about  globes  of  clover  and  sweet  peas, 
I  must  be  near  the  middle  of  my  story. 
O  may  no  wintry  season,  bare  and  hoary. 
See  it  half  finished  :  but  let  Autumn  bold. 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold, 
Be  all  about  me  when  I  make  an  end. 
And  now  at  once,  adventuresome,  I  send 
My  herald  thought  into  a  wilderness : 

There  let  its  trumpet  blow,  and  quickly  dress  60 

My  uncertain  path  with  green,  that  I  may  speed 
Easily  onward,  thorough  flowers  and  weed. 

Upon  the  sides  of  Latmus  was  outspread 
A  mighty  forest ;  for  the  moist  earth  fed 
So  plenteously  all  weed-hidden  roots 
Into  o'er-hanging  boughs,  and  precious  fruits. 
And  it  had  gloomy  shades,  sequestered  deep. 
Where  no  man  went ;  and  if  from  shepherd's  keep 
A  lamb  strayed  far  a-down  those  inmost  glens. 
Never  again  saw  he  the  hapg^  pens  70 

Whither  his  brethren,  blea^g  with  content. 
Over  the  hills  at  every  nightfall  went. 
Among  the  shepherds,  'twas  believed  ever. 
That  not  one  fleecy  lamb  which  thus  did  sever 
From  the  white  flock,  but  pass'd  unworried 
By  angry  wolf,  or  pard  with  prying  head. 
Until  it  came  to  some  unfooted  plains 
Where  fed  the  herds  of  Pan  :  ay  great  his  gains 
Who  thus  one  lamb  did  lose.     Paths  there  were  many,       '^ 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  35 

Winding  through  palmy  fern,  and  rushes  fenny,  80 

And  ivy  banks  ;  all  leading  pleasantly 

To  a  wide  lawn,  whence  one  could  only  see 

Stems  thronging  all  around  between  the  swell 

Of  turf  and  slanting  branches :  who  could  tell 

The  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 

Edg'd  round  with  dark  tree  tops  ?  through  which  a  dove 

Would  often  beat  its  wings,  and  often  too 

A  little  cloud  would  move  across  the  blue. 

Full  in  the  middle  of  this  pleasantness 
There  stood  a  marble  altar,  with  a  tress  90 

Of  flowers  budded  newly ;  and  the  dew 
Had  taken  fairy  phantasies  to  strew 
Daisies  upon  the  sacred  sward  last  eve. 
And  so  the  dawned  light  in  pomp  receive. 
For  'twas  the  morn :  Apollo's  upward  fire 
Made  every  eastern  cloud  a  silvery  pyre 
Of  brightness  so  unsullied,  that  therein 
A  melancholy  spirit  well  might  win 
Oblivion,  and  melt  out  his  essence  fine 

Into  the  winds :  rain-scented  eglantine  ioq^ 

Gave  temperate  sweets  to  that  well- wooing  sun ; 
The  lark  was  lost  in  him  ;  cold  springs  had  run 
To  warm  their  chilliest  bubbles  in  the  grass  ; 
Man's  voice  was  on  the  mountains  ;  and  the  mass 
Of  nature's  lives  and  wonders  puls'd  tenfold, 
To  feel  this  sun-rise  and  its  glories  old. 

Now  while  the  silent  workings  of  the  dawn 
Were  busiest,  into  that  self-same  lawn 
AU  suddenly,  with^jpyfiil  cries,  there  sped 
A  troop  of  little  cliilaren  garlanded ;  no 

Who  gathering  round  the  altar,  seemed  to  pry 
Earnestly  round  as  wishing  to  espy 
Some  folk  of  holiday :  nor  had  they  waited 
For  many  moments,  ere  their  ears  were  sated 
With  a  faint  breath  of  music,  which  ev'n  then 
Fill'd  out  its  voice,  and  died  away  again. 
Within  a  little  space  again  it  gave 
Its  airy  swellings,  with  a  gentle  wave. 
To  light-hung  leaves,  in  smoothest  echoes  breaking 
Through  copse-clad  vallies, — ere  their  death,  o'ertaking        120 
The  surgy  murmurs  of  the  lonely  sea. 

And  now,  as  deep  into  the  wood  as  we 
Might  mark  a  Ijnax's  eye,  there  glimmered  light 


56  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

Fair  faces  and  a  rush  of  garments  white. 

Plainer  and  plainer  shewing,  till  at  last 

Into  the  widest  alley  they  all  past, 

Making  directly  for  the  woodland  altar. 

O  kindly  muse  !  let  not  my  weak  tongue  faulter 

In  telling  of  this  goodly  company. 

Of  their  old  piety,  and  of  their  glee  :  130 

But  let  a  portion  of  ethereal  dew 

Fall  on  my  head,  and  presently  unmew 

My  soul ;  that  I  may  dare,  in  way&ring. 

To  stammer  where  old  Chaucer  used  to  sing. 

Leading  the  way,  young  damsels  danced  along. 

Bearing  the  burden  of  a  shepherd  song  ; 

Each  having  a  white  wicker  over  briram'd 

With  April's  tender  younglings :  next,  well  trimm'd, 

A  crowd  of  shepherds  with  as  sunbm-nt  looks 

As  may  be  read  of  in  Arcadian  books ;  1^0 

Such  as  sat  listening  round  Apollo's  pipe. 

When  the  great  deity,  for  earth  too  ripe. 

Let  his  divinity  o'erflowing  die 

In  music,  through  the  vales  of  Thessaly : 

Some  idly  trailed  their  sheep-hooks  on  the  ground. 

And  some  kept  up  a  shrilly  mellow  sound 

With  ebon-tipped  flutes :  close  after  these. 

Now  coming  from  beneath  the  forest  trees, 

A  venerable  priest  full  soberly. 

Begirt  with  miuistring  looks :  alway  his  eye  150 

Stedfast  upon  the  matted  turf  he  kept. 

And  after  him  his  sacred  vestments  swept. 

From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  vase,  milk-white. 

Of  mingled  wine,  out-sparkling  generous  light ; 

And  in  his  left  he  held  a  basket  full 

Of  all  sweet  herbs  that  searching  eye  could  cull : 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley-lilies  whiter  still 

Than  Leda's  love,  and  cresses  from  the  rill. 

His  aged  head,  crowned  with  beechen  wreath, 

Seem'd  like  a  poll  of  ivy  in  the  teeth  i6o 

Of  winter  hoar.     Then  came  another  crowd 

Of  shepherds,  lifting  in  due  time  aloud 

Their  share  of  the  ditty.     After  them  appear'd. 

Up-followed  by  a  multitude  that  rear'd 

Their  voices  to  the  clouds,  a  fair  wrought  car. 

Easily  rolling  so  as  scarce  to  mar 

The  freedom  of  three  steeds  of  dapple  brown : 

Who  stood  therein  did  seem  of  great  renown 

Among  the  throng.     His  youth  was  fully  blown. 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  57 

Showing  like  Ganymede  to  manhood  grown :  170 

And,  for  those  simple  times,  his  garments  were 

A  chieftain  king's :  beneath  his  breast,  half  bare. 

Was  hung  a  silver  bugle,  and  between 

His  nervy  knees  there  lay  a  boar-spear  keen. 

A  smile  was  on  his  countenance  ;  he  seem'd, 

To  common  lookers  on,  like  one  who  dream' d 

Of  idleness  in  groves  Elysian  : 

But  there  were  some  who  feelingly  could  scan 

A  lurking  trouble  in  his  nether  lip. 

And  see  that  oftentimes  the  reins  would  slip  igo 

Through  his  forgotten  hands :  then  would  they  sigh. 

And  think  of  yellow  leaves,  of  owlets'  cry. 

Of  logs  piled  solemnly. — Ah,  well-a-day. 

Why  should  our  young  End}rmion  pine  away ! 

Soon  the  assembly,  in  a  circle  rang'd. 
Stood  silent  round  the  shrine :  each  look  was  chang'd 
To  sudden  veneration :  women  meek 
Beckon'd  their  sons  to  silence  ;  while  each  cheek 
Of  virgin  bloom  paled  gently  for  slight  fear. 
Endymion  too,  without  a  forest  peer,  igo 

Stood,  wan,  and  pale,  and  with  an  awed  face, 
Among  his  brothers  of  the  mountain  chase 
In  midst  of  all,  the  venerable  priest 
Eyed  them  with  joy  from  greatest  to  the  least, 
And,  after  lifting  up  his  aged  hands. 
Thus  spake  he  :  "  Men  of  Latmos  !  shepherd  bands  ! 
Whose  care  it  is  to  guard  a  thousand  flocks  : 
Whether  descended  from  beneath  the  rocks 
That  overtop  your  mountains  ;  whether  come 
From  vallies  where  the  pipe  is  never  dumb ;  200 

Or  from  your  swelling  downs,  where  sweet  air  stirs 
Blue  hare-bells  lightly,  and  where  prickly  furze 
Buds  lavish  gold ;  or  ye,  whose  precious  charge 
Nibble  their  fill  at  ocean's  very  marge. 
Whose  mellow  reeds  are  touch'd  with  sounds  forlorn 
By  the  dim  echoes  of  old  Triton's  horn : 
Mothers  and  wives  !  who  day  by  day  prepare 
The  scrip,  with  needments,  for  the  mountain  air ; 
And  all  ye  gentle  girls  who  foster  up 

Udderless  lambs,  and  in  a  little  cup  210 

Will  put  choice  honey  for  a  favoured  youth  : 
Yea,  every  one  attend  !  for  in  good  truth 
Our  vows  are  wanting  to  our  great  god  Pan. 
Are  not  our  lowing  heifers  sleeker  than 
Night-swollen  mushrooms  ?     Are  not  our  wide  plains 


58  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

Speckled  with  countless  fleeces  ?     Have  not  rains 

Green'd  over  April's  lap  ?     No  howling  sad 

Sickens  our  fearful  ewes  ;  and  we  have  had 

Great  bounty  from  Endymion  our  lord. 

The  earth  is  glad  :  the  merry  lark  has  pour'd  220 

His  early  song  against  yon  breezy  sky. 

That  spreads  so  clear  o'er  our  solemnity." 

Thus  ending,  on  the  shrine  he  heap'd  a  spire 
Of  teeming  sweets,  enkindling  sacred  fire  ; 
Anon  he  stain'd  the  thick  and  spongy  sod 
With  wine,  in  honor  of  the  shepherd-god. 
Now  while  the  earth  was  drinking  it,  and  while 
Bay  leaves  were  crackling  in  the  fragrant  pile, 
And  gummy  frankincense  was  sparkling  bright 
'Neath  smothering  parsley,  and  a  hazy  light  230 

Spread  greyly  eastward,  thus  a  chorus  sang : 

"  O  THOU,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness  ; 
Who  lov'st  to  see  the  hamadryads  dress 
Their  rufiled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken  ; 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit,  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds — 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange. overgrowth  ; 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now. 
By  thy  love's  milky  brow ! 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran. 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

"  O  thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles. 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms  :     O  thou,  to  whom 
Broad  leaved  fig  trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage  ;  yeUow  girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs ;  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  com  ; 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn. 
To  sing  for  thee  ;  low  creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness ;  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings  ;  yea,  the  fresh  budding  year 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  59 

All  its  completions — be  quickly  near,  260 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine ! 

"  Thou,  to  whom  every  fawn  and  sat3nr  flies 
For  willing  service  ;  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half  sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw  ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
BewUdered  shepherds  to  their  path  again  ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main,  270 

And  gather  up  all  fancifuUest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells. 
And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peeping  ; 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping. 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak  apples,  and  fir  cones  brown — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring. 
Hear  us,  O  sat3rr  king ! 

"  O  Hearkener  to  the  loud  clapping  shears 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers  280 

A  ram  goes  bleating :     Winder  of  the  horn. 
When  snouted  wild-boars  routing  tender  corn 
Anger  our  huntsmen  :     Breather  round  our  farms. 
To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms  : 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds. 
That  come  a  swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors : 
Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see. 

Great  son  of  Dryope,  290 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows ! 

"  Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings  ;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven. 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain  :  be  still  the  leaven. 
That  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth 
Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal — a  new  birth : 
Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity  ; 

A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea ;  300 

An  element  filling  the  space  between  ; 
An  unknown — but  no  more  :  we  humbly  screen 
With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending. 


60  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

And  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven  rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  P8Ban> 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! " 

Even  while  they  brought  the  burden  to  a  close, 

A  shout  from  the  whole  multitude  arose. 

That  lingered  in  the  air  like  dpng  rolls 

Of  abrupt  thunder,  when  Ionian  shoals  310 

Of  dolphins  bob  their  noses  through  the  brine. 

Meantime,  on  shady  levels,  mossy  fine, 

Young  companies  nimbly  began  dancing 

To  the  swift  treble  pipe,  and  humming  string. 

Aye,  those  fair  living  forms  swam  heavenly 

To  tunes  forgotten — out  of  memory : 

Fair  creatures !  whose  young  children's  children  bred 

ThermopylsB  its  heroes — not  yet  dead,  \     \^^ 

But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful.  /     ^^ 

High  genitors,  unconscious  did  they  cull  320 

Time's  sweet  first-fruits — they  danc'd  to  weariness. 

And  then  in  quiet  circles  did  they  press 

The  hillock  turf,  and  caught  the  latter  end 

Of  some  strange  history,  potent  to  send 

A  young  mind  from  its  bodily  tenement. 

Or  they  might  watch  the  quoit-pitchers,  intent 

On  either  side  ;  pitying  the  sad  death 

Of  Hyacinthus,  whep  the  cruel  breath 

Of  Zeph3rr  slew  him, — Zephjrr  penitent. 

Who  now,  ere  Phoebus  mounts  the  firmament,  330 

Fondles  the  flower  amid  the  sobbing  rain. 

The  archers  too,  upon  a  wider  plain. 

Beside  the  feathery  whizzing  of  the  shaft. 

And  the  dull  twanging  bowstring,  and  the  raft 

Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top, 

Call'd  up  a  thousand  thoughts  to  envelope 

Those  who  would  watch.     Perhaps,  the  trembling  knee 

And  frantic  gape  of  lonely  Niobe, 

Poor,  lonely  Niobe  !  when  her  lovely  young 

Were  dead  and  gone,  and  her  caressing  tongue  340 

Lay  a  lost  thing  upon  her  paly  lip. 

And  very,  very  deadliness  did  nip 

Her  motherly  cheeks.     Arous'd  from  this  sad  mood 

By  one,  who  at  a  distance  loud  halloo' d. 

Uplifting  his  strong  bow  into  the  air. 

Many  might  after  brighter  visions  stare  : 

After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze 

Tossing  about  on  Neptune's  restless  ways, 

Until,  from  the  horizon's  vaulted  side, 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  61 

There  shot  a  golden  splendour  far  and  wide,  350 

Spangling  those  million  poutings  of  the  brine 

With  quivering  ore  :  'twas  even  an  awfiil  shine 

From  the  exaltation  of  Apollo's  bow  ; 

A  heavenly  beacon  in  their  dreary  woe. 

Who  thus  were  ripe  for  high  contemplating, 

Might  turn  their, steps  towards  the  sober  ring 

Where  sat  Endymion  and  the  aged  priest 

'Mong  shepherds  gone  in  eld,  whose  looks  increas'd 

The  silvery  setting  of  their  mortal  star. 

There  they  discours'd  upon  the  fragile  bar  360 

That  keeps  us  from  our  homes  ethereal ; 

And  what  our  duties  there  :  to  nightly  call 

Vesper,  the  beauty-crest  of  summer  weather ; 

To  summon  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 

For  the  sun's  purple  couch ;  to  emulate 

In  ministring  the  potent  rule  of  fate 

With  speed  of  fire-tailed  exhalations  ; 

To  tint  her  pallid  cheek  with  bloom,  who  cons 

Sweet  poesy  by  moonlight :  besides  these, 

A  world  of  other  unguess'd  offices.  370 

Anon  they  wander' d,  by  divine  converse, 

Into  Elysium ;  vieing  to  rehearse 

Each  one  his  own  anticipated  bliss. 

One  felt  heart-certain  that  he  could  not  miss 

His  quick  gone  love,  among  fair  blossom'd  boughs. 

Where  every  zephyr-sigh  pouts,  and  endows 

Her  lips  with  music  for  the  welcoming. 

Another  wish'd,  mid  that  eternal  spring. 

To  meet  his  rosy  child,  with  feathery  sails. 

Sweeping,  eye-earnestly,  through  almond  vales :  380 

Who,  suddenly,  should  stoop  through  the  smooth  wind. 

And  with  the  balmiest  leaves  his  temples  bind  ; 

And,  ever  after,  through  those  regions  be 

His  messenger,  his  little  Mercury. 

Some  were  athirst  in  soul  to  see  again 

Their  fellow  huntsmen  o'er  the  wide  champaign 

In  times  long  past ;  to  sit  with  them,  and  talk 

Of  all  the  chances  in  their  earthly  walk ; 

Comparing,  joyfully,  their  plenteous  stores 

Of  happiness,  to  when  upon  the  moors,  390 

Benighted,  close  they  huddled  from  the  cold. 

And  shar'd  their  famish'd  scrips.     Thus  all  out-told 

Their  fond  imaginations, — Saving  him 

Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim, 

Endymion :  yet  hourly  had  he  striven 

To  hide  the  cankering  venom,  that  had  riven 


JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

His  fainting  recollections.     Now  indeed 

His  senses  had  swoon'd  off:  he  did  not  heed 

The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low. 

Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe,  400 

Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms. 

Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms : 

But  in  the  self-same  fixed  trance  he  kept. 

Like  one  who  on  the  earth  had  never  stept. 

Aye,  even  as  dead-still  as  a  marble  man, 

Frozen  in  that  old  tale  Arabian. 

Who  whispers  him  so  pantingly  and  close  .■" 
Peona,  his  sweet  sister :  of  all  those. 
His  friends,  the  dearest.     Hushing  signs  she  made. 
And  breath'd  a  sister's  sorrow  to  persuade  410 

A  yielding  up,  a  cradling  on  her  care. 
Her  eloquence  did  breathe  away  the  curse  : 
She  led  him,  like  some  midnight  spirit  nurse 
Of  happy  changes  in  emphatic  dreams. 
Along  a  path^between  two  little  streams, — 
Guarding  his  forehead,  with  her  round  elbow. 
From  low-grown  branches,  and  his  footsteps  slow 
From  stumbling  over  stumps  and  hillocks  small ; 
Until  they  came  to  where  these  streamlets  fall. 
With  mingled  bubblings  and  a  gentle  rush,  420 

Into  a  river,  clear,  brimful,  and  flush 
With  crystal  mocking  of  the  trees  and  sky. 
A  little  shallop,  floating  there  hard  by. 
Pointed  its  beak  over  the  fringed  bank ; 
And  soon  it  lightly  dipt,  and  rose,  and  sank. 
And  dipt  again,  with  the  young  couple's  weight, — 
Peona  guiding,  through  the  water  straight, 
Towards  a  bowery  island  opposite  ; 
Which  gaining  presently,  she  steered  light 
Into  a  shady,  fresh,  and  ripply  cove,  430 

Where  nested  was  an  arbour,  overwove 
By  many  a  summer's  silent  fingering  ; 
To  whose  cool  bosom  she  was  used  to  bring 
Her  plajrmates,  with  their  needle  broidery. 
And  minstrel  memories  of  times  gone  by. 

So  she  was  gently  glad  to  see  him  laid 
Under  her  favourite  bower's  quiet  shade. 
On  her  own  couch,  new  made  of  flower  leaves. 
Dried  carefully  on  the  cooler  side  of  sheaves 
When  last  the  sun  his  autunm  tresses  shook,  440 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  68 

And  the  tann'd  harvesters  rich  armfids  took. 

Soon  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest : 

But,  ere  it  crept  upon  him,  he  had  prest 

Peona's  busy  hand  against  his  lips. 

And  still,  a  sleeping,  held  her  finger-tips 

In  tender  pressure.     And  as  a  willow  keeps 

A  patient  watch  over  the  stream  that  creeps 

Windingly  by  it,  so  the  quiet  maid 

Held  her  in  peace  :  so  that  a  whispering  blade 

Of  grass,  a  wailful  gnat,  a  bee  bustling  450 

Down  in  the  blue-bells,  or  a  wren  light  rustling 

Among  sere  leaves  and  twigs,  might  all  be  heanl. 

O  magic  sleep  !     O  comfortable  bird. 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth  !     O  unconfin'd 
Restraint !  imprisoned  liberty  !  great  key 
To  golden  palaces,  strange  minstrelsy. 
Fountains  grotesque,  new  trees,  bespangled  caves. 
Echoing  grottos,  full  of  tumbling  waves 

And  moonlight ;  aye,  to  all  the  mazy  world  460 

Of  silvery  enchantment ! — ^who,  upfurl'd 
Beneath  thy  drowsy  wing  a  triple  hour. 
But  renovates  and  lives  ? — Thus,  in  the  bower, 
Endymion  was  calm'd  to  life  again. 
Opening  his  eyelids  with  a  healthier  brain. 
He  said  :  "  I  feel  this  thine  endearing  love 
All  through  my  bosom  :  thou  art  as  a  dove 
Trembling  its  closed  eyes  and  sleeked  wings 
About  me  ;  and  the  pearUest  dew  not  brings 
Such  morning  incense  from  the  fields  of  May,  470 

As  do  those  brighter  drops  that  twinkling  stray 
From  those  kind  eyes, — ^the  very  home  and  haunt 
Of  sisterly  affection.     Can  I  want 
Aught  else,  aught  nearer  heaven,  than  such  tears  ? 
Yet  dry  them  up,  in  bidding  hence  all  fears 
That,  any  longer,  I  will  pass  my  days 
Alone  and  sad.     No,  I  will  once  more  raise 
My  voice  upon  the  mountain-heights ;  once  more 
Make  my  ham  parley  from  their  foreheads  hoar  ; 
Again  my  trooping  hounds  their  tongues  shall  loll  480 

Around  the  breathed  boar  :  again  I'll  poll 
The  fair-grown  yew  tree,  for  a  chosen  bow  : 
And,  when  the  pleasant  sun  is  getting  low. 
Again  I'll  linger  in  a  sloping  mead 
To  hear  the  speckled  thrushes,  and  see  feed 
Our  idle  sheep.     So  be  thou  cheered  sweet. 


64  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

And,  if  thy  lute  is  here,  softly  intreat 
My  soul  to  keep  in  its  resolved  course." 

Hereat  Peona,  in  their  silver  source. 
Shut  her  pure  sorrow  drops  with  glad  exclaim,  ^go 

And  took  a  lute,  from  which  there  pulsing  came 
A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  her  voice  should  wander.     'Twas  a  lay 
More  subtle  cadenced,  more  forest  wild 
Than  Dryope's  lone  lulling  of  her  child ; 
And  nothing  since  has  floated  in  the  air 
So  mournful  strange.     Surely  some  influence  rare 
Went,  spiritual,  through  the  damsel's  hand  ; 
For  still,  with  Delphic  emphasis,  she  spann'd 
The  quick  invisible  strings,  even  though  she  saw  500 

Endymion's  spirit  melt  away  and  thaw 
Before  the  deep  intoxication. 
But  soon  she  came,  with  sudden  burst,  upon 
Her  self-possession — swung  the  lute  aside. 
And  earnestly  said  :     "  Brother,  'tis  vain  to  hide 
That  thou  dost  know  of  things  mysterious. 
Immortal,  starry ;  such  alone  could  thus 
Weigh  down  thy  nature.     Hast  thou  sinn'd  in  aught 
Offensive  to  the  heavenly  powers  ?     Caught 
A  Paphian  dove  upon  a  message  sent  ?  510 

Thy  deathfiil  bow  against  some  deer-herd  bent 
Sacred  to  Dian  ?     Haply,  thou  hast  seen 
Her  naked  limbs  among  the  alders  green  ; 
And  that,  alas  !  is  death.     No  I  can  trace 
Something  more  high  perplexing  in  thy  £ice !  " 

Endymion  look'd  at  her,  and  press'd  her  hand. 
And  said,  "  Art  thou  so  pale,  who  wast  so  bland 
And  5jeMy  in  our  meadows  ?     How  is  this  } 
Tell  meThine  ailment :  tell  me  all  amiss ! — 
Ah  !  thou  hast  been  unhappy  at  the  change  520 

Wrought  suddenly  in  me.     What  indeed  more  strange  } 
Or  more  complete  to  overwhelm  surmise  ? 
Ambition  is  no  sluggard  :  'tis  no  prize. 
That  toiling  years  would  put  within  my  grasp. 
That  I  have  sigh'd  for  :  with  so  deadly  gasp 
No  man  e'er  panted  for  a  mortal  love. 
So  all  have  set  my  heavier  grief  above 
These  things  which  happen.     Rightly  have  they  done  : 
I,  who  still  saw  the  horizontal  sun 

Heave  his  broad  shoulder  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world,  530 

Out-facing  Lucifer,  and  then  had  hurl'd 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  65 

My  spear  aloft,  as  signal  for  the  chace — 
I,  who,  for  very  sport  of  heart,  would  race 
With  my  own  steed  from  Araby ;  pluck  down 
A  vulture  from  his  towery  perching  ;  frown 
A  lion  into  growling,  loth  retire — 
To  lose,  at  once,  all  my  toil  breeding  fire. 
And  sink  thus  low  !  but  I  will  ease  my  breast 
Of  secret  grief,  here  in  this  bowery  nest. 

"  This  river  does  not  see  the  naked  sky,  540 

TiU  it  begins  to  progress  silverly 
Around  the  western  border  of  the  wood. 
Whence,  from  a  certain  spot,  its  winding  flood 
Seems  at  the  distance  like  a  crescent  moon : 
And  in  that  nook,  the  very  pride  of  June, 
Had  I  been  used  to  pass  my  weary  eves  ; 
The  rather  for  the  sun  unwilling  leaves 
So  dear  a  picture  of  his  sovereign  power. 
And  I  could  witness  his  most  kingly  hour. 
When  he  doth  tighten  up  the  golden  reins,  550 

And  paces  leisurely  down  amber  plains 
His  snorting  four.     Now  when  his  chariot  last 
Its  beams  against  the  zodiac-lion  cast. 
There  blossom' d  suddenly  a  magic  bed 
Of  sacred  ditamy,  and  poppies  red  : 
At  which  I  wondered  greatly,  knowing  well 
That  but  one  night  had  wrought  this  flowery  spell ; 
And,  sitting  down  close  by,  began  to  muse 
What  it  might  mean.     Perhaps,  thought  I,  Morpheus, 
In  passing  here,  his  owlet  pinions  shook ;  560 

Or,  it  may  be,  ere  matron  Night  uptook 
Her  ebon  urn,  young  Mercury,  by  stealth. 
Had  dipt  his  rod  in  it :  such  garland  wealth 
Came  not  by  common  growth.     Thus  on  I  thought. 
Until  my  head  was  dizzy  and  distraught. 
Moreover,  through  the  dancing  poppies  stole 
A  breeze,  most  softly  lulling  to  my  soul ; 
And  shaping  visions  all  about  my  sight 
Of  colours,  wings,  and  bursts  of  spangly  Hght ; 
The  which  became  more  strange,  and  strange,  and  dim,         570 
And  then  were  gulph'd  in  a  tumultuous  swim : 
And  then  I  fell  asleep.     Ah,  can  I  tell 
The  enchantment  that  afterwards  befel  } 
Yet  it  was  but  a  dream  :  yet  such  a  dream 
That  never  tongue,  although  it  overteem 
With  mellow  utterance,  like  a  cavern  spring. 
Could  figure  out  and  to  conception  bring 
5 


66  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

All  I  beheld  and  felt.     Methought  I  lay 

Watching  the  zenith,  where  the  milky  way 

Among  the  stars  in  virgin  splendour  pours  ;^  580 

And  travelling  my  eye,  until  the  doors 

Of  heaven  appear'd  to  open  for  ray  flight, 

I  became  loth  and  fearM  to  alight 

From  such  high  soaring  by  a  downward  glance  : 

So  kept  me  stedfast  in  that  airy  trance. 

Spreading  imaginary  pinions  wide. 

When,  presently,  the  stars  began  to  glide. 

And  faint  away,  before  my  eager  view : 

At  which  I  sigh'd  that  I  could  not  pursue, 

And  dropt  my  vision  to  the  horizon's  verge  ;  390 

And  lo  !  from  opening  clouds,  I  saw  emerge 

The  loveliest  moon,  that  ever  silver'd  o'er 

A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet :  she  did  soar 

So  passionately  bright,  my  dazzled  soul 

Commingling  with  her  argent  spheres  did  roll 

Through  clear  and  cloudy,  even  when  she  went 

At  last  into  a  dark  and  vapoury  tent — 

Whereat,  methought,  the  lidless-eyed  train 

Of  planets  all  were  in  the  blue  again. 

To  commune  with  those  orbs,  once  more  I  rais'd  600 

My  sight  right  upward :  but  it  was  quite  dazed 

By  a  bright  something,  sailing  down  apace. 

Making  me  quickly  veil  my  eyes  and  fiice  : 

Again  I  look'd,  and,  O  ye  deities, 

Who  from  Olympus  watch  our  destinies ! 

Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  completeness  ? 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweetness  ? 

Speak,  stubborn  earth,  and  tell  me  where,  O  where 

Hast  thou  a  symbol  of  her  golden  hair  ? 

Not  oat-sheaves  drooping  in  the  western  sun  ;  610 

Not — thy  soft  hand,  fair  sister !  let  me  shun 

Such  follying  before  thee — yet  she  had. 

Indeed,  locks  bright  enough  to  make  me  mad ; 

And  they  were  simply  gordian'd  up  and  braided. 

Leaving,  in  naked  comeliness,  unshaded. 

Her  pearl  round  ears,  white  neck,  and  orbed  brow ; 

The  which  were  blended  in,  I  know  not  how. 

With  such  a  paradise  of  lips  and  eyes. 

Blush-tinted  cheeks,  half  smiles,  and  faintest  sighs. 

That,  when  I  think  thereon,  my  spirit  clings  620 

And  plays  about  its  fancy,  till  the  stings 

Of  human  neighbourhood  envenom  all. 

Unto  what  awful  power  shall  I  call  ? 

To  what  high  fane  ? — Al) !  see  her  hovering  feet. 


BOOK  1]  ENDYMION  67 

More  bluely  vein'd,  more  soft,  more  whitely  sweet 

Than  those  of  sea-bom  Venus,  when  she  rose 

From  out  her  cradle  shell.     The  wind  out-blows 

Her  scarf  into  a  fluttering  pavillion  ; 

'Tis  blue,  and  over-spangled  with  a  million 

Of  little  eyes,  as  though  thou  wert  to  shed,  630 

Over  the  darkest,  lushest  blue-bell  bed, 

Handfuls  of  daisies." — "  Endjonion,  how  strange  ! 

Dream  within  dream  ! " — "  She  took  an  airy  range, 

And  then,  towards  me,  like  a  very  maid. 

Came  blushing,  waning,  willing,  and  afraid. 

And  press'd  me  by  the  hand  :  Ah  !  'twas  too  much  ; 

Methought  I  fainted  at  the  charmed  touch. 

Yet  held  my  recollection,  even  as  one 

Who  dives  three  fathoms  where  the  waters  run 

Gurgling  in  beds  of  coral :  for  anon,  640 

I  felt  upmounted  in  that  region 

Where  falling  stars  dart  their  artillery  forth. 

And  eagles  struggle  with  the  buiFeting  north 

That  balances  the  heavy  meteor-stone ; — 

Felt  too,  I  was  not  fearful,  nor  alone. 

But  lapp'd  and  luU'd  along  the  dangerous  sky. 

Soon,  as  it  seem'd,  we  left  our  journeying  high. 

And  straightway  into  frightful  eddies  swoop'd ; 

Such  as  ay  muster  where  grey  time  has  scoop'd 

Huge  dens  and  caverns  in  a  mountain's  side  :  650 

There  hollow  sounds  arous'd  me,  and  I  sigh'd 

To  faint  once  more  by  looking  on  my  bliss — 

I  was  distracted ;  madly  did  I  kiss 

The  wooing  arms  which  held  me,  and  did  give 

My  eyes  at  once  to  death :  but  'twas  to  live. 

To  take  in  draughts  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 

Of  kind  and  passionate  looks ;  to  count,  and  count 

The  moments,  by  some  greedy  help  that  seem'd 

A  second  self,  that  each  rnight  be  redeem'd 

And  plunder'd  of  its  load  of  blessedness.  65o 

Ah,  desperate  mortal !  I  e'en  dar'd  to  press 

Her  very  cheek  against  my  crowned  lip. 

And,  at  that  moment,  felt  my  body  dip 

Into  a  warmer  air :  a  moment  more. 

Our  feet  were  soft  in  flowers.     There  was  store 

Of  newest  joys  upon  that  alp.     Sometimes 

A  scent  of  violets,  and  blossoming  limes, 

Loiter'd  around  us  ;  then  of  honey  cells. 

Made  dehcate  from  all  white-flower  beUs  ; 

And  once,  above  the  edges  of  our  nest,  670 

An  arch  face  peep'd, — an  Oread  as  I  guess'd. 


68  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

"  Why  did  I  dream  that  sleep  o'er-power'd  me 
In  midst  of  all  this  heaven  ?     Why  not  see, 
Far  off,  the  shadows  of  his  pinions  dark. 
And  stare  them  from  me  ?     But  no,  like  a  spark 
That  needs  must  die,  although  its  little  beam 
Reflects  upon  a  diamond,  my  sweet  dream 
Fell  into  nothing — into  stupid  sleep. 
And  so  it  was,  until  a  gentle  creep, 

A  careful  moving  caught  my  waking  ears,  G8o 

And  up  I  started :  Ah !  my  sighs,  my  tears. 
My  clenched  hands  ;^for  lo  !  the  poppies  hung 
Dew-dabbled  on  their  stalks,  the  ouzel  sung 
A  heavy  ditty,  and  the  sullen  day 
Had  chidden  herald  Hesperus  away. 
With  leaden  looks  :  the  solitary  breeze 
Bluster' d,  and  slept,  and  its  wild  self  did  teaze 
With  wayward  melancholy  ;  and  I  thought, 
Mark  me,  Peona  !  that  sometimes  it  brought 
Faint  fere-thee-wels,  and  sigh-shrilled  adieus ! —  6go 

Away  I  wander' d — ^all  the  pleasant  hues 
Of  heaven  and  earth  had  faded  :  deepest  shades 
Were  deepest  dungeons  ;  heaths  and  sunny  glades 
Were  full  of  pestilent  light ;  our  taintless  riUs 
Seem'd  sooty,  and  o'er-spread  with  uptum'd  gills 
Of  dying  fish  ;  the  vermeil  rose  had  blown 
In  frightful  scarlet,  and  its  thorns  out-grown 
Like  spiked  aloe.     If  an  innocent  bird 
Before  my  heedless  footsteps  stirr'd,  and  stirr'd 
In  little  journeys,  I  beheld  in  it  700 

A  disguis'd  demon,  missioned  to  knit 
My  soul  with  under  darkness  ;  to  entice 
My  stumblings  down  some  monstrous  precipice  : 
Therefore  I  eager  followed,  and  did  cm-se 
The  disappointment.     "Time,  that  aged  nurse, 
Rock'd  me  to  patience.     Now,  thank  gentle  heaven  ! 
These  things,  with  all  their  comfortings,  are  given 
To  my  down-sunken  hours,  and  with  thee. 
Sweet  sister,  help  to  stem  the  ebbing  sea 
Of  weary  life." 

Thus  ended  he,  and  both  710 

Sat  silent :  for  the  maid  was  very  loth 
To  answer ;  feeling  well  that  breathed  words 
Would  all  be  lost,  unheard,  and  vain  as  swords 
AgaiQst  the  enchased  crocodile,  or  leaps 
Of  grasshoppers  against  the  sun.     She  weeps. 
And  wonders ;  struggles  to  devise  some  blame  ; 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  69 

To  put  on  such  a  look  as  would  say.  Shame 

On  this  poor  weakness  !  but,  for  all  her  strife. 

She  could  as  soon  have  crush'd  away  the  life 

From  a  sick  dove.     At  length,  to  break  the  pause,  yao 

She  said  with  trembling  chance  :  "  Is  this  the  cause  ? 

This  all  ?    Yet  it  is  strange,  and  sad,  alas  ! 

That  one  who  through  this  middle  earth  should  pass 

Most  like  a  sojourning  demi-god,  and  leave 

His  name  upon  the  harp-string,  should  achieve 

No  higher  bard  than  simple  maidenhood. 

Singing  alone,  and  fearfully, — how  the  blood 

Left  his  young  cheek  ;  and  how  he  us'd  to  stray 

He  knew  not  where ;  and  how  he  would  say,  nay, 

If  any  said  'twas  love  :  and  yet  'twas  love ;  730 

What  could  it  be  but  love  ?     How  a  ring-dove 

Let  fall  a  sprig  of  yew  tree  in  his  path  ; 

And  how  he  died :  and  then,  that  love  doth  scathe. 

The  gentle  heart,  as  northern  blasts  do  roses ; 

And  then  the  ballad  of  his  sad  life  closes 

With  sighs,  and  an  alas ! — Endymion ! 

Be  rather  in  the  trumpet's  mouth, — anon 

Among  the  winds  at  large — that  all  may  hearken  ! 

Although,  before  the  crystal  heavens  darken, 

I  watch  and  dote  upon  the  silver  lakes  740 

Pictur'd  in  western  cloudiness,  that  takes 

The  semblance  of  gold  rocks  and  bright  gold  sands. 

Islands,  and  creeks,  and  amber-fretted  strands 

With  horses  prancing  o'er  them,  palaces 

And  towers  of  amethyst, — would  I  so  teaze 

My  pleasant  days,  because  I  could  not  mount 

Into  those  regions  ?     The  Morphean  fount 

Of  that  fine  element  that  visions,  dreams. 

And  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of,  streams 

Into  its  airy  channels  with  so  subtle,  750 

So  thin  a  breathing,  not  the  spider's  shuttle. 

Circled  a  million  times  within  the  space 

Of  a  swallow's  nest-door,  could  delay  a  trace, 

A  tinting  of  its  quality :  how  light 

Must  dreams  themselves  be  ;  seeing  they're  more  slight 

Than  the  mere  nothing  that  engenders  them  ! 

Then  wherefore  sully  the  entrusted  gem 

Of  high  and  noble  life  with  thoughts  so  sick  ? 

Why  pierce  high-fronted  honour  to  the  quick 

For  nothing  but  a  dream  ?  "     Hereat  the  youth  760 

Look'd  up  :  a  conflicting  of  shame  and  ruth 

Was  in  his  plaited  brow  :  yet,  his  eyelids 

Widened  a  little,  as  when  Zephyr  bids 


70  JOHN  KEATS  [BOOK  i 

A  little  breeze  to  creep  between  the  fans 
Of  careless  butterflies  :  amid  his  pains 
He  seem'd  to  taste  a  drop  of  manna-dew, 
Full  palatable ;  and  a  colour  grew 
Upon  his  cheek,  while  thus  he  lifeful  spake. 

"  Peona  !  ever  have  I  long'd  to  slake 
My  thirst  for  the  world's  praises  :  nothing  base,  770 

No  merely  slumberous  phantasm,  could  unlace 
The  stubborn  canvas  for  my  voyage  prepar'd — 
Though  now  'tis  tatter'd ;  leaving  my  bark  bar'd 
And  sullenly  drifting  :  yet  my  higher  hope 
Is  of  too  wide,  too  rainbow-large  a  scope. 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness  >     In  that  which  beqjis 
Our  ready  minds  to  fellowship  divine, 
A  fellowship  with  essfencej  till  we  shin^ 

Full  alchemiz'd,  and  free  of  space.     Behold  780 

The  clear  religion  of  heaven  !     Fold 
A  rose  leaf  round  thy  ■finger's  tapemess. 
And  soothe  thy  hps  :  hist,  when  the  airy  stress 
Of  music's  kiss  impregnates  the  free  winds. 
And  with  a  S3na(ipathetic  touch  unbinds 
Molian  magic  from  their  lucid  wombs : 
Then  old  songs  waken  from  enclouded  tombs  ; 
Old  ditties  sigh  above  their  father's  grave  ; 
Ghosts  of  melodious  prophecyings  rave 

Round  every  spot  where  trod  Apollo's  foot ;  790 

Bronze  clarions  awake,  and  faintly  bruit. 
Where  long  ago  a  giant  battle  was  ; 
And,  from  the  turf,  a  luUaby  doth  pass 
In  every  place  where  in&nt  Orpheus  slept. 
Feel  we  th^se  things  ? — that  moment  have  we  stept 
Into  a  sort  ijif  nnenpss-  and  our  state 
Is  like  a  floating  spirit's.     But  there  are 
Richer  entanglements,  enthralments  far 
More  self-destroying,  leading,  by  degrees. 
To  the  chief  intensity :  the  crown  of  these  800 

Is  made  of  love  and  frifindship.  and  sits  high 
Upon  the  forehead  of  humanity. 
AU  its  more  ponderous  and  bulky  worth 
Is  friendship,  whence  there  ever  issues  forth 
A  steady  splendour ;  but  at  the  tip-top. 
There  hangs  by  unseen  film,  an  orbed  drop 
Of  light,  and  that  is  love :  its  influence. 
Thrown  in  our  eyes,  genders  a  novel  sense. 
At  which  we  start  and  fret ;  till  in  the  end. 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  71 

Melting  into  its  radiance,  we  blend,  gio 

Mingle,  and  so  become  a  part  of  it, — 

Nor  with  aught  else  can  our  souls  interknit 

So  wingedly :  when  we  combine  therewith 

Life's  self  is  nourish'd  by  its  proper  pith. 

And  we  are  nurtured  like  a  pelican  brood. 

Aye,  so  delicious  is  the  unsating  food. 

That  men,  who  might  have  tower'd  in  the  van 

Of  all  the  congregated  world,  to  fan 

And  winnow  from  the  coming  step  of  time 

All  chaff  of  custom,  wipe  away  all  slime  820 

Left  by  men-slugs  and  human  serpentry, 

Have  been  content  to  let  occasion  die,- 

Whilst  they  did  sleep  in  love's  elysium. 

And,  truly,  I  would  rather  be  struck  dumb. 

Than  speak  against  this  ardent  listlessness  : 

For  I  have  ever  thought  that  it  might  bless 

The  world  with  benefits  unknowingly  ; 

As  does  the  nightingale,  upperched  high. 

And  cloister'd  among  cool  and  bunched  leaves — 

She  sings  but  to  her  love,  nor  e'er  conceives  830 

How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark-grey  hood. 

Just  so  may  love,  although  'tis  understood 

The  mere  commingling  of  passionate  breath. 

Produce  more  than  our  searching  witnesseth : 

What  I  know  not :  but  who,  of  men,  can  tell 

That  flowers  would  bloom,  or  that  green  fruit  would  swell 

To  melting  pulp,  that  fish  would  have  bright  maU, 

The  earth  its  dower  of  river,  wood,  and  vale, 

The  meadows  runnels,  runnels  pebble-stones. 

The  seed  its  harvest,  or  the  lute  its  tones,  840 

Tones  ravishment,  or  ravishment  its  sweet 

If  human  souls  did  never  kiss  and  greet .'' 

"  Now,  if  this  earthly  love  has  power  to  make 
Men's  being  mortal,  immortal ;  to  shake 
Ambition  from  their  memories,  and  brim 
Their  measure  of  content :  what  merest  whim. 
Seems  all  this  poor  endeavour  after  fame. 
To  one,  who  keeps  within  his  steadfast  aim 
A  love  immortal,  an  immortal  too. 

Look  not  so  wilder'd ;  for  these  things  are  true,  850 

And  never  can  be  bom  of  atomies 
That  buzz  about  our  slumbers,  like  brain-flies, 
Leaving  us  fancy-sick.     No,  no,  I'm  sure, 
My  restless  spirit  never  could  endure 
To  brood  so  long  upon  one  luxury. 


72  JOHN  KEATS  [book  I 

Unless  it  did,  though  fearfully,  espy 

A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

My  sayings  will  the  less  obscured  seem. 

When  I  have  told  thee  how  my  waking  sight 

Has  made  me  scruple  whether  that  same  night  860 

Was  pass'd  in  dreaming.     Hearken,  sweet  Peona  I 

Beyond  the  matron-temple  of  Latona, 

Which  we  should  see  but  for  these  darkening  boughs. 

Lies  a  deep  hollow,  from  whose  ragged  brows 

Bushes  and  trees  do  lean  all  round  athwart 

And  meet  so  nearly,  that  with  wings  outraught. 

And  spreaded  tail,  a  vulture  could  not  glide 

Past  them,  but  he  must  brush  on  every  side. 

Some  moulder'd  steps  lead  into  this  cool  cell. 

Far  as  the  slabbed  margin  of  a  well,  870 

Whose  patient  level  peeps  its  crystal  eye 

Right  upward,  through  the  bushes,  to  the  sky. 

Oft  have  I  brought  thee  flowers,  on  their  stalks  set 

Like  vestal  primroses,  but  dark  velvet 

Edges  them  round,  and  they  have  golden  pits  : 

'Twas  there  I  got  them,  from  the  gaps  and  slits 

In  a  mossy  stone,  that  sometimes  was  my  seat. 

When  all  above  was  faint  with  mid-day  heat. 

And  there  in  strife  no  burning  thoughts  to  heed, 

I'd  bubble  up  the  water  through  a  reed  ;  880 

So  reaching  back  to  boy-hood  :  make  me  ships 

Of  moulted  feathers,  touchwood,  alder  chips. 

With  leaves  stuck  in  them ;  and  the  Neptune  be 

Of  their  petty  ocean.     Oftener,  heavily, 

When  love-lorn  hours  had  left  me  less  a  child, 

I  sat  contemplating  the  figures  wild 

Of  o'er-head  clouds  melting  the  mirror  through. 

Upon  a  day,  while  thus  I  watch'd,  by  flew 

A  cloudy  Cupid,  with  his  bow  and  quiver ; 

So  plainly  character' d,  no  breeze  would  shiver  890 

The  happy  chance  :  so  happy,  I  was  fain 

To  follow  it  upon  the  open  plain. 

And,  therefore,  was  just  going ;  when,  behold  ! 

A  wonder,  fair  as  any  I  have  told — 

The  same  bright  face  I  tasted  in  my  sleep, 

Smiling  in  the  clear  well.     My  heart  did  leap 

Through  the  cool  depth. — It  mov'd  as  if  to  flee — 

I  started  up,  when  lo  !  refreshfully. 

There  came  upon  my  face  in  plenteous  showers 

Dew-drops,  and  dewy  buds,  and  leaves,  and  flowers,  900 

Wrapping  all  objects  from  my  smothered  sight. 

Bathing  my  spirit  in  a  new  delight. 


BOOK  I]  ENDYMION  73 

Aye,  such  a  breathless  honey-feel  of  bliss 

Alone  preserved  me  from  the  drear  abyss 

Of  death,  for  the  fair  form  had  gone  again. 

Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant ;  but  pain 

Clings  cruelly  to  us,  like  the  gnawing  sloth 

On  the  deer's  tender  haunches  :  late,  and  loth, 

'Tis  scar'd  away  by  slow  returning  pleasure. 

How  sickening,  how  dark  the  dreadful  leisure  gio 

Of  weary  days,  made  deeper  exquisite. 

By  a  fore-knowledge  of  unslumbrous  night ! 

Like  sorrow  came  upon  me,  heavier  still. 

Than  when  I  wander'd  from  the  poppy  hill : 

And  a  whole  age  of  lingering  moments  crept 

Sluggishly  by,  ere  more  contentment  swept 

Away  at  once  the  deadly  yeUow  spleen. 

Yes,  thrice  have  I  this  fair  enchantment  seen  ; 

Once  more  been  tortured  with  renewed  life. 

When  last  the  wintry  gusts  gave  over  strife  920 

With  the  conquering  sun  of  spring,  and  left  the  skies 

Warm  and  serene,  but  yet  with  moistened  eyes 

In  pity  of  the  shatter 'd  infant  buds, — 

That  time  thou  didst  adorn,  with  amber  studs, 

My  hunting  cap,  because  I  laugh'd  and  smil'd, 

Chatted  with  thee,  and  many  days  exil'd 

All  torment  from  my  breast ; — 'twas  even  then. 

Straying  about,  yet,  coop'd  up  in  the  den 

Of  helpless  discontent, — hurUng  my  lance 

From  place  to  place,  and  following  at  chance,  930 

At  last,  by  hap,  through  some  young  trees  it  struck, 

And,  plashing  among  bedded  pebbles,  stuck 

In  the  middle  of  a  brook, — whose  silver  ramble 

Down  twenty  httle  falls,  through  reeds  and  bramble, 

Tracing  along,  it  brought  me  to  a  cave, 

Whence  it  ran  brightly  forth,  and  white  did  lave 

The  nether  sides  of  mossy  stones  and  rock, — 

'Mong  which  it  gurgled  blythe  adieus,  to  mock 

Its  own  sweet  grief  at  parting.     Overhead, 

Hung  a  lush  screen  of  drooping  weeds,  and  spread  940 

Thick,  as  to  curtain  up  some  wood-n)Tnph's  home. 

'  Ah !  impious  mortal,  whither  do  I  roam  f ' 

Said  I,  low  voic'd :     '  Ah,  whither !     'Tis  the  grot 

Of  Proserpine,  when  Hell,  obscure  and  hot, 

Ooth  her  resign  ;  and  where  her  tender  hands 

She  dabbles,  on  the  cool  and  sluicy  sands : 

Or  'tis  the  cell  of  Echo,  where  she  sits, 

And  babbles  thorough  silence,  till  her  wits 

Are  gone  in  tender  madness,  and  anon, 


74  JOHN  KEATS  [book  I 

Faints  into  sleep,  with  many  a  dying  tone  950 

Of  sadness.     O  that  she  would  take  my  vows, 

And  breathe  them  sighingly  among  the  boughs, 

To  sue  her  gentle  ears  for  whose  fair  head. 

Daily,  I  pluck  sweet  flowerets  from  their  bed. 

And  weave  them  dyingly — send  honey-whispers 

Round  every  leaf,  that  all  those  gentle  lispers 

May  sigh  my  love  unto  her  pitying  ! 

O  charitable  echo !  hear,  and  sing 

This  ditty  to  her  ! — tell  her ' — so  I  stay'd 

My  foolish  tongue,  and  listening,  half  afraid,  gSo 

Stood  stupefied  with  my  own  empty  folly. 

And  blushing  for  the  freaks  of  melancholy. 

Salt  tears  were  coming,  when  I  heard  my  name 

Most  fondly  lipp'd,  and  then  these  accents  came  : 

'  Endymion  !  the  cave  is  secreter 

Than  the  isle  of  Delos.     Echo  hence  shall  stir 

No  sighs  but  sigh-warm  kisses,  or  light  noise 

Of  thy  combing  hand,  the  while  it  travelling  cloys 

And  tremblesajthrough  my  lab}nnnthine  hair.' 

At  that  oppress'd  I  hurried  in. — Ah !  where  gyo 

Are  those  swift  moments  ?     Whither  are  they  fled  ? 

I'll  smile  no  more,  Peona ;  nor  will  wed 

Sorrow  the  way  to  death ;  but  patiently 

Bear  up  against  it :  so  farewel,  sad  sigh ; 

And  come  instead  demurest  meditation. 

To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 

My  pilgrimage  for  the  world's  dusky  brink. 

No  more  will  I  count  over,  link  by  link. 

My  chain  of  grief :  no  longer  strive  to  find 

A  half-forgetfulness  in  mountain  wind  gSo 

Blustering  about  my  ears :  aye,  thou  shalt  see. 

Dearest  of  sisters,  what  my  life  shall  be ; 

What  a  calm  round  of  hours  shall  make  my  days. 

There  is  a  paly  flame  of  hope  that  plays 

Where'er  I  look  :  but  yet,  I'll  say  '  tis  naught — 

And  here  I  bid  it  die.     Have  not  I  caught, 

Already,  a  more  healthy  countenance  ? 

By  this  the  sun  is  setting ;  we  may  chance 

Meet  some  of  our  near-dwellers  with  my  car." 

This  said,  he  rose,  faint-smiling  like  a  star  990 

Through  autumn  mists,  and  took  Peona's  hand : 
They  stept  into  the  boat,  and  launch'd  from  land. 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  7S 


ENDYMION 

BOOK   II 

O  SOVEREIGN  power  of  love  !  O  grief!  O  balm  ! 
All  records,  saving  thine,  come  cool,  and  calm, 
And  shadowy,  through  the  mist  of  passed  years : 
For  others,  good  or  bad,  hatred  and  tears 
Have  become  mdolent ;  but  touching  thine. 
One  sigh  doth  echo,  one  poor  sob  doth  pine. 
One  kiss  brings  honey-dew  from  buried  days. 
The  woes  of  Troy,  towers  smothering  o'er  tjjeir  blaze, 
StifF-holden  shields,  far-piercing  spears,  keen  blades. 
Struggling,  and  blood,  and  shrieks — all  dimly  lades  lo 

Into  some  backward  comer  of  the  brain ; 
Yet,  in  our  very  souls,  we  feel  amain 
The  close  of  Troilus  and  Cressid  sweet. 
Hence,  pageant  history !  hence,  gilded  cheat ! 
Swart  planet  in  the  universe  of  deeds  ! 
Wide  sea,  that  one  continuous  murmur  breeds 
Along  the  pebbled  shore  of  memory  ! 
Many  old  rotten- timber' d  boats  there  be 
Upon  thy  vaporous  bosom,  magnified 

To  goodly  vessels  ;  many  a  sail  of  pride,  20 

And  golden  keel'd,  is  left  unlaunch'd  and  dry. 
But  wherefore  this  ?     What  care,  though  owl  did  fly 
About  the  great  Athenian  admiral's  mast  ? 
What  care,  though  striding  Alexander  past 
The  Indus  with  his  Macedonian  numbers  ? 
Though  old  Ulysses  tortured  from  his  slumbers 
The  glutted  Cyclops,  what  care  .<■ — Juliet  leaning 
Amid  her  window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 
Tenderly  her  fancy  from  its  maiden  snow. 
Doth  more  avail  than  these  :  the  sUver  flow  30 

Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  PastoreUa  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires.     Fearfully 
Must  such  conviction  come  upon  his  head. 


76  JOHN  KEATS  [boor  ii 

Who,  thus  far,  discontent,  has  dared  to  tread. 

Without  one  muse's  smile,  or  kind  behest. 

The  path  of  love  and  poesy.     But  rest. 

In  chaffing  restlessness,  is  yet  more  drear 

Than  to  be  crush' d,  in  striving  to  uprear  40 

Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song. 

So  once  more  days  and  nights  aid  me  along, 

Like  legion'd  soldiers. 

Brain-sick  shepherd  prince. 
What  promise  hast  thou  faithful  guarded  since 
The  day  of  sacrifice  ?     Or,  have  new  sorrows 
Come  with  the  constant  dawn  upon  thy  morrows  ? 
Alas  !  '  tis  his  old  grief.     For  many  days. 
Has  he  been  wandering  in  uncertain  ways  : 
Through  wilderness,  and  woods  of  mossed  oaks  ; 
Counting  his  woe-worn  minutes,  by  the  strokes  50 

Of  the  lone  woodcutter  ;  and  listening  still. 
Hour  after  hour,  to  each  lush-leav'd  rill. 
>/     Now  he  is  sitting  by  a  shady  spring. 
And  elbow-deep  with  feverous  fingering 
Stems  the  upbursting  cold  :  a  wild  rose  tree 
Pavilions  him  in  bloom,  and  he  doth  see 
A  bud  which  snares  his  fancy:  lo !  but  now 
He  plucks  it,  dips  its  stalk  in  the  water :  how  ! 
It  swells,  it  buds,  it  flowers  beneath  his  sight ; 
And,  in  the  middle,  there  is  sofltly  pight  60 

A  golden  butterfly  ;  upon  whose  wings 
There  must  be  surely  character'd  strange  things. 
For  with  wide  eye  he  wonders,  and  smiles  oft. 

Lightly  this  little  herald  flew  aloft, 
Follow'd  by  glad  Endymion's  clasped  hands  : 
Onward  it  flies.     From  languor's  sullen  bands 
His  limbs  are  loos'd,  and  eager,  on  he  hies 
Dazzled  to  trace  it  in  the  sunny  skies. 
It  seem'd  he  flew,  the  way  so  easy  was  ; 

And  like  a  new-bom  spirit  did  he  pass  70 

Through  the  green  evening  quiet  in  the  sun. 
O'er  many  a  heath,  through  many  a  woodland  dun. 
Through  buried  paths,  where  sleepy  twilight  dreams 
The  summer  time  away.     One  track  unseams 
A  wooded  cleft,  and,  far  away,  the  blue 
Of  ocean  fades  upon  him  ;  then,  anew. 
He  sinks  adown  a  solitary  glen. 
Where  there  was  never  sound  of  mortal  men. 
Saving,  perhaps,  some  snow-light  cadences 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  77 

Melting  to  silence^  when  upon  the  breeze  80 

Some  holy  bark  let  forth  an  anthem  sweet. 

To  cheer  itself  to  Delphi.     Still  his  feet 

Went  swift  beneath  the  merry-winged  guide. 

Until  it  reach'd  a  splashing  fountain's  side 

That,  near  a  cavern's  mouth,  for  ever  pour'd 

Unto  the  temperate  air :  then  high  it  soar'd. 

And,  downward,  suddenly  began  to  dip. 

As  if,  athirst  with  so  much  toil,  'twould  sip 

The  crystal  spout-head :  so  it  did,  with  touch 

Most  delicate,  as  though  afraid  to  smutch  go 

Even  with  mealy  gold  the  waters  clear. 

But,  at  that  very  touch,  to  disappear 

So  fairy-quick,  was  strange  !     Bewildered, 

Endymion  sought  around,  and  shook  each  bed 

Of  covert  flowers  in  vain  ;  and  then  he  flung 

Himself  along  the  grass.     What  gentle  tongue. 

What  whisperer  disturb' d  his  gloomy  rest .'' 

It  was  a  nymph  uprisen  to  the  breast 

In  the  fountain's  pebbly  margin,  and  she  stood 

'Mong  lilies,  like  the  youngest  of  the  brood.  100 

To  him  her  dripping  hand  she  softly  kist. 

And  anxiously  began  to  plait  and  twist 

Her  ringlets  round  her  fingers,  sa3dng  :  "  Youth ! 

Too  long,  alas,  hast  thou  starv'd  on  the  ruth. 

The  bitterness  of  love  :  too  long  indeed. 

Seeing  thou  art  so  gentle.     Could  I  weed 

Thy  soul  of  care,  by  heavens,  I  would  offer 

All  the  bright  riches  of  my  crystal  coffer 

To  Amphitrite  ;  all  my  clear-eyed  fish. 

Golden,  or  rainbow-sided,  or  purplish,  no 

Vermilion-tail'd,  or  finn'd  with  silvery  gauze  ; 

Yea,  or  my  veined  pebble-floor,  that  draws 

A  virgin  light  to  the  deep ;  my  grotto-sands 

Tawny  and  gold,  ooz'd  slowly  from  far  lands 

By  my  diligent  springs  ;  my  level  lilies,  shells, 

My  charming. rod,  my  potent  river  spells  ; 

Yes,  every  thing,  even  to  the  pearly  cup 

Meander  gave  me, — for  I  bubbled  up 

To  fainting  creatures  in  a  desert  wild. 

But  woe  is  me,  I  am  but  as  a  child  120 

To  gladden  thee ;  and  all  I  dare  to  say. 

Is,  that  I  pity  thee ;  that  on  this  day 

I've  been  thy  guide ;  that  thou  must  wander  far 

In  other  regions,  past  the  scanty  bar 

To  mortal  steps,  before  thou  canst  be  ta'en 

From  every  wasting  sigh,  from  every  pain, 


78  JOHN  KEATS  [BOOK  ii 

Into  the  gentle  bosom  of  thy  love. 

Why  it  is  thus,  one  knows  in  heaven  above : 

But,  a  poor  Naiad,  I  guess  not.     Farewel ! 

I  have  a  ditty  for  my  hollow  cell."  130 

Hereat,  she  vanished  from  Endymion's  gaze, 

Who  brooded  o'er  the  water  in  amaze  : 

The  dashing  fount  pour'd  on,  and  where  its  pool 

Lay,  half  asleep,  in  grass  and  rushes  cool, 
'     Quick  waterflies  and  gnats  were  sporting  still. 

And  fish  were  dimpling,  as  if  good  nor  ill 

Had  fallen  out  that  hour.     The  wanderer. 

Holding  his  forehead,  to  keep  off  the  burr 

Of  smothering  fancies,  patiently  sat  down ; 

And,  while  beneath  the  evening's  sleepy  frown  140 

Glow-worms  began  to  trim  their  starry  lamps. 

Thus  breath'd  he  to  himself:  "  Whoso  encamps 

To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 

O  what  a  wretch  is  he  !  and  when  'tis  his. 

After  long  toil  and  travelling,  to  miss 

The  kernel  of  his  hopes,  how  more  than  vile  : 

Yety.  for  him  there's  refreshment  even  in  toil ; 

Another  city  doth  he  set  about, 

Free  from  the  smallest  pebble-head  of  doubt 

That  he  will  seize  on  trickling  honey-combs :  150 

Alas,  he  finds  them  dry ;  and  then  he  foams. 

And  onward  to  another  city  speeds. 

But  this  is  human  life  :  the  war,  the  deeds. 

The  disappointment;  the  anxiety. 

Imagination's  struggles,  far  and  nigh. 

All  human  ;  bearing  in  themselves  this  good, 
I    That  they  are  still  the  air,  the  subtle  food. 

To  make  us  feel  existence,  and  to  shew 

How  quiet  death  is.     Where  soil  is  men  grow. 

Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me,  i6a 

J  There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in  :  I  can  see 

Nought  earthly  worth  my  compassing ;  so  stand 

Upon  a  misty,  jutting  head  of  land — 
■'  Alone  ?     No,  no ;  and  by  the  Orphean  lute. 

When  mad  Eurydice  is  listening  to't ; 

I'd  rather  stand  upon  this  misty  peak, 

With  not  a  thing  to  sigh  for,  or  to  seek. 

But  the  soft  shadow  of  my  thrice-seen  love. 

Than  be — I  care  not  what.     O  meekest  dove 

Of  heaven  !     O  Cjmthia,  ten- times  bright  and  fair  !  17a 

From  thy  blue  throne,  now  filling  all  the  air. 

Glance  but  one  little  beam  of  temper'd  light 


BOOK  n]  ENDYMION  79 

Into  my  bosom,  that  the  dreadful  might 
And  tyranny  of  love  be  somewhat  scar'd  ! 
Yet  do  not  so,  sweet  queen ;  one  torment  spar'd, 
Would  give  a  pang  to  jealous  misery. 
Worse  than  the  torment's  self :  but  rather  tie 
Large  wings  upon  my  shoulders,  and  point  out 
My  love's  fer  dwelling.    Though  the  playful  rout 
Of  Cupids  shun  thee,  too  divine  art  thou,  i8o 

Too  keen  in  beauty,  for  thy  silver  prow 
Not  to  have  dipp'd  in  love's  most  gentle  stream. 
O  be  propitious,  nor  severely  deem 
My  madness  impious  ;  for,  by  all  the  stars 
That  tend  thy  bidding,  I  do  think  the  bars 
That  kept  my  spirit  in  are  burst — that  I 
'•'      Am  sailing  with  thee  through  the  dizzy  sky ! 
How  beautiful  thou  art !    The  world  how  deep  ! 
How  tremulous-dazzlingly  the  wheels  sweep 
Around  their  axle !     Then  these  gleaming  reins,  igo 

How  lithe  !     When  this  thy  chariot  attains 
Its  airy  goal,  haply  some  bower  veils 
Those  twilight  eyes  ?     Those  eyes  ! — my  spirit  fails — 
Dear  goddess,  help  !  or  the  wide-gaping  air 
WiU  gulph  me — ^help ! " — ^At  this  with  madden'd  stare. 
And  lifted  hands,  and  trembling  lips  he  stood ; 
Like  old  Deucalion  mountain'd  o'er  the  flood. 
Or  blind  Orion  hungry  for  the  mom. 
And,  but  from  the  deep  cavern  there  was  borne 
A  voice,  he  had  been  froze  to  senseless  stone  ;  200 

Nor  sigh  of  his,  nor  plaint,  nor  passion'd  moan 
Had  more  been  heard.     Thus  swell' d  it  forth  :     "  Descend, 
Young  mountaineer  !  descend  where  alleys  bend 
Into  the  sparry  hollows  of  the  world  ! 
Oft  hast  thou  seen  bolts  of  the  thunder  hurl'd 
As  from  thy  threshold  ;  day  by  day  hast  been 
A  little  lower  than  the  chilly  sheen 
Of  icy  pinnacles,  and  dipp'dst  thine  arms 
Into  the  deadening  ether  that  still  charms 
Their  marble  being  :  now,  as  deep  profound  210 

'  As  those  are  high,  descend !     He  ne'er  is  crown'd 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  aiiy  voices  lead :  so  through  the  hollow. 
The  silent  mysteries  of  earth,  descend  !  " 

He  heard  but  the  last  words,  nor  could  contend 
One  moment  in  reflection :  for  he  fled 
Into  the  fearful  deep,  to  hide  his  head 
From  the  clear  moon,  the  trees,  and  coming  madness. 


80  JOHN  KEATS  [book  n 

'Twas  far  too  strange,  and  wonderful  for  sadness  ; 
Sharpening,  by  degrees,  his  appetite  220 

To  dive  into  the  deepest.     Dark,  nor  light, 
The  region ;  nor  bright,  nor  sombre  wholly,     / 
But  mingled  up  ;  a  gleaming  melancholy  ;    v 
A  dusky  empire  and  its  diadems  ; 
One  faint  eternal  eventide  of  gems. 
Aye,  millions  sparkled  on  a  vein  of  gold. 
Along  whose  track  the  prince  quick  footsteps  told, 
With  all  its  lines  abrupt  and  angular : 
Out-shooting  sometimes,  like  a  meteor-star. 
Through  a  vast  antre  ;  then  the  metal  woof,  ^230 

Like  Vulcan's  rainbow,  with  some  monstrous  roof 
Curves  hugely :  now,  far  in  the  deep  abyss. 
It  seems  an  angry  lightning,  and  doth  hiss 
Fancy  into  belief:  anon  it  leads 
Through  winding  passages,  where  sameness  breeds 
Vexing  conceptions  of  some  sudden  change  ; 
Whether  to  silver  grots,  or  giant  range 
Of  sapphire  columns,  or  fantastic  bridge 
Athwart  a  flood  of  crystal.     On  a  ridge 

Now  fareth  he,  that  o'er  the  vast  beneath  240 

Towers  like  an  ocean-clifF,  and  whence  he  seeth 
A  hundred  waterfalls,  whose  voices  come 
But  as  the  murmuring  surge.     Chilly  and  numb 
His  bosom  grew,  when  first  he,  far  away 
Descried  an  orbed  diamond,  set  to  fray 
Old  darkness'Trom  Tiis  throne  :  'twas  like  the  sun 
Uprisen  o'er  chaos  :  and  with  such  a  stun 
Came  the  amazement,  that,  absorb'd  in  it. 
He  saw  not  fiercer  wonders — ^past  the  wit 
Of  any  spirit  to  tell,  but  one  of  those  250 

Who,  when  this  planet's  sphering  time  doth  close. 
Will  be  its  high  remembrancers  :  who  they  "i 
The  mighty  ones  who  have  made  eternal  day 
For  Greece  and  England.     While  astonishment 
With  deep-drawn  sighs  was  quieting,  he  went 
Into  a  marble  gallery,  passing  through 
A  mimic  temple,  so  complete  and  true 
In  sacred  custom,  that  he  well  nigh  fear'd 
To  search  it  inwards  ;  whence  far  off  appear' d, 
Through  a  long  pillar' d  vista,  a  fair  shrine,  260 

And  just  beyond,  on  light  tiptoe  divine, 
A  quiver'd  Dian.     Stepping  awfully. 
The  youth  approach'd ;  oft  turning  his  veil'd  eye 
Down  sidelong  aisles,  and  into  niches  old. 
And  when,  more  jiear  against  the  marble  cold 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  81 

He  had  touch'd  his  forehead,  he  began  to  thread 

All  courts  and  passages,  where  silence  dead 

Rous'd  by  his  whispering  footsteps  murmured  feint : 

And  long  he  travers'd  to  and  fro,  to  acquaint 

Himself  with  every  mystery,  and  awe ;  270 

Till,  weary,  he  sat  down  before  the  maw 

Of  a  wide  outlet,  fathomless  and  dim. 

To  wild  uncertainty  and  shadows  grim. 

There,  when  new  wonders  ceas'd  to  float  before. 

And  thoughts  of  self  came  on,  how  crude  and  sore 

The  journey  homeward  to  habitual  self! 

A  mad-pursuing  of  the  fog-born  elf. 

Whose  flitting  lantern,  through  rude  nettle-briar. 

Cheats  us  into  a  swamp,  into  a  fire. 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  hated  thing.  280 

What  misery  most  drowningly  doth  sing 
In  lone  Endymion's  ear,  now  he  has  raught 
The  goal  of  consciousness  ?    Ah,  'tis  the  thought, 
The  deadly  feel  of  solitude  :  for  lo  ! 
He  cannot  see  the  heavens,  nor  the  flow 
Of  rivers,  nor  hill-flowers  running  wild 
In  pink  and  purple  chequer,  nor,  up-pil'd. 
The  cloudy  rack  slow  journeying  in  the  west. 
Like  herded  elephants ;  nor  felt,  nor  prest 
Cool  grass,  nor  tasted  the  fresh  slumberous  air ;  290 

But  far  from  such  companionship  to  wear 
An  unknown  time,  surcharg'd  with  grief,  away, 
Was  now  his  lot.     And  must  he  patient  stay. 
Tracing  fantastic  figures  with  his  spear  ? 
"  No ! "  exclaim'd  he,  "  why  should  I  tarry  here  ?  " 
No !  loudly  echoed  times  innumerable. 
At  which  he  straightway  started,  and  'gan  tell 
His  paces  back  into  the  temple's  chief; 
Warming  and  glowing  strong  in  the  belief 
Of  help  from  Dian :  so  that  when  again  300 

He  caught  her  airy  form,  thus  did  he  plain. 
Moving  more  near  the  while :  "  O  Haunter  chaste 
Of  river  sides,  and  woods,  and  heathy  waste. 
Where  with  thy  silver  bow  and  arrows  keen 
Art  thou  now  forested  ?     O  woodland  Queen, 
What  smoothest  air  thy  smoother  forehead  woos  ? 
Where  dost  thou  listen  to  the  wide  halloos 
Of  thy  disparted  nymphs  ?     Through  what  dark  tree 
Glimmers  thy  crescent  ?     Wheresoe'er  it  be, 
'Tis  in  the  breath  of  heaven  :  thou  dost  taste  310 

Freedom  as  none  can  taste  it,  nor  dost  waste 
6 


82  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

Thy  loveliness  in  dismal  elements ; 

But,  finding  in  our  green  earth  sweet  contents. 

There  livest  blissfully.     Ah,  if  to  thee 

It  feels  Elysian,  how  rich  to  me, 

Aq  exil'd  mortal,  sounds  its  pleasant  name ! 

Within  my  breast  there  lives  a  choking  flame — 

O  let  me  cool  't  the  zephyr-boughs  among ! 

A  homeward  fever  parches  up  my  tongue — - 

O  let  me  slake  it  at  the  running, spripgs  !  320 

Upon  my  ear  a  noisy  nothing  rings — 

O  let  me  once  more  hear  the  linnet's  note ! 

Before  mine  eyes  thick  films  and  shadows  float — 

O  let  me  'noint  them  with  the  heaven's  light ! 

Dost  thou  now  lave  thy  feet  and  ankles  white  ? 

O  think  how  sweet  to  me  the  freshening  sluice ! 

Dost  thou  now  please  thy  thirst  with  berry-juice  ? 

O  think  how  this  dry  palate  would  rejoice ! 

If  in  soft  slumber  thou  dost  hear  my  voice, 

O  think  how  I  should  love  a  bed  of  flowers ! —  330 

Young  goddess !  let  me  see  my  native  bowers  ! 

Deliver  me  from  this  rapacious  deep !  " 

Thus  ending  loudly,  as  he  would  o'erleap 
His  destiny,  alert  he  stood  :  but  when 
Obstinate  silence  came  heavily  agaia, 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle,  lowly  bow'd  his  fece 
Desponding,  o'er  the  marble  floor's  cold  thrill. 
But  'twas  not  long ;  for,  sweeter  than  the  rill 
To  its  old  channel,  or  a  swollen  tide  340 

To  margin  sallows,  were  the  leaves  he  spied. 
And  flowers,  and  wreaths,  and  ready  myrtle  crowns 
Up  heaping  through  the  slab :  refreshment  drowns 
Itself,  and  strives  its  own  delights  to  hide— 
Nor  in  one  spot  alone ;  the  floral  pride 
In  a  long  whispering  birth  enchanted  grew 
Before  his  footsteps ;  as  when  heav'd  anew 
Old  ocean  rolls  a  lengthened  wave  to  the  shore, 
Down  whose  green  back  the  short-liv'd  foam,  all  hoar. 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence.  350 

Increasing  still  in  heart,  and  pleasant  sense. 
Upon  his  fairy  journey  on  he  hastes ; 
So  anxious  for  the  end,  he  scarcely  wastes 
One  moment  with  his  hand  among  the  sweets  : 
Onward  he  goes— he  stops — his  bosom  beats 
As  plainly  in  his  ear,  as  the  faint  charm 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  83 

Of  which  the  throbs  were  bom.     This  still  alarm. 

This  sleepy  music,  forc'd  him  walk  tiptoe : 

For  it  came  more  softly  than  the  east  could  blow 

Arion's  magic  to  the  Atlantic  isles ;  360 

Or  than  the  west,  made  jealous  by  the  smiles 

Of  thron'd  Apollo,  could  breathe  back  the  lyre 

To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian. 

O  did  he  ever  live,  that  lonely  man. 
Who  lov'd — and  music  slew  not  ?     'Tis  the  pest 
Of  love,  that  feirest  joys  give  most  unrest ; 
That  things  of  delicate  and  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  seared  dearth. 
By  one  consuming  flame  :  it  doth  immerse 
And  suffocate  true  blessings  in  a  curse.  370 

Half-happy,  by  comparison  of  bliss. 
Is  miserable.     'Twas  even  so  with  this 
Dew-dropping  melody,  in  the  Carian's  ear ; 
First  heaven,  then  hell,  and  then  forgotten  clear, 
Vanish'd  in  elemental  passion. 

And  down  some  swart  abysm  he  had  gone. 
Had  not  a  heavenly  guide  benignant  led 
To  where  thick  xayrtle  branches,  'gainst  his  head 
Brushing,  awakened  :  then  the  sounds  again 
Went  noiseless  as  a  passing  noontide  rain  380 

Over  a  bower,  where  little  space  he  stood  ; 
For  as  the  sunset  peeps  into  a  wood 
So  saw  he  panting  light,  and  towards  it  went 
Through  winding  alleys  ;  and  lo,  wonderment ! 
Upon  soft  verdure  saw,  one  here,  one  there, 
Cupids  a  slumbering  on  their  pinions  fair. 

After  a  thousand  mazes  overgone. 
At  last,  with  sudden  step,  he  came  upon 
A  chamber,  myrtle  wall'd,  embowered  high. 
Full  of  light,  incense,  tender  minstrelsy,  390 

And  more  of  beautiful  and  strange  beside  : 
For  on  a  silken  couch  of  rosy  pride. 
In  midst  of  all,  there  lay  a  sleeping  youth 
Of  fondest  beauty  ;  fonder,  in  fair  sooth. 
Than  sighs  could  fathom,  or  contentment  reach  : 
And  coverlids  gold-tinted  like  the  peach. 
Or  ripe  October's  faded  marigolds. 
Fell  sleek  about  him  in  a  thousand  folds — 
Not  hiding  up  an  Apollonian  curve 
Of  neck  and  shoulder,  nor  the  tenting  swerve  400 


JOHN  KEATS  [book  n 

Of  knee  from  knee,  nor  ankles  pointing  light ; 

But  rather,  giving  them  to  the  filled  sight 

Officiously.     Sideway  his  fece  repos'd 

On  one  white  arm,  and  tenderly  unclos'd. 

By  tenderest  pressure,  a  faint  damask  mouth 

To  slumbery  pout ;  just  as  the  morning  south 

Disparts  a  dew-lipp'd  rose.     Above  his  head. 

Four  lily  stalks  did  their  white  honours  wed 

To  make  a  coronal ;  and  round  him  grew 

All  tendrils  green,  of  every  bloom  and  hue,  410 

Together  intertwin'd  and  trammel'd  iresh  : 

The  vine  of  glossy  sprout ;  the  ivy  mesh. 

Shading  its  Ethiop  berries  ;  and  woodbine. 

Of  velvet  leaves  and  bugle-blooms  divine  ; 

Convolvulus  in  streaked  vases  flush  ; 

The  creeper,  mellowing  for  an  autumn  blush  ; 

And  virgin's  bower,  trailing  airily ; 

With  others  of  the  sisterhood.     Hard  by. 

Stood  serene  Cupids  watching  silently. 

One,  kneeling  to  a  Ijrre,  touch'd  the  strings,  420 

Muffling  to  death  the  pathos  with  his  wings  ; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  uprose  to  look 

At  the  youth's  slumber ;  while  another  took 

A  wiUow-bough,  distilling  odorous  dew. 

And  shook  it  on  his  hair ;  another  flew 

In  through  the  woven  roof,  and  fluttering-wise 

Rain'd  violets  upon  his  sleeping  eyes. 

At  these  enchantments,  and  yet  many  more. 
The  breathless  Latmian  wonder'd  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Until,  impatient  in  embarrassment,  430 

He  forthright  pass'd,  and  lightly  treading  went 
To  that  same  feather'd  lyrist,  who  straightway. 
Smiling,  thus  whisper'd  :  "  Though  firom  upper  day 
Thou  art  a  wanderer,  and  thy  presence  here 
Might  seem  unholy,  be  of  happy  cheer ! 
For  'tis  the  nicest  touch  of  human  honour. 
When  some  ethereal  and  high-favouring  donor 
Presents  immortal  bowers  to  mortal  sense ; 
As  now  'tis  done  to  thee,  Endymion.     Hence 
Was  I  in  no  wise  startled.     So  recline  440 

Upon  these  living  flowers.     Here  is  wine. 
Alive  with  sparkles — never,  I  aver. 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 
So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears, 
Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 
Were  high  about  Pomona :  here  is  cream. 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  85 

Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam  ; 
Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Amalthea  skimm'd 
For  the  boy  Jupiter  :  and  here,  undimm'd 
By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums  450 

Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums  : 
And  here  is  maima  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees. 
In  starlight,  by  the  three  Hesperides. 
Feast  on,  and  meanwhile  I  will  let  thee  know 
Of  all  these  things  around  us."     He  did  so, 
Still  brooding  o'er  the  cadence  of  his  lyre  ; 
And  thus  :  "  I  need  not  any  hearing  tire 
By  telling  how  the  sea-bom  goddess  pin'd 
For  a  mortal  youth,  and  how  she  strove  to  bind 
Him  all  in  all  unto  her  doting  self.  460 

Who  would  not  be  so  prison'd  ?  but,  fond  elf. 
He  was  content  to  let  her  amorous  plea 
,  Faint  through  his  careless  arms  ;  content  to  see 
I  An  unseiz'd  heaven  d3dng  at  his  feet ; 
'Content,  O  fool !  to  make  a  cold  retreat. 
When  on  the  pleasant  grass  such  love,  lovelorn. 
Lay  sorrowing ;  when  every  tear  was  bom 
Of  diverse  passion ;  when  her  lips  and  eyes 
Were  clos'd  in  sullen  moisture,  and  quick  sighs 
Came  vex'd  and  pettish  through  her  nostrils  small.  470 

Hush  !  no  exclaim — yet,  justly  mightst  thou  call 
Curses  upon  his  head. — I  was  half  glad. 
But  my  poor  mistress  went  distract  and  mad. 
When  the  boar  tusk'd  him :  so  away  she  flew 
To  Jove's  high  throne,  and  by  her  plainings  drew 
Immortal  tear-drops  down  the  thunderer's  beard ; 
Whereon,  it  was  decreed  he  should  be  rear'd 
Each  summer  time  to  life.     Lo  !  this  is  he. 
That  same  Adonis,  safe  in  the  privacy 

Of  this  still  region  all  his  winter-sleep.  480 

Aye,  sleep  ;  for  when  our  love-sick  queen  did  weep 
Over  his  waned  corse,  the  tremulous  shower 
Heal'd  up  the  wound,  and,  with  a  balmy  power, 
Medicined  death  to  a  lengthened  drowsiness  : 
The  which  she  fills  with  visions,  and  doth  dress 
In  all  this  quiet  luxury ;  and  hath  set 
Us  young  immortals,  without  any  let, 
To  watch  his  slumber  through.     'Tis  well  nigh  pass'd. 
Even  to  a  moment's  filling  up,  and  fast 

She  scuds  with  summer  breezes,  to  pant  through  490 

The  first  long  kiss,  warm  firstling,  to  renew 
Embower'd  sports  in  C)rtherea's  isle. 
Look  !  how  those  winged  listeners  all  this  while 


86  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

Stand  anxious  :  see !  behold  ! " — This  clamant  word 

Broke  through  the  careful  silence  ;  for  they  heard 

A  rustling  noise  of  leaves,  and  out  there  flutter'd 

Pigeons  and  doves :  Adonis  something  mutter'd 

The  while  one  hand,  that  erst  upon  his  thigh 

Lay  dormant,  mov'd  convuls'd  and  graduaUy 

Up  to  his  forehead.     Then  there  was  a  hum  500 

Of  sudden  voices,  echoing,  "  Come  !  come  ! 

Arise  !  awake !     Clear  summer  has  forth  walk'd 

Unto  the  clover-sward,  and  she  has  talk'd 

Full  soothingly  to  every  nested  iinch : 

Rise,  Cupids !  or  we'll  give  the  blue-bell  pinch 

To  your  dimpled  arms.     Once  more  sweet  life  begin  ! " 

At  this,  from  every  side  they  hurried  in. 

Rubbing  their  sleepy  eyes  with  lazy  wrists. 

And  doubling  over  head  their  little  fists 

In  backward  yawns.     But  all  were  soon  alive  :  510 

For  as  delicious  wine  doth,  sparkling,  dive 

In  nectar'd  clouds  and  curls  through  water  feir. 

So  from  the  arbour  roof  down  swell'd  an  air 

Odorous  and  enlivening  ;  making  all 

To  laugh,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  loudly  call 

For  their  sweet  queen :  when  lo !  the  wreathed  green 

Disparted,  and  far  upward  could  be  seen 

Blue  heaven,  and  a  silver  car,  air-borne. 

Whose  silent  wheels,  fresh  wet  from  clouds  of  mom. 

Spun  off  a  drizzling  dew, — which  falling  chill  520 

On  soft  Adonis'  shoulders,  made  him  still 

Nestle  and  turn  uneasily  about. 

Soon  were  the  white  doves  plain,  with  neck  stretch'd  out. 

And  silken  traces  lighten'd  in  descent ; 

And  soon,  returning  from  love's  banishment. 

Queen  Venus  leaning  downward  open  arm'd  : 

Her  shadow  fell  upon  his  breast,  and  charm'd 

A  tumult  to  his  heart,  and  a  new  life 

Into  his  eyes.     Ah,  miserable  strife. 

But  for  her  comforting !  unhappy  sight,  530 

But  meeting  her  blue  orbs !     Who,  who  can  write 

Of  these  first  minutes  ?     The  unchariest  muse 

To  embracements  warm  as  theirs  makes  coy  excuse. 

O  it  has  ruffled  every  spirit  there. 
Saving  love's  self,  who  stands  superb  to  share 
The  general  gladness  :  awfully  he  stands  ; 
A  sovereign  quell  is  in  his  waving  hands  ; 
No  sight  can  bear  the  lightning  of  hi$  bow  ; 
His  quiver  is  mysterious,  none  can  know 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  87 

What  themselves  think  of  it ;  from  forth  his  eyes  540 

There  darts  strange  light  of  varied  hues  and  dyes  : 

A  scowl  is  sometimes  on  his  brow,  but  who 

Look  full  upon  it  feel  anon  the  blue 

Of  his  fair  eyes  run  liquid  through  their  souls. 

Endymion  feels  it,  and  no  more  controls 

The  burning  prayer  within  him ;  so,  bent  low. 

He  had  begun  a  plaining  of  his  woe. 

But  Venus,  bending  forward,  said  :  "  My  child. 

Favour  this  gentle  youth  ;  his  days  are  wild 

With  love — he — but  alas  !  too  well  I  see  550 

Thou  knoVst  the  deepness  of  his  misery. 

Ah,  smile  not  so,  my  son  :  I  tell  thee  true. 

That  when  through  heavy  hours  I  us'd  to  rue 

The  endless  sleep  of  this  new-bom  Adon', 

This  stranger  ay  I  pitied.     For  upon 

A  dreary  morning  once  I  fled  away 

Into  the  breezy  clouds,  to  weep  and  pray 

For  this  my  love  :  for  vexing  Mars  had  teaz'd 

Me  even  to  tears :  thence,  when  a  little  eas'd, 

Down-looking,  vacant,  through  a  hazy  wood,  560 

I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood  : 

Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind ; 

Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 

Over  his  sullen  eyes  :  I  saw  him  throw 

Himself  on  wither'd  leaves,  even  as  though 

Death  had  come  sudden  ;  for  no  jot  he  mov'd. 

Yet  mutter'd  wildly.     I  could  hear  he  lov'd 

Some  &ir  inmaortal,  and  that  his  embrace 

Had  zoned  her  through  the  night.     There  is  no  trace 

Of  this  in  heaven  :  I  have  mark'd  each  cheek,  570 

And  find  it  is  the  vainest  thing  to  seek  ; 

And  that  of  all  things  'tis  kept  secretest. 

Endymion !  one  day  thou  wilt  be  blest : 

So  still  obey  the  guiding  hand  that  fends 

Thee  safely  through  these  wonders  for  sweet  ends. 

'Tis  a  concealment  needful  in  extreme  ; 

And  if  I  guess'd  not  so,  the  sunny  beam 

Thou  shouldst  mount  up  to  with  me.     Now  adieu  ! 

Here  must  we  leave  thee." — At  these  words  up  flew 

The  impatient  doves,  up  rose  the  floating  car,  580 

Up  went  the  hum  celestial.     High  afar 

The  Latmian  saw  them  minish  into  nought ; 

And,  when  all  were  clear  vanish'd,  still  he  caught 

A  vivid  lightning  from  that  dreadful  bow. 

When  all  was  darkened,  with  ^tnean  throe 

The  earth  clos'd — ^gave  a  solitary  moan — 

And  lef^  him  once  again  in  twi^ght  lone. 


88  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

He  did  not  rave,  he  did  not  stare  aghast. 
For  all  those  visions  were  o'ergone,  and  past. 
And  he  in  loneliness :  he  felt  assur'd  5go 

y  Of  happy  times,  when  all  he  had  endur'd 
Would  seem  a  feather  to  the  mighty  prize. 
So,  with  unusual  gladness,  on  he  hies 
Through  caves,  and  palaces  of  mottled  ore. 
Gold  dome,  and  crystal  wall,  and  turquois  floor. 
Black  polish'd  porticos  of  awful  shade. 
And,  at  the  last,  a  diamond  balustrade. 
Leading  afar  past  wild  magnificence. 
Spiral  through  ruggedest  loopholes,  and  thence 
Stretching  across  a  void,  then  guiding  o'er  600 

Enormous  chasms,  where,  all  foam  and  roar. 
Streams  subterranean  tease  their  granite  beds  ; 
Then  heighten'd  just  above  the  silvery  heads 
Of  a  thousand  fountains,  so  that  he  could  dash 
The  waters  with  his  spear  ;  but  at  the  splash, 
Done  heedlessly,  those  spouting  columns  rose 
Sudden  a  poplar's  height,  and  'gan  to  enclose 
His  diamond  path  with  fretwork,  streaming  round 
Alive,  and  dazzling  cool,  and  with  a  sound. 
Haply,  like  dolphin  tumults,  when  sweet  shells  610 

Welcome  the  float  of  Thetis.     Long  he  dwells 
On  this  delight ;  for,  every  minute's  space. 
The  streams  with  changed  magic  interlace  : 
Sometimes  like  delicatest  lattices, 
Cover'd  with  crystal  vines  ;  then  weeping  trees. 
Moving  about  as  in  a  gentle  wind. 
Which,  in  a  wink,  to  watery  gauze  refin'd, 
Pour'd  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies, 
Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries 

Of  flowers,  peacocks,  swans,  and  naiads  feir.  620 

Swifter  than  lightning  went  these  wonders  rare  ; 
And  then  the  water,  into  stubborn  streams 
Collecting,  mimick'd  the  wrought  oaken  beams. 
Pillars,  and  frieze,  and  high  fantastic  roof. 
Of  those  dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof 
Cathedrals  call'd.     He  bade  a  loth  ferewel 
To  these  founts  Protean,  passing  gulph,  and  dell. 
And  torrent,  and  ten  thousand  jutting  shapes, 
Half  seen  through  deepest  gloom,  and  griesly  gapes. 
Blackening  on  every  side,  and  overhead  630 

A  vaulted  dome  like  Heaven's,  fer  bespread 
With  starlight  gems :  aye,  all  so  huge  and  strange. 
The  solitary  felt  a  hurried  cha&ge 
Working  within  him  into  something  dreary, — 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  89 

Vex'd  like  a  morning  eagle,  lost,  and  weary, 
And  purblind  amid  foggy,  midnight  wolds. 
But  he  revives  at  once  :  for  who  beholds 
New  sudden  things,  nor  casts  his  mental  slough  ? 
Forth  from  a  rugged  arch,  in  the  dusk  below. 
Came  mother  Cybele !  alone — alone —  640 

In  sombre  chariot ;  dark  foldings  thrown 
About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale, 
With  turrets  crown'd.     Four  maned  lions  hale 
The  sluggish  wheels  ;  solemn  their  toothed  maws, 
Their  surly  eyes  brow-hidden,  heavy  paws 
UpUfted  drowsily,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tawny  brushes.     Silent  sails 
This  shadowy  queen  athwart,  and  fiiints  away 
In  another  gloomy  arch- 
Wherefore  delay. 
Young  traveller,  in  such  a  mournful  place  ?  650^ 

Art  thou  wayworn,  or  canst  not  fiurther  trace  „^ ,' 

The  diamond  path  ?     And  does  it  indeed  end  r  ■ 

Abrupt  in  middle  air .'     Yet  earthward  bend 
Thy  forehead,  and  to  Jupiter  cloud-borne 
Call  ardently !     He  was  indeed  wayworn ; 
Abrupt,  in  middle  air,  his  way  was  lost ; 
To  cloud-borne  Jove  he  bowed,  and  there  crost 
Towards  him  a  large  eagle,  'twixt  whose  wings. 
Without  one  impious  word,  himself  he  flings. 
Committed  to  the  darkness  and  the  gloom :  660 

Down,  down,  uncertain  to  what  pleasant  doom, 
Swift  as  a  &thoming  plummet  down  he  fell 
Through  unknown  things ;  till  exhaled  asphodel. 
And  rose,  with  spicy  fannings  interbreath'd. 
Came  sweUing  forth  where  little  caves  were  wreath'd 
So  thick  with  leaves  and  mosses,  that  they  seem'd 
Large  honey-combs  of  green,  and  freshly  teem'd 
With  airs  delicious.     In  the  greenest  nook 
The  eagle  landed  him,  and  ferewel  took. 

It  was  a  jasmine  bower,  all  bestrown  670 

With  golden  moss.     His  every  sense  had  grown 
Ethereal  for  pleasure  ;  'hove  his  head 
Flew  a  delight  half-graspable  ;  his  tread 
Was  Hesperean ;  to  his  capable  ears 
Silence  was  music  from  the  holy  spheres  ; 
A  dewy  luxiury  was  in  his  eyes ; 
The  little  flowers  felt  his  pleasant  sighs 
And  stirr'd  them  &intly.     Verdant  cave  and  cell 
He  wander'd  through,  oft  wondering  at  such  swell 


90  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

Of  sudden  exaltation  :  but,  "Alas!"  680 

Said  he,  "  will  all  this  gush  of  feeling  pass 

Away  in  solitude  ?     And  must  they  wane. 

Like  melodies  upon  a  sandy  plain. 

Without  an  echo  ?     Then  shall  I  be  left 

So  sad,  so  melancholy,  so  bereit ! 

Yet  still  I  feel  immortal !     O  my  love, 

My  breath  of  life,  where  art  thou  ?     High  above. 

Dancing  before  the  morning  gates  of  heaven  ? 

Or  keeping  watch  among  those  starry  seven, 

Old  Atlas'  children  ?     Art  a  maid  of  the  waters,  6go 

One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright-hair'd  daughters  ? 

Or  art,  impossible  !  a  nymph  of  Dian's, 

Weaving  a  coronal  of  tender  scions 

For  very  idleness  ?     Where'er  thou  art, 

Methinks  it  now  is  at  my  will  to  start 

Into  thine  arms ;  to  scare  Aurora's  train. 

And  snatch  thee  from  the  morning ;  o'er  the  main 

To  scud  like  a  wild  bird,  and  take  thee  off 

From  thy  sea-foamy  cradle  ;  or  to  doff 

Thy  shepherd  vest,  and  woo  thee  mid  fresh  leaves.  700 

No,  no,  too  eagerly  my  soul  deceives 

Its  powerless  self:  I  know  this  cannot  be. 

O  let  me  then  by  some  sweet  dreaming  flee 

To  her  entrancements  :  hither  sleep  awhile  ! 

Hither  most  gentle  sleep !  and  soothing  foil 

For  some  few  hours  the  coming  solitude." 

Thus  spake  he,  and  that  moment  felt  endued 
With  power  to  dream  deliciously ;  so  wound 
Through  a  dim  passage,  searching  till  he  found 
The  smoothest  mossy  bed  and  deepest,  where  710 

He  threw  himself,  and  just  into  the  air 
Stretching  his  indolent  arms,  he  took,  O  bliss ! 
A  naked  waist :  "  Fair  Cupid,  whence  is  this  ?  " 
A  well-known  voice  sigh'd,  "  Sweetest,  here  am  I ! " 
At  which  soft  ravishment,  with  doting  cry 
They  trembled  to  each  other. — Helicon ! 
O  fountain'd  hill !     Old  Homer's  Helicon  ! 
That  thou  wouldst  spout  a  little  streamlet  o'er 
These  sorry  pages ;  then  the  verse  would  soar 
And  sing  above  this  gentle  pair,  like  lark  720 

Over  his  nested  young :  but  all  is  dark 
Around  thine  aged  top,  and  thy  clear  fount 
Exhales  in  mists  to  heaven.     Aye,  the  count 
Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up ;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  bjr  the  Muses ;  the  bright  roll 


BOOK  n]  ENDYMION  91 

Is  in  Apollo's  hand :  our  dazed  eyes 

Have  seen  a  new  tinge  in  the  western  skies  : 

The  world  has  done  its  duty.     Yet,  oh  yet. 

Although  the  sun  of  poesy  is  set. 

These  lovers  did  embrace,  and  we  must  weep  730 

That  there  is  no  old  power  left  to  steep 

A  quill  immortal  in  their  joyous  tears. 

Long  time  ere  silence  did  their  anxious  fears 

Question  that  thus  it  was  ;  long  time  they  lay 

Fondling  and  kissing  every  doubt  away ; 

Long  time  ere  soft  caressing  sobs  began 

To  mellow  into  words,  and  then  there  ran 

Two  bubbling  springs  of  talk  from  their  sweet  lips. 

"  O  known  Unknown  !  from  whom  my  being  sips 

Such  darling  essence,  wherefore  may  I  not  740 

Be  ever  in  these  arms  ?  in  this  sweet  spot 

Pillow  my  chin  for  ever  ?  ever  press 

These  to}ring  hands  and  kiss  their  smooth  excess  f 

Why  not  for  ever  and  for  ever  feel 

That  breath  about  my  eyes  ?     Ah,  thou  wilt  steal 

Away  from  me  again,  indeed,  indeed — 

Thou  wilt  be  gone  away,  and  wilt  not  heed 

My  lonely  madness.     Speak,  my  kindest  &ir  ! 

Is — is  it  to  be  so .'     No !     Who  will  dare 

To  pluck  thee  from  me  ?     And,  of  thine  own  will,  750 

Full  well  I  feel  thou  wouldst  not  leave  me.     Still 

Let  me  entwine  thee  surer,  surer — ^now 

How  can  we  part  ?     Elysium  !  who  art  thou  ? 

Who,  that  thou  canst  not  be  for  ever  here. 

Or  lift  me  with  thee  to  some  starry  sphere .' 

Enchantress  !  tell  me  by  this  soft  embrace. 

By  the  most  soft  completion  of  thy  £ice. 

Those  lips,  O  slippery  blisses,  twinkling  eyes, 

And  by  these  tenderest,  milky  sovereignties — 

These  tenderest,  and  by  the  nectar-wine,  760 

The  passion  " "  O  dov'd  Ida  the  divine ! 

Endjnooion !  dearest !  Ah,  unhappy  me  ! 

His  soul  will  'scape  us — O  felicity ! 

How  he  does  love  me  !     His  poor  temples  beat 

To  the  very  tune  of  love — how  sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 

Revive,  dear  youth,  or  I  shall  faint  and  die  ; 

Revive,  or  these  soft  hours  will  hurry  by 

In  tranced  dulness  ;  speak,  and  let  that  spell 

Affright  this  lethargy !     I  cannot  quell 

Its  heavy  pressure,  and  will  press  at  least  770 

My  lips  to  thine,  that  they  may  richly  feast 

Until  we  taste  the  life  of  love  again, 


92  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

What !  dost  thou  move  ?  dost  kiss  ?  O  bliss  !  O  pain ! 

I  love  thee,  youth,  more  than  I  can  conceive  ; 

And  so  long  absence  from  thee  doth  bereave 

My  soul  of  any  rest :  yet  must  I  hence  : 

Yet,  can  I  not  to  starry  eminence 

Uplift  thee  ;  nor  for  very  shame  can  own 

Myself  to  thee  :     Ah,  dearest,  do  not  groan 

Or  thou  wilt  force  me  from  this  secrecy,  780 

And  I  must  blush  in  heaven.     O  that  I 

Had  done  it  already ;  that  the  dreadful  smiles 

At  my  lost  brightness,  my  impassion'd  wiles. 

Had  waned  from  Olympus'  solemn  height. 

And  from  all  serious  Gods  ;  that  our  delight 

Was  quite  forgotten,  save  of  us  alone ! 

And  wherefore  so  ashamed  ?     'Tis  but  to  atone 

For  endless  pleasure,  by  some  coward  blushes : 

Yet  must  I  be  a  coward ! — Horror  rushes 

Too  palpable  before  me — the  sad  look  790 

Of  Jove — Minerva's  start — no  bosom  shook 

With  awe  of  purity — no  Cupid  pinion 

In  reverence  vailed — my  crystaUne  dominion 

Half  lost,  and  all  old  hymns  made  nullity ! 

But  what  is  this  to  love  ?     O  I  could  fly 

With  thee  into  the  ken  of  heavenly  powers. 

So  thou  wouldst  thus,  for  many  sequent  hours. 

Press  me  so  sweetly.     Now  I  swear  at  once 

That  I  am  wise,  that  Pallas  is  a  dunce — 

Perhaps  her  love  like  mine  is  but  unknown —  800 

0  I  do  think  that  I  have  been  alone 

In  chastity :  yes,  Pallas  has  been  sighing. 
While  every  eve  saw  me  my  hair  uptjdng 
With  fingers  cool  as  aspen  leaves.     Sweet  love, 

1  was  as  vague  as  solitary  dove, 

v^    Nor  knew  that  nests  were  built.     Now  a  soft  kiss — 
Aye,  by  that  kiss,  I  vow  an  endless  bliss. 
An  immortality  of  passion's  thine : 
Ere  long  I  will  exalt  thee  to  the  shine 

Of  heaven  ambrosial ;  and  we  will  shade  810 

Ourselves  whole  summers  by  a  river  glade  ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  stories  of  the  sky. 
And  breathe  thee  whispers  of  its  minstrelsy. 
My  happy  love  will  overwing  all  bounds  ! 
O  let  me  melt  into  thee ;  let  the  sounds 
Of  our  close  voices  marry  at  their  birth  ; 
Let  us  entwine  hoveringly — O  dearth 
Of  human  words !  roughness  of  mortal  speech ! 
Lispings  empyrean  will  I  sometime  teach 


BOOK  n]  ENDYMION  93 

Thine  honied  tongue — lute-breathings,  which  I  gasp  820 

To  have  thee  understand,  now  while  I  clasp 

Thee  thus,  and  weep  for  fondness — I  am  pain'd, 

Endymion :  woe  !  woe  !  is  grief  contain'd 

In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure,  my  sole  life  ?  " — 

Hereat,  with  many  sobs,  her  gentle  strife 

Melted  into  a  languor.     He  retum'd 

Entranced  vows  and  tears. 

Ye  who  have  yeam'd 
With  too  much  passion,  will  here  stay  and  pity, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  truth  ;  as  'tis  a  ditty 
Not  of  these  days,  but  long  ago  'twas  told  830 

By  a  cavern  wind  unto  a  forest  old  ;  ^1-'- ' 

And  then  the  forest  told  it  in  a  dream  ^  ,,;•     '''' 

To  a  sleeping  lake,  whose  cool  and  level  gleam  ?  -  I  '"; 

A  poet  caught  as  he  was  joumejdng  • 

To  Phoebus '  shrine ;  and  in  it  he  did  fling 
His  weary  limbs,  bathing  an  hour's  space. 
And  after,  straight  in  that  inspired  place 
He  sang  the  story  up  into  the  air. 
Giving  it  universal  freedom.     There 

Has  it  been  ever  sounding  for  those  ears  840 

Whose  tips  are  glowing  hot.     The  legend  cheers 
Yon  centinel  stars  ;  and  he  who  listens  to  it 
Must  surely  be  self-doom'd  or  he  will  rue  it : 
For  quenchless  burnings  come  upon  the  heart. 
Made  fiercer  by  a  fear  lest  any  part 
Should  be  engulphed  in  the  eddying  wind. 
As  much  as  here  is  penn'd  doth  always  find 
A  resting  place,  thus  much  comes  clear  and  plain  ; 
Anon  the  strange  voice  is  upon  the  wane — 
And  'tis  but  echo'd  from  departing  sound,  850 

That  the  fair  visitant  at  last  unwound 
Her  gentle  limbs,  and  left  the  youth  asleep. — 
Thus  the  tradition  of  the  gusty  deep. 

Now  turn  we  to  our  former  chroniclers. — 
Endymion  awoke,  that  grief  of  hers 
Sweet  paining  on  his  ear  :  he  sickly  guess'd 
How  lone  he  was  once  more,  and  sadly  press'd 
His  empty  arms  together,  hung  his  head. 
And  most  forlorn  upon  that  widow'd  bed 

Sat  silently.     Love's  madness  he  had  known  :  860 

Often  with  more  than  tortured  lion's  groan 
Meanings  had  burst  from  him  ;  but  now  that  rage 
Had  pass'd  away :  no  longer  did  he  wage 


94.  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

A  rough-voic'd  war  against  the  dooming  stars. 

No,  he  had  felt  too  much  for  such  harsh  jars  : 

The  lyre  of  his  soul  iEolian  tun'd 

Forgot  all  violence,  and  but  commun'd 

With  melancholy  thought :     O  he  had  swoon'd 

Drunken  from  pleasure's  nipple  ;  and  his  love 

Henceforth  was  doveHtke.-^^^^oth  was  he  to  move  870 

From  the  imprinted  couch,  and  when  he  did, 

'Twas  with  slow,  languid  paces,  and  face  hid 

In  muffling  hands.     So  temper'd,  out  he  stray'd 

Half  seeing  visions  that  might  have  dismay'd 

Alecto's  serpents  ;  ravishments  more  keen 

Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 

Over  eclipsing  eyes  :  and  at  the  last 

It  was  a  sounding  grotto,  vaulted,  vast. 

O'er  studded  with  a  thousand,  thousand  pearls. 

And  crimson  mouthed  shells  with  stubborn  curls,  Oo 

Of  every  shape  and  size,  even  to  the  bulk 

In  which  whales  arbour  close,  to  brood  and  sulk 

Against  an  endless  storm.     Moreover  too. 

Fish-semblances,  of  green  and  azure  hue. 

Ready  to  snort  their  streams.     In  this  cool  wonder 

Endymion  sat  down,  and  'gan  to  ponder 

On  all  his  life :  his  youth,  up  to  the  day 

When  'mid  acclaim,  and  feast,  and  garlands  gay. 

He  stept  upon  his  shepherd  throne :  the  look 

Of  his  white  palace  in  wild  forest  nook,  890 

And  all  the  revels  he  had  lorded  there  : 

Each  tender  maiden  whom  he  once  thought  fair. 

With  every  friend  and  fellow-woodlander — 

Pass'd  like  a  dream  before  him.     Then  the  spur 

Of  the  old  bards  to  mighty  deeds :  his  plans 

To  nurse  the  golden  age  'mong  shepherd  clans  : 

That  wondrous  night :  the  great  Pan-festival : 

His  sister's  sorrow ;  and  his  wanderings  all. 

Until  into  the  earth's  deep  maw  he  rush'd  : 

Then  all  its  buried  magic,  till  it  ilush'd  goo 

High  with  excessive  love.     "  And  now,"  thought  he, 

"  How  long  must  I  remain  in  jeopardy 

Of  blank  amazements  that  amaze  no  more  ? 

Now  I  have  tasted  her  sweet  soul  to  the  core 

All  other  depths  are  shallow :  essences. 

Once  spiritual,  are  like  muddy  lees, 

Meant  but  to  fertilize  my  earthly  root, 

And  make  my  branches  lift  a  golden  fruit 

Into  the  bloom  of  heaven  :  other  light. 

Though  it  be  quick  and  sharp  enough  to  blight  910 


BOOK  II]  ENDYMION  96 

The  Olympian  eagle's  vision,  is  dark, 

Dark  as  the  parentage  of  chaos.     Hark  ! 

My  silent  thoughts  are  echoing  from  these  shells  ; 

Or  they  are  but  tibe  ghosts,  the  dying  swells 

Of  noises  fer  away  ? — list ! " — Hereupon 

He  kept  an  anxious  ear.     The  humming  tone 

Came  louder,  and  behold,  there  as  he  lay. 

On  either  side  ontgush'd,  with  misty  spray, 

A  copious  spring ;  and  both  together  dash'd 

Swift,  mad,  fantastic  round  the  rocks,  and  lash'd  920 

Among  the  conchs  and  shells  of  the  lofty  grot. 

Leaving  a  trickling  dew.     At  last  they  shot 

Down  from  the  ceiling's  height,  pouring  a  noise 

As  of  some  breathless  racers  whose  hopes  poize 

Upon  the  last  few  steps,  and  with  spent  force 

Along  the  ground  they  took  a  winding  course. 

Endymion  follow' d — for  it  seem'd  that  one 

Ever  pursued,  the  other  strove  to  shun — 

FoUow'd  their  languid  mazes,  till  well  nigh 

He  had  left  thinking  of  the  mystery, — •-  930 

And  was  now  rapt  in  tender  hoverings 

Over  the  vanish'd  bliss.     Ah  !  what  is  it  sings 

His  dream  away  >    What  melodies  are  these  ? 

They  soimd  as  through  the  whispering  of  trees. 

Not  native  in  such  barren  vaults.     Give  ear  ! 

"  O  Arethusa,  peerless  nymph !  why  fear 
Such  tenderness  as  mine  ?     Great  Dian,  why. 
Why  didst  thou  hear  her  prayer .'     O  that  I 
Were  rippling  round  her  dainty  fairness  now. 
Circling  about  her  waist,  and  striving  how  940 

To  entice  her  to  a  dive  !  then  stealing  in 
Between  her  luscious  lips  and  eyelids  thin. 
O  that  her  shining  hair  was  in  the  sun. 
And  I  distilling  from  it  thence  to  run 
In  amorous  rillets  down  her  shrinking  form  ! 
To  linger  on  her  lily  shoulders,  warm 
Between  her  kissing  breasts,  and  every  charm 
Touch  raptur'd ! — See  how  painfully  I  flow  : 
Fair  maid,  be  pitiful  to  my  great  woe. 

Stay,  stay  thy  weary  course,  and  let  me  lead,  950 

A  happy  wooer,  to  the  flowery  mead 
Where  all  that  beauty  snar'd  me." — "  Cruel  god. 
Desist !  or  my  offended  mistress'  nod 
Will  stagnate  all  thy  fountains  : — tease  me  not 
With  syren  words — ^Ah,  have  I  really  got 
Such  power  to  madden  thee  ?    And  is  it  true — 


96  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

Away,  away,  or  I  shall  dearly  rue 

My  very  thoughts  :  in  mercy  then  away, 

Kindest  Alpheus,  for  should  I  obey 

My  own  dear  will,  'twould  be  a  deadly  bane.  ggo 

O,  Oread-Queen  !  would  that  thou  hadst  a  pain 

Like  this  of  mine,  then  would  I  fearless  turn 

And  be  a  criminal.     Alas,  I  bum, 

I  shudder — gentle  river,  get  thee  hence. 

Alpheus  !  thou  enchanter !  every  sense 

Of  mine  was  once  made  perfect  in  these  woods. 

Fresh  breezes,  bowery  lawns,  and  innocent  floods. 

Ripe  finiits,  and  lonely  couch,  contentment  gave ; 

But  ever  since  I  heedlessly  did  lave 

In  thy  deceitful  stream,  a  panting  glow  970 

Grew  strong  within  me  :  wherefore  serve  me  so. 

And  call  it  love  ?     Alas,  'twas  cruelty. 

Not  once  more  did  I  close  my  happy  eye 

Amid  the  thrushes'  song.     Away !  Avaunt ! 

0  'twas  a  cruel  thing." — "  Now  thou  dost  taunt 
So  softly,  Arethusa,  that  I  think 

If  thou  wast  playing  on  my  shady  brink. 

Thou  wouldst  bathe  once  again.     Innocent  maid ! 

Stifle  thine  heart  no  more  ;  nor  be  afraid 

Of  angry  powers  :  there  are  deities  980 

Wm  shade  us  with  their  wings.     Those  fitful  sighs 

'Tis  almost  death  to  hear :  O  let  me  pour 

A  dewy  balm  upon  them  ! — fear  no  more. 

Sweet  Arethusa !  Dian's  self  must  feel 

Sometime  these  very  pangS;     Dear  maiden,  steal 

Blushing  into  my  soul,  and  let  us  fly 

These  dreary  caverns  for  the  open  sky. 

1  will  delight  thee  all  my  winding  course. 
From  the  green  sea  up  to  my  hidden  source 

About  Ar<iadian  forests  ;  and  will  shew  990 

The  channels  where  my  coolest  waters  flow 

Through  mossy  rocks ;  where,  'mid  exuberant  green, 

I  roam  in  pleasant  darkness,  more  unseen 

Than  Saturn  in  his  exile ;  where  I  brim 

Round  flowery  islands,  and  take  thence  a  skim 

Of  mealy  sweets,  which  m}mads  of  bees 

Buzz  from  their  honied  wings  :  and  thou  shouldst  please 

Thyself  to  choose  the  richest,  where  we  might 

Be  incense-pillow'd  every  summer  night. 

DofF  all  sad  fears,  thou  white  deliciousness,  looo 

And  let  us  be  thus  comforted ;  unless 

Thou  couldst  rejoice  to  see  my  hopeless  stream 

Hurry  distracted  from  Sol's  temperate  beam, 


BOOK  ii]  ENDYMION  97 

And  pour  to  death  along  some  hungry  sands." — 

"  What  can  I  do,  Alpheus  ?     Dian  stands 

Severe  before  me :  persecuting  fate  ! 

Unhappy  Arethusa  !  thou  wast  late 

A  huntress  free  in  " — At  this,  sudden  fell 

Those  two  sad  streams  adown  a  fearful  dell. 

The  Latmian  listen' d,  but  he  heard  no  more,  loio 

Save  echo,  faint  repeating  o'er  and  o'er 

The  name  of  Arethusa.     On  the  verge 

Of  that  dark  gulph  he  wept,  and  said  :  "  I  urge 

Thee,  gentle  Goddess  of  my  pilgrimage. 

By  our  eternal  hopes,  to  soothe,  to  assuage, 

If  thou  art  powerful,  these  lovers'  pains  ; 

And  make  them  happy  in  some  happy  plains." 

Hf  turn'd — there  was  a  whelming  sound — he  slept, 
There  was  a  cooler  light ;  and  so  he  kept 

Towards  it  by  a  sandy  path,  and  lo !  1020 

More  suddenly  than  doth  a  moment  go. 
The  vision*  of  the  earth  were  gone  and  fled — 
He  saw  the  giant  sea  above  his  head. 


JOHN  KEATS  [bookiii 


'^', 

.' 


ENDYMION 

BOOK  III 

XHERE  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 
With  most  prevailing  tinsel :  who  unpen 
r  baaing  vanities,  to  browse  away 
The  comfortable  green  and  juicy  hay 
From  human  pastures  ;  or,  O  torturing  fiwit ! 
Who,  through  an  idiot  blink,  will  see  unpack'd 
Fire-branded  foxes  to  sear  up  and  singe 
Our  gold  and  ripe-ear'd  hopes.     With  not  one  tinge 
Of  sanctuary  splendour,  not  a  sight 

Able  to  face  an  owl's,  they  still  are  dight  lo 

By  the  blear-eyed  nations  in  empurpled  vests. 
And  crowns,  and  turbans.     With  unladen  breasts. 
Save  of  blown  self-applause,  they  proudly  mount 
A         To  their  spirit's  perch,  their  being's  high  account. 

Their  tiptop  nothings,  their  dull  skies,  their  thrones — 

Amid  the  fierce  intoxicating  tones 

Of  trumpets,  shoutings,  and  belabour' d  drums. 

And  sudden  cannon.     Ah  !  how  all  this  hums. 

In  wakeful  ears,  like  uproar  past  and  gone — 

Like  thunder  clouds  that  spake  to  Babylon,  30 

And  set  those  old  Chaldeans  to  their  tasks. — 

Are  then  regalities  all  gilded  masks  ? 

No,  there  are  throned  seats  unscalable 

But  by  a  patient  wing,  a  constant  spell. 

Or  by  ethereal  things  that,  unconfin'd. 

Can  make  a  ladder  of  the  eternal  wind. 

And  poize  about  in  clpudy  thunder-tents 

To  watch  the  abysm-birth  of  elements. 

Aye,  'bove  the  withering  of  old-lipp'd  Fate 

A  thousand  Powers  keep  religious  state,  39 

In  water,  fiery  realm,  and  airy  bourne  ; 

And,  silent,  as  a  consecrated  urn, 

Hold  sphery  sessions  for  a  season  due. 

Yet  few  pf  these  far  majesties,  ah,  few ! 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  99 

Have  bared  their  operations  to  this  globe — 

Few,  who  with  gorgeous  pageantrj'  enrobe 

Our  piece  of  heaven — ^whose  benevolence 

Shakes  hands  with  our  own  Ceres ;  every  sense 

Filling  with  spiritual  sweets  to  plenitude, 

As  bees  gorge  full  their  cells.     And,  by  the  feud  40 

'Twixt  Nothing  and  Creation,  I  here  swear, 

Eteme  Apollo  !  that  thy  Sister  feir 

Is  of  all  these  the  gentlier-mightiest. 

When  thy  gold  breath  is  misting  in  the  west, 

She  unobserved  steals  unto  her  throne. 

And  there  she  sits  most  meek  and  most  alone  ; 

As  if  she  had  not  pomp  subservient ; 

As  if  thine  eye,  high  Poet !  was  not  bent 

Towards  her  with  the  Muses  in  thine  heart  ; 

As  if  the  mihistring  stars  kept  not  apart,  30 

Waiting  for  silver-footed  messages. 

O  Moon !  the  oldest  shades  'mong  oldest  trees 

Feel  palpitations  when  thou  lookest  in : 

O  Moon !  old  boughs  lisp  forth  a  holier  din 

The  while  they  feel  thine  airy  fellowship. 

Thou  dost  bless  every  where,  with  silver  lip 

Kissing  dead  things  to  life.     The  sleeping  kine. 

Couched  in  thy  brightness,  dream  of  fields  divine  : 

Inniuuerable  mountains  rise,  and  rise. 

Ambitious  for  the  hallowing  of  thine  eyes  ;  60 

And  yet  thy  benediction  passeth  not 

One  obscure  hiding-place,  one  little  spot 

Where  pleasure  may  be  sent :  the  nested  wren 

Has  thy  fair  face  within  its  tranquil  ken. 

And  from  beneath  a  sheltering  ivy  leaf 

Takes  glimpses  of  thee  ;  thou  art  a  relief 

To  the  poor  patient  oyster,  where  it  sleeps 

Within  its  pearly  house. — The  mighty  deeps. 

The  monstrous  sea  is  thine — ^the  myriad  sea  ! 

O  Moon !  far-spooming  Ocean  bows  to  thee,  70 

And  Tellus  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

Cynthia !  where  art  thou  now  ?     What  far  abode 
Of  green  or  silvery  bower  doth  enshrine 
Such  utmost  beauty  ?     Alas,  thou  dost  pine 
For  one  as  sorrowful :  thy  cheek  is  pale 
For  one  whose  cheek  is  pale  :  thou  dost  bewail 
His  tears,  who  weeps  for  thee.     Where  dost  thou  sigh  ? 
Ah !  surely  that  light  peeps  from  Vesper's  eye. 
Or  what  a  thing  is  love  !     'Tis  She,  but  lo  ! 
How  chang'd,  how  full  of  ache,  bow  gone  in  woe  !  80 


100  JOHN  KEATS  [book  m 

She  dies  at  the  thinnest  cloud  ;  her  loveliness 

Is  wan  on  Neptune's  blue :  yet  there's  a  stress 

Of  love-spangles,  just  off  yon  cape  of  trees. 

Dancing  upon  the  waves,  as  if  to  please 

The  curly  foam  with  amorous  influence. 

O,  not  so  idle  :  for  down-glancing  thence 

She  fathoms  eddies,  and  runs  wild  about 

O'erwhelming  water-courses  ;  scaring  out 

The  thorny  sharks  from  hiding-holes,  and  fright'ning 

Their  savage  eyes  with  unaccustomed  lightning.  go 

Where  will  the  splendor  be  content  to  reach  ? 

O  love  !  how  potent  hast  thou  been  to  teach 

Strange  joumeyings  !     Wherever  beauty  dwells. 

In  gulph  or  aerie,  mountains  or  deep  dells. 

In  light,  in  gloom,  in  star  or  blazing  sun. 

Thou  pointest  out  the  way,  and  straight  'tis  won. 

Amid  his  toil  thou  gav'st  Leander  breath  ; 

Thou  leddest  Orpheus  through  the  gleams  of  death ; 

Thou  madest  Pluto  bear  thin  element ; 

And  now,  O  winged  Chieftain !  thou  hast  sent  loo 

A  moon-beam  to  the  deep,  deep  water-world, 

To  find  Endymion. 

On  gold  sand  impearl'd 
With  lily  shells,  and  pebbles  milky  white. 
Poor  Cjmthia  greeted  him,  and  sooth'd  her  light 
Against  his  pallid  face  :  he  felt  the  charm 
To  breathlessness,  and  suddenly  a  warm 
Of  his  heart's  blood :  'twas  very  sweet ;  he  stay'd 
His  wandering  steps,  and  half-entranced  laid 
His  head  upon  a  tuft  of  straggling  weeds. 
To  taste  the  gentle  moon,  and  freshening  beads,  no 

Lashed  from  the  crystal  roof  by  fishes'  tails. 
And  so  he  kept,  until  the  rosy  veils 
Mantling  the  east,  by  Aurora's  peering  hand 
Were  lifted  from  the  water's  breast,  and  fann'd 
Into  sweet  air ;  and  sober'd  morning  came 
Meekly  through  billows  : — when  like  taper-flame 
Left  sudden  by  a  dallying  breath  of  air. 
He  rose  in  silence,  and  once  more  'gan  fare 
Along  his  fated  way. 

Far  had  he  roam'd. 
With  nothing  save  the  hollow  vast,  that  foam'd,  no 

Above,  around,  and  at  his  feet ;  save  things 
More  dead  than  Morpheus'  imaginings  : 
Old  rusted  anchors,  helmets,  breast-plates  large 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  101 

Of  gone  sea-warriors  ;  brazen  beaks  and  targe  ; 

Rudders  that  for  a  hundred  years  had  lost 

The  sway  of  human  hand  ;  gold  vase  emboss'd 

With  long-forgotten  story,  and  wherein 

No  reveller  had  ever  dipp'd  a  chin 

But  those  of  Saturn's  vintage ;  mouldering  scrolls. 

Writ  in  the  tongue  of  heaven,  by  those  souls  130 

Who  first  were  on  the  earth ;  and  sculptures  rude 

In  ponderous  stone,  developing  the  mood 

Of  ancient  Nox ; — then  skeletons  of  man, 

Of  beast,  behemoth,  and  leviathan. 

And  elephant,  and  eagle,  and  huge  jaw 

Of  nameless  monster.     A  cold  leaden  awe 

These  secrets  struck  into  him ;  and  unless 

Dian  had  chaced  away  that  heaviness. 

He  might  have  died :  but  now,  with  cheered  feel, 

He  onward  kept ;  wooing  these  thoughts  to  steal  140 

About  the  labyrinth  in  his  soul  of  love. 

"  What  is  there  in  thee.  Moon  !  that  thou  shouldst  move 
My  heart  so  potently  ?     When  yet  a  child 
I  oft  have  dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smil'd. 
Thou  seem'dst  my  sister :  hand  in  hand  we  went 
From  eve  to  morn  across  the  firmament. 
No  apples  would  I  gather  from  the  tree. 
Till  thou  hadst  cool'd  their  cheeks  deliciously  : 
No  tumbling  water  ever  spake  romance. 

But  when  my  eyes  with  thine  thereon  could  dance  :  150 

No  woods  were  green  enough,  no  bower  divine. 
Until  thou  liftedst  up  thine  eyelids  fine  : 
In  sowing  time  ne'er  would  I  dibble  take, 
Or  drop  a  seed,  till  thou  wast  wide  awake  ; 
And,  in  the  summer  tide  of  blossoming, 
No  one  but  thee  hath  heard  me  blithly  sing 
And  mesh  my  dewy  flowers  aU  the  night. 
No  melody  was  like  a  passing  spright 
If  it  went  not  to  solemnize  thy  reign. 

Yes,  in  my  boyhood,  every  joy  and  pain  160 

By  thee  were  fashion'd  to  the  self-same  end ; 
And  as  I  grew  in  years,  stiU  didst  thou  blend 
With  all  my  ardours  :  thou  wast  the  deep  glen ; 
Thou  wast  the  mountain-top — the  sage's  pen — 
The  poet's  harp — the  voice  of  friends — the  sun ; 
Thou  wast  the  river — thou  wast  glory  won  ; 
Thou  wast  my  clarion's  blast — thou  wast  my  steed — 
My  goblet  full  of  wine — my  topmost  deed : — 


102  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

Thou  wast  the  charm  of  women,  lovely  Moon ! 

O  what  a  wild  and  harmonized  tune  170 

My  spirit  struck  from  all  the  beautiful ! 

On  some  bright  essence  could  I  lean,  and  lull 

Myself  to  immortality :  I  prest 

Nature's  soft  pillow  in  a  wakeful  rest. 

But,  gentle  Orb !  there  came  a  nearer  bliss — 

My  istrange  love  came — Felicity's  abyss  ! 

She  came,  and  thou  didst  fade,  and  fade  away — 

Yet  not  entirely  ;  no,  thy  starry  sway 

Has  been  an  under-passion  to  this  hour. 

Now  I  begin  to  feel  thine  orby  pogaaL  180 

Is  coming  fresh  upon  me  :  O  be  kind. 

Keep  back  thine  influence,  and  do  not  blind 

My  sovereign  vision. — Dearest  love,  forgive 

That  I  can  think  away  from  thee  and  live  ! — 

Pardon  me,  airy  planet,  that  I  prize 

One  thought  beyond  thine  argent  luxuries  ! 

How  far  beyond  !  "     At  this  a  surpris'd  start 

Frosted  the  springing  verdure  of  his  heart ; 

For  as  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  to  swear 

How  his  own  goddess  was  past  all  things  fair,  190 

He  saw  far  in  the  concave  green  of  the  sea 

An  old  man  sitting  calm  and  peacefully. 

Upon  a  weeded  rock  this  old  man  sat. 

And  his  white  hair  was  awful,  and  a  mat 

Of  weeds  were  cold  beneath  his  cold  thin  feet ; 

And,  ample  as  the  largest  winding-sheet, 

A  cloak  of  blue  wrapp'd  up  his  aged  bones, 

O'erwrought  with  symbols  by  the  deepest  groans 

Of  ambitious  magic :  every  ocean-form 

Was  woven  in  with  black  distinctness ;  storm,  200 

And  cahn,  and  whispering,  and  hideous  roar, 

Quicksand,  and  whirlpool,  and  deserted  shore. 

Were  emblem'd  in  the  woof;  with  every  shape 

That  skims,  or  dives,  or  sleeps,  'twixt  cape  and  cape. 

The  gulphing  whale  was  like  a  dot  in  the  spell. 

Yet  look  upon  it,  and  'twould  size  and  swell 

To  its  huge  self ;  and  the  D^nutest  fish 

Would  pass  the  very  hardest  gazer's  wish. 

And  show  his  little  eye's  anatomy. 

Then  there  was  pictur'd  the  regality  210 

Of  Neptune  ;  and  the  sea  nymphs  round  his  state. 

In  beauteous  vassalage,  look  up  and  wait. 

Beside  this  old  man  lay  a  pearly  wand. 

And  in  his  lap  a  book,  the  which  he  conn'd 

So  stedfastly,  that  the  new  denizen 


BOOK  in]  ENDYMION  103 

Had  time  to  keep  him  in  amazed  ken, 

To  mark  these  shadowings,  and  stand  in  awe. 

The  old  man  rais'd  his  hoary  head  and  saw 
The  wilder'd  stranger — seeming  not  to  see. 
His  features  were  so  lifeless.     Suddenly  220 

He  woke  as  from  a  trance ;  his  snow-white  brows 
Went  arching  up,  and  like  two  magic  ploughs 
Furrow'd  deep  wrinkles  in  his  forehead  large. 
Which  kept  as  fixedly  as  rocky  marge. 
Till  round  his  wither' d  lips  had  gone  a  smile. 
Then  up  he  rose,  like  one  whose  tedious  toil 
Had  watch'd  for  years  in  forlorn  hermitage. 
Who  had  not  from  mid-life  to  utmost  age 
Eas'd  in  one  accent  his  o'er-burden'd  soul. 
Even  to  the  trees.     He  rose  :  he  grasp'd  his  stole,  230 

With  convuls'd  clenches  waving  it  abroad. 
And  in  a  voice  of  solemn  joy,  that  aw'd 
Echo  into  oblivion,  he  said : — 

"  Thou  art  the  man !     Now  shall  I  lay  my  head 
In  peace  upon  my  watery  pillow  :  now 
Sleep  will  come  smoothly  to  my  weary  brow. 
O  Jove  !  I  shall  be  young  again,  be  young  ! 

0  shell-borne  Neptune,  I  am  pierc'd  and  stung 
With  new-born  life  !     What  shall  I  do  ?     Where  go. 

When  I  have  cast  this  serpent-skin  of  woe .'' —  240 

I'll  swim  to  the  syrens,  and  one  moment  listen 

Their  melodies,  and  see  their  long  hair  glisten ; 

Anon  upon  that  giant's  arm  I'll  be. 

That  writhes  about  the  roots  of  Sicily : 

To  northern  seas  I'll  in  a  twinkling  sail. 

And  mount  upon  the  snortings  of  a  whale 

To  some  black  cloud ;  tHence  down  I'll  madly  sweep 

On  forked  lightning,  to  the  deepest  deep. 

Where  through  some  sucking  pool  I  will  be  hurl'd 

With  rapture  to  the  other  side  of  the  world !  250 

O,  I  am  full  of  gladness  !  Sisters  three, 

1  bow  full  hearted  to  your  old  decree ! 

Yes,  every  god  be  thank'd,  and  power  benign. 

For  I  no  more  shall  wither,  droop,  and  pine. 

Thou  art  the  man  !  "     Endymion  started  back 

Dismay'd  ;  and,  like  a  wretch  from  whom  the  rack 

Tortures  hot  breath,  and  speech  of  agony, 

Mutter'd  :  "  What  lonely  death  am  I  to  die 

In  this  cold  region  ?     Will  he  let  me  freeze. 

And  float  my  brittle  limbs  o'er  polar  seas  ?  260 


104  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

Or  will  he  touch  me  with  his  searing  hand. 

And  leave  a  black  memorial  on  the  sand  ? 

Or  tear  me  piece-meal  with  a  bony  saw. 

And  keep  me  as  a  chosen  food  to  draw 

His  magian  fish  through  hated  fire  and  flame  ? 

O  misery  of  hell !  resistless,  tame. 

Am  I  to  be  burnt  up  ?     No,  I  will  shout. 

Until  the  gods  through  heaven's  blue  look  out ! — 

0  Tartarus  !  but  some  few  days  agone 

Her  soft  arms  were  entwining  me,  and  on  2^0 

Her  voice  I  hung  like  fruit  among  green  leaves  : 

Her  lips  were  all  my  own,  and — ah,  ripe  sheaves 

Of  happiness  !  ye  on  the  stubble  droop. 

But  never  may  be  gamer'd.     I  must  stoop 

My  head,  and  kiss  death's  foot.     Love  !  love,  farewel ! 

Is  there  no  hope  from  thee  ?    This  horrid  spell 

Would  melt  at  thy  sweet  breath. — By  Dian's  hind 

Feeding  from  her  white  fingers,  on  the  wind 

1  see  thy  streaming  hair !  and  now,  by  Pan, 

I  care  not  for  this  old  mysterious  man  ! "  280 

He  spake,  and  walking  to  that  aged  form, 
Look'd  high  defiance.     Lo !  his  heart  'gan  warm 
With  pity,  for  the  grey-hair'd  creature  wept 
Had  he  then  wrong'd  a  heart  where  sorrow  kept } 
,  Had  he,  though  blindly  contumelious,  brought 
Rheum  to  kind  eyes,  a  sting  to  human  thought. 
Convulsion  to  a  mouth  of  many  years .'' 
He  had  in  truth ;  and  he  was  ripe  for  tears. 
The  penitent  shower  fell,  as  down  he  knelt 
Before  that  care-worn  sage,  who  trembling  felt  290 

About  his  large  dark  locks,  and  faultering  spake : 

"  Arise,  good  youth,  for  sacred  Phcebus'  sake  ! 
I  know  thine  inmost  bosom,  and  I  feel 
A  very  brother's  yearning  for  thee  steal 
Into  mine  own  :  for  why  ?  thou  openest 
The  prison  gates  that  have  so  long  opprest 
My  weary  watching.     Though  thou  know'st  it  not. 
Thou  art  commission' d  to  this  fated  spot 
For  great  enfranchisement.     O  weep  no  more ; 
I  am  a  friend  to  love,  to  loves  of  yore  :  300 

Aye,  hadst  thou  never  lov'd  an  unknown  power, 
I  had  been  grieving  at  this  joyous  hour. 
But  even  now  most  miserable  old, 
I  saw  thee,  and  my  blood  no  longer  cold 
Gave  mighty  pulses :  in  this  tottering  case 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  lOS 

Grew  a  new  heart,  which  at  this  moment  plays 
As  dancingly  as  thine.     Be  not  afraid. 
For  thou  shalt  hear  this  secret  all  display'd, 
Now  as  we  speed  towards  our  joyous  task." 

So  saying,  this  young  soul  in  age's  mask  310 

Went  forward  with  the  Carian  side  by  side  : 
Resuming  quickly  thus ;  while  ocean's  tide 
Hung  swollen  at  their  backs,  and  jewel'd  sands 
Took  silently  their  foot-prints. 

"  My  soul  stands 
Now  past  the  midway  from  mortality. 
And  so  I  can  prepare  without  a  sigh 
To  tell  thee  briefly  all  my  joy  and  pain. 
I  was  a  fisher  once,  upon  this  main, 
And  my  boat  dane'd  in  every  creek  and  bay  ; 
Rough  billows  were  my  home  by  night  and  day, —  320 

The  sea-gulls  not  more  constant ;  for  I  had 
No  housing  from  the  storm  and  tempests  mad. 
But  hollow  rocks, — and  they  were  palaces 
Of  silent  happiness,  of  slumberous  ease  : 
Long  years  of  misery  have  told  me  so. 
Aye,  thus  it  was  one  thousand  years  ago. 
One  thousand  years  ! — Is  it  then  possible 
To  look  so  plainly  through  them  ?  to  dispel 
A  thousand  years  with  backward  glance  sublime  ? 
To  breathe  away  as  'twere  all  scummy  slime  330 

From  oiF  a  crystal  pool,  to  see  its  deep. 
And  one's  own  image  from  the  bottom  peep  ? 
Yes  :  now  I  am  no  longer  wretched  thrall. 
My  long  captivity  and  moanings  all 
Are  but  a  slime,  a  thin-pervading  scum. 
The  which  I  breathe  away,  and  thronging  come 
Like  things  of  yesterday  my  youthful  pleasures. 

"  I  touch'd  no  lute,  I  sang  not,  trod  no  measures : 
I  was  a  lonely  youth  on  desert  shores. 
^My  sports  were  lonely,  'mid  continuous  roars,  340 

And  craggy  isles,  and  sea-mew's  plaintive  cry 
Plaining  discrepant  between  sea  and  sky. 
Dolphins  were  still  my  playmates  ;  shapes  unseen 
Would  let  me  feel  their  scales  of  gold  and  green. 
Nor  be  my  desolation ;  and,  full  oft, 
When  a  dread  waterspout  had  rear'd  aloft 
Its  hungry  hugeness,  seeming  ready  ripe 
To  burst  with  hoarsest  thunderings,  and  wipe 


106  JOHN  KEATS  [book  in 

My  life  away  like  a  vast  sponge  of  fate, 

Some  friendly  monster,  pitying  my  sad  state,  350 

Has  dived  to  its  foundations,  gulph'd  it  down, 

And  left  me  tossing  safely.     But  the  crown 

Of  all  my  life  was  utmost  quietude  : 

More  did  I  love  to  lie  in  cavern  rude. 

Keeping  in  wait  whole  days  for  Neptune's  voice. 

And  if  it  came  at  last,  hark,  and  rejoice  ! 

There  blush'd  no  summer  eve  but  I  would  steer 

My  skiff  along  green  shelving  coasts,  to  hear 

The  shepherd's  pipe  come  clear  from  aery  steep. 

Mingled  with  ceaseless  bleatings  of  his  sheep  :  360 

And  never  was  a  day  of  summer  shine, 

But  I  beheld  its  birth  upon  the  brine  : 

For  I  would  watch  all  night  to  see  unfold 

Heaven's  gates,  and  JEthon  snort  his  morning  gold 

Wide  o'er  the  swelling  streams  :  and  constantly 

At  brim  of  day-tide,  on  some  grassy  lea. 

My  nets  would  be  spread  out,  and  I  at  rest. 

The  poor  folk  of  the  sea-country  I  blest 

With  daily  boon  of  fish  most  delicate  : 

They  knew  not  whence  this  bounty,  and  elate  370 

Would  strew  sweet  flowers  on  a  sterile  beach. 

"  Why  was  I  not  contented  ?    Wherefore  reach 
At  things  which,  but  for  thee,  O  Latmian ! 
Had  been  my  dreary  death  ?     Fool !  I  began 
To  feel  distemper'd  longings  :  to  desire 
The  utmost  privilege  that  ocean's  sire 
Could  grant  in  benediction  :  to  be  free 
Of  all  his  kingdom.     Long  in  misery 
I  wasted,  ere  in  one  extremest  fit 

I  plung'd  for  life  or  death.     To  interknit  380 

One's  senses  with  so  dense  a  breathing  stuff 
Might  seem  a  work  of  pain ;  so  not  enough 
Can  I  admire  how  crystal-smooth  it  felt. 
And  buoyant  round  my  limbs.     At  first  I  dwelt 
Whole  days  and  days  in  sheer  astonishment ; 
Forgetful  utterly  of  self-intent ; 
Moving  but  with  the  mighty  ebb  and  flow. 
Then,  like  a  new  fledg'd  bird  that  first  doth  show 
His  spreaded  feathers  to  the  morrow  chill, 
I  tried  in  fear  the  pinions  Of  my  will.  390 

'Twas  freedom  !  and  at  once  I  visited 
The  ceaseless  wonders  of  this  ocean-bed. 
No  need  to  tell  thee  of  them,  for  I  see 
That  thou  hast  been  a  witness — it  must  be — 


BOOK  in]  ENDYMION  107 

For  these  I  know  thou  canst  not  feel  a  drouth. 

By  the  melancholy  comers  of  that  mouth. 

So  I  will  in  my  story  straightway  pass 

To  more  immediate  matter.     Woe,  alas  ! 

That  love  should  be  my  bane  !     Ah,  Scylla  fair ! 

Why  did  poor  Glaucus  ever-^ever  dare  ^oo 

To  sue  thee  to  his  heart  ?     Kind  stranger-youth  ! 

I  lov'd  her  to  the  very  white  of  truth. 

And  she  would  not  conceive  it.     Timid  thing  ! 

She  fled  me  swift  as  sea-bird  on  the  wing, 

Round  every  isle,  and  point,  and  promontory. 

From  where  large  Hercules  wound  up  his  story 

Far  as  Egyptian  Nile.     My  passion  grew 

The  more,  the  more  I  saw  her  dainty  hue 

Gleam  delicately  through  the  azure  clear : 

Until  'twas  too  fierce  agony  to  bear ;  ^lo 

And  in  that  agony,  across  my  grief 

It  flash'd,  that  Circe  might  find  some  relief — 

Cruel  enchantress  !  So  above  the  water 

I  rear'd  my  head,  and  look'd  for  Phoebus'  daughter. 

jEsea's  isle  was  wondering  at  the  moon  : — 

It  seem'd  to  whirl  around  me,  and  a  swoon 

Left  me  dead-drifting  to  that  fatal  power. 

"  When  I  awoke,  'twas  in  a  twilight  bower ; 
Just  when  the  light  of  morn,  with  hum  of  bees. 
Stole  through  its  verdurous  matting  of  fresh  trees.  420 

How  sweet,  and  sweeter  !  for  I  heard  a  lyre, 
And  over  it  a  sighing  voice  expire.- 
It  ceas'd — I  caught  light  footsteps  ;  and  anon 
The  &irest  face  that  morn  e'er  look'd  upon 
Push'd  through  a  screen  of  roses. — Starry  Jove  ! 
With  tears,  and  smiles,  and  honey-words  she  wove 
A  net  whose  thraldom  was  more  bliss  than  all 
The  range  of  flower'd  Elysium.     Thus  did  fall 
The  dew  of  her  rich  speech :  '  Ah  !  Art  awake .'' 

0  let  me  hear  thee  speak,  for  Cupid's  sake  !  430 

1  am  so  oppress'd  with  joy  !     Why,  I  have  shed 
An  urn  of  tears,  as  though  thou  wert  cold  dead ; 
And  now  I  find  thee  living,  I  will  pour 

From  these  devoted  eyes  their  silver  store. 

Until  exhausted  of  the  latest  drop, 

So  it  wiU  pleasure  thee,  and  force  thee  stop 

Here,  that  I  too  may  live  :  but  if  beyond 

Such  cool  and  sorrowful  oiFerings,  thou  art  fond 

Of  soothing  warmth,  of  dalliance  supreme  ; 

If  thou  art  ripe  to  taste  a  long  love  dream  ;  440 


108  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ill 

If  smiles,  if  dimples,  tongues  for  ardour  mute. 
Hang  in  thy  vision  like  a  tempting  fruit, 

0  let  me  pluck  it  for  thee.'     Thus  she  link'd 
Her  charming  syllables,  till  indistinct 
Their  music  came  to  my  o'er-sweeten'd  soul ; 
And  then  she  hover'd  over  me,  and  stole 

So  near,  that  if  no  nearer  it  had  been 
This  furrow'd  visage  thou  hadst  never  seen. 

"  Young  man  of  Latmos  !  thus  particular 
Am  I,  that  thou  may'st  plainly  see  how  far  450 

This  fierce  temptation  went :  and  thou  may'st  not 
Exclaim,  How  then,  was  Scylla  quite  forgot  ? 

"  Who  could  resist .-'     Who  in  this  universe  ? 
She  did  so  breathe  ambrosia  ;  so  immerse 
My  fine  existence  in  a  golden  clime. 
She  took  me  like  a  child  of  suckling  time. 
And  cradled  me  in  roses.     Thus  condemn'd. 
The  current  of  my  former  life  was  stemm'd. 
And  to  this  arbitrary  queen  of  sense 

1  bow'd  a  tranced  vassal :  nor  would  thence  460 
Have  mov'd,  even  though  Amphion's  harp  had  woo'd 

Me  back  to  Scylla  o'er  the  billows  rude. 

For  as  Apollo  each  eve  doth  devise 

A  new  appareling  for  western  skies  ; 

So  every  eve,  nay  every  spendthrift  hour 

Shed  balmy  consciousness  within  that  bower. 

And  I  was  free  of  haunts  umbrageous  ; 

Could  wander  in  the  mazy  forest-house 

Of  squirrels,  foxes  shy,  and  antler'd  deer. 

And  birds  from  coverts  innermost  and  drear  470 

Warbling  for  very  joy  mellifluous  sorrow — 

To  me  new  bom  delights ! 

"  Now  let  me  borrow. 
For  moments  few,  a  temperament  as  stem 
As  Pluto's  sceptre,  that  my  words  not  bum 
These  uttering  lips,  while  I  in  calm  speech  tell 
How  specious  heaven  was  changed  to  real  hell. 

"  One  morn  she  left  me  sleeping  :  half  awake 
I  sought  for  her  smooth  arms  and  lips,  to  slake 
My  greedy  thirst  with  nectarous  camel-draughts  ; 
But  she  was  gone.     Whereat  the  barbed  shafts  480 

Of  disappointment  stuck  in  me  so  sore. 
That  out  I  ran  and  search'd  the  forest  o'er. 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  109 

Wandering  about  in  pine  and  cedar  gloom 

Damp  awe  assail'd  me ;  for  there  'gan  to  boom 

A  sound  of  moan,  an  agony  of  sound. 

Sepulchral  from  the  distance  all  around. 

Then  came  a  conquering  earth-thunder,  and  rumbled 

That  fierce  complain  to  silence :  while  I  stumbled 

Down  a  precipitous  path,  as  if  impell'd. 

I  came  to  a  dark  valley. — Groanings  swell'd  4go 

Poisonous  about  my  ears,  and  louder  grew, 

The  nearer  I  approach'd  a  flame's  gaunt  blue, 

That  glar'd  before  me  through  a  thorny  brake. 

This  fire,  like  the  eye  of  gordian  snake, 

Bewitch'd  me  towards ;  and  I  soon  was  near 

A  sight  too  fearful  for  the  feel  of  fear : 

In  thicket  hid  I  curs'd  the  haggard  scene — 

The  banquet  of  my  arms,  my  arbour  queen, 

Seated  upon  an  uptom  forest  root ; 

And  all  around  her  shapes,  wizard  and  brute,  300 

Laughing,  and  wailing,  groveling,  serpenting. 

Showing  tooth,  tusk,  and  venom-bag,  and  sting ! 

O  such  deformities !     Old  Charon's  self. 

Should  he  give  up  awhile  his  penny  pelf, 

And  take  a  dream  'mong  rushes  Stygian, 

It  could  not  be  so  phantasied.     Fierce,  wan. 

And  t3rrannizing  was  the  lady's  look, 

As  over  them  a  gnarled  staff  she  shook. ' — 

Oft-times  upon  the  sudden  she  laugh'd  out. 

And  from  a  basket  emptied  to  the  rout  510 

Clusters  of  grapes,  the  which  they  raven'd  quick 

And  roar'd  for  more  ;  with  many  a  hungry  lick 

About  their  shaggy  jaws.     Avenging,  slow. 

Anon  she  took  a  branch  of  mistletoe. 

And  emptied  on't  a  black  dull-gurgling  phial : 

Groan'd  one  and  all,  as  if  some  piercing  trial 

Was  sharpening  for  their  pitiable  bones. 

She  lifted  up  the  charm  :  appealing  groans 

From  their  poor  breasts  went  sueing  to  her  ear 

In  vain ;  remorseless  as  an  infant's  bier  520 

She  whisk'd  against  their  eyes  the  sooty  oil. 

Whereat  was  heard  a  noise  of  painful  toil. 

Increasing  gradual  to  a  tempest  rage. 

Shrieks,  yells,  and  groans  of  torture-pilgrimage  ; 

Until  their  grieved  bodies  'gan  to  bloat 

And  puff  from  the  tail's  end  to  stifled  throat : 

Then  was  appalling  silence  :  then  a  sight 

More  wildering  than  all  that  hoarse  affright ; 

For  the  whole  herd,  as  by  a  whirlwind  writhen, 


110  JOHN  KEATS  [book  m 

Went  through  the  dismal  air  like  one  huge  Python  530 

Antagonizing  Boreas, — and  so  vanish'd. 

Yet  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  :  she  banish 'd 

These  phantoms  with  a  nod.     Lo !  from  the  dark 

Came  waggish  fauns,  and  nymphs,  and  satyrs  stark, 

With  dancing  and  loud  revelry,— and  went 

Swifter  than  centaurs  after  rapine  bent. — 

Sighing  an  elephant  appear'd  and  bow'd 

Before  the  fierce  witch,  speaking  thus  aloud 

In  human  accent :  '  Potent  goddess !  chief 

Of  pains  resistless !  make  my  being  brief,  5^0 

Or  let  me  from  this  heavy  prison  fly : 

Or  give  me  to  the  air,  or  let  me  die ! 

I  sue  not  for  my  happy  crown  again ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  phal^^nx  on  the  plain ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  lone,  my  widow'd  wife ; 

I  sue  not  for  my  ruddy  drops  of  life, 

My  children  fair,  my  lovely  girls  and  boys ! 

I  will  forget  them  ;  I  will  pass  these  joys ; 

Ask  nought  so  heavenward,  so  too — too  high  : 

Only  I  pray,  as  fairest  boon,  to  die,  550 

Or  be  deliver'd  from  this  cumbrous  flesh. 

From  this  gross,  detestable,  filthy  mesh. 

And  merely  given  to  the  cold  bleak  air. 

Have  mercy.  Goddess  !     Circe,  feel  my  prayer  ! ' 

"  That  curst  magician's  name  fell  icy  numb 
Upon  my  wild  conjecturing :  truth  had  come 
Naked  and  sabre-like  against  my  heart. 
I  saw  a  fury  whetting  a  death-dart ; 
And  my  slain  spirit,  overwrought  with  fright. 
Fainted  away  in  that  dark  lair  of  night.  560 

Think,  my  deliverer,  how  desolate 
My  waking  must  have  been !  disgust,  and  hate, 
And  terrors  manifold  divided  me 
A  spoil  amongst  them.     I  prepar'd  to  flee 
Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood  : 
I  fled  three  days — when  lo !  before  me  stood 
Glaring  the  angry  witch.     O  Dis,  even  now, 
A  clammy  dew  is  beading  on  my  brow. 
At  mere  remembering  her  pale  laugh,  and  curse. 
'Ha !  ha !  Sir  Dainty !  there  must  be  a  nurse  570 

Made  of  rose  leaves  and  thistledown,  express. 
To  cradle  thee  my  sweet,  and  lull  thee  :  yes, 
I  am  too  flinty-hard  for  thy  nice  touch : 
My  tenderest  squeeze  is  but  a  giant's  clutch. 
So,  fairy-thing,  it  shall  have  luUabies 


BOOK  HI]  ENDYMION  111 

Unheard  of  yet :  and  it  shall  stiU  its  cries 
Upon  some  breast  more  lily-feminine. 
Oh,  no — it  shall  not  pine,  and  pine,  and  pine 
More  than  one  pretty,  trifling  thousand  years  ; 
And  then  'twere  pity,  but  £fite's  gentle  shears  580 

Cut  short  its  immortality.     Sea-flirt ! 
Young  dove  of  the  waters  !  truly  I'll  not  hurt 
One  hair  of  thine :  see  how  I  weep  and  sigh. 
That  our  heart-broken  parting  is  so  nigh. 
And  must  we  part  ?     Ah,  yes,  it  must  be  so. 
Yet  ere  thou  leavest  me  in  utter  woe. 
Let  me  sob  over  thee  my  last  adieus. 
And  speak  a  blessing :     Mark  me  I     Thou  hast  thews 
Immortal,  for  thou  art  of  heavenly  race  :        .  1    ,,  l,  < 

But  such  a  love  is  mine,  that  here  I  chase    '-  -^  '•  '   jgo 

Eternally  away  from  thee  all  bloom  ■ 

Of  youth,  and  destine  thee  towards  a  tomb. 
Hence  shalt  thou  quickly  to  the  watery  vast ; 
And  there,  ere  many  days  be  overpast. 
Disabled  age  shall  seize  thee ;  and  even  then 
Thou  shalt  not  go  the  way  of  aged  men ; 
But  live  and  wither,  cripple  and  still  breathe 
Ten  hundred  years :  which  gone,  I  then  bequeath 
Thy  fragile  bones  to  unknown  burial. 

Adieu,  sweet  love,  adieu ! ' — As  shot  stars  fall,  600 

She  fled  ere  I  could  groan  for  mercy.     Stung 
And  poisoned  was  my  spirit :  despair  sung 
A  war-song  of  defiance  'gainst  all  hell. 
A  hand  was  at  my  shoulder  to  compel 
My  sullen  steps ;  another  'fore  my  eyes 
Moved  on  with  pointed  finger.     In  this  guise 
Enforced,  at  the  last  by  ocean's  foam 
I  found  me  ;  by  my  fresh,  my  native  home. 
Its  tempering  coolness,  to  my  life  akin. 

Came  salutary  as  I  waded  in  ;  610 

">    And,  with  a  blind  volugtuous.  rage,  I  gave 
Battle  to  the  swoUenDillow^ridge,  and  drave 
Large  froth  before  me,  while  there  yet  remain'd 
Hale  strength,  nor  from  my  bones  all  marrow  drain' d. 

"  Young  lover,  I  must  weep — such  hellish  spite 
With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ?     While  thus  my  might 
Proving  upon  this  element,  dismay'd,  ,  . 

Upon  a  dead  thing's  face  my  hand  I  laid  ; .  \    '-''" 

I  look'd — 'twas  Scylla  !     Cursed,  cursed  Circe  ! 
O  vulture-witch,  hast  never  heard  of  mercy  ?  §30 

Could  pot  thy  harshest  vengeance  be  content, 


112  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

But  thou  must  nip  this  tender  innocent 

Because  I  lov'd  her  ? — ^Cold,  O  cold  indeed 

Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 

The  sea-swell  took  her  hair.     Dead  as  she  was 

I  clung  about  her  waist,  nor  ceas'd  to  pass 

Fleet  as  an  arrow  through  unfiithom'd  brine. 

Until  there  shone  a  fabric  crystalline, 

Ribb'd  and  inlaid  with  coral,  pebble,  and  piearl. 

Headlong  I  darted ;  at  one  eager  swirl  630 

Gain'd  its  bright  portal,  enter'd,  and  behold  ! 

'Twas  vast,  and  desolate,  and  icy-cold ; 

And  all  around — But  wherefore  this  to  thee 

Who  in  few  minutes  more  thyself  shalt  see  ? — 

I  left  poor  Scylla  in  a  niche  and  fled. 

My  fever'd  parchings  up,  my  scathing  dread 

Met  palsy  half  way :  soon  these  limbs  became 

Gaunt,  wither'd,  sapless,  feeble,  cramp'd,  and  lame. 

"  Now  let  me  pass  a  cruel,  cruel  space. 
Without  one  hope,  without  one  faintest  trace  640 

Of  mitigation,  or  redeeming  bubble 
Of  colour' d  phantasy  ;  for  I  fear  'twould  trouble 
Thy  brain  to  loss  of  reason :  and  next  tell 
How  a  restoring  chance  came  down  to  quell 
One  half  of  the  witch  in  me. 

"On  a  day. 
Sitting  upon  a  rock  above  the  spray, 
I  saw  grow  up  from  the  horizon's  brink  ''    ^  \ 

A  gallant  vessel :  soon  she  seem'd  to  sink  \j~ 

Away  from  me  again,  as  though  her  course       I  aj*^ 
Had  been  resum'd  in  spite  of  hindering  force-^  650 

So  vanish' d  :  and  not  long,  before  arose 
Dark  clouds,  and  muttering  of  winds  morose. 
Old  iEolus  would  stifle  his  mad  spleen, 
But  could  not :  therefore  all  the  billows  green 
Toss'd  up  the  silver  spume  against  the  clouds. 
The  tempest  came  :  I  saw  that  vessel's  shrouds 
In  perilous  bustle ;  while  upon  the  deck 
Stood  trembling  creatures.     I  beheld  the  wreck  ; 
The  final  gulphing ;  the  poor  struggling  souls  : 
I  heard  their  cries  amid  loud  thunder-rolls.  660 

O  they  had  all  been  sav'd  but  crazed  eld 
AnnuU'd  my  vigorous  cravings :  and  thus  quell'd 
And  curb'd  think  on't,  O  Latmian !  did  I  sit 
Writhing  with  pity,  and  a  cursing  fit 
Against  that  helj-born  Circe.     The  crew  had  gone, 


BOOK  in]  ENDYMION  113 

By  one  and  one,  to  pale  oblivion  ; 

And  I  was  gazing  on  the  surges  prone. 

With  many  a  scalding  tear  and  many  a  groan. 

When  at  my  feet  emerg'd  an  old  man's  hand, 

Grasping  this  scroll,  and  this  same  slender  wand.  670 

I  knelt  with  pain — ^reached  out  my  hand — ^had  grasp'd 

These  treasures — touch'd  the  knuckles — they  unclasp'd — 

I  caught  a  finger  :  but  the  downward  weight 

O'erpowered  me —  it  sank.     Then  'gan  abate 

The  storm,  and  through  chill  aguish  gloom  outburst 

The  comfortable  sun.     I  was  athirst 

To  search  the  book,  and  in  the  wanning  air 

Parted  its  dripping  leaves  with  eager  care. 

Strange  matters  did  it  treat  of,  and  drew  on 

My  soul  page  after  page,  tUl  well-nigh  won  680 

Into  forgetfulness  ;  when,  stupefied, 

I  read  these  words,  and  read  again,  and  tried 

My  eyes  against  the  heavens,  and  read  again. 

O  what  a  load  of  misery  and  pain 

Each  Atlas-line  bore  off! — a  shine  of  hope 

Came  gold  around  me,  cheering  me  to  cope 

Strenuous  with  hellish  tyranny.     Attend  ! 

For  thou  hast  brought  their  promise  to  an  end, 

"  In  the  wide  sea  there  lives  a  forlorn  wretch, 
Doom'd  with  enfeebled  carcase  to  outstretch  6go 

His  loath'd  existence  through  ten  centuries. 
And  then  to  die  alone.     Who  can  devise 
A  total  opposition  ?    No  one.     So 
One  million  times  ocean  must  ebb  andJUmi, 
And  he  oppressed.     Yet  he  shall  not  die. 
These  thirds  accomplish' d  : — If  he  utterly 
Scans  all  the  depths  of  Tnagic,  and  expounds 
The  meanings  of  all  motions,  shapes,  and  sounds  ; 
If  he  explores  all  forms  and  substances 

Straight  homeward  to  their  symbol-essences  ;  700 

He  shall  not  die.     Moreover,  and  in  chief, 
He  must  pursue  this  task  of  joy  and  grief 
Most  piously  ; — all  lovers  tempest-tost. 
And  in  the  savage  overwhehning  lost, 
He  shall  deposit  side  by  side,  until 
Time's  creeping  shall  the  dreary  space  fulfil : 
Which  done,  and  all  these  labours  ripened, 
A  youth,  by  heavenly  power  lov'd  and  led. 
Shall  stand  before  Mm  ;  whom  he  shall  direct 
Horn  to  consummate  all.     The  youth  elect  710 

Must  do  the  thing,  or  both  will  be  destr(y'd." — 


114  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

"Then,"  cried  the  young  Endymion,  overjoy'd, 
"  We  are  twin  brothers  in  this  destiny  ! 
Say,  I  intreat  thee,  what  achievement  high 
Is,  in  this  restless  world,  tot  me  reserv'd. 
What !  if  from  thee  my  wandering  feet  had  swerv'd, 
Had  we  both  perish'd  ?  " — "  Look  !  "  the  sage  replied, 
"Dost  thou  not  mark  a  gleaming  through  the  tide. 
Of  divers  brilliances  ?  'tis  the  edifice 

I  told  thee  of,  where  lovely  Scylla  Hes ;  7ao 

And  where  I  have  enshrined  piously 
All  lovers,  whom  fell  storms  have  doom'd  to  die 
Throughout  my  bondage."     Thus  discoursing,  on 
They  went  till  unobscur'd  the  porches  shone  ; 
Which  hurryingly  they  gain'd,  and  enter'd  straight. 
Sure  never  since  king  Neptune  held  his  state 
Was  seen  such  wonder  underneath  the  stars. 
Turn  to  some  level  plain  where  haughty  Mars 
Has  legion'd  all  his  battle ;  and  behold 

How  every  soldier,  with  firm  foot,  doth  hold  730 

His  even  breast :  see,  many  steeled  squares. 
And  rigid  ranks  of  iron — whence  who  dares 
One  step .''     Imagine  further,  line  by  line. 
These  warrior  thousands  on  the  field  supine  : — 
So  in  that  crystal  place,  in  silent  rows. 
Poor  lovers  lay  at  rest  from  joys  and  woes. — 
The  stranger  from  the  mountains,  breathless,  trac'd 
Such  thousands  of  shut  eyes  in  order  plac'd ; 
Such  ranges  of  white  feet,  and  patient  lips 
All  ruddy, — for  here  death  no  blossom  nips.  740 

He  mark'd  their  brows  and  foreheads ;  saw  their  hair 
Put  sleekly  on  one  side  with  nicest  care  ; 
And  each  one's  gentle  wrists,  with  reverence. 
Put  cross-wise  to  its  heart. 

"Let  us  commence," 
Whisper'd  the  guide,  stuttering  with  joy,  "  even  now." 
He  spake,  and,  trembling  like  an  aspen-boi^h, 
Began  to  tear  his  scroll  in  pieces  small. 
Uttering  the  while  some  mumblings  funeral. 
He  tore  it  into  pieces  small  as  snow 

That  drifts  unfeather'd  when  bleak  northerns  blow  ;  750 

And  having  done  it,  took  his  dark  blue  cloak 
And  bound  it  round  Endymion :  then  struck 
His  wand  against  the  empty  air  times  nine. — 
"  What  more  there  is  to  do,  young  man,  is  thine : 
But  first  a  little  patience ;  first  undo 
This  tangled  thread,  and  wind  it  to  a  clue. 


tiOOK  III]  ENDYMION  115 

Ah,  gentle  !  'tis  as  weak  as  spider's  skein ; 

And  shouldst  thou  break  it — What,  is  it  done  so  clean  ? 

A  power  overshadows  thee  !     O,  brave  ! 

The  spite  of  hell  is  tumbling  to  its  grave.  760 

Here  is  a  shell ;  'tis  pearly  blank  to  me. 

Nor  mark'd  with  any  sign  or  charaetery — 

Canst  thou  read  aught  ?     O  read  for  pity's  sake ! 

Ol3nmpus !  we  are  safe  !     Now,  Carian,  break 

This  wand  against  yon  lyre  on  the  pedestal." 

'Twas  done :  and  straight  with  sudden  swell  and  fall 
Sweet  music  breath'd  her  soul  away,  and  sigh'd 
A  lullaby  to  silence. — "  Youth  !  now  strew 
These  minced  leaves  on  me,  and  passing  through 
Those  files  of  dead,  scatter  the  same  around,  770 

And  thou  wilt  see  the  issue." — 'Mid  the  sound 
Of  flutes  and  viols,  ravishing  his  heart, 
Endymion  from  Glaucus  stood  apart, 
And  scatter'd  in  his  &ce  some  fragments  light. 
How  lightning-swift  the  change  !  a  youthful  wight 
Smiling  beneath  a  coral  diadem. 
Out-sparkling  sudden  like  an  upturn'd  gem, 
Appear'd,  and,  stepping  to  a  beauteous  corse, 
Kneel'd  down  beside  it,  and  with  tenderest  force 
Press'd  its  cold  hand,  and  wept, — ^and  Scylla  sigh'd !  780 

Endjfmion,  with  quick  hand,  the  charm  apply'd — 
The  nymph  arose  :  he  left  them  to  their  joy, 
And  onward  went  upon  his  high  employ, 
Showering  those  powerful  fragments  on  the  dead. 
And,  as  he  pass'd,  each  lifted  up  his  head. 
As  doth  a  flower  at  Apollo's  touch. 
Death  felt  it  to  his  inwards :  'twas  too  much  : 
Death  fell  a  weeping  in  his  charnel-house. 
The  Latmian  persever'd  along,  and  thus 

All  were  re-animated.     There  arose  790 

A  noise  of  harmony,  pulses  and  throes 
Of  gladness  in  the  air — while  many,  who 
Had  died  in  mutual  arms  devout  and  true. 
Sprang  to  each  other  madly  ;  and  the  rest 
Felt  a  high  certainty  of  being  blest. 
They  gaz'd  upon  Endymion.     Enchantment 
Grew  drunken,  and  would  have  its  head  and  bent. 
Delicious  symphonies,  like  airy  flowers. 
Budded,  and  swell'd,  and,  fuU-blown,  shed  full  showers 
Of  light,  soft,  unseen  leaves  of  sounds  divine.  800 

The  two  deliverers  tasted  a  pure  wine 
Of  happiness,  from  fairy-press  ooz'd  out. 


116  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

Speechless  they  eyed  each  other,  and  about 
The  fair  assembly  wander'd  to  and  fro, 
Distracted  with  the  richest  overflow 
Of  joy  that  ever  pour'd  from  heaven. 

'  Away ! " 


Shouted  the  new  bom  god  ;  "  Follow,  and  pay 

Our  piety  to  Neptunus  supreme  !  " — 

Then  Scylla,  blushing  sweetly  from  her  dream, 

They  led  on  first,  bent  to  her  meek  surprise,  8io 

Through  portal  columns  of  a  giant  size, 

Into  the  vaulted,  boundless  emerald. 

Joyous  all  follow'd,  as  the  leader  call'd, 

Down  marble  steps  ;  pouring  as  easily 

As  hour-glass  sand, — ^and  fast,  as  you  might  see 

Swallows  obeying  the  south  summer's  call. 

Or  swans  upon  a  gentle  waterfall. 

Thus  went  that  beautiful  multitude,  nor  far. 
Ere  from  among  some  rocks  of  glittering  spar, 
Just  within  ken,  they  saw  descending  thick  820 

Another  multitude.     Whereat  more  quick 
Moved  either  host.     On  a  wide  sand  they  met, 
And  of  those  numbers  every  eye  was  wet ; 
For  each  their  old  love  found.     A  murmuring  rose. 
Like  what  was  never  heard  in  all  the  throes 
Of  wind  and  waters  :  'tis  past  human  wit 
To  tell ;  'tis  dizziness  to  think  of  it. 

This  mighty  consummation  made,  the  host 
Mov'd  on  for  many  a  league  ;  and  gain'd,  and  lost 
Huge  sea-marks  ;  vanward  swelling  in  array,  830 

And  from  the  rear  diminishing  away, — 
Till  a  fkint  dawn  surpris'd  them.     Olaucus  cried, 
"  Behold  !  behold,  the  palace  of  his  pride  I 
God  Neptune's  palaces !  "     With  noise  increas'd, 
They  shoulder'd  on  towards  that  brightening  east. 
At  every  onward  step  proud  domes  arose 
In  prospect, — diamond  gleams,  and  golden  glows 
Of  amber  'gainst  their  faces  levelling. 
Joyous,  and  many  as  the  leaves  in  spring. 
Still  onward ;  still  the  splendour  gradual  swell'd.  840 

Rich  opal  domes  were  seen,  on  high  upheld 
By  jasper  pillars,  letting  through  their  shafts 
A  blush  of  coral.     Copious  wonder-draughts 
£ach  gazer  drank  ;  and  deeper  drank  more  near : 
For  what  poor  mortals  fragment  up,  as  mere 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  117 

As  marble  was  there  lavish,  to  the  vast 
Of  one  fair  palace,  that  far  far  surpass'd, 
Even  for  common  bulk,  those  olden  three, 
Memphis,  and  Babylon,  and  Nineveh. 

As  large,  as  bright,  as  eolour'd  as  the  bow  850 

Of  Iris,  when  unfading  it  doth  shew 
Beyond  a  silvery  shower,  was  the  arch 
Through  which  this  Paphian  army  took  its  march. 
Into  the  outer  courts  of  Neptune's  state  : 
Whence  could  be  seen,  direct,  a  golden  gate. 
To  which  the  leaders  sped ;  but  not  half  raught 
Ere  it  burst  open  swift  as  feiry  thought. 
And  made  those  dazzled  thousands  veil  their  eyes 
Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise. 

Soon  with  an  eagle  nativeness  their  gaze  860 

Ripe  from  hue-golden  swoons  took  all  the  blaze. 
And  then,  behold !  large  Neptune  on  his  throne 
Of  emerald  deep  :  yet  not  exalt  alone  ; 
At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  and  on 
His  left  sat  smiling  Beauty's  paragon.    Y  ■^'^-'^ '' 

Far  as  the  mariner  on  highest  mast 
Can  see  all  round  upon  the  calmed  vast. 
So  wide  was  Neptune's  hall :  and  as  the  blue 
Doth  vault  the  waters,  so  the  waters  drew 
Their  doming  curtains,  high,  magnificent,  870 

Aw'd  from  the  throne  aloof; — and  when  storm-rent 
Disclos'd  the  thunder-gloomings  in  Jove's  air ; 
But  sooth'd  as  now,  flash'd  sudden  everywhere, 
Noiseless,  sub-marine  cloudlets,  glittering 
Death  to  a  human  eye  :  for  there  did  spring 
From  natural  west,  and  east,  and  south,  and  north, 
A  light  as  of  four  sunsets,  blazing  forth 
A  gold-green  zenith  'bove  the  Sea-God's  head. 
Of  lucid  depth  the  floor,  and  far  outspread 
As  breezeless  lake,  on  which  the  slim  canoe  880 

Of  feather'd  Indian  darts  about,  as  through 
The  delicatest  air :  air  verily. 
But  for  the  portraiture  of  clouds  and  sky : 
This  palace  floor  breath-air, — but  for  the  amaze 
Of  deep-seen  wonders  motionless, — and  blaze 
Of  the  dome  pomp,  reflected  in  extremes. 
Globing  a  golden  sphere. 

They  stood  in  dreams 
Till  Triton  blew  his  horn.     The  palace  r^ng ; 


118  JOHN  KEATS  [pooK  iii 

The  Nereids  danc'd  ;  the  S3n'eiis  faintly  sang ; 

And  the  great  Sea-King  bow'd  his  dripping  head.  ggo 

Then  Love  took  wing,  and  from  his  pinions  shed 

On  all  the  multitude  a  neetarous  dew. 

The  ooze-bom  Goddess  beckoned  and  drew 

Fair  ScyUa  and  her  guides  to  conference  ; 

And  when  they  reach' d  the  throned  eminence 

She  kist  the  sea-nymph's  cheek, — who  sat  her  down 

A  to3dng  with  the  doves.     Then, — "  Mighty  crown 

And  sceptre  of  this  kingdom  ! "  Venus  said, 

"  Thy  vows  were  on  a  time  to  Nais  paid  : 

Behold ! " — Two  copious  tear-drops  instant  fell  goo 

From  the  God's  large  eyes  ;  he  smil'd  delectable, 

And  over  Glaucus  held  his  blessing  hands. — 

"  Endymion  !     Ah !  stiU  wandering  in  the  bands 

Of  love .''     Now  this  is  cruel.     Since  the  hour 

I  met  thee  in  earth's  bosom,  all  my  power 

Have  I  put  forth  to  serve  thee.     What,  not  yet 

Escap'd  from  dull  mortality's  harsh  net .'' 

A  little  patience,  youth  !  'twill  not  be  long. 

Or  I  am  skilless  quite :  an  idle  tongue, 

A  humid  eye,  and  steps  luxurious,  gio 

Where  these  are  new  and  strange,  are  ominous. 

Aye,  I  have  seen  these  signs  in  one  of  heaven. 

When  others  were  all  blind :  and  were  I  given 

To  utter  secrets,  haply  I  might  say 

Some  pleasant  words : — but  Love  will  have  his  day. 

So  wait  awhile  expectant.     Pr'ythee  soon. 

Even  in  the  passing  of  thine  honey-moon. 

Visit  thou  my  Cythera :  thou  wilt  find 

Cupid  well-natured,  my  Adonis  kind ; 

And  pray  persuade  with  thee — Ah,  I  have  done,  920 

All  blisses  be  upon  thee,  my  sweet  son !  " — 

Thus  the  fair  goddess  :  While  Endymion 

Knelt  to  receive  those  accents  halcyon. 

Meantime  a  glorious  revelry  began 
Before  the  Water-Monarch.     Nectar  ran 
In  courteous  fountains  to  all  cups  outreach'd  ; 
And  plunder'd  vines,  teeming  exhaustless  pleach'd 
New  growth  about  each  shell  and  penden't  lyre  i 
The  which,  in  disentangling  for  their  fire, 
PuU'd  down  fresh  foliage  and  coverture  930 

For  dainty  toying.     Cupid,  empire-sure, 
Flutter'd  and  laugh' d,  and  oft-times  through  the  throng 
Made  a  delighted  way.     Then  dance,  and  song. 
And  garlanding  grew  wild ;  and  pleasure  reign'd. 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  119 

In  harmless  tendril  they  each  other  chain' d. 
And  strove  who  should  be  smother'd  deepest  in 
Fresh  crush  of  leaves. 

O  'tis  a  very  sin 
For  one  so  weak  to  venture  his  poor  verse 
In  such  a  place  as  this.     O  do  not  curse. 
High  Muses !  let  him  hurry  to  the  ending.  g^o 

All  suddenly  were  silent.     A  soft  blending 
Of  dulcet  instruments  came  charmingly  ; 
And  then  a  hymn. 

"  King  of  the  stormy  sea  ! 
Brother  of  Jove,  and  co-inheritor 
Of  elements  !     Eternally  before 
Thee  the  waves  awfiil  bow.     Fast,  stubborn  rock. 
At  thy  fear'd  trident  shrinking,  doth  unlock 
Its  deep  foundations,  hissing  into  foam. 
All  mountain-rivers,  lost  in  the  wide  home 
Of  thy  capacious  bosom,  ever  flow.  950 

Thou  frownest,  and  old  iEolus  thy  foe 
Skulks  to  his  cavern,  'mid  the  gruff  complaint 
Of  all  his  rebel  tempests.     Dark  clouds  felint 
When,  from  thy  diadem,  a  silver  gleam 
Slants  over  blue  dominion.     Thy  bright  team 
Gulphs  in  the  morning  light,  and  scuds  along 
To  bring  thee  nearer  to  that  golden  song 
Apollo  singeth,  while  his  chariot 
Waits  at  the  doors  of  heaven.     Thou  art  not 
For  scenes  like  this :  an  empire  stern  hast  thou  ;  g6o 

And  it  hath  forrow'd  that  large  front :  yet  now. 
As  newly  come  of  heaven,  dost  thou  sit 
To  blend  and  interknit 
Subdued  majesty  with  this  glad  time. 
O  shell-borne  King  sublime  ! 
We  lay  our  hearts  before  thee  evermore — 
We  sing,  and  we  adore  ! 

"  Breathe  softly,  flutes  ; 
Be  tender  of  your  strings,  ye  soothing  lutes  ; 
Nor  be  the  trumpet  heard  !  O  vain,  O  vain  ;  970 

Not  flowers  budding  in  an  April  rain. 
Nor  breath  of  sleeping  dove,  nor  river's  flow, — 
No,  nor  the  ^ohan  twang  of  Love's  own  bow. 
Can  mingle  music  fit  for  the  soft  ear 
Of  goddess  Cytherea ! 


120  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 

Yet  deign,  white  Queen  of  Beauty,  thy  fair  eyes 
On  our  souk'  sacrifice. 

"  Bright-winged  Child ! 
Who  has  another  care  when  thou  hast  smil'd  ? 
Unfortunates  on  earth,  we  see  at  last  980 

All  death-shadows,  and  glooms  that  overcast 
Our  spirits,  fann'd  away  by  thy  light  pinions. 

0  sweetest  essence  !  sweetest  of  all  minions  ! 
God  of  warm  pulses,  and  dishevell'd  hair. 
And  panting  bosoms  bare ! 

Dear  unseen  light  in  darkness  !  eclipser 
Of  light  in  light !  delicious  poisoner  ! 
Thy  venom'd  goblet  will  we  quaff  until 
We  fill— we  fiU  ! 
And  by  thy  Mother's  lips ■' 

Was  heard  no  more  ggo 

For  clamour,  when  the  golden  palace  door 
Opened  again,  and  from  without,  in  shone 
A  new  magnificence.     On  oozy  throne 
Smooth-moving  came  Oceanus  the  old. 
To  take  a  latest  glimpse  at  his  sheep-fold. 
Before  he  went  into  his  quiet  cave 
To  muse  for  ever — Then  a  lucid  wave. 
Scoop' d  from  its  trembling  sisters  of  mid-sea. 
Afloat,  and  pillowing  up  the  majesty 

Of  Doris,  and  the  iEgean  seer,  her  spouse —  1000 

Next,  on  a  dolphin,  clad  in  laurel  boughs, 
Theban  Amphion  leaning  on  his  lute : 
His  fingers  went  across  it — All  were  mute 
To  gaze  on  Amphitrite,  queen  of  pearls. 
And  Thetis  pearly  too. — 

The  palace  whirls 
Around  giddy  Endymion ;  seeing  he 
Was  there  far  strayed  from  mortality. 
He  could  not  bear  it — shut  his  eyes  in  vain  ; 
Imagination  gave  a  dizzier  pain. 

"01  shall  die  !  sweet  Venus,  be  my  stay  !  loio 

Where  is  my  lovely  mistress  ?     Well-away  ! 

1  die — I  hear  her  voice — I  feel  my  wing — " 
At  Neptune's  feet  he  sank.     A  sudden  ring 
Of  Nereids  were  about  him,  in  kind  strife 
To  usher  back  his  spirit  into  life  : 

But  still  he  slept.     At  last  they  interwove 
Their  cradling  arms,  and  purpos'd  to  convey 
Towards  a  crystal  bower  fax  away. 


BOOK  III]  ENDYMION  121 

Lo !  while  slow  carried  through  the  pitying  crowd, 
To  his  inward  senses  these  words  spake  aloud ;  1020 

Written  in  star-light  on  the  dark  above : 
Dearest  Endymion  !  my  entire  love  ! 
Horn  have  I  dwelt  in  fear  of  fate  :  'tis  done — 
Immortal  bliss  for  me  too  hast  thou  won. 
Arise  then  !  for  the  hen-dove  shall  not  hatch 
Her  ready  eggs,  before  I'll  kissing  snatch 
Thee  into  endless  heaven.     Awake  !  awake  ! 

The  youth  at  once  arose  :  a  placid  lake 
Came  quiet  to  his  eyes  ;  and  forest  green,  1030 

Cooler  than  all  the  wonders  he  had  seen, 
Lull'd  with  its  simple  song  his  fluttering  breast. 
How  happy  once  again  in  grassy  nest ! 


122  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 


ENDYMION 

BOOK  IV 

MUSE  of  my  native  land  !  loftiest  Muse  ! 
O  first-born  on  the  mountains  !  by  the  hues 
Of  heaven  on  the  spiritual  air  begot : 
Long  didst  thou  sit  alone  in  northern  grot. 
While  yet  our  England  was  a  wolfish  den ; 
Before  our  forests  heard  the  talk  of  men ; 
Before  the  first  of  Druids  was  a  child ; — 
Long  didst  thou  sit  amid  our  regions  wild 
Rapt  in  a  deep  prophetic  solitude. 

There  came  an  eastern  voice  of  solemn  mood  : —  lo 

Yet  wast  thou  patient.     Then  sang  forth  the  Nine, 
Apollo's  garland  : — ^yet  didst  thou  divine 
Such  home-bred  glory,  that  they  cry'd  in  vain, 
"  Come  hither.  Sister  of  the  Island  !  "     Plain 
Spake  fair  Ausonia ;  and  once  more  she  spake 
A  higher  summons : — still  didst  thou  betake 
Thee  to  thy  native  hopes.     O  thou  hast  won 
A  full  accomplishment !     The  thing  is  done. 
Which  undone,  these  our  latter  days  had  risen 
On  barren  souls.     Great  Muse,  thou  know'st  what  prison,      20 
Of  flesh  and  bone,  curbs,  and  confines,  and  frets 
Our  spirit's  wings  :  despondency  besets 
Our  pillows ;  and  the  fresh  to-morrow  mom 
Seems  to  give  forth  its  light  in  very  scorn 
Of  our  dull,  uninspired,  snail-paced  lives. 
Long  have  I  said,  how  happy  he  who  shrives 
To  thee !     But  then  I  thought  on  poets  gone. 
And  could  not  pray  : — nor  could  I  now — so  on 
I  move  to  the  end  in  lowliness  of  heart. 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  that  I  should  fondly  part  3" 

From  my  dear  native  land  !     Ah,  foolish  maid ! 
Glad  was  the  hour,  when,  with  thee,  myriads  bade 
Adieu  to  Ganges  and  their  pleasant  fields  ! 
To  one  so  friendless  the  clear  freshet  yields 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION 

A  bitter  coolness ;  the  ripe  grape  is  sour  : 

Yet  I  would  have,  great  gods  !  but  one  short  hour 

Of  native  air — ^let  me  but  die  at  home." 

Endymion  to  heaven's  airy  dome 
Was  offering  up  a  hecatomb  of  vows. 

When  these  words  reach'd  him.     Whereupon  he  bows  40 

His  head  through  thorny-green  entanglement 
Of  underwood,  and  to  the  sound  is  bent. 
Anxious  as  hind  towards  her  hidden  fawn. 

"  Is  no  one  near  to  help  me  .■'     No  fair  dawn 
Of  hfe  from  charitable  voice  ?     No  sweet  sa}ring 
To  set  my  dull  and  sadden'd  spirit  playing  ? 
No  hand  to  toy  with  mine  ?    No  lips  so  sweet 
That  I  may  worship  them  ?     No  eyelids  meet 
To  twinkle  on  my  bosom].''     No  one  dies 

Before  me,  till  from  these  enslaving  eyes  50 

Redemption  sparkles  ! — I  am  sad  and  lost." 

Thou,  Carian  lord,  hadst  better  have  been  tost 
Into  a  whirlpool.     Vanish  into  air. 
Warm  mountaineer !  for  canst  thou  only  bear 
A  woman's  sigh  alone  and  in  distress  ? 
See  not  her  charms !     Is  Phoebe  passionless  ? 
Phoebe  is  fairer  far — O  gaze  no  more  : — 
Yet  if  thou  wilt  behold  all  beauty's  store. 
Behold  her  panting  in  the  forest  grass  ! 

Do  not  those  curls  of  glossy  jet  surpass  go 

For  tenderness  the  arms  so  idly  lain 
Amongst  them  ?     Feelest  not  a  kindred  pain. 
To  see  such  lovely  eyes  in  swimming  search 
After  some  warm  delight,  that  seems  to  perch 
Dovelike  in  the  dim  cell  lying  beyond 
Their  upper  lids  ? — Hist ! 

"  O  for  Hermes'  wand. 
To  touch  this  flower  into  human  shape  ! 
That  woodland  Hyacinthus  could  escape 
From  his  green  prison,  and  here  kneeling  down 
Call  me  his  queen,  his  second  life's  fair  crown !  70 

Ah  me,  how  I  could  love  ! — My  soul  doth  melt 
For  the  unhappy  youth — Love  !  I  have  felt 
So  faint  a  kindness,  such  a  meek  surrender 
To  what  my  own  full  thoughts  had  made  too  tender, 
That  but  for  tears  my  life  had  fled  away ! — 
Ye  deaf  and  senseless  minutes  of  the  day, 


124  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

And  thou,  old  forest,  hold  ye  this  for  true. 
There  is  no  lightning,  no  authentic  dew- 
But  in  the  eye  of  love  :  there's  not  a  sound. 
Melodious  howsoever,  can  confound  80 

The  heavens  and  earth  in  one  to  such  a  death 
As  doth  the  voice  of  love  :  there's  not  a  breath 
Will  mingle  kindly  with  the  meadow  air. 
Till  it  has  panted  round,  and  stolen  a  share 
Of  passion  from  the  heart ! " — 

Upon  a  bough 
He  leant,  wretched.     He  surely  cannot  now 
Thirst  for  another  love :  O  impious. 
That  he  can  even  dream  upon  it  thus  ! — 
Thought  he,  "  Why  am  I  not  as  are  the  dead. 
Since  to  a  woe  like  this  I  have  been  led  90 

Through  the  dark  earth,  and  through  the  wondrous  sea  ? 
Goddess  !  I  love  thee  not  the  less :  from  thee 
By  Juno's  smile  I  turn  not — no,  no,  no — 
While  the  great  waters  are  at  ebb  and  flow. — 
I  have  a  triple  soul !     O  fond  pretence — 
For  both,  for  both  my  love  is  so  immense, 
I  feel  my  heart  is  cut  for  them  in  twain." 

And  so  he  groan'd,  as  one  by  beauty  slain. 
The  lady's  heart  beat  quick,  and  he  could  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  heave  tumultuously.  100 

He  sprang  from  his  green  covert :  there  she  lay. 
Sweet  as  a  muskrose  upon  new-made  hay ; 
With  all  her  limbs  on  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
Shut  softly  up  alive.     To  speak  he  tries. 
"  Fair  damsel,  pity  me  !  forgive  that  I 
Thus  violate  thy  bower's  sanctity ! 

0  pardon  me,  for  I  am  full  of  grief — 

Grief  bom  of  thee,  young  angel !  fairest  thief! 
Who  stolen  hast  away  the  wings  wherewith 

1  was  to  top  the  heavens.     Dear  maid,  sith  no 
Thou  art  my  executioner,  and  I  feel 

Loving  and  hatred,  misery  and  weal, 

Wm  in  a  few  short  hours  be  nothing  to  me. 

And  all  my  story  that  much  passion  slew  me ; 

Do  smile  upon  the  evening  of  my  days  : 

And,  for  my  tortur'd  brain  begins  to  craze. 

Be  thou  my  nurse  ;  and  let  me  understand 

How  dying  I  shall  kiss  that  lily  hand. — 

Dost  weep  for  me  ?    Then  should  I  be  content. 

Scowl  on,  ye  fates  !  until  the  Armament  lao 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  125 

Outblackens  Erebus,  and  the  full-cavern'd  earth 

Crumbles  into  itself.     By  the  cloud  girth 

Of  Jove,  those  tears  have  given  me  a  thirst 

To  meet  oblivion." — ^As  her  heart  would  burst 

The  maiden  sobb'd  awhile,  and  then  replied  : 

"  Why  must  such  desolation  betide 

As  that  thou  speakest  of?     Are  not  these  green  nooks 

Empty  of  all  misfortune  ?     Do  the  brooks 

Utter  a  gorgon  voice .''     Does  yonder  thrush, 

Schooling  its  half-fledg'd  little  ones  to  brush  130 

About  the  dewy  forest,  whisper  tales  ? — 

Speak  not  of  grief,  young  stranger,  or  cold  snails 

Will  slime  the  rose  to-night.     Though  if  thou  wilt, 

Methinks  'twould  be  a  guilt — a  very  guilt — 

Not  to  companion  thee,  and  sigh  away 

The  light — ^the  dusk — the  dark — till  break  of  day  !  " 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  Endymion,  "  'tis  past : 

I  love  thee !  and  my  days  can  never  last. 

That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak  : 

Let  me  have  music  dying,  and  I  seek  140 

No  more  delight — I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call. 

And  murmur  about  Indian  streams  ?" — Then  she. 

Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree. 

For  pity  sang  this  roundelay 

"O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ? — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ?  150 

Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ? — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night. 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue .'' —  160 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale. 
That  thou  mayst  Usten  the  cold  dews  among  ? 


126  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

"O  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ?— 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day^ 

Nor  any  drooping  flower  170 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower. 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"  To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good-morrow. 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly. 

She  loves  me  dearly ; 
She  is  so  constant  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her 

And  so  leave  her,  180 

But  ah  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

"  Beneath  my  palm  trees,  by  the  river  side, 

I  sat  a  weeping:  in  the  whole  world  wide 

There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept, —  ^ 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

"  Beneath  my  palm  trees,  by  the  river  side, 

I  sat  a  weeping :  what  enamour'd  bride. 

Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds,  190 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm  trees  by  a  river  side  ? 

"  And  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers :  the  riUs 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came,  200 

Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame  ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley. 

To  scare  thee.  Melancholy ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name ! 
And  I  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten,  when,  in  June, 
Tall  chesnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  : — 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly ! 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  127 

"  Within  his  car,  aloft,  young  Bacchus  stood. 

Trifling  his  ivy-dart,,  in  dancing  mood,  210 

With  sidelong  laughing ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbru'd 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders,  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  : 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass. 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quafiing. 

"  Whence  came  ye,  merry  Damsels  !  whence  came  ye  ! 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate,  220 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? — 
'  We  follow  Bacchus  !  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A  conquering ! 
Bacchus,  young  Bacchus  !  good  or  Ul  betide. 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide  : — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy ! ' 

"  Whence  came  ye,  jolly  Satyrs !  whence  came  ye  ! 

So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 

Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left  230 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? — 
'  For  virine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree ; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath,  and  yellow  brooms. 

And  cold  mushrooms ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth ; 
Great  God  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  ! — 
Come  hither,  lady  fair,  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy ! ' 

"  Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went, 

And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent,  240 

Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants : 
Onward  these  myriads — with  song  and  dance. 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance. 
Web-footed  alhgators,  crocodiles. 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen,  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide, 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide.  230 


128  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

"  Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes, 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains ; 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done : 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 
On  spleenful  unicorn. 

"  I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown ! 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals'  ring !  260 

I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ! 
The  kings  of  Inde  their  jewel-sceptres  vail. 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans. 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans  ; 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. — 
Into  these  regions  came  I  following  him, 
Sick  hearted,  weary — so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear  270 

Alone,  without  a  peer : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

"  Young  stranger ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  : 

Alas,  'tis  not  for  me ! 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be. 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

"  Come  then.  Sorrow ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow !  a8o 

Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 

And  deceive  thee. 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one. 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid ; 

Thou  art  her  mother. 

And  her  brother. 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade."  29a 

O  what  a  sigh  she  gave  in  finishing. 
And  look,  quite  dead  to  every  worldly  thing ! 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  129 

,    End3n3aion  could  not  speak,  but  gazed  on  her ; 
And  listened  to  the  wind  that  now  did  stir 
About  the  crisped  oaks  full  drearily, 
Yet  with  as  sweet  a  softness  as  might  be 
Remember'd  from  its  velvet  summer  song. 
At  last  he  said  :     "  Poor  lady,  how  thus  long 
Have  I  been  able  to  endure  that  voice  ? 

Fair  Melody  !  kind  Sjrren !  I've  no  choice  ;  300 

I  must  be  thy  sad  servant  evermore  : 
I  cannot  choose  but  kneel  here  and  adore. 
Alas,  I  must  not  think — by  Phoebe,  no  ! 
Let  me  not  think,  soft  Angel !  shall  it  be  so .'' 
Say,  beautifuUest,  shall  I  never  think  .' 
O  thou  could' st  foster  me  beyond  the  brink 
Of  recollection  !  make  my  watchful  care 
Close  up  its  bloodshot  eyes,  nor  see  despair ! 
Do  gently  murder  half  my  soul,  and  I 

Shall  feel  the  other  half  so  utterly ! —  310 

I'm  giddy  at  that  cheek  so  fair  and  smooth  ; 
O  let  it  blush  so  ever !  let  it  soothe 
My  madness  !  let  it  mantle  rosy-warm 
With  the  tinge  of  love,  panting  in  safe  alarm. — 
This  cannot  be  thy  hand,  and  yet  it  is  ; 
And  this  is  sure  thine  other  softling — this 
Thine  own  fair  bosom,  and  I  am  so  near ! 
Wilt  fall  asleep  ?     O  let  me  sip  that  tear ! 
And  whisper  one  sweet  word  that  I  may  know 
This  is  this  world — sweet  dewy  blossom  ! " — Woe  !  320 

Woe  !     Woe  to  that  Endymion  !     Where  is  he  f — 
Even  these  words  went  echoing  dismally 
Through  the  wide  forest — a  most  fearful  tone. 
Like  one  repenting  in  his  latest  moan ; 
And  while  it  died  away  a  shade  pass'd  by. 
As  of  a  thunder  cloud.     When  arrows  fly 
Through  the  thick  branches,  poor  ring-doves  sleek  forth 
Their  timid  necks  and  tremble  ;  so  these  both 
Leant  to  each  other  trembling,  and  sat  so 

Waiting  for  some  destruction — when  lo,  330 

Foot-feather'd  Mercury  appear'd  sublime 
Beyond  the  tall  tree  tops ;  and  in  less  time 
Than  shoots  the  slanted  hail-storm,  down  he  dropt 
Towards  the  ground ;  but  rested  not,  nor  stopt 
One  moment  from  his  home  :  only  the  sward 
He  with  his  wand  light  touch'd,  and  heavenward 
Swifter  than  sight  was  gone — even  before 
The  teeming  earth  a  sudden  witness  bore 
Of  his  swift  magic.     Diving  swans  appear 
9 


130  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

Above  the  crystal  circlings  white  and  clear ;  3^0 

And  catch  the  cheated  eye  in  wild  surprise. 

How  they  can  dive  in  sight  and  unseen  rise — 

So  from  the  turf  outsprang  two  steeds  jet-black. 

Each  with  large  dark  blue  wings  upon  his  back. 

The  youth  of  Caria  plac'd  the  lovely  dame 

On  one,  and  felt  himself  in  spleen  to  tame 

The  other's  fierceness.     Through  the  air  they  flew. 

High  as  the  eagles.     Like  two  drops  of  dew 

Exhal'd  to  Phoebus'  lips,  away  they  are  gone. 

Far  from  the  earth  away — unseen,  alone,  350 

Among  cool  clouds  and  winds,  but  that  the  free. 

The  buoyant  life  of  song  can  floating  be 

Above  their  heads,  and  follow  them  untir'd. — 

Muse  of  my  native  land,  am  I  inspir'd  ? 

This  is  the  giddy  air,  and  I  must  spread 

Wide  pinions  to  keep  here  ;  nor  do  I  dread 

Or  height,  or  depth,  or  width,  or  any  chance 

Precipitous :  I  have  beneath  my  glance 

Those  towering  horses  and  their  moumfril  freight. 

Could  I  thus  sail,  and  see,  and  thus  await  360 

Fearless  for  power  of  thought,  without  thine  aid  ? — 

There  is  a  sleepy  dusk,  an  odorous  shade 

From  some  approaching  wonder,  and  behold 

Those  winged  steeds,  with  snorting  nostrils  bold 

Snuff  at  its  faint  extreme,  and  seem  to  tire. 

Dying  to  embers  from  their  native  fire  ! 

There  curl'd  a  purple  mist  around  them ;  soon. 
It  seem'd  as  when  aromid  the  pale  new  moon 
Sad  Zeph3nr  droops  the  clouds  like  weeping  willow  : 
'Twas  Sleep  slow  joumepng  with  head  on  pillow.  370 

For  the  first  time,  since  he  came  nigh  dead  bom 
From  the  old  womb  of  night,  his  cave  forlorn 
Had  he  left  more  forlorn ;  for  the  first  time. 
He  felt  aloof  the  day  and  morning's  prime — 
Because  into  his  depth  Cimmerian 
There  came  a  dream,  showing  how  a  young  man. 
Ere  a  lean  bat  could  plump  its  wintery  skin. 
Would  at  high  Jove's  empyreal  footstool  win 
An  immortality,  and  how  espouse 

Jove's  daughter,  and  be  reckon'd  of  his  house.  380 

Now  was  he  slumbering  towards  heaven's  gate. 
That  he  might  at  the  threshold  one  hour  wait 
To  hear  the  marriage  melodies,  and  then 
Sink  downward  to  his  dusky  cave  again. 
His  litter  of  smooth  seiuilijpe^t  ipist, 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  131 

Diversely  ting'd  with  rose  and  amethyst. 

Puzzled  those  eyes  that  for  the  centre  sought ; 

And  scarcely  for  one  moment  could  be  caught 

His  sluggish  form  reposing  motionless. 

Those  two  on  winged  steeds,  with  all  the  stress  390 

Of  vision  search'd  for  him,  as  one  would  look 

Athwart  the  sallows  of  a  river  nook 

To  catch  a  glance  at  silver  throated  eels, — 

Or  from  old  Skiddaw's  top,  when  fog  conceals 

His  rugged  forehead  in  a  mantle  pale, 

With  an  eye-guess  towards  some  pleasant  vale 

Descry  a  favourite  hamlet  faint  and  far. 

These  raven  horses,  though  they  foster' d  are 
Of  earth's  splenetic  fire,  dully  drop 

Their  full-veined  ears,  nostrils  blood  wide,  and  stop ;  400 

Upon  the  spiritless  mist  have  they  outspread 
Their  ample  feathers,  are  in  slumber  dead, — 
And  on  those  pinions,  level  in  mid  air, 
Endymion  sleepeth  and  the  lady  fair. 
Slowly  they  sail,  slowly  as  icy  isle 
Upon  a  calm  sea  drifting :  and  meanwhile 
The  mournful  wanderer  dreams.     Behold!  he  walks 
On  heaven's  pavement ;  brotherly  he  talks 
To  divine  powers :  from  his  hand  full  fain 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  pearly  grain :  410 

He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow. 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield. 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt :  arch  Hebe  brings 
A  fuU-brimm'd  goblet,  dances  lightly,  sings 
And  tantalizes  long ;  at  last  he  drinks. 
And  lost  in  pleasure  at  her  feet  he  sinks. 
Touching  with  dazzled  lips  her  starlight  hand. 
He  blows  a  bugle, — an  ethereal  band  420 

Are  visible  above :  the  Seasons  four,— 
Green-kyrtled  Spring,  flush  Summer,  golden  store 
In  Autumn's  sickle.  Winter  frosty  hoar. 
Join  dance  with  shadowy  Hours  ;  while  still  the  blast. 
In  swells  unmitigated,  still  doth  last 
To  sway  their  floating  morris.     "  Whose  is  this  ? 
Whose  bugle  ?  "  he  inquires ;  they  smile — "  O  Dis  ! 
Why  is  this  mortal  here .-'     Dost  thou  not  know 
Its  mistress'  lips  ?     Not  thou .'' — 'Tis  Dian's  :  lo  ! 
She  rises  crescented !  ",    He  looks,  'tis  she,  430 

His  very  goddess :  good-bye  earth,  and  sea. 


132  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

And  air,  and  pains,  and  care,  and  suffering ; 
Good-bye  to  all  but  love  !     Then  doth  he  spring 
Towards  her,  and  awakes — and,  strange,  o'erhead. 
Of  those  same  fragrant  exhalations  bred, 
Beheld  awake  his  very  dream  :  the  gods 
Stood  smiling  ;  merry  Hebe  laughs  and  nods  ; 
And  Phoebe  bends  towards  him  crescented. 

0  state  perplexing !     On  the  pinion  bed, 

Too  well  awake,  he  feels  the  panting  side  440 

Of  his  delicious  lady.     He  who  died 

For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun, 

Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run, 

Felt  not  more  tongue-tied  than  £nd3ntnion. 

His  heart  leapt  Up  as  to  its  rightful  throne. 

To  that  fair  shadow'd  passion  puls'd  its  way — 

Ah,  what  perplexity !     Ah,  well  a  day  1 

So  fond,  so  beauteous  was  his  bed-fellow. 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her :  then  he  grew 

Awhile  forgetful  of  all  beauty  save  450 

Young  Phoebe's,  golden  hair'd ;  and  so  'gan  crave 

Forgiveness  :  yet  he  tum'd  once  more  to  look 

At  the  sweet  sleeper, — all  his  soul  was  shook, — 

She  press'd  his  hand  in  slumber ;  so  once  more 

He  could  not  help  but  kiss  her  and  adore. 

At  this  the  shadow  wept,  melting  away. 

The  Latmian  started  up  :     "  Bright  goddess,  stay  ! 

Search  my  most  hidden  breast  1     By  truth's  own  tongue, 

1  have  no  daedale  heart :  why  is  it  wrung 

To  desperation  ?     Is  there  nought  for  me,  460 

Upon  the  bourne  of  bliss,  but  misery  ?  " 

These  words  awoke  the  stranger  of  dark  tresses  : 
Her  dawning  love-look  rapt  Endymion  blesses 
With  'haviour  soft.     Sleep  yawned  from  underneath. 
"  Thou  swan  of  Ganges,  let  us  no  more  breathe 
This  murky  phantasm  !  thou  contented  seem'st 
Pillow'd  in  lovely  idleness,  nor  dream'st  ^ 

What  horrors  may  discomfort  thee  and  me. 
Ah,  shouldst  thou  die  from  my  heart-treachery  ! — 
Yet  did  she  merely  weep — her  gentle  soul  470 

Hath  no  revenge  in  it :  as  it  is  whole 
In  tenderness,  would  I  were  whole  in  love  ! 
Can  I  prize  thee,  fair  maid,  all  price  above. 
Even  when  I  feel  as  true  as  innocence  ? 
I  do,  I  do. — ^What  is  this  soul  then  ?    Whence 
Came  it .'    It  does  not  seem  my  own,  and  I 
Have  no  self-passion  or  identity. 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  133 

Some  fearful  end  must  be  :  where,  where  is  it  ? 

By  Nemesis,  I  see  my  spirit  flit 

Alone  about  the  dark — Forgive  me,  sweet :  480 

Shall  we  away  ?  "     He  rous'd  the  steeds  :  they  beat 

Their  wings  chivalrous  into  the  clear  air, 

Leaving  old  Sleep  within  his  vapoury  lair. 

The  good-night  blush  of  eve  was  waning  slow. 
And  Vesper,  risen  star,  began  to  throe 
In  the  dusk  heavens  silverly,  when  they 
Thus  sprang  direct  towards  the  Galaxy. 
Nor  did  speed  hinder  converse  soft  and  strange — 
Eternal  oaths  and  vows  they  interchange. 
In  such  wise,  in  such  temper,  so  aloof  ^go 

Up  in  the  winds,  beneath  a  starry  roof. 
So  witless  to  their  doom,  that  verily 
'Tis  well  nigh  past  man's  search  their  hearts  to  see  ; 
Whether  they  wept,  or  laugh 'd,  or  griev'd,  or  toy'd — 
Most  Uke  with  joy  gone  mad,  with  sorrow  cloy'd. 

Full  facing  their  swift  flight,  from  ebon  streak, 
The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak. 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star. 
Or  tiny  point  of  fairy  scymetar ; 

Bright  signal  that  she  only  stoop'd  to  tie  500 

Her  silver  sandals,  ere  dehciously 
She  bow'd  into  the  heavens  her  timid  head. 
Slowly  she  rose,  as  though  she  would  have  fled. 
While  to  his  lady  meek  the  Carian  tum'd, 
To  mark  if  her  dark  eyes  had  yet  discem'd 
This  beauty  in  its  births-Despair  !  despair ! 
He  saw  her  body  fading  gaunt  and  spare 
In  the  cold  moonshine.     Straight  he  seiz'd  her  wrist ; 
It  melted  from  his  grasp  :  her  hand  he  kiss'd, 
And,  horror !  kiss'd  his  own — he  was  alone.  510 

Her  steed  a  little  higher  soar'd,  and  then 
•        Dropt  hawkwise  to  the  earth. 

There  lies  a  den. 
Beyond  the  seeming  confines  of  the  space 
Made  for  the  soul  to  wander  in  and  toace 
Its  own  existence,  of  remotest  glooms. 
Dark  regions  are  around  it,  where  the  tombs 
Of  buried  grie&  the  spirit  sees,  but  scarce 
One  hour  doth  linger  weeping,  for  the  pierce 
Of  new-bom  woe  it  feels  more  inly  smart : 
And  in  these  regions  many  a  venom'd  dart  320 


134  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

At  random  flies ;  they  are  the  proper  home 

Of  every  ill :  the  man  is  yet  to  come 

Who  hath  not  journeyed  in  this  native  hell. 

But  few  have  ever  felt  how  calm  and  well 

Sleep  may  be  had  in  that  deep  den  of  all. 

There  anguish  does  not  sting ;  nor  pleasure  pall : 

Woe-hurricanes  beat  ever  at  the  gate, 

Yet  all  is  still  within  and  desolate. 

Beset  with  plainful  gusts,  within  ye  hear 

No  sound  so  loud  as  when  on  curtain'd  bier  530 

The  death-watch  tick  is  stifled.     Enter  none 

Who  strive  therefore :  on  the  sudden  it  is  won. 

Just  when  the  sufferer  begins  to  burn, 

Then  it  is  free  to  him ;  and  from  an  urn, 

Still  fed  by  melting  ice,  he  takes  a  draught — 

Young  Semele  such  richness  never  quaft 

In  her  maternal  longing !     Happy  gloom  ! 

Dark  Paradise  !  where  pale  becomes  the  bloom 

Of  health  by  due  ;  where  silence  dreariest 

Is  most  articulate  ;  where  hopes  infest ;  540 

Where  those  eyes  are  the  brightest  far  that  keep 

Their  lids  shut  longest  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 

O  happy  spirit-home  !     O  wondrous  soul ! 

Pregnant  with  such  a  den  to  save  the  whole 

In  thine  own  depth.     Hail,  gentle  Carian ! 

For,  never  since  thy  griefs  and  woes  began. 

Hast  thou  felt  so  content :  a  grievous  feud 

Hath  led  thee  to  this  Cave  of  Quietude. 

Aye,  his  lull'd  soul  was  there,  although  upborne 

With  dangerous  speed :  and  so  he  did  not  mourn  550 

Because  he  knew  not  whither  he  was  going. 

So  happy  was  he,  not  the  aerial  blowing 

Of  trumpets  at  clear  parley  from  the  east 

Could  rouse  from  that  fine  relish,  that  high  feast. 

They  stung  the  feather'd  horse :  with  fierce  alarm 

He  flapp'd  towards  the  sound.     Alas,  no  charm 

Could  lift  Endymion's  head,  or  he  had  view'd 

A  skyey  mask,  a  pinion'd  multitude, — 

And  silvery  was  its  passing :  voices  sweet 

Warbling  the  while  as  if  to  lull  and  greet  560 

The  wanderer  in  his  path.     Thus  warbled  they. 

While  past  the  vision  went  in  bright  array. 

"  Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 
For  all  the  golden  bowers  of  the  day 
Are  empty  left  ?    Who,  who  away  would  be 
From  Cynthia's  wedding  and  festivity  ? 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  135 

Not  Hesperus  :  lo  !  upon  his  silver  wings 

He  leans  away  for  highest  heaven  and  sings, 

Snapping  his  lucid  fingers  merrily ! — 

Ah,  Zephyrus  !  art  here,  and  Flora  too  !  570 

Ye  tender  bibbers  of  the  rain  and  dew. 

Young  playmates  of  the  rose  and  daffodil. 

Be  careful,  ere  ye  enter  in,  to  fill 

Your  baskets  high 
With  fennel  green,  and  balm,  and  golden  pines. 
Savory,  latter-mint,  and  columbines, 
Cool  parsley,  basil  sweet,  and  sunny  thyme  ; 
Yea,  every  flower  and  leaf  of  every  clime, 
All  gather' d  in  the  dewy  morning  :  hie 

Away !  fly,  fly  ! —  580 

Crystalline  brother  of  the  belt  of  heaven, 
Aquarius  !  to  whom  king  Jove  has  given 
Two  liquid  pulse  streams  'stead  of  feather'd  wings, 
Two  fan-like  fountains, — thine  illuminings 

For  Dian  play  : 
Dissolve  the  frozen  purity  of  air ; 
Let  thy  white  shoulders  silvery  and  bare 
Show  cold  through  watery  pinions ;  make  more  bright 
The  Star-Queen's  crescent  on  her  marriage  night : 

Haste,  haste  away  ! —  590 

Castor  has  tam'd  the  planet  Lion,  see  ! 
And  of  the  Bear  has  Pollux  mastery : 
A  third  is  in  the  race !  who  is  the  third 
Speeding  away  swift  as  the  eagle  bird  ? 

The  ramping  Centaur ! 
The  Lion's  mane's  on  end :  the  Bear  how  fierce  ! 
The  Centaur's  arrow  ready  seems  to  pierce 
Some  enemy  :  far  forth  his  bow  is  bent 
Into  the  blue  of  heaven.     He'U  be  shent 

Pale  unrelentor,  600 

When  he  shall  hear  the  wedding  lutes  a  playing. — 
Andromeda  !  sweet  woman !  why  delaying 
So  timidly  among  the  stars  :  come  hither  ! 
Join  this  bright  throng,  and  nimbly  follow  whither 

They  all  are  going. 

Danae's  Son,  before  Jove  newly  bow'd,' 
Has  wept  for  thee,  calling  to  Jove  aloud. 
Thee,  gentle  lady,  did  he  disenthral : 
Ye  shall  for  ever  live  and  love,  for  allj 

Thy  tears  are  flowing. —  610 

By  Daphne's  fright,  behold  Apollo  ! — " 


136  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

More 
Endymion  heard  not :  down  his  steed  him  bore. 
Prone  to  the  green  head  of  a  misty  hill. 

His  first  touch  of  the  earth  went  nigh  to  kill. 
"  Alas  !  "   said  he,  "  were  I  but  always  borne 
Through  dangerous  winds,  had  but  my  footsteps  worn 
A  path  in  hell,  for  ever  would  I  bless 
Horrors  which  nourish  an  uneasiness 
For  my  own  sullen  conquering  :  to  him 

Who  lives  beyond  earth's  boundary,  grief  is  dim,  620 

Sorrow  is  but  a  shadow  :  now  I  see 
The  grass  ;  I  feel  the  solid  ground— Ah,  me  ! 
It  is  thy  voice — divinest !     Where  ?-^who  ?  who 
Left  thee  so  quiet  on  this  bed  of  dew  ? 
Behold  upon  this  happy  earth  we  are  ; 
Let  us  ay  love  each  other  ;  let  us  fare 
On  forest-fruits,  and  never,  never  go 
Among  the  abodes  of  mortals  here  below. 
Or  be  by  phantoms  duped.     O  destiny ! 

Into  a  labyrinth  now  my  soul  would  fly,  630 

But  with  thy  beauty  will  I  deaden  it. 
Where  didst  thou  melt  to  ?     By  thee  will  I  sit 
For  ever  :  let  our  fate  stop  here — a  kid 
I  on  this  spot  wiU  offer :     Pan  will  bid 
Us  live  in  peace,  in  love  and  peace  among 
His  forest  wildernesses.     I  have  clung 
To  nothing,  lov'd  a  nothing,  nothing  seen 
Or  felt  but  a  great  dream !     O  I  have  been 
Presumptuous  against  love,  against  the  sky, 
Against  all  elements,  against  the  tie  640 

Of  mortals  each  to  each,  against  the  blooms 
Of  flowers,  rush  of  rivers,  and  the  tombs 
Of  heroes  gone  !     Against  his  proper  glory 
Has  my  own  soul  conspired :  so  my  story 
Will  I  to  children  utter,  and  repent. 
There  never  liv'd  a  mortal  man,  who  bent 
His  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starv'd  and  died.     My  sweetest  Indian,  here, 
Here  will  I  kneel,  for  thou  redeemed  hast 
My  life  from  too  thin  breathing  :  gone  and  past  650 

Are  cloudy  phantasms.     Caverns  lone,  farewel ! 
And  air  of  visions,  and  the  monstrous  swell 
Of  visionary  seas !     No,  never  more 
Shall  airy  voices  cheat  me  to  the  shore 
Of  tangled  wonder,  breathless  and  aghast. 
Adieu,  my  daintiest  Dream  !  although  so  vast 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  187 

My  love  is  still  for  thee.     The  hour'may  come 

When  we  shall  meet  in  pure  elysium. 

On  earth  I  may  not  love  thee ;  and  therefore 

Doves  will  I  offer  upj  and  sweetest  store  660 

All  through  the  teeming  year :  so  thou  wilt  shine 

On  me,  and  on  this  damsel  fair  of  mine. 

And  bless  our  simple  lives.     My  Indian  bliss ! 

My  river-lily  bud  !  one  human  kiss ! 

One  sigh  of  real  breath — one  gentle  squeeze. 

Warm  as  a  dove's  nest  among  summer  trees. 

And  warm  with  dew  at  ooze  from  living  blood  ! 

Whither  didst  melt .-'     Ah,  what  of  that ! — all  good 

We'll  talk  about — no  more  of  dreaming.— Now, 

Where  shall  our  dwelling  be .''     Under  the  brow  670 

Of  some  steep  mossy  hill,  where  ivy  dun 

Would  hide  us  up,  although  spring  leaves  were  none  ; 

And  where  dark  yew  trees,  as  we  rustle  through. 

Will  drop  their  scarlet  berry  cups  of  dew  ? 

0  thou  wouldst  joy  to  live  in  such  a  place  ; 
Dusk  for  our  loves,  yet  light  enough  to  grace 
Those  gentle  limbs  on  mossy  bed  reclin'd : 

For  by  one  step  the  blue  sky  shouldst  thou  find, 

And  by  another,  in  deep  dell  below. 

See,  through  the  trees,  a  little  river  go  680 

AU  in  its  mid-day  gold  and  glimmering. 

Honey  from  out  the  gnarled  hive  I'll  bring. 

And  apples,  wan  with  sweetness,  gather  thee, — 

Cresses  that  grow  where  no  man  may  them  see. 

And  sorrel  untorn  by  the  dew-claw' d  stag : 

Pipes  will  I  fashion  of  the  S3>Tinx  flag. 

That  thou  mayst  always  know  whither  I  roam. 

When  it  shall  please  thee  in  our  quiet  home 

To  listen  and  think  of  love.     Still  let  me  speak  ; 

StiU  let  me  dive  into  the  joy  I  seek, —  690 

For  yet  the  past  doth  prison  me.     The  rill. 

Thou  haply  mayst  delight  in,  will  I  fill 

With  fairy  fishes  from  the  mountain  tarn. 

And  thou  shalt  feed  them  from  the  squirrel's  barn. 

Its  bottom  will  I  strew  with  amber  shells. 

And  pebbles  blue  from  deep  enchanted  wells. 

Its  sides  I'll  plant  with  dew-sweet  eglantine. 

And  honeysuckles  full  of  clear  bee-wine. 

1  will  entice  this  crystal  rill  to  trace 

Love's  silver  name  upon  the  meadow's  face.  700 

I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  a  flame  of  fire  ; 
And  to  God  Phoebus,  for  a  golden  l3Te  ; 
To  Empress  Dian,  for  a  hunting  spear  ; 


188  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

To  Vesper,  for  a  taper  silver-clear. 

That  I  may  see  thy  beauty  through  the  night ; 

To  Flora,  and  a  nightingale  shall  light 

Tame  on  thy  finger ;  to  the  River-gods, 

And  they  shall  bring  thee  taper  fishing-rods 

Of  gold,  and  lines  of  Naiads'  long  bright  tress. 

Heaven  shield  thee  for  thine  utter  loveliness !  710 

Thy  mossy  footstool  shall  the  altar  be 

'Fore  which  I'll  bend,  bending,  dear  love,  to  thee : 

Those  lips  shall  be  my  Delphos,  and  shall  speak 

Laws  to  my  footsteps,  colour  to  my  cheek. 

Trembling  or  stedfastness  to  this  same  voice. 

And  of  three  sweetest  pleasurings  the  choice : 

And  that  affectionate  light,  those  diamond  things. 

Those  eyes,  those  passions,  those  supreme  pearl  springs. 

Shall  be  my  grief,  or  twinkle  me  to  pleasure. 

Say,  is  not  bliss  within  our  perfect  seisure  ?  720 

0  that  I  could  not  doubt ! " 

The  mountaineer 
Thus  strove  by  fancies  vain  and  crude  to  clear 
His  briar'd  path  to  some  tranquillity. 
It  gave  bright  gladness  to  his  lady's  eye. 
And  yet  the  tears  she  wept  were  tears  of  sorrow  ; 
Answering  thus,  just  as  the  golden  morrow 
Beam'd  upward  from  the  vallies  of  the  east : 
"O  that  the  flutter  of  this  heart  had  ceas'd. 
Or  the  sweet  name  of  love  had  pass'd  away. 
Young  feather'd  tyrant !  by  a  swift  decay  730 

Wilt  thou  devote  this  body  to  the  earth  : 
And  I  do  think  that  at  my  very  birth 

1  lisp'd  thy  blooming  titles  inwardly ; 

For  at  the  first,  first  dawn  and  thought  of  thee. 

With  uplift  hands  I  blest  the  stars  of  heaven. 

Art  thou  not  cruel .''     Ever  have  I  striven 

To  think  thee  kind,  but  ah,  it  will  not  do ! 

When  yet  a  child,  I  heard  that  kisses  drew 

Favour  from  thee,  and  so  I  kisses  gave 

To  the  void  air,  bidding  them  find  out  love  :  740 

But  when  I  came  to  feel  how  far  above 

All  fancy,  pride,  and  fickle  maidenhood. 

All  earthly  pleasure,  all  imagin'd  good. 

Was  the  warm  tremble  of  a  devout  kiss, — 

Even  then,  that  moment,  at  the  thought  of  this. 

Fainting  I  fell  into  a  bed  of  flowers. 

And  languish'd  there  three  days.     Ye  milder  bowers, 

Am  I  not  cruelly  wrong'd ."     Believe,  believe 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  139 

Me,  dear  Endymion,  were  I  to  weave 

With  my  own  fancies  garlands  of  sweet  life,  750 

Thou  shouldst  be  one  of  all.     Ah,  bitter  strife  ! 

I  may  not  be  thy  love  :     I  am  forbidden — 

Indeed  I  am — thwarted,  afirighted,  chidden. 

By  things  I  trembled  at,  and  gorgon  wrath. 

Twice  hast  thou  ask'd  whither  I  went :  henceforth 

Ask  me  no  more  !  I  may  not  utter  it. 

Nor  may  I  be  thy  love.     We  might  commit 

Ourselves  at  once  to  vengeance ;  we  might  die ; 

We  might  embrace  and  die  :  voluptuous  thought ! 

Enlarge  not  to  my  hunger,  or  I'm  caught  760 

In  trammels  of  perverse  deliciousness. 

No,  no,  that  shall  not  be :  thee  will  I  bless, 

And  bid  a  long  adieu." 

The  Carian 
No  word  return' d :  both  lovelorn,  silent,  wan. 
Into  the  vallies  green  together  went. 
Far  wandering,  they  were  perforce  content 
To  sit  beneath  a  fair  lone  beechen  tree ; 
Nor  at  each  other  gaz'd,  but  heavily 
Por'd  on  its  hazle  cirque  of  shedded  leaves. 

Endymion  !  unhappy !  it  nigh  grieves  770 

Me  to  behold  thee  thus  in  last  extreme : 
Ensky'd  ere  this,  but  truly  that  I  deem 
Truth  the  best  music  in  a  first-born  song. 
Thy  lute-voic'd  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long, 
And  thou  shalt  aid — hast  thou  not  aided  me  ? 
Yes,  moonhght  Emperor !  felicity 
Has  been  thy  meed  for  many  thousand  years  ; 
Yet  often  have  I,  on  the  brink  of  tears, 
Moum'd  as  if  yet  thou  wert  a  forester ; — 
Forgetting  the  old  tale. 

He  did  not  stir  780 

His  eyes  from  the  dead  leaves,  or  one  small  pulse 
Of  joy  he  might  have  felt.     TTie  spirit  culls 
Uniaded  amaranth,  when  wild  it  strays 
Through  the  old  garden-ground  of  boyish  days. 
A  little  onward  ran  the  very  stream 
By  which  he  took  his  first  soft  poppy  dream ; 
And  on  the  very  bark  'gainst  which  he  leant 
A  crescent  he  had  carv'd,  and  round  it  spent 
His  skill  in  httle  stars.     The  teeming  tree 
Had  swollen  and  green'd  the  pious  charactery,  790 


140  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

But  not  ta'en  out.     Why,  there  was  not  a  slope 
Up  which  he  had  not  fear'd  the  antelope ; 
And  not  a  tree,  beneath  whose  rooty  shade 
He  had  not  with  his  tamed  leopards  play'd : 
Nor  could  an  arrow  light,  or  javelin. 
Fly  in  the  air  where  his  had  never  been — 
And  yet  he  knew  it  not. 

O  treachery ! 
Why  does  his  lady  smile,  pleasing  her  eye 
With  all  his  sorrowing  ?     He  sees  her  not. 
But  who  so  stares  on  him  ?     His  sister  sure  !  Scm 

Peona  of  the  woods  ! — Can  she  endure — 
Impossible — how  dearly  they  embrace  ! 
His  lady  smiles ;  delight  is  in  her  face  ; 
It  is  no  treachery. 

"  Dear  brother  mine  ! 
Endymion,  weep  not  so !     Why  shouldst  thou  pine 
When  all  great  Latmos  so  exalt  will  be  .'' 
Thank  the  great  gods,  and  look  not  bitterly ; 
And  speak  not  one  pale  word,  and  sigh  no  more. 
Sure  I  will  not  believe  thou  hast  such  store 
Of  grief,  to  last  thee  to  my  kiss  again.  8io 

Thou  surely  canst  not  bear  a  mind  in  pain. 
Come  hand  in  hand  with  one  so  beautiful. 
Be  happy  both  of  you  !  for  I  will  pull 
The  flowers  of  autumn  for  your  coronals. 
Pan's  holy  priest  for  young  Endymion  calls  ; 
And  when  he  is  restor'4,  thou,  fairest  dame, 
Shalt  be  our  queen.     Now,  is  it  not  a  shame 
To  see  ye  thus, — ^not  very,  very  sad  ? 
Perhaps  ye  are  too  happy  to  be  glad : 

O  feel  as  if  it  were  a  common  day ;  820 

Free-voic'd  as  one  who  never  was  away. 
No  tongue  shall  ask,  whence  come  ye  ?  but  ye  shall 
Be  gods  of  your  own  rest  imperial. 
Not  even  I,  for  one  whole  month,  will  pry 
Into  the  hours  that  have  pass'd  us  by. 
Since  in  my  arbour  I  did  sing  to  thee. 
O  Hermes  !  on  this  very  night  will  be 
A  hymning  up  to  Cynthia,  queen  of  light ; 
For  the  soothsayers  old  saw  yesternight 

Good  visions  in  the  air, — ^whence  will  befal,  830 

As  say  these  sages,  health  perpetual 
To  shepherds  and  their  flocks ;  and  furthermore, 
In  Dian's  face  they  read  the  gentle  lore : 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  141 

Therefore  for  her  these  vesper-carols  are. 

Our  friends  will  all  be  there  from  nigh  and  far. 

Many  upon  thy  death  have  ditties  made ; 

And  many,  even  now,  their  foreheads  shade 

With  cypress,  on  a  day  of  sacrifice. 

New  singing  for  our  maids  shalt  thou  devise. 

And  pluck  the  sorrow  from  our  huntsmen's  brows.  840 

Tell  me,  my  lady-queen,  how  to  espouse 

This  wayward  brother  to  his  rightful  joys  ! 

His  eyes  are  on  thee  bent,  as  thou  didst  poise 

His  fate  most  goddess-like.     Help  me,  I  pray. 

To  lure — End3rmion,  dear  brother,  say 

What  ails  thee  ?  "     He  could  bear  no  more,  and  so 

Bent  his  soul  fiercely  like  a  spiritual  bow, 

And  twang'd  it  inwardly,  and  calmly  said : 

"  I  would  have  thee  my  only  friend,  sweet  maid  ! 

My  only  visitor  !  not  ignorant  though,  850 

That  those  deceptions  which  for  pleasure  go 

'Mong  men,  are  pleasures  real  as  real  may  be  : 

But  there  are  higher  ones  I  may  not  see. 

If  impiously  an  earthly  realm  I  take. 

Since  I  saw  thee,  I  have  been  wide  awake 

Night  after  night,  and  day  by  day,  until 

Of  the  empyrean  I  have  drunk  my  fill. 

Let  it  content  thee.  Sister,  seeing  me 

More  happy  than  betides  mortality. 

A  hermit  young,  I'U  live  in  mossy  cave,  860 

Where  thou  alone  shalt  come  to  me,  and  lave 

Thy  spirit  in  the  wonders  I  shall  tell. 

Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well ; 

For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. 

And,  for  my  sake,  let  this  young  maid  abide 

With  thee  as  a  dear  sister.     Thou  alone, 

Peona,  mayst  return  to  me.     I  own 

This  may  sound  strangely  :  but  when,  dearest  girl. 

Thou  seest  it  for  my  happiness,  no  pearl 

Will  trespass  down  those  cheeks.     Companion  feir !  870 

Wilt  be  content  to  dwell  with  her,  to  share 

This  sister's  love  with  me  .'' "     Like  one  resign'd 

And  bent  by  circumstance,  and  thereby  blind 

In  self-commitment,  thus  that  meek  unknown  : 

"  Aye,  but  a  buzzing  by  my  ears  has  flown. 

Of  jubilee  to  Dian : — ^truth  I  heard  ! 

Well  then,  I  see  there  is  no  little  bird. 

Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  care. 

Long  have  I  sought  for  rest,  and,  unaware, 

Behold  I  find  it  I  so  exalted  too !  880 


JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

So  after  my  own  heart  !  I  knew,  I  knew 
There  was  a  place  untenanted  in  It : 
In  that  same  void  white  Chastity  shall  sit. 
And  monitor  me  nightly  to  lone  slumber. 
With  sanest  lips  I  vow  me  to  the  number 
Of  Dian's  sisterhood ;  and,  kind  lady. 
With  thy  good  help,  this  very  night  shall  see 
My  future  days  to  her  fane  consecrate." 

As  feels  a  dreamer  what  doth  most  create 
His  own  particular  fright,  so  these  three  felt :  ggo 

Or  like  one  who,  in  after  ages,  knelt 
To  Lucifer  or  Baal,  when  he'd  pine 
After  a  little  sleep :  or  when  in  mine 
Far  under-ground,  a  sleeper  meets  his  friends 
Who  know  him  not.     Each  diligently  bends 
Towards  common  thoughts  and  things  for  very  fear ; 
Striving  their  ghastly  malady  to  cheer. 
By  thinking  it  a  thing  of  yes  and  no. 
That  housewives  talk  of.     But  the  spirit-blow 
Was  struck,  and  all  were  dreamers.     At  the  last  goo 

Endymion  said  :  "  Are  not  our  fates  all  cast  ? 
Why  stand  we  here .''     Adieu,  ye  tender  pair  ! 
Adieu  ! "     Whereat  those  maidens,  with  wild  stare, 
Walk'd  dizzily  away.     Pained  and  hot 
His  eyes  went  after  them,  untU  they  got 
Near  to  a  cypress  grove,  whose  deadly  maW, 
In  one  swift  moment,  would  what  then  he  saw 
Engulph  for  ever.     "  Stay  !  "  he  cried,  "  ah,  stay  ! 
Turn,  damsels !  hist !  one  word  I  have  to  say. 
Sweet  Indian,  I  would  see  thee  once  again.  gio 

It  is  a  thing  I  dote  on  :  so  I'd  fain, 
Peona,  ye  should  hand  in  hand  repair 
Into  those  holy  groves,  that  silent  are 
Behind  great  Dian's  temple.     I'll  be  yon, 
At  vesper's  earliest  twinkle — ^they  are  gone — 
But  once,  once,  once  again — "     At  this  he  press'd 
His  hands  against  his  face,  and  then  did  rest 
His  head  upon  a  mossy  hillock  green. 
And  so  remain'd  as  he  a  corpse  had  been 
AU  the  long  day ;  save  when  he  scantly  lifted  920 

His  eyes  abroad,  to  see  how  shadows  shifted 
With  the  slow  move  of  time, — sluggish  and  weary 
Until  the  poplar  tops,  in  journey  dreary. 
Had  reach'd  the  river's  brim.     Then  up  he  rose, 
And,  slowly  as  that  very  river  flows, 
Walk'd  towards  the  temple  grove  with  this  lament ; 


BOOK  IV]  ENDYMION  148 

"  Why  such  a  golden  eve  ?     The  breeze  is  sent 

Carefol  and  soft,  that  not  a  leaf  may  &I1 

Before  the  serene  father  of  them  all 

Bows  down  his  summer  head  below  the  west.  930 

Now  am  I  of  breath,  speech,  and  speed  possest. 

But  at  the  setting  I  must  bid  adieu 

To  her  for  the  last  time.     Night  wiU  strew 

On  the  damp  grass  myriads  of  lingering  leaves. 

And  with  them  shall  I  die  ;  nor  much  it  grieves 

To  die,  when  summer  dies  on  the  cold  sward. 

Why,  I  have  been  a  butterfly,  a  lord 

Of  flowers,  garlands,  love-knots,  sUly  posies. 

Groves,  meadows,  melodies,  and  arbour  roses  ; 

My  kingdom's  at  its  death,  and  just  it  is  940 

That  I  should  die  with  it  :  so  in  all  this 

We  miscal  grief,  bale,  sorrow,  heartbreak,  woe. 

What  is  there  to  plain  of?     By  Titan's  foe 

I  am  but  rightly  serv'd."     So  sajring,  he 

Tripp'd  lightly  on,  in  sort  of  deathfol  glee  ; 

Laughing  at  the  clear  stream  and  setting  sun. 

As  though  they  jests  had  been :  nor  had  he  done 

His  laugh  at  nature's  holy  countenance. 

Until  that  grove  appear'd,  as  if  perchance. 

And  then  his  tongue  with  sober  seemlihed  950 

Gave  utterance  as  he  enter'd  :  "  Ha !  I  said. 

King, of  the  butterflies ;  but  by  this  gloom. 

And  by  old  Rhadamanthus'  tongue  of  doom. 

This  dusk  religion,  pomp  of  solitude. 

And  the  Promethean  clay  by  thief  endued. 

By  old  Satumus'  forelock,  by  his  head 

Shook  with  eternal  palsy,  I  did  wed 

Myself  to  things  of  Ught  from  infancy ; 

And  thus  to  be  cast  out,  thus  lorn  to  die. 

Is  sure  enough  to  make  a  mortal  man  g6o 

Grrow  impious."     So  he  inwardly  began 

On  things  for  which  no  wording  can  be  found ; 

Deeper  and  deeper  sinking,  until  drown'd 

Beyond  the  reach  of  music  :  for  the  choir 

Of  Cynthia  he  heard  not,  though  rough  briar 

Nor  muffling  thicket  interpos'd  to  dull 

The  vesper  hymn,  far  swollen,  sofl  and  full, 

Through  the  dark  pUlais  of  those  sylvan  aisles. 

He  saw  not  the  two  maidens,  nor  their  smiles, 

Wan  as  primroses  gather 'd  at  midnight  gyo 

By  chilly  finger'd  spring.     "  Unhappy  wight ! 

Endymion !  "  said  Peona,  "  we  are  here  ! 

What  wouldst  thou  ere  we  aU  are  laid  on  bier .'  " 


144  JOHN  KEATS  [book  iv 

Then  he  embrac'd  her,  and  his  lady's  hand 

Press'd,  saying :  "  Sister,  I  would  have  command, 

If  it  were  heaven's  will,  on  our  sad  fate." 

At  which  that  dark-eyed  stranger  stood  elate 

And  said,  in  a  new  voice,  but  sweet  as  love, 

To  Endymion's  amaze  :  "  By  Cupid's  dove, 

And  so  thou  shalt !  and  by  the  lily  truth  ggo 

Of  my  own  breast  thou  shalt,  beloved  youth  ! " 

And  as  she  spake,  into  her  face  there  came 

Light,  as  reflected  from  a  silver  flame : 

Her  long  black  hair  swell'd  ampler,  in  display 

Full  golden ;  in  her  eyes  a  brighter  day 

Dawn'd  blue  and  full  of  love.     Aye,  he  beheld 

Phoebe,  his  passion !  joyous  she  upheld 

Her  lucid  bow,  continuing  thus  :  "  Drear,  drear 

Has  our  delaying  been ;  but  foolish  fear 

Withheld  me  first ;  and  then  decrees  of  fate ;  ggo 

And  then  'twas  fit  that  from  this  mortal  state 

Thou  shouldst,  my  love,  by  some  unlook'd  for  change 

Be  spiritualiz'd.     Peona,  we  shall  range 

These  forests,  and  to  thee  they  safe  shall  be 

As  was  thy  cradle  ;  hither  shalt  thou  flee 

To  meet  us  many  a  time."     Next  Cynthia  bright 

Peona  kiss'd,  and  bless'd  with  fair  good  night : 

Her  brother  kiss'd  her  too,  and  knelt  adown 

Before  his  goddess,  in  a  blissful  swoon. 

She  gave  her  fair  hands  to  him,  and  behold,  looo 

Before  three  swiftest  kisses  he  had  told. 

They  vanish' d  far  away ! — Peona  went 

Home  through  the  gloomy  wood  in  wonderment. 


THE    END 


LAMIA 

ISABELLA 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 


AND 

OTHER  POEMS 
1820 


10 


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  in- 
tended to  have  been  of  equal  length  with'  Endvmion,  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  Njnaiph  and  Sat)rr  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  hght, 

On  this  side  of  Jove's  clouds,  to  escape  the  sight  lo 

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, 
Thoiigh  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. 


148  JOHN  KEATS 

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  !  AJi,  miserable  me  ! " 

The  Godj(dove-footed,^hded  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  wfth  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,  yo 

Among  the  Gods,  upon  Ol3aupus  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 ! 


LAMIA  149 

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-Mpp'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," 

Retum'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 !  "  go 

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  thomless  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  Satjnrs,  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  S3frops,  that  would  keep 

Her  loveliness  invisible,  yet  free 

To  wander  as  she  loves,  in  liberty. 

Thou  shalt  behold  her,  Hermes,  thou  aloiie,  no 

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  ,1 

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. 


150  JOHN  KEATS 

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-n)naiph's  beauty,  so  he  bum'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 ;  ^    1^^ " 

Her  eyes  in  torture  fix'd,  and  anguish  drear,         1      ^^  ^  ■.   '      150 
Hot,  glaz'd,  and  wide,  with  lid-lashes  all  sear,     '"^  "     j  ■./   n  f* 

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.  r 

Still  shone  her  crown  ;  that  vanish' d,  also  she     J  ■ 

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  ? 


LAMIA  161 

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  fixim  a  wood,  iSo 

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  Lyeius  !— 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  :  igo 

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  &ir  creature  chose  so  fairily  ,  '        zoo 

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  &ir 
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  Lyeius 
Charioting  foremost  in  the  envious  race, 


152  JOHN  KEATS 

Like  a  young  Jove  with  calm  uneager  fiice,  %<^''~'^  '  A, 

And  fell  into  a  swooning  love  of  him.  i  <-'-- " 

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  anehor'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  freakfiil  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  &des. 

In  the  calm'd  twilight  of  Platonic  shades. 

Lamia  beheld  him  coming,  near,  more  near —  ' 

Close  to  her  passing,  in  indiflerence  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 

Tum'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  qioming  rain ; 


LAMIA  168 

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  hiUs  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  ago 

Of  sorrow  for  her  tender  favourite's  woe. 

But  rather,  if  her  eyes  could  brighter  be. 

With  brighter  eyes  and  slow  amenity. 

Put  her  new  lips  to  his,  and  gave  afresh 

The  life  she  had  so  tangled  in  her  mesh  : 

And  as  he  from  one  trance  was  wakening 

Into  another,  she  began  to  sing, 

Happy  in  beauty,  life,  and  love,  and  every  thing, 

A  song  of  love,  too  sweet  for  earthly  lyres, 

While,  like  held  breath,  the  stars  drew  in  their  panting  fires. 

And  then  she  whisper' d  in  such  trembling  tone,  301 

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, 


154  JOHN  KEATS 

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  Pijrrrha'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  oflF,  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  twinbom  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 


LAMIA  155 

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  fiice,  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  1  /    ^,  r   < 

Yourself  from  his  quick  eyes  ?  "     Lycius  replied,         "^     i        , 
"  'Tis  ApoUonius  sage,  my  trusty  guide  i 

And  good  instructor  ;  but  to-night  he  seems  , 

The  ghost  of  folly  haunting  my  sweet  dreams."  (   , 

While  yet  he  spake  they  had  arriv'd  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  iEolian 
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  3go 

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. 


166  JOHN  KEATS 


LAMIA 

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.  lo 

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  sununer  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  hiU, 
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, 


LAMIA  157 

The  lady,  ever  watchfiil,  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 
C  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  mom  ! 
Why  wiU  you  plead  yourself  so  sad  forlorn, 

While  I  am  striving  how  to  fill  my  heart  30 

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  dazzhng  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  fiiry,  like 
Apollo's  presence  when  in  act  to  strike 
The  serpent — Ha,  the  serpent !  certes,  she  80 


158  JOHN  KEATS 

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  stiU  I  do.     Hast  any  mortal  name. 

Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzhng  frame  .'' 

Or  friends  or  kinsfolk  on  the  citied  earth,  go 

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  loo 

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  no 

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  pompousuess. 
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  iz" 

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. 


LAMIA  169 

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  tmtasted  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  ApoUonius  :  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. 


160  JOHN  KEATS 

Of  wealthy  lustre  was  the  banquet-room, 
Fill'd  with  pervading  brilliance  and  perfume : 
Before  each  lucid  pannel  fuming  stood 
A  censer  fed  with  m5rrrh  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  iSo 

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  bands  and  feet, 
Aiid  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  awfiil  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  &ir,  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 


LAMIA  161 

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  Lyeius  ? 
What  for  the  sage,  old  ApoUonius  ? 
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  Lyeius  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. 
Lyeius  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 ; 
rhen  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.  5!6o 

"  Lamia  ! "  he  cried — and  no  soft-toned  reply, 
The  many  heard,  and  the  1qu4  revelry 


162  JOHN  KEATS 

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  &ir-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  aU  the  Gods,  whose  dreadful  images 

Here  represent  their  shadowy  presences,  280 

May  pierce  them  on  the  sudden  with  the  thorn 

Of  pairiful  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, 
I  Unlawful  magic,  and  enticing  lies. 
/  jCorinthians  !  look  upon  that  gray-beard  wretch  ! 
I  Mark  how,  possess' d,  his  lashless  eyelids  stretch 
I  ,'  Around  his  demon  eyes  !     Corinthians,  see  ! 

:    My  sweet  bride  withers,  at  their  potency."  290 

J  '  "  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  1 "  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  wfeU 

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  t  "  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. 


LAMIA  168 

On  the  high  couch  he  lay  I — his  friends  came  round — 
Supported  him — no  pulse,  or  breath  they  found,  310 

And,  in  its  marriage  robe,  the  heavy  body  wound.  ^ 

1 "  PhUostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  de  Vita  Apollonii,  hath  a  memorable  instance  in 
this  kind,  which  I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus  Lycius,  a  yoimg  man  twenty-five 
years  of  age,  that  going  betwixt  Cencbreas  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  philo- 
sopher, 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  ApoUonius ;  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  nomer,  no  suDstance  but  mere  illusions.  When  she  saw  herself 
descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  ApoUonius  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." — Burtoi^'s 
Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  part  3,  sect.  2,  memb.  i,  subs.  i. 


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  mom  their  love  grew  tenderer. 
With  every  eve  deeper  and  tenderer  still ; 

He  might  not  in  house,  field,  or  garden  stir. 
But  her  full  shape  would  all  his  seeing  fill ; 

And  his  continual  voice  was  pleasanter 

To  her,  than  noise  of  trees  or  hidden  rill ; 

Her  lute-string  gave  an  echo  of  his  name. 

She  spoilt  her  half-done  broidery  with  the  same. 

Ill 

He  knew  whose  gentle  hand  was  at  the  latch 
Before  the  door  had  given  her  to  his  eyes ; 

And  from  her  Chamber-window  he  would  catch 
Her  beauty  farther  than  the  falcon  spies  ; 

And  constant  as  her  vespers  would  he  watch,  ■ 
Because  her  face  was  tum'd  to  the  same  skies ; 

And  with  siok-lcn^ngall  the  night  outwear. 

To  bear  ber  momhig  st^  upon  the  stair. 


ISABELLA  166 

IV 


A  whole  long  month  of  May  in  this  sad  plight 
Made  their  cheeks  paler  by  the  break  of  June  : 

"  To-morrow  wiU  I  bow  to  my  delight, 
To-morrow  will  I  ask  my  lady's  boon." — 

"  O  may  I  never  see  another  night, 

Lorenzo,  if  thy  lips  breathe  not  love's  tune." — 

So  spake  they  to  their  pillows ;  but,  alas, 

Honeyless  days  and  days  did  he  let  pass  ; 


Until  sweet  Isabella's  untouch'd  cheek 

Fell  sick  within  the  rose's  just  domainJv— "" 

Fell  thin  as  a  young  mother's,  who  doth  seek 
By  every  lull  to  cool  her  in&nt's  pain : 

"  How  ill  she  is/'  said  he,  "  I  may  not  speak. 
And  yet  I  will,  and  tell  my  love  aU  plain : 

If  looks  speak  love-laws,  I  will  drink  her  tears. 

And  at  the  least  'twill  startle  off  her  cares." 


VI 

So  said  he  one  fair  morning,  and  all  day 
His  heart  beat  awfully  against  hisr  side  ; 

And  to  his  heart  he  inwardly  did  pray 

For  power  to  speak  ;  but  still  the  ruddy  tide 

Stifled  his  voice,  and  puls'd  resolve  away — 
Fever'd  his  high  conceit  of  such  a  bride. 

Yet  brought  him  to  the  meekness  of  a  child : 

Alas !  when  passion  is  both  meek  and  wild  ! 


VII 

So  once  more  he  had  wak'd  and  anguished 
A  dreary  night  of  love  and  misery. 

If  Isabel's  quick  eye  had  not  been  wed 
To  every  sjrmbol  on  his  foi^ehead  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. 


166  JOHN  KEATS 

VIII 

"  O  Isabella,  I  can  half  perceive 

That  I  may  speak  my  grief  into  thine  ear ; 

If  thou  didst  ever  anything  believe. 

Believe  how  I  love  thee,  believe  how  near 

My  soul  is  to  its  doom :  I  would  not  grieve 

Thy  hand  by  unwelcome  pressing,  would  not  fear 

Thine  eyes  by  gazing ;  but  I  cannot  live 

Another  night,  and  not  my  passion  shrive. 


IX 

"  Love  !  thou  art  leading  me  from  wintry  cold. 
Lady  !  thou  leadest  me  to  summer  clime. 

And  I  must  taste  the  blossoms  that  unfold 

In  its  ripe  warmth  this  gracious  morning  time.' 

So  said,  his  erewhUe  timid  lips  grew  bold. 
And  poesied  with  hers  in  dewy  rh)rme  : 

Great  bliss  was  with  them,  and  great  happiness 

Grew,  like  a  lusty  flower  in  June's  caress. 


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  &rewell,  and  joy'd  his  fill. 


XI 

All  close  they  met  again,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleasant  veil. 

All  close  they  met,  all  eves,  before  the  dusk 
Had  taken  from  the  stars  its  pleMant  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. 


ISABELLA  167 

XII 

Were  they  unhappy  then  ? — It  cannot  be — 

Too  many  tears  for  lovers  have  been  shed, 
Too  many  sighs  give  we  to  them  in  fee, 

Too  much  of  pity  after  they  are  dead, 
Too  many  doleful  stories  do  we  see. 

Whose  matter  in  bright  gold  were  best  be  read ; 
Except  in  suclTa  page  where  Theseus'  spouse 
Over  the  pathless  waves  towards  him  bows. 


XIII 

But,  for  the  general  award  of  love. 

The  little  sweet  doth  kill  much  bitterness  ; 

Though  Dido  silent  is  in  under-grove. 
And  Isabella's  was  a  great  distress. 

Though  young  Lorenzo  in  warm  Indian  clove 
Was  not  embalm'd,  this  truth  is  not  the  less — 

Even  bees,  the  little  almsmen  of  spring-bowers. 

Know  there  is  richest  juice  in  poison-flowers. 


With  her  two  brothers  this  fair  lady  dwelt. 
Enriched  from  ancestral  merchandize. 

And  for  them  many  a  weary  hand  did  swelt 
In  torched  mines  and  noisy  factories. 

And  many  once  proud-quiver'd  loins  did  melt 
In  blood  from  stinging  whip ; — with  hollow  eyes 

Many  all  day  in  dazzling  river  stood, 

.To  take  the  rich-ored  drif tings  of  the  flood. 


XV 

For  them  the  Ceylon  diver  held  his  breath. 
And  went  aU  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  fuU  of  darts  ;  for  them  alone  did  seethe 
A  thousand  men  in  troubles  wide  and  dark : 

Half-ignorant,  they  tum'd  an  easy  wheel. 

That  set  sharp  racks  at  work,  to  pinch  and  peel. 


168  JOHN  KEATS 

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  &ir  orange-mounts 
Were  of  more  soft  ascent  than  lazar  stairs  ? — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?     Because  red-lin'd  accounts 
Were  richer  than  the  songs  of  Grecian  years  ? — 

Why  were  they  proud  ?  again  we  ask  aloud, 

Why  in  the  name  of  Glory  were  they  proud  ? 


XVII 

Yet  were  these  Florentines  as  self-retired 
In  hungry  pride  and  gainful  cowardice, 

As  two  close  Hebrews  in  that  land  inspired, 
Paled  in  and  vineyarded  from  beggar-spies  ; 

The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests — the  untired 
And  pannier'd  mules  for  ducats  and  old  lies — 

Quick  cat's-paws  on  the  generous  stray-away, — 

Great  wits  in  Spanish,  Tuscan,  and  Malay. 


XVIII 

How  was  it  these  same  ledger-men  could  spy 

Fair  Isabella  in  her  downy  nest  ? 
How  could  they  find  out  in  Lorenzo's  eye 

A  straying  from  his  toil  ?     Hot  Egypt's  pest 
Into  their  vision  covetous  and  sly ! 

How  could  these  money-bags  see  east  and  west  ?- 
Yet  so  they  did — and  every  dealer  fair 
Must  see  behind,  as  doth  the  hunted  hare. 


XIX 

O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio ! 

Of  thee  we  now  should  ask  forgiving  boon, 
And  of  thy  spicy  myrtles  as  they  blow, 

And  of  thy  roses  amorous  of  the  moon, 
And  of  thy  lilies,  that  do  paler  grow 

Now  they  can  no  more  hear  thy  ghittern's  tune. 
For  venturing  syllables  that  ill  beseem 
The  quiet  glooms  of  such  a  piteous  theme. 


ISABELLA  169 

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  modem  rhyme  more  sweet : 
But  it  is  done — succeed  the  verse  or  fail — 

To  honour  thee,  and  thy  gone  spirit  greet ; 
To  stead  thee  as  a  verse  in  English  tongue, 
An  echo  of  thee  in  the  north-wind  sung. 


XXI 

These  brethren  having  found  by  many  signs 
What  love  Lorenzo  for  their  sister  had, 

And  how  she  lov'd  him  too,  each  unconfines 
His  bitter  thoughts  to  other,  well  nigh  mad 

That  he,  the  servant  of  their  trade  designs. 
Should  in  their  sister's  love  be  blithe  and  glad. 

When  'twas  their  plan  to  coax  her  by  degrees      v 

To  some  high  noble  and  his  olive-trees.     —        ,: 


XXII 

And  many  a  jealous  conference  had  they. 
And  many  times  they  bit  their  lips  alone, 

Before  they  flx'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  kiU  Lorenzo,  and  there  bury  him.  ' 


XXIII 

So  on  a  pleasant  morning,  as  he  leant 

Into  the  sun-rise,  o'er  the  balustrade 
Of  the  garden-terrace,  towards  him  they  bent 

Their  footing  through  the  dews  ;  and  to  him  said, 
"  You  seem  there  in  the  quiet  of  content, 

Lorenzo,  and  we  are  most  loth  to  invade 
Calm  speculation  ;  but  if  you  are  wise. 
Bestride  your  steed  while  cold  is  in  the  skies, 


170  JOHN  KEATS 

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  feir  greeting  to  these  serpents'  whine ; 

And  went  in  haste,  to  get  in  readiness. 

With  belt,  and  spur,  and  bracipg  huntsman's  dress. 

XXV 

And  as  he  to  the  court-yard  pass'd  along. 

Each  third  step  did  he  pause,  and  listeii'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. 


JXXVI 

"  Love,  Isabel ! "  said  he,  "  I  was  in  pain 

Lest  I  should  miss  to  bid  thee  a  good  morrow  : 

Ah  !  what  if  I  should  lose  thee,  when  so  fain 
I  am  to  stifle  all  the  heavy  sorrow 

Of  a  poor  three  hours'  absence .''  but  we'll  gain 
Out  of  the  amorous  dark  what  day  doth  borrow. 

Good  bye  !  I'll  soon  be  back." — "  Good  bye ! "  said  she : 

And  as  he  went  she  chanted  merrily. 


XXVII 

So  the  two  brothers  and  their  murdgrjl  man 
Rode  past  fair  Florence,  to  where  Amo's  stream 

Gurgles  through  straiten'd  banks,  and  still  doth  fan 
Itself  with  dancing  bulrush,  and  the  bream 

Keeps  head  against  the  freshets.     Sick  and  wan 
The  brothers'  faces  in  the  ford  did  seem, 

Lorenzo's  flush  with  love. — They  pass'd  the  water 

Into  a  forest  quiet  for  the  slaughter. 


ISABELLA  171 

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  iU  at  peace 
As  the  break-covert  blood-hounds  of  such  sin  : 

They  dipp'd  their  swords  in  the  water,  and  did  tease 
Their  horses  homeward,  ivith  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  hahds. 

Poor  Girl !  put  on  thy  stifling  widow's  weed. 

And  'scape  at  once  from  Hope's  accursed  bands  ; 

To-day  thou  wilt  not  see  him,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  the  next  day  will  be  a  day  of  sorrow. 


XXX 

She  weeps  alone  for  pleasures  not  to  be  ; 

Sorely  she  wept  until  the  night  came  on, 
And  then,  instead  of  love,  O  misery  ! 

She  brooded  o'er  the  luxury  alone : 
His  image  in  the  dusk  she  seem'd  to  see. 

And  to  the  silence  made  a  gentle  moan. 
Spreading  her  perfect  arms  upon  the  air. 
And  on  her  couch  low  murmuring  "  Where  ?  O  where  ? ' 


XXXI 

But  Selfishness,  Love's  cousin,  held  not  long 
Its  fiery  vigil  in  her  single  breast ; 

She  fretted  for  the  golden  hour,  and  hung 
Upon  the  time  with  feverish  unrest — 

Not  long — for  soon  into  her  heart  a  throng 
Of  higher  occupants,  a  richer  zest. 

Came  tragic ;  passion  not  to  be  subdued. 

And  sorrow  for  her  love  in  travels  rude. 


172  JOHN  KEATS 

XXXII 

In  the  mid  days  of  autumn,  on  their  eves 
The  breath  of  Winter  comes  from  far  away. 

And  the  sick  west  continually  bereaves 
Of  some  gold  tinge,  and  plays  a  roundelay 

Of  death  among  the  bushes  and  the  leaves. 
To  make  all  bare  before  he  dares  to  stray 

From  his  north  cavern.     So  sweet  Isabel 

By  gradual  decay  from  beauty  fell. 


XXXIII 

Because  Lorenzo  came  not.     Oftentimes 
She  ask'd  her  brothers,  with  an  eye  all  pale, 

Striving  to  be  itself,  what  dungeon  climes 

Could  keep  him  oflF  so  long .''    They  spake  a  tale 

Time  after  time,  to  quiet  her.     Their  crimes 

Came  on  them,  like  a  smoke  from  Hinnom's  vale ; 

And  every  night  in  dreams  they  groan'd  aloud. 

To  see  their  sister  in  her  snowy  shroud. 


XXXIV 

And  she  had  died  in  drowsy  ignorance. 
But  for  a  thing  more  deadly  dark  than  all ; 

It  came  like  a  fierce  potion,  drunk  by  chance. 
Which  saves  a  sick  man  from  the  feather'd  pall 

For  some  few  gasping  moments  ;  like  a  lance. 
Waking  an  Indian  from  his  cloudy  hall 

With  cruel  pierce,  and  bringing  him  again 

Sense  of  the  gnawing  fire  at  heart  and  brain. 


XXXV 

It  was  a  vision. — In  the  drowsy  gloom. 
The  dull  of  midnight,  at  her  couqh'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. 


ISABELLA  173 

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  sepulclual  briars  among. 


XXXVII 

Its  eyes,  though  wild,  were  still  all  dewy  bright 
With  love,  and  kept  all  phantom  fear  aloof 

From  the  poor  girl  by  magic  of  their  light, 
The  while  it  did  unthread  the  horrid  woof 

Of  the  late  darken'd  time, — the  murderous  spite 
Of  pride  and  avarice, — the  dark  pine  roof 

In  the  forest, — and  the  sodden  turfed  dell. 

Where,  without  any  word,  from  stabs  he  fell. 


XXXVIII 

Saying  moreover,  "  Isabel,  my  sweet ! 

Red  whortle-berries  droop  above  my  head. 
And  a  large  flint-stone  weighs  upon  my  feet ; 

Around  me  beeches  and  high  chestnuts  shed 
Their  leaves  and  prickly  nuts  ;  a  sheep-fold  bleat 

Comes  from  beyond  the  river  to  my  bed  : 
Go,  shed  one  tear  upon  my  heather-bloom. 
And  it  shall  comfort  me  within  the  tomb. 


XXXIX 

"  I  am  a  shadow  now,  alas !  alas ! 

Upon  the  skirts  of  human-nature  dwelling 
Alone  :  I  chant  alone  the  holy  mass. 

While  little  sounds  of  life  are  round  me  knelling. 
And  glossy  bees  at  noon  do  fieldward  pass. 

And  many  a  chapel  bell  the  hour  is  telhng. 
Paining  me  through  :  those  sounds  grow  strange  to  me, 
And  thou  art  distant  in  Humanity, 


174  JOHN  KEATS 

XL 

"  I  know  what  was,  I  feel  full  well  what  is. 
And  I  should  rage,  if  spirits  could  go  mad ; 

Though  I  forget  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss, 

That  paleness  warms  my  grave,  as  though  I  had 

A  Seraph  chosen  from  the  bright  abyss 

To  be  my  spouse  :  thy  paleness  makes  me  glad ; 

Thy  beauty  grows  upon  me,  and  I  feel 

A  greater  love  through  all  my  essence  steal." 


XLI 

The  Spirit  moum'd  "  Adieu  !  " — dissolv'd,  and  left 
The  atom  darkness  in  a  slow  turmoil ; 

As  when  of  healthful  midnight  sleep  bereft. 
Thinking  on  rugged  hours  and  fruitless  toil. 

We  put  our  eyes  into  a  pillowy  cleft. 

And  see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil : 

It  made  sad  Isabella's  eyelids  ache. 

And  in  the  dawn  she  started  up  awake ; 


XLII 

"  Ha !  ha  !  "  said  she,  "  I  knew  not  this  hard  life, 
I  thought  the  worst  was  simple  misery ; 

I  thought  some  Fate  with  pleasure  or  with  strife 
Portion'd  us — happy  days,  or  else  to  die ; 

But  there  is  crime — a  brother's  bloody  knife  ! 
Sweet  Spirit,  thou  hast  school'd  my  infancy  : 

I'll  visit  thee  for  this,  and  kiss  thine  eyes. 

And  greet  thee  mom  and  even  in  the  skies." 


XLIII 

When  the  full  morning  came,  she  had  devised 
How  she  might  secret  to  the  forest  hie ; 

How  she  might  find  the  clay,  so  dearly  prized. 
And  sing  to  it  one  latest  lullaby ; 

How  her  short  absence  might  be  unsurmised. 
While  she  the  inmost  of  the  dream  would  try. 

Resolv'd,  she  took  with  her  an  aged  nurse. 

And  went  into  that  dismal  fbrest-hearse. 


ISABELLA  176 

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 
Bums  in  thee,  child  ? — What  good  can  thee  betide. 

That  thou  should'st  smile  again  ?  " — The  evening  came. 
And  they  had  found  Lorenzo's  earthy  bed  ; 
The  flint  was  there,  the  berries  at  his  head. 


XLV 

Who  hath  not  loiter'd  in  a  green  church-yard. 
And  let  his  spirit,  like  a  demon-mole. 

Work  through  the  clayey  soil  and  gravel  hard. 
To  see  scull,  coifin'd  bones,  and  funeral  stole  ; 

Pitying  each  form  that  hungry  Death  hath  marr'd. 
And  filling  it  once  more  with  human  soul  ? 

Ah  !■  this  is  holiday  to  what  was  felt 

When  Isabella  by  Lorenzo  knelt. 


XLVI 

She  gaz'd  into  the  fresh-thrown  mould,  as  though 
One  glance  did  fiilly  all  its  secrets  tell ; 

Clearly  she  saw,  as  other  eyes  would  know 
Pale  limbs  at  bottom  of  a  crystal  well ; 

Upon  the  murderous  spot  she  seem'd  to  grow. 
Like  to  a  native  lily  of  the  dell  : 

Then  with  her  knife,  all  sudden,  she  began 

To  dig  more  fervently  than  misers  can. 


XLVII 

Soon  she  turn'd  up  a  soiled  glove,  whereon 
Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies, 

She  kiss'd  it  with  a  lip  more  chill  than  stone, 
And  put  it  in  her  bosom,  where  it  dries 

And  freezes  utterly  imto  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. 


176  JOHN  KEATS 

XLVIII 

That  old  nurse  stood  beside  her  wondering, 
Until  her  heart  felt  pity  to  the  core 

At  sight  of  such  a  dismal  labouring. 

And  so  she  kneeled,  with  her  locks  all  hoar, 

And  put  her  lean  hands  to  the  horrid  thing  : 
Three  hours  they  labour'd  at  this  travail  sore ; 

At  last  they  felt  the  kernel  of  the  grave. 

And  Isabella  did  not  stamp  and  rave. 


XLIX 

Ah  !  wherefore  all  this  wormy  circumstance  ? 

Why  linger  at  the  yawning  tomb  so  long  ? 
O  for  the  gentleness  of  old  Romance, 

The  simple  plaining  of  a  minstrel's  song ! 
Fair  reader,  at  the  old  tale  take  a  glance. 

For  here,  in  truth,  it  doth  not  well  belong 
To  speak  : — O  turn  thee  to  the  very  tale, 
And  taste  the  music  of  that  vision  pale. 


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. 


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. 


ISABELLA  177 

LII 


Then  in  a  silken  scarf, — sweet  with  the  dews 
Of  precious  flowers  pluck'd  in  Araby, 

And  divine  liquids  come  with  odorous  ooze 
Through  the  cold  serpent-pipe  refreshfully,: — 

She  wrapp'd  it  up  ;  and  for  its  tomb  did  choose 
A  garden-pot,  wherein  she  laid  it  by. 

And  cover'd  it  with  mould,  and  o'er  it  set 

Sweet  Basil,  which  her  tears  kept  ever  wet. 


LIII 

And  she  forgot  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  sun. 
And  she  forgot  the  blue  above  the  trees. 

And  she  forgot  the  dells  where  waters  run. 
And  she  forgot  the  chilly  autumn  breeze  ; 

She  had  no  knowledge  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  new  mom  she  saw  not :  but  in  peace 

Hung  over  her  sweet  Basil  evermore. 

And  moisten'd  it  with  tears  unto  the  core. 


LIV 

And  so  she  ever  fed  it  with  thin  tears. 

Whence  thick,  and  green,  and  beautiful  it  grew. 

So  that  it  smelt  more  balmy  than  its  peers 
Of  Basil-tufts  in  Florence  ;  for  it  drew 

Nurture  besides,  and  life,  from  human  fears, 

From  the  fast  mouldering  head  there  shut  from  view : 

So  that  the  jewel,  safely  casketed. 

Came  forth,  and  in  perfumed  leafits  spread. 


LV 

O  Melancholy,  linger  here  awhile  ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  from  some  sombre  isle, 

Unknown,  Lethean,  sigh  to  us — O  sigh ! 
Spirits  in  grief,  lift  up  your  heads,  and  smile  ; 

Lift  up  your  heads,  sweet  Spirits,  heavily. 
And  make  a  pale  light  in  your  cjrpress  glooms. 
Tinting  with  silver  wan  your  marble  tombs. 


178  JOHN  KEATS 

LVI 

Moan  hither,  all  ye  syllables  of  woe, 
From  the  deep  throat  of  sad  Melpomene  !j 

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  b»lm. 


LVII 

O  leave  the  palm  to  wither  by  itself; 

Let  not  quick  Winter  chill  its  dying  hour  ! — 
It  may  not  be — those  Baalites  of  pelf, 

Her  brethren,  noted  the  continual  shower 
From  her  dead  eyes  ;  and  many  a  curious  elf, 

Among  her  kindred,  wonder' d  that  such  dower 
Of  youth  and  beauty  should  be  thrown  aside 
By  one  mark'd  out  to  be  a  Noble's  bride. 


LVIII 

And,  furthermore,  her  brethren  wonder'd  much 
Why  she  sat  drooping  by  the  Basil  green. 

And  why  it  flourish'd,  as  by  magic  touch ; 

Greatly  they  wonder'd  what  the  thing  might  mean : 

They  could  not  surely  give  belief,  that  such 
A  very  nothing  would  have  power  to  wean 

Her  from  her  own  fair  youth,  and  pleasures  gay. 

And  even  remembrance  of  her  love's  delay. 


LIX 

Therefore  they  watch'd  a  time  when  they  might  sift 
This  hidden  whim  ;  and  long  they  watch'd  in  vain ; 

For  seldom  did  she  go  to  chapel-shrift. 
And  seldom  felt  she  any  hunger-pain ; 

And  when  she  left,  she  hurried  back,  as  swift 
As  bird  on  wing  to  breast  its  eggs  again ; 

And,  patient  as  a  hen-bird,  sat  her  there 

Beside  her  Basil,  weeping  through  her  hair. 


ISABELLA  179 

LX 


Yet  they  contriv'd  to  steal  the  Basil-pot, 
And  to  examine  it  in  secret  place : 

The  thing  was  vile  with  green  and  livid  spot, 
And  yet  they  knew  it  was  Lorenzo's  face  : 

The  guerdon  of  their  murder  they  had  got, 
And  so  left  Florence  in  a  moment's  space. 

Never  to  turn  again. — Away  they  went. 

With  blood  upon  their  heads,  to  banishment. 

LXI 

O  Melancholy,  turn  thine  eyes  away ! 

O  Music,  Music,  breathe  despondingly  ! 
O  Echo,  Echo,  on  some  other  day. 

From  isles  Lethean,  sigh  to  us— O  sigh ! 
Spirits  of  griev^ing  not  your  "  Well-a-way !  " 

For  Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  will  die  ; 
Will  die  a  death  too  lone  and  incomplete. 
Now  they  have  ta'en  away  her  Basil  sweet. 


LXII 

Piteous  she  look'd  on  dead  and  senseless  things. 
Asking  for  her  lost  Basil  amorously ; 

And  with  melodious  chuckle  in  the  strings 
Of  her  lorn  voice,  she  oftentimes  would  cry 

After  the  Pilgrim  in  his  wanderings. 
To  ask  him  where  her  Basil  was  ;  and  why 

'Twas  hid  from  her :  "  For  cruel  'tis,"  said  she, 

"To  steal  my  Basil-pot  away  from  me." 


LXIII 

And  so  she  pined,  and  so  she  died  forlorn. 

Imploring  for  her  Basil  to  the  last. 
No  heart  was  therein  Florence  but  did  mourn 

In  pity  of  her  love,  so  overcast. 
And  a  sad  ditty  of  this  story  bom 

Prom  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 


ST.  AGNES'  Eve— Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-c61d  ; 
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    >  ti 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath,  '"  • 

Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old^,  *  sr 

Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

II 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man  ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  anariseth  from  his  knees. 
And  back  retumeth,  mea^ej_^arefootj_waB, 
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  iiajKegJl^j^rit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 

Ill 

Northward  he  tumeth  through  a  httle  door. 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  andpocyr ; 
But  no — already  had  his  deathbeU  xung  : 
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. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  181 

IV 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft ; 
I'    And  so  it  chanc'd,  for  many  a  door  was  wide. 

From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 

Tbg^silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide  : 

"Thelevel  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 

Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests  : 

The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 

Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 


At  length  biurst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  £>iirily 
The  brain,  new  stuff'd,  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry  day, 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care. 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 


VI 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  j-etire, 
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  thoughtAiI  Madeline  : 
The  music,  yearning  like  a  God  in  pain, 
She  scarcely  heard  :  her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all :  in  vain 
Came  many  a  tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier. 
And  back  retir'd ;  not  cool'd  by  high  disdain, 
But  she  saw  not :  her  heart  was  otherwhere  : 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


182  JOHN  KEATS 

VIII 

She  danc'd  jalong  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short : 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  neat  at  hand  :  she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 
'Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy ;  all  amort. 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  mom. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire. 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors. 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen  ; 
Perchance   speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in   sooth   such  things  have 
been. 


He  ventures  in :  let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell : 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart.  Love's  fev'rous  citadel : 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes. 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage  :  not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul. 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

■"^'''  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  her^  to-night,  the  whol?  blood-thirsty  race ! 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  183 


XII 


"  Get  hence  !  get  hence  !  there's  dwarfish  Hildehrand  ; 
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 ; 
FoUow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 

XIII 

He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way,  '  j       j^ 

Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume,  '  / 

And  as  she  mutter' d  "Well-a — ^well-a-day  !  "  '  -     ■ 

He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlight  room. 
Pale,  lattic'd,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he, 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see. 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 

XIV 

"St.  Agnes !  Ah  !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve- 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days  : 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve. 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :  it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porph3n:o ! — 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-hook. 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  briUiant,  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  legepds  old. 


184  JOHN  KEATS 

XVI 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot :  then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start  : 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art : 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep,  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  &r  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  l-^l  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the^ame  that  thou  didst  seem/' 

XVII 

"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro  :  "  O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace. 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face  : 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space, 
Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  niemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves  and  bears.' 

XVIII 

"  Ah  !  why  wilt  thou  ai&ight  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  d«ep  sorrowing, 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe. 


XIX 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride. 
While  legion'd  fairies  pac'd  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met. 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  185 

XX 

"  It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame  : 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night :  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see :  no  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patience  ;  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while  :     Ah  !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed. 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 

XXI 

So  saying,  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd  ; 
The  dame  return' d,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ;  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last. 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and  chaste ; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleas'd  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII 

Her  falt'ring  hand  upon  the  balustrade. 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair. 
When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid. 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware  : 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care. 
She  tum'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 : 
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, 


186  JOHN  KEATS 

XXIV 

A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot-grass. 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device. 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes,- 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings ; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saint^,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

XXV 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  ; 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst. 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven : — Porph)rro  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  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees. 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed. 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 

XXVII 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  she  lay. 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown,  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again, 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  187 

XXVIII 

Stol'n  to  this  paradise^  and  so  entranced, 
Porph}rro  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, 
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  fiided  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  fer-heard  clarinet. 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 
The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 

XXX 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep. 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender' d, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd. 
And  lucent  S3rrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 

XXXI 

These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver :  sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night. 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  Ught. — 
"  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," 


188  JOHN  KEATS 

XXXII 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains  : — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream  : 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies  :  ^ 

It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  stedfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes  ; 
So  mus'd  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderrat  be. 
He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd,  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy  :■" 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody  ; — 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a.  soft  moan  : 
He  ceased — she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep  : 
There  was  a  pain&l  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep. 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye. 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 

XXXV 

"  Ah,  Porph)rro  ! "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear. 
Made  tuneable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear : 
How  chang'd  thou  art !  how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear ! 
O  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  I  know  not  where  to  go." 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  189 

XXXVI 

Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  &r 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose. 
Ethereal,  flush' d,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose  ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet :  meantime  the  frost- wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes  ;  St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis  dark  :  quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet : 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline  !  " 
'Tis  dark  :  the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
"  No  dream,  alas  !  alas  !  and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porph3rro  will  leave  me  here  to  fiide  and  pine. — 
Cruel !  what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring  ? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine. 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing ; — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII 

"  My  Madeline  !  sweet  dreamer  !  lovely  bride  I 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest .'' 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shap'd  and  vermeil  dyed  .'' 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish' d  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self ;  if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  &ir  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

XXXIX 

"  Hark  !  'tis  an  elfin-storm  from  faery  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed  : 
Arise — arise  1  the  morning  is  at  hand  ; — 
The  bloated  wassaillers  will  never  heed  : — 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead  : 
Awake !  arise  !  my  love,  and  fearless  be. 
For  o'er  the  southern  moors  I  have  a  home  for  thee." 


190  JOHN  KEATS 

XL 

'^  'Sjie  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  feans, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found. — 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop' d  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door ; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar ; 

And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 

XLI 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms,  to  the  iron  porch,  they  glide ; 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl. 
With  a  huge  empty  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  AiU  easy  slide  : — 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; — 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 

XLII 

And  they  are  gone  :  ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
\AaA  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  nightingal: 


^   ^^i/t-f/  <Uc>     ^^^    <^,^^c^-€>^^ 


MY  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
iptied  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. 

2 

Q,  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  fiill  of  the  warm  South, 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen. 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 


Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou. among  the  leaves  hast  never  known. 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hesir  e^h  other  groan ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs. 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  ^pectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  bef  full  of  sorrow 
And  leaden-pyed  despairs. 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes. 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


192  JOHN  KEATS 


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  aild  winding  mossy  ways. 

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. 

6 
Darkling  I  hsten ;  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. 

7 
Thou  wast  not  bom  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  com ; 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm' d  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 


ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE  193 

8 


Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu !  the  fency  cannot  cheat  so  well  ^  <3 

As  she  is  &m'd  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fides 
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  ? 


194  JOHN  KEATS 


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  :l 
What  leaf-fiing'd  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape"' 
Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both,  ^k 

K__In_Tgmpe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  'i'^^  K  ^ 
.  .'^^WEatmen  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  majdei^lot 
y  What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

'    What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     Wha^wild  ecstasy  i 

2 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  thosa  unheard 

Are  sweeter ;  therefore,  ye  so^,/pipes,  play  on ; 
Not  to  the>ensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd,  &" 

tothe  spirit  ditties  of  no  toner  ~ 

F^ir  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  &dejtJy]]jgy^hou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 


Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu  ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  f  more  happy,  happy  love ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd. 
For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  fax  above,  f^ 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd^ 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN  195 


Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  he|fer  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 

thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 


Wh^l 


O  Atlic  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, 

"  Be^ty  is  teuth,  truthb£auty,lL-:rthat  is  all 
Ve  know  oh  earth,  and  all  ye  need  toTtnow. 


196  JOHN  KEATS 


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  lo 

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  bom  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. 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE  197 

0  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  fiir  retir'd  40 

From  happy  pieties,  thy  lucent  fans. 

Fluttering  among  the  &int  Olympians, 

1  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  I, 

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  luU'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  biids,  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 .' 


198  JOHN  KEATS 


FANCY  J^/r-A.^'- 


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  stiU  spread  beyond  her  : 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door. 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 
Autumn's  red-lipp'd  finiitage  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  mufl9ed. 
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  ; 
AU  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 ; 


FANCY  199 

Sweet  birds  aatheming  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  thingjs  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  fece 

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  :  go 

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. 


200  JOHN  KEATS 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash ;  go 

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  lo 

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-bom  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  flu*  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  !  ^o 


202  JOHN  KEATS 


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 
Wouldj  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  Hew  away. 
Nobody  knew  whither,  tiU 
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  divinie. 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermiaid  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.  lo 

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  Gamel)m ; 
Gone,  the  tough-belted  outlaw 


204  JOHN  KEATS 

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  ^o 

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 !  jo 

Honour  to  the  bugle-hom  ! 
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. 

f 


TO  AUTUMN 


SEASON  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun ; 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eves  run ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees. 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more. 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease. 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

2 
Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ;  • 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drows'd  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look. 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 

3 
Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?     Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  sofl-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  iiill-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


206  JOHN  KEATS 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY 


NO,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 
Wolf's-bane,  tightHrooted,  for  its  poisonous  wine ; 
Nor  suffer  thy  pale  forehead  to  be  kiss'd 

By  nightshade,  ruby  grape  of  Proserpine ; 
Make  not  your  rosary  of  yew-berries. 

Nor  let  the  beetle,  nor  the  death-moth  be 
Your  mournful  Psyche,  nor  the  downy  owl 
A  partner  in  your  sorrow's  mysteries  ; 

For  shade  to  shade  will  come  too  drowsily. 
And  drown  the  wakeful  anguish  of  the  soul. 


But  when  the  melancholy  fit  shall  fall 

Sudden  from  heaven  like  a  weeping  cloud, 
That  fosters  the  droop-headed  flowers  all. 

And  hides  the  green  hill  in  an  April  shroud ; 
Then  gluj  thy  sorrow  on  a  morning  rose. 

Or  on  the  rainbow  of  the  salt  sand-wave. 
Or  on  the  wealth  of  globed  peonies ; 
Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 

Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave. 
And  feed  deep,  deep  upon  her  peerless  eyes. 

She  dwells  with  Beauty — Beauty  that  must  die ; 

And  Joy,  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu ;  and  aching  Pleasure  nigh. 

Turning  to  poison  while  the  ^jse-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. 


HYPERION 

A  Fragment 

BOOK  I 

/"P^EEP  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vaie    ' 
\_J     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  featlxer'd  grass. 
But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell,  there  did  it  rest.  lo 

A  stream  went  voiceless  by,  still  deadened  more 
By  reason  of  his  fallen  divinity 
Spreading  a  shade  :  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 
R-ess'd  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  Ups. 

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  Iieight :  she  would  have  ta'en 
Achilles  by  the  hair  and  bent  his  neck ; 
Or  with  a  finger  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel,  30 


208  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

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 


BOOK  I]  HYPERION  209 

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,  go 

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,  no 

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  1  sit 

Here  on  this  spot  of  earth.     Search^  Thea,  search  1 

Open  thine  eyes  eteme,  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  heU. —  120 

Search,  Thea,  search  I  and  tell  me,  if  thou  seest 

A  certain  shape  or  shadow,  making  way 

With  wings  or  chariot  fierce  to  repossess 

14 


310  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

A  heaven  he  lost  erewhile :  it  must — it  must ' 

Be  of  ripe  progress — S^t^um  must  be  King. 

Yes,  there  must  be  a  golden  victory ; 

There  must  be  Gods  thrown  down,  and  truntpets  blown 

Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival 

Upon  the  gold  clouds  metropolitan. 

Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silv^  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  I  whpre  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 

0  Saturn  !  come  away,  and  give  them  heart ; 

1  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  jrielded  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,  splf-hid,  or  prison-bound, 
Groan'd  fpr  the  old  allegiance  once  more. 
And  listen'd  in  E^harp  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  : 


BOOK  I]  HYPERION  211 

For  as  among  us  mortals  omens  drear 

Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shuddered  he —  i^o 

Not  at  dog's  howl,  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech. 

Or  the  &miliar  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  ;  i8o 

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,  igo 

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.  zoo 

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  fuU  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, 


212  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

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,  sao 

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 ! 

0  lank-eared  Phantoms  of  black-weeded  pools !  230 
Why  do  I  know  ye  ?  why  have  I  seen  ye  ?  why 

Is  my  eternal  essence  thus  distraugl^t 

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, 

1  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  TeUus  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 


BOOK  I]  HYPERION  213 

From  over-strained  might.     Releas'd,  he  fled 

To  the  eastern  gates,  and  fiill  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,  z^o 

Spun  round  in  sable  curtaining  of  clouds  ; 

Nor  therefore  veiled  quite,  blindfold,  and  hid, 

But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres. 

Circles,  and  arcs,  and  broad-belting  colure, 

Glow'd  through,  and  wrought  upon  the  muffling  dark 

Sweet-shaped  lightnings  from  the  nadir  deep 

Up  to  the  zenith, — hierogl3rphics  old 

Which  sages  and  keen-ey'd  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  H3rperion'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-bom 

And  sky-engendered.  Son  of  Mysteries  310 


214  JOHN  KEATS  [book  i 

All  unrevealed  even  to  the  powers 

Which  met  at  thjr  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,  top,  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  330 

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  n]  HYPERION  215 


HYPERION 

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  moum'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  lo 

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 
Stubbom'd  with  iron.     All  were  not  assembled  : 
Some  chain' d  in  torture,  and  some  wandering. 
Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareiis, 

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. 
Mnemos3Tie  was  straying  in  the  world ; 

Far  from  her  moon  had  Phoebe  wanderejd ;  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 


216  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

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 

Creus  was  one  ;  his  ponderous  iron  mace 

Lay  by  him,  and  a  shatter'd  rib  of  rock 

Told  of  his  rage,  ere  he  thus  sank  and  pined. 

lapetus  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  150 

He  ground  severe  his  skull,  with  open  mouth 

And  eyes  in  horrid  working.     Nearest  him 

Asia,  bom  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. 


BOOK  II]  HYPERION  217 

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,  go 

And  sidelong  fix'd  her  eye  on  Saturn's  &ce  : 

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, 

Affiighted,  kept  her  still,  and  let  him  pass 

First  onwards  in,  among  the  fallen  tribe.  loo 

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  ;  no 

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  ;  bnt  ceasing  here. 
Among  these  fallen,  Saturn's  voice  therefrom 
Grew  up  like  organ,  that  begins  anew 
Its  strain,  when  other  harmonies,  stopt  short. 


218  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

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-fioods 

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  untiddle,  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 ! 

0  speak  your  counsel  now,  for  Saturn's  ear 
Is  all  a-hunger'd.     Thou,  Oceanus, 
Ponderest  high  and  deep  ;  and  in  thy  face 

1  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  ftir-foamed  sands. 
"  O  ye,  whom  wrath  consumes  1  who,  passion-stung. 


BOOK  II]  HYPERION  219 

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.  i8o 

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.  igo 

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-bom,  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,  bom  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 


320  JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

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  feir  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  conqueroi's  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,  z6o 

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 ; 


BOOK  ii]  HYPERION  221 

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 — 

0  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. 

1  threw  my  shell  away  upon  the  sand. 
And  a  wave  fiU'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  &mily  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,  zgo 

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'di;  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. 


JOHN  KEATS  [book  ii 

Not  world  on  world  upon  these  shoulders  piled. 

Could  agonise  me  more  than  baby-words 

In  midst  oT  this  dethronement  horrible. 

Speak  !  roar !  shout !  yell  1  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  BOW  I  see  ye  are  not  lost  : 

O  joy  1  for  now  I  see  a  thousand  eyes 

Wide  glaring  for  revenge  !  " — As  this  he  said. 

He  lifted  up  his  stajfure  vast,  and  stood. 

Still  without  intermission  speaking  thus  : 

"  Now  ye  are  flaqies,  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  peacg  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  kngw  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  stem : 
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  mom, 
Pervaded  all  the  beetling  gloomy  steeps, 


BOOK  u]  HYPERION 

All  the  sad  spaces  of  oblivion. 

And  every  golf,  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  &r  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  Ught : 

But  fierce  Enceladus  sent  forth  his  eyes 

Among  the  brotherhood ;  and,  at  their  glare. 

Uprose  lapetus,  and  Creiis  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  &ce  was  no  joy,  though  all  the  Gods  390 

Gave  from  their  hollow  throats  the  name  of  "  Saturn  !  " 


««4  JOHN  KEATS  [book  hi 


HYPERION 

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  faUen  old  Divinity 
Wandering  in  vain  about  bewildered  shores. 
Meantime  touch  piously  the  Delphic  harp,  lo 

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  mom 
Float  in  voluptuous  fleeces  o'er  the  hills  ; 
Let  the  red  wine  within  the  goblet  boil. 
Cold  as  a  bubbling  well ;  let  &int-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, 


BOOK  III]  HYPERION 

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  dreamed." — "  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 

15 


JOHN  KEATS  [book  m 

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,  go 

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,  loo 

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  mom  and  eventide. 

Tell  me  why  thus  I  rave,  about  these  groves  !  no 

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 

Four  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,  lao 

While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 

Beneath  his  white  soft  temples,  stedfast  kept 

Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosjfne. 

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 


BOOK  III]  HYPERION 


227 


As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 

Die  into  life :  so  young  Apollo  anguish'd  :  ,,„ 

His  very  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed 

Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 

During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 

Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied. — At  length 

Apollo  shriek'd  ;— and  lo  !  from  all  his  limbs 

Celestial         ****** 


POSTHUMOUS 

AND 

FUGITIVE  POEMS 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION 

^A  Vision 
[CANTO  I] 

FANATICS  have  their  dreams,  wherewith  they  weave 
A  paradise  for  a  sect ;  the  savage^  too. 
From  forth  the  loftiest  fashion  of  his  sleep 
Guesses  at  heaven  ;  pity  these  have  not 
Traced  upon  vellum  or  wild  Indian  leaf 
The  shadows  of  melodious  utterance. 
But  bare  of  laurel  they  live,  dream,  and  die ; 
For  Poesy  alone  can  tell  her  dreams, — 
With  the  fine  spell  of  words  alone  can  save 
Imagination  from  the  sable  chain  lo 

And  dumb  enchantment.     Who  alive  can  say, 
"  Thou  art  no  Poet — mayst  not  tell  thy  dreams  ?  " 
Since  every  man  whose  soul  is  not  a  clod 
Hath  visions  and  would  speak,  if  he  had  loved. 
And  been  well  nurtured  in  his  mother  tongue. 
Whether  the  dream  now  purposed  to  rehearse 
Be  poet's  or  fanatic's  will  be  known 
When  this  warm  scribe,  my  hand,  is  in  the  grave. 

Methonght  I  stood  where  trees  of  every  clime, 
Palm,  myrtle,  oak,  and  sycamore,  and  beech,  20 

With  plantane  and  spice-blossoms,  made  a  screen. 
In  neighbourhood  of  fountains  (by  the  noise 
Soft-showering  in  mine  ears),  and  (by  the  touch 
Of  scent)  not  far  from  roses.     Twining  round 
I  saw  an  arbour  with  a  drooping  roof 
Of  trellis  vines,  and  bells,  and  larger  blooms, 
Like  floral  censers,  swinging  light  in  air ; 
Before  its  wreathed  doorway,  on  a  mound 
Of  moss,  was  spread  a  feast  of  summer  fruits. 
Which,  nearer  seen,  seem'd  refuse  of  a  meal  30 

By  angel  tasted  or  our  Mother  Eve  ; 


230  JOHN  KEATS 

For  empty  shells  were  scatter'd  on  the  grass. 

And  grape-stalks  but  half  bare,  and  remnants  more 

Sweet-smelling,  whose  pure  kinds  I  could  not  know. 

Still  was  more  plenty  than  the  fabled  horn 

Thrice  emptied  could  pour  forth  at  banqueting, 

For  Proserpine  retum'd  to  her  own  fields. 

Where  the  white  heifers  low.     Aijid  appetite, 

More  yearning  than  on  earth  I  ever  felt, 

Growing  within,  I  ate  deliciously,^  40 

And,  after  not  long,  thirsted ;  for  thereby 

Stood  a  cool  vessel  of  transparent  juice 

Sipp'd  by  the  wander'd  bee,  the  which  I  took. 

And  pledging  all  the  mortals  of  the  world. 

And  all  the  dead  whose  names  are  in  our  lips, 

Drank.     That  full  draught  is  parent  of  my  theme. 

No  Asian  poppy  nor  elixir  fine 

Of  the  soon-fading,  jealous  Caliphat, 

No  poison  gender'd  in  close  monkish  cell, 

To  thin  the  scarlet  conclave  of  old  men,  50 

Could  so  have  rapt  unwilling  life  away. 

Among  the  fragf^ant  husks  and  berries  crush'd 

Upon  the  grass,  I  struggled  hard  against 

The  domineering  potion,  but  in  vain. 

The  cloudy  swoon  came  on,  and  down  I  sank, 

Like  a  Silenus  on  an  antique  vase. 

How  long  I  slumber'd  'tis  a  chance  to  guess. 

When  sense  of  life  retum'd,  I  started  up 

As  if  with  wings,  but  the  fair  trees  were  gone, 

The  mossy  mound  and  arbour  were  no  more  :  60 

I  look'd  around  upon  the  curved  sides 

Of  an  old  sanctuary,  with  roof  august, 

Builded  so  high,  it  seem'd  that  filmed  clouds 

Might  spread  beneath  as  o'er  the  stars  of  heaven. 

So  old  the  place  was,  I  remember' d  none 

The  like  upon  the  earth :  what  I  had  seen 

Of  gray  cathedrals,  buttress' d  walls,  rent  towers. 

The  superannuations  of  sunk  realms, 

Or  Nature's  rocks  toil'd  hard  in  waves  and  winds, 

Seem'd  but  the  faulture  of  decrepit  things  70 

To  that  eternal  domed  monument. 

Upon  the  marble  at  my  feet  there  lay 

Store  of  strange  vessels  and  large  draperies. 

Which  needs  had  been  of  dyed  asbestos  wove, 

Or  in  that  place  the  moth  could  not  corrupt, 

So  white  the  linen,  so,  in  some,  distinct 

Ran  imageries  from  a  sombre  loom. 

All  in  a  mingled  heap  confused  there  lay 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION  231 

Robes,  golden  tongs,  censer  and  chafing-dish, 

Girdles,  and  chains,  and  holy  jewelries.  >  80 

Turning  from  these  with  awe,  once  more  I  raised 
My  eyes  to  fathom  the  space  every  way : 
The  embossed  roof,  the  silent  massy  range 
Of  columns  north  and  south,  ending  in  mist 
Of  nothing  ;  then  to  eastward,  where  black  gates 
Were  shut  against  the  sunrise  evermore  ; 
Then  to  the  west  I  Ipok'd,  and  saw  far  off 
An  image,  huge  of  feature  as  a  cloud. 
At  level  of  whose  feet  an  altar  slept, 

To  be  approach'd  on  either  side  by  steps  go 

And  marble  balustrade,  and  patient  travail 
To  count  with  toil  the  innumerable  degrees. 
Towards  the  altar  sober-paced  I  went. 
Repressing  haste  as  too  unholy  there  ; 
And,  coming  nearer,  saw  beside  the  shrine 
One  ministering  ;  and  there  arose  a  flame. 
As  in  mid-day  the  sickening  east-wind 
Shifts  sudden  to  the  south,  the  small  warm  rain 
Melts  out  the  frozen  incense  from  all  flowers. 
And  fiUs  the  air  with  so  much  pleasant  health  100 

That  even  the  dying  man  forgets  his  shroud ; — 
Even  so  that  lofty  sacrificial  fire. 
Sending  forth  Maian  incense,  spread  around 
Forgetfulness  of  everything  but  bliss. 
And  clouded  all  the  altar  with  soft  smoke ; 
From  whose  white  fragrant  curtains  thus  I  heard 
Language  pronounced  :  "  If  thou  canst  not  ascend 
These  steps,  die  on  that  marble  where  thou  art. 
Thy  flesh,  near  cousin  to  the  common  dust. 
Will  parch  for  lack  of  nutriment ;  thy  bones  no 

Will  wither  in  few  years,  and  vanish  so 
That  not  the  quickest  eye  could  find  a  grain 
Of  what  thou  now  art  on  that  pavement  cold. 
The  sands  of  thy  short  life  are  spent  this  hour, 
And  no  hand  in  the  universe  can  turn 
Thy  hourglass,  if  these  gummed  leaves  be  burnt 
Ere  thou  canst  mount  up  these  immortal  steps." 
I  heard,  I  look'd :  two  senses  both  at  once, 
So  fine,  so  subtle,  felt  the  tyranny 

Of  that  fierce  threat  and  the  hard  task  proposed.  120 

Prodigious  seem'd  the  toil ;  the  leaves  were  yet 
Burning,  when  suddenly  a  palsied  chill 
Struck  from  the  paved  level  up  my  limbs. 
And  was  ascending  quick  to  put  cold  grasp 


232  JOHN  KEATS 

Upon  those  streams  that  pulse  beside  the  throat. 

I  shriek'd,  and  the  sharp  anguish  of  my  shriek 

Stung  my  own  ears ;  I  strove  hard  to  escape 

The  numbness,  strove  to  gain  the  lowest  step. 

Slow,  heavy,  deadly  was  my  pace  :  the  cold 

Grew  stifling,  suffocating  at  the  heart ;  130 

And  when  1  clasp'd  my  hands  I  felt  them  not. 

One  minute  before  death  my  iced  foot  touch' d 

The  lowest  stair;,  and,  as  it  touch'd,  life  seem'd 

To  pour  in  at  the  toes  ;  I  mounted  up 

As  once  fair  angels  on  a  ladder  flew 

From  the  green  turf  to  heaven.     "  Holy  Power," 

Cried  I,  approaching  near  the  homed  shrine, 

"  What  am  I  that  should  so  be  saved  from  death  ? 

What  am  I  that  another  death  come  not 

To  choke  my  utterance,  sacrilegious,  here  ?  "  140 

Then  said  the  veiled  shadow :  "  Thou  hast  felt 

What  'tis  to  die  and  live  again  before 

Thy  fated  hour ;  that  thou  hadst  power  to  do  so 

Is  thine  own  safety ;  thou  hast  dated  on 

Thy  doom."     "  High  Prophetess,"  said  I,  "  purge  off, 

Benign,  if  so  it  please  thee,  my  mind's  film." 

"  None  can  usurp  this  height,"  returned  that  shade, 

"  But  those  to  whom  the  miseries  of  the  world 

Are  misery,  and  will  not  let  them  rest. 

All  else  who  find  a  haven  in  the  world,  150 

Where  they  may  thoughtless  sleep  away  their  days. 

If  by  a  chance  into  this  fene  they  come. 

Rot  on  the  pavement  where  thou  rottedst  half." 

"  Are  there  not  thousands  in  the  world,"  said  I, 

Encouraged  by  the  sooth  voice  of  the  shade, 

"  Who  love  their  fellows  even  to  the  death. 

Who  feel  the  giant  agony  of  the  world. 

And  more,  like  slaves  to  poor  humanity. 

Labour  for  mortal  good  }     I  sure  should  see 

Other  men  here,  but  I  am  here  alone."  160 

"Those  whom  thou  spakest  of  are  no  visionaries," 

Rejoin'd  that  voice  ;  "  they  are  no  dreamers  weak  ; 

They  seek  no  wonder  but  the  human  face. 

No  music  but  a  happy-noted  voice : 

They  come  not  here,  they  have  no  thought  to  come ; 

And  thou  art  here,  for  thou  art  less  than  they. 

What  benefit  canst  thou  do,  or  all  thy  tribe. 

To  the  great  world  ?     Thou  art  a  dreaming  thing, 

A  fever  of  thyself :  think  of  the  earth  ; 

What  bUss,  even  in  hope,  is  there  for  thee  ?  170 

What  haven  ?  every  creature  hath  its  home, 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION 

Evety  sole  man  hath  days  of  joy  and  pain, 
Whether  his  labours  be  sublime  or  low — 
The  pain  alone,  the  joy  alone,  distinct : 
Only  the  dreamer  venoms  all  his  days. 
Bearing  more  woe  than  all  his  sins  deserve. 
'  Therefore,  that  happiness  be  somewhat  shared. 
Such  things  as  thou  art  are  admitted  oft 
Into  like  gardens  thou  didst  pass  erewhile. 
And  suffer'd  in  these  temples  :  for  that  cause  i8o 

Thou  standest  safe  beneath  this  statue's  knees." 
"  That  I  am  favour'd  for  unworthiness. 
By  such  propitious  parley  medicined 
In  sickness  not  ignoble,  I  rejoice, 
Aye,  and  could  weep  for  love  of  such  award." 
So  answer'd  I,  continuing,  "  If  it  please. 

Majestic  shadow,  tell  me  where  I  am,       

Whose  altar  this,  for  whom  this  incense  curls  ; 

What  image  this  whose  face  I  cannot  see 

For  the  broad  marble  knees  ;  and  who  thou  art,  igo 

Of  accent  feminine  so  courteous  ?  " 

Then  the  tall  shade,  in  drooping  linen  veil'd, 
Spoke  out,  so  much  more  earnest,  that  her  breath 
Stirr'd  the  thin  folds  of  gauze  that  drooping  hung 
About  a  golden  censer  from  her  hand 
Pendent ;  and  by  her  voice  I  knew  she  shed 
Long-treasured  tears.     "This  temple,  sad  and  lone. 
Is  all  spared  from  the  thunder  of  a  war 
Foughten  long  since  by^iant  hierarchy 

Against  rebellion :  this  old  image  here,  zoo 

Whose  carved  features  wrinkled  as  he  fell, 
Is  Saturn's  ;  I,  Moneta,  left  supreme. 
Sole  goddess  of  this  desolation." 
I  had  no  words  to  answer,  for  my  tongue. 
Useless,  could  find  about  its  roofed  home 
No  syllable  of  a  fit  majesty 
To  make  rejoinder  to  Moneta's  mourn  : 
There  was  a  silence,  while  the  altar's  blaze 
Was  fainting  for  sweet  food.     I  look'd  thereon. 
And  on  the  paved  floor,  where  nigh  were  piled  210 

Faggots  of  cinnamon,  and  many  heaps 
Of  other  crisped  spicewood  :  then  again 
I  look'd  upon  the  altar,  and  its  horns 
Whiten'd  with  ashes,  and  its  languorous  flame. 
And  then  upon  the  oflferings  again ; 
And  so,  by  turns,  till  sad  Moneta  cried  : 
"The  sacrifice  is  done,  but  not  the  less 


234  JOHN  KEATS 

Will  I  be  kind  to  thee  for  thy  good  will. 

My  power,  which  to  me  is  still  a  curse, 

Shall  be  to  thee  a  wonder ;  for  the  scenes  220 

Still  swooning  vivid  through  my  globed  brain, 

With  an  electral  changing  misery, 

Thou  shalt  with  these  dull  mortal  eyes  behold 

Free  from  all  pain,  if  wonder  pain  thee  not." 

As  near  as  an  immortal's  sphered  words 

Could  to  a  mother's  soften  were  these  last : 

And  yet  I  had  a  terror  of  her  robes, 

And  chiefly  of  the  veils  that  from  her  brow 

Hung  pale,  and  curtain'd  her  in  mysteries. 

That  made  my  heart  too  small  to  hold  its  blood.  230 

This  saw  that  Goddess,  and  with  sacred  hand 

Parted  the  veils.     Then  saw  I  a  wan  face. 

Not  pined  by  human  sorrows,  but  bright-blauch'd 

By  an  immortal  sickness  which  kills  not ; 

It  works  a  constant  change,  which  happy  death 

Can  put  no  end  to ;  deathwards  progressing 

To  no  death  was  that  visage ;  it  had  past 

The  lily  and  the  snow ;  and  beyond  these 

I  must  not  think  now,  though  I  saw  that  face. 

But  for  her  eyes  I  should  have  fled  away ;  240 

They  held  me  back  with  a  benignant  light, 

Soft,  mitigated  by  divinest  lids 

Half-closed,  and  visionless  entire  they  seem'd 

Of  all  external  things  ;  they  saw  me  not. 

But  in  blank  splendour  beam'd,  like  the  mild  moon, 

Who  comforts  those  she  sees  not,  who  knows  not 

What  eyes  are  upward  cast.     As  I  had  found 

A  grain  of  gold  upon  a  mountain's  side, 

And,  twinged  with  avarice,  strain'd  out  my  eyes 

To  search  its  sullen  entrails  rich  with  ore,  250 

So,  at  the  view  of  sad  Moneta's  brow, 

I  asked  to  see  what  things  the  hollow  brow 

Behind  environed :  what  high  tragedy 

In  the  dark  secret  chambers  of  her  skull 

Was  acting,  that  could  give  so  dread  a  stress 

To  her  cold  lips,  and  fill  with  such  a  light 

Her  planetary  eyes,  and  touch  her  voice 

With  such  a  sorrow .''     "  Shade  of  Memory  !  " 

Cried  I,  with  act  adorant  at  her  feet, 

"  By  all  the  gloom  hung  round  thy  fallen  house,  260 

By  this  last  temple,  by  the  golden  age, 

By  great  Apollo,  thy  dear  foster-child, 

And  by  thyself,  forlorn  divinity, 

The  pale  Omega  of  a  wither'd  race, 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION  235 

Let  me  behold,  according  as  thou  saidst, 

What  in  thy  brain  so  ferments  to  and  fro ! " 

No  sooner  had  this  conjuration  past 

My  devout  lips,  than  side  by  side  we  stood 

(Like  a  stunt  bramble  by  a  solemn  pine) 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale  270 

Far  sunken  from  the  healthy  breath  of  mom. 

Far  from  the  fiery  noon  and  eve's  one  star. 

Onward  I  look'd  beneath  the  gloomy  boughs. 

And  saw  what  first  I  thought  an  image  huge. 

Like  to  the  image  pedestall'd  so  high 

In  Saturn's  temple  ;  then  Moneta's  voice 

Came  brief  upon  mine  ear.     "  So  Saturn  sat 

When  he  had  lost  his  realms  ;"  whereon  there  grew 

A  power  within  me  of  enormous  ken 

To  see  as  a  god  sees,  and  take  the  depth  z8o 

Of  things  as  nimbly  as  the  outward  eye 

Can  size  and  shape  pervade.     The  lofty  theme 

Of  those  few  words  hung  vast  before  my  mind 

With  half-unravell'd  web.     I  set  myself 

Upon  an  eagle's  watch,  that  I  might  see. 

And  seeing  ne'er  forget.     No  stir  of  life 

Was  in  this  shrouded  vale,^not  so  much  air 

As  in  the  zoning  of  a  suipmer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather'd  grass  ; 

But  where  the  dead  leaf  fell  there  did  it  rest.  ago 

A  stream  went  noiseless  by,  still  deaden' d  more 

By  reason  of  the  fallen  divinity 

Spreading  more  shade  ;  the  Naiad  'mid  her  reeds 

Prest  her  cold  finger  closer  to  her  lips. 

Along  the  margin-sand  large  foot-marks  went 
No  further  than  to  where  old  Saturn's  feet 
Had  rested,  and  there  slept  how  long  a  sleep  ! 
Degraded,  cold,  upon  the  sodden  ground 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless,  listless,  dead, 
Unsceptred,  and  his  realmless  eyes  were  closed  ;  300 

While  his  bow'd  head  seem'd  listening  to  the  Earth, 
His  ancient  mother,  for  some  comfort  yet. 

It  seem'd  no  force  could  wake  him  from  his  place  ; 
But  there  came  one  who,  with  a  kindred  hand, 
Touch'd  his  wide  shoulders,  after  bending  low 
With  reverence,  though  to  one  who  knew  it  not. 
Then  came  the  grieved  voice  of  Mnemosyne, 
And  grieved  I  hearken' d.     "That  divinity 
Whom  thou  saw'st  step  from  yon  forlornest  wood. 


236  JOHN  KEATS 

And  with  slow  pace  approach  our  fallen  king,  3,0 

Is  Thea,  softest-natured  of  our  brood." 

I  mark'd  the  Goddess,  in  fair  statuary 

Surpassing  wan  Moneta  by  the  head. 

And  in  her  sorrow  nearer  woman's  tears. 

There  was  a  list'ning  fear  in  her  regard. 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun ; 

As  if  the  venom'd  clouds  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sidlen  rear 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  labouring  up. 

One  hand  she  press'd  upon  that  aching  spot  320 

Where  beats  the  human  heart,  as  if  just  there. 

Though  an  immortal,  she  felt  cruel  pain ; 

The  other  upon  Saturn's  bended  neck 

She  laid,  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear 

Leaning,  with  parted  lips  some  words  she  spoke 

In  solemn  tenour  and  deep  organ-tone  ; 

Some  mourning  words,  which  in  our  feeble  tongue 

Would  come  in  this  like  accenting ;  how  frail 

To  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods  ! 

"  Saturn,  look  up !  and  for  what,  poor  lost  king  ?  330 

I  have  no  comfort  for  thee  ;  no,  not  one  ; 
I  cannot  say,  wherefore  thus  sleepest  thou  ? 
For  Heaven  is  parted  from  thee,  and  the  Earth 
Knows  thee  not,  so  afflicted,  for  a  god. 
The  Ocean,  too,  with  all  its  solemn  noise. 
Has  from  thy  sceptre  pass'd ;  and  all  the  air 
Is  emptied  of  thy  hoary  majesty. 
Thy  thunder,  captious  at  the  new  command. 
Rumbles  reluctant  o'er  our  fallen  house  ; 

And  thy  sharp  lightning,  in  unpractised  hands,  340 

Scourges  and  bums  our  once  serene  domain.  . 

"  With  such  remorseless  speed  still  come  new  woes, 
That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe. 
Saturn  !  sleep  on  :  me  thoughtless,  why  should  I 
Thus  violate  thy  slumbrous  solitude  .'' 
Why  should  I  ope  thy  melancholy  eyes  ? 
Saturn !  sleep  on,  while  at  thy  feet  I  weep." 

As  when  upon  a  tranced  summer-night 
Forests,  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars. 
Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  noise,  350 

Save  from  one  gradual  solitary  gust 
Swelling  upon  the  silence,  dying  off. 
As  if  the  ebbing  air  had  but  one  wave, 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION 

So  came  these  words  and  went ;  the  while  in  tears 

She  prest  her  fair  large  forehead  to  the  earth. 

Just  where  her  fallen  hair  might  spread  in  curls, 

A  soft  and  silken  net  for  Saturn's  feet. 

Long,  long  these  two  were  postured  motionless, 

Like  sculpture  builded-up  upon  the  grave 

Of  their  own  power.     A  long  awfiil  time  360 

I  look'd  upon  them  :  still  they  were  the  same  ; 

The  frozen  God  still  bending  to  the  earth. 

And  the  sad  Goddess  weeping  at  his  feet ; 

Moneta  silent.     Without  stay  or  prop 

But  my  own  weak  mortality,  I  bore 

The  load  of  this  eternal  quietude. 

The  unchanging  gloom  and  the  three  fixed  shapes 

Ponderous  upon  my  senses,  a  whole  moon ; 

For  by  my  burning  brain  I  measured  sure 

Her  silver  seasons  shedded  on  the  night,  370 

And  every  day  by  day  methought  I  grew 

More  gaunt  and  ghostly.     Oftentimes  I  pray'd 

Intense,  that  death  woidd  take  me  from  the  vale 

And  all  its  burthens ;  gasping  with  despair 

Of  change,  hour  after  hour  I  cursed  myself. 

Until  old  Saturn  raised  his  faded  eyes, 

And  look'd  around  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone, 

And  all  the  gloom  and  sorrow  of  the  place. 

And  that  fair  kneeling  Goddess  at  his  feet. 

As  the  moist  scent  of  flowers,  and  grass,  and  leaves,  380 

Fills  forest-dells  with  a  pervading  air. 
Known  to  the  woodland  nostril,  so  the  words 
Of  Saturn  fill'd  the  mossy  glooms  around. 
Even  to  the  hollows  of  time-eaten  oaks. 
And  to  the  windings  of  the  foxes'  hole. 
With  sad,  low  tones,  while  thus  he  spoke,  and  sent 
Strange  moanings  to  the  solitary  Pan. 
"  Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  we  are  swallow'd  up 
And  buried  from  all  godlike  exercise 

Of  influence  benign  on  planets  pale,  390 

And  peaceful  sway  upon  man's  harvesting. 
And  all  those  acts  which  Deity  supreme 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in.     Moan  and  wail ; 
Moan,  brethren,  moan ;  for  lo,  the  rebel  spheres 
Spin  round ;  the  stars  their  ancient  courses  keep ; 
Clouds  still  with  shadowy  moisture  haunt  the  earth. 
Still  suck  their  fill  of  light  from  sun  and  moon  ; 
Still  buds  the  tree,  and  still  the  seashores  murmur ; 
There  is  no  death  in  all  the  universe. 


JOHN  KEATS 

No  smell  of  death. — ^There  shall  be  death.     Moan,  moan ; 

Moan,  Cybele,  moan ;  for  thy  pernicious  babes  ^oi 

Have  changed  a  god  into  an  aching  palsy. 

Moan,  brethren,  moan,  for  I  have  no  strength  left ; 

Weak  as  the  reed,  weak,  feeble  as  my  voice. 

Oh  !  Oh !  the  pain,  the  pain  of  feebleness ; 

Moan,  moan,  for  still  I  thaw ;  or  give  me  help ; 

Throw  down  those  imps,  and  give  me  victory. 

Let  me  hear  other  groans,  and  trumpets  blown 

Of  triumph  calm,  and  hymns  of  festival. 

From  the  gold  peaks  of  heaven's  high-piled  clouds  ;  ^lo 

Voices  of  soft  proclaim,  and  silver  stir 

Of  strings  in  hollow  shells ;  and  there  shall  be 

Beautiful  things  made  new,  for  the  surprise 

Of  the  sky-children."     So  he  feebly  ceased. 

With  such  a  poor  and  sickly-sounding  pause, 

Methought  I  heard  some  old  man  of  the  earth 

Bewailing  earthly  loss ;  nor  could  my  eyes 

And  ears  act  with  that  unison  of  sense 

Which  marries  sweet  sound  with  the  grace  of  form. 

And  dolorous  accent  from  a  tragic  harp  430 

With  large-limb'd  visions.     More  I  scrutinized. 

Still  fixt  he  sat  beneath  the  sable  trees. 

Whose  arms  spread  straggling  in  wild  serpent  forms. 

With  leaves  all  hush'd  ;  his  awfiil  presence  there 

(Now  all  was  silent)  gave  a  deadly  lie 

To  what  I  erewhile  heard  :  only  his  lips 

Trembled  amid  the  white  curls  of  his  beard ;   <  i> 

They  told  the  truth,  though  round  the  snowy  locks 

Hung  nobly,  as  upon  the  face  of  heaven 

A  mid-day  fleece  of  clouds.     Thea  arose,  430 

And  stretcht  her  white  arm  through  the  hollow  dark. 

Pointing  some  whither :  whereat  he  too  rose. 

Like  a  vast  giant,  seen  by  men  at  sea 

To  grow  pale  from  the  waves  at  dull  midnight. 

They  melted  from  my  sight  into  the  woods ; 

Ere  I  could  turn,  Moneta  cried,  "  These  twain 

Are  speeding  to  the  families  of  grief. 

Where,  rooft  in  by  black  rocks,  they  waste  in  pain 

And  darkness,  for  no  hope."     And  she  spake  on. 

As  ye  may  read  who  can  unwearied  pass  440 

Onward  from  the  antechamber  of  this  dream. 

Where,  even  at  the  open  doors,  awhile 

I  must  delay,  and  glean  my  memory 

Of  her  high  phrase-^perhaps  no  further  dare. 


THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION 

[CANTO  II] 

"  TV  yr  ORTAL,  that  thou  mayst  understand  aright, 

J_YJ_      I  humanize  my  sayings  to  thine  ear. 
Making  comparisons  of  earthly  things ; 
Or  thou  mightst  better  listen  to  the  wind, 
Whose  language  is  to  thee  a  barren  noise. 
Though  it  blows  legend-laden  thro'  the  trees. 
In  melancholy  realms  big  tears  are  shed. 
More  sorrow  like  to  this,  and  such  like  woe. 
Too  huge  for  mortal  tongue  or  pen  of  scribe. 
The  Titans  fierce,  self-hid  or  prison-bound,  to 

Groan  for  the  old  allegiance  once  more. 
Listening  in  their  doom  for  Saturn's  voice. 
But  one  of  the  whole  eagle-brood  still  keeps 
His  sovereignty,  and  rule,  and  majesty  : 
Blazing  Hyperion  on  his  orbed  fire 
Still  sits,  still  snuffs  the  incense  teeming  up. 
From  Man  to  the  Sun's  God — yet  insecure. 
For  as  upon  the  earth  dire  prodigies 
Fright  and  perplex,  so  also  shudders  he ; 

Not  a  dog's  howl  or  gloom-bird's  hated  screech,  zo 

Or  the  familiar  visiting  of  one 
Upon  the  first  toll  of  his  passing  bell. 
Or  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp  ; 
But  horrors,  portioned  to  a  giant  nerve. 
Make  great  H3rperion  ache.     His  palace  bright, 
Bastioned  with  pyramids  of  shining  gold. 
And  touched  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks. 
Glares  a  blood-red  thro'  all  the  thousand  courts. 
Arches,  and  domes,  and  fiery  galleries  ; 

And  all  its  curtains  of  Aurorian  clouds  30 

Flash  angerly ;  when  he  would  taste  the  wreaths 
Of  incense,  breathed  aloft  from  sacred  hills, 
Instead  of  sweets,  his  ample  palate  takes 
Savour  of  poisonous  brass  and  metals  sick  ; 
Wherefore  when  harbour'd  in  the  sleepy  West, 


240  JOHN  KEATS 

After  the  full  completion  of  fair  day. 

For  rest  divine  upon  exalted  couch. 

And  slumber  in  the  arms  of  melody. 

He  paces  through  the  pleasant  hours  of  ease, 

With  strides  colossal,  on  from  hall  to  hall,  40 

While  far  within  each  aisle  and  deep  recess 

His  winged  minions  in  close  clusters  stand 

Amazed,  and  full  of  fear ;  like  anxious  men. 

Who  on  a  wide  plain  gather  in  sad  troops, 

When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 

Even  now  where  Saturn,  roused  from  icy  trance. 

Goes  step  for  step  with  Thea  from  yon  woods, 

Hyperion,  leaving  twilight  in  the  rear. 

Is  sloping  to  the  threshold  of  the  West. 

Thither  we  tend."     Now  in  clear  night  I  stood,  50 

Reliev'd  from  the  dusk  vale.     Mnemosyne 

Was  sitting  on  a  square-edg'd  polish'd  stone, 

That  in  its  lucid  depth  reflected  pure 

Her  priestess'  garments.     My  quick  eyes  ran  on 

From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault, 

Through  bow'rs  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light. 

And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 

Anon  rush'd  by  the  bright  Hyperion ; 

His  flaming  robes  stream'd  out  beyond  his  heels. 

And  gave  a  roar  as  if  of  earthly  fire,  60 

That  scared  away  the  meek  ethereal  hours. 

And  made  their  dove-wings  tremble.     On  he  flared. 


THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  MARK 

UPON  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell ; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell, 
I'h^t-fiailj^jM^olk  to  evening  prayer ; 
TMeei^^^HflKwere  clean  and  fair 
From  wfaoHli^  drench  of  April  rains ; 
AAd,  on  tl^^^em  window  panes, 
Tlie  chiHyWHP  faintly  told 
Of  umnator^^llilen  vallies  cold, 

Feen  thorny  bloomless  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  with  spring-tide  sedge,  lo 

Of  primroses  by  shelter'd  riUs, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell : 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  pious  companies. 
Warm  from  their  fire-side  orat'ries ; 
And  moving,  with  demurest  air. 
To  even-song,  and  vesper  prayer. 
Each  arched  porch,  and  entry  low. 

Was  fill'd  with  patient  folk  and  slow,  20 

With  whispers  hush,  and  shu£Bing  feet. 
While  play'd  the  organ  loud  and  sweet. 

The  bells  had  ceas'd,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  had  not  yet  half  done 
A  curious  volume,  patch'd  and  torn. 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  mom. 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  eyesj 
Among  its  golden  broideries  ;  rn 
Perplex'd  her  with  a  thousand  things, — 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings,  30 

Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze. 
Azure  saints  in  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 
16 


242  JOHN  KEATS 

And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 

With  its  many  mysteries. 

Cherubim  and  golden  mice. 

Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 

Dwelling  in  th'  old  Minster-square  ;  40 

From  her  fire-side  she  could  see. 

Sidelong,  its  rich  antiquity. 

Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall ; 

Where  sycamores  and  elm-trees  tail, 

FuU-leav'd,  the  forest  had  outstript, 

By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt. 

So  shelter'd  by  the  mighty  pile. 

Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhUei, 

With  forehead  'gainst  the  win  ' 

Again  she  tried>  and  then  agf^ 

Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  T 

Upon  the  l^end  of  St.  Mark 

From  plaited  lawn-fiill,  fine  j 

She  lifted  up  her  soft  warm  I      ^ 

With  aching  neck  and  swimming  • 

And  daz'd  with  ssUntly  imageries. 

All  was  gloom,  and  silent  all. 

Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 

Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 

Past  the  echoiog  mimster-gate.  60 

The  clamorous  daws,  that  all  the  day 

Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play. 

Pair  by  pair  had  gone  to  rest. 

Each  in  its  ancient  belfiy-nest. 

Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes. 

To  music  of  the  drowsy  chimes. 

AU  was  silent,  aU  was  gloom. 

Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room : 

Down  she  sat,  poor  cheated  soul !  70 

And  struck  a  lamp  from  the  dismal  coal ; 

Lean'd  forward,  with  bright  drooping  hair 

And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare. 

Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 

Hover'd  about,  a  giant  size. 

On  ceiliog-beam  and  old  oak  chair. 

The  parrot's  cage,  and  pcuiel  square ; 

And  the  warm  angled  winter  screen. 

On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 

Call'd  doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice. 

And  legless  birds  of  Paradise,  So 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK  243 

Macaw,  and  tender  Avadavat, 

And  silken-furr'd  Angora  cat 

Untir'd  she  read,  her  shadow  still 

Glower' d  about,  as  it  would  fill 

The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades, 

As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 

Had  come  to  mock  behind  her  back. 

And  dance,  and  ruiHe  her  garments  black. 

Untir'd  she  read  the  legend  page. 

Of  holy  Mark,  from  youth  to  age,  go 

On  land,  on  sea,  in  pagan  chains. 

Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 

Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 

With  golden  star,  or  dagger  bright, 

Referr'd  to  pious  poesies 

Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 

Beneath  the  text ;  and  thus  the  rhyme 

Was  parcell'd  out  from  time  to-  time  : 

"  Als  writith  he  of  swevenis. 

Men  han  befome  they  wake  in  bliss,  loo 

Whanne  that  hir  friendes  thinke  hem  bound 

In  crimped  shroude  farre  imder  grounde ; 

And  how  a  litling  child  mote  be 

A  saint  er  its  nativitie, 

Gif  that  the  modre  (God  her  blesse  !) 

Kepen  in  solitarinesse. 

And  kissen  devoute  the  holy  croce. 

Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan's  force, — 

He  writith ;  and  thinges  many  mo : 

Of  swiche  thinges  I  may  not  show.  no 

Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 

Somdel  of  Saints  Cicilie, 

And  chieflie  what  he  auctorethe 

Of  Saints  Markis  life  and  dethe  :  " 

At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 
Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom ; 
Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine. 
Exalt  amid  the  tapers'  shine 
At  Venice, — 


244  JOHN  KEATS 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

(First  Version) 


OWHAT  can  ail  thee  Knight  at  arms 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  Lake 
And  no  birds  sing  ! 


2 

O  what  can  ail  thee  Knight  at  arms 
So  haggard,  and  so  woe  begone  ? 

The  Squirrel's  granary  is  fiill 
And  the  harvest's  done. 


I  see  a  lilly  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew. 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  &ding  rose 

Fast  withereth  too — 


I  met  a  Lady  in  the  Meads 
Full  beautiful,  a  &ery'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 — 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 
(Revised  Fersion) 


AH,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight. 
Alone  and  palely  loitering ; 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake. 
And  no  birds  sing. 


2 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight. 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirreFs  granary  is  full. 
And  the  harvest's  done. 


I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow. 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew ; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 


I  met  a  Lady  in  the  meads 
Full  beautiful,  a  fairy's  child  ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 
And  her  eyes  were  wUd. 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long ; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 
A  fairy's  song. 


246  JOHN  KEATS 


I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend  and  sing 
A  feer/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 — 


8 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot 

And  there  she  w^»t  and  si^'d  fuU  sore, 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 


9 

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 


10 

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. 


11 

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 

12 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ; 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  Lake 

And  no  birds  sing —  .  .  . 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI  «47 

6 

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. 


She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew ; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 
I  love  thee  true. 

8 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  gaz'd  and  sighed  deep. 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes — 

So  kiss'd  to  sleep. 

9 

And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss, 
And  there  I  dream' d,  ah  woe  betide. 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hiU  side. 


10 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too. 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 

Who  cried — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  mercy 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !  " 


11 

I  saw  their  starv'd  lips  in  the  gloom 
With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 

And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 

12 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering. 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 


248  JOHN  KEATS 


ODES 

FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  MAIA,  MAY,  1818 

MOTHER  of  Hermes  1  and  still  youthful  Maia ! 
May  I  sing  to  thee 
As  thou  wast  hynmed   on  the  shores  of  Raise  ? 

Or  may  I  woo  thee 
In  earlier  Sicilian  ?  or  thy  smiles 
Seek  as  they  once  were  sought,  in  Grecian  isles, 
Ry  bards  who  died  content  on  pleasant  sward. 
Leaving  great  verse  unto  a  little  clan  ? 
O,  give  me  their  old  vigour,  and  unheard 
Save  of  the  quiet  primrose,  and  the  span 

Of  heaven  and  few  ears. 
Rounded  by  thee,  my  song  should  die  away 

Content  as  theirs. 
Rich  in  the  simple  worship  of  a  day. 


ON  INDOLENCE 

'  They  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin." 


ONE  morn  before  me  were  three  figures  seen. 
With  bowed  necks,  and  joined  hands,  side-faced  ; 
And  one  behind  the  other  stepp'd  serene. 
In  placid  sandals,  and  in  white  robes  graced ; 

They  pass'd,  like  figures  on  a  marble  urn. 
When  shifted  round  to  see  the  other  side ; 
They  came  again  ;  as  when  the  urn  once  more 
Is  shifted  round,  the  first  seen  shades  return ; 
And  they  were  strange  to  me,  as  may  betide 
With  vases,  to  one  deep  in  Phidian  lore. 

2 

How  is  it.  Shadows  !  that  I  knew  ye  not  ? 

How  came  ye  muffled  in  so  hush  a  mask  ? 
Was  it  a  silent  deep-disguised  plot 

To  steal  away,  and  leave  without  a  task 
My  idle  days  ?     Ripe  was  the  drowsy  hour ; 

The  blissful  cloud  of  summer-indolence 
Benumb'd  my  eyes ;  my  pulse  grew  less  and  less  ; 

Pain  had  no  sting,  and  pleasure's  wreath  no  flower : 

O,  why  did  ye  not  melt,  and  leave  my  sense 
Unhaunted  quite  of  all  but — nothingness  ? 

3 

A  third  time  pass'djthey  by,  and,  passing,  tum'd 

Each  one  the  &ce  a  moment  whiles  to  me  ; 
Then  faded,  and  to  follow  them  I  bum'd 

And  ached  for  wings,  because  I  knew  the  three  ; 
The  first  was  a  &ir  Maid,  and  Love  her  name  ; 

The  second  was  Ambition,  pale  of  cheek. 
And  ever  watchful  with  fatigued  eye  ; 

The  last,  whom  I  love  more,  the  more  of  blame 

Is  heap'd  upon  her,  maiden  most  unmeek, — 
I  knew  to  be  my  demon  Poesy. 


260  JOHN  KEATS 

4 

They  &dedj  and,  forsooth  !  I  wanted  wings : 

O  folly  !     What  is  Love  ?  and  where  is  it  ? 
And  for  that  poor  Ambition  !  it  springs 

From  a  man's  little  heart's  short  fever-fit ; 
For  Poesy  ! — no, — she  has  not  a  joy, — 

At  least  for  me, — so  sweet  as  drowsy  noons, 
And  evenings  steep'd  in  honied  indolence  ; 
O,  for  an  age  so  shelter'd  from  annoy. 

That  I  may  never  know  how  change  the  moons. 
Or  hear  the  voice  of  busy  common-sense  ! 


And  once  more  came  they  by ; — alas  !  wherefore  ? 

My  sleep  had  been  embroider'd  with  dim  dreams ; 
My  soul  had  been  a  lawn  besprinkled  o'er 

With  flowers,  and  stirring  shades,  and  baffled  beams  : 
The  morn  was  clouded,  but  no  shower  fell, 

Tho'  in  her  lids  hung  the  sweet  tears  of  May ; 
The  open  casement  press'd  a  new-leaved  vine. 

Let  in  the  budding  warmth  and  throstle's  lay ; 
O  Shadows  !  'twas  a  time  to  bid  farewell ! 
Upon  your  skirts  had  fallen  no  tears  of  mine. 


So,  ye  three  Ghosts,  adieu  !     Ye  cannot  raise 

My  head  cool-bedded  in  the  flowery  grass ; 
For  I  would  not  be  dieted  with  praise, 

A  pet-lamb  in  a  sentimental  farce  ! 

Fade  softly  from  my  eyes,  and  be  once  more 

In  masque-like  figures  on  the  dreamy  urn ; 
Farewell !  I  yet  have  visions  for  the  night. 

And  for  the  day  faint  visions  there  is  store ; 
Vanish,  ye  Phantoms  !  from  my  idle  spright. 

Into  the  clouds,  and  never  more  return  ! 


TO  FANNY 


PHYSICIAN  Nature  !  let  my  spirit  blood  ! 
O  ease  my  heart  of  verse  and  let  me  rest ; 
Throw  me  upon  thy  Tripod,  tiU  the  flood 
Of  stifling  numbers  ebbs  from  my  full  breast. 
A  theme  !  a  theme  I  great  nature  !  give  a  theme ; 

Let  me  begin  my  dream. 
I  come — I  see  thee,  as  thou  standest  there. 
Beckon  me  not  into  the  wintry  air. 

2 
Ah  !  dearest  love,  sweet  home  of  all  my  fears. 
And  hopes,  and  joys,  and  panting  miseries, — 
To-night,  if  I  may  guess,  thy  beauty  wears 
A  smile  of  such  delight. 
As  brilliant  and  as  bright, 
As  when  with  ravish'd,  aching,  vassal  eyes. 
Lost  in  soft  amaze, 
I  gaze,  I  gaze  I 

3 
Who  now,  with  greedy  looks,  eats  up  my  feast  ? 
What  stare  outfaces  now  my  silver  moon  ? 
Ah !  keep  that  hand  unravish'd  at  the  least ; 

Let,  let,  the  amorous  bum — 

But,  pr'}rthee,  do  not  turn 
The  current  of  your  heart  from  me  so  soon. 

O  !  save,  in  charity. 

The  quickest  pulse  for  me. 

4 
Save  it  for  me,  sweet  love  !  though  music  breathe 
Voluptuous  visions  into  the  warm  air. 
Though  swimming  through  the  dance's  dangerous  wreath ; 

Be  like  an  April  day. 

Smiling  and  cold  and  gay, 
A  temperate  Uly,  temperate  as  fair  ; 

Then,  Heaven !  there  will  be 

A  warmer  June  for  me. 


252  JOHN  KEATS 

5 

Why,  this — you'll  say,  my  Fanny  I  is  not  true  : 
Put  your  soft  hand  upon  your  snowy  side. 
Where  the  heart  beats :  confess — 'tis  nothing  new- 
Must  not  a  woman  be 
A  feather  on  the  sea, 
Sway'd  to  and  fto  by  every  wind  and  tide  ? 
Of  as  uncertain  speed 
As  blow-ball  from  the  mead  ? 


I  know  it — and  to  know  it  is  despair 

To  one  who  loves  you  as  I  love,  sweet  Fanny ! 

Whose  heart  goes  flutt'ring  for  you  every  where. 

Nor,  when  away  you  roam. 

Dare  keep  its  wretched  home. 
Love,  love  alone,  his  pains  severe  and  many: 

Then,  loveliest !  keep  me  free, 

From  torturing  jealousy. 


Ah !  if  you  prize  my  subdued  soul  above 
The  poor,  the  fading,  brief  pride  of  an  hour  ; 
Let  none  pro&ne  my  Holy  See  of  love. 

Or  with  a  rude  hand  break 

The  sacramental  cake : 
Let  none  else  touch  the  just  new-budded  flower 

If  not — may  my  eyes  close. 

Love  1  on  their  last  repose. 


TOi 

WHAT  can  I  do  to  drive  away 
Remembrance  from  my  eyes  ?  for  they  have  seen. 
Aye,  an  hour  ago,  my  brilliant  Queen  ! 
Touch  has  a  memory.     O  say,  love,  say. 
What  can  I  do  to  kUl  it  and  be  free 
In  my  old  liberty  ? 

When  every  fair  one  that  I  saw  was  fair 
Enough  to  catch  me  in  but  half  a  snare. 
Not  keep  me  there : 

When,  howe'er  poor  or  particolour'd  things,  lo 

My  muse  had  wings. 
And  ever  ready  was  to  take  her  course 
Whither  1  bent  her  force, 
Unintellectual,  yet  divine  to  me  ; — 
Divine,  I  say ! — What  sea-bird  o'er  the  sea 
Is  a  philosopher  the  while  he  goes 
Winging  along  where  the  great  water  throes  ? 
How  shall  I  do 
To  get  anew 

Those  moulted  feathers,  and  so  mount  once  more  20 

Above,  above 

The  reach  of  fluttering  Love, 
And  make  him  cower  lowly  while  I  soar  ? 
Shall  I  gulp  wine  ?     No,  that  is  vulgarism, 
A  heresy  and  schism. 
Foisted  into  the  canon-law  of  love  ; — 
No, — wine  is  only  sweet  to  happy  men  ; 
More  dismal  cares 
Seize  on  me  unawares, — 

Where  shall  I  learn  to  get  my  peace  again  ?  30 

To  banish  thoughts  of  that  most  hateful  land, 
Dungeoner  of  my  friends,  that  wicked  strand 
Where  they  were  wreck'd  and  live  a  wrecked  life ; 
That  monstrous  region,  whose  duU  rivers  pour. 
Ever  from  their  sordid  urns  unto  the  shore, 
Unown'd  of  any  weedy-haired  gods  ; 


254  JOHN  KEATS 

Whose  winds,  all  zephjrrless,  hold  scourging  rods. 

Iced  in  the  great  lakes,  to  afflict  mankind ; 

Whose  rank-grown  forests,  frosted,  black,  and  blind, 

Would  fright  a  Diyad ;  whose  harsh  herbaged  meads  ^o 

Make  lean  and  lank  the  starv'd  ox  while  he  feeds ; 

There  bad  flowers  have  no  scent,  birds  no  sweet  song. 

And  great  unerring  Nature  once  seems  wrong. 

O,  for  some  sunny  spell 

To  dissipate  the  shadows  of  this  hell ! 

Say  they  are  gone, — with  the  new  dawning  light 

Steps  forth  my  lady  bright ! 

O,  let  me  once  more  rest 

My  soul  upon  that  daz^ing  breast ! 

Let  once  again  these  aching  arms  be  placed,  y, 

The  tender  gaolers  of  thy  waist ! 

And  let  me  feel  that  warm  breath  here  and  there 

To  spread  a  rapture  in  my  very  hair, — 

O,  the  sweetness  of  the  pain  ! 

Give  me  those  lips  again  ! 

Enough  !  Enough  !  it  is  enough  for  me 

To  dream  of  thee  ! 


Lines  supposed  to  have  been  addressed  to  Fanny  Bratone 

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


SONGS  AND  LYRICS 

ON     .    .     . 

'  I  ""HINK  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so  ;- 

I        Give  it  not  a  tear ; 
Sigh  thou  mayst,  and  bid  it  go 

Any — any  where. 

Do  not  look  so  sad,  sweet  one, — 

Sad  and  fadingly  ;  / 
Shed  one  drop  then, — it  is  gone — 

O  'twas  born  to  die  ! 

Still  so  pale  ?  then,  dearest,  weep ; 

Weep,  I'll  count  the  tears, 
And  each  one  shall  be  a  bliss 

For  thee  in  after  years. 

Brighter  has  it  left  thine  eyes 

Than  a  sunny  rill ; 
And  thy  whispering  melodies 

Are  tenderer  still. 

Yet — as  all  things  mourn  awhile 

At  fleeting  blisses ; 
Let  us  too ;  but  be  our  dirge 

A  dirge  of  kisses. 


LINES 

UNFELT,  unheard,  unseen, 
I've  left  my  little  queen, 
Her  languid  arms  in  silver  slumber  lying : 
Ah  !  through  their  nestling  touch. 
Who — who  could  tell  how  much 
There  is  for  madness — cruel,  or  complying  ? 


256  JOHN  KEATS 

Those  faery  lids  how  sleek  ! 

Those  lips  how  moist ! — ^they  speak, 
In  ripest  quiet,  shadows  of  sweet  sounds  : 

Into  my  fiincy's  ear 

Melting  a  burden  dear, 
How  "  Love  doth  know  no  fullness,  nor  no  bounds." 

True  ! — ^tender  monitors  ! 

I  bend  unto  your  laws  : 
This  sweetest  day  for  dalliance  was  bom  ! 

So,  without  more  ado, 

I'll  feel  my  heaven  anew, 
For  all  the  blushing  of  the  hasty  mom. 

Where's  the  Poet  ? 

WHERE'S  the  Poet  ?  show  him  !  show  him. 
Muses  nine !  that  I  may  know  him. 
'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  man 
Is  an  equal,  be  he  King, 
Or  poorest  of  the  beggar-clan, 
Or  any  other  wondrous  thing 
A  man  may  be  'twixt  ape  and  Plato  ; 
'Tis  the  man  who  with  a  bird, 
Wren,  or  Eagle,  finds  his  way  to 
All  its  instincts ;  he  hath  heard 
The  Lion's  roaring,  and  can  tell 
What  his  homy  throat  expresseth. 
And  to  him  the  Tiger's  yell 
Comes  articulate  and  presseth 
On  his  ear  like  mother-tongue. 


"Under  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  they  to  battle  bring 
Their  embryo  atoms." — Milton. 

WELCOME  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow, 
Lethe's  weed  and  Hermes'  feather  ; 
Come  to-day  and  come  to-morrow, 
I  do  love  you  both  together ! 

I  love  to  mark  sad  faces  in  fair  weather  ; 
And  hear  a  merry- laugh  amid  the  thunder ; 

Fair  and  foul  I  love  together  : 
Meadows  sweet  where  flames  are  under, 
And  a  giggle  at  a  wonder ; 
Visage  sage  at  pantomime  ; 


ON  A  LOCK  OF  MILTON'S  HAIR  257 

Funeral,  and  steeple-chime  ; 

Infant  playing  with  a  skull ; 

Morning  fair,  and  shipwreck'd  hull ; 

Nightshade  with  the  woodbine  kissing  ; 

Serpents  in  red  roses  hissing  ; 

Cleopatra  regal-dress' d 

With  the  aspic  at  her  breast ; 

Dancing  musiCj  music  sad, 

Both  together,  sane  and  mad ; 

Muses  bright  and  muses  pale ;  zo 

Sombre  Saturn,  Momus  hale ; — 

Laugh  and  sigh,  and  laugh  again  ; 

Oh  !  the  sweetness  of  the  pain ! 

Muses  bright  and  muses  pale. 

Bare  your  faces  of  the  veil ; 
Let  me  see  ;  and  let  me  write 

Of  the  day  and  of  the  night — 
Both  together : — let  me  slake 

All  my  thirst  for  sweet  heart-ache ; 
Let  my  bower  be  of  yew,  30 

Interwreath'd  with  myrtles  new ; 

Pines  and  lime  trees  full  in  bloom, 
And  my  couch  a  low  grass-tomb. 


On  a  Lock  of  Milton's  Hair 

CHIEF  of  organic  nimibers  ! 
Old  Scholar  of  the  Spheres  I 
Thy  spirit  never  slumbers, 
But  rolls  about  our  ears 
For  ever  and  for  ever  ! 
O  what  a  mad  endeavour 

Worketh  He, 
Who  to  thy  sacred  and  ennobled  hearse 
Would  offer  a  burnt  sacrifice  of  verse 

And  melody. 

How  heavenward  thou  soundest ! 
Live  Temple  of  sweet  noise. 
And  Discord  unconfoundest, 
Giving  Delight  new  joys. 
And  Pleasure  nobler  pinions  : 
O  where  are  thy  dominions  ? 
17 


258  JOHN  KEATS 

Lend  thine  ear 
To  a  young  Dalian  oath — ay,  by  thy  soul, 
By  all  that  from  thy  mortal  lips  did  roll. 
And  by  the  kernel  of  thy  earthly  love. 
Beauty  in  things  on  earth  and  things  above. 

I  swear ! 

When  every  childish  fashion 
Has  vanished  from  my  rhyme. 
Will  I,  grey  gone  in  passion, 
Leave  to  an  after-time 
Hymning  and  Harmony 

Of  thee  and  of  thy  works,  and  of  thy  life ; 

But  vain  is  now  the  burning  and  the  strife  ; 

Pangs  are  in  vain,  until  I  grow  high-rife 
With  old  Philosophy, 

And  mad  with  glimpses  of  futurity. 

For  many  years  my  offerings  must  be  hush'd ; 
When  I  do  speak,  I'll  think  upon  this  hour. 
Because  I  feel  my  forehead  hot  and  flushed. 
Even  at  the  simplest  vassal  of  thy  power. 

A  lock  of  thy  bright  hair, — 

Sudden  it  came, 
And  I  was  startled  when  I  caught  thy  name 

Coupled  so  unaware ; 
Yet  at  the  moment  temperate  was  my  blood — 
I  thought  I  had  beheld  it  from  the  flood  ! 


o 


WHAT  THE  THRUSH  SAID 
To   Reynolds 
THOU  whose  face  hath  felt  the  Winter's  wind, 


_        Whose  eye  has  seen  the  snow-clouds  hung  in  mist 
And  the  black  elm  tops  'mong  the  freezing  stars ! 
To  thee  the  spring  will  be  a  harvest  time. 
O  thou  whose  only  book  has  been  the  light 
Of  supreme  darkness,  which  thou  feddest  on 
Night  after  night,  when  Phoebus  was  away  ! 
To  thee  the  Spring  shall  be  a  triple  morn. 
O  fret  not  after  knowledge.     I  have  none. 
And  yet  my  song  comes  native  with  the  warmth. 
O  fret  not  after  knowledge  I     I  have  none. 
And  yet  the  evening  listens.     He  who  saddens 
At  thought  of  idleness  cannot  be  idle. 
And  he's  awake  who  thinks  himself  asleep. 


FAERY    SONGS 


SHED  no  tear !  oh  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more  !  oh  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes !  oh  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Piaradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 
Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead  !  look  overhead  ! 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 
Look  up,  look  up.     I  flutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough. 
See  me  !  'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill. 
Shed  no  tear !     Oh  shed  no  tear ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu  I — I  fly,  adieu  ! 
I  vanisH  in  the  heaven's  blue — 

Adieu  I  Adieu ! 

II 

Ah !  woe  is  me  !  poor  silver-wingj! 

That  I  must  chant  thy  lady's  dirge. 
And  death  to  this  fair  haunt  of  spring. 

Of  melody,  and  streams  of  flowery  verge, — 
Poor  sUver-wing !  ah !  woe  is  me  ! 

That  I  must  see 
These  blossoms  snow  upon  thy  lady's  pall ! 

Go,  pretty  page  I  and  in  her  ear 

Wldsper  that  the  hour  is  near ! 

Softly  tell  her  not  to  fear 
Such  calm  favonian  burial ! 

Go,  pretty  page  !  and  soothly  tell, — 

The  blossoms  hang  by  a  melting  spell, 
And  fall  they  must,  ere  a  star  wink  thrice 

Upon  her  closed  eyes. 
That  now  in  vain  are  weeping  their  last  tears, 

At  sweet  life  leaving,  and  these  arbours  green, — 
Rich  dowry  from  the  Spirit  of  the  Spheres,^ 
Alas  !  poor  Queen  1 


260  JOHN  KEATS 

DAISY'S  SONG 
1 

THE  sun,  with  his  great  eye, 
Sees  not  so  much  as  I ; 
And  the  moon,  all  silver-proud. 
Might  as  well  be  in  a  cloud. 

2 
And  O  the  spring — the  spring ! 
I  lead  the  life  of  a  king  ! 
Couch'd  in  the  teeming  grass, 
I  spy  each  pretty  lass. 

3 
I  look  where  no  one  dares. 
And  I  stare  wjiere  no  one  stares. 
And  when  the  night  is  nigh. 
Lambs  bleat  my  lullaby. 

SONG 
1 

THE  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed. 
And  ere  he  spake  a  word 
He  seized  my  lady's  lily  hand. 
And  kiss'd  it  all  unheard. 

2 
The  stranger  walk'd  into  the  hall, 

And  ere  he  spake  a  word 
He  kiss'd  my  lady's  cherry  lips. 

And  kiss'd  'em  all  unheard. 

3 
The  stranger  walk'd  into  the  bower, — 

But  my  lady  first  did  go, — 
Aye  hand  in  hand  into  the  bower 

Where  my  lord's  roses  blow. 

4 
My  lady's  maid  had  a  silken  scarf 

And  a  golden  ring  had  she, 
And  a  kiss  from  the  stranger,  as  off  he  went 

Again  on  his  fair  palfrey. 


Asleep  !   0  sleep  a  little  while 

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


w 


Where  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  Maid  f 

1 
HERE  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  maid  ? 


And  what  have  ye  there  in  the  basket  ? 
Ye  tight  little  feiry,  just  fresh  from  the  dairy. 
Will  ye  give  me  some  cream  if  I  ask  it  ? 

2 
I  love  your  Meads,  and  I  love  your  flowers. 

And  I  love  your  junkets  mainly. 
But  'hind  the  door  I  love  kissing  more, 

O  look  not  so  disdainly. 


I  love  your  hills  and  I  love  your  dales, 
And  I  love  your  flocks  a-bleating — 

But  O,  on  the  heather  to  lie  together. 
With  both  our  hearts  a-beating  ! 

4, 
I'll  put  yoiu:  basket  all  safe  in  a  nook  ; 

Your  shawl  I'll  hang  on  the  willow ; 
And  we  will  sigh  in  the  daisy's  eye. 

And  kiss  on  a  grass  green  pillow. 


MEG  MERRILIES 


OLD  MEG  she  was  a  Gipsy, 
And  liv'd  upon  the  Moors  : 
Her  bed  it  was  the  brown  heath  turf. 
And  her  house  was  out  of  doors. 


262  JOHN  KEATS 

2 
Her  apples  were  swart  blackberries. 

Her  currants  pods  o'  broom  ; 
Her  wine  was  dew  of  the  wild  white  rose. 

Her  book  a  churchyard  tomb. 

3 
Her  Brothers  were  the  craggy  hills, 

Her  Sisters  larchen  trees — 
Alone  with  her  great  family 

She  liv'd  as  she  did  please. 


No  breakfast  had  she  many  a  morn, 

No  dinner  many  a  noon. 
And  'stead  of  supper  she  would  stare 

Full  hard  against  the  Moon. 

5 
But  every  mom  of  woodbine  fresh 

She  made  her  garlanding. 
And  every  night  the  dark  glen  Yew 

She  wove,  and  she  would  sing. 

6 
And  with  her  fingers  old  and  brown 

She  plaited  Mats  o'  Rushes, 
And  gave  them  to  the  Cottagers 

She  met  among  the  Bushes. 

7 
Old  Meg  was  brave  as  Margaret  Queen 

And  tall  as  Amazon  : 
An  old  red  blanket  cloak  she  wore  ; 

A  chip  hat  had  she  on. 
God  rest  her  aged  bones  somewhere — 

She  died  fuU  long  agone ! 

STAFFA 

NOT  Aladdin  magian 
Ever  such  a  work  began  ; 
Not  the  wizard  of  the  Dee 
Ever  such  a  dream  could  see  ; 
Not  St.  John,  in  Patmos'  Isle, 
In  the  passion  of  his  toil, 


STAFFA 

When  he  saw  the  churches  seven. 

Golden  aisled,  built  up  in  heaven, 

Gaz'd  at  such  a  rugged  wonder. 

As  I  stood  its  roofing  under,  lo 

Lo  1  I  saw  one  sleeping  there. 

On  the  marble  cold  and  bare. 

While  the  surges  wash'd  his  feet. 

And  his  garments  white  did  beat 

Drench'd  about  the  sombre  rocks. 

On  his  neck  his  weU-grown  locks. 

Lifted  dry  above  the  main. 

Were  upon  the  curl  again. 

"  What  is  this  ?  and  what  art  thou  ?  " 

Whisper'd  I,  and  touch'd  his  brow ;  20 

"  What  art  thou  ?  and  what  is  this  ?  " 

Whisper'd  I,  and  strove  to  kiss 

The  spirit's  hand,  to  wake  his  eyes ; 

Up  he  started  in  a  trice  : 

"  I  am  Lycidas,"  said  he, 

"Fam'd  in  funeral  minstrelsy  ! 

This  was  architectxu*'d  thus 

By  the  great  Oceanus  ! — 

Here  his  mighty  waters  play 

HoUow  organs  all  the  day ;  30 

Here  by  turns  his  dolphins  aU, 

Finny  palmers  great  and  small. 

Come  to  pay  devotion  due — 

Each  a  mouth  of  pearls  must  strew. 

Many  a  mortal  of  these  days. 

Dares  to  pass  our  sacred  ways. 

Dares  to  touch  audaciously 

This  Cathedral  of  the  Sea  ! 

I  have  been  the  pontiff-priest 

Where  the  waters  never  rest,  40 

Where  a  fledgy  sea-bird  choir 

Soars  for  ever ;  holy  fire 

I  hare  hid  from  mortal  man  ; 

Proteus  is  my  Sacristan. 

But  the  dulled  eye  of  mortal 

Hath  pass'd  beyond  the  rocky  portal ; 

So  for  ever  will  I  leave 

Such  a  taint,  and  soon  unweave 

All  the  magic  of  the  place." 

So  saying,  with  a  Spirit's  glance  50 

He  dived ! 


264  JOHN  KEATS 

A  PROPHECY 

To  his  brother  George  in  America 

''T^IS  the  witching  hour  of  night, 

J^       Orbed  is  the  moon  and  bright, 
And  the  stars  they  glisten,  glisten, 
Seeming  with  bright  eyes  to  listen — 

For  what  listen  they  ? 
For  a  song  and  for  a  charm, 
See  they  glisten  in  alarm, 
And  the  moon  is  waxing  warm 

To  hear  what  I  shall  say. 
Moon  !  keep  wide  thy  golden  ears —  lo 

Hearken,  stars  !  and  hearken,  spheres  !  — 
Hearken,  thou  eternal  sky  ! 
I  sing  an  infant's  lullaby, 

A  pretty  lullaby. 
Listen,  Usten,  listen,  listen. 
Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten. 

And  hear  my  lullaby  ! 
Though  the  rushes  that  will  make 
Its  cradle  still  are  in  the  lake — 

Though  the  linen  that  will  be  20 

Its  swathe,  is  on  the  cotton  tree — 
Though  the  woollen  that  will  keep 
It  warm,  is  on  the  silly  sheep — 
Listen,  starlight,  listen,  listen. 
Glisten,  glisten,  glisten,  glisten. 

And  hear  my  lullaby  ! 
Child,  I  see  thee  !     Child,  I've  found  thee 
Midst  of  the  quiet  all  around  thee  ! 
Child,  I  see  thee  !     Child,  I  spy  thee  ! 
And  thy  mother  sweet  is  nigh  thee  !  30 

Child,  I  know  thee  !     Child  no  more. 
But  a  Poet  evermore  ! 
See,  see,  the  lyre,  the  130-6, 
In  a  flame  of  fire. 
Upon  the  little  cradle's  top 
Flaring,  flaring,  flaring. 
Past  the  eyesight's  bearing. 
Awake  it  from  its  sleep, 
And  see  if  it  can  keep 
Its  eyes  upon  the  blaze —  40 

Amaze,  amaze ! 
It  stares,  it  stares,  it  stares. 
It  dares  what  no  one  dares  ! 


A  PROPHECY  265 

It  lifts  its  little  hand  into  the  flame 
Unharm'd,  and  on  the  strings 
Paddles  a  little  tune,  and  sings, 
With  dumb  endeavour  sweetly — 
Bard  art  thou  completely  ! 

Little  chUd 

O'  th'  western  wild,  50 

Bard  art  thou  completely  ! 
Sweetly  with  dumb  endeavour, 
A  Poet  now  or  never, 

Little  child 

O'  th'  western  wild, 
A  Poet  now  or  never  ! 

SONG 
IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 

1 

IN  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  tree. 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 
Their  green  felicity : 
The  north  cannot  undo  them 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

2 
In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook,  10 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  smnmer  look ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting. 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

3 
Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ?  20 

To  know  the  change  and  feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steel  it. 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 


266  JOHN  KEATS 


H 


SONG 

1 
USH,  hush  !  tread  softly  !  hush,  hush  my  dear  ! 
^  ^      All  the  house  is  asleep,  but  we  know  very  well 
Tharthe  jealous,  the  jealous  old  bald-pate  may  hear, 
Tho'  you've  padded  his  night-cap — O  sweet  Isabel ! 
Tho'  your  feet  are  more  hght  than  a  Faery's  feet, 
Who  dances  on  bubbles  where  brooklets  meet, — 
Hush,  hush  !  soft  tiptoe  !  hush,  hush  my  dear  ! 
For  less  than  a  nothing  the  jealous  can  hear. 


No  leaf  doth  tremble,  no  ripple  is  there 

On  the  river,-^airs  still,  and  the  night's  sleepy  eye 
Closes  up,  and  forgets  all  its  Lethean  care, 

Charm'd  to  death  by  the  drone  of  the  hummmg  May-fly ; 
And  the  Moon,  whether  prudish  or  complaisant. 
Has  fled  to  her  bower,  well  knowing  I  want 
No  light  in  the  dusk,  no  torch  in  the  gloom. 
But  my  Isabel's  eyes,  and  her  lips  pulp'd  with  bloom. 


Lift  the  latch  !  ah  gently !  ah  tenderly — sweet ! 

We  are  dead  if  that  latchet  gives  one  little  clink  ! 
Well  done — now  those  lips,  and  a  flowery  seat — 
The  old  man  may  sleep,  and  the  planets  may  wink  ; 
The  shut  rose  shall  dream  of  our  loves,  and  awake 
Full  blown,  and  such  warmth  for  the  morning  take, 
The  stock-dove  shall  hatch  her  soft  brace  and  shall  coo, 
While  I  kiss  to  the  melody,  aching  all  through  ! 


SONG 

I  HAD  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died ; 
And  I  have  thought  it  died  of  grieving  : 
O,  what  could  it  grieve  for  ?     Its  feet  were  tied. 
With  a  silken  thread  of  my  own  hand's  weaving  ; 
Sweet  little  red  feet !  why  should  you  die — 
Why  should  you  leave  me,  sweet  bird  !  why  ? 
You  liv'd  alone  in  the  forest-tree, 
Why,  pretty  thing  !  would  you  not  live  with  me .-' 
I  kiss'd  you  oft  and  gave  you  white  peas  ; 
Why  not  live  sweetly,  as  in  the  green  trees  ? 


SONG  OF  FOUR  FAIRIES 

FiHE,  Air,  Earth,  and  Water, 

Salamander,  Zephyr,  Dusketha,  and  Breama 

Salamander 
T  T  APPY,  happy  glowing  fire  ! 
Y    I       Zeph.     Fragrant  air !  delicious  light ! 

Dus.  Let  me  to  my  glooms  retire ! 

Bre.  I  to  green-weed  rivers  bright ! 

Sal.  Happy,  happy  glowing  fire  ! 
Dazzling  bowers  of  soft  retire, 
Ever  let  my  nourish'd  wing. 
Like  a  bat's,  still  wandering, 
Faintless  fan  your  fiery  spaces. 

Spirit  sole  in  deadly  places.  lo 

In  unhaunted  roar  and  blaze, 
Open  eyes  that  never  daze. 
Let  me  see  the  myriad  shapes 
Of  men,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  apes, 
Portray'd  in  many  a  fiery  den. 
And  wrought  by  spumy  bitumen 
On  the  deep  intenser  roof, 
Arched  every  way  aloof. 
Let  me  breathe  upon  their  skies. 

And  anger  their  live  tapestries  ;  20 

Free  from  cold,  and  every  care 
Of  chilly  rain  and  shivering  air. 

Zeph.  Spirit  of  Fire  !  away  !  away  ! 
Or  your  very  roundelay 
Will  sear  my  plumage  newly  budded 
From  its  quilled  sheath,  all  studded 
With  the  self-same  dews  that  fell 
On  the  May-grown  Asphodel. 
Spirit  of  Fire — away  !  away ! 

Bre.  Spirit  of  Fire — away !  away !  30 

Zephyr,  blue-eyed  fairy,  turn. 
And  see  my  cool  sedge-buried  urn. 
Where  it  rests  its  mossy  brim 
'Mid  water-mint  and  cresses  dim  ; 
And  the  flowers,  in  sweet  troubles. 
Lift  their  eyes  above  the  bubbles. 
Like  our  Queen,  when  she  would  please 


268  JOHN  KEATS 

To  sleep  and  Oberon  will  tease — 
Love  me,  blue-eyed  Fairy  !  true. 
Soothly  I  am  sick  for  you.  40 

Zeph.  Gentle  Breama  !  by  the  first 
Violet  young  nature  nurst, 
I  will  bathe  myself  with  thee, 
So  you  sometimes  follow  me 
To  my  home,  far,  fer  in  west, 
Beyond  the  nimble-wheeled  quest 
Of  the  golden-browed  sun. 
Come  wititi  me,  o'er  tops  of  trees. 
To  my  fragrant  palaces, 

Where  they  ever  floating  are  50 

Beneath  the  cherish  of  a  star 
Call'd  Vesper,  who  with  silver  veil 
Ever  hides  his  brilliance  pale, 
Ever  gently-drows'd  doth  keep 
Twilight  for  the  Fayes  to  sleep. 
Fear  not  that  your  watery  hair 
WiU  thirst  in  drouthy  ringlets  there  ; 
Clouds  of  stored  summer  rains 
Thou  shalt  taste,  before  the  stains 

Of  the  mountain  soil  they  take,  60 

And  too  unlucent  for  thee  make. 
I  love  thee,  crystal  Fairy,  true ! 
Sooth  I  am  as  sick  for  you  ! 

Sal.  Out,  ye  aguish  Fairies,  out ! 
Chilly  lovers,  what  a  rout 
Keep  ye  with  your  frozen  breath, 
Colder  than  the  mortal  death ! 
Adder-eyed  Dusketha,  speak ! 
Shall  we  leave  these,  and  go  seek 

In  the  earth's  wide  entrails  old  70 

Couches  warm  as  theirs  are  cold  .■" 

0  for  a  fiery  gloom  and  thee, 
Dusketha,  so  enchantingly 
Freckle-wing'd  and  lizard-sided  I 

Dus.  By  thee,  Sprite,  will  I  be  guided  ! 

1  care  not  for  cold  or  heat ; 

Frost  and  flame,  or  sparks,  or  sleet, 

To  my  essence  are  the  same ; — 

But  I  honour  more  the  flame. 

Sprite  of  Fire,  I  follow  thee  80 

Wheresoever  it  may  be, — 

To  the  torrid  spouts  and  fountains, 

Underneath  earth-quaked  mountains ; 

Or,  at  thy  supreme  desire, 


SONG  OF  FOUR  FAIRIES  269 

Touch  the  very  pulse  of  fire 
With  my  bare  unlidded  eyes. 

Sal.  Sweet  Dusketha !  paradise ! 
Off,  ye  icy  Spirits,  fly ! 
Frosty  creatures  of  the  sky  ! 

Dus.  Breathe  upon  them,  fiery  sprite  !  go 

T>        \  Away  !  away  to  our  delight ! 

Sal,  Go,  feed  on  icicles,  while  we 
Bedded  in  tongue-flames  will  be. 

Dus.  Lead  me  to  those  feverish  glooms, 
Sprite  of  Fire ! 

Bre.  Me  to  the  blooms. 

Blue-eyed  Zephyr,  of  those  flowers 
Far  in  the  west  where  the  May-cloud  lowers  ; 
And  the  beams  of  still  Vesper,  when  winds  are  all  wist. 
Are  shed  through  the  rain  and  the  milder  mist, 
And  twilight  your  floating  bowers.  loo 


270  JOHN  KEATS 


EPISTLE 

TO 

JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS 

DEAR  Reynolds  !  as  last  night  I  lay  in  bed. 
There  came  before  my  eyes  that  wonted  thread 
Of  shapes,  and  shadows,  and  remembrances. 
That  every  other  minute  vex  and  please : 
Things  all  disjointed  come  from  north  and  south, — 
Two  Witch's  eyes  above  a  Cherub's  mouth, 
Voltaire  with  casque  and  shield  and  habergeon. 
And  Alexander  with  his  nightcap  on ; 
Old  Socrates  a-tying  his  cravat. 
And  Hazlitt  playing  with  Miss  Edgeworth's  Cat ; 
And  Junius  Brutus,  pretty  well  so  so. 
Making  the  best  of 's  way  towards  Soho. 

Few  are  there  who  escape  these  visitings, — 
Perhaps  one  or  two  whose  lives  have  patent  wings. 
And  thro'  whose  curtains  peeps  no  hellish  nose. 
No  wild-boar  tushes,  and  no  Mermaid's  toes  ; 
But  flowers  bursting  out  with  lusty  pride, 
And  young  JEolian  harps  personified ; 
Some  Titian  colours  touch' d  into  real  life, — 
The  sacrifice  goes  on ;  the  pontiff  knife 
Gleams  in  the  Sun,  the  milk-white  heifer  lows. 
The  pipes  go  shrilly,  the  libation  flows : 
A  white  sail  shows  above  the  green-head  cliff. 
Moves  round  the  point,  and  throws  her  anchor  stiff; 
The  mariners  join  hymn  with  those  on  land. 

You  know  the  Enchanted  Castle, — it  doth  stand 
Upon  a  rock,  on  the  border  of  a  Lake, 
Nested  in  trees,  which  all  do  seem  to  shake 
From  some  old  magic-like  Urganda's  Sword, 


EPISTLE  TO  JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS    271 

O  Phoebus  !  that  I  had  thy  sacred  word  30 

To  show  this  Castle,  in  fair  dreaming  wise. 
Unto  my  friend,  while  sick  and  ill  he  lies ! 

You  know  it  well  enough,  where  it  doth  seem 
A  mossy  place,  a  Merlin's  Hall,  a  dream  ; 
You  know  the  clear  Lake,  and  the  little  Isles, 
The  mountains  blue,  and  cold  near  neighbour  rills. 
All  which  elsewhere  are  but  half  animate  ; 
There  do  they  look  alive  to  love  and  hate, 
To  smiles  and  frowns  ;  they  seem  a  lifted  mound 
Above  some  giant,  pulsing  underground.  40 

Part  of  the  Building  was  a  chosen  See, 
Built  by  a  banished  Santon  of  Chaldee  ; 
The  other  part,  two  thousand  years  from  him, 
Was  built  by  Cuthbert  de  Saint  Aldebrim ; 
Then  there's  a  little  wing,  far  from  the  Sun, 
Built  by  a  Lapland  Witch  tum'd  maudlin  Nun ; 
And  many  other  juts  of  aged  stone 
Founded  with  many  a  mason-devil's  groan. 

The  doors  all  look  as  if  they  oped  themselves. 
The  windows  as  if  latched  by  Fays  and  Elves,  50 

And  from  them  comes  a  silver  flash  of  light. 
As  from  the  westward  of  a  Summer's  njght ; 
Or  like  a  beaute^ous  woman's  large  blue  eyes 
Gone  mad  thro'  olden  songs  and  poesies. 

See !  what  is  coming  from  the  distance  dim  ! 
A  golden  Galley  all  in  silken  trim  ! 
Three  rows  of  oars  are  lightening,  moment  whiles. 
Into  the  verd'rous  bosoms  of  those  isles ; 
Towards  the  shade,  under  the  Castle  wall, 
It  comes  in  silence, — now  'tis  hidden  all.  60 

The  Clarion  sounds,  and  from  a  Postern-gate 
An  echo  of  sweet  music  doth  create 
A  fear  in  the  poor  Herdsman,  who  doth  bring 
His  beasts  to  trouble  the  enchanted  spring, — 
He  tells  of  the  sweet  music,  and  the  spot. 
To  all  his  friends,  and  they  believe  him  not. 

O  that  our  dreamings  all,  of  sleep  or  wake, 
Would  all  their  colours  from  the  sunset  take  : 
From  something  of  material  sublime. 

Rather  than  shadow  oiu*  own  soul's  day-time  70 

In  the  dark  void  of  night.     For  in  the  world 


272  JOHN  KEATS 

We  jostle, — but  my  flag  is  not  unfurl'd 

On  the  Admiral-staff, — and  so  philosophize 

I  dare  not  yet !     Oh,  never  will  the  prize. 

High  reason,  and  the  love  of  good  and  ill. 

Be  my  award  !     Things  cannot  to  the  will 

Be  settled,  but  they  tease  us  out  of  thought ; 

Or  is  it  that  imagination  brought 

Beyond  its  proper  bound,  yet  still  confin'd. 

Lost  in  a  sort  of  Purgatory  blind,  80 

Cannot  refer  to  any  standard  law 

Of  either  earth  or  heaven  ?     It  is  a  flaw 

In  happiness,  to  see  beyond  our  bourn, — 

It  forces  us  in  summer  skies  to  mourn. 

It  spoils  the  singing  of  the  Nightingale. 

Dear  Re)molds'!  I  have  a  mysterious  tale. 
And  cannot  speak  it :  the  first  page  I  read 
Upon  a  Lampit  rock  of  green  sea-weed 
Among  the  breakers ;  'twas  a  quiet  eve. 
The  rocks  were  silent,  the  wide  sea  did  weave  go 

An  untumultous  fringe  of  silver  foam 
Along  the  flat  brown  sand  ;  I  was  at  home 
And  should  have  been  most  happy, — but  I  saw 
Too  far  into  the  sea,  where  every  maw 
The  greater  on  the  less  feeds  evermore. — 
But  I  saw  too  distinct  into  the  core 
Of  an  eternal  fierce  destruction. 
And  so  from  happiness  I  far  was  gone. 
Still  am  I  sick  of  it,  and  tho',  to-day, 

I've  gather'd  young  spring-leaves,  and  flowers  gay  100 

Of  periwinkle  and  wild  strawberry. 
Still  do  I  that  most  fierce  destruction  see, — 
The  Shark  at  savage  prey, — the  Hawk  at  pounce, — 
The  gentle  Robin,  like  a  Pard  or  Ounce, 
Bavening  a  worm, — Away,  ye  horrid  moods  ! 
Moods  of  one's  mind  !     You  know  I  hate  them  well. 
You  know  I'd  sooner  be  a  clapping  Bell 
To  some  Kamtschatcan  Missionary  Church, 
Than  with  these  horrid  moods  be  left  i'  the  lurch. 


SONNETS 


I 


OH  !  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve, 
When  streams  of  light  pour  down  the  golden  west. 

And  on  the  balmy  zephyrs  tranquil  rest 
The  silver  clouds,  far — far  away  to  leave 
All  meaner  thoughts,  and  take  a  sweet  reprieve 

From  little  cares  ;  to  find,  with  easy  quest, 

A  fragrant  wild,  with  Nature's  beauty  drest. 
And  there  into  delight  my  soul  deceive. 
There  warm  my  breast  with  patriotic  lore. 

Musing  on  Milton's  fate — on  Sydney's  bier — 
Till  their  stem  forms  before  my  mind  arise  : 
Perhaps  on  wing  of  Poesy  upisoar. 

Full  often  dropping  a  delicious  tear, 
WheD  some  melodious  sorrow  spells  mine  eyes. 


II 

A   FTER  dal-k  vapours  have  oppress'd  our  plains 
J^\      For  a  long  dreary  season,  comes  a  day 

Bom  of  the  gentle  South,  and  clears  away 
From  the  sick  heavens  all  unseemly  stains. 
The  anxious  month,  relieved  of  its  pains, 

Takes  as  a  long-lost  right  the  feel  of  May, 

The  eye-lids  with  the  passing  coolness  play. 
Like  rose-leaves  with  the  drip  of  summer  rains. 
And  calmest  thoughts  come  round  us — as  of  leaves 

Budding — fruit  ripening  in  stillness — autumn  suns 
Smiling  at  eve  upon  the  quiet  sheaves, — 
Sweet  Sappho's  cheek, — a  sleeping  in&nt's  brieath, — 

Thfe  ^adlial  Sand  that  through  an  hour-glass  runs,— 
A  woodland  rivulet, — a  Poet's  death. 


i8 


274  JOHN  KEATS 


III 


Written  on  the  blank  space  of  a  leaf  at  the  end  oj  Chaucer's  tale  oj 
The  Flomre  and  the  Lefe 

THIS  pleasant  tale  is  like  a  little  copse : 
The  honied  lines  so  freshly  interlace, 

To  keep  the  reader  in  so  sweet  a  place. 
So  that  he  here  and  there  full-hearted  stops ; 
And  oftentimes  he  feels  the  dewy  drops 

Come  cool  and  suddenly  against  his  face. 

And,  by  the  wandering  melody,  may  trace 
Which  way  the  tender-legged  linnet  hops. 
Oh !  what  a  power  has  white  simplicity  ! 

What  mighty  power  has  this  gentle  story  ! 

I,  that  do  ever  feel  athirst  for  glory. 
Could  at  this  moment  be  content  to  lie 

Meekly  upon  the  grass,  as  those  whose  sobbings 

Were  heard  of  none  beside  the  mournful  robins. 


IV 
TO  HAYDON 

With  a  Sonnet  on  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles 

HAYDON  !  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak 
Definitively  of  these  mighty  things ; 

Forgive  me,  that  I  have  not  eagle's  wings. 
That  what  I  want  I  know  not  where  to  seek. 
And  think  that  I  would  not  be  over-meek. 

In  rolling  out  upfollow'd  thunderings. 

Even  to  the  steep  of  Heliconian  springs. 
Were  I  of  ample  strength  for  such  a  freak. 
Think,  too,  that  all  th<-se  numbers  should  be  thine ; 

Whose  else  ?     In  this  who  touch  thy  vesture's  hem  ? 
For,  when  men  stared  at  what  was  most  divine 

With  brainless  idiotism  and  o'erwise  phlegm. 
Thou  hadst  beheld  the  full  Hesperian  shrine 

Of  their  star  in  the  east,  and  gone  to  worship  them ! 


SONNETS  275 


On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  Jor  the  Jirst  time 

MY  spirit  is  too  weak ;  mortality- 
Weighs  heavily  on  me  like  unwilling  sleep, 

And  each  imagined  pinnacle  and  steep 
Of  godlike  hardship  tells  me  I  must  die 
Like  a  sick  eagle  looking  at  the  sky. 

Yet  'tis  a  gentle  luxury  to  weep. 

That  I  have  not  the  cloudy  winds  to  keep 
Fresh  for  the  opening  of  the  morning's  eye. 
Such  dim-conceived  glories  of  the  brain 

Bring  round  the  heart  an  indescribable  feud  ; 
So  do  these  wonders  a  most  dizzy  pain. 

That  mingles  Grecian  grandeur  with  the  rude 
Wasting  of  old  Time — ^with  a  billowy  main 

A  sun,  a  shadow  of  a  magnitude. 


VI 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander 

C"*OME  hither  all  sweet  maidens  soberly, 
^     Down-looking  aye,  and  with  a  chasten'd  light 

Hid  in  the  fringes  of  your  eyelids  white. 
And  meekly  let  your  fair  hands  joined  be. 
As  if  so  gentle  that  ye  could  not  see, 

Untouch'd,  a  victim  of  your  beauty  bright. 

Sinking  away  to  his  young  spirit's  night, 
Sinking  bewilder'd  'mid  the  dreary  sea  : 
'Tis  young  Leander  toiling  to  his  death ; 

Nigh  swooning,  he  doth  purse  his  weary  lips 
For  Hero's  cheek,  and  smiles  against  her  smile. 

O  horrid  dream  !  see  how  his  body  dips. 
Dead-heavy  ;  arms  and  shoulders  gleam  awhile ; 
He's  gone  ;  up  bubbles  all  his  amorous  breath  ! 


276  JOHN  KEATS 


VII 

On  the  Sea 


IT  keeps  eternal  whisperings  around 
Desolate  shores,  and  with  its  mighty  swell 

Gluts  twice  ten  thousand  caverns,  till  the  spell 
Of  Hecate  leaves  them  their  old  shadowy  sound. 
Often  'tis  in  such  gentle  temper  found, 

That  scarcely  will  the  very  smallest  shell 

Be  moved  for  days  from  where  it  sometime  fell, 
When  last  the  winds  of  heaven  were  unbound. 
O  ye !  who  have  your  eye-balls  vex'd  and  tired. 

Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  Sea ; 
O  ye !  whose  ears  are  dinn'd  with  uproar  rude. 

Or  fed  too  much  with  cloying  melody, — 
Sit  ye  near  some  old  cavern's  mouth,  and  brood 
Until  ye  start,  as  if  the  sea-nymphs  quired ! 


VIII 

On  Leigh  Hunt's  Poem,  The  Story  of  Rimini 

WHO  loves  to  peer  up  at  the  morning  sun. 
With  half-shut  eyes  and  comfortable  cheek. 

Let  him,  with  this  sweet  tale,  fuU  often  seek 
For  meadows  where  the  little  rivers  run  ; 
Who  loves  to  linger  with  that  brightest  one 

Of  Heaven — Hesperus — let  him  lowly  speak 

These  numbers  to  the  night,  and  starlight  meek. 
Or  moon,  if  that  her  hunting  be  begun. 
He  who  knows  these  delights,  and  too  is  prone 

To  moralise  upon  a  smile  or  tear. 
Will  find  at  once  a  region  of  his  own, 

A  bower  for  his  spirit,  and  will  steer 
To  alleys,  where  the  fir-tree  drops  its  cone. 

Where  robins  hop,  and  fallen  leaves  are  sear. 


SONNETS  277 


IX 

On  sitting  donm  to  read  King  Lear  once  again 

OGOLDEN-TONGUED  Romance  with  serene  lute  ! 
Fair  plumed  S3Ten  !  Queen  of  far  away  ! 

Leave  melodizing  on  this  wintry  day, 
Shut  up  thine  olden  pages,  and  be  mute  : 
Adieu  !  for  once  again  the  fierce  dispute, 

Betwixt  damnation  and  impassion'd  clay 

Must  I  burn  through ;  once  more  humbly  assay 
The  bitter-sweet  of  this  Shakespearian  fruit. 
Chief  Poet !  and  ye  clouds  of  Albion^ 

Begetters  of  our  deep  eternal  theme, 
When  through  the  old  oak  forest  I  am  gone. 

Let  me  not  wander  in  a  barren  dream, 
But  when  I  am  consumed  in  the  fire. 
Give  me  new  Phoenix  wings  to  fly  at  my  desire. 


X 

WHEN  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-piled  books,  in  charact'ry, 

Hold  like  full  gamers  the  fuU-ripen'd  grain ; 
When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  iSice, 

Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance. 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 

Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance ; 
And  when  I  feel,  fair  creature  of  an  hour ! 

That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more. 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 

Of  unreflecting  love  ! — then  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think. 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 


278  JOHN  KEATS 


XI 
TO  THE  NILE 

SON  of  the  old  moon-mountains  African ! 
Stream  of  the  Pyramid  and  Crocodile  ! 
We  call  thee  fruitful,  and,  that  very  while 
A  desert  fills  our  seeing's  inward  span. 
Nurse  of  swart  nations  since  the  world  began. 
Art  thou  so  fruitful  ?  or  dost  thou  beguile 
Those  men  to  honour  thee,  who,  worn  with  toil. 
Rest  them  a  space  'twixt  Cairo  and  Decan  ? 
O  may  dark  fancies  err !     They  surely  do  ; 
'Tis  ignorance  that  makes  a  barren  waste 
Of  all  beyond  itself.     Thou  dost  bedew 
Green  rushes  like  our  rivers,  and  dost  taste 
The  pleasant  sun-rise.     Green  isles  hast  thou  too. 
And  to  the  sea  as  happily  dost  haste. 


XII 

TO  SPENSER 

SPENSER  !  a  jealous  honourer  of  thine, 
A  forester  deep  in  thy  midmost  trees. 
Did,  last  eve,  ask  my  promise  to  refine 

Some  English,  that  might  strive  thine  ear  to  please. 

But,  Elfin-poet !  'tis  impossible 
For  an  inhabitant  of  wintry  earth 

To  rise,  like  Phoebus,  with  a  golden  quill. 
Fire-wing' d,  and  make  a  morning  in  his  mirth. 

It  is  impossible  to  'scape  from  toil 
O'  the  sudden,  and  receive  thy  spiriting  : 

The  flower  must  drink  the  nature  of  the  soil 
Before  it  can  put  forth  its  blossoming : 

Be  with  me  in  the  summer  days,  and  I 

Will  for  thine  honour  and  his  pleasure  try. 


SONNETS  279 


XIII 
TO 


TIME'S  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  slow  ebb  ; 
Long  hours  have  to  and  fro  let  creep  the  sand ; 
Since  I  was  tangled  in  thy  beauty's  web. 

And  snared  by  the  ungloving  of  thine  hand. 
And  yet  I  never  look  on  midnight  sky, 

But  I  behold  thine  eyes'  well  memoried  light ; 
I  cannot  look  upon  the  rose's  dye. 

But  to  thy  cheek  my  soul  doth  take  its  flight ; 
1  cannot  look  on  any  budding  flower, 

But  my  fond  ear,  in  &ncy  at  thy  lips. 
And  hearkening  for  a  love-sound,  doth  devour 

Its  sweets  in  the  wrong  sense  : — Thou  dost  eclipse 
Every  delight  with  sweet  remembering, 
And  grief  unto  my  darling  joys  dost  bring. 


XIV 

Answer  to  a  Sonnet  by  J.  H.  Reynolds,  ending — 

' '  Dark  eyes  are  dearer  far 

Than  those  that  mock  the  hyacinthine  bell." 

BLUE  !  'Tis  the  life  of  heaven, — the  domain 
Of  Cynthia, — the  wide  palace  of  the  sun,— • 
The  tent  of  Hesperus,  and  all  his  train, — 

The  bosomer  of  clouds,  gold,  grey,  and  dun. 
Blue  !  'Tis  the  life  of  waters — ocean 

And  all  its  vassal  streams  :  pools  numberless. 
May  rage,  and  foam,  and  fret,  but  never  can 

Subside,  if  not  to  dark  blue  nativeness. 
Blue  !  Gentle  cousin  of  the  forest-green. 

Married  to  green  in  all  the  sweetest  flowers — 
Forget-me-not, — the  blue-bell, — and,  that  queen 

Of  secrecy,  the  violet :  what  strange  powers 
Hast  thou,  as  a  mere  shadow  !  But  how  great. 
When  in  an  Eye  thou  art,  alive  with  fate  ! 


280  JOHN  KEATS 


XV 

OTHAT  a  week  could  be  an  age,  and  we 
Felt  parting  and  warm  meeting  every  week, 
Then  one  poor  year  a  thousand  years  would  be. 

The  flush  of  welcome  ever  on  the  cheek  : 
So  could  we  live  long  life  in  little  space, 

So  time  itself  would  be  annihilate, 
So  a  day's  journey  in  oblivious  haze 

To  serve  our  joys  would  lengthen  and  dilate. 
O  to  arrive  each  Monday  morn  from  Ind  ! 

To  land  each  Tuesday  from  the  rich  Levant ! 
In  little  time  a  host  of  joys  to  bind. 

And  keep  our  souls  in  one  eternal  pant ! 
This  mom,  my  friend,  and  yester-evening  taught 
Me  how  to  harbour  such  a  happy  thought. 


XVI 
THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

FOUR  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year  ; 
There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man  : 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 

Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span : 
He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 

Spring's  honied  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 

Is  nearest  unto  Heaven  :  quiet  coves 
His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 

He  furleth  close ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness — to  let  fair  things 

Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 
He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature. 
Or  I  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 


SONNETS  281 


XVII 
TO  HOMER 

STANDING  aloof  in  giant  ignorance, 
Of  thee  I  hear  and  of  the  Cyclades, 
As  one  who  sits  ashore  and  longs  perchance 

To  visit  dolphin-coral  in  deep  seas. 
So  thou  wast  blind  ! — but  then  the  veil  was  rent ; 

For  Jove  uncurtain'd  Heaven  to  let  thee  live, 
And  Neptune  made  for  thee  a  spermy  tent. 

And  Pan  made  sing  for  thee  his  forest-hive  ; 
Aye,  on  the  shores  of  darkness  there  is  light, 

And  precipices  show  untrodden  green ; 
There  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight^ — 

There  is  a  triple  sight  in  blindness  keen ; 
Such  seeing  hadst  thou,  as  it  once  befel 
To  Dian,  Queen  of  Earth,  and  Heaven,  and  Hell. 


XVIII 

On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns 

THE  town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting  sun, 
The  clouds,  the  trees,  the  rounded  hills  all  seem. 
Though  beautiful,  cold — strange — as  in  a  dream, 
I  dreamed  long  ago,  now  new  begun. 
The  short-lived  paly  Summer  is  but  won 
From  Winter's  ague,  for  one  hour's  gleam  ; 
Though  sapphire- warm,  their  stars  do  never  beam : 
All  is  cold  Beauty ;  pain  is  never  done  : 
For  who  has  mind  to  relish,  Minos-wise, 
The  Real  of  Beauty,  free  fi-om  that  dead  hue 
Sickly  imagination  and  sick  pride 
Cast  wan  upon  it !     Burns  !     with  honour  due 
I  oft  have  honour'd  thee.     Great  shadow  !  hide 
Thy  &ce ;  I  sin  against  thy  native  skies, 


282  JOHN  KEATS 


XIX 

TO  AILSA  ROCK 

HEARKEN,  thou  craggy  ocean-pyramid, 
Give  answer  by  thy  voice — the  sea-fowls'  screams ! 

When  were  thy  shoulders  mantled  in  huge  streams  ? 
When  from  the  sun  was  thy  broad  forehead  hid  ? 
How  long  is't  since  the  mighty  Power  bid 

Thee  heave  to  airy  sleep  from  &thom  dreams — 

Sleep  in  the  lap  of  thunder  or  sunbeams — 
Or  when  grey  clouds  are  thy  cold  coverlid  ! 
Thou  answer'st  not ;  for  thou  art  dead  asleep. 

Thy  life  is  but  two  dead  eternities, 
The  last  in  air,  the  former  in  the  deep ! 

First  with  the  whales,  last  with  the  eagle-skies  ! 
Drown'd  wast  thou  till  an  earthquake  made  thee  steep, 

Another  cannot  wake  thy  giant  size  ! 


XX 

Written  upon  Ben  Nevis 

READ  me  a  lesson,  Muse,  and  speak  it  loud 
Upon  the  top  of  Nevis,  blind  in  mist ! 
I  look  into  the  chasms,  and  a  shroud 
Vapourous  doth  hide  them, — just  so  much  I  wist 
Mankind  do  know  of  hell ;  I  look  o'erhead, 
And  there  is  sullen  mist, — even  so  much 
Mankind  can  tell  of  heaven ;  mist  is  spread 
Before  the  earth,  beneath  me, — even  such. 
Even  so  vague  is  man's  sight  of  himself ! 
Here  are  the  craggy  stones  beneath  my  feet, — 
Thus  much  I  know  that,  a  poor  witless  elf, 
I  tread  on  them, — that  all  my  eye  doth  meet 
Is  mist  and  crag,  not  only  on  this  height, 
But  in  the  world  of  thought  and  mental  might ! 


SONNETS  283 


XXI 

Written  in  ike  Cottage  where  Bums  was  bom 

'T~*HIS  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days 

\_       Now  fills,  O  Bums,  a  space  in  tWne  own  room, 
'^iere  thou  didst  dream  alone  on  budded  bays, 
Happy  and  thoughtless  of  thy  day  of  doom ! 
My  pulse  is  warm  with  thine  own  Barley-bree, 
My  head  is  light  with  pledging  a  great  soul. 
My  eyes  are  wandering,  and  I  cannot  see. 
Fancy  is  dead  and  drunken  at  its  goal ; 
Yet  can  I  stamp  my  foot  upon  thy  floor. 
Yet  can  I  ope  thy  window-sash  to  find 
The  meadow  thou  hast  tramped  o'er  and  o'er, — 
Yet  can  I  think  of  thee  tiU  thought  is  blind, — 
Yet  can  I  gulp  a  bumper  to  thy  name, — 
O  smfle  among  the  shades,  for  this  is  fame  ! 


XXII 

Fragment  of  a  sonnet  (translated  from  Ronsard) 

NATURE  witheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies 
For  more  adornment,  a  full  thousand  years  ; 
She  took  their  cream  of  Beauty's  fairest  dyes. 

And  shaped  and  tinted  her  above  all  peers  : 
Meanwhile  Love  kept  her  dearly  with  his  wings. 

And  underneath  their  shadow  fiU'd  her  eyes 
With  such  a  richness  that  the  cloudy  Kings 

Of  high  Olympus  utter'd  slavish  sighs. 
When  from  the  Heavens  I  saw  her  first  descend, 

My  heart  took  fire,  and  only  burning  pains — 
They  were  my  pleasures — they  my  Life's  sad  end  ; 

Love  pour'd  her  beauty  into  my  warm  veins. 


284  JOHN  KEATS 


XXIII 
TO  SLEEP 

OSOFT  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight ! 
Shutting,  with  careful  fingers  and  benign. 
Our  gloom-pleased  eyes,  embower'd  frpm  the  Ught, 

Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine  ; 
O  soothest  Sleep  !  if  so  it  please  thee,  close. 

In  midst  of  this  thine  hjrmn,  my  willing  eyes. 
Or  wait  the  amen,  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Around  my  bed  its  lulling  charities ; 

Then  save  me,  or  the  passed  day  will  shine 
Upon  my  pillow,  breeding  many  woes ; 

Save  me  from  curious  conscience,  that  stiU  lords 
Its  strength  for  darkness,  burrowing  like  a  mole  ; 

Turn  the  key  deftly  in  the  oiled  wards. 
And  seal  the  hushed  casket  of  my  soul. 


XXIV 

WHY  did  1  laugh  to-night ?     No  voice  will  tell : 
No  God,  no  Demon  of  severe  response. 
Deigns  to  reply  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell. 

Then  to  my  human  heart  I  turn  at  once. 
Heart !     Thou  and  I  are  here,  sad  and  alone ; 

Say,  wherefore  did  I  laugh  ?     O  mortal  pain  ! 
O  Darkness  !     Darkness  !  ever  must  I  moan. 

To  question  Heaven  and  Hell  and  Heart  in  vain. 
Why  did  I  laugh  ?     I  know  this  Being's  lease. 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads  ; 
Yet  would  I  on  this  very  midnight  cease. 

And  the  world's  gaudy  ensigns  see  in  shreds ; 
Verse,  Fame,  and  Beauty  are  intense  indeed. 
But  Death  intepser — Death  is  Life's  high  meed. 


SONNETS  iaii 


XXV 

On  a  Dream 

AS  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light. 
When  lulled  Argiis,  baffled,  swoon'd  and  slept. 
So  on  a  Delphic  reed,  my  idle  spright. 

So  play'd,  so  charm 'd,  so  conquer' d,  so  bereft 
The  dragon-world  of  aU  its  hundred  eyes  ; 

And  seeing  it  asleep,  so  fled  away. 
Not  to  pure  Ida  with  its  snow-cold  skies. 

Nor  unto  Tempe,  where  Jove  grieved  a  day  ; 
But  to  that  second  circle  of  sad  Hell, 

Where  in  the  gust,  the  whirlwind,  and  the  flaw 
Of  rain  and  hail-stones,  lovers  need  not  tell 

Their  sorrows, — pale  were  the  sweet  Ups  I  saw, 
Pale  were  the  lips  I  kiss'd,  and  fair  the  form 
I  floated  with,  about  that  melancholy  storm. 


XXVI 

On  Fame 

FAME,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy 
To  those  who  woo  her  with  too  slavish  knees. 
But  makes  surrender  to  some  thoughtless  boy. 

And  dotes  the  niore  upon  a  heart  at  ease  ; 
She  is  a  Gripsy  will  not  speak  to  those 

Who  have  not  learnt  to  be  content  without  her  ; 
A  Jilt,  whose  ear  was  never  whisper'd  close, 

Who  thinks  they  scandal  her  who  talk  about  her ; 
A  very  Gipsy  is  she,  Nilus-bom, 

Sister-in-law  to  jealous  Potiphar  ; 
Ye  love-sick  Bards  !  repay  her  scorn  for  scorn  ; 

Ye  Artists  lovelorn  !  madmen  that  ye  are  ! 
Make  your  best  bow  to  her  and  bid  adieu, 
Then,  if  she  likes  it,  she  will  follow  you. 


286  JOHN  KEATS 


XXVII 

On  Fame 

"  You  cannot  eat  your  cake  and  have  it  too." — Proverb. 

HOW  fever'd  is  the  man,  who  cannot  look 
Upon  his  mortal  days  with  temperate  blood, 
Who  vexes  all  the  leaves  of  his  life's  book. 

And  robs  his  fair  name  of  its  maidenhood  ; 
It  is  as  if  the  rose  should  pluck  herself, 

Or  the  ripe  plum  finger  its  misty,  bloom. 
As  if  a  Naiad,  like  a  meddling  elf, 

Should  darken  her  pure  grot  with  muddy  gloom ; 
But  the  rose  leaves  herself  upon  the  briar. 

For  winds  to  kiss  and  grateful  bees  to  feed, 
And  the  ripe  plum  still  wears  its  dim  attire  ; 

The  undisturbed  lake  has  crystal  space  ; 

Why  then  should  man,  teasing  the  world  for  grace, 
Spoil  his  salvation  for  a  fierce  miscreed  ? 


XXVIII 

IF  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chain'd, 
And,  like  Andromeda,  the  Sonnet  sweet 
Fetter'd,  in  spite  of  pained  loveliness  ; 
Let  us  find  out,  if  we  must  be  constrain'd. 

Sandals  more  interwoven  and  complete 
To  fit  the  naked  foot  of  poesy ; 
Let  us  inspect  the  Ijrre,  and  weigh  the  stress 
Of  every  chord,  and  see  what  may  be  gain'd 

By  ear  industrious,  and  attention  meet ; 
Misers  of  soimd  and  syllable,  no  less 
Than  Midas  of  his  coinage,  let  us  be 

Jealous  of  dead  leaves  in  the  bay  wreath  crown  ; 
So,  if  we  may  not  let  the  Muse  be  free. 

She  will  be  bound  with  garlands  of  her  own. 


SONNETS  287 


XXIX 

THE  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone  ! 
Sweet  voice,  sweet  lips,  soft  hand,  and  softer  breast. 
Warm  breath,  light  whisper,  tender  semi-tone. 

Bright  eyes,  accomplish'd  shape,  and  lang'rous  waist ! 
Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms. 

Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes. 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms. 

Faded  the  voice,  warmth,  whiteness,  paradise — 
Vanish'd  imseasonably  at  shut  of  eve. 

When  the  dusk  holiday — or  holinight 
Of  fragrant-curtain'd  love  begins  to  weave 

The  woof  of  darkness  thick,  for  hid  delight ; 
But,  as  I've  read  love's  missal  through  to-day. 
He'll  let  me  sleep,  seeing  I  fast  and  pray. 


XXX 

I  CRY  your  mercy — pity — ^love  ! — aye,  love  ! 
Merciful  love  that  tantalises  not, 
One-thoughted,  never-wandering,  guileless  love. 

Unmask' d,  and  being  seen — without  a  blot ! 
O  !  let  me  have  thee  whole, — all — all — be  mine  ! 

That  shape,  that  fairness,  that  sweet  minor  zest 
Of  love,  your  kiss, — those  hands,  those  eyes  divine. 

That  warm,  white,  lucent,  million-pleasured  breast,- 
Yourself — ^your  soul — in  pity  give  me  all. 

Withhold  no  atom's  atom  or  I  die, 
Or  living  on,  perhaps,  your  wretched  thrall. 

Forget,  in  the  mist  of  idle  misery. 
Life's  purposes, — the  palate  of  my  mind 
Losing  its  gust,  and  my  ambition  blind  ! 


288  JOHN  KEATS 


XXXI 

Written  on  a  Blank  Page  in  Shakespeare's  Poems,  facing  A  Lover's 

Complaint 

*    13  RIGHT  star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art — 
*"  J3     Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart. 

Like  Nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores. 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 
No — yet  stiU  steadfast,  stiU  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. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


19 


/ 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiEl 

Otho  the  Gkeat,  Emperor  of  Germany. 
LUDOLFH,  his  Son. 
Conrad,  Duke  ofPranconia. 
Albert,  a  Knight,  favoured  by  Otho. 
SiGIFRED,  an  Officer,  friend  of  Ludolph. 
Theodore,  i  „_ 
GONFRID,  '\Officers. 

Ethelbert,  an  Abbot. 

Gersa,  Prince  of  Hungary. 

An  Hungarian  Captain. 

Physician. 

Page. 

Nobles,  Knights,  Attendants,  and  Soldiers. 

Erminia,  Niece  of  Otho. 
AURANTHE,  Conracfs  Sister. 
Ladies  and  Attendants. 

Scene.     The  Castle  of  Friedburg,  its  vicinity,  and  the  Hungarian  Camp, 

Time.     One  Day. 


OTHO  THE  GREAT 

ACT  I 

Scene  I. — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Conrad. 

SO,  I  am  safe  emerged  from  these  broils  ! 
Amid  the  wreck  of  thousands  I  am  whole ; 
For  every  crime  I  have  a  laurel-wreath. 
For  every  lie  a  lordship.     Nor  yet  has 
My  ship  of  fortune  furl'd  her  silken  sails, — 
Let  her  glide  on  !     This  danger'd  neck  is  saved, 
By  dexterous  policy,  from  the  rebel's  axe  ; 
And  of  my  ducal  palace  not  one  stone 
Is  bruised  by  the  Hungarian  petards. 
Toil  hard,  ye  slaves,  and  from  the  miser-earth 
Bring  forth  once  more  my  bullion,  treasured  deep. 
With  all  my  jewell'd  salvers,  silver  and  gold. 
And  precious  goblets  that  make  rich  the  wine. 
But  why  do  I  stand  babbling  to  myself.'' 
Where  is  Auranthe  ?     I  have  news  for  her 
Shall— 

Enter  Auranthe. 

Auranthe.  Conrad  !  what  tidings  }     Good,  if  I  may  guess 
From  your  alert  eyes  and  high-lifted  brows. 
What  tidings  of  the  battle?     Albert.?     Ludolph?     Otho? 

Cmrad.  You  guess  aright.     And,  sister,  slurring  o'er 
Our  by-gone  quarrels,  I  confess  my  heart 
Is  beating  with  a  child's  anxiety. 
To  make  our  golden  fortune  known  to  you. 

Auranthe.  So  serious  ? 

Conrad.  Yes,  so  serious,  that  before 

I  utter  even  the  shadow  of  a  hint 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  sc.  i 

Concerning  what  will  make  that  sin-worn  cheek 
Blush  joyous  blood  through  every  lineament. 
You  must  make  here  a  solemn  vow  to  me. 

Aurantke.  I  pr'ythee,  Conrad,  do  not  overact 
The  hypocrite.     What  vow  would  you  impose  ? 

Conrad.  Trust  me  for  once.     That  you  may  be  assured  30 

'Tis  not  confiding  in  a  broken  reed, 
A  poor  court-bankrupt,  outwitted  and  lost, 
Revolve  these  &cts  in  your  acutest  mood. 
In  such  a  mood  as  now  you  listen  to  me  : 
A  few  days  since,  I  was  an  open  rebel,  — 
Against  the  Emperor  had  subom'd  his  son, — 
Drawn  off  his  nobles  to  revolt, — and  shown 
Contented  fools  causes  for  discontent. 
Fresh  hatch'd  in  my  ambition's  eagle-nest ; 

So  thrived  I  as  a  rebel, — ^and,  behold !  40 

Now  I  am  Otho's  favourite,  his  dear  friend. 
His  right  hand,  his  brave  Conrad ! 

Auranihe.  I  confess 

You  have  intrigued  with  these  unsteady  times 
To  admiration.     But  to  be  a  fevourite  ! 

Conrad.  I  saw  my  moment.     The  Hungarians, 
Collected  silently  in  holes  and  comers. 
Appear' d,  a  sudden  host,  in  the  open  day. 
I  should  have  perish'd  in  our  empire's  wreck, 
But,  calling  interest  loyalty,  swore  faith 

To  most  believing  Otho ;  and  so  help'd  50 

His  blood-stain'd  ensigns  to  the  victory 
In  yesterday's  hard  fight,  that  it  has  tum'd 
The  edge  of  his  sharp  wrath  to  eager  kindness. 

Aurantke.  So  far  yourself.     But  what  is  this  to  me 
More  than  that  I  am  glad  ?     I  gratulate  you. 

Conrad.  Yes,  sister,  but  it  does  regard  you  greatly. 
Nearly,  momentously, — aye,  painfully  ! 
Make  me  this  vow — 

Aurantke.  Concerning  whom  or  what  ? 

Conrad.  Albert ! 

Aurantke.  I  would  inquire  somewhat  of  him.  60 

You  had  a  letter  from  me  touching  him  ? 
No  treason  'gainst  his  head  in  deed  or  word  ! 
Surely  you  spared  him  at  my  earnest  prayer  ? 
Give  me  the  letter — it  should  not  exist  1 

Conrad.  At  one  pernicious  charge  of  the  enemy 
I,  for  a  moment-whiles,  was  prisoner  ta'en 
And  rifled, — stuff!  the  horses'  hoofs  have  minced  it! 

Aurantke.  He  is  alive  .■' 

Conrad.  He  is  !  but  here  make  oath 


Acf  I.,  sc.  1]  OTHO  THE  GREAT  29^ 

To  alienate  him  from  your  scheming  brain. 
Divorce  him  from  your  solitary  thoughts. 

And  cloud  him  in  such  utter  banishment,  70 

That  when  his  person  meets  again  your  eye 
Your  vision  shall  quite  lose  its  memory. 
And  wander  past  him  as  through  vacancy. 
Auranthe.  I'll  not  be  perjured. 

Conrad.  No,  nor  great,  nor  mighty ; 

You  would  not  wear  a  crown,  or  rule  a  kingdom. 
To  you  it  is  indifferent  ? 

Auranthe.  What  means  this  ? 

Conrad.  You'll  not  be  perjured  !     Go  to  Albert  then. 
That  camp-mushroom — dishonour  of  our  house. 
Go,  page  his  dusty  heels  upon  a  march. 

Furbish  his  jingling  baldric  while  he  sleeps,  80 

And  share  his  mouldy  ration  in  a  siege. 
Yet  stay, — perhaps  a  charm  may  call  you  back. 
And  make  the  widening  circlets  of  your  eyes 
Sparkle  with  healthy  fevers. — The  Emperor 
Hath  given  consent  that  you  should  marry  Ludolph  ! 
Auranthe.  Can  it  be,  brother  ?     For  a  golden  crown 
With  a  queen's  awful  lips  I  doubly  thank  you  ! 
This  is  to  wake  in  Paradise  !     Farewell, 
Thou  clod  of  yesterday ! — 'twas  not  myself! 

Not  tiU  this  moment  did  I  ever  feel  go 

My  spirit's  faculties  !  I'll  flatter  you 
For  this,  and  be  you  ever  proud  of  it ; 
Thou,  Jove-like,  struck' dst  thy  forehead. 
And  from  the  teeming  marrow  of  thy  brain 
I  spring  complete  Minerva  !     But  the  prince — 
His  highness  Ludolph — where  is  he  ? 

Conrad.  I  know  not : 

When,  lackeying  my  counsel  at  a  beck. 
The  rebel  lords,  on  bended  knees,  received 
The  Emperor's  pardon,  Ludolph  kept  aloof, 

Sole,  in  a  stiff,  fool-hardy,  sulky  pride ;  100 

Yet,  for  all  this,  I  never  saw  a  father 
In  such  a  sickly  longing  for  his  son. 
We  shall  soon  see  him ;  for  the  Emperor 
He  will  be  here  this  morning. 

Auranthe.  That  I  heard 

Among  the  midnight  rumours  from  the  camp. 
Conrad.  You  give  up  Albert  to  me  ? 
Auranthe.  Harm  him  not ! 

E'en  for  his  highness  Ludolph's  sceptry  hand, 
I  would  not  Albert  suffer  any  wrong. 
Conrad.  Have  I  not  laboured,  plotted — ? 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  sc.  i 

Auranthe.  See  you  spare  him  : 

Nor  be  pathetic,  my  kind  benefactor !  no 

On  all  the  many  bounties  of  your  hand, 
'Twas  for  yourself  you  laboured — ^not  for  me  ! 
Do  you  not  count,  when  I  am  queen,  to  take 
Advantage  of  your  chance  discoveries 
Of  my  poor  secrets,  and  so  hold  a  rod 
Over  my  life  ? 

Conrad.  Let  not  this  slave — this  villain — 

Be  cause  of  feud  between  us.     See  !  he  comes ! 
Look,  woman,  look,  your  Albert  is  quite  safe  ! 
In  haste  it  seems.     Now  shall  I  be  in  the  way. 
And  wish'd  with  silent  curses  in  my  grave,  120 

Or  side  by  side  with  'whelmed  mariners. 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert.  Fair  on  your  graces  fall  this  early  morrow  ! 
So  it  is  like  to  do,  without  my  prayers. 
For  your  right  noble  names,  like  favourite  tunes. 
Have  fallen  full  frequent  from  our  Emperor's  lips, 
High  commejited  with  smiles. 

Auranthe.  Noble  Albert ! 

Conrad  {aside).  Noble ! 

Auranthe.  Such  salutation  argues  a  glad  heart 
In  our  prosperity.     We  thank  you,  sir. 

Albert.  Lady !  O,  woidd  to  Heaven  your  poor  servant 
Could  do  you  better  service  than  mere  words  !  130 

But  I  have  other  greeting  than  mine  own, — 
From  no  less  man  than  Otho,  who  has  sent 
This  ring  as  pledge  of  dearest  amity  ; 
'Tis  chosen,  I  hear,  from  Hymen's  jewel'ry. 
And  you  will  prize  it,  lady,  I  doubt  not. 
Beyond  all  pleasures  past,  and  all  to  come. 
To  you,  great  duke — 

Conrad.  To  me !  What  of  me,  ha .'' 

Albert.  What  pleased  your  grace  to  say  } 

Conrad.  Your  message,  sir  1 

Albert.  You  mean  not  this  to  me  ? 

Conrad.  Sister,  this  way  ; 

For  there  shall  be  no  "  gentle  Alberts  "  now,  [Aside.        140 

No  "sweet  Auranthesl " 

[Exeunt  Conrad  and  Adranthe. 

Albert  (solus).  The  duke  is  out  of  temper  ;  if  he  knows 
More  than  a  brother  of  a  sister  ought 
I  should  not  quarrel  with  his  peevisliness. 
Auranthe — Heaven  preserve  her  always  fair ! — 
Is  in  the  heady,  proud,  ambitious  vein  ; 


ACT  I.,  sc.  n]  OTHO  THE  GREAT  295 

I  bicker  not  with  her, — bid  her  farewell ; 

She  has  taken  flight  from  me,  then  let  her  soar, — 

He  is  a  fool  who  stands  ajt'pining  gaze  ! 

But  for  poor  Ludolph,  he  is  food  for  sorrow :  150 

No  levelling  bluster  of  my  licensed  thoughts. 

No  military  swagger  of  my  mind. 

Can  smother  from  myself  the  wrong  I've  done  him, — 

Without  design,  indeed, — ^yet  it  is  so, — 

And  opiate  for  the  conscience  have  I  none  ! 

[Emt 


Scene  II. — The  Court-yard  of  the  Castle, 

Martial  Music.     Enter,  from  the  outer  gate,  Otho,  Nobles,  Knights,  and 
Attendants.     The  Soldiers  halt  at  the  gate,  with  Banners  in  sight. 

Otho.  Where  is  my  noble  herald  ? 

Enter  Conrad  from  the  Castle,  attended  by  Itvo  Knights  and  Servants. 
Albert  following. 

Well,  hast  told 

Auranthe  our  intent  imperial  ? 

Lest  our  rent  banners,  too  o'  the  sudden  shown. 

Should  fright  her  silken  casements,  and  dismay 

Her  household  to  our  lack  of  entertainment. 

A  victory ! 

Conrad.  God  save  illustrious  Otho  I 

Otho.  Aye,  Conrad,  it  wiU  pluck  out  all  grey  hairs ; 

It  is  the  best  physician  for  the  spleen  ; 

The  courtliest  inviter  to  a  feast ; 

The  subtlest  excuser  of  small  faults ;  10 

And  a  nice  judge  in  the  age  and  smack  of  wine. 

Enter,  from  the  Castle,  Auranthe,  followed  by  Pages  holding  up  her 
robes,  and  a  train  of  Women.     She  kneels. 

Hail  my  sweet  hostess  !  I  do  thank  the  stars, 

Or  my  good  soldiers,  or  their  ladies'  eyes. 

That,  after  such  a  merry  battle  fought, 

I  can,  all  safe  in  body  and  in  soul. 

Kiss  your  fair  hand  and  lady  fortune's  too. 

My  ring  !  now,  on  my  life,  it  doth  rejoice 

These  lips  to  feel 't  on  this  soft  ivory ! 

Keep  it,  my  brightest  daughter  ;  it  may  prove 

The  little  prologue  to  a  line  of  kings.  20 

I  strove  against  thee  and  my  hot-blood  son. 


296  JOHN  KEATS  [act  l.,  sc.  ii 

Dull  blockhead  that  I  was  to  be  so  blind ; 
But  now  my  sight  is  clear ;  forgive  me,  lady. 

Auranthe.  My  lord,  I  was  a  vassal  to  your  frown. 
And  now  your  favour  makes  me  but  more  humble  ; 
In  wintry  winds  the  simple  snow  is  safe, 
But  fadeth  at  the  greeting  of  the  sun  : 
Unto  thine  anger  I  might  well  have  spoken. 
Taking  on  me  a  woman's  privilege. 
But  this  so  sudden  kindness  makes  me  dumb.  30 

Otho.  What  need  of  this  ?     Enough,  if  you  will  be 
A  potent  tutoress  to  my  wayward  boy, 
And  teach  him,  what  it  seems  his  nurse  could  not. 
To  say,  for  once,  I  thank  you.     Sigifred  ! 

Albert.  He  has  not  yet  returned,  my  gracious  liege. 

Otho.  What  then  !     No  tidings  of  my  friendly  Arab  ? 

Conrad.  None,  mighty  Otho.     \To  ofw  of  his  Knights,  who  goes  out. 

Send  forth  instantly 
An  hundred  horsemen  from  my  honoured  gates. 
To  scour  the  plains  and  search  the  cottages. 

Cry  a  reward  to  him  who  shall  first  bring  40 

News  of  that  vanished  Arabian, — 
A  full- heaped  helmet  of  the  purest  gold. 

Otho.  More  thanks,  good  Conrad ;  for,  except  my  son's. 
There  is  no  face  I  rather  would  behold 
Than  that  same  quick-eyed  pagan's.     By  the  saints. 
This  coming  night  of  banquets  must  not  light 
Her  dazzling  torches ;  nor  the  music  breathe 
Smooth,  without  clashing  cymbal,  tones  of  peace 
And  indoor  melodies  ;  nor  the  ruddy  wine 

Ebb  spouting  to  the  lees  ;  if  I  pledge  not,  50 

In  my  first  cup,  that  Arab  ! 

Albert.  Mighty  monarch, 

I  wonder  not  this  stranger's  victor-deeds 
So  hang  upon  your  spirit.     Twice  in  the  fight 
It  was  my  chance  to  meet  his  olive  brow. 
Triumphant  in  the  enemy's  shatter'd  rhomb  ; 
And,  to  say  truth,  in  any  Christian  arm 
I  never  saw  such  prowess. 

Otho.  Did  you  ever  ? 

O,  'tis  a  noble  boy ! — tut ! — ^what  do  I  say .' 
.  I  mean  a  triple  Saladin,  whose  eyes, 

When  in  the  glorious  scuffle  they  met  mine,  60 

Seem'd  to  say,  "  Sleep,  old  man,  in  safety  sleep ; 
I  am  the  victory  !  " 

Conrad.  Pity  he's  not  here. 

Otho.  And  my  son  too,  pity  he  is  not  here. 
Lady  Auranthe,  I  would  not  make  you  blush. 


ACT  I.,  SO.  II]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  297 

But  can  you  give  a  guess  where  Ludolph  is  ? 
Know  you  not  of  him  ? 

Auranthe.  Indeed,  my  liege,  no  secret — 

Otho.  Nay,  nay,  without  more  words,  dost  know  of  him  ? 

Auranthe.  I  would  I  were  so  over-fortunate. 
Both  for  his  sake  and  mine,  and  to  make  glad 
A  father's  ears  with  tidings  of  his  son.  ^o 

Otho.  I  see  'tis  like  to  be  a  tedious  day. 
Were  Theodore  and  Gonfrid  and  the  rest 
Sent  forth  with  my  commands  ? 

Albert.  Aye,  my  lord. 

Otho.  And  no  news !  No  news  !  '  Faith  1  'tis  very  strange 
He  thus  avoids  us.     Lady,  is  't  not  strange  ? 
Will  he  be  truant  to  you  too  ?     It  is  a  shame. 

Conrad.  Wilt  please  your  highness  enter,  and  accept 
The  unworthy  welcome  of  your  servant's  house  ? 
Leaving  your  cares  to  one  whose  diligence 
May  in  few  hours  make  pleasures  of  them  all.  80 

Otho.  Not  so  tedious,  Conrad.     No,  no,  no, — 
1  must  see  Ludolph  or  the — what's  that  shout } 

Voices  tdthout.  Huzza  !  huzza  !     Long  live  the  Emperor  ! 

Other  voices.  Fall  back !  Away  there  ! 

Otho.  Say,  what  noise  is  that  ? 

[Albert  advancing  jrom  the  back  of  the  Stage,  whither  he  had 
hastened  on  hearing  the  cheers  of  the  soldiery. 

Albert.  It  is  young  Gersa,  the  Hungarian  prince, 
Pick'd  like  a  red  stag  from  the  fallow  herd 
Of  prisoners.     Poor  prince,  forlorn  he  steps. 
Slow,  and  demure,  and  proud  in  his  despair. 
If  I  may  judge  by  his  so  tragic  bearing. 

His  eye  not  downcast,  and  his  folded  arm,  go 

He  doth  this  moment  wish  himself  asleep 
Among  his  fallen  captains  on  yon  plains. 

Enter  Gersa,  in  chains,  and  guarded. 

Otho.  Well  said.  Sir  Albert. 

Gersa.  Not  a  word  of  greeting  } 

No  welcome  to  a  princely  visitor, 
Most  mighty  Otho  ?    Will  not  my  great  host 
Vouchsafe  a  syllable,  before  he  bids 
His  gentlemen  conduct  me  with  all  care 
To  some  securest  lodging — cold  perhaps  ! 

Otho.  What  mood  is  this  ?     Hath  fortune  touch'd  thy  brain  ? 

Gersa.  O  kings  and  princes  of  this  fev'rous  world,  100 


298  JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  sc.  n 

What  abject  things,  what  mockeries  must  ye  be. 
What  nerveless  minions  of  safe  palaces. 
When  here,  a  monarch,  whose  proud  foot  is  used 
To  fallen  princes'  necks  as  to  Us  stirrup. 
Must  needs  exclaim  that  I  am  mad  forsooth. 
Because  I  cannot  flatter  with  bent  knees 
My  conqueror ! 

Otho.  Gersa,  I  think  you  wrong  me  : 

I  think  I  have  a  better  fame  abroad. 

Gersa.  I  prji;hee  mock  me  not  with  gentle  speech, 
But,  as  a  favour,  bid  me  from  thy  presence  ;  no 

Let  me  no  longer  be  the  wondering  food 
Of  all  these  eyes ;  ptythee  command  me  hence  ! 

Otko.  Do  not  mistake  me,  Gersa.     That  you  may  not. 
Come,  fair  Auranthe,  try  if  your  soft  hands 
Can  manage  those  hard  rivets,  to  set  free 
So  brave  a  prince  and  soldier. 

Auranthe  {sets  him  free).  Welcome  task  ! 

Gersa.  I  am  wound  up, in  deep  astonishment  1 
Thank  you,  fair  lady.     Otho !  emperor  ! 
You  rob  me  of  myself;  my  dignity 
Is  now  your  infant ;  I  am  a  weak  child.  120 

Otho.  Give  me  your  hand,  and  let  this  kindly  grasp 
Live  in  our  memories. 

Gersa.  In  mine  it  wiU. 

I  blush  to  think  of  my  unchasten'd  tongue ; 
But  I  was  haunted  by  the  monstrous  ghost 
Of  all  our  slain  battalions.     Sire,  reflect. 
And  pardon  you  will  grant,  that,  at  this  hour. 
The  bruised  remnants  of  our  stricken  camp 
Are  huddling  undistinguished  my  dear  friends. 
With  common  thousands,  into  shallow  graves. 

Otho.  Enough,  most  noble  Gersa.     You  are  free  130 

To  cheer  the  brave  remainder  of  your  host 
By  your  own  healing  presence,  and  that  too. 
Not  as  their  leader  merely,  but  their  king ; 
For,  as  I  hear,  the  wily  enemy 
Who  eas'd  the  crownet  from  your  infant  brows. 
Bloody  Taraxa,  is  among  the  dead. 

Gersa.  Then  I  retire,  sosgenerous  Otho  please, 
Bearing  with  me  a  weight  of  benefits 
Too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

Otho.  It  is  not  so ; 

Still  understand  me.  King  of  Hungary,  140 

Nor  judge  my  open  purposes  awry. 
Though  I  did  hold  you  high  in  my  esteem 
For  your  selfs  sake^  I  do  not  personate 


ACT  I.,  sc.  II]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  299 

The  stage-play  emperor  to  entrap  applause. 
To  set  the  silly  sort  o'  the  world  agape, 
And  make  the  politic  smile ;  no,  I  have  heard 
How  in  the  Council  you  condemn'd  this  war. 
Urging  the  perfidy  of  broken  faith, — 
For  that  1  am  your  friend. 

Gersa.  If  ever,  sire. 

You  are  my  enemy,  I  dare  here  swear  150 

'Twill  not  be  Gersa's  fault.     Otho,  ferewell  I 

Otho.  Will  you  return.  Prince,  to  our  banqueting  ? 
Gersa.  As  to  my  father's  board  I  will  return. 
Otho,  Conrad,  with  all  due  ceremony,  give 
The  prince  a  regal  escort  to  his  camp  ; 
Albert,  go  thou  and  bear  him  company. 
Gersa,  farewell  1 

Gersa.  All  happiness  attend  you  ! 

Otko.  Return  with  what  good  speed  you  may  ;  for  soon 
We  must  consult  upon  our  terms  of  peace. 

[Exeunt  Gersi  and  Albert  tvitk  others. 
And  thus  a  marble  column  do  I  build  160 

To  prop  my  empire's  dome.     Conrad,  in  thee 
I  have  another  steadfast  one,  to  uphold 
The  portals  of  my  state ;  and,  for  my  own 
Pre-eminence  and  safety,  I  will  strive 
To  keep  thy  strength  upon  its  pedestal. 
For,  without  thee,  this  day  I  might  have  been 
A  show-monster  about  the  streets  of  Prague, 
In  chains,  as  just  now  stood  that  noble  prince  : 
And  then  to  me  no  mercy  had  been  shown. 

For  when  the  conquer'd  lion  is  once  dungeoned,  170 

Who  lets  him  forth  again,  or  dares  to  give 
An  old  lion  sugar-cates  of  mild  reprieve  ? 
Not  to  thine  ear  alone  I  make  confession. 
But  to  all  here,  as,  by  experience, 
I  know  how  the  great  basement  of  all  power 
Is  frankness,  and  a  true  tongue  to  the  world  ; 
And  how  intriguing  secrecy  is  proof 
Of  fear  and  weakness,  and  a  hollow  state. 
Conrad,  I  owe  thee  much. 

Conrad.  To  kiss  that  hand. 

My  Emperor,  is  ample  recompense,  180 

For  a  mere  act  of  duty. 

Otho.  Thou  art  wrong ; 

For  what  can  any  man  on  earth  do  more  ? 
We  will  make  trial  of  your  house's  welcome. 
My  bright  Auranthe  ! 
Conrad,  How  is  Friedburg  honoured  ! 


300  JOHN  KEATS  [act  t.,  se.  ni 

Enter  Ethelbert  aTtd  six  Monks. 

Ethelhert.  The  benison  of  heaven  on  your  head. 
Imperial  Otho ! 

Otho.  Who  stays  me  ?     Speak  !     Quick  ! 

Ethelbert.  Pause  but  one  moment,  mighty  conqueror  ! 
Upon  the  threshold  of  this  house  of  joy. 

Otho.  Vray,  do  not  prose,  good  Ethelbert,  but  speak 
What  is  your  purpose.  igo 

Ethelbert.  The  restoration  of  some  captive  maids. 
Devoted  to  Heaven's  pious  ministries, 
Who,  driven  forth  from  their  religious  cells 
And  kept  in  thraldom  by  our  enemy, 
When  late  this  province  was  a  lawless  spoil. 
Still  weep  amid  the  wild  Hungarian  camp. 
Though  hemm'd  around  by  thy  victorious  arms. 

Otho.     Demand  the  holy  sisterhood  in  our  name 
From  Gersa's  tents.     Farewell,  old  Ethelbert. 

Ethelbert.  The  saints  will  bless  you  for  this  pious  care.  200 

Otho.  Daughter,  your  hand  ;  Ludolph's  would  fit  it  best. 

Conrad.     Ho  !  let  the  music  soiind  ! 

[Music.     Ethelbert  raises  his  hands,  as  in  benediction  of  Otho. 
Exeunt  severally.     The  scene  closes  on  them. 


SCENE  III. — The  Country,  with   the  Castle  in  the  distance. 
'  Enter  Ludolph  and  Sioifred. 

Ludolph,  You  have  my  secret ;  let  it  not  be  breath'd. 

Sigifred.  Still  give  me  leave  to  wonder  that  the  Prince 
Ludolph  and  the  swift  Arab  are  the  same  ; 
Still  to  rejoice  that  'twas  a  German  arm 
Death  doing  in  a  turban'd  masquerade. 

Ludolph.  The  Emperor  must  not  know  it,  Sigifred. 

^i^fred,  I  pry  thee,  why .''     What  happier  hour  of  time 
Could  thy  pleased  star  point  down  upon  from  heaven 
With  silver  index,  bidding  thee  make  peace  ? 

Ludolph.  Still  it  must  not  be  known,  good  Sigifred ; 
The  star  may  point  oblique. 

Sigifred.  If  Otho  knew 

His  son  to  be  that  unknown  Mussulman 
After  whose  spurring  heels  he  sent  me  forth. 
With  one  of  his  well-pleased  Olympian  oaths. 
The  charters  of  man's  greatness,  at  this  hour 
He  would  be  watching  round  the  castle  walls, 


ACT  I.,  sc.  m]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  301 

And,  like  an  anxious  warder,  strain  his  sight 

For  the  first  glimpse  of  such  a  son  return' d — 

Ludolph  ! — ^that  blast  of  the  Hungarians, 

That  Saracenic  meteor  of  the  fight,  20 

That  silent  fury,  whose  fell  scjrmitar 

Kept  danger  all  aloof  from  Otho's  head. 

And  left  him  space  for  wonder. 

Ludolph.  Say  no  more. 

Not  as  a  swordsman  would  I  pardon  claim. 
But  as  a  son.     The  bronzed  centurion, 
Long  toil'd  in  foreign  wars,  and  whose  high  deeds 
Are  shaded  in  a  forest  of  tall  spears. 
Known  only  to  his  troop,  hath  greater  plea 
Of  favour  with  my  sire  than  I  can  have. 

Sigifred.  My  lord,  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  see  30 

How  this  proud  temper  with  clear  reason  squares. 
What  made  you  then,  with  such  an  anxious  love, 
Hover  around  that  life,  whose  bitter  days 
You  vext  with  bad  revolt  ?     Was't  opium. 
Or  the  mad-fumed  wine  ?     Nay,  do  not  frown, 
I  rather  would  grieve  with  you  than  upbraid. 

Ludolph.  I  do  believe  you.     No,  'twas  not  to  make 
A  father  his  son's  debtor,  or  to  heal 
His  deep  heart-sickness  for  a  rebel  child. 

'Twas  done  in  memory  of  my  boyish  days,  40 

Poor  cancel  for  his  kindness  to  my  youth. 
For  all  his  calming  of  my  childish  griefs. 
And  all  his  smiles  upon  my  merriment. 
No,  not  a  thousand  foughten  fields  could  sponge 
Those  days  paternal  from  my  memory. 
Though  now  upon  my  head  he  heaps  disgrace. 

Sigifred.  My  Prince,  you  think  too  harshly — 

hadolph.  Can  I  so  } 

Hath  he  not  gall'd  my  spirit  to  the  quick .'' 
And  with  a  sullen  rigour  obstinate 

Pour'd  out  a  phial  of  wrath  upon  my  faults,  50 

Hunted  me  as  the  Tartar  does  the  boar. 
Driven  me  to  the  very  edge  o'  the  world. 
And  almost  put  a  price  upon  my  head  ? 

Sigifred.  Remember  how  he  spared  the  rebel  lords. 

Ludolph.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  he  hath  a  noble  nature 
That  cannot  trample  on  the  fallen.     But  his 
Is  not  the  only  proud  heart  in  his  realm. 
He  hath  wrong'd  me,  and  I  have  done  him  wrong ; 
He  hath  loved  me,  and  I  have  shown  him  kindness ; 
We  should  be  almost  equal. 

Sigifred.  Yet,  for  all  this,  60 


302  JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  so.  hi 

I  would  you  had  appear'd  among  those  lords, 
And  ta'en  his  favour. 

Ludolph.  Ha  !     Till  now  I  thought 

My  friend  had  held  poor  Ludolph's  honour  dear. 
What !  Would  you  have  me  sue  before  his  throne 
And  kiss  the  courtier's  missal,  its  silk  steps  ? 
Or  hug  the  golden  housings  of  his  steed. 
Amid  a  camp  whose  steeled  swarms  I  dared 
But  yesterday  ?  and,  at  the  trumpet  sound. 
Bow,  like  some  unknown  mercenary's  flag. 

And  lick  the  soiled  grass  ^     No,  no,  my  friend,       '  70 

I  would  not,  I,  be  pardon'd  in  the  heap, 
And  bless  indemnity  with  all  that  scum,- — 
Those  men  I  mean,  who  on  my  shoulders  propp'd 
Their  weak  rebellion,  winning  me  with  lies. 
And  pitying  forsooth  my  many  wrongs  ; 
Poor  self-deceived  wretches,  who  must  think 
Each  one  himself  a  king  in  embryo. 
Because  some  dozen  vassals  cry'd.  My'  lord  ! 
Cowards,  who  never  knew  their  little  hearts 

Till  flurried  danger  held  the  mirror  up,  80 

And  then  they  own'd  themselves  without  a  blush. 
Curling,  like  spaniels,  round  my  father's  feet. 
Such  things  deserted  me  and  are  forgiven. 
While  I,  least  guilty,  am  an  outcast  still, — 
And  will  be,  for  I  love  such  fair  disgrace. 

Sigifred.  I  know  the  clear  truth ;  so  would  Otho  see, 
For  he  is  just  and  noble.     Fain  would  I 
Be  pleader  for  you — 

Ludolph,  He'll  hear  none  of  it ; 

You  know  his  temper,  hot,  proud,  obstinate  ; 

Endanger  not  yourself  so  uselessly.  90 

I  will  encounter  his  thwart  spleen  myself, 
To-day,  at  the  Duke  Conrad's,  where  he  keeps 
His  crowded  state  after  the  victory. 
There  will  I  be,  a  most  unwelcome  guest. 
And  parley  with  him,  as  a  son  should  do 
Who  doubly  loathes  a  father's  t)Tanny ; 
Tell  him  how  feeble  is  that  t3n:aimy ; 
How  the  relationship  of  father  and  son 
Is  no  more  valid  than  a  silken  leash 

Where  lions  tug  adverse,  if  love  grow  not  100 

From  interchanged  love  through  many  years. 
Ay,  and  those  turreted  Franconian  walls. 
Like  to  a  jealous  casket,  hold  my  pearl — 
My  fair  Auranthe  !     Yes,  I  will  be  there. 

Sigifred.  Be  not  so  rash ;  wait  till  his  wrath  shall  pass, 


ACT  n.,  sc.  I]         OTHO  THE  GREAT 

Until  his  royal  spirit  softly  ebbs. 
Self-influenced ;  then,  in  his  morning  dreams 
He  wiU  forgive  thee,  and  awake  in  grief 
To  have  not  thy  good-morrow. 

Ludolph.  Yes,  to-day 

I  must  be  there,  while  her  young  pulses  beat  no 

Among  the  new-plumed  minions  of  the  war. 
Have  you  seen  her  of  late  ?    No  ?    Auranthe, 
Franconia's  fair  sister,  'tis  I  mean. 
She  should  be  paler  for  my  troublous  days — 
And  there  it  is — ^my  father's  iron  lips 
Have  sworn  divorcement  'twixt  me  and  my  right. 
-  Sigifred  (aside).  Auranthe  !  I  had  hoped  this  whim  had  pass'd. 

Ludolph.  And,  Sigifred,  with  all  his  love  of  justice. 
When  will  he  take  that  grandchild  in  his  arms. 
That,  by  my  love  I  swear,  shall  soon  be  his  }  120 

This  reconcilement  is  impossible. 
For  see — ^but  who  are  these  ? 

Sigifred.  They  are  messengers 

From  our  great  emperor ;  to  you,  I  doubt  not, 
For  couriers  are  abroad  to  seek  you  out. 

Enter  Theodore  and  Gonfred. 

Theodore.  Seeing  so  many  vigilant  eyes  explore 
The  province  to  invite  your  highness  back 
To  your  high  dignities,  we  are  too  happy. 

Gonfred.  We  have  no  eloquence  to  colour  justly 
The  emperor's  anxious  wishes. 

Ludolph.  Go.     I  follow  you. 

[Exeunt  Theodore  and  Gonfred. 
I  play  the  prude  :  it  is  but  venturing —  130 

Why  should  he  be  so  earnest .''     Come,  my  friend. 
Let  us  to  Friedburg  castle. 


ACT  II 

Scene  I. — An  Ante-chamber  in  the  Castle. 

Enter  Ludolph  and  Sigifred. 

Ludolph. 


NO  more  advices,  no  more  cautioning ; 
I  leave  it  all  to  fete — to  any  thing  ! 
I  cannot  square  my  conduct  to  time,  place. 
Or  circumstance ;  to  me  'tis  all  a  mist ! 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  ii.,  sc.  i 

Sigifred,  I  say  no  more. 

Ludolph.  It  seems  I  am  to  wait 

Here  in  the  ante-room ; — that  may  be  a  trifle. 
You  see  now  how  I  dance  attendance  here, 
Without  that  tyrant  temper,  you  so  blame. 
Snapping  the  rein.     You  have  medicin'd  me 

With  good  advices ;  and  I  here  remain,  lo 

In  this  most  honourable  anteroom. 
Your  patient  scholar. 

Sigtfred.  Do  not  wrong  me.  Prince. 

By  heavens,  I'd  rather  kiss  Duke  Conrad's  slipper, 
When  in  the  morning  he  doth  yawn  with  pride. 
Than  see  you  humbled  but  a  half-degree  ! 
Truth  is,  the  Emperor  would  fain  dismiss 
The  nobles  ere  he  sees  you. 

Enter  Gonphkd,  Jrom  the  Council-room. 

Ludolpk.  Well,  sir  !  what  ? 

Gonfred.  Great  honour  to  the  Prince  !     The  Emperor, 
Hearing  that  his  brave  son  had  re-appeared. 

Instant  dismiss'd  the  Council  from  his  sight,  20 

As  Jove  fans  off  the  clouds.     Even  now  they  pass. 

[Eat. 

[Enter  the  Nobles  from  the  Council-room.  They  cross  the  stage,  homing 
with  respect  to  Ludolph,  he  Jromning  on  them.  Conrad  follows. 
Exeunt  Nobles. 

Ludolph.  Not  the  discoloured  poisons  of  a  fen. 
Which  he  who  breathes  feels  warning  of  his  death. 
Could  taste  so  nauseous  to  the  bodily  sense, 
As  these  prodigious  sycophants  disgust 
The  soul's  fine  palate. 

Conrad.  I*rincely  Ludolph,  hail ! 

Welcome,  thou  younger  sceptre  to  the  realm  ! 
Strength  to  thy  virgin  crownet's  golden  buds. 
That  they,  against  the  winter  of  thy  sire, 

May  burst,  and  swell,  and  flourish  round  thy  brows,  30 

Maturing  to  a  weighty  diadem  ! 
Yet  be  that  hour  far  off ;  and  may  he  live. 
Who  waits  for  thee,  as  the  chapp'd  earth  for  rain. 
Set  my  life's  star  !  I  have  lived  long  enough. 
Since  under  my  glad  roof,  propitiously, 
Father  and  son  each  other  repossess. 

Ludolph.  Fine  wording,  Duke  !  but  words  could  never  yet 
Forestall  the  fates ;  have  you  not  learnt  that  yet  ? 


ACT  II.,  SO.  I]  OTHO  THE  GREAT  305 

Let  me  look  well :  your  features  are  the  same  ; 

Your  gait  the  same  ;  your  hair  of  the  same  shade  ;  40 

As  one  I  knew  some  passed  weeks  ago. 

Who  sung  far  different  notes  into  mine  ears. 

I  have  mine  own  particular  comments  on  't ; 

You  have  your  own,  perhaps. 

Conrad.  My  gracious  Prince, 

All  men  may  err.     In  truth  I  was  deceived 
In  your  great  father's  nature,  as  you  were. 
Had  I  known  that  of  him  I  have  since  known. 
And  what  you  soon  will  learn,  I  would  have  tum'd 
My  sword  to  my  own  throat,  rather  than  held 

Its  threatening  edge  against  a  good  King's  quiet :  50 

Or  with  one  word  fever'd  you,  gentle  Prince, 
Who  seem'd  to  me,  as  rugged  times  then  went. 
Indeed  too  much  oppress'd.     May  I  be  bold 
To  teU  the  Emperor  you  will  haste  to  him  ? 

Ludolph.  Your  Dukedom's  privilege  will  grant  so  much. 

[Exit  Conrad. 
He's  very  close  to  Otho, — a  tight  leech  ! 
Your  hand — I  go.     Ha  !  here  the  thunder  comes 
Sullen  against  the  wind  !     If  in  two  angry  brows 
My  safety  lies,  then  Sigifred,  I'm  safe. 

Enter  Otho  atid  Conrad. 

Otho.  Will  you  make  Titan  play  the  lackey-page  60 

To  chattering  pigmies  .''  I  would  have  you  know 
That  such  neglect  of  our  high  Majesty 
Annuls  all  feel  of  kindred.     What  is  son, — 
Or  friend, — or  brother, — or  all  ties  of  blood, — 
When  the  whole  kingdom,  centred  in  ourself, 
Is  rudely  slighted  ?     Who  am  I  to  wait  ? 
By  Peter's  chair  !     I  have  upon  my  tongue 
A  word  to  fright  the  proudest  spirit  here  ! — 
Death  I — and  slow  tortures  to  the  hardy  fool 

Who  dares  take  such  large  charter  from  oiu-  smiles  I  70 

Conrad,  we  would  be  private.     Sigifred, 
Off  I     And  none  pass  this  way  on  pain  of  death ! 

[Exeunt  Conrad  aiid  Sigifred. 

Ludolph.  This  was  but  half  expected,  my  good  sire. 
Yet  I  am  grieved  at  it,  to  the  fuU  height. 
As  though  my  hopes  of  fitvour  had  been  whole. 

Otho.  How  you  indulge  yourself !     What  can  you  hope  for  ? 

Ludolph,  Nothing,  my  liege ;  I  have  to  hope  for  nothing. 
I  come  to  greet  you  as  a  loving  son. 
And  then  depart,  if  I  may  be  so  free. 


306  JOHN  KEATS  [act  a,  sc.  i 

Seeing  that  blood  of  yours  in  my  warm  veins  go 

Has  not  yet  mitigated  into  milk. 

Otho.  What  would  you,  sir  ? 

iMdolph.  A  lenient  banishment. 

So  please  you,  let  me  unmolested  pass 
This  Conrad's  gates  to  the  wide  air  again, 
I  want  no  more.     A  rebel  wants  no  more. 

Otho.  And  shall  I  let  a  rebel  loose  again 
To  muster  kites  and  eagles  'gainst  my  head .' 
No,  obstinate  boy,  you  shall  be  kept  caged  up. 
Served  with  harsh  food,  with  scum  for  Sunday  drink. 

L/udolph.  Indeed ! 

Otho.  And  chains  too  heavy  for  your  life :  90 

I'll  choose  a  gaoler  whose  swart  monstrous  face 
Shall  be  a  hell  to  look  upon,  and  she — 

Ludolph.  Ha ! 

Otho.  Shall  be  your  fair  Auranthe. 

Ludolph.  Amaze  !  Amaze  ! 

Otho.  To-day  you  marry  her. 

Ludolphi  This  is  a  sharp  jest ! 

Otho.  No.     None  at  all.     When  have  I  said  a  lie  ? 

Ludolph.  If  I  sleep  not,  I  am  a  waking  wretch. 

Otho.  Not  a  word  more.     Let  me  embrace  my  child. 

Ludolph.  I  dare  not.     'Twould  pollute  so  good  a  father  ! 
O  heavy  crime  ! — that  your  son's  blinded  eyes 
Could  not  see  all  his  parent's  love  aright,  100 

As  now  I  see  it !     Be  not  kind  to  me — 
Punish  me  not  with  favour. 

Otho.  Are  you  sure, 

Ludolph,  you  have  no  saving  plea  in  store  ? 

Ludolph.  My  &ther,  none  ! 

Otho,  Then  you  astonish  me. 

Ludolph.  No,  I  have  no  plea.     Disobedience, 
Rebellion,  obstinacy,  blasphemy, 
Are  all  my  counsellors.     If  they  can  make 
My  crooked  deeds  show  good  and  plausible. 
Then  grant  me  loving  pardon,  but  not  else, 
Good  gods  !  not  else,  in  any  way,  my  liege !  no 

Otho,  You  are  a  most  perplexing,  noble  boy. 

Ludolph.  You  not  less  a  perplexing  noble  father. 

Otho.  Well,  you  shall  have  free  passport  through  the  gates. 
Farewell ! 

Ludolph.  Farewell !  and  by  these  tears  believe. 
And  still  remember,  I  repent  in  pain 
All  my  misdeeds  I 

Otho.  Ludolph,  1  will  1  I  will ! 

But,  Ludolph,  ere  you  go,  I  would  enquire 


ACT  II.,  sc.  I]  OTHO  THE  GREAT  307 

If  you,  in  all  your  wandering,  ever  met 
A  certain  Arab  haunting  in  these  parts. 

iMdolph.  No,  my  good  lord,  I  cannot  say  I  did.  lao 

Oiho.  Make  not  your  father  blind  before  his  time  ; 
Nor  let  these  arms  paternal  hunger  more 
For  an  embrace,  to  dull  the  appetite 
Of  my  great  love  for  thee,  my  supreme  child  ! 
Come  close,  and  let  me  breathe  into  thine  ear. 
I  knew  you  through  disguise.     You  are  the  Arab  ! 
You  can't  deny  it.  [Embracing  him. 

Ludolpk.  Happiest  of  days  ! 

Otko.  We'll  make  it  so. 

Lvdolph.  'Stead  of  one  fatted  calf 

Ten  hecatombs  shall  bellow  out  their  last. 

Smote  'twixt  the  horns  by  the  death-stunning  mace  130 

Of  Mars,  and  all  the  soldiery  shall  feast 
Nobly  as  Nimrod's  masons,  when  the  towers 
Of  Nineveh  new  kiss'd  the  parted  clouds  ! 

Otho.  Large  as  a  God  speak  out,  where  all  is  thine. 

Ludolph.  Ay,  father,  but  the  fire  in  my  sad  breast 
Is  quench'd  with  inward  tears  !     I  must  rejoice 
For  you,  whose  wings  so  shadow  over  me 
In  tender  victory,  but  for  myself 
I  still  must  mourn.     The  fair  Auranthe  mine  ! 
Too  great  a  boon  !     I  prythee  let  me  ask  140 

What  more  than  I  know  of  could  so  have  changed 
Your  purpose  touching  her  .> 

Otho.  At  a  word,  this  : 

In  no  deed  did  you  give  me  more  offence 
Than  your  rejection  of  Erminia. 
To  my  appalling,  I  saw  too  good  proof 
Of  your  keen-eyed  suspicion,— she  is  naught. 

Ludolph.  You  are  convinc'd  ? 

Otho.  Ay,  spite  of  her  sweet  looks. 

O  that  my  brother's  daughter  should  so  fall ! 
Her  fame  has  pass'd  into  the  grosser  lips 
Of  soldiers  in  their  cups. 

Ludolph.  'Tis  very  sad.  150 

Otho.  No  more  of  her.     Auranthe — Ludolph,  come  ! 
This  marriage  be  the  bond  of  endless  peace ! 

[Exeunt. 


308  JOHN  KEATS  [act  ii.,  sc.ii 


Scene  II. — The  entrance  of  Gersa's  Tent  in  the  Hungarian  Camp. 

Enter  Erminia. 

Erminia.  Where — where — where  shall  I  find  a  messenger  .-' 
A  trusty  soul^ — a  good  man,  in  the  camp  ? 
Shall  I  go  myself.''     Monstrous  wickedness  ! 
O  cursed  Conrad  !  devilish  Auranthe  ! 
Here  is  proof  palpable  as  the  bright  sun  ! 
O  for  a  voice  to  reach  the  Emperor's  ears  ! 

[Shouts  in  the  Camp, 

Enter  an  Hungarian  Captain. 

Captain.  Fair  prisoner,  you  hear  these  joyous  shouts  ? 
The  King — aye,  now  our  King, — but  still  your  slave. 
Young  Gersa,  from  a  short  captivity 

Has  just  retum'd.     He  bids  me  say,  bright  dame,  lo 

That  even  the  homage  of  his  ranged  chiefs 
Cures  not  his  keen  impatience  to  behold 
Such  beauty  once  again.     What  ails  you,  lady  ? 

Erminia.  Say,  is  not  that  a  German,  yonder .''     There  ! 

Captain.  Methinks  by  his  stout  bearing  he  should  be — 
Yes — it  is  Albert ;  a  brave  German  knight, 
And  much  in  the  Emperor's  favour. 

Erminia.  I  would  fain 

Inquire  of  friends  and  kinsfolk, — how  they  fared 
In  these  rough  times.  Brave  soldier,  as  you  pass 
To  royal  Gersa  with  my  humble  thanks,  20 

Will  you  send  yonder  knight  to  me  ? 

Captain.  I  will,  [Exit. 

Erminia.  Yes,  he  was  ever  known  to  be  a  man 
Frank,  open,  generous ;  Albert  I  may  trust. 
O  proof !  proof!  proof!  Albert's  an  honest  man  ; 
Not  Ethelbert  the  monk,  if  he  were  here. 
Would  I  hold  more  trustworthy.     Now  ! 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert.  Good  gods  ! 

Lady  Erminia  !  are  you  prisoner 
In  this  beleaguer'd  camp  ?  or  are  you  here 
Of  your  own  will .''     You  pleased  to  send  for  me. 
By  Venus,  'tis  a  pity  I  knew  not  3° 

Your  plight  before,  and,  by  her  son,  I  swear 


ACT  n.,  sc.  n]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  309 

To  do  you  every  service  you  can  ask. 
What  would  the  fairest — ? 

Erminia.  Albert,  will  you  swear  ? 

Albert.  I  have.     Well? 

Erminia.  Albert,  you  have  fame  to  lose. 

If  men,  in  court  and  camp,  lie  not  outright, 
You  should  be,  from  a  thousand,  chosen  forth 
To  do  an  honest  deed.     Shall  I  confide — > 

Albert.  Aye,  anything  to  me,  fair  creature.     Do; 
Dictate  my  task.     Sweet  woman, — 

Erminia.  Truce  with  that. 

You  understand  me  not ;  and,  in  your  speech,  40 

I  see  how  far  the  slander  is  abroad. 
Without  proof  could  you  think  me  innocent  ? 

Albert.  Lady,  I  should  rejoice  to  know  you  so. 

Erminia.  If  you  have  any  pity  for  a  maid 
Suffering  a  daily  death  from  evil  tongues  ; 
Any  compassion  for  that  Emperor's  niece 
Who,  for  your  bright  sword  and  clear  honesty. 
Lifted  you  from  the  crowd  of  common  men 
Into  the  lap  of  honour, — save  me,  knight ! 

Albert.  How  i     Make  it  clear ;  if  it  be  possible,  50 

I,  by  the  banner  of  Saint  Maurice,  swear 
To  right  you. 

Erminia.  Possible  ! — Easy.     O  my  heart ! 

This  letter 's  not  so  soil'd  but  you  may  read  it ; — 
Possible !     There — that  letter  !     Read — read  it. 

[Gives  him  a  letter. 

Albert  (reading). 

"  To  the  Duke  Conrad. — Forget  the  threat  you  made  at  parting 
and  I  will  forget  to  send  the  Emperor  letters  and  papers  of  yours 
I  have  become  possessed  of.  His  life  is  no  trifle  to  me ;  his  death 
you  shall  find  none  to  yourself."  {Speaks  to  himself:)  'Tis  me 
— my  life  that's  pleaded  for !  (Reads.)  "  He,  for  his  own 
sake,  will  be  dumb  as  the  grave.  Erminia  has  my  shame  fix'd  60 
upon  her,  sure  as  a  wen.     We  are  safe.         Auranthe." 

A  she-devil !     A  dragon  !     I  her  imp  ! 
Fire  of  hell !     Auranthe — lewd  demon  ! 
Where  got  you  this  ?     Where  ?  when  ? 

Erminia.  I  found  it  in  the  tent,  among  some  spoils 
Which,  being  noble,  fell  to  Gersa's  lot. 
Come  in,  and  see.  [They  go  in  and  return. 

Albert.  Villainy  !     Villainy  ! 

Conrad's  sword,  his  corslet  and  his  helm. 
And  his  letter.     Caitiff,  he  shall  feel— 

Erminia.  I  see  you  are  thunderstruck.     Haste,  haste  away  !        70 


310  JOHN  KEATS  [act  il,  sc.  ii 

Albert.  O  I  am  tortured  by  this  vilkiny. 

Erminia.  You  needs  must  be.     Carry  it  swift  to  Otho  ; 
Tell  him,  moreover,  I  am  prisoner 
Here  in  this  camp,  where  all  the  sisterhood, 
Forced  from  their  quiet  cells,  are  parcell'd  out 
For  slaves  among  these  Huns.     Away !     Away  ! 

Albert.  1  am  gone. 

Erminia.  Swift  be  your  steed  !     Within  this  hour 
The  Emperor  will  see  it. 

Albert.  Ere  I  sleep : 

That  I  can  swear.  [Hurries  out. 

Gersa  (mitkout).  Brave  captains !  thanks.     Enough  80 

Of  loyal  homage  now  ! 

Enter  Gersa. 

Erminia.  Hail,  royal  Hun  ! 

Gersa.  What  means  this,  fair  one  ?     Why  in  such  alarm  ? 
Who  was  it  hurried  by  me  so  distract  .> 
It  seem'd  you  were  in  deep  discpurse  together ; 
Your  doctrine  has  not  been  so  harsh  to  him 
As  to  my  poor  deserts.     Come,  come,  be  plain. 
I  am  no  jealous  fool  to  kill  you  both. 
Or,  for  such  trifles,  rob  th'  adorned  world 
Of  such  a  beauteous  vestal. 

Erminia.  I  grieve,  my  lord,  90 

To  hear  you  condescend  to  ribald-phrase. 

Gersa.  This  is  too  much  !     Hearken,  my  lady  pure  1 

Erminia.  Silence  !  and  hear  the  magic  of  a  name — 
Erminia  !     I  am  she, — the  Emperor's  niece  ! 
Praised  be  the  heavens,  I  now  dare  own  myself ! 

Gersa.  Erminia  !     Indeed  !     I've  heard  of  her. 
Prythee,  fair  lady,  what  chance  brought  you  here  ? 

Erminia.  Ask  your  own  soldiers. 

Gersa.  And  you  dare  own  your  name. 

For  loveliness  you  may — and  for  the  rest 
My  vein  is  not  censorious. 

Erminia.  Alas  !  poor  me  !  100 

'Tis  false  indeed. 

Gersa.  Indeed  you  are  too  fair  : 

The  swan,  soft  leaning  on  her  fledgy  breast, 
When  to  the  stream  she  launches,  looks  not  back 
With  such  a  tender  grace  ;  nor  are  her  wings 
So  white  as  your  soul  is,  if  that  but  be 
Twin  picture  to  your  face.     Erminia  ! 
To-day,  for  the  first  time,  I  am  a  king. 
Yet  would  I  give  my  unworn  crown  away 
To  know  you  spotless. 


ACT  II.,  sc.  II]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  311 

Erminia.  Trust  me  one  day  more. 

Generously,  without  more  certain  guarantee  no 

Than  this  poor  fiice  you  deign  to  praise  so  much  ; 
After  that,  say  and  do  whate'er  you  please. 
If  I  have  any  knowledge  of  you,  sir, 
I  think,  nay  I  am  sure,  you  will  grieve  much 
To  hear  my  story.     O  be  gentle  to  me. 
For  I  am  sick  and  faint  with  many  wrongs. 
Tired  out,  and  weary- worn  with  contumelies. 

Gersa.  Poor  lady ! 

Enter  Ethelbert. 

Erminia.  Gentle  Prince,  'tis  false  indeed. 

Good  morrow,  holy  father  !  I  have  had 
Your  prayers,  though  I  look'd  for  you  in  vain.  120 

Ethelbert,  Blessings  upon  you,  daughter !     Sure  you  look 
Too  cheerful  for  these  foul  pernicious  days. 
Young  man,  you  heard  this  virgin  say  'twas  false, — 
'Tis  Mse,  I  say.     What !  can  you  not  employ 
Your  temper  elsewhere,  'mong  these  burly  tents. 
But  you  must  taunt  this  dove,  for  she  hath  lost 
The  Eagle  Otho  to  beat  off  assault  ? 
Fie !  fie  !     But  I  will  be  her  guard  myself; 
r  the  Emperor's  name.     I  here  demand  of  you 
Herself,  and  all  her  sisterhood.     She  false  !  130 

Gersa.  Peace  !  peace,  old  man  !  I  cannot  think  she  is. 

Ethelbert.  Whom  I  have  known  from  her  first  infancy, 
Baptized  her  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church, 
Watch'd  her,  as  anxious  husbandmen  the  grain. 
From  the  first  shoot  till  the  unripe  mid-May, 
Then  to  the  tender  ear  of  her  June  days. 
Which,  lifting  sweet  abroad  its  timid  green. 
Is  blighted  by  the  touch  of  calumny  ! 
You  cannot  credit  such  a  monstrous  tale .' 

Gersa.  I  cannot.     Take  her.     Fair  Erminia,  140 

I  follow  you  to  Friedburg,^-is't  not  so .'' 

Erminia.  Aye,  so  we  purpose. 

Ethelbert.  Daughter,  do  you  so  ? 

How's  this  ?     I  marvel !     Yet  you  look  not  mad. 

Erminia.  I  have  good  news  to  tell  you,  Ethelbert. 

Gersa.  Ho  !  ho,  Uiere  !     Guards  ! 
Your  blessing,  father  !     Sweet  Erminia, 
Believe  me,  I  am  well  nigh  sure — 

Erminia.  Farewell ! 

Short  time  will  show.  [Enter  Chiefs. 

Yes,  father  Ethelbert, 
1  have  news  precious  as  we  pass  along, 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  hi,,  sc.  i 

Ethelhert.  Dear  daughter,  you  shall  guide  me. 

Erminia.  To  no  ill.  150 

Gersa.  Command  an  escort  to  the  Friedburg  lines. 

[Exeunt  Chiefs, 
Pray  let  me  lead.     Fair  lady,  forget  not 
Gersa,  how  he  believed  you  innocent. 
I  follow  you  to  Friedburg  with  all  speed. 

[Exeuid. 


ACT  III 

Scene  I. — The  Country, 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert. 

OTHAT  the  earth  were  empty,  as  when  Cain 
Had  no  perplexity  to  hide  his  head  ! 
Or  that  the  sword  of  some  brave  enemy 
Had  put  a  sudden  stop  to  my  hot  breath. 
And  hurl'd  me  down  the  illimitable  gulf 
Of  times  past,  unremember'd  !     Better  so 
Than  thus  fast-limed  in  a  cursed  snare, — 
The  white  limbs  of  a  wanton.     This  the  end 
Of  an  aspiring  life  !     My  boyhood  past 

In  feud  with  wolves  and  bears,  when  no  eye  saw  10 

The  solitary  warfare,  fought  for  love 
Of  honour  'mid  the  growling  wilderness  ; 
My  sturdier  youth,  maturing  to  the  sword, 
Won  by  the  syren-trumpets,  and  the  ring 
Of  shields  upon  the  pavement,  when  bright-mail'd 
Henry  the  Fowler  pass'd  the  streets  of  Prague. 
Was  't  to  this  end  I  louted  and  became 
The  menial  of  Mars,  and  held  a  spear, 
Sway'd  by  command,  as  com  is  by  the  wind .'' 

Is  it  for  this,  I  now  am  lifted  up  20 

By  Europe's  throned  Emperor,  to  see 
My  honour  be  my  executioner, — 
My  love  of  fame,  my  prided  honesty. 
Put  to  the  torture  for  confessional  ?  ' 
Then  the  damn'd  crime  of  blurting  to  the  world 
A  woman's  secret ! — though  a  fiend  she  be, 
Too  tender  of  my  ignominious  life ; 
But  then  to  wrong  the  generous  Emperor 
In  such  a  searching  point,  were  to  give  up 
My  soul  for  foot-ball  at  hell's  holiday !  30 


ACT  III.,  sc.  I]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  313 

I  must  confess, — and  cut  my  throat, — to-day  ? 
To-morrow  ?     Ho  !  some  wine  1 

Enter  Sigifred, 

Sigffred.  A  fine  humour — 

Albert.  Who  goes  there  ?     Count  Sigifred ?     Ha!  ha! 

Sigifred.  What,  man,  do  you  mistake  the  hollow  sky 
For  a  throng' d  tavern,  and  these  stubbed  trees 
For  old  serge  hangings, — me,  your  humble  friend. 
For  a  poor  waiter  ?     Why,  man,  how  you  stare  ! 
What  Gipsies  have  you  been  carousing  with  ? 
No,  no  more  wine  ;  methinks  you've  had  enough. 

Albert.  You  well  may  laugh  and  banter.     What  a  fool  40^ 

An  injury  may  make  of  a  staid  man  ! 
You  shall  know  all  anon. 

Sigifred.  Some  tavern  brawl  ? 

Amert.  'T  was  with  some  people  out  of  common  reach ; 
Revenge  is  difficult. 

Sigifred.  I  am  your  friend ; 

We  meet  again  to-day,  and  can  confer 
Upon  it.     For  the  present  I'm  in  haste. 

Albert.  Whither? 

Sigifred.  To  fetch  King  Gersa  to  the  feast. 

The  Emperor  on  this  marriage  is  so  hot. 
Pray  heaven  it  end  not  in  apoplexy  ! 

The  very  porters,  as  I  pass'd  the  doors,  50 

Hear  his  loud  laugh,  and  answer'd  in  full  choir. 
I  marvel,  Albert,  you  delay  so  long 
From  these  bright  revelries  ;  go,  show  yourself. 
You  may  be  made  a  duke. 

Albert.  Ay,  very  like. 

Pray,  what  day  has  his  Highness  fix'd  upon  ? 

Sigifred.  For  what .'' 

Albert.  The  marriage.     What  else  can  I  mean .-' 

Si^fred.  To-day.     O,  I  forgot,  you  could  not  know ; 
The  news  is  scarce  a  minute  old  with  me. 

Albert.  Married  to-day  !  To-day  !  You  did  not  say  so  ? 

Si^fred.  Now,  while  I  speak  to  you,  their  comely  heads  60 

Are  bowed  before  the  mitre. 

Albert.  O  !  monstrous  ! 

Si^fred.  What  is  this  } 

Albert.  Nothing,  Sigifred.     Farewell ! 

We'll  meet  upon  our  subject.     Farewell,  Coimt !  [Exit, 

Sigifred.  To  this  clear-headed  Albert  ?     He  brain-tum'd  ! 
Tis  as  portentous  as  a  meteor.  [Exit, 


314  JOHN  KEATS  [act  hi.,  sc.  ii 


Scene  II. — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 

Enter,  as  from  the  Marriage,  Otho,  Ludolph,  Auranthe,  Conrad, 
Nobles,  Knights,  Ladies,  <^c.     Music. 

Otho.  Now,  Ludolph  !     Now,  Auranthe  !     Daughter  fair ! 
What  can  I  find  to  grace  your  nuptial  day 
More  than  my  love,  and  these  wide  realms  in  fee  ? 

Ludolph.  I  have  too  much. 

Auranthe.  And  I,  my  liege,  by  far. 

Ludolph.  Auranthe  I  have  !     O,  my  bride,  my  love  ! 
Not  all  the  gaze  upon  us  can  restrain 
My  eyes,  too  long  poor  exiles  from  thy  face, 
From  adoration,  and  my  foolish  tongue 
From  uttering  soft  responses  to  the  love 

I  see  in  thy  mute  beauty  beaming  forth  !  lo 

Fair  creature,  bless  me  with  a  single  word  ! 
All  mine ! 

Auranthe.  Spare,  spare  me,  my  lord ;  I  swoon  else. 

Ludolph.  Soft  beauty  !  by  to-morrow  1  should  die, 
Wert  thou  not  mine.  \They  talk  apart. 

1st  Lady.         How  deep  she  has  bewitch'd  him  ! 

1st  Knight.  Ask  you  for  her  recipe  for  love  philtres. 

2nd  Lady.  They  hold  the  Emperor  jn  admiration. 

Otho.  If  ever  king  was  happy  that  am  I ! 
What  are  the  cities  'yond  the  Alps  to  me. 
The  provinces  about  the  Danube's  mouth, 

The  promise  of  feir  soil  beyond  the  Rhone ;  20 

Or  routing  out  of  Hyperborean  hordes. 
To  these  fair  children,  stars  of  a  new  age  } 
Unless  perchance  I  might  rejoice  to  win 
This  little  ball  of  earth,  and  chuck  it  them 
To  play  with ! 

Auranthe.  Nay,  my  lord,  I  do  not  know. 

Ludolph.  Let  me  not  famish. 

Otho  {to  Conrad).  Good  Franconia, 

You  heard  what  oath  I  sware,  as  the  sun  rose. 
That  unless  Heaven  would  send  me  back  my  son. 
My  Arab, — no  soft  music  should  enrich 

The  cool  wine,  kiss'd  off  with  a  soldier's  smack  ;  30 

Now  all  my  empire,  barter'd  for  one  feast, 
Seems  poverty. 

Conrad.  ■  Upon  the  neighbour  plain 

The  heralds  have  prepared  a  royal  lists ; 
Your  knights,  found  war-proof  in  the  bloody  field, 
Speed  to  the  game, 


ACT  ni.,  sc.  n]      OTHO  THE  GREAT  315 

Otho.  Well,  Ludolph,  what  say  you  ? 

Ludolph.  My  lord ! 

Otho.  A  tourney  ? 

Conrad.  Or,  if  't  please  you  best — 

Ludolph.  I  want  no  more ! 

1st  Lady.  He  soars ! 

2nd  Lcdy.  Past  all  reason. 

Ludolph.  Though  heaven's  choir 
Should  in  a  vast  circumference  descend 

And  sing  for  my  delight,  I'd  stop  my  ears  !  40 

Though  bright  Apollo's  car  stood  burning  here, 
And  he  put  out  an  arm  to  bid  me  mount, 
His  touch  an  immortality,  not  I ! 
This  earth,  this  palace,  this  room,  Auranthe  ! 

Otho.  This  is  a  little  painful ;  just  too  much. 
C!onrad,  if  he  flames  longer  in  this  wise 
I  shall  believe  in  wizard-woven  loves 
And  old  romances  ;  but  I'll  break  the  spell. 
Ludolph ! 

Conrad.  He'll  be  calm,  anon. 

Ludolph.  You  call'd  ? 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  offend.     You  must  forgive  me ;  50 

Not  being  quite  recover'd  from  the  stun 
Of  your  large  bounties.     A  tourney,  is  it  not  ? 

\A  sennet  heard  faintly. 

Conrad.  The  trumpets  reach  us. 

Ethelhert  (without).  On  your  peril,  sirs. 

Detain  us  ! 

1st  Voice  (without).         Let  not  the  abbot  pass. 

2}id  Voice  (without).  No 

On  your  lives ! 

1st  Voice  (without).  Holy  father,  you  must  not. 

Ethelhert  (without).  Otho ! 

Otho.  Who  calls  on  Otho .? 

EthelbeH  (without).  Ethelhert ! 

Otho.  Lethim  come  in. 

Enter  Ethelhert  leading  in  Erminia. 

Thou  cursed  abbot,  why 
Hast  brought  pollution  to  our  holy  rites  ? 
Hast  thou  no  fear  of  hangman,  or  the  faggot  ? 

Ludolph.  What  portent — what  strange  prodigy  is  this .''  60 

Conrad.  Away  ! 

Ethelhert.  You,  Duke .' 

Erminia.  Albert  has  surely  fail'd  me  ! 

Look  at  the  Emperor's  brow  upon  me  bent  \ 

Ethelhert,  A  sad  delay  ! 


316  JOHN  KEATS  [act  hi.,  sc.  n 

Conrad.  Away,  you  guilty  thing ! 

Ethelbert.  You  again,  Duke  ?    Justice,  most  noble  Otho ! 
You — go  to  your  sister  there,  and  plot  again, 
A  quick  plot,  swift  as  thought  to  save  your  heads  ; 
For  lo  !  the  toils  are  spread  around  your  den. 
The  world  is  all  agape  to  see  dragg'd  forth 
Two  ugly  monsters. 

Ludolph.  What  means  he,  my  lord  i' 

ConrtHd.  I  cannot  guess. 

Ethelbert.  Best  ask  your  lady  sister,  70 

Whether  the  riddle  puzzles  her  beyond 
The  power  of  utterance. 

Conrad.  Foul  barbarian,  cease ; 

The  Princess  faints ! 
Ludolph.  Stab  him  !     O,  sweetest  wife  ! 

[Attendants  bear  off  Acranthe. 
Erminia.  Alas ! 
Ethelbert.  Your  wife .'' 

iMdolph.  Ay,  Satan  !  does  that  yerk  ye  } 

Ethelbert.  Wife  !  so  soon ! 
Ludolph.  Ay,  wife  !     Oh,  impudence  ! 

Thou  bitter  mischief !     Venomous  mad  priest ! 
How  dar'st  thou  lift  those  beetle  brows  at  me — 
Me — the  prince  Ludolph,  in  this  presence  here, 
Upon  my  marriage-day,  and  scandalize 

My  joys  with  such  opprobrious  surprise  ?  80 

Wife !  Why  dost  linger  on  that  syllable, 
As  if  it  were  some  demon's  name  pronounc'd 
To  summon  harmful  lightning,  and  make  yawn 
The  sleepy  thunder  ?     Hast  no  sense  of  fear  ? 
No  ounce  of  man  in  thy  mortality  ? 
Tremble !  for,  at  my  nod,  the  sharpen'd  axe 
Will  make  thy  bold  tongue  quiver  to  the  roots. 
Those  grey  lids  wink,  and  thou  not  know  it  more  ! 
Ethelbert.  O,  poor  deceived  Prince  !  I  pity  thee  ! 
Great  Otho  !  I  claim  justice — 

Ludolph.  Thou  shall  have't !  90 

Thine  arms  from  forth  a  pulpit  of  hot  fire 
Shall  sprawl  distracted .-'     O  that  that  duU  cowl 
Were  some  most  sensitive  portion  of  thy  life. 
That  I  might  give  it  to  my  hounds  to  tear ! 
Thy  girdle  some  fine  zealous-pained  nerve 
To  girth  my  saddle !     And  those  devil's  beads 
Each  one  a  life,  that  I  might  every  day 
Crush  one  with  Vulcan's  hammer! 

Otho.  Peace,  my  son  ; 

You  far  outstrip  my  spleen  in  this  affair. 


ACT  lu.,  SO.  II]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  317 

Let  us  be  calm,  and  hear  the  abbot's  plea  loo 

For  this  intrusion. 

Ludolph.  I  am  silent,  sire. 

Otho.  Conrad,  see  all  depart  not  wanted  here. 

\Exeunl  Knights,  Ladies,  8^c. 
Ludolph,  be  calm.     Ethelbert,  peace  awhile. 
This  mystery  demands  an  audience 
Of  a  just  judge,  and  that  will  Otho  be. 

Ludolph.  Why  has  he  time  to  breathe  another  word  ? 

Otho.  Ludolph,  old  Ethelbert,  be  sure,  comes  not 
To  beard  us  for  no  cause  ;  he's  not  the  man 
To  cry  himself  up  an  ambassador 
Without  credentials. 

Ludolph.  I'll  chain  up  myself.  no 

Otho.  Old  abbot,  stand  here  forth.     Lady  Erminia, 
Sit.    And  now,  abbot !  what  have  you  to  say .-' 
Our  ear  is  open.     First  we  here  denounce 
Hard  penalties  against  thee,  if't  be  foimd 
The  cause  for  which  you  have  disturb'd  us  here. 
Making  our  bright  hours  muddy,  be  a  thing 
Of  little  moment. 

Ethelbert.  See  this  iimocent ! 

Otho !  thou  father  of  the  people  caU'd, 
Is  her  life  nothing  ?     Her  fair  honour  nothing .'' 
Her  tears  from  matins  until  even-song  120 

Nothing  ?     Her  burst  heart  nothing  ?     Emperor  ! 
Is  this  your  gentle  niece — the  simplest  flower 
Of  the  world's  herbal — this  fair  lily  blanch'd 
Still  with  the  dews  of  piety,  this  meek  lady 
Here  sitting  like  an  angel  newly-shent. 
Who  veils  its  snowy  wings  and  grows  all  pale, — 
Is  she  nothing  ? 

Otho.  What  more  to  the  purpose,  abbot  ? 

Ludolph.  Whither  is  he  winding .-' 

Conrad.  No  clue  yet ! 

Ethelbert.  You  have  heard,  my  liege,  and  so,  no  doubt,  all  here. 
Foul,  poisonous,  malignant  whisperings  ;  130 

Nay  open  speech,  rude  mockery  grown  common, 
Against  the  spotless  nature  and  clear  fame 
Of  the  princess  Erminia,  your  niece. 
I  have  intruded  here  thus  suddenly. 
Because  I  hold  those  base  weeds,  with  tight  hand. 
Which  now  disfigure  her  fair  growing  stem. 
Waiting  but  for  your  sign  to  pull  them  up 
By  the  dark  roots,  and  leave  her  palpable. 
To  all  men's  sight,  a  lady  innocent. 
The  ignominy  of  that  whisper'd  tale  140 


318  JOHN  KEATS  [act  iu.,  sc.  n 

About  a  midnight  gallant,  seen  to  climb 

A  window  to  her  chamber  neighbour'd  near 

I  wiU  from  her  turn  off,  and  put  the  load 

On  the  right  shoulders  ;  on  that  wretch's  head. 

Who,  by  close  stratagems,  did  save  herself. 

Chiefly  by  shifting  to  this  lady's  room 

A  rope-ladder  for  false  witness. 

Ludolph.  Most  atrocious ! 

Otho.  Ethelbert,  prqceed. 

Ethelbert.  With  sad  lips  I  shall : 

For,  in  the  healing  of  one  wound,  I  fear 

To  make  a  greater.     His  young  highness  here  150 

To-day  was  married. 

Ludolph.  Good. 

Ethelbert.  Would  it  were  good  ! 

Yet  why  do  I  delay  to  spread  abroad 
The  names  of  those  two  vipers,  from  whose  jaw 
A  deadly  breath  went  forth  to  taint  and  blast 
This  guileless  lady  } 

Otho.  Abbot,  speak  their  names. 

Ethelbert.  A  minute  first.     It  cannot  be — but  may 
I  ask,  great  judge,  if  you  to-day  have  put 
A  letter  by  unread  ? 

Otho.  Does  't  end  in  this .-' 

Conrad.  Out  with  their  names  ! 

Ethelbert.  Bold  sinner,  say  you  so  ? 

Ludolph.  Out,  tedious  monk  ! 

Otho.  Confess,  or  by  the  wheel —  160 

Ethelbert.  My  evidence  cannot  be  far  away  ; 
And,  though  it  never  come,  be  on  my  head 
The  crime  of  passing  an  attaint  upon 
The  slanderers  of  this  virgin — 

Ludolph.  Speak  aloud ! 

Ethelbert.  Auranthe,  and  her  brother  there  ! 

Conrad.  Amaze ! 

Ludolph.  Throw  them  from  the  windows ! 

Otho,  Do  what  you  will ! 

Ludolph.  What  shall  I  do  with  them  ? 

Something  of  quick  dispatch,  for  should  she  hear. 
My  soft  Auranthe,  her  sweet  mercy  would 

Prevail  against  my  fury.     Damned  priest !  170 

What  swift  death  wilt  thou  die  ?     As  to  the  lady 
I  touch  her  not. 

Ethelbert.         Illustrious  Otho,  stay ! 
An  ample  store  of  misery  thou  hast ; 
Choke  not  the  granary  of  thy  noble  mind 
With  more  bad  bitter  grain,  too  difficult 


Acyr  in.,  so.  ii]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  319 

A  cud  for  the  repentance  of  a  man 

Grey-growing.     To  thee  only  I  appeal, 

Not  to  thy  noble  son,  whose  yeasting  youth 

Will  clear  itself,  and  crystal  turn  again. 

A  young  man's  heart,  by  Heaven's  blessing,  is  i8o 

A  wide  world,  where  a  thousand  new-bom  hopes 

Empurple  fresh  the  melancholy  blood  : 

But  an  old  man's  is  narrow,  tenantless 

Of  hopes,  and  stuflTd  with  many  memories. 

Which,  being  pleasant,  ease  the  heavy  pulse — 

Painful,  clog  up  and  stagnate.     Weigh  this  matter 

Even  as  a  miser  balances  his  coin  : 

And,  in  the  name  of  mercy,  give  command 

That  your  knight  Albert  be  brought  here  before  you. 

He  will  expound  this  riddle  ;  he  will  show  igo 

A  noon-day  proof  of  bad  Auranthe's  guilt. 

Oiho.  Let  Albert  straight  be  summon'd. 

[Exit  one  of  the  Nobles, 

Ludolph.  Impossible ! 

I  cannot  doubt — I  will  not — no — to  doubt 
Is  to  be  ashes ! — wither'd  up  to  death  ! 

Otho.  My  gentle  Ludolph,  harbour  not  a  fear ; 
You  do  yourself  much  wrong. 

Ludolph.  O,  wretched  dolt ! 

Now,  when  my  foot  is  almost  on  thy  neck. 
Wilt  thou  infiuriate  me .''     Proof !     "Thou  fool ! 
Why  wilt  thou  tease  impossibility 

With  such  a  thick-skull' d  persevering  suit .'  200 

Fanatic  obstinacy !     Prodigy ! 
Monster  of  folly !     Ghost  of  a  tum'd  brain  ! 
You  puzzle  me, — you  haunt  me,  when  I  dream 
Of  you  my  brain  will  split !     Bold  sorcerer ! 
Juggler !     May  I  come  near  you  .''     On  my  soul 
I  know  not  whether  to  pity,  curse,  or  laugh. 


Enter  Albert  and  the  Nobleman. 

Here,  Albert,  this  old  phantom  wants  a  proof ! 
Give  him  his  proof !     A  camel's  load  of  proofs  ! 

Otho.  Albert,  I  speak  to  you  as  to  a  man 
Whose  words  once  utter'd  pass  like  current  gold ; 
And  therefore  fit  to  calmly  put  a  close 
To  this  brief  tempest.     Do  you  stand  possess'd 
Of  any  proof  against  the  honourableness 
Of  Lady  Auranthe,  our  new-spoused  daughter  } 

Albert.  You  chill  me  with  astonishment.     How's  this  ? 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  in.,  sc.  ii 

My  liege,  what  proof  should  I  have  'gainst  a  &ine 

Impossible  of  slur  ?  [Otho  rises. 

Erminia.  O  wickedness ! 

Ethelbert.  Deluded  monarch,  'tis  a  cruel  he. 
,    Otho.  Peace,  rebel-priest ! 

Conrad.  Insult  beyond  credence !      ' 

Erminia.  Almost  a  dream ! 

Ludolph.  We  have  awaked  from !  220 

A  foolish  dream  that  from  my  brow  hath  wrung 
A  wrathful  dew.     O'  folly  !  why  did  I 
So  act  the  lion  with  this  silly  gnat .'' 
Let  them  depart.     Lady  Erminia  ! 
I  ever  grieved  for  you,  as  who  did  not  ? 
But  now  you  have,  with  such  a  brazen  front. 
So  most  maliciously,  so  madly,  striven 
To  dazzle  the  soft  moon,  when  tenderest  clouds 
Should  be  unloop'd  around  to  curtain  her, 

.  I  leave  you  to  the  desert  of  the  world  2,0 

Almost  with  pleasure.     Let  them  be  set  free 
For  me  !     I  take  no  personal  revenge 
More  than  against  a  nightmare,  which  a  man 
Forgets  in  the  new  dawn. 

[Emt  LuDOLPH. 

Otho.  Still  in  extremes  !  No,  they  must  not  be  loose. 

Ethelbert.  Albert,  I  must  suspect  thee  of  a  crime 
So  fiendish — 

Otho.  Fear'st  thou  not  my  fury,  monk? 

Conrad,  be  they  in  your  safe  custody 
Till  we  determine  some  fit  punishment. 

It  is  so  mad  a  deed,  I  must  reflect  240 

And  question  them  in  private ;  for  perhaps. 
By  patient  scrutiny,  we  may  discover 
Whether  they  merit  death,  or  should  be  placed 
In  care  of  the  physicians. 

[Exeunt  Otho  and  Nobles,  Albert  folhtrng. 

Conrad.  My  guards,  ho  ! 

Erminia.  Albert,  wilt  thou  follow  there  ? 

Wilt  thou  creep  dastardly  behind  his  back. 
And  shrink  away  from  a  weak  woman's  eye .' 
Turn,  thou  court- Janus  !  thou  forget 'st  thyself; 
Here  is  the  duke,  waiting  with  open  arms 

Enter  Guards. 

To  thank  thee  ;  here  congratulate  each  other ;  250 

Wring  hands  ;  embrace  ;  and  swear  how  lucky  'twas 
That  I,  by  happy  chance,  hit  the  right  man 
Of  all  the  world  to  trust  in. 


ACT  IV.,  sc.  I]       OTHO  THE  GREAT  321 

Albert,  Trust !  to  me  ! 

Conrad  [aside).  He  is  the  sole  one  in  this  mystery. 

Ermnia.  Well,  I  give  up,  and  save  my  prayers  for  Heaven  ! 
You,  who  could  do  this  deed,  would  ne'er  relent, 
Though,  at  my  words,  the  hollow  prison-vaults 
Would  groan  for  pity. 

Conrad.  Manacle  them  both  ! 

Ethelbert.  I  know  it — it  must  be — I  see  it  all ! 
Albert,  thou  art  the  minion  ! 

Erminia.  Ah !  too  plain —  260 

Conrad.  Silence  !     Gag  up  their  mouths  !     I  cannot  bear 
More  of  this  brawling.     That  the  Emperor 
Had  placed  you  in  some  other  custody  ! 
Bring  them  away.  [Exeunt  all  but  Albert. 

Albert.  Though  my  name  perish  from  the  book  of  honour. 
Almost  before  the  recent  ink  is  dry. 
And  be  no  more  remember'd  after  death 
Than  any  drummer's  in  the  muster-roll ; 
Yet  shall  I  season  high  my  sudden  fall 

With  triumph  o'er  that  evil-witted  duke  !  270 

He  shall  feel  what  it  is  to  have  the  hand 
Of  a  man  drowning,  on  his  hateful  throat. 

Enter  Gersa  a?id  Sigifred. 

Gersa.  What  discord  is  at  ferment  in  this  house  ? 

Sigifred.  We  are  without  conjecture  ;  not  a  soul 
We  met  could  answer  any  certainty. 

Gersa.  Young  Ludolph,  like  a  fiery  arrow,  shot 
By  us. 

Sigifred.  The  Emperor,  with  cross'd  arms,  in  thought. 

Gersa.  In  one  room  music,  in  another  sadness. 
Perplexity  everywhere ! 

Albert.  A  trifle  more  ! 

Follow ;  your  presences  will  much  avail  280 

To  tune  our  jarred  spirits.     I'll  explain. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV 

Scene  I. — Auranthe's  Apartment. 
AuRANTHE  and  Conrad  discovered. 
Conrad. 

WELL,  well,  I  know  what  ugly  jeopardy 
We  are  caged  in  ;  you  need  not  pester  that 
Into  my  ears.     Pry  thee,  let  me  be  spared 
A  foolish  tongue,  that  I  may  bethink  me 


322  JOHN  KEATS  [act  iv.,  sc.  i 

Of  remedies  with  some  deliberation. 

You  cannot  doubt  but  'tis  in  Albert's  power 

To  crush  or  save  us  ? 

Auranthe.  No,  I  cannot  doubt. 

He  has,  assure  yourself,  by  some  strange  means. 
My  secret ;  which  I  ever  hid  from  him. 
Knowing  his  mawkish  honesty. 

Conrad.  Cursed  slave !  lo 

Auranthe.  Ay,  I  could  almost  curse  him  now  myself. 
Wretched  impediment !  Evil  genius  ! 
A  glue  upon  my  wings,  that  cannot  spread. 
When  they  should  span  the  provinces  !  A  snake, 
A  scorpion,  sprawling  on  the  first  gold  step. 
Conducting  to  the  throne  high  canopied. 

Conrad.  You  would  not  hear  my  counsel,  when  his  life 
Might  have  been  trodden  out,  all  sure  and  hush'd  ; 
Now  the  dull  animal  forsooth  must  be 

Intreated,  managed !  When  can  you  contrive  20 

The  interview  he  demands  ? 

Auranthe.  As  speedily 

It  must  be  done  as  my  bribed  woman  can 
Unseen  conduct  him  to  me ;  but  I  fear 
'Twill  be  impossible,  while  the  broad  day 
Comes  through  the  panes  with  persecuting  glare. 
Methinks,  if 't  now  were  night  I  could  intrigue 
With  darkness,  bring  the  stars  to  second  me. 
And  settle  all  this  trouble. 

Conrad,  Nonsense !     Child ! 

See  him  immediately ;  why  not  now  ? 

Auranthe.  Do  you  forget  that  even  the  senseless  door-posts        30 
Are  on  the  watch  and  gape  through  all  the  house  ? 
How  many  whisperers  there  are  about, 
Hungry  for  evidence  to  ruin  me. — 
Men  I  have  spum'd,  and  women  I  have  taunted  ? 
Besides,  the  foolish  prince  sends,  minute  whiles, 
His  pages — so  they  tell  me — to  inquire 
After  my  health,  entreating,  if  I  please. 
To  see  me. 

Conrad.  Well,  suppose  this  Albert  here  ; 
What  is  your  power  with  him  ? 

Auranthe.  He  should  be 

My  echo,  my  taught  parrot !  but  I  fear  40 

He  will  be  cur  enough  to  bark  at  me  ; 
Have  his  own  say ;  read  me  some  silly  creed 
'Bout  shame  and  pity. 

Conrad.  What  will  you  do  then  ? 

Avraidh^.  What  \  shall  do,  I  know  not :  what  I  would 


ACT  IV.,  sc.  I]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  323 

Cannot  be  done  ;  for  see,  this  chamber-floor 
Will  not  jrield  to  the  pick-axe  and  the  spade, — 
Here  is  no  quiet  depth  of  hollow  ground. 

Conrad.  Sister,  you  have  grown  sensible  and  wise. 
Seconding,  ere  I  speak  it,  what  is  now, 
I  hope,  resolved  between  us. 

Auranthe.  Say,  what  is't  ?  50 

Conrad.  You  need  not  be  his  sexton  too  :  a  man 
May  carry  that  with  him  shall  make  him  die 
Elsewhere, — give  that  to  him  ;  pretend  the  while 
You  will  to-morrow  succumb  to  his  wishes. 
Be  what  they  may,  and  send  him  from  the  Castle 
On  some  fool's  errand ;  let  his  latest  groan 
Frighten  the  wolves ! 

Auranthe.  Alas  !  he  must  not  die  ! 

Conrad.  Would  you  were  both  hearsed  up  in  stifling  lead ! 
Detested — 

Auranthe.  Conrad,  hold  !  I  would  not  bear 
The  little  thimder  of  your  fretful  tongue,  60 

Tho'  I  alone  were  taken  in  these  toils. 
And  you  could  free  me ;  but  remember,  sir. 
You  live  alone  in  my  security  : 
So  keep  your  wits  at  work,  for  your  own  sake, 
Not  mine,  and  be  more  mannerly. 

Conrad.  Thou  wasp ! 

If  my  domains  were  emptied  of  these  folk. 
And  I  had  thee  to  starve — 

Auranthe.  O,  marvellous ! 

But  Conrad,  now  be  gone  ;  the  host  is  look'd  for  ; 
Cringe  to  the  Emperor,  entertain  the  lords, 

And,  do  ye  mind,  above  all  things,  proclaim  70 

My  sickness,  with  a  brother's  sadden'd  eye. 
Condoling  with  Prince  Ludolph.     In  fit  time 
Return  to  me. 

Conrad.  I  leave  you  to  your  thoughts. 

[Exit. 

Auranthe  (sola).  Down,  down,  proud  temper !  down,  Auranthe's 
pride ! 
Why  do  I  anger  him  when  I  should  kneel .' 
Conrad  I  Albert !  help !  help !     What  can  I  do .' 
O  wretched  woman !  lost,  wreck'd,  swallow'd  up. 
Accursed,  blasted !     O,  thou  golden  Crown, 
Orbing  along  the  serene  firmament 

Of  a  wide  empire,  like  a  glowing  moon  ;  80 

And  thou,  bright  sceptre  !  lustrous  in  my  eyes 
There — as  the  fabled  fair  Hesperian  tree. 
Bearing  a  fruit  more  precious  !  graceful  thing. 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  iv.,  so.  i 

Delicate,  godlike,  magic  !  must  I  leave 

Thee  to  melt  in  the  visionary  air, 

Ere,  by  one  grasp,  this  common  hand  is  made 

Imperial  ?     I  do  not  know  the  time 

When  I  have  wept  for  sorrow ;  but  methinks 

I  could  now  sit  upon  the  ground,  and  shed 

Tears,  tears  of  misery.     O,  the  heavy  day  !  go 

How  shall  I  bear  my  life  till  Albert  comes  ? 

Ludolph  !  Erminia  !  Proofs  !  O  heavy  day  ! 

Bring  me  some  mourning  weeds,  that  I  may  'tire 

Myself  as  fits  one  wailing  her  own  death : 

Cut  off  these  curls,  and  brand  this  lily  hand. 

And  throw  these  jewels  from  my  loathing  sight, — 

Fetch  me  a  missal,  and  a  string  of  beads, — 

A  cup  of  bitter'd  water,  and  a  crust, — 

I  will  confess,  O  holy  Abbot ! — How  ! 

What  is  this  ?     Auranthe  !  thou  fool,  dolt,  loo 

Whimpering  idiot !  up  !  up  !  and  quell ! 

I  am  safe  !     Coward  !  why  am  I  in  fear  ? 

Albert !  he  cannot  stickle,  chew  the  cud 

In  such  a  fine  extreme, — impossible  ! 

Who  knocks  ?  [Goes  to  the  Door,  listens,  aiid  opens  U. 

Enter  Albert. 

Albert,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  here 
With  such  an  aching  heart,  such  swooning  throbs 
On  my  poor  brain,  such  cruel — cruel  sorrow. 
That  I  should  claim  your  pity  !     Art  not  well .'' 

Albert.  Yes,  lady,  well. 

Auranthe.  You  look  not  so,  alas  !  no 

But  pale,  as  if  you  brought  some  heavy  news. 

Albert.  You  know  full  well  what  makes  me  look  so  pale. 

Auranthe.  No !  Do  I }     Surely  I  am  still  to  learn 
Some  horror ;  all  I  know,  this  present,  is 
I  am  near  hustled  to  a  dangerous  gulf, 
Which  you  can  save  me  from, — and  therefore  safe, 
So  trusting  in  thy  love ;  that  should  not  make 
Thee  pale,  my  ^bert. 

Albert.  It  doth  make  me  freeze. 

Auranthe.  Why  should  it,  love  .^ 

Albert.  You  should  not  ask  me  that. 

But  make  your  own  heart  monitor,  and  save  no 

Me  the  great  pain  of  telling.     You  must  know. 

Auranthe.  Something  has  vext  you,  Albert.     There  are  times 
When  simplest  things  put  on  a  sombre  bast ; 
A  melancholy  mood  will  haunt  a  man. 


ACT  IV.,  sc.  I]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  325 

Until  most  easy  matters  take  the  shape 
Of  unachievable  tasks  ;  small  rivulets 
Then  seem  impassable. 

Albert.  Do  not  cheat  yourself 

With  hope  that  gloss  of  words,  or  suppliant  action. 
Or  tears,  or  ravings,  or  self-threaten'd  death. 
Can  alter  my  resolve. 

Aurantke.  You  make  me  tremble,  130 

Not  so  much  at  your  threats,  as  at  your  voice. 
Untuned,  and  harsh,  and  barren  of  all  love. 

Albert.  You  suffocate  me  I     Stop  this  devil's  parley. 
And  listen  to  me  ;  know  me  once  for  all. 

Aurantke.  I  thought  I  did.     Alas  !  I  am  deceived. 

Albert.  No,  you  are  not  deceived.     You  took  me  for 
A  man  detesting  all  inhuman  crime ; 
And  therefore  kept  from  me  your  demon's  plot 
Against  Erminia.     Silent  ?     Be  so  still ; 

For  ever !     Speak  no  more  ;  but  hear  my  words,  140 

Thy  fate.     Your  safety  I  have  bought  to-day 
By  blazoning  a  he,  wWch  in  the  dawn 
I'll  expiate  with  truth. 

Aurantke.  O  cruel  traitor ! 

Albert.  For  I  would  not  set  eyes  upon  thy  shame ; 
I  would  not  see  thee  dragg'd  to  death  by  the  hair. 
Penanced,  and  taunted  on  a  scaffolding  I 
To-night,  upon  the  skirts  of  the  blind  wood 
That  blackens  northward  of  these  horrid  towers, 
I  wait  for  you  with  horses.     Choose  your  fate. 
Farewell ! 

Aurantke.  Albert,  you  jest ;  I'm  sure  you  must.  150 

You,  an  ambitious  Soldier  !     I,  a  Queen, 
One  who  could  say, — Here,  rule  these  Provinces  ! 
Take  tribute  from  those  cities  for  thyself ! 
Empty  these  armouries,  these  treasuries. 
Muster  thy  warlike  thousands  at  a  nod  ! 
Go !  conquer  Italy  ! 

Albert.  Auranthe,  you  have  made 

The  whole  world  chaff  to  me.     Your  doom  is  fix'd. 

Auranthe.  Out,  villain  !  dastard  ! 

Albert.  Look  there  to  the  door ! 

Who  is  it  i 

Auranthe.  Conrad,  traitor ! 

Albert.  Let  him  in. 

Enter  Conrad. 
Do  not  affect  amazement,  hypocrite,  160 

At  seeing  me  in  this  chamber. 


326  JOHN  KEATS  [act  iv.,  sc.  ii 

Conrad.  Auranthe  ? 

Albert.  Talk  not  with  eyes,  but  speak  your  curses  out 
Against  me,  who  would  sooner  crush  and  grind 
A  brace  of  toads,  than  league  with  them  t'  oppress 
An  innocent  lady,  gull  an  Emperor, 
More  generous  to  me  than  autumn  sun 
To  ripening  harvests. 

Auranthe.  No  more  insult,  sir  ! 

Albert.  Ay,  clutch  your  scabbard ;  but,  for  prudence  sake. 
Draw  not  the  sword ;  'twould  make  an  uproar,  Duke, 
You  would  not  hear  the  end  of.     At  night&U  170 

Your  lady  sister,  if  I  guess  aright. 
Will  leave  this  busy  castle.     You  had  best 
Take  farewell  too  of  worldly  vanities. 

Conrad.  Vassal ! 

Albert.  To-morrow,  when  the  Emperor  sends 
For  loving  Conrad,  see  you  fawn  on  him. 
Good  even ! 

Auranthe.  You'll  be  seen ! 

Albert.  See  the  coast  clear  then. 

Auranthe  (as  he  goes).    Remorseless   Albert !       Cruel,  cruel 

wretch  !  [She  lets  him  out. 

Conrad.  So,  we  must  lick  the  dust .'' 

Auranthe.  I  follow  him. 

Conrad.  How .''     Where  .''     The  plan  of  your  escape  ? 

Auranthe.  He  waits 

For  me  with  horses  by  the  forest-side,  180 

Northward. 

Conrad.  Good,  good  !  he  dies.     You  go,  say  you  ? 

Auranthe.  Perforce.  • 

Conrad.  Be  speedy,  darkness  !     Till  that  comes, 
Fiends  keep  you  company  !  \ExiL 

Auranthe.  And  you  !  and  you  ! 

And  all  men  !     Vanish  ! 

[Retires  to  an  inner  Apartment. 

Scene  II. — An  Apartment  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  Ludolph  and  Page. 

Page.  Still  very  sick,  my  lord  ;  but  now  I  went, 
And  there  her  women,  in  a  mournful  throng, 
Stood  in  the  passage  whispering  ;  if  any 
Moved  'twas  with  careful  steps,  and  hush'd  as  death. 
They  bade  me  stop. 

Ludolph.  Good  fellow,  once  again 

Make  soft  inquiry ;  prythee,  be  not  stay'd 


ACT  IV.,  sc.  II]       OTHO  THE  GREAT  327 

By  any  hindrance,  but  with  gentlest  force 

Break  through  her  weeping  servants,  till  thou  com'st 

E'en  to  her  chamber-door,  and  there,  fair  boy, — 

If  with  thy  mother's  milk  thou  hast  suck'd  in  lo 

Any  divine  eloquence, — woo  her  ears 

With  plaints  for  me,  more  tender  than  the  voice 

Of  dying  Echo,  echoed. 

Page.  Kindest  master ! 

To  know  thee  sad  thus,  will  unloose  my  tongue 
In  mournful  syllables.     Let  but  my  words  reach 
Her  ears,  and  she  shall  take  them  coupled  with 
Moans  from  my  heart,  and  sighs  not  counterfeit. 
May  I  speed  better !  [Exit  Page. 

Lvdolph  {solus).  Auranthe  !     My  life  ! 

Long  have  I  loved  thee,  yet  till  now  not  loved  : 
Remembering,  as  I  do,  hard-hearted  times  20 

When  I  had  heard  e'en  of  thy  death  perhaps. 
And — thoughtless ! — suffer'd  thee  to  pass  alone 
Into  Elysium  ! — now  I  follow  thee, 
A  substance  or  a  shadow,  wheresoe'er 
Thou  leadest  me, — whether  thy  white  feet  press. 
With  pleasant  weight,  the  amorous-aching  earth, 
Or  thro'  the  air  thou  pioneerest  me, 
A  shade  I     Yet  sadly  I  predestinate ! 
O,  unbenignest  Love,  why  wilt  thou  let 

Darkness  steal  out  upon  the  sleepy  world  30 

So  wearily,  as  if  Night's  chariot-wheels 
Were  clogg'd  in  some  thick  cloud  ?     O,  changeful  Love, 
Let  not  her  steeds  with  drowsy-footed  pace 
Pass  the  high  stars,  before  sweet  embassage 
Comes  from  the  pillow'd  beauty  of  that  fair 
Completion  of  all-delicate  Nature's  wit ! 
Pout  her  faint  lips  anew  with  rubious  health  ; 
And,  with  thine  infant  fingers,  lift  the  fringe 
Of  her  sick  eye-lids ;  that  those  eyes  may  glow 
With  wooing  light  upon  me,  ere  the  mom  40 

Peers  with  disrelish,  grey,  barren,  and  cold  ! 

Enter  Gersa  and  Courtiers. 

Otho  calls  me  his  Lion, — Should  I  blush 
To  be  so  tamed  ?  so — 

Gersa.  Do  me  the  courtesy. 

Gentlemen,  to  pass  on. 

\st  Knight.  We  are  your  servants. 

[Exeunt  Courtiers. 

Ludolph.  It  seems  then,  sir,  you  have  found  out  the  man 
You  would  confer  with  ; — me .'' 


328  JOHN  KEATS  [act  iv.,  sc.  ii 

Gersa.  If  I  break  not 

Too  much  upon  your  thoughtful  mood,  I  will 
Claim  a  brief  while  your  patience. 

Lvdolph.  For  what  cause 

Soe'er,  I  shall  be  honour'd. 

Gersa.  I  not  less, 

Ludolph.  What  may  it  be  ?     No  trifle  can  take  place  50 

Of  such  deliberate  prologue,  serious  'haviour. 
But,  be  it  what  it  may,  I  cannot  fail 
To  listen  with  no  common  interest ; 
For  though  so  new  your  presence; is  to  me, 
I  have  a  soldier's  friendship  for  your  fame. 
Please  you  explain. 

Gersa.  As  thus  : — for,  pardon  me, 

I  cannot,  in  plain  terms,  grossly  assault 
A  noble  nature ;  and  would  feintly  sketch 
What  your  quick  apprehension  will  fill  up  ; 
So  finely  I  esteem  you. 

Ludolph.  I  attend.  60 

Gersa.  Your  generous  father,  most  illustrious  Otho, 
Sits  in  the  banquet-room  among  his  chiefs ; 
His  wine  is  bitter,  for  you  are  not  there ; 
His  eyes  are  fix'd  still  on  the  open  doors. 
And  ev'ry  passer  in  he  frowns  upon. 
Seeing  no  Ludolph  comes. 

Ludolph.  I  do  neglect. 

Gersa.  And  for  your  absence  may  I  guess  the  cause  ? 

Ludolph.  Stay  there  !     No — guess  ?     More  princely  you  must 
be 
Than  to  make  guesses  at  me.     'Tis  enough. 
I'm  sorry  I  can  hear  no  more. 

Gersa.  And  I  70 

As  grieved  to  force  it  on  you  so  abrupt ; 
Yet,  one  day,  you  must  know  a  griefi  whose  sting 
Will  sharpen  more  the  longer  'tis  conceal'd. 

Ludolph.  Say  it  at  once,  sir !     Dead — dead..''-^is  she  dead  } 

Gersa.  Mine  is  a  cruel  task :  she  is  not  dead. 
And  would,  for  your  sake,  she  were  innocent. 

Ludolph.  Hungarian  !     Thou  amazest  me  beyond 
All  scope  of  thought,  convulsest  my  heart's  blood 
To  deadly  churning  !     Gersa,  you  are  young. 

As  I  am ;  let  me  observe  you,  face  to  face  :  80 

Not  grey-brow'd  like  the  poisonous  Ethelbert, 
No  rheumed  eyes,  no  furrowing  of  age. 
No  wrinkles,  where  all  vices  nestle  in 
Like  crannied  vermin, — no  !  but  fresh,  and  young. 
And  hopeful  featured.     Ha  I  by  heaven  you  weep ! 


ACT  IV.,  sc.  ii]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  329 

Tears,  human  tears  !     Do  you  repent  you  then 
Of  a  curs'd  torturer's  office  ?    Why  shouldst  join — 
Tell  me, — the  league  of  devils  ?     Confess — confess- — 
The  lie ! 

Gersa.  Lie  ! — but  begone  all  ceremonious  points 
Of  honour  battailous  !     I  could  not  turn'  go 

My  wrath  against  thee  for  the  orbed  world/ 

Ludolph.  Your  wrath,  weak  boy  ?     Tremble  at  mine,  unles^ 
Retraction  follow  close  upon  the  heels  L 
Of  that  late  'stounding  insult !     Why  has  my  sword 
Not  done  already  a  sheer  judgment  on  thee  ?  I 
Despair,  or  eat  thy  words  !     Why,  thou  wast  nigh  I 
Whimpering  away  my  reason  !     Hark  ye,  sir,j 
It  is  no  secret,  that  £rminia,\ 
Erminia,  sir,  was  hidden  in  your  tent, — ; 

0  bless'd  asylum  !     Comfortable  home  !j  loo 
Begone  !    I  pity  thee;  thou  art  a  gull,t 

Erminia's  last  new  puppet  | 

Gersa.  Furious  fire  !j 

Thou  mak'st  me  boil  as  hot  as  thou  canst  flame  !  \ 
And  in  thy  teeth  I  give  thee  back  the  lie  I  I 

Thou  liest !    Thou,  Auranthe's  fool !     A  \littol !  I 

Ludolph.  Look  !  look  at  this  bright  sword  ;|      I 
There  is  no  part  of  it,  to  the  very  hilt,l 
But  shall  indulge  itself  about  thine  hekrt  ij 
Draw  !  but  remember  thou  must  cower  thy  plumes,| 
As  yesterday  the  Arab  made  thee  stoop.) 

Gersa.  Patience  !     Not  here  ;  I  would  not  spill  thy  blood)' 
Here,  underneath  this  roof  where  Otho  breathes,— < 
Thy  father, — almost  mine.  i 

Ludolph.  O  faltering  coward/!  , 

Enter  Page. 

Stay,  stay  ;  here  is  one  I  have  half  a  word  with. 
Well  ?    What  ails  thee,  child  > 

Page.  My  lord ! 

Ludolph.  What  wouldst  say  ? 

Page.  They  are  fled  ! 

Ludolph.  They!  Who.'' 

Page.  When  anxiously 

1  hasten'd  back,  your  grieving  messenger, 
I  found  the  stairs  all  dark,  the  lamps  extinct. 
And  not  a  foot  or  whisper  to  be  heard. 
I  thought  her  dead,  and  on  the  lowest  step 
Sat  listening ;  when  presently  came  by 
Two  mufiBed  up, — one  sighing  heavily, 


330  JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  i 

The  other  cursing  low,  whose  voice  I  knew 
For  the  Duke  Conrad's.     Close  I  foUow'd  them 
Thro'  the  dark  ways  they  chose  to  the  open  air. 
And,  as  I  foUow'd,  heard  my  lady  speak. 

Ludolph.  Thy  life  answers  the  truth ! 

Page.  The  chamber's  empty ! 

Ludolph.  As  I  will  be  of  mercy  !     So,  at  last, 
This  nail  is  in  my  temples  ! 

Gersa.  Be  calm  in  this. 

Ludolph.  I  am. 

Gersa.  And  Albert  too  has  disappear'd ;  130 

Ere  I  met  you,  I  sought  him  everywhere  ; 
You  would  not  hearken. 

Ludolph.  Which  way  went  they,  boy  ? 

Gersa.  I'll  hunt  with  you. 

Ludolph.  No,  no,  no.     My  senses  are 

Still  whole.     I  have  survived.     My  arm  is  strong — 
My  appetite  sharp — for  revenge !     I'll  no  sharer 
In  my  feast ;  my  injury  is  all  my  own. 
And  so  is  my  revenge,  my  lawful  chattels  ! 
Terrier,  ferret  them  out !  Bum — burn  the  witch  ! 
Trace  me  their  footsteps  !  Away  !  [EmuU 


ACT  V 

Scene  I. — A  part  of  the  Forest, 
Enter  Conrad  and  Auranthe. 
Auranthe. 

GO  no  further ;  not  a  step  more.     Thou  art 
A  master-plague  in  the  midst  of  miseries. 
Go, — I  fear  thee  !     I  tremble,  every  limb. 
Who  never  shook  before.     There's  moody  death 
In  thy  resolved  looks  !     Yes,  I  could  kneel 
To  pray  thee  far  away  !     Conrad,  go  !  go  ! — 
There  !  yonder,  underneath  the  boughs  1  see 
Our  horses ! 

Conrad.        Ay,  and  the  man. 
Auranthe.  Yes,  he  is  there  ! 

Go,  go, — no  blood  !  no  blood  ! — go,  gentle  Conrad  ! 
Conrad.  Farewell ! 

Auranthe.  Farewell !     For  this  Heaven  pardon  you !  «> 

[Exit  Auranthe. 

Conrad.  If  he  survive  one  hour,  then  may  I  die 


ACT  v.,  sc.  Ill         OTHO  THE  GREAT  SSI 

In  unimagined  tortures,  or  breathe  through 

A  long  life  in  the  foulest  sink  o'  the  world  ! 

He  dies !     'Tis  well  she  do  not  advertise 

The  caitiiFof  the  cold  steel  at  his  back.  [Exit  Conk  ad. 

Enter  Ludolph  and  Page. 

Ludolph.  Miss'd  the  way,  boy  ?     Say  not  that  on  your  peril ! 

Page.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  trace  them  further. 

Ludolph.  Must  I  stop  here .-'     Here  solitary  die 
Stifled  beneath  the  thick  oppressive  shade 

Of  these  dull  boughs — ^this  even  of  dark  thickets —  20 

Silent, — without  revenge .' — pshaw  !  bitter  end, — 
A  bitter  death — a  suffocating  death, — 
A  gnawing — silent — deadly,  quiet  death  ! 
Escaped  ? — fled  } — vanish'd  2  melted  into  air  ? 
She's  gone  !     I  cannot  cluteh  her  !  no  revenge  ! 
A  muffled  death,  ensnared  m  horrid  silence  ! 
Suck'd  to  my  grave  amid  a  dreamy  calm  ! 
O,  where  is  that  illustrious  noise  of  war. 
To  smother  up  this  sound  of  labouring  breath. 
This  rustle  of  the  trees  ! 

[AuRANTHE  shrieks  at  a  distance. 

Page.  My  lord,  a  noise  !  30 

This  way — hark  ! 

Ludolph.  Yes,  yis  !     A  hope  !     A  music  ! 

A  glorious  clamour  !     How  I  live  again  !  [Excnnl. 


Scene  II. — Another  part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  Albert  {mounded). 

Albert.  Oh  !  for  enough  life  to  support  me  on 
To  Otho's  feet ! 

Enter  Ludolph. 

Ludolph.         Thrice  villainous,  stay  there  ! 
Tell  me  where  that  detested  woman  is. 
Or  this  is  through  thee  ! 

Albert.  My  good  Prince,  with  me 

The  sword  has  done  its  worst ;  not  without  worst 
Done  to  another, — Conrad  has  it  home  ! 
I  see  you  know  it  all ! 

Ludolph.  Where  is  his  sister  ? 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  ii 

Enter  Auranthe. 

Aurantke.  Albert ! 

Ludolph.  Ha  !     There  !  there  !     He  is  the  paramour ! — 
There — hug  him — dying  !     O,  thou  innocence. 
Shrine  him  and  comfort  him  at  his  last  gasp ;  iq 

Kiss  down  his  eyelids  !     Was  he  not  thy  love  ? 
Wilt  thou  forsake  him  at  his  latest  hour  ? 
Keep  fearful  and  aloof  from  his  last  gaze. 
His  most  uneasy  moments,  when  cold  death 
Stands  with  the  door  ajar  to  let  him  in  > 

Albert.  O  that  that  door  with  hollow  slam  would  close 
Upon  me  sudden !  for  I  cannot  meet. 
In  all  the  unknown  chambers  of  the  dead. 
Such  horrors ! 

Ludolph.  Auranthe  !  what  can  he  mean  ? 

What  horrors  ?     Is  it  not  a  joyous  time  ?  20 

Am  I  not  married  to  a  paragon 
"  Of  personal  beauty  and  untainted  soul  ?  " 
A  blushing  fair-eyed  purity  ?     A  sylph. 
Whose  snowy  timid  hand  has  never  sinn'd 
Beyond  a  flower  pluck'd,  white  as  itself? 
Albert,  you  do  insult  my  bride — your  mistress — 
To  talk  of  horrors  on  our  wedding-night ! 

Albert,  Alas  !  poor  Prince,  I  would  you  knew  my  heart ! 
'Tis  not  so  guilty — 

Ludolph.  Hear  !  he  pleads  not  guilty  ! 

You  are  not  ?  or,  if  so,  what  matters  it  ?  30 

You  have  escaped  me,  free  as  the  dusk  air, 
Hid  in  the  forest,  safe  from  my  revenge ; 
I  cannot  catch  you !     You  should  laugh  at  me. 
Poor  cheated  Ludolph !     Make  the  forest  hiss 
With  jeers  at  me  !     Ypu  tremble — faint  at  once. 
You  will  come  to  again.     O  cockatrice, 
I  have  you  !     Whither  wander  those  fair  eyes 
To  entice  the  devil  to  your  help,  that  he 
May  change  you  to  a  spider,  so  to  crawl 
Into  some  cranny  to  escape  my  wrath  ?  40 

Albert.  Sometimes  the  counsel  of  a  dying  man 
Doth  operate  quietly  when  his  breath  is  gone  : 
Disjoin  those  hands — part — part — do  not  destroy 
Each  other — forget  her  ! — Our  miseries 
Are  equal  shared,  and  mercy  is — 

Ludolph.  A  boon 

When  one  can  compass  it.     Auranthe,  try 
Your  oratory  ;  your  breath  is  not  so  hiteh'd. 
Ay,  stare  for  help  !  [Albert  dies. 


ACT  v.,  sc.  Ill]         OTHO  THE  GREAT 

There  goes  a  spotted  soul 
Howling  in  vain  along  the  hollow  night ! 
Hear  him  !     He  calls  you — sweet  Auranthe,  come  !  50 

Auranthe.  Kill  me ! 

Ludolph.  No  !  What  ?  Upon  our  marriage-night  ? 
The  earth  would  shudder  at  so  foul  a  deed  ! 
A  fair  bride  !  A  sweet  bride  !  An  innocent  bride  ! 
No !  we  must  revel  it,  as  'tis  in  use 
In  times  of  dehcate  brilliant  ceremony  : 
Come,  let  me  lead  you  to  our  halls  again  ! 
Nay,  linger  not ;  make  no  resistance,  sweet ; — 
Will  you  ?     Ah,  wretch,  thou  canst  not,  for  I  have 
The  strength  of  twenty  lions  'gainst  a  lamb  ! 

Now — one  adieu  for  Albert ! — Come  away  !  60 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  III. — An  inner  Court  of  the  Castle. 
Enter  Sigifred,  Gonfred,  and  Theodore,  meeting. 

\sl  Knight,  Was  ever  such  a  night  ? 

Sigifred.  What  horrors  more  ? 

Things  unbelieved  one  hour,  so  strange  they  are. 
The  next  hour  stamps  with  credit. 

Ut  Knight,  Your  last  news  ? 

Gonfred.  After  the  page's  story  of  the  death 
Of  Albert  and  Duke  Conrad  } 

Sigifred.  And  the  return 

Of  Ludolph  with  the  Princess. 

Gonfred.  No  more,  save 

Prince  Gersa's  freeing  Abbot  Ethelbert, 
And  the  sweet  lady,  feir  Erminia, 
From  prison. 

IH  Knight.  Where  are  they  now .'     Hast  yet  heard  ? 

Gonfred.  With  the  sad  Emperor  they  are  closeted ;  10 

1  saw  the  three  pass  slowly  up  the  stairs, 
The  lady  weeping,  the  old  abbot  cowl'd. 

Sigifred.  What  next  ? 

1st  Knight,  I  ache  to  think  on't. 

Gonfred.  'Tis  with  fete. 

1st  Knight,  One  while  these  proud  towers  are  hush'd  as  death. 

Gonfred,  The  next  our  poor  Prince  fills  the  arched  rooms 
With  ghastly  ravings. 

St^fred.  I  do  fear  his  brain. 

Gonfred.  I  will  see  more.     Bear  you  so  stout  a  heart  ? 

[Exeunt  into  the  Castle. 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  iv 

Scene  IV. — A  Cabinet,  opening  towards  a  Terrace. 

Otho,  Erminia,  Ethelbert,  and  a  Physician,  discovered. 

Olho.  O,  my  poor  boy  !     My  son  !     My  son  !     My  Ludolph  ! 
Have  ye  no  comfort  for  me,  ye  physicians 
Of  the  weak  body  and  soul  ? 

Ethelbert.  'Tis  not  in  medicine. 

Either  of  heaven  or  earth,  to  cure,  unless 
Fit  time  be  chosen  to  administer. 

Otho.  A  kind  forbearance,  holy  abbot.     Come, 
Erminia  ;  here,  sit  by  me,  gentle  girl ; 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  hast  thou  forgiven  me  ? 

Erminia.  Would  I  were  with  the  saints  to  pray  for  you ! 
Otho.  Why  will  ye  keep  me  from  my  darling  child  ?  lo 

Physician.  Forgive  me,  but  he  must  not  see  thy  feice. 
Otho.  Is  then  a  father's  countenance  a  Gorgon  ? 
Hath  it  not  comfort  in  it  ?     Would  it  not 
Console  my  poor  boy,  cheer  him,  heal  his  spirits  ? 
Let  me  embrace  him  ;  let  me  speak  to  him  ; 
I  will !     Who  hinders  me  ?     Who  's  Emperor  ? 

Physician.  You  may  not.  Sire  ;  'twould  overwhelm  him  quite,    ,  , 
He  is  so  full  of  grief  and  passionate  wrath ; 
Too  heavy  a  sigh  would  kill  him,  or  do  worse. 
He  must  be  saved  by  fine  contrivances ;  20 

And,  most  especially,  we  must  keep  clear 
Out  of  his  sight  a  father  whom  he  loves  ; 
His  heart  is  fuU,  it  can  contain  no  more. 
And  do  its  ruddy  office. 

Ethelbert.  Sage  adyice ; 

We  must  endeavour  how  to  ease  and  slacken 
The  tight-wound  energies  of  his  despair, 
Not  make  them  tenser. 

Otho.  Enough  !     I  hear,  I  hear. 

Yet  you  were  about  to  advise  more, — I  listen. 

Ethelbert.  This  learned  doctor  will  agree  with  me. 
That  not  in  the  smallest  point  should  he  be  thwarted,  3" 

Or  gainsaid  by  one  word  ;  his  very  motions. 
Nods,  becks,  and  hints,  should  be  obey'd  with  care, 
Even  on  the  moment ;  so  his  troubled  mind 
May  cure  itself. 

Physician.         There  are  no  other  means. 
Otho.  Open  the  door  ;  let's  hear  if  all  is  quiet. 
Physician.  Beseech  you,  Sire,  forbear. 
Erminia,  Do,  do. 


ACT  v.,  sc.  v]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  335 

Otho.  I  command ! 

Open  it  straight ; — hush  ! — quiet ! — my  lost  boy  ! 
My  miserable  child ! 

Ludolpk  {indistinctly  without).  Fill,  fill  my  goblet, — here's  a  health  ! 

Erminia.  O,  close  the  door ! 

Otho.  Let,  let  me  hear  his  voice  ;  this  cannot  last ;  40 

And  &in  would  I  catch  up  his  dying  words. 
Though  my  own  knell  they  be  !     This  cannot  last ! 
0  let  me  catch  his 'voice — for  lo  !  I  hear 
A  whisper  in  this  silence  that  he's  dead  ! 
It  is  so !     Gersa  ? 

Filter  Gersa. 

Physician.  Say,  how  fares  the  Prince  ? 

Gersa.  More  calm  ;  his  features  are  less  wild  and  flush'd  ; 
Once  he  complain'd  of  weariness. 

Physician.  Indeed ! 

'Tis  good, — 'tis  good  ;  let  him  but  fall  asleep. 
That  saves  him. 

Otho.  Gersa,  watch  him  like  a  child  ; 

Ward  him  from  harm, — and  bring  me  better  news  !  50 

Physician.  Humour  him  to  the  height.     I  fear  to  go  ; 
For  should  he  catch  a  glimpse  of  my  dull  garb. 
It  might  afiright  him,  fill  him  with  suspicion 
That  we  beUeve  him  sick,  which  must  not  be. 

Gersa.  I  will  invent  what  soothing  means  I  can. 

[Exit  Gersa. 

Physician.  This  should  cheer  up  your  Highness  ;  weariness 
Is  a  good  symptom,  and  most  &vourable  ; 
It  gives  me  pleasant  hopes.     Please  you,  walk  forth 
Upon  the  terrace ;  the  refreshing  air 

Will  blow  one  half  of  your  sad  doubts  away.  60 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  V — A  Banqueting  Hall,  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  set  jorth 
with  all  costly  ma^aficence,  with  Supper-tables  laden  with  Services  oj 
Gold  and  Silver.  A  door  in  the  back  scene,  guarded  by  two  Soldiers. 
Lords,  Ladies,  Knights,  Gentlemen,  ^c,  whispering  sadly,  and  rang- 
ing themselves  ;  part  entering  and  part  discovered. 

Ist  Knight.  Grievously  are  we  tantalised,  one  and  all ; 
Sway'd  here  and  there,  commanded  to  and  fi-o. 
As  though  we  were  the  shadows  of  a  sleep. 
And  link'd  to  a  dreaming  &ncy.     What  do  we  here  ? 

Gonjred.  I  am  no  seer ;  you  know  we  must  obey 
The  Prince  from  A  to  Z,  though  it  should  be 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  v 


To  set  the  place  in  flames.     I  pray,  hast  heard 
Where  the  most  wicked  Princess  is  ? 

1st  Knight.  There,  sir. 

In  the  next  room  ;  have  you  remark'd  those  two 
Stout  soldiers  posted  at  the  door  ? 

Gonfred.  For  what  ? 


10 

[They  whisper. 


Isi  Lady.  How  ghast  a  train ! 

2nd  Lady.  Sure  this  should  be  some  splendid  burial. 

1st  Lady.  What  fearful  whispering !     See,  see, — Gersa  there ! 

Enter  Gersa. 

Gersa.  Put  on  your  brightest  looks ;  smile  if  you  can ; 
Behave  as  all  were  happy  ;  keep  your  eyes 
From  the  least  watch  upon  him  ;  if  hfe  speaks 
To  any  one,  answer,  collectedly. 
Without  surprise,  his  questioiis^  howe'er  strange. 
Do  thisto  the  utmost, — ^though,' alas  !  with  me 
The  remedy  grows  hopeless  !     Here  he  comes, —  20 

Observe  what  I  have  said, — show  no  surprise. 

Enter  hvDOLPH,' Jbllowed  by  Sigifred  aTid  Page. 

Ludolph.  A  splendid  company !  rare  beauties  here  ! 
I  should  have  Orphean  lips,  and  Plato's  fancy, 
Amphion's  utterancCi  toned  with  his  lyre. 
Or  the  deep  key  of  Jove's  sonorous  mouth. 
To  give  fit  salutation.  .  Methought  I  heard. 
As  I  came  in,  some  whispers,-7-*what  of  that .' 
'Tis  natural  men  should  whisper  ;  at  the  kiss  • 

Of  Psyche  given  by  Love,  there  was  a  buzz 

Among  the  gods ! — ^and  silence  is  as  natural.  30 

These  draperies  are  fine,  and,  being  a  mortal, 
I  should  desire  no  better ;  yet,  in  truth. 
There  must  be  some  superior  costliness. 
Some  wider-domed  high  magnificence  ! 
I  would  have,  as  a  mortal  I  may  not. 
Hangings  of  heaven's  clouds,  purple  and  gold. 
Slung  from  the  spheres  ;  gauzes  of  silver  mist, 
Loop'd  up  with  cords  of  twisted  wreathed  light. 
And  tassell'd  round  with  weeping  meteors  ! 

These  pendent  lamps  and  chandeliers  are  bright  40 

As  earthly  fires  from  dull  dross  can  be  cleansed  ; 
Yet  could  my  eyes  drink  up  intenser  beams 
Undazzled  ; — this  is  darkness, — when  I  close 
These  lids,  I  see  far  fiercer  brilliances, — 
Skies  full  of  splendid  moons,  and  shooting  stars, 


ACT  v.,  sc.  V]         OTHO  THE  GREAT  337 

And  spouting  exhalations,  diamond  fires, 

And  panting  fountains  quivering  with  deep  glows. 

Yes — this  is  dark — is  it  not  dark  ? 

Si^fred.  My  lord, 

'Tis  late  ;  the  lights  of  festival  are  ever 
Queneh'd  in  the  mom. 

Ludolph.  'Tis  not  to-morrow  then  ?  50 

Sigifred.  'Tis  early  dawn. 

Gersa.  Indeed  full  time  we  slept ; 

Say  you  so,  Prince  ? 

Ludolph.  I  say  I  quarreU'd  with  you ; 

We  did  not  tilt  each  other, — that's  a  blessing, — 
Good  gods  !  no  innocent  blood  upon  my  head  ! 

Sigifred.  Retire,  Gersa ! 

Ludolph.         There  should  be  three  more  here  : 
For  two  of  them,  they  stay  away  perhaps. 
Being  gloomy -minded,  haters  of  fiiir  revels, — 
They  know  their  own  thoughts  best. 

As  for  the  third. 
Deep  blue  eyes,  semi-shaded  in  white  lids, 

Finish'd  with  lashes  fine  for  more  soft  shade,  60 

Completed  by  her  twin-arch'd  ebon-brows ; 
White  temples,  of  exactest  elegance. 
Of  even  mould,  felicitous  and  smooth  ; 
Cheeks  fashion'd  tenderly  on  either  side. 
So  perfect,  so  divine,  that  our  poor  eyes 
Are  dazzled  with  the  sweet  proportioning. 
And  wonder  that  'tis  so, — the  magic  chance  ! 
Her  nostrils,  small,  fragrant,  fairy-delicate ; 
Her  lips — I  swear  no  human  bones  e'er  wore 

So  taking  a  disguise ; — ^you  shall  behold  her !  70 

We'll  have  her  presently ;  ay,  you  shall  see  her. 
And  wonder  at  her,  friends,  she  is  so  fair ; 
She  is  the  world's  chief  jewel,  and,  by  heaven ! 
She's  mine  by  right  of  marriage  ! — she  is  mine  ! 
Patience,  good  people,  in  fit  time  I  send 
A  summoner, — she  will  obey  my  call. 
Being  a  wife  most  mild  and  dutiful. 
First  I  would  hear  what  music  is  prepared 
To  herald  and  receive  her ;  let  me  hear  ! 

Si^fred.  Bid  the  musicians  soothe  him  tenderly.  80 

[A  soft  strain  of  Music. 
Ludolph.  Ye  have  none  better  ?     No,  I  am  content ; 
'Tis  a  rich  sobbing  melody,  with  reliefs 
Full  and  majestic  ;  it  is  well  enough. 
And  will  be  sweeter,  when  ye  see  her  pace 
Sweepmg  into  this  presence,  glisten'd  o'er 

28 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  v 

With  emptied  caskets,  and  her  train  upheld 

By  ladies  habited  in  robes  of  lawn, 

Sprinkled  with  golden  crescents,  others  bright 

In  silks,  with  spangles  shower' d,  and  bow'd  to 

By  Duchesses  and  pearled  Margravines  !  go 

Sad  !  that  the  fairest  creature  of  the  earth — 

I  pray  you  mind  me  not — 'tis  sad,  I  say. 

That  the  extremest  beauty  of  the  world 

Should  so  entrench  herself  away  from  me. 

Behind  a  barrier  of  engender'd  guilt ! 

2nd  Lady.  Ah  !  what  a  moan  I 

1st  Knight.  Most  piteous  indeed  ! 

Ludolph.  She  shall  be  brought  before  this  company, 
And  then — then — 

1st  Lady.  He  muses. 

Gersa.         O,  Fortune  !  where  will  this  end  ? 

Sigifred.  I  guess  his  purpose  !     Indeed  he  must  not  have 
That  pestilence  brought  in, — ^that  cannot  be,  loo 

There  we  must  stop  him. 

Gersa.  I  am  lost !     Hush,  hush  ! 

He  is  about  to  rave  again. 

Ludolph.  A  barrier  of  guilt !     I  was  the  fool. 
She  was  the  cheater  !     Who  's  the  cheater  now. 
And  who  the  fool }     The  entrapp'd,  the  caged  fool. 
The  bird-limed  raven  ?     She  shall  croak  to  death 
Secure !     Methinks  I  have  her  in  my  fist, 
To  crush  her  with  my  heel !     Wait,  wait !  I  marvel 
My  father  keeps  away.     Good  friend — ah !  Sigifred  .'' 
Do  bring  him  to  me, — and  Erminia,  "  no 

I  fain  would  see  before  I  sleep — ^and  Ethelbert 
That  he  may  bless  me,  as  I  know  he  will, 
Though  I  have  cursed  him. 

Sigifred.  Rather  suffer  me 

To  lead  you  to  them. 

Ludolph.  No,  excuse  me, — no ! 

The  day  is  not  quite  done.     Go,  bring  them  hither. 

[Exit  SiGIFBED. 

Certes,  a  father's  smile  should,  like  sunlight. 

Slant  on  my  sheaved  harvest  of  ripe  bliss. 

Besides,  I  thirst  to  pledge  my  lovely  bride 

In  a  deep  goblet :  let  me  see — what  wine  ? 

The  strong  Iberian  juice,  or  mellow  Greek  ?  "o 

Or  pale  Calabrian  ?     Or  the  Tuscan  grape  ? 

Or  of  old  ^Etna's  pulpy  wine-presses, 

Black  stain'd  with  the  fat  vintage,  as  it  were 

The  purple  slaughter-house,  where  Bacchus'  self 

Prick'd  his  own  swollen  veins  I     Where  is  my  page  f 


ACT  v.,  SO.  V]        OTHO  THE  GREAT  339 

Page.  Here,  here ! 

Ludolph.  Be  ready  to  obey  me ;  anon  thou  shalt 
Bear  a  soft  message  for  me  ;  for  the  hour 
Draws  near  when  I  must  make  a  winding  up 
Of  bridal  mysteries — a  fine-spun  vengeance  ! 

Carve  it  on  my  tomb,  that,  when  I  rest  beneath  130 

Men  shall  confess,  this  Prince  was  guU'd  and  cheated. 
But  from  the  ashes  of  disgrace  he  rose 
More  than  a  fiery  dragon,  and  did  bum 
His  ignominy  up  in  purging  fires  1 
Did  I  not  send,  sir,  but  a  moment  past. 
For  my  father  ? 

Gersa.  You  did. 

Ludolph.  Perhaps  'twould  be 

Much  better  he  came  not. 

Gersa.  He  enters  now ! 

Enter  Otho,  Erminia,  Ethelbert,  Sigifred  a?id  Physician. 

Ludolph.  O  !  thou  good  man,  against  whose  sacred  head 
I  was  a  mad  conspirator,  chiefly  too 

For  the  sake  of  my  fair  newly  wedded  wife,  140 

Now  to  be  punisb'd ! — do  not  look  so  sad  ! 
Those  charitable  eyes  will  thaw  my  heart. 
Those  tears  will  wash  away  a  just  resolve, 
A  verdict  ten  times  sworn  !     Awake — awake — 
Put  on  a  judge's  brow,  and  use  a  tongue 
Made  iron-stem  by  habit !     Thou  shalt  see 
A  deed  to  be  applauded,  'scribed  in  gold ! 
Join  a  loud  voice  to  mine,  and  so  denounce 
What  1  alone  will  execute ! 

Otho.  Dear  son. 

What  is  it  ?    By  your  father's  love,  I  sue  150 

That  it  be  nothing  merciless ! 

Ludolph.  To  that  demon  > 

Not  so !     No  !     She  is  in  temple-stall. 
Being  gamish'd  for  the  sacrifice,  and  I, 
The  Priest  of  Justice,  will  immolate  her 
Upon  the  altar  of  wrath  !  She  stings  rae  through  ! — 
Even  as  the  worm  doth  feed  upon  the  nut. 
So  she,  a  scorpion,  preys  upon  my  brain  ! 
I  feel  her  gnawing  here  !     Let  her  but  vanish. 
Then,  father,  I  will  lead  your  legions  forth, 

Compact  in  steeled  squares  and  speared  files,  160 

And  bid  our  trumpets  speak  a  fell  rebuke 
To  nations  drowsed  in  peace  ! 

Otho.  To-morrow,  son. 

Be  your  word  law  ;  forget  to-day — 


340  JOHN  KEATS  [act  v.,  sc.  v 

Lvdolph.  I  will. 

When  I  have  finish'd  it !     Now, — now,  I'm  pight. 
Tight-footed  for  the  deed ! 

Emtinia.  Alas  !  Alas  ! 

Ludolph.  What  angel's  voice  is  that  ?  Erminia 
Ah !  gentlest  creature,  whose  sweet  innocence 
Was  almost  murder'd  ;  I  am  penitent. 
Wilt  thou  forgive  me  ?     And  thou  holy  man. 
Good  Ethelbert,  shall  I  die  in  peace  with  you  ?  i-o 

Erminia.  Die,  my  lord  ? 

Ludolph.  I  feel  it  possible. 

Otho,  Physician  ? 

Physician.  I  fear,  he  is  past  my  skill. 

Otho.  Not  so ! 

Litdolph.  I  see  it — I  see  it — I  have  been  wandering  ! 
Half  mad — not  right  here — I  forget  my  purpose. 
Bestir — bestir — Auranthe  !     Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Youngster  !  page  !  go  bid  them  drag  her  to  me  ! 
Obey  !     This  shall  finish  it  I  [Drams  a  dagger. 

Otho.  Oh,  my  son  !  my  son  ! 

Sigijred.  This  must  not  be — stop  there ! 

Ludolph.  Am  I  obey'd  ? 

A  little  talk  with  her — no  harm — haste  !  haste  ! 

[Exit  Page. 
Set  her  before  me — never  fear  I  can  strike.  i8o 

Several  voices.  My  lord  !     My  lord ! 

Gersa.  Good  Prince ! 

Ludolph.     Why  do  ye  trouble  me  ?  out — out — away  ! 
There  she  is  I  take  that  I  and  that !  no,  no, 
That's  not  well  done — where  is  she  ? 

[The  Doors  open.    Enter  Page.    Several  Women  are  seen  grouped 
about  AuHANTHE  in  the  inner  Room. 

Page.  Alas  !  My  lord,  my  lord  !  they  cannot  move  her ! 
Her  arms  are  stiff — her  fingers  clench'd  and  cold. 

Ludolph.  She's  dead ! 

[Stagers  and  faUs  into  their  arms. 

Ethelbert.  Take  away  the  dagger. 

Gersa.  Softly;  so  I 

Otho.  Thank  God  for  that  I 

Sigifred.  It  could  not  harm  him  now. 

Gersa.  No  ! — brief  be  his  anguish  ! 

Lvdolph.  She's  gone  !     I  am  content.     Nobles,  good  night  I   190 
We  are  all  weary — faint — set  ope  the  doors — 
I  will  to  bed  !     To-morrow — 

[Bies. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS. 


KING  STEPHEN 


A    DRAMATIC    FRAGMENT 


ACT  I 

Scene  I. — Field  of  Battle. 

Alarum.      Enter  King  Stephen,  Knights,  and  Soldiers. 

Stephen, 

IF  shame  can  on  a  soldier's  vein-swoH'n  front 
Spread  deeper  crimson  than  the  battle's  toil. 
Blush  in  your  easing  helmets  !  for  see,  see  ! 
Yonder  my  chivalry,  my  pride  of  war, 
Wrench'd  with  an  iron  hand  from  firm  array. 
Are  routed  loose  about  the  plashy  meads. 
Of  honour  forfeit.     O  that  my  known  voice 
Could  reach  your  dastard  ears,  and  fright  you  more  ! 
Fly,  cowards,  fly  !  Glocester  is  at  your  backs  ! 
Throw  your  slack  bridles  o'er  the  flurried  manes. 
Ply  well  the  rowel  with  faint  trembling  heels. 
Scampering  to  death  at  last ! 

1st  Knight.  The  enemy 

Bears  his  flaunt  standard  close  upon  their  rear. 

2nd  Knight.  Sure  of  a  bloody  prey,  seeing  the  fens 
Will  swamp  them  girth-deep. 

Stephen.  Over  head  and  ears. 

No  matter  !     'Tis  a  gallant  enemy  ; 
How  like  a  comet  he  goes  streaming  on. 
But  we  must  plague  him  in  the  flank, — hey,  friends  ? 
We  are  well  breath'd, — follow  ! 

Enter  Earl  Baldwin  and  soldiers,  as  defeated. 

Stephen.  De  Redvers  ! 

What  is  the  monstrous  bugbear  that  can  fright 
Baldwin  ? 


JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  sc.  ii 

Baldwin.  No  scarecrow,  but  the  fortunate  star 
Of  boisterous  Chester,  whose  fell  truncheon  now 
Points  level  to  the  goal  of  victory. 
This  way  he  comes,  and  if  you  would  maintain 
Your  person  unaffronted  by  vile  odds, 
Take  horse,  my  Lord. 

Stephen.  And  which  way  spur  for  life  } 

Now  I  thank  heaven  I  am  in  the  toils. 
That  soldiers  may  bear  witness  how  my  arm 
Can  burst  the  meshes.     Not  the  eagle  more 
Loves  to  beat  up  against  a  t3rrannous  blast,  30 

Than  I  to  meet  the  torrent  of  my  foes. 
This  is  a  brag, — ^be't  so, — but  if  I  fall. 
Carve  it  upon  my  'scutcheon'd  sepulchre. 
On,  feUow  soldiers  !     Earl  of  Redvers,  back  ! 
Not  twenty  Earls  of  Chester  shall  brow-beat 
The  diadem.  [Exeunt,     Alarum. 


Scene  II. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 
Trumpets  sounding  a  Victory.     Enter  Glocester,  Knights,  and  Forces 

Glocester.  Now  may  we  lift  our  bruised  vizors  up 
And  take  the  flattering  freshness  of  the  air. 
While  the  wide  din  of  battle  dies  away 
Into  times  past,  yet  to  be  echoed  sure 
In  the  silent  pages  of  our  chroniclers. 

1st  Knight.  Will  Stephen's  death  be  mark'd  there,  my  good 
Lord, 
Or  that  we  give  him  lodging  in  yon  towers  ? 

Glocester.  Fain  would  I  know  the  great  usurper's  fete. 

Enter  two  Captains  severally. 

1st  Captain.  My  Lord  ! 

2nd  Captain.  Most  noble  Earl ! 

1st  Captain.  The  King — 

Ztid  Captain.  The  Empress  greets — 

Glocester.  What  of  the  King  ? 

1st  Captain.  He  sole  and  lone  maintains  10 

A  hopeless  bustle  'mid  our  swarming  arms. 
And  with  a  nimble  savageness  attacks. 
Escapes,  makes  fiercer  onset,  then  anew 
Eludes  death,  giving  death  to  most  that  dare 
Trespass  within  the  circuit  of  his  sword  ! 
He  must  by  this  have  fallen.     Baldwin  is  taken ; 


ACT  I.,  sc.  11]  KING  STEPHEN  343 

And  for  the  Duke  of  Bretagne,  like  a  stag 
He  flies,  for  the  Welsh  beagles  to  hunt  down. 
God  save  the  Empress  ! 

Glocester.  Now  our  dreaded  Queen : 

What  message  from  her  Highness  ? 

2nd  Captain.  Royal  Maud  20 

From  the  throng' d  towers  of  Lincoln  hath  look'd  down. 
Like  Pallas  from  the  walls  of  Ilion, 
And  seen  her  enemies  havock'd  at  her  feet. 
She  greets  most  noble  Glocester  from  her  heart, 
Intreating  him,  his  captains,  and  brave  knights. 
To  grace  a  banquet.     The  high  city  gates 
Are  envious  which  shall  see  your  triumph  pass  ; 
The  streets  are  full  of  music. 

Enter  2nd  Knight. 

Glocester.  Whence  come  you  ? 

2nd  Knight.  From  Stephen,  my  good  Prince — Stephen  ! 
Stephen ! 

Glocester.  Why  do  you  make  such  echoing  of  his  name  ?      30 

2nd  Knight.  Because  I  think,  my  lord,  he  is  no  man. 
But  a  fierce  demon,  'nointed  safe  from  wounds. 
And  misbaptized  with  a  Christian  name. 

Glocester.  A  mighty  soldier ! — Does  he  still  hold  out  ? 

2nd  Knight.  He  shames  our  victory.     His  valour  still 
Keeps  elbow-room  amid  our  eager  swords. 
And  holds  our  bladed  falchions  all  aloof. 
His  gleaming  battle-axe,  being  slaughter-sick. 
Smote  on  the  morion  of  a  Flemish  knight. 
Broke  short  in  his  hand  ;  upon  the  which  he  flung  40 

The  heft  away  with  such  a  vengeful  force 
It  paunch'd  the  Earl  of  Chester's  horse,  who  then 
Spleen-hearted  came  in  full  career  at  him. 

Glocester.  Did  no  one  take  him  at  a  vantage  then  ? 

2nd  Knight.  Three  then  with  tiger  leap  upon  him  flew. 
Whom,  with  his  sword  swift  drawn  and  nimbly  held, 
He  stung  away  again,  and  stood  to  breathe. 
Smiling.     Anon  upon  him  rush'd  once  more 
A  throng  of  foes,  and  in  this  renew'd  strife. 
My  sword  met  his  and  snapp'd  off  at  the  hilt.  50 

Glocester.  Come,  lead  me  to  this  Mars  and  let  us  move 
In  silence,  not  insulting  his  sad  doom 
With  clamorous  trumpets.     To  the  Empress  bear 
My  salutation  as  befits  the  time. 

\Exeunt  Glocester  and  Forces, 


344  JOHN  KEATS  [act  i.,  sc.  hi 


Scene  III. — The  Field  of  Battle.     Enter  Stephen  unarmed, 

Stephen.  Another  sword  !     And  what  if  I  could  seize 
One  from  Bellona's  gleaming  armoury. 
Or  choose  the  fairest  of  her  sheaved  spears ! 
Where  are  my  enemies  ?     Here,  close  at  hand, 
Here'come  the  testy  brood.     O,  for  a  sword  ! 
I'm  faint — a  biting  sword  !     A  noble  sword  ! 
A  hedge-stake — or  a  ponderous  stone  to  hurl 
With  brawny  vengeance,  like  the  laboiu-er  Cain. 
Come  on !     Farewell  my  kingdom,  and  all  hail 
Thou  superb,  plumed,  and  helmeted  renown !  k 

All  hail !  I  would  not  truck  this  brilliant  day 
To  rule  in  Pylos  with  a  Nestor's  beard — 
Come  on  ! 

Enter  De  Kaims  and  Knights,  Sfc. 

De  Kaims.  Is  't  madness,  or  a  hunger  after  death. 
That  makes  thee  thus  unarm'd  throw  taunts  at  us  ? 
Yield,  Stephen,  or  my  sword's  point  dips  in 
The  gloomy  current  of  a  traitor's  heart. 

Stephen.  Do  it,  De  Kaims,  I  will  not  budge  an  inch. 

De   Kaims.  Yes,  of  thy  madness  thou  shalt  take   the 
meed. 

Stephen.  Darest  thou  } 

De  Kaims.  How,  dare,  against  a  man  disarm'd  } 

Stephen.  What  weapons  has  the  lion  but  himself.''  20 

Come  not  near  me,  De  Kaims,  for  by  the  price 
Of  all  the  glory  I  have  won  this  day. 
Being  a  king,  I  will  not  yield  alive 
To  any  but  the  second  man  of  the  realm, 
Robert  of  Glocester. 

De  Kaims.  Thou  shalt  vail  to  me. 

Stephen.  Shall  I,  when  I  have  sworn  against  it,  sir .'' 
Thou  think' st  it  brave  to  take  a  breathing  king. 
That,  on  a  court-day  bow'd  to  haughty  Maud, 
The  awed  presence-chamber  may  be  bold 
To  whisper.  There's  the  man  who  took  alive  30 

Stephen — me — prisoner.     Certes,  De  Kaims, 
The  ambition  is  a  noble  one. 

De  Kaims.  'Tis  true. 

And,  Stephen,  I  must  compass  it. 

Stephen.  No,  no, 

Do  not  tempt  me  to  throttle  you  on  the  gorge. 
Or  with  m^  gauntlet  crush  your  hollp'>y  breast. 


ACT  I.,  sc.  IV]  KING  STEPHEN  345 

Just  when  your  knighthood  is  grown  ripe  and  full 
For  lordship. 

A  Soldier.,  Is  an  honest  yeoman's  spear 
Of  no  use  at  a  need  ?    Take  that. 

Stephen.  Ah,  dastard ! 

De  Kaims.  What,  you  are  vulnerable  !  my  prisoner  ! 

Stephen.  No,  not  yet.     I  disclaim  it,  and  demand 
Death  as  a  sovereign  right  unto  a  king  40 

Who  'sdains  to  yield  to  any  but  his  peer. 
If  not  in  title,  yet  in  noble  deeds, 
The  Earl  of  Glocester.     Stab  to  the  hilt,  De  Kaims, 
For  I  will  never  by  mean  hands  be  led 
From  this  so  £imous  field.     Do  you  hear  !     Be  quick  ! 

[Trumpets.      Enter     the     Earl     of     Chester      mid 


Scene  IV. — A  Presence  Chamber.  Queen  Maud  in  a  Chair 
of  State,  the  Earls  q/* Glocester  and  Chester,  Lords,  At- 
tendants. 

Maud.  Glocester,  no  more.     I  will  behold  that  Bou- 
logne : 
Set  him  before  me.     Not  for  the  poor  sake 
Of  regal  pomp  and  a  vain-glorious  hour. 
As  thou  with  wary  speech,  yet  near  enough, 
Hast  hinted. 

Glocester.       Faithful  counsel  have  I  given ; 
If  wary,  for  your  Highness'  benefit. 

Maud.  The  Heavens  forbid  that  I  should  not  think  so. 
For  by  thy  valour  have  I  won  this  realm. 
Which  by  thy  wisdom  I  will  ever  keep. 
To  sage  advisers  let  me  ever  bend 
A  meek  attentive  ear,  so  that  they  treat 
Of  the  wide  kingdom's  rule  and  government, 
Not  trenching  on  our  actions  personal. 
Advised,  not  school'd,  I  would  be ;  and  henceforth 
Spoken  to  in  clear,  plain,  and  open  terms. 
Not  side-ways  sermon'd  at. 

Glocester.  Then,  in  plain  terms, 

Once  more  for  the  &Ilen  king — 

Maud.  Your  pardon,  brother, 

I  would  no  more  of  that ;  for,  as  I  said, 
'Tis  not  for  worldly  pomp  I  wish  to  see 
The  rebel,  but  as  dooming  judge  to  give 
A  sentence  something  worthy  of  his  guilt. 


346  JOHN  KEATS  [act  I.,  sc.  iv 

Glocester.  If't    must   be    so,    I'll    bring   him    to   your 

presence.  [Exit  Glocester. 

Maud.  A  meaner  summoner  might  do  as  well. 
My  Lord  of  Chester,  is  't  true  what  I  hear 
Of  Stephen  of  Boulogne,  our  prisoner. 
That  he,  as  a  fit  penance  for  his  crimes. 
Eats  wholesome,  sweet,  and  palatable  food 
Off  Glocester's  golden  dishes — drinks  pure  wine. 
Lodges  soft .'' 

Chester.  More  than  that,  my  gracious  Queen, 
Has  anger'd  me.     The  noble  Earl,  methinks,  30 

Full  soldier  as  he  is,  and  without  peer 
In  counsel,  dreams  too  much  among  his  books. 
It  may  read  well,  but  sure  'tis  out  of  date 
To  play  the  Alexander  with  Darius. 

Maud.  Truth  !  I  think  so.     By  Heavens,  it  shall  not  last ! 

Chester.  It  would  amaze  your  Highness  now  to  mark 
How  Glocester  overstrains  his  courtesy 
To  that  crime-loving  rebel,  that  Boulogne — 

Ma:ud.  That  ingrate ! 

Chester.  For  whose  vast  ingratitude 

To  our  late  sovereign  lord,  your  noble  sire,  40 

The  generous  Earl  condoles  in  his  mishaps. 
And  with  a  sort  of  lackeying  friendliness 
Talks  off  the  mighty  frowning  from  his  brow,  • 
Woos  him  to  hold  a  duet  in  a  smile. 
Or,  if  it  please  him,  play  an  hour  at  chess — 

Mavd.  A  perjured  slave  ! 

Chester.  And  for  his  perjury, 

Glocester  has  fit  rewards — nay,  I  believe. 
He  sets  his  bustling  household's  wits  at  work 
For  flatteries  to  ease  this  Stephen's  hours. 
And  make  a  heaven  of  his  purgatory  ;  50 

Adorning  bondage  with  the  pleasSint  gloss 
Of  feasts  and  music,  and  all  idle  shows 
Of  indoor  pageantry ;  while  S3rren  whispers. 
Predestined  for  his  ear,  'scape  as  half-check'd 
From  lips  the  courtliest  and  the  rubiest 
Of  all  the  realm,  admiring  of  his  deeds. 

Mavd.  A  frost  upon  his  summer  ! 

Chester.  A  queen's  nod 

Can  make  his  June  December.     Here  he  comes. 
***** 


APPENDIX 

POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS  (II) 
ON  DEATH 


CAN  death  be  gleep^  when  life  is  but  a  dream. 
And  scenes  of  bUss  pass  as  a  phantom  by  ? 
The  transient  pleasures  as  a  vision  seem. 
And  yet  we  think  the  greatest  pain's  to  die. 


How  strange  it  is  that  man  on  earth  should  roam, 
And  lead  a  life  of  woe,  but  not  forsake 

His  rugged  path ;  nor  dare  he  view  alone 
His  future  doom  which  is  but  to  awake. 


SONNET 
To  Bybon 

BYRON  !  how  sweetly  sad  thy  melody ! 
Attuning  still  the  soul  to  tenderness. 

As  if  soft  Pity,  with  unusual  stress. 
Had  touch'd  her  plaintive  lute,  and  thou,  being  by, 
Hadgt  caught  the  tones,  nor  suffer'd  them  to  die. 

O'ershadowing  sorrow  doth  not  make  thee  less 

Delightful :  thou  thy  griefs  dost  dress 
With  a  bright  halo,  shining  beamily. 
As  when  a  cloud  the  golden  moon  doth  veU,       V 

Its  sides  are  ting'd  with  a  resplendent  glow,    < 
Through  the  dark  robe  oft  amber  rays  prevail. 

And  like  fair  veins  in  sable  marble  flow ; 
Still  warble,  dying  swan  !  still  tell  the  tale,  \ 

The  enchanting  tale,  the  tale  of  pleasing  woe, 


848  JOHN  KEATS 

SONNET 
To  Chattebton 

OCHATTERTON  !  how  very  sad  thy  fate  ! 
Dear  chUd  of  sorrow — son  of  misery ! 

How  soon  the  film  of  death  obscur'd  that  eye. 
Whence  Genius  mildly  flash'd^  and  high  debate. 
How  soon  that  voice,  majestic  and  elate. 

Melted  in  dying  numbers  !     Oh  !  how  nigh 

Was  night  to  thy  fair  morning.     Thou  didst  die 
A  half-blown  flow'ret  which  cold  blasts  amate. 
But  this  is  past :  thou  art  among  the  stars 

Of  highest  Heaven :  to  the  rolling  spheres 
Thou  sweetly  singest :  nought  thy  hymning  mars. 

Above  the  ingrate  world  and  human  fears. 
On  eai-th  the  good  man  base  detraction  bars 

From  thy  fair  name,  and  waters  it  with  tears. 


ODE  TO  APOLLO 


IN  thy  western  halls  of  gold  , 

When  thou  sittest  in  thy  state. 
Bards,  that  erst  sublimely  told 

Heroic  deeds,  and  sang  of  fate. 
With  fervpur  seize  their  adamantine  lyres. 
Whose  chords  are  solid  rays,  and  twinkle  radiant  fires. 

2 

Here  Homer  with  his  nervous  arms 

Strikes  the  twanging  harp  of  war, 
And  even  the  western  splendour  warms. 

While  the  trumpets  sound  afar : 
But,  what  creates  the  most  intense  surprise, 
His  soul  looks  out  through  renovated  eyes. 


Then,  through  thy  Temple  wide,  melodious  swells 
The  sweet  majestic  tone  of  Maro's  lyre : 

The  soul  delighted  on  each  accent  dwells, — 
Enraptur'd  dwells, — not  daring  to  respire. 
The  while  he  tells  of  grief  around  a  funeral  pyre. 


'Tis  awful  silence  then  again ; 

Expectant  stand  the  spheres  ; 

Breathless  the  laurell'd  peers. 
Nor  move,  till  ends  the  lofty  strain. 
Nor  move  till  Milton's  tuneful  thunders  cease. 
And  leave  once  more  the  r^vish'd  heavens  in  peace, 


ODE  TO  APOLLO  349 


Thou  biddest  Shakspeare  wave  his  hand, 

And  quickly  forward  spring 
The  Passions — a  terrific  band — 
And  each  vibrates  the  string 
That  with  its  tyrant  temper  best  accords, 
While  from  their  Master's  lips  pour  forth  the  inspiring  words. 


A  silver  trumpet  Spenser  blows. 

And,  as  its  martial  notes  to  silence  flee. 
From  a  virgin  chorus  flows 

A  hymn  in  praise  of  spotless  Chastity. 
'Tig  still !  Wild  warblings  from  the  iEolian  lyre 
Enchantment  softly  breathe,  and  tremblingly  expire. 


Next  thy  Tasso's  ardent' numbers 

Float  along  the  pleased  air. 
Calling  youth  from  idle  slumbers. 

Rousing  them  from  Pleasure's  lair : — 
Then  o'er  the  strings  his  fingers  gently  move. 
And  melt  the  soul  to  pity  and  to  love. 

8 

But  when  TTiou  joinest  with  the  Nine, 
And  all  the  powers  of  song  combine. 

We  listen  here  on  earth : 
The  dying  tones  that  fill  the  air. 
And  charm  the  ear  of  evening  &ir. 
From  thee,  great  God  of  Bards,  receive  their  heavenly  birth. 


SONNET 
To  a  Young  Lady  who  sent  me  a  Lawrel  Grown 

FRESH  morning  gusts  have  blown  away  all  fear 
From  my  glad  bosom, — now  from  gloominess 

I  mount  for  ever — not  an  atom  less 
Than  the  proud  laurel  shall  contentimy  bier. 
No  !  by  "the  eternal  stars  !  or  why  sit  here 

In  the  Sun's  eye,  and  'gainst  my  temples  press 

Apollo's  very  leaves,  woven  to  bless 
By  thy  white  fingers  and  thy  spirit  clear. 
Lo !  who  dares  say,  "  Do  this  ?  "     Who  dares  call  down 

My  will  from  its  high  purpose  ?    Who  say,  "  Stand," 
Or  "  Go  ?  "    This  mighty  moment  I  would  frown 

On  abject  Caesars — not  the  stoutest  band 
Of  mailed  heroes  should  tear  off  my  crown : 

Yet  would  I  kneel  and  kiss  thy  gentle  hand  ! 


350  JOHN  KEATS 

HYMN  TO  APOLLO 


C"*  OD  of  the  golden  bow, 
J    And  of  the  golden  lyre, 
And  of  the  golden  hair. 
And  of  the  golden  fire. 
Charioteer 
Of  the  patient  year. 
Where — where  slept  thine  ire. 
When  like  a  blank  idiot  I  put  on  thy  wreath, 
Thy  laurel,  thy  glory. 
The  light  Of  thy  story. 
Or  was  I  a  worm — ^too  low  crawling,  for  death  ? 
O  Delphic  Apollo  ! 


The  Thunderer  grasp'd  and  grasp'd,' 

The  Thunderer  frown'd  and  frown'd  ; 
The  eagle's  feathery  mane 

For  wrath  became  stifFen'd—  the  sound 
Of  breeding  thunder 
Went  drowsily  under. 
Muttering  to  be  unbound. 
O  why  didst  thou  pity,  and  for  a  worm 
Why  touch  thy  soft  lute 
Till  the  thunder  was  mute. 
Why  was  not  I  crush'd — such  a  pitiful  germ  ? 
O  Delphic  Apollo ! 


The  Pleiades  were  up. 

Watching  the  silent  air ; 
The  seeds  and  roots  in  the  Earth 
Were  swelling  for  summer  fare ; 
The  Ocean,  its  neighbour. 
Was  at  its  old  labour, 
'    When,  who — who  did  dare 
To  tie,  like  a  madman,  thy  plant  round  his  brow. 
And  grin  and  look  proudly. 
And  blaspheme  so  loudly. 
And  live  for  that  honour,  to  stoop  to  thee  now  ? 
O  Delphic  Apollo ! 


ON  OXFORD  351 

SONNET 

AS  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove 
Upsoars,  and  darts  into  the  Eastern  light. 

On  pinions  that  nought  moves  hut  pure  delight. 
So  fled  thy  soul  into  the  realms  above. 
Regions  of  peace  and  everlasting  love  ; 

Where  happy  spirits,  crown'd  with  circlets  bright 

Of  starry  beam,  and  gloriously  bedight, 
Taste  the  high  joy  none  but  the  blest  can  prove. 
There  thou  or  joinest  the  immortal  quire 

In  melodies  that  even  Heaven  fair 
Fill  with  superior  bliss,  or,  at  desire 

Of  the  omnipotent  Father,  cleavest  the  air 
On  holy  message  sent — ^What  pleasures  higher  ? 

Wherefore  does  any  grief  our  joy  impair  ? 

SONNET 
Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition 

THE  church  hells  toll  a  melancholy  round. 
Calling  the  people  to  some  other  prayers, 

Some  other  gloominess,  more  dreadful  cares. 
More  hearkening  to  the  sermon's  horrid  sound. 
Surely  the  mind  of  man  is  closely  bound 

In  some  black  spell ;  seeing  that  each  one  tears 

Himself  from  fireside  joys,  and  Lydian  airs. 
And  converse  high  of  those  with  glory  crown'd. 
Still,  still  they  toll,  and  I  should  feel  a  damp, — 

A  chill  as  from  a  tomb,  did  I  not  know 
That  they  are  dying  like  an  outburnt  lamp ; 

That  'tis  their  sighing,  wailing  ere  they  go 

Into  oblivion  ; — ^that  fresh  flowers  will  grow. 
And  many  glories  of  immortal  stamp. 

ON  OXFORD 
A  Parody 


THE  Grothic  looks  solemn. 
The  plain  Doric  column 
Supports  an  old  Bishop  and  Crosier ; 
The  mouldering  arch. 
Shaded  o'er  by  a  larch 
Stands  next  door  to  Wilson  the  Hosier. 

21 

Vice — that  is,  by  turns, — 

O'er  pale  faces  mourns 
The  black  tassell'd  trencher  and  common  hat ; 

The  Chantry  boy  sings. 

The  Steeple-bell  rings. 
And  as  for  the  Chancellor — dormnat. 


352  JOHN  KEATS 

3 

There  are  plenty  of  trees. 
And  plenty'  of  ease. 

And  plenty  of  fat  deer  for  Parsons  ; 
And  when  it  is  venison, 
Short  is  the  benison,— 

Then  each  on  a  leg  or  thigh  fastens. 


MODERN  LOVE 

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


Fragment  of  "  The  Castle  Builder  " 


TO-NIGHT  I'll  have  my  friar— let  me  think 
About  my  room, — I'll  have  it  in  the  pink ; 
It  should  he  rich  and  sombre,  and  the  moon. 
Just  in  its  mid-life  in  the  midst  of  June, 
Should  look  thro'  four  large  windows  and  display 
Clear,  but  for  gold-fish  vases  in  the  way. 
Their  glassy  diamonding  on  Turkish  floor ; 
The  tapers  keep  aside,  an  hour  and  more, 
To  see  what  else  the  moon  alone  can  show  ; 
While  the  night-breeze  doth  softly  let  us  know 
My  terrace  is  well  bower'd  with  oranges. 
Upon  the  floor  the  dullest  spirit  sees 
A  guitar-ribband  and  a  lady's  glove 
Beside  a  crumple-leaved  tale  of  love  ; 
A  tambour-frame,  with  Venus  sleeping  there, 
All  finish'd  but  some  ringlets  of  her  hair ; 
A  viol-bow,  strings  torn,  cross-wTse  ^pon 
A  glorious  folio  of  Anacreon  ; 
A  skull  upon  a  mat  of  roses  lying, 
Ink'd  purple  with  a  song  concerning  dying ; 


THE  CASTLE  BUILDER 

An  hour-glass  on  the  turn,  amid  the  trails 

Of  passion-flower ; — just  in  time  there  sails 

A  cloud  across  the  moon, — ^the  lights  hring  in  ! 

And  see  what  more  my  phantasy  can  win. 

It  is  a  gorgeous  room,  but  somewhat  sad ; 

The  draperies  are  so,  as  tho'  they  had 

Been  made  for  Cleopatra's  winding-sheet ; 

And  opposite  the  steadfast  eye  doth  meet 

A  spacious  looking-glass,  upon  whose  face, 

In  letters  raven-sombre,  you  may  trace  30 

Old  "  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel  Upharsin." 

Greek  busts  and  statuary  have  ever  been 

Held,  by  the  finest  spirits,  fitter  far 

Than  vase  grotesque  and  Siamesian  jar ; 

Therefore  'tis  sure  a  want  of  Attic  taste 

That  I  should  rather  love  a  Gothic  waste 

Of  eyesight  on  cinque-coloured  potter's  clay. 

Than  on  the  marble  fairness  of  old  Greece. 

My  table-coverlets  of  Jason's  fleece 

And  black  Numidian  sheep-wool  should  be  wrought,  40 

Gold,  black,  and  heavy,  from  the  Lama  brought. 

My  ebon  sofas  should  delicious  be 

With  down  from  Leda's  cygnet  progeny. 

My  pictures  all  Salvator's,  save  a  few 

Of  Titian's  portraiture,  and  one,  though  new. 

Of  Haydon's  in  its  fresh  magnificence. 

My  wine — O  good  !  'tis  here  at  my  desire. 

And  I  must  sit  to  supper  with  my  friar.       _ 


SONNET 

To  A  Cat 

CAT !  who  hast  pass'd  thy  grand  climacteric. 
How  many  mice  and  rats  hast  in  thy  days 

Destroy'd  ? — tiow,  many  tit  bits  stolen  ?    Gaze 
With  those  bright  languid  segments  green,  and  prick 
Those  velvet  ears — but  pr'ythee  do  not  stick 

Thy  latent  talons  in  me — and  upraise 

Thy  gentle  mew — and  tell  me  all  thy  frays 
Of  fish  and  mice,  and  rats  and  tender  chick. 
Nay,  look  not  down,  nor  lick  thy  dainty  wrists — 

For  all  the  wheezy  asthma, — and  for  all 
Thy  tail's  tip  is  nick'd  off— and  though  the  fists 

Of  many  a  maid  have  given  thee  many  a  maul. 
Still  is  that  fur  as  soft  as  when  the  lists 

In  youth  thou  enter' dst  on  glass  bottled  wall. 

A  DRAUGHT  OF  SUNSHINE 

HENCE  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port, 
Away  with  old  Hock  and  Madeira, 
Too  earthly  ye  are  for  my  sport ; 
There's  a  beverage  brighter  and  clearer. 
23 


S54  JOHN  KEATS 

Instead  of  a  pitiful  rummer, 

My  wine  overbrims  a  whole  summer  ; 

My  bowl  is  the  sky. 

And  I  drink  at  my  eye, 

Till  I  feel  in  the  brain 

A  Delphian  pain —  lo 

Then  foflow,  my  Caius !  then  follow  : 

On  the  green  of  the  hill 

We  will  drink  our  iill 

Of  golden  sunshine. 

Till  our  brains  intertwine 
With  the  glory  and  grace  of  Apollo  ! 
God  of  the  Meridian, 

And  of  the  East  and  West, 
To  thee  my  soul  is  flown. 

And  my  body  is  earthward  press'd. —  20 

It  is  an  awful  mission, 
A  terrible  division ; 
And  leaves  a  gulph  austere 
To  be  fill'd  with  worldly  fear. 
Aye,  when  the  soul  is  fled 
To  high  above  our  head. 
Affrighted  do  we  gaze 
After  its  airy  maze. 
As  doth  a  mother  wild. 

When  her  young  infant  child  30 

Is  in  an  eagle's  claws — 
And  is  not  this  the  cause 
Of  madness  ? — God  of  Song, 
Thou  bearest  me  along 
Through  sights  I  scarce  can  bear  : 
O  let  me,  let  me  share 
With  the  hot  lyre  and  thee. 
The  staid  Philosophy. 
Temper  my  lonely  hours. 

And  let  me  see  thy  bowers  40 

More  unalarm'd ! 


EXTRACTS  FROM  AN  OPERA 


O!  WERE  I  one  of  the  Olympian  twelve. 
Their  godships  should  pass  this  into  a  law, — 
That  when  a  man  doth  set  himself  in  toil 
After  some  beauty  veiled  far  away, 
Each  step  he  took  should  make  lus  lady's  hand 
More  soft,  more  white,  and  her  fair  cheek  more  foir  ; 
And  for  each  briar-berry  he  might  eat, 
A  kiss  should  bud  upon  the  tree  of  love. 
And  pulp  and  ripen  richer  every  hour, 
To  melt  away  upon  tlip  traveller's  lips. 


FOLLY'S  SONG  355 


FOLLY'S  SONG 

WHEN  wedding  fiddles  are  a^playing. 
Huzza  for  foUy  O  f 
And  when  maidens  go  a-Maying, 

Huzza,  &c. 
When  a  milk-pail  is  upset. 

Huzza,  &e. 
And  the  clothes  left  in  the  wet. 

Huzza,  &c. 
When  the  barrel's  set  abroach, 

Huzza,  &c. 
When  Kate  Eyebrow  keeps  a  coach. 

Huzza,  &c. 
When  the  pig  is  over-roasted. 

Huzza,  &c. 
And  the  cheese  is  over-toasted. 

Huzza,  &c. 
When  Sir  Snap  is  with  his  lawyer. 

Huzza,  &c. 
And  Miss  Chip  has  kiss'd  the  sawyer. 

Huzza,  &c. 


OH,  I  am  frighten'd  with  most  hateful  thoughts  ! 
Perhaps  her  voice  is  not  a  nightingale's. 
Perhaps  her  teeth  are  not  the  fairest  pearl ; 
Her  eye-lashes  may  be^  for  aught  I  know. 
Not  longer  than  the  May-fly's  small  fan-horns  ; 
There  may  not  be  one  dimple  on  her  hand ; 
And  freckles  many ;  ah  !  a  careless  nurse. 
In  haste  to  teach  the  little  thing  to  walk. 
May  have  crumpt  up  a  pair  of  Dian's  legs. 
And  warpt  the  ivory  of  a  Juno's  neck. 


SONG 

{Written  on  a  hkmk  page  in  Beav/mont  and  Fletcher) 

SPIRIT  here  that  reigaest ! 
Spirit  here  that  painest ! 
Spirit  here  that  burnest ! 
Spirit  here  that  moumest ! 
Spirit,  I  bow 
My  forehead  low, 
Enshaded  with  thy  pinions. 
Spirit,  I  look 
All  passion-struck 
Into  thy  pale  dominions. 


366  JOHN  KEATS 

2 

Spirit  here  that  laughest ! 
Spirit  here  that  quaffest ! 
Spirit  here  that  dancest ! 
>foble  soul  that  prancest ! 

Spirit,  with  thee 

I  join  in  the  glee 
A-nudging  the  elbow  of  Momus. 

Spirit,  I  flush 

With  a  Bacchanal  blush 
Just  fresh  from  the  Banquet  of  Comus. 


Here  all  the  Sunvmer 
{In  a  letter  to  Haydon) 


HERE  all  the  summer  could  I  stay, 
For  there's  a  Bishop's  Teign, 
And  King's  Teign, 
And  Coomb  at  the  clear  Teign's  head ; 
Where,  close  by  the  stream. 
You  may  have  your  cream. 
All  spread  upon  barley  bread. 


There's  Arch  Brook, 
And  there's  Larch  Brook,- 

Both  turning  many  a  mill ; 
And  cooling  the  drouth 
Of  the  salmon's  mouth, 

And  fattening  his  silver  gill. 


There's  a  wild  wood, 
•  A  mild  hood. 

To  the  sheep  on  the  lea  o'  the  down, 
Where  the  golden  furze. 
With  its  green,  thin  spurs, 

Doth  catch  at  the  maiden's  gown. 


There's  Newton  Marsh, 
With  its  spear-grass  harsh, — 

A  pleasant  summer  level ; 
Where  the  maidens  sweet 
Of  the  Market  street. 

Do  meet  in  the  dark  to  revel. 


ACROSTIC  357 


5 

There's  the  Barton  rich 

With  dyke  and  ditch 
And  hedge  for  the  thrush  to  live  in. 

And  the  hollow  tree 

For  the  huzzing  bee 
And  a  bank  for  the  wasp  to  hive  in. 

6 

And  O,  and  O 

The  daisies  blow 
And  the  primroses  are  waken'd. 

And  violets  white 

Sit  in  silver  plightj 
And  the  green  bud's  as  long  as  the  spike  end. 


Then  who  would  go 

Into  dark  Soho, 
And  chatter  with  dack'd  hair'd  critics. 

When  he  can  stay 

For  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  startle  the  dappled  Prickets  ? 

Over  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale 

OVER  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale, 
And  over  the  Bourne  to  Dawlish, 
Where  ginger-bread  wives  have  a  scanty  sale. 
And  ginger-bread  nuts  are  smallish. 


ACROSTIC 

Georgicma  Aiiguda  Keats 

GIVE  me  your  patience  Sister  while  I  frame 
Exact  in  Capitals  your  golden  name 
Or  sue  the  fair  Apollo  and  he  will 
Rouse  from  his  heavy  slumber  and  instil 
Great  love  in  me  for  thee  and  Poesy. 
Imagine  not  that  greatest  mastery 
And  kingdom  over  all  the  Realms  of  verse 
Nears  more  to  Heaven  in  aught  than  when  we  nurse 
And  surety  give  to  love  and  Brotherhood. 

Anthropophagi  in  Othello's  mood, 

Ulysses  stormed,  and  his  enchanted  belt 

Glow  with  the  Muse,  but  they  are  never  felt 

Unbosom'd  so  and  so  eternal  made. 

Such  tender  incense  in  their  Laurel  shade 

To  all  the  regent  sisters  of  the  Nine, 

As  this  poor  offering  to  you  sister  mine. 


S58  JOHN  KEATS 

Kind  sister  !  aye,  this  third  name  sayS  you  are ; 
Enchanted  has  it  heen  the  Lord  knows  where. 
And  may  it  taste  to  you  like  good  old  wine. 
Take  you  to  real  happiness  and  give 
Sons,  daughters  and  a  home  like  honied  hive. 


Lmet  written  m  the  Highlands  after  a  Visit  to  Bwmis  Cowniry 

THERE  is  a  charm  in  footing  slow  across  a  silent  plain. 
Where  patriot  battle  has  been  fought,  where  glory  had  the  gain ; 
There  is  a  pleasure  on  the  heath  where  Druids  old  have  been. 
Where  mantles  grey  have  rustled  by  and  swept  the  nettles  green  ; 
There  is  a  joy  in  every  spot  made  known  by  times  of  old. 
New  to  the  feet,  although  each  tale  a  hundred  times  be  told ; 
There  is  a  deeper  joy  than  all,  more  solemn  in  the  heart. 
More  parching  to  the  tongue  than  all,  of  more  divine  a  smart. 
When  weary  steps  forget  themselves  upon  a  pleasant  turf. 
Upon  hot  sand,  or  flinty  road,  or  sea^shore  iron  scurf,  lo 

Toward  the  castle  or  the  cot,  where  long  ago  was  horn 
One  who  was  great  through  mortal  days,  and  died  of  fame  unshorn. 
Light  heather-bells  may  tremble  then,  but  they  are  far  away ; 
Wood-lark  may  sing  from  sandy  fern, — ^the  Sun  may  hear  his  lay ; 
Runnels  may  kiss  the  grass  on  shelves  and  shallows  clear. 
But  their  low  voices  are  not  heard,  though  come  on  travels  drear ; 
Blood-red  the  Sun  may  set  behind  black  mountain  peaks ; 
Blue  tides  may  sluice  and  drench  their  time  in  caves  and  weedy  creeks ; 
£/agles  may  seem  to  sleep  wing-wide  upon  the  air ; 

Ring-doves  may  fly  convuls'd  across  to  some  high-cedar'd  lair ;  2o 

But  the  forgotten  eye  is  still  fast  lidded  to  the  ground. 
As  Palmer's,  that  with  weariness,  mid-desert  shrine  hath  found. 
At  such  a  time  the  soul's  a  child,  in  chUdhood  is  the  brain ; 
Forgotten  is  the  worldly  heart—alone,  it  beats  in  vain. — 
Aye,  if  a  madman  could  have  leave  to  pass  a  healthful  day 
To  tell  his  forehead's  swoon  and  faint  when  first  began  decay. 
He  might  make  tremble  many  a  one  whose  spirit  had  gone  forth 
To  find  a  Bard's  low  cradle-place  about  the  silent  North  ! 
Scanty  the  hour  and  few  the  steps  beyond  the  bourn  of  care. 
Beyond  the  sweet  and  bitter  world, — beyond  it  unaware  !  30 

Scanty  the  hour  and  few  the  steps,because  a  longer  stay 
Would  bar  return,  and  make  a  man  forget  his  mortal  way : 
O  horrible !  to  lose  the  sight  of  well  remember'd  face. 
Of  Brother's  eyes,  of  Sister's  brow — constant  to  every  place ; 
Filling  the  air,  as  on  we  move,  with  portraiture  intense ; 
More  warm  than  those  heroic  tints  that  pain  a  painter's  sense. 
When  shapes  of  old  come  striding  by,  and  visages  of  old. 
Locks  shining  black,  hair  scanty  grey,  and  passions  manifold. 
No,  no,  that  horror  cannot  be,  for  at  the  cable's  length 
Man  feels  the  gentle  anchor  pull  and  gladdens  in  its  strength :—  4° 

One  hour,  half-idiot,  he  stands  by  mossy  waterfall, 
But  in  the  very  next  he  reads  his  soul's  memorial : — 
He  reads  it  on  the  mountain's  height,  where  chance  he  may  sit  down 


AN  EXTEMPORE  359 

Upon  rough  marble  diadem — that  hill's  eternal  crown. 

Yet  be  his  anchor  e'er  so  fast,  room  is  there  for  a  prayer 

That  man  may  never  lose  his  mind  on  mountains  black  and  bare  ; 

That  he  may  stray  league  after  league  some  great  birth-place  to  find 

And  keep  his  vision  clear  from  speck,  his  inward  sight  uublind. 


SPENSERIAN  STANZA 
Written  at  the  close  of  Canto  II.,  Book  V.,  of  The  Faerie  Queene 


V 


'  N  after-time,  a  sage  of  mickle  lore 
Yclep'd  Typographus,  the  Giant  took. 
And  did  refit  his  limbs  as  heretofore. 
And  made  him  read  in  many  a  learned  book. 
And  into  many  a  lively  legend  look  ; 
Thereby  in  goodly  themes  so  training  him. 
That  all  his  brutishness  he  quite  forsook. 
When,  meeting  ArtegaU  and  Talus  grim. 
The  one  he  struck  stone-blind,  the  other's  eyes  wox  dim. 


AN  EXTEMPORE 

WHEN  they  were  come  into  the  Faery's  Court 
They  rang — no  one  at  home — all  gone  to  sport 
And  dance  and  kiss  and  love  as  faeries  do 
For  Faeries  be  as  humans  lovers  true — 
Amid  the  woods  they  were  so  lone  and  wild 
Where  even  the  Robin  feels  himself  exil'd 
And  where  the  very  brooks  as  if  afraid 
Hurry  along  to  some  less  magic  shade. 
"  No  one  at  home  " !  the  fretful  princess  cry'd 
"And  all  for  nothing  such  a  dreary  ride  lo 

And  all  for  nothing  my  new  diamond  cross 
No  one  to  see  my  Persian  feathers  toss 
No  one  to  see  my  Ape,  my  Dwarf,  my  Fool 
Or  how -I  pace  my  Otaheitan  mule. 
Ape,  Dwarf  and  Fool  why  stand  you  gaping  there  ? 
Burst  the  door  open,  quick — or  1  declare 
I'll  switch  you  soundly  and  in  pieces  tear." 
The  Dwarf  began  to  tremble  and  the  Ape 
Star'd  at  the  Fool,  the  Fool  was  all  agape 

The  Princess  grasp'd  her  switch  but  just  in  time  20 

The  dwarf  with  piteous  face  began  to  rhyme. 
"  O  mighty  Princess  did  you  ne'er  hear  tell 
What  your  poor  servants  know  but  too  too  well 
Know  you  the  three  great  crimes  in  faery  land 
The  first  alas  !  poor  Dwarf  I  understand 
I  made  a  whipstock  of  a  faery's  wand 
The  next  is  snoring  in  their  company 
The  next  the  last  the  direst  of  the  three 
Is  making  free  when  they  are  not  at  home. 
I  was  a  Prince — a  baby  prince — my  doom  30 


360  JOHN  KEATS 

You  see,  I  made  a  whipstock  of  a  wand 
My  top  has  henceforth  slept  in  faery  land. 
He  was  a  Prince  the  Fool,  a  grown  up  Prince 
But  he  has  never  been  a  King's  son  since 
He  fell  a  snoring  at  a  faery  Ball — 
Your  poor  Ape  was  a  prince  and  he  poor  thing 
Picklock'd  a  faery's  boudoir — now  no  king 
But  ape — so  pray  your  highness  stay  awhile 
'Tis  sooth  indeed  we  know  it  to  our  sorrow — 
Persist  and  you  may  be  an  ape  tomorrow  " —  40 

While  the  Dwarf  spake  the  Princess  all  for  spite 
Peal'd  the  brown  hazel  twig  to  lilly  white 
Clench'd  her  small  teeth,  and  held  her  lips  apart 
Try'd  to  look  unconcern'd  with  beating  heart. 
They  saw  her  highness  had  made  up  her  mind 
And  quaver'd  like  the  reeds  before  the  wind 
And  they  had  had  it,  but  O  happy  chance 
The  Ape  for  very  fear  began  to  dance 
And  grin'd  as  all  his  ugliness  did  ache — 

She  staid  her  vixen  fingers  for  his  sake  50 

He  was  so  very  ugly :  then  she  took 
Her  pocket  mirror  and  began  to  look 
First  at  herself  and  then  at  him  and  then 
She  smil'd  at  her  own  beauteous  face  again. 
Yet  for  all  this — for  all  her  pretty  face 
She  took  it  in  her  head  to  see  the  place. 
Women  gain  little  from  experience 
Either  in  Lovers,  husbands  or  expense. 
The  more  the  beauty  the  more  fortune  too 
Beauty  before  the  wide  world  never  knew.  60 

So  each  fair  reasons — tho'  it  oft  miscarries. 
She  thought  her  pretty  face  would  please  the  faeries. 
"  My  darling  Ape  I  wont  whip  you  today 
Give  me  the  Picldock  sirrah  and  go  play." 
They  all  three  wept — but  counsel  was  as  vain 
As  crying  cup  biddy  to  drops  of  rain. 
Yet  lingeringly  did  the  sad  Ape  forth  draw 
The  Picklock  from  the  Pocket  in  his  Jaw. 
The  Princess  took  it  and  dismounting  straight 
Trip'd  in  blue  silver'd  slippers  to  the  gate  7° 

And  touch'd  the  wards,  the  Door  full  courteously 
Opened — she  enter'd  with  her  servants  three. 
Again  it  clos'd  and  there  was  nothing  seen 
But  the  Mule  grasing  on  the  herbage  green. 
£nd  of  Canto  xii. 
Canto  the  xiii. 
The  Mule  no  sooner  saw  himself  alone 
Than  he  prick'd  up  his  Ears — and  said  "  well  done 
At  least  unhappy  Prince  I  may  be  free — 
No  more  a  Princess  shall  side  saddle  me 
O  King  of  OthaietS— tho'  a  Mule 

'  Aye  every  inch  a  King ' — ^tho  '  Fortune's  fool '  *° 

Well  done — for  by  what  Mr  Dwarfy  said 


SPENSERIAN  STANZAS  361 

I  would  not  give  a  sixpence  for  her  head  ". 

Even  as  he  spake  he  trotted  in  high  glee 

To  the  knotty  side  of  an  old  Pollard  tree 

And  rubbed  his  sides  against  the  mossed  bark 

Till  his  Girths  burst  and  left  him  naked  stark 

Except  his  Bridle — how  get  rid  of  that 

Buckled  and  tied  with  many  a  twist  and  plait. 

At  last  it  struck  him  to  pretend  to  sleep 

And  then  the  thievish  Monkies  down  would  creep  go 

And  filch  the  unpleasant  trammels  quite  away. 

No  sooner  thought  of  than  adown  he  lay 

Sham'd  a  good  snore — the  Monkey-men  descended 

And  whom  they  thought  to  injure  they  befriended. 

They  hung  his  Bridle  on  a  topmost  bough 

And  oflF  he  went  run,  trot,  or  anyhow — 


SPENSERIAN  STANZAS  ON  CHARLES  ARMITAGE  BROWN 

1 

HE  is  to  weet  a  melancholy  carle : 
Thin  in  the  waist,  with  bushy  head  of  hair. 
As  hath  the  seeded  thistle  when  in  parle 
It  holds  the  Zephyr,  ere  it  sendeth  fair 
Its  light  balloons  into  the  summer  air ; 
Therto  his  beard  had  not  begun  to  bloom. 
No  brush  had  touch'd  his  chin  or  razor  sheer ; 
No  care  had  touch'd  his  cheek  with  mortal  doom. 
But  new  he  was  and  bright  as  scarf  from  Persian  loom. 


Ne  cared  he  for  wine,  or  half-and-half 
Ne  cared  he  for  fish  or  flesh  or  fowl. 
And  sauces  held  he  worthless  as  the  chaff ; 
He  'sdeigned  the  swine-head  at  the  wassail-bowl ; 
Ne  with  lewd  ribbalds  sat  he  cheek  by  jowl ; 
Ne  with  sly  Lemans  in  the  scorner's  chair  ; 
But  after  water-brooks  this  Pilgrim's  soul 
Panted,  and  all  his  food  was  woodland  air 
Though  he  would  oft-times  feast  on  gilliflowers  rare. 


The  slang  of  cities  in  no  wise  he  knew. 
Tipping  the  wink  to  him  was  heathen  Greek ; 
He  sipp'd  no  olden  Tom  or  ruin  blue. 
Or  nantz  or  cherry-brandy  drank  full  meek 
By  many  a  damsel  hoarse  and  rouge  of  cheek  ; 
Nor  did  he  know  each  aged  watchman's  beat. 
Nor  in  obscured  purlieus  would  he  seek 
For  curled  Jewesses,  with  ankles  neat. 
Who  as  they  walk  abroad  make  tinkling  with  their  feet. 


362  JOHN  KEATS 


A  PARTY  OF  LOVERS 

PENSI VG  they  sit,  and  roll  their  languid  eyes. 
Nibble  their  toast  and  cool  their  tea  with  sighs ; 
Or  else  forget  the  purpose  of  the  night, 
Forget  their  tea,  forget  their  appetite. 
See,  with  cross'd  arms  they  sit — Ah !  happy  crew. 
The  fire  is  going  out  and  no  one  rings 
For  coals,  and  therefore  no  coals  Betty  brings. 
A  fly  is  in  the  milk-pot.     Must  he  die 
Circled  by  a  humane  society  ? 
No,  no ;  there,  Mr.  Werter  takes  his  spoon, 
Inserts  it,  dips  the  handle,  and  lo  !  soon 
The  little  straggler,  sav'd  from  perils  dark. 
Across  the  teaboard  draws  a  long  wet  mark. 

Romeo  !  Arise,  take  snuffers  by  the  handle. 
There's  a  large  cauliflower  in  each  candle. 
A  winding  sheet — ah,  me  !  I  must  away 
To  No.  7,  just  beyond  the  circus  gay. 
Alas,  my  friend,  your  coat  sits  very  well ; 
Where  may  your  Tailor  live  }    I  may  not  tell. 

0  pardon  me.     I'm  absent  now  and  then. 
Where  rmght  my  Tailor  live  ?    I  say  again 

1  cannot  tell,  let  me  no  more  be  teazed  ; 

He  lives  in  Wapping,  might  live  where  he  pleased. 


I 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

OR,  THE  JEALOUSIES 

A  Faery  Tale.     Unfinished 

I 
N  midmost  Ind,  beside  Hydaspes  cool, 


There  stood,  or  hover'd,  tremulous  in  the  air, 
A  faery  city,  'neath  the  potent  rule 
Of  Emperor  Elfinan  ;  famed  ev'rywhere 
For  love  of  mortal  women,  maidens  fair. 
Whose  lips  were  solid,  whose  soft  hands  were  made 
Of  a  fit  mould  and  beauty,  ripe  and  rare. 
To  pamper  his  slight  wooing,  warm  yet  staid : 
He  iov'd  girls  smooth  as  shades,  but  hated  a  mere  shade. 

II 
This  was  a  crime  forbidden  by  the  law  ; 
And  all  the  priesthood  of  his  city  wept, 
For  ruin  and  dismay  they  well  foresaw 
If  impious  prince  no  bound  or  limit  kept. 
And  faery  Zendervester  overstept ; 
They  wept,  he  sinn'd,  and  still  he  would  sin  on. 
They  dreamt  of  sin,  and  he  sinn'd  while  they  slept ; 
In  vain  the  pulpit  thunder'd  at  the  throne. 
Caricature  was  vain,  and  vain  the  tart  lampoon. 

Ill 

Which  seeing,  his  high  court  of  parliament 
Laid  a  remonstrance  at  his  Highness'  feet, 
Praying  his  royal  senses  to  content 
Themselves  with  what  in  faery  land  was  sweet. 
Befitting  best  that  shade  with  shade  should  meet : 
Whereat,  to  calm  their  fears,  he  promised  soon 
From  mortal  tempters  all  to  make  retreat, — 
Aye,  even  on  the  first  of  the  new  moon 
An  immaterial  wife  to  espouse  as  heaven's  boon. 

IV 

Meantime  he  sent  a  fluttering  embassy 
To  Pigmio,  of  Imaus  sovereign. 
To  half  beg,  and  half  demand,  respectfully, 
The  hand  of  his  fair  daughter  Bellanaine ; 
An  audience  had,  and  speeching  done,  they  gain 
Their  point,  and  bring  the  weeping  bride  away ; 
Whom,  with  but  one  attendant,  safely  lain 
Upon  their  wings,  they  bore  in  bright  array. 
While  little  harps  were  touch'd  by  many  a  lyric  fey. 


364  JOHN  KEATS 

V 

As  in  old  pictures  tender  cherubim 
A  child's  soul  thro'  the  sapphired  canvas  bear. 
So,  thro'  a  real  heaven,  on  they  swim 
With  the  sweet  princess  on  her  plumaged  lair. 
Speed  g^iving  to  the  winds  her  lustrous  hair ; 
And  so  she  journey'd,  sleeping  or  awake. 
Save  when,  for  healthful  exercise  and  air. 
She  chose  to  promener  A  I'aile  or  take 
A  pigeon's  somerset,  for  sport  or  change's  sake. 

VI 

"  Dear  Princess,  do  not  whisper  me  so  loud," 
Quoth  Corallina,  nurse  and  confidant, 
"Do  not  you  see  there,  lurking  in  a  cloud. 
Close  at  your  back,  that  sly  old  Crafticant  ? 
He  hears  a  whisper  plainer  than  a  rant : 
Dry  up  your  tears,  and  do  not  look  so  blue  ; 
He's  Elfinan's  great  state-spy  militant. 
His  running,  lying,  ilying  footman  too, — 
Dear  mistress,  let  him  have  no  handle  against  you  ! 

VII 

"  Show  him  a  mouse's  tail,  and  he  will  guess, 
With  metaphysic  swiftness,  at  the  mouse  ; 
Show  him  a  garden,  and  with  speed  no  less 
He'll  surmise  sagely  of  a  dwelling-house. 
And  plot,  in  the  same  minute,  how  to  chouse 
The  owner  out  of  it ;  show  him  a  " —  "  Peace ! 
Peace  !  nor  contrive  thy  mistress'  ire  to  rouse !  " 
Retum'd  the  Princess,  "  my  tongue  shall  not  cease 
Till  from  this  hated  match  I  get  a  free  release. 

VIII 

"  Ah,  beauteous  mortal ! "  "  Hush  !  "  quoth  Coralline, 
"  Really  you  must  not  talk  of  him,  indeed." 
"  You  hush  ! "  replied  the  mistress,  with  a  shine 
Of  anger  in  her  eyes,  enough  to  breed 
In  stouter  hearts  than  nurse's  fear  and  dread  : 
'Twas  not  the  glance  itself  made  Nursey  flinch. 
But  of  its  threat  she  took  the  utmost  heed  ; 
Not  liking  in  her  heart  an  hour-long  pinch. 
Or  a  sharp  needle  run  into  her  back  an  inch. 

IX 

So  she  was  silenced,  and  fair  Bellauaine, 
Writhing  her  little  body  with  ennui. 
Continued  to  lament  and  to  complain. 
That  Fate,  cross-purposing,  should  let  her  be 
Ravish'd  away  far  from  her  dear  countree  ; 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  365 

That  all  her  feelings  should  he  set  at  nought, 
In  trumping  up  this  match  so  hastily. 
With  lowland  blood  ;  and  lowland  blood  she  thought 
Poison,  as  every  stanch  true-born  Imaian  ought. 

X 

Sorely  she  grieved,  and  wetted  three  or  four 
White  Provence  rose-leaves  with  her  feery  tears, 
But  not  for  this  cause ; — alas  !  she  had  more 
Bad  reasons  for  her  sorrow,  as  appears 
In  the  famed  memoirs  of  a  thousand  years. 
Written  by  Crafticant,  and  published 
By  Parpaglion  and  Co.,  (those  sly  compeers 
Who  raked  up  eVry  feet  against  the  dead,) 
In  Scarab  Street,  Panthea,  at  the  Jubal's  Head. 


XI 

Where,  after  a  long  hypercritic  howl 
Against  the  vicious  manners  of  the  age. 
He  goes  on  to  expose,  with  heart  and  soul. 
What  vice  in  this  or  that  year  was  the  rage. 
Backbiting  all  the  world  in  ev'ry  page ; 
With  special  strictures  on  the  horrid  crime, 
(Section'd  and  subsectiou'd  with  learning  sage,) 
Of  faeries  stooping  on  their  wings  sublime 
To  kiss  a  mortal's  lips,  when  such  were  in  their  prime. 

XII 

Turn  to  the  copious  index,  you  will  find 
Somewhere  in  the  column,  headed  letter  B., 
The  name  of  Bellanaine,  if  you  're  not  blind  ; 
Then  pray  refer  to  the  text,  and  you  will  see 
An  ai-ticle  made  up  of  calumny 
Against  this  highland  princess,  rating  her 
For  giving  way,  so  over  feshionably. 
To  this  new-fengled  vice,  which  seems  a  burr 
Stuck  in  his  moral  throat,  no  coughing  e'er  could  stir. 


XIII 

There  he  says  plainly  that  she  loved  a  man  ! 
That  she  around  him  flutter'd,  flirted,  toy'd. 
Before  her  marriage  with  great  Elfinan  ; 
That  after  marriage  too,  she  never  joy'd 
In  husband's  company,  but  still  employ'd 
Her  wits  to  'scape  away  to  Angle-land ; 
Where  liv'd  the  youth,  who  worried  and  annoy'd 
Her  tender  heart,  and  its  warm  ardours  fann'd 
To  such  a  dreadful  blaze  her  side  would  scorch  her  hand. 


366  JOHN  KEATS 

XIV 

But  let  us  leave  this  idle  tittle-tattle 
To  waiting-maids,  and  bed-room  iioteries. 
Nor  till  fit  time  against  her  fame  wage  battle. 
Poor  Elfinan  is  very  ill  at  ease ; 
Let  us  resume  his  subject  if  yon  please : 
For  it  may  comfort  and  console  him  much 
To  rhwne  and  syllable  his  miseries ; 
Poor  Elfinan  !  whose  cruel  fate  was  such, 
He  sat  and  cursed  a  bride  he  knew  he  could  not  touch. 

XV 

Soon  as  (according  to  his  promises) 
The  bridal  embassy  had  taken  wing. 
And  vanish'd,  bird-like,  o'er  the  suburb  trees. 
The  Emperor,  empierced  with  the  sharp  sting 
Of  love,  retired,  vex'd  and  murmuring 
Like  any  drone  shut  from  the  fair  bee-queen. 
Into  his  cabinet,  and  there  did  fling 
His  limbs  upon  a  sofa,  full  of  spleen. 
And  damn'd  his  House  of  Commons,  in  complete  chagrin. 

XVI 

"  I  '11  trounce  some  of  the  members,"  cried  the  Prince, 
"  I  '11  put  a  mark  against  some  rebel  names, 
I  '11  make  the  Opposition-benches  wince, 
I  '11  show  them  very  soon,  to  all  their  shames. 
What  'tis  to  smother  up  a  Prince's  flames. 
That  ministers  should  join  in  it,  I  own. 
Surprises  me ! — ^they  too  at  these  high  games ! 
Am  I  an  Emperor  ?    Do  I  wear  a  crown  ? 
Imperial  Elfinan,  go  hang  thyself  or  drown  ! 

XVII 

"  I  '11  trounce  'em  ! — there's  the  square-cut  chancellor. 
His  son  shall  never  touch  that  bishopric ; 
And  for  the  nephew  of  old  Palfior, 
I'll  show  him  that  his  speeches  miide  me  sick, 
And  give  the  colonelcy  to  Phalaric ; 
The  tiptoe  marquis,  moral  and  gallant. 
Shall  lodge  in  shabby  taverns  upon  tick ; 
And  for  the  Speaker's  second  cousin's  aunt. 
She  shan't  be  maid  of  honour, — by  heaven  that  she  shan't ! 

XVIII 

"  I'll  shirk  the  Duke  of  A. ;  I'll  cut  his  brother 
I'll  give  no  garter  to  his  eldest  son  ; 
I  won't  speak  to  his  sister  or  his  mother. 
The  Viscount  B.  shall  live  at  cut-and-run  ; 
But  how  in  the  world  can  I  contrive  to  stun 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  367 

That  fellow's  voices  which  plagues  me  worse  than  any. 
That  stubborn  fool,  that  impudent  state-dun. 
Who  sets  down  ev'ry  sovereign  as  a  zany, — 
That  vulgar  commoner.  Esquire  Biancopany  ? 

XIX 

"  Monstrous  affair  !     Pshaw  !  pah  !  what  ugly  minx 
Will  they  fetch  from  Imaus  for  my  bride  ? 
Alas  !  my  wearied  heart  within  me  sinks. 
To  think  that  I  must  be  so  near  allied 
To  a  cold  dullard  fay, — ah,  woe  betide  ! 
Ah,  fairest  of  all  human  loveliness  ! 
Sweet  Bertha !  what  crime  can  it  be  to  glide 
About  the  fragrant  plaitings  of  thy  dress. 
Or  kiss  thine  eyes,  or  count  thy  locks,  tress  after  tress  ?  " 

XX 

So  said,  one  minute's  while  his  eyes  remain'd 
Half  lidded,  piteous,  languid,  innocent ; 
But,  in  a  wink,  their  splendour  they  regain'd. 
Sparkling  revenge  with  amorous  fury  blent. 
Love  thwarted  in  bad  temper  oft  has  vent : 
He  rose,  he  stampt  his  foot,  he  rang  the  bell. 
And  order' d  some  death-warrants  to  be  sent 
For  signature : — somewhere  the  tempest  fell, 
As  many  a  poor  fellow  does  not  live  to  tell. 

XXI 

"  At  the  same  time,  Eban," — (this  was  his  page, 
A  fay  of  colour,  slave  from  top  to  toe. 
Sent  as  a  present,  while  yet  under  age. 
From  the  Viceroy  of  Zanguebar, — wise,  slow 
His  speech,  his  only  words  were  "  yes  "  and  "no,"' 
But  swift  of  look  and  foot  and  wing  was  he,) — 
"  At  the  same  time,  Eban,  this  instant  go 
To  Hum  the  soothsayer,  whose  name  I  see 
Among  the  fresh  arrivals  in  our  empery. 

XXII 

"  Bring  Hum  to  me !     But  stay — here,  take  my  ring. 
The  pledge  of  favour,  that  he  not  suspect 
Any  foul  play,  or  awkward  murdering, 
Tho'  I  have  bowstrung  many  of  his  sect ; 
Throw  in  a  hint,  that  if  he  should  neglect 
One  hour  the  next  shall  see  him  in  my  grasp. 
And  the  next  after  that  shall  see  him  neck'd. 
Or  swallow'd  by  my  hunger-starved  asp, — 
Aijd  ntention  ('tis  as  well)  the  torture  of  the  wasp,'' 


368  JOHN  KEATS 

XXIII 

These  orders  given,  the  Prince,  in  half  a  pet. 
Let  o'er  the  silk  his  propping  elbow  slide, 
Caught  up  his  little  legs,  and,  in  a  fret. 
Fell  on  the  sofa  on  his  royal  side. 
The  slave  retreated  backwards,  humble-eyed, 
And  with  a  «lave-like  silence  closed  the  door. 
And  to  old  Hum  thro'  street  and  alley  hied  ; 
He  "  knew  the  city,"  as  we  say,  of  yore. 
And  for  short  cuts  and  turns,  was  nobody  knew  more. 

XXIV 

It  was  the  time  when  wholesale  dealers  close 
Their  shutters  with  a  moody  sense  of  wealth, 
But  retail  dealers,  diligent,  let  loose 
The  gas  (objected  to  on  score  of  health), 
Convey'd  in  little  solder'd  pipes  by  stealth. 
And  make  it  flare  in  many  a  brilliant  form. 
That  all  the  powers  of  darkness  it  repell'th. 
Which  to  the  oil-trade  doth  great  scaith  and  harm. 
And  supersedeth  quite  the  use  of  the  glow-worm. 

XXV 

Eban,  untempted  by  the  pastrycooks, 
(Of  pastry  he  got  store  within  the  palace,) 
With  hasty  steps,  wrapp'd  cloak,  and  solemn  looks. 
Incognito  upon  his  errand  sallies. 
His  smelling-bottle  ready  for  the  allies ; 
He  pass'd  the  hurdygurdies  with  disdain. 
Vowing  he'd  have  them  sent  on  board  the  galleys  ; 
Just  as  he  made  his  vow  it  'gan  to  rain. 
Therefore  he  call'd  a  coach,  and  bade  it  drive  amain. 

XXVI 

"  I  '11  pull  the  string,"  said  he,  and  further  said, 
"  Polluted  jarvey !    Ah,  thou  filthy  hack ! 
Whose  springs  of  life  are  all  dried  up  and  dead. 
Whose  linsey-woolsey  lining  hangs  all  slack. 
Whose  rug  is  straw,  whose  wholeness  is  a  crack  ; 
And  evermore  thy  steps  go  clatter-clitter ; 
Whose  glass  once  up  can  never  be  got  back. 
Who  proVst,  with  jolting  arguments  and  bitter, 
That  'tis  of  modem  use  to  travel  in  a  litter. 

XXVII 

"  Thou  inconvenience !  thou  hungry  crop 
For  all  corn  !  thou  snail-creeper  to  and  fro. 
Who  while  thou  goest  ever  seem'st  to  stop 
And  fiddle-faddle  standest  while  you  go ; 
r  the  morning,  freighted  with  a  weight  of  woe. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  86» 

Unto  some  lazar-house  thou  joumeyest^ 
And  in  the  evening  tak'st  a  double  row 
Of  dowdies,  for  some  dance  or  party  drest. 
Besides  the  goods  meanwhile  thou  movest  east  and  west. 

XXVIII 

"  By  thy  ungallant  bearing  and  sad  mien, 
An  inch  appears  the  utmost  thou  couldst  budge ; 
Yet  at  the  slightest  nod,  or  hint,  or  sign. 
Round  to  the  curb-stone  patient  dost  thou  trudge, 
School'd  in  a  beckon,  learned  in  a  nudge, 
A  dull-eyed  Argus  watching  for  a  fare ; 
Quiet  and  plodding,  thou  dost  bear  no  grudge 
To  whisking  tilburies  or  phaetons  rare, 
Curricles,  or  mail-coaches,  swift  beyond  compare." 


XXIX 

Philosophizing  thus,  he  puU'd  the  check 
And  bade  the  coachman  wheel  to  such  a  street. 
Who,  turning  much  his  body,  more  his  neck, 
Louted  full  low,  and  hoarsely  did  him  greet : 
"  Certes,  monsieur  were  best  take  to  his  feet. 
Seeing  his  servant  can  no  further  drive 
For  press  of  coaches,  that  to-night  here  meet. 
Many  as  bees  about  a  straw-capp'd  hive. 
When  first  for  April  honey  into  faint  flowers  they  dive 

XXX 

Ebau  then  paid  his  fare,  and  tiptoe  went 
To  Hum's  hotel ;  and,  as  he  on  did  pass 
With  head  inclined,  each  dusky  lineament 
Show'd  in  the  pearl-paved  street,  as  in  a  glass. 
His  purple  vest,  that  ever  peeping  was 
Rich  from  the  fluttering  crimson  of  his  cloak. 
His  silvery  trowsers,  and  his  silken  sash. 
Tied  in  a  bumish'd  knot,  their  semblance  took 
Upon  the  mirror'd  walls,  wherever  he  might  look. 


XXXI 

He  smiled  at  self,  and,  smiling,  show'd  his  teeth. 
And  seeing  his  white  teeth,  he  smiled  the  more  ; 
Lifted  his  eye-brows,  spurn'd  the  path  beneath, 
Show'd  teeth  again,  and  smiled  as  heretofore. 
Until  he  knock'd  at  the  magician's  door ; 
Where,  till  the  porter  answer' d,  might  be  seen. 
In  the  clear  panel  more  he  could  adore, — 
His  turban  wreath'd  of  gold,  and  white,  and  green, 
Mustachios,  ear-ring,  nose-ring,  and  his  sabre  keen. 
84 


570  JOHN  KEATS 

XXXII 

"  Does  not  your  master  give  a  rout  to-night  ?  " 
Quoth  the  dark  page.     "  Ohj  no  ! "  return'd  the  Swim,  , 
"  Next  door  but  one  to  us,  upon  the  right. 
The  Magaam  des  Modes  now  open  is 
Against  the  Emperor's  wedding ; — and,  sir,  this 
My  master  finds  a  monstrous  horrid  bore  ; 
As  he  retired,  an  hour  ago  I  wis, 
With  his  best  beard  and  brimstone,  to  explore 
And  cast  a  quiet  figure  in  his  second  floor. 

XXXIII 

"  Gad  !  he  's  obliged  to  stick  to  business  ! 
For  chalk,  I  hear,  stands  at  a  pretty  price ; 
And  as  for  aqua  vitae — there  's  a  mess  !     . 
The  denies  swpientioe  of  mice. 
Our  barber  tells  me  too,  are  on  the  rise, — 
Tinder  's  a  lighter  article, — ^nitre  pure 
Goes  off  like  lightning, — grains  of  Paradise 
At  an  enormous  figure ! — stars  not  sure  1 — 
Zodiac  will  not  move  without  a  slight  douceur  ! 

XXXIV 

"  Venus  won't  stir  a  peg  without  a  fee. 
And  master  is  too  partial,  erdre  nous, 
To  " —     "  Hush — hush  ! "  cried  £ban,  "  sure  that  is  he 
Coming  downstairs, — by  St.  Bartholomew ! 
As  backwards  as  he  can, — is  't  something  new  i* 
Or  is 't  his  custom,  in  the  name  of  fun  }  " 
"  He  always  comes  down  backward,  with  one  shoe  " — 
Return'd  the  porter — "  off,  and  one  shoe  on. 
Like,  saving  shoe  for  sock  or  stocking,  my  man  John ! " 

XXXV 

It  was  indeed  the  great  Magician, 
Feeling,  with  careful  toe,  for  every  stair. 
And  retrograding  careful  as  he  can. 
Backwards  and  downwards  from  his  own  two  pair : 
"Salpietro  ! "  exclaim'd  Hum,  "is  the  dog  there? 
He  's  always  in  my  way  upon  the  mat ! " 
"  He 's  in  the  kitchen,  or  the  Lord  knows  where," — 
Replied  the  Swiss, — "  the  nasty,  whelping  brat ! " 
"  Don't  beat  him  ! "  return'd  Hum,  and  on  the  floor  came  pat. 

XXXVI 

Then  facing  right  about,  he  saw  the  page. 
And  said  :  "  Don't  tell  me  what  you  want,  Eban ; 
The  Emperor  is  now  in  a  huge'  rage, — 
'Tis  nine  to  one  he'll  give  you  the  rattan  ! 
Let  us  away  ! "     Away  together  ran 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  371 

The  plain-dress'd  sage  and  spangled  blackamoor. 
Nor  rested  till  they  stood  to  cool,  and  &n. 
And  breathe  themselves  at  th'  Emperor's  chamber  door. 
When  Eban  thought  he  heard  a  soft  imperial  snore. 

XXXVII 

"  I  thought  you  guess' d,  foretold,  or  prophesied, 
That's  Majesty  was  in  a  raving  fit  ?  " 
"  He  dreams, '  said  Hum,  "  or  I  have  ever  lied. 
That  he  is  tearing  you,  sir,  bit  by  bit." 
"  He  's  not  asleep,  and  you  have  little  wit," 
Replied  the  page ;  "  that  little  bu^ng  noise, 
Whate'er  your  palmistry  may  make  of  it. 
Comes  from  a  plaything  of  the  Emperor's  choice. 
From  a  Man-Tiger-Oigan,  prettiest  of  his  toys." 

xxxvni 

Eban  then  usher'd  in  the  learned  Seer : 
Elfinan's  back  was  tum'd,  but,  ne'ertheless, 
Both,  prostrate  on  the  carpet,  ear  by  ear. 
Crept  silently,  and  waited  in  distress. 
Knowing  the  Emperor's  moody  bitterness ; 
Eban  especially,  who  on  the  floor  'gan 
Tremble  and  quake  to  death, — he  feared  less 
A  dose  of  senna-tea  or  nightmare  Giorgon 
Than  the  Emperor  when  he  play'd  on  his  Man-llger-Organ. 


xxxix 

They  kiss'd  nine  times  the  carpet's  velvet  face 
Of  glossy  silk,  soft,  smooth,  and  meadow-green. 
Where  the  close  eye  in  deep  rich  fur  might  trace 
A  silver  tissue,  scantly  to  be  seen. 
As  daisies  lurk'd  in  June  grass,  buds  in  green  ; 
Sudden  the  music  ceased,  sudden  the  hand 
Of  majesty,  by  dint  of  passion  keen. 
Doubled  into  a  common  fist,  went  grand. 
And  knock'd  down  three  cut  glasses  and  his  best  ink-stand. 


XL 

Then  turning  round,  he  saw  those  trembling  two : 
"  Eban,"  said  he,  "  as  slaves  should  taste  the  fruits 
Of  diligence,  I  shall  remember  you 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  as  time  suits. 
In  a  finger  conversation  wili  my  mutes, — 
Begone  I — for  you,  Chaldean  !  here  remain ; 
Fear  not,  quake  not,  and  as  good  wine  recruits 
A  conjurer's  spirits,  what  cup  will  you  drain  ? 
Sherry  in  silver,  hock  in  gold,  or  glass'd  champagne  ? ' 


372  JOHN  KEATS 

XLI 

"  Commander  of  the  Faithful ! "  answer'd  Hum, 
"  In  preference  to  these,  I'll  merely  taste 
A  thimble-full  of  old  Jamaica  rum." 
"  A  simple  boon  ! "  said  Elfinan ;  "  thou  mayst 
Have  Nantz,  with  which  my  morning-coffee  's  laced."  ' 
"  I'll  have  a  glass  of  Nantz,  then," — said  the  seer, — 
"  Made  racy — (sure  my  boldness  is  misplaced  !) — 
With  the  third  part— (yet  that  is  drinking  dear !) — 
Of  the  least  drop  of  creme  de  dtren,  crystal  clear." 

XLII 

"  I  pledge  you.  Hum  !  and  pledge  my  dearest  love, 
My  Bertha  ! "  "  Bertha  !  Bertha !  "  cried  the  sage, 
"  I  know  a  many  Berthas  ! "  "  Mine  's  above 
All  Berthas ! "  sighed  the  Emperor.     "  1  engage," 
Said  Hum,  "  in  duty,  and  in  vassalage. 
To  mention  all  the  Berthas  in  the  earth  ; — 
There's  Bertha  Watson, —  and  Miss  Bertha  Page, — 
This  famed  for  languid  eyes,  and  that  for  mirth, — 
There  's  Bertha  Blount  of  York, — and  Bertha  Knox  of  Perth." 

XUII 

"  You  seem  to  know  ' — "  I  do  know,"  answer'd  Hum, 
"  Your  Majesty  's  in  love  with  some  fine  girl 
Named  Bertha  ;  but  her  surname  will  not  come. 
Without  a  little  conjuring."     "'Tis  Pearl, 
'Tis  Bertha  Pearl !    What  makes  my  brains  so  whirl .'' 
And  she  is  softer,  fairer  than  her  name ! " 
"Where  does  she  live.''"  ask'd  Hum.     "Her  fair  locks  curl 
So  brightly,  they  put  all  our  fays  to  shame ! — 
Live!" — O  !  at  Canterbury,  with  her  old  granddame." 

XLIV 

"  Good  !  good  !  "  cried  Hum,  "  I've  known  her  from  a  child  ! 
She  is  a  changeling  of  my  management ; 
She  was  born  at  midnight  in  an  Indian  wild  ; 
Her  mother's  screams  with  the  striped  tiger's  blent. 
While  the  torch-bearing  slaves  a  halloo  sent 
Into  the  jungles  ;  and  her  palanquin. 
Rested  amid  the  desert's  dreariment. 
Shook  with  her  agony,  till  fair  were  seen 
The  little  Bertha's  eyes  ope  on  the  stars  serene." 

XLV 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  the  monarch  ;  "that  may  be. 
Just  as  it  happen'd,  true  or  else  a  bam  ! 
Drink  up  your  brandy,  and  sit  down  by  me. 
Feel,  feel  my  pulse— now  much  in  love  I  am  ! 
And  if  your  science  is  not  all  a  sham 

• "  Mr.  Nisby  is  of  opinion  that  laced  coffee  is  bad  for  the  \ieaA."— Spectator. 


THE  CAP  AxND  BELLS  373 

Tell  me  some  means  to  get  the  lady  here." 
"  Upon  my  hononr  ! "  said  the  son  of  Cham,^ 
"  She  is  my  dainty  changeling,  near  and  dear. 
Although  her  story  sounds  at  first  a  little  queer." 

XLVI 

"  Convey  her  to  me.  Hum,  or  by  my  crown. 
My  sceptre,  and  my  cross-surmounted  globe, 
I'll  knock  you" — "Does  your  majesty  mean — doimi  ? 
No,  no,  you  never  could  my  feedings  probe 
To  such  a  depth  ! "    The  Emperor  took  his  robe. 
And  wept  upon  its  purple  palatine, 
Wbile  Hum  continued,  shamming  half  a  sob, — 
"  In  Canterbury  doth  your  lady  shine  ? 
But  let  me  cool  your  brandy  with  a  little  wine." 

XLVII 

Whereat  a  narrow  Flemish  glass  he  took. 
That  since  belong'd  to  Admiral  De  Witt. 
Admired  it  with  a  connoisseuring  look. 
And  with  the  ripest  claret  crowned  it ; 
And,  ere  the  lively  bead  could  burst  and  flit. 
He  turned  it  quickly,  nimbly  upside  down. 
His  mouth  being  held  conveniently  fit 
To  catch  the  treasure :  "  Best  in  all  the  town  ! " 
He  said,  smack'd  his  moist  lips,  and  gave  a  pleasant  frown. 

XLVIII 

"  Ah !  good  my  Prince,  weep  not !  "    And  then  again 
He  fill'd  a  bumper.     "  Great  Sire,  do  not  weep  ! 
Your  pulse  is  shocking,  but  Pll  ease  your  pain." 
"  Feteh  me  that  ottoman,  and  prithee  keep 
Your  voice  low,"  said  the  Emperor ;  "  and  steep 
Some  lady's-fingers  nice  in  Candy  wine ; 
And  prithee.  Hum,  behind  the  screen  do  peep 
For  the  rose-water  vase,  magician  mine  ! 
And  sponge  my  forehead, — so  my  love  doth  make  me  pine. 

XLIX 

"  Ah,  cursed  Bellanaine  ! "     "  Don't  think  of  her," 
Rejoin'd  the  Mago,  "  but  on  Bertha  muse ; 
For,  by  my  choicest  best  barometer. 
Yon  shall  not  throttled  be  in  marriage  noose  ; 
I  've  said  it.  Sire  ;  you  only  have  to  choose — 
Bertha  or  Bellanaine."    So  saying,  he  drew 
From  the  leil  pocket  of  his  threadbare  hose 
A  sampler,  hoarded  slyly,  good  as  new. 
Holding  it  by  his  thumb  and  finger  full  in  view. 

'  Cham  is  said  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  magic.     Lucy  learnt  this  from  Bayle's 
pictionary,  and  had  copied  a  lopg  Latin  note  from  that  work. 


374  JOHN  KEATS 

L 

"  Sire,  this  is  Bertha  Pearl's  neat  handy-work ; 
Her  name,  see  here.  Midsummer,  nmety-one," 
Elfinan  snatch'd  it  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
And  wept  as  if  he  never  would  have  done. 
Honouring  with  royal  tears  the  poor  homespun  ; 
Whereon  were  hroider'd  tigers  with  black  eyes. 
And  long-tail'd  pheasants,  and  a  rising  sun. 
Plenty  of  posies,  great  stags,  butterflies 
Bigger  than  stags, — a  moon, — with  other  mysteries. 

LI 

The  monarch  handled  o'er  and  o'er  again 
These  day-school  hieroglyphics  with  a  sigh  ; 
Somewhat  in  sadness,  but  pleas'd  in  the  main. 
Till  this  oracular  couplet  met  his  eye 
Astounded  :  Cwpid  I,  do  thee  defy  ! 
It  was  too  much.     He  shrunk  back  in  his  chair. 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  fainted— very  nigh. 
"  Pho  !  nonsense ! "  exclaim'd  Hum,  "  now  don't  despair ; 
She  does  not  mean  it  really.     Cheer  up,  hearty — there ! 

LII 

"  And  listen  to  my  words.     You  say  you  won't. 
On  any  terms,  marry  Miss  BeUanaine ; 
It  goes  against  your  conscience — good  !     Well,  don't. 
You  say  you  love  a  mortal.     I  would  fain 
Persuade  your  honour's  highness  to  refrain 
From  peccadilloes.     But,  sire,  as  I  say, 
What  good  would  that  do  }    And,  to  be  more  plain. 
You  would  do  me  a  mischief  some  odd  day. 
Cut  off  my  ears  and  hands,  or  head  too,  by  my  fay  ! 

LIII 

"  Besides,  manners  forbid  that  I  should  pass  any 
Vile  strictures  on  the  conduct  of  a  prince 
Who  should  indulge  his  genius,  if  he  has  any. 
Not,  like  a  subject,  foolish  matters  mince. 
Now  I  think  on  't,  perhaps  I  could  convince 
Your  Majesty  there  is  no  crime  at  all 
In  loving  pretty  little  Bertha,  since 
She  's  very  delicate, — not  over  tall, — 
A  fairy's  hand,  and  in  the  waist  why — very  small."   - 

LIV 

"  Ring  the  repeater,  gentle  Hum  ! "     "  'Tis  five," 
Said  gentle  Hum  ;  "  the  nights  draw  in  apace  ; 
The  little  birds,  I  hear,  are  all  alive ; 
I  see  the  dawning  touch'd  upon  your  face ; 
Shall  1  put  out  the  candles,  please  your  Grace  }  " 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  875 

"  Do  put  them  out,  and,  without  more  ado. 
Tell  me  how  I  may  that  sweet  girl  embrace, — 
Howyou  can  bring  her  to  me."     "That 's  for  you. 
Great  Emperor !  to  adventure,  like  a  lover  true." 

LV 

"  I  fetch  her  ?  "• — "  Yes,  an  't  like  your  Majesty ; 
And  as  she  would  be  frighten'd  wide  awake 
To  travel  such  a  distance  through  the  sky. 
Use  of  some  soft  manoeuvre  you  must  make, 
For  your  convenience  and  her  dear  nerves  sake ; 
Nice  way  would  be  to  bring  her  in  a  swoon. 
Anon,  I'll  tell  what  course  were  best  to  take  ; 
You  must  away  this  morning."     "  Hum  !  so  soon  ?  " 
"Sire,  you  must  be  in  Kent  by  twelve  o'clock  at  noon.'' 


LVI 

At  this  great  Cs^ar  started  on  his  feet. 
Lifted  his  wings,  and  stood  attentive-wise. 
"  Those  wings  to  Canterbury  you  must  beat. 
If  you  hold  Bertha  as  a  worthy  prize. 
Look  in  the  Almanack — Moore  never  lies — 
April  the  twenty-fourth, — this  coming  day. 
Now  breathing  its  new  bloom  upon  the  sides. 
Will  end  in  St.  Mark's  Eve ; — you  must  away. 
For  on  that  eve  alone  can  you  the  maid  convey." 


LVII 

Then  the  magician  solemnly  'gan  frown. 
So  that  his  frost-white  eyebrows,  beetling  low, 
Shaded  his  deep  green  eyes,  and  wrinkles  brown 
Plaited  upon  his  fiimace-scorched  brow : 
Forth  from  his  hood  that  hung  his  neck  below. 
He  lifted  a  bright  casket  of  pure  gold, 
Touch'd  a  spring-lock,  and  there  in  wool  or  snow. 
Charm 'd  into  ever  freezing,  lay  an  old 
And  legend-leaved  book,  mysterious  to  behold. 


LVIII 

"  Take  this  same  book, — it  will  not  bite  yon,  sire ; 
There,  put  it  underneath  your  royal  arm  ; 
Though  it 's  a  pretty  weight  it  will  not  tire. 
But  rather  on  your  journey  keep  you  warm : 
This  is  the  magic,  this  the  potent  charm. 
That  shall  drive  Bertha  to  a  fainting  iit ! 
When  the  time  comes  don't  feel  the  least  alarm. 
But  lift  her  from  the  ground,  and  swiftly  flit 
Back  to  your  palace,  where  I  wait  for  guerdon  fit." 


376  JOHN  KEATS 

LIX 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  that  same  hook  ?  "  "  Why,  merely 
Lay  it  on  Bertha's  table,  close  beside 
Her  work-box,  and  'twill  help  your  purpose  dearly  ; 
I  say  no  more."    "  Or  good  or  ill  betide. 
Through  the  wide  air  to  Kent  this  morn  I  glide  !  " 
Exclaim'd  the  Emperor.     "  When  I  return. 
Ask  what  you  will, — I'll  give  you  my  new  bride ! 
And  take  some  more  wine,  Hum  ; — O  heavens  !  1  burn 
To  be  upon  the  wing  !     Now,  now,  that  minx  I  spurn  !  " 

LX 

'f  Leave  her  to  me,"  rejoin'd  the  magian  : 
"  But  how  shall  I  account,  illustrious  fay  ! 
For  thine  imperial  absence  ?    Pho  !  I  can 
Say  you  are  very  sick,  and  bar  the  way 
To  your  so  loving  courtiers  for  one  day  ; 
If  either  of  their  two  archbishops'  graces 
Should  talk  of  extreme  unction,  I  shall  say 
You  do  not  like  cold  pig  with  Latin  phrases. 
Which  never  should  be  used  but  in  alarming  cases." 

LXI 

"  Open  the  window.  Hum  ;  I  'm  ready  now  ! " 
"  Zooks  !  "  exclaim'd  Hum,  as  up  the  sash  he  drew, 
"  Behold,  your  Majesty,  upon  the  brow 
Of  yonder  hill,  what  crowds  of  people  ! "  "  Whew  ! 
The  monster's  always  after  something  new," 
Return'd  his  Highness,  "  they  are  piping  hot 
To  see  my  pigsney  Ballanaine.     Hum  !  do 
Tighten  my  belt  a  little, — so,  so, — not 
Too  tight, — the  book  ! — my  wand  ! — so,  nothing  is  forgot." 

LXII 

"  Wounds  !  how  they  shout !  "  said  Hum,  "  and  there, — see,  see ! 
Th'  ambassador  's  return'd  from  Pigmio  ! 
The  morning's  very  fine, — uncommonly ! 
See,  past  the  skirts  of  yon  white  cloud  they  go. 
Tinging  it  with  soft  crimsons  !  Now  below 
The  sable-pointed  heads  of  firs  and  pines 
They  dip,  move  on,  and  with  them  moves  a  glow 
Along  the  forest  side  !     Now  amber  lines 
Reach  the  hill  top,  and  now  throughout  the  valley  shines." 

LXIII 

"  Why,  Hum,  you  're  getting  quite  poetical ! 
Those  now8  you  managed  in  a  special  style." 
"  If  ever  you  have  leisure.  Sire,  you  shall 
See  scraps  of  mine  will  make  it  worth  your  while, 
Tit-bits  for  PhoBbus,! — yes,  you  well  may  smile. 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  377 

Hark  !  hark !  the  hells ! "  "A  little  further  yet. 
Good  Hum,  and  let  me  view  this  mighty  coil." 
Then  the  great  Emperor  full  graceful  set 
His  elhow  for  a  prop,  and  snuff'd  his  mignonnette. 

LXIV 

The  morn  is  full  of  holiday  ;  loud  bells 
With  rival  clamours  ring  from  every  spire  ; 
Cunningly-station'd  music  dies  and  swells 
In  echoing  places ;  when  the  winds  respire. 
Light  flags  stream  out  like  gauzy  tongues  of  fire  ; 
A  metropolitan  murmur,  lifeiid,  warm. 
Comes  from  the  northern  suburhs ;  rich  attire 
Freckles  with  red  and  gold  the  moving  swarm ; 
While  here  and  there  clear  trumpets  blow  a  keen  alarm. 

LXV 

And  now  the  fairy  escort  was  seen  clear. 
Like  the  old  pageant  of  Aurora's  train. 
Above  a  pearl-built  minster,  hovering  near  ; 
First  wily  Crafticant,  the  chamberlam. 
Balanced  upon  his  grey-grown  pinions  twain. 
His  slender  wand  officially  reveal'd  ; 
Then  black  gnomes  scattering  sixpences  like  rain  ; 
Then  pages  three  and  three ;  and  next,  slave-held. 
The  Imaian  'scutcheon  bright, — one  mouse  in  argent  field. 


LXVI 

Gentlemen  pensioners  next ;  and  after  them, 
A  troop  of  winged  Janizaries  flew ; 
Then  slaves,  as  presents  bearing  many  a  g«m  ; 
Then  twelve  physicians  fluttering  two  and  two  ; 
And  next  a  chaplain  in  a  cassock  new ; 
Then  Lords  in  waiting ;  then  (what  head  not  reels 
For  pleasure .'') — the  feir  Princess  in  frill  view. 
Borne  upon  wings, — and  very  pleased  she  feels 
To  have  such  splendour  dance  attendance  at  her  heels. 


Lxvn 

For  there  was  more  magnificence  behind : 
She  waved  her  handkerchief.     "  Ah,  very  grand  ! " 
Cried  Elfinan,  and  closed  the  window-blind : 
"And,  Hum,  we  must  not  shilly-shally  stand, — 
Adieu  !  adieu !  Fm  off  for  Angle-land ! 
I  say,  old  Hocus,  have  you  such  a  thing 
About  yon, — feel  your  pockets,  I  command, — 
I  want,  this  instant,  an  invisible  ring, — 
Thank  you,  old  mummy  ! — now  securely  I  take  wing," 


378  JOHN  KEATS 

LXVfll 

Then  Elfinan  swift  vaulted  from  the  floor, 
And  lighted  graceful  on  the  window-sill ; 
Under  one  arm  the  magic  book  he  bore. 
The  other  he  could  wave  about  at  will ; 
Pale  was  his  face,  he  still  look'd  very  ill : 
He  bow'd  at  Bellanaine,  and  said — "  Poor  Bell ! 
Farewell !  farewell !  and  if  for  ever  !  still 
For  ever  fare  thee  well ! " — and  then  he  fell 
A  laughing ! — snapp'd  his  fingers  ! — shame  it  is  to  tell ! 

LXIX 

"  By'r  Lady  !  he  is  gone ! "  cries  Hum,  "  and  I — 
(I  own  it) — have  made  too  free  with  his  wine ; 
Old  Crafticant  will  smoke  me.     By-the-bye ! 
This  room  is  full  of  jewels  as  a  mine. 
Dear  valuable  creatures,  how  ye  shine ! 
Sometime  to-day  I  must  contrive  a  minute. 
If  Mercury  propitiously  incline. 
To  examine  his  scrutoire,  and  see  what 's  in  it. 
For  of  superfluous  diamonds  I  as  well  may  thin  it. 

LXX 

"  The  Emperor's  horrid  bad  ;  yes,  that 's  my  cue ! " 
Some  histories  say  that  this  was  Hum's  last  speech ; 
That,  being  fuddled,  he  went  reeling  through 
The  corridor,  and  scarce  upright  could  reach 
The  stair-head ;  that  being  glutted  as  a  leech, 
And  used,  as  we  ourselves  have  just  now  said. 
To  manage  stairs  reversely,  like  a  peach 
Too  ripe,  he  fell,  being  puzzled  in  his  head 
With  liquor  and  the  staircase :  verdict — fcnmd  stone  dead. 

LXXI 

This  as  a  falsehood  Crafticanto  treats ; 
And  as  his  style  is  of  strange  elegance. 
Gentle  and  tender,  full  of  soft  conceits, 
(Much  like  our  Boswell's),  we  will  take  a  glance 
At  his  sweet  prose,  and,  if  we  can,  make  dance 
His  woven  periods  into  careless  rhyme ; 
O,  little  feery  Pegasus  !  rear — prance — 
Trot  round  the  quarto — ordinary  time ! 
March,  little  Pegasus,  with  pawing  hoof  sublime  ! 

LXXII 

Well,  let  us  see, — tenth  book  and  chapter  nine, — 

Thus  Crafticant  pursues  his  diary : — 

"  'Twas  twelve  o  clock  at  night,  the  weather  fine, 

Latitude  thirty-six  ;  our  scouts  descry 

A  flight  of  starlings  making  rapidly 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  379 

Tow'rds  Thibet.     Mem. : — birds  fly  in  the  night ; 
From  twelve  to  half-past — wings  not  fit  to  fly 
For  a  thick  fog — the  Princess  sulky  quite  ; 
Call'd  for  an  extra  shawl,  and  gave  her  nurse  a  bite. 


LXXIII 

"  Five  minutes  before  one — brought  down  a  moth 
With  my  new  double-barrel — stew'd  the  thighs 
And  made  a  very  tolerable  broth — 
Princess  turn'd  dainty,  to  our  great  surprise, 
Alter'd  her  mind,  and  thought  it  very  nice : 
Seeing  her  pleasant,  tried  her  with  a  pun, 
She  frown'd  ;  a  monstrous  owl  across  us  flies 
About  this  time, — a  sad  old  figure  of  fun  ; 
Bad  omen — this  new  match  can't  be  a  happy  one. 

LXXIV 

"  From  two  to  half-past,  dusky  way  we  made. 
Above  the  plains  of  Gobi, — desert,  bleak  ; 
Beheld  afar  ofl^,  in  the  hooded  shade 
Of  darkness,  a  great  mountain  (strange  to  speak). 
Spitting,  from  forth  its  sulphur-bakeu  peak, 
A  fan-shaped  burst  of  blood-red,  arrowy  fire, 
Turban'd  with  smoke,  which  stUl  away  did  reek. 
Solid  and  black  from  that  eternal  pyre, 
Upon  the  laden  winds  that  scantly  could  respire. 

LXXV 

"  Just  upon  three  o'clock  a  falling  star 
Created  an  alarm  among  our  troop, 
Kill'd  a  man-cook,  a  ps^e,  and  broke  a  jar, 
A  tureen,  and  three  dishes,  at  one  swoop. 
Then  passing  by  the  Princess,  singed  her  hoop  : 
Could  not  conceive  what  Coralline  was  at. 
She  clapp'd  her  hands  three  times  and  cried  out '  Whoop  ! ' 
Some  strange  Imaian  custom.     A  large  bat 
Came  sudden  'fore  my  iace,  and  brush'd  against  my  hat. 


LXXVI 

"  Five  minutes  thirteen  seconds  after  three. 
Far  in  the  west  a  mighty  fire  broke  out. 
Conjectured,  on  the  instant,  it  might  be, 
The  city  of  Balk — 'twas  Balk  beyond  all  doubt : 
A  griffin,  wheeling  here  and  there  about. 
Kept  reconnoitring  us — doubled  our  guard — 
Lighted  our  torches,  and  kept  up  a  shout. 
Till  he  sheer'd  oflr — ^the  Princess  very  scared — 
And  many  on  their  marrowbones  for  death  prepared, 


380  JOHN  KEATS 

LXXVII 

"  At  half-past  three  arose  the  cheerful  moon — 
Bivouack'd  for  four  minutes  on  a  cloud — 
Where  from  the  earth  we  heard  a  lively  tune 
Of  tamhourines  and  pipes,  serene  and  loud, 
While  on  a  flowery  lawn  a  brilliant  crowd 
Cinque-parted  danced,  some  half  asleep  reposed 
Beneath  the  green-fan'd  cedars,  some  did  shroud 
In  silken  tents,  and  'mid  light  fragrance  dozed. 
Or  on  the  open  turf  their  soothed  eyelids  closed. 

LXXVIII 

"  Dropp'd  my  gold  watch,  and  kill'd  a  kettle-drum — 
It  went  for  apoplexy — foolish  folks  !— 
Left  it  to  pay  the  piper — a  good  sum — 
(I've  got  a  conscience,  maugre  people's  jokes  ;) 
To  scrape  a  little  favour  'gan  to  coax 
Her  Highness'  pug-dog — got  a  sharp  rebu£F — 
She  wish'd  a  game  at  whist — made  three  revokes — 
Turn'd  from  myself,  her  partner,  in  a  huff ; 
His  Majesty  will  know  her  temper  time  enough. 

LXXIX 

"  She  cried  for  chess — I  pla/d  a  game  with  her — 
Castled  her  King  with  such  a  vixen  look. 
It  bodes  ill  to  his  Majesty — (refer 
To  the  second  chapter  of  my  fortieth  book. 
And  see  what  hoity-toity  airs  she  took). 
At  half-past  four  the  morn  essay'd  to  beam — 
Saluted,  as  we  pass'd,  an  early  rook — 
The  Princess  fell  asleep,  and,  in  her  dream, 
Talk'd  of  one  Master  Hubert,  deep  in  her  esteem. 

LXXX 

"About  this  time, — making  delightful  way, — 
Shed  a  quill-feather  from  my  larboard  wing — 
Wish'd,  trusted,  hoped  'twas  no  sign  of  decay — 
Thank  Heaven,  I'm  hearty  yet ! — 'twas  no  such  thing : 
At  five  the  golden  light  began  to  spring. 
With  fiery  shudder  through  the  bloomed  east ; 
At  six  we  heard  Panthea's  churches  ring — 
The  city  all  his  unhived  swarms  had  cast. 
To  watch  our  grand  approach,  and  hail  us  as  we  pass'd. 

LXXXI 

"  As  flowers  turn  their  faces  to  the  sun. 
So  on  our  flight  with  hungry  eyes  they  gaze. 
And,  as  we  shaped  our  course,  this,  that  way  run, 
With  mad-cap  pleasure,  or  hand-olasp'd  amaze  ; 
Sweet  in  the  air  a  mild-toned  music  plays, 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS  381 

And  progresses  through  its  own  labyrinth  ; 
Buds  gather'd  from  the  green  spring's  middle-days. 
They  scatter' d, — daisy,  primrose,  hyacinth, — 
Or  round  white  columns  wreath'd  from  capital  to  plinth. 

LXXXII 

"  Onward  we  floated  o'er  the  panting  streets. 
That  seem'd  throughout  with  upheld  faces  paved  ; 
Look  where  we  will,  our  bird's-eye  vision  meets 
Legions  of  holiday ;  bright  standards  waved. 
And  fluttering  ensigns  emulously  craved 
Our  minute's  glance  ;  a  busy  thunderous  roar. 
From  square  to  square,  among  the  buildings  raved. 
As  when  the  sea,  at  flow,  gluts  up  once  more 
The  craggy  hollowness  of  a  wild  reefed  shore. 

LXXXIII 

"  And  '  Bellanaine  for  ever ! '  shouted  they ; 
While  that  fair  Princess,  from  her  winged  chair, 
Bow'd  low  with  high  demeanour,  and,  to  pay 
Their  new-blown  loyalty  with  guerdon  fair. 
Still  emptied,  at  meet  distance,  here  and  there, 
A  plenty  horn  of  jewels.     And  here  I 
(Who  wish  to  give  the  devil  her  due)  declare 
Against  that  ugly  piece  of  calumny. 
Which  calls  them  Highland  pebble-stones,  not  worth  a  fly. 

LXXXIV 

"  Still  '  Bellanaine  ! '  they  shouted,  while  we  glide 
'Slant  to  a  light  Ionic  portico. 
The  city's  delicacy,  and  the  pride 
Of  our  Imperial  Basilic  ;  a  row 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  on  each  hand,  make  show 
Submissive  of  knee-bent  obeisance, 
All  down  the  steps  ;  and  as  we  enter'd,  lo  ! 
The  strangest  sight — the  most  unlook'd-for  chance — 
All  things  tum'd  topsy-turvy  in  a  devil's  dance. 

LXXXV 

"  'Stead  of  his  anxious  Majesty  and  court 
At  the  open  doors,  with  wide  saluting  eyes, 
Gongies  and  scrape-graces  of  every  sort, 
And  all  the  smooth  routine  of  gallantries. 
Was  seen,  to  our  immoderate  surprise, 
A  motley  crowd  thick  gather'd  in  the  hall. 
Lords,  scullions,  deputy-scullions,  with  wild  cries 
Stunning  the  vestibule  from  wall  to  wall. 
Where  the  Chief  Justice  on  his  knees  and  hands  doth  crawl. 


382  JOHN  KEATS 

LXXXVI 

"  Counts  of  the  palace,  and  the  state  purveyor 
Of  moth's-down,  to  make  soft  the  royal  heds, 
The  Common  Council  and  my  fool  Lord  Mayor 
Marching  a-row,  each  other  slipshod  treads ; 
Fowder'd  hag-wigs  and  ruffy-tu£^  heads 
Of  cinder  wenches  meet  and  soil  each  other ; 
Toe  crush'd  with  heel  ill-natured  fighting  breeds^ 
Frill-rumpling  elbows  brew  up  many  a  bother, 
And  fists  in  the  short  ribs  keep  up  the  yell  and  pother. 

LXXXVII 

"A  Poet,  mounted  on  the  Court-Clown's  back. 
Rode  to  the  Princess  swift  with  spurring  heels. 
And  close  into  her  face,  with  rhyming  clack. 
Began  a  Prothalamion  ; — she  reels, 
She  falls,  she  faints  !  while  laughter  peals 
Over  her  woman's  weakness     'Where,'  cried  I, 
'  Where  is  his  Majesty  ? '    No  person  feels 
Inclined  to  answer  ;  wherefore  instantly 
I  plunged  into  the  crowd  to  find  him  or  to  die. 

Lxxxvm 

"  Jostling  my  way  I  gain'd  the  stairs,  and  ran 
To  the  first  landing,  where,  incredible  ! 
I  met,  far  gone  in  liquor,  that  old  man. 

That  vile  impostor  Hum, " 

So  far  so  well, — 
For  we  have  proved  the  Mago  never  fell 
Down  stairs  on  Crafticanto's  evidence ; 
And  therefore  duly  shall  proceed  to  tell. 
Plain  in  our  own  original  mood  and  tense. 
The  sequel  of  this  day,  though  labour  'tis  immense 


No  more  was  written. 


ADDENDA 

POEMS  FOUND  IN  THE  WOODHOUSE  TRANSCRIPT  OF 
THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

FILL  FOR  ME  A  BRIMMING  BOWL 

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

Aug.,  1814 


384  JOHN  KEATS 

SONG 

TuNB — Julia  to  the  Wood- Robin 

STAY,  ruby-breasted  Warbler,  stay. 
And  let  me  see  thy  sparkling  eye : 
O  brush  not  yet  the  pearl-strung  spray. 
Nor  bow  thy  pretty  head  to  fly. 

Stay,  while  I  tell  thee,  fluttering  thing. 
That  thou  of  love  an  emblem  art ; 

Yes — patient  plume  thy  little  wing. 
While  I  my  thought  to  thee  impart. 

When  summer  nights  the  dews  bestow. 
And  summer  suns  enrich  the  day. 

Thy  notes  the  blossoms  charm  to  blow. 
Each  opes  delighted  at  thy  lay. 

So  when  in  youth  the  Eye's  dark  glance 
Speaks  pleasure  from  its  circle  bright, 

The  Tones  of  love  our  joys  enhance. 
And  make  superior  each  delight. 

And  when  bleak  storms  resistless  rove. 
And  every  rural  bliss  destroy. 

Nought  comforts  then  the  leafless  grove 
But  thy  sweet  note — its  only  joy. 

Even  so  the  words  of  love  beguile 
When  pleasure's  tree  no  flower  bears. 

And  draw  a  soft  endearing  smile 
Amid  the  gloom  of  grief  and  tears. 

ON  PEACE 

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


ADDENDA  385 

TO  EMMA 
1 

OCOME  my  dear  Emma !  the  rose  is  full  blown, 
The  riches  of  Flora  are  lavishly  strown, 
The  air  is  all  softness,  and  crystal  the  streams. 
The  West  is  resplendently  clothed  in  beams. 


O  come !  let  us  haste  to  the  freshening  shades. 
The  quaintly  carv'd  seats,  and  the  opening  glades  ; 
Where  the  fairies  are  chanting  their  evening  hymns. 
And  in  the  last  sun-beam  the  sylph  lightly  swims. 


And  when  thou  art  weary  I'll  find  thee  a  bed. 
Of  mosses  and  flowers  to  pillow  thy  head  : 
There,  beauteous,  Emma  I'll  sit  at  thy  feet. 
While  my  story  of  love  I  enraptur'd  repeat. 


So  fondly  I'll  breathe,  and  so  softly  I'll  sigh. 

Thou  wilt  think  that  some  amorous  Zephyr  is  nigh  : 

Yet  no — as  I  breathe  I  will  press  thy  fair  knee. 

And  then  thou  wilt  know  that  the  sigh  comes  from  me. 

5 

Ah  !  why  dearest  girl  should  we  lose  all  these  blisses .'' 
That  moi"tal'8  a  fool  who  such  happiness  misses  : 
So  smile  acquiescence,  and  give  me  thy  hand. 
With  love-looking  eyes,  and  with  voice  sweetly  bland. 


25 


NOTES 

[The  following  principal  editions  of  the  Works  of  Keats  are  thus  referred  to  in  the 
Notes  :— 

H  1848.  Life,  Letters  and  Literary  Remains  of  John  Keats,  edited  by  Richard 
Monckton  Milnes  (Lord  Houghton).     2  vols.     1848. 

WTA.     The  Poetical  Works  of  John  Keats,  edited  by  William  T.  Arnold.     1883. 

HBF.     The  Complete  Works  of  John  Keats,  edited  by  H.  Buxton  Forman.     1900. 

Mr.  Sidney  Colvin's  Life  of  Keats  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series,  Macmillan,  1887) 
is  referred  to  as  EML.  References  to  the  Letters  of  Keats  are  made  under  their  dates, 
that  they  may  be  traced  either  in  the  edition  of  Mr.  Forman,  above  mentioned,  or  in 
that  of  Mr.  Colvin  (Macmillan,  1891).] 

THE  POEMS  OF  1817 

Keats'g  first  collection  of  poems  appeared  in  March,  1817,  and  was 
favourably  reviewed  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Examiner  of  1st  June  and 
6th  and  13th  July.  All  his  friends  seem  to  have  been  anxious  for  him 
to  bring  out  the  volume,  and  Shelley  alone  advised  him  not  to  publish  at 
present,  though  when  Keats  had  decided  to  do  so  he  helped  to  find  him 
a  publisher  and  introduced  him  to  the  Olliers.  The  volume  attracted 
little  attention.  As  Keats  remarked  in  the  rejected  preface  to  Bndymion 
"it  was  read  by  some  dozen  of  my  friends  who  lik'd  it ;  and  some  dozen 
whom  I  was  unacquainted  with,  who  did  not"  ;  and  when  on  29th  April, 
George  Keats,  evidently  thinking  that  the  publishers  were  not  pressing 
it  properly  upon  the  public,  wrote  to  inquire  about  its  sale,  he  received  a 
heated  reply :  "We  regret  that  your  brother  ever  requested  us  to  publish 
his  book,  or  that  our  opinion  of  its  talent  should  have  led  us  to  acquiesce 
in  undertaking  it.  We  are,  however,  obliged  to  you  for  relieving  us  of 
the  unpleasant  necessity  of  declining  any  further  connection  with  it, 
which  we  must  have  done,  as  we  think  the  curiosity  is  satisfied,  and  the 
sale  has  dropped."  They  added  with  bitterness  that  one  of  their  customers 
had  described  it,  a  few  days  before,  as  "  no  better  than  a  take  in  "  (Letter 
of  the  Olliers  to  George  Keats  quoted  in  EML,  p.  66). 

The  motto  with  its  characteristic  phrase  "  delight  with  liberty "  is  to 
be  found  in  Spenser's  Muiopotmos,  209,  210. 

Dedication. — Charles  Cowden  Clarke  in  his  Recollections  of  Keats 
refers  to  this  sonnet  as  an  example  of  Keats's  facility  in  composition. 


388  JOHN  KEATS 

noting'  that  it  was  written  extempore  "  amid  the  buzz  of  a  mixed  conver- 
sation "  upon  the  request  from  the  printer  that  "  if  a  dedication  to  the 
book  was  intended,  it  must  be  sent  forthwith  ".  It  is  essentially  character- 
istic in  tone  and  diction  of  the  volume  it  serves  to  introduce. 

After  the  Dedication  stood  a  note  in  the  first  edition  to  the  effect  that 
"  The  Short  Pieces  in  the  middle  of  the  Book,  as  well  as  some  of  the 
Sonnets,  were  written  at  an  earlier  period  than  the  rest  of  the  Poems  ". 
It  is  difficult  to  understand  what  principle  guided  Keats  in  their  selection, 
for  several  of  them,  as  Hunt  noticed,  are  of  liUle  value,  and  poems  quite 
as  good,  written  also  before  1817,  were  omitted. 

I  Stood  Tip-tob  .  .  . : — shows  the  iniluence  of  Hunt  at  its  height  both 
in  subject,  treatment  (v.  Introduction)  and  versification.  The  doubl» 
rhymea  are  about  one  in  four  and  a  half,  and  there  is  constant  use  of 
enjambement.  The  poem  was  originally  called  Endymion,  and  is  referred 
to:  under  that  title  in  a  letter  to  Clarke  of  December,  1816,  where  Keats 
speaks  of  it  as  almost  finished.  But  the  earlier  part  of  the  poem  at  least 
reads  more  like  a  summer  rhapsody  than  a  mere  winter's  reininiseence  (on 
the  date  cf.  p.  668,  note).  Lord  Houghton  states  that  it  was  suggested  to 
Keats  by  a  delightful  summer's  day,  as  he  stood  beside  the  gate  that  leads 
from  the  battery  on  Hampstead'  Heath  into  a  field  by  Caen  Wood.  The 
characteristic  motto  of  the  poem  is  taken  from  Hunt's  Story  of  Rimini, 
iii.  68. 

48.  Ye  ardent  marigolds ! : — "  The  introduction  of  the  short  line  may 
have  been  caught  either  from  Spenser's  nuptial  Odes  or  Milton's  Lycidas" 
(ColVin).  The  latter  is  much  more  probable.  Spenser's  use  of  the  short 
line  is  at  once  more  frequent  and  more  regular  than  Milton's  or  Keats's. 
Moreover,  in  the  poems  of  this  date  the  influence  of  Milton's  early  poems 
is  as  marked  as  that  of  Spenser. 

62.  many  harps  which  he  has  lately,  strung : — Keats,  who  has  just  decided 
to  devote  his  life  to  art,  is  at  the  time  full  of  enthusiasm  for  the  immediate 
future  of  English  poetry,  Cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  220-230,  and  Sonnet  XIV., 
9-12. 

61.  Linger  awhile,  etc.    H  supplies  this  variant : — 
Linger  awhile  among  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a  streamlet's  daisied  banks. 
And  watch  intently  Nature's  gentle  doings  ; 
That  will  be  found  as  soft  as  ringdoves'  cooings. 
The  inward  ear  will  hear  her  and  be  blest. 
And  tingle  with  a  joy  too  light  for  rest 

The  whole  passage  (61-80)  is,  says  Clarke,  ''a  recollection  of  our  having 
frequently  loitered  over  the  rail  of  a  footbridge  that  spanned  a  little  brook 
in  the  last  field  upon  entering  Edmonton  ". 

71.  A  natural  sermon  o'er  their  pebbly  beds  : — A  crude  reminiscence  of 
As  You  Like  It,  ii.  1.  17. 


I  STOOD  TIP-TOE— NOTES  389 

87-   Sometimes  goldfinches,   etc. : — Woodhouse  compares  this  passage 
with  the  Chaucerian  poem  of  The  Plowre  and  the  Leafe,  stanza  88 : — 
Therein  a  goldfinch  leaping  pretile 
Fro  bough  to  bough,  and  as  him  list  he  eet 
Here  and  there  of  buds  and  floures  sweet. 

116.  Coming  into  the  blue,  etc. : — H  supplies  this  variant : — 
Floating  through  space  with  ever^Jiving  eye 
The  crowned  queen  of  ocean  and  the  sky. 

125-242.  For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write 

But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light  ?  etc. :  — 

This  whole  passage,  crude  and  formless  as  it  is,  is  an  attempt  of  Keats 
to  express  the  ideas  floating  through  his  mind  on  what  might  be  called 
the  metaphysics  of  poetry. — How  can  we  explain  the  hold  which  poetry 
has  upon  the  human  mind  and  the  manner  in  which  it  affects  us  ?  Man, 
Keats  would  imply,  is  himself  a  part  of  Nature,  only  to  be  distinguished 
from  Nature  in  his  self-consciousness,  and  in  his  definite  recognition  of 
that  beauty  which  is  implicit  in  Nature,  whilst  poetry  is  the  expression 
of  his  sense  of  kinj^ship ;  rhythm,  an  essential  constituent  of  all  poetry, 
being  itself  the  unconscious  reproduction  of  the  rhythm  or  order  in 
Nature  herself.  It  is  on  this  relationship  with  Nature  that  the  universal 
appeal  of  poetry  ultimately  rests,  whilst  the  similar  effect  produced  upon 
us  by  certain  aspects  of  Nature  and  certain  types  or  forms  of  poetry  is 
not  mere  arbitrary  cbincidence,  but  is  due  to  the  fact  that  each  is  a 
different  manifestation  of  the  same  idea  (cf.  11.  128-32).  The  true  poet, 
therefore,  is  instinctively  guided  by  Nature  to  the  only  adequate  form 
in  which  to  clothe  his  conception,  as  much  as  he  is  inspired  by  Nature 
with  the  conception  which  he  desires  to  clothe.  On  this  his  success 
as  an  artist  is  based,  just  as  true  taste  in  readers  of  poetry  is  based 
upon  an  intuitive  perception  of  this  essential  propriety.  A  similar  atti- 
tude with  regard  to  the  fundamental  basis  of  poetry  and  the  poetic 
instinct  in  man  is  to  be  found  in  Coleridge's  Essays  on  the  Fine  Arts, 
and  in  Shelley's  Defence  of  Poetry,  and  these  works  form,  pei'haps,  the  best 
commentary  upon  Keats's  lines.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  our  purpose  to 
quote  Shelley.  "  Man,"  says  Shelley,  "  is  an  instrument  over  which  a 
series  of  external  and  internal  impressions  are  driven  like  the  alternations 
of  an  ever-changing  wind  over  an  iBolian  lyre,  which  move  it  by  their 
motion  to  ever-changing  melody.  .  .  .  To  be  a  poet  is  to  apprehend  the 
true  and  the  beautiful,  in  a  word,  the  good,  which  exists  in  the  relation 
subsisting  first  between  existence  and  perception,  and  secondly  between 
perception  and  expression.  .  .  .  Sounds  as  well  as  thoughts  have  relation 
between  each  other  and  towards  that  which  they  represent,  and  a  per- 
ception of  the  order  of  their  relations  has  always  been  found  connected 
with  a  perception  of  the  order  of  the  relations  of  thought.  .  .  .  Hence 
poetic  harmony."  Shelley  shows  that  poetry  is  essentially  natural 
rather  than  artificial  by  an  appeal  to  the  instincts  of  the  child  and  of  the 


390  JOHN  KEATS 

savage  {i,e.,  the  child  in  his  relation  with  the  development  of  the  human 
race),  and  seems  to  suggest  that  the  poet  of  civilisation  can  only  satisfy  the 
artistic  impulse  within  him  by  an  attempt  to  regain  by  conscious  artistic 
effort  something  of  the  poetic  instinct  of  the  child,  in  his  spontaneous 
expression  of  his  relations  with  the  Nature  around  him ;  to  become  as  a  little 
child  being,  of  course,  a  very  different  thing  from  remaining  as  one. 

From  the  same  fundamental  conception  of  poetry  springs  Keats's 
interpretation  of  the  significance  of  Greek  legend,  to  which  he  devotee 
the  remainder  of  his  poem  (c/.  also  Endymion,  ii.  828-54).  These  myths 
are  not  mere  fancy.  The  poet  is  instinctively  impelled  to  give  voice  to 
his  feelings  of  kinship  with  Nature  and  his  aspirations  after  a  completer 
•  union.  But,  as  man,  he  has  a  finite  intellect  which  can  only  fully  re- 
alise human  relationships,  and  a  language,  dependent  on  that  intellect, 
which  is  primarily  adapted  to  their  expression.  As  an  inevitable  result 
his  emotions  with  regard  to  Nature  take  human  shape,  and  Nature,  ac- 
commodating herself  to  the  finite  capacities  of  human  intellect  and  human 
language,  consents  to  the  incarnation  of  her  spirit  in  forms  capable  of 
human  apprehension ;  whilst  language,  itself  essentially  metaphorical, 
]__„  aids  substantially  in  the  process  of  incarnation.  It  is  interesting  to 
observe  that  Hunt,  reviewing  the  1817  volume'  in  the  Examiner,  speaks 
of  this  poem  as  "  ending  with  an  allusion  to  the  story  of  Endymion,  and 
to  the  origin  of  other  lovely  tales  of  mythology,  on  the  ground  suggested 
by  Wordsworth  in  a  beautiful  passage  of  his  Excursion  ".  Hunt  is  alluding 
to  bk.  iv.  717-62,  846-87— passages  which,  doubtless,  had  a  deep  and 
permanent  influence  upon  Keats,  in  that  they  fortified  him  in  a  belief 
which  was  essentially  characteristic  of  his  whole  attitude  to  poetry. 

129,  130.  hawthorn  glade  :—Cf.  iVIilton,  V Allegro,  67,  68  :— 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  Hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

141.  The  legend  of  Psyche,  first  known  to  Keats,  perhaps,  in  Lempri^re 
and  the  illustrations  of  Spence's  Polymetis,  was  familiar  to  him  also  in  Mrs. 
Tighe  (To  Some  Ladies,  20,  note).  Cf.  also  the  exquisite  allusion  in 
Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  6.  60.  Keats  reverted  to  the  theme  in  his  Ode 
to  Psyche  {q.v.). 

153.  Fawns,  1817 :  altered  by  most  editors  to  "  Fauns " ;  but  it  is  a 
characteristic  reminiscence  of  the  spelling  of  Milton  and  Fletcher,  whom 
the  passage  itself  suggests. 

.  167.  The  story  of  Syrinx,  a  nymph  of  Arcadia,  who  fled  from  Pan  to 
the  river  Ladon  and  was  there  changed  into  a  reed  from  which  Pan  made 
his  flute,  is  told  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.,  i.,  whence  probably  Keats  took 
the  story.    It  is  constantly  referred  to  in  Elizabethan  poetry,  e.g.,  in 
Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess ;  where  we  also  find  the  famous  lines  on 
Endymion,  and  two  delicate  references  to  Narcissus : — 
Narcissus,  he 
That  wept  himself  away,  in  memory 
Of  his  own  he&uty.— Faithful  Shepherdess,  Act  I. 


SPECIMEN  OF  AN  INDUCTION,  ETC.— NOTES    391 

And  in  Act  IV.  :— 

That  swan  who  now  is  made  a  flow'r 

For  whose  dear  sake  Eccho  weeps  many  a  show'r. 

The  story  of  Narcissus  was  also  known  to  Keats  in  Ovidj  Met.,  iii.,  where 
it  is  told  in  full.  Woodhousej  in  his  manuscript  notes  to  the  poem,  refers 
to  p.  60  of  Sandys's  Ovid — an  extremely  interesting  reference,  as  it  proves 
'  beyond  a  doubt  that  the  edition  of  Sandys  in  the  use  of  Keats  and  his  friends 
was  the  folio  with  full  commentaries,  in  which  the  tale  of  Narcissus  duly 
appears  on  p.  50.  This  is  important,  as  in  the  notes  to  Bndymion  much 
illustrative  matter  has  been  drawn  from  Sandys's  commentaries  with  which, 
before  I  read  Woodhouse's  note,  I  was  convinced  upon  internal  evidence 
that  Keats  was  familiar.  For  Narcissus  cf.  also  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene, 
iii.  6. 45.  On  Bndymion,  v.  Introduction  to  that  poem.  The  whole  passage 
suggesting  the  source  of  these  legends  should  be  compared  with  Bndymion, 
iii.  829-63. 

233.  Other's  H,  HBF ;  others'  1817. 

Specimen  of  an  Induction  and  Calidobe  have  been  described  as  an 
attempt "  to  embody  the  spirit  of  Spenser  in  the  metre  of  Rimini  "  (Colvin). 
But  there  is  a  good  deal  of  the  spirit  of  Rimini,  too,  especially  in  the 
treatment  of  women  (e.g.,  Calidore,  145-61) ;  for  after  all  the  elaborate 
preparation  for  a  "tale  of  chivalry"  and  a  description  of  the  "ambitious 
heat  of  the  aspiring  boy,"  Calidore  succeeds  in  doing  nothing  but  help 
two  ladies  to  descend  from  their  palfreys.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  Hunt 
("thy  lov'd  Libertas")  is  to  intercede  with  Spenser  for  Keats,  and  it  is 
only  as  Hunt's  follower  that  he  dares  to  call  on  Spenser  for  inspiration 
{Spec,  of  Induction,  56-66).  Sir  Calidore,  the  Knight  of  Courtesy  (Faerie 
Queene,  vi.),  was  a  favourite  hero  of  Keats's.  Cf.  Woman  !  when  I  behold 
thee,  12.  The  spelling  of  "ballanoing  "  (30),  and  the  use  of  "  banneral "  (38), 
are  the  only  signs  of  Spenserian  vocabulary,  though  one  should  add  that 
Woodhouse  for  the  phrase  "  her  own  pure  self  "  (17)  compares  the  Faerie 
Queene,  "her  sad  self  with  careful  hand  constraining".  The  rest  is 
Huntian. 

Induction.  6.  Archimago: — The  wizard  of  Faerie  Queene,  ii.  Cf.  Ep. 
to  Clarke,  37. 

46.  steed : — HBF,  following  transcript  and  a  corrected  copy  belonging 
to  Keats ;  knight,  1817. 

61,  62.  my  heart  with  pleasure  dance : — An  obvious  reminiscence  of 
Wordsworth's  poem,  "I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud". 

CAiiinoBE.  93.  a  dimpled  hand.  Fair  as  some  wonder,  etc.  : — Woodhouse 
compares  Romeo  and  Juliet,  iii.  3.  36  :— 

they  may  seize 
On  the  white  wonder  of  dear  Juliet's  hand. 


392  JOHN  KEATS 

To  Some  Ladies  : — This  and  the  following  poem  are  wjitten  jn  imitaijf^ 
of  Tom  Moore^  for  whose  work  the  young  Kea,tB  had  a  passing  affection. 
It  is  worth  noting  .that  Jdoore  had  a  great  attraction  for  Hunt,  and  was 
one  of  the  poets  who  fared  best  at  the  Feast  of  the  Poets,  Hunt's  earlier 
criticism  of  contemporary  jpoetry.  Mr.  Foreman  {AthmcBym,  J,6th  April, 
1904)  has  identified  the  ladies  with  the  Misses  Mathew,  after  ex^ifiination 
of  a  MS.  of  the  poem  headed  "  To  the  Misses  M.,"  and  this  view  is  corro- 
borated by  a  note,  in  Woodhouse's  copy  x>f  the  1817  volume,  to  ,the  second 
poem : — "These  lines  appear  ,to  be  addressed  to  the  friend  to  whom  the 
author  addressed  one  of  the  JElpisttLes  in  this  vflluiQe.  The  fj:ieud  seut 
some  lines  in  reply  which  have  an  allusion  to  several  passiiges  in  these 
verses."  Notice  in  this  second  poem  the  characteristic  introduction  of 
allusions  to  Spenser,  Tasso  and  A  Midsmtmer-Nig^f  s  Dream. 

6.  rove : — iThe  MS.,  says  Ml'.  iForman,  reads  "  muse,"  thus  supplying 
the  necessary  rhyme  to  "  bedews  ". 

20.  The  blessings  of  Tighe  : — Mrs.  Tighe,  authoress  of  Psyche  or  The 
Legend  of  Love,  a  poem  in  six  cantos  in  the  Spenserian  stanza.  It  begins 
in  simple  narrative,  though  not  untouched  in  places  with  characteristic 
eighteenth-century  phraseology,  but  .deyelops  into  a  weak  allegory,  fuU 
of  idle  personification,  devoid  of  reality  or  imaginative  richness. 

To :  —Written  in  February,  1816,  and  addressed  jt"?  Georgiana 

Augusta  Wylie,  who  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  George  Ke^.  Keats 
wrote  the  poem  for  his  brother  to  sead  as  a  valentine.  It  is  one  of  the 
happiest  of  his  earfy  works  (despite  the  rhyme  in  lines  37,  38),  and  far 
more  Spenserian  in  spirit  than  his  other  early  love  verses.  Read  (Keats 
and  Spenser  Dissertation)  points  out  that  lines  39  and  40  are  a  reminiscence 
of  the  Shepherd's  Calendar  for.  April : — 

Wants  not  a  fourth  grace,  to  make  the  daunce  even  ? 
Let  that  roume  to  my  Lady  he  geven  ; 
She  shail  be  a  grace 
To  fyll  the  fourth  place 
And  reign  with  the  rest  in  heaven. 
He  also  suggests  that  lines  25-34  and  41-60  are  a  recollection  of  Faerie 
Queeipe,  ii.  32.  63-67.    The  picture  of  the  little  loves  (29,  30)  recalls  the 
angels  in  the  Bpithalamium,  232,  233,  which  continually 
forget  their  service  and  about  hpr  fly 
Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seemes  more  fayre 
The  more  on  it  they  stare. 
It  was  the  Bpithalamium  which  first  kindled  Keats's  enthusiasm  fpr 
Spenser,  and  Clarke  in  his  Recollections  of  the  poet  refers  to  this  particular 
passage  with  the  comment :  "  Hqw  often,  in  after  times,  have  I  hpard  him 
quote  these  lines ! ".     It  is  more  than  likply  th^t  the  "  peeping  and 
staring"  which  is  so  offensive  a  characteristic  of  the  early  Keatsian  lover 
has  no  less  spiritual  and  delicate  an  origin  than  this,  though  as  a  rule 


TO  HOPE,  ETC.— NOTES  398 

Keats  travesties  it  into  a  sickly  aentimemtality.     So  in  Calidore  (145-50), 
and  Woman  1  when  I  behold  thee. 

58.  Se/rvant  of.    Woodhouse  compares  the  Faerie  Qmene : — 
This  trusty  sword  the  servant  of  his  might. 
Mr.  Colvin  (EML,  p.  225)  quotes  from  Woodhouse  MS.  the  following  as 
the  original  form  of  the  poem : — 

Hadst  thoH  lived  in  days  of  old, 

Oh  what  wanders  had  teen  told 

Of  thy  lively  dimpled  face, 

And  ,thy  fooitsteps  full  /of  grace. 

Of  thy  hair's  luxurious  darkling, 

Of  thine  eyes'  expressive  sparkling. 

And  thy  voice's  swelling  rapture, 

Taking  hearts  a  ready  capture. 

Oh  !  if  thou  hadst  breathed  then. 

Thou  hadst  made  the  Muses  ten. 
Then  followed  lines  37  to  68  as  in  text,  with  'this  quotation  in  con- 
clusion : — 

Ah  me  !  whither  shall  I  flee .'' 

Thou  hast  metamor|iho8ed  me. 

Do  not  let  me  sigh  and  pine, 

Prythee  hp.my  Valentine. 


To  I^opE : — is  chiwly  interesting  as  an  example  of  the  eighteenth--ci9Q- 
tury,style  of  composit,i^p  which  Keats  was  to  denounce  in  Sleep  and  Poetry. 
Notice  "  Disappointment,  parent  of  Despair,"  "  that  fiend  Despondence," 
"Meijjless  fiiir,"  etc. 

Imitation  op  Spenbeb  : — "  On  the  authority  of  Mr.  Brown  I  have  stated 
this  to  be  the  earliest  known  composition  of  Keats,  and  to  have  been 
written  during  his  residence  at  Edmonton  "  (Houghton).  As  Mr.  Colvin 
poi;it^  put,  there  is  little  in  it  that  takes  us  back  farther  than  the  eighteenth- 
century  Spei)?erians,  and  the  use  of  the  word  romantic  (24)  suggests  coun- 
terfeit romance,  as  much  as  CoUins's  use  Pf  eastern  suggests  that  his  Persian 
Eclogues  are  pseudo-oriental.  The  reference  to  Dido  is  interesting  as  one 
of  the  very  few  cases  in  which  Keats  drew  upon  Vergil,  probably  the  only 
classical  writer  he  had  studied  in  the  original. 

14.  the  swan  his  neck  of  arched  snow,  And  oar'd  himself,  etc.  Wood- 
house  aptly  compares  Paradise  Lost,  vii.,  438-40  :— 

the  swan  with  arched  neck 
Between  her  white  wings  mantling  proudly,  rowes 
Her  state  with  Oarie  feet. 

Woman!  Wu^it  I  Behold  Thee,  etc- : — This  series  pf  Cjarly  ^oniiets  h^s 
all  the  characteristics  already  noticed  in  Keats's  youthful  love  poems,  wheier 
in  a  perfectly  genuine  and  chivalrous  emotion  is  often  travestied  by  the 


894  JOHN  KEATS 

bad  taste  of  its  expression.  Palgrave  {Golden  Treasury  Keats,  notes)  com- 
pares with  their  dominant  sentiment  a  passag^e  in  a  letter  to  Bailey,  written 
on  23rd  January,  1818 :  "One  saying  of  yours  I  shall  never  forget — you 
may  not  recollect  it — it  being  perhaps  said  when  you  were  looking  on  the 
surface  and  seeming  of  Humanity  alone,  without  a  thought  of  the  past  or 
the  future,  or  the  deeps  of  good  and  evil  .  .  .  merely  you  said,  '  Why 
should  woman  suffer?'  Ay,  why  should  she?  'By  heavens,  I'd  coin  my 
very  soul  and  drop  my  blood  for  Drachmas.'  These  things  are,  and  he, 
who  feels  how  incompetent  the  most  skyey  Knight-errantry  is  to  heal 
'  this  bruised  fairness,  is  like  a  sensitive  leaf  on  the  hot  hand  of  thought." 

EPISTLES 

/ 
These  Epistles  are  important  as  the  first  example  of  Keats's  employ- 
ment of  the  heroic  couplet.  It  is  noticeable  that  the  first,  written  before 
the  appearance  of  the  Story  of  Rimini,  has  all  the  characteristics  of  Keats's 
early  versification,  many  of  which  are  associated  with  the  influence  of 
Leigh  Hunt.  But,  as  has  been  pointed  out  in  the  Introduction,  Keats 
already  knew  Hunt's  principles  and  had  already  studied  for  himself  those 
authors  who  illustrated  both  the  advantages  and  the  dangers  of  the  laxity 
which  he  favoured — Chapman's  Odyssey^  and,  probably,  Browne  and 
Fletcher. 

The  familiar  Epistle  is  a  form  of  composition  which  presents  obvious 
difficulties  ;  and  the  unwary  writer  is  likely  to  fall  either  into  an  elabora- 
tion of  poetic  ornament  in  which  it  loses  its  character  as  an  Epistle,  or 
into  a  triviality  and  baldness  of  phrase  in  which  it  loses  its  right  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  literary  composition.  It  was  thus  a  particularly  dangerous 
form  of  composition  for  Keats  at  this  period,  for  its  intimacy  of  treatment 
seemed  to  him  to  justify  all  his  worst  faults,  whUst  he  had  as  yet  no  com- 
mand over  its  peculiar  excellences  of  polish,  neatness  and  elegance  by 
means  of  which  alone  it  can  be  written  with  any  measure  of  success. 

The  motto  is  taken  from  Browne's  Britannia's  Pastorals  (ii.  3.  748-60), 
which  Keats  read  with  some  care.  It  does  not  follow  from  this,  however, 
though  it  is  probable,  that  he  had  read  Browne  at  the  time  of  writing  the 
Epistle  to  Mathew. 

I.  To  Georqe  Felton  Matbew  : — George  Felton  Mathew  was  a  friend 
with  whom  Keats  in  his  early  London  days  used  to  read  poetry.  He  has 
left  an  interesting  record  of  Keats  at  this  period.  "He  enjoyed  good 
health  and  a  fine  flow  of  animal  spirits — was  fond  of  company  and  could 
amuse  himself  admirably  with  the  frivolities  of  life — and  had  great  con- 

>In  Chapman's  Odyssey,  read  by  Keats  early  in  1815,  we  find  continual  enjambe- 
ment  and  double  rhymes,  and  a  use  of  language  at  times  bold  and  at  times  descending 
to  a  familiarity  which  borders  upon  the  vulgar.  The  difficulties  of  rapid  translation 
naturally  encouraged  in  Chapman  a  looseness  of  phrase  to  which  he  was  always  prone 
(v.  Appendix  C.) 


EPISTLES— NOTES  395 

fidence  in  himself.  .  .  .  He  was  of  the  sceptical  and  republican  school — an 
advocate  for  the  innovations  which  were  makings  progress  in  his  time — a 
fault-finder  with  everything  established  "  (Houghton  MSS.  quoted  by  Colvin, 
EML,  p.  20).  At  the  same  time  it  is  Mathew  who  tells  us  that  Keats 
"  delighted  in  leading  you  through  the  mazes  of  elaborate  description,  but 
was  less  conscious  of  the  sublime  and  the  pathetic".  The  Epistle  is 
interesting  as  suggesting  the  poets  read  by  the  two  friends  at  the  period — 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher  (5-10),  Milton's  early  poems  (18,  L' Allegro),  Pope, 
Essay  on  Man  (24,  rapt  seraph),  Chatterton  (66),  Shakespeare  (67),  A 
Midsummer-Night's  Dream  (26-29),  Burns  (71),  Spenser  (76,  Faerie  Queene, 
i.  S.  4) ;  lines  65-70  shew  Keats  to  be  already  the  pupil  of  the  Examiner. 

U.  To  MT  Brother  Georoe  : — written  from  Margate  where  Keats  was 
enjoying  his  first  visit  to  the  sea  {cf.  11.  123-38).     Notice  the  association  of 
Leigh  Hunt  with  Spenser,  24.  {cf.  Induction,  61). 
54.  poetic  lore : — Cf.  Sonnet  To  My  Brothers,  6,  7. 
81.  Lays  have  I  left,  etc.    Woodhouse  compares  Spenser,  Colin  Clout's 
come  home  againe,  642,  etc. : — 

And  long  while  after  I  am  dead  and  rotten : 
Amongst  the  shepherds  daughters  dancing  round, 
My  layes  made  of  her  shall  not  be  forgotten 
But  sung  by  them  with  flowry  gyrlands  crowned. 

JII.  To  Charles  Cowden  Clarke: — This  Epistle  is  particularly  valuable 
as  addressed  to  the  friend  who  had  first  interested  Keats  in  poetry 
(v.  Introduction),  and  as  Hunt  remarked  in  the  Examiner  "is  equally 
honourable  to  both  parties,  to  the  young  writer  who  can  be  so  grateful 
towards  his  teacher  and  to  the  teacher  who  had  the  sense  to  perceive  his 
genius  and  the  qualities  to  call  forth  his  affection  ". 

16-18.  shatter' d  boat  .  .  .  intent : — Recalls  both  in  phi-ase  and  cadence, 
though  with  an  essential  difference  of  feeling,  Cowper's  famous  lines  On 
the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  Picture : — 

But  me  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest  .  .  . 
SaUs  rent,  seams  opening  wide  and  compass-tossed. 

The  chief  poets  referred  to  are,  as  before,  Spenser,  Milton,  Shakespeare 
{A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream). 

33-37.  Mulla : — The  stream  that  ran  not  far  from  Kilcolman,  Spenser's 
first  home ;  cf.  Faerie  Queene,  iv.  11.  41 : — 

Mulla  mine  whose  waves  I  whilom  taught  to  weepe. 
Cf.  also  Faerie  Queene,  vii.  6.  40,  Colin  Clout's  come  home  againe,  62,  63, 
Bpithalamium,  58,  59.  Line  34  seems  a  reminiscence  of  Epithalamium,  176, 
"  Her  brest  like  to  a  bowl  of  cream  uncrudded  ".  Una  and  Belphcebe  are 
the  heroines,  and  Archimago  the  magician  of  the  first  two  books  of  the 
Faerie  Queene. 

44.  Libertas : — With  this  reference  to  Leigh  Hunt  cf.  Epistle  to  George 
Keats,  24,  etc. 


396  JOHN  KEATS 

87.  Already  Keats  stows  that  he  has  understood  the  secret  of  Spenser's 
melodjr,  and  that  he  appreciates  with  a  fine  poetic  instinct  t^  essential 
qualities  of  the  different  forms  of  poetry.  It  is  significant  of  his  early 
taste  that  he  had  not  yet  learnt  to  appreciate  the  majestic  side  of  Milton. 
The  patriotism  of  lines  69-73,  with  its  stock  examples  {cf.  Episile  to  Mathew, 
67,  Sonnet  XVI.,  SUep  and  Poetry,  386),  shows  that  Clarke  was  chiefly 
instrumental  in  preparing  Keats,  in  this  as  in  other  ways,  for  his  disciple- 
ship  to  Leigh  Hunt. 

63.  Atlas : — A  favourite  allusion  in  Elizabethan  poetry.  Cf.  e.g.,  "ease 
strong  Atlas  of  his  load,"  Browne,  Brit.  Pastorals,  ii.  1.  742  ;  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher,  Philaster,  i.  1,  "  ease  me  of  a  load  would  bow  strong  Atlas  ". 

82.  Misspent ;— Mispent  1817. 

94.  Cloudlets  .—Cloudlet's  1817- 

110.  Clarke  was  a  good  piano-player  and  was  the  first  to  stimulate 
Keats's  love  for  music.  For  the  poet's  susceptibility  to  music,  cf.  Endy- 
mion,  ii.  364-72  and  St.  Agnes'  Eve,  xxix.  9,  a  line,  as  Keats  told  Clarke 
on  reading  him  the  manuscript  of  the  poem  "that  came  into  my  head 
when  I  remembered  how  I  used  to  listen  in  bed  to  your  music  at  school". 
The  word  "  music  "  was  used  vaguely  at  this  time  in  the  sense  of  "  musical 
instrument". 

SONNETS 

I.  To  MY  Brother  Geobge  : — Obviously  from  lines  5-8  written  from 
Margate,  and  thus  contemporary  with  the  Epistle  to  George  Keats.  Cf. 
especially  124-38  with  their  record  of  the  manner  in  which  the  sea  im- 
pressed his  imagination.  Woodhouse  notes  that  the  laurel' d  peers  (3)  are 
the  "  poets  in  Heaven  "  and  compares  with  the  Ode  to  Apollo  : — 

'Tis  awful  silence  then  again  ; 

Expectant  stand  the  spheres ; 

Breathless  the  laurell'd  peers. 

'  II.  To  .  .  . : — The  person  to  whom  this  sonnet  is  addressed  is  unknown. 

111.  Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison : — For  circum- 
stances of  composition,  etc.,  vide  Introduction,  p.  xxiv.  The  Hunts  were 
liberated  from  prison  on  2iid  Februa;r7;i  1815,  and  Clarke  records  hov, 
returning  from  a  visit  to  Hunt  to  cppg^atulate  him  on  his  release,  he  met 
Keats  who  gave  him  the  sonnet.  ''This  I  felt  to  be  the  first  proof  I  had 
received  of  his  having  committed  himself  in  verse ;  and  how  clearly  do  I 
recollect  the  conscious  look  and  hesitation  with  which  he  offered  it ! " 

6.  Minion  ofgrandfur  .•-■-The  editor  of  the  Morning  Post,  who  had  pub- 
lished the  laudatory  article  describing  the  Prince  Regent  as  "the  glory  of 
his  People  and  Exciter  of  Desire  " — "  Adonis  in  loveliness  "  and  more  in 
the  same  stritin.  Hunt  had  burlesqued  the  article  in  the  Bxamimr.  The 
inclusion  of  this  sonnet  together  with  No.  XIV.  was  largely  responsible 


SONNETS— NOTES  397 

for  the  asBociation  of  Keats's  poetry  and  politics  witii  Hunt  in  the  mind  of 
the  Tory  reviewers. 

IV,  How  many  bards  gild  the  lapses  of  time! — A  sonnet  particularly 
interesting,  not  only  in  its  expression  of  the  influence  that  Keaits  f«lt  to 
be  exercised  over  him  by  the  beauties  of  his  predecessors,  which  often 
adorned  his  own  work,  but  also  in  its  suggestion,  by  the  comparison  with 
nature,  of  the  essential  character  of  that  influence.  Hunt,  revieswing  the 
volume  in  the  Examiner,  criticised  the  first  line  for  its  metrical  irregular' 
ity,  sayipg  that  "  by  no  comtrivance  of  any  sort  can  we  prevent  this  fi?om 
jumping  out  of  the  heroic  measure  into  mere  rhythmicality  ".  Mr,  Robert 
Bridges,  on  the  other  hand,  regards  "  the  inversion  of  the  third  and  fourth 
stresses  as  very  musical  and  suitable  to  the  exclamatory  form  of  the  sent- 
ence" {Keats,  p.  Ixxxix,).  The  fine  13th  line  (explained,  perhaps  un- 
necessarily, by  Woodhouse,  "  which  distance  prevents  from  being  distinctly 
recognised  ")  was  well  praised  by  Horace  Smith,  who  remarked  when  Cfafke 
first  showed  the  poem  to  him  and  Leigh  Hunt,  "  What  a  well'condensed 
expression'  for  one  so  young !  " 

V,  The  "  Friend  "  i&Chairles  WeHs  (1799  ,'-1879),  ^schoolfellow  of  Keits's 
younger  brother  Tom.  He  was  a-  member  of  the  literary  circle  in  which 
the  most  prominent  figures  were  Huat,  Hazlitt  and  Reynolds,  and  was  on 
intimate  terms  with  Hazlitt,  A  little  later  Keats  was  estranged  from  hirii 
by  anger  at  a  vulgar  practieal<  joke  which  he  played  upon  Tom.  In  1822 
he  wrote  Stories  after  Nature,  "  the  nearest  approach  to  an  Italian  novel- 
ette that  our  literature  can  show,"  in  1823  his  drama  Joseph  and  his 
Brethren  was  published.  This  sonnet  Hlhstrates  the  chief  reading  which 
influenced  Keats  at  the  period :  "  What  time  the  sky-lark "  suggests 
"  what  time  the  grayfly  "  {Lycidas),  line-  4  suggests  the  Faerie  Queene,  and 
in  8  we  have  A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream. 

VI.  To  G.  A.  W.  :—Georgiana  Augusta  Wylie.  Cf.  Hadst  thou  liv'd  m 
days  of  old',  p.  16  and  notes. 

VII.  O  Solitude !  if  I  must  with  thee  dwell : — ^First  published'  in  the 
Bmminer,  5th  May,  1816,  said  by  Ckrkci  to  be  Keats's  first  pnblished 
poem.  It  was  shortly  after  this  that  Cbrke  took  Keats's  MSS.  to  Hunt 
and  so  brought  about  their  friendship. 

8.  Startles  the  wild  &ee,  etc. : — C/w  Wordsworth,  MisCelUmeous  Sonnets', 
i.  li:— 

bees  that  soar  for  bloom 
High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furliess  fella. 
Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxgloveibells. 

9,  10.  But  though  I'll  gladly,  etc.  :— 

Ah!  fain  would  I  frequent  such  scenes  with  thee 

But  .  .  .  -^Examiner,  5th  May,  1816. 


398  JOHN  KEATS 

VIII.  To  MY  Brothers  : — ^This  sonnet,  like  the  last,  is  not  without  a 
sug^gestion  of  Wordsworth.  Cf.  the  series  of  sonnets  beginning  /  am  not 
one  who  much  or  oft  delights,  etc.  The  scene  in  both  is  the  same ;  cf.  the 
references  to  the  fire,  and  the  contrast  expressed  in  Wordsworth  and 
suggested  in  Keats  between  the  delights  of  the  ordinary  world  and  those 
of  the  meditative  poetic  life.  The  use  of  the  word  voluble,  applied  by 
Wordsworth  to  his  own  eloquence  on  poetic  themes,  and  by  Keats  to  the 
themes  themselves,  is  itself  significant.  Keats  uses  the  word  again  in 
St.  Agnes'  Eve  with  an  exquisite  suggestiveness — "and  to  her  heart,  her 
heart  'was  voluble  ".  He  draws  upon  lines  25,  26,  of  these  same  poems 
by  Wordsworth  in  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  {cf.  note). 

,  6.  While,  for  rhymes,  I  search : — A  line  which  suggests  the  origin  of 
-fmuch  of  the  weakness  of  Keats's  early  poetry,  that  the  sense  is  often  led 
'  by  the  rhyme. 

IX.  Keen,  fitful  gusts  are  whisp'ring  here  and  there: — For  date  and 
circumstances  of  composition  vide  Appendix  B,  p.  568.  Notice  the  sub- 
jects of  conversation  with  Hunt  and  the  tone  of  the  whole  sonnet. 

X.  To  one  who  has  hem  long  in  city  pent : — Mr.  Buxton  Forman  speaks 
of  a  transcript  by  George  Keats,  subscribed,  "  written  in  the  fields,  June 
1816".  He  calls  attention  to  the  obvious  debt  to  Paradise  Lost  (ix.  446), 
also  noticed  by  Woodhouse : — 

As  one  who  long  in  populous  city  pent. 
6.  Heart's  H,  HBF ;  hearts  1817. 

XI.  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer: — This  sonnet  stands  out 
from  the  1817  volume  as  the  one  poem  which  may  rank  in  conception  and 
execution  with  Keats's  later  work.  Its  date  is  therefore  very  important, 
particularly  as  it  involves  the  date  from  which  the  seventeenth-century 
poets  began  to  exert  an  influence  over  his  style.  Mr.  Buxton  Forman, 
quoting  from  Tom  Keats's  copy-book,  gives  1816,  but  it  is  almost  certainly 
the  spring  of  the  previous  year.  The  "  symposium  "  at  which  Keats  and 
Clarke  made  the  acquaintance  of  Chapman  was  preceded  by  an  invitation 
from  Keats  at  8  Dean  Street  to  Clarke  who  had  lodgings  in  Clerkenwell ; 
and  Keats  left  Dean  Street  in  the  summer  of  1815.  "  It  was,"  says  Clarke, 
"  in  the  teeming  wonderment  of  this  his  first  introduction,  that,  when  I  came 
down  to  break&st  the  next  morning,  I  found  on  my  table  a  letter  with  no 
other  enclosure  than  this  famous  sonnet  On  first  loohif^  into  Chapman's 
Homer,  We  had  parted  at  dayspring,  yet  he  contrived  that  I  should  receive 
the  poem  from  a  distance  of,  may  he,  two  miles  by  ten  o'clock.''  Clarke 
adds  that  the  happy  alteration  of  line  7  was  due  to  the  poet's  conviction 
that  the  first  reading  was  "  bald  and  too  simply  wondering  ".  The  magnifi- 
cent simile  with  which  the  poem  closes  was  a  reminiscence  of  Robertson's 
History  of  America,  one  of  the  books,  Clarke  tells  us,  in  the  school  library 
at  Enfield.    As  Tennyson  pointed  out  to  Palgrave  {Golden  Treasury  o/ 


SONNETS— NOTES  399 

Songs  and  Lyrics,  notes),  "  History  requires  here  Balboa,"  of  whom  the 
incident  is  told  by  Robertson.  Keats  either  consciously  or  unconsciously 
transferred  the  story  to  Cortez,  whose  portrait  by  Titian  had  much  im- 
pressed him.  "  His  '  eagle  eyes,' "  says  Hunt  {Imagination  v.  Fancy,  last 
page)  "are  from  lif@^  as  may  be  seen  by  Titian's  portrait  of  him." 

Chapman's  Homer  exercised  a  considerable  influence  on  the  style  and 
matter  of  Keats's  subsequent  poetry  (c/.  notes,  pp.  394, 409, 420, 499,  SIB). 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  on  14th  July,  1818,  when  Keats  was 
meditating  upon  the  subject  of  Hyperion  (pf.  notes  and  Introduction,  p.  zlvi), 
Haydon  writes  to  him  asking  him  to  return  his  copy  of  Chapman's  Horner^ 
In  August,  1820,  he  received  another  letter  to  the  same  purpose.  An 
intermittent  study  of  Chapman  seems  therefore  to  have  lasted  the  whole 
of  Keats's  literary  life.  The  sonnet  was  iirst  published  in  the  Examiner 
for  1st  December,  1816. 

7.  Yet  did  I  .  .  .  serene: — Originally  written  "Yet  could  I  never 
tell  what  men  could  mean". 

XII.  On  leaving  some  friends  at  an  early  hour: — Written,  says  Clarke, 
shortly  after  Sonnet  IX.,  i.e.,  Autumn,  1816. 

XIII.,  XIV.  Addressed  to  Haydon  : — Benjamin  Robert  Haydon  (1786- 
1846),  the  friend  of  Hunt,  Wordsworth,  Reynolds,  Keats  and  other 
literary  men  of  the  time,  was  an  historical  painter,  who  exhibited  his  first 
picture  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  1806.  He  would  have  been  elected  an 
R.A.  in  1810  had  he  not  previously  quarrelled  with  the  authorities  as  to 
the  hanging  of  one  of  his  works.  From  this  time  beg^n  his  war  with  the 
Academy  carried  on  in  the  Examiner  of  1812  and  never  really  abandoned 
during  his  whole  life.  He  was  a  man  of  boundless  ambition  and  pas- 
sionate confidence  in  his  own  abilities.  "Nothing,"  he  wrote,  "can 
exceed  my  enthusiasm,  my  devotion,  my  fiiry  of  work ;  solitary,  high- 
minded,  trusting  in  God  and  glorying  in  my  country's  honour."  He 
had  a  firm  belief  in  the  educative  value  to  a  nation  of  historical  painting, 
and  spent  his  life  in  filling  huge  canvases  which  no  one  would  buy, 
harassed  with  debt,  but  never  doubting  the  greatness  of  his  own  genius. 
Finally  he  found  himself  unequal  to  the  battle  of  life,  and  committed 
suicide.  His  chief  paintings  were  on  the  subject  of  "Dentatns,"  "The 
Judgment  of  Solomon,"  "  The  Entry  of  Christ  into  Jerusalem  "  (interest- 
ing because  it  contains  portraits  of  both  Wordsworth  and  Keats),  "  The 
Raising  of  Lazarus,"  "'The  Crucifixion,"  and  "Napoleon  at  St.  Helena". 
His  work  was  much  admired  by  some  of  his  contemporaries.  Wordsworth 
wrote  a  sonnet  in  his  praise,  Reynolds  compared  him  with  Raphael,  Keats 
(Castle  Builder,  44-48)  mentions  him  in  the  same  breath  with  Salvator  and 
Titian;  and  their  admiration  finds  an  echo  among  some  of  the  most 
enlightened  critics  of  the  time.  But  in  spite  of  this  it  must  be  admitted 
that  his  work  lacks  both  delicacy  of  treatment  and  real  sympathy  with 
his  subjects.    His  eWef  e]^m  t»  the  recollection  of  posterity  lies  in  his 


400'  JOHN  KEATS 

immediate  recognition  of  the  supreme  vaAue  of  the  Elgin  Marbles. 
Taken  b^  Wilkie  to  see  them  soon  after  their  arrival  in  England,,  he 
Btudied'tiiem  id  detail  for' three  months,  called  attention  to  their  essential 
qualities,  which  no  one  eke  seems  to  have  realised,  and  pressed-  their 
claims  upon  students  of  art  with  skich  energy  and  success  that  he^  prevailed 
upon  the  nation  to  purchase  them.  In.  his  lectures  on' art,  which  he 
.d^Rvered^  at/  int^ival^  during  hislifb;  he  took  the  Elgin.  Marbles  as  his 
text,  and^iti  pairticul^  set  himself  to  controvert  by  their  means  the  teach- 
inig' of  Reynolds  in  his  DisccMyses  on  th^  GrrWnd  StyU  in  Painting.  ''Rey- 
nolds' says  that  'it  is  better  tO'  diversify  on  particulars  from^  the  broad 
and  general  ideaof  thiagsthanvalinly  attempt  to  ascend  from  particulars 
to  this  great  general  idea '.  Now  it  is.  really  the  reverse,  you  must  first 
ascertain  the'  particulsu's'  before  you  can  discover  thfr  essentials.  .  .  . 
The  combination  of  Nature  with  idea  was  the  glorjr  and  the  greatness  of 
Phidias  anid  the  Grfeeks'Of  that  time.  .  .  ."  He  further  illustrated  his 
point  by  showing  how  the  sculpture  of  Phidias  exhibits' the  most  accurate 
knowledge  of  anatomy,  and  yet  is  eminently  an  example  of  a  true  "  Grand 
^\^W ^tcl^BAfSoifi  Lectures  on  Pavnting  mid'BeSign,  1844). 

Haydon  was  introduced  to  I^ats  by' Hunt  in  Nbvember,  1816,  and- 
this  sonnet  was  probably  the  outcome  of  their  first  meeting.  Keats 
ventured  to  send  it  to  Haydon  prefaced'  with  the  word* :  "  My  Dear  Sir,— 
Last  evening  wrought  me  up,  aiid  t  cannot  forbear  sending  you  tlt0 
following,"  and  signed,  "'4'ours  unfeigiie'dly,  John  Keats."  He  r6ce(ived' 
an  immediate  reply,  evidently  in  Haydo'n's  usual  grandiloquent  vein,  fbr 
on  the  same  afternoon  (20th  November,  iSlS),  he''  penned  another  lettfer 
to  Itaydpn :  "  itly  Dear  Sirj^Vour  lette*  Bite  filled  me  with  a  prbud' 
pleasure,  and  shall  be  kept  by  me  as  a  stimiiliis'  tb  exertion — I'  bef^h''to 
fix  my  eye  upon  one  horizon.  My  feelings' entirely  &11  in  with  yours  in 
reg^ard  to  the  ellipsis  and  I  glory  in  it.  Hie  idea  of  your  sending' it  to 
Wordsworth  put  me  out  of  breath — you  know  with  what  Reverence  I 
would  send  my  Well-wishes  tb  him.     YoUrs  sincerely,  John  Keats." 

Af^er  this  the  friendship  ripened  rapidlj^  and  Haydon  gained' a  pro- 
found infl^uence  over  the  young  poet.  His  impassioned  devotion  to  art^ 
none  the  less  .sincere  because' of  the  absUrd  bombast  in  which  he  expressed 
it,  presented  a  striking  couti'ast  with  the  easy  and  somewh'at  superiiifiid 
enthusiasm  of  Hunt,  and  appealed'  strongly  to  Keats  in  the  ardbur  of  bis 
poetic  novitiate.  Haydon,  on  the  other  hand,  recognised  the  genius  of 
Keats,  aiid  set  himself  definitely  to  wean  him  from  undue  subservience  ttf 
Hunt.  There  can  be  no  doubt'  that  he  stimulated  Keats  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  gave  him  valuable  advice  as  to  the  dbi^elbpmeiit  of  his  powers. 
It  was  chiefly  due  to  him  that  Keats  retired  to  the  cOuntrJ^  f6r  carefbl 
study,  and  turned  especially  to  Shakespeare,  and'  it  was  Haydbn,  as  we 
should  expect,  who  interpreted  to  him  the  Elgin  Marbles '(fettfe  SotiMts, 
pp.  274,  S!76,  and  note),  Keats  responded  by  confiding  in  Haydon  botft'  his 
own  poetic,  aspirations  and  the  diMcultie^  of '  tennplerament  with'  which  Ue' 
had  to  struggle,    ^e  following  passage  fVom  a  letter  of  Haydon's  written 


SONNETS— NOTES  401 

to  Keats  in  May,  1817,  illuatrates  the  relations  in  which  they  stood  at  the 
time.  "Do  not  give  way  to  any  forebodings.  They  are  nothing  more 
than  the  over-eager  anxieties  of  a  great  spirit  stretched  beyond  its  strength, 
and  then  relapsing  for  a  time  to  languid  inefficiency.  Every  man  of  great 
views  is  thus  tormented,  but  begin  again  where  you  left  off  without  hesi- 
tation or  fear.  Trust  in  God  with  all  your  might,  my  dear  Keats.  Frosii 
my  soul  I  declare  to  you  that  I  never  applied  for  help,  or  for  consolation;^ 
or  for  strength,  but  I  found  it.  I  always  rose  up  from  my  knees  with  a 
refreshed  fury,  an  iron-clenched  firmness,  a  crystal  piety  of  feeling  that 
sent  me  streaming  on  with  a  repulsive  power  against  the  troubles  of  life. 
...  I  love  you  like  my  own  brother:  Beware,  for  God's  sake,  of  the 
delusions  and  sophistications  that  are  ripping  up  the  talent  and  morality 
of  our  friend  («.<.,  of  course.  Hunt).  He  will  go  out  of  the  world  the 
victim  of  his  own  weakness  and  the  dupe  of  his  own  self-delusions,  with 
the  contempt  of  his  enemies  and  the  sorrow  of  his  friends,  and  the  cause 
he  undertook  to  support  injured  by  his  own  neglect  of  character.  .  .  . 
God  bless  you,  my  dear  Keats !  Do  not  despair,  collect  incident,  study 
character,  read  Shakespeare,  and  trust  in  Providence  and  you  will  do, 
you  must." 

About  a  year  later  we  find  Keats  lending  Haydon  money  which  he 
could  ill  afford  to  lose,  and  he  remained  his  friend  all  his  life,  though  his 
admiration  for  him  became  less  marked  when  he  realised  that  absorbing 
egoism  which  was  no  less  patent  in  him  than  his  fervent  religion,  his 
devotion  to  art,  and  his  passionate  patriotism.  But  Haydon,  unfortun- 
ately, could  never  really  understand  the  more  complex  and  more  delicately 
moulded  character  of  his  friend,  and  later,  when  Keats  was  more  inde- 
pendent of  his  influence,  he  completely  misjudged  him.  Revelling  in  his 
own  defiant  Christianity,  he  liked  to  persuade  himself  that  those  who  did 
not  share  his  proud  egoistical  religious  feeling  were  on  the  road  to 
inevitable  self-destruction ;  and  just  as  his  predictions  with  regard  to 
Hunt,  in  the  letter  quoted  above,  were  completely  belied  by  the  facts,  so 
the  statements  in  his  Autobiography  as  to  the  self-indulgence  and  dissipa- 
tion of  Keats's  last  years  are  contradicted  by  friends  whose  knowledge  of 
Keats,  their  especial  opportunities  of  judging,  and  their  general  character 
for  veracity  are  alike  superior  to  Haydon's  {vide  £ML,  pp.  193-232). 
Yet  the  popular  estimate  of  Keats's  character,  and  with  it  the  opinion 
as  to  the  prevailing  tenor  of  his  poetry,  is  still  chiefly  based  upon  the 
mistakes  of  Shelley  as  to  Keats's  attitude  to  criticism  {vidt  notes  to 
Endymion,  pp.  413,  414)  and  the  libels  of  Qaydon  upon  his  private  life. 

XIII.    11.  What   when   a,   etc.: — Woodhouse  punctuates  his  copy 
what,  when  a"  and  adds  a  note  "i.e.,  what  happens  when  a,  etc.". 
12.  Native  sty: — The  idea  probably  suggested  by  the  followers  <rf~ 
Comus's  troop  who  their 

native  home  forget 
To  roll  in  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty, 

26 


402  JOHN  KEATS 

XIV.  The  great  spirits  are  Wordsworth,  Hunt  and  Haydon.  Wood- 
house  adds  a  note  on  Hunt  that  "  he  is  iatroduced  here  to  much  better 
company  than  his  merits  entitle  him  to  keep  ",  He  points  out  also  the 
parallel  to  line  10  of  Lyados,  171)  "  Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning 
sky,"  though  perhaps  a  closer  parallel  is  to  be  found  in  Tro.  6*  Cress. 
ii.  2.  205.  Keats's  confidence  as  to  the  future,  lines  9, 10,  was  regarded  by 
the  critics  as  a  piece  of  personid  conceit.  Line  13,  which  originally  con- 
cluded ''in  some  distant  Mart?"  was  curtailed  upon  the  advice  of  Haydon. 

XV.  On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket  :-^Of  the  composition  of  this  sonnet 
Clarke  gives  an  interesting  account  in  his  Recollections  of  Keats :  "Some 
observations  having  been  made  upon  the  character,  habits  and  pleasant 
associations  with  that  reverend  denieen  of  tiie  hearth,  the  cheer^I  little 
grasshbpper  of  the  fireside — Hunt  proposed  to  Keats  the  challenge  of 
writing  then,  there,  and  to  tiuie,  a  sonnet  'on  the  Grasshopper  and 
Cricket '.  No  one  was  present  but  myself,  and  they  accordingly  set  to. 
...  I  cannot  say  how  long  the  trial  lasted.  .  .  .  The  time  however  wag 
short,  fbr  such  a  performance,  and  Keats  won  as  to  time.  But  the  event 
of  the  after  scrutiny  was  one  of  many  such  occurrences  which  have  riveted 
the  memory  of  Leigh  Hunt  in  my  affectionate  regard  and  admiration  for 
unaffected  generosity  and  perfectly  unpretentious  encouragement.  His 
sincere  look  of  pleasure  at  the  first  line — '  The  poetry  of  earth  is  never 
dead'.  ' Such  a  prosperous  opening ! '  he  said,  and  when  he  came  to 
the  tenth  and  eleventh  lines : — 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  slknce — 
'  Ah  !  that's  perfect !  Bravo  Keats  ! '  And  then  he  went  on  in  a  dilatation 
upon  the  dumbness  of  Nature  during  the  season's  suspension  and  torpidity. 
With  all  the  kind  and  gratifying  things  that  were  said  to  him,  Keats 
protested  to  me,  as  we  were  afterwards  walking  home,  that  he  preferred 
Hunt's  treatment  of  the  subject  to  his  own." 

XVL  To  KosKiuSKO  • — Kosciusko  (? — 1817)  a  Polish  patriot,  who  served 
in  the  Polish  army,  fought  for  America  in  the  War  of  Independence,  and 
then  for  the  freedom  of  his  own  country  against  Russia.  At  Dubjenka 
(1792)  with  only  4,000  men,  he  kept  16,000  Russians  at  bay  for  five  days. 
On  the  submission  of  Poland  to  Catherine  of  Russia,  he  resigned  his  com- 
mand and  left  the  country;  but  in  1794  he  headed  another  national 
movement,  resisting  against  tremendous  odds  the  combined  Prussian  and 
Russian  armies.  In  October  of  that  year,  however,  he  was  defeated, 
w6unded  and  taken  prisoner.  On  his  release  he  lived  in  London  and 
afterwar4s  at  Paris.  In  1807,  Napoleon,  who  was  meditating  an  invasion 
of  Poland,  begged  him  to  resume  his  command,  but  he  saw  through  the 
designs  of  Napoleon  and  declined  to  re-enter  public  life.  He  died  in 
1817,  the  great  hero  of  the  English  Liberals  and  all  lovers  of  liberty. 

The  best  presetftation  of  his  character  in  English  literature  is  to  be 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY— NOTES  40S 

found  in  the  Imaginary  Conversations  of  Landor,  who  had  an  intense 
admiration  for  him. 

Hunt  printed  this  sonnet  in  the  Examiner  of  16th  February,  1817. 

7.  Change ;  changed  1817,  which  makes  no  sense.  H  altered  "  and  " 
to  "  are  ".  The  reading  of  the  text  is  supported  by  an  alteration  in  Wood- 
house's  copy  of  the  volume,  made,  presumably,  after  consultation  with 
Keats.     Mr.  Forman  has  suggested  the  emendation  independently. 

XVII.  Happy  is  England : — The  romance  of  the  forest  (1.  4)  was  always 
deeply  felt  by  Keats.     Cf.  Hyperion,  i.  72-74  and  note. 

7.  Alp .•■^ThiB  use  of  "Alp"  in  the  singular  is  probably  due  to 
Milton's  many  a  fiery  Alp  (Paradise  Lost,  ii.  620). 

SLEEP  AND  POETRY 

"It  was  in  the  library  of  Hunt's  cottage,  where  an  extempore  bed 
had  been  made  up  for  Keats  on  the  sofa,  that  he  composed  the  framework 
and  many  lines  of  this  poem,  the  last  sixty  or  seventy  being  an  inventory 
of  the  art-garniture  of  the  room  "  (Clarke,  quoted  by  H).  The  poem  cannot 
have  been  finished  (as  S.  C.  in  Diet.  Nat.  Biog.)  during  the  summer  of  1816, 
as  Keats  was  not  a  frequent  inmate  of  the  cottage  till  October  at  the 
earliest  {vide  note,  p.  568),  and,  moreover,  the  beautiful  libes  on  the  sea- 
weed {vide  376-80)  could  hardly  have  been  written  before  Keats's  stay  at 
Margate. 

On  the  general  character  and  importance  of  the  poem  vide  Introduction, 
p.  xxxix.  It  is  indeed  Keats's  first  ambitious  composition  and  is  at  once  the 
expression  of  his  own  poetic  aspirations  and  a  declaration  of  war  against 
the  poetic  ideals  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Naturally,  then,  it  was 
approved  by  the  literary  coterie  to  which  he  belonged.  Haydou's  criticism 
of  it  is  characteristic.  .  .  .  "It  is  a  flash  of  lightning  that  will  rouse 
men  from  their  occupations,  and  keep  them  trembling  for  the  crash  of 
thunder  that  will  follow."  Hunt  praised  it  at  length  in  the  Examiner 
(June  and  July,  1817),  as  "  a  striking  specimen  of  the  restlessness  of  the 
young  poetical  appetite.  Obtaining  its  food  by  the  very  desire  of  it,  and 
gl&ncing  for  fit  subjects  of  creation  '  from  earth  to  heaven ' ".  Nor,  he  adds, 
"do  we  like  it  the  less  for  an  impatient,  and  as  may  be  thought  by  some, 
irreverent  assault  upon  the  late  French  school  of  criticism  and  monotony, 
which  has  held  poetry  chained  long  enough  to  render  it  somewhat  in- 
dignant when  it  has  got  free."  But  it  was  this  passage  (U.  181-206)  on 
the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  its  debt  to  French  criticism  that 
roused,  as  would  be  expected,  the  greatest  indignation  among  hostile 
critics.  Byron  acknowledges  this  to  be  true  of  himself.  In  a  reply  to 
an  attack  upon  himself  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  (August,  1819)  he  quotes 
lines  193-206  of  Sleep  and  Poetry,  "  from  the  volume  of  a  young  person 
learning  to  write  poetry,  and  beginning  by  teaching  the  art".  He  adds : 
"The  writer  of  this  is  a  tadpole  of  the  Lakes,  a  young  disciple  of  the 


404  JOHN  KEATS 

six  or  seven  new  schools,  in  which  he  has  learnt  to  write  such  lines  and 
such  sentiments  as  the  ahove.  He  says,  '  easy  was  the  task  of  imitating 
Pope,'  or  it  may  be  of  equalling  him,  I  presume.  I  recommend  him  to 
try  before  he  is  so  positive  on  the  subject,  and  then  compare  what  he 
will  have  then  written  and  what  he  has  now  written  with  the  humblest 
and  earliest  compositions  of  Pope,  produced  in  years  still  more  youthful 
than  those  of  Mr.  Keats  when  he  invented  his  new  Essay  in  Criticism 
entitled.  Sleep  and  Poetry  (an  ominous  title)."  In  a  manuscript  note  on 
this  passage,  dated  November,  1821,  Byron  admits  that  "  my  indignation 
at  Mr.  Keats's  depreciation  of  Pope  has  hardly  permitted  me  to  do  justice 
to  his  own  genius  which  malgrg  all  the  fantastic  fopperies  of  his  style  was 
undoubtedly  of  great  promise.  His  fragment  of  Hyperion  seems  actually 
inspired  by  the  Titans,  and  is  as  sublime  as  .^chylus.  He  is  a  loss  to  our 
literature,  and  the  more  so  as  he  himself  before  his  death  is  said  to  hare 
been  persuaded  that  he  had  not  taken  the  right  line  and  was  reforming 
his  style  in  the  mQce  classical  models  of  the  language."  A  passage  on 
Keats  in  the  famous  controversy  between  Byron  and  Bowles  (Byron  Letters, 
ed.  Frothero,  vi.  588,  589),  was  suppressed  on  account  of  Keats's  death. 
"  A  Mr.  John  Ketch  has  written  lines  against  him  (Pope)  of  which  it  were 
better  to  be  the  subject  than  the  author."  He  quotes  lines  319-27  and 
asks,  "  Now  what  does  this  mean  ?  "  then  lines  331, 332  and  asks,  "  Where 
did  these  'formp  of  elegance'  learn  to  ride — 'with  stooping  shoulders'} 
Again : — 

'  yet  I  must  not  forget 
Sleep,  quiet  with  his  poppy  coronet  : 
For  what  there  may  be  worthy  in  these  rhymes 
I  partly  owe  to  him,'  etc. 
This  obligation  is  likely  to  be  mutual.     It  may  appear  harsh  to  accumu- 
late passages  of  this  kind  from  the  work  of  a  young  man  at  the  outset 
of  his  career.     But,  if  he  will  set  out  with  assailing  the  Poet  whom  of  all 
others  a  young  aspirant  ought  to  respect  and  honour  and  study — if  he 
will  hold  forth  in  such  lines  his  notions  on  poetry,  and  endeavour  to 
recommend  them  by  terming  such  men  as  Pope,  Swift,  Addison,  Congreve, 
Young,  Gay,  Goldsmith,  Johnson,  etc.,  etc.,  a  School  of  dolts,  he  must 
abide  by  the  consequences  of  his  unfortunate  distortion  of  intellect.    But 
like  Milboume,  he  is  '  the  fairest  of  critics '  by  enabling  us  to  compare 
his  own  compositions  with  those  of  Pope  at  the  same  age,  and  on  a  similar 
subject,  viz..  Poetry.     As  Mr.  Keats  does  not  want  imagination  or  industry, 
let  those  who  have  led  him  astray  look  to  what  they  have  done.    Surely 
they  must  feel  no  little  remorse  in  having  so  perverted  the  taste  and 
feelings  of  this  young  man,  and  will  bei  satisfied  with  one  such  victim  to 
their  Moloch  of  Absurdity." 

Byron  was  perhaps  justly  annoyed  at  the  wholesale  denunciation  of 
Pope  from  the  mouth  of  one  who  had  much  to  learn  from  the  most  finished 
artist  of  the  preceding  age,  but  he  fails  to  recognise  that  Keats  is  not 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY— NOTES  405 

prompted  by  mere  youthful  conceit  at  his  own  powers, — for  the  young 
poet's  aspirations  are  couched  in  terms  of  humility  and  expressed  with  a 
consciousness  of  his  own  immaturity, — but  rather  by  his  instinctive  per- 
ception of  the  significance  of  the  change  which  had  come  over  the  whole 
face  of  literature  since  the  Lyrical  Ballads  of  1798.  Byron  never  under- 
stood the  spirit  of  the  literature  of  his  own  time  as  fully  as  the  young 
Keats  shows  himself  to  have  done,  nor  did  he  realise,  in  his  idolatry  for 
Pope,  to  what  extent  he  was  himself  forwarding  the  movement. 

The  versification  and  much  of  the  style  of  the  poem  are  equally 
characteristic  of  Keats's  immaturity.  It  is  written  with  all  the  laxity 
advocated  by  Hunt  and  supposed  to  give  an  air  of  ease  and  grace  to  the 
verse.  Its  404  lines  are  divided  into  eighteen  paragraphs  and  in  no  less 
than  eight  cases  the  pause  occurs  either  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  or 
between  the  two  rhyming  lines.  The  sense  is  continued  beyond  the 
couplet  at  the  least  111  times  {i.e.,  more  than  1  in  2)  and  there  are  as 
many  as  thirty  double  rhymes  («.«.,  1  in  3J).  The  weakness  of  versifica- 
tion together  with  other  faults  of  style,  e.g.,  the  continual  use  of  abstracts 
for  concretes,  the  awkward  defectiveness  of  lines  274,  367,  the  unfortunate 
nonce-word  boundly  (209),  the  misuse  of  doubtless  (230),  the  cockney 
vulgarity  of  "  the  very  pleasant  rout "  (322)  and  of  the  pronunciation  of 
perhaps  as  a  monosyllable  (324),  tend  to  mar  tlie  effect  of  a  work  which 
is  in  many  places  highly  poetic  in  feeling  and  felicitous  in  expression. 

The  motto  of  the  poem  is  taken  from  the  pseudo-Chaucerian  The 
Flowre  and  the  Leafe  (11.  17-21),  in  Keats's  day  universally  attributed  to 
Chaucer.  The  poem  was  a  favourite  with  Keats.  Cf.  his  sonnet  to 
Clarke  upon  it  {vide  p.  274). 

1-40.  These  first  two  paragraphs  serve  as  an  explanation  of  the  title 
Skep  and  Poetry,  and  develop  the  contrast  between  the  experiences  of  the 
unawakened  and  of  the  awakened  mind. 

66.  about  the  playing  Of  nymphs  in  woods,  and  fountains.  Cf.  Comus, 
118:— 

By  dimpled  Brook  and  Fountain  brim 
The  Wood-Nymphes  deckt  with  Daisies  trim. 
Their  merry  walks  and  pastimes  keep. 
But  Keats's  whole  passage  savours  rather  of  Leigh  Hunt. 

71-73.  imaginings  will  hover  Round  my  fireside,  etc. : — For  the  idea, 
with  its  obvious  debt  to  Wordsworth,  cf.  Sonnet  VIII.  To  My  Brothers,  and 
note.    In  the  Woodhouse  copy  of  the  volume  is  quoted,  against  the  three 
previous  lines,  Wordsworth's  poem  To  the  Daisy,  lines  70-72 : — 
A  happy,  genial  influence. 
Coming  one  knows  not  how  nor  whence 
Nor  whither  going. 

To  the  Daisy  first  appeared  in  the  1807  volumes  with  which  Keats  was 
especially  familiar. 

74.  Meander;  meander  I8I7, 


406  JOHN  KEATS 

85-162.  Stop  and  consider !  etc. : — In  these  lines  Keats  sketches  the 
progress  of  poetry  in  his  own  mind.  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  (Introd.  to 
Muses  Library,  Keats,  xxxv.)  draws  a  just  parallel  between  the  stages  of 
development  through  which  Keats  conceives  that  he  must  pass,  and  those 
described  in  Wordsworth's  Tintern  Abbey,  comparing  them  at  the  same 
time  with  the  famous  letter  to  Reynolds  written  by  Keats  more  than  a  year 
afterwards : — 

"  I  compare  human  life  to  a  large  mansion  of  many  apartments,  two 
of  which  I  can  only  describe,  the  doors  of  the  rest  being  as  yet  shut  upon 
me — :the  first  we  step  into  we  call  the  infant  or  thoughtless  Chamber,  in 
which  we  remain  as  long  as  we  do  not  thiak — we  remain  there  a  long 
while,  and  notwithstanding  the  doors  of  the  second  Chamber  remain  wide 
open,  showing  a  bright  appearance,  we  care  not  to  hasten  to  it ;  but  are 
at  length  imperceptibly  impelled  by  the  awakening  of  the  thinking  prin- 
ciple within  us^ — we  no  sooner  get  into  the  second  Chamber,  which  I  shall 
call  the  Chamber  of  Maiden-Thought,  than  we  become  intoxicated  with  the 
light  and  the  atmosphere,  we  see  nothing  but  pleasant  wonders,  and  think 
of  delaying  there  for  ever  in  delight.  However  among  the  effects  this 
breathing  is  father  of  is  that  tremendous  one  of  sharpening  one's  vision 
into  the  heart  and  nature  of  Man — of  conviudug  one's  nerves  that  the 
world  is  full  of  Misery,  and  Heart-break,  Pain,  Sickness  and  Oppression — 
whereby  this  Chamber  of  Maiden-Thought  becomes  gradually  darkened, 
and  at  the  same  time,  on  all  sides  of  it,  many  doors  are  set  open-~but  all 
dark-^all  leading  to  dark  passages — we  see  not  the  balance  of  good  and  evil 
— we  are  in  a  mist — we  are  now  in  that  state — we  feel  the  '  burden  of  the 
mystery '.  To  this  point  was  Wordsworth  ccnne  as  far  as  I  can  conceive, 
when  he  wrote  Tintern  >4&&^,.and  it  seems  to  me  that  his  genius  is  ex- 
plorative of  those  dark  passages.  Now  if  we  live,  and  go  on  thinking, 
we  too  shall  explore  them.  He  is  a  genius  and  superior  to  us,  in  so  far  as 
he  can,  more  than  we,  make  discoveries  and  shed  a  light  in  them  "  (Letter 
to  Reynolds,  3rd  May,  1818). 
Wordsworth's 

The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days 
And  their  glad  animal  movements 
Mr.  Bridges  compares  with  Keats's  "infant  or  thoughtless  Chamber," 
or  as  Keats  puts  it  in  the  poem : — 

A  pigeon  tumbling  in  clear  summer  air  ; 
A  laughing  school-boy,  without  grief  or  care, 
Riding  the  springy  branches  of  an  elm. 
Wordsworth's  second  stage,  the  second  Chamber  as  Keats  calls  it  in 
the  letter,  is  illustrated  by  the  lines : — 

The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock. 
The  mountain  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 


SLEEP  AND  POEXaY— NOTES  4.07 

An  appetite ;  a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 

By  thought  supplied. 
'     Upon  this  stage  Keats  dwells  in  lioes  96-121,  and  tiie  startling  differ- 
ence between  the  two  conceptions  gives  us  in  part  the  reason  why  Keats 
found  it  more  difficult  both  to  understand  and  to  attain  the  final  stage. 
What  in  Wordsworth  is  a  "  deep  but  inexplicable  passion "  to  Keats  is 
chiefly  an  ecstasy,  and  whilst  Wordsworth's  spirit  runs  its  whole  course 
in  relation  with  the  pure  forms  of  Nature,  Keats  is  in  a  measure  with- 
drawn from  "the  fair  paradise  of  Nature's  light,"   which  he  himself 
recognises  as  his  inspiration,  by  his  love  of  luxuriating  in  trivial  fancies 
in  no  way  connected  with  his  essential  poetic  development.     From  the 
influence  of  these,  which  we  are  obliged  to  associate  with  Leigh  Hunt, 
he  was  not  completely  disengaged  even  at  the  time  that  he  was  vouch- 
safed this  vision  of  the  progress  of  poetry  in  his  own  soul. 
The  final  stage  of  which  Wordsworth  tells  us : — 
I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts ;  a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  i^pirit  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  through  all  things, 
is  illustrated  by  lines  122-66  of  SUep  emd  Poetry.  Keats's  picture,  seeing 
that  it  is  not,  as  with  Wordsworth,  an  Oxpression  of  conscious  realisation, 
but  rather  a  piece  of  prophetic  insight  into  his  future  development,  is  of 
necessity  blurred  and  indistinct — less  distinct,  indeed,  than  his  treatment 
of  the  same  theme  in  the  letter  to  Reynolds,  written  when  he  had  already 
gained  a  fuller  self-consciousness  ;  but  it  is  by  no  means  less  impassioned 
or  less  deeply  felt  than  Wordsworth's.  It  is  obvious  that  Keats  is  here 
(122-62)  striving  to  express  two  ideas  essentially  related  the  one  to  the 
other ;  (1)  that  a  full  communion  with  Nature  and  an  understanding  of 
her  mysterious  beauty  is  only  possible  after  a  sympathetic  study  of  human 
nature  to  which  indeed  it  inevitably  leads,  the  one  in  a  manner  reacting 
upon  the  other,  and  (2)  that  after  a  contemplation  of  the  ideal  as  revealed 
by  Nature  the  sordid  realities  of  life  are  felt  all  the  more  keenly,  and 
would  be  intolerable,  were  it  not  for  the  sustaining  power  of  the  im- 
agination which  keeps  alive  the  ideal  within  the  poet's  heart  and  saves 
him  Arom  despair.  Shelley  gives  beautiful  expression  to  the  same  thought 
in  Aionais  where  he  recounts  the  necessary  qualities  in  a  true  mourner 
for  the  dead  poet : — 


408  JOHN  KEATS 

Clasp  with  thy  parting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth . 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference ;  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  one  day  and  night : 
And  keep  thy  heart  light,  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 
171-180.  Chaucer  and  the  Elizabethans. 
181.  schism;  seism  1817. 

181-206.  The  poets  of  the  eighteenth  century  (vide  introductory  re- 
marks on  the  poem).  Notice  the  debt  to  Wordsworth's  famous  sonnet 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us.  Not  only  is  line  191  a  reminiscence  of 
Wordsworth's : — 

The  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon 


It  moves  us  not. 
But  the  spirit  of  both  passages  is  intensely  similar.  It  is  noticeable 
however  that  Wordsworth,  the  pioneer  of  the  new  literary  movement, 
gives  his  words  a  far  more  universal  significance  and  contrasts  the  im- 
aginative temper  with  the  trivial  worldliness  always  with  us,  whUst  Keats 
contrasts  the  imaginative  qualities  of  two  succeeding  ages  as  illustrative 
of  their  general  character,  having  Wordsworth  himself  to  look  to  as 
evidence  of  the  imaginative  life  of  his  own  time. 

198.  the  .  .  .  wands  of  Jacob's  wit : — Cf.  Genesis,  xxx.  37-42.  Keats 
suggests  by  this  passage  that  the  verses  of  the  eighteenth  century  are  the 
result  of  a  mere  clever  trick  by  which  they  are  made  to  tally  with  certain 
preconceived  artificial  rules. 

Boikau  (1636-1711),  whose  Art  of  Poetry  sums  up  the  ideals  aimed  at 
by  Pope  and  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Keats,  of  coarse, 
exaggerates  its  influence  though  he  can  hardly  be  said  to  overstate  the 
admiration  in  which  it  was  held.  Dryden  translated  Boileau's  Art  of 
Poetry  and  says  in  his  Discowrse  Concerning  the  Original  and  Progress  of 
Satire,  "If  I  could  only  cross  the  seas,  I  might  find  in  France  a  living 
Horace  and  a  Juvenal  in  the  person  of  the  admirable  Boileau " ;  Pope 
in  his  Essay  on  Criticism,  714,  asserts  that  "Boileau  still  in  right  of 
Horace  sways "  ;  ind  Warton  speaks  of  his  work  as  "  the  best  Art  of 
Poetry  extant,"  adding  that  "  he  who  has  digested  it  cannot  be  said  to 
be  ignorant  of  any  important  rule  of  poetry  ". 

217-19.  Keats  is  here  thinking  of  Chatterton.  Woodhouse  also  sug- 
gests Kirke  White. 

220-29.  The  joys  of  the  present ;  225,  226  Wordsworth ;  226-228  Leigh 
Hunt. 

234,  etc.  clubs  .  .  .  Poets  1817 ;  cubs  .  .  .  Poets'  H ;  cubs  .  .  .  Poets 
HBF. 

These  lines  seem  to  have  given  some  difficulty  to  editors  of  Keats,  who 


SLEEP  AND  POETRY— NOTES  409 

have  in  turn  altered  the  text  (even  Mr.  Forman  not  recording  the  change 
he  has  introduced)  to  make  it  fit  in  with  their  conception.  But  it  is  a 
reminiscence  of  the  Odyssey,  bk.  iz.,  where  Homer  tells  of  the  escape 
of  Odysseus  from  Polyphemus,  and  the  passage,  though  awkward,  needs 
no  emendation.  The  poets,  says  Keats,  are  giants  like  Polyphemus  and 
his  brethren,  of  superhuman  power,  but  like  the  eyeless  Polyphemus 
without  ability  to  direct  their  energies  fitly,  so  that  with  their  clubs  (the 
themes  they  write  upon  and  the  manner  in  which  they  deal  with  them) 
they  only  succeed  in  disturbing  the  grand  sea  (of  poetry .''  or  life  ?)  It  is 
true  that  rocks  and  not  clubs  were  hurled  by  the  Cyclops  into  the  sea 
after  his  escaped  euemy,  but  the  club  is  mentioned  in  Homer  as  his  natural 
weapon.     Keats  is  only  writing  from  his  recollection  of  the  story. 

Keats  is  here  thinking  chiefly  of  Byron,  and  the  contrast  which  his 
stormy  poetry  affords  with  the  serenity  of  Wordsworth  or  the  cheerful 
chirping  of  Hunt.  Woodhouse  thought  that  there  was  also  a  reference  to 
the  Christabel  of  Coleridge,  though  it  is  difficult  to  understand  why.-  In 
his  youth  Keats  shared  the  almost  universal  passion  for  Byron's  poetry  and 
one  of  his  earliest  compositions  is  a  very  weak  sonnet  in  his  praise  (vide 
p.  347).  But  as  he  matured,  his  genius  developed  in  a  very  different  direc- 
tion, and  the  work  of  Byron  became  more  and  more  distasteful  to  him. 
Whilst  recognising  Byron's  literary  supremacy  (Letter  to  George  Keats, 
Deci-Jan.,  1818-19)  he  came  to  regard  his  work  as  lacking  in  the  greatest 
imaginative  qualities.  "  A  man's  life  of  any  worth,"  he  writes  (Letter  to 
George  Keats,  Feb.  1819),  "  is  a  continual  allegory  and  very  few  eyes  can  see 
the  Mystery  of  his  Life — a  life  like  the  scriptures,  figurative — which  such 
people  can  no  more  make  out  than  they  can  the  Hebrew  Bible.  Lord 
Byron  cuts  a  figure  but  he  is  not  figurative — Shakespeare  led  a  life  of 
Allegory ;  his  works  are  the  comments  on  it."  And  again  in  September 
of  the  same  year,  after  bis  brother  had  been  instituting  a  comparison 
between  himself  and  Byron — "There  is  this  great  difference  between  us. 
He  describes  what  he  sees :  I  describe  what  I  imagine.  Mine  is  the  harder 
task."  And  what  Byron  saw  seemed  to  Keats  less  and  less  worth  seeing. 
In  the  Cap  and  Bells,  a  social  satire  in  some  measure  imitative  of  the  style 
of  Don  Juan,  he  does  not  scruple  to  burlesque  Byron's  most  passionate 
lyric  Fare  thee  well — and  Lord  Houghton,  on  the  authority  of  Severn,  tells 
how  Keats,  reading,  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  the  description  of  the  storm  in 
Don  Juan,  cast  the  book  on  the  floor  in  a  transport  of  indignation. 
"  How  horrible  an  example  of  human  nature,"  he  cried,  "  is  this  man,  who 
has  no  pleasure  left  him  but  to  gloat  over  and  jeer  at  the  most  awful  incid- 
ents of  life !  Oh  !  this  is  a  paltry  originality,  which  consists  in  making 
solemn  things  gay  and  gay  things  solemn,  and  yet  it  will  fascinate 
thousands,  by  the  very  diabolical  outrage  of  their  sympathies.  Byron's 
perverted  education  makes  him  assume  to  feel,  and  try  to  impart  to  others, 
those  depraved  sensations  which  the  want  of  any  education  excites  in 
many." 


410  JOHN  KEATS 

237.  'Tis  might  half  slumb'ring  on  its  own  right  arm :— Against  this 
Use, '  BO  eharacterisHc  of  Keats's  power  of  presenting  in  his  poetry  the 
e£Fect8  of  sculpture,  Woodhouse  has  written  "Elgin  Marbles". 

262.  M  tmderest  birds,  etc. : — With  this  passage  Woodhouse  again 
compwes  those  lines  from  The  Flowre  and  the  Leafe  which  he  had  quoted 
to  illustrate  /  stood  tip-toe,  87. 

303.  my  Dedalian  wings : — The  well-known  story  of  Daedalus  and 
Icarus  is  told  at  length  in  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid,  hk.  viii.  Daedalus, 
wearied  by  a  long  exile  in  Crete,  made  wings  of  feathers  and  wax.  His 
son  Icarus  put  them  on,  and  neglecting  his  father's  warning  soared  too 
near  the  sun  so  that  the  wax  melted  and  he  was  drowned. 

In  Endymion,  iv.  442  Keats  compares  his  hero  to  him  who  died 
For  soaring  too  audacious  in  the  sun. 
Where  that  same  treacherous  wax  began  to  run. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  in  the  same  passage  {Met.  viii.)  Ovid 
tells  the  story  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  of  which  Keats  make  use  in  line  335. 

385.  the  sw^t  bound  Of  Bacchus  from  his  chariot,  etc. : — This  aUueion 
to  the  story  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  is  no  doubt  in  part  suggested  also  by 
the  picture'  of  Titian,  now  in  the  National  Gallery,  which  Keats  made 
use  of  in  his  great  "  Ode  to  Sorrow  "  {Endymion,  iv.  193-2S0). 

355-95.  The  description  of  "the  art-garniture  of  Hunt's  study"  where 
a  bed  was  made  up  for  Keats.  It  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Honf  s 
taste.  Notice  especially  the  introduction  of  Alfred  and  Kosciusko,  and  if. 
Sonnet  XVI.,  p.  38  and  note.  The  exquisite  lines  on  the  sea,  376-80, 
stand  out  oddly  in  their  context. 

377.  smoothness ;  smoothiness  1817. 


ENDYMION 

Endymion  was  definitely  begun  early  in  May  1817.  In  a  letter  to 
Reynolds,  written  from  Carisbrook  on  l7th  April,  Keats  says,  "I  shril 
forthwith  begin  my  Endymion,"  and  to  Haydon  he  writes  from  Margate 
on  10th  May, "I  read  and  write  about  eight  hours  a  day.  There  is  an 
old  saying  '  well  begun  is  half  done ' — 'tis  a  bad  one.  I  would  use  instead, 
'  Not  begun  at  all  till  half  done ' ;  so  according  to  that  I  have  not  begun 
my  Poem,  consequently  {d.  priori)  can  say  nothing  about  it.  Thank 
Crod  !  I  do  begin  arduously  where  I  leave  off,  notwithstanding  occasional 
depression  ;  and  I  hope  for  the  support  of  a  High  Power  while  I  climb  this 
little  eminence,  and  especially  in  the  years  of  more  momentous  Labour. 
I  remember  your  saying  that  you  had  notions  of  a  good  genius  presiding 
over  you.  I  have  of  late  had  the  same  thought,  for  things  which  I  do  half 
at  Random  are  afterwards  confirmed  by  my  judgment  in  a  dozen  features 
of  Propriety.    Is  it  too  daring  to  imagine  Shakespeare  this  Presider.'" 

Keats  must  have  worked  steadily  at  the  poem  both  at  Margate  and  on 
his  return  to  London,  for  we  find  him  in  Book  III.  when  he  is  on  a  visit 


ENDYMION— NOTES  411 

to  Bailey  at  Oxford  in  September ;  "  I  have  been  wrifting  very  hard  lately," 
he  tells  his  sister,  "  even  till  an  utter  incapacity  came  on,  and  I  feel  it  now 
about  my  head.  ...  I  shall  stop  here  till  I  have  finished  the  third  Book 
of  my  Story  which  I  hope  will  be  finished  in  at  most  three  Weeks  from  to- 
day" (10th  Sept,  1817)-  On  21st  September  he  is  "getting  on  famous 
with  my  third  book — have  finished  800  lines  and  hope  to  finish  it  next 
week"  \to  Reynolds).  On  28th  September  he  tells  Haydon  "within  the 
last  three  weeks  I  have  written  1,000  lines — which  are  the  third  Book  of 
my  Poem  ".  He  adds  "  My  ideas  with  respect  to  it  I  assure  you  are  very 
low — and  I  would  write  the  subject  thoroughly  again  but  I  am  tired  of  it 
and  think  the  time  would  be  better  spent  in  writing  a  new  Romance  which 
I  have  in  my  eye  for  next  summer — Rome  was  not  built  in  a  Day — and  all 
the  good  I  expect  from  my  employment  this  summer  is  the  fruit  of  experi- 
ence which  I  hope  to  gather  in  my  next  poem  ". 

The  Fourth  Book  was  finished  at  Burford  Bridge  in  November.  During 
the  early  part  of  1818  Keats  was  busy  making  coiTections  and  copying  out 
the  poem  for  the  press.  There  was  some  idea,  apparently,  of  publishing 
it  in  quarto  form,  if  Haydon  would  draw  a  picture  for  the  frontispiece, 
and  Haydon  went  so  far  as  to  promise  to  "  make  with  all  his  might,  a 
finished  chalk  of  my  head,  to  be  engraved  in  the  first  style  and  put  at  the 
head  of  my  Poem,  saying  at  the  same  time  he  had  never  done  i^e  thing 
for  any  human  being,  and  that  it  must  have  considerable  effect  as  he  will 
put  his  name  to  it"  (Letter  to  George  and  Thos.  Keats,  23rd  Jan.,  1818). 
But  Haydon  did  not  keep  his  word,  and  the  poem  appeared  in  the  following 
April  without  the  portrait,  and  in  octavo  form.  It  was  published  by  Messrs. 
Taylor  and  Hessey,  witii  both  of  whom  Keats  was  in  friendly  correspond- 
ence. 

In  style  and  versification  EndynUon  has  all  the  characteristics  of  the 
1817  volume,  and  exhibits,  in  an  exaggerated  form,  the  joint  influence 
of  Leigh  Hunt  and  the  seventeenth-century  Spemserians  upon  a  genius 
delicate  and  exuberant  but  at  the  same  time  untrained  and  ill-bred.  The  \ 
versification  is  still  almost  wholly  independent  of  the  sentence  structure  \ 
and  over  weighted  with  double  endings,  there  is  the  same  laxity  in  the 
use  of  language,  and  even  more  noticeable  than  before  is  the  manner  in  j 
which  lines  of  exquisite  beauty  and  penetrating  observation  are  interspersed 
in  passages  of  which  both  sentiment  and  expression  are  commonplace.  No 
one  was  readier  to  point  this  out  than  Hunt  himself,  whose  practice,  if 
not  his  theory,  was  in  a  great  measure  responsible  for  it.  But  the  rapid 
progress  which  Keats  was  making  in  his  art  is  nowhere  more  evident  than 
in  a  study  of  Endymion  itself.  As  the  poem  proceeds,  the  eccentricities 
of  style  and  versification  become  markedly  less  exaggerated,  and  a  com- 
parison of  the  earlier  draft  and  its  rejected  passages  with  the  printed 
version  of  the  poem  shows  Keats  to  be  fast  emancipating  himself  from  his 
worst  offences  against  good  taste.  But  even  as  he  wrote  Keats  realised 
how  much  still  called  for  alteration  or  rejection,  and  it  was  this  feeling 


/ 


412  JOHN  KEATS 

which  prompted  his  desire  to  publish  Endymion  as  soon  as  possible  and 
leave  all  thoughts  of  it  behind  him. 

The  ambitious  and  elaborate  scheme  on  which  Endymion  is  composed 
shows  the  influence  of  Haydon's  lofty  and  pretentious  artistic  ideals,  and 
Keats's  correspondence  affords  ample  evidence  that  Haydon's  influence, 
paramount  with  him  at  this  time,  was  largely  instrumental  in  opening  his 
eyes  to  Leigh  Hunfs  obvious  limitations  as  an  artist.     As  early  as  thel 
I  beginning  of  1817  Hunt  had  attempted  to  dissuade  him  from  engaging 
{ upon  a  long  poem ;  he  repeated  his  advice  throughout  the  year,  talcing 
credit  to  himself  that  Endymion  did  not  consist  of  7000  lines  instead  of 
;4000  {Letter  to  Bailey,  8th  Oct.,  1817),  and  never  approved  of  it  as  a 
Whole.     But  Keats  thought   differently.     "A  long  poem,"  he  writes, 
J  "is  a  test  of  invention,  wUch  I  take  to  be  the  Polar  star  of  Poetry,  as 
fFancy  is  the  Sails — and  Imagination  the  rudder.      Did  our  great  Poets 
ever  write  short  pieces?  I  mean  in  the  Shape  of  Tales.     This  same  in- 
vention seems  indeed  of  late  years  to  have  been  forgotten  as  a  poetical 
excellence"  {ibid.).     It  was  naturally,  therefore,  galling  to  Keats  (though 
!  in  certain  respects  none  the  less  true),  that  after  all  he  should  have  the 
"reputation  of  Hunt's  eleve"  {ibid.).     It  was  upon  this  ground  that  the 
violent  attacks  of  the  Quarterly  Review  (Sept.,  1818)  and  Blackwood! s 
Magazine  (Aug.)  were  made  upon  him.      The  article  in  Blackwood  "On 
the  Cockney  School  of  Poetry"  (probably  a  joint  production  of  the  edi- 
.  torial  staff  to  which  Maginn,i  Wilson  and  Lockhart  all  contributed),  had 
no  pretensions  to  be  regarded   as  literary  criticism,  but  dealt  almost 
entirely  in  vulgar  banter  upon  the  occupations  of  Keats's  early  life.    The 
Quarterly  Reviewer  (now  admitted  to  have  been  Croker)  treated  Keats  as 
;  the  "  simple  neophyte"  of  Leigh  Hunt.     He  burlesqued  the  preface  in 
which  Keats  apologises  for  the  immaturity  of  the  poem,  confessed  that 
he  had  only  read  the  first  book,  and  selected  a  large  number  of  passages^ 
for  ridicule.    Two  anonymous  champions,  however,  appeared,  who  under 
the  initials  JS  and  RB  addressed  letters  to  the  Morning  Chronicle  of 
3rd  and  8th  October,  pointing  out  the  gross  injustice  and  uncritical 
venom  of  the  Quarterly  article.     JS  admits  that  there  are  many  passages 
indicating  haste  and  carelessness,  and  that  a  real  friend  of  the  author 

;  would  have  dissuaded  him  frpm  immediate  publication,  but  asserts  "that 

1  beauties  of  the  highest  order  may  be  found  in  almost  every  page ".  RB 
supports  his  letter  by  the  quotation  of  such  beauties,  and  concludes  by 

';  asking  whether  the  "  Critic  who  could  pass  all  this  unnoticed,  and  con- 
demn the  whole  poem  as  '  consisting  of  the  most  incongruous  ideas  in  thej 

imost  uncouth  language '  is  very  implicitly  to  be  relied  on ".  The  just 
and  discriminating  criticism  of  Jeffrey  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  did  not 
appear  till  August,  1820,  when  he  took  the  poem  with  the  1820  volume, 

iMaginn  often  signed  himself  Ralph  Tuckett  Scott  (RTS.).  Hence  perhaps  the 
rumour,  firmly  believed  by  Hunt,  Keats  and  others,  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  had  written 
the  article, 


ENDYMION— NOTES  418 

and  Keats  thus  refers  to  its  silence  in  his  letter  to  George  Keats,  Septem- 
ber, 1819,  "  The  Edinburgh  Review  are  afraid  to  touch  upon  my  poem. 
They  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it :  they  do  not  like  to  condemn  it,  and 
they  will  not  praise  it  for  fear.  They  are  as  shy  of  it  as  I  should  be  of 
wearing  a  Quaker's  hat  The  fact  is  they  have  not  real  taste.  They 
dare  not  compromise  their  judgment  on  so  puzzling  a  question.  If  on  my 
next  publication  they  should  praise  me,  and  so  lug  in  Endymion,  I  will 
address  them  in  a  manner  they  will  not  at  all  relish.  The  cowardliness 
of  the  Edinburgh  is  worse  than  the  abuse  of  the  Quarterly."  But  in  the 
meantime  Keats's  friends  had  done  their  best  for  the  poem.  Bailey  had 
written  a  sympathetic  review  for  the  Oxford  Herald  in  June,  and  Reynolds 
in  the  Alfred,  The  West  of  England  Journal  and  General  Advertiser,  com- 
bined an  attack  upon  the  critical  methods  of  the  Quarterly  with  a  fine  ap- 
preciation of  the  best  qualities  in  Keats's  genius.  This  was  republished, 
with  a  short  introduction  by  Leigh  Hunt,  in  the  Examiner  of  11th  October. 

f  Shelley  recognised  at  once  the  genius  of  the  poem,  though  its  faults 
were  of  a  kind  particularly  distasteful  to  him.  He  told  Oilier  that  in 
spite  of  its  long-winded  rambling  "  it  was'  full  of  some  of  the  highelat 
and  finest  gleams  of  poetry "  and  in  particular  the  Hymn  to  Pan  in  the 
first  Book  "  afforded  the  surest  promise  of  ultimate  excellence  ".  On  his 
second  reading  of  the  poem  he  was  convinced  with  a  new  "  sense  of  the 
treasures  of  poetry  it  contains,  though  treasures  poured  forth  with 
indistinct  profusion "  (Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  ii.  408).  On  14th  May, 
1820,  thinking  again  of  Endymion,  he  wrote  to  Oilier  in  words  of  the 
finest  criticism :  "  Keats,  I  hope,  is  going  to  show  himself  a  great  poet : 
like  the  sun,  to  burst  through  the  clouds,  which,  though  dyed^  in  the 
finest  colours  of  the  air,  obscured  his  rising".  This  is,  perhaps,  the 
place  to  show  how  far  from  the  truth  is  the  common  conception  of  Keats's 
attitude  to  his  Reviewers,  which  owes  its  vogue  to  Byron's  Letters  and  Don 
Juan,  and  to  Shelley's  Adonais..  Keats's  letter  to  Hessey,  one  of  his 
publishers,  dated  9th  October,  IBlSy  expresses  the  actual  effect  of  criticism 
upon  him  at  this  period,  and  what  is  far  more  valuable,  his  own  criticisms 
upon  himself: — 

,  "I  cannot  but  feel  indebted  to  those  Gentlemen  who  have  taken  my 
part — as  for  the  rest,  I  begin  to  get  a  little  acquainted  with  my  own 
strength  and  weakness.  Praise  or  blame  has  but  a  momentary  effect  on 
the  man  whose  love  of  beauty  in  the  abstract  makes  him  a  severe  critic  on 
his  own  Works.  My  own  domestic  criticism  has  given  me  pain  without 
comparison  beyond  what  Blackwood  or  the  Quarterly  could  possibly  inflict 
— and  also  when  I  feel  I  am  right,  no  external  praise  can  give  me  such 
a  glow  as  my  own  solitary  reperception  and  ratification  of  what  is  fine. 
JS  is  perfectly  right  in  regard  to  the  slip-shod  Endymion.  That  it  is  so 
is  no  fault  of  mine.  No  !  though  it  may  sound  a  little  paradoxicaL  It 
is  as  good  as  I  had  power  to  make  it — by  myself.  Had  I  been  nervous 
about  its  being  a  perfect  piece,  and  with  that  view  asked  advice,  and 


414  JOHN  KEATS 

trembled  over  every  page,  it  would  not  have  been  written ;  for  it  is  not 
in  my  nature  to  fumble — I  will  write  independently.  I  have  written 
independently  without  Judgfnmt  and  I  may  write  independently  and  with 
Judgmmt  hereafter.  The  genius  of  Poetry  must  work  out  its  own  salva- 
tion in  a  man.  It  cannot  be  matured  by  law  and  precept,  but  by  sensa- 
tion and  watchfulness  in  itself.  That  which  is  creative  must  create 
itself.  In  Bndymion  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,  I  was  never  afraid  of  failure ;  for 
I  would  sooner  fail  than  not  be  among  the  greatest."  ^ 

There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  as  long  as  Keats  retained  his  health 
and  with  his  health  his  poetic  vitality,  i.e.,  till  the  autumn  of  1819,  his 
general  attitude  to  criticism  was  at  variance  with  his  expression  in  this 
letter.  At  the  same  time  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  after  his  health  had 
given  way,  and  when  other  troubles  were  pressing  hard  upon  him^  he 
would  complain  bitterly  to  his  friends  of  the  injustice  with  which  his 
poetry  had  been  received^  and  his  statement  to  Brown  in  June,  1820, 
with  reg^d  to  the  1820  volume:  "This  shall  be  my  last  trial:  not 
succeeding,  I  shall  try  what  I  can  do  in  the  apothecary  line,"  is  probably 
characteristic  of  his  feeling  at  this  period.  Moreover  his  indignant  repudi- 
ation of  the  Advertisement  to  Lamia,  etc.  {vide  introduction  to  Hyptrimf} 
p.  487),  whilst  undoubtedly  true  to  fact  of  the  time  to  which  it  refers, 
suggests  by  its  tone  an  extreme  sensitiveness  which  had  grown  upon  him 
during  his  illness.  It  was  doubtless  from  expressions  which  escaped  him 
during  the  last  months  of  his  life  and  were  repeated  and  somewhat  mis- 
interpreted by  those  who  heard  them,  that  the  fiction  arose  as  to-  his 
habitual  attitude  to  criticism  and  its  fatal  effect  upon  him ;  a  fiction 
turned  to  so  different  an  account  by  Byron  and  by  Shelley.  For  even  of  his 
last  days  at  Rome^  Severn  writes :  "  Certainly  the  BlacihWoocPs  attack  was 
one  of  the  least  of  his  miseries"  {Life  and  Letters  {^Joseph  Severn,  p.  66). 

The  story  of  Endymion  had  for  some  time  been  a  favourite  of  Keats's, 
and  he  had  already  made  use  of  it  in  I  stood  tip-toe  {q.v.,  11. 181-98)>  His 
intense  passion  for  th^  beauty  of  the  moon  and  his  delight  in  the  legends 
of  ancient  mythology  could  here  naturally  coalesce,  and  in  his  Elizabethan 
reading  he  would  find  plenty  of  references  to  the  story  which  could  not 
fail  to  arrest  his  attention.  From  the  Bndimion  of  Lyly  onwards,  there  is 
hardly  a  poet  who  does  not  allude  to  the  tale.  The  words  of  Portia,  e.g., 
in  Merchant  of  Venice,  v.  1.  109 : — 

Peace  ho  !  the  moon  sleeps  with  Endymion 
And  would  not  be  awaked, 
occur  in  a  scene  which  from  its  blending  of  the  magic  of  nature  and  of 
classical  legend  would  be  peculiarly  dear  to  Keats ;  and  the  love  poems 
of  Drummond  harp  continually  upon  the  same  graceful  theme.    Cf.  especi' 
ally  Poems,  pt.  i.,  Sonnet  VIII. :— 


ENDYMION— NOTES  415 

While  Cynthia,  in  purest  cypress  clad. 
The  Latmian  shepherd  in  a  trance  descries. 
And  whiles  looks  pale  from  height  of  all  the  skies. 
Whiles  dyes  her  beauties  in  a  bashful  red. 
Or  Sonnet  X. : — 

Fair  Moon,  who  with  thy  cold  and  silver  shine 
Makes  sweet  the  horror  of  the  drbadAil  night, 
Delighting  the  weak  eye  with  smiles  divine, 
Which  Phoebus  dazzles  with  his  too  much  light ; 
Bright  Queen  of  the  first  Heaven,  if  in  thy  shrine, 
By  turning  oft,  and  Heaven's  eternal  night. 
Thou  hast  not  yet  that  once  sweet  fire  of  thine, 
Endymion,  forgot,  and  lover's  plight.  .  .  . 
C/.  also  Sonnet  XXXVlTand  Sextain  U. 

Mr.  Colvin  in  an  elaborate  treatment  of  the  source  of  the  story  (EML, 
pp.  92-99)  suggests  as  Keats's  two  most  direct  sources  Fletcher's  Faithful 
Shepherdess,  a  poem  Keats  is  known  to  have  studied,  and  Drayton's  Man 
M  the  Moon.    The  passage  in  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  Act  I.,  tells 
How  the  pale  Phoebe,  hunting  in  a  grove. 
First  saw  the  boy  Endyniion,  from  whose  eyes 
She  took  eternal  fire  that  never  dies ; 
,«  '  How  she  convey'd  him  softly  in  a  sleep, 

'<  His  temples  bound  with  poppy,  to  a  steep 

Head  of  old  Latmus,  where  she  stoops  each  night. 
Gilding  the  mountain  with  her  bi'other's  light. 
To  kiss  her  sweetest. 
Cf.  also  The  Masque  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Maid's  Tragedy,  i.  1. 
Drayton's  Man  in  the  Moon  gives  the  story  thus ' : — 

She  that  gently  lends  us  light. 
Shall  be  our  subject,  and  her  love  alone. 
Borne  to  a  shepherd,  wise  Endymion, 
Sometime  on  Latmus  that  his  flock  did  keep, 
Rapted  that  was  in  admiration  deep 
Of  her  perfections  that,  he  us'd  to  lie. 
All  the  long  night  contemplating  the  sky. 
At  her  high  beauties :  often  of  his  store. 
As  to  the  god  he  only  did  adore. 
And  sacrific'd :  she  perfect  in  his  love. 
For  the  high  gods  enthronized  above 

'  It  may  be  worth  noticing  that  this  passage  suggests  the  concern  of  the  gods  at  the 
absence  of  Cynthia  from  heaven,  of  which  Keats  makes  some  capital  in  rather  question- 
able taste  {cf.  ji.  782-96).  Drayton's  style  and  vocabulary,  too,  have  certain  qualities 
in  common  with  Endymion,  e.g.,  such  phrases  as  "  dampy  mist  in  fashion  of  a  ring," 
"  saily  wings,"  the  words  "  enl&onized    and  "  rapted,"  and  the  spelling  "  Eolus  ". 

Certain  critics  have  attempted  to  trace  in  Endymion  the  influence  of  Chamberlayne's 
Phannnida,  but  I  share  with  Mr.  Colvin  an  inability  to  see  any  resemblance  sufficient 
to  justify  the  assumption. 


416  JOHN  KEATS 

From  their  clear  mansions  plainly  do  behold 
AU  that  frail  man  doth  in  this  grosser  mould  : 
For  whom  bright  Cynthia  gliding  from  her  sphere. 
Used  oft  times  to  recreate  her  there : 
That  oft  her  want  unto  the  world  was  strange. 
Fearing  that  Heaven  the  wonted  course  would  change, 
And  Phoebus,  her  oft  missing  did  inquire. 
If  that  elsewhere  she  borrowed  other  fire : 
But  let  them  do  to  cross  her  what  they  could, 
Down  into  Latmus  every  month  she  would. 
So  that  in  Heaven  about  it  there  was  odds. 
And  as  a  question  troubled  all  the  gods. 
Whether  without  their  general  consent. 
She  might  depart ;  but  nath'less  to  prevent 
Her  lawless  course,  they  labour'd  all  in  vain. 
Nor  could  their  laws  her  liberty  restrain. 
Mr.  Colvin  calls  attention  to  the  fact  that  Drayton  begins  his  poem, 
as  does  Keats,  with  a  festival  of  Pan,  and  that  in  a  later  passage  he  "  gives 
hints  for  the  wanderings  on  which  Keats  sends  his  hero  (for  which  antiquity 
affords  no  warrant)  through  earth,  sea  and  air  "  (£ML,  p.  94).  But  the  hints 
are  vague,  and  I  think  that  he  owed  his  plan  of  the  poem  to  another  work. 
In  Sandys's  Ovid,  where  Keats  found  not  only  a  version />f  the  main  story, 
but  also  many  of  the  episodes  with  which  he  embellishes  and  at  times 
overloads  it,  was  an  introductory  poem,  which  to  Sandys  expressed  "the 
minde  of  the  frontispiece  and  the  argumente  of  this  worke  ".    It  reads  into 
Ovid  a  high  moral  purpose  of  which  Ovid  was  quite  innocent,  and  the 
commentary  which  Sandys  adds  to  each  book  of  the  Metamorphoses  in- 
terprets the  poem  throughout  in  the  same  spirit.     There  can  be  little 
doubt  that  the  strong  appeal  which  Ovid  made  to  Keats  was  due,  in  part 
at  least,  to  this  allegorising  vein  which  was  entirely  in  accord  with  Keats's 
own  temper  at  the  time,  and  seemed  at  once  to  interpret  and  to  justify  his 
own  attitude  to  Greek  legend.     With  the  subject  of  Endymion  in  bis  mind, 
and  as  yet  no  definite  scheme  on  which  to  treat  it,  he  opened  his  Sandys  and 
read  on  the  second  page  the  following  lines,  some  of  which  at  least  have  a 
distinct  relation  with  the  development  of  Endymion : — 
FiBE,  AiBE,  Earth,  Water,  all  the  Opposites 
That  strove  in  Chaos,  powrefuU  Love  unites ; 
And  from  their  discord  drew  this  Harmonie, 
Which  smiles  in  Natwe :  who,  with  ravisht  eye. 
Affects  his  own  made  Beauties.    But  our  Will, 
Desire,  and  Powres  Irascible,  the  skill 
Of  Pallas  orders ;  who  the  Minde  attires 
With  all  Heroick  Virtues :  This  aspires 
To  Fame  and  Glorie  ;  by  her  noble  Guide 
Eternized,  and  well-nigh  Deified. 


ENDYMION— NOTES  417 

But  who  forsake  that  faire  Intelligence, 
To  follow  Passion  and  voluptuous  Sence  ; 
That  shun  the  Path  and  Toyles  of  Hebcules  ; 
Such,  charm'd  by  Cibce's  luxurie,  and  ease. 
Themselves  deforme  :  'twizt  whom,  so  great  an  ods ; 
That  these  are  held  for  Beasts,  and  those  for  Gods. 
There  are  many  ideas  here  which  have  their  parallel  in  the  adventures 
of  Endymion  and  the  progress  of  his  soul  towards  its  ideal ;  and  it  is 
difficult  to  believe  that  Keats  was  not  largely  indebted  to  it. 

The  motto,  chosen  by  Keats  from  Shakespeare's  seventeenth  sonnet, 
occurred  to  him  quite  by  chance.  Writing  to  Reynolds,  22nd  November, 
1817,  he  is  discussing  Shakespeare's  poems,  in  which,  at  the  time,  he  was 
much  engrossed.  Then  he  says,  "He  (i.e.,  Shakespeare)  overwhelms  a 
genuine  Lover  of  poesy  with  all  manner  of  abuse,  talking  about — 

'a  poet's  rage 
And  stretched  metre  of  an  antique  song '. 
Which,  by-the-by,  will  be  a  capital  motto  for  my  poem,  won't  it.' " 
The  original  Dedication  and  Preface  to  Endymion  ran  as  follows : — 

INSCRIBED, 

WITH   XVSKY   rUBLIHO  OF  FBIDK   AND  BEORET 
•  AHD   WITH    "a  bowed   MIND," 

ID  THE    HEHOBT  OF 
THE   MOST   EHOLISH   OF    POETS   EXCEPT  SHAKSPEABE, 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON 

PREFACE 

"  In  a  great  nation,  the  work  of  an  individual  is  of  so  little  importance ; 
his  pleadings  and  excuses  are  so  uninteresting ;  his  '  way  of  life '  such  a 
nothing,  that  a  Preface  seems  a  sort  of  impertinent  bow  to  strangers  who 
care  nothing  about  it. 

"  A  Preface,  however,  should  be  down  in  so  many  words ;  and  such  a 
one  that  by  an  eye-glance  over  the  "type  the  Reader  may  catch  an  idea  of 
an  Author's  modesty,  and  non-opinion  of  himself — which  I  sincerely  hope 
may  be  seen  in  the  few  lines  I  have  to  write,  notwithstanding  many  pro- 
verbs of  many  ages  old  which  men  find  a  great  pleasure  in  receiving  as 


"  About  a  twelvemonth  since,  I  published  a  little  book  of  verses ;  it 
was  read  by  some  dozen  of  my  friends  who  lik'd  it;  and  some  dozen 
whom  I  was  unacquainted  with,  who  did  not. 

"  Now,  when  a  dozen  human  beings  are  at  words  with  another  dozen, 
it  becomes  a  matter  of  anxiety  to  side  with  one's  friends — more  especially 
when  excited  thereto  by  a  great  Love  of  Poetry.  I  fought  under  disad- 
vantages. Before  I  began  I  had  no  inward  feel  of  being  able  to  finish ; 
27 


418  JOHN  KEATS 

and  as  I  proceeded  my  steps  were  all  uncertaiQ.  So  this  Poem  must  rather 
be  considered  as  an  endeavour  than  a  thing  accomplished ;  a  poor  prologue 
to  what^  if  I  live,  I  humbly  hope  to  do.  In  duty  to  the  Public  I  should 
have  kept  it  back  for  a  year  or  two,  knowing  it  to  be  so  faulty ;  but  I 
really  cannot  do  so, — by  repetition  my  favourite  passages  sound  vapid  in 
my  ears,  and  I  would  rather  redeem  myself  with  a  new  Poem  should  this 
one  be  found  of  any  interest. 

"  I  have  to  apologise  to  the  lovers  of  simplicity  for  touching  the  spell 
of  loneliness  that  hung  about  Endymion  ;  if  any  of  my  lines  plead  for  me 
with  such  people  I  shall  be  proud. 

"  It  has  been  too  much  the  fashion  of  late  to  consider  men  bigoted  and 
addicted  to  every  word  that  may  chance  to  escape  their  lips ;  now  I  here 
declare  that  I  have  not  any  particular  affection  for  any  particular  phrase, 
word,  or  letter  in  the  whole  affair.  I  have  written  to  please  myself,  and 
in  hopes  to  please  others,  and  for  a  love  of  fame ;  if  I  neither  please  my- 
self, nor  others,  nor  get  fame,  of  what  consequence  is  Phraseology? 

"1  would  fain  escape  the  bickerings  that  all  Works  not  ezactiiy  in 
chime  bring  upon  their  begetters — but  this  is  not  fair  to  expect,  there 
must  be  conversation  of  some  sort  and  to  object  shows  a  man's  consequence. 
In  case  of  a  London  drizzle  or  a  Scotch  mist,  the  following  quotation  from 
Marston  may  perhaps  stead  me  as  an  umbrella  for  an  hour  or  so:  'let it 
be  the  curtesy  of  my  peruser  rather  to  pity  my  self-hindering  labours  than 
to  malice  me '  .^ 

"  One  word  more — for  we  cannot  help  seeing  our  own  affairs  in  every 
point  of  view — should  any  one  call  my  dedication  to  Chatterton  affected  I 
answer  as  foUoweth :  '  Were  I  dead.  Sir,  I  should  like  a  book  dedicated  to 
me'." 

"  TEIQimOUTH, 

ISthMwrch,  1818." 

This  was  rejected  because  of  the  criticisms  of  Reynolds,  and  as  Lord 
Houghton  remarks,  "  many  as  were  the  intellectual  obligations  the  poet 
owed  to  his  friend,  the  suppression  of  this  &ulty  composition  was  perhaps 
the  greatest".    Keats  replied  to  Reynolds  as  follows  : — 

"  TEiaHHOUIH, 

9th  April,  1818. 
"  Mt  Dear  ReynoIiDs, 

"  Since  you  all  agree  that  the  thing  is  bad,  it  must  be  so — 
though  I  am  not  aware  there  is  anything  like  Hunt  in  it  (and  if  there  is, 
it  is  my  natural  way,  and  I  have  something  in  common  with  Hunt).  Look 
it  over  again,  and  examine  into  the  motives,  the  seeds,  from  which  any  one 
sentence  sprung. 

1  The  quotation  is  from  Marston's  Preface  to  T/u  Fawn,  addressed  "  to  the  Equal 
Reader  ".  There  is  some  evidence,  in  Keats's  vocabulary  that  he  had  been  reading 
Marston  and  certainly  the  "  undersong  of  disrespect  to  the  public,"  of  which  he  speais 
in  the  letter  to  Reynolds  {ittfi-a)  would  receive  in  Marston  ample  encouragement. 


ENDYMION— NOTES  419 

"  I  have  not  the  ,Blightegt  feel  of  humility  tovrards  the  public,  or  to 
anything  in  existence  but  the  Eternal  Being,  the  Principle  of  Beauty, 
and  the  Memory  of  great  Men.  When  I  am  writing  for  myself,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  the  moment's  enjoyment,  perhaps  nature  has  its  course  with 
me ;  but  a  Preface  is  written  to  the  public — a  thing  I  cannot  help  looking 
upon  as  an  enemy,  and  which  I  cannot  address  without  feelings  of  hostility. 
If  I  write  a  Pre&ce  in  a  supple  or  subdued  style,  it  will  not  be  in  character 
with  me  as  a  public  speaker. 

"1  would  be  subdued  before  my  friends,  and  thank  them  for  subduing 
me ;  but  among  multitudes  of  men  I  have  no  feel  of  stooping ;  I  hate  the 
idea  of  humility  to  them. 

"  I  never  wrote  one  single  line  of  poetry  with  the  least  shadow  of 
public  thought. 

"Forgive  me  for  vexing  you,  and  making  a  Trojan  horse  of  such  a 
trifle,  both  with  respect  to  the  matter  in  question,  and  myself;  but  it 
eases  me  to  tell  you :  I  could  not  live  without  the  love  of  my  friends ;  I 
would  jump  down  Mtna  for  any  great  public  good — but  I  hate  a  mawkish 
popularity.  I  cannot  be  subdued  before  them.  My  glory  would  be  to  daunt 
and  dazzle  the  thousand  jabberers  about  pictures  and  books.  I  see  swarms 
of  porcupines  with  their  quills  erect '  like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged 
book,'  and  I  would  fright  them  away  with  a  torch.  You  will  say  my  Pre- 
&ce  is  not  much  of  a  torch.  It  would  have  been  too  insulting  '  to  begin 
from  Jove,'  and  I  could  not  (set)  a  golden  head  upon  a  thing  of  clay.  If 
there  is  any  fault  in  the  Preface  it  is  not  affectation,  but  an  undersong  of 
disrespect  to  the  public.  If  I  write  another  Preface  it  must  be  done  with- 
out a  thought  of  those  people.  I  will  think  about  it.  If  it  should  not 
reach  you  in  four  or  five  days,  tell  Taylor  to  publish  it  without  a  Preface, 
and  let  the  dedication  simply  stand — 

"  'Inscribed  to  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Chatterton  '.• 
"  I  am  ever 

"  Your  affectionate  friend, 
"JohnKeais." 

The  variant  readings,  as  supplied  in  the  notes,  are  selected  by  Mr. 
Forman's  courteous  permission  from  his  transcript  of  them  given  in  his 
1900  edition  of  Keats's  complete  works.  Of  bk.  i.,  says  Mr.  Forman,  only 
one  MS.  survives,  a  quarto  written  out  for  press,  but  containing  numerous 
rejected  readings.  Of  bks.  ii.-iv.  there  is  (1)  a  MS.  book  into  which 
Keats  wrote  the  poem ;  (2)  the  quarto  foolscap  copy  written  out  for  press 
(asofbk.  i.). 

■  a  '  Chatterton  was  a  poet  for  whom  Keats  always  had  a  deep  admiration,  though  the 
"™"ence  which  he  exerted  upon  his  style  was  never  very  great.  Cf.  however  sonnet  To 
(■^etterlm,  p.  348,  general  introduction,  pp.  li,  Iv,  notes  to  £ve  0/  St.  Agnes,  Eve 
of  St.  Mark,  and  Where  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  Maid,  and  Appendix  C,  p.  584. 


420  JOHN  KEATS 


BOOK  1 


13.  From  our  dark  spirits.  Such  the  sun,  lh&  moon.  HBF  supplies 
the  following;  reading : — 

From  our  dark  Spirits,  and  before  us  dances 
Like  glitter  on  the  points  of  Arthur's  Lances. 
Of  these  bright  powers  are  the  Sun,  and  Moon, 
which  is  noticeable  in  its  suggestion  of  Keats's  interest  in  mediseval  themes, 
with  which  he  showed  later  such  vital  sympathy.    For  its  rejection  here 
we  may  compare  the  rejection  in  Hyperion,  i.  20S  of  the  delicate  but  in- 
appropriate line  which  tells  how  Hyperion's  palace  door  ilew  open  "most 
like  a  rosebud  to  a  faery's  lute  ". 

21.  the  dooms  We  have  imagined  for  the  mighty  dead : — Cf.  Thomson's 
Seasons,  Winter,  432,  ''and  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead" 
(HBF).  There  is  some  evidence  that  Keats  knew  Thomson  well  (cf. 
Appendix  C).  This  line  in  particular  was  a  favourite  with  him,  for  he 
makes  use  of  it  elsewhere.  Cf.  Sonnet  written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Super- 
stition, 8 : — 

And  converse  high  of  those  with  glory  crown'd. 

39-57.  The  wish  here  expressed  was  actually  fulfilled  (vide  Introduction 
to  poem). 

63.  The  idea  of  introducing  his  story  by  a  festival  of  Pan  was  probably 
suggested  to  Keats,  as  Mr.  Colvin  has  pointed  out,  by  his  reading  of 
Drayton's  Man  in  the  Moon  (vide  Introduction  to  Endymion),  with  certain 
borrowed  touches  from  Chapman's  Homeric  Hymn  to  Pan,  and  from  the 
sacrifice  to  Pan  in  Browne's  Britannia's  Pastorals  (bk.  i.  song  4).  Mr. 
Colvin  also  suggests  as  a  source  Ben  Jonson's  Masque,  Pan's  Anniversary, 
but  I  have  been  unable  to  trace  any  definite  resemblance,  though  it  is 
highly  probable  that  Keats  had  read  it.     In  nearly  all  Elizabethan  pastoral 

I  poetry  the  figure  of  Pan  plays  a  large  part,  and  in  Fletcher's  Faithful 
Shepherdess,  to  which  Keats  was  obviously  indebted  in  Endymion  (vide 
Introduction),  the  priest  of  Pan  is  a  leading  character. 

85,  86.  edg'd  round  with  dark  tree  tops : — Cf.  Ode  to  Psyche,  64,  66,  and 
note. 

142-44.  The  story  of  Apollo's  exile  is  referred  to  in  Ovid,  Met.  ii.  and 
thus  rendered  in  Sandys : — 

thee  (i.e.  Apollo)  from  thy  selfe  expeld 
Then  Elis,  and  Messenian  pastures  held 
It  was  the  time,  when,  cloth'd  in  Neat-herds  weeds 
Thou  play'dst  upon  unequal  sevenfold  Reeds, 
on  which  Sandys  comments  "  (he)  was  then  banished  heaven  for  a  yeere, 
for  killing  the  Cyclops   who   made  the  lightning   which  slew  his  sou 
Phaetou,  who  liable  to  humane  necessities,  was  enforced  to  keep  the 
cattell  of  Admetus,  King  of  Thessaly,  or  rather  kept  them  for  love  of  his 


ENDYMION,  BK.  I.— NOTES  421 

daughter".     Cf.  also  Ovid,  Mtt.  vi.  124.     Keats  was  also  familiar  with 
the  story  in  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  11.  39 : — 
He  loved  Isse  for  his  dearest  Dame, 
And  for  her  sake  her  cattell  fedd  awhile. 
And  for  her  sake  a  cowheard  vile  became : 
The  servant  of  Admetus  cowheard  vile, 
WTiiles  that  from  heaven  he  suffered  exile. 
It  is  referred  to  by  Shakespeare,  The  Wintet's  Tale,  iv.  jf,  30. 
163, 164.  Prom  his  right  hand,  etc. : — 

From  his  right  hand  there  swung  a  milk-white  vase 
Of  mingled  wines,  outsparkling  like  the  Stars. — MS. 
167, 168.   Wild  thyme  .  .  .  from  the  rill : — 

Wild  thyme,  and  valley  lillies  white  as  Leda's 
Bosom,  and  choicest  strips  from  mountain  Cedars. — MS. 
Both  this  and  the  previous  alteration  are  obvious  improvements  in 
sound  and  sense. 

168.  Leda's  lave.     Cf.  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  11.  32: — 
Then  was  he  turn'd  into  a  snowy  swan 
To  win  fair  Leda  to  his  lovely  trade  : 
O  wondrous  skill,  and  sweet  wit  of  the  man 
That  her  in  daffadillies  sleeping  made 
From  scorching  heaJLher  daintie  limbes  to  shade  ! 
Whiles  the  proud  hjR,  ruffing  his  fethers  wyde. 
And  brushing  his  nt'e  brest,  did  her  invade 
She  slept,  yet  twjHber  eielids  closely  spyde 
How  towards  he^K  rusht,  and  smiled  at  his  pryde. 
Or  Prothalamium,  43 : 

The  snow  inKh  floth  the  top  of  Pindus  strew. 
Did  never  ^iter  show. 
Nor  Jove  himsejtfe  when  he  a  swan  should  he. 
For  love  of  Le^,  whiter  did  appeare. 
Yet  Leda  wasihey  say  as  white  as  he. 
The  story  is  taken  by/Spenser  from  Ovid,  Met.  vi.  which  Keats  also 
knew.  / 

170.  Ganymede :  — The  love  of  Jove  for  his  cupbearer  Granymede  is  alluded 
to  by  Chaucer  and  by  almost  all  of  the  Elizabethans.  The  story  is  told  in 
Ovid,  Met.  x.,  and  expounded  at  some  length  in  Sandys's  commentary. 

206,  206.  sounds  forlorn  .  .  .  Triton's  horn : — An  obvious  reminiscence 
of  Wordsworth's  famous  sonnet  The  world  is  too  much  with  us,  which 
Keats  had  already  used  in  Sleep  and  Poetry,  189,  190.  Both  Keats  and 
Wordsworth,  moreover,  must  have  been  acquainted  with  Spenser's  Colin 
Clout's  come  home  againe,  where  the  poet  says  of  the  fishes  :  — 
Of  them  the  shepheard  which  hath  charge  in  chief. 
Is  Triton,  blowing  loud  his  wreathed  horn  : 


L 


422  JOHN  KEATS 

And  Proteus  eke  with  him  does  drive  his  heard 
Of  stinking:  Scales  and  Forcpisces  together 
With  hoary  head  and  deavry  dropping  beard — 244-60. 
And  a  little  further  on  in  the  poem,  Spenser  says  of  "  a  headland  thrust 
far  into  the  sea"  that  it  "seemed  to  be  a  goodly  pleasant  lea". — 283. 

230.  Keats  had  already  made  use  of  the  story  of  Syrinx  and  Pan  iu 
/  stood  tip-toe,  156-62  (q.v.  note). 

293.  the  unimaginable  lodge 

For  solitary  thinkings;  such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven : — 
There  can  be  little  d(mbt  that  this  passage,  which  has  been  selected  for 
admiration  by  more  than  one  critic,  owes  something  to  Marston,  with 
whom  we  know  Keats  to  have  been  familiar.     Cf.  Antonio  and  Mellida 
(1st  part),  iv.  1.  18-22  :— 

for  when  discursive  powers  fly  out 
And  roam  in  progress  through  the  bounds  of  heaven, 
The  soul  itself  gallops  along  with  them, 
As  chieftain  of  this  winged  troop  of  thought. 
Whilst  the  dull  lodge  of  spirit  standeth  waste.  .  .  . 
The  word  lodge  is  used  again  by  Marston,  in  a  somewhat  strange  meta- 
phorical sense,  in  Ant.  and  Mell.  (2nd  part),  v.  2.  148. 

Both  here  (1.  293)  and  in  306  the  quotation  marks  were  omitted  in  the 
first  edition  of  the  poem. 

319.  But  in  old  marbles  ever  beautiful : — "  Doubtless  meant  to  refer  to  the 
Elgin  Marbles "  (HBF).  On  Keats's  appreciation  of  the  Elgin  Marbles, 
vide  Sonnets,  pp.  274,  27S,  and  note.  This  passage  shows  clearly  Keats's 
instinctive  feeling  for  the  spirit  of  sculpture  (cf.  also  bk.  ii.  197, 198,  and 
the  opening  of  Hyperion). 

328.  Hyacinthus,  a  Spartan  youth  beloved  of  Apollo,  who  slew  him 
accidentally  when  playing  at  quoits.  Apollo  in  great  grief  at  his  loss 
turned  him  into  a  flower  on  whose  petals  are  inscribed  the  letters  at  at 
(alas !).  The  story  is  told  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.  x.,  and  constantly 
alluded  to  in  English  poetry,  of.  e.g.  Milton,  Lycidas  "like  to  that 
sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe,"  and  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  11. 37. 
Keats  makes  use  of  the  legend  in  its  later  form  (for  which  he  may 
have  been  indebted  to  Lempriire)  which  attributes  the  death  of  Hyacin- 
thus to  Zephyrus,  who,  himself  in  love  with  Hyacinthus,  and  jealous  of 
the  rivalry  of  Apollo,  blew  the  quoit  into  Hyacinthus's  fece.  Keats  in 
taking  this  version  adds  an  exquisite  touch  to  the  picture,  suggesting  in 
the  wind  and  rain  that  often  herald  a  glorious  sunrise  the  visit  of  the 
penitent  Zephyrus  to  weep  his  fault  before  the  arrival  of  the  angry  Sun- 
god.  For  the  natural  picture,  noticed  by  Keats  in  other  places,  c/.  /  stood 
tip-toe,  3-7 : — 

the  sweet  buds  .  .  . 
Had  not  yet  lost  those  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  mom. 


ENDYMION,  BK.  I.— NOTES  423 

In  the  same  spirit,  though  without  the  same  felicity  of  expression, 
Keats  recalls  in  the  twanging  of  the  howstring  the  story  of  "  Niohe  all 
tears"  {Htmlet,  i.  2.  149),  which  he  knew  in  Spenser,  Faerie  Qiteene, 
iv.  1.  30,  in  Chapman's  Iliad  (xziv.  S36-45),  and  as  told  at  length  in  Ovid, 
Met.  vi.  Phrases  in  Sandys's  translation  of  Ovid  as  well  as  something  of 
its  spirit  {the  bowstring  twangs— fale  lips)  suggest  that  Keats  had  lately 
been  reading  this  version  of  the  story,  though  he  far  surpasses  Ovid  in 
the  human  sympathy  with  which  he  invests  it.  Particularly  noticeable 
is  the  manner  in  which  by  the  use  of  the  epithets  caressing  and  motherly 
he  communicates  the  whole  pathos  of  the  situation. 

334.  raft : — Used  by  Keats  as  past  part,  of  the  Spenserian  verb  (to  tear 
or  cut  off)  of  which  raft  is  the  perfect.  Cf.  Faerie  Queene,  i.  1.  24,  "  He, 
raft  her  hatefull  head  without  remorse  ". 

336.  Branch  down  sweeping  from  a  tall  ash  top : — Keats,  like  Chaucer, 
occasionally  forms  the  first  foot  of  this  line  with  only  one  syllable.  Cf. 
e.g.  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales, "  Al  bismotred  with  his  habergeoun  "  (76), 
"  For  to  delen  with  no  swich  poraille  "  (247). 

347.  After  the  Argonauts,  in  blind  amaze: — The  story  is  not  told  in 
Lempri&re  nor  have  I  been  able  to  trace  it  to  any  of  the  usual  sources  of 
Keats's  classical  knowledge.     Apollonius  Rhodius  relates  it  in  Argona/ittica, 
ii.  70,  thus  rendered  by  Fawkes  (Chalmers,  EngUsh  Poets,  xx.  270) : — 
So  toiled  the  Greeks :  nor  yet  the  morning  light 
Had  passed  the  doubtful  confines  of  the  night. 
To  Thynia's  neighbouring  isle  their  course  they  bore 
And  safely  landed  on  the  desert's  shore. 
When  bright  Apollo  showed  his  radiant  face 
From  Lycia  hastening  to  the  Scythian  race, 
His  golden  locks  that  flowed  with  grace  divine 
Hung  clustering  like  the  branches  of  the  vine : 
In  his  left  hand,  his  bow  unbent  he  bore. 
His  quiver  pendent  at  his  back  he  wore  ; 
The  conscious  island  trembled  as  he  trod 
And  the  big  rolling  waves  confessed  the  god. 
Keats  may  have  obtained  the  story  from  Fawkes  or  from  the  version 
of  Green  (1780),  but  this  seems  improbable,  as  he  makes  no  use  of  Apol- 
lonius elsewhere,  and  had  he  read  the  whole  poem  he  would  probably  have 
drawn  upon  it  further.     But  as  Mr  Forman  has  pointed  out,  this  passage 
in  the  Argona/utica  was  a  favourite  with  Shelley,  who  speaks  of  ''the 
Apollo  80  finely  described  by  Apollonius  Rhodius  when  the  dazzling  of  his 
beautiful  limbs  suddenly  shone  over  the  dark  Euxine "  {Prose  Works,  iii. 
66,  ed.  Buxton  Forman).     It  seems  likely,  therefore,  though  this  is  pure 
hypothesis,  that  Shelley  had  himself  called  Keats's  attention  to  the  Incidentj 
and  it  is  rendered  somewhat  more  probable  by  the  fact  that  Apollonius 
Rhodius  represents  Apollo  as  appearing  when  the  Greeks  were  on  land  ; 
whilst  Shelley  suggests  and  Keats  definitely  states  that  they  were  at  sea — 


424  JOHN  KEATS 

a  far  finer  picture.  It  is  worth  noticing^  that  these  stories  suggested  by  the 
games  of  the  holiday  makers  are  all  of  them  episodes  in  the  life  of  Apollo. 
394.  Whose  eyelids  curtain'd  up  their  jewels  dim : — C/.  The  Tempest,  i.  2. 
408,  "  The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance ".  Cf.  Pericles,  iii.  2. 
99-101  :— 

Her  eyelids,  cases  to  those  heavenly  jewels 
Which  Pericles  hath  lost. 
Begin  to  part  their  fringes  of  bright  gold. 
These  two  passages  seem  here  to  have  combined  in  Keats's  mind.     He 
malces  use  of  the  first  of  them  again,  though  with  less  success,  in  ii.  661-4 : — 
I  saw  this  youth  as  he  despairing  stood : 
Those  same  dark  curls  blown  vagrant  in  the  wind  ; 
Those  same  full  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind 
Over  his  sullen  eyes. 
The  use  of  the  metaphor  by  Keats  is  of  peculiar  interest  as  the  lines  in 
The  Tempest  on  which  it  is  founded  were  severely  censured  by  Pope  and 
Arbuthnot  in  The  Art  of  Sinking  in  Poetry,  and  praised  with  the  subtlest 
discrimination  in  Coleridge's  Lectures  on  Shakespeare  (Lecture  ix.,  1811-12). 
405,  406.  old  tale  Arabian: — "The  allusion  is  to 'the  Eldest  Lady's 
story  in  The  Porter  and  the  Three  Ladies  of  Bagdad "  (HBF).    The  lady 
tells  of  her  visit  to  a  city  wherein  the  king  and  the  queen  and  all  the 
inhabitants  except  the  prince  have  been  turned  into  black  stones  for  their 
preference  of  fire  worship  to  the  faith  of  Mahomet.    The  prince  alone,  who 
had  been  taught  the  true  religion  by  his  nurse,  was  found,  untouched  by 
the  enchantment,  engaged  in  prayer,  fasting,  and  reading  the  Koran. 
Keats,  like  his  contemporaries  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  and  Scott, 
took  great  pleasure  in  the  marvels  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  and  they  have 
left  slight  traces  of  their  influence  upon  his  poetry.     Hence  he  drew 
the  name  Caf  (Hyp.  ii.  63),  and  it  was  probably  the  Arabian  Nights  that 
suggested  the  simile  in  the  Fall  of  Hyp.  (i.  48,  and  note),  and  the  use  of 
the  word  magian  (Endymion,  iii.  266,  Staffa,  etc).     His  love  of  oriental 
names,  which  he  introduces  occasionally  with  singular  effect,  may  have 
been  fed  from  the  same  source. 

408.  Peona,  his  sweet  sister ; — The  name  Peona  has  been  explained  by 
Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  as  taken  from  LempriSre's  mention  of  Pteon,  one  of  the 
sons  of  Endymion,  and  by  Mr.  Colvin  as  a  combination  of  this  with  a 
recollection  of  Spenser's  Pieana  (Faerie  Queene,  iv.  9).  It  seems  more  likely 
that  the  recollection  of  Spenser's  name  was  associated  in  Keats's  mind  with 
the  Pseon  of  Ovid,  Met.  xv.,  whose  healing  powers  are  closely  paralleled 
by  the  watchful  care  with  which  Peona  attends  her  sick  brother.  This 
side  of  Peona's  character  is  still  further  developed  in  the  first  draft 
of  the  poem,  in  lines  which  stood  at  440  (q.v.  notes) ;  and  Endymion 
definitely  recognises  it ;  for  at  the  close  of  the  poem,  when  he  announces 
his  intention  of  retiring  to  a  hermit's  cell,  he  makes  her  his  deputy  in  the 
words : — 


ENDYMION,  BK.  I.— NOTES  4.25 

Through  me  the  shepherd  realm  shall  prosper  well ; 
For  to  thy  tongue  will  I  all  health  confide. — iv.  863,  864. 
Cf.  also  introductory  note  to  hk.  iv. 

It  is  worth  noticing  that  Ovid  mentions  Paeon  in  reference  to  the  sick- 
ness of  Hippolytus,  another  votary  of  Cynthia,  and  that  the  names  of  Paeon 
and  Cynthia  are  coupled  together  as  the  sanative  influences  over  his  life : — 
Had  not  Apollo's  son  imploid  the  aid 
Of  his  great  art ;  I  with  the  dead  had  staid. 
But  when  by  potent  hearbs  and  Paeon's  skill 
I  was  restor'd,  against  stern  Pluto's  will : 
Lest  I,  if  scene,  might  envie  have  procur'd ; 
Me,  fidendly  Cynthia  in  a  cloud  inunur'd. 


One  of  the  lesser  gods,  here  in  this  grove, 
I  Cynthia  serve,  preserved  by  her  love. 
It  is  worth  noting  also  that  the  "  wise  Paeon  "  is  mentioned  by  Spenser 
as  the  son  of  Apollo  and  "  the  lilly-handed  Liagore  "  who  healed  Marinell 
of  the  grievous  wounds  inflicted  on  him  by  Britomart  {Faerie  Queene,  iii. 
4.  41). 

411.  The  just  omission  in  the  printed  text  of  a  passage  of  twelve  lines 
which  marred  the  draft  by  their  vulgarity  of  phrase  is  responsible  for  the 
loss  of  a  rhyme  to  this  line. 

440-42.  In  place  of  these  lines  stood  originally  the  following  passage, 
which  has  a  special  interest  in  its  possible  relation  with  Keats's  source  for 
the  name  Peona  {vide  note  to  408) : — 

When  last  the  Harvesters  rich  armfiils  took. 
She  tied  a  little  bucket  to  a  Crook, 
Ran  some  swift  paces  to  a  dark  wells  side. 
And  in  a  sighing-time  return'd,  supplied 
With  spar  cold  water ;  in  which  she  did  squeeze 
A  snowy  napkin,  and  upon  her  knees 
Began  to  cherish  her  poor  Brother's  face ; 
Damping  refreshfully  his  forehead's  space. 
His  eyes,  his  Lips :  then  in  a  cupped  shell 
She  brought  him  ruby  wine ;  then  let  him  smell. 
Time  after  time,  a  precious  amulet. 
Which  seldom  took  she  from  its  cabinet. 
Thus  was  he  quieted  to  slumbrous  rest. 
469.  Followed  in  MS.  by  the  three  lines  :— 
From  woodbine  hedges  such  a  morning  feel 
As  do  those  brighter  drops,  that  twinkling  steal 
Through  those  pressed  lashes,  from  the  blossom'd  plant.  .  .  . 

— HBF. 
For  other  passages  altered  by  Keats  to  get  rid  of  the  Huntian  use  of 
feel "  cf.  In  a  drear-nighted  December  and  note,  and  Hyperion,  i.  189,  note. 


426  JOHN  KEATS 

494,  496.  For  these  lines  the  MS.  originally  reads : — 
More  forest-wild,  more  subtle^cadenced 
Than  can  be  told  by  mortal :  even  wed 
The  fainting  tenors  of  a  thousand  shells 
To  a  million  whisperings  of  Lilly  bells ; 
And  mingle  too  the  Nightingale's  complain 
Caught  in  its  hundredth  echo ;  'twould  be  vain.  .  .  . 
496.  Dryope,  the  wife  of  Andremon,  bore  a  child  to  Apollo.    On  the 
bank  of  a  lake  sacred  to  the  Nymphs  she  broke  off  the  branch  of  a  tree- 
flowering  lotus,  that  her  little  son  might  amuse  himself  with  it    The 
maiden  Lotis  had  already  been  turned  into  the  lotus  plant,  and  Dryope 
was  punished  with  the  same  transformation.     The  story  is  told  by  Ovid, 
Met.  ix.,  with  an  emphasis  upon  the  relations  of  Dryope  and  her  child 
which  may  have  suggested  the  picture  to  Keats.     The  allusion  is  not 
likely,  in  spite  of  the  opinion  of  most  critics,  to  be  to  the  other  Dryope, 
mother  of  Pan  and  wife  of  Hermes,  for  in  Chapman's  Homeric  Hymn  to 
Pan,  whence  Keats  drew  his  ^owledge  of  her,  she  is  distinctly  represented, 
in  a  grotesque  passage,  as  terrified  at  the  ugliness  of  her  child. 

612-14.  Keats  is  here,  perhaps,  thinking  of  the  beautiful  passage  m 
Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  vii.  6.  40,  where  the  poet  describes  Diana 
bathing  in  the  Molanna,  and  observed  by  Faunus. 

616.  At  no  time  did  Keats's  critical  judgment  stand  him  in  better  stead 
than  when  it  led  him  to  reject  the  following  passage  which  originally  stood 
here : — 

And  I  do  pray  thee  by  thy  utmost  aim 
To  tell  me  all.     No  little  fault  or  blame 
Canst  thou  lay  on  me  for  a  teaming  Girl ; 
Ever  as  an  unfathomable  pearl 
Has  been  thy  secrecy  to  me :  but  now 
I  needs  must  hunger  after  it,  and  vow 
To  be  its  jealous  Guardian  for  aye. 
631.  Out-facing  Lucifer : — Mr.  Forman  quotes  as  a  parallel  to  this  passage 
Ovid,  Met.  ii.  114,  116.     Sandys  renders  it  thus : — 

Cleare  Lucifer  the  flying  stars  doth  chase, 
And  after  all  the  rest  resigns  his  place, 
adding  the  significant  comment  "Lucifer  is  here  saide  to  fore-runne 
Aurora,  or  the  morning:  and  last  of  all  to  resign  his  place,  in  that  the 
last  starre  which  shineth.  This  is  the  beautiful  planet  of  Venus;  which 
when  it  riseth  before  the  Sunne,  is  the  Morning  starre,  and  setting  after 
it,  the  Evening." 

660.  tighten  :  lighten  first  edition.  Keats  often  forgot  to  cross  his  t's. 
This  passage,  like  the  glorious  description  of  the  rising  sun  in  lines 
630-32,  owes  something  to  Sandys's  rendering  of  Ovid,  Met.  ii.,  where 
the  poet  is  describing  the  adventures  of  Phaeton  with  the  horses  of  the 
sun.    The  snorting  four  are  thus  described  : — 


ENDYMION,  BK,  I.— NOTES  427 

Meane  while  the  Sunne's  swift  Horses,  hot  Pyrdus 
Light  Aethon,  fiery  Phlegon,  bright  Edus, 
Neighing  aloud,  inflame  the  Ayre  with  heat ; 
And,  with  their  thundering  hooves,  the  barriers  beat, 
"  The  track  of  his  wheeles,"  commeuts  Sandys,  "  is  the  Ecliptick  line, 
and  the  beasts  he  encounters,  the  figures  in  the  Zodiac."     Hence,  perhaps, 
the  reference  in  line  553 ;  cf.  also  Endymion,  iii.  363-65. 

562.  Young  Mercu/ry  .  .  .  had  dipt  his  rod  in  it,  i.e.,  the  Caduceus,  of 
which  Keats  had  read  in  the  Faerie  Queene,  where  Spenser,  describing  the 
Palmer's  staff,  writes : — 

Of  that  same  wood  it  fram'd  was  cunningly, 
Of  which  Caduceus  whilome  was  made, 
Caduceus,  the  rod  of  Mercury, 
With  which  he  wonts  the  Stygian  realmes  invade 
Through  ghastly  horrour  and  eternall  shade : 
Th'  infernal  feends  with  it  he  can  asswage, 
And  Orcus  tame,  whom  nothing  can  perswade, 
And  rule  the  Furyes,  when  they  most  do  rage : 
Such  vertue  in  his  Staffe  had  eke  this  Palmer  sage. 

— ii.  12.  41. 
Cf.  also  Faerie  Queene,  iv.  3.  42,  and  Troilus  and  Cressida,  ii.  3.  14. 
646.  along  the  dangerous  sky  :  in  safe  deliriousness  MS. 
666.  upon  that  alp.     Cf.  note  to  Sonnet  XVII.  (poems  of  1817). 
749.  that  .  .  .  dreams  and  fitful  whims  of  sleep  are  made  of.     An  obvious 
reminiscence  of  The  Tempest,  iv.  1.  166  : — 

we  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 
Keats  had  just  been  reading  the  play  {vide  Letter  to  Reynolds,  l7th  April, 
1817). 

770.  Mr.  Forman   notes  that  the  phrase  nothing  base  is  applied  by 
Tenayson  "  to  the  coinage  of  his  predecessor  Wordsworth "  ;    it  had 
already  been  used  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  the  Story  of  Rimini,  ii.  86 : — 
She  he  loved  could  have  done  nothing  base. 
776-81 .  The  original  reading  of  this  passage  ran : — 
To  fret  at  myriads  of  earthly  wrecks. 
Wherein  lies  happiness .''  In  that  which  becks 
Our  ready  minds  to  blending  pleasurable : 
And  that  delight  is  the  most  treasurable 
That  makes  the  richest  Alchymy.    Behold 
The  clear  Religion  of  Heaven  !     Fold 
A  Rose  leaf,  etc. 
This,  says  Mr.  Forman,  was  altered  to  : — 

To  fret  at  sight  of  this  world's  losses.    For  behold 
Wherein  lies  happiness  Peona.     Fold 
A  rose  leaf,  etc. 


428  JOHN  KEATS 

Finally  the  text  as  we  have  it  was  sent  to  the  publisher  in  the  following 
letter : — 

"  My  dear  Taylob, 

"  These  lines  as  they  now  stand  about  '  happiness '  have  rung 
in  my  ears  like  a  chime  a  mending.     See  here, 

'  Behold 
Wherein  lies  happiness,  Peona?  fold,  etc' 
"  It  appears  to  me  the  very  contrary  of  blessed.     I  hope  this  will  appear 
to  you  more  eligible.     (Then  follows  the  reading  of  the  text.) 

"  You  must  indulge  me  by  putting  this  in,  for  setting  aside  the  badness 
of  the  other,  such  a  preface  is  necessary  to  the  subject.  The  whole  thing 
must,  I  think,  have  appeared  to  you,  who  are  a  consecutive  man,  as  a 
thing  almost  of  mere  words,  but  I  assure  you  that  when  I  wrote  it,  it  was 
the  regular  stepping  stone  of  the  Imagination  towards  a  truth.  My 
having  written  that  argument  will  perhaps  be  of  the  greatest  service  to 
me  of  anything  I  ever  did.  It  set  before  me  the  gradations  of  happiness, 
even  like  a  pleasure  thermometer,  and  it  is  my  first  attempt  towards  the 
chief  attempt  in  the  drama.  The  playing  of  difi«rent  natures  with  joy 
and  sorrow.    Do  me  this  favour,  and  believe  me, 

"  Your  sincere  friend, 

"J.  Kbatc." 

The  whole  passage  therefore  must  be  regarded  as  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance in  the  interpretation  of  the  poem,  whilst  particular  attention 
must  be  paid  to  the  lines  finally  added  ;  for  they  contain  a  truth  which  Keats 
thought  essential  to  the  development  of  his  idea,  which  he  had,  evidently, 
not  fully  grasped  when  he  conceived  the  poem,  but  which  only  grew  upon 
him  as  he  proceeded  with  it  and  came  afterwards  to  revise  it.  The  grada- 
tions of  happiness  thus  appear  to  be,  (1)  the  sensuous  delight  in  nature 
and  romance  ;  (2)  the  pleasures  of  friendship  and  human  sympathy ; 
(3)  love,  which  feeds  upon  itself  and  is  of  its  essence  self-sacrificing.  This 
stage  is  all-sufficient  for  most  men.  (4)  communion  with  the  ideal — in 
itself  higher  than  them  all,  yet  only  to  be  gained  by  one  who  has  passed 
through  them  all.  The  pursuit  of  this  ideal  is  the  subject  of  the  whole 
poem,  and  its  development  corresponds  with  the  plan  here  laid  down.  It 
gives  the  key  beforehand  to  the  adventures  of  Endymion  under  the  sea, 
and  explains  the  perplexities  of  his  relations  with  Phoebe.  Keats  is 
perfectly  right  in  speaking  of  these  lines  as  a  "  preface  necessary  to  the 
whole  ".  Without  them  lines  775,  776,  are  unsupported  by  what  follows, 
and  the  whole  of  the  fourth  book  extremely  difficult  to  comprehend. 
His  conception  Is  thus  a  somewhat  crudely  expressed,  but  intensely  in- 
teresting, foretaste  of  the  sketch  of  the  progress  of  the  poet's  soul  pre- 
sented in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  {vide  Introduction  to  that  poem). 

786.  JEoUan  :  Eolian  1818. 

790.  where  :  were  1818. 


ENDYMION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  429 

796.  The  rhymelessness  of  this  line  is  unaccounted  for  in  the  draft. 
802-806.  high-fronted  honour : — A  common  Elizabethanigm. 
831.  How  tiptoe  Night  holds  back  her  dark-grey  hood.     This  beautiful 
line  eves,  perhaps,  a  suggestion  to  both  Shakespeare  and  Milton.      In 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Hi.  6. 10 : — 

jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain  tops. 
In  Comus,  188  :— 

the  gray-hooded  Even 
Like  a  sad  Votarist  in  Palmer's  weed 
Rose  like  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus  wain. 
835-42.  This  passage  may  have  been  in  Shelley's  mind  when,  in  1819, 
he  wrote  his  well  known  lyric  Lov^s  Philosophy. 

862.  Latona : — The  mother  of  Apollo  and  Cynthia,  to  whom  she  gave 
birth  in  Delos ;  hence  the  allusion  in  966. 

944.  Proserpine : — One  of  Keats's  favourite  classical  stories.     Cf.  note 
on  Lamia,  i.  63. 

947'  Echo : — A  legend  already  treated  by  Keats  in  /  stood  tip-toe,  165-80, 
q.v.  note. 

975.  And  come  instead  demurest  meditation. 

To  occupy  me  wholly,  and  to  fashion 
My  pilgrimage  for  the  worlds s  dusky  brink : — 
It  is  impossible  not  to  detect  in  these  lines  the  spirit  of  Milton's  // 
Penseroso,  with  its  conception  of  Melancholy,  described   by  Milton  as 
demure,  which,  in  contrast  with  the  more  thoughtless  pleasures  of  his 
earlier  life,  is  to  be  the  guide  of  his  closing  years. 


BOOK  II    • 

1-43.  This  passage  has  been  much  attacked  by  some  critics  (e.g.  Cour- 
thope,  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Literature,  181)  as  illustrative  of  the 
weakness  of  Keats's  general  temper  and  attitude  to  life ;  but  it  is  essentially 
suitable  to  its  context,  as  an  introduction  to  the  book  which  presents 
Endymion's  search  for  love,  and  it  naturally  follows  upon  the  comparison 
of  love  and  heroism  at  the  close  of  the  preceding  book.  The  same  charge, 
moreover,  might  equally  well  be  made  against  Shakespeare  for  writing  the 
plays  to  which  Keats  refers,  especially,  e.g.  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  wherein  the  wars  of  Troy  and  the  quarrels  of  Montagues  and 
Capulets  are,  as  Keats  suggests,  totally  subordinated  to  the  love  stories. 
Keats  doubtless  knew  the  Troilus  and  Cresseyde^TChaMcer,  to  which  Wood- 
house  thinks  that  he  alludes  here,  but  it  is  probable  that  Shakespeare's 
play  is  more  definitely  in  his  mind  ;  partly  because  of  the  other  references 
to  Shakespeare  at  the  beginning  of  the  book  {cf.  27,  Romeo  and  Juliet;  31, 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing  and  Cymbeline),  and  because  we  know  Keats  to 
have  been  engrossed  in  Shakespeare  study  at  the  time,  partly  also  because 


430  JOHN  KEATS 

there  are  actual  traces  in  this  book  of  words  and  phrases  probably  suggested 
by  Troihts  and  Cressida.  The  word  closer  as  Woodhouse  notes,  means 
embrace;  it  is  so  used  by  Shakespeare  in  this  very  play  (iii.  2.  51),  "an 
'twere  dark  you'ld  close  sooner  "  (for  the  noun  of.  Twelfth  Night,  v.  1. 161, 
"  the  close  of  lips  ").  So  the  form  pight  (60)  is  in  Troilus  and,  Cressida, 
V.  10.  24,  whilst  in  92  the  application  of  mealy  to  the  wings  of  a  butterfly, 
"  afraid  to  smutch  even  with  mealy  wings  the  water  clear,"  used  again,  in 
996,  with  less  appropriateness,  of  the  wings  of  a  bee,  recalls  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  iii.  3.  78,  79 : — 

Men  like  butterflies 
Show  not  their  mealy  wings  but  to  the  summer. 

Pastorella  is  the  heroine  of  book  vi.  of  the  Faerie  Queene,  always  a, 
favourite  with  Keats.  Her  capture  by  bandits  is  described  in  Cantos  x. 
and  zi. 

143.  The  loss  of  rhyme  here  is  due  to  a  change  in  the  text  from  the 
first  draft.    The  passage  originally  ran : — 

Whoso  encamps 
His  soul  to  take  a  city  of  delight 
O  what  a  wretch  is  he :  'tis  in  his  sight. 

149.  pebble  head  1818 : — HBF  alters  to  pebble-bead  on  authority  of  the 
MS.  and  a  corrected  copy  of  the  text. 

197.  The  story  of  the  flood  from  which  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha  alone 
escaped  is  told  by  Ovid,  Met.  L  Keats  again  alludes  to  it  in  Lamia,  i. 
333  {q.v.  note). 

Oriort  was  the  son  of  Neptune,  and  a  great  hunter.  Coming  to  Chios, 
he  wooed  the  daughter  of  Oionopion,  Merope ;  and  Oionopion>  having 
drugged  him,  blinded  him  in  his  sleep  and  cast  him  out  on  the  sea  shore. 
An  oracle  foretold  that  he  would  regain  his  sight  if  he  journeyed  to  the 
East  and  exposed  his  eyes  to  the  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  So  Apollodorus, 
i.  4.  3 ;  according  to  earlier  legends,  (Homer,  Od.  v.  121)  Orion  married 
Aurora  and  was  in  consequence  killed  by  Diana.  So  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene, 
vii.  7.  39.  It  is  interesting  to  know  that  we  owe  this  magnificent  Une  to 
an  afterthovight,  the  original  reading  Or  blind  Orion  waiting  for  the  dawn, 
being  tame  in  comparison,  and,  moreover,  entailing  a  false  rhyme.  Hazlitt, 
w^o,  we  are  told  by  Haydon,  could  never  be  persuaded  to  acknowledge 
Keats's  genius,  was  much  impressed  by  this  line,  for  he  makes  it  the  motto 
of  his  Essay  On  a  landscape  of  Nicolas  Povissin  {Table  Talk,  232,  ed.  Bohn ;  first 
published,  1821).  He  thus  opens  his  essay:  "Orion,  the  subject  of  the 
landscape,  was  the  classical  Nimrod  ;  and  is  called  by  Homer  *  a  hunter  of 
Shadows  himself  a  shade '.  He  was  the  son  of  Neptune :  and  having  lost 
an  eye  in  some  affray  of  the  gods  and  men,  was  told  that  if  he  would  go  to 
meet  the  rising  sun,  he  would  recover  his  sight.  He  is  represented  i^ 
setting  out  on  his  journey,  with  men  on  his  shoulders  to  guide  him,  a  bow 
in  his  hwud,  and  Diana  in  the  clouds  greeting  him.  He  stalks  along,  a  giant 
upon  earth,  and  reels  tgiA  falters  in  b>8  SSit,  as  if  just  awakened  out  of  sleep, 


ENDYMION,  BK.  II.-^NOTES  431 

or  uncertain  of  his  way — you  see  his  blindness,  though  his  back  is  turned. 
Mists  rise  around  him,  and  veil  the  sides  of  the  green  forests ;  earth  is  dark 
and  fresh  with  dews,  the  '  gray  dawn  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  dance ' 
and  in  the  distance  are  seen  the  blue  hills  and  sullen  ocean.  Nothing  was 
ever  more  finely  conceived  or  done  .  .  .  one  feeling  of  vastness,  of  strange- 
ness, of  primeval  forms  pervades  the  painter's  canvas,  we  are  thrown  back 
upon  the  first  integfrity  of  things.  This  great  and  learned  man  .  .  .  alone 
has  a  right  to  be  considered  as  the  painter  of  classical  antiquity."  Does  it 
not  seem  likely  that  Keats  had  this  picture  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  the 
line,  even  indeed  that  he  had  heard  Hazlitt  praise  it  ?  Letters  written  in 
April  and  May,  1817,  suggest  that  Keats  had  already  enjoyed  something 
of  Hazlitt's  society  in  the  previous  winter,  and  he  might  again  be  seeing 
him  in  London  at  the  very  time  he  was  writing  this  book.  Both  were 
frequent  visitors  at  Haydon's  studio.  We  know  that  any  remark  of 
Hazlitt's  would  sink  deep  into  Keats's  mind,  for  Hazlitt's  "  depth  of  taste  " 
was  to  him  ''  one  of  the  three  things  to  rejoice  at  in  this  age  "  (Letter  to 
Haydon,  10th  Jan.,  1818).  This  hypothesis  receives  some  support  from  the 
presence  of  Diana  in  Poussin's  picture,  thus  connecting  it  with  the  heroine 
of  Keats's  poem,  whilst  the  power  of  a  great  painting  to  kindle  his  im- 
agination is  amply  iUustrated  by  the  influence  upon  him  of  Titian's  Bacchus 
and  Ariadne  {cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  335  ;  Endymion,  iv.  196)  and  Claude's 
Enchanted  Castle  {cf.  Epistle  to  Reynolds,  26 ;  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,  vii.  9). 
230.  vast  antre : — A  reminiscence  of  Othello,  i.  3.  140,  "  of  antres  vast 
and  deserts  idle  ".  This  great  speech  wherein  Othello  tells  how  he  won 
Desdemona's  love  must  have  especially  impressed  Keats.  In  an  /I  crostic  (10) 
he  again  borrows  from  it,  referring  to  the  Anthropoph:^  mentioned  by 
Othello  in  line  144  of  the  same  scene. 

277.  the  fog-born  elf.  Whose  flitting  lantern,  etc. : — ^The  will  o'  the  wisp 
who  "misleads  night-wanderers  laughing  at  their  harm"  (A  Midsummer- 
Nighfs  Dream,  iL  1.  39)  described  by  Milton  (Paradise  Lost,  ix.  634-42)  as 

a  wandring  Fire 
Compact  of  unctuous  vapor,  which  the  Night 
Condenses,  and  the  cold  invirons  round, 
Kindl'd  through  agitation  to  a  Flame, 
Which  oft,  they  say,  some  evil  Spirit  attends. 
Hovering  and  blazing  with  delusive  Light, 
Misleads  th'  amaz'd  Night-wanderer  from  his  way 
To  Boggs  and  Mires,  and  oft  through  Pond  or  Poole, 
There  swallow'd  up  and  lost,  from  succour  farr. 
The  first  draft  of  BndynUon  reads  bog  for  swamp,  and  was  thus  slightly 
nearer  to  Milton. 

282.  raught  HBF,  following  MS.  ;  caught  1818. 
318.  boughs  among  HBF,  following  MS. ;  among  the  zephyr  boughs 
1818. 

360.  Arion  the  poet,  on  his  voyage  from  Italy  to  Grreece,  was  robbed 


432  JOHN  KEATS 

and  cast  overboard  by  the  sailors ;  but  the  Dolphins,  who  had  gathn^d 
round  the  ship  to  hear  his  song,  bore  him  safely  back  to  Tgenarus.  Cf. 
Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iv.  11.  23  : — 

Then  was  there  heard  a  most  celestiall  sound, 
Of  dainty  musicke,  which  did  next  ensew 
Before  the  spouse :  that  was  Arion  crownd  ; 
Who  playing  on  his  harpe,  unto  him  drew 
The  eares  and  hearts  of  all  that  goodly  crew. 
That  euen  yet  the  Dolphin,  which  him  bore 
Through  the  Mgaean  seas  from  Pirates  vew. 
Stood  still  by  him  astonisht  at  his  lore. 
And  all  the  raging  seas  for  joy  forgot  to  rore. 
So  went  he  playing  on  the  watery  plaine. 
363.  The  rhyme  to   lyre  is  lost  by  the  rejection  of  the  following 
passage  in  the  draft : — 

To  seas  Ionian  and  Tyrian.     Dire 
Was  the  love  lorn  despair  to  which  it  wrought 
Endymion — for  dire  is  the  bare  thought 
That  among  lovers  things  of  tenderest  worth 
Are  swallow'd  all,  and  made  a  blank — a  dearth 
By  one  devouring  flame :  and  far  far  worse 
Blessing  to  them  become  a  heavy  curse 
Half  happy  till  comparisons  of  bliss 
To  misery  lead  them.     'Twas  even  so  with  this.  .  .  . 
387.  Afier  a  thousand  mazes  overgone : — A  classical  construction  which 
we  should  hardly  expect  to  find  in  Keats  at  this  period.    It  is  probably 
due  to  the  influence  of  Milton,  which  was  by  no  means  confined,  as  is 
often  represented,  to  Hyperion.    Cf.  Comus,  48,  "  after  the  Tuscan  mariners 
transformed  ".     For  other  Miltonisms,  cf.  End.  iv.  367,  note  ;  iii.  136,  etc. 
400.  "  Woodhouse  notes  that  '  tenting  swerve '  meant  in  the  form  of  the 
top  of  a  tent"  (HBF);  cf.  Glossary. 

400.  This  picture  of  Venus  and  Adonis  was  probably  suggested  partly 
by  Shakespeare's  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  partly  by  Spenser's  Gardens  of 
Adonis  {Faerie  Queene,  iii.  6.  46-49 ;  cf.  also  iii.  1.  35-40).  Keats's  version 
is  closer  to  Spenser  in  that  in  both  writers  Cupid  is  represented  as  being 
present.  The  story  is  also  related  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.  x.,  a  book 
which  Keats  had  certainly  been  reading  quite  lately,  as  the  picture  of 
Cybele  (640  q.v.)  is  taken  from  the  tale  of  Atalanta  which  Ovid  represents 
Venus  as  relating  to  Adonis. 

443.  Ariadne : — Cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  336  (note).  It  is  worth  noticmg 
that  the  wine,  fruit  and  cream  with  which  Cupid  presents  Endymion  are 
all  associated  with  a  well-known  love  story.  The  legend  of  the  love  of 
Vertumnus  for  Pomona  is  told  in  Ovid,  Met.  xiv.  Amalthea  the  daughter 
of  Molossos  King  of  Crete  fed  Jupiter  with  goat's  milk.  As  a  reward  she 
was  made  a  constellation  ;  and  one  of  the  horns  of  the  goat,  presented  to 


ENDYMION,  BK.  II.— NOTES 

her  in  commemoration,  became  the  horn  of  plenty  with  the  magic  power 
of  pouring  forth  fruits  and  flowers  at  will.    The  horn  of  Amalthea  is 
mentioned  by  Milton  (Paradise  Regained,  ii.  356)  in  his  account  of  the 
banquet  provided  by  Satan  for  Christ,  and  it  is  significant  that  in  Milton 
88  in  Keats  it  is  followed  by  a  reference  to  the  Hesperides : — 
Nymphs  of  Diana's  train,  and  Naiades 
With  fruits  and  flowers  from  Amalthea' s  horn. 
And  Ladies  of  th'  Hesperides. 
475,  476.  drew  Immortal  tear-drops  down,  etc: — So  in  //  Penseroso 
Orpheus  "drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek". 

532,  633.  muse  .  .  .  coy  excuse : — So  Milton  to  his  Muse  in  Lycidas 
"hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse": 

This  whole  passage  (526-533)  in  its  earliest  form  (given  by  HBF) 
affords  a  striking  example  of  the  weak  side  of  Keats's  poetic  genius  at  this 
time: — 

Queen  Venus  bending  downward,  so  o'ertaken. 
So  suffering  sweet,  so  blushing  mad,  so  shaken 
That  the  wild  warmth  prob'd  the  young  sleeper's  heart 
Enchautingly ;  and  with  a  sudden  start 
His  trembling  arms  were  out  in  instant  time 
To  catch  his  fainting  love. — O  foolish  rhyme 
What  mighty  power  is  in  thee  that  so  often 
Thou  strivest  rugged  syllables  to  soften 
Even  to  the  telling  of  a  sweet  like  this. 
Away !  let  them  embrace  alone !  that  kiss 
Was  far  too  rich  for  thee  to  talk  upon. 
Poor  wretch  !  mind  not  those  sobs  and  sighs  !  begone ! 
Speak  not  one  atom  of  thy  paltry  stuff. 
That  they  are  met  is  poetry  enough. 
536.  tow's  1818;  Love's  HBF,  MS. 
641.  dyes  1818 ;  dies  HBF,  MS. 

663.  Those  fringed  lids  a  constant  blind : — Cf.  i.  394,  note. 
685.  Mtnean  :  Etnean  1818. 

639.  Forth  from  a  rugged  arch  .  .  .  Came  mother  Cybele : — This  wonder- 
ful picture  of  Cybele  has  been  supposed  to  have  drawn  its  inspiration  from 
an  engraving  in  Spence's  Polymetis,  but  it  was  certainly  suggested  by 
Sandya's  translation  of  Ovid,  Met.  x.  wherein  Hippomenes  and  Atalanta 
came  to  the  "fane"  of  the  "Mother  of  the  gods"  "obscured  by  dark 
and  secret  shade"  "a  gloomy  grot  much  like  unto  a  cave"  (The  descrip- 
tion of  the  place  under  the  earth  reached  by  Endymion  is  compared  in 
line  626  to  "dusk  places  in  times  far  aloof  Cathedrals  oall'd").     They 
pollute  the  shrine  and  are  changed  into  lions  whom 
Cybel  checks 
With  curbing  bits,  and  yokes  their  stubborn  necks. 
A  study  of  the  draft  and  cancelled  readings  shows  still  closer  debts  to 
a8 


434  JOHN  KEATS 

this  passage.    In  639  for  '*  rugged  "  «roh  we  read  <*  gloomy,"  and  for  "  i^sh  " 
"  dmh,"  and  in  646-7  :— 

nervy  taih 
cowering  their  tufted  brusbeB  to  the  dust  (original  draft), 
Cf.  Their  tufted' tails  whisk  up  the  dust  (Sandys). 

The  full  reading  of  the  earlier  drafts  was  aa  fallows.    The  first  draft  ran  :— 
About  her  ma^eaty^  and  her  palei  brow 
With  turrets  crown' d,  which  ft)r«rard  heavily  bow 
Weighing  heiJ  chia  to  tiie  breast.    Four  lions  draw 
The  wheels  in  sluggish  time — each  toothed  maw 
Shut  patientlyrrr-eyes  hid  in  laway  veils.— 
Drooping  about  their  paws,  and  nervy  tails 
Cowering  their  tufted  brushes  to  the  dust. 
This  was  revised  thus  !-r- 

About  her  majesty,  and  front  death-pale 
With  turrete  erown'd.    Four  t^^wny  lions  hale 
The  sluggiaik'  wheels ;  solemn  thei:;  eloseid  maws 
Their  snfly  eyfisi  half  shut,  their  heavy  paws 
Uplifted  lazily,  and,  nervy  tails 
Vailing  thfiin  tawiny  tufts. 
Cf.  also  Spenser,  Faeme  Qateme,  iv.  2.  28. 

686.  So  sad,  so  nteimcholfi  so  bereft  :^-Cf.  the  SQonet  On  a  Dream 
(p.  285):— 

So  play'd,  so  oharnt'd,  so  c(ta%uer'd,  so  bereft. 
Hiis  parallel  was  noted  by  Rwsetti. 

688.  dancing  before  the,  mining  gates  of  heavm  ."-^A  reference  to  the 
Hours  or  Seasons  who  kept  the  gate  of  clouds  at  t]ie  entrance  of  Olym- 
pus, and  with  the  Graces  attended:  upon  Venus.  •  Cf..  Milton,  Paradise 
Lost,  iv.  266-68  :— 

Universal  Pom 
Knit  with  the  Graces  and  lihe  Hows  in  dance 
Led  on  th'  Eternal  Spring. 
In  Chapman's  Homeric  Hymn  to  Apolto,  well  known  to  Keats,  they 
are  represented  as  dancing  before  the  sun  god:-^ 

Put  here  the  fair  haired  Graces,  the  wise  Hows 
Ha/rtmm»,  Hebe,  and  sweet  Veims'  powers 
Danced,  aDid  eaoh  other's  palm  to  palm  did  eliag. 
And  in  the  description  of  the  palace  of  Sel  with  which  Ovid  opens  bk.  ii. 
of  the  Met.  we  read  (in  Sandys), 
I  Sol  dothediin  purple  site  upon  a  throne 

Which  clearly 'With  translucent  Emralds  shone : 
With  equall-raigning  Hwres  on  either  hand, 
The  Days,  the  Moatju,  the  Veares,  the  Ages  stand. 
The  fragrant  Spring  with  ilowry  ohaplet  orown'd 
Whe^teaves,  the  brows  of  naked  Summer  bovnd : 


ENDYMION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  435 

Rich  Autumne  smear'd  with  crusht  Lyasus  blood  ; 
Next  hoary  headed  Winter  quivering  stood. 
This  last  passage  was  obviously  in  Keats's  mind  when  he  wrote  the 
lines  about  the  Hours  in  bk.  iv.  420-26,  q.v. 

690.  old  A  tlas'  children : — i.e.  the  Pleiades,  daughters  of  Atlas  by  Pleione, 
one  of  the  Oceanides.  They,  too,  dance  before  the  morning  sun.  Cf. 
Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  vii.  373 : — 

the  gray 
Dawn,  and  the  Pleiades  before  him  danc'd 
Shedding  sweet  influence. 

691.  One  of  shell-winding  Triton's  bright  hair'd  daughters  ? : — A  clear 
reminiscence  of  Milton,  Comus,  865 — "  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell ".  It 
is  noticeable,  however,  that  Keats  alters  the  meaning  of  the  epithet  wind- 
ing and  applies  it  not  to  the  shell  as  Milton  in  Cotmts,  but  to  Triton 
himself,  perhaps  with  a  recollection  of  Lycidas,  28,  where  the  gray-fly 
winds  her  sultry  horn.  Triton  was  the  son  of  Neptune  and  Amphitrite, 
whose  duty  was  to  stir  or  calm  the  waves  by  blasts  upon  his  shell.  In 
the  passage  about  the  Hows  both  in  Ovid  (Met.  ii.)  and  Milton  (Paradise 
Lost,  iv.)  Triton  is  also  mentioned ;  hence  perhaps  his  presence  here. 

716.  doting  H,  HBF ;  doating  1818. 

793.  vailed  MS.,  HBF ;  veiled  1818,  etc. 

823,  824.  Is  grief'  amtain'd  In  the  very  deeps  of  pleasure : — An  anticipa- 
tion of  the  idea  upon  which  Keats  wrote  his  great  Ode  on  Melancholy : — 
Ay,  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight 
Veil'd  Melancholy  has  her  sovran  shrine. 
The  reading  in  the  draft,  which  gives  "shrine"'  for  "deeps,"  draws  the 
passages  still  closer  together. 

830.  Long  ago  'twas  told,  etc. : — On  Keats's  instinctive  feeling  for  the 
natural  origin  of  all  the  great  classical  stories  cf.  I  stood  tip-toe,  123,  and  note. 

841.  ears  Whose  tips  are  gloming  hot: — Mr.  Forman  compares  with 
Lycidas,  76,  77  :— 

But  not  the  praise, 
Phcebus  repli'd,  and  toueh'd  my  trembling  ears. 
Keats,  therefore,  probably  means  by  his  line  "those  who  are  eager  to 
gain  poetic  fame  ".     But  even  so  the  passage  is  obscure. 

842.  centinel  stars : — ^The  spelling  of  "  centinel "  suggests  an  Elizabethan 
source,  but  the  phrase  is  really  Campbell's.  Cf.  Soldier's  Dream  (publ. 
1804),  "And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky". 

866.  Molian  :  Eolian  1818. 

876.  Alecto,  daughter  of  Nox,  and  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  Furies. 
It  was  "  A  lecto  with  swolne  snakes  and  Stygian  fire  "  that  raised  fierce  passion 
in  Myrrha's  breast  (Ovid,  Met.  x.,  Sandys) ;  and  later  she  asks  herself:— 
Nor  fearst  the  Furies  with  their  hissing  haire 
Who  on  the  faces  of  the  guilty  stare 
With  dreadful  torches  .* 


436  JOHN  KEATS 

Keats  may  have  remembered  that  it  is  Alecto  whom  Juno  sends  (Vergil, 
Aen,  vii.  324)  to  stir  up  war  between  the  Trojans  and  Latins. 

876.  Hermes'  pipe : — Hermes  was  sent  by  Zeus  to  carry  off  lo  who  had 
been  changed  by  Hera  into  a  cow,  and  was  guarded  by  the  hundred-eyed 
Argos.  He  succeeded  in  lulling  Argos  to  sleep  by  the  music  of  his  flute, 
and  after  cutting  off  his  head  returned  with  lo.  Mr.  Forman  suggests  that 
the  vivid  impression  made  upon  Keats  by  this  story  was  due  to  the  reading 
of  Gary's  Dante  (Purgatory,  canto  xxxii.),  for  on  the  fly  leaf  of  his  copy  he 
wrote  the  sonnet  As  Hermes  once,  etc.  {q.v.  p.  285).  But  it  is  doubtful 
whether  Keats,  when  he  wrote  bk.  ii.  of  Endymion,  had  read  much  Dante. 
His  interest  in  Dante  was  chiefly  stimulated  by  Bailey  and  seems  to  have 
begun  a  little  later.  Anyhow  the  story  was  known  to  him  elsewhere,  both, 
as  Mr.  Forman  points  out,  in  Ovid,  Met.  i.,  where  it  is  treated  in  detail, 
and  in  Milton's  description  of  the  cherubim  : — 

four  faces  each 
Had,  like  a  double  Janus,  all  thir  shape 
Spangl'd  with  eyes  more  numerous  then  those 
Of  Argus,  and  more  wakeful  then  to  drouze, 
Charm'd  with  Arcadian  Pipe,  the  Pastoral  Reed 
Of  Hermes,  or  his  opiate  Rod. 

— Paradise  Lost,  xi.  128-33. 
936.  Arethusa,  a  nymph  in  attendance  on  Diana,  was  loved  by  Alpheus 
a  river  god  in  whose  stream  she  was  bathing;  she  fled  his  pursuit  and 
calling  upon  Diana  for  help  was  changed  into  a  stream.  The  story  is 
told  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.  v.,  whence  Keats  borrowed  it.  Its  intro- 
duction into  Endymion  was  doubtless  in  a  measure  suggested  by  the 
part  played  by  Diana — its  significance  in  the  allegory  of  the  poem  has 
already  been  pointed  out  (vide  Introduction,  p.  xl).  It  is  by  his  sympathy 
with  the  lovers  that  he  enters  into  the  third  stage  of  his  pilgrimage- 
beneath  the  sea,  and  advances  nearer  to  the  consummation  of  his  own  quest. 
960.  In  the  1818  edition  invei-ted  commas  stand  at  the  end  of  this  line 
and  beginning  of  961,  and  after  "  criminal "  and  before  "  Alas  "  in  963. 

994.  more  unseen  Than  Saturn  in  his  exile : — ^A  first  suggestion  of  the 
picture  with  which  Hyperion  opens. 

BOOK  III 

The  exordium  to  this  book  is  eminently  characteristic  of  Keats  both  at 
his  worst  and  at  his  best.  Beginning  in  an  attack  upon  the  Tory  govern- 
ment (with  a  thought,  doubtless,  of  the  critics  who  supported  it),  written  in 
a  confused  jumble  of  inappropriate  metaphors  that  read  with  ludicrous 
effect,  it  develops  into  his  most  marvellous  interpretation  of  the  beauty  of 
the  moon,  described  with  delicate  observation  and  the  subtlest  musical 
cadence. 

7.  Fir e-bremded  foxes  :—Cf.  Book  of  Judges,  xv.  4,  6.     Keats  rarely  draws 


ENDYMION,  BK.  III.— NOTES  437 

upon  the  Bible  for  suggestions  of  phrase  or  idea,  but  cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry, 
197 ;  Bndymion,  iv.  877 ;  Isabella,  xzxiii. ;  Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  75. 

£4.  a  holier  din : — The  elevation  of  the  meaning  of  a  commonplace 
word,  generally  used  with  a  contemptuous  significance,  may  perhaps  be 
attributed  to  the  influence  of  Wordsworth,  who  in  the  White  Doe  of  RhyU 
stone  alludes  to  the  "fervent  din  "  of  the  music  in  the  abbey. 

71.  AndTelhts  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous  load: — i.e.  the  forehead  of 
Ocemus,  but  it  was  not  so  understood  by  the  printer,  who  gave  her  in  the 
first  edition ;  and  though  the  mistake  was  corrected  in  the  errata  at  the  end 
of  the  volume  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  notes  this  as  one  of  the  examples  of  Keats's 
ignorance  and  compares  with  line  918,  where  also  he  misjudges  Keats.  He 
imagines  that  the  his  is  meant  to  refer  to  Telhis ;  but  this  argues  a  mis- 
conception of  the  picture,  which  is  of  huge  moonlit  billows  thundering 
in  upon  the  shore  that  seems  to  tremble  at  their  weight — a  magnificent 
conclusion  to  Keats's  presentation  of  the  varied  splendours  of  the  moon. 

78.  Vesper  ;  "  amorous  glow-worm  of  the  sky  "  {Ode  to  Psyche,  27) : — 
A  name  given  to  Venus  as  the  evening  star. 

80.  How  chang'd,  how  full  of  ache,  how  gone  in  woe  ! : — The  cadence  of 
this  line  may  have  been  caught  from  a  line  which  Keats  had  read  in 
Sandys's  commentary  on  Ovid,  Met.  iv. : — 

How  pale  th^  look,  how  wither'd,  how  forlorn. 

97.  A  series  of  classical  reminiscences  particularly  dear  to  the  Eliza- 
bethans.   Cf.  e.g.  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander;  for  Orpheus,   Milton 
L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso,  and  for  Pluto  The  Winter's  Tale,  iv.  4.  116-18, 
and  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  iv.  269-72  (Keats's  favourite  passage) : — 
Proserpin  gathring  flours 
Her  self  a  fairer  Floure  by  gloomie  Dis 
Was  gatherd,  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world. 

120-36.  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin  (£ML,  p.  103)  notices  that  "the  description 
of  the  sunk  treasures  cumbering  the  ocean  floor  challenges  comparison, 
not  all  unequally,  with  the  famous  similar  passage  in  Shakespeare's 
Richard  HI. ".     Cf  Richard  III.,  i.  4.  21-33. 

133.  Ancient  N ox  .  .  .  behemoth  .  .  .  leviathan: — Milton  is  suggested 
by  the  application  of  the  epithet  ancient  to  Night  (cf.  Paradise  Lost,  ii. 
970,  986)  and  by  his  allusions  to  behemoth  {Paradise  Lost,  vii.  471)  and 
leviathan  (Paradise  Lost,  vii.  412).  It  was  principally  due  to  the  influence 
of  Bailey  that  Keats  first  came  to  appreciate  the  genius  of  Paradise  Lost, 
Eo  that  it  is  especially  interesting  to  notice  in  this  third  book,  written  at 
Oxford  in  Bailey's  company,  several  Miltonic  phrases  and  expressions 
which  we  might  not,  perhaps,  expect  to  find  in  his  work  at  so  early  a  date. 
Cf.  the  Miltonic  use  of  the  indefinite  adjective  in  S93  and  867  to  express 
limitless  space.  It  should,  however,  be  noted  that  the  word  vast  in  this 
sense  is  to  be  found  not  in  Milton  but  in  Shakespeare  (Pericles,  iii.  1.  1). 
Cf.  also  notes  to  iii.  282,  616 ;  iv.  365,  etc. 


488  JOHN  KEATS 

142.  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  compares  this  passage  with  Wordsworth's 
account  of  the  influence  of  nature  upon  his  childhood.  A  parallel  even 
more  forcible  is  to  be  found  in  the  account  which  Coleridge  gives  {Night- 
ingaU,  98-106)  of  the  effect  of  the  moon  upon  his  own  child : — 

I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Nature's  playmate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening  star :  and  once  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchardplot. 
And  he  beholds  the  moon,  and  hushed  at  once 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently 
While  his  fair  eyes  that  swam  with  undropt  tears 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam. 
180.  orby: — The  form  of  the  word  throws  an  interesting  light  on 
Keats's  love  of  -y  adjectives ;  for  in  the  draft  he  wrote  orbed.    The  form 
orby  is  Chapman's. 

192.  An  old  man  sitting  eeUm  andpeact^uUy : — The  episode  of  Glaucus  and 
Scylla,  introduced  by  Keats  in  order  to  develop  still  further  his  conception 
that  only  after  active  sympathy  with  the  fate  of  others  could  Endymion 
realise  his  aspirations,  was  probably  suggested  to  him  by  his  reading  of 
Ovid,  Met.  xiii.,  xxiv.  Keats  treats  the  story,  however,  with  absolute 
freedom.  In  Ovid  Glauous,  enamoured  of  Scylla,  applies  to  Circe  for  aid ; 
Circe  proffers  her  own  love  instead,  is  spurned  by  Glaucus,  and  in  revenge 
turns  Scylla  into  a  monster  with  a  hundred  barking  mouths.  Keats,  desir- 
ing to  read  more  meaning  into  his  version,  makes  Glaucus  submit  to  the 
charms  of  Circe,  forgetting  for  the  time  his  allegiance  to  ScyUa.  By 
chance  he  discovers  Circe  among  the  beasts  who  were  once,  like  himself, 
her  lovers,  and  realises  his  true  condition.  Then  Circe,  enraged,  sends 
Scylla  into  a  deathlike  trance  and  casts  a  spell  of  palsied  age  upon  Glaucus. 
Thus  Keats  makes  the  punishment  of  Glaucus  the  result  of  his  temporary 
infidelity,  perhaps  following  out  the  idea  suggested  in  the  introductory 
poem  in  Sandys  which  contrasts  with  a  baser  passion  the  powerful  love  of 
Nature  that  leads  to  Fame  and  Glory,  adding 

But  who  forsake  that  faire  Intelligence 
To  follow  Passion  and  Voluptuous  sence 
Such,  charm' d  by  Circe's  luxurie  and  ease, 
Themselves  deforme. 
Glaucus  is  punished  by  the  apparent  death  of  Scylla  and  the  paralysis 
in  himself  of  all  power  of  advance,  and  is  only  saved  by  the  sympathetic 
strength  of  Endymion  who  is  in  pursuit  of  the  ideal.    Thus  whilst  Endymion 
is  given  an  opportunity  of  rising  out  of  his  own  fatal  self-absorption  to  help 
another,  the  fate  of  Glaucus  throws  additional  light  upon  the  problem 
which  is  before  Keats's  mind  all  through  the  poem-^the  relation  of  love 
in  its  different  forms  to  higher  ambitions  of  the  soul.     In  Ovid  Glaucus 


ENDYMION,  BK.  HL^NOTES  489 

eats  a  herb  which,  he  has  noticed,  givfes  liiia  to  the  fishes  he  has  caught,  and 
thereby  he  becomes  a  god.  In  Keats  he  thirsts  for  a  larger  life  and  like 
Endymion  pursues  with  love  a  maid  above  him ;  whilst  his  temporary 
infidelity  to  Scylla  affords  a  contrast  with  the  supposed  infidelity  of 
Endymion  tb  Cynthiit  presented  in  bk.  iv. 

202.  This  line,  not  in  1818  edition,  was  first  restored  to  the  text  from 
the  MS.  by  Mr.  Suxtcn  Porman. 

244.  giant  .  .  .  That  writhis  abota  ike  roots  of  Sieity : — "  It  ife  net  clear 
whether  the  reference  is  to  Briareus  or  BnceladuSj  since  both  were  sup- 
posed  to  have  been  imprisoned  under  Mount  Etna"  (HBF).    Keats  is 
probably  thinking   of  Enceladus,  whom    he  generally  identifies    with 
Typhon,  though  he  makes  two  persons  of  them  in  Hyperion  {q.v.),  trans- 
ferring however  tlie  powers  of  Typhon  to  Enceladus.    "Typhwn  from 
earth's  gloomy  entrails  raised"  is  mentioned  in  a  passage  frohi  Sandys's 
Ovid  Of  which  KCiats  made  clear  use  in  HyperioH,  ii.  70-72.     Hfe  may  also 
have  remembered  tr^Slating  from  VArgil,  AMieU,  iii.  577-^2,  the  lines  :— 
Fama  est  Enceladi  semiustum  Ailmine  corpus 
tJrgferi  mole  hac,  ingentemque  itisuper  Aetnam 
Impositam  ruptis  flammam  espirare  caminis, 
Bt  fessum  qUotiens  mutet  latus,  intremere  omuem 
Murmure  Trinacriam  et  caelum  subtexere  fumo. 

It  is  noticeable  also  that  Ovid  in  the  very  passage  upon  which  Keats 
in  drawing  in  this  book,  mentions  Gkucus  in  his  search  for  Circe  as 
passing 

Hig:h  Aetna  On  the  jaws  of  Typhon  cast. 

This  reference  makes  the  allusion  certain.  Briareus,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  a  mere  name  to  Keats. 

282.  Look'd  high  deflcmce : — ^Another  phrase  with  a  Miltonic  ring,  cf. 
Paradise  Lost,  iv.  873,  "in  his  look  defiance  lottrs". 

301,  302.  hadU  thou  never  loved  an  iMiknown  paiBvr,  etc.  :-^It  is  by 
reason  of  the  high  aspii-ations  Which  guide  Bndyinion's  life  that  he  is  able 
to  save  Glaucus. 

364.  Mthon : — Cf.  note  to  Endymion,  i.  660. 

406.  Prom  where  large  Hercules  &ound  up  his  story  .•■^This  awkward 
and  ambiguous  line  is  probably  an  example  of  the  way  in  which  Keats 
sometimes  allowed  his  rhyme  to  lead  his  sense.  To  one  who  knew 
Lycidas  as  well  as  Keats  "promontory"  naturally  Suggested  "story"  (cf. 
Lycidas,  94,  96).  The  death  of  Ilercules  is  told  in  Ovid,  Met.  ix.  and 
his  labours  alluded  to.  His  last  labour  was  to  sustain  heaven  on  his 
shoulders,  on  which  Sandys  comments,  "  The  flible  goes  how  Atlas,  who 
sate  on  a  mighty  mountain  and  supported  Heaven  on  his  back,  desired 
Hercules,  having  heard  of  his  surprising  streng:th  to  ease  him  for  a  while 
in  bearing  his  burden ;  Who  readily  undertook  it.  Hercules,"  he  adds, 
"had  travelled  to  the  uttermost  bounds  of  the  earth  to  increase  his  know- 
ledge by  conferring  with  Atlas."     Hence  the  point  of  the  allusion  here. 


440  JOHN  KEATS 

411.  Ctrce  was  the  daughter  of  Helios  by  Perse  the  Oceanid^-Sandys 
calls  her  Phocbean  Circe.  It  was. at  ^aea,  the  island  where  she  lived, 
that  Odysseus  visited  her  (Odyssey,  bk.  x.)  and  Keats  in  his  description  of 
the  transformation  of  her  late  lovers  into  beasts  is  rather  drawing  upon 
Homer's  description  of  her  treatment  of  the  followers  of  Odysseus  than 
upon  Ovid,  who  confines  his  story  to  her  dealings  with  Glaucus  and  Scylla. 
Keats  would  also  remember  the  description  of  Circe  in  Comus. 

461.  Amphion  was  the  son  of  Zeus  and  Antiope  and  husband  of  Niobe 
(cf.  i.  337).  Hermes  presented  him  with  a  lyre,  upon  which  he  played  so 
beautifully  that  the  stones  moved  of  their  own  accord  and  without  human 
intervention  built  up  the  walls  of  Thebes.  It  is  evident  from  this 
passage,  and  still  more  from  line  1002,  that  Keats,  working  from  memory, 
is  confusing  him  with  another  mythical  musician,  Ariou  (cf.  ii.  360). 
Amphion  had  no  connection  with  the  sea. 

530.  Python  was  the  huge  serpent  that  inhabited  Parnassus  and  was 
killed  by  Apollo  (Ovid,  Mei.  i.).  Boreas,  the  North,  and  the  most  up- 
roarious, wind.  Cf.  e.g.  'the  ruffian  Boreas'  of  Troihis  and  Cressida, 
i.  3.  38,  and  the  Masque  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Maid^s  Tragedy,  i.  1, 
where  Cynthia  asks  that  all  the  winds  should  be  loosed : — 

only  Boreas 
Too  foul  for  our  intention,  as  he  was. 
Still  keep  him  fast  chained. 
545.  ruddy  drops: — Cf.  Julius  Casar,  ii.  1.  289.     "The  ruddy  drops 
that  visit  my  sad  heart." 

565.  Into  the  dungeon  core  of  that  wild  wood: — It  is  interesting  to 
notice  that  Milton  uses  the  word  dungeon  to  suggest  the  gloom  of  the  im- 
penetrable wood  where  his  enchanter  Comus  lurks.  In  this  close  dungeon 
of  innumerous  bowes.    Comus,  349. 

615.  such  hellish  spite  With  dry  cheek  who  can  tell  ? — ^The  strange  trans- 
position in  the  order  of  words  as  well  as  the  cadence  of  the  sentence 
forcibly  recalls  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  xi.  494,  496 : — 

Sight  so  deform  what  heart  of  Rock  could  long 
Drie-ey'd  behold  ? 
It  is  not  at  all  in  keeping  with  Keats's  natural  manner  at  this  period. 
Cf.  note,  line  133. 

625.  like  a  common  weed 

The  sea-swell  took  her  hair : — 
These  beautiful  lines  recall  Sleep  and  Poetry,  376-80 : — 

as  when  ocean 
Heaves  calmly  its  broad  swelling  smoothness  o'er 
Its  rocky  marge,  and  balances  once  more 
The  patient  weeds ;  that  now  uusheut  by  foam 
Feel  all  about  their  undulating  home. 
653.  Molus  :  Eolus  1818 ;  so  in  line  951. 
811.  Through  HBF ;  though  1818, 


ENDYMION,  BK.  III.— NOTES  441 

835.  The  vivid  use  of  the  word  shoitldef'd  recalls  Clarke's  account  of 
Keats's  admiration  on  first  reading  Spenser — "  What  an  image  that  is — 
'  Bea-shouldering  whales ' ! "  The  line  in  Spenser  "  Spring-headed  Hydraes, 
and  sea-shouldering  whales  "  is  to  be  found  in  Faerie  Queene,  ii.  12.  23. 

863.  Paphian  army,  i.e.,  army  of  lovers.  The  isle  of  Paphos  was 
eacred  to  Venus. 

859.  vdl  their  eyes  Like  callow  eagles  at  the  first  sunrise: — "This 
simile  must  surely  be  a  reminiscence  of  Ferrin's  Fables  Amusantes  or  some 
similar  book  used  in  IMr.  Clarke's  school.  I  remember  the  Fable  of 
the  old  eagle  and  her  young  stood  first  in  the  book  I  used  at  school " 
(HBF).  But  surely  an  Elizabethan  source  would  be  at  once  more 
likely  and  more  inspiring;  cf.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  The  Hutnourous 
Lieutenant,  i.  1 : — 

The  B«yal  Eagle 
When  she  hath  try'd  her  young  ones  'gainst  the  sun 
And  found  them  right ;  next  teacheth  them  to  prey.   .  .  . 
And  cf.  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  i.  10.  47 : — 

Yet  wondrous  quick  and  persant  was  his  spright 
As  eagles  eye,  that  can  behold  the  sunne. 
866.  BeoMty's  paragon.    Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  vii.  7-  69  : — 
So  Venus  eeke,  that  goodly  paragone. 
8o  Drummond,  Madrigal,  iii.,  calls  his  lady  "  beauty's  fairest  paragon  ". 
The  draft  of  this  and  the  previous  line  reads  : — 

At  his  right  hand  stood  winged  Love,  elate 
And  on  his  left  Love's  fairest  mother  sate. 
899.  Nais  the   mother  of  Glaucus,  according   to  some  authorities 
beloved  by  Neptune. 

918.  Visit  thou  my  Cythera :  etc. : — Mr.  Forman  by  restoring  the  draft 
reading  supplied  by  Woodhouse  has  freed  Keats  from  the  stigma  cast 
upon  him  by  the  text  of  previous  printed  editions.  Visit  my  Cytherea,  which 
suggested  to  Mr.  Arnold  and  others  that  Keats  was  not  aware  that  Cythera 
vas  the  name  of  the  island  and  Cytherea  the  epithet  of  Venus  as  its  queen. 
Fortunately  we  are  not  also  obliged  to  incorporate  with  it  the  vul|;ar  line 
which  closes  the  couplet  in  the  draft : — 

Visit  thou  my  Cithera :  thou  wilt  find 
Cupid  a  treasure,  my  Adonis  kind. 
927,  928.  pleach'd  .-—Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  first  noticed  that  Keats  had 
probably  borrowed  this  word  from  Shakespeare,  Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 
iii.  1.  7.  The  matter  is  made  doubly  certain  by  the  fact  that  a  few  lines 
later  Shakespeare  also  uses  the  word  "coverture"  introduced  by  Keats 
into  his  next  li^ae. 

973.  Molian  :  Eolian  1818.  So  in  line  1000,  the  1818  edition  reads 
Egean  far  ^gean. 

979.  when  thou  hast  smiVd : — So  of  the  moon  in  iii.  144,  "  I  oft  have 
dried  my  tears  when  thou  hast  smil'd  ". 


442  JOHN  KEATS 

994-1004.  Oemnus.     The   mention    of   OceanuB    here,   though  his 
kiaigdoiA  had  already  passed  away  from  him,  may  have  been  suggested  by 
the  somewhat  parallel  scene  of  the  marriage  of  the  Thames  and  the 
Medway  in  Spenser,  Faerie  Queem,  iv.  11.  18: — 
Next  came  the  aged  Ocean,  and  his  Dame 
Old  Teihys,  th'  oldest  two  of  all  the  rest ; 
For  all  the  rest  of  those  two  parents  came. 
Which  afterwards  both  sea  and  land  possest : 
Of  all  which  Nereas,  th'  eldest,  and  the  best. 
Did  first  proceed,  then  which  none  more  upright, 
Ne  more  sincere  in  word  and  deed  profest ; 
Most  voide  of  guile,  most  free  from  fbwle  despight. 
Doing  him  selfe,  and  teaching  others  to  doe  right. 
Nereus  is  the  "  iBgean  seer ''  of  line  1000,  as  Spenser  tells  us  in  his 
next  stanza  "expert  in  prophesies,"  the  reference  to  Nereus  following, 
in  Keats  as  in  Spenser^  upon  a  reference  to  Oceanus.     It  is  noticeable  also 
that  a  few  stanzas  later  Spenser  brings  Arion  on  to  the  scene  and  tells  hig 
history — in  Keats  by  error  of  memory  or  slip  of  pen  Amphion  (but  cf.  note 
to  1.  461).    "  The  gray-eyed  Doris  "  Spenser  alludes  to  in  stanza  48  as  one 
of  the  Nereides,  i.e.  the  daughter  and  not  the  wife  of  Nereus,  but  Ovidj 
Met.  ii.  init.,  a  passage  we  know  that  Keats  studied  in  Sandys  very  care- 
fully (vide  Hyperion,  ii.  21,  note)  gives  us : — 

Grey  Doris  and  her  daughters  heavenly  fkire. 
Some  sit  on  Rocks,  and  dry  their  sea^reene  haire. 
And  on  Doris  Sandys  gives  a  marginal  note.      "Wife  of  Nereus  and 
mother  to  the  sea  nymphs".     Thetis  Spenser  does  not  mention  in  this 
passage,  but  the  whole  feast  is  presided  over  as  in  Keats  by  Neptuae  who 
is  accompanied  by  his  queen  Ampfaitrite  (iv.  11.  11)  in  a  passage  which 
offers  several  points  of  comparison  with  the  lines  of  Keats  :-^ 
First  came  great  Neptune  with  his  three  forkt  mace 
That  rules  the  Seas,  and  makes  them  rise  or  fall ;  (cf.  945-60). 
His  dewy  lockes  did  drop  with  brine  apace  (cf.  890^2). 
Under  his  Diademe  imperiall ; 
And  by  his  side  his  Queene  with  coronall 
Fair  AmphitrUti  most  divinely  faire,  (cf.  lOOS). 
Whose  yvorie  shoulders  weren  covered  idl, 
As  with  a  robe,  with  her  owne  silver  haire. 
And  deckt  with  pearles,  which  th'  Indian  seas  for  her  prepaire  (^. 

1003). 
These  marched  farre  afore  the  other  crew  : 
And  all  the  way  before  them  as  they  went, 
Triton  his  trompet  shrill  before  them  blew  (cf.  888). 
For  goodly  triumph  and  great  jollyment 
That  made  the  rocks  to  roare,  as  they  were  rent.  {cf.  888). 
Into  this  scene  Glaucus  also  is  introduced,  though  playing  a  subordin- 


ENDYMION,  BK.  IV.— NOTES  448 

ate  part,  wbilit  Venus,  introduced  by  Keats  for  purposes  of  his  own  story, 
ha«  no  raison  d'etre  in  Spenser's  scene,  and  is  therefore  absent. 

This  similarity  is  extraordinarily  interesting  as  showing  Keats's  deep 
knowledge  of  Spenser,  especially  where  he  deals  with  classical  themes. 
It  is  not  in  the  least  to  be  supposed  that  he  definitely  copied  the  passage — 
the  mistalce  as  to  Amphion  would  hardly  have  occurred  in  that  case — but 
it  had  sunk  into  his  mind,  so  that,  when  desirous  of  representing  a  similar 
scene  himself,  he  drew  upon  it  unconsciously.  A  comparison  hetween  the 
two  passages  as  independent  treatments  of  a  similar  theme  would  have 
interesting  results.  Spenser's  picture  is  of  a  far  more  sustained  beauty 
and  is  nowhere  marred  by  the  faults  of  taste  from  which  the  work  of 
Keats  at  this  period  is  never  free  for  any  long  space.  At  the  same  time 
Keats  rises  in  places  to  a  higher  pline  of  emotion,  and  where  Spenser  is 
content  with  presenting  a  picture  of  serene  beauty,  Keats  is  more  dramatic, 
and  realises  more  fully  the  human  significance  in  which  the  legends  took 
their  riee. 

1016.  After  this  line  the  MS.  originally  reads : — 

They  gave  him  nectar — Ahed  bright  drops,  and  strove 

Long  time  in  vain.     At  last  they  interwove 

Their  cradling  arms,  and  carefully  conveyed 

His  body  towards  a  iquiet  bowery  shade. 

BOOK  IV 

This  book  is  so  important  to  Keats's  conception  of  the  relation  which 
the  pursuit  of  ideal  beauty  and  truth  bears  to  actual  life,  that  it  will,  per- 
haps, be  well  to  give  some  aiialysifi  of  its  development,  with  indications 
as  to  the  probable  significance  of  the  allegory. 

At  the  end  of  Book  III.  Endymion  is  rewarded  for  his  sympathy  with 
Glaucus  and  Scylla  by  a  renewed  vision  of  Cynthia  and  a  promise  of  eternal 
happiness.  He  is  roused  from  his  prayers  of  thanksgiving  by  the  voice  of 
an  Indian  maiden  lamenting  her  lost  lover  (iv.  86).  She  typifies  intense 
human  love,  which  is  keenest  when  brought  into  being  in  sorrow,  and 
Endymion  is  all  the  more  susceptible  to  it  by  reason  of  his  awakened 
human  sympathy,  so  that  he  cannot  choose  but  love  her,  and  strive  to  con- 
sole her  in  her  grief  (124 ;  cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  124, 126,  where  "  the  agonies 
of  human  hearts  "  is  represented  as  an  essential  to  the  poet's  development, 
and  the  Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  147-49).  Yet  in  loving  her  he  feels  that  he  is 
disloyal  to  Cynthia,  and  his  heart  is  "  cut  in  twain  "  between  his  love  for  the 
actual  and  the  ideal  (85-97).  The  maiden  urges  upon  him  that  his  impulse 
to  human  love  is  the  just  law  of  his  being,  that  all  nature  incites  to  it  (130), 
but  she  fails  to  ease  his  heart  of  its  perplexity,  and  only  after  she  has  sung 
to  him  the  Ode  to  Sorrow,  laying  stress  again  on  sorrow  as  the  surest  bond 
of  human  love,  does  she  win  him  to  surrender.  Even  then,  as  he  submits  to 
her  call,  he  hears  a  warning  note.  Woe  to  Endymion !  sound  through  the 


44)4  JOHN  KEATS 

forest  (321).  Then  two  heavenly  steeds  appear  and  bear  the  lovers  through 
the  air  (347).  A  comparison  with  Sleep  and  Poetry  (126-64)  suggests  that 
these  steeds  are  meant  to  typify  the  rekindling  of  the  poet's  imagination 
— now  called  upon  to  act  on  a  mind  which  has  become  exquisitely  sensitive 
to  deep  human  passion .  A  vision  follows  naturally  upon  this  state  of  mind. 
The  steeds  bear  them  through  the  realm  of  sleep  (370),  and,  as  they  pass, 
Morpheus  dreams  of  Endymion's  coming  apotheosis  (376-89),  whilst  En- 
dymion  himself  has  a  vision  of  like  import  (406-33).  Then,  while  his 
dream  of  happiness  still  retains  its  reality  to  him  and  Cynthia  still  seems 
to  be  bending  over  him,  he  is  conscious  of  the  presence  of  his  human-lover 
by  his  side  (440),  and  he  is  again  lost  in  perplexity ;  though  as  the  im- 
agination loses  vitality  the  ideal  seems  to  slip  from  him  and  the  actual 
once  more  asserts  her  supremacy  (470).  He  rekindles  his  imagination  to 
a  more  conscious  effort  (481,  "  he  roused  the  steeds "),  and  as  he  beholds 
the  beauty  of  the  moon  and  once  more  the  ideal  regains  its  hold  upon  him, 
his  human  love  begins  to  fade ;  he  cannot  take  her  with  him ;  her  steed 
drops  to  earth,  and  he  is  left  alone  (612).  And  now  for  the  time  he  seems 
to  have  lost  both.  His  imagination  which  has  separated  him  from  his 
human  love  is  not  vital  enough  to  compensate  for  her  loss — without  her 
lacks  its  necessary  inspiration ;  whereas  without  the  presence  of  the  ideal 
in  his  heart,  even  his  earthly  love  proves  herself  a  shadow.  There  follows 
a  state  of  spiritual  exhaustion  (626-61)  in  which  he  has  neither  strength  to 
feel  the  loss  nor  hope  to  surmount  it,  nor  alertness  of  mind  to  realise  the 
joy  that  awaits  him  in  the  future  (610).  From  this  state  he  reaches  earth 
and  once  more  finds  his  human  love.  Overcome  with  the  intensity  of  his 
passion  he  persuades  himself  that  he  has  found  the  root  of  his  mistake. 
He  should  not  have  attempted  to  reconcile  a  deep  sympathy  with  the 
realities  of  life  with  impossible  aspirations — rather  should  he  avoid  both 
and  live  in  an  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the  present  (the  peculiar  temptation 
of  the  poet,  cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  100-21,  and  Introduction  to  Fall  of 
Hyperion,  p.  616)  recognising  the  nobility  of  his  aspirations,  but  postponing 
them  to  another  world  (666).  He  tries  to  satisfy  his  imagination  by  draw- 
ing a  picture  of  such  an  existence  (670-720).  But  his  fancies  are  "  vain 
and  crude"  (722).  And  the  maiden  only  gives  voice  to  his  own  ianer 
feeling  when  she  tells  him  that  she  may  not  be  his  upon  these  terms. 
Endymion  is  destined  for  higher  things  (763). 

Once  more  he  is  in  bitter  perplexity.  But  now  at  last  he  realises 
that  he  is  at  home,  in  Caria — i.e.  he  becomes  conscious  of  the  existence 
around  him  of  that  large  world  of  reality  which  he  had  deserted  in 
his  pursuit  of  the  ideal.  Feona  comes  forward  to  meet  him  (800).  She 
typifies  the  perfection  of  the  practical  as  opposed  to  the  imaginative  mind, 
one  of  those  who,  contented  with  fulfilling  their  sphere  in  the  world  of 
action : — 

seek  no  wonder  but  the  human  face, 
No  music  but  a  happy-noted  voice  {Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  163, 164), 


ENDYMION,  BK.  IV.— NOTES  445 

Peona  calls  upon  him  to  fulfil  his  place  in  the  world,  and,  seeing  the 
maiden  in  his  company,  rejoices  that  he  is  also  to  share  the  pleasures  of 
intense  human  love  (856).  But  Endymion  has  at  last  realised  wherein 
his  mistake  has  Iain.  His  passion  for  the  maiden,  like  his  quest  for  the  ideal, 
has  been  too  self-absorbed,  he  has  allowed  it  to  narrow  his  outlook,  and 
only  when  he  has  renounced  this  passion  in  a  wider  love  of  humanity  can 
be  truly  attain  his  goal.  And  so  he  will  renounce  his  Indian  imaid,  giving 
ber  to  the  care  of  his  sister,  and  devote  his  life  to  that  study  which  shall 
at  once  foster  his  imagination  and  minister  to  the  real  needs  of  the  world 
(860-64).  The  pleasures  which  his  sister  has  held  out  to  him  are  I'eal 
enough  for  those  who  have  no  thirstings  after  the  imaginative  life  (851, 
862 ;  cf.  the  contrast  developed  in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  (i.  161-81)  between 
the  man  of  action  and  the  dreamer),  but  such  a  life  is  impossible  for  him 
(853-57).  His  renunciation  costs  him  such  anguish  that  for  the  time  life 
seems  impossible  to  him  and  a  state  of  apathy  follows,  in  which  he  longs 
for  death  (960) ;  but  the  necessary  purification  of  his  soul  has  been  effected. 
He  is  spiritualised  (992),  and  thus  at  last  the  different  impulses  of  his  nature 
are  reconciled  and  he  is  at  peace. 

The  whole  book  should  be  compared  with  Sleep  and  Poetry  and  with  the 
Pall  of  Hyperion.  Cf.  also  Bndymion,  i.  769,  etc.,  and  notes.  The  view 
here  presented  of  the  development  of  the  poet's  mind  in  its  search  for  ideal 
beauty  and  truth  is  fully  borne  out  by  many  passages  in  the  Letters. 

1-29.  This  invocation  to  the  Muse  of  English  poetry,  who  sits  "  rapt  in 
deep  prophetic  solitude  "  till  the  poets  of  the  East,  of  Greece,  Rome  and 
Italy  have  sung  their  songs,  should  be  compared  with  Keats's  other 
utterances  upon  English  poetry  and  his  own  genius,  especially  with  the 
famous  passage  in  Sleep  and  Poetry  (163-312).  Here,  as  in  Sleep  and  Poetry, 
there  is  a  deep  recognition  of  the  greatness  of  the  past,  mingled  with  a 
feeling  of  despondency  at  the  present,  the  same  ambition  for  himself 
blended  with  that  humility  which  naturally  accompanies  his  abiding  rever- 
ence for  "the  eternal  Being,  the  Principle: of  Beauty  and  the  Memory 
of  great  Men  ".  Particularly  interesting  is  the  tribute  to  Dante  (16)  to 
whom  Keats  had  just  been  introduced,  in  the  version  of  Gary,  by  his  friend 
Bailey.  The  idea  of  traci&g  the  genius  of  poetry  through  Greece,  Rome 
and  Italy  to  England  may  have  been  suggested  to  Keats  by  Gray's  Pro- 
gress of  Poesy, 

66.  Hermes'  wand : — The  magic  Caduceus,  "  opiate  rod "  of  Milton, 
Paradise  Lost,  xi.  133 ;  cf,  Bndymion,  i.  662,  note,  ii.  876  ;  and  Lamia,  i. 
133. 

68.  Hyacinthus  :—Cf.  i.  328,  and  note. 

97.  for  them  in  twain  MS.  reading,  restored  by  HBF ;-  in  twain  for 
them  1818,  etc. 

111.  Thou  art  my  executioner : — A  reminiscence  of  the  words  of  Phoebe 
to  her  lover  Silvius  in  i4s  You  Like  It,  iii.  6.  8,  "I  would  not  be  thy 
executioner". 


446  JOHN  KEATS 

136-4S.  In  place  of  these  lines  the  draft  reads  :— 

"  Canst  thou  do  so  ?    Is  there  so  balm,  oo  cure 

Could  not  a  beckoning^  Hebe  soon  allure 

Thee  into  Paradise?    What  sorrowing 

So  weighs  thee  down  what  utmost  woe  could  bring 

This  madness— Sit  thee  down  by  me,  and  ease 

Thine  heart  in  whispers— haply  by  degrees 

I  may  find  out  some  soothing  medicine."— 

"  Dear  Lady>"  said  Endymion,  "  I  pine, 

I  die — the  tender  accents  thou  hast  spoken 

Have  finish'd  all^^^^ny  heart  is  lost  and  broken. 

That  I  may  pass  in  patience  still  speak  : 

Let  me  have  music  dying,,  and  I  seek 

No  more  delighfe^I  bid  adieu  to  all. 

Didst  thou  not  after  other  climates  call 

And.  murmur  about  Indian  streams — now,  now  — 

I  listeo^  it  may  save  me— O  my  vow — 

Let  me  have  music  dying ! "    The  ladye 

Sitting  beneath  the  midmost  forest  tree 

With  tears  of  pity  sang  this  roundelay-^ 
167,  168.  A  hver  would  not  tread 
A  cowslip  on  the  head : — 
A  reminiscence  of  Sabrina's  song  (ConM»,  898-900) : — 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O're  the  Cowslips  Velvet  head. 
That  bends  not  as  I  tread. 
18S.  Bvimmmg  the  water-lHy  eups  with  tears : — An  echo  of  Lycidas, 
160,  "  And  Daffadillies  fill  their  eups  with  tears ''.     The  music  and  cadence 
of  Milton's  earlier  poems  were  evidently  running  in  Keats's  head  at  the 
time  that  he  wrote  this  Ode.     Cf.  the  sound' of  266,  "  And  all  his  priesthood 
moans,"  with  Lyeidas,  ^,''  And  all  their  echoes  mourn,"  and  "  To  the  silver 
cymbals'  ringj"  with  Ode  on  the  Naiivify,  208,  "  In  vain  with  cymbals  ring". 
In  his  use  of  the  short  line  of  three  beats  Keats  is  driven  back  of  necessity 
upon  his  old  master  (ef.  I  stood  tip-toe,  48,  note),  and  his  alternation  of  short 
lines  with  decasyllabics  gains  much  of  the  metrical  charm  of  Milton's 
Ode  on  the  Nativity.    That  this  poem  was  in  his  mind  seems  additionally 
probable  not  only  from  his  use  of  the  epithet  Osirian,  but  from  the  obvious 
parallelism  in  idea  between  lines  267-67  and  stanzas  xix.-xxv.  of  Milton's 
Ode,  which  tell  how  all  the  heathen  deities  vail  their  might  before  the 
infant  Christ.     For  other  Miltonisms  in  this  book  ef.  S66,  note. 

193.  This  marvellous  picture  of  Bacchus  and  his  crew  "  is  in  &ot  the 
Bacchus  and  Ariadne  of  Titian  in  the  National  Gallery,  translated  into 
verse ''  (Houghton).  Keats  had  already  made  use  of  it  in  Sleep  and  Poetry 
(336)  where  he  vividly  describes  the  picture.  The  conquest  of  the  Bast 
by  Bacchus,  which  gives  suitability  to  his  introduction  into  the  roundelay 


ENDYMION,  BK.  IV.^NOTES  447 

gung  by  the  Indian  maid,  is  suggested  by  Keats  in  a  passage  glowing  with 
ail  the  colour  of  the  East.  LempriSre  asserts  that  Bacchus  is  the  Ogiris 
of  the  Egyptians  and  that  he  was  drawn  by  lions  and  tigers,  hut  even  ,here 
it  is  probable  that  where  Keats  is  not  drawing  entirely  ou  his  imagination, 
he  is  developing  suggestions  which  are  to  be  found  in  Ovid,  Met.  iii.  and 
iv.,  the  passage  which  was  also  (with  Carmen  Ixiv.  of  Catullus)  the  inspirst- 
tion  of  Titian's  picture.  The  more  important  lines  are  thus  rendered  by 
Sandys : — 

The  dames  and  Maids  from  usual  labour  rest 
That  wrapt  in  skins,  their  hair-laces  unbound 
And  dangling  Tresses  with  wild  Ivy  crown'd 
Tl^ey  leavy  speares  assume.  .  .  . 

The  Matrons  and  new-married  wives  obey : 
Their  webs  their  unspun  wool  aside  they  lay. 
In  the  lines  which  follow  Bacchus  is  thus  addressed : — 

Thy  conquests  through  the  Orient  are  renown'd 
Where  tawny  India  is  by  Ganges  bound 
.  .  .  Thou  hold'st  in  awe 
The  spotted  lynxes,  which  thy  chariot  draw 
Light  Baeehiiies,  and  skipping  Satyrs  follow. 
Whilst  old  Sihmis,  reeling  still  doth  hollow : 
Who  weakly  hangs  upon  his  tardy  Asse. 
What  place  so'ere  thou  entreat,  sounding  brasge. 
Loud  Sacbuts,  Tymbrels,  the  confused  cfyes 
Of  Youths  and  Women,  pierce  the  marble  skyes. 
Titian's  Bacchus  OMcl  Ariadnei  is  also  .finely  described  by  Lamb,  Essays 
ofBlia — Barrenness  of  the,  imaginative  faculty  in  the  productions  of  modern  art. 
221.  Followed  originally  by  the  line :  "  We  follow  Bacchus  from  a  far 
country  ". 

260.  Nor  carefo*  wind  and  tide : — A  line  recalling  the  mygterious  motion 
of  the  phantom  ship  in  the  Ancient  Matirimr  '^  withouten  wind  withouten 
tide".  Another  slight  coincidence  occurs  in  the  next  stanza  where 
Coleridge  tells  ua  that  "the  western  wave  was  all  aflame".  Keats  uses 
the  same  phrase  to  describe  the  faces  of  the  Bacchanals  (1.  201).  In  the 
draft,  afier  line  136,  comes  a  passage,  in  which  Keats  uses  the  word  ladye 
with  accent  on  the  last  syllable,  and  Mr.  Forman  notices  that  "  its  use 
was  defended  by  Coleridge".  .  .  .  See  the  Ballad  of  the  Dark  I^ac^e. 
This  accentuation  is  retained  by  Keats  in  line  S86,  whilst  the  line  which 
stood  originally  after  221  {vide  previous  note)  again  gives  a  ColeridgiAn  ac- 
centuation {cf.  Ancient  Mariner,  570, "  all  in  my  own  countree").  Similarly 
as  in  the  Aneieni  Mariner  we  read  that  the  sun  was  "no  bigger  than  the 
moon,"  so  in  lines  497,  498  :— 

The  moon  put  forth  a  little  diamond  peak. 
No  bigger  than  an  unobserved  star. 


448  JOHN  KEATS 

and  the  passage  is  itself  more  suggestive  of  Coleridge  than  the  mere 
parallelism  of  a  commonplace  phrase  would  suggest  (c/.  Ancient  Mariner, 
209-12).  Each  of  these  parallels  is  trivial  in  itself,  but  if  taken  together 
they  show  that  Keats  had  been  reading  Coleridge,  and  are  significant 
examples  <of  the  manner  in  which  the  books  that  he  read  gained  an 
irresistible  hold  over  him.  And  proof  is  here  given  external  evidence,  for 
among  his  letters  we  find  the  following,  dated  November,  1817,  i.e.  exactly 
when  he  was  writing  the  fourth  book  of  Endymion : — 

"  My  dear  Dilke,  Mrs.  Dilke  or  Mr.  W.  Dilke,  whoever  of  you  shall 
receive  this  present,  have  the  kindness  to  send  per  bearer  "Sibylline 
Leaves,"  and  your  petitioner  shall  ever  pray  as  in  duty  bound.  Given 
under  my  hand  this  Wednesday  morning  of  November,  1817, 

"  John  Keats. 
"  Vivat  Rex  et  Regina — amen." 

From  the  passages  quoted  above  we  may  conjecture  that  the  volume  was 
sent. 

364.  Muse  of  my  native  land,  am  I  inspir'd  ? : — An  unfortunate  line  that 
was  seized  upon  for  ridicule,  in  itself  quite  just,  by  a  contemporary 
review. 

362-66.  The  presence  of  the  word  snuff  in  Hyperion  is  explained  by 
critics  as  showing  the  influence  of  Milton  on  that  poem  {cf.  Paradise  Lost, 
X.  272.  "  He  snuffed  the  smell  of  mortal  change  on  earth  ").  Its  pres- 
ence here  goes  perhaps  to  swell  the  evidence  afforded  in  these  notes  that 
Milton's  influence  upon  Keats  was  far  more  general  than  is  often  supposed. 
Cimmerian  (375)  is  of  course  a  reminiscence  of  the  Cimmericm  desert  of 
L' Allegro  (10)  whilst  the  treatment  of  sleep  in  lines  370-85  recalls 
the  drowsie  frighted  steeds 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtain'd-sleep. 

— Comus,  553,  554. 
Perhaps  also  426  "  To  sway  their  floating  morris  "  may  be  a  reminiscence 
oi Comus,  116,  the  "wavering  Morrice". 

392-97.  An  interesting  passage  in  connection  with  Keats's  treatment 
of  Nature ;  lines  391-93  may  be  placed  with  /  stood  tip-toe,  72-75,  as  a 
vivid  reminiscence  of  his  own  childhood  "  when  he  frequently  loitered 
over  a  rail  of  a  foot  bridge  that  spanned  ...  a  little  brook  near  Ed- 
monton" (Clarke).  The  reference  to  Skiddaw,  as  Mr.  Arnold  pointed 
out,  is  a  purely  literary  reminiscence,  and  must  be  regarded  as  a  tribute 
to  Wordsworth,  for  at  that  time  Keats  had  not  visited  the  Lakes. 

400.  Endymion's  dream  suggests  the  identity  of  Diana  and  the  Indian 
maiden,  though  he  does  not  realise  its  significance.  In  his  delineation  of 
the  dream  Keats  introduces  the  well-known  traditional  characteristics  of 
the  different  gods  and  goddesses :  the  peacocks  of  Juno,  the  shield  of 
Pallas,  the  thunderbolt  of  Jove,  the  goblet  of  Hebe,  goddess  of  youth, 
and  the  bugle,  attribute  of  Diana  in  her  rile  of  huntress  queen.    For  the 


ENDYMION,  BK.  IV.^NOTES  4*49 

source  of  the  lines  on  the  Seaaana,  etc.^  ^.  ii.  688,  note,  and  ako  ThonsoBi's 
SMSons,  Summer,  120 : — 

round  thy  beaming  car. 
High-seen,  the  Seasons  lead,,  in  sprightly  dance 
Harmonious  knit,  the  rosji-fingered  Hours, 
The  Zephyrs  floating  loose,  the  timely  rains. 
Of  bloom  ethereal  the  light-footed  dews 
And,  softened  into  joy,  the  surly  storms. 
For  the  reference  to  Icarus  in  442,  c/.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  308. 

429,  430.  its  mistress'  lips,  etc. : — These  two  lines,  weak  as ,  they  are, 
show  an  unmistakable  improvement  on  those  which  stood  in  the  MS. : — 
Its  Mistress'  Lips  ?    Not  thou  ?    Ah,  Ah,  Ah,  Ah ! 
'Tis  Dian's,  here  she  comes,  look  out  afar. 
486.  sUverly  MS.,  HBF  ^  silvery  1818. 
filO.  The  absence  of  a  rhyme  to  this  line  is  unaccounted  for. 
536.  Semde  the  mother  of  Bacebus  by  Jove.     Hence  Keats  supposes 
that  she  must  have  quaffed  delicious  draughts  be£ove  his  birbh. 
548.  Ud  MS.,  HBF ;  let  1818. 

648.  This  Cave  of  Quietude :—"  There,  could  not  be  a  truer  description 
of  apathy  "  {Mrs.  Owen,  John  Keats,  a  Study,  p.  101).  The  whole  descf  ipr 
tion  of  the  den  of  the  soul's  quiet  seems  made  out  of  the  real  stuff  of 
experience,  and  stands  out  with  a  strange  vividness  frem  its  vague  and 
Bomewhat  fantastic  surroundings. 

567.  Hesperus,  the  star  of  Evening :  frequently,,  therefore,'  invoked  in 
epithalamia.  Cf.  Ben  Jonson's  famous  Epithalamion  written  for.  the 
marriage  of  Lord  Ramsay  (1608),  every  stanza  of  which  ends  with  the 
line : — 

Shine  Hesperus^  shine  forth,  thou  wished  star  ! 
But  thwe  is  an  additional  appropriateness  in  the  introduction  of  Hesperus 
here,  for,  as  evening  star,  he  was  the  natural  forerunner  of  Diana  h^self. 
Cf.  Ben  Jonson's  well'known  Hymn  to  Diana : — 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair. 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep. 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair. 
State  in  wonted  manner  keep. 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light  - 
Goddess  ezeellently  br^ht, 
Zephyrus,  "  flowery  Zepbyrus,"  as  Sandys  calls  him,  was  "  the  West 
wind,  the  nourisher  of  life,"  and  thus  supposed  to  be  enamoured  of  Flora, 
the  goddess  of  flowers  and  Spring.    So  in  Paradise  Lost,  v.  16,  Adam 
addresses  Eve 

with  voice 
Milde,  as  when  Zephyrus  on  Flora  breathes; 
The  rest  of  the  song  is  a  pure  ebullition  of  Keats's  fancy  on  the  relations 
of  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  and  tbe  planets.    Keats,  apparently,  was  not 
39 


460  JOHN  KEATS 

himself  certain  as  to  whether  it  had  a  clear  enough  bearing  either  upon 
the  situation  he  was  describing,  or  upon  the  character  of  the  different 
planets ;  for  he  sent  the  passage  to  Reynolds  asking  him  to  vote  for  it 
pro  or  con  (Letter  to  Reynolds,  22nd  November,  1817).  Keats  seems  to 
have  been  interested  in  the  astronomical  application  of  ancient  mythology, 
for  he  bought  later  a  copy  of  Hyginus,  Auctores  MythografM  Latini  and 
made  some  use  of  it  for  Hyperion.  Here  he  was  probably  drawing  on  the 
commentary  to  Sandys's  Ovid,  and  has  no  other  object  than  to  present  the 
signs  of  the  Zodiac  that  are  propitious  to  man  as  triumphing  over  those 
which  were  regarded  as  hostile.  Thus  Castor  and  Pollux  (the  Gemini) 
who  are  under  the  direction  of  Apollo  are  represented  as  subduing  Leo 
and  the  Bear,  both  hostile,  and  the  Centaur,  another  hostile  planet,  is 
also  put  to  flight 

Aquarius,  "the  winter  sign  of  the  zodiac,  was  the  name  gfiven  to  Gany- 
mede as  a  constellation.  He  was  represented  as  a  boy  pouring  wine  out 
of  a  goblet ;  and  because  an  abundance  of  raine  is  poured  upon  the  earth 
from  the  clouds  when  the  Sunne  is  in  that  signe,  he  is  said  to  be  Jupiter's 
Cup-bearer"  (Sandys).     Keats's  lines  are  a  development  of  this  idea. 

AndrtMeda,  "bound  to  a  rock  for  the  pride  of  her  mother  Cassiope 
who  durst  contend  in  beatity  with  the  Nereides :  for  which  a  sea-monster 
was  sent  by  Neptune  to  infest  the  country "  (Sandys,  Met.  iv.  commen- 
tary). Perseus,  "  Danae's  son,"  slew  the  monster  and  freed  Andromeda, 
who  was  afterwards  turned  into  a  constellation. 

€69.  Followed  in  the  MS.  by  two  lines  fortunately  omitted  in  the 
text: — 

He  stay  behind — he  glad  of  lazy  plea  ? 
f        Not  he  !  not  he ! 
611.  Daphne  fled  the  love  of  Apollo,  and  was  changed  into  a  laurel. 
Ovid  tells  the  story  in  Met.  i.     Cf.  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  iii.  11.  36. 
632.  to  :  too  1818. 

661.  cloudy  phantasms,  etc. : — A  reminiscence  of  Comus,  204 : — 
''  a  thousand  fantasies 

Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckning  shadows  dire. 
And  airy  tonguies,  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  Sands,  and  Shears,  and  desert  Wildernesses, 
[tself,  perhaps,  indebted  to  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  i.  1.  112 : — 
Voices  calling  me  in  dead  of  night 
To  make  me  follow. 
Mr.  Forman  refers  "for  the  explanation  of  this  speech"  to  bk.  ii., 
199-214,  where  Endymion  hears  a  voice  from  the  deep  cavern  saying : — 

He  ne'er  is  crown'd 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  airy  voices  lead :  so  through  the  hollow, 
"Hie  silent  m^^steries  of  earth,  descend. 


ENDYMION,  BK.  IV.— NOTES  461 

693.  tarn : — ^The  use  of  this  word  is  another  (vide  394)  suggestion  of 
the  influence  of  Wordsworth  at  this  period.  Tarn  to  the  modem  reader 
is  quite  a  familiar  word,  hut  it  was  at  this  time  confined  to  the  Lake 
district,  so  that  Wordsworth  in  his  1807  poems  thought  it  necessary  to 
explain  its  meaning  in  a  footnote,  "  a  small  Mere  or  Lake  mostly  high  up 
in  the  mountains  ".-  Keats  shows  how  he  has  heen  impressed  by  the  superb 
picture  of  Helvellyn  in  Fidelity : — 

There  sometimes  does  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer ; 
by  allowing  the  word  to  pass,  quite  naturally,  into  his  own  vocabulary. 

701.  I'll  kneel  to  Vesta,  for  aflame  of  fire : — Cf.  Ovid,  Met.  xiv.  (Sandys) 
"  Chaste  Vesta  with  thy  ever  burning  fire  ".  She  was  the  Roman  goddess 
of  the  hearth. 

713.  Delphos,  or  as  it  is  more  commonly  called  by  Keats,  Delphi,  was 
the  shrine  from  which  the  priestess  of  Apollo  gave  forth  her  prophecies. 
Cf.  i.  499  and  the  allusion  in  ii.  80-82.  Milton,  however,  only  used  the 
form  Delphos,  cf.  the  Ode  on  the  Nativity  (178)  with  which  Keats  was  familiar 
(cf.  note  to  iv.  185),  "  steep  of  Delphos,"  and  Paradise  Regained,  i.  458. 

739.  The  rhymelessness  of  this  line  is  unaccounted  for.  Mr.  Forman's 
reading  "  kisses  gave,"  is,  he  tells  us,  a  pencil  insertion  in  the  margin  of 
the  MS. 

766.  Ask  me  no  more! — ^An  anticipation  of  a  famous  phrase  usually 
associated  with  Tennyson.  Keats  repeats  it  in  a  rejected  reading  of  the 
Cap  and  Bells,  lix.  4. 

764.  lovelorn,  silent,  wan : — A  cadence  which  Keats  caught  from  Chatter- 
ton,  and  uses  in  one  or  two  places.  Cf.  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  ii.,  "meagre, 
barefoot,  wan,"  and  Hyperion,  i.  18,  note. 

774.  The  subject  of  Hyperion  is  already  in  the  poet's  mind.  For  other 
passages  which  suggest  this  cf.  the  treatment  of  Oceanus  (iii.  994-98)  and 
the  reference  to  "  Titan's  foe  "  (iv.  943),  to  "  Saturnus'  forelock,"  and  "  his 
head  shook  with  eternal  palsy  "  (iv.  956),  oaths  which  could  hardly  have 
occurred  to  Keats  in  this  place  if  he  had  not  already  thought  on  the 
subject  of  his  next  classical  poem. 

818,  819.  There  is  in  these  lines  a  curious  though  vague  suggestion  of 
Wordsworth.  The  first  of  them  recalls  the  contrast  in  the  Ode  on  Intima- 
tions, etc.,  between  the  gladness  of  thoughtless  childhood  and  the  sobered 
happiness  of  experience,  and  the  expression  "  common  day "  recalls  the 
lines  in  the  Prospectus  to  the  Excursion  where  we  are  told  of  Paradise  and 
the  Elysian  groves  that  :— 

the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
The  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 
Both  these  poems  Keats  had  been  studying  deeply  in  September ;  and  in 
Endymion,  where  he  is  attempting  to  present  his  own  conception  of  the 
progress  of  the  soul,  Wordsworth's  solution  of  the  problem  must  often 


462  JOHN  KEATS 

have  been  in  his  mind.  And  this  passage  of  Keats  grovs  in.  sig^i^cj^ce 
if  it  is  considered,  in  this  relation. 

878],  879.  no  little  bwd.  Tender  soever,  but  is  Jove's  own  tare  .--aOne  of 
the  few  passages  in  which  (and  heve  rather  unfortunately)  Keats  is  perhaps 
indebted  to  the  Bible.  Cf.  St.  Matthem,  x.  29.  But  it  is  more  probable 
that  Keats  is  thinking  of  Hamlet,,  v.  1.  231,  "  we  defy  augury :  there^'^ 
a  special  providence  in  the  fall  of  a  sparrow.  If  it  be  now,  'tis  not  to 
come :  if  it  be  not  to  come  it  will  be  now." 

935.  nor  much  it  grieves  To  die,  when  swmmer  dies  on  the  cold,  sward, 
Cf.  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,  6  and  note. 

953.  Rhadamanthus,  one  of  the  "  three  sons  al  Jupiter ;  who  for  their 
justice  were  fained  to  judge  the  soules  in  another  world  "  (S»ndys,  on 
Ovid,  Met.  ix.). 

970.  Wan  as  primroses,  gathered  at  midnight  By  chilly  fingei^d  s^irtg  :— 
A  fine  esamiple  of  the  manner  in  which  Keats's  imagination  found  il? 
material  in  a  loving  observation  of  Nature.  Cf.  Ode  to  Maia,  aoid  note. 
The  phrase  "  chilly-fingered  spring  "  was  probably  suggested  bjr  Collins's 
How  sleep  the  brave,.  3,  *'  When  Spring  with  dewy  fingers  cold  "■ 

1003.  Cf.  I  stood  tip-toe,  141,  142.  "  On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms 
of  wonderment ". 

LAMIA,  ISABELLA,  THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES  AND  OTHER 

POEMS 

Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  and  Other  Poems,  as  the  volume 
of  1820  was  styled,  contains,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  sonnets  and 
short  lyrics,  all  the  best  worl^  of  the  eighteen  months  which  extended 
from  April,  1818,  to  September,^  1819.  Beginning,  chronologically  with 
Isabella  and  ending  with  the  Ode  to  Autumn  it  is  surely  the  richest  volume 
ever  produced  in  so  short  a  time,  and  by  a  poet  not  yet  twenty-five  years 
of  age;  and  it  is  upon  this  book  that  the  claim  of  Keats  "to  be  among 
the  English  poets,"  ultimately  rests.  Towards  the  end  of  1819  Keats 
began  to  prepare  it  for  the  press,  for  in  December  he  wrote  to  his  sister : 
"  I  have  been  very  busy  since  I  saw  you,  and  shall  be  for  some  time,  in 
preparing  some  Poems  to  come  out  in  the  Spring  ".  The  publication  was 
somewhat  delayed,  for  in  June  we  find  him  still  occupied  with  the  fingj 
revision,  and  writing  to  Brown :  "  My  book  is  coming  out  with  very  Ipw 
hopes,  thpugh  not  spirits,  on  my  part.  This  shall  be  my  last  trial ;  not 
succeeding  I  shall  try  what  I  can  do  in  the  apothecsty  line."  The  volume 
actually  appeared  about  10th  July,  and  in  the  ne^  month  he  wrote  to 
Brown :  "  My  book  has  had  good  success  among  the  literary  people  and 
I  believe  has  a  moderate  sale."  A  little  later  he  writes  again:  "Tbe 
sale  of  my  book  is  very  slow  though  it  has  been  very  highly  rated.  One 
of  the  causes  I  understand  from  different  quarters,  of  the  unpopularity  of 
this  new  book,  and  the  others  ^Iso,  is  the  offence  the  ladies  take  at  me. 
On  thinking  th?  matter  over,  I  am  certain  that  I  have  said  nothing  in  a 
spirit  to  displease  any  woman  I  would  care  to  please ;  but  still  there  iga 


LAMIA— NOTES  468 

tendency  to  class  women  in  my  books  with  roses  and  sweetmeats, — ^they 
never  see  themselves  dominant." 

Leigh  Hunt  wrote  an  excellent  criticism  of  the  volume  in  the  Indicator 
of  2nd  and  9th  August,  and  Jeffrey  noticed  it  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  of 
the  same  month,  though  he  devoted  most  of  his  space  to  a  consideration 
of  Bndymion,  which  he  had  not  criticised  before.  But  the  most  interest- 
ing criticism,  perhaps,  was  that  of  Lamb  in  the  New  Times  for  19th  July 
(vide  note  on  Isabella,  xlvi.). 

On  the  Adveytisement,  vide  Introduction  to  Hyperion,  p.  487. 

LAMIA 

Lamia  was  plauned  and  a  small  part  of  it  written  before  Keats  left 
Hampstead  for  Shanklin,  at  the  end  of  June,  1819,  for  the  language  in 
which  he  tells  Reynolds  on  12th  July  that  he  has  "  proceeded  pretty  well 
with  Lamia,  finishing  the  first  part  which  consists  of  about  400  lines" 
proves  that  his  correspondent  knew  something  of  the  poem  already. 
Then  he  leit  the  poem  for  more  than  a  month ;  for  writing  to  Bailey  on 
Ifith  August  he  records  no  more  progiress.  Lamia  is  still  "  half  finished  ". 
However  he  had  concluded  ^is  work  upon  it  by  5th  September,  when  be 
sent  a  specimen  (ii.  122-46)  to  his  publisher,  Taylor.  Keats  himself 
regarded  Lamia  as  the  most  successful  of  his  compositions:  "I  am 
certain,"  he  writes  to  his  brother  (18th  Sept.,  1819,)  "there  is  the  sort 
of  fire  in  it  which  must  take  hold  of  people  in  some  way.  Give  them 
either  pleasant  or  unpleasant  sensation — what  they  want  is  a  sensation  of 
some  sort."  For  a  criticism  of  the  poem  vide  Introduction,  p.  xli.  It  is 
indeed  an  admirable  example  of  impassioned  narrative  only  vitiated  in 
certain  places  by  lapses  into  the  bad  taste  of  his  earlier  poems,  by  a  re- 
currence of  faulty  rhymes  (c/.  i.  17, 18 ;  36,  36 ;  67,  68 ;  233,  234 ;  277, 
278,  etc.),  and  some  unfortunate  coining  of  words.  Lamia  was  founded 
upon  a  story  told  in  Burton's  Anatomy  oj  MelanohoUe,  quoted  by  Keats  at 
the  close  of  the  poem  (^q.v.).  For  its  classical  embellishments  he  drew  as 
usual  upon  Sandys  and  Spenser.  The  vocabulary  shows  signs  of  his 
intimacy  with  Spenser,  Milton  and  the  Elizabethans,  with  a  slight 
tendency  to  the  laxities  of  Bndymion  and  the  1817  volume. 

The  versification  is  closely  modelled  upon  the  Fables  of  Dryden,  from 
which  Keats  learnt  how  to  relate  his  metre  with  his  sentence  structure 
and  to  use  both  the  triplet  and  the  Alexandrine  with  striking  success. 
The  influence  of  Dryden  upon  the  verse  as  a  rule  acts  merely  as  a  restraint 
upon  his  earlier  vices  of  style,  but  occasionally,  as  in  the  following  lines, 
Keats  directly  reproduces  the  epigrammatic  and  antithetical  style  of  his 
model : — 

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. 


464  JOHN  KEATS 

As  would  naturally  be  expected,  considering  Keats's  recent  study  of 
Milton,  there  are  several  traces  throughout  the  poem  of  Miltonic  style 
and  reminiscence. 

The  variant  readings  supplied,  by  permission  of  Mr.  Forman,  from  the 
corrected  printer's  MS.,  and  from  two  leaves  of  the  draft  of  book  ii.  in 
the  possession  of  Lord  Houghton,  are  of  particular  interest  as  showing 
Keats's  power  of  criticising  his  own  worst  faults  of  style  and  taste.  It 
is  noticeable  also  that  some  of  them  are  made  in  order  to  secure  a  correct 
quantity  to  a  classical  proper  noun  (fi,g.  U.  78,  115,  174,  225).  It  is 
probable  that  Woodhouse  was  the  authority  to  whom  Keats  referred  such 
matters,  for  at  the  beginning  of  the  proof  sheets  of  Lamia,  corrected  by 
Woodhouse,  is  a  list  of  all  the  classical  names  in  the  poem  with  their 
quantities  carefully  marked. 

1-6. '  before  the  faery  broods  Drove  Nymph  and  Satyr,  etc. : — Mr.  Buxton 
Forman  has  called  attention  to  the  striking  parallel  between  this  passage 
and  Sandys,  Ovid,  Met.  i.  192-95:  — 

Our  Demigods,  Nymphsj  Sylvans,  Satyrs,  Faunes 
Who  haunt  clear  Springs,  high  Mountains,  Woods  and  Lawnes, 
(On  whom  since  yet  we  please  not  to  bestow 
Celestial  dwellings)  must  subsist  below. 
He  adds  that  in  bk.  iv.  "we  find  Latona  daughter  of  Coeus  the  Titan 
called  Titania,  a  name  suggestive  of  fairy-land  to  any  English  imagination, 
and  sufficient  to  account  for  the  presence  of  '  King  Oberon '  in  line  3 ". 
But  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  to  bk.  ii.  for  Titania,  for  the  name  occurs  in 
this  very  book,  in  which  we  also  find  the  story  of  Jupiter's  employment  of 
Hermes  to  slay  Argus,  which  may  have  suggested  lines  10,  11,  where 
Hermes  is  represented  as  desirous  "to  escape  the  sight  of  his  great 
summoner".     As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the  association  of  the  faines 
of  English  folklore  with  characters  of  classical  mythology  was  common  in 
Elizabethan  literature.     An  interesting  illustration  of  this  is  to  be  found 
in  Spenser  (Faerie  Queene,  ii.  10.  70,  71),  who  tells  how  Prometheus  :— 

did  create 

A  man,  of  many  parts  from  beasts  deryv'd 

And  then  stole  fire  from  Heaven  to  animate 

His  worke  .  .  . 

The  man  so  made  he  called  Elfe,  to  wit 

Quick,  the  first  author  of  all  Elfin  k}md. 

Who,  wandering  through  the  world  with  wearie  feet 

Did  in  the  gardins  of  Adonis  find 

A  goodly  creature,  whom  he  deemed  in  mynd 

To  be  no  earthly  wight,  but  either  Spright, 

Or  Angell,  th'  Authour  of  all  womankynd  ; 

Therefore  a  Fay  he  her  according  hight. 

Of  whom  all  Faeryes  spring,  and  fetch  their  lignage  right. 
This  stanza  and  the  following  suggested  some  of  the  names  used  by  Keats 
in  the  Ca^  and  Bells  (iv.  notes),  written  by  him  only  a  few  months  later. 


LAMIA— NOTES  456 

There  is  an  interesting  passage,  which  also  illustrates  this  point,  in 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholic  (pt.  i.  sect.  ii.  mem.  i.  subs,  ii.)  "  Terrestrial 
devils  are  these  Lares,  Genii,  Fauns,  Satyrs,  Wpodnymphs,  Foliots,  Fairies, 
Robin  Goodfellows,  Trolli,  etc.,  which  as  they  are  most  conversant  with 
men,  so  they  do  them  most  harm.  Some  think  it  was  they  alone  that 
kept  the  heathen  people  in  awe  of  old,  and  had  so  many  idols  and  temples 
erected  to  them.  Of  this  range  were  Dagou  among  the  Philistines,  .  .  . 
Isis  and  Osiris  amongst  the  Egyptians,  etc.  Some  put  our  Fairies  into 
this  rank  which  have  been  in  former  times  adored  with  much  super- 
stition. .  .  .  These  are  they  that  dance  on  heaths  and  greens." 

68.  Ariadn^s  tiar : — The  constellation  of  seven  stars  into  which 
Ariadne  was  translated  after  her  marriage  with  Bacchus.  Keats  is 
thinking  of  the  Titian  which  inspired  him  in  the  Ode  to  Sorrow  {End.  iv. 
196,  q.v.),  wherein  the  circlet  of  stars  is  placed  above  Ariadne's  head  as  a 
symbol  of  her  coming  transfiguration.  Cf.  also  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene, 
vi.  10.  13:— 

Looke  how  the  crowne  which  Ariadne  wore 

Upon  her  yvory  forehead,  that  same  day 

That  Theseus  her  unto  his  bridal  bore. 


Being  now  placed  in  the  firmament. 
Through  the  bright  heaven  does  her  beames  display. 
And  is  unto  the  starres  an  ornament. 
Which  round  about  her  move  in  order  excellent. 
63.  As  Proserpine  still  weeps  for  her  Sicilian  air : — The  story  of  Proser- 
pine who  was  beloved  by  Pluto  and  carried  o£F  to  Hell,  but  upon  her 
mother's  entreaty  was  allowed  to  return  to  earth  for  half  the  year,  was 
especially  dear  to  Keats.     Milton's  well-known  allusion  to 

that  faire  field 
Of  Enna,  where  Proserpin  gath'ring  flours 
Her  self  a  fairer  Floure  by  gloomie  Dis 
Was  gatherd,  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
To  seek  her  through  the  world  (Paradise  Lost,  iv.  268-72) 
was  singled  out  by  him  on  his  notes  on  Paradise  Lost  as  one  of  ''two 
specimens  of  a  very  extraordinary  beauty  in  the  Paradise  Lost ;  they  are 
of  a  nature  as  far  as  I  have  read  unexampled  elsewhere  ".     And  so  in  a 
letter  to  Bailey  (18th  July,  1818),  he  writes :  "When  I  see  you  the  first 
tiling  I  shall  do  wiU  be  to  read  you  that  about  Ceres  and  Proserpine". 
The  cadence  of  Milton's  lines  he  imitated  in  Hyperion,  ii.  64 :  to  the  story 
he  alludes  in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  37,  38  :— 

Proserpine  return'd  to  her  own  fields. 
Where  the  white  heifers  low. 
Cf.  also  Bndymion,  i.  944. 

The  story  is  told  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.  v.,  and  Keats  would  also  know 
it  in  Spenser,  and  in  the  allusion  in  The  Winter's  Tale  (iv.  4. 116). 


456  JOHN  KEATS 

76.  HMf  to  Ms  thfobbing  throats  hngi  long  melodious  mom-.—Cf, 
Hyperion,  iii.  80.    Apollo  then 

Thug  answered,  while  his  white  mdodious  throat 
Throbb'd  with  the  syllables. 

78.  bright  Phtebean  dart :  mission'd  pfaisbean  dart  MS.  (quoted  HltF)^ 
amended  by  Keats  to  avoid  fhe  false  quantity. 

81.  stay  0/  Lethe : — Hermes  is  so  called  because  it  was  his  duty  to  lead 
the  souls  <of  the  dead  to  Hades  (c/.  Odyss^,  xziv.  intt. }.  The  phrase  "  star 
of"  is  an  Elizabethanistti  (cf.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  "star  of  Rome"). 
We  are  not  surprised  to  find  that  the  expression  appealed  irresistibly  to 
the  lonly  contemporary  of  Keats  who  eould  be  said  to  equal  him  in  his 
passion  for  Blizabethan  literature,  Charles  Lamb,  reviewing  Lamia  in 
the  New  Times,  19th  July,  1820^  calls  this  "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  inhabitants,  and  the  sudden  coming  of  a  celestial  among 
them". 

Lines  81,  82,  with  their  inversion  not  delay' d  and  the  phrase  rosy  eloquence 
suggest  a  recent  study  of  Milton.  So  too  line  92  the  phrase  brilliance 
feminine  and  cf.  ii.  26,  note. 

115.  lifted  her  Circean  head :  lifted  up  her  circean  head  MS.  (quoted 
HBF)  amended  for  the  same  reason  as  line  78. 

133.  Caducean : — Cf.  Endynwm,  i.  662,  note. 

139.  self-folding  like  a  flower  That  faints  into  itself  at  evening  hour  :— 
Nowhere  perhaps  in  Paradise  Lost  does  Milton  show  more  delicacy  in 
observation  of  nature,  nor  more  insight  into  the  simple  charm  of  his 
heroine,  than  in  that  line  in  which  Eve  tells  the  time  of  day  by  its  effect 
upon  the  garden  which  she  tended  with  such  loving  care : — 
Just  then  returned,  at  shut  cf  Evening  Flours. — (Paradise  Lost,  ix.  278.) 
Keats,  at  least,  was  peculiarly  impressed  by  it,  for  he  reproduces  part  of 
Milton's  phrase  in  two  places  {Hyperion,yU.  36,  and  Sonnet  xxix.  p.  287). 
Here  he  develops  the  picture  wit^  an  added  touch  peculiarly  characteristic 
of  himself.  So  line  220,  "  Now  on  the  motii-time  of  that  evening  dim  "  is 
a  develppment  of  the  same  poetic  method  noticeable  in  the  original  line 
of  MUton.    Cf.  also  Lmnia,  ii.  107,  "  at  shut  of  day  ". 

144.  green-recessed  woods : — Cf.  Hyperion,  iii.  41  where  the  isolation 
of  Apollo's  isle  is  described  :— 

Throughout  all  the  isle 
There  was  no  covert^  no  retired  cave 
Unhaunted  Iby  the  murmurous  noise  of  waves, 
Though  scarcely  heard  in  many  a  green  recess. 

149.  grass,  therewith  besprent,  Withe^d  at  dew : — Cf,  Conms,  462, "  Knot 
grass  dew  besprent ". 

168.  brede : — vide  Appendix  C,  p.  683. 

173,  174*76.  She  fled  into  that  valUy  thy  pass  o'er,  etc. :— Here  again 


LAMIA— NOTES  467 

the  MS.  (ijuoted  HBF)  shows  false  quantities  and  was  emended.    Origin- 
ally these  lines  ran  : — 

She  fled  into  that  valley  they  must  pass 
Who  go  from  Corinth  out  to  Cencreas, 
The  rugged  paps  of  little  Perea's  rills. 
212.  Mulciber : — The  name  for  Vulcan  used  by  Milton,  Paradise  Lost, 
i.  740.    So  also  Spenser,  Faerk  Queme,  iii.  11.  26. 
226.  port  Cmchreas,  harbour  Cenohreas,  MS. 

244.  syllabling: — The  use  of  syllable  as  a  verb  again  recalls  Comus 
(208),  "  and  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  mens  names ''.  The  voice  which 
"syllables"  the  name  of  Lycius  is,  like  the  voices  in  Comus,  itself  un- 
earthly, and  fraught  with  dire  consequences  to  him  that  hears  it. 

248.  Orpheus : — Perhaps  the  Miltonic  touch  in  the  preceding  passage 
leads  Keats  unconsciously  to  this  story  to  which  Milton  alludes  both  in 
V Allegro  and  II  Penseroso. 

261.  his  eyes  had  drunk  her  beauty  up : — Cf.  Burton's  Anatomy  of 
MeUmcholie  (pt.  iii.  sect.  ii.  mem.  iii.  subs.  i.).  "  So  will  she  by  him — drink  to 
him  with  her  eyes,  nay  drink  Mm  up,  devour  him,  swallow  him,"  cf.  also  Ode 
to  Fanny,  iii.,  "  WTio  now,  with  greedy  looks,  eats  up  my  feast  ?  "  and  notes. 
260.  so  I  shall  die: — Followed  in  MS.  by  a  line  omitted  in  printed 
text: — 

Thou  to  Elysium  gone,  here  for  the  vultures  I. 
333.  Pyrrha's  pebbles : — The  story  how,  after  the  flood  which  de- 
stroyed mankind,  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha  peopled  the  world  by  casting 
stones  behind  them  which  became  men,  is  told  at  length  in  Ovid,  Met.  i. 
The  juxtaposition  of  Adam  and  Pyrrha  savours  of  the  commentary  of 
Sandys,  who  always  parallels,  where  it  is  possible  to  do  so,  the  stories  of 
the  Bible  and  of  Classical  Mythology.  It  is  noticeable,  also,  that  Milton 
thus  represents  Adam  and  Eve  repentant  :— 

.  .  .  thir  port 
Not  of  mean  suiters,  nor  important  less 
Seem'd  thir  Petition,  then  when  th'  ancient  Pair 
In  Fables  old,  less  ancient  yet  then  these, 
Deucalion  and  chaste  Pyrrha  to  restore 
The  Race  of  Mankind  drownd,  before  the  Shrine 
Of  Themis  stood  devout        — Paradise  Lost,  xi.  8-14. 
Cf.  also  Spenser,  Faerie  Queme,  bk.  v.,  Introduction,  2. 
377.  dreams":  dreams  1820. 

LAMIA  II 

26.  slope : — A  Miltonic  reminiscence.    Cf.  Hyperion,  i..  204. 

39.  That  but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing  bell : — Cf.  Hyperion, 
i.  173,  note. 

46.  After  this  line  stood  in  MS.  an  additional  couplet  (quoted  HBF) : — 
Too  fond  was  I  believing,  fancy  fed 
In  high  deliriums,  and  blossoms  never  shed  ! 


458  JOHN  KEATS 

47.  My  silver  planet : — Lycius  perhaps  recurs  to  his  former  conjecture 
{cf.  i.  267)  that  the  Lamia  is  one  of  the  Pleiades. 

81.  She  burnt,  she  lov'd  the  tyranny  : — The  MS.  reading  of  the  passage 
which  follows,  besides  showing  some  alterations  of  detail,  contains  the 
following  additional  lines : — 

Became  herself  a  flame — 'twas  worth  an  age 
Of  minor  joys  to  revel  in  such  rage. 
She  was  persuaded,  and  she  fixt  the  hour 
When  he  should  make  a  Bride  of  his  fair  Paramour. 
After  the  hot[t]est  day  comes  languidest 
The  colour'd  Eve,  half-hidden  in  the  west ; 
So  they  both  look'd,  so  spake,  if  breathed  sound, 
That  almost  sileace  is,  hath  ever  found 
Compare  with  nature's  quiet.     Which  lov'd  most. 
Which  had  the  weakest,  strongest,  heart  so  lost. 
So  ruin'd,  wreck'd,  destroy'd :  for  certes  they 
Scarcely  could  tell  .  .  .  they  could  not  guess 
Whether  'twas  misery  or  happiness. 
Spells  are  but  made  to  break. 
This  was  rightly  replaced  by  Keats  by  the  reading  in  the  text;  but 
the  first  two  lines  are  interesting  in  the  parallel  they  afford  to  the  idea  in 
the  Ode  on  Melancholy : — 

Or  if  thy  mistress  some  rich  anger  shows, 
Emprison  her  soft  hand,  and  let  her  rave  ; 
whilst  the  exquisite  lines  that  follow — "  After  the  hottest  day  .  .  .  quiet," 
eminently  characteristic  of  Keats,  we  can  iU  afford  to  lose.     "  So  ruin'd, 
wreck'd,  destroy'd,"  in  its  collocation  of  adjectives,  repeats  a  favourite 
mannerism  of  Keats — cf.  Hyperion,  i.  18,  note ;  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  ii.  3. 

89  Fit  appellation  for  this  dazzling  frame : — ^An  additional  variation  of 
this  line  "Of  fit  sound  for  this  soft  ethereal  frame,"  again  suggests 
Milton. 

141, 142.  The  Houghton  fragment  gives  the  following  four  lines 
between  141  and  142 : — 

And  so  till  she  was  sated — then  came  down 
Soft  lighftjing  on  her  head  a  brilliant  crown 
Wreathed  turban-wise  of  tender  wannish  fire 
And  sprinkled  o'er  with  stars  like  Ariadne's  tiar. 
These  were  probably  omitted  because  the  comparison  to  Ariadne's  tiar 
had  already  been  employed  in  i.  678. 

187.  Ceres'  horn  .-—Cf.  Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  35  :— 

Still  was  more  plenty  than  the  fabled  horn 
Thrice  emptied  could  pour  forth  at  banqueting, 
237.  Unweave  a  rainbow  : — Mr.  Forman  quotes  Haydon's  Autobiography 
which  tells  how  "  Keats  and  Lamb,  at  one  of  their  meetings  at  Haydon's 
house,  agreed  that  Newton  had  destroyed  all  the  beauty  of  the  rainbow. 


LAMIA— NOTES  459 

by  reducing  it  to  the  prismatic  colours".     Many  critics,  irooi  Leigh 
Hunt  onwards,  have  blamed  Keats  for  the  introduction  of  this  passage, 
and  treated  it  as  though  it  expressed  his  own  settled  point  of  view.     But  his 
general  attitude  to  science  can  hardly  be  inferred  from  this  one  place ; 
nor  is  it  fair  to  compare  it,  as  it  has  been  compared,  with  the  position 
taken  up  with  regard  to  science  in  Wordsworth's  Prefaces.     The  lines 
have  here  an  obvious  dramatic  value,  and  Keats's  final  word  with  regard 
to  science  is  no  more  summed  up  in  them  than  Wordsworth's  is  summed 
up  in  the  Poet's  Epitaph,  when  the  man  of  science  is  described  as 
a  prying  fingering  slave 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanise 
Upon  his  mother's  grave. 
Both  the  Poet's  Epitaph  and  these  lines  of  Keats  present  a  point  of  view, 
and  figure  truly  the  influence  which   science  exercises  upon  a  certain 
narrow  type  of  mind.    If  Keats  had  been  writing  a  defence  of  poetry,  he 
would  not  have  admitted  for  a  moment  that  science  had  power  to  affect 
the  things  of  the  imagination ;  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  insist,  to 
borrow  the  words  of  Leigh  Hunt,  that  "  there  will  be  a  poetry  of  the  im- 
agination as  long  as  the  first  causes  of  things  remain  a  mystery  ". 
,,  Keats's  lines  have  often  been  compared  with  Campbell's  poem  The 
Rainbow,  where  a  similar  idea  is  expressed : — 

Triumphal  arch  that  fills  the  sky 

When  storms  prepare  to  part 

I  ask  not  proud  Philosophy 

To  teach  me  what  thou  art 


When  science  from  Creation's  face 
Enchantment's  veil  withdraws 
What  lovely  visions  yield  their  place 
To  cold  material  laws  ! 
It  should  be  remembered  that  The  Rainbow  was  only  written  in  1819,  and 
made  its  first  appearance  in  the  New  Monthly  of  December,  1820. 

293.  as  heart-struck  and  lost,  He  sank  supine  beside  the  aching  ghost. 
The  MS.  (quoted  HBF)  reads  :— 

From  Lycius  answer'd,  as  he  sunk  supine 
Upon  the  couch  where  Lamia's  beauties  pine, 
and  gives  the  speech  of  Apollonius  (296  et  seq.)  thus : — 

from  every  ill 
That  youth  might  suffer  have  I  shielded  thee 
Up  to  this  very  hour,  and  shall  I  see 
Thee  married  to  a  Serpent?    Pray  you  Mark, 
Corinthians  !     A  Serpent,  plain  and  stark  ! 
29a  pr»y?"     prey?  1820. 


460  JOHN  E£ATS 

ISABELLA  OR  THE  POT  OF  BASIL 

"ThiB  adaptation  of  Boccaccio,"  says  Lord  Houghton,  "  was  intended 
to  form  part  of  a  collection  of  Tales  from  th6  great  Italian  novelist, 
versifibd  by  Mr.  Reynolds  himself.  Two  hy  Mr.  Reynolds  appeared  in 
the  Garden  of  Florenci  (publ.  1821).  Isabella  was  the  only  one  Keats 
completed."  He  began  the  ■po^ta  in  February,  1818,  and  writes  to 
Reynolds  on  27th  April  that  it  is  finished.  The  poem  is  founded  on  the 
Decameron,  Day  iv.  Novel  5,  the  heading  of  which  runs:  "The  three 
brethren  of  Isabella  slew  a  gentletnan  that  secretly  loved  her.  His 
ghost  appeared  to  heir  %n  her  sleep,  and  ^owed  her  in  what  place  they 
had  buried  his  body.  She,  in  silent  manner,  brought  away  his  head,  and 
putting  it  in  a  pot  of  earth,  such  as  flowers,  ba^il  and  other  sweet  hei^ 
are  usually  set  in,  she  watered  it  a  long  while  with  her  tears.  Whereof 
her  brothers  haVing  intelligence,  soon  after  she  died  with  mere  conceit 
of  sorrow."  Keate  follows  his  sdurc^  very  closely,  but  he  alters  the 
scene  of  tbe  tragedy  from  Messina  to  Florence,  and  the  number  of 
Isabella's  brothers  from  three  to  two.  He  adds,  also,  as  the  motive  of 
the  murder,  their  desire  to  Xved  their  sister  to  a  rich  noble,  and  develops, 
in  some  places  with  inartistib  insistence,  their  intense  greed  for  gold. 
In  his  treatment  of  the  two  main  characters  and  their  passion,  and  in  the 
spirit  in  which  he  tells  the  Story  he  is,  of  course,  completely  independent 
of  Boccaccio  {qf.  Introd.,  p.  liv).  Re}moIds  was  ddighted  with  the  poem, 
and  felt  it  to  be  unsuited  to  publication  with  his  hulnbler  stories.  "  You 
ought  to  be  alone,"  he  writes,  and  again :  "  I  am  confident  that  the  Pot 
of  Basil  hath  that  simplicity  and  quiet  pathos  which  are  of  sure  sovereignty 
over  all  hearts  "  {Letter  from  Reynolds  <quoted  by  HBF). 

It  was  probably  the  Italian  source  of  the  story  which  suggested  to  Keats 
the  employment  for  this  poem  of  the  oUava  rimu,  the  favourite  metre  of 
the  Italian  narrative  poets.  This  measure  had  been  used  by  Chaucer  and 
the  Elizabethans,  and  had  been  recenliy  reintroduced  into  Gnglish  poetry 
by  Hookham  Frere  {The  Monks  and  the  Gicmts)  and  by  Byron  {Btppo  and 
Don  Juan)  for  the  mock  heroic.  Keats  employs  it  with  striking  success, 
and  for  the  first  time  shows  complete  mastery  over  ihis  verse,  avaiding 
the  danger,  common  to  the  use  of  this  stanza  in  narrative  poetry,  of  giving 
it  too  epigrammatic  a  finish ;  and  never,  except  perhaps  at  the  close  of 
xlviii.,  allowing  the  search  for  a  rhyme  to  lead  him  into  bathos,  but  sustun- 
ing  throughout  a  delicate  and  subtly  modulated  rhythm  well  suited  to  the 
emotion  of  the  story.  In  command  of  language,  too,  he  shows  a  distinct 
advance/  Once  or  twice,  perhaps,  does  he  ftiU  below  the  high  poetic  standard 
which  his  conception  deqii^dW,  in  the  ludicrous  ending  of  xvi.,  and  in  the 
common-place  and  ofP-hand  adieu  of  Lorenso,  "Good-'bye !  I'll  soon  be  hack," 
of  xxvi.  His  vocabulary,  too,  is  singularly  free  ftlike  from  the  natural  finilts 
of  his  earlier  work  and  the  direct  influence  of  the  work  of  his  predecessors. 
For  the  first  time  the  -y  adjectives  are  kept  under  due  control  and  the 


ISABELLA^NOTES  461 

only  lioenea  he  aUows  lumself  is  in  the  use  of  douhb  as  verbgy  ungmished 
(vii.)  (used  again  in  Hyp.)  and  feair  (found  however  in  Shakespeare),  and 
verba  as  nouns,  assail  (xz.)  wid  pigree  (nxxiv.)  neither  of  them  supported 
by  good  autiiority.  The  word  leafils  (liv.)  has  been  regarded  as  Keats's 
invention  and  the  N£D'.  gives  no  precedent  for  its  use  in  Engtish  poetry. 
But  Coleiridge  had  employed  it  in  The  NightingaU  {Lyrical  Ballads,  1798), 
though  in  later  editions  of  the.  poem  he  substituted  the,  commoner  word 


The  variant  readings  ar&  supplied  from  the  MS.  of  the  poem,  in  Keats's 
handwriting,  now  in  the  British  Museum.  The  poet's  alterations  from  them 
afford  several  fine  exwnples  of  his  rapidly  dieveloping  taste  and  feeling 
in  all  matters  c^aniceted  with  his  avt.  Woodhouse  evidently  follows  BM. 
but  his  copy  is  correoted  in  several  placeato  the  vearsiw}  of  the  text. 

I.  6.  each  to  be  the  other  by :  each  to  be  each  other  by     BM. 

VII.  7,  9f  "Lorenzo!" — here  she  ceas'd,.ote,    BM  reads: — 
"  Lorenzo,,  I  would  clip  my  rini^et  hair 
To  make  the«,  laugh  again  and  dehonnair." 
"Then  should  I  he,"  said  he,,  "fyU,  deified ; 

And  yet  I  would  not  hayfl  it,  dip, it,  not : 
For,  lady,  I  do  love  it  whei^  'tis  tied 

About  the  neck  I  dote,  on,  and  that;  spot 
That  anxious  dimple  it  doth  tal^e  a  pxide 

To  play  about-^Aye  lady,  I  have  got 
Its  shadow  in  my  heart  wd  ev'ry  sweet 
Its  mistress  owns  there  summed  all  complete 
and  on  the  opposite  page  records  the  following  vejeeked  passage : — 
Lorenzo  in  the  twilight  Mom  was  wont 
To  rouse  the  clamoroug- Kennel  toithe  Hunt ; 
And  then,  his  cheek  iaherited  th«  Ray 

Of  the  outpouring  Sun ;  and  ere  the  Horn 
Could  call  the  Hunters  to  the  Chace  away 

His  voice  more  softly  woke  me :  Many  a  Morn 
From  sweetest  Dreams  it  drew  me  to  a  Day 

More  sweet ;  but  now  Lorenzo  holds  in  scorn 
"  His  Health  ;  and  all  those  bygone  Joys  are  Dreams 

To  me — ^to  him,  I  mean — so  chsng'il  he  seems. 

XII.  Theseus'  spouse  : — A  reference  to  the  story  of  Ariadne,  known  to 
Keats  in  Ovid,  Met.  viii.  (to  which  he  is  here  alluding)  and  impressed  on 
his  imagination  by  the  famous  picture  of  Titian.  C/.  notes  to  Endymion, 
iv.  196,  and  Lamia,  i.  68. 

XTV.  proudrqfdver'd : — .Ms.  Forman  thinks  it  necessary  to  delete  the 
hyphen,  undejrstandiing  thn  passage  as  ntaeaniBg  "  many  loins  once  proud. 


462  JOHN  KEATS 

now  quivered,"  but  in  spite  of  MS.  authority  this  change  from  the  first 
edition  does  not  seem  desirable.  The  compound  adjective  is  quite  in 
Keats's  manner  at  this  period,  and  the  significance  of  the  whole  phrase 
"  once  proudly  equipped  with  quivers,"  i.e.  who  once  delighted  in  hunt- 
ing, quite  intelligible.  The  soft-conchid  of  the  Ode  to  Psyche  is  a  similar 
adleetive-compound — ^the  soft  being  half  independent  of  the  conched  and 
applying  directly  to  the  noun  ear  which  follows. 

XV.  Mr.  Forman  points  out  the  debt  of  this  stanza  to  Dryden's  Annus 
Mirabilis  : — 

For  them  alone  the  Heav'ns  had  kindly  heat. 
In  Eastern  Quarries  ripening  precious  Dew ; 
For  them  the  Idumaean  Balm  did  sweat. 
And  in  hot  Ceilon  spicy  Forrests  grew. 

XVII.  6.  The  hawks  of  ship-mast  forests: — i.e.  "  ready  to  pounce  on  the 
trading  vessels  as  they  came  in"  (Palgrave,  Golden  Treasury  Keats). 
After  xvii.  BM  gives  the  following  additional  stanza : — 
Two  young  Orlandos  far  away  they  seem'd. 

But  on  a  near  inspect  their  vapid  Miens — 
Very  alike, — at  once  themselves  redeem'd 

From  all  suspicion  of  Romantic  spleens — 
No  fault  of  theirs,  for  their  good  Mother  dream'd 

In  the  longing  time  of  Units  in  their  teens 
Of  proudly  bas'd  addition  and  of  net — 
And  both  their  backs  were  mark'd  with  tare  and  tret. 

XIX.  1,  7,  8;  O  eloquent  and  famed  Boccaccio  !  etc.  BM  reads  in  place 
of  these  lines : — 

O  eloquent  Boccace  of  green  Arno ! 
For  venturing  one  word  unseemly  mean. 
In  such  a  place,  on  such  a  daring  theme. 

XXV.  7, 8.  features  bright  Smile  through  an  in-door  lattice.  BM  reads  :— 
"  her  smiling  through  A  little  indoor  Lattice  ". 

XXXIII.  Hitmofn's  valer. — It  was  in  Hinnom's  vale  that  Ahaz  "burut 
his  children  in  the  fire  after  the  abominations  of  the  heathen  "  (2  Chron- 
icles,  xxviii.  3).  Thus  the  crime  of  the  two  brothers  comes  upon  them 
like  the  smoke  which  betokened  to  Ahaz  that  he  had  murdered  his 
children. 

XXXVIII.  7,  8.  Go  shed  one  tear,  etc. : — 

Gro  shed  a  tear  upon  my  hether  bloom 
And  I  shall  turn  a  diamond  in  my  tomb. — BM. 
Woodhouse  follows  the  same  reading,  but  changing  I  to  it  and  my  to  the. 


ISABELLA— NOTES  468 

XL.  3.  the  taste  of  earthly  bliss :  the  heaven  of  a  kiss    BM. 

XLI.  Mr.  F.  S.  Storr  has  communicated  to  me  the  following  interesting 
note  upon  this  stanza.  "  Browning  was  discussing  the  relations  of  Tenny- 
son to  Keats  and  quoted  these  lines  as  an  instance  of  Keats's  supreme 
mastery  of  language^  adding  "They  have  to  me  an  additional  pathos 
because  they  record  a  personal  experience.  It  is  what  Keats,  poor  fellow, 
must  himself  have  seen  many  a  night  in  the  early  stages  of  consumption  ! ' " 
"I  cannot  vouch,"  adds  Mr.  Storr,  "for  the  exact  words,  as  I  made  no 
note  of  them  at  the  time,  but  I  can  still  hear  Brovming's  delivery  of  'and 
see  the  spangly  gloom  froth  up  and  boil '." 

XLVI.,  XLVII.  Mr.  Colvin  has  justly  called  attention  to  these  stanzas 
as  containing  some  of  Keats's  finest  work.  "The  swift  despairing  gaze 
of  the  girl,  anticipating  with  too  dire  a  certainty  the  realisation  of  her 
dream :  the  simile  in  the  third  and  fourth  lines,  emphasising  the  clear- 
ness of  that  certainty,  and  at  the  same  time  relieving  its  terror  by  an 
image  of  beauty :  the  new  simile  of  the  lily,  again  striking  the  note  of 
beauty,  while  it  intensifies  the  impression  of  her  rooted  fixity  of  posture 
and  purpose :  the  sudden  solution  of  that  fixity,  with  the  final  couplet, 
into  vehement  action,  as  she  begins  to  dig  'more  fervently  than  misers 
can ' ;  then  the  first  reward  of  her  toil,  in  the  shape  of  a  relic  not  ghastly, 
but  beautiful  both  in  itself  and  for.the  tenderness  of  which  it  is  a  token : 
her  womanly  action  in  kissing  it  and  patting  it  in  her  bosom,  while  all 
the  woman  and  mother  in  her  is  in  the  same  words  revealed  to  us  as 
blighted  by  the  tragedy  of  her  life :  then  the  resumption  and  continuance 
of  her  labours,  with  gestures  once  more  of  vital  dramatic  truth  as  well  as 
grace :  to  imagine  and  write  like  this  is  the  privilege  of  the  best  poets 
only,  and  even  the  best  have  not  often  combined  such  concentrated  force 
and  beauty  of  conception  with  such  a  limpid  and  a  flowing  ease  of  nar- 
rative" (EML,  p.  153).  It  must  be  a  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Colvin  to  find  that 
in  bis  selection  of  this  passage  for  especial  praise  he  has  been  anticipated 
by  the  finest  critic  of  Keats's  own  time.  In  the  New  Times  for  19th  July, 
1820,  appeared  a  review  of  the  Lamia  volume  only  recently  unearthed  by 
Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  and  attributed  by  him  to  Lamb,  on  evidence  which  seems 
to  me  indisputable.  Lamb  tells  the  story  of  Isabella  and  speaks  of  it 
as  "the  finest  thing  in  the  volume".  On  reaching  this  point  of  the 
narrative  he  breaks  out :  "  Her  arrival  at  the  place  digging  for  the  body, 
is  described  in  the  following  stanzas,  than  which  there  is  nothing  more 
awfully  simple  in  diction,  more  nakedly  grand  and  moving  in  senti- 
ment, in  Dante,  in  Chaucer,  in  Spenser"  (here  follow  stanzas  xlvi.-Iiii.). 
He  concludes  his  criticism  with  a  comparison  of  Lamia  and  Isabella. 
Lamia  is  "for  younger  impressibilities.  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 


464  JOHN  KEATS 

cloying  stamas  which  we  have  cited,  and  which  we  think  sliouid  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  faijc"  (Works  of  Chofles  and  Mary  Lambf  ed.  by  E.  V.  Lucas,  1903,.  vcd. 
i.  200,  470). 

XLVIir.  6.  Three  hours  they  lahom'cL    Three  hours  were  they  BM. 

L.  1.  With  duller  steel,  etc.    BM  reads  :— 

With  duller  sliver  than  the  Pbrsean  sword 
They  cut  away  no  foul  Medusa's  head 
But  one's  .  .  . 
And  in  line  6 : — 

If  ever  any  piece  of  Love  was  dead.  .  .  . 
Woodhouse  corrects  this  to 

With  fond  caress,  as  if  it  were  not  dtod, 
and  records,  with  pencil  on  the  opposite  page,  another  reading : — 
The  ghastly  Features  of  her  lover  dead. 

Persian : — i.e.  of  Perseus,  ths  slayer  of  the  Medusa. 

LI.  fringed :  single  BM. 

LXI.  your  "  WelUa-way  !  " :  yon  well  away  BM. 

THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES 

Keats  began  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  at  Chichester  towards  the  end  of 
January,.  1819,^  and  iiidshed  it  on  his  return  to  Hampstead  in  February. 
Writing  to  his  brother  in  America  on  24th  February,  he  says  of  his  visit 
tq  Sussex,  "  I  took  down  some  thin  paper  and  have  wrote  on  it  a  little 
pawi  called  St..  Agnes'  Eve,  which  you  shall  have  as  it  is  when  I  have 
finished  the  blank  part  of  the  rest  for  you ".  Its  composition  therefore 
followed  immediately  upon  the  laying  aside  of  Hyperion.  On  5th  Sep- 
tembec  he  writes  to  John  Taylor,  from  Winchester,  to  say  that  he  is 
engaged  in  revising  it„  and  upon  the  text  of  no  other  poem  does  he  seem 
to  have  expended  so  much  paina  The  rough  draft  still  extant  in.  the 
LookerrLampson  collection  and  the  Woodhouse  transcript  of  it  exhibit 
a  large  number  of  variant  readings,  whilst  the  transcript  of  the  poem  by 
George  Keats,  now  in  the  British  Museum,  seems  to  have  been  made 
from  a  different  MS.  altogether.  For  a  complete  account  of  the  readings 
in  the  Locker-Lampson  MS.  reference  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Buxton  Forman's 
edition.    The  most  interesting  variants  are  recorded  below. 

>  Not  improbably!  on  the  ISve  of  St.  Agnes  itself,  i.e.  aoth  January;  for  we  know 
that  Keats  was  back  in,  Hampstead  early  in  Febnaiy,  tlut  he  spent  about,  a  fortni^ 
at  Bedhampton,  whence  he  writes  a  letter  on  a4tb  January,  and  that  be  was  for  a  few 
days,  onl^  just  befbre  this,  at  Chichester. 


EVE  OF  ST,  AGNES^NOTES  465 

Leigh  Hunt,  in  an  article  in  the  London  Journal  for  21st  January, 
1836  (quoted  by  HBF)  explains  the  legend  on  which  the  poem  is  based 
by  a  reference  to  Brand's  Popular  Antiquities  where  Ben  Jonson  is 
quoted : — 

And  on  sweet  St.  Agnes' '  night, 

Please  you  with  the  promis'd  sight — 

Some  of  husbands,' some  of  lovers^  ' 

Which  an  empty  dream  discovers. 
But  the  subject  was  more  probably  suggested  to  Keats  by  a,  passage  in 
Burton's  Anatomy  of  MelanchoUe  (pt.  iii.  sect.  ii.  mem.  iii.  subs.  L).  "'Tis 
their  only  desire  if  it  may  be  done  by  Art,  to  see  their  husbands  picture 
in  a  glass,  they'll 'give  anything  to  know  when  they  shall  be  married, 
how  many  husbands  they  shall  have>  by  Crommyomantia,  a  kind  of  divina- 
tion with  Onions  laid  on  the  Altar  on  Christmas  Eve,  or  by  fasting  on 
St.  Agnes'  Eve  or  Night,  to  know  who  shall  be  their  first  husband." 

U.  3.  meagre,  barefoot,  wan : — A  favourite  collocation  of  epithets  pro- 
ducing a  cadence  which  had  been  suggested  to  Keats  by  Ohatterton.  Cf. 
Excellent  Ballad  of  Charitie,  "  withered^  forwynd,  deade/'  etc.  Keats  had 
already  made  use  of  it  iaEndymion,  iv.  79i,  "loTelomy  sitent,  wan,"  and 
in  Hyperion,  i.  18,  " nerveless,  listless,  dead  '■<  He  employed  it  again  in 
this  poem  (xxi.  7),  " silken,  hush' d,  and  chaste". 

To  think  how  they  may  eeche,  etc. : — "  The  germ  of  this  thought,"  says 
Hunt,  "  or  something  like  it,  is  in  Dante,  where  he  speaks  of  the  figures 
that  perform  the  part  of  sustaining  columns  in  architecture.     Keats  had 
read  Dante  in  Mr.  Gary's  translation,  for  which  he  had  a  great  respect. 
.  .  .  Most  wintry  as  well  as  penitential  is  the  word  'aching'  In  Mcy 
hoods  and  mails ' ;  and  most  felicitous  the  introduction  of  the  Catholic 
idea  in  the  word  '  purgatorial '.    The  very  colour  of  the  rails  is  made  to 
assume  a  meaning,  and  to  shadow  forth  the  glOom  of  the  punishment — 
Imprisoned  in  bladk,  purgatorial  rails." 
(^It  would,  indeed,  be  difficult  to  par^tUel  in  our  poetry  the  dramatic 
intensity  with  which  Keats  has  conceived  the  background  of  his  subject, 
so  that  both  here  and  in  stanza  iv.,  in  which 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Star'd,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 

With  hair  blow^  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts, — 
the  very  architecture  seems  to  be  taking  a  silent  part  in  the  action.  Such 
passages  illustrate  the  manner  in  which  the  ari;  of  Keats  at  times  approxi- 
mates to  the  art  of  painting ;  recalling,  for  example,  the  wonderful  treat- 
ment of  background  in  Botticelli's  picture  of  Cahmmy  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery 
at  Florence.""] 

^Tbe  quotation  is  from  Ben  Jonson's  Masque  Tlte  Satyr  (so-sz).    Most  editions 
read  Anna's  for  A^ne^,  and  this  is  probably  what  Jonson  wrote — not  from  error,  for 
he  was  well  versed  in  popular  legmd,  but  out  of  compliment  to  Queen  Anne,  for  whos^ 
entertainment  the  Masque  was  performed. 
30 


466  JOHN  KEATS 

Keats  had  been  making  a  study  of  Caxy'sDcmte  on  his  Scotch,  tour  in 
the  previous  summer,  the  passage  alluded  to  (quoted '  by  HBF)  being  as 
follows : — 

As,  to  support  incumbent  floor  or  roof, 

For  corbel  is  a  figure  sometimes  seen. 

That  crumples  up  its  VivAea  into  its  breast ; 

With  the  feign'd  posture,  stirring  ruth  unfeign'd 

In  the  beholder's  fancy ;  so  I  saw 

These  fashion'd,  when  I  noted  well  their  guise. 

Each  as  his  back  was  laden,  came  indeed 

Or  more  or  less  contracted  ;  and  it  seem'd 

As  he,  who  show'd  most  patience  in  his  look, 

Wailing  exclaim'd :  "  I  can  endure  no  more  ". 

III.  Followed  in  Woodhome  MS.  by  the  additional  stanza : — 
But  there  are  ears  may  hear  sweet  melodies, 
And  there  are  eyes  to  brighten  festivals. 
And  there  are  feet  for  nimble  minstrelsies. 
And  many  a  lip  that  for  the  red  wine  calls. — 
Follow,  then  follow  to  the  illumined  halls. 
Follow  me  youth — and  leave  the  eremite — 
Give  him  a  tear — ^then  trophied  banneral 
And  many  a  brilliant  tasseling  of  light 
Shall  droop  from  arched  ways  this  high  baronial  night. 

V.  1.  At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry :  At  length  step  in  the 
urgent  revelers,  Woodhouse  MS.,  gives  3-6: — 

Ah  what  are  they  ?  the  idle  pulse  scarce  stirs. 
The  muse  should  never  make  the  spirit  g^y ; 
Away,  bright  dulne^s,  laughing  fools  away —     , 
And  let  me  tell  of  one  sweet  lady  there.  .  .  . 

VI.  Between  Yl.  and  VII.  BM  has  the  following  additional  stanza : — 

'     'Twas  said  her  future  lord  would  there  appear 
Offering  as  sacrifice-^all  in  the  dream — 
Delicious  food  even  to  her  lips  brought  near : 
Viands  and  wine  and  fruit  and  sugar'd  cream, 
To  touch  her  palate  with  the  fine  extreme 
Of  relish  :  then  soft  music  heard ;  and  then 
More  pleasures  followed  in  a  dizzy  stream 
Palpable  almost :  then  to  wake  again 

Warm  in  the  Virgin  mom,  no,  weeping  Magdalen. 

VII.  3.  She  scarcely  heard  :  Touch'd  not  her  heart,  Woodhouse  MS. 

'■■    4.  saw  many  a  sweeping  train  Pass  by : — An  interesting  letter  to  John 
Taylor,  dated  11th  June,  1820,  shows  that  this  passage  was  misunderstood 


EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES^NOTES  467 

by  the  printer.  "  In  reading  over  the  proof  of  St.  Agnes'  Eve  since  I  left 
Fleet  Street,  I  was  struclc  with  what  appears  to  me  an  alteration  in  the 
seventh  stanza  very  much  for  the  worse.  The  passage  I  mean  stands 
thus : — 

her  maiden  eyes  incline 
Still  on  the  floor,  while  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by. 
'Twas  originally  written : — 

her  maiden  eyes  divine 
Fix'd  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a  sweeping  train 
Pass  by. 
'My  meaning  is  quite  destroyed  by  the  alteration.     I  do  not  use  train 
for  concourse  of  passers  by,  but  for  skirts  sweeping  along  the  floor." 

high  disdain. '^A  Miltoaic  phrase.  Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  i.  98:  to  be 
found  also,  however,  in  Coleridge's  Christabel,  416  {cf.  note  to  xxiv.-xxvii.). 

VIII.  1.  regardless  :  uneager    BM. 

XI.  8.  Mercy,  Porphyro  !    Mercy,  Jesu  !    BM. 

XIII.  9.  St.  Agnes'  wool  is  that  shorn  from  two  lambs  which  (allusive 
to  the  Saint's  name)  were  upon  that  day  brought  to  Mass,  and  offered 
whilst  the  Agnus  was  chanted.  The  wool  was  then  spun,  dressed  and 
woven  by  the  hands  of  the  nuns  (Palgrave). 

XIV.  3.  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve : — The  power  of  rendering  a  sieve 
impervious  to  water  was  regarded  as  one  of  the  commonest  signs  of  witch- 
craft.    Cf.  Macbeth,  i.  3.  8  :— 

But  in  a  sieve  I'll  thither  sail. 

5,  6.  it  fills  me  with  amaze,  etc. :  about  these  thorny  ways  Attempting 
Be'lzebub    BM. 

6.  XV.  2,  etc.  Porphyro  :.  Lionel  Woodhouse  MS.,  and  so  throughout. 

XV.  brook  Tears  : — i.e.  "  to  check  or  forbear  them  "  (EML,  p.  169),  a 
meaning  which  the  word  brook  can  never  bear.  Keats  has  coined  several 
words,  and  somewhat  stretched  the  meaning  of  others,  but  I  can  re- 
member no  other  example  of  an  actual  mistake  in  his  use  of  a  common 
archaism. 

XVI.  1,  2.  like  a  full-blown  rose  :  full-blown  like  a  rose :  flushing 
heated    BM.     more  rosy  than  the  rose.  Heated.     Woodhouse  MS. 

B.  Go,  go!    O  Christ    BM. 

XVII.  1-3.  /  will  not  harm  her,  etc. : — 

I  will  not  harm  her,  by  the  great  St.  Paul ; 

Swear'th  Porphyro, — O  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  unto  heaven  call. — BM. 


468  JOHN  KEATS 

XVIII.  1.  Aht  why  wilt  thou  affright  :  How  canst  thou  terrify    BM. 
3.  Whose  passvng'beill : — Cf.  Hyperion,  i.  173  and  note;  Lamia,  ii.  3S> 

/  XIX.  Never  on  such  a  night,  etc. : — This  passage  is  explained  hy  Mr. 
FSrman  by  a  reference  to  Dunlop's  History  of  Fiction.  "The  demons, 
alarmed  at  the  number  of  victims  which  daily  escaped  their  fangs  since 
the  birth  of  our  Saviour,  held  a  council  of  war.  It  was  there  resolved  that 
one  of  their  number  should  be  sent  to  the  world  with  instructions  to  en- 
gender on  some  virgin  a  child  who  might  act  as  their  vicegerent  on  earth, 
and  thus  counteract  the  great  plan  that  had  been  laid  for  the  salvation 
of  mankind."  This  "  monstrous  debt "  was,  as  Mr.  Forman  rightly  points 
out,  "  his  monstrous  existence  which  he  owed  to  a  demon  and  repaid  when 
he  died  or  disappeared  through  the  working  of  one  of  his  own  spells  by 
Viviane  ".  At  the  same  time  I  cannot  agree  with  Mr.  Forman  in  thinking 
that  Dunlop's,  History  of  Fiction  was  the  source  upon  which  Keats  drew,  for 
the  simile  was  obviously  suggested  to  his  mind  by  the  storm  which  he  con- 
ceives as  bursting  out  upon  the  meeting  of  Pori^iyro  and  Madeline,  as 
before  on  the  meeting  of  Merton  and  Viviane,  and  no  mention  of  the  storm 
is  made  in  Dunlop.     But  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  trace  the  reference!    / 

XXI.  8,  9.  Woodhouse  MS.  reads  :— 

There  hiB  id' panting  covert  will  remain 
From  Purgatory  sweet  to  view  what  he  may  attain. 
On  the  opposite  page  "all  that"  is  suggested  in  place  of  "  what ". 

XXII.  4.  mission'd  spirit :  Spirit  to  her    BM. 

9.  like  vtnig-deve  fray'd  and  fled.      A  reminiscence,  as  Mr.  Read  has 
suggested,  of  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene,  v.  12.  6  :^- 
he  them  chast  away 
And  made  to  fly  like  doves,  whom  th'  eagle  doth  affray. 


5^5 


^XIII.  2.  its  little  srnoJie,i«  pallid  moonshine^  died: — A  picture  of  delicate 
but  vivid  imagination,  recalling  to  the  mind  Sir  Walter  Scott's  account 
of  how  Wordsworth  "told  Anne  (Scott)  a  story  the  object  of  which,  as 
she  understood  it,  was  to  show  that  Crabbe  had  no  imagination.  Cntbbe, 
Sir  George  Beaumont,  and  Wordsworth  were  sitting  together  in  Murray's 
room  in  Albemarle  Street.  Sir  George,  after  se^ng  a  letter,  blew  out 
the  candle  which  had  enabled  him  to  do  so,  and  exchanging  a  look  with 
Wordsworth,  began  to  admire  in  silence  the  undulating  thread  of  smoke 
which  slowly  rose  from  the  expiring  wick,  when  Crabbe  put  on  the 
extinguisher.  Anne  laughed  at  the  institnce,  and  inquired  if  the  taper 
was  wax,  and  being  answered  in  the  negative,  seemed  to  think  that  there 
was  no  call  on  Mr.  Crabbe  to  sacrifice  his  sense  of  smell  to  the  admiration 
of  beautiful  and  evanescent  forms.  In  two  other  men  I  should  have  said, 
'  Why,  it  is  affectations,'  with  Sir  Hugh  Evans ;  but  Sir  George  is  the 
man  in  the  world  most  void  of  affectations ;  and  then  lie  is  an  exquisite 


EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES-^NOTES  469 

painter,  and  no  doubt  saw  where  the  incident  would  have  succeeded  in 
painting."    Keats  saw  here,  as  often,  with  the  eye  of  a  painter.  \ 

XXIV. -XXVII.  "  This  sumptuous  passage  occupied  the  poet's  care  very 
considerably.  The  following  opening  stands  cancelled  in  the  Locker- 
Lampson  MS. : — 

A  Casement  tripple  arch'd  and  diamonded 
With  many  coloured  glass  fronted  the  Moon 
In  midst  w[h]ereof  a  shi[e]lded  scutcheon  shed 
High  blushing  gules ;  she  kneeled  saintly  down 
And  inly  prayed  fbr  grace  and  heavenly  boon  ; 
That  blood  red  gules  fell  on  her  silver  cross 
And  her  white  hands  devout." — HBF. 
And  the  rough  draft  of  these  stanzas  shows  many  false  starts  to  lines, 
as  well  as  many  words  and  phrases  which  the  poet  did  not  allow  to  stand 
mhis  final  verE^ion. 

XXV.  Shi  knelt :  prayed  BM.  so  ...  so :  too  .  .  .  too  Woodhouse 
its.,  BM. 

These  stanzas  (xxiv.-xxvii.)  have  been  selected  for  especial  praise  by 
many  famous  critics,  among  them  Leigh  Hunt,  Hazlitt,  and  Lamb.  Par- 
ticularly interesting  is  Lamb's  criticism.  "  Such  is  the  description  that 
Mr.  Keats  has  given  us,  with  a  delicacy  worthy  of  Christabel,  of  a  high- 
born damsel,  in  one  of  the  apartments  of  a  baronial  castle,  laying  herself 
down  devoutly  to  dream  on  the  charmed  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  and  like  the 
radiance,  which  comes  from  those  old  windows  upon  the  limbs  and 
garments  of  the  damsel,  is  the  almost  Chaucer-like  painting,  with  which 
this  poet  illumines  every  subject  he  touches.  We  have  scarcely  anything 
like  it  in  modern  description.  It  brings  us  back  to  ancient  days,  and 
Beauty  making-beautiful  old  rhymes." 

This  parallel  in  the  delineation  of  Madeline  and  that  of  Christabel, 
each  perfect  in  its  own  peculiar  way,  suggests  also  a  striking  contrast  in 
the  characteristic  methods  of  these  two  greatest  masters  of  the  medisval 
romance,  Keats  obtaining  his  effects  in  a  picture  of  rich  and  detailed 
splendour,  Coleridge  by  a  reticence  fully  as  eloquent: — 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

In  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  Keats  approaches  more  closely  to  the 
manner  of  Coleridge.' 

1  Keats  in  all  probability  took  a  few  hints  from  Christabel  in  points  of  detail  The 
mastiff  hitch  was  doubtless  responsible  for  the  wakeful  bloodhound  of  stanza  xli.,  and 
Christabel's  chamber  carved  so  curiously : — 

Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 

All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain, 

For  a  lady's  chamber  meet : 

The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 

Is  fastened  to  an  angel's  feet — 
may  have  given  a  suggestion  foi^the  "  carved  angels"  of  stanza  iv,  as  well  as  for  the 
"  chained  drooped  lamp  "  of  xl.^S 


J 


470  JOHN  KEATS 

<  Another  interesting  parallel  is  to  be  found  in  Browne,  Brit.  Past,  i. 
6.  80  et  seq.,  which,  says  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  {Keats,  xliii.),  "1  do  not 
think  that  any  one  can  read  without  being  convinced  that  Keats  had  them 
in  mind  when  he  wrote  the  lines  on  Madeline  ".    The  passage  runs : — 
And  as  a  lovely  maiden,  pure  and  chaste. 
With  naked  ivory  neck,  a  gown  unlaced. 
Within  her  chamber,  when  the  day  is  fled. 
Makes  poor  her  garments  to  enrich  her  bed : 
First,  puts  she  off  her  lily-silken  gown. 
That  shrinks  for  sorrow  as  she  lays  it  down ; 


Her  breasts  all  bare,  her  kirtle  slipping  down. 
Prepares  for  sweetest  rest,  y^ 

CXXIX.  7.  clarinet :  Woodhouse,  MS.,  BM.     Clarionet  1820. 
9.  The  hall  door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone: — On  reading  to 
Clarke  the  MS.  of  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  Keats  told  him  that  this  line 
"  came  into  my  head  when  I  remembered  how  I  used  to  listen  in  bed  to 
your  music  at  school ". 

It  seems  likely  that  in  his  contrast  between  the  "  rude  wassailers "  in 
the  castle  and  the  emotion  of  his  hero  Keats  is  indebted,  though  uncon- 
sciously, to  a  similar  contrast  between  Hamlet's  refined  nature  and  his 
grosser  uncle.     Cf.  especially  Hamlet,  i.  4.  8-12 : — 

The  King  doth  wake  to-night  and  takes  his  rouse. 
Keeps  wassail,  and  the  swaggering  up-spring  reels ; 
And  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  Rhenish  down. 
The  Kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 
This  is  borne  out  by  stanza  zxix.  where  the  bloated  wassailers  (cf.  the 
phrase  "bloat  king"  applied  to  Claudius,  iii.  4.  182),  are   represented 
as 

Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead. 
The  original  reading  in  xxxix.  7,  Drenching  mead  again  suggests  how 
Keats's  mind  turned  to  Shakespeare  for  his  presentation  of  this  side  of  his 
story.    Cf.  Macbeth,  i.  7.  67  :— 

When  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  He  as  in  a  death  ; 
whilst  the  porter,  with  uneasy  sprawl 

With  a  huge  empty  flaggon  by  his  side 
is  no  distant  relation  to  the  guardian  of  Macbeth's  castle?^ 

Y^XXX.  While  he,  etc: — The  description  of  the  banquet  prepared  for 
Madeline,  like  that  of  the  banquet  in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  {i.  30,  etc.) 
owes  much  to  the  famous  description  in  Milton  of  the  meal  prepared  by 
Eve  for  the  Archangel ; — 


EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES— NOTES  471 

fruit  of  all  kindes,  in  coate. 
Rough,  or  smooth  rin'd,  or  bearded  husk,  or  shell 
She  gathers,  Tribute  large,  and  on  the  board 
Heaps  with  unsparing  hand :  for  drink  the  Grape 
She  crushes,  inoffensive  moust,  and  meathes 
From  many  a  berrie,  and  from  sweet  kernels  prest 
She  tempers  dulcet  creams  {Paradise  Lost,  v.  341-347.)- 
For   the  whole  stanza  Keats  drew  upon   his  Elizabethan   reading. 
Tinct  is  a  word  only  found  in  Spenser  {Shep.  Cal.,  November) ;  for  the  use 
of  soother  he  was  in  a  measure  indebted,  as  Mr.  Forman  has  noticed,  to 
Milton's  use  of  the  superlative  "  the  soothest  shepherd "  (Comus,  823), 
though  he  gives  it  a  different  meaning— so/ter;  the  argosies  are  probably 
suggested  by  Marlowe  or  Shakespeare ;   whilst  Saniarcand  and  Fez  are 
both  perhaps  drawn  from  Milton  (Paradise  Lost,  xi.  389,  403).  "J 

XXXIII.  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy : — Cf.  note  to  Keats's  poem  of  that 
name. 

XXXV.  9.  For  if  thou  diest,  my  Love,  f  know  not  where  to  go  :krlt  is 
interesting  to  know  that  this  beautiful  line,  so  expressive  of  the  pure 
simplicity  of  l\{adeline's  whole  character,  as  Keats  has  conceived  it,  was 
an  afterthought^BM  reads  for  lines  8,  9 : — 

See  while  she  speaks  hi^  arms  encroaching  slow 

Have  zon'd  her,  heart  to  heart — loud,  loud  the  dark  winds  blow. 

XXXVI.  1-7.  In  place  of  the  text  BM  reads  here  :— 
For  on  the  midnight  came  a  tempest  fell. 
More  sooth  for  that  his  close  rejoinder  flows 
Into  her  burning  ear ; — and  still  the  spell 
Unbroken  guards  her  in  serene  repose. 
With  her  wild  dream  he  mingled  as  a  rose 
Marryeth  its  odour  to  a  violet. 

Still,  still  she  dreams. — louder  the  frost  wind  blows. 
The  phrase  solution  sweet  is  Miltonic,  both  in  its  inversion  of  the  adjective 
and  in  its  appositional  relation  with  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

XXXVIII.  3.  vermeil  dyed : — Cf.  Milton's  vermeil-tinctured  lip  {Comus, 
762). 

XXXIX.  4.  The  bloated  wassailUrs  .  .  .  Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish : — Cf. 
note  to  xxix. 

8,  9.  Awake!  arise!  etc.    Woodhouse  reads  here: — 
Put  on  warm  clothing,  sweet,  and  fearless  be 
Over  the  Dartmoor  black  I  have  a  home  for  thee. 
The  alteration  in  the  first  of  them  is  a  fortunate  escape  from  bathos ;  the 
reading  in  the  latter  is  intensely  interesting,  as  affording  us  a  clue  to  the 


472  V    JOHN  KEATS 

scenery  in  which  the'  imagrination  df '  Keats  had  localised  his  story.  The 
reading  of  the  text  Southern  gives  just  that  touch  of  warmth  which 
throughout  the  poeid  is  reserved  for  the  lovers,  whilst  our  knowledge  that 
Dartmoor  was  first  written  sugg'ests  inevitably  that  the  home  which  awaited 
Madeline  ''opened  on  the  foam  of  perilous  seas  ". 

f  XL,  9.  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor : — Critics  from  Hunt 
OBWards  have  commented  on  the  anachronism  of  the  introduction  of 
carpets  here.  But  the  poem  belongs  by  right  to  no  definite  period  of  the 
world's  history.  Thus  Mr.  Forman's  quotation  from  Rossetti's  King's 
Tragedy  showing  how  the  unchronbloigical  ilaw  could  be  avoided  "And 
the  rushes  shook  on  the  floor"  seems  hardly  to  the  point;  for  Rossetti 
is  writing  a  strictly  historical  ballad  in  which  accuracy  of  local  cdlour  may 
justly  be  demanded,  whilst  Keats's  poem  is  ehtirely  imaginative.  It  is 
noticeable  that  though  the  carpets  have  been  mentioned  twiceJ)efore  (in 
stanzas  xxviii.  and  xkxii.)  no  critic  hag  objected  to  them  there.   J 

XLI.  3.  the  Porter : — Cf.  note  to  xxix. 

Xtill.  679.  were  hfig  be^ightmar'd,  etc. : — 
Were  all  benightmared.    Angela  went  off 
Twitch'd  with  the  Palsy ;  and  with  face  deform 
The  beadsman  stifen'd,  twixt  a  sigh  and  laugh 
Ta'en  sudden  from  his  beads  by  one  weak  little  cough. — BM. 
7.  with  meagre  face  deform ;— Mr^  Read  compares  Spenser,  Faerie  Queene, 
iv.  8.  12.  "~) 

—      With  heary  glib  deformed  and  meiger  face. 

OoB,  TO  THE  NioHTiNGAiiE : — Written  ea;rly  in  May,  1819,  when  Keats 
was  living  with  Charles  Brown  at  Went  worth  Place,  Hampstead,  and  first 
published  in  the  following  July  in  the  Annals  of  the  Fine.  Arts,  a  quarterly 
magazine  edited,  by  James  Elmes.  Of  the  origin  and  circumstances  of  com- 
position of  the  poem  Brown  w^rites  ;  "  In  the  spring  of  1819  a  nightingale 
had  built  her  ne^t  near  my  house.  Keats  felt. a  tranquil  and  continual  joy 
in  her  song :  and  one  morning  he  took  his  chair  from  the  breakiast  table 
to  the  g^ass-plot  under  a  plum-t);ee,'  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  hoqks.  On  inquiry, 
I  found  those  scraps,  four  or  five  in  number,  contained  his  poetic  fieeling  on 
the  song  of  our  nightingale.  The  writing  was  not  well  legible ;  and  it  was 
difficult  to  arrange  the  stanzas  on  so  many  scraps.  With  his  assistance  I 
succeeded,  and  this  was  his  '  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,'  a  poetti  which  has 
been  the  delight  of  every  one."  The  original  draft  of  the  poem  has 
recently  come  to  light  and  was  reproduoed  in  facsimile  in  the  Monthly 
Review  foi:  March,  1903,  accompanied  by  a  valuable  commentary  by  Mr. 


ODE  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE— NOTES         478 

Sidney  Colvin,  entitled  A  Morning's  Work  in  a  Hampstead  Garden.  Mr. 
CaWin  proves  conclusively  that  the  Keats  MS.  which  he  reproduces  is  the 
original  draft,  "written  while  the  main  and  essential  work  of  composition 
was  actually  going  on  in  the  poet's  brain.  .  .  .  Hence  we  maf^ismiss 
Haydon's  account  of  the  ode  having  been  recited  to  him  by  Keats  in  the 
Hampstead  fields  '  before  it  was  committed  to  paper '  as  one  of  the  orna- 
mental flourishes  characteristic  of  that  writer ;  whose  vividness  of  State- 
ment is  seldom  found,  when  we  have  opportunity  to  test  it,  to  coexist  with 
strict  accuracy." 

Brown's  account  of  the  genesis  of  the  poem,  written  twenty  years 
later,  is  inaccurate  in  detail.  For  example,  the  Ode  was  not  written  on 
four  or  five  scraps,  but  upon  two  half  sheets  of  notepaper,  and  the  difficulty 
of  arranging  the  stanzas  in  order  was  not  due  to  piecing  these  together, 
bat  rather  because  of  the  odd  in  and  out  arrangement  of  the  stanzas  on 
the  two  sheets.  But  in  spite  of  such  a  slip  of  memory  as  this  there  is  no 
reason  to  doubt  the  substantial  truth  of  Brown's  statement,  for  he  is 
generally  found  to  be  a  trustworthy  authority,  nor  ta  regard  as  a  legend 
the  story  that  Keats  "  was  quietly  thrusting  away  the  scraps  behind  the 
books ".  It  receives  some  support  at  least  from  a  letter  written  some  six 
months  before  wherein  he  tells  Woodhouse,  "  I  feel  assured  that  I  should 
write  from  the  mere  yearning  and  fondness  I  have  for  the  beautiful,  even 
if  my  night's  labours  should  be  burnt  every  morning,  and  no  eye  ever 
shine  upon  them"  (22nd  October,  1818). 

The  readings  of  the  draft,  as  they  have  not  before  been  given  in  any 
edition  of  Keats,  are  recorded  in  fuP  in  the  following  notes.  The  final 
text  shows  remarkably  few  alterations  from  it.  a  signal  proof  of  the  readi- 
ness with  which  language  of  supreme  poetic  felicity  came  naturally  to  the 
poet,  according  to  his  own  ideal,  "  as  leaves  to  a  tree  ".  It  is,  however, 
interesting  to  notice  that  the  two  most  famous  lines 

Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perUous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn, 
show  two  vital  corrections — "magic"  for  the  tame  "the  wide,"  and 
"  perilous  "  for  the  cacophonous  and  unsuggestive  "  keelless  ".  On  these 
alterations — "the  former  made  after  the  whole  line  had  been  written 
down,  and  the  latter  instantly  after  the  epithet  '  keelless '  had  been  tried 
and  found  wanting,  depends,  remarks  Mr.  Colvin,  the  special  enchantment 
of  the  passage  ". 

For  a  general  criticism  of  the  Ode,  cf.  Introduction,  p.  Ix. 

I.  In  the  Draft  (D)  is  a  cancelled  opening,  "  Small  winged  Dryad  ". 

I.  1.  drowsy  numbness  pains  :  painful  numbness  falls    D  cane. 

4.  past  :  hence    D  cane. 

5.  'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot: — Mr.  Bridges  compares 
Browne's  Britannia's  Pastorals,  i.  3. 164.  "  Sweet  Philomela  ...  I  do  not 
envy  thy  sweet  carolling." 


474  JOHN  KEATS 

II.  2.  Cool'd  a  long  age  :  Cooling  an  age    D  cane. 

2.  deep-delved  eo/yth : — Suggested,  as  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  has  pointed  out, 
by  Milton's  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant,  "  Hid  from  the  world  in  a  low-delved 
tomb  ". 

6.  true,  the  :  true  and     D. 

?•  headed  :  cluster'd    D. 

10.  away    D,  1820 ;  omitted  by  Dilke,  BM,  and  Annals. 

III.  3.  the  fever,  and  the  fret : — An  unconscious  reminiscence  of  Words- 
worth's Lines  composed  a  few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey  (62,  63) — a  favour- 
ite poem  with  Keats — 

the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 

6.  pak,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies  :  pale  and  thin  and  old  and  dies  D 
cane. 

IV.  2.  Bacchus : — Another  reminiscence  of  the  great  picture  by  Titian 
which  had  already  inspired  two  passages  in  his  poetry.  Cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry, 
336,  and  the  Ode  to  Sorrow  {End.  iv.  196,  and  notes). 

7.  Cluster'd  :  dusted  {sic)  D  cane.,  but  no  alternative  suggested. 
10.  "sidelong"  D  cane,  as  false  start  to  line 

IV.  10,  V.  1-3.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  Coleridge,  in  his  poem 
of  The  Nightingale,  well  known  to  Keats  (c/.  End.  iii.  144,  and  note)  makes 
use  of  several  similar  words  in  describing  the  landscape  in  which  his  own 
bird  sang  :■ — 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath 
But  hear  no  murmuring;  it  flows  silently 
O'fer  its  soft  bed  of  verdure — All  is  still, 
A  bahny  night,  and  though  the  stars  be  dim 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 

V.  2.  Nor  what  :  followed  in  D  by  "  blooms "  {cane.) 

VI.  The  feeling  expressed  in  this  stanza  is  essentially  characteristic  of 
Keats,  and,  as  several  critics  have  pointed  out,  had  been  expressed  by  him 
in  a  sonnet  written  some  weeks  earlier  than  this  Ode. 

Why  did  I  laugh .''    I  know  this  Being's  lease. 

My  fancy  to  its  utmost  blisses  spreads  ; 
Yet  would  I  on  this  very  midnight  cease, 
And  the  world's  gaudy  ensigns  see  in  shreds. 
2.  easeful:  painless  D.    VI.  7. forth  :  thus  D,  Annals.    VI.  10.  To  D: 
for  D  cane.,  Annals. 

VII.  6.  song  :  voice    D  cane. 

9,  10.  magic  .  .  .  perilous  :  the  wide  .  .  .  keelless    D  cane. 


ODE  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE— NOTES  475 

VII.  This  stanza  has  been  blamed  by  Mr.  Colvin  ^'  as  a  breach  of  logic 
which  is  also  a  flaw  in  the  poetry  contrasting  the  transitoriness  of  the 
human  life,  meaning  the  life  of  the  individual,  with  the  permanence  of 
the  song-bird's  life,  meaning  the  life  of  the  type ''  (EML,  p.  176),  and  by 
Mr.  Bridges  who  remarks  {Keats,  p.  liv.)  that  "  the  thought  is  fanciful  or 
superficial — man  being  as  immortal  as  the  bird  in  every  sense  but  that  of 
sameness,  which  is  assumed  and  does  not  satisfy ".  But  these  objections 
hardly  seem  to  me  to  be  serious.  For  the  poet  is  not  really  thinking  of 
the  permanence  of  the  song-bird's  life,  but  rather  of  his  song,  with  which 
he  naturally  identifies  the  bird,  seeing  that,  apart  from  its  song,  it  has  no 
life  for  him.*  I  have  never  seen  this  objection  raised  against  Words- 
worth's lines  To  the  Cuckoo  to  which  it  would  be  as  applicable.  Words- 
worth, like  Keats,  addresses  the  bird  as : — 

The  same  whom  in  my  schoolboy  days 
I  listened  to ; 
and  the  emotion  of  each  poet  is  kindled  by 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery, 
which  has  power,  by  reason  of  this  very  lack  of  individuality,  to  awaken 
in  his  mind  the  beauty  and  the  glory  of  the  past. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  that  Wordsworth,  in  a  passage  which  we 
know  Keats  to  have  studied,  represents  the  ancient  Greek  as  impressed 
with  this  same  sense  of  contrast  between  the  eternity  of  nature  and  the 
mutability  of  human  life.    The  father,  lamenting  the  loss  of  his  child, 
would  cast  his  hair  as  a  votive  ofifering  upon  the  river  Cephisus.  .  .  . 
And,  doubtless,  sometimes,  when  the  hair  was  shed 
Upon  the  flawing  stream,  a  thought  arose 
Of  Life  continuous.  Being  unimpaired ; 
That  hath  been,  is,  and  where  it  was  and  is 
There  shall  endure ;  existence  unexposed 
To  the  blind  walk  of  mortal  accident ; 
From  diminution  safe  and  weakening  age ; 
While  man  grows  old,  and  dwindles,  and-  decays ; 
And  countless  generations  of  mankind 
Depart,  and  leave  no  vestige  where  they  trod. 

— Excursion,  iv.  752-62. 
In  the  last  two  lines  of  the  stanza  Keats  is  once  more  recording  the 
impression  made  upon  him  by  a  favourite  picture,  Claude's  Enchanted  Castle. 
{Of.  Epistle  to  Reynolds  26-66  and  note.) 

VIII.  2.  me  back  :  to  me    D  cane,    my  sole  self!  unto  myself    D. 
4.  deceiving  :  deceitful    D  cane. 

'  So  Meredith  in  his  poem  The  Lark  Ascending,  delights  in  the  bird's 
Song  seraphically  free 
From  taint  of  personality. 


476  JOHN  KEATS 

3.  4.  Fancy  .  .  .  deceiving  elf : — Profiessor  A.  C.  Bradley  has  called  my 
attention  to  a  »milarity  of  phrase  in  Wordsworth's  Duddon  Sonnets  xxiv. 
10,  "  the  Fancy,  too  industrious  elf".  This  sonnet  was  written  in  1820,  and 
it  seems  likely  that  Wordsworth  had  seen  the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  when  it 
appeared  in  the  Annals  of  the  Fiaie  Arts  in  the  previous  Julyi,  ~  Haydon  was 
the  inspiring  g:eniuB  of  that  magazine,,  and  would  doubtless  send  him  a 
copy  of  it.  Wordsworth  never  appreciated  the  genius  of  Keats,  and  it  is 
signiiiiciuat  that  he  should  hfire  re-echo  what  is  undoubtedly  the  weakest 
passage  in  Keats's  great  Ode. 
9.  Was  it  a  vision,  etc. : — 

Was  it  a  vision  real  or  waking  dream 

Fled  is  that  Music—do  I  wake  or  sleep-^r-D. 

Vision?  .  .  .  music? — Annals. 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Ubn  : — Written  in  February  or  March,  1819,  and  iirst 
\  published  early  in  1820  in  no.  xv.  of.  the  Annals  of  the  Fine  Artfi.  The 
[  Annals  affords  some  variant  readings,  others  are  to  be  found  in  the  MSS. 
of  Sir  Charles  Dilke  and  at  the  British  Museum.  As  Mr.  Colvin  points 
out,  the  poem  was  inspired  by  no  single  extant  work  of  antiqi^ity,  but  was 
imagined  by  a  "  combination  of  sculptures  actually  seen  in  the  British 
Museum  with  others  known  to  him  only  from  engravings,  and  particularly 
from  Piranesi's  etchings.  Lord  Holland's  urn  (often  spoken  of  as  though 
it  were  the  sole  inspiration  of  the  poem)  is  duly  figured  there  in  the  Vasi 
de  Candelabri  of  that  admirable  master  "  (GML,  p.  174).  It  is  difficult  indeed 
to  believe  4hat  the  lines  on  the  sacrifice  and  the  picture  of  the  "  heifer 
lowing  at^the  skies  "  were  not  suggested  solely  by  the  Elgin  marbles. 

In  his  expression  of  the  main  idea  upon  which  the  poem  if  based — the 
permanent  character  of  the  beautiful  in  art  as  opposed  to  its  mortality  and 
change  in  nature  and  humanity — Keats  was  echoing  a  thought  which  must 
have  been  an  inspiration  to  many  0|f  the  greatest  artists.  It  is  concen- 
trated by  Leonardo  da  Vinci  into  one  pregnant  phrase  which  Keats  might 
well  have  taken  as  the  motto  of  his  poem : — 

Cosa  bella  mortal  passa  e  non  d'arte  .  . 
and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  here,  as  often,  Wordsworth  was  not 
without  his  influence  upon  him.     Cf.  the  sonnet  Ufton  the  Sight  of  a 
Beautiful  picture  (publ.  1816).  ^ 

Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay 

Yon  cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape ; 

Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape. 

Nor  these  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the  day ; 

Which  stopped  that  band  of  travellers  on  their  way,. 

Ere  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood  ; 

And  showed  the  bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 

For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  bay. 

Soul  soothing  Art,  whom  Morning,  Noontide,  Even, 

Po  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry ; 


/ 


ODE  TO  PSYCHE— NOTES  4T7 


Thon,  with  Ambition  modest  yet  sublime. 
Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast  giyen 
To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting  time 
The  iqtpropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 
(N£.  eepec.  U.  7,  8).    Wordsworth,  too,  had  ntlled  his  attention_tQ_the  - 
musie  of  silence : —  -  '— 

music  of  finer  tone ;  a  harmony 
So  do  I  call  it,  though  it  be  the  hand 
Of  silence,  though  there  be  no  ycaob.'^'Bxmirwm,  ilL  710. 
And  in  another  parage,  well  known  to  Keats,  had  actually  suggested 
aometbing  of  the  phraseology  by  which  to  express  it : — 
sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  which  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet.* 

—Personal  Talk,  26,  26,  pubL  1807. 
But  it  was  left  for  Keats  to  realise  the  full  significance  of  the  idea  and  to 
gi?e  it  adequate  expression. 

In  the  Bpistk  to  Reynolds  {vide  p.  270}  written  26th  Sforch,  1818,  are 
to  be  found  two  anticipations  of  this  Ode : — 

The  sacrifice  goes  on  ;  the  pontiff  knife 
Gleams  in  the  Sun,  the  milk-white  heifier  lows. 
The  pipes  go  shrilly,  the  libation  flows. — 20-22. 

Things  cannot  to  the  will 
Be  settled,  \m%  they  tease  us  out  of  thought. — 77, 78. 
For  Keats's  use  of  brede  cf.  Appendix  C,  p.  683. 

L  8.  What  men  or  gods  :  what  Gods  or  Men    Annals. 
9.  What  mad  pursuit  ?  what  love?  what  dance?    Annals. 

n.  6.  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  :  nor  ever  bid  the  spring  adieu 
Annals. 

III.  2.  ever  :  never    Annals. 

IV.  7.  this  folk  :  its  folk    H. 

V.  9, 10.  "Beauty  is  truth,"  etc.  :— 

Beauty  is  truth,  truth  Beauty-^-That  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. — Annals, 

Ode  to  Pstcbe: — Writing  to  his  brother  George  on  16th  April,  1819, 
Keatg  sends  this  Ode  and  speaks  of  it  as  "the  last  I  have  written — ^the 
first  and  only  one  with  which  I  have  taken  even  moderate  pains.  I  have 
for  the  most  part  dash'd  off  my  lines  in  a  hnny.  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. 

'Wordsworth  was  himseir  indebted  to  Collins,  Tie  PasHms,  6a  "In  notes  by 
oistaiKe  made  more  sweet." 


478  JOHN  KEATS 

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  copy  of  the  poem  included  in  the  letter  affords  several  variant  read- 
ings. The  Psyche  legend  was  known  to  Keats  in  Spence  (and  Mr.  Foiinan 
thinks  that  an  engraving  in  Spence  had  suggested  the  picture  in  the  first 
stanza),  Mrs.  Tighe  and  Spenser,  and  he  had  already  treated  it  in  /  stood 
tip-toe,  140  (vide  note).  Keats's  reference  to  the  story  in  Apuleius  may  be 
due  to  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholic,  which  he  was  reading  at  the  time. 
"  If  he  be  a  man  of  extraordinary  parts,  they  will  flock  afar  off  to  hear 
him,  as  they  did  in  Apuleiusy  to  see  Psyche.  .  .  .  Many  mortal  men  came 
to  see  fair  Psyche,  the  glory  of  her  age :  they  did  admire  her,  commend, 
desire  her  for  her  divine  beauty,  and  gaze  upon  her  but  as  on  a  picture" 
(pt.  i.  sect.  ii.  mem.  iii.  subs.  xv.). 

Palgrave  suggests  that  in  writing  this  Ode  Keats  had  Gray  and  Collins 
in  mind,  but  what  literary  obligation  there  is  rather  is  to  Milton.  The 
opening  couplet  recalls  both  in  idea  and  cadence  the  "  bitter  constraint 
and  sad  occasion  dear  "  of  Lycidas,  and  later  on  there  is  an  obvious  d9bt 
to  the  Ode  on  the  Nativity.  It  is  strange  to  read  {vide  supra)  that  Keats  took 
unusual  pains  over  the  poem,  for  it  is  not  flawless  as  are  some  of  the  other 
Odes  which  were  apparently  written  far  more  rapidly ;  but  despite  occa- 
sional weaknesses  in  it,  it  is  a  magnificent  example  of  that  blending  of  a 
delicate  feeling  for  Nature  with  a  sense  of  the  true  significance  of  ancient 
legend  which  is  peculiarly  characteristic  of  him. 

This  was,  in  all  probability,  the  last  of  the  Odes  written  by  Keats  in 
the  Spring  of  1819 ;  it  is  interesting  to  notice  how  it  knits  them  all  to- 
gether by  re-echoing  a. phrase  from  each. 

"  Their  lips  touched  not  but  had  not  bade  adieu  "  (c/.  Grecian  Urn,  iii.  2 ; 
its  idea  a  contrast  with  ii.  7,  and  the  Ode  on  Melancholy,  iii.  2,  3)  and 
"  the  casement  ope  at  night "  («/.  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,  vii.  9). 

The  manuscript  letter  supplies  the  following  variant  readings: — 10. 
roof :  fan.    14.  silver-white,  and  budded  Tyrian  :  freckle  pink  and  budded 
Tyrian.    17.  bade  :  bid.    23.  true\    true.'    36.  brightest  :  bloomiest 
32-5.  No  shrine,  no  grove,  no  oracle,  no  heat 

Of  pale-mouth' d  prophet  dreaming. 
Cf.  Milton,  Ode  on  the  Nativity,  xix. : — 

The  Oracles  are  dumm. 

No  voice  or  hideous  humm 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine. 

With  hollow  shreik  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell. 

Inspires  the  paU-ey'd  Priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 


FANCY— NOTES  479 

52-5.  Par,  far  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 

Pledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep. 
This  wonderful  passage  affords  a  deeply  interesting  example  of  the  way  in 
which  literary  reminiscence  combined  in  Keats's  mind  with  accurate  and 
impaagioned  observation  to  form  some  of  his  greatest  pictures.  The  first 
uipesrance  of  the  "  Mountain  pine  "  in  his  poems  (/  stood  tip-toe,  128)  is  obvi- 
ously a  purely  literary  reminiscence,  and  suggests  neither  feeling  nor 
olwervation.  But  he  came  across  two  passages  in  the  Faithful  Shepherdess, 
which  had  evidently  sunk  into  some  "  backward  comer  of  the  biain  ". 
In  the  first  Act  he  read : — 

"  Straighter  than  the  8traightest^*n«  upon  the  steep 
Head  of  an  ancient  mountain." 
In  the  fourth  Act : — 

"  Sailing  pines  that  edge  yon  mountain  in."  > 
Then,  in  the  summer  of  1818,  he  visited  the  Lakes,  and  seeing  now  with 
his  own  eyes  what  had  before  only  been  imaged  in  his  mind,  at  once  made 
it  his  own,  touching  it  with  a  vivid  imagination  far  beyond  Fletcher's 
reach. 

Far,  &r  around  shall  those  dark-cluster'd  trees 
Pledge  the  wild-ridged  mountains  steep  by  steep. 
Of  Lodore  he  had  said  in  a  letter  to  his  brother  Tom  (29th  June,  1818), 
"There  is  no  great  body  of  water,  but  the  accompaniment  is  delightful ; 
for  it  oozes  out  from  a  cleft  in  perpendicular  rocks,  all  fledged  with  ash 
and  other  beautiful  trees  ".  An  exactly  parallel  example  of  the  manner 
in  which  Keats's  imagination  wag  stimulated  by  the  combined  influence 
of  literature  and  nature  is  to  be  found  in  his  debt  for  the  picture  {q.v.)  of 
the  fidlen  Iltans,  to  Chapman,  Wordsworth  and  the  Druid  Stones  near 
Keswick. 

Fahcv,  included  together  with  Bards  of  Passion  and  /  had  a  Dove  in 
Keats's  Jonmal  Letter  to  his  brother  and  sister  in  America  under  the  date 
2nd  Jan.,  1819,  and  presumably  written  shortly  before.  Keats  prefaces 
them  with  the  words,  "  Here  are  the  poems — ^they  will  explain  themselves 
—as  all  poems  should  do  without  any  comment". 

This  and  the  four  following  poems  are  written  in  the  four-accent  metre 
which  Keats  had  employed  in  his  lines  to  G.  A.  W.  (p.  16).  It  had  been 
oommon  in  English  poetry  since  Chaucer,  but  Keats's  use  of  it  suggests 
especially  Milton  and  Fletcher ;  and  while  the  poem  is  perfectly  original 
and  independent,  the  style  of  description  and  much-  of  the  cadence  of  the 
verse  seem  to  recall  L' Allegro.  Keats  is  hardly  at  home  in  the  four-accent 
vene,  which  was  not  entirely  suited  to  his  genius.  He  is  evidently  troubled 
with  the  weight  of  his  unaccented  syllables  (e.g.,  11.  7,  8, 17,  38)  and  was 
never  completely  successful  with  the  metre  till  he  wrote  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark. 

*  In  Bndjmum,  i.  85,  86,  we  have  a  similar  picture,  in 

"Tbe  freshness  of  the  space  of  heaven  above, 
Ed^d  round  with  dark  tree  taps. 


480  JOHN  KEATS 

But  of  the  lyrics  written  in  this  measure  Fmuy  is  certainly  the  most 
charming,  the  treatment  of  the  Seasons  is  felicitous  throughout  and  the 
language  is  nowhere  marred  (except  perhaps  in  the  use  of  "so  "  in  76)  by 
the  peculiar  faults  of  Keats's  style. 

1.  The  story  of  "  Ceres'  daughter  "  (81)  was  a  special  favourite  of  Keats's 
{^v%it  Lamia  note).  For  Hebe  (86)  the  goddess  of  youth  and  cupbearer  of 
JovCj  cf.  End.  iv.  416. 

The  following  interesting  variants  and  rejected  passages  are  supplied 
by  the  manuscript  letter : — 

6.  Through  the  thought  :  Towards  heaven    MS. 
24,  26.  Even  .  .  .  there  :  Vesper  .  .  .  then    MS. 
29.  bring,  in  spite  :  bring  thee  spite    MS. 
33,  34.  All  the  buds,  etc.  :— 

All  the  faery  buds  of  May 
On  spring  turf  or  scented  spray ;    MS. 
43-46.  And,  in  the  same  moment,  etc. : — 

And  in  the  same  moment  hark 
To  the  early  April  lark 
And  the  rooks  with  busy  caw    MS. 
67.  And  the  smike,  etc. : — 

And  the  snake  all  winter-shrank 
Cast  its  skin  on  sunny  bank    MS. 
67|  68.  For  these  two  lines  the  manuscript  letter  gives  six : — 
For  the  same  sleek  throated  mouse 
To  store  up  in  its  winter  house. 

O  sweet  Fancy  let  her  loose  ! 
Every  sweet  is  spoilt  by  use 
Every  pleasure  every  joy 
Not  a  Mistress  but  doth  cloy. 
89.  And  Jove  grew  languid.    The  letter  here  adds  the  followikig  lines : — 
And  Jove  grew  laugliid.    Mistress  fair ! 
Thou  shalt  have  that  tressed  hair 
Adonis  tangled  all  for  spite 
And  the  mouth  he  would  not  kiss 
And  the  treasure  he  would  miss ; 
And  the  hand  he  would  not  press 
And  the  warmth  he  would  distress 
O  the  Ravishment — the  Bliss — 
Fincy  has  her  there  she  is  ! 
Never  fulsonie,  ever  new 
There  she  steps  !  and  tell  me  who 
Has  a  mistress  so  divine  ? 
Be  the  palate  ne'er  so  fine 
She  cannot  sicken. 


BARDS  OF  PASSION,  ETC.— NOTES  481 

Break  the  Mesh 
Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash 
Where  she's  tether'd  to  the  heart — 
Quick  hreak  her  prison  string.  .  .  . 

Ode.  Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth : — Included  in  Journal  Letter  to 
George  and  Georgiana  Keats  dated  2nd  January,  1819.  "  From  the  fact 
that  it  is  written  in  Keats's  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  .  .  .  and  from  in- 
ternal evidence,  we  may  judge  it  to  be  addressed  to  the  brother  poets  of 
passion  and  mirth  who  wrote  the  tragi-comedy  of  The  Fair  Maid  of  the 
Inn"  (HBF).  Keats  had  written  the  poem  on  the  blank  page  facing 
The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Inn.  The  Ode,  Keats  explains  to  his  brother,  "  is 
on  the  double  immortality  of  poets,"  and  after  copying  it  he  adds :  "  These 
{i.e.,  the  Ode  and  the  Fancy)  are  specimens  of  a  sort  of  Rondeau  which  I 
think  I  shall  become  partial  to — because  you  have  one  idea  amplified  with 
greater  ease  and  more  delight  and  freedom  than  in  the  sonnet ".  Keats's 
idea  of  the  Rondeau  form  must  have  been  somewhat  vague. 

19,  20.  But  divine  melodious  truth,  etc.    The  manuscript  letter  reads : — 
But  melodious  truth  divine 
Philosophic  numbers  fine. 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavebn  : — Written  in  1818  and  sent  to  Reynolds 
in  a  letter  dated  3rd  February.  It  is  another  expression  of  Keats's  delight 
in  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  The  Mermaid  'Tavern  was  their  principal 
resort.  Keats  in  his  reference  to  it  is  probably  indebted  to  Master  Francis 
Becmmont's  Letter  to  Ben  Jonson,  written  before  he  and  Master  Fletcher  came 
to  London  with  two  of  the  precedent  comedies,  then  not  finished,  which  de- 
ferred their  merry  meetings  at  the  Mermaid : — 

"I  lie  and  dream  of  your  full  Mermaid  wine." — line  6. 
And  again : — 

"What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  !  heard  words  that  have  been 
8o  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame. 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest. 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life." 
The  rare  word  "  bowse  "  was  probably  taken  by  Keats,  as  Mr.  Forman 
suggests,  from  Sandys's  Commentary  to  Ovid,  Met.  v.     "  I  of  the  horses 
spring  did  never  bowse,"  a  trans,  of  Persius  in  Prolo.  ;  labra  prolui.    The 
MS.  gives  the  following  conclusion  to  the  poem : — 
Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone. 
Are  the  winds  a  sweeter  home, 
Richer  is  uncellar'd  cavern 
Than  the  Merry  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
31 


482  JOHN  KEATS 

Robin  Hood.  The  "  Friend  "  is  John  Hamilton  Reynolds  (vide  p.  637) 
to  whom  Keats  sent  the  poem  together  with  the  Lines  on  the  Mermaid  in 
a  letter  dated  3rd  February,  1818.  In  the  letter  the  poem  is  headed  "To 
J.  H.  R.  in  Answer  to  his  Robin  Hood  Sonnets  ".  It  is  prefixed  by  an  attack 
upon  modern  poetry,  especially  that  of  Wordsworth,  as  having  "  a  palpable 
design  upon  us,"  which  suggests  a  contrast  with  the  "  great  and  unobtru- 
sive poetry  "  of  the'  Elizabethans.  "  I  do  not  mean,"  he  adds,  "  to  deny 
Wordsworth's  grandeur  or  Hunt's  merit,  but  I  mean  to  say  we  need  not 
be  teased  with  grandeur  and  merit  when  we  can  have  them  uncontaminated 
and  unobtrusive.  Let  us  have  the  old '  Poets  and  Robin  Hood.  Your 
letter  and  its  sonnets  gave  me  more  pleasure  than  will  the  Fourth  Canto 
of  Childe  Harold  and  the  whole  of  anybody's  life  and  opinions.  In  return 
for  your  dish  of  Filberts,  I  have  gathered  a  few  Catkins,  I  hope  they'll 
look  pretty."  The  reference  in  line  10  is  probably  to  Reynolds  having 
taken  up  the  profession  of  Lawyer — on  14th  February,  1818,  Reynolds 
wrote  his  Fcwewell  to  the  Muses,  and  Keats  must  have  known  of  his  inten- 
tion by  the  time  he  wrote  the  poem.  Perhaps  in  lines  47,  48,  there  is 
another  side  allusion  to  the  same  event. 

18.  forest  drear,  Milton,  II  Penseroso,  119. 

36.  "  greene  shawe,"  Chaucer,  Friar's  Tale,  "  Wher  ridestou  under  this 
greene  shawe  ?  " 

To  AiTTiriHN.  The  latest  written  of  the  Odes.  Woodhouse  adds  a  note 
to  his  copy  of  the  1817  volume  stating  that  this  poem  was  composed  on 
Sept.  19,  1819.  In  a  letter  to  Reynolds  from  Winchester  dated  Sept  22, 
1819,  Keats  says — "  How  beautiful  the  season  is  now — How  fihe  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." 

The  BM  MS.  shows  two  or  three  interesting  variant  readings. 

In  I.  6.  "Sweetness"  for  "ripeness". 

II.  6,  7.    Dosed  with  a  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  sheath  and  all  its  honied  flowers  ; 

9.        Steady  thy  leaden  head  across  the  brook ; 

11.  "  oozing  "  for  "  oozings  ". 

Ode  on  Melancholy.  Though  there  is  no  external  evidence  of  the 
date  of  this  Ode  it  can  be  attributed  with  certainty  to  the  early  spring  of 
1819.  Keats  was  reading  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholie  at  the  time,  and  the 
introductory  verses  in  Burton  may  have  helped  to  suggest  the  theme.  He 
would  also  be  familiar  with  the  song  in  Fletcher's  Nice  Valour  which  Mil- 
ton imitated  in  the  opening  to  /{  Penseroso. 


ODE  ON  MELANCHOLY— NOTES  48S 

Hence,  all  your  vain  delights. 
As  short  as  are  the  nights, 
Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet. 
If  man  were  wise  to  see't 
But  only  melancholy. 
Oh  sweetest  melancholy  !  etc. 
p'or  the  significance  of  the  ode  in  relation  with  Keats's  train  of  thought 
at  the  time  cf.  Introduction,  p.  Ixi. 

H  supplies  from  MS.  the  following  rejected  opening  to  the  poem,  which 
Keats  wisely  discarded  as  out  of  keeping  with  the  true  spirit  of  the  whole — 
Though  you  should  build  a  bark  of  dead  men's  bones. 

And  rear  a  phantom  gibbet  for  a  mast. 
Stitch  shrouds  together  for  a  sail,  with  groans 

To  fill  it  out,  blood-stained  and  aghast ; 
Although  your  rudder  be  a  dragon's  tail 
Long  sever' d,  yet  still  hard  with  agony. 
Your  cordage  large  uprootings  from  the  skull 
Of  bald  Medusa,  certes  you  would  fail 
To  find  the  Melancholy — whether  she 
Dreameth  in  any  isle  of  Lethe  dull. 
III.  6.  in  the  very  temple  of  Delight,  etc. : — Cf.  Endymion,  ii.  82,  83 
(draft),  "  There  is  a  grief  contained  In  the  very  shrine  of  pleasure  ". 


484  JOHN  KEATS 


HYPERION 


The  idea  of  writing  a  poem  on  the  subject  of  the  fall  of  the  Titans, 
with  Apollo  the  god  of  light  and  song  as  its  hero,  to  form,  as  it  were, 
a  companion  poem  to  Bndymion,  occurred  to'  Keats  before  he  had  finished 
Endymion.  It  is  to  this  that  he  alludes  when,  on  28th  September,  1817, 
he  writes  to  Haydon,  "  I  have  a  new  romance  in  my  eye  for  next  summer," 
and  the  treatment  of  Oceanus  in  Bndymion,  bk.  iii.  994-7  {vide  note)  written 
certainly  within  a  few  days  of  the  letter  to  Haydon,  contains  the  germ 
of  the  conception  of  Oceanus  in  Hyperion.  Similarly  in  Endymion,  iv. 
written  in  November,  1817,  the  line : — 

Thy  lute-voic'd  brother  will  I  sing  ere  long  (774) 
and  the  rather  far-fetched  oaths  "  by  Titan's  foe  "  (943)  and 

By  old  Satumus'  forelock,  by  his  head 

Shook  with  eternal  palsy  "  (956-7) 
suggest  again  that  he  is  brooding  over  the  story  of  the  Titans.  He 
referred  to  it  again  in  the  famous  Preface  to  Endymion  (April,  1818) — "I 
hope  I  have  not  in  too  late  a  day  touched  the  beautiful  mythology  of 
Greece,  and  dulled  its  brightness:  for  1  wish  to  try  once  more,  before 
I  bid  it  farewell "  ;  and  it  is  highly  probable  that  it  was  beginning  to  take 
definite  shape,  no  longer  as  a  romance  but  as  an  epic,  before  his  departure, 
at  the  end  of  June,  for  the  English  lakes  and  Scotland.  There  is  evidence 
from  his  letters  that  while  he  was  away  the  subject  was  still  in  his  mind, 
and  writing  to  Woodhouse,  some  two  months  after  his  return,  he  refers 
to  the  theme  of  the  poem  as  though  it  were  well  known  to  his  friends  tliat 
he  was  engaged  upon  it.  "  If  (the  poet)  has  no  self,  and  if  I  am  a  poet, 
where  is  the  wonder  that  I  should  say  I  would  write  no  more?  Might 
I  not  at  that  very  instant  have  been  cogitating  on  the  characters  of  Saturn 
and  Ops  ?  "  (27th  October).  In  the  next  month,  probably,  as  he  watched 
by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  brother,  he  actually  began  to  put  the  poem 
upon  paper,  for  in  December  he  writes  to  America  that  he  has  "gone  on  a 
little  with  it " :  and  a  few  days  later  that "  it  is  scarce  begun  "  (».«.,  "scarce 
begun  "  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  the  poem  which  at  that  time  he  con- 
templated). When,  therefore.  Brown  asserts  of  the  first  few  weeks  after 
Tom's  death,  "  It  was  then  that  he  wrote  Hyperion  "  he  can  only  be  under- 
stood as  referring  to  the  main  portion  of  the  work.  On  14th  February, 
1819,  Keats  wrote,  "I  have  not  gone  on  with  Hyperion".  During  the 
next  three  months  he  was  chiefly  occupied  with  the  Odes,  and  whether  he 
added  to  Hyperion  we  have  no  means  of  judging.  Certainly,  no  more  can 
have  been  written  after  April,  for  in  that  month  Woodhouse  had  the  MS. 
to  read,  and  noted  that "  it  contains  two  books  and  a  half— about  900  lines 
in  all ".  .  .  .  "  When  Keats,  after  nearly  a  year's  interruption  of  his 


HYPERION— NOTES  485 

correspondence  with  Bailey,  tells  him  in  August '  I  have  been  writing  parts 
of  my  Hyperion '  this  must  not  be  taken  as  though  he  had  been  writing 
them  lately,  but  only  that  he  had  been  writing  them — like  Isabella,  and 
The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  which  he  mentions  in  the  same  passage,  since  the 
date  of  his  last  letter"  '■  (Cf.  EML,  pp.  228,  229).  This  letter  to  BaUey, 
therefore,  does  not  fix  the  downward  limit  of  the  date  of  the  composition 
of  the  poem,  but  it  suggests,  by  its  reference  to  "  my  Hyperion,"  that 
Keats  had  definitely  projected  his  poem  and  discussed  it  among  his 
friends  before  he  went  to  Scotland,  when  he  last  saw  Bailey.  But  it  is 
evident  that  for  some  time  after  April,  Keats  contemplated  proceeding 
with  the  poem,  for  it  is  not  till  22nd  September  that  he  writes  de- 
finitely to  Reynolds,  "I  have  given  up  Hyperion". 

Of  the  sources  of  the  poem  something  has  already  been  said  {cf.  Intro- <- 
duction,  p.  xliii).  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  critics  almost  unanimously 
assert  that  Keats  was  drawing  upon  information  obtained  from  Lempriire 
and  Tooke— even  Mr.  Colvin  saying  (EML,  p.  166)  that  "  he  had  nothing 
to  guide  him  except  scraps  of  ancient  writers,  principally  Hesiod,  as  re- 
tailed by  compilers  of  classical  dictionaries  "  there  is  very  little  that  cannot 
be  ascribed  with  probability  to  a  more  inspiring  source.  Apart  from  the 
intensely  significant  passages  in  Chapman's  Iliad,  quoted  in  the  General 
Introduction,  Keats  would  know  the  main  points  in  the  story  from  many 
references  to  it  in  previous  English  literature,  e.g.  in  Spenser,  Faerie 
Queene,  iii.  7. 47,  or  in  Paradise  Lost,  i.  610  et  seq.  where  Milton  mentions  \ 
among  those  who  attended  the  Council  in  Hell : — 

Titan  Heav'ns  first  bom 

With  his  enormous  brood,  and  birthright  seis'd 

By  younger  Saturn,  he  from  mightier  Jove 

His  own  and  Rhea's  Son  like  measure  found  ; 

So  Jove  usurping  reign'd :  .  .  . 

All  these  and  more  came  flocking. 
Chapman's  translation  of  the  Works  and  Days  of  Hesiod  (called  by  him 
the  Georgics)  would  also  be  known  to  Keats,  and  it  is  difilcult  to  believe 
that  he  did  not  read  one  of  the  translations  of  Hesiod's  Theogony,  well 
known  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  e.g.,  that  of  Cooke,  given  in 
Chalmers's  English  Poets  (1810),  or  that  of  Greene.  Anyhow,  bks.  ii.  and 
iii.  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses  (trans,  by  Sandys)  were  certainly  known  to  him, 
and  in  Sandys's  observations  on  these  books  he  would  have  found  several 
translations  of  passages  bearing  upon  the  subject,  from  which  he  would 
cull  a  f%v  suggestions.  It  is  noticeable  that  Keats's  version  of  the  story, 
independent  as  it  is  both  in  construction  and  conception  of  any  one  original, 
contains  many  elements  clearly  taken  from  sources  more  literary  than 

•  Asa  matter  of  fact,  Isabella  was  written  before  Keats's  last  letter  to  Bailey,  wliich 
is  dated  i8th  July,  1818,  and  the  fact  that  be  includes  it  in  bis  list  only  shows  more  clearly 
that  Keats  is  not  attempting  to  record  bis  recent  literary  activity,  but  to  give  some 
account  of  his  occupations  during  tbe  long  intemiption  of  tbeir  intercourse,  the  exact 
duration  of  which  be  has  for  tbe  moment  forgotten. 


486  JOHN  KEATS 

LempriSre,  whilst  Lempridre  supplies  him  with  nothing  which  he  could  not 
have  obtained  elsewhere.  One  may  add  that  he  falls  into  the  error,  against 
which  Lempri^re  particularly  warns  his  readers,  of  confusing  the  Titans 
and  the  giants  (cf.  bk.  ii.  19).  His  confusion  of  Greek  and  Latin  names 
points  also  to  the  variety  of  sources  upon  which,  in  many  cases  uncon- 
Boiausly,  Keats  was  drawing.  Lempri^re  almost  invariably  gives  the  Latin 
name  only. 

There  is  probably  no  fragment  in  our  literature  which  we  would  rather 
,^ee  completed  than  Hyperion;  and  it  is,  therefore,  interesting  to  conjec- 
ture as  to  the  scheme  on  which  Keats  intended  to  carry  on  his  work.  It 
is  obvious,  from  what  he  has  written,  that  he  was  taking  full  advantage 
of  the  divergence  of  his  different  authorities  to  present  the  story  and  to 
interpret  it  in  his  own  manner.  In  the  first  place  we  must  consider  what 
he  has  actually  left  us  in  .the  two  and  a  half  books  that  we  possess. 
Hyperion  begins  in  mediis  rebus.  Saturn  and  Oceanus  are  already  deposed, 
many  of  their  colleagues^(mogt  of  them,  it  may  be  remarked.  Giants  not 
Titans,  who,  therefore,  topk  part  in  the  later  war  and  not  properly 
speaking  in  the  Titanomachia  at  all)>are  already  chained  in  torture  (ii  18) ; 
the  kingdom  of  Hyperion  himself,  though  as  yet  unassailed,  is  filled  with 
portents  of  its  coming  doom.  Bk.  i.  gives  first  the  picture  of  the  fallen 
Saturn  whom  Thea,  wife  of  Hyperion,  is  summoning  to  the  council  of  the 
Titans  (1-167),  and  then  a  picture  of  Hyperion  himself,  conscious  of  im- 
pending fate,  yet  vowing  resistance  to  the  end.  His  father  Coelus  pities 
him  and  encourages  him  to  resist,  though  he  can  afford  him  little  hope, 
and  Hyperion  plunges  into  the  night  to  join  his  brethren  (-357).  Bk.  ii. 
presents  us  with  the  Titans  in  council,  now  joined  by  Saturn.  Oceanus 
interprets  to  his  brothers  the  meaning  of  their  inevitable  fall,  speaking  of 
the  invincible  beauty  of  his  dispossessor,  and  Clymene,  in  a  speech  of 
like  import,  tells  of  the  beauty  of  Apollo.  But  Enceladus  scorns  their 
words,  calling  upon  the  Titans  to  renew  the  struggle  and  gather  around 
Hyperion  who  is  still  undisgraced  (1-345).  The  sun  god  appears,  but  his 
dejected  form  only  brings  despondence  upon  the  fallen  gods,  and  suggests 
in  no  ({uestionable  manner  the  coming  catastrophe.  Bk.  iii.  relates  the 
meeting  of  Apollo  with  Mnemosyne,  and  breaks  off  as  the  new  god  of  light 
and  song  attains  his  invincible  divinity.  How  was  the  poem  to  proceed } 
Woodhouse,  who  evidently  knew  Keats's  original  design,  asserts  that 
''the  poem  if  completed  would  have  treated  of  the  dethronement  of 
Hyperion,  the  former  god  of  the  Sun,  by  Apollo — and  incidentally  of 
those  of  Oceanus  by  Neptune,  of  Saturn  by  Jupiter,  etc.,  and  of  the  war 
of  the  Giants  for  Saturn's  re-establishment — with  other  events,  of  which 
we  have  but  very  dark  hints  in  the  mythological  poets  of  Greece  and 
Rome.  In  fact,  the  incidents  would  have  been  pure  creations  of.  the 
poet's  brain."  It  is  evident  that  the  execution  of  this  scheme  upon  the 
same  scale  as  the  two  and  a  half  books  actually  written  would  require  at 
least  the  ten  books  which  tradition  has  always  ascribed  to  the  complete 


HYPERION— NOTES  487 

poem  as  projected  by  Keats — a  tradition  borne  out  by  the  publishers' 
Advertisement  to  the  volume  which  states  "  The  poem  was  intended  to 
have  been  of  equal  length  with  Bndymion,  but  the  reception  given  to  that 
work  discouraged  the  author  from  proceeding  ".  -J 

It  may  be  said  at  once  that  the  reason  here  given  for  the  discontinuance 
of  the  poem  is  not  only  disproved  by  Keats's  own  attitude  to  this  criticism 
{vide  Introduction  to  Bndymion)  but  also  by  a  slight  attention  to  dates ;  for 
the  last  of  the  hostile  reviews  uyon  Endymion  had  appeared  in  September, 
1818;  Keats's  correspondence  proves  that  the  annoyance  occasioned  by 
them  had  certainly  reached  its  height  by  October,  whereas  Hyperion  was 
not  begun  before  November  {vide  sit^ra).  If  the  reviews  had  any  influence, 
therefore,  they  would  have  prevented  his  writing  the  poem  at  all,  and  not 
caused  him  to  give  up  the  work  some  time  later.  But  we  have,  in  fact, 
other  evidence  that  Keats  himself  was  not  responsible  for  the  Advertise- 
ment. In  a  copy  of  the  volume  formerly  in  the  possession  of  the  late 
Canon  Ainger,  Keats  has  himself  firmly  crossed  out  the  whole  of  it,  writing 
above  it  the  remark,  "  I  had  no  part  in  this ;  I  was  ill  at  the  time  "  ;  and  he 
has  bracketed  the  statement  concerning  his  discouragement  at  the  recep- 
tion ot^  Endymion,  placing  beneath  it  the  words  "This  is  a  lie".  This  is 
intensely  significant,  and  it  gives  a  greater  plausibility  to  a  theory  of 
which  careful  examination  of  the  poem  had  previously  convinced  me  : 
that  Keats  had  modified  his  scheme  of  the  poem  considerably  since  his 
discussion  of  it  with  his  friends,  and  that  during  the  actual  time  of  com- 
position he  had  no  intention  whatever  of  writing  an  Epic  in  ten  books. 
For  there  are  obvious  discrepancies  between  the  scheme  of  the  poem  as 
presented  by  Woodhonse  and  the  fragment  as  it  actually  exists.  Accord- 
ing to  Woodhouse  the  depositions  of  Saturn  and  Oceanus  are  to  be  related 
incidentally.  But  to  whom  could  the  episodes  be  related  and  by  whom  ? 
They  might,  it  is  true,  be  narrated  in  the  council  of  the  gods  on  Olympus, 
but  this  seems  on  the  face  of  it  improbable ;  and  the  interest  of  such  a 
narration  would  be  considerably  lessened  by  the  iact  that  the  climax  in 
the  case  of  Saturn  has  already  been  alluded  to  by  Coelus  (i.  322-26),  and 
in  the  case  of  Oceanus  has  been  described  with  significant  detail  (ii.  236-39). 
Again,  we  are  told  that  the  subsequent  wars  of  the  Giants  for  Saturn's 
re-establishment  are  to  follow ;  but  surely,  if  the  central  event  of  the 
poem  is  to  be  the  fall  of  Hyperion,  any  detailed  account  of  siich  a  war 
would  be  an  inartikic  anti-climax — it  would  naturally  be  alluded  to,  but 
could  hardly  be  made  the  subject  of  elaborate  treatment.  There  are  other 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  belie vii^g  that  Keats  intended  to  narrate  the  wars, 
of  the  Giants.  In  the  first  place  many  of  the  most  conspicuous  Giants  are 
already  "chain'd  in  torture,"  and  "pent  in  regions  of  laborious  breath" 
(ii.  22) ;  in  the  second  place  Keats  has  already  alluded  to  the  most  import- 

•  Not,  as  Mr.  Forman  implies,  the  whole  statement  about  Endymion,  but  the  second 
half  of  it  from  "  but "  to  "  proceeding  " 


488  JOHN  KEATS 

ant  event  of  that  war,  the  momentary  victory  of  the  Griants  before  their 
final  overthrow.    Enceladus,  we  are  told, 

plotted,  and  even  now 

Was  hurling  mountains  in  that  second  war, 

Not  long  delay'd,  that  scar'd  the  younger  Gods 

To  hide  themselves  in  forms  of  beast  and  bird. 

If  Keats  had  intended  to  narrate  this  war,  would  he  have  spoilt  his 

story  by  anticipating  its  most  interesting  feature  ?    The  poem,  as  fiir  as  it 

goes,  is  much  too  masterly  to  allow  us  to  believe  it.     Moreover,  the  very 

phrasing  "in  that  second  war"  is  a  characteristic  and  effective  way  of 

alluding,  not  to  an  event  which  the  author  intends  to  record,  but  rather 

to  one  which  the  reader  is  expected  to  know  for  himself,  which  bears  upon 

the  action,  but  is  outside  its  immediate  scope  {(f.  the  superb  phrase  of 

Milton,  from  Keats's  own  favourite  passage  in  Paradise  Lost  "which 

cost  Ceres  all  that  pain").     As  a  matter  of  fact  Woodhouse's  scheme, 

which  presupposes  a  long  poem,  stands  and  falls  with  the  Advertisement 

for  which,  as  literary  adviser  of  Messrs  Taylor  &  Hessey,  he  was  very 

likely  responsible.    Now  if  all  these  events  referred  to  by  Woodhouse  are 

cut  out  or  curtailed,  what  remains  to  fill  a  poem  of  4000  lines .''  and  if  they 

are  not  cut  out,  but  dealt  with  upon  a  scale  suggested  by  the  two  and  a 

half  books  that  exist,  how  could  the  poem  be  so  short  as  to  justify  Keats's 

repudiation  of  the  Advertisement  in  so  far  as  it  relates  to  the  length  of 

the  poem  ?    The  view,  therefore,  which  I  advance  tentatively,  as  seeming 

to  fit  in  both  with  the  external  evidence  and  with  the  contents  and  char- 

i  acter  of  the  poem  as  it  stands,  is  that  Hyperion  would  not  have  reached 

<   more  than  1200 — 1500  lines,  or  four  books  of  the  length  of  the  first  and 

second.     Conjecture  as  to  what  the  unwritten  one  and  a  half  books  would 

j    have  contained  may  seem  impertinent,  but  it  is  irresistible,  and  may  be  justi- 

I    fied  on  the  ground  that  it  may  stimulate  a  renewed  and  more  careful  study 

f   of  the  poem  itself.     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 

j    kingdom  that  awaited  him.     He  would  have  gone  forth  to  meet  Hyperion 

i    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 

I    Milton,  whom  he  was  studying  very  closely,  to  warn  him  of  its  dangers ; ' 

I   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  weak- 

'  In  addressing  his  Muse  at  the  beginning  of  bk.  iii.  Keats  dwells  upon  his  sense  of 
unfitness  for  treating  stormy  themes,  and  it  is  noticeable  how  little  there  is  of  martial 
language  and  allusion  in  all  of  the  poem  that  Keats  bad  as  yet  written,  though  he  bad 
plenty  of  opportunities  of  introducing  it.  Milton,  on  the  contrary,  gives  us  vivid  detail 
from  the  first,  thus  preparing  for  the  account  of  the  battle  which  follows. 


HYPERION— NOTES  489 

neB8  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,  them- 
selves 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  wliich  had  been  inaugurated  by  the  triumph  of  the  Olympians, 
and,  in  particular,  of  Apollo  the  god  of  light  and  song.  The  events  here 
suggested  would  have  formed  a  part  of  the  poem  however  long,  and  if 
we  accept  the  view  that  it  was  not  to  attain  the  dimensions  once  supposed, 
it  is  hard  to  believe  that  there  would  have  been  room  for  more.  The 
ignorance  of  Woodhouse  and  others  as  to  the  change  which  had  come  over 
Keats's  conception  since  he  had  first  discussed  it  among  them  as  something 
after  the  conventional  epic  pattern,  is  easy  to  explain.  He  wrote  the  poem 
by  his  brother's  bedside  and  immediately  after  his  brother's  death,  when, 
probably,  he  was  seeing  little  society  but  that  of  Brown.  Then  he  laid 
it  aside  to  write  the  Odes  and  some  of  his  romantic  poems,  becoming  en- 
gaged in  work  which  was  more  congenial  to  him,  and  could  be  composed 
in  greater  freedom  from  an  exact  model ;  and  there  is  no  proof  that  he 
touched  it  again  till  he  came  to  reconstruct  it  in  the  form  of  a  vision. 

Hyperion  represents,  as  has  been  pointed  out  in  the  Greneral  Introduc-" 
tion,  the  height  of  Milton's  influence  upon  Keats,  its  style  as  well  as  much 
of  .its  treatment  of  subject  being  modelled  on  Paradise  Lost.  Milton's 
minor  poems  had  fascinated  Keats  at  an  early  period,  and  in  the  summer 
of  1817,  partly  owing  to  the  enthusiasm  of  Bailey,'  he  first  began  to  fall 
under  the  spell  of  Milton's  masterpiece.  Signs  of  its  influence  are  apparent 
in  the  later  books  of  Bndymion  {vide  notes  to  End.  iii.  133,  615,  iv.  365)  and 
early  in  1818  Milton  began  to  be  his  chief  study.  "  I  long  to  feast  on  old 
Homer,"  he  writes  to  Reynolds  (April  1818),  "  as  we  have  on  Shakespeare, 
and  as  I  have  lately  upon  Milton,"  and  early  in  the  next  month  followed 
the  well-known  comparison  between  Milton  and  Wordsworth  {Letter  to 
Reynolds,  3rd  May,  1818).  Writing  to  Bailey,  (18th  July)  he  refers  to  the 
"  fine  thing  about  Milton  and  Ceres  and  Proserpine  "  (Paradise  Lost,  iv. 
268 ;  c/.  notes  to  Hyp.  ii.  64)  as  "  in  his  head,"  and  in  August  of  the  next 
year  he  tells  both  Reynolds  and  Bailey  that  Paradise  Lost  is  every  day  "at, 
greater  wonder  "  to  him.  He  had  already,  however,  discovered  that  Mil- 1 
ton's  style  could  not  be  imitated  by  him  without  the  sacrifice  of  much  that 
was  essential  to  the  expression  of  his  own  genius  {vide  p.  li).  Mr.  Sidney 
Colvin  remarks  that  "  Hyperion  is  hardly  Miltonic  in  the  stricter  sense"; 
and  justly  points  out  the  essential  differences  between  the  genius  of  the  I 
two  poets  (EML,  p.  158) ;  but  in  doing  so,  perhaps,  he  somewhat  under- 1 
estimates  the  persistence  with  which  Keats  reproduces  the  more  obviou# 
Miltonic  effects,  sometimes  in  conscious  imitation,  and   oftener  as  any 

'  Severn  also  laid  claim  to  this  and  spoke  "  with  a  natural  pride  in  having  been 
mstrumental  in  turning  Keats's  attention  to  the  noble  beauty  of  Paradise  Lost  "  {Life  cf 
Severn,  Sharp,  p.  40). 


490  JOHN  KEATS 

unconscious  echo  of  the  Miltonic  music  which  was  ringing^  in  his  ears. 
llie  following  list  of  parallels  is  not  short  considering  that  the  whole 
length  of  Hyperion  is  less  than  900  lines. 

L    Miltonic  Syntax.    These  are  perhaps  the  most  important,  as  they  are 
e  chief  indication  of  the  undue  influence  of  Milton  on  his  style,  and 
illustrate  clearly  the  introduction  of  un-English  expressions  to  which,  in 
'.  his  advocacy  of  Chatterton's  native  English,  he  particularly  objected. 

(a)  Elliptical  constructions  : — uncertain  where  (ii.  9) ;  cf.  Paradise 
Lost,  iii.  76,  76:— 

Firm  land  imbosom'd  without  Firmament, 
Uncertain  which,  in  Ocean  or  in  Air. 
Under  this  head  might  he  classed  also  phrases  like — though  an  immoi-tal 
(i.  44) ;  though  feminine  (ii.  6d) ;  thus  brief  (i.  153). 
(6)  Redundancies : — 

No  further  than  to  where  his  feet  had  stray'd. 
And  slept  there  since  (i.  16). 
I,  Coelus,  wonder,  how  they  came  and  whence  ; 
And  at  the  fruits  thereof  what  shapes  they  be.  .  .  .  (i.  314,  316). 
Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  ix.  288,  Thoughts,  which  how  found  they  harbour  in 
thy  brest,  and  Paroflise  Lost,  xii.  128,  129,  I  see  him,  but  thou  canst  not, 
with  what  Faith  He  leaves  his  Gods. 

(c)  Classical  construction  : — save  what  .  .  .  gave  of  sweet  (i.  207). 

Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  i.  182,  Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid 
flames  casts  pale;  cf.  also  Paradise  Lost,  v.  324.  For  "gave  of"  cf. 
Paradise  Lost,  x.|143,  gave  me  of«the  Tree.  With  the  whole  phrase  Mr. 
Arnold  compares:  — 

With  what  besides  in  Councel  or  in  Fight, 

Hath  bin  achievd  of  merit  {Paradise  Lost,  ii.  20,  21). 

(d)  Classical  use  of  the  participle  and  adjective : — 

I.  in  place  of  a  relative  sentence  :  thus  afllicted  (i.  56) ;  so  gifted  (iii.  68). 

II.  in  place  of  adv.  or  adv.  phrase :  a  stream  went  voiceless  by  (i.  11) ; 
let  the  rose  glow  intense  (iii.  15) ;  shook  horrid  (i.  94) ;  plucked  witless 
.  .  .  etc. 

III.  t»  place  of  the  abstract  noun  :  barren  void  (i.  119) ;  (cf  Milton's 
"  vast  abrupt,"  etc.). 

Miltonic  repetitions.  One  of  the  most  characteristic  and  effective 
features  of  the  style  of  Paradise  Lost  is  the  studied  repetition  of  words 
and  phrases.  This  is  a  development  of  the  poetic  device  called  by  Drydeu 
the  ''turn,"  by  which  the  same  word  or  phrase  is  used  twice  in  a  different 
relation — its  repetition  giving  a  particular  significance  to  the  part  which 
it  performs  on  the  second  occasion.  The  "turn"  can  be  employed  for 
mere  emphasis,  or  for  musical  effect,  or,  more  satisfactorily,  for  both  com- 
,  bined  ;  but  its  finest  use  is  informed  with  a  certain  pathos,  or  subtle  bat 


HYPERION— NOTES  491 

telling  irony,  as  in  Vergil's  lines  on  the  fetal  impatience  of  Orpheus  to  J 
see  his  bride : — 

Cum  subita  incautum  dementia  cepit  amantem 
Ignoscmda  quidem,  scirent  si  ignoscere  Manes.  .^. 

(Georgics,  iv.  488,  489.) 
In  classical  literature  the  "  turn  "  found  most  favour  with  Ovid,  in  whom 
it  degenerated  into  a  mere  prettiness,  and  the  early  Elizabethans  caught  i 
it  principally  from  Ovid,  though  Spenser  developed  to  the  full  its  most' 
delicate  musical  possibilities.     But  in  English  poetry  Milton  has  the  most 
constant  recourse  to  it ;  in  his  work  it  is  found  in  all  its  forms,  from  the 
vulgar  Ovidian  pun,  which  fortunately  Keats  escaped,  to  its  finest  and 
highest  use.    The  most  sustained  example  of  its  musical  development  is 
to  be  found  in  the  speech  of  Eve  (Paradise  Lost,  iv.  641-68),  "  Sweet  is 
the  breath  of  morn,"  etc.,  where  an  exquisite  effect  is  obtained  by  the  re- 
iteration of  the  delights  of  earth  which  in  Eve's  eyes  were  associated  with  j 
her  love  for  Adam.     Other  illustrations,  of  varying  force,  are  the  foUowJ 
ing:— 

There  rest,  if  any  rest  can  harbour  there  {Paradise  Lost,  i.  185). 
and  feel  by  turns  the  bitter  change 
Of  fierce  extreams,  extreams  by  change  mot^  fierce  (ii.  598.) 
faithful  found 
Among  iht)  faithless,  faithful  only  hee  (v.  897). 
unchang'd 
To  hoarce  or  mute,  though  fall'n  on  evil  dayes,  "] 

On  evil  dayes  though  fall'n,  and  evil  tongues  (vii.  24-26).  \ 

Even  Wordsworth  in  the  Excursion  fell  under  the  influence  of  Milton's  t 
style  in  this  respect,  and  Keats,  often  with  singular  success,  makes  use  of 
the  same  poetic  device. 

(1)  How  beautiful,  if  sorrow  had  not  made  * — . 
Sorrow  more  beautiful  than  Beauty's  self  (i.  35,  36)/^  -■ 

(2)  sometimes  eagles'  wings,  . J 

Unseen  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men, 
Darken'd  the  place  ;  and  neighing  steeds  were  heard. 
Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men  (i.  182-86). 

(3)  Two  wings  this  orb 

Possess'd  for  glory,  two  fair  argent  wings  (i.  283,  284). 

(4)  Unus'd  to  bend,  by  hard  compulsion  bent  (i.  300). 

(5)  There  is  a  roaring  in  the  bleak-grown  pines 


Such  noise  is  like  the  roar  of  bleak-grown  pines  (ii.  116, 122). 

(6)  Now  comes  the  pain  of  truth,  to  whom  'tis  pain  (ii.  202). 

(7)  it  enforc'd  me  to  bid  sad  farewell 

To  all  my  empire :  farewell  sad  I  took  (ii.  238,  239). 

(8)  (the  brook  that) 

Doth  fear  to  meet  the  sea :  but  sea  it  met  (ii.  302). 


492  JOHN  KEATS 

I  question  whether  Milton  himself  uses  this  device  on  an  average 
once  in  every  hundred  lines,  as  Keats  does. 

The  "turn"  can  in  many  of  these  cases  be  clearly  distinguished  from 
■  the  mere  repetition  of  phrase  (as  2,  3,  5,  7  and  8)  but  the  dividing  line 
;  between  them  is  a  vanishing  one,  so  that  it  seems  better  to  group  them 
together,  as  having  all  the  same  musical  effect  upon  the  poem. 
P-  MilUmic  inversions.  This  simple  device  is,  of  course,  employed  by  all 
poets  to  aid  them  in  overcoming  the  difficulties  of  metre  and  rhyme,  but 
the  excessive  use  of  it  is  peculiarly  associated  with.  Milton  and  is  one  of 
the  most  obvious  examples  of  the  Latinism  of  his  style.  Keats,  who  used 
it  sparingly  elsewhere,  employs  it  nearly  fifty  times  in  Hyperion,  e.g.; 
j)alace  bright  (i.  176) ;  metal  sick  (189) ;  rest  divine  (192) ;  stride  colossal 
(196) ;  radiance  faint  (304) ;  children  dear  (309) ;  palpitations  sweet,  and 
pleasures  soft  (313) ;  etc.,  etc.  And  the  effect  is  especially  Miltonic  when 
one  adjective  precedes  the  noun  and  another  follows  it ;  e.g.  gold  clouds 
metropolitan  (i.  129) ;  lithe  serpent  vast  (i.  261) ;  cf.  Paradise  Lost,  iv. 
870,  faded  splendour  wan,  etc. 

Miltonic  vocabulary.    Under  this  heading  may  fairly  be  placed  words 
^which,  not  in  Keats's  ordinary  prose  vocabulary,  are  to  be  found  in  both 
Milton  and  Hyperion.     Many  of  them  are  common  to  other  writers  of  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  {cf.  Glossary)  but  their  presence  in 
,  Hyperion  is  probably  due  to  Keats's  engrossing  study  of  Milton  at  this 
period.     Most  noticeable  among  these  are  the  following  (further  explana- 
tion, when  necessary,  will  be  added  in  the  notes)  argent  (i.  284) ;  colure 
Mi.  274) ;  essence  (i.  232,  ii.  331,  iii.  104) ;  gurge  (ii.  28) ;  inlet  (i.  211) ; 
lucent  (i.  239) ;  oozy  (ii.  170) ;  orbed  (i.  166) ;  reluctant  (i.  61) ;  slope 
(i.  204).    Notice  also  the  spelling  of  sovran  (iii.  115)  and  astonied  (ii.  16fi). 

It  is  noticeable  also  that  in  Hyperion  for  the  first  time  Keats's  vocabu- 
lary abounds  in  adjectives  formed  from  substantives  by  the  addition  of -ed 
instead  of  -y.     This  is  a  formation  used  largely  by  Milton,  and  from  this 
\time  onward  by  Keats  also. 

~  Miltonic  reminiscence  or  intonation.  Under  this  head  must  be  classed 
lines  and  phrases  which  recall  to  the  ear  some  well-known  Miltonic  cadence 
or  combination  of  words.  They  cannot  be  regarded  as  direct  borrowings, 
but  they  are  indicative  of  the  profound  influence  which  Milton  exercised 
in  this  poem  over  Keats's  style  and  thought. 

Came  like  an  inspiration  (ii.  109) ;  cf.  Paradise  Lost,  i.  711,  rose  like 
an  Exhalation. 

Dark,  dark  And  painful  vile  oblivion  seals  my  eyes  (iii.  87),  cf.  Samson 
Agonistes,  80,  O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon. 

(The  conjunction  of  the  two  epithets  "  painful  vile  "  has  also  a  Miltonic 
sound.) 

No  shape  distinguishable  (ii.  79) ;  cf.  The  other  shape  If  shape  it 
might  be  call'd  that  shape  had  none  Distinguishable  {Paradise  Lost,  ii. 
667). 


HYPERION— NOTES  493 

The  meek  ethereal  Hours  (i.  216) ;  c/.  th'  ethereal  Powers  {Paradise 
Lost,  bI  Sll). 

Soft  delicious  warmth  (ii.  266) ;  cf.  soft  delicious  Air  {Paradise  Lost, 
ii.  400) ;  soft  Ethereal  warmth  {Paradise  Lost,  ii.  601). 

Breath  of  mom  {Hyp.  i.  2) ;  {Paradise  Lost,  iv.  641). 

Season  due  (i.  266) ;  {Lycidas,  7). 

Repetition  of  "  this  "  : — 

Am  I  to  leave  this  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  clime  (i.  235,  236). 
Is  this  the  Region,  this  the  Soil,  the  Clime  ?      .  .  {Pa/radise  Lost,  i.  242). 

In  thousand   hugest   phantasies   (ii.   13)  cf.  a  thousand    phantasies 
{Comus,  205). 

(The  uncommon  superlative  "  hugest "  is  also  Miltonic.) 

Locks  not  oozy  (ii.  170) ;  his  oozy  locks  {Lycidas). 

Some  comfort  yet  (i.  21) ;  cf.  som  solace  yet  {Comus,  348). 

More  striking  passages  of  the  same  kind  {e.g.  ii.  54,  ii.  75,  ii.  36)  are 
reserved  for  treatment  in  the  notes.  ^ 

It  was  largely  due  to  this  excessive  Miltonism  that  Keats  ahandoned  ; 
the  poem  {vide  letters  quoted,  p.  Ii)  and  set  ahout  its  reconstruction  in  i 
the  form  of  a  vision,  but  his  friends  seem  to  have  been  enthusiastic  in  its  I 
praise  and  to  have  recognised  its  supreme  poetic  worth.     Hunt,  reviewing  I 
the  1820  volume  in  the  Indicator,  spoke  of  it  as  "a  fragment — a  gigantic  I 
one,  like  a  ruin  in  the  desert,  or  the  bones  of  the  mastodon.     It  is  truly  a) 
piece  with  its  subject,  which  is  the  downfall  of  the  elder  gods.''    The 
only  dispassionate  contemporary  review  of  which  we  have  knowledge  is 
that  of  Jeffrey  in  the  Edinburgh  of  August  1820.     It  is  chiefly  devoted  to 
a  criticism  of  Endymion,  which  Jeffrey  had  not  noticed  before,  and  only 
speaks,  at  the  close,  of  Hyperion  as  "  containing  passages  of  some  force 
and  grandeur "  but,  he  adds,  "  it  is  sufficiently  obvious  that  the  subject 
is  too  far  removed  from  all  sources  of  human  interest  to  be  successfully 
treated  by  any  modem  author.     Mr.  Keats  has  unquestionably  a  very 
beautiful  imagination,  and  a  great  familiarity  with  the  finest  diction  of 
English  poetry ;   but  he  must  learn  not  to  misuse  or  misapply  these 
advantages  j  and  neither  to  waste  the  good  gifts  of  nature  and  study  on 
intractable  themes,  nor  to  luxuriate  too  recklessly  on  such  as  are  more 
suitable."    (For  a  reply  to  this  criticism,  vide  EML,  p.  153.)    Byron  was 
furious  at  this  praise  of  the  Edinburgh  and   makes  several  offensive 
references  to  it  in   his  correspondence  (Sept. -Dec.  1820),  e.g.  "of  the 
praises  of  that  dirty  little  blackguard  Keates  in  the  Edinburgh,  I  shall 
observe  as  Johnson  did  when  Sheridan  the  actor  got  a  pension ;  '  what, 
has  he  got  a  pension  ?  then  it  is  time  I  should  give  up  mine ! '    Nobody 
could  be  prouder  of  the  praises  of  the  Edinburgh  than  I  was,  or  more 
alive  to  its  censure.  ...  At  present  all  the  men  they  have  ever  praised 
are  degraded  by  their  insane  article.     Why  don't  they  review  '  Solomon's 
Guide  to  Health '  ?    It  is  better  sense  and  as  much  poetry  as  Johnny  Keates. ' 
{Letters  and  Journals,  ed.  Prothero,  v.  120.) 


494  JOHN  KEATS 

But  in  spite  of  this  he  recognised  the  genius  of  Hyperion.  In  Don 
Juan.  (zi.  60)  he  attempted  to  compromise  matters,  and  to  sneer  and  praise 
at  the  same  time.  ... 

"  John  Keats,  who  was  killed  off  by  one  critique 
I  Just  as  he  really  promised  something  great 

If  not  intelligible,  without  Greek 
Contrived  to  talk  about  the  gods  of  late, 
Much  as  they  might  have  been  supposed  to  speak. 
Poor  fellow  !     His  was  an  untoward  fate ; 
'Tis  strange  the  mind,  that  very  iiery  particle, 
Should  let  itself  be  snuffed  out  by  an  article." 

In  a  letter  to  Murray  (Aug.  1821,  Prothero,  v.  331)  he  admitted  that 
"  his  Hyperion  is  a  fine  monument  and  will  keep  his  name "  and  a  few 
months  later  wrote  in  a  manuscript  note  to  his  earlier  attack  on  Keats  (vide 
note  to  Sleep  and  Poetry,  230),  "  His  fragment  on  Hyperion  seems  actually 
inspired  by  the  Titans  and  is  as  sublime  as  ^schylus  ".  Shelley,  whom 
neither  vanity  nor  jealousy  ever  touched,  always  recognised  the  greatness 
of  the  poem,  which  was  to  him  the  finest  of  all  Keats's  work.  "If 
Hyperion  be  not  grand  poetry,  vJme  has  been  produced  by  our  contempo- 
raries," he  writes  to  Peacock  (15th  Feb.,  1821)  whilst  in  his  unpublished 
letter  to  the  Quarterly  Review  he  remarks :  "  The  g^eat  proportion  of  this 
piece  is  surely  in  the  very  highest  style  of  pOetry  ".  Medwin  states  that 
Shellby  ''considered  the  scenery  and  drawing  of  Saturn  dethroned  and 
the  fallen  Titans,  surpassed  those  of  Satan  and  his  rebellious  angels  in 
Paradise  Lost — possessing  more  human  interest,  and  that  the  whole  poem 
was  supported  throughout  with  a  colossal  grandeur  equal  to  the  subject" 
(Dowden,  Life  of  Shelley,  ii.  109). 

For  the  importance  of  Hyperion  in  the  development  of  Keats's  mind 
and  thought,  ef.  General  Introduction,  and  Introduction  to  the  Fall  of 
Hyperion. 

Until  quite  recently  the  only  MS.  of  Hyperion  known  to  be  extant'was 
that  to  be  found  in  the  Woodhouse  Commonplace  Book,  into  which  it  was 
copied  by  one  of  Woodhouse's  clerks;  But  in  October  last  (1904)  the  British 
Museum  purchased  from  Miss  Bird,  sister  of  Dr.  George' Bird  the  physician 
and  friend  of  Leigh  Hunt,  the  autograph  MS.  of  the  poem.  It  is  clear 
that  when  Keats  started  upon  this  MS.  he  intended  it  to  be  a  fair  copy, 
and  it  was  only  discarded  because  of  the  numerous  alterations  which  he 
made  when  be  came  to  view  his  work  a  second  time,  and  the  act  of  writing 
rekindled  in  him  with  even  greater  intensity  the  inspiration  in  which  the 
poem  had  first  been  composed.  For  a  full  account  of  the  MS.  and  ite 
cancelled  passages  readers  are  referred  to  my  Introduction  and  Notes  to 
the  Facsimile  of  the  Autograph  MS.  of  Hyperion,  published  by  the  Clarendon 
Press ;  all  the  more  important  readings  in  it  are  quoted  in  the  following 
notes.  It  was  from  this  MS.  that  the  transcript  in  the  Woodhouse  Common- 
place Book  was  taken. 


HYPERION,  BK.  I.— NOTES  496 

Book  I 

1.  For  the  relation  of  the  picture  of  the  dejected  Saturn  with  which 
the  poem  opens  to  Chapman's  translation  of  Iliad,  viii.  426,  vide  Gieneral 
Introduetion,  p.  xlvi. 

3.  Eve's  one  stair :  evening  MS.  cancelled,  the  substitution  of  a  vivid 
picture  for  mere  statement. 

8.  Not  so  much  Ufe  as  on  a  summer's  day 

Robs  not  one  light  seed  from  the  feather' d  grass. 
This  passage  affords  us  one  of  <  the  most  interesting  examples  of  gradual 
development  to  perfection.     Originally  it  ran  : — 

Not  so  much  life  as  what  an  eagle's  wing 
Would  spread  upon  a  field  of  green-ear'd  corn, 
"what  an  eagle's"  was  then  deleted  in  favour  of  "a  young  vulture's" 
—hardly  an  improvement — and  so  the  passage  was  left.  Then  at  a  later 
time,  when  Keats  came  to  read  through  what  he  had  written,  the  two 
lines  were  crossed  through  and  their  place  taken  by  the  following,  written 
across  the  right-hand  side  of  the  page : — 

Not  so  much  life  as  on  a  summer's  day 
Bobs  not  at  all  the  dandelion's  fleece. 
This  was  left  unaltered  in  the  MS.,  and  reappears  in  Woodhouse.    But 
Keats  was  dissatisfied  with  it,  and  the  felicitous  reading  of  the  text  was 
added  on  the  proof-sheets.' 

16.  Stray'd :  stay'd     MS.,  Woodhouse. 
17-19.  The  MS.  first  read  :— 

And  slept  without  a  motion  :  since  that  time 
His  old  right  hand  lay  nerveless  on  the  ground 
Unseepter'd,  and  his  white-hrowd  eyes  were  clos'd  ; 
and  reached  its  present  form  through  several  changes.    Thus  "on  the 
ground  "  was  first  cancelled  for  "  dead  supine,"  and  "  white-browed  "  gave 
place  to  "  ancient "  before  the  inspiration  came  which  prompted  the  most 
vital  word  in  the  whole  passage — "  realmless  ". 

18.  nerveless,  listless,  dead.: — A  collocation  of  adjectives  whose  cadence 
Keats  had  caught  from  his  favourite,  Chatterton — cf.  Excellent  Ballad  of 
Charitie,  23,  withered,  sapless,  dead.  38.  lost,  dispended,  drowned.  Keats 
malces  use  of  it  in  two  other  places — Endymion  iv.  764,  lovelorn,  silent, 
wan.    St.  Agnes'  Eve,  ii.,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan. 

21.  Between  lines  21  and  22  the  MS.  and  Woodhouse  supply  four  can- 
celled lines : — 

Thus  the  old  Eagle  drowsy  with  great  grief, 
Sat  moulting  his  weak  plumage,  never  more 

'  In  reality  the  change  .made  its  first  appearance  in  Tie  Fall  of  Hyperion,  written 
in  November,  1819.  Critics  are  always  ready  to  point  out  the  general  inferiority  of  the 
reconstructed  poem ;  they  do  not  reaUse  that  four  of  the  most  felicitous  changes  from 
'ii&  jffyperion  of  the  Woodhmise  Commonplace  Book  to  tlie  printed  text  of  1820  are 
anticipated  in  The  Pall  of  Hyperion.  Besides  this  passage  we  may  note  the  substitution 
of  "  gradual "  for  "  sudden  "  in  line  76  and  the  changes  in  lines  189  and  200. 


496  JOHN  KEATS 

To  be  restored  or  soar  against  the  sun  ; 
While  his  three  sons  upon  Olympus  stood. 
23.  there  came  one : — Thea,  wife  of  Hyperion  {vide  1.  9fi). 
28.  By  her  in  stature  the  tall  Amazon 

Had  stood  a  pigmy's  height : — 
Placed  by  her  side  the  tallest  Amazon 
Had  stood  a  little  child     MS.  cancelled. 
The  idea  of  comparing  Thea's  height  with  the  stature  of  the  Pigmy  wag 
doubtless  suggested  by  Paradise  Lost,  i.  780,  where  the  devils  are  repre- 
sented as 

"  now  less  than  smallest  dwarfs  .  .  .  like  that  Pigmean  race,"  etc. 
It  is  important  to  notice  that  the  Miltonic  touch  thus  given  to  the  pas- 
sage was  a  correction  to  the  MS. 

30.  stay'd  Ixion's  wheel :  eased  Ixion's  toil    MS.,  Woodhouse. 
35-37.  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  and  Mr.  Buxton  Forman  point  out  the  debt 
in  this  passage  to  Lander's  Gebir,  i.  66-60 : — 

There  was  a  brightening  paleness  in  his  face 
Such  as  Diana,  rising  o'er  the  rocks 
Shower'd  o'er  the  lonely  Latmian  ;  on  his  brow 
Sorrow  there  was,  yet  nought  was  there  severe. 
The  Miltonic  grandeur  of  Landor^s  blank  verse  would  naturally  attract 
Keats  at  this  period,  whilst  the  reference  to  the  Endymion  legend  would 
tend  to  make  his  memory  retentive  of  this  passage. 

46.  She  laid  and  to  the  level  of  his  ear :  She  laid  and  to  the  level  of 

his  hollow  ear  MS.  with  two  hypermetric  syllables.    This  had  apparently 

escaped  Keats's  notice,  but  Woodhouse  has  underlined  it  in  pencil,  and 

put  a  -f  against  it  in  the  margin.     The  mistake  was  easily  rectified  by  the 

omission  of  the  word  "  hollow  ". 

48.  tone  :  tune  MS.,  Woodhouse. 

<^  62.  poor  old  King: — When  it  is  remembered  that  Keats's  sonnet  re- 

I  cording  the  profound  impression  made  upon  him  by  re-reading  King  Lear 

'  (vide  p.  277)  was  written  at  a  time  when  Hyperion  was  already  in  his  mind, 

:  it  is  easy  to  believe  that  he  was  more  or  less  consciously  influenced  by 

I  Shakespeare  in  his  conception  of  the  character  of  Saturn,  whose  kingdom, 

,  and  the  powers  of  mind  necessary  to  rule  it,  have  passed  away  from  him 

in  age.    It  is  noticeable  that  the  epithet  old  is  applied  to  Lear,  at  least 

\  twenty  times,  with  deeply  tragic  reiteration  ;  and  his  weakness,  whether 

i  it  is  viewed  with  contempt,  or  pity,  or  love,  or  referred  to  by  Lear  himself 

Vjn  his  utter  misery,  is  always  alluded  to  as  the  weakness  of  age.    Goneril 

alludes  to  it  with  a  sneer  (i.  3.  16-19),  Regan  taunts  him  with  it  (ii.  4. 148)  - 

and  Gloucester  twice  in  the  same  speech  applies  to  him  the  epithet  poor  old 

(iii.  7-  67,  62),  whilst  Lear  calls  himself  a  poor  old  man  and  constantly  harps 

upon  it.     (C/.  also  ii.  4.  156,  194,  238 ;  iii.  4.  20,  etc.)    It  is  noteworthy 

also  that  Saturn  replies  to  Thea  (lines  98-102)  by  questions  as  to  his  own 

identity  which  recall  strikingly  the  language  and  mood  of  Lear  (i.  4. 

246-60) :— 


HYPERION,  BK.  I.^NOTES  497 

Doth  any  here  kaow  me  ?    This  is  not  Lear : 
Doth  Lear  walk  thus  ?  speak  thus  ?    Where  are  his  eyes  ? 
Either  his  motion  weakens,  his  discernings 
Are  lethargied — Ha  !  waking  ?    'Tis  not  so. 
Who  is  it  that  can  tell  me  who  I  am  ? 
61.  reluctant: — Mrj  Forman  quotes  as  a  parallel  to  this  passage  Paradise 
Lost,  i.  171-177.     The  Miltonic  use  of  the  word  reluctant  suggests  Paradise 
Lost,  vi.  66-69  :— 

.  .  .  Clouds  began 
To  darken  all  the  Hill,  and  smoak  to  rowl 
In  duskie  wreathes,  reluctant  flames,  the  signe 
Of  wrauth  awak't. 
On  which  Keats  comments,  in  his  Notes  to  Milton,  "' Reluctant'  with  its 
original  and  modem  meaning  combined  and  woven  together,  with  all  its 
shades  and  signification  has  a  powerful  effect ". 
63.  Unpractised:  impetuous    MS.  cancelled. 

67.  That  unbelief  has  not  a  space  to  breathe.     Followed  in  the  MS.  by 
a  line  afterwards  cancelled : — 

Or  a  brief  dream  to  find  its  way  to  heaven. 
72-8.  Those  green-rob'd  senators,  etc. : — This  exquisite  interpretation  of 
the  trees,  whose  age  suggests  their  connection  with  the  mystery  of  the 
past,  is  essentially  characteristic  of  the  manner  in  which  the  influence  of 
Nature  and  of  romance  was  blended  in  the  mind  of  Keats.  Cf.  Fall  of 
Hyperion,  ii,  6,  of  the  wind  which 

blows  legend-laden  through  the  trees. 
'  So  in  an  early  sonnet  (xvii.  p.  39) 

breezes  than  are  blown 
Through  its  tall  woods  with  high  romances  blent. 
We  find  a  close  parallel  to  the  idea  in  a  half-sportive  passage  in  the 
letters  of  Gray,  where  he  speaks  *)f  the  "most-venerable  beeches  .  .  . 
that  like  most  other  ancient  people,  are  always  dreaming  out  their  old 
stories  to  the  winds : — 

and  as  they  bow  their  hoary  tops,  relate 
In  murmuring  sounds  the  dark  decrees  of  fate : 
While  visions,  as  poetic  eyes  avow. 
Cling  to  each  leaf  and  swarm  on  every  bough  ". 
These  lines  were  first  written  in  the  MS.  thus  : — 

The  oaks  stand  charmed  by  the  earnest  stars 
And  through  all  night  without  a  stir  they  rest. 
Save  from  one  sudden  momentary  gust 
Which  comes  upon  the  silence  and  dies  off. 
As  if  the  sea  of  air  had  but  one  wave. 
The  heaviness  of  the  double  monosyllabic  ending  to  line  76  seems  to  have 
struck  Keats  at  once,  for  "  they  rest "  is  struck  out  in  favour  of  "  remain  ". 
Then  he  changes  the  order  to 

And  through  all  night  remain  without  a  stir. 
32 


498  JOHN  KEATS 

Later  comes  the  happy  thought  of  developing  the  human  idea  already 
suggested  in  the  word  "  senators  ".  He  wishes  to  impress  upon  us  the  still- 
ness of  the  scene,  and  even  politicians  are  not  reposeful  enough  unless  they 
are  asleep.  The  night  is  "  tranced,"  and  the  influence  of  "  the  earnest 
stars "  is  upon  the  whole  face  of  Nature.  It  is  not  therefore  a  senseless 
sleep,  but  one  of  magic  dreams.  So  "  dream  "  is  substituted  for  "  stand  "  ; 
but  this  does  not  help  the  second  line,  which  is  the  weakest.  Clearly  the 
idea  of  dreaming  must  be  reserved  for  the  second  line,  and  the  inspiration 
comes : — 

Dream,  and  so  dream  all  night  without  a  stir. 
But  if  this  is  to  stand,  the  previous  line  must  once  more  be  altered ;  and 
Keats  changes  the  construction  of  his  sentence,  and  coins  a  compound 
adjective,  grammatically  indefensible  perhaps,  but  peculiarly  effective  for 
all  that,  in  its  suggestions  of  the  potency  and  the  all-pervading  influence 
of  the  charm  which  has  been  laid  upon  the  dreaming  oalcs. 

The  change  in  the  two  adjectives  of  line  76  still  further  improves  the 
passage.  The  substitution  of  "  solitary  "  for  "  momentary  "  is  a  gain  both 
in  sound  and  sense ;  so  too  is  the  substitution  of  "  gradual "  for  "  sudden," 
which,  however,  was  not  made  in  the  MS.,  but  only  added  as  a  pencil 
correction  in  Woodhouse. 
81.  falling :  fallen    MS. 

86.  in  cathedral  cavern : — Keats  had  been  much  impressed  during  his 
Scotch  tour  in  the  previous  summer  (1818)  with  the  beauty  of  Fingal's 
Cave,  and  had  already  celebrated  it  in  a  poem.  Staff  a  {q.v.),  wherein 
he  spoke  of  it  as  The  Cathedral  of  the  Sea.  He  is  here  drawing  upon 
his  recollections  of  it.  In  his  letter  to  Thomas  Keats  (26th  July)  in  which 
he  sends  him  the  poem  on  Staffa,  he  speaks  in  a  manner  suggestive  of  these 
lines.  "  Suppose  now  the  Giants  who  rebelled  against  Jove  had  taken  a 
whole  mass  of  black  columns  and  bound  them  together  like  bunches  of 
matches — and  then  with  immense  axes  had  made  a  cavern  in  the  body  of 
these  columns —  of  course  the  roof  and  the  floor  must  be  composed  of  the 
broken  ends  of  these  columns — such  is  Fingal's  Cave  except  that  the  sea  has 
done  the  work  of  excavation  and  is  continually  washing  there.  .  .  .  For 
solemnity  and  grandeur  it  far  surpasses  the  finest  cathedral." 

90.  His  faded  eyes  and  saw  his  kingdom  gone.  Keats  first  wrote  in 
the  MS.  ;— 

His  eyes  and  saw  his  royal  kingdom  gone ; 
but  as  he  copied  he  recognised  the  tautology  of  "  royal  kingdom,''  and 
decided  to  give  the  epithet  to  "eyes  ".     First  he  tried  "feint-blue,"  but 
deleted  it  in  favour  of  "faded,"  which  suggests  more  forcibly  Saturn's 
loss  of  royal  power,  and  is  doubtless  an  unconscious  reminiscence  of  the 
"  faded  cheek  "  of  Satan  (Paradise  Lost,  i.  602). 
92.  and  then  spake :  and  he  said    MS.  cancelled. 
98.  Look  up,  and  tell  me,  etc. : — vide  note  to  i.  52. 
102.  front  of  Sattim : — Followed  in  MS.  and  Woodhouse  by  the  follow- 
ing line : — 


HYPERION,  PK.  I.— NOTES  499 

What  dost  think? 
Am  I  that  same  ?  O  Chaos  ! 
106-112.  This  is  one  of  the  passages  taken  by  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  to 
prove  Keats's  close  study  of  Lempri^re.     Of  Saturn,  Lempridre  says  "  he 
employed  himself  in  civilising  the  barbarous  manners  of  the  people  of  Italy 
and  in  teaching  them  agriculture  and  the  useful  and  liberal  arts.     His  reign 
was  so  mild  and  popular  that  mankind  have  called  it  the  golden  age,  to  inti- 
mate the  happiness  and  tranquillity  which  the  earth  then  enjoyed  ".     But 
there  is  nothing  here  with  which  Keats  was  not  familiar  in  Chapman's  trans- 
lation of  Hesiod's  Georgia  and  in  Sandyg's  Ovid.     In  Chapman  we  read : — 
When  first  both  gods  and  men  had  one  time's  birth 
The  gods  of  diverse  languaged  men  on  earth 
A  golden  world  produced,  that  did  sustain 
Old  Saturn's  rule  when  he  in  heaven  did  reig^ : 
And  then  lived  men,  like  gods  in  pleasure  here 
Indued  with  minds  secure ;  from  toils,  griefs,  clear. 

Thus  lived  they  long  and  died  as  seized  in  sleep 
All  good  things  served  them  ;  fruits  did  ever  keep 
Their  free  fields  crowned,  that  all  abundance  bore 
All  which  all  equal  shared,  and  none  wished  more. 
Similarly  Ovid,  Met.  i.  (Sandys),  founded  in  all  probability  on  this 

in  iirme  content 
And  harmlesse  ease,  their  happy  days  were  spent 
The  yet  free  Earth  did  of  her  own  accord 
Untorne  with  ploughs  all  sorts  of  fruit  afford. 


'Twas  always  Spring,  warm  Zephyrus  sweetly  blew 
On  smiling  flowers,  which  without  setting  grew, 
and  more  in  the  same  strain,  whilst  in  his  commentary  Sandys  translates 
another  similar  passage  from  Hesiod's  Theogony.  The  tone  of  these  passages 
is  much  closer  to  Keats  than  is  LempriSre,  in  whom,  it  may  be  remarked, 
there  is  no  reference  to  Saturn's  influence  over  the  weather,  which  Ovid 
has  emphasised. 

111.  acts :  arts    MS.,  a  not  impossible  reading.    The  lines  which  follow 
are  thus  written  in  the  MS. : — 

Must  do  to  ease  itself,  but  too  hot  grown 
Doth  ease  its  heart  of  love  in,  just  as  tears 
Leave  a  calm  pleasure  in  the  human  breast 
O  Thea  I  must  burn — my  Spirit  gasps. 
The  poet  cancelled  all  these  lines  except  that  part  which  stands  in  our 
text,  and  then  added  "  I  am  gone  "  below,  to  complete  the  line. 
116.  Spot:  bit    MS.,  Woodhouse. 

126.  Be  of  ripe  progress,  etc.     First  written  in  the  MS. : — 
Be  going  on — Saturn  must  still  be  king 
but  altered  to  the  reading  of  the  text. 


500  JOHN  KEATS 

134.  where  is  :  am  I     MS.  ca/ncelUd. 
139.  and  heard  not :  not  hearing    MS.  cancelled. 
147.  The  rebel  three  :—3u.jAteT,  Neptune  and  Pluto.     Cf.  speech  of 
Neptune,  Chapman's  Iliad,  xv.  174,  175: — 

Three  brothers  bom  are  we 
To  Saturn,  Rhea  brought  us  forth,  this  Jupiter  and  I 
And  Pluto,  god  of  undergrounds. 
164.  shade :  gloom    MS.  cancelled. 

156.  that  yielded  like  the  mist :  which  to  them  gave  like  air  MS.  altered 
to  "that  gave  to  them  like  mist ".     So  Woodhimse. 

166.  Hyperion : — Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  notes  that  Hyperion  was  not  really 
the  god  of  the  Sun  "  but  strictly  speaking  the  father  of  Helios,  the  Sun  ". 
But  his  statement  is  incorrect,  and  even  if  it  had  not  been  so,  there  would 
have  been  plenty  of  precedent  for  Keats  in  Elizabethan  poetry.  Cf. 
Shakespeare,  Titus  Andronims,  v.  2.  56: — 

Even  from  Hyperion's  rising  in  the  East 
and  Timon  of  Athens,  iv.  3.  184: — 

.  .  .  heaven  whereon  Hyperion's  quickening  fire  doth  shine. 
169-73.  as  among  us  mortals  etc. : — A  reminiscence  of  Paradise  Lost, 
i.  598  (a  passage  selected  in  Keats's  Notes  for  special  comment)  where  a 
natural  portent  is  described  which  "  \ri\3a.fear  ofehaageperpkxes  Monarchs  ". 
Keats  remarks  upon  it :  "  How  noble  and  collected  an  indignation  against 
Kings  ! "  The  rest  of  the  passage,  in  its  connection  of  the  bell  and  the 
gloom  bird,  suggests  the  words  of  the  terror-stricken  Lady  Macbeth 
(Macbeth,  ii.  2.  3,  4)  :— 

It  was  the  owl  that  shrieked,  the  fatal  bellman 
Which  gives  the  stem'st  good  night. 
The  reference  here  and  in  Keats  may  be  to  the  practice  of  sending  the 
town  bellman  to  a  condemned  man  on  the  night  before  his  execution  to 
warn  him  that  his  time  was  come,  or  to  a  custom  of  ringing  the  church 
bell  when  a  person  was  dying,  in  order  to  obtain  prayers  for  the  passing 
soul.  The  idea  seems  to  have  impressed  Keats,  for  he  makes  two  other 
forcible  allusions  to  it : — 

A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken  churchyard  thing, 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll. 

(St.  Agnes'  Eve,  xviii.) 
and 

but  a  moment's  thought  is  passion's  passing  bell, 

{Lamia,  ii.  39.) 
174.  prophesyings  of  the  midnight  lamp : — Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  thinks  this 
to  be  a  reminiscence  of  Vergil,  Georg.  i.  390-92. 

Ne  nocturna  quidem  carpentes  pensa  puellae 

Nescivere  hiemem,  testa  cum  ardente  viderent 

Scintillare  oleum  et  putris  concrescere  fungos. 

We  know  that  Keats  read  Vergil  in  the  original  at  school ;  but  that  he 

was  not  scholar  enough  to  appreciate  the  language  is  evident  from  the 


HYPERION,  BK.  I.-^NOTES  501 

fact  tbat  he  who  "  looked  upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover  "  and  constantly 
drew  upon  his  predecessors,  should  have  made  no  attempt  to  reproduce  this 
greatest  phrase-maker  of  literature.  It  seems  far  more  probable,  there- 
fore, though  I  have  as  yet  been  unable  to  trace  it,  that  in  this  passage 
Keats  is  indebted  not  to  Vergil,  but  a  Vergilian  echo  to  be  found  in  some 
scholarly  Elizabethan.       ( 

176.  Bvi  horrors,  portion' d  to  a  giant  nerve :  But  warnings,  portion'd  to 
his  giant  sense    MS.  altered  to  text. 

176.  Oft  made  Hyperion  ache ;  Oft  [made  his  Chin]  pressed  his  curly 
Chin  upon  his  Breast    MS.  cancelled. 

178.  Andtoiich'd  with  shade  of  bronzed  obelisks.  First  written  in  MS. — 
With  chequered  black  of  bronzed  obelisks. 

186.  Not  heard  before  by  Gods  or  wondering  men :  Not  heard  before  by 
either  Grods  or  Men  MS.  altered  in  order  to  make  more  perfect  the  char- 
acteristic Miltonic  repetition. 

189.  Savoitr  of  poisonous  brass,  etc. :  a  nauseous-feel  of  brass  and  metal 
sick  MS.  changed  to  "poison,"  and  so  Woodhouse: — The  alteration  is 
among  the  most  felicitous  of  Keats's  changes.  "  Feel,"  used  as  a  noun, 
takes  us  back  to  the  most  vulgar  phase  in  Keats's  poetic  development. 

190.  And  so,  when  harbour'd  in  the  sleepy  west :  So  that  when  he  had 
harbour'd  in  the  West  MS.  cancelled.  The  change,  both  here  and  in 
line  192,  which  originally  was : — 

Instead  of  rest  upon  exalted  couch, 
adds  vividness  to  the  picture  and  enforces  the  contrast  between  the  past 
and  present  condition  of  Hyperion.  The  words  "  full  completion  "  in  the 
next  line  represent  a  change  in  meaning  from  the  earlier  draft ;  for  before 
them  in  our  MS.  stands  the  cancelled  word  "  gradual ".  In  the  Woodhouse 
MS.  Keats  has  written  in  pencil  wherefore,  the  reading  which  he  adopted 
in  the  parallel  line  of  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  (ii.  36). 
198-200.  Amaz'daindfuUoffea/r;  Uhe  anxious  men 

Who  on  wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops, 
When  earthquakes  jar  their  battlements  and  towers. 
This  passage  at  first  ran : — 

In  fear  and  sad  amaze,  like  men  at  gaze 
Who  on  a  wide  plain  gather  in  sad  troops 
When  an  earthquake  hath  shook  their  city  towers. 
Then  Keats  substitutes  "  surprise  "  for  "  amaze  ".    But  the  word  "  sur- 
prise "  is  ludicrously  mild  for  men  whose  city  towers  are  shaken  with  an 
earthquake,  and  "  Amaz'd  and  full  of  fear  "  is  adopted  as  a  beginning.    The 
return  of  "  amaz'd  "  into  the  line  now  makes  it  necessary  to  get  rid  of  "at 
gaze,"  and  it  goes  out  first  in  favour  of  "  trooped,"  which  is  found  at  once 
to  be  impossible  because  of  "sad   troops"  in  the  next  line,  and  then 
"  anxioos  "  is  substituted.    In  the  next  line  he  deletes  the  "  a,"  intending, 
doubtless,  though  forgetting,  to  add  an  "  s  "  to  "  plain  ".     Then,  to  give 
the  extra  syllable  now  required,  he  alters  "sad"  to  "saddened,"  but 
deletes  it  and  writes  the  vivid  epithet  "  panting  ". 


502  JOHN  KEATS 

The  change  in  line  200  was  a  happy  inspiration  not  found  in  the  MS., 
but  added  as  a  correction  in  Woodhouse. 

203.  Hyperion  leaving  twilight  m  the  rear :  He  of  the  Sun  just  lighted 
from  the  Air    MS.  cancelled. 

204-12.  Came  slope  upon,  etc. : — One  of  the  most  characteristically 
Miltonic  passages  in  the  poem,  both  in  the  use  of  words  (slope,  inlet)  and 
in  construction  (as  was  wont,  save  what,  gave  of).    Cf.  Introduction  to  the 
poem.    After  20S  MS.  and  Woodhouse  give  the  line : — 
Most  like  a  rosebud  to  a  faery's  lute, 
and  in  place  of  the  "  And  "  of  209  read  "  Yes, ". 
217.  fla/red :  went    MS.  cancelled. 
218-22.      From  stately  nave  to  nave,  from  vault  to  vault. 

Through  bowers  of  fragrant  and  enwreathed  light, 
And  diamond-paved  lustrous  long  arcades. 
Until  he  reached  the  main  great  cupola. 
There  standing  fierce  beneath,  he  stamped  his  foot. 
These  lines  were  first  written  in  the  MS. : — 

From  gorgeous  vault  to  vault,  from  space  to  space 
Until  he  reached  the  great  main  Copula 
And  there  he  stood  beneath,  he  stampt  his  foot. 
It  is  noticeable  here  how  in  the  growing  intensity  of  vision  the  second 
draft  adds  colour  and  detail  to  a  picture  at  first  vague  and  ill-defined. 
223.  basements  deep :  deep  foundations    MS.  cancelled. 
233.  see :  mark    MS.  cancelled. 
235.  Am  I  to  leave  ihis  haven  of  my  rest, 
This  cradle  of  my  glory,  this  soft  cUme, 
This  calm  luxuriance  of  blissful  light  ? 
The  phraseology  and  cadence  of  this  passage  owe  something  to  Paradise 
Lost,  i.  242-5. 

Is  this  the  Region,  this  the  Soil,  the  Clime, 
Said  then  the  lost  Arch  Angel,  this  the  seat 
That  we  must  change  for  Heav'n,  this  mournful  gloom 
For  that  celestial  light  ? 
Satan's  bitter  indignation  at  the  change  of  clime  and  loss  of  light  which  has 
befallen  him  suggested  to  Keats  Hyperion's  prophetic  sense  of  a  like  change. 
243.  Even  here,  into  my  centre  of  repose :  Even  here  into  my  sanctuary 
of  repose    MS.  first  altered  to  "  in  my  old  sanctuary  of  repose,"  and  then 
to  the  reading  of  the  text. 

246.  Tellus  and  her  briny  robes  !    Cf.  End.  iii.  701 : — 

Ocean  bows  to  thee 
And  Tellus  feels  his  forehead's  cumbrous  load. 

267.  mirror'd :  glassy    MS.  corrected  to  "  miroured,"  which  Wood- 
house  had  some  difficulty  in  deciphering,  for  he  puts  a  +  against  the  line. 

268.  A  mist  arose,  etc. : — This  mist  brings  forcibly  to  the  mind  Paru' 
dise  Lost,  ix.  180-82,  where  Milton  tells  of  Satan  how 


HYPERION,  BK.  I.— NOTES  503 

Like  a  black  mist  low  creeping,  he  held  on 
His  midnight  search,  where  soonest  he  might  finde 
The  Serpent. 
It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  this  is  among  the  passages  selected  by 
Keats  in  his  Notes  on  Milton  for  admiring  comment.     Mr.  Forman  thinks 
that  the  description  of  Hyperion's  palace  which  follows  was  "  inspired  by 
the  noble  brief  description  of  the  palace  of  the  Sun  with  which  book  ii.  of 
Ovid's  Metamorphoses  opens,"  but  I  am  unable  to  trace  any  resemblance. 
258.  scummy  :  stagnant    MS.  cancelled — a  vivid  touch. 
267.  burst  them  wide 

Suddenly  on  the  Ocean's  chilly  streams 
The  planet  orb  etc. 

burst  them  wide 
And  sudden  on  the  Ocean's  chilly  streams. 
The  planet  orb  etc.    MS. 
This  passage  was  misinterpreted  by  Woodhouse's  clerk,  who  altered  the 
punctuation  to  "  wide :  And,  sudden,  .  .  .  streams.  The  planet  orb  "  etc., 
giving  a  sense  which  Keats  had   never  intended.      Keats  realised  the 
ambiguity  later  on  and  returned  in  the  text  to  his  own  punctuation, 
altering  however  "  and  sudden  "  to  "  suddenly ". 

273-87.  But  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres,  etc. : — Justly  described 
by!  Mr.  Arnold  as  the  most  Miltonic  passage  in  the  poem.  This  is 
noticeable  in  the  words,  the  ring  of  the  verse,  the  sentence  and  paragraph 
structure,  the  use  of  simile,  the  inversion  of  adjectives  and  the  repetition 
of  phrase.  But  notice  also  the  essentially  human  touch  which  Keats  gives 
to  the  passage  by  his  use  of  the  adjectives  muffling  and  sweet  shaped.  It  is 
interesting  to  observe  that  in  the  Woodhouse  MS.  the  passage  hieroglyphics 
old  .  .  .  centuries  has  been  queried,  apparently  by  Keats  himself — probably 
because,  at  that  time,  he  felt  it  to  be  too  Miltonic. 

But  it  is  important  to  notice  that  all  the  changes  from  the  earliest 
version  of  the  passage  to  its  final  form  are  towards  Miltonism.     In  place 
of  lines  269-85  Keats  first  wrote  only  seven  lines.     Thus  : — 
The  planet  orb  of  fire  whereon  he  rode 
Each  day  from  east  to  west  the  heavens  through 
Spun  at  his  round  in  blackest  curtaining 
Not  therefore  hidden  up  and  muffled  quite 
For  ever  and  anon  the  glancing  spheres 
Glow'd  through  and  still  upon  the  sable  shroud 
Made  sweet  shap'd  lightning :  Wings  this  splendent  orb,  etc. 
Apparently  Keats  first  attempted  to  improve  the  passage  as  it  stood, 
altering  "  blackest  curtaining  "  first  to  "  darkest  curtaining ''  and  then  to 
"  curtaining  of  clouds,"  and,  two  lines  further  on,  "  For "  to  "  But ". 
In  the  next  line,  which  already  showed  a  felse  start,  "shot  through," 
"upon  their"  became  first  "within"  then  "about  the".     The  recon- 
struction must  have  occupied  Keats  on  another  occasion,  for  it  is  written 


504  JOHN  KEATS 

on  the  preceding  verso;  and  the  additions  are  all  remarkable  for  their 
reminiscence  of  Miltonic  word,  phrase  and  cadence.  As  it  stands  it  shows 
few  corrections,  which  suggests  that  Keats  may  have  experimented  with 
it  on  a  rough  sheet  before  copying  it  in.  In  line  272,  however,  "  hid  " 
was  only  decided  upon  after  Keats  had  tried  both  "  dim  "  and  "  veiled," 
and  in  line  274  "zones"  was  first  written  after  "arcs  ". 

Line  276  passed  through  the  intermediary  stage  "glared  through  and 
struck  throughout  the  muffling  dark,''  and  of  281  the  earlier  version  ran 
Now  lost  with  all  their  wisdom  and  import. 
287.  Rose :  came    MS.  cancelled. 
296.  here  'tis  told :  it  is  writ    MS.  cancelled. 
296.  Those  silver  wings,  etc.     First  written  in  MS.  :— 

Those  silver  wings  of  the  Sun  were  full  out8p[r]ead 
Ready  to  sail  their  orb ;  the  Porches  wide 
Were  opened  on  the  dusk  domain  of  night. 
In  the  next  line  "bright"  is  a  correction  of  '^enraged"  and  in  300 
"  hard  "  a  correction  of  "  stern  ". . 

304.  He  stretch' d  himself  in  grief  and  radiance  faint.  A  vivid  substitute 
for  the  tame  and  unmetrical  reading  cancelled  in  the  MS. : — 
He  laid  himself  supine  and  in  radiance  faint. 
306.  the  Heaven.  .  .  .  Look'd  down  on  him  with  pity,  etc^  MS. : — Keats 
makes  a  noteworthy  change  in  the  legend  in  the  feeling  of  Coelus  for  his 
children.  Hesiod,  and  after  hvm  the  other  classical  mythologists^  re- 
present him  as  vowing  vengeance  on  his  children  for  the  wrong  they 
have  done  him.     He 

told  them  all  with  a  prophetic  mind 
The  hours  of  his  revenge  were  sure  behind.      (Theog.  320). 
317-  beauteous  life :  Life  and  Beauty    MS.  cancelled. 
323.  tumbled:  hurled     MS.eancelkd. 
331.  Unruffled :  Passionless    MS.  cancelled, 
334.  /  see  them,  etc.     Above  is  a  cancelled  line  in  the  MS. : — 

In  widest  speculation  I  do  see. 
351.  Lifted: — A  dramatic  change  for  the  first  reading  of  the  MS. 
"opened".     "Opened,"  was  merely  the  obvious  word ;  "lifted"  suggests 
vividly  the  weariness  of  the  dejected  god. 

363.  And  still  they  were  the  same  bright  patient  stars : — This  beautiful 
line  was  the  result  of  two  corrections.     Keats  wrote  first 

And  still  they  all  were  the  same  patient  stars, 
then. 

And  still  he  saw  they  were  .  .  . 
but  the  inspiration  came  to  him  before  he  went  further  with  his  second 
attempt. 

BOOK  II 

This  book  is  headed  "  Canto  2nd,"  a  fact  not,  I  think,  without  some 
significance  in  its  support  of  my  theory  {vide  page  488)  that  when  Keats 


HYPERION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  505 

was  engaged  on  the  poem  he  had  already  given  up  his  notion  of  making  it 
a  formal  epic  in  ten  hooks. 

The  opening  lines  show  some  hesitation.    Keats  hegan  first — 
Upon  that  very  point  of  winged  time 
That  saw  Hyperion, 
probably  intending  to  finish  "  slide  into  the  air  ".    Then  he  alters  "  that " 
in  the  first  line  to  "the"  and  restarts  his  second  line  "  Hyperion  slid  ". 
This  again  is  cancelled  and  the  passage  rewritten  as  in  the  text.     The  word 
"  beat,"  however,  is  crossed  out  in  favour  of  "  move  ".     Yet  "  beat "  found 
its  way  into  the  Woodhouse  book  either  with  or  without  the  consent  of 
Keats,  and  so  into  the  text. 

4.  Cybele  identical  with  Ops  (ii.  113)  and  Rhea — the  wife  of  Saturn  and 
queen  of  the  Titans. 

4.  the  bruised  Titans  :  her  bruised  children    MS.  cancelled. 

5,  6.  iifhere  no  insulting  light  Could  glimmer.  So  Satan  describes  Hell 
as 

The  seat  of  desolation,  void  of  light 
Save  what  the  glimmering  of  these  livid  flames 
Casts  pale  and  dreadful.     {Paradise  Lost,  i.  181-83.) 
7.  the  solid  roar  Of  thunderous  waterfalls  and  torrents  hearse: — The 
Boise  of  the  water  had  impressed  Keats  at  Staffa.     "  At  the  extremity  of 
Fingal's  cave,"  he  writes,  "there  is  a  small  perforation  into  another  cave 
at  which  the  waters  meeting  and  buffeting  each  other  there  is  sometimes 
produced  a  report  as  of  a  cannon." 

17.  Couches  of  rugged  stone,  etc. : — The  MS.  shows  a  false  start,  "  Rough 
stones,"  and  continues  "Couches  of  rugged  stone  and  edge  pf  slate". 
It  is  altered  to  text  after  some  hesitation. 

19,  20.  Coeus,  and  Gyges,  and  Briareus,  Typhon,  and  Dolor,  and  Por- 
ph^rion : — In  the  Woodhouse  MS.,  opposite  these  lines,  and  apparently  in 
the  hand  of  Keats  himself,  are  written  the  words 

"  Big-biawn'd  ^gieon  mounted  on  a  whale  " 
and  below  "  Mgseon  p.  26,  S.O.  Typhon  or  Typhoeus  90.  Cobus  108  "- 
Reference  to  these  pages  in  the  1640  edition  of  Sandys's  Ovid  gives  us  in 
each  case  the  clue  to  amain  source  ofKeats's  knowledge  of  the  Titans. 
On  p.  25  we  find  the  line  above  quoted,  with  the  marginal  note  "  a  giant 
drowned  in  the  iEgseon  Sea  for  assisting  the  Titans  and  taken  into  the 
number  of  the  sea  gods  by  Tethys"  (he  is  identical  with  Briareus);  on 
p.  90  a  marginal  note  on  Typhon  "  the  son  of  Tellus  and  Tantarus  also 
called  Typhoeus,"  and  on  p.  108,  again  in  a  note,  Coeus  is  spoken  of  as 
"  one  of  the  Titans  ".     C/.  also  Hesiod,  Theogony  206-11  (Cooke)  :— 

Coeus  his  birth 
From  them  derives,  and  Creus,  sons  of  Earth 
Hyperion  and  Japhet,  brothers,  join 
Thea  and  Rhea  of  this  ancient  line 
Descend :  and  Themis  boasts  the  source  divine 


506  JOHN  KEATS 

And  thou  Mnemosyne  and  Phcebe  crowned 
With  gold,  and  Tethys  for  her  charms  renowned. 

Gyges  and  Briareus  and  Cottus  (49)  were  bom  to  Uranus  and  6e 
(Heaven  and  Earth)  of  a  later  brood,  and  were  in  reality  giants  as 
distinguished  from  Titans.  (Hesiod,  Theogony  (Cooke),  237).  They  were 
imprisoned  by  their  father  Typhon,  by  some  identified  with  Typhoeus, 
by  others  with  Enceladus.  Keats  follows  the  former,  among  whom  is 
Sandys,  for  he  does  not  use  the  name  Typhoeus ;  but  it  is  noticeable  that 
he  transfers  to  Enceladus  stories  associated  with  the  name  of  Typhon 
(ii.  66  note). 

Dolor : — ^There  was  no  Titan  or  giant  of  antiquity  corresponding  with 
this  name  and  its  presence  here  has  never  been  explained.  But  in  the 
Auctores  Mythographi  Latmi  (containing  Hyginus)  (ed.  Van  Staverm, 
Leydm,  1742),  at  the  top  of  page  3,  we  read  "  ex  ^there  et  Terra,  Dolor, 
Dolus,  Ira,"  etc.  (the  Titans  following  two  lines  later).  Mr.  Colvin  has 
proved  that  this  book  was  in  Keats's  possession  in  1819  and  that  from  page 
4  (really  pp.  3  and  4)  he  took  his  idea  in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  of  identifying 
Mnemosyne  with  Moneta.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  had  not 
seen  the  book  in  1818,  "  ex  ^there  et  Terra"  would  naturally  suggest  to 
his  mind  Uranus  and  Ge,  and  the  abstract  noun  would  become  in  his 
imagination  a  living  Titan,  especially  as  the  Titans  are  themselves 
mentioned  in  the  same  paragraph.  Porphyrion  is  not  mentioned  by 
Hesiod,  but  appears  first  in  Pindar  [rov  ovSe  Mop^vpiav  \a6cv  {Pyth.  viii. 
15)].  He  occurs  also  in  Horace  (iii.  Ode  4)  and  is  mentioned  on  pp.  1 
and  2  of  Hyginus.  Keats  perhaps  took  him  from  the  list  given  in 
Lempridre. 

It  is  important  to  notice  that  line  20,  with  its  two  far-sought  Titans,  was 
probably  an  afterthought,  added  because  Keats  is  conscious  of  the  effect 
gained  by  a  list  of  charmed  names  in  Milton ;  for  it  is  written  on  the 
preceding  verso  of  the  MS.  So,  too,  lines  21,  23-28  and  31  are  all  written 
on  the  verso,  and  their  addition  gives  to  the  passage  a  Miltonic  richness  of 
effect.  Line  26  gave  Keats  some  difficulty  and  the  MS.  bears  traces  of  two 
earlier  drafts  of  it : — 

Locked  up  like  metal  veins  was  crampt  and  screw'd. 
Locked  up  like  metal  veins  with  cramp  and  screw. 
In  27  "  heaving  "  was  first  "  labouring  "  and  in  28  "  gurge  of  boiling 
pulse"  was  "whelming  gurge  of  pulse". 

29.  Mnemosyne : — The  mother  of  the  Muses  by  Jupiter  {Hesiod). 

30.  Phoibe : — Daughter  of  Uranus  and  Ge  {Hesiod),  the  mother  of  Leto 
by  Coeus,  and  hence  grandmother  of  the  moon-goddess  who  bore  her  name. 
Keats  may  have  identified  her  with  the  moon-goddess  intentionally,  or  he 
may  have  been  misled  by  the  passage  in  Ovid,  Met.  (Sandys)  i.  9, 10 

No  Titcm  yet  the  world  with  light  adornes 
Nor  waxing  Phcebe  fills  her  wained  homes 
into  thinking  that  the  moon  Phoebe  was  a  Titan. 


HYPERION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  507 

32.  But  for  the  main,  etc. : — Originally  written  "  The  others  [rest]  here 
found  grief  and  respite  sad  " — hardly  the  meaning  required  by  the  context. 
34-39.  This  marvellous  simile,  so  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  Keats,  was 
suggested  by  the  Druid  Stones  near  Keswick.     Cf.  letter  to  Thos.  Keats 
(Keswick,  29th  June,  1818),  "  We  set  forth  about  a  mile  and  a  half  on 
the  Penrith  road,  to  see  the  Druid  Temple.     We  had  a  fag  up  hill,  rather 
too  near  dinner  time,  which  was  rendered  void  by  the  gratification  of  see- 
ing these  aged  stones  on  a  gentle  rise  in  the  midst  of  the  mountains,  which 
at  that  time  darkened  all  around  except  at  the  first  opening  of  the  Vale  of 
St.  John."    It  is  worth  noticing  that  Keats  himself  saw  the  stones  at 
"shut  of  eve".     It  is  not  impossible  that  Keats's  description  was  also 
affected  by  his  recollection  of  the  Excursion,  iii.  50 : — 
Upon  a  semicirque  of  turf  clad  ground 
The  hidden  nook  discovered  to  their  view 
A  mass  of  rock.  .  .  .  These  several  stones 
Stood  near,  of  smaller  size,  and  not  unlike 
To  monumental  pillars,  and  from  these 
Some  little  space  disjoined,  a  pair  were  seen 
That  with  united  shoulders  bore  aloft 
A  fragment  like  an  altar. 
36.  at  shut  of  eve : — The  phrase  which  Keats  uses  again  in  Sonnet  xxix. 
He  owes  it  in  all  probability  to  a  reminiscence  of  Milton.     Cf.  Lamia, 
i.  139  note,  ii.  107. 

38.  throughout  night : — A  close  to  the  line  only  reached  after  first 
"through  long  night"  and  then  "the  long  night"  had  been  tried  and 
found  wanting. 

41.  CreUs :  Croeus  Woodhouse.    Cf.  ii.  19  note. 

49.  Cottus : — Hesiod,  Theogony,  237,  "  Cottus  terrible  to  name  "  ;  men- 
tioned by  Hesiod  with  Briareus  and  Gyges  as  of  "  later  birth  "  than  the 
other  Titans. 

50.  As  though  in  pain :  Pained  he  seem'd    MS.  cancelled. 

63.  Asia  daughter  of  Oceanus  and  Tethys,  married  to  lapetus  and 
mother  of  Prometheus.  She  is  generally  identified  with  Clymene  (76), 
and  so  Hesiod,  Theogony  ;  but  Keats  makes  of  them  two  persons  and  gives 
to  Asia  a  new  parentage  upon  which,  as  upon  Dolor  in  ii.  19,  critics  who 
have  discussed  the  sources  of  Keats's  Titans  have  refrained  from  com- 
menting. Keats  probably  met  the  name,  as  the  late  Prof.  York  Powell 
pointed  out  to  me,  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  with  which  he  was  very  familiar. 
In  the  Mahommedan  faith,  Kaf  was  a  fabulous  mountain  which  "sur- 
rounded the  earth  as  a  ring  does  the  finger,"  it  was  "  the  starry  girdle  of 
the  world  "  (Burton,  1001  Nights,  i.  77.  122)  and  a  not  infrequent  threat 
of  the  magician  was  that  be  could  transport  "the  stones  of  a  city  behind 
the  mountain  Kaf  and  the  circumambient  ocean  ".  Keats,  his  imagination 
fired  by  legends  of  the  East  as  by  those  of  Greece  and  Rome,  conceives  of 
the  Titan  Asia  as  having  this  parentage. 


508  JOHN  KEATS 

64.  Who  cost  hm  mother  Tellus  hemer  pangs  .-—an  echo  of  Paradise  l^ost, 
iv.  271,  '*  which  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain  "  a  passage  which  particularly  im- 
pressed Keats.    Cf.  Lamia,  i.  63  note. 

60.  By  Oxus  or  in  Ganges'  sacred  isles  :  From  Tigris  uoto  Ganges  and 
far  north  MS.  cancelled — then  "  By  TigHs  or  in  Ganges  shaded  isles  ". 
Lastly  "  Tigris  "  becomes  "  Oxus,"  but  "  shaded  "  is  left  in  the  MS.  and 
reappears  in  Woodhouse. 

61.  as  Hope  Vipon  her  emchor  learn : — The  simile  of  Hope  has  been  ob- 
jected to  as  unclassical,  but  if  it  is  unclassical  it  is  so  accidentally  rather 
than  in  spirit,  and  Keats  in  all  probability  owed  it,  in  common  with  most 
of  his  unimpeachable  classicisms,  to  an  !Elizabeth»!i  source.  Cy.  Faerie 
Queene,  i.  10.  14. 

Upon  her  arme  a  silver  anchor  lay 

Whereon  she  leaned  ever,  as  befell. 

66.  Enceladus  the  strongest  and  fiercest  of  the  giants,  usually  indenti- 

iied  with  Typhon.    Keats  makes  of  them  two  persons  (c/.  1.  20)  but  he 

attributes  here  to  Enceladus  the  prowess  associated  in  Ovid  with  the  name 

of  Typhon.     Cf.  Sandys,  Ovid,  Met.  vi.  (quoted  in  part  in  Woodhouse)  :— 

Typhon  from  earth's  gloomy  entrails  rais'd 

Struck  all  their  powers  with  feare;  who  fled  amazed 

Till  Egypt's  scorched  soyle  the  weary  hides 

And  wealthy  Nile,  who  in  seven  channels  glides 

That  hither  earth  born  Typhon  them  pursued 
;       When  as  the  gods  concealing  shapes  indued. 

Jove  tum'd  himselfe,  she  said,  into  a  Ram  ; 

From  whence  the  homes  of  Lybian  Hammon  came 

Bacchus  a  goat,  Apollo  was  a  crow, 

Phoebe  a  cat,  Jove's  wife  a  cow  of  snow  ; 

Venus  a  fish,  a  stork  did  Hermes  hide. 
(For  the  significance  of  lines  70,  71  in  relation  to  the  scheme  of  the 
poem,  cf.  Introduction,  p.  488). 

The  name  Enceladus  does  not  occur  in  Hesiod,  but  was  known  to  Keats 
from  a  passage  in  Vergil's  Aeneid,  iii.  678  (which  he  had  already  utilised  in 
Endymiion)  and  in  Spenser,  who  describes  his  death  in  the  later  war  of  the 
Titans  at  the  hand  of  Bellona  {Faerie  Queene,  ii.  9.  22).  The  character 
of  Enceladus  may  be  compared  with  that  of  IMoloch  in  Paradise  Lost,  but 
it  was  doubtless  filled  out  by  the  suggestions  of  the  mythological  gloss 
in  Sandys,  pp.  96,  97.  "  Typhon  is  the  type  of  Ambition.  ...  He  is  said 
to  have  reached  Heaven  with  his  hands,  in  regard  to  his  aspiring 
thoughts ;  to  have  feete  unwearied  with  trouble  as  expressing  his  in- 
dustry in  accommodating  all  thinges  to  his  own  desigues ;  to  have  flaming 
eyes ;  as  full  of  wrath  and  violence ;  the  tongues  of  serpents ;  in  that 
insolent  in  language,  apt  to  detract,  sounding  his  owne  glory  on  the 
infamy  of  others.  .  .  .  But  better  this  horrid  figure  of  Typhon  agrees 
with  rebellion.  ...  By  such  rebellious  not  seldom  princes  are  chased  out 


HYPERION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  509 

of  their  countries  inforced  to  hide  themselves  in  some  obscure  angle  ;  as 
here  the  Gods  pursued  by  Typhon,  fly  into  Egypt ;  concealing  themselves 
in  the  shapes  of  unreasonable  creatures.'' 

73.  Atlas  .''^-Son  of  lapetus  and  Asia  or  Clymene. 

74.  Phorcus,  the  sire  of  Gorgons : — Cf.  Faerie  Queene,  iv.  11. 13. 

The  father  of  that  fatal  brood 

By  whom  those  old  h«roes  won  such  fame. 

75.  Tethys : — Wife  of  Oceanus,  often  referred  to  in  Spenser.  The  tender 
and  yielding  character  given  to  Clymene  was  perhaps  due  to  the  association 
of  the  name  with  the  Clymene  of  Ovid,  Met.  ii.,  i.e.  the  mother  of  Phaeton 
and  wife  of  Apollo.     Her  "  tangled  hair  "  is  a  reminiscence  of  Lycidas. 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neasra's  hair, 
itself  a  reminiscence  of  Peele's  David  and  Bathseba : — 
Here  comes  my  lover  tripping  like  a  roe 
And  brings  my  longings  tangled  in  her  hair. 

77.  Themis  :  vide  note  to  ii.  9. 

79.  night  confounds : — A  phrase  recollected  from  the  famous  passage  in 
Chapman's  Iliad  (viii.  420-24 ;  vide  Introduction,  p.  xlvi)  where  the  poet 
describes  the  abode  of  the  Titans.^ 

83.  chaunt :  tell    MS.  cancelled. 

86.  Above  a  sombre  cliff :  and  now  was  slowly  come  MS.  cancelled — 
then  "  Above  a  [clifted]  gnarled  cliff"  which  is  altered  to  text. 

96.  but  most  of  all  despair : — In  the  description  of  the  complexity  of 
Saturn's  emotion,  Keats  almost  inevitably  draws  upon  the  descriptions  of 
Satan  in  Pavadise  Lost  {cf.  Paradise  Lost,  iv.  114, 115). 

passion  dimm'd  his  face 
Thrice  chang'd  with  pale,  ire,  envie  and  despair. 
Cf.  also  vi.  787  "  hope  conceiving  from  despair  "  and  xi.  301. 

112.  some  wailed :  some  sat  up    MS.  cancelled. 

134.  starry  Uranus  with  finger  :  starr'd  Uranus  with  his  finger, 
MS.,  Woodhottse.  The  final  reading  is  a  correction  of  a  false  quantity  in 
the  draft. 

144.  loud  warring :  engaging    MS.  cancelled. 

163.  Oceanus : — The  one  Titan  according  to  ancient  authority  who  had 
not  joined  in  war  against  the  Olympians.  His  peaceful  acquiescence  in  his 
fate  made  him  to  Keats  the  mouthpiece  of  the  "eternal  truth"  of  which 
the  poem  is  the  expression.  With  the  last  part  of  his  speech  should  be 
compared  the  beautiful  reference  to  Oceanus  in  Endymion,  iii.  994,  which 
suggests  that  already  at  that  period  Keats  had  pondered  upon  the  subject 
of  Hyperion. 

165.  astonied :  astonished  MS.  corrected  above,  and  showing  that  the 
corrections  were  made  at  a  time  when  Keats  desired  to  be  as  Miltonic  as 
possible,  i.e.,  before  he  had  given  up  the  poem  as  too  MUtonic. 

169.  in  his  watery  shades  :  beneath  watry  glooms     MS.  cancelled. 


510  JOHN  KEATS 

173.  who,  passion-stung :  whom  passion  stings    MS.  cancelled. 

191.  From  chaos,  etc. : — This  great  passage  in  which  Oceanus  describes 
the  evolution  of  the  world  from  chaos  gave  Keats  some  trouble,  but  it  is 
diflScult  from  the  writing  of  the  MS.  to  tell  what  his  first  conception  was. 
Our  MS.  begins : — 

Darkness  was  first,  and  then  a  Light  there  was  ; 
From  Chaos  came  the  Heavens  and  the  Earth 
The  first  grand  Parent — 
interesting  as  showing  a  clear  dependence  on  Milton.    Then  Keats  starts 
once  more : — 

From  Chaos  and  parental  darkness  came 
Light,  'twas  the  first  of  all  (the  fruits  ?) 
This  was  cancelled  for  the  reading  of  the  text.    The  next  line  first  ran : — 

That  sullen  ferment,  grown  unto  its  height, 
and  in  line  194  we  have  a  false  start,  "  Was  at  strange  boil "  (for  "  broil "  }). 

217.  Say,  doth  the  dull  soil :  Strife  indeed  there  was  MS.  altered  to 
(1)  say,  shall  the  [lifel]  senseless  soil,  (2)  the  reading  of  the  text 

263.  was  breathed  from  a  land :  came  breathing  from  inland  MS.  can- 
celled. 

266.  soft  delicious  warmth : — This  Miltonism  came  to  Keats  as  he  was 
writing  our  MS.  He  began  "  delight "  (delightful .')  but  put  his  pen 
through  the  "t "  and  added  "  cious". 

308.  from  supreme  contempt :  from  contempt  of  that  mild  speech  MS. 
altered  because  it  was  hypermetric,  "Of  that  mild  speech"  being  re- 
written as  a  start  to  the  next  line,  but  afterwards  discarded. 

310.  Or  to  the  over  foolish  giant,  gods  ? :  Or  to  the  over  foolish,  Giant- 
Gods  }  MS.  Mr.  Forman,  with  fine  critical  acumen,  had  already  antici- 
pated this  as  the  correct  reading.  It  is  at  once  more  musical  and  more 
effective.  "Giant-gods"  is  a  term  applied  by  Keats  to  the  Titans  in  a 
passage  rejected  from  lines  367-71  {vide  infra). 

313.  piled  :  pour'd     MS.,  Woodhouse. 

325.  lifted:  arose  MS.  cancelled.  A  line  follows  "and  standing  stood, 
continuing  thus  "  which  we  are  not  surprised  to  find  cancelled. 

341.  The  winged  thing.  Victory : — A  phrase  possibly  suggested  by  a 
statue,  but  more  likely  another  reminiscence  of  Milton.     Wlien  the  Son 
of  God  appeared  to  drive  forth  the  rebel  angels 
at  his  right  hand  victorie 
Sate  eagle  winged  (Paradise  Lost,  vi.  762). 
At  the  same  time,  "winged  victory"  is  a  common  classical  phrase  and  would 
be  well  known  to  Keats  in  Chapman's  Homer. 

355.  sweeps :  turns    MS.  cancelled — a  great  gain  in  vividness. 

357-71.  Till  suddenly  a  splendour  .  ,  .  short  Numidian  curl: — This 
great  passage,  like  the  climax  of  book  i.,  reached  its  full  poetic  height 
from  an  earlier  inadequate  form,  and  in  the  process  underwent  so  much 
alteration  that  Keats  crossed  through  his  first  copy  in  the  MS.  and  re- 


HYPERION,  BK.  II.— NOTES  511 

wrote  it,  to  judge  by  the  writing,  on  a   later  occasion.      It  first  ran 
thus: — 

Till  suddenly  a  full-blown  Splendour  fill'd 

Those  native  spaces  of  oblivion 

And  every  g[l]ulph  and  every  chasm  old 

And  every  height  and  every  sullen  depth 

Voiceless,  or  fill'd  with  hoarse  tormented  streams ; 

And  all  the  everlasting  cataracts 

And  all  the  headlong  torrents  far  and  near 

And  all  the  Caverns  soft  with  moss  and  weed 

Or  dazzling  with  bright  and  barren  gems  ; 

And  all  the  giant-Gods.     It  was  Hyperion  ; 

He  stood  upon  a  granite  peak  aloof 

With  goldeti  hair  of  short  numidian  curl. 

Rich  as  the  colchian  fleece. 
Three  changes  were,  apparently,  introduced  into  the  text  at  once  ;  "and 
every  chasm  old  "  in  the  third  line  was  altered  to  "  was  seen  and  chasm 
old,"  the  ninth  line  was  altered  to  "  Or  blazoned  with  clear  spar  and 
barren  gems  "  to  get  rid  of  the  cockney  pronunciation  of  "  dazzling  "  as  a 
trisyllable,  and  the  comparison  of  Hyperion's  hair  to  the  golden  fleece  was 
cancelled.  The  reconstruction  of  the  passage  is  carried  out  in  such  a  way 
as  to  make  the  situation  which  it  describes  at  once  more  familiar  and  more 
vivid  to  the  imagination,  as  an  actual  sunrise  among  the.  mountains^ 
For  this  reason  the  reference  to  the  giant-gods,  in  the  earlier  version  the 
climax  of  a  long  sentence,  is  omitted,  in  order  that  the  emphasis  laid  upon 
their  presence  may  not  violate  the  universal  truth  of  the  picture,  whilst 
lines  9  and  10  are  cancelled,  as  by  their  very  tender  beauty  detracting 
from  the  vast  splendour  of  the  scene.  At  the  same  time  Keats  dwells 
upon  the  dramatic  significance  of  the  situation — the  last  appearance  of 
Hyperion  as  the  god  of  day — by  adding  lines  which  express  the  misery  of 
the  fallen  Titans.  It  is  noticeable  that  the  changes  introduced  into  the 
description  of  Hyperion  (371,  372)  are  in  the  direction  of  Miltonism. 

374.  Memnon : — ^The  son  of  Tithonus  and  Aurora  slain  by  Achilles. 
Sandys  in  his  commentary  on  Ovid,  Met.  xiii.  578,  says  that  he  was  "  sup- 
posed to  be  an  .Ethiopian  in  regard  of  his  complexion"  and  discusses  the 
reason  for  the  dark  skins  of  the  Eastern  races — which  perhaps  suggested 
to  Keats  the  pregnant  epithet "  dusking"  ;  though  he  may  have  had  in  view 
Paradise  Regained,  iv.  76,  "dusk  faces  with  white  silken  Turbants  wreath'd  ". 
Sandys  goes  on  to  explain,  "  And  neere  Egyptian  Thebes  in  the  Grove  of 
Serapis,  he  had  his  miraculous  statue :  sitting  and  consisting  of  a  hard 
darke  marble :  made  with  such  admirable  art,  that  when  the  rising  Sunne 
cast  his  beames  thereon,  it  would  render  a  mournefiil  sound ;  and  salute 
as  it  were  his  approaching  mother  ". 
386.  bulk :  shade    MS.  cancelled. 


512  JOHN  KEATS 


Book  III 


The  opening  lines)  have  an  additional  pathos  when  it  is  remembered 
that  they  were  written  soon  after  the  death  of  Tom  Keats,  bjr  whose 
bedside  the  poet  had  been  watching  for  three  months.    Perhaps  lines  124-30 
are  a  reminiscence  of  this,  as  is  the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,  3, 
where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies. 

2.  Amazed:  Perplexed    MS.  cancelled. 

3.  O  leave  them,  Muse !  O  leave  them  to  their  woes !  O  leave  them 
Muse  !  for  they  have  succour  none    MS.  cancelled. 

6.  Thy  lips :  These  anthemed  lips    MS.  cancelled. 

7.  Leave  them,  O  Muse :  Leave  them — ^for  many    MS.  cancelled. 

8.  fallen  :  lonely    MS,  cancelled  ;  mateless     MS.  cancelled. 

10.  piously :  deftly  MS.  cancelled.  Probably  Keats  had  some  other 
word  than  "Delphic"  in  the  line  of  his  first  draft,  e.g.,  "Aeolian,"  which 
would  scan  with  "  deftly  ". 

12.  In  aid  soft  warble  from  the  Dorian  flute : — The  delicate  music  of 
these  lines  recalls  Paradise  Lost,  i.  549-61,  to  whose  "sad  sweet  melody" 
Keats  had  called  attention  in  his  Notes  to  Milton  :-r-  ■ 

Anon  they  move 
In  perfect  Phalanx  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  Flutes  and  soft  Recorders. 

13.  'tis  for:  thou  singst    MS.  cancelled. 

14.  Flush  everything,  etc.  Keats  starts  two  lines  here  before  he  decides 
definitely  how  to  proceed : — 

Let  a  warm  rosy  hue  .  .  . 
.  And  the  corn  haunting  poppy  .  .  . 
For  "  vermeil "  Keats  first  wrote  "  rosy  ". 
19.  faint-lipped :  red-lipped    MS.  cancelled. 
22.  Blush  keenly  :  blush  as  she  did    MS.  cancelled. 
27.  hazels : — Copied  by  Woodhouse's  clerk  as  "  Hyle's  "  and   thus  ex- 
plained by  Mr.  Buxton  Forman:   "Probably  Keats  left  the  'a'  out  of 
'  Hazle ' — a  quite  possible  spelling  for  him ;  and  the  copyist  took  the 
'  z '  for  a  '  y '."     A  glance  at  the  facsimile  will  show  this  conjecture  to  be 
correct.    In  the  MS.  Woodhouse  has  marked  the  line  in  pencil  as  doubtful. 
29, 30.  Where  was  he,  when,  etc.  : — The  question  here  recalls  Lyddas,  60 

Where  were  ye  nymphs  when  the  remorseless  deep  } 
33.  wandered :  roamed     MS.  cancelled. 

41.  boughs: — Keats  first  wrote  "shade"  and  then  "oaks"  before  he 
decided  upon  the  reading  of  the  text. 

42,  He  Usten'd,  and  he  wept,  etp.  :-^Leigh  Hunt,  followed  by  other 
critics,  has  censured  this  conception  of  Apollo.  "  It  strikes  us  that  there  is 
something  too  efieminate  and  human  in  the  way  in  which  Apollo  receives 
the  exaltation  that  his  wisdom  is  giving  him.  He  weeps  and  wonders  some- 
what too  fondly ;  but  his  powers  gather  nobly  on  him  as  he  proceeds."    If 


HYPERION,  BK  III.— NOTES  51S 

the  wisdom  which  Apollo  gains  were  merely  knowledge  the  criticism  would 
be  unanswerable,  but  it  is  evident  that  Keats  means  to  include  in  it  far 
more  than  this,  and  to  suggest  that  the  great  poet  of  light  and  song 
reaches  his  supremacy  not  merely  by  knowledge  but  by  anguish  and  by 
a  distress  of  heart  which  makes  him  "  feel  the  giant  agon'y  of  the  world,' 
and  gives  him  an  understanding  of  human  suffering.  Keats  had  dwelt 
upon  this  idea  in  Slee^  and  Poetry,  and  he  draws  it  out  still  more  pointedly 
in  his  Fall  of  Hyperion,  and  it  is  hardly  likely  that  his  conception  here 
would  be  completely  different.  It  is  far  more  probable  that  he  developed 
the  idea  more  obviously  in  his  revision  {Pall  of  Hyp.  i.  147-149)  because 
he  felt  that  his  treatment  of  it  in  the  first  version  had  been  too  vague. 

44.  Thus  with  half-shut,  suffused  eyes  he  stood :  So  kept  his  [he  Y]  with 
his  eyes  suffused  half-shut    MS.  corrected. 

50.  How  cam'st  thou  over  the  unfooted  sea  ?  How  camest  thou  over  the 
pathless  sea  ?    MS.  corrected  to  text. 

62.  Mov'd :  Walked    MS.  canulled. 

63.  o'er:  by    MS.  cancelled. 

66.  i»  cool  mid  forest :  in  the  m(id  forest  ?)    MS.  cancelled. 
66.  about :  along    MS.  cancelled. 

57.  These  glassy  solitudes,  and  seen  the  flowers  :  These  solitudes  and 
seen  the  grass  and  flowers    MS.  cancelled. 

62.  hast  dreamed :  dreamst    MS.  cancelled. 

63.  Didst  find  a  lyre  all  golden  by  thy  side :  Didst  find  a  golden  lyre  by 
thy  side  MS.  altered  in  order  to  avoid  the  awkward  pronunciation  of 
"lyre"  as  a  dissyllable — a  fault  to  which  Mr.  Bridges  has  called  attention 
as  characteristic  of  Keats. 

64.  Touch' d :  swept  MS.  cancelled;  whose  strings :  the  which  MS. 
cancelled. 

100.  To  any  one  particular  beauteous  star: — Cf.  All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,  i.  1.  96. 

'Twere  all  one 
That  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star. 
114.  rebellious :  loud  voices     MS.  cancelled. 

116.  Creations  and  destroyings  all  at  once :  Creations,  visage  of  destroy- 
isgs  and  calm  peace    MS.  cancelled. 

118.  deify  me :  and  like  some    MS.  cancelled. 
121.  While  his  enkindled  eyes,  etc. : — 

While  level  glanced  beneath  his  temples  soft 
His  eyes  were  steadfast  on  Mnemosyne  MS.  cancelled. 
The  lines  that  follow  gave  Keats  considerable  trouble.  He  began  123 
"Upon  Mnemosyne,"  and  only  added  "Trembling  with  light"  in  the 
margin.  For  the  next  line  he  first  wrote,  "and  while  through  all  his 
limbs  [cancelled]  frame  " — then  "  and  wild  commotion  throughout " — ^then 
"  and  his  while  "  [cancelled] — then  at  last,  "  Soon  wild  commotions,"  etc. 
The  next  line  he  began  "  All  his  white,"  and  then  followed  : — 

33 


614  JOHN  KEATS 

Roseate  and  pained  as  any  ravished  nymph  [cancelled] 
Into  a  hue  more  roseate  than  a  sweet  pain 
Gives  to  a  Nymph  new-r(avished)  when  her  tears 
altered  to : — 

Gives  to  a  ravish'd  nymph  when  her  warm  tears 
Gush  luscious  with  no  sob.    Or  more  severe 
More,  etc. 
So  Woodhouse.    The  first  three  lines,  however,  are  cancelled  with  a  pencil 
and  "And"  written  for  "More"  in  the  fourth  line.    The  text  reads 
"Most". 

126.  Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death: — Mr.  Arnold  compares 
with  Gebir,  vii.  240. 

He  seems  to  struggle  from  the  grasp  of  death. 
131.  His  very  hair :  Even  his  hair    MS.  cancelled.    In  the  next  line  the 
word  "graceful"  is  inserted  above  "undulation,"  but  cancelled. 

136.  Apollo  shrieked  : — Above  "  Apollo "  is  written  the  cancelled 
"  Phoebus  ".  The  line  originally  concluded,  "  he  was  the  God ! ",  the 
next  line  beginning  "And  Godlike,"  altered  in  our  MS.  to  "from  all 
his  limbs". 

136.  Celestial:  And  Godlike  MS.  cancelled.  Woodhouse  adds  in 
pencil,  on  what  authority  we  know  not : — 

Glory  dawu'd,  he  was  a  god. 


FALL  OF  HYPERION— NOTES  515 


POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS 
THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION 

A  Vision 

Thu  Fall  of  Hyperion  was  first  printed  by  Lord  Houghton  in  Bibliographical 
and  Historical  Miscellanies  of  the  Philobiblion  Society  (vol.  iii.  1866).  He 
republished  it  in  the  1867  edition  of  the  Life  and  Letters.  He  had  referred 
to  it  in  1848  as  a  recast,  but  in  1856  he  raised  a  doubt  as  to  which  version 
was  the  earlier,  and  in  1867  published  The  Vision  with  the  words  "  I  have 
no  doubt  that  it  was  the  first  draft".  This  view  was  unhesitatingly 
accepted  by  subsequent  critics,  all  of  whom  printed  The  Vision  as  the  first 
version  until,  in  1887,  Mr.  Colvin  (EML,  pp.  187,  232)  finally  showed  that 
view  to,  be  untenable,  not  only  by  overwhelming  internal  evidence,  but 
also  by  reference  to  the  remark  of  Brown  in  the  Houghton  Papers,  "  in  the 
evening  (of  Nov.  and  Dec.  1819)  he  was  deeply  engaged  in  remodelling 
the  fragment  of  Hyperion  into  the  form  of  a  vision,"  a  view  supported  by 
Dr.  Richard  Garnett  who  remembered  a  statement  to  the  same  effect  in  a 
lost  MS.  of  Woodhouse's. 

In  October  of  the  present  year  (1904)  Lord  Crewe  discovered  the  lost 
Woodhouse  transcript  of  The  Fall  of  Hyperion,  and  by  his  kind  permission 
I  am  allowed  to  make  use  of  it  in  the  present  edition.  A  full  account  of 
it  has  already  been  given  in  the  introduction  to  the  Transliteration  of  the 
MS.  published  by  the  Clarendon  Press  and  edited  by  myself,  and  for  full 
details  with  regard  to  it  students  are  referred  to  that  work.  The  tran- 
script was  made  by  Woodhouse's  clerks  in  1833-4  and  was  carefully  cor- 
rected by  Woodhouse  himself,  so  that  it  is  evidently  an  exact  reproduction 
of  the  autograph  MS. ;  and  as  the  autograph  is  still  missing,  it  is  the  first 
authority  for  the  text  of  the  poem.  A  study  of  the  transcript  not  only 
shows  that  the  version  hitherto  printed  is  incorrect  in  several  places,  mostly 
due  to  inaccuracy  in  copying  for  press  and  in  proof-reading,  but  that  it 
ygsj)mitted  a  passage  of  over  twenty  lines  which  is  of  the  highest  import- 
ance to  the  argument  of  the  poem^  The  discovery  of  the  transcript  came 
too  late  to  allow  me  to  alter  the  text  of  the  present  edition,  but  all  the 
corrections  and  additions  which  it  supplies  are  recorded  in  the  following 
notes. 

This  attempt  to  reconstruct  Hyperion  in  the  form  of  a  vision  revealed 
and  interpreted  to  the  poet  by  Moneta,  a  goddess  of  the  fallen  race  of 
Titans,  was  the  last  work  of  Keats  before  his  poetic  powers  deserted  him. 
It  occupied  the  last  few  months  of  1B19,  and  already,  as  critics  have  often 


516  JOHN  KEATS 

pointed  out,  gave  evidence  of  declining  power.  But  it  does  not  follow 
because  Keats  was  at  this  time  unequal  to  the  task  he  set  himself,  that  he 
would  have  been  unsuccessful  if  he  had  beep  able  to  attempt  it  when  he 
was  in  full  possession  of  his  poetic  energies.  VThe  romantic  form  which  he 
has  now  chosen,  if  not  so  obviously  adapted  to  the  subject,  is  at  least  more 
natural  to  the  poet  himself,  and  more  in  keeping  with  the  general  char- 
acter of  his  other  work.  It  was  probably  the  consciousness  of  this  that 
led  him  to  make  the  change.  It  has  been  suggested  that  the  influence  of 
Dante  was  lars^ely  responsible  for  it,  but  it  must  be  remembered  that 
Keats's  study  of  Dante  occupied  his  time  in  the  summer  of  1818  when  he 
was  upon  his  Scotch  tour,  and  would  thus  have  been  more  likely  to  affect 
the  first  version  of  the  poem  than  to  have  suggested  a  reconstruction.' 
This  is  sufficiently  explained  by  the  reasons  which  Keats  himself  gives  for 
leaving  Hyperion  as  a  fragment — its  excessive  Miltonism,  together  with 
the  feeling  which  grew  upon  him  as  he  wrote  that  in  a  pure  objective  poem, 
such  as  he  had  chosen,  he  would  not  be  able  to  interpret  with  sufficient 
clearness  his  own  conception  of  the  significance  of  the  legends  with  which 
he  dealt.  There  is  no  indication  that  his  views  as  to  that  sig^ficance  had 
undergone  any  change,  but  his  feeling  with  regard  to  it  had  become 
intenser  and  he  decided  to  work  it  out  with  more  elaboration.  Hence  a 
careful  study  of  the  first  250  lines  of  the  Vision  will  give  us  a  clearer 
understanding  not  merely  of  the  Fall  of  Hyperion,  but  of  the  greater 
fragment  of  which  it  is  the  revision.  Allowance  must  be  made,  as  Mr. 
Colvin  has  pointed  out,  for  the  growing  note  of  despair,  for  the  fact 
that  whereas  before  Keats  had  felt  the^  goal  to  he  within  his  ultimate 
reach  he  now  belittles  his  own  endeavours  to  attain  it;  but  if  he 
realises  more  intensely  than  ever  the  pains  which  are  the  inevitable 
accompaniment  of  the  sensitive  poetic  temperament,  he  has  never  pre- 
sented more  vividly  those  ideal  emotions  which  are  its  ample  com- 
pensation. The  opening  allegory,  of  great  importance  to  the  proper 
understanding  of  Keats's  whole  conception  of  life  may,  perhaps,  be  inter- 
preted as  follows : — 

It  is  clear  that  in  the  garden,  the  temple,  and  the  shrine,  are  presented 
to  us  those  three  stages  in  the  poet's  development  towards  the  attainment 
of  his  ideal  which  Keats  had  dwelt  upon  in  Sleep  and  Poetry  (1816)  and  in 
the  letter  to  Reynolds  (1818)  {vide  notes,  p.  406).  The  garden  is  the  garden 
of  Nature  and  Art,  as  Nature  and  Art  make  their  first  appeal  to  the  sensi- 
tive temperament.  Its  resources  are  infinite  and  it  offers  them  without 
stint  to  those  who  are  capable  of  enjoying  them.  The  poet  eats  his  fill 
and  his  feast  brings  upon  him  a  thirst  for  a  draught  of  something  deeper 

1 A  distinction  should  be  drawn  between  such  influence  of  Dante  as  could  come 
through  a  translation,  and  sch  as  could  only  be  due  to  the  direct  study  of  the  original 
Of  this  latter  and  more  subtle  kind  of  influence,  affecting  the  style  and  phraseology  of 
the  poet,  the  first  and  only  examples,  as  Mr.  Bridges  points  out,  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Fall  of  Hyperion.  The  lines  to  which  he  draws  auention  in  this  connection  are  i.  6, 
97-99  (especially  99),  and  145,  146. 


FALL  OF  HYPERION— NOTES  517 

and  diviner  which  he  finds  in  a  cool  vessel  beside  him.  (This  corresponds, 
perhaps,  to  what  Shelley  has  termed  "  Intellectual  Beauty  ".)  To  this  draught 
he  owes  his  whole  future  development ;  for  by  it  he  is  drawn,  he  knows 
not  how,  into  another  world.  His  mind  is  awakened,  and  his  feelings  of 
mere  sensuous  delight  are  changed  into  a  profound  and  often  melancholy 
sense  of  the  infinity  and  mystery  of  the  world  about  him.  The  place  where 
he  finds  himself  is  in  a  sense  the  temple  of  knowledge^  but  it  contains  far 
more  than  the  word  knowledge  usually  implies,  for  it  holds  within  it  the 
beauty  and  the  experience  of  all  time,  and  yet  it  beckons  rather  to  the  future 
than  to  the  past.  The  East  from  which  the  light  had  once  come  is  "  shut 
against  the  sunrise  evermore  "  ;  in  the  West  is  the  altar  to  which  the  poet 
must  bend  his  steps,  and  as  he  approaches  the  altar  he  gains  some  pro- 
phetic insight  into  the  highest  joys  of  poetry  and  is  refreshed,  so  that  for 
the  moment  he  forgets  how  far  he  is  from  attaining  the  goal.  At  the  foot 
of  the  shrine  is  the  figure  of  Saturn,  majestic  though  fallen,  a  type  of  what 
the  past  can  teach  the  future,  whilst  the  fate  of  Saturn,  soon  to  be  un- 
folded, is  significant  of  those  essential  laws  of  progress  which  govern  the 
universe  and  themselves  give  a  unity  of  all  existence.  And  the  priestess 
interpreter  who  ministers  at  the  shrine,  the  "  sole  goddess  of  the  desola-  ' 
tion "  of  the  past,  is  Moneta.  Formerly  she  was  known  as  Mnemosyne, 
the  goddess  of  memory,  the  mother  of  the  Muses,  by  whose  inspiration 
Apollo,  the  father  of  song,  had  gained  divinity,  but  now  she  is  called  by 
a  name  which  suggests  that  to  her  powers  of  inspiration  must  be  added 
the  power  to  admonish  and  to  guide.  With  her  first  words  she  warns  the 
poet  that  he  must  ascend  the  steps  that  lead  to  his  ideal  life  before  it  is 
too  late.  To  wander  aimlessly  among  the  wonders  of  the  temple  is  little 
better  than  feasting  in  the  garden :  he  must  concentrate  himself  upon 
some  intense  imaginative  effort.  As  he  hears  this  warning  and  looks 
about  him  he  becomes  conscious  of  its  essential  truth.  His  awakened 
sense  of  wonder,  his  thirst  for  knowledge,  his  widened  experience  of  life, 
have  all  tended  to  paralyse  his  creative  faculties,  so  that  it  becomes  ever 
harder  for  him  to  exercise  them.  Only  by  a  supreme  efi^ort  does  he  put 
bis  imaginative  sympathies  to  some  definite  result,  and  so  gain  the  lowest 
stair.  And  having  reached  it  he  learns  that  further  progress  cannot  be 
made  by  imaginative  sympathy  alone ;  the  selfish  life  of  artistic  isolation 
will  profit  him  nothing,  he  must  henceforth  live  in  the  world  about  him, 
making  its  sorrows  his  sorrows.  Even  so,  he  must  realise  the  superiority 
of  the  practical  life  over  the  life  of  the  dreamer ;  and  though  by  reason  of 
his  temperament  such  a,  life  can  never  be  his,  he  must  reverence  it  at  its 
true  worth. 

How  is  this  to  be  understood  i  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  great  poets 
have  "  usurped  the  height "  ;  but  wherein  have  they  escaped  this  sweeping 
denunciation  of  the  imaginative  mind  ?  wherein,  except  in  degree,  do  they 
differ  from  their  weaker  brethren  ?  The  text  as  hitherto  printed,  gives  no 
answer ;  it  simply  leaves  us  with  this  antithesis  between  the  practical  and 


518  JOHN  KEATS 

the  visionary  temper,  whieh  may  be  just  but  is  certainly  not  the  anti- 
thesis required  by  the  argument.  The  necessary  conclusion  is  supplied 
by  this  passage  found  in  the  MS.  between  lines  186  and  187,  but  rejected 
by  Woodhouse,'  wherein  the  poet,  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  as  he  admits 
his  own  unworthiness,  pleads  the  cause  of  his  art,  and  receives  no  hesi- 
tating reply : — 

"  Majestic  shadow,  tell  me  :  sure  not  all 

Those  melodies  sung  into  the  World's  ear 

Are  useless :  sure  a  poet  is  a  sage  : 

A  humanist.  Physician  to  all  Men. 

That  I  am  none  I  feel,  as  Vultures  feel 

They  are  no  birds  when  Eagles  are  abroad 

What  am  I  then :  thou  spakest  of  my  Tribe : 

What  Tribe .'' "    The  tall  shade  v6iled  in  drooping  white 

Then  spake,  so  much  more  earnest,  that  the  breath 

Moved  the  thin  linen  folds  that  drooping  hung 

About  a  golden  censer  from  the  hand 

Pendent — "  Art  thou  not  of  the  dreamer  Tribe .' 

The  Poet  and  the  dreamer  are  distinct 

Diverse,  sheer  opposite,  antipodes. 

The  one  pours  out  a  balm  upon  the  World 

The  other  vexes  it."     Then  shouted  I 

Spite  of  myself,  and  with  a  Fythia's  spleen 

"  Apollo  !  faded  !  O  far-flown  Apollo  ! 

Where  is  thy  misty  pestilence  '  to  creep 

'  Woodhouse  has  cancelled  the  lines  with  a  pencil  mark,  and  added  a  marginal 
note,  "  Keats  seems  to  have  intended  to  erase  this  and  the  next  twenty-one  lines,"  and 
the  remark  has  this  justification,  that  the  lines  are  not  as  a  whole  up  to  the  poetic  level 
of  the  rest ;  moreover,  four  of  them  are  employed  again  a  little  further  on  in  the  poem. 
But  Keats  did  not  erase  them  (when  he  rejected  a  passage  he  did  it  with  no  uncertain 
stroke  of  the  pen),  and,  as  it  seems  to  me,  he  would  not  have  done  so.  He  would  un- 
doubtedly have  rewritten  them,  cancelled  some  and  expanded  others.  Woodhouse's 
very  uncertainty  suggests  that  Keats  never  revised  the  poem,  and  as  he  gave  up  all 
idea  of  publishing  it  he  probably  never  wrote  a  fair  copy ;  but  the  evidence  as  it  stands 
does  not,  assuredly,  give  us  the  right  to  reject  the  lines,  particularly  as  they  supply  a 
necessary  climax  to  the  argument  of  the  introductory  allegory,  which  has  hitherto  been 
presented  imcomplete. 

^The  "  misty  pestilence  "  of  Apollo  may  have  been  suggested  to  Keats  by  the  first 
book  of  the  Iliad,  but  the  reference  is  far  more  likely  to  be  due  to  a  somewhat  blurred 
reminiscence  of  a  passage  in  the  Homeric  Hymn  to  Apollo,  which  he  knew  well  in 
Chapman's  translation.  Here  he  read  how  Apollo  slew  the  Pythoness  who  inhabited 
Parnassus  and  poured  his  rays  upon  the  carcase  : — 

then  seized  upon 
Her  horrid  heap  with  putrefaction 
Hyperion's  lovely  powers ;  from  whence  her  name 
Took  sound  of  Python,  and  heaven's  sovereign  flame 
Was  surnamed  Pythias,  since  the  sharp-eyed  Sun 
Affected  so  with  putrefaction 
The  hellish  monster. 
The  mention  in  the  lines  immediately  preceding  of  Typhon,  "  the  abhorred  affiright  and 
bane  of  mortals,"  as  under  the  charge  of  the  Pythoness,  and  the  reference  to  the  sun  as 
Hyperion,  would  tend  to  impress  the  passage  upon  the  mind  of  one  who  had  long 


FALL  OF  HYPERION— NOTES  519 

Into  the  dwellings,  through  the  door  crannies 

Of  all  mock  lyrists,'  large  self- worshippers 

And  careless  Hectorers  in  proud  bad  verse  ^ 

Though  I  breathe  death  with  them  it  will  be  life 

To  see  them  sprawl  before  me  into  graves.'' 
As  poetry  these  lines  may  not  be  very  valuable,  but  there  can  be  no 
question  of  their  importance  to  the  argument  of  the  poem.  If  the  ima- 
ginative poet  reaches  the  highest  development  of  which  the  human  mind 
is  capable,  the  climax  of  this  introductory  dream  must  inevitably  be  de- 
voted to  a  revelation  of  his  true  nature,  and  the  practical  unimaginative 
man  must  not  be  left  in  complete  possession  of  the  field.  And  these  lines, 
though  as  they  stand  they  are  clearly  inadequate,  serve  well  enough  as  a 
bald  expression  of  an  idea  which  would  be  glorified  in  such  a  revision  of 
the  poem  as  Hyperion  underwent  between  the  first  and  second  drafts,  and 
such  as  this  poem  would  surely  have  undergone  had  it  not  been  thrown 
aside  in  sickness  and  despair.  But  for  all  its  crudity  the  passage  is  emin- 
ently suggestive,  and  supplies  a  valuable  commentary,  by  no  means  at 
variance  with  his  other  utterances,  upon  Keats's  conception  of  the  poetic 
art.  The  object  of  the  singer,  he  tells  us,  is  to  pour  out  a  balm  upon  the 
world,  not  by  luring  men  away  from  it  to  a  fanciful  land  of  dreams,;  but 
by  seeing  things  as  they  are,  and  by  concentrating  his  imaginative  powers 
upon  reality.  Only  then,  after  the  character  of  the  true  poet  has  been 
made  clear  in  it;s  relation  both  with  the  man  of  action  and  with  the  mere 
dreamer,  does  Moneta  unfold  to  him  the  Vision  which  contains  within 
it  the  lesson  of  all  the  ages,  as  Oceanus  revealed  it  to  his  fallen  brethren  ; 
and  from  this  Keats  catches  a  glimpse  of  that  lasrt:  stage  in  his  develop- 
ment after  which  he  is  striving,,  wherein  his  strenuous  devotion  to  Beauty 
will  have  raised  him  above  the  limitations  of  ordinary  life,  and  he  will 
have  gained  that  sublime  serenity  by  which  he  will  be  able 

to  bear  all  naked  truths 
And  to  envisage  circumstance,  all  calm. 
Mr.  Robert  Bridges  has  pointed  out  that  the  cihanges  made  in  those 
passages  which  were  incorporated  from  Hyperion  are  chiefly  due  to  the 
desire  to  avoid  excessive  Miltonisms,  and  certain  mannerisms  of  Keats's 
own  earlier  style ;  but  it  will  be  noticed  that  the  influence  of  Milton  had 
struck  far  too  deep  to  be  easily  shaken  o£F,  and  if  many  Miltonisms  are 
removed  many  are  retained,  and  even  new  ones  introduced.  An  attempt 
will  be  made  to  suggest  reasons  for  the  alterations  as  they  occur — those 
already  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Bridges  are  distinguished  by  the  initials  RB. 

The  Fail  of  Hyperion :  A  Vision.     The  MS.  describes  the  poem  as  "  A 
Dream  '. 

"  brooded  over  "  the  subject  of  the  Titans.  The  "  Pythia  "  is  the  priestess  of  Apollo's 
temple  whom  Keats  conceives  as  overcome  with  anger  as  she  views  the  desecration  of 
the  art  which  Has  been  entrusted  to  her  care. 

' "  Mock  lyrists,"  etc. ,  an  obvious  attack  upon  Byron.    C/.  note  to  Sleep  and  Poetry, 
234. 


520  JOHN  KEATS 

22-24.  The  brackets  are  inserted  by  Woodhouse  in  the  MS.  in  pencil. 
24.  Twining :  Turning  MS.  A  far  more  natural  reading. 
29.  a  feast  of  summer  fruits : — A  reference  to  the  repast  prepared  by 
Eve  for  Raphael  in  Paradise  Lost  (v.  321-349).  The  "  arbour  with  a  droop- 
ing roof"  (26)  "not  far  from  roses"  (24)  "of  trellis  vines,  and  bells,  and 
larger  blooms"  (26)  recalls  Adam's  coole  Bowre  (Paradise  Lost,  v.  300) 
which  Milton  compares  with  "  Pomona's  Arbour  .  .  .  with  flourets  deck't 
and  fragrant  smells"  (v.  378);  cf.  especially  with  lines  29-34  and  62,  53, 
"  fragrant  husks  and  berries  crush'd," 

fruit  of  all  kindes,  in  coate, 
Rough,  or  smooth  rin'd,  or  bearded  husk,  or  shell 
She  gathers,  Tribute  large,  and  on  the  board 
Heaps  with  unsparing  hand ;  for  drink  the  Grape 
She  crushes,  inoffensive  moust,  and  meathes 
From  many  a  berrie,  and  from  sweet  kernels  prest 
She  tempers  dulcet  creams,  nor  these  to  hold 
Wants  her  fit  vessels  pure,  then  strews  the  ground 
With  Rose  and  Odours  from  the  shrub  unfum'd. 

{Paradise  Lost,  v.  341-49). 
It  will  be  noticed  that  in  recalling  the  situation  described  by  Milton 
Keats  has  in  a  large  measure  resumed  its  language. 

For  i^a  fabled  horn  (36)  cf.  Endymion  ii.  448  and  note. 
48.    soon  fading; — Woodhouse  notes  that  the  original  reading  was 
"death-doing".     This  throws  some  light  upon  the  meaning  of  an  obscure 
passage. 

65.  sank :  sunk    MS.    A  correction  by  H  of  a  common  error  of  Keats's. 
60.  curved:   carved     MS.,  which  again  seems  more  natural  than  the 
reading  of  the  text. 

75.  the  moth  could  not  corrupt : — Cf.  St.  Matthew,  vi.  19. 

76.  so,  in  some,  distinct :  so,  in  some  distinct  MS.,  on  which  Woodhouse 
notes  in  pencil  qy.  correct.  Mr.  Colvin  has  suggested  to  me  that  "  some  " 
may  be  miswritten  for  "  zone,"  which  would  make  excellent  sense. 

77.  80.  imageries: — This  peculiar  use  of  the  plural  abstract  coupled 
with  the  curious  combination  of  "  effects  "  is  a  notable  feature  in  the  style 
of  Keats's  later  poems.  In  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark  (66)  we  have  "  daz'd  with 
saintly  imageries  "  and  a  passage  descriptive  of  the  illumination  in  an  old 
manuscript  volume  (25-37)  which  for  its  strange  combination  may  be  com- 
pared with  these  in  the  Vision.  We  may  compare  too  stanza  L  of  the 
Cap  and  Bells,  written  at  the  same  time  as  the  Vision.  Cf.  Appendix  C, 
under  Chapman. 

83.  The  embossed  roof,  the  silent  massy  range  Of  columns : — Cf.  II 
Penseroso,  166-68. 

To  walk  the  studious  Cloysters  pale. 
And  love  the  high  embowed  Roof, 
With  antick  Pillars  massy  proof. 


FALL  OF  HYPERION— NOTES  521 

96.  One  ministering: — "Following  a  clue  which  he  had  found  in  a 
Latin  book  of  mythology  he  had  lately  bought,  he  now  identifies  this 
Greek  Mnemosyne,  the  mother  of  the  Muses^  with  the  Roman  Moneta ; 
and  (being  possibly  aware  that  the  temple  of  Juno  Moneta  on  the  Capitol 
at  Rome  was  not  far  from  that  of  Saturn)  makes  his  Mnemosyne  Moneta 
the  priestess  and  guardian  of  Saturn's  temple  "  (Colvin,  EML,  p.  186).  The 
passage  which,  as  Mr.  Colvin  states,  is  to  be  found  on  pp.  3,  4  of  the 
Mythographi  Latini,  in  the  notes  to  Hyginus,  runs  "  Ilia  est  Mnemosyne 
Hesiodo  et  ApoUodoro.  Vidit  et  Turnebus,  cum  scriberet  Moneta 
Hygino  est,  quae  Mnemosyne  k  Graecis  vocatur.  .  .  .  JAvrjiiri  appellatur 
Anthol.  i.  viii.  1  Memoria.  .  .  .  Indeapoetis  Jovis  et  Minervae  esseeasfilias 
constitutum  est.  .  .  .  Nimirum  Minervam  quidam  memoriam  esse  dixerunt. 
Arnob,  p.  118.  Unde  ipsum  nomen  Minerva,  quasi  quaedam  Meminerva, 
formatum  est  .  .  .  Certe  Moneta  eadem  est,  quae  Mnemosyne,  nam  auctor 
infra  dicet  matrem  esse  Musarum  Monetam  quae  a  Findaro.  .  .  .  Mnemosyne 
dicitur  .  .  .  Junonem  Monetom  a  Romaniscultamvelpuerinorunt"  (because 
she  warned  the  Romaas  of  the  approach  of  the  Gauls  to  the  Capitol  by 
the  cackling  of  her  sacred  geese). 

97.  As  in  mid-day :  When  in  midway  MS.  "Midday"  is  probably 
what  Keats  meant,  but  there  is  no  need  to  change  "When"  to  "As". 
Cf.  p.  563. 

136.  As  once  fair  angels  on  a  ladder  flew  From  the  green  turf  to  heaven : — 
Genesis,  xxviii.  12.  But  it  seems  far  more  likely  that  Keats  was  thinking 
rather  of  the  allusion  to  Jacob's  ladder  in  Paradise  Lost  (iii.  510)  where 
Sataa  is  represented  coming  upon  the  stairs  which  lead  from  Heaven  to 
Earth. 

The  Stairs  were  such  as  whereon  Jacob  saw 
Angels  ascending  and  descending,  hands 
Of  Guardians  bright,  when  he  from  Esau  fled 
To  Padan-Aram  in  the  field  of  Luz, 
Dreaming  by  night  under  the  open  Skie, 
And  waking  cri'd,  This  is  the  Gate  of  Heav'n. 
The  poet;  like  Satan  in  Paradise  Lost,  is  on  "  the  lower  stair  ". 
158.  more : — Woodhouse  notes  that  "  more  "  here  means  eo  magis.    It 
is  certainly  more  forcible  if  so  interpreted,  but  Keats  is  not  likely  to  have 
intended  it. 

161.  Those:  They    MS. 

167.  do :  [do]  MS.  The  word  is  indeed  unnecessary,  and  sense  and 
metre  are  alike  better  without  it. 

176.  Only  the  dreamer  venoms  all  his  days,  etc. : — For  this  conception  of 
the  poetic  temperament  cf.  a  letter  to  Miss  Jeffrey  (9th  June,  1819), 
contrasting  Shakespeare  with  Ariosto.  Ariosto  "  was  a.  noble  poet  of 
Romance ;  not  a  miserable  and  mighty  poet  of  the  human  heart.  The 
middle  age  of  Shakespeare  was  all  clouded  over ;  his  days  were  not  more 
happy  than  Hamlet's  who  is  perhaps  more  like  Shakespeare  in  his  common 
everyday  life  than  any  other  of  his  characters." 


522  JOHN  KEATS 

186.  Afiker  this  line  comes  in  the  MS.  the  passage  rejected  by  Wood- 
house  and  already  quoted  and  discussed  in  the  introduction  to  this  poem. 

202,  203.  supreme,  Sole  goddess,  of  this  desolation :  supreme  Sole  priestess 
of  his  desolation  MS.  This  divergence  cannot  have  been  the  work  of  a 
professional  copyist. 

214.  languorous :  lang^'rous  MS.,  as  in  Sonnet  xxix..  The  day  is  gone, 
etc.    And  so,  by  turns :  And  so  by  turns    AfiS. 

242.  Soft,  mitigated :  Soft  mitigated  MS.  Keats's  intention  here  was 
obviously  to  write  one  of  his  characteristic  compound  adjectives.  The 
inserted  comma  obscures  his  meaning,  and  malces  the  passage  far  less 
effective. 

246.  But  in  blank  splendout  beamed, :  But .  in  blank  splendor,  beamed 
MS.  Here,  by  restoring  the  punctuation  intended  by  Keats,  the  music 
and  the  force  of  the  line  are  much  improved. 

262.  brow :  brain  MS.  The  mistake  has  arisen  from  the  eye  of  the 
copyist  falling  upon  the  last  word  of  the  previous  line. 

263.  environed : — The  MS.  reading  of  the  word  is  illegible.  It  looks 
like  "enwouned,"  and  being  unable  to  suggest  anything  better  I  am 
obliged  to  accept  the  reading  of  the  text.  But  I  do  not  believe  that  Keats 
wrote  "  environed  ". 

270-72  Hyperion,  i.  1-3. 

286-306.  Hyperion,  i.  7-26  : — The  expansion  of  the  first  sentence  gets 
rid  of  two  ugly  repetitions  of  sound  in  the  firat  version  "  no  stir  of  air  was 
there"  and  life  and  light;  the  change  of  "voiceless"  to  "noiseless"  has 
no  MS.  authority.  The  change  of  "  the  "  (292)  for  the  original  "  his  "  and 
the  expansion  of  296-98  from  Hyperion,  i.  16,  17,  were  both  necessary  to 
the  altered  scheme,  but  incalculably  weaken  the  effect. 

316-63.  Hyperion,  i.  37-88. 

317-  venom'd  for  "  vanward  "  {Hyperion,  i.  39) : — A  change  with  no 
MS.  authority — a  printer's  error. 

324.  his  ear :  his  hollow  ear  MS.  The  line  is  thus  hypermetric  and  it 
was  altered  by  H  as  Keats  had  altered  the  analogous  line  in  Hyperion. 

328.  in  this  Uke  accenting;  /toif '/raii. ■-^-Originally  "in  these  like 
accents ;  O  how  frail,"  the  change  made  to  get  rid  of  the  exclamation— a 
characteristic  fault  of  Keats's  early  work.  So  in  332  "  wherefore  thus " 
for  "  O  wherefore  "  (RB).  (So  in  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn  the  words 
"  yet  do  not  grieve  "  were  written  and  first  published  "  O  do  not  grieve  "). 
"And  for  what"  (330)  originally  "though  wherefore"  (i.  62)  is  probably 
altered  to  escape  repetition  of  "wherefore"  in  332;  "poor  lost"  from 
"  poor  old  "  to  avoid  a  commonplace  phrase  (RB).  But  cf.  note  to  Hyp., 
i.  612.)  At  the  same  time  it  must  ba  noticed  that  the  only  really  bad  feature 
of  the  passage,  the  vulgar  use  of  "like"  (328)  remains  in  both  versions, 

337.  thy  hoary  for  "  thine  hoary  "  (ii,  69)  to  avoid  unnecessary  archaism ; 
similarly  "  spoke "  for  "spake ".  "  Captious  at "  (338)  for  "  conscious  of" 
i.  60)  to  give  a  fuller  and  more  definite  meaning. 


FALL  OF  HYPERION— NOTES  52S 

341.  scourges  and  bums  : — An  undoubted  improvement  on  "  scorches 
and  burns"  (i.  63)  avoiding  the  tautologjr  and  strengthening  the  effect 
both  by  the  addition  of  the  new  idea  and  by  the  emphasis  of  the  assonance, 
but  it  is  an  alteration  which  has  no  MS.  authority. 

342-47.  Remodelled  and  curtailed  from  i.  64-71,  chiefly  in  order  to  avoid 
three  exclamations  (cf.  note  on  328).  But  it  is  noticeable  that  in  getting 
rid  of  one  of  them  Keats  falls  into  the  obvious  Miltonism  ' '  me  thoughtless  " 
(RB). 

348.  As  when  upon  a  tranced  summer-night,  etc.  :^It  is  impossible  not 
to  regret  the  loss  of  ''those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods"  and 
difficult  to  suggest  a  reason  for  it,  unless  it  was,  perhaps,  that  Keats 
thought  the  line  too  fanciful  for  its  place  here.  Still  more  unfortunate  is 
the  substitution  of  "  noise  "  (350)  for  "  stir  "  (i.  76).  The'  change  of  362 
from  i.  77,  "  which  comes  upon  the  sUence,  and  dies  off"  is  easier  to  under- 
stand, delicately  suggestive  as  it  is,  by  its  peculiar  cadence  and  inversion 
of  normal  accentuation,  of  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  wind.  "  Swelling  upon 
the  silence,  d^ing  off". 

366.  prest  for  "touch'd  "  to  avoid  the  unusual  use  of  the  word.  So  for 
"  couchant  on  "  Keats  substitutes  in  362  the  more  natural  "  bending  to  ". 
The  alteration  of  357  from  i.  82  is  not  successful.  One  can  understand 
his  objection  to  the  first  version,  but  the  second,  with  its  introduction  of 
the  "  curls,"  is  worse.  The  change  of  "  mat "  to  "  met,"  however,  has  no 
MS.  authority. 

368-70  are  changed  from  i.  83,  84  to  avoid  the  excessive  Miltonic  in- 
version— hence  the  unfortunate  "  shedded,"  but  one  must  note  that  the 
use  of  "  intense  "  which  follows  is  itself  Miltonic. 

385.  of  the:  in  the     MS. 

386.  Spoke:  spake    MS. 

387.  moanings  :  musings  MS.  The  error  in.  the  printed  list  came, 
doubtless,  from  the  copyist's  eye  catching  sight  of  "  moan"  in  the  next 
line. 

388.  Keats  has  completely  altered  the  tone  of  Saturn's  speech,  making 
his  words  far  more  querulous  and  weak.  He  dwells  upon  the  "  pain  of 
feebleness  "  (405)  and  it  is  especially  noticeable  that  when  he  prophesies 
at  the  close  of  the  speech  that  "  there  shall  be  Beautiful  things  made  new  " 
he  does  not  as  in  the  first  version  add  the  words  "  I  will  give  command  ". 
And  whereas  in  the  first  version  Thea  receives  his  words  with  a  sort  of 
hope  the  whole  picture  in  the  Vision  is  one  of  despair.  As  poetry  the 
second  version  is  hardly  comparable  with  the  first  and  it  is  difficult  to  see 
how  it  makes  clearer  the  general  tenor  of  the  poem,  except  in  so  far  as 
it  emphasises  the  point  made  in  the  introduction  to  Hyperion  that  the 
power  of  the  Titans  was  in  reality  already  passed  away,  and  that  no  further 
war  between  them  and  the  Olympians  was  possible.  From  the  point  of 
view  of  style  it  is  to  be  noted  that  the  lines  coutaising  the  boldest  licence 
in  the  use  of  language  (i.  117-20)  are  omitted,  and  that  the  "gold  clouds 


524  JOHN  KEATS 

metropolitan  "  (a  phrase  which  has  a  distinctly  Miltonic  ring,  though  the 
word  "metropolitan."  is  prohably  drawn  from  Wordsworth)  becomes  the 
more  natural  and  perhaps  more  highly  poetical  "  gold  peaks  of  heaven's 
high  piled  clouds  "  ;  "  weak  as  the  reed  "  (404)  is  another  phrase  drawn 
from  the  Bible. 

391.  upon:  above    MS. 

402.  an  aching  palsy  :  a  shaking  palsy    MS. 

412.  there  shall  be :  let  there  be  MS.  The  reading  of  Hyperion  is 
"  there  shall  be,"  and  it  looks  as  though  the  copyist  had  erred  through 
his  recollection  of  the  line  as  it  occurred  in  the  earlier  poem. 

418.  that  unison :  that  pleasant  unison     MS.,  hypermetric. 

Canto  II 

1-3.  The  book  opens  with  a  distinct  reminiscence  of  the  words  of 
Raphael  to  Adam,  Paradise  Lost,  v.  571-74: — 

what  surmounts  the  reach 
Of  human  sense,  I  shall  delineate  so. 
By  lik'ning  spiritual  to  corporal  forms. 
As  may  express  them  best. 

7-end  corresponds  with  Hyp.  i.  158-217.  The  reading  in  Une  12  of 
"in  their  doom  "  for  "in  sharp  pain "  emphasises  again  the  hopelessness  of 
the  Titan's  situation,  "  eagle-brood  "  (13)  for  "  mammoth-brood  "  is  altered 
perhaps  to  avoid  the  use  of  an  unnecessarily  rare  word,  and  in  18 
"upon  the  earth  dire  prodigies"  stands  in  place  of  the  Miltonic  "among 
us  mortals  omens  drear". 

The  substitution  of  "  insecure  "  for  "  unsecure  "  has  no  MS.  authority, 
nor  has  the  change  of  "  flushed  "  to  "  flash  ".  The  latter  case  is  important, 
for  whereas  "  Flush  "  gives  a  superb  picture  of  the  clouds  upon  the  dawn 
of  a  stormy  day,  and  by  adding  a  human  touch  to  the  picture  makes  the 
scene  more  real  to  the  imagination,  "  flash "  is  both  feeble  and  untrue. 
It  should  be  noted  that  the  essentially  Miltonic  passage  which  follows 
here  in  the  first  version  (i.  182-85)  is  omitted  in  the  Vision. 

20.  Not  a:  Nor  at  M5.,  which  makes  better  sense.  For  "hated"  MS. 
reads  "Even".  Line  23  is  not  found  in  the  MS.  and  must  have  been 
copied  into  the  Fall  of  Hyperion  from  a  memory  of  the  passage  in  Hyperion. 

26.  shining :  glowing  MS.,  as  in  Hyperion. 

35.  Wherefore,  substituted  for  the  weaker  "and  so". 

52.  paved  so  MS. ;  paned    H. 

44.  Who  on  a  wide  plain  gather  in  sad  troops : — Originally  "  who  on 
wide  plains  gather  in  panting  troops " ;  the  substitution  of  "  sad "  for 
"  panting  "  is  a  loss  in  vividness.  Keats  may  have  felt  his  earlier  epithet 
less  applicable  to  the  dejected  Titans  with  whom  he  is  instituting  the  com- 
parison. 

49.  is  sloping : — A  change  to  avoid  the  Miltonism  of  "  slope  "  (Hyp.  I 
204).  It  is  noticeable  that  the  next  few  lines  of  the  first  version,  essenti- 
ally Miltonic  in  construction,  are  omitted  in  the  Vision. 


EVE  OF  ST.  MARK— NOTES  525 

The  Eve  op  St.  Mark  (first  publ.  H  1848).  First  conceived  by  Keats 
and  probably  begun  in  Jan.  1819,  i.e.  when  he  was  engaged  upon  the  com- 
panion poem,  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  For  in  the  Journal  Letter,  dated  19th 
February,  he  says,  "In  my  next  packet,  I  shall  send  you  my  Pot  of  Basil, 
St.  Agnes'  Eve,  and  if  I  should  have  finished  it,  a  little  thing  called  the 
Eve  of  St.  Mark.  You  see  what  fine  Mother  RadclifFe  names  I  have — it  is 
not  my  fault — I  do  not  search  for  them."  Under  the  date  20th  September, 
he  writes  from  Winchester  to  his  brother.  "The  great  beauty  of  poetry 
is  that  it  makes  everything,  every  place,  interesting.  The  palatine  Venice 
and  the  abbotine  Winchester  are  equally  interesting.  Some  time  since 
I  be^an  a  poem  called  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  quite  in  the  spirit  of  town 
quietude.  I  think  it  will  give  you  the  sensation  of  walking  about 
an  old  country  town  in  a  coolish  evening.  I  know  not  whether  I  shall 
finish  it ;  I  will  give  it  as  far  as  I  have  gone."  Then  follows  the  poem. 
The  poem  was  regarded  by  D.  G.  Rossetti,  as  together  with  La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Merci "  in  manner  the  choicest  and  chastest  of  Keats's  work  "  and  on  the 
fly  leaf  at  the  end  of  his  copy  of  the  poems  he  wrote  the  following  note : — 
"  The  Eve  of  St.  Mark  : — ^The  following  is  no  doubt  the  superstition  in 
accordance  with  which  Keats  intended  to  develop  this  poem.  It  was  much 
akin  to  the  belief  connected  with  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes :  It  was  believed 
that  if  a  person,  on  St.  Mark's  Eve,  placed  himself  near  the  church  porch 
when  twilight  was  thickening,  he  would  behold  the  apparitions  of  those 
persons  in  the  parish  who  were  to  be  seized  with  any  severe  disease  that 
year,  go  into  the  church.  If  they  remained  there,  it  signified  their  death  ; 
if  they  came  out  again,  it  portended  their  recovery  ;  and  the  longer  or  the 
shorter  the  time  they  remained  in  the  building,  the  severer  or  less  danger- 
ous their  illness.  Infants,  under  age  to  walk,  rolled  in." — From  The 
Unseen  World,  p.  72  (Masters,  1853).  "  It  seems  that  on  account  of  the 
superstition  to  be  embodied,  Keats  must  have  laid  the  scene  of  his  poem 
near  a  cathedral "  (article  by  G.  Milner  in  Manchester  Quarterly,  1883 — 
On  some  Marginalia  made  by  Dante  G.  Rossetti  in  a  copy  of  Keats's  poems). 
It  is  curious  to  notice  that  Keats  introduces  the  legend  of  St.  Mark's 
Eve  into  his  burlesque  fairy  story  the  Cap  and  Bells.  In  that  poem  the 
fairy  king's  earthly  lover  is  named  Bertha,  she  lives  at  Canterbury  (zliii.)  : 
the  magician  produces  a  sample  of  her  handiwork  with  the  same  kind  of 
conventional  pattern  as  appears  on  the  screen  described  in  Bertha's  chamber 
in  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  and  he  provides  the  king  with  "  an  old  and  legend- 
leaved  book,  mysterious  to  behold"  (Ivii.)  which  contains  the  charms  by 
means  of  which  he  is  to  bear  her  off  (Iviii.) ;  moreover,  the  book  is  to  be 
laid  on  Bertha's  table,  and  "'twill  help  your  purpose  dearly"  (lis.); 
presumably  it  contains  the  legend  of  St.  Mark.  His  adventure,  too,  can 
only  be  successful  upon 

April  the  twenty-fourth, — this  coming  day. 

Now  breathing  its  new  bloom  upon  the  skies. 

Will  end  in  St.  Mark's  Eve  ; — you  must  away. 

For  on  that  eve  alone  can  you  the  maid  convey.    (Ivi.) 


526  JOHN  KEATS 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  as  has  been  shown,  bears  slight  traces  of  the 
influence  of  Christabel,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  here  Keats  owed 
something  to  this  poeiA  in  his  use  of  metre,  employing  it,  as  Mr. 
Bridges  has  pointed  out,  with  that  "  sort  of  latitude  advocated  by  Cole- 
ridge ".  In  his  treatment  of  the  subject  he  is  entirely  independent  of  any 
model,  and  nowhere  has  he  excelled  in  delicacy  and  vivid  suggestiveness 
the  description  in  the  opening  lines.  The  picture  of  the  streets  of  the 
Cathedral  city  in  the  evening  affords  an  interesting  comparison  with  the 
different,  but  equally  successful,  picture  of  the  streets  of  Corinth  at  night, 
written  about  the  same  time  {Lamia,  i.  360-61).  In  both  the  shuffling  feet 
are  heard  on  the  pavements,  in  both  companies  of  people  are  seen  gather- 
ing at  the  entries,  and  the  whole  effect  of  thronged  thoroughfares  is 
given  in  a  few  significant  touches.  Here  the  effect  is  heightened  by 
reason  of  the  contrast  it  affords  with  the  indoor  scene  of  the  lonely  Bertha 
poring  over  her  magic  book,  which,  as  Mr.  Colvin  says  "  in  its  insistent 
delight  in  vivid  colour  and  minuteness  of  far  sought  suggestive  and 
picturesque  detail,  is  perfectly  in  the  spirit  of  Rossetti "  and  "anticipates 
in  a  remarkable  degree  the  feeling  and  method  of  the  modern  pre- 
Raphaelite  schools"  (EML,  p.  165).  It  is  unnecessary  to  expose  in  detail 
the  philological  inaccuracy  of  Keats's  attempt  to  reproduce  the  language 
of  the  Middle  Ages ;  he  had  probably  no  more  knowledge  of  early  English 
than  Chatterton,  and  the  style  of  lines  99-114  may  be  due  to  Chatter- 
ton's  influence. 

The  BM  MS.  gives  two  cancelled  openings  to  the  poein — "  It  was  on 
a  twice  holiday  "  and  "Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath  day  bell ". 

68.  Abroad,  etc.  Originally  written  "  Both  abroad  and  in  the  room " 
and  followed  by  two  cancelled  lines : — 

The  Maiden  lost  in  dizzy  maze 
Turned  to  the  fire  and  made  a  blaze. 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Mehci.  Was  included  in  the  Journal  Letter  to 
George  Keats  dated  Feb.^May,  1819,  and  headed  Wednesday  evening  28th 
April.  The  manner  in  which  it  is  written  and  corrected  points  to  its  being 
a  first  draft,  composed  at  that  time-Xit  was  first  published  in  the  Indicator 
of  May,  1820,  with  a  short  prefatory  essay  by  Leigh  Hunt  stating  that  it  was 
suggested  by  the  title  of  a  poem.  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercy,  once  supposed 
to  be  a  translation  by  Chaucer  of  a  dialogue  by  Alain  Chartier,  the  court 
poet  of  Charles  II.  of  France.  The  note  prefixed  to  the  poem,  that  M. 
Aleyn  "  framed  this  dialogue  between  a  gentleman  and  a  gentlewoman, 
who  finding  no  mercy  at  her  hand  dieth  for  sorrow  "  (vide  Chalmen,  Bt^Ush 
Poets,  i.  618)  may  have  given  a  further  hint  to  Keats,  but  he  could  have 
found  nothing  suggestive  in  the  poem  itself,  which  is  not  only  monotonous 
but  totally  devoid  of  real  feeling.  In  idea  and  atmosphere  ^eats's  poem 
is  closer  to  Spenser's  description  of  Phsdria  {Faerie  Queene,  ii.  6.  3, 14, 
7):- 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI— NOTES       627 

a  Ladie  fresh  and  faire^ 
Making  aweet  solace  to  her  selfe  alone  ; 
vho  meets  Cymochles  and  leads  him  away 

to  a  shady  dale 
And  laid  him  downe  upon  a  grassie  plaine  ; 
And  her  sweet  selfe  without  dread,  or  disdane, 
She  set  beside,  laying  his  head  disarm'd 
In  her  loose  lap,  it  softly  to  sustaine. 
Where  soone  he  slumbred,  fearing  not  be  harm'd, 
The  whiles  with  a  love  lay  she  thus  him  sweetly  charm'd. 

Sometimes  her  head  she  foiidly  would  aguize 
With  gaudie  girlonds,  or  fresh  flowrets  dight 
About  her  necke,  or  rings  of  rushes  plight. 
But  while  Keats  may  owe  something  to  this  passage  his  conception  is 
invested  with  a  sense  of  tragedy  which  Spenser  had  no  desire  to  convey. 
In  this  a  striking  parallel  may  be  noted  with  Pericles  {cf.  especially  Belle 
Dame,  stanzas  10  and  11)  where  Pericles  is  about  to  stake  his  life  to  win 
the  king's  daughter,  and  Antiochus  bids  him  take  warning  by  the  princes 
who  have  already  lost  their  lives : — 

Yon  sometime  famous  Prin<jes,,  like  thyself 
Drawn  by  report,  adventurous  by  desire, 
Tell  thee  with  speechless  tongues,  and  semblance  pale 
That  without  covering  save  yon  field  of  stars 
Here  they  stand  martyrs,  slain  in  Cupid's  wars. 
And  with  dead  cheeks  advise  thee  to  desist 
For  going  on  death's  net,  whom  none  resist  (i.  1.  34-40). 
In  his  use  of  the  ballad  metre  Keats  is  following  the  example  and  has 
something  of  the  spirit  of  Coleridge,  though  his  use  of  a  short  fourth  line 
heavily  accentuated,  admirably  expressing  the  weird  tragedy  of  the  whole, 
is  his  own  development.     One  more  interesting  reminiscence  of  a  prede- 
cessor may  be  noted.     William  Browne,  whose  felicity  of  actual  description 
had  attracted   Keats  in  his  earlier  years,  was  peculiarly  successful  in 
expressing  his  delight  in  the  song  of  the  birds  (jiide  Brit.  Past.,  i.  3.  195- 
220  and  ii.  3.  709-732,  etc.)  and  in  writing  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  a 
friend  he  can  lament  his  loss  in  no  more  feeling  way  than  in  this  invoca- 
tion to  Nature : — 

Slide  soft,  ye  silver  floods 

And  every  Spring, 
Within  the  shady  woods 

Let  no  bird  sing !  {Brit.  Past.,  ii.  1.  242). 
Keats  completes  his  picture  of  the  desolation  of  his  lyric  tragedy  with 
the  same  idea  and  in  the  same  cadence  "  and  no  birds  sing  ".  Keats  and 
Browne  have  not  seldom  been  compared ;  but  the  essential  difference  in 
the  genius  of  the  two  poets  could  hardly  be  realised  better  than  in  a  com- 
parison of  the  use  to  which  each  of  them  puts  this  simple  phrase. 


528  JOHN  KEATS 

The  first  version  of  the  poem  is  given  side  by  side  with  the  final  version 
as  printed  in  the  Indicator  because  I  agree  with  several  critics  in  regarding 
it  as  decidedly  superior.  The  poem  thus  seems  to  afford  the  one  example, 
if  we  leave  out  of  count  the  case  of  Hyperion,  of  alterations  for  the  worse 
made  by  Keats  in  the  text  of  his  poems.  This  is  especially  true  as  it 
applies  to  the  first  line  of  the  poem.  "  Knight  at  arms  "  gives  us  at  once 
a  definite  conception  of  the  main  character,  whilst  his  hapless  state,  which 
is  all  that  a  "  wretched  wight "  suggests,  is  already  sufficiently  attested  in 
the  question  "  what  ails  thee } "  and  is  developed  throughout  the  poem. 
"Wretched  wight"  on  the  Other  hand,  brings  no  distinct  image  before 
the  mind,  being  equally  applicable  for  example  to  a  distressed  maiden  or 
to  a  beggar.  Hardly  more  successful  are  the  changes  in  stanzas  8  and  9. 
These  were  probably  due  to  a  feeling  that  the  "kisses  four"  would  rouse 
ridicule  in  the  reader,  and  Keats's  remark  which  he  appended  to  the  poem 
on  sending  it  to  his  brother  and  sister  lends  some  support  to  this  view. 
"Why  four  kisses — you  will  say — why  four,  because  I  wish  to  restrain  the 
headlong  impetuosity  of  my  Muse — she  would  fain  have  said  "  score " 
without  hurting  the  rhyme^— but  we  must  temper  the  imagination,  as  the 
Critics  say,  with  Judgment.  I  was  obliged  to  choose  an  even  number 
that  both  eyes  might  have  fair  play,  and  to  speak  truly  I  think  two  a  piece 
quite  sufficient.  Suppose  I  had  said  seven  there  would  have  been  threp 
and  a  half  a-piece,  a  very  awkward  affairj  and  well  got  out  off  on  my  side." 
But  because,  disengaging  himself  from  the  mood  in  which  he  had  composed 
the  poem,  he  can  jest  about  this  line,  it  does  not  in  the  least  follow  that  he 
thought  it  could  justly  be  condemned,  nor  that  it  would  seem  ridicu- 
lous to  a  reader  in  complete  sympathy  with  the  spirit  of  the  whole  poem. 
That  Keats  made  the  alteration  in  a  moment  of  less  intense  imaginative 
realisation  of  his  theme  is  sufficiently  attested  by  the  fact  that  the  line 
substituted  "  so  kissed  to  sleep  "  is  undoubtedly  the  weakest  in  the  whole 
poem.  Moreover  the  change  in  the  next  stanza,  which  follows  as  a  necessary 
result,  does  not  give  the  same  sense  of  the  subtle  power  of  the  enchantress 
over  her  fated  lover. 

The  MS.  of  the  poem,  as  given  in  the  Journal  Letter,  shows  the  follow- 
ing original  readings : — 

3.  a  lilly  :  deaths  lilly. 

a  fading  rose  :  death's  fading  rose. 

Fast  withereth  :  withereth  ;  "fast"  added  in  small  hand. 

4.  Meads  :  WH4b. 

7.  manna  :  honoy. 

8.  and  sigh' d  full  sore  :  and  there  she  oighcd. 

11.  With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide  :  All  t>omHo  .  .  .  wide  agape. 

12.  sojourn  :  withoF. 

Woodhouse  gives  the  first  version,  properly  punctuated,  but  in  9.  3  has 
"dream'd"  for  "dreamt,"  and  in  10.  4  "Hath  thee"  for  "Thee  hath". 
H  follows  Woodhouse, 


ODES,  ETC.— NOTES  529 


ODES,  ETC. 


To  Maia.  First  published  H  1848 ;  and  written  on  May  Day  1818.  It 
was  sent  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds  two  days  afterwards,  prefaced  by  the  words, 
"  With  respect  to  the  affections  and  Poetry  you  must  know  by  a  sympathy 
my  thoughts  that  way,  and  I  daresay  these  few  lines  will  he  but  a  ratification. 
1  wrote  them  on  May  Day  and  intend  to  finish  the  Ode  all  in  good  time." 
But  fragment  as  it  may  be  of  a  fuller  unwritten  poem  it  is  yet  coOtplete  in 
itself,  and  blends  with  subtle  art  two  sources  of  the  poet's  happiest  inspir- 
ation— the  spirit  of  Greece  as  he  understood  it  and  the  peacefiil  beauty  of 
Nature,  And,  as  is  often  the  case,  the  whole  essence  of  the  poem  seems 
to  pass  into  the  exquisite  use  of  the  commonest  words.  The  epithet "  old  " 
is  rarely  used  by  Keats  without  some  sense  of  yearning  after  the  beauty 
and  the  glory  of  primeval  life.  Thus  in  Endymion  he  delights  in  the  "oM 
piety  "  of  Pan's  worshippers  (i.  ISO)  and  is  himself  in  a  sense  brought  into 
closer  touch  with  the  life  of  the  past  as  with  them  he  watches  "  the  sun-rise 
and  its  glory  old  "  (i.  106) ;  and  so  here  it  is  the  old  vigour  of  the  Greek 
bard  for  which  he  longs,  his  use  of  the  epithet  at  once  suggesting  the 
absence  of  that  vigotir  from  the  poets  of  his  own  day,  and  its  association 
with  the  life  on  which  he  loved  to  dwell.  With  as  full  and  as  subtle  a 
suggestiveness  he  touches,  in  his  allusion  to  the  "  quiet  primrose,"  upon  the 
mysteries  of  Nature's  healing  power.  His  love  for  the  simplest  flowers  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  presents  them  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  answer  to  the 
critics  who  see  little  hut  exuberance  and  the  love  of  luxury  in  the  poetry 
of  Keats ;  and  this  passage  forcibly  calls  to  the  mind  the  beautiful  lines 
written  to  James  Rice  some  time  later,  when  his  fatal  illness  was  already 
upon  him.  "  How  astonishingly  does  the  chance  of  leaving  the  world 
impress  a  sense  of  its  natural  beauties  upon  us  !  Like  poor  Falataff, 
though  I  do  not  Babble,  I  think  of  green  fields ;  I  muse  with  the  greatest 
affection  on  every  flower  I  have  known  from  my  infitncy — thus  shapes  and 
colours  are  as  new  to  me  as  if  I  had  just  created  them  with  a  superhuman 
fancy.  It  is  because  they  are  connected  with  the  most  thoughtless  and 
the  happiest  moments  Of  our  lives.  I  have  seen  foreign  flowers  in  hot- 
houses of  the  most  beautiful  nature,  but  I  do  not  care  a  straw  for  them. 
The  simple  flowers  of  our  Spring  are  what  I  want  to  see  again"  (16th 
Feb.  1820). 

Ode  on  Indolence  (first  published  H  1848t).  In  the  Feb. -May  Journal 
Letter  to  Geprge  and  Georgiana  K,eats  is  a  passage  under  the  date  19th 
March  which  suggests  by  its  parallelism  of  phrase  and  idea  that  this  Ode 
had  either  just  been  finished  or  was  about  to  be  written.  "  This  morning 
I  am  in  a  sort  of  temper,  indolent  and  supremely  careless.  I  long  after  a 
stanza  or  two/'/f  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indolence — my  passions  are  all  asleep, 
&om  my  having  slumbered  till  nearly  eleven,  and  weakened  the  animal  fibre 
all  over  me,  to  a  delightful  sensation,  about  three  degrees  on  this  side  of 
34 


530  JOHN  KEATS 

faintnesB.  If  I  had  teeth  of  pearl  and  the  breath  of  lilies  I  should  call  it 
languor,  but  as  I  am  I  must  call  it  laziness.  In  this  state  of  effeminacy 
the  fibres  of  the  brain  are  relaxed  in  common  with  the  rest  of  the  body, 
and  to  such  a  happy  degree  that  pleasure  has  no  show  of  enticement  and 
pain  no  unbearable  power.  Neither  Poetry,  nor  Ambition,  nor  Love  have 
any  alertness  of  countenance  as  they  pass  by  me ;  they  seem  rather  like 
figures  on  a  Greek  Vase — a  man  and  two  women  whom  no  one  but  myself 
could  distinguish  in  their  disguisement.  This  is  the  only  happiness,  and 
is  a  rare  instance  of  the  advantage  of  the  body  overpowering  the  Mind." 

Its  whole  tone  is  eminently  characteristic  of  one  side  of  Keats's  genius 
and  as  such  may  be  compared  with  the  famous  letter  to  Bailey  (22ud  Nov. 
1817,  vide  Introduction,  p.  xxzviii.)  and  with  the  lines  on  the  thrush  (p.  268). 
But  that  it  was  only  a  passing  mood  is  amply  proved  by  his  extraordinary 
mental  activity  at  this  period.  The  Ode  on  Indolence  has  not  the  sustained 
beauty  of  the  other  Odes  written  at  this  period  but,  if  we  except  the  bathos 
of  vi.  3,  4,  it  reaches  a  high  level  of  artistic  workmanship.  It  is  noticeable 
how  throughout  it  harps  upon  phrases  and  images  employed  in  the  contem- 
porary Odes  to  the  Nightingale  and  the  Grecian  Urn  and  Psyche,  and  per- 
haps for  this  reason  was  omitted  from  the  1820  edition.  In  a  letter  to  Miss 
Jeffrey  of  Teignmouth,  dated  9th  June,  is  an  interesting  reference  to  the 
Ode  on  Indolence  which  repeats,  curiously  enough,  as  though  Keats  were 
satisfied  with  it,  the  one  passage  of  the  poem  which  we  would  willingly 
see  altered.  "  I  have  been  very  idle  lately,  very  averse  to  writing :  both 
from  the  over  pressing  idea  of  our  dead  poets,  and  from  abatement  of  my 
love  of  fame.  I  hope  I  am  a  little  more  of  a  philosopher  than  I  was,  con- 
sequently a  little  less  of  a  versifying  pet-lamb.  You  will  judge  of  my  1819 
temper  when  I  tell  you  that  the  thing  I  most  enjoyed  this  year  has  been 
writing  an  Ode  to  Indolence."  But  later  and  perhaps  juster  critics  than 
himself  will  always  judge  of  his  "  1819  temper  "  by  his  composition  in  that 
year  of  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Lamia,  The  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  La  Belle  Dame 
sans  Merci  and  the  majority  of  his  finest  Sonnets. 

I.  8.  first  seen  shades : — The  Aldine  editions  read  "  first  green  shades  " 
but  probably  upon  no  authority,  and  as  H  1848  has  "seen,"  "green" 
may  be  regarded  as  a  printer's  error. 

Ode  to  Fannv.  First  published  H  1848,  and  probably  written  in 
the  spring  of  1819.  Keats  first  met  Fanny  Brawne  late  in  1818  at  the 
house  of  his  friend  Dilke.  Writing  in  December  to  his  brother  and  sister 
in  America  he  describes  her  as  "beautiful  and  elegant,  graceful,  silly, 
fashionable  and  strange — we  have  a  tiff  now  and  then — and  she  behaves 
a  little  better,  or  I  must  have  sheered  off  "  ;  and  further,  writing  a  few  days 
later  "  Shall  I  give  you  Miss  Brawne  ?  She  is  about  my  height — with  a 
fine  style  of  countenance  of  the  lengthened  sort — she  wants  sentiment  in 
every  feature-^she  manages  to  make  her  hair  look  well — her  nostrils  are 
fine— though  a  little  painful — her  mouth  is  bad  and  good — her  profile  is 
better  than  her  full  face  which  indeed  is  not  full  but  pale  and  thin  without 


ODES,  ETC.— NOTES  531 

showing  a,nj  bone.  Her  shape  is  graceful  a^d  so  are  her  movements — 
her  arms  are  good,  her  hands  badish — her  feet  tolerable — she  is  not  seven- 
teen— but  she  is  ignorant — monstrous  in  her  behaviour — flying  out  in  all 
directions,  calling  people  such  names — that  I  was  foi:ced  lately  to  make 
use  of  the  word  Minx — this  is  not  I  think  from  any  innate  vice  but  from 
a  penchant  she  has  for  acting  stylishly.  ...  I  am  however  tired  of  such 
style  and  shall  decline  any  more  of  it."  It  is  evident  that  Keats  was  not 
at  this  time  in  love  with  Miss  Brawne,  and  the  slight  reference  to  her  in 
the  letter  of  24th  February,  1819,  points  to  the  same  fiict,  though  it  is 
equally  evident  that  he  was  more  fascinated  by  her  than  he  cared  to  admit. 
But  soon  after  this  the  engagement  must  have  taken  place.  The  above 
quotation  affords  a  commentary  on  the  emotion  expressed  in  the  poem, 
and  throws  some  light  on  the  really  tragic  side  of  Keats's  passion.     The 

next  poem  {To )  and  the  sonnets  addressed  to  Fanny  (p.  287)  throw 

still  more.  Possessed  of  these,  we  have  no  need  and  should  have  no 
inclination  to  dwell  on  the  agony  of  the  love  letters.  On  page  297 
of  Keats's  edition  of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholie,  now  in  the  collection 
of  Sir  Charles  D  iike,  the  poet  has  underlined  the  following  passage  which 
as  Mr.  Forman  points  out,  is  the  source  of  the  expressions  used  in  the 
third  stanza — "  They  cannot  look  off  whom  they  love :  they  will  impregnare 
earn  ipsis  oculis,  deflowre  her  with  their  eyes :  be  still  gazing,  staring, 
stealing  faces,  smiling,  glancing  at  her  "-^the  continuation  of  the  passage 
(not  quoted  by  Mr.  Forman)  may  have  suggested  line  2  of  the  stanzas 
—"as  Apollo  on  Leucothoe,  the  Moon  on  her  Endymion,  when  she 
stood  still  in  Caria,  and  at  Latmos  caused  her  chariot  to  be  stayed". 
Further  on  we  have  a  passage  of  which  Mr.  Forman  gives  us  Keats's 
annotation — a  companion  to  the  well  known  song  of  Ben  Jonson — "so 
will  she  by  him — drink  to  him  with  her  eyes,  nay  drink  him  up,  devour 
him,  swallow  him"  (pt.  iii.  sect.  ii.  mem.  iii.  subs.  i.).  The  Anatomy 
of  Melancholie,  which  Keats  seems  at  this  time  to  have  been  studying  very 
closely,  and  especially  the  third  book.  Of  Love  and  Love  Melancholy,  can 
hardly  have  been  healthy  reading  for  him  in  his  present  frame  of  mind, 
and  its  good-humoured  jests  at  the  expense  of  lovers  must  have  "  scalded 
him  like  tears  ".  Only  a  few  pages  before  the  passage  above  quoted,  under 
the  head  of  "artificial  allurements"  to  passion  (iii.  ii.  ii.  iv.)  Burton 
had  discussed  dancing  as  "  none  of  the  least,"  and  it  was  in  all  probability 
the  news  that  Miss  Brawne  was  going  to  a  dance,  working  upon  the 
memory  of  this  passage,  that  called  forth  the  poem.  Certainly  stanzas  5 
and  6  are  the  cynical  indifference  of  Burton  translated  into  the  language 
of  passion. 

In  the  collection  of  Lord  Crewe  is  preserved  a  fragmentary  autograph 
MS.  of  the  poem,  containing  stanzas  2,  3,  5,  6  and  7-  This  has  only  just 
come  to  light. 

III.  The  MS.  supplies  a  false  start  to  this  stanza — "  My  temples  with 
hot  jealous  pulses  beat". 


632  JOHN  KEATS 

VI.  The  MS.  gives  the  following  false  starts  to  this  stanza : — 

I  know  it !  yet  sweet  Fanny  I  would  feign 

Knoll  for  a  mercy  on  my  lonely  hours. 

I  know  it :  yet  sweet  Fanny  I  would  feign 

Cry  your  soft  mercy  for  a  .  .  . 
The  latter  part  of  the  stanza  runs  thus  in  the  MS. : — 

Nor  when  away  you  roam. 

Dare  keep  its  wretched  home. 

Love,  Love  alone,  has  pains  severe  and  many  : 

When  loneliest  keep  me  free 

From  torturing  jealousy. 
This  reading  certainly  improves  the  sense  and  is  more  vivid ;  the  reading 
of  the  text  is  probably  due  to  an  error  of  Lord  Houghton's  in  copying  for 
press. 

To  — ■-  First  published  H  1848,  and  there  dated  October  1849 ;  vide 
note  to  preceding  poem. 

Lines.  This  living  hand,  etc.  This  beautiful  fragment  was  found  by 
Mr.  Forman  in  the  margin  of  a  page  of  the  manuscript  of  the  Co^  and 
Bells  and  was  firat  published  by  him  in  1898.  The  lines  are  given  here  by 
his  courteous  permission.  It  is  evident  both  from  the  place  where  they 
were  found  and  from  their  general  character  that  they  were  written  not 
earlier  than  the  winter  of  1819.  It  seems  almost  certain  that  they  were, 
as  Mr.  Forman  supposes,  addressed  to  Fanny  Brawne ;  they  are  expressive 
of  that  same  passionate  unrest  which  is  the  prevailing  note  of  the  two 
previous  Odes,  and  they  suggest,  at  least,  that  Keats  might  have  been 
saved  much  anguish  of  heart  if  he  had  set  his  affections  on  one  who  had 
realised  more  fuUy  the  dignity  of  her  lot. 

SONGS  AND  LYRICS  (p.  266). 
On .     First  published  H  1848  with  date  1817. 

Lines.  Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen.  First  published  H 1848  with  date  1817. 
12.  Love  doth  know  no  fulness,  nor  no  bounds.  First  written  "that  every 
Joy  and  Grief  and  Feeling  drowns  ".  Mr.  Forman  refers  to  the  line  which 
Keats  has  substituted  as  a  ''  quotation  from  Shakespeare,"  but  it  is  not  to 
be  found  in  Shakespeare,  and  I  have  been  unable  to  trace  it  in  any  other 
poet. 

Where's  the  Poet  ?  First  published  H  1848.  This  conception  of  the 
poet's  character  was  a  favourite  one  with  Keats — cf.  the  letter  to  Wood- 
house,  27th  Oct.  1818,  quoted  in  the  Introduction,  p.  lix. 

Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow,  etc.  First  published  H  1848.  No 
date  is  given,  but  the  poem  is  hardly  likely  to  have  been  written  before 
the  last  few  months  of  1817,  as  Keats  only  began  his  detailed  study  of 


SONGS  AND  LYRICS— NOTES  533 

Paradise  Lost  about  September  of  that  year,  and  the  inaccuracy  of  the 
quotation  shows  that  it  must  be  g^ven  from  memory.  The  passage  occurs 
in  Bk.  ii.  898-903. 

For  hot,  cold,  moist,  and  dry,  four  Champions  fierce 
Strive  here  for  Maistrie,  and  to  Battel  bring 
Thir  embryon  Atoms ;  they  around  the  flag 
Of  each  his  faction,  in  thir  several  Clanns, 
Light-arm'd  or  heavy,  sharp,  smooth,  swift  or  slow. 
Swarm  populous,  unnumber'd  as  the  Sands.  .  .  . 
8.  are  H,  HBF ;  burn  BM. 
14.  shipwreck'd  H,  HBF ;  storm  wrecked  BM. 

On  a  Lock  of  Milton's  Hair.  First  published  H  1848 :  sent  by  Keats 
in  a  letter  dated  23rd  Jan.,  1818,  to  Bailey,  the  friend  who  had  first  roused 
his  enthusiasm  for  Paradise  Lost  in  the  previous  autumn.  Keats  writes — 
"  I  was  at  Hunt's  the  other  day,  and  he  surprised  me  with  a  real  authenti- 
cated lock  of  Milton's  hair.  I  know  you  would  like  what  I  wrote  thereon, 
so  here  it  is — as  they  say  of  a  Sheep  in  a  Nursery  book : — "  After  the  poem 
he  adds — "This  I  did  at  Hunt's  request — perhaps  I  should  have  done 
something  better  alone  and  at  home  ". 

What  the  Thrush  said.  First  published  H  1848.  The  lines  were  sent 
in  a  letter  to  Reynolds  written  from  Hampstead  in  Feb.  1818,  and  intro- 
duced as  follows : — 

"My  dear  Reynolds, — I  had  an  idea  that  a  man  might  pass  a  very 
pleasant  life  in  this  manner — Let  him  on  a  certain  day  read  a  certain  Page 
of  full  Poesy  or  distilled  Prose,  and  let  him  wander  with  it,  and  muse  upon 
it,  and  prophesy  upon  it,  and  dream  upon  it^  until  it  becomes  stale — but 
when  will  it  do  so  }  Never.  When  Man  has  arrived  at  a  certain  ripeness 
in  intellect  any  one  grand  and  spiritual  passage  serves  him  as  a  starting-post 
towards  all  'the  two-and-thirty  Palaces '.  How  happy  is  such  a  voyage  of 
conception,  what  delicious  diligent  Indolence.  .  .  .  Nor  will  this  sparing 
touch  of  noble  Books  be  any  irreverence  to  their  Writers — for  perhaps  the 
honours  paid  by  Man  to  Man  are  trifles  in  comparison  to  the  Benefit  done 
by  great  Works  to  the  "  Spirit  and  pulse  "  of  good  by  their  mere  passive 
existence.  Memory  should  not  be  called  Knowledge.  Many  have  original 
minds  who  do  not  think  it — they  are  led  away  by  Custom.  Now  it  appears 
to  me  that  almost  any  man  may  like  the  spider  spin  from  inwards  his  own 
airy  Citadel — the  points  of  leaves  and  twigs  on  which  the  spider  begins  her 
work  are  few,  and  she  fills  the  air  with  a  beautiful  circuiting.  Man  should 
be  content  with  as  few  points  to  tip  with  the  fine  Web  of  his  Soul,  and 
weave  a  tapestry  empyrean  full  of  symbols  for  his  spiritual  eye,  of  softness 
for  his  spiritual  touch,  of  space  for  his  wandering,  of  distinctness  for  his 
luxury.  ...  It  has  been  an  old  comparison  for  our  urging  on — the  Bee- 
hive ;  however  it  seems  to  me  that  we  should  rather  be  the  flow'er  than  the 


534  JOHN  KEATS 

Bee — for  it  is  a  false  notion  that  more  is  gained  by  receiving  than  giving — 
no,  the  receiver  and  the  giver  are  equal  in  their  benefits.  The  flower,  I 
doubt  not,  receives  a  fair  guerdon  from  the  Bee — its  leaves  blush  deeper  in 
the  next  spring.  .  .  .  Now  it  is  more  noble  to  sit  like  Jove  than  to  &j  like 
Mercury — let  us  not  therefore  go  hurrying  about  and  collecting  honey, 
bee-like  buzzing  here  and  there  impatiently  from  a  knowledge  of  what  is  to 
be  aimed  at ;  but  let  us  open  our  leaves  like  a  flower  and  be  passive  and 
receptive — budding  patiently  under  the  eye  of  Apollo  and  taking  hints 
from  every  noble  insect  that  favours  us  with  a  visit — sap  will  be  given  us 
for  meat  and  dew  for  drink.  I  was  led  into  these  thoughts,  my  dear 
Reynolds,  by  the  beauty  of  the  morning  operating  on  a  sense  of  Idleness— 
I  have  not  read  any  Books — the  morning  said  I  was  right — I  had  no  idea 

but  of  the  morning  and  the  thrush  said  I  was  right— seeming  to  say " 

After  the  poem  he  adds,  "  Now  I  am  sensible  all  this  is  a  mere  sophistica- 
tion (however  it  may  neighbour  to  any  truths),  to  excuse  my  own  in- 
dolence. So  I  will  not  deceive  myself  that  Man  should  be  equal  with 
Jove — but  think  himself  very  well  off  as  a  sort  of  scullion-Mercury  or  even 
a  humble-bee." 

These  lines  and  the  letter  which  contains  them  are  a  beautiful  expres- 
sion of  one  source  of  Keats's  inspiration,  the  "wise  passiveness"  of 
Wordsworth,  and  the  feeling  which  underlies  them  bears  comparison  with 
the  Ode  on  Indolence  {q.v.  and  notes)  whilst  it  reaches  its  consummation  in 
the  Ode  to  Autumn.  That  passage  in  the  letter  which  speaks  of  the  effect 
of  the  great  thoughts  of  his  predecessors  is  suggestive  of  a  truth  peculiarly 
applicable  to  Keats.  Mr.  Forman  calls  attention  to  the  manner  in  which 
Keats  has  reproduced  in  his  poem  a  thrush-like  repetition  of  sound,  and 
compares  Browning,  Home  Thoughts  from  Abroad : — 

That's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 

Faery  Songs.     First  published  H  1848,  with  date  1818. 

Daisy's  Song.  This  and  the  two  following  poems  (first  published  H 
1848,  with  date  1818)  are  usually  given  under  the  title  Extracts  from  an 
Opera,  together  with  three  others.  But  as  they  are  all  in  reality  quite 
independent,  it  seems  better  to  print  these  three  among  the  poems,  and 
to  relegate  the  others,  which  are  quite  worthless,  to  the  Appendix.  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti  noted  that  the  song  "The  stranger  lighted  from  his 
steed "  reminds  one  somewhat  of  Blake's  The  Will  and  the  Way  (HBF.). 
The  connection  seems  very  remote  ;  for  The  Will  and  the  Way  is  written 
in  a  satiric  vein  in  which  Blake  is  rarely  successful  and  which,  moreover, 
is  totally  at  variance  with  Keats's  intention  here.  A  far  closer  parallel 
may  be  traced  between  "  The  stranger  lighted  from  his  steed  "  and  Blake's 
Love's  Secret,  especially  the  last  stanza  of  that  poem ; — 


SONGS  AND  LYRICS— NOTES  535 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me, 

A  traveller  came  by. 
Silently,  invisibly : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh. 
The  Daisy's  Song  contains  similarly  a  curious  suggestion  of  Blake  both 
in  the  general  simplicity  of  statement  and  in  a  kind  of  inspired  discon- 
nectedness which  can  only  be  justified  by  its  indubitable  success.  In  the 
same  way  the  general  variety  of  cadence  throughout  the  song  recalls 
Blake's  characteristic  manner.  There  is  nothing  else  in  Keats  at  all 
resembling  these  two  songs ;  it  seems  highly  probable  that  they  were 
written  after  the  perusal  of  Blake. 

Asleep!    O  sleep  a  little  while.    The  phrase  sudden  adoration,  perhaps 
the  only  noticeable  touch  in  these  lines,  is  a  fine  reminiscence  of  Milton. 
.  .  .  noble  grace  that  dash't  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration,  and  blank  aw  {Comus,  451,  452). 

Where  be  ye  going.  First  published  H  1848  without  stanza  2,  and  in 
1853  in  an  inaccurate  form  in  Taylor's  Life  of  Haydon  (i.  363).  The  correct 
text  was  first  given  by  Mr.  Forman  in  his  1883  edition,  where  he  notes 
that  Rossetti  pointed  out  that  the  first  verse  is  undoubtedly  a  remini- 
scence from  one  of  the  songs  in  (Chatterton's)  Mlla : — 

Mie  husband.  Lord  Thomas,  a  forrester  boulde. 

As  ever  close  pynne  or  the  baskette. 

Does  as  cherysauncys  from  Elynour  houlde 

I  have  ytte  as  soon  as  I  ask  ytte. 
Keats's  stanzas  were  sent  to  Haydon  from  Teignmouth  in  a  letter  dated 
14th  March,  1818. 

Mes  Mebbilies.  First  published  in  Hood's  Magazine  for  1844  under 
the  title  Old  Meg,  and  afterwards  included  in  H  1848,  in  a  letter  written 
to  Tom  Keats  from  Auchencairn,  near  Dumfries,  3rd  July,  1818.  Keats 
had  sent  the  poem  to  his  sister  Fanny  on  the  previous  day.  "  The  pedes- 
trians," says  Lord  Houghton,  "passed  by  Sol  way  Firth  through  that 
delightful  part  of  Kirkcudbrightshire,  the  scene  of  Guy  Mannering. 
Keats  had  never  read  the  novel,  but  was  much  struck  with  the  character 
of  Meg  Merrilies  as  delineated  to  him  by  Brown.  He  seemed  at  once  to 
realise  the  creation  of  the  novelist,  and  suddenly  stopping  in  the  pathway, 
at  a  point  where  a  profusion  of  honeysuckles,  wild  rose,  and  fox  glove 
mingled  with  the  bramble  and  broom  that  filled  up  the  spaces  between 
the  shattered  rocks,  he  cried  out,  '  Without  a  shadow  of  doubt  on  that 
spot  old  Meg  Merrilies  often  boiled  her  kettle '." 

7.  chip  hat  HBF,  following  Hood's  Magazine;  ship  hat  H. 

Stappa.  First  published  H  1848 ;  included  in  a  letter  to  Tom  Keats 
written  from  Dun  an  cuUen  (Derrynaculan  near  Cruach-Doire-nan  Cruilean, 
[S.C.],)  Island  of  Mull,  on  23rd  July,  1818.     It  is  prefaced  by  a  description 


536  JOHN  KEATS 

of  Staffa,  quoted  in  the  note  on  Hyperion,  i.  86.  Lord  Houghton  printed 
it,  as  other  editors  of  the  poem  Bince>  without  the  six  lines  which  in  the 
original  letter  followed  line  49 : — 

'Tis  now  free  to  stupid  face, 

To  cutters,  and  to  Fashion  Imats, 

To  cravats  and  to  petticoats  : — 

The  great  sea  shall  war  it  down. 

For  its  fame  shall  not  he  blown 

At  each  farthing  Quadrille  dance. 
It  is  probably  to  these  lines,  and  not  to  the  whole  poem,  as  Lord 
Houghton  would  imply,  that  Keats  refers  when  he  adds  in  his  letter — 
"  J  am  sorry  J  am  so  indolent  as  to  write  such  stuff  as  this.  It  can't  be 
helped."  The  poem  as  it  stands  in  the  text,  if  we  except  the  unfortunate 
line  18,  is  a  singularly  felicitous  example  of  the  manner  in  which  natural 
beauty  and  poetic  reminiscence  blended  in  their  inspiration  of  Keats's  best 
work.  In  his  wonder  at  the  majesty  of  Staffa,  which  he  has  tried  in  vain 
to  describe  in  prose,  it  seems  to  him  the  very  ''Cathedral  of  the  sea,"  and 
as  its  pontiff  priest  he  conjures  up  Lycidas,  whose  bones  perchance  were 
hurled  "beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides"  (Lycidas,  166). 

A  Prophecy.  First  published  H  1848 :  was  included  in  the  Journal 
Letter  of  Keats  to  his  brother  George,  dated  29th  Oct.  1818.  The  poet,  dis- 
cussing the  fate  of  the  different  nations,  is  led,  naturally  enough,  to  consider 
the  future  of  his  brother's  new  home  and  disputes  the  view  taken  by  his 
friend  Dilke  "that  America  will  be  the  country  to  take  up  the  human 
intellect  where  England  leaves  off  ".  "I  differ  there  with  him  greatly.  A 
country  like  the  United  States  whose  greatest  men  are  Franklins  and 
Washingtons  will  never  do  that.  They  are  great  men  doubtless,  but  how 
are  they  to  be  compared  to  those  our  countrymen  Milton  and  the  two 
Sidneys  .''...  Those  Americans  are  great,  but  they  are  not  sublime  men 
— the  humanity  of  the  United  States  can  never  reach  the  sublime.  ..." 
And  feeling  that  the  real  need  for  America  is  the  development  of  her  imagina^ 
tion  he  goes  on,  "  If  I  had  a  prayer  to  make  for  any  great  good,  next  to 
Tom's  recovery,  it  should  be  that  one  of  your  children  should  be  the  first 
American  poet.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  make  a  prophecy.  They  say 
prophecies  work  out  their  own  fulfilment."    Then  follows  the  poem. 

A  Song.  In  a  drear-^ghted  December.  First  published,  says  Mr,  Forman, 
in  Galignani's  edition  of  Shelley,  Keats,  and  Coleridge  (1829),  and  assigned 
by  Woodhouse  to  October  or  December,  1818. 

21.  To  know  the  change  and  feel  it.  Thefeelof  notto  feel  it(WoodAoMS« 
MS.  Book).  The  alteration  is  among  the  most  fortunate  examples  of  Keats's 
power  to  detect  the  faults  of  his  earlier  manner  and  to  remove  them  from 
his  work  where  they  showed  any  signs  of  recurrence. 

23.  steel  HBF  following  Woodhouse  ;  steal  H, 


EPISTLE  TO  REYNOLDS— NOTES  537 

Hush,  Hush  !  Tread  Softly  !     First  published  H  1848. 

I  HAD  A  Dove.  First  published  H  1848.  It  is  to  be  found  in  one  of  the 
Journal  Letters  to  America  under  the  date  2nd  Jan.  1819,  prefaced  by 
the  words,  "  It  is  my  intention  to  wait  a  few  years  before  I  publish  any 
minor  poems — and  then  I  hope  to  have  a  volume  of  some  written — and 
which  those  people  will  relish,  who  cannot  bear  the  burthen  of  a  long 
poem.  In  my  journal  I  intend  to  copy  the  poems  I  write  the  day  they  are 
written.  There  is  just  room,  I  see,  in  this  page  to  copy  a  little  thing  I 
wrote  off  to  some  music  as  it  was  playing.'' 

SoNe  OF  Four  Fairies.  First  published  H  1848.  It  was  sent  to  George 
KeatB  in  the  Journal  Letter  of  Feb.-May,  1819,  and  from  the  remark  in 
the  previous  letter  (quoted  in  last  note)  we  should  infer  that  the  poem 
had  been  recently  composed.  It  contains  some  charming  fancies,  but  was 
evidently  carelessly  written  and  exhibits  faults  both  in  language  and  taste 
which  will  llead  all  readers  to  concur  with  the  opinion  of  Rossetti  who 
regarded  it  as  "  unworthy  of  Keats  at  this  period  "- 

9.  FaintUss  fan  MS.  letter ;  faintly  fan  H  ;  ever  beat  MS.  letter  can- 
celled. 

32.  buried  H  ;  shaded  MS.  letter. 

46.  Beyond  the  nimble-wheeled  quest  H ;  Far  beyond  the  search  and 
quest    MS.  letter. 

Epistle  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds.  First  published  H  1848. 
Written  and  sent  to  Reynolds  on  25th  March,  1818,  with  the  following 
preface — "  My  dear  Reynolds, — In  hopes  of  cheering  you  through  a  minute 
or  two,  I  was  determined  will  he  nill  he  to  send  you  some  lines,  so  you 
will  excuse  the  unconnected  subject  and  careless  verse.  You  know,  I  am 
sure,  Claude's  Enchanted  Castle,  and  I  wish  you  may  be  pleased  with  my 
remembrance  of  it." 

John  Hamilton  Reynolds  (1796-1852)  met  Keats  in  1816  at  Leigh 
Hunt's  cottage,  and  soon  became  one  of  his  warmest  friends.  Of  all  the 
company  that  Keats  met  at  Hampstgad,  Reynolds  seems  to  have  had  the 
most  genuine  poetic  talent,  the  keenest  powers  of  criticism,  and  the 
greatest  sympathy  with  the  intellectual  interests  of  his  friend.  Like 
Keats,  he  had  been  much  inilue'nced  by  Wordsworth,  though  he  was 
always  alive  to  his  master's  defects  ;  he  saw  far  deeper  into  the  secrets 
of  art  than  Hunt,  and  he  had  more  subtlety  of  mind,  more  humour  and 
more  discrimination  than  Haydon.  We  are  not  surprised,  therefore,  to 
find  that  when  Keats  wishes  to  discuss  the  profounder  problems  of  life 
and  art  his  letters  are  generally  addressed  to  Reynolds.  When  he  is 
deep  in  Shakespeare  study  it  is  Reynolds  he  asks  "  whenever  you  write 
say  a  word  or  two  ...  on  Shakespeare  "  (April,  1819),  it  is  to  Reynolds 
he  sends  a  doubtful  passage  in  Endymion  for  his  verdict,  it  is  Reynolds 


538  JOHN  KEATS 

whose  condemnation  causes  him  to  reject  the  first  Preface  to  Endymion 
{q.v.  Introduction  to  Endymion,  p.  418  <.  Judging  from  the  correspond- 
ence we  should  infer  that  the  friendship  reached  its  height  in  the  early 
months  of  1818.  Then  it  was  that  Keats  wrote  his  two  criticisms  of 
Wordsworth  (quoted  pp.  406,  482),  and  sent  him  among  other  poems 
included  in  the  letters  When  I  have  fears,  the  Robin  Hood  poem,  the 
Lints  on  the  Mermaid,  the  Thrush  and  the  Ode  to  Maia.  At  the  same 
time  he  was  engaged  upon  Isabella,  written  at  Reynolds's  request  to  be 
contributed  to  a  joint  volume  produced  by  the  two  friends  (vide  Introduc- 
tion to  Isabella). 

The  Epistle,  in  spite  of  certain  obvious  lapses  in  taste,  the  meaningless 
caprice  of  the  opening  paragraph  with  the  unnecessary  banality  of  line  11 
and  the  vulgar  pronunciation  of  perhaps  as  p'raps  in  line  14  (c/.  Sleep  and 
Poetry,  33)  all  due  in  a  measure  to  the  rapidity  of  its  production,  marlcs  a 
great  advance  in  style  and  treatment  of  subject  upon  the  earlier  epistles. 
The  heroic  couplet  is  well  controlled  throughout,  enjambement  is  sparingly 
and  effectively  eihployed,  and  there  are  no  double  endings  to  the  lines. 

20.  the  pontiff  knife  .  ..  .  flows: — An  interesting  anticipation  of  the  0<ie 
on  a  Grecian  Urn,  and  in  line  77  we  have  another  anticipation  of  the 
same  poem : — 

Things  cannot  to  the  will 
Be  settled,  but  they  tease  us  out  of  thought. 
The  picture  in  lines  23-25  suggests  Endymion,  ii.  78-82. 

26  Enchanted  Castle:— Mr.  Colvin  (Letters  of  Keats,  91)  writes:  "The 
famous  picture  now  belonging  to  Lady  Wantage,  and  exhibited  at  Bur- 
lington House  in  1888.  Whether  Keats  ever  saw  the  original  is  doubtful 
(it  was  not  shown  at  the  British  Institution  in  his  time),  but  he  must  have 
been  familiar  with  the  subject  as  engraved  by  Vivards  and  Woollett, 
and  its  suggestive  power  worked  in  his  mind  until  it  yielded  at  last  the 
distilled  poetic  essence  of  the  '  magic  casement '  passage  in  the  Ode  to 
a  Nightingale."  With  a  knowledge  of  Keats's  intense  admiration  for 
Hazlitt's  critical  powers  (cf.  End.  ii.  198  note)  it  is  interesting  to  quote 
the  following  criticism  of  Claude :  "  Claude's  landscapes  are  perfect 
abstractions,  visible  images  of  things ;  they  speak  the  visible  language  of 
nature  truly,  they  resemble  a  mirror  or  a  microscope.  To  the  eye  only, 
they  are  more  perfect  than  any  other  landscapes  that  ever  were  or  will 
be  painted  ;  they  give  more  of  nature  as  cognisable  by  one  sense  alone ; 
but  they  lay  an  equal  stress  on  all  visible  impressions.  They  do  not 
interpret  one  sense  by  another ;  they  do  not  distinguish  the  character  of 
different  objects  as  we  are  taught,  and  can  only  be  taught  to  distinguish 
them — by  their  effect  on  the  different  senses;  that  is,  his  eye  wanted 
imagination,  it  did  not  strongly  sympathise  with  his  other  faculties.  He 
saw  the  atmosphere  but  he  did  not  feel  it.  He  painted  the  trunk  of  a 
tree  or  a  rock  in  the  foreground  as  smooth — with  as  complete  an  abstrac- 
tion of  the  gross  tangible  impression — as  any  other  part  of  the  picture. 
His  trees  are  perfectly  beautiful,  but  quite  immovable  ;  they  have  a  look 


EPISTLE  TO  REYNOLDS— NOTES  639 

of  enchantment.  In  shortj  his  landscapes  are  unequalled  imitations  of 
nature^  released  from  its  suhjection  to  the  elements,  as  if  all  objects  were 
become  a  delightful  fairy  vision,  and  the  eye  had  rarefied  and  refined 
away  the  other  senses."     Hazlitt  " On  Gusto,"  The  Round  Table,  1817- 

42.  Santon : — A  kind  of  dervish  or  priest,  regarded  as  a  saint,  cf.  Byron, 
Childe  Harold,  ii.  56.  "Slaves,  flunuchs.  Soldiers,  Guests  and  Santons 
wait". 

46.  Lapland  Witch  :—Cf.  Paradise  Lost,  ii.  662-6  :— 
Nor  uglier  follow  the  Night-Hag,  when  call'd 
In  secret,  riding  through  the  Air  she  comes 
Lur'd  with  the  smell  of  infant  blood,  to  dance 
With  Lapland  Witches,  while  the  labouring  Moon 
Eclipses  at  thir  charms. 

82-85.  It  is  a  flaw,  .  .  .Nightingale : — For  Keats's  feeling  on  the  anta- 
gonism between  reason  and  emotion  cf.  Lamia,  ii.  230  and  note  and  Intro- 
duction, p.  xli.  And  the  natural  result  of  this  shrinking  from  thought  is 
that  emotion  itself,  unsupported  by  reason,  is  liable  to  violent  and 
capricious  changes  ;  hence  the  "horrid  mood  "  which  follows. 

&I.  Of  an  eternal  fierce  destruction : — Keats  returns  to  the  problem  of 
Nature's  cruelty  in  a  letter  written  a  year  later,  and  shows  himself  far 
more  able  to  grapple  with  it.  "...  I  perceive  how  far  I  am  from  any 
humble  standard  of  disinterestedness.  Yet  this  feeling  ought  to  be 
carried  to  its  highest  pitch,  as  there  is  no  fear  of  its  ever  injuring  society 
— which  it  would  do,  I  fear,  pushed  to  an  extremity.  For  in  wild  Nature 
the  Hawk  would  lose  his  Breakfast  of  Robins  and  the  Robin  his  of  Worms — 
the  Lion  must  starve  as  well  as  the  Swallow.  The  greater  part  of  Men 
make  their  way  with  the  same  instinctiveness,  the  same  unwandering  eye 
from  their  purposes,  the  same  animal  eagerness  as  the  Hawk.  The  Hawk 
wants  a  Mate,  so  does  the  Man — look  at  them  both,  they  set  about  it  and 
procure  one  in  the  same  manner.  They  want  both  a  nest  and  they  both 
set  about  one  in  the  same  manner.  The  noble  animal  Man  for  his  amuse- 
ment smokes  his  pipe— the  Hawk  balances  about  the  clouds — that  is  the 
only  difference  of  their  leisures.  This  it  is  that  makes  the  Amusement  of 
Life — to  a  speculative  Mind^-I  go  among  the  Fields  and  catch  a  glimpse  of 
a  Stoat  or  a  fieldmouse  peeping  out  of  the  withered  grass — the  creature 
hath  a  purpose,  and  its  eyes  are  bright  with  it.  I  go  amongst  the 
buildings  of  a  city  and  I  see  a  man  hurrying  along — to  what?  The 
creature  has  a  purpose  and  his  eyes  are  bright  with  it.     But  then,  as 

Wordsworth  says,   'we  have  all  one  human   heart '.     There  is  an 

electric  fire  in  human  nature  tending  to  purify — so  that  among  these 
human  creatures  there  is  continually  some  birth  of  new  heroism.  The 
pity  is,  that  we  must  wonder  at  it,  as  we  should  at  finding  a  pearl  in 
rubbish  "  {To  George  and  Georgiana  Keats,  19th  Mar.  1819). 

106.  Moods  of  one's  mind : — A  reminiscence  of  the  title  given  by 
Wordsworth  to  some  poems  in  the  1807  volumes. 


540  JOHN  KEATS 

SONNETS 

I.  O  !  how  I  kve,  etc.     First  publiBhed  H  1848^  and  dated  1816. 

II.  After  dark  vapaurs,  etc.  First  published  in  the  Examiner,  23rd  Feb. 
1817.  Woadhouse,  in  his  copy  of  the  1817  volume,  to  which  he  has  added 
this  Sonnet,  has  dated  it  31st  Jan.  1817.  The  use  of  the  word  "feel"  aud 
the  reference  to  Sappho  iff.  Sleep  mpd  Poetry,  381)  both  point  to  the  influence 

isi  Leigh  Hunt. 

6.  relieved  of  HBF ;  relieving  of    Exammer  ;  relieved  from    H. 
12.  sleeping  H  ;  smiling    Examin&r,  HBF. 

III.  This  pleasant  tale,  etc.  First  published  in  the  iS^vawftner,  6th  March, 
1817,  and  written  during  the  previous  month.  Charles  Cowden  Clarke  ia 
his  Recollections  of  Writers  thus  recalls  the  circumstances  of  its  composition  : 
"  Another  example  of  his  promptly  suggestive  imagination,  and  uncommon 
facility  in  giving  it  utterance,  occurred  one  day  upon  returning  home  and 
finding  me  asleep  on  the  sofa,  with  a  volume  of  Chaucer  open  at  The 
Flowre  and  the  'Leafe.  After  expressing  to  me  his  admiration  of  the  poem, 
which  he  had  been  reading,  he  gave  me  the  fine  testimony  of  that  opinion 
in  pointing  to  the  sonnet  he  had  written  at  the  close  of  it,  which  was  an 
extempore  effusion,  and  without  the  alteration  of  a  single  word.  It  lies 
before  me  now,  signed  '  J.  K.,  Feb.  1817.'  If  my  memory  do  not  betray 
me,  the  charming  out-door  fancy  scene  was  Keats's  first  introduction  to 
Chaucer." 

It  is  unfortunate  that  the  charming  allusion  to  the  Babes  in  the  Wood, 
in  the  concluding  couplet,  is  marred  by  a  false  rhyme,  but  it  is  at  least 
highly  probable  that  both  the  allusion  and  the  false  rhyme  are  due  to  the 
influence  of  Wordsworth's  The  Redbreast  and  the  Butterfly,  to  be  found  in 
the  1807  volumes  which  Keats  knew  especially  well. 

IV.  V.  To  Haydon.  These  sonnets  were  first  printed  in  the  Examitur, 
9th  March,  1817.  For  Keats's  relations  with  Haydon,  vide  note  p.  399. 
Haydon  was  delighted  with  the  sonnet  and  wrote  a  letter  of  thanks  in  his 
usual  extravagant  vein.  But  Keats  did  not  owe  his  knowledge  of  the  Elgin 
Marbles  to  Haydon  alone.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  Severn  also 
claimed  the  honour  of  having  introduced  him  to  them,  and  was  "  proud 
of  having  taken  Keats  to  see  them  and  of  having  pointed  out  their 
beauty"  (Life  and  Letters  of  Joseph  Severn,  William  Sharp,  1892). 

12,  13.   With  brainless  idiotism,  etc.  H.     The  Examiner  reads : — 
With  browless  idiotism — o'erwise  phlegm 
Thou  hadst  beheld  the  Hesperean  shine. 

VI.  On  a  Picture  op  Leander.  First  published  in  The  Gem,  a  Literary 
Annual,  edited  by  Thomas  Hood,  1829.  No  date  is  attached  to  it,  but  it  is 
followed  in  Lord  Houghton's  Aldine  edition  by  the  sonnet  On  the  Sea, 
which  he  dates  (wrongly  ;  vide  note  to  next  poem)  August,  1817,  so  that 


SONNETS— NOTES  641 

it  was  probably  written  shortly  before  this.  The  picture  which  inspired 
the  sonnet  is  unknown  ;  perhaps  it  was  also  the  inspiration  of  the  reference 
in  Endymion,  iii.  97,  composed  only  a  little  later. 

VII.  On  the  Sea.  First  published  H 1848  where  it  is  dated  August,  1817. 
But  Keats  had  composed  it  some  months  before,  for  he  sent  it  in  a  letter 
to  Reynolds  written  from  Carisbrook  on  17th  April.  We  learn  from  that 
letter  that  it  was  inspired  partly  by  Shakespeare  and  partly  by  the  sight 
of  the  sea  at  Shanklin  on  the  day  before.  "  Yesterday  I  went  to  Shanklin 
.  .  .  (it)  is  a  most  beautiful  place — sloping  wood  and  meadow  ground  reach 
round  the  Chine,  which  is  a  clift  between  the  cliffs  of  the  depth  of  nearly 
300  feet  at  least.  This  cleft  is  filled  with  trees  and  bushes  in  the  narrow 
part,  and  as  it  widens  becomes  bare,  if  it  were  not  for  primroses  at  one 
side,  which  spread  to  the  very  verge  of  the  Sea,  and  some  fishermen's  huts 
on  the  other,  perched  midway  on  the  Balustrades  of  beautiful  green 
Hedges  along  their  steps  down  to  the  sands.  But  the  sea.  Jack,  the  sea — 
the  little  Waterfall — then  the  white  cliff— then  St.  Catherine's  Hill — '  the 
sheep  in  the  meadows,  the  cows  in  the  corn  \  .  .  .  From  want  of  regular 
rest  I  have  been  rather  narvous — and  the  passage  in  Law — '  Do  you  not 
hear  the  sea?'  has  haunted  me  intensely."  Then  follows  the  Sonnet. 
Later  In  the  letter  he  adds,  "  I  find  I  cannot  exist  without  Poetry — without 
eternal  Poetry. — half  a  day  will  not  do — the  whole  of  it — I  began  with  a 
little,  but  habit  has  made  me  a  Leviathan.  I  had  become  all  in  a  Tremble 
from  not  having  written  anything  of  late — the  Sonnet  over  leaf  did  me 
good.  I  slept  the  better  last  night  for  it — this  Morning,  however,  I  am 
nearly  as  bad  again." 

For  other  passages  illustrative  of  Keats's  peculiar  feeling  for  the  sea 
and  his  power  of  expressing  it  cf.  Bp.  to  Geo.  Keats,  131-38 ;  Skep  and 
Poetry,  375-80 ;  Endymion,  ii.  16,  17,  348-60 ;  iii.  70,  71,  82-90,  625  ; 
Ejf.  to  Reynolds,  88-92 ;  Hyperion,  iii.  40 ;  Fall  of  Hyperion,  i.  430-36 ;  and 
his  last  Sonnet,  Bright  star,  etc. 

7.  Be  moved  for  days.  Woodhouse  records  another  reading  of  this 
line:— "Be  lightly  moved." 

VIII.  On  Leigh  Hunfs  Poem,  The  Story  of  Rimini.  First  printed  in 
H  1848  and  there  dated  1817.  On  The  Story  of  Rimini  and  its  influence 
upon  Keats  vide  Introduction,  pp.  xxiii-xxvii. 

IX.  On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  once  again.  First  published 
H  1848 ;  included  in  a  letter  written  by  the  poet  to  his  brothers  George 
and  Tom  Keats  on  23rd  January,  1818,  where  it  is  introduced  by  the 
words : — "  I  think  a  little  change  has  taken  place  in  my  intellect  lately — 
I  cannot  bear  to  be  uninterested  or  unemployed,  I,  who  for  so  long  a  time 
have  been  addicted  to  passiveness.  Nothing  is  finer  for  the  purposes  of 
great  productions  than  a  very  gradual  ripening  of  the  intellectual  powers. 
As  an  instance  of  this — observe — I  sat  down  yesterday  to  read  King  Lear 
once  again ;  the  thing  appeared  to  demand  the  prologue  of  a  sonnet.     I 


542  JOHN  KEATS 

wrote  it,  and  began  to  read— ^(I  know  you  would  like  to  see  it)."  In  a 
letter  to  Bailey,  written  upon  the  same  day,  he  makes  a  similar  allusion 
to  it.  "  I  sat  down  to  read  King  Lear  yesterday,  and  felt  the  greatness  of 
the  thing  up  to  the  writing  of  a  sonnet  preparatory  thereto".  "The 
golden  tongued  Romance  "  is  almost  certainly  the  Faerie  Queene,  and  the 
contrast  expressive  of  the  supremacy  which  Shakespeare  had  held  over 
his  mind  for  the  past  year  (c/.  Introduction,  p.  xxziii). 

2.  of  MS.,  HBF  ;  if    Letter,  H. 

4.  pages  MS.,  HBF ;  volume    Letter,  H. 

6.  damnation  MS.,  HBF ;  Hell  torment    Letter,  H. 

X.  When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be,  etc.     First  printed  H  1848> 

Sent  to  Reynolds  in  a  letter  dated  31st  January,  1818  as  "  My  last  sonnet". 

,'It  is  the  first  example  of  Keats's  employment  of  the  Shakespearian  form 

-  (but  cf.  note  to  xii.  post)  and  with  the  exception  of  the  Sonnet  on  Chap- 

,  man's  Homer  far  finer  than  any  he  had  yet  written — among  the  best, 

-indeed,  that  he  ever  wrote. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  the  conception  embodied  in  those  two 
superbly  imaginative  lines. 

When  I  behold  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face. 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance 
took  deep  root  in  his  mind ;  for  in  a  letter  written  to  Reynolds  three 
weeks  later  he  develops  it  and  speaks  of  "  weaving  a  tapestry  empyrean 
full  of  symbols  for  his  spiritual  eye  ".     The  passage  is  quoted  in  the  note 
to  What  the  Thrush  said  (p.  633). 

XL  To  THE  Nile.     First  published  H  1848.    On  16th  February,  1818, 
Keats  wrote  to  his  brothers  from  Hampstead  telling  them  "  The  Wednes- 
day before  last,  Shelley,  Hunt  and  I,  wrote  each  a  sonnet  on  the  river 
Nile :  some  day  you  shall  read  them  all ".     Shelley's  sonnet,  not  published 
till  1876  (before  which  it  was  generally  thought  that  Shelley's  sonnet 
on  Ozymandias  was  the  one  here  alluded  to)  was  as  follows : — 
Month  after  month  the  gathered  rains  descend. 
Drenching  yon  secret  .Ethiopian  dells, 
And  from  the  desart's  ice-girt  pinnacles. 
Where  Frost  and  Heat  in  strange  embraces  blend 
On  Atlas,  fields  of  moist  snow  half  depend. 
Girt  there  with  blasts  and  meteors.  Tempest  dwells 
By  Nile's  aerial  urn,  with  rapid  spells 
Urging  those  waters  to  their  mighty  end. 
O'er  Egypt's  land  of  Memory  floods  are  level. 

And  they  are  thine  O  Nile ! — and  well  thou  knowest 
That  soul-gustaining  airs  and  blasts  of  evil. 

And  fruits  and  poisons  spring  where'er  thou  flowest. 
Beware,  O  Man !  for  knowledge  must  to  thee 
Like  the  great  flood  to  Egypt,  ever  be. 


SONNETS— NOTES  543 

Leigh  Hunt's  sonnet,  published  in  his  Foliage,  1818,  ran : — 
It  flows  through  old  hush'd  ^gypt  and  its  sands. 
Like  some  grave  mighty  thought  threading  a  dream ; 
And  times  and  things,  as  in  that  vision,  seem 
Keeping  along  it  their  eternal  stands, — 
Caves,  pillars,  pyramids,  the  shepherd  bands 
That  roam'd  through  the  young  world,  the  glory  extreme 
Of  high  Sesostris,  and  that  southern  beam. 
The  laughing  queen  that  caught  the  world's  great  hands. 
Then  comes  a  mightier  silence,  stem  and  strong. 
As  of  a  world  left  empty  of  its  throng. 

And  the  void  weighs  on  us  ;  and  then  we  wake, 
And  hear  the  fruitful  stream  lapsing  along 
'Twixt  villages,  and  think  how  we  shall  take 
Our  own  calm  journey  on  for  human  sake. 
Leigh  Hunt's  sonnet  is  probably  the  best  that  he  ever  wrote,  that  of 
Keats  is  especially  interesting  as  showing  how   essentially  his  love  of 
Nature  is  associated  with  his  own  country.     Cf.  Introduction,  p.  Ixiii. 
6,  7.    Art  thou  so  fruitful  ?  etc. : — 
Art  thou  so  beautiful,  or  a  wan  smile 
Pleasant  but  to  those  men,  who  sick  with  toil  ( Woodhouse  MS.). 

XII.  To  Spenser.  First  published  H  1848.  In  the  Aldine  edition  of 
1876  Lord  Houghton  added  another  version,  with  no  variations  of  any 
importance,  but  with  a  note  appended,  "  I  am  enabled  by  the  kindness 
of  Mr.  W.  A.  Longmore,  nephew  of  Mr.  J.  H.  Reynolds,  to  give  an 
exact  transcript  of  this  sonnet  as  written  and  given  to  his  mother  by  the 
poet,  at  his  father's  house  in  Little  Britain.  The  poem  is  dated,  in  Mrs. 
Longmore's  hand,  6th  Feb.  1818,  but  it  seems  to  me  impossible  that  it 
can  have  been  other  than  an  early  production  and  of  the  especially 
Spenserian  time."  The  tone  of  the  poem  seems  at  first  sight  to  bear  out 
what  Lord  Houghton  says,  and  accordingly  he  has  been  followed  by  Mr. 
Forman  and  other  editors.  But  they  are  probably  mistaken.  The  form 
of  the  sonnet  amply  corroborates  the  date  which  Mrs.  Longmore  has  given, 
which,  apart  from  internal  evidence,  there  would  be  no  reason  for  disput- 
ing. Of  the  sixty-one  sonnets  written  by  Keats  thirty -nine  follow  the  Petrar- 
chan scheme  of  rhyming  (octave  fixed  ABBA  ABBA ;  sestet  running  on 
two  or  three  rhymes  but  not  ending  in  a  couplet),  three  are  debased  or  loose 
Petrarchan  (octave  correct;  sestet  ending  in  a  couplet)  and  sixteen  are 
Shakespearian  (ABAB  CDCD  EFEF  GG) ;  the  remaining  three  are  experi- 
ments. In  the  last  six  months  of  1817  Keats,  as  far  as  we  know,  wrote  no 
sonnets ;  indeed,  the  last  dated  sonnet  of  that  year  is  On  the  Sea  (l7th 
April)  and  the  sonnet  on  The  Story  of  Riniini,  merely  dated  within  the 
year  1817,  is  from  its  subject  far  more  likely  to  belong  to  the  earlier 
months,  when  Hunt's  influence  was  far  stronger,  than  to  the  latter  part  of 
the  year.    In  October  and  November  Keats  made  his  first  serious  study  of 


544  JOHN  KEATS 

<  Shakespeare's  poems  and  this  not  merely  had  a  marked  effect  upon  his 
mind,  but  completely  destroyed  his  allegiance  to  the  Italian  sonnet.  For 
leaving  out  of  count  this  sonnet  to  Spenser  we  find  that  before  he  wrote 
When  I  have  fears,  etc.,  on  Slst  Jan.  1818,  he  had  written  no  Shakespearian 
sonnet  at  all,  and  that  after  he  wrote  it  he  only  reverted  to  the  Italian 
form,  pure  or  debased,  in  the  sonnet  to  the  Nile,  which  wag  part  of  a  com- 
petition and  naturally,  therefore^  written  in  the  more  approved  form,  as 
were  both  Shelley's  and  Hunt's :  in  a  Sonnet  to  Ailsa  Rock :  in  a  very  weak 
sonnet  on  Burns,  and  in  a  burlesque  On  hearing  the  bagpipes.  Of  the 
sonnets  written  in  1818  before  When  I  have  feavs,  i.e.  after  the  pause  in 
Keats's  sonnet  activity,  one,  the  sonnet  To  a  Cat  is  obviously  written  as 
a  direct  parody  of  Milton  {vide  note,  p.  557)  and  therefore  can  hardly  be 
taken  into  account,  the  other  On  sitting  down  to  read  King  Lear  is  in  de- 
based Petrarchan  form  though  with  more  of  the  Shakespearian  manner  than 
is  noticeable  before  in  Keats.  That  is  to  say,  from  Jan.  1818  onwards, 
after  one  attempt  in  the  form  to  which  he  had  up  to  the  present  faithfully 
adhered,  Keats  practically  accepted  the  Shakespearian  form  as  most  suited 
to  his  genius,  whilst  before  that  period  he  entirely  favoured  the  Petrarchan ; 
and  it  seems  strange,  if  the  sonnet  on  Spenser  were  written  as  early  as  Lord 
Houghton  thinks,  that  the  experiment  in  the  Shakespearian  form  was  not 
repeated  for  more  than  two  years,  especially  as  it  is  far  easier  to  write — 
j^  slight  inducement  to  Keats  in  his  earliest  years  of  poetic  composition. 
It  should  be  added  that,  as  the  poem  is  evidently  written  to  order,  {vide 
line  3)  too  much  stress  ought  not  to  be  laid  upon  its  tone.  The  poet  is 
asked  to  write  a  little  poem  in  the  Spenserian  manner,  perhaps  by  Mrs. 
Longmore  herself,  but  far  more  likely  by  Leigh  Hunt  in  whose  company 
we  know  him  to  have  been  the  day  before  {of.  "last  eve"  1.  3  and  last 
sonnet  note),  and  he  replies,  after  a  graceful  compliment,  that  he  cannot 
write  in  the  Spenserian  manner  in  the  winter  {cf.  the  sonnet  on  Lear 
written  but  a  few  days  before  where  he  bids  the  poet  of  the  Faerie  Queene 
"  leave  melodising  on  this  wintry  day  ")  but  will  do  his  best "  in  the  summer 
days".  Such  a  light  and  charming  little  poem  might  be  written  under 
these  circumstances  at  any  period,  and  it  should  not  be  regarded  as  the 
expression  of  an  allegiance  to  Spenser  as  yet  unaffected  by  other  influences. 

XIII.  To .     First  published  in  Hood's  Magazine  for  April,  1844. 

Woodhoase  attributes  its  composition  to  4th  Feb.  1818,  and  asserts 
that  it  was  addressed  to  "  a  lady  whom  he  saw  for  some  few  moments  at 
Vauxhall ".  In  rhythm,  in  the  peculiar  effect  gained  by  the  repetition  of 
phrase,  in  emotional  structure  and  the  management  of  its  crescendo  it 
is  probably  the  most  Shakespearian  sonnet  that  Keats  ever  wrote,  the 
weakness  in  the  twelfth  line  being  its  -only  flaw ;  so  that  few  will  be 
inclined  to  quarrel  with  the  statement  of  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  that  "it 
,  might  have  been  written  by  Shakespeare  ".  It  affords  a  striking  example 
of  Keats's  intense  and  almost  intuitive  artistic  sympathy  with  the  genius 


SONNETS— NOTES  545 

of  Shakespeare,  and  was,  probably,  only  the  second  sonnet  written  by  him 
in  this  form. 

1.  Time's  sea,  etc.  H,  HBF ;  Life's  sea  hath  been  five  times  at  its 
slow  ebb  Hood^s  Mag. 

7.  /  cannot  look  H,  HBF ;  I  never  gaze  Hood's  Mag. 
13, 14.  Every  delight,  etc.  H,  HBF ; 

Other  delights  with  thy  remembering 

And  sorrow  to  my  darling  joys  doth  bring.     Hood^s  Mag. 

XIV.  Answer  to  a  Sonnet  by  J.  H.  Reynolds,  etc.  First  published  H 
1848,  and  dated  by  Woodhouse  8th  Feb.  1818.  Reynolds's  sonnet  was 
published  in  his  Garden  of  Florence,  1821. 

XV.  O  that  a  week  could  be  an  age,  etc. : — First  published  H  1848,  with 
the  heading  To  John  Hamilton  Reynolds,  and  generally  attributed  to  Feb.- 
March,  1818.  But  in  the  Woodhouse  transcript  of  the  Fall  of  Hyperion 
and  other  poems,  recently  discovered,  the  sonnet  is  headed  To  J.  if.,  which, 
as  Mr.  Colvin  reminded  me,  would  undoubtedly  refer  not  to  Reynolds, 
who  always  signed  himself  and  was  addressed/.  H.  R.,  but  to  James  Rice, 
known  to  Keats  and  to  many  of  his  circle  as  one  of  the  wittiest  and  most 
lovable  of  men.  Keats  was  in  correspondence  with  Rice  at  the  time  when 
this  sonnet  is  agreed  to  have  been  written,  so  that  there  is  no  improbability 
in  the  matter,  whilst  it  is  quite  easy  to  understand  how  Lord  Houghton 
might  for  the  moment  forget  his  existence,  considering  his  unimportance, 
as  compared  with  Reynolds,  in  the  literary  life  of  Keats.  No  other  MS.  of 
this  poem  is  known  to  exist,  and  it  is  quite  probable  that  Lord  Houghton 
printed  from  the  Woodhouse  transcript. 

XVL  The  Human  Seasons.  First  published  in  Hunf  s  Literary  Pocket 
Book  for  1819.  The  poem  was  sent  by  Keats  in  a  letter  to  Bailey  written 
at  Teignmouth  on  18th  March,  1818,  and  introduced  as  follows  :  "  You 
know  my  thoughts  on  religion.  I  do  not  think  myself  more  in  the  right 
than  other  people,  and  that  nothing  in  the  world  is  proveable.  I  wish  I 
could  enter  into  all  your  thoughts  on  the  subject,  merely  for  one  short 
ten  minutes,  and  give  you  a  page  or  two  to  your  liking.  I  am  sometimes 
so  very  sceptical  as  to  think  Poetry  itself  a  mere  Jack  o'  Lantern  to  amuse 
whoever  may  chance  to  be  struck  with  its  brilliance.  As  tradesmen  say 
everything  is  worth  what  it  will  fetch,  so  probably  every  mental  pursuit 
takes  its  reality  and  worth  from  the  ardour  of  the  pursuer — being  itself  a 
Nothing.  Ethereal  things  may  at  least  be  thus  real,  divided  under  three 
heads — things  real — ^things  semireal — and  nothings.  Things  real,  such  as 
Existences  of  Sun,  Moon  and  Stars — and  passages  of  Shakespeare.  Things 
semireal,  such  as  love,  the  Clouds  etc.,  which  require  a  greeting  of  the 
spirit  to  make  them  wholly  exist — and  Nothings,  which  are  made  great 
and  dignified  by  an  ardent  pursuit — which,  by  the  by,  stamp  the  Burgundy 
mark  on  the  bottles  of  our  minds,  insomuch  as  they  are  able  to  '  consecrate 
35 


546  JOHN  KEATS 

whate'er  tht^  look  upon'.  I  have  written  a  sonnet  here  of  a  somewhat 
collateral  nature — so  don't  imagine  it  an  X  propos  des  bottes."  After  the 
sonnet  he  adds :  "  Aye,  this  may  be  carried— hut  what  am  I  talking  of? 
It  is  an  old  maxim  of  mine,  and  of  course  must  be  well  known,  that  every 
point  of  thought  is  the  centre  of  an  intellectual  world.  The  two  upper- 
most thoughts  in  a  man's  mind  are  the  two  poles  of  his  world — he  revolves 
on  them ;  and  everything  is  Southward  or  Northward  to  him  through  their 
means — we  take  but  three  steps  from  feathers  to  iron." 

7.  high  Is  so  W;  nigh  His  Lit.  Pocket  Book,  HBF. 

XVII.  To  HouER.  First  published  H  1848,  and  said  both  by  him  and 
by  Woodhouse  to  have  been  written  in  1818.  Mr.  Forman  records  that 
Rossetti,  influenced  doubtless  by  the  phrase  "  giant  ignorance,"  in  spite 
of  this  evidence,  thought  that  the  sonnet  must  have  preceded  that  0» 
Jwst  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer,  but  the  use  of  the  Shakespearian 
form  corroborates,  if  indeed  any  corroboration  is  necessary,  the  external 
evidence  above  quoted. 

7.  spermy  H  ;  spumy  Woodhouse  MS.,  HBP. 

12.  There  is  a  triple  sight  in  blindness  keen  : — In  Keats's  notes  on 
Milton,  written  probably  about  this  time,  he  speculates  upon  the  influence 
of  Milton's  blindness  on  his  imagination.  "  It  can  scarcely  be  conceived 
how  Milton's  blindness  might  here  aid  the  magnitude  of  his  conceptions 
as  a  bat  in  a  large  gothic, vault." 

XVIII.  On  visiting  the  Tomb  of  Burns.  First  published  H  1848.  This 
was  the  first  poem  written  by  Keats  on  his  tour  with  Brown  in  Scotland, 
and  was  sent  to  his  brother  Tom  in  a  letter  dated  Dumfries,  1st  July. 
"  You  will  see,"  he  adds  after  copying  the  poem,  ''  by  this  sonnet  that  I 
am  at  Dumfries.  We  have  dined  in  Scotland.  Bums's  tomb  is  in  the 
Churchyard  corner,  not  very  much  to  my  taste  though  on  a  scale  large 
enough  to  show  that  they  wanted  to  honour  him.  Mrs.  Burns  lives  in 
this  place  ;  most  likely  we  shall  see  her  to-morrow.  This  sonnet  I  have 
written  in  a  strange  mood,,  half-asleep.  I  know  not  how  it  is,  the  Clouds, 
the  Sky,  the  Houses,  all  seem  anti-Grecian  and  anti-Charlemagnish."  The 
"  strange  mood,  half-asleep,"  in  which  the  sonnet  was  composed,  is  prob- 
ably responsible  for  the  obscurity  of  the  sestet.  It  is  characteristic  of  Keats 
that  as  he  stands  beside  the  grave  of  Burns  he  is  haunted  by  the  reflections 
of  Hamlet  on  the  influence  of  the  mystery  of  death  upon  the  human  will : — 

Thus  conscience  doth  make  cowards  of  us  all. 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought  (iii.  1.  83). 
Such  unhealthy  reflections  as  arrested  Hamlet's  power  of  action  clouded 
Keats's  apprehension  of  the  "real  of  beauty".    The  significant  reference 
to  Minos,  the  wise  judge  who  for  his  wisdom  and  integrity  on  earth  was 
made  a  judge  in  the  infernal  regions,  and  retained  his  sanity  even  in  the 
presence  of  death,  is  probably  due  to  the  influence  of  Dante's  Inferno, 
where  Mino^  is  several  times  referred  to.     Gary's  Dante  was  the  only 


SONNETS— NOTES  547 

book  which  Keats  took  with  him  on  hie  Scotch  tour.  There  is  very  little 
evidence  of  Keats's  feeling  with  regard  to  Bums's  poetry,  for  apart  from 
the  Epistle  to  Mathew  (71),  where  his  name  is  used  "  to  hitch  in  a  rhyme  " 
Keats  does  not  allude  to  him  before  this.  But  it  is  probable  that  he  knew 
Bums  in  some  detail,  and  the  letter  quoted  in  the  note  to  Sonnet  XX.  points 
to  this.  Moreover  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  where  else  e.g.  he  could  have 
found  the  Scotch  form  "lampit"  for  "limpet"  which  he  uses  in  the 
Epistle  to  Reynolds,  and  the  Scotch  doggerel  rhymes  which  he  wrote  on  his 
Scotch  tour  for  the  amusement  of  his  family,  bad  as  they  are,  show  some 
slight  traces  of  his  acquaintance  with  Burns's  dialect. 

XIX.  To  AiiiSA  Rock.  First  published  in  Hunt's  Literary  Pocket  Book 
for  1819  and  written,  Lord  Houghton  tells  us,  at  the  inn  at  Girvan  reached 
by  Keats  and  Brown  on  10th  July.  Writing  to  his  brother  Tom  he  says : 
"When  we  left  Cairn  our  Road  lay  half  way  up  the  sides  of  a  green 
mountainous  shore,  full  of  clefts  of  verdure  and  eternally  varying — some- 
times up  and  sometimes  down,  and  over  little  Bridges  going  across  green 
chasms  of  moss,  rock  and  trees  winding  about  everywhere.  After  two  or 
three  Miles  of  this  we  turned  suddenly  into  a  magnificent  glen  finely 
wooded  in  parts — seven  miles  long — with  a  Mountain  stream  winding  down 
the  midst — full  of  cottages  in  the  most  happy  situations — the  sides  of  the 
hills  covered  with  sheep — the  effect  of  cattle  lowing  I  never  had  so  finely. 
At  the  end  we  had  a  gradual  ascent  and  got  among  the  tops  of  the  mountains 
whence  in  a  little  time  I  descried  in  the  Sea  Ailsa  Rock  940  feet  high — it 
was  fifteen  Miles  distant  and  seemed  close  upon  us.  The  effect  of  Ailsa 
with  the  peculiar  perspective  of  the  Sea  in  connection  with  the  ground  we 
stood  on,  and  the  misty  rain  then  falling  gave  me  a  complete  Idea  of  a 
deluge.     Ailsa  struck  me  very  suddenly — really  I  was  a  little  alarmed." 

XX.  Written  upon  Ben  Nevis : — Written  early  in  August  1818,  and  first 
published  H  1848  with  the  following  comment :  "  From  Fort  William  Keats 
mounted  Ben  Nevis.  When  on  the  summit  a  cloud  enveloped  him,  and 
sitting  on  the  stones^  as  it  slowly  wafted  away,  showing  a  tremendous 
precipice  into  the  valley  below,  he  wrote  these  lines." 

For  the  attitude  of  mind  of  which  this  sonnet  is  the  expression,  cf.  the 
letter  to  Bailey,  quoted  p.  645. 

XXI.  Written  in  the  Cottage  where  Burns  was  born.  First  published 
H  1848.  The  circumstances  under  which  it  was  composed  are  described 
in  a  letter  to  Tom  Keats  dated  13th  July.  "The  bonny  Doon  is  the 
sweetest  river  I  ever  saw— overhung  with  fine  trees  as  far  as  we  could  see. 
We  stood  for  some  time  on  the  Brig  across  it,  over  which  Tarn  O'Shanter 
fled — we  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  on  the  Keystone — then  we  proceeded  to  the 
'auld  Kirk  Alloway'.  As  we  were  looking  at  it  a  Farmer  pointed  the 
spots  where '  Mungo's  Mither  hang'd  hersel'  and  '  drunken  Charlie  brake's 
neck's  bane '.    Then  we  proceeded  to  th<5  Gqttage  he  was  bom  in — ^there 


548  JOHN  KEATS 

was  a  board  to  that  effect  by  the  door  side — it  had  the  same  effect  as  the 
same  sort  of  memorial  at  Stratford  on  Avon.  We  drank  some  Toddy  to 
Burns's  Memory  mth  an  old  Man  who  knew  Bums — damn  him  and  dantn 
his  anecdotes — he  was  a  great  bore — it  was  impossible  for  a  Southron  to 
understand  above  five  words  in  a  hundred.  There  was  something  good  in 
his  description  of  Burns's  melancholy  the  last  time  he  saw  him.  I  was 
determined  to  write  a  sonnet  in  the  Cottage — I  did — but  it  was  so  bad  I 
cannot  venture  it  here." 

XXII.  Fragment  of  a  sonnet.  First  published  H  1848.  Sent  in  a 
letter  to  Reynolds  dated  "  about  Sept.  22 "  (SC)  with  the  words : 
"  Here  is  a  free  translation  of  a  Sonnet  of  Ronsard,  which  I  think  will 
please  you — I  have  the  loan  of  his  works — ^they  have  great  beauties.  .  .  . 
I  had  not  the  original  by  me  when  I  wrote  it  and  did  not  recollect  the 
purport  of  the  last  lines."  The  sonnet  which  Keats  was  translating  ran 
as  follows : — 

Nature,  ornant  Cassandre,  qui  deuoit 
De  sa  douceur  forcer  les  plus  rebelles. 
La  composa  de  cent  beautez  nouuelles, 
Que  Aha  mille  ans  en  espargne  elle  auoit : — 
De  touB  les  biens  qu'  Amour  au  Ciel  couuoit 
Comme  un  tresor  cherement  sous  ses  ailes, 
Elle  enrichit  les  graces  immortelles 
De  son  bel  oeil  qui  les  Dieux  esmouuoit. — 
Du  Ciel  k  peine  elle  estoit  descendue 
Quand  ie  la  vey,  quand  mon  asme  esperdue 
En  deuint  foUe,  et  d'un  si  poignant  trait, 
Amour  coula  ses  beautez  en  mes  veines, 
Qu'  autres  plaisirs  ie  nd  sens  que  mes  peines 
Ny  autre  bien  qu'  adorer  son  portrait. 
In  all  probability  Keats  never  completed  his  version :   anyhow  no  con- 
cluding couplet  of  his  has  come  down  to  us.     Lord  Houghton  suggested 
this  conclusion : — 

So  that  her  image  in  my  soul  upgrew, 
The  only  thing  adorable  and  true. 
3.  Beauty's  fairest  dyes 'RBV.     Beauty  fairest  dies     H,  MS. 

XXIII.  To  Sleep.  First  published  H  1848.  It  was  copied  into  the 
Journal  Letter  of  Feb.-May,  1819,  under  the  date  30th  April,  and  was 
probably  composed  shortly  before  this.  A  copy  of  Paradise  Lost,  given  by 
Keats  to  Mrs.  Dilke,  has  the  following  version  of  the  first  twelve  lines : — 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  Midnight 

Shutting  with  careful  fingers  and  benig^n 

Our  gloom-pleas'd  eyes  embowered  from  the  light ; 

As  wearisome  as  darkness  is  divine. 

O  soothest  Sleep,  if  so  it  please  thee  close 


SONNETS— NOTES  549 

Mjr  willing  eyes  in  midst  of  this  thine  hjrmn 

Or  wait  the  amen  ere  thy  poppy  throws 

Its  sweet  death  dews  o'er  every  pulse  and  limh, 

Then  shut  the  hushed  Casket  of  my  soul, 

And  turn  the  key  round  in  the  oiled  wards. 

And  let  it  rest  until  the  morn  has  stole. 

Bright  tressed  from  the  grey  east's  shuddering  bourn. 
And  H  quotes  from  an  American  Magazine,  The  Dial,  of  April  1843,  a,  stUl 
earlier  draft,  agreeing  in  the  main  with  the  Dilke  MS.,  but  reading 
3.  "flush'd"  foi-  "pleas'd";  4.  "weariness  in"  tor  "wearisome  as"; 
8.  "  dark  "  for  "  death,"  and  stopping  short  in  liue  12  at  the  word  "  bright ". 
Mr.  Forman  justly  remarks  upon  "  the  highest  poetic  instinct "  which  led 
Keats  to  transpose  the  tenth  and  ninth  lines  and  place  them  at  the  close 
of  the  poem,  and  it  is  interesting  to  observe  that  the  finest  line  in  the  whole 
"Enshaded  in  forgetfulness  divine"  only  finds  its  place  in  the  finished 
version.  In  rhyme  structure  (ABAB,  CDCD,  BC,  EFEF),  the  poem  is  an 
experiment  and  hardly  a  fortunate  one.  The  subject  and  treatment  would 
have  lent  themselves  admirably  to  the  stricter  Italian  form  of  sonnet,  but 
this  Keats  had  given  up,  and  he  judged  rightly  in  rejecting,  as  contrary 
to  the  spirit  of  this  poem,  the  Shakespearian  form  with  its  couplet  ending. 

XXIV.  Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?— First  published  H  1848.  Enclosed 
in  that  part  of  the  Journal  Letter  to  America  of  Feb.-May,  1819,  which  is 
dated  19th  March,  and  probably  written,,  therefore,  on  the  18th.  It  is 
prefaced  thus :  "  I  am  ever  afraid  that  your  anxiety  for  me  will  lead  you 
to  fear  for  the  violence  of  my  temperament  continually  smothered  down  : 
for  that  reason  I  did  not  intend  to  have  seat  you  the  following  sonnet — 
but  look  over  the  two  last  pages  (the  passage  Keats  particularly  refers  to 
is  quoted  in  the  notes  to  the  Epistle  to  Reynolds,  p.  539)  and  ask  yourselves 
whether  I  have  not  that  in  me  which  will  bear  the  buffets  of  the  world. 
It  will  be  the  best  comment  on  the  sonnet ;  it  will  show  you  that  it  was 
written  with  no  Agony  but  that  of  ignorance ;  with  no  thirst  of  anything 
but  Knowledge  when  pushed  to  the  point  though  the  first  steps  to  it  were 
through  my  human  passions — they  went  away  and  I  wrote  with  my  Mind 
— and  perhaps  I  must  confess  a  little  bit  of  my  heart.  .  .  ."  After  copying 
the  sonnet  Keats  adds :  "  I  went  to  bed  and  enjoyed  an  uninterirupted 
sleep.    Sane  I  went  to  bed  and  sane  I  rose." 

6.  Say,  wherefore  MS.  Letter ;  I  say,  why    H,  HBF. 

11.  Yet  would  I  H,  HBF;  yet  could  I  MS.  Letter.  All  critics  have 
called  attention  to  the  repetition  of  the  idea  and  language  of  this  line  in 
the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  composed  within  the  next  two  months.  "  To 
cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain." 

XXV.  On  a  Dream.  First  published  in  the  Indicator  of  28th  June, 
1820,  written  in  the  first  three  weeks  of  April,  1819,  and  sent  to  George 
Keats  in  tha  Journal  Letter  dated  18th  or  19th  April,  with,  the  following 


560  JOHN  KEATS 

comment :  "  The  fifth  canto  of  Dante  pleases  me  more  and  more — it  i« 
that  one  in  which  he  meets  with  Paolo  and  Francesca.  I  had  passed 
many  days  in  rather  a  low  state  of  mind,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  I 
dreamt  of  being  in  that  region  of  Hell.  The  dream  was  one  of  the  most 
delightful  enjoyments  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  I  floated  about  the  whirling 
atmosphere,  as  it  is  described,  with  a  beautiful  figure,  to  whose  lips  mine 
were  joined  as  it  seemed  for  an  age  —and  in  the  midst  of  all  this  cold  and 
darkness  I  was  warm — even  flowery  tree-tops  sprang  up,  and  we  rested  on 
them  sometimes  with  the  lightness  of  a  cloud,  till  the  wind  blew  us  away 
again.  I  tried  a  sonnet  upon  it,  there  are  fourteen  lines,  but  nothing  of 
what  I  felt  in  it.     O  that  I  could  dream  it  every  night." 

In  an  article  On  some  MarginaUa  in  Rossetti's  Keats  Mr.  George  Milner 
notes  that  Rossetti,  remarking  upon  the  false  rhyme  in  line  4,  pointed 
out  that  the  line  is  an  echo  of  End.  ii.  684,  "  so  sad,  so  melancholy,  so 
bereft ".  Keats  had  already  alluded  to  the  story  of  Hermes  and  Argus  in 
the  Same  poem  : — 

ravishments  more  keen 
Than  Hermes'  pipe,  when  anxious  he  did  lean 
Over  eclipsing  eyes  (End.  ii.  876-77,  vide  note). 

XXVI.  On  Fame.  First  published  with  the  succeeding  sonnet  in  H 
1848.  Written  on  30th  April,  1819,  and  enclosed  under  that  date  in  the 
Journal  Letter  to  America. 

XXVII.  1,^,  As  if  a  Naiad,  etc.     H : 

As  if  a  clear  lake,  meddling  with  itself 

Should  cloud  its  clearness  with  a  muddy  gloom.    MS.  Letter. 

XXVIII.  //  by  dull  rhymes  our  English  must  be  chain'd.  First  published 
H  1848.  Sent  to  America  in  the  Journal  Letter  which  contains  the  last 
five  sonnets,  under  ithe  date  30th  April.  It  is,  as  Keats  points  out,  an 
experiment  in  its  rhyme  structure.  "  I  have  been  endeavouring,"  he 
writes,  "  to  discover  a  better  Sonnet  Stanza  then  we  have.  The  legitimate 
does  not  suit  the  language  over  well  from  the  pouncing  rhymes — ^the  other 
kind  appears  too  elegiac — and  the  couplet  at  the  end  of  it  has  seldom  a 
pleasing  effect — I  do  not  pretend  to  have  succeeded — it  will  explain  itself." 
As  Keats  justly  remarks,  his  attempt  was  not  successful,  and  in  his  few 
remaining  sonnets  he  was  content  to  follow  Shakespeare. 

XXIX.  The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone!  First  published  H 
1848,  where  it  is  dated  1819.  It  belongs  to  the  same  period  and  has  the 
same  subject  as  the  lines  To  ——  dated  October  (q.v,  p.  2S3  and  note.) 

In  the  Woodhouse  transcript  recently  discovered  by  Lord  Crewe  is  a 
MS.  of  this  sonnet,  the  only  one  known  to  exist,  and  possibly  that  used 
by  Lord  Houghton  for  his  text.  In  line  3  Woodhouse  reads  "  tranced " 
for  "  light,"  far  more  in  keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  poem  and  more 
characteristic  of  Keats,  whilst  the  second  and  third  quatrains  are  trans- 


OTHO  THE  GREAT— NOTES  551 

posed.  A  truly  Shakespearian  effect,  always  striven  after  by  Keats  in  his"^ 
later  sonnets  (c/.  note,  p.  544),  and  often  attained  as  no  other  poet  has 
attained  it,  is  secured  by  the  repetition  of  the  word  "  Faded  "  when  it  is 
reserved  for  the  climax  of  the  sonnet,  and  the  general  effect  of  the  whole 
is,  I  think,  immeasurably  enhanced.  But  whatever  view  is  taken  of  Lord 
Houghton's  version,  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  authenticity  of  that 
preserved  by  Woodhouse.  It  is  therefore  appended  here : — 
The  day  is  gone,  and  all  its  sweets  are  gone  ! 

Sweet  voice,  sweet  lips,  soft  hand,  and  softer  breast, 
Warm  breath,  tranced  whisper,  tender  semi-tone. 

Bright  eyes,  accomplish'd  shape^  and  lang'rous  waist ! 
Vanish'd  unseasonably  at  shut  of  eve. 

When  the  dusk  holiday — or  holinight 
Of  fragrant  curtain'd  love  begins  to  weave 

The  woof  of  darkness  thick,  for  hid  delight ; 
Faded  the  flower  and  all  its  budded  charms. 
Faded  the  sight  of  beauty  from  my  eyes. 
Faded  the  shape  of  beauty  from  my  arms. 

Faded  the  voice,  warmth,  whiteness,  paradise — 
But,  as  I've  read  love's  missal  through  to-day. 
He'll  let  me  sleep,  seeing  I  fast  and  pray. 
9.  shut  of  eve  : — Cf.  Lamia,  i.  139  note. 

XXX.  I  cry  your  mercy — ^ity^—hve! — aye,  love!  First  published  H 
1848,  and  probably  written  soon  after  the  preceding  sonnet. 

XXXI.  Written  on  a  blank  page  in  Shakespeare's  Poems,  etc.  The  last 
poem  written  by  Keats,  dated  by  Mr.  Colvin  September  28,  1820 ;  first 
published  H  1848.  On  his  journey  to  Italy  Keats  was  becalmed  in  the 
English  Channel,  and  landed  with  Severn  on  the  Dorsetshire  coast, 
near  Lulworth  Cove.  "  For  a.  moment,"  says  SevArn,  "  he  became  like 
his  former  self.  He  was  in  a  part  that  he  already  knew,  and  showed 
me  the  splendid  caverns  and  grottoes  with  a,  poet's  pride,  as  though 
they  had  been  his  by  birthright.  When  we  returned  to  the  ship  he  wrote 
for  me  on  a  blank  leaf  in  a  Folio  volume  of  Shakespeare,  which  he  gave 
me  in  memory  of  our  voyage,  the  following  magnificent  sonnet." 

H  supplies  as  a  variant  reading  fpr  the  last  line — 

Half-passionless,  and  so  swoon  on  to  death- 

OTHO  THE  GREAT 

First  published  H  1848  :  written  in  the  summer  of  1819,  the  first  act 
being  finished  by  12th  July,  the  next  three  by  15th  August,  and  the 
whole  work  by  23rd  August.  In  December  Keats  was  busy  revising  and 
"  brightening  the  interest  of  the  play  "  (^Letter  to  Fanny  Keats,  2nd  Dec. 
1819).  The  circumstances  under  which  it  was  composed  are  thus  de- 
scribed in  the  Brown  MS.  (quoted  by  H  1876). 


552  JOHN  KEATS 

"  At  Shanklin  he  undertook  a  difficult  task ;  I  engaged  to  furnish  him 
with  the  title^  characters,  and  dramatic  conduct  of  a  tragedy,  and  he  was 
to  enwrap  it  in  poetry.  The  progress  of  this  work  was  curious,  for  while 
I  sat  opposite  to  him,  he  caught  my  description  of  each  scene  entire, 
with  the  characters  to  be  brought  forward,  the  events,  and  everything 
connected  with  it.  Thus  he  went  on,  scene  after  scene,  never  knowing 
nor  inquiring  into  the  scene  which  was  to  follow,  until  four  acts  were 
completed.  It  was  then  he  required  to  know  at  once  all  the  events  that 
were  to  occupy  the  fifth  act ;  I  explained  them  to  him,  but,  after  patient 
hearing  and  some  thought,  he  insisted  that  many  incidents  in  it  were  too 
humorous,  or,  as  he  termed  them,  too  melodramatic.  He  wrote  the  fifth 
act  in  accordance  with  his  own  views,  and  so  contented  was  I  with  his 
poetry  that  at  the  time,  and  for  a  long  time  after,  I  thought  he  was  in  the 
right." 

When  all  this  U  taken  into  consideration  it  will  be  seen  that  it  is  futile 
to  look  for  anything  like  dramatic  unity,  or  a  close  relation  between 
language  and  characterisation.  But  the  play  has  its  fine  passages,'  and 
the  style  and  versification  throughout  bear  testimony  to  a  careful  study 
of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  and  of  Comus,  that  work  of  Milton's  in 
which  he  shows  most  clearly  his  own  debt  to  his  predecessors. 

But  Otho  was  the  one  work  of  Keats's  of  which,  perhaps,  its  author 
thought  too  highly.  "  Mine  I  am  sure,"  he  wrote  to  his  brother  in  Sep- 
tember, "  is  a  tolerable  tragedy ;  it  would  have  been  a  bank  to  me,  if,  just 
as  I  had  finished  it,  I  had  not  heard  of  Kean's  resolution  to  go  to  America. 
That  was  the  worst  news  I  could  have  had.  There  is  no  actor  can  do  the 
principal  character  besides  Keau.'  At  Co  vent  Garden  there  is  a  great 
chance  of  its  being  damned.  Were  it  to  succeed  there  it  would  lift  me 
out  of  the  mire  ;  I  mean  the  mire  of  a  bad  reputation  which  is  continually 
rising  against  me.  My  name  with  the  literary  fashionables  is  vulgar.  I 
am  a  weaver-boy  to  them.  A  tragedy  would  lift  me  out  of  this  mess." 
In  December  he  wrote  to  his  sister :  "  It  is  accepted  at  Drury  Lane  with 
a  promise  of  bringing  it  out  in  the  next  season  ;  as  that  will  be  too  long  a 
delay  we  have  determined  to  get  Elliston  to  bring  it  out  this  season  or  to 
transfer  it  to  Covent  Garden.  This  Elliston  will  not  like,  as  we  have 
every  motive  to  believe  that  Keau  has  perceived  how  suitable  the  principal 
character  will  be  for  him.  My  hopes  of  success  in  the  literary  world  are 
now  btiLter  than  ever."  But  Keats  seems  to  have  been  over  sanguine  on 
this  score,  for  Otho  never  made  its  appearance  on  the  stage.  We  learn 
from  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Severn  that  some  years  after  Keats's  death 
Severn  was  anxious  to  have  the  play  produced  at  a  private  theatre  at 
Rome.  "There  are  here  five  Englishmen,"  he  wrote  to  Brown  (14th 
March,  1854)  "  who  have  all  been  together  at  Cambridge.  They  are  de- 
voted admirers  of  Keats.  .  .  .  They  have  been  acting — two  of  them  are 

1  Yet  in  another  letter  he  writes :  "  'Twould  do  one's  heart  good  to  see  Macready 
in  Ludolph  "  (to  Rice,  Dec.  1819). 


OTHO  THE  GREAT— NOTES  553 

fint  rate — ^and  they  made  me  join  them  in  the  fourth  act  of  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  as  Gratiano,  when  I  was  so  struck  with  one  (Mr.  O'Brien)  as  the 
very  man  for  Ludolph  in  Keats'g  Otho.  His  voice  and  manner  of  reading 
remind  me  most  forcibly  of  Keats  himself.  When  I  mentioned  to  them  the 
tragedy,  they  were  all  on  fire  to  see  it.  ...  I  assure  you  I  think  it  would 
be  well  done,  and  as  they  are  all  young  men  of  rank,  it  would  certainly  be 
a  good  report  to  its  forthcoming.  .  .  .  Now  I  wonder  what  you  will  say 
to  all  this.  Is  there  any  possibility  that  you  throw  cold  water  upon  it  ?  " 
Whether  or  not  Brown  did  so  is  unknown,  but  the  play  was  not  produced. 

I.  i.  129.  Lady  I  O,  etc.  HBF ;  In  H  Lady  stands,  wrongly,  at  the 
close  of  i.  128. 


I.  ii.  172.  sugar-cates  MS.,  HBF ;  sugar  cakes    H. 


I.  iii.  62.  edge  o'  the  world : — A  Shakespearian  phrase.  Cf.  Ant.  and 
Cleo.  ii.  2.  116-8  :— 

if  I  knew 
What  hoop  would  make  us  stanch,  from  edge  to  edge 
O'  the  world  I  would  pursue  it. 

II.  i.  22.  the  discoloured  poisons  of  a  fen : — It  is  significant  that  Ludolph 
uses  something  of  the  same  image  to  express  his  disgust  at  the  courtiers  of 
Otho  as  Shakespeare  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Coriolanus  with  regard  to  the 
people : — 

whose  breath  I  hate 
As  reek  o'  the  rotten  fens  {Cor.  iii.  3.  120). 

II.  i.  67.  the  thunder  comes  Sullen  against  the  wind.  Cf.  Byron,  Childe 
Harold,  iv.  98  :— 

Yet  Freedom  !  yet  thy  banner,  torn  but  flying. 
Streams  like  a  thunder  cloud  against  the  wind. 

II.  i.  133.  the  towers  .  .  .  new  kiss'd  the  parted  clouds ! : — An  image  in 
all  probability  suggested  by  the  picture  in  Hamlet  (iii.  4.  69)  of 

the  herald  Mercury 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill. 

II.  ii.  129.  of  you  HBF,  following  MS. ;  desunt  in  H. 

III.  i.  18.  a  spear,  Sway'd  by  command,  as  corn  is  by  the  wind : — An  un- 
conscious reminiscence  of  Milton's  superb  description  of  the  angelic  host 
which  hem  Satan  round  : — 

With  ported  Spears,  as  thick  as  when  a  field 

Of  Ceres  ripe  for  harvest  waving  bends 

Her  bearded  Grove  of  ears,  which  way  the  wind 

Swayes  them  ;  the  careful  Plowman  doubting  stands 

Least  on  the  threshing  floore  his  hopeful  sheaves 

Prove  chaft  {Paradise  Lost,  iv.  980-86.) 


554  JOHN  KEATS 

The  "eheaved"  spears  of  King  Stephen,  i.  3.  3,  probably  owe  their 
epithet  to  the  same  passage. 

III.  ii.   20.  soil  MS.,  HBF ;  sail     H. 
76.  mad  MS.,  HBF  ;  bad     H. 
88.  more  MS.,  HBF ;  monk    H. 

125.  like  an  mgel  newly-shent,  Who  veils  its  snowy  wings.     Cj, 
Eve  of  Sf.  Agnes,  xxv.  7 : — 

She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest. 
Save  wings,  for  heaven. 

III.  ii.  160.  tedious  MS.,  HBF  ;  hideous    H. 

IV.  i.  66.  emptied  of  these  folk  : — A  repetition  of  phrase  from  the  Ode 
on  a  Grecian  Urn.  4.  "  What  little  town  .  .  .  is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this 
pious  morn  }  " 

82.  the  fabled  fair  Hesperian  tree.  A  reminiscence  in  all  probability  of 
Milton,  Comus  393  :— 

Beauty  like  the  fair  Hesperian  Tree 
Laden  with  blooming  gold. 
With  a  recollection  also  of  the  "  Hesperian  fables  true,"  of  Paradise  Lost, 
iv.  260. 

In  this  same  speech  there  are  also  to  be  noticed  some  probably  uncon- 
scious echoes  of  the  lamentations  of  Richard  II.  at  the  loss  of  his  kingdom. 
Like  Richard,  Auranthe  cries : — 

"  I  could  now  sit  upon  the  ground  "  (cf.  Richard  II.,  iii.  2.  155). 
And  just  as  Richard  says 

I'll  give  my  jewels  for  a  set  of  beads. 
My  gay  apparel  for  an  almsman's  gown. 
My  figured  goblets  for  a  dish  of  wood. 
My  sceptre  for  a  palmer's  walking-staff  (iii.  3.  147-151). 
So  Auranthe : — 

Bring  me  some  mourning  weeds,  that  I  may  tire 
Myself,  as  fits  one  wailing  her  own  death. 
And  throw  these  jewels  from  my  loathing  sight. — 
Fetch  me  a  missal,  and  a  string  of  beads. — 
A  cup  of  bitter'd  water  and  a  crust. 
The  exclamation  "  O  the  heavy  day  ! "   used  by  the  Duke  of  York, 
in  the  same  scene  of  Richard  II.,  at  the  sight  of  his  fallen  master,  is  twice 
employed  by  Auranthe  in  her  speech. 

IV.   i.   85.   melt  in  the  visionary  air : — Another  line  which  recalls 
Shakespeare.     Qf,  Tensest,  iv.  1.  150,  of  the  spirits  who 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air, 
And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision 


Leave  not  a  rack  behind. 


KING  STEPHEN— NOTES  565 

IV.  ii.  18.  A  uranthe  I  my  Ufe !  etc. ; — This  fine  speech,  apart  from  an 
occasional  weak  line,  is  a  magnificent  example  of  the  way  in  which  Keats 
was  able  to  recall  the  Elizabethan  manner.  It  is  noticeable  that  again  he 
has  recourse  to  Comus.     Cf.  with  lines  36  and  37  Comus,  561-3 : — 

Till  an  unusuaU  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respit  to  the  drowsie  frighted  steeds 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtain'd  sleep. 

V.  L  24.  melted  into  an : — Cf.  note  to  iv.  1.  86. 

ii.  49.  Howling  in  vain,  etc. : — A  line  that  might  have  been  written 

by  Webster  or  Marston. 
iv.  3.  'Tts  not  in  medicine,  etc.      A  reminiscence  of  the  well-known 
passage  in  Macbeth : — 

"  Can'st  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?  " 
V.  4.  here  MS.  HBF ;  hear    H. 

KING  STEPHEN 

A  Dramatic  Fragment.  First  published  H  1848 ;  the  MS.  dated  Nov. 
1819.  Of  the  circumstances  of  its  compositiqn  Charles  Brown  (Houghton 
MiS.)  writes  as  follows:  ''As  soon  as  Keats  had  finished  Otho  the  Great, 
I  pointed  out  to  him  a  subject  for  an  English  historical  tragedy  in  the 
death  of  King  Stephen,  beginning  with  his  defeat  by  the  Empress  Maud, 
and  ending  with  the  death  of  his  son  Eustace.  He  was  struck  with  the 
variety  of  events  and  characters  which  must  necessarily  be  introduced 
into  it,  and  I  offered  to  give,  as  before,  their  dramatic  conduct.  The 
play  must  open,  I  began,  with  the  field  of  battle,  when  Stephen's  forces 
are  retreating — '  Stop,'  he  cried, '  I  have  been  too  long  in  leading-strings ; 
I  will  do  all  this  myself.'  He  immediately  set  about  it,  and  wrote  two 
or  three  scenes — about  170  lines."  It  is  unfortunate  that  so  little  of  this 
play  was  written,  for,  as  Mr.  Colvin  remarks  (EML,  p.  179),  "the  few 
scenes  he  finished  are  not  only  marked  by  his  characteristic  splendour 
and  felicity  of  (ihrase :  they  are  full  of  a  spirit  of  heady  action  and  the 
stir  of  battle :  qualities  which  he  had  not  shown  in  any  previous  work, 
and  for  which  we  might  have  doubted  his  capacity  had  not  this  fragment 
been  preserved. "  No  writing  indeed  has  reproduced  with  greater  success 
the  spirit  which  pervades  the  martial  scenes  in  the  early  historica]  plays 
of  Shakespeare. 

I.  ii.  10.  sole  and  lone : — Mr.  Forman  compares  Lamia,  ii.  122,  where 
the  phrase  "  sole  .  .  .  and  lone  "  had  already  been  used. 

I.  ii.  22.  Pallas  from  the  walls  of  Ilion : — This  reference  to  the  Iliad, 
together  with  the  allusion  to  Nestor  in  i.  3.  12,  suggests  that  Keate  was 
still  reading  Chapman.  Cf.  Sonnet  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's 
,  Homer,  note,  pp.  398,  399. 

I.  ii.  61.  Mars  MS. ;  man     H. 


556  JOHN  KEATS 

I.  iii.  3.  BelUma  :-r.Probabl7  with  a  thought  of  Macbeth  who  is  described 
as  "Bellona's  bridegroom  lapped  ill  proof".  The  "sheaved  spears" 
owe  their  epithet  to  the  simile  in  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  iv.  980.  Cf.  note 
to  Otho,  iii.  1.  18. 

APPENDIX— POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS  (II) 

On  Death.  First  printed  by  Mr.  Forman  in  1883  and  reproduced  here 
by  his  permission.     Assigned  by  George  Keats  to  1814. 

To  BvBON.  H  1848 ;  dated  Dec.  1814.  An  extremely  feeble  sonnet, 
only  interesting  as  a  record  of  Keats's  early  feeling  for  Byron  (vide  note, 
Sleep  and  Poetry). 

To  Chattbrton.  H  1848 ;  dated  probably  1814.  Its  interest  is  similar 
to  that  of  the  previous  sonnet  to  Byron.  The  word  "  amate  "  is  attributed 
to  the  influence  of  Spenser,  but  seeing  that  it  is  used  several  times  by 
Chatterton  himself  its  presence  here  is  more  reasonably  attributed  to  a 
reading  of  Chatterton  than  of  Spenser. 

Ode  and  Hymn  to  A  pollo.  H  1848.  The  first  of  these  poems  is  dated 
Feb.  1815,  the  second  stands  next  to  it  in  the  volume  and  obviously 
belongs  to  the  same  period.  Every  one  will  agree  with  the  margin  notes 
of  Kossetti  (quoted  Manchester  Quarterly,  1883)  that  the  Ode  is  "very 
poor  and  puffy  "  and  the  Hymn  "  wretched  but  for  a  sense  of  metre ". 
They  are  interesting  chiefly  as  a  record  of  the  passing  influence  of  the 
eighteenth  century  upon  the  form  and  diction  of  Keats.  The  Ode  seems 
a  weak  reminiscence  of  an  Ode  by  Dryden  or  Gray,  and  the  phrases 
"  adamantine  lyres,"  "  radiant  fires,"  "  renovated  eyes,"  "  laurelled  peers," 
"tuneful  thunders,"  "ravished  heavens,"  "tremblingly  expire,"  "ardent 
numbers,"  "  melt  the  soul,"  etc.,  all  suggest  a  similar  source. 

Sonnet.     To  a  Yotntg  Lady,  etc.     H  1848.     Probably  written  181fi. 

Sonnet.    As  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove,  etc.    H  1876 ;  written 
1816. 

Sonnet.  Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition.  Written  Dec. 
1816 ;  a  weak  composition  interesting  only  in  its  reminiscences  of  two 
passages  especially  dear  to  Keats — "Lydiah  airs"  {L' Allegro  136)  "and 
hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead  ".  (Thomson's  Seasons,  Winter, 
432.) 

On  Oxford.  A  parody.  Written  at  Oxford  in  September,  1817,  and 
sent  in  a  letter  to  Reynolds  with  the  remark :  "  Wordsworth  sometimes, 
though  in  a  fine  way,  gives  us  sentences  in  the  style  of  school  exercises. 
For  instance. 

The  lake  doth  glitter 

Small  birds  twitter,  etc. 


POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS— NOTES    557 

Now  I  think  this  is  an  excellent  method  of  giving  us  a  very  clear  de- 
scription of  an  interesting  place  such  as  Oxford  is." 

Wordsworth's  poem,  here  parodied,  is  entitled :  Written  in  March 
while  resting  on  the  Bridge  at  the  Foot  of  Brother's  Water.  It  first  appeared 
in  the  1807  volumes,  which  Keats  Icnew  especially  well. 

Modern  Love.    First  published  H  1848,  undated. 

FsACMBNT  OF  THE  Castlb  Buildbr.  First  published  H  1848,  undated, 
but  immediately  following  Modern  Love. 

17.  A  viol-bow,  strings  torn,  HBF ;  A  viol,  bowstrings  torn,  H. 
46.  An  interesting  tribute  to  the  art  of  Haydon. 

To  A  Cat.  First  published  in  Hood's  Comic  ^»»ua2  for  1830.  Wood- 
house  dated  the  sonnet  16th  Jan.  1818,  and  recorded  that  it  was  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Reynolds's  cat.  There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  lines  are  in- 
tended as  a  parody  of  the  Miltonic  sonnet,  the  style  of  which  is  very 
happily  caught  in  the  opening  invocation,  in  the  contraction  of  style,  and 
the  general  rhythm  of  the  sentences. 

Hbncb  Burgundy,  Claret,  and  Port.  First  published  H  1848 ;  sent 
to  Reynolds  in  a  letter  dated  31st  Jan.  1818,  with  the  words  :  "  I  cannot 
write  in  prose  ;  it  is  a  sunshiny  day,  and  I  cannot,  so  here  goes ''.  After 
the  verses  he  says :  "  My  dear  Reynolds, — You  must  forgive  all  this  rant- 
ing— but  the  fact  is,  I  cannot  write  sense  this  morning".  It  is  obvious, 
therefore,  that  these  lines  are  merely  an  impromptu  ebullition  of  animal 
spirits  which  Keats  would  never  himselfhave  reproduced  among  his  serious 
poems. 

Extracts  from  an  Opera.  First  published  H  1848,  with  three  others, 
which  are  placed  in  this  edition  among  the  poems  [vide  note  p.  534.) 

Song.     Spirit  here  that  reignest.    First  published  H  1848. 

Herb  all  the  Summer,  etc.  First  published  in  a  mutilated  form  in 
Taylor's  Life  ^of  Haydon  (1863)  with  the  letter  in  which  it  was  enclosed  ; 
written  in  March,  1818,  at  Teignmouth  whither  Keats  had  gone  to  nurse 
his  brother  Tom.  Mr.  Buxton  Forman  has  pointed  out  that  the  lines  are 
full  of  accurate  local  colour,  but  they  have  little  other  value,  and  they 
were  obviously  composed  with  no  other  object  than  to  amuse  his  friend. 
But  he  seems  to  have  thought  better  of  them  than  of  most  of  his  doggerel 
impromptus,  for  he  adds — "  I  know  not  if  this  rhyming  fit  has  done  any- 
thing— it  will  be  safe  enough  if  worthy  to  put  among  my  lyrics  ". 

Over  the  Hill  and  over  the  Dale.  First  published  H  1848  in  a 
letter  to  Rice  written  by  Keats  from  Teignmouth  on  25th  March,  1818. 

Acrostic.  This  very  weak  composition,  which,  unfortunately,  quite 
belies  the  assertion  of  lines  6-9,  was  written  in  June,  1818,  soon  after  Keats 


558  JOHN  KEATS 

had  bidden  farewell  to  hig  newly  married  brother  and  sister  vrho  vrere  en 
route  for  America.  It  was  first  published^  says  Mr.  Formau,  in  a  New 
York  newspaper.  The  World,  in  June,  1877.  The  punctuation  of  lines  10-14 
has  been  amended  in  order  to  make  some  kind  of  sense  of  the  passage. 

LiNBS  WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS,  etc.  First  published  in  the  Ex- 
crnnner,  14th  July,  1822 ;  sent  to  Bailey  in  a  letter  from  the  island  of  Mull 
dated  22nd  July  (1818). 

Spenserian  Stanza.  First  published  H  1848,  with  the  following 
note : — 

"The  copy  of  Spenser  which  Keats  had  in  daily  use,  contains  the 
following  stanza,  inserted  at  the  close  of  canto  ii.  book  v.  His  sympathies 
were  very  much  on  the  side  of  the  revolutionary  '  Gyant '  who  '  undertook 
for  to  repair '  the  '  realms  and  nations  run  awry,'  and  to  suppress  '  tyrants 
that  make  men  subject  to  their  law,'  '  and  lordings  curbe  that  commons 
over-aw,'  while  he  grudged  the  legitimate  victory,  as  he  rejected  the  con- 
servative philosophy,  of  the  'righteous  Art^fall'  and  hig  comrade,  the 
fierce  defender  of  privilege  and  order.  And  he  expressed,  in  this  ex  post 
facto  prophecy,  his  conviction  of  the  ultimate  triumph  of  freedom  and 
equality  by  the  power  of  transmitted  knowledge." 

The  lines  are  interesting  as  one  of  the  few  illustrations  in  the  verse  of 
Keats  of  his  democratic  sympathies. 

An  Extempore.  First  published  by  Mr.  Colvin  in  Macmillan's  Magazine 
for  August,  1888.  The  lines  form  part  of  the  Journal  Letter  of  Feb.-May, 
1819,  and  are  evidently  an  extempore  effusion  merely  written  with  the 
object  of  amusing  his  brother  and  sister  in  America.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  any  particular  fairy  story  inspired  them,  but  several  passages 
seem  to  have  been  suggested  by  different  sources.  The  "  Otaheitan  "  Mule 
is  probably  due  to  the  interest  taken  at  tliis  time  in  the  travels  of  Sir  Joseph 
Banks,  whilst  the  mule  brings  to  Keats's  mind  Peter  Bell,  who  uses  the 
same  weapon — "a,  new  pealed  sapling  white  as  cream"  with  which  to 
chastise  his  ass.     The  close  of  the  canto 

there  was  nothing  seen. 
But  the  mule  grazing  on  the  herbage  green 
may  be  another  sportive  reminiscence  of  Wordsworth's  "solitary  doe" 
who  "  quietly  was  feeding  on  the  green  herb  ". 

At  lines  79,  80,  we  have  two  quotations  from  Shakespeare,  "every 
inch  a  King,"  King  Lear,  iv.  6.  109,  and  "Fortune's  fool,"  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  iii.  1.  141.  Mr.  Colvin  has  suggested  to  me  that  the  picture  with 
which  the  fragment  closes  of  the  thievish  monkies  stealing  the  Ass's  bridle 
was  probably  suggested  to  Keats  by  an  old  print. 

The  lines  have  been  printed  here  from  the  MS.  letter,  retaining  its 
curious  spelling  and  lack  of  punctuation. 

Spenserian  Stanzas  on  Charles  Armitaob  Brown.  First  published 
H  1848.    Included  in  Feb.-May  Journal  Letter  under  the  date  16th  or 


.POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS— NOTES    559 

17th  April  and  prefaced  with  the  words :  "  Brown  this  morning  ia  writing 
acme  Spenserian  stanzas  against  Mrs.,  Miss  Brawne  and  me ;  so  I  shall  amuse 
myself  with  him  a  little :  in  the  manner  of  Spenser  ".  After  copying  the 
stanzas  Keats  adds :  "This  character  would  ensure  him  a  situation  in  the 
establishment  of  patient  Griselda  ".  It  will  be  remembered  that  Brown 
was  perhaps  Keats's  greatest  friend  during  the  last  three  or  four  years  of 
his  life.  His  Scotch  tour  was  taken  in  company  with  Brown,  and  he 
went  to  live  with  Brown  after  the  death  of  his  brother  Tom  in  December, 
1818.  Otho  the  Great  was  written  in  collaboration  with  him  and  much 
of  the  material  upon  which  Lord  Houghton  based  his  Life  and  Letters  of 
Keats  was  supplied  to  him  by  Brown,  who  had  at  one  time  intended  to  be 
the  poet's  biographer. 

A  Party  op  Lovers.  Included  by  Keats  in  the  Journal  Letter  of 
September,  1819,  prefaced  by  the  words:  "I  saw  Haslam.  He  is  very 
much  occupied  with  love  and  business,  being  one  of  Saunders'  executors 
and  lover  to  a  young  woman.  He  showed  me  her  portrait  by  Severn.  I 
think  she  is,  though  not  very  cunning,  too  cunning  for  him  Nothing 
strikes  me  so  forcibly  with  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous  as  love.  A  man  in 
love  I  do  think  cuts  the  sorryest  figure  in  the  world.  Even  when  I  know 
a  poor  fool  to  be  really  in  pain  about  it  I  could  burst  out  laughing  in  his 
face.  His  pathetic  visage  becomes  irresistible.  Not  that  I  take  Haslam 
as  a  pattern  for  lovers  ;  he  is  a  very  worthy  man,  and  a  good  friend.  His 
love  is  very  amusing.  Somewhere  in  the  Spectator  is  related  an  account 
of  a  man  inviting  a  party  of  stutterers  and  squinters  to  his  table.  It 
would  please  me  more  to  scrape  together  a  party  of  lovers ;  not  to  dinner — 
no,  to  tea.     There  would  be  no  fighting  as  among  knights  of  old." 

The  Cap  and  Bells  ;  or,  The  Jealousies :  A  Faery  Tale.  Unfinished. 
First  published  H  1848,  though  stanzas  xxv.-xxix.  had  already  appeared 
in  the  Indicator  of  August,  1820,  quoted  in  an  article  by  Leigh  Hunt  "  On 
Coaches  ".  The  poem  was  written  in  the  autumn  of  1819,  in  the  morn- 
ings ;  the  evenings  being  occupied  with  the  reconstruction  of  Hyperion. 
Of  its  composition  Brown  writes :  "  By  chance  our  conversation  turned 
on  the  idea  of  a  comic  faery  poem  in  the  Spenser  ktanza,  and  I  was  glad 
to  encourage  it.  He  had  not  composed  many  stanzas  before  he  proceeded 
in  it  with  spirit.  It  was  to  be  published  under  the  feigned  authorship  of 
Lucy  Vaughan  Lloyd  and  to  bear  the  title  of  the  Cap  and  Bells,  or,  which 
he  preferred,  the  Jealousies.  This  occupied  his  mornings  pleasantly.  He 
wrote  it  with  the  greatest  facility ;  in  one  instance  I  remember  having 
copied  (for  I  copied  as  he  wrote)  as  many  as  twelve  stanzas  before  dinner  " 
{Houghton  MSS.  quoted  EML,  p.  183).  As  Mr.  Colvin  has  pointed  out 
Keats  "wasiled  to  undertake  the  work  partly  through  the  influence  of 
Brown  who  was  a  gi-eat  student  of  Pulci  and  Boiardo  and  partly  by  the 
dazzling  example  of  Byron's  success  in  Don  Juan  (EML,  p.  184).  The  influ- 
ence of  this  style  is  more  particularly  evident  in  such  stanzas  as  xiv.  and 


560  JOHN  KEATS 

xxiv.  Mr.  Forman  rightly  points  out  that  Keats  ^'probably  had  a 
satirical  undercurrent  of  meaning :  and  it  needs  no  great  stretch  of 
imagination  to  nee  in  the  illicit  passion  of  Emperor  Eliinan  and  his  detes- 
tation of  his  bride-elect,  an  oblique  glance  at  the  marital  relations  of 
George  IV.  It  is  not  difficult  to  suggest  prototypes  for  some  of  the  faery 
land  statesmen  against  whom  Elfinan  vows  vengeance  ;  and  there  are  many 
particulars  in  which  earthly  incidents  are  too  thickly  strewn  to  leave  one 
in  the  settled  belief  that  the  poet's  programme  was  wholly  unearthly." 

As  late  as  June  1820  Keats  wrote  to  Brown  that  he  intended  to  go  on  with 
Lucy  Vaughcm  Lloyd,  as  he  calls  the  poem,  but  adds  "  I  do  not  begin  com- 
position yet,  being  willing  in  case  of  a  relapse,  to  have  nothing  to  reproach 
myself  with  ".  But  there  is  no  evidence  that  he  ever  touched  it  after 
December,  1819,  or  indeed  wrote  any  poetry  after  that  date  except  his  last 
sonnet.  It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to  add  how  unsuitable  is  the  Spenserian 
stanza  to  the  subject  for  which  he  here  employs  it,  or  how  unsuitable 
the  subject  and  treatment  are  to  the  essential  character  of  his  own  genius. 

I.  Ind.  .  .  .  Blflnan,   etc. : — Keats  is  here  indebted  to  the  Faerie 
Queene,  ii.  10.  70-72,  where  Spenser  tells  how  Prometheus  created  man 
from  beasts,  stole  fire  from  heaven  to  animate  man,  and  called  the  first 
man  ''Elfe,"  i.e.  quick.    Elfe  wandering  in  the  garden  of  Adonis  found 
A  goodly  creature  whom  he  deemed  in  mind 
To  be  no  earthly  wight,  but  either  Spright, 
Or  Angell,  th'  author  of  all  woman  kynd  : 
Therefor  a  Fay  he  her  according  hight,     ' 
Of  whom  all  Faeryes  spring,  and  fetch  their  lignage  right. 
Their  eldest  son 

Was  Elfin;  him  all  India  obeyed. 
And  all  that  now  America  men  call : 
Next  him  was  noble  Elfinan. 
From  them  were  descended  the  Lords  of  Faery,  Elferon,  Oberon,  and 
later  Gloriana.     Hydaspes  and  Imius  (stanza  iij.  etc.  ,  however,  are  pro- 
bably introduced  through  a  reminiscence  of  the  famous  simile  in  Paradise 
Lost : — 

As  when  a  Voltur  on  Imaus  bred 

Dislodging  from  a  Region  scarce  of  prey 

To  gorge  the  flesh  of  Lambs  or  yeanling  kids 

On  Hills  where  Flocks  are  fed,  flies  toward  the  Springs 

Of  Ganges  or  Hydaspes,  Indian  streams  (iii.  431-36.) 

X.  Panthea : — The  name  given  by  Spenser  to  the  city  of  the  Faeries. 
Cf.  Faerie  Queene,  ii.  19.  73. 

But  Elfant  was  of  most  renowned  fame. 
Who  all  of  Christall  did  Panthea  build. 

XI.  Of  faeries  stooping  on  their  wings  sublime : — Another  Miltonic  re- 
miniscence, "  in  the  air  sublime  Upon  the  wing  "  (Paradise  Lost,  ii.  £28). 


POSTHUMOUS  AND  FUGITIVE  POEMS— NOTES    561 

"  Hee  on  the  wings  of  Cherub  rode  sublime  "  (Paradise  Lost,  vi.  771,  and 
Paradise  Regained,  iv.  542). 

XVII.  the  square-cut  chancellor : — Mr.  Buxton  Forman  points  out  that 
"  on  the  supposition  of  a  glance  at  the  royal  matrimonial  squabble,  at  its 
height  when  Keats  wrote  this  piece,  the  'square  cut  chancellor'  would  be 
Mr.  Vausittart,  .  .  .  '  the  tiptoe  marquis '  might  probably  be  the  Marquis 
of  Lansdowne,  whose  refusal  to  sit  on  the  Green  Bag  Committee  in  the 
House  of  Lords  was  both  '  moral '  and  '  gallant '.  .  .  ."  Whilst  Biancopancy 
he  cleverly  explains  as  Mr.  Whi thread  (Bianco  ==  white.  Pane  ==  bread). 
"  Mr.  Samuel  Whitbread,"  he  adds,  "  was  so  well  known  as  an  adherent  of 
Queen  Caroline,  that  he  is  said  to  have  furnished  her  Majesty,  from  his 
great  wealth,  with  the  necessary  funds  for  carrying  on  her  case." 

XXVI.  jarvey : — The  old  term  used  indiscriminately  for  a  hackney 
coach  or  its  driver.  It  was  this  passage  about  the  coach  that  Hunt  pub- 
lished in  the  Indicator. 

XXVII.  fiddle-faddle.  Perhaps  a  reminiscence  of  Wordsworth's  Idiot 
Boy,  14  :— 

Till  she  is  tired,  let  Betty  Foy 
With  girt  and  stirrup  fiddle-faddle. 

XXIX.  Louted  full  low : — An  obvious  Spenserianism,  as  are  the  words 
"  blent "  and  "  dreariment "  in  xliv. 

XXXII.  /  wis : — Spelt  by  Keats  in  two  words  as  though  he  had  fallen 
into  the  common  error  of  mistaking  it  for  the  equivalent  of  "  I  know  ". 

XLIII.  Bertha  .  .  .  at  Canterbury : — On  the  Introduction  of  Bertha, 
the  heroine  of  the  Eve  of  St.  Ma/rk  (vide  note  p.  62S).     So  too  stanza  1. 

LI.  Cupid  I,  do  thee  defy !  .-—So  HBF,  following  MS. ;  Cupid,  I  do 
thee  defy    H. 

Somewhat  in  sadness,  but  pUas'd  in  the  main  : — Perhaps  a  parody  of 
Wordsworth's  Resolution  and  Independence  "cheerfully  uttered  with 
demeanour  kind,  but  stately  in  the  main". 

LVIII.  where  I  wait  for  guerdon  fit.     HBF,  MS. ;  desunt  in  H. 

LXL  W hew.'  HBF,  MS;  Where."    H. 

LXIII.  Those  nows,  etc.  : — Among  Leigk  Hunt's  Essays  is  one  entitled 
"A  'Now,'  descriptive  of  a  hot  day  "  in  which  Keats  is  supposed  to  have 
collaborated. 

LXVIII.  7.  Farewell !  and  if  for  ever,  etc. : — A  burlesque  quotation 
from  Byron's  famous  "  Fare  thee  well "  to  Lady  Byron.  On  Keats's 
feeling  with  regard  to  Byron  and  his  poetry  cf.  Sleep  and  Poetry,  234,  note. 

LXXVIII.  5.  favour  'gan  HBF  ;  favour;  'gan    H. 
36 


662  JOHN  KEATS 


ADDENDA:  NOTES  ON  THE  POEMS  FOUND  IN  THE  WOOD- 
HOUSE  TRANSCRIPT  OF  THE  FALL  OF  HYPERION  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 

Fii/L  FOB  ME  A  BBiuMiNo  Bowi/,  etc. : — Dated  in  the  MS.,  August  1814, 
and  never  before  published.  It  is  thus,  as  far  as  we  know,  only  preceded 
among  Keats's  Juvenilia  by  the  Imitation  of  Spenser.  Of  as  little  intrinsic 
value  as  that  poem,  it  is  of  equal  interest  in  the  light  it  throws  upon  the 
influences  that  affected  his  early  work.  Just  as  in  the  Imitation  of  Spenser 
we  only  see  the  Elizabethan  master  through  the  veil  of  his  later  imitators, 
so  here  we  have  the  influence  of  the  early  poems  of  Milton  acting  upon 
Keats  though  he  is  only  treating  a  conventional  subject  in  a  purely  con- 
ventional manner.  The  lines  are  interesting  as  certainly  Keats's  first 
experiment  in  the  measure  which  he  learnt  from  Milton  and  Spenser, 
and  was  afterwards  to  employ  with  conspicuous  success  in  Fancy  and  the 
Bve  of  St.  Mark. 

A  Sons. — Stay,  bubt-brbasted  wabbleb  stay: — First  printed  by  H 
among  Keats's  early  poems,  but  omitted  by  Mr.  Forman  from  his  editions 
of  Keats  because  in  a  scrapbook  "containing  a  mass  of  transcripts  by 
Greorge  Keats  from  his  brother's  poetry,  this  poem  is  not  only  written  in 
George's  hand,  but  signed  'G.  K. '  instead  of 'J.  K.'  and  indeed  it  reads 
more  like  one  of  the  effusions  which  George  is  recorded  to  have  produced 
than  an  early  poem  by  John"  (HBF,  I.  xiv.).  With. this  evidence  Mr. 
Forman  had  no  choice  but  to  reject  the  lines,  but  their  appearance  in  the 
Woodhouse  transcript  puts  a  somewhat  different  complexion  on  the  matter. 
It  is  highly  probable  that  Woodhouse  obtained  these  poems  from  auto- 
graph MSS.  in  the  possession  of  Brown,  and  Brown  is  the  last  person  who 
could  be  expected  to  honour  George  Keats  by  the  preservation  of  one  of 
his  poems.  This  evidence,  though  not  conclusive  against  the  signature  in 
the  scrapbook,  is  at  least  as  weighty  ;  and  I  incline,  though  reluctantly,  to 
restore  the  lines  to  John. 

Sonnet:  On  Peace: — Now  first  published  and  undated  in  the  MS. 
We  can  hardly  be  wrong  in  assigning  it  to  1814  or  1815,  i.e.,  after 
Napoleon's  retirement  to  Elba  or  his  defeat  at  Waterloo.  The  weakness 
of  the  sonnet  would  lead  us  to  favour  the  earlier  date.  Again  we  notice 
a  debt  to  the  early  poems  of  Milton  in  the  allusion  to  the  "mountain 
nyniph  sweet  liberty"  (c/.  L' Allegro,  36)  whilst  a  phrase  here  and  there 
suggests  that  Keats  had  already  made  the  acquaintance  of  Wordsworth's 
poems  of  1807  (Sonnets  Dedicated  to  Liberty). 

To  Emma:— First  published  by  HBF,  1883,  with  "Georgiana"  on 
line  1  for  "  my  dear  Emma "  and  in  line  11  "  And  there  Georgiana "  for 
"  There  beauteous  Emma  ".     The  stanzas  were  addressed  to  Georgiana 


ADDENDA— NOTES  563 

Augusta  Wylie,  the  future  wife  of  George  Keats.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  Emma  or  Emmeline,  according  to  the  exigencies  of  metre,  wag  the 
name  by  which  Wordsworth  referred  to  his  sister  Dorothy,  and  there  can 
be  little  doubt  that  Keats  is  influenced  by  this  fact  when  he  veils  the 
identity  of  his  future  sister-in-law  under  the  same  nom  de  phme — ^an 
amusing  instance  of  his  early  acquaintance  with  a  poet  who  was  afterwards 
to  influence  him  so  profoundly. 


Additional  Note  on  Pall  op  Hyperion,  I.  97. 

As  in  mid-day  :  So  H  1856 ;  When  in  midday  H  (Aldiite) ;  As  in  mid- 
way MS.  I  am  indebted  to  Professor  A.  C.  Bradley  for  pointing  out  to 
me  that  there  is  no  reason  for  altering  the  MS,  reading,  Keats  conceives 
of  the  east  wind,  on  its  way  to  the  country  it  means  to  parch,  suddenly 
relenting  and  shifting  into  a  south  wind,  ''This  is  just  what  happens 
when,  after  a  fierce  anti-cyclone,  the  weather  changes :  »  wind  begins 
in  north-east  or  east,  and  veers  round  to  south-east,  then  south,  then 
south-west  and  the  rain  comes.  There  seems  no  point  in  'midday' 
either,  and  if  Keats  had  written  'midday'  would  he  not  have  written 
'at'  instead  of  'in'?"  I  do  not  feel  that  "midday"  is  pointless,  for 
changes  of  wind  often  occur  about  noon,  but  I  feel  that  Professor  Bradley 
is  undoubtedly  right  in  his  defence  of  the  MS.  reading,  "Midway," 
moreover,  is  better,  metrically,  than  "midday,"  which  would  naturally 
be  accented  upon  the  fir.st  syllable. 


APPENDIX  B 

Chronological  Table  of  the  Lipb  of  John  Keats 

1795.    (29th  or  Slst  Oct.).     John  Keats  born  at  the  Swan  and  Hoop, 

Finsbury  Pavement,  London. 
1797.    George  Keats  born. 
1799.    Thomas  Keats  born. 
1801.    Edward  Keats  born  (died  in  infancy). 

1803.  Francis  Mary  Keats  (Fanny)  born.     J.  K.  goes  to  the  private  school 

kept  by  the  Rev.  J.  Clarke  at  Enfield  ;  joined  there  a  little 
later  by  G.  K.  and  in  a  few  years  by  T.  K. 

1804.  (AprU).     K.'b  father  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse. 

1805.  K.'8  mother  marries  Will.  Rawlings,  stable  keeper  at  the  Swan  and 

Hoop. 

1806.  Mrs.  Rawlings  leaves  her  husband  and  takes  her  children  to  live 

with  their  grandmother  Mrs.  Jennings,  at  Edmonton. 

1809.  J.  K.  acquires  a  passion  for  reading. 

1810.  (Feb.).     Mrs.    Rawlings  dies  of  consumption  (July).     Mrs.  Jen- 

nings makes  a  will  leaving  £8,000  to  her  grandchildren, 
appointing  as  their  guardians  Messrs.  Abbey  and  Santell. 
They  remove  J.  K.  from  school  at  once,  and  apprentice  him 
to  Mr.  Hammond,  an  Edmonton  surgeon. 

1811.  J.  K.  finishes  (prose.'')  translation  of  the  Aeneid,  begun  at  school ; 

he  pays  frequent  visits  to  the  Clarkes  to  borrow  books. 

1812.  The   Hunts   publish   their   libel   on   the   Prince  Regent  in  the 

Examiner  (March) — they  are  condemned  to  two  years'  im- 
prisonment (Dec). 
1812  (13.'')  C.  C.  Clarke  reads  to  J.  K.  the  Epithalamium  of  Spenser, 
and  lends  him  the  Faerie  Queene.  Imitation  of  Spenser.  Hunt 
publishes  The  Feast  of  the  Poets  with  critical  introduction  and 
notes,  and  is  at  work  upon  The  Story  of  Rimini. 

1814.  J.  K.  breaks  his  apprenticeship  with  Hammond  and  goes  to  Liondon 

to  study  medicine.  He  lodges  at  8  Dean  St.,  Borough.  He 
reads  poetry  indiscriminately,  though  chiefly,  probably,  the 
poetry  of  the  eighteenth  century  and  of  his  contemporaries. 
On  Death,  Sonnet  to  Byron  and  Chatterton. 

1815.  J.  K.  meets  the  Wylies,  and  through  them  Haslam  and  Severn. 

He  writes  Sonnet  on  Hunt  leaving  prison  and  shows  it  to  Clarke 


APPENDIX  B  566 

(3rd  Feb.).  Clarke  takes  lodgings  in  Clerkenwell  and  arranges 
frequent  literary  symposia  with  K.  He  introduces  him  to 
Chapman's  Homer.  The  sonnet  On  first  looking  into  Chapman's 
Homer  (Spring).  J.  K.  leaves  Dean  St.  and  lodges  with  two 
fellow  medical  students  at  St.  Thomas'  St. 
1816.  Other  poems  belonging  to  this  year:  Hadst  thou  liv'd  (Feb.). 
Ode  and  Hymn  to  Apollo,  To  some  Ladies,  On  receiving  a  curious 
Shell,  To  Hope,  Woman !  when  I  behold  thee.  Epistle  to  Mathew 
(Nov.). 

1816.  Hunt's  Story  of  Rimini  published   (March) ;    Sonnet  to  Solitude 

printed  in  Examiner  (3rd  May).  Clarke  shows  Hunt  some  of 
Keats's  MSS.  and  is  asked  to  bring  him  to  Hampstead  (before 
end  of  May?).  K.  sees  something  of  Hunt  (but  cf.  note  at 
end  of  Chronological  Table).  Sonnet  to  Wells,  To  one  who 
has  been  long  in  city  pent,  Calidore,  Induction.  I  stood  tip-toe 
begun  (under  title  of  Endymion). 

J.  K.  joins  his  brother  in  lodgings  in  the  Poultry  (June,  July) ;  he 
pays  his  (first })  visit  to  the  sea,  at  Margate.  Epistle  and  Sonnet 
to  G.  K.,  Epistle  to  Clarke  (Aug.  Sept.). 

Sept.-Dec.  J.  K.  back  in  London  ;  sees  a  great  deal  of  Hunt  and 
his  friends ;  is  introduced  to  Haydon  (3rd  Nov.  Sonnet  to  Hay- 
don)  and  meets  also  at  Hunt's  and  Haydon 's,  Reynolds,  Shelley, 
Horace  Smith,  and  Hazlitt.  Ist  Dec.  Hunt's  article  on  young 
poets  (Reynolds,  Shelley  and  K.)  appears,  in  Examiner:  he 
quotes  the  Chapman  Sonnet.  Poems  of  this  time :  Keen  fitful 
gusts,  Give  me  a  golden  pen  (Oct.  Nov.),  To  my  brothers 
(18th  Nov.),  The  church  bells  toll  (24th  Dec),  The  poetry  of 
earth  (30th  Dec).  In  December  also  Sonnet  to  G.  A.  W.,  to 
Kosciusko,  I  stood  tip-toe  (finished),  and  Sleep  and  Poetry.  During 
the  year  also  Oh !  how  I  love.  As  from  the  darkening  gloom 
(early  i").  Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  Happy  is  England !  (.?). 

1817.  Jan.    After  dark  vapours  (published  Examiner,  23rd  Feb.). 

Feb.  Sonnet  written  at  end  of  Floure  and  Lefe  (published  Examiner, 
16th  March)  and  To  Haydon  on  Elgin  Marbles  (published 
Examiner,  9th  March). 

March.     Dedication  Sonnet  written  and  1817  volume  published. 

April.  J.  K.,  following  advice  of  his  brothers  and  Haydon,  retires 
to  the  country  for  study  and  self-development.  He  goes  to 
Isle  of  Wight,  visits  Shanklin  (16th  April,  Sonnet  on  Sea)  and 
Carisbrook.  He  is  deeply  engrossed  in  Shakespeare  study. 
He  begins  Endymion. 

May.  J.  K.  moves  to  Margate,  finishes  Endymion,  bk.  i.  ;  joins 
T.  K.  at  Canterbury. 

June-August.  J.  K.  returns  to  London  and  with  his  brothers 
resides  at  Well  Walk,  Hampstead.  He  enjoys  the  society  of 
his  old   London  friends  and  is  introduced  to  Diike,  C.   A. 


566  JOHN  KEATS 

Brown  and  Bailey.  He  declines  invitation  to  stay  with  Shelley 
at  Marlowe  "that  his  imagination  may  have  unfettered  scope". 
He  finishes  Bndymion,  bk.  ii. 

1817.  Sept.-Oct.  (middle).    J.  K.  visits  Bailey  at  Oxford,  is  engaged  in 

reading  Milton  and  Wordsworth  and  in  writing  EndynUon,  bk. 

iii.     He  makes  an  excursion  with  Bailey  to  Stratford-on-Avon. 

The  first  Blackwood  article  On  the  Cockney  School  appears  (Oct.) 

attacking  Hunt,  but  with  sneering  allusion  to  J.  K. 
Nov.     J.  K.  pays  a  visit  to  Bunford  Bridge,  near  Dorking,  where 

he    studies    Shakespeare's    Poems  and   Sonnets  and   finishes 

Endymion. 
Dec.     K.  in  London,  writing  dramatic  criticisms  for  the  Champion, 

showing  the  influence  of  Hazlitt.    He  attends  Hazlitt's  Lectures 

on  the  English  Poets.     He  meets  Wordsworth  at  Haydon's 

"immortal  dinner".     Lamb  also  present  (28th  Dec).    J.  K. 

throws  himself  with  gusto  into  the  social  life  of  his  friends. 
To  this  year  also  belong  sonnets  On  a  Picture  of  Leander  and  On 

Hunt's  Story  of  Rimini  and  the  lyrics  Think  not  of  it,  and 

Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen. 

1818.  Jan. -March.     K.   continues  to  see  much  of  his  friends  and  pays 

several  visits  to  Wordsworth.  He  writes  many  of  his  shorter 
poems — To  a  Cat  (16th  Jan.),  Chief  of  organic  numbers  (21st 
Jan.),  O  golden-tongued  Romance  (23rd  Jan.),  Hence  Burgundy, 
Claret,  and  Port  (31st  Jan.),  also  in  Jan.  When  I  have  fears; 
Lines  on  Robin  Hood  (3rd  Feb.),  Sonnet  to  the  Nile  and  Time's 
sea  (4th  Feb.),  To  Spenser  (6th  Feb. ),  Blue  !  'tis  the  life  of  heaven 
(8th  Feb.),  O  thou  whose  face  hath  felt  the  WinUr's  Wind  (19th 
Feb. ),  The  Human  Seasons.  In  the  same  year  and  probably  in 
the  early  part  of  it  Where's  the  poet?  and  And  what  is  love? 
To-night  I'll  have  my  friar,  Welcome  joy,  Extracts  from  an 
Opera,  and  Sonnet  to  Homer. 

March-May  (middle).  K.  joins  his  brother  Tom  at  Teignmouth, 
writes  Here  all  the  summer  and  Where  be  ye  going  (14th  March), 
Epistle  to  Reynolds  (25th  March).  He  is  employed  in  seeing 
Endymion  through  the  press,  in  writing  Isabella  and  in  reading 
Milton.     Ode  to  Maia  (1st  May).     K.  returns  to  Hampstead. 

June-August  G.  K.  marries  Miss  Wylie  (6.  A.  W.)  and  starts  for 
America.  K.  accompanies  them  to  Liverpool  (22nd  June)  and 
then  starts  a  walking  tour  with  Brown  through  the  Lake 
country  to  Scotland,  through  Dumfries  and  Galloway,  along 
the  coast  of  Kirkcudbrightshire  to  Newton  Stewart,  thence  to 
Stranraei-  and  Portpatriok.  Thence  to  Ireland  for  two  days 
and  back  to  Stranraer,  thence  along  the  coast  north  to  Ayr 
passing  in  view  of  Ailsa  Craig.  From  Ayr  to  Glasgow,  Loch 
Awe,  Oban,  Staffa,  Fort  William,  Ben  Kevis,  Inverness  (6th 
Aug.).    Advised  by  a  doctor  to  give  up  further  touring,  he 


APPENDIX  B  567 

leaves  for  London  by  boat  (8th  Aujj.)  and  reaches  Hampstead 
(18th  August).  Chief  poems  of  the  tour— 0»  visiting  the 
Tomb  of  Burns  (2nd  July),  Meg  Merrilies  (3rd  July),  To  Ailsa 
Rock  (10th  July),  Staffa  (26th  July),  Sonnet  written  upon 
Ben  Nevis  (2nd  Aug.)  K.'s  only  book  on  the  tour  is  Gary's 
Dante. 

1818.  Aug.  19-Dec.     K.  at  Hampstead.     He  meets  Fanny  Brawne  at  the 

Dilkes — is  in  constant  attendance  by  the  bedside  of  Tom  K. 
Tom  dies  (first  week  of  Deo.)  and  K.  goes  to  live  with  Brown  at 
Wentworth  Place.  During  this  period  be  begins  Hyperion  and 
writes  Nature  witheld  Cassandra,  'Tis  the  witching  hour  of 
night,  In  a  drear-nighted  December,  Bards  of  Passion,  To  Fancy, 
I  had  a  dove.  Hush,  huih!  tread  softly!  ....  (The  last  is 
probably  at  the  very  end  of  Dec.) 

1819.  Jan.     K.  at  work  on  Hyperion  and  Eve  of  St.  Agnes — he  pays  visits 

to  Chichester,  where  he  plans  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  and  to  Bed- 
hampton.     Ode  to  Fanny  (?). 

Feb.-July  (middle).  K.  at  Hampstead.  He  writes  Ode  on  Indoknce. 
Sonnets — Why  did  I  laugh  and  As  Hermes  once.  Extempore 
(16th  April),  Spenserian  stanzas  on  Brown  (16th,  l7th  April), 
La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  (28th  April),  Song  of  Four  Fairies, 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  Nightingale,  Psyche  and  Melancholy 
(April,  May),,  Sonnet  to  Sleep,  On  Fame  (30th  April)  and  On  the 
Sonnet. 

July.  K.  stays  with  Rice  at  Shanklin.  Brown  joins  them  and 
they  write  Otho  the  Great.     K.  also  at  work  on  Lamia. 

August-October  (middle).  K.  at  Winchester  (a  few  days  in  London 
in  Sept.)  continues  Lamia  and  Eve  of  St.  Mark  and  begins 
Stephen.  He  studies  Italian,  writes  Pensive  they  sit  and  on 
19th  Sept.  the  Ode  to  Autumn. 

Oct.-Dec.  K.  returns  to  London,  at  first  for  a  few  days  to  West- 
minster, intending  to  earn  a  living  by  journalism,  then  back  to 
Brown's  at  Hampstead.  His  love  passion  becomes  more  absorb- 
ing and  he  writes  To ,  and  Sonnets,  The  day  is  gone  and  / 

cry  your  mercy.  ...  In  Nov. -Dec.  at  work  in  mornings  at  the 
Cap  and  Bells,  in  evenings  at  the  recast  of  Hyperion — also 
retouching  Otho  and  preparing  the  1820  volume  for  the  press. 

1820.  G.  K.  pays  a  short  visit  to  England  (Jan.)    K.  has  bad  haemorrhage 

in  which  he  sees  his  death  warrant  (3rd  Feb.).  After  con- 
valescence he  lodges  at  Kentish  Town  to  be  near  Leigh  Hunt 
(May) — and  is  engaged  in  seeing  1820  volume  through  the 
press.  He  has  a  relapse  (22nd  June)  and  goes  to  live  with 
Hunt  in  Mortimer  Street. 

July.     1820  volume  published. 

August.  Favourable  reviews  by  Hunt  in  Indicator  and  JeBiey  in 
Edinburgh  Review.     K.  leaves  Mortimer  St.  for  the  Brawnes 


368  JOHN  KEATS 

(12th  Aug.) ;  he  declines  invitation  from  Shellsy  to  tpand  th« 
winter  with  him  in  Italy. 

1820.  Sept.    K.  sails  with  Severn  in  Maria  Crowther  for  Naples  (18th), 

lands  near  Lulworth  Cove  and  writes  last  Sonnet  (28th  Sept.), 
reaches  Naples  (end  of  Oct.),  Rome  (Nov.  middle),  has.a  bad 
relapse  (10th  Dec). 

1821.  K.  dies  (23rd  Feb.),  is  buried  (27th  Feb.). 

Note  on  Date  op  Hunt's  First  Acquaintance  with  Keats 

The  exact  date  of  Keats's  first  introduction  to  Hunt  is  important,  as  it 
involves  the  question  of  the  date  of  several  poems  in  the  1817  volume,  and 
of  the  influences  which  are  to  be  traced  in  them.  Mr.  Colvin,  both  in  his 
life  of  Keats  and  in  his  article  {Diet.  Nat.  Biog.)  gives  it  as  early  in  1816, 
in  which  case  Keats  would  be  acquainted  with  Hunt  before  the  "  Solitude  " 
sonnet  had  appeared  in  the  Examiner  (6th  May)  and  before  he  went  to 
Margate,  where  he  wrote  the  Epistles  to  his  brother  and  to  C.  C.  Clarke. 
In  support  of  this  view  is  the  statement  in  Hunt's  Autobiography  that  he 
met  Keats  in  the  spring  of  1816,  and  the  general  character  of  the  poetry 
belonging  to  this  period  points  in  the  same  direction.  /  stood  tip-toe,  e.g. 
written,  as  all  agree,  under  the  inspiration  of  Hunt,  is  essentially  sug- 
gestive of  early  rather  than  of  late  summer,  and  is  most  naturally  inter- 
preted not  as  a  distant  reminiscence,  but  as  a  vivid  recollection  of 
pleasures  that  he  has  just  enjoyed.  In  like  manner,  the  references  to 
Libertas  in  the  Ep.  to  Geo.  Keats  (dated  Aug.  1816)  are  more  like  remini- 
scences of  a  conversation,  introduced  in  delight  at  his  acquaintance  with 
Hunt,  than  a  mere  second-hand  reference,  which  has  filtered  through 
Clarke  ;  whilst  the  reference  to  Hunt  in  the  Ep.  to  Clarke  suggests  that 
Clarke  is  enjoying  a  comradeship  which  he  has  himself  experienced. 
Professor  Hoops,  on  the  other  hand  {Keats's  Jugend  und  Jugendgedichte), 
contends  that  Hunt  and  Keats  did  not  meet  till  October.  He  quotes  as 
evidence  of  his  point  Hunt's  article  in  the  Examiner  of  1st  Dec.  where  he 
says  :  "  He  (Keats)  had  not  published  anything  except  in  a  Newspaper, 
hut  a  set  of  his  manuscripts  were  handed  in  the  other  day,"  and  again  in 
his  review  of  the  1817  volume  where,  after  praising  the  volume,  he 
remarks :  "  From  these  and  stronger  evidences  in  the  book  itself  the 
reader  will  conclude  that  the  author  and  critic  are  friends,  and  they  are 
so — made,  however,  in  the  first  instance  by  nothing  but  his  poetry,  and  at 
no  greater  distance  of  time  than  the  announcement  above  mentioned  {i.e. 
the  sentence  written  in  the  Examiner  Dec.  1816).  We  had  published  one 
of  his  sonnets  in  our  paper  without  knowing  more  of  him  than  of  any 
other  anonymous  correspondent ;  but  at  this  period  in  question,  a  friend 
brought  us  in  one  morning  some  copies  of  verses  whict  he  said  were  from 
the  pen  of  a  youth,  etc.  . .  ."  Professor  Hoops  further  points  out  that  the 
sonnet  Keen,  fitful  gusts  was  written  "  very  shortly  after  Keats's  installa- 
tion at  the  cottage  "  (not  as  Mr.  Forman  says,  "  on  the  occasion  of  Keats's 


APPENDIX  B  569 

initalktion  at  the  Cottage  ").  But  it  is  obviously  a  late  autumu  sonnet  and 
could  not  have  been  written  before  October,  and  Professor  Hoops  thinks 
that  /  stood  tip-toe  might  itself  be  written  in  late  September. 

This  conclusion,  which  the  internal  evidence  of  the  character  of  the 
poems  affected  by  it  makes  it  difficult  to  accept,  is  not  so  plausible  even  on 
external  evidence  as  it  may,  appear  at  first  sight.  Professor  Hoops  is 
probably  right  in  thinking  that  Mr.  Colvin's  date  is  a  little  too  early, 
for  Hunt  could  not,  as  he  has  shown,  have  known  Keats  at  the  beginning 
of  May,  when  the  sonnet  on  Solitude  made  its  appearance,  but  in  his  main 
contention  that  the  two  men  were  acquainted  during  the  summer,  i.e. 
before  Keats  went  to  Margate,  Mr.  Colvin  is  almost  certainly  correct. 
There  is  no  evidence  which  should  prevent  us  from  holding  that  they  met 
in  late  May  or  early  June.  Indeed  the  acceptance  of  the  spnniet  by  the 
Examiner  on  5th  May  would  naturally  tend  to  press  on  a  meeting  for 
which  Clarke  must  long  have  been  anxious.  Clarke  would  probably  lose 
no  time  in  taking  his  friend's  manuscript  to  Hunt,  and  Hunt  in  his  turn 
would  be  eager  at  once  to  meet  the  poet  of  whose  future  he  formed  so 
high  an  estimate.  It  is  unnecessary  to  interpret  literally,  with  Professor 
Hoops,  a  loose  journalistic  phrase  ''the  other  day."  Hunt's  only  object 
in  using  it  is  to  point  out  that  his  friendship  for  Keats  sprang  from  his 
admiration  for  his  poetry  and  not  vice  versd.  Nor  need  Clarice's  phrase 
"very  shortly  after  the  installation  at  the  cottage"  be  taken  exactly. 
Clarke,  it  must  be  remembered,  was  writing  many  years  afterwards,  and 
.  moreover  it  does  not  follow  that  Keats  would  be  installed  at  Hampstead 
immediately  upon  his  introduction  to  Hunt.  As  corroboration  of  the  view 
that  late  May  or  early  June  is  the  right  date  may  be  quoted  another 
passage  from  Hunt's  reminiscences  where  he  tells  us  "  we  became  intimate 
on  the  spot.  . .  .  No  imaginative  pleasure  was  left  untouched  by  us,  or 
unenjoyed  ;  from  the  recollection  of  the  bards  and  patriots  of  old,  to  the 
luxury  of  a  summer  rain  at  our  window,  or  the  clicking  of  the  coal  in 
winter  time." 


APPENDIX  C 
On  the  S0URCB8  OF  Keats's  Poetic  Vocabulary 

In  summing  up  the  distinctive  features  of  Keats's  accomplishments  ag 
a  poet,  Lord  Houghton  remarks  that  "above  all  his  field  of  diction  and 
expression,  extending  so  far  beyond  his  knowledge  of  literature,  is  quite 
inexplicable  by  the  ordinary  processes  of  mental  education.  If  his  English 
reading  had  been  more  extensive,' his  inexhaustible  vocabulary  of  pictur- 
esque and  mimetic  words  could  have  been  easily  accounted  for:  but  here 
is  a  surgeon's  apprentice  with  the  ordinary  culture  of  the  middle 
classes  .  .  .  reproducing  his  impressions  (of  antique  life  and  thought)  in 
a  phraseology  as  complete  and  unconventional  as  if  he  had  mastered 
the  whole  history  and  the  frequent  variations  of  the  English  tongue, 
and  elaborated  a  mode  of  utterance  commensurate  with  his  vast  ideas." 

This  sentence  puts  in  an  admirable  form  the  view  with  regard  to 
Keats's  vocabulary  which  is  still,  perhaps,  current,  though  more  careful 
criticism  has  long  shown  it  to  be  untenable.  For  "  his  field  of  diction  and 
expression  "  can  in  no  way  be  said  to  have  "  extended  beyond  his  know- 
ledge of  literature,"  and  though  the  term  "  extensive  "  as  applied  to  a 
man's  reading  must  always  be  relative,  a  poet  who  is  steeped  in  the 
writings  of  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  Milton  and  Wordsworth,  to 
mention  no  others,  has  acquired  more  than  the  ordinary  culture  of  the 
middle  class,  has  gone  some  way,  at  least,  towards  mastering  "  the  whole 
history  and  variations  of  the  English  tongue."  The  wonder  indeed 
remains  as  great,  but  it  is  a  wonder  of  a  different  kind — that  Keats  should 
have  realised  so  intensely  his  kinship  with  his  predecessors  and  gained  his 
peculiar  power  of  self-expression  so  that  their  life  became  his  and  their 
language  the  only  possible  utterance  for  his  ideas  and  moods. 

The  object  of  this  appendix  is  to  make  some  analysis  of  the  sources  of 
Keats's  poetic  vocabulary  and  to  trace  at  the  same  time  the  development 
of  his  power  over  language.  Much  valuable  work  has  already  been  ac- 
complished on  this  subject.  Woodhouse '  began  the  task  by  annotating 
his  own  MS.  volume  of  his  friend's  poems ;  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  in  the 
introduction  to  his  Poems  of  Keats  (1888)  gave  the  first  comprehensive 
treatment  of  it,  and  additions  have  since  been  made  by  Mr.  Sidney  Colvin, 

'  Woodhouse  also  interleaved  his  copies  of  Keats's  published  poems,  inserting  re- 
jected readings  and  setting  down  any  explanations  which  seemed  necessary,  or  parallel 
passages  from  our  earlier  poetry  which  occurred  to  him.  Through  the  kindness  of  Mr. 
BourdiUon  I  have  been  allowed  to  examine  his  copy  of  the  1817  volume.  The  explana- 
tions are  sometimes  obvious  but  many  of  them  are  suggestive ;  the  parallels  cited  show 
a  capricious  but  often  detailed  knowledge  of  Elizabethan  poetry.  Of  Woodhouse's 
notes  on  Endymion  Mr.  Forman  has  made  free  use  in  his  edition  of  Keats,  but  he  has 
not  distinguished  them  from  his  own  notes,  so  that  we  are  unable  to  tell  which  of  the 
Elizabethan  parallels  that  he  cites  were  originally  noted  by  Woodhouse. 


APPENDIX  C  571 

and  Mr.  Buxtou  Forman,  whilst  Mr.  Read  in  his  dissertation  Keats  and 
Sptnser  has  discussed  fully  the  relations  of  Keats  and  Spenser,  and  Prof. 
Hoops  in  his  edition  of  Hyperion  the  debt  of  Hyperion  to  Milton. 

It  is  unavoidable  that  many  of  my  remarks  should  be  a  mere  repetition 
of  theirs,  but  even  so  I  can  claim  for  them  that  they  are  corroborative,  in 
that  they  are  the  result  of  independent  investigation  ;  yet  my  contribution 
to  the  subject  may  not  be  without  value  if  it  shows,  by  the  glossary  which 
is  appended  to  it,  what  has,  I  think,  never  been  shown  before,  that  Keats's 
language  is  not  nearly  so  definitely  imitative  of  single  authors  as  repro- 
ductive of  a  language  which  the  earlier  authors  held  in  common  and  which, 
therefore,  he  regarded  as  his  lawful  inheritance.  If  Keats  became  familiar 
with  a  word  in  many  authors,  instead  of  merely  meeting  it  in  one,  he 
would  be  not  only  more  likely  to  reproduce  it,  but  more  fully  justified  in 
so  doing.  This  is  where  the  valuable  work  done  by  several  scholars,  in 
suggesting  Keats's  debt  to  individual  authors,  has  at  times  created  a  false 
impression.  Mr.  Arnold,  e.g.,  attributes  the  word  eterne  "probably"  to 
Spenser,  and  in  this  he  is  followed  by  Mr.  Forman,  but  when  we  see  that 
the  word  is  used  also  by  Chaucer,  is  to  be  found  in  one  of  the  most  haunt- 
ing speeches  of  Lady  Macbeth's,  is  in  Browne,  in  Chapman,  and  in 
Chatterton,  all  of  whom  Keats  knew  well,  the  complexion  of  the  matter 
is  quite  altered.  The  word  may  be  archaic,  but  to  Keats  it  seems  quite 
natural — he  is  merely  employing  language  which  he  has  frankly  accepted 
as  his  poetic  birth-right.  This  is  doubtless  an  extreme  instance,  but  a 
glance  at  the  glossary  will  show  that  the  point  could  be  illustrated  at 
great  length.  Messrs.  Arnold  and  Read  attribute  to  Spenser  among  other 
words  griesly,^  perceaunt,  raught,  sallows,  and  Mr.  Read  "  with  a  high  de- 
gree of  certainty,"  amate,  atween,  bale,  distraught,  fray  and  affray,  pight ; 
but  though  Keats  was  certainly  familiar  with  them  in  Spenser  he  knew 
them  equally  well  in  other  sources — amate,  e.g.,  is  in  Chatterton,  and  seeing 
that  it  is  used  by  Keats  in  his  Sonnet  to  Chatterton  it  would  be  more  natural 
to  connect  its  use  with  him  than  with  the  earlier  poet.  So  perceaunt  is 
used  twice  by  Chatterton  (and  twice  by  Chatterton  means  as  much  as 
many  times  in  Spenser,  because  of  the  different  bulk  of  the  two  writers) 
and  by  Keats  at  the  time  when  he  was  making  a  special  study  of  Chatter- 
ton ;  atween  is  a  form  used  by  Coleridge  in  the  Ancient  Mariner,  fray  and 
affray  are  used  by  Chapman  and  Shakespeare,  pight  by  Shakespeare  in 
Troihis  and  Cressida,  a  play  Keats  knew  through  and  through  ;  griesly  is 
as  much  connected  with  Milton  as  Spenser,  sallows  is  used  by  Sandys  and 
Chapman,  whilst  bale,  raught,  and  distraught  are  archaisms  common 
enough  to  need  no  special  explanation.  The  point  to  realise  is  that  in 
the  majority  of  cases  Keats  does  not  borrow  consciously  from  any  definite 
author  or  passage.  His  memory  is  richly  stored  with  the  language  of 
earlier  poets  and  he  draws  upon  it,  as  we  draw  upon  our  own  natural 

'"  Griesly,  perceaunt,  and  raught,"  says  Mr,  W.  T.  Arnold,  Aea/j,  p.  xxiv.,  "were 
undoubtedly  derived  from  "  Spenser. 


S7«  JOHN  KEATS 

vocabulary,  unoongcioui  of  its  actual  source ;  and  even  vrhen,  as  is  often 
the  case,  the  cadence  of  the  passage  in  which  the  word  is  used  or  its 
definite  association  with  other  words  betrays  its  immediate  origin,  our 
judgment  of  Keats's  use  of  it  must  be  tempered  by  the  fact  that  the  word 
was  familiar  to  him  from  other  sources  and  was  therefore  to  him  a  natural 
word  to  use.  His  case  is  in  no  way  to  be  compared  with  Chatterton's ; 
Keats  never  set  himself  to  hunt  for  words ;  he  read  those  authors  who  had 
most  kinship  with  him  and  their  manner  of  expression  became  his  own. 

But  the  basis  of  any  author's  vocabulary  is  the  language  that  he  brings 
to  it  from  his  ordinary  life.  Of  this  the  greater  proportion  calls  for  no 
comment,  but  its  most  striking  features  must  be  examined  before  the  influ- 
ence of  literature  can  be  fully  understood.  "  As  soon  as  literature  becomes 
common,"  says  Coleridge,  "  and  a  large  number  of  men  seek  to  express 
themselves  habitually  in  the  most  precise,  sensuous  and  impassioned 
language,  the  difference  (between  prose  and  verse)  as  to  mere  words  ceases. 
The  sole  difference  in  style  is  that  the  poetry  demands  a  severe  keeping — 
it  admits  nothing  that  prose  may  not  often  admit,  but  it  oftener  rejects.'* 
Without  the  culture  of  such  a  society  as  Coleridge  here  describes,  and 
moving  for  the  most  part  among  those  who  were  not  accustomed  "to 
express  themselves  habitually  in  the  most  precise,  sensuous  and  impas- 
sioned language,"  Keats  needed  to  extend  his  vocabulary  in  the  direction 
in  which  such  language  could  be  found ;  equally  did  he  need  to  learn  a 
lesson  which  a  more  cultivated  man  would  have  known  instinctively, — what 
it  was  essential  for  him  to  reject. 

The  vulgarisms  of  Keats's  diction  resolve  themselves  into  the  use  of 
word's,  which,  debased  by  trivial  association  or  in  themselves  quite  incom- 
patible with  genuine  passion,  should  never  be  used  in  poetry ;  the  use  of 
words  to  which  he  gives  a  meaning  which  they  do  not  bear,  except  in 
slang  or  the  loose  language  of  a  too  familiar  conversation,  and  the  undue 
affection  for  certain  words  or  formations  of  words.  In  the  first  class  I 
should  be.  inclined  to  notice  elegant,  gigle,  tip-top  (Endymion,  i.  805,  iii. 
Id),  the  interjection  hist!  by  which  Endymion  recalls  Peona-^"bist! 
one  word  I  have  to  say "  {End.  iv.  909),  the  unfortunate  remark  of 
Cynthia's  Pallas  is  a  dunce  (ib.  ii.  799),  and  the  reference  to  himself  in  the 
Hymn  to  Apollo  as  a  "  blank  idiot."  In  the  second  class  I  should  ^lace  jaunty 
as  applied  to  a  stream  (Tip-toe,  22,  etc.),  smitten  in  the  sense  of  smitten  with 
love,  beauty,  etc.  (Ep.  to  C.  C.  C.  102,  Lamia,  i.  7),  things  as  a  loose  substitute 
for  a  more  definite  noun  {End.  iv.  717,  etc.),  treat  in  the  sense  of  a  joy  or 
delight  (Lamia,  i.  330),  like  in  the  phrase  these  like,  this  like  (Hyp.  i.  50 ; 
F.  of  Hyp.  i.  328),'  and  the  frequent  use  of  feel  and  shine  as  nouns.  The 
first  of  these  is  essentially  vulgar,  the  second  is  a  common  Elizabethanism, 
but  it  cannot  be  regarded  as  such  in  Keats ;  it  came  to  him  from  his  ordin- 
ary life,  and  its  vulgar  associations  should  have  kept  him  from  introducing 
it  so  frequently  into  his  verse. 

1  This  use  of  "  like "  may  be  due  in  Keats  to  false  analogy  with  "such  like''  which 
is  common  in  Shakespeare. 


APPENDIX  C  573 

This  list  is  necessarily  small,  because  Keats  wha  felt  that "  poetry  should 
surprise  by  a  fine  excess  "  was  not  prone  to  adopt  the  commoner  words  or 
to  attempt  dangerous  ejcperiments  on  the  side  of  familiarity— had  he  in  any 
measure  accepted  Wordsworth's  theory  of  diction  the  list  would  have  been 
greatly  extended.  But  he  had  no  desire  to  approach  too  near  to  the  lan- 
guage of  common  life  and  when  he  recognised  that  he  had  done  so  he  was 
quick  to  correct.  Two  bad  uses  oifed  disappeared  from  the  first  draft  of  his 
poems,  and  many  of  the  passages  rejected  from  Endymion  owe  their  absence 
from  the  printed  text  to  his  consciousness  of  their  triviality  of  phrase. 

The  undue  affection  for  certain  words  is  rather  a  matter  of  tempera- 
ment than,  strictly  speaking,  of  vocabulary,  for  given  the  sentiment  to 
be  expressed,  the  words  themselves  are  often  quite  justifiable ;  and  it  is 
only  their  reiteration  which  contributes  an  element  of  peculiarity  to 
the  vocabulary.  Certain  of  these  however  call  for  brief  comment.  The 
word  luxury  and  the  adjectives  which  correspond  to  it  recur  unpleasantly 
in  the  early  poems.  Mr.  Arnold  notes  the  recurrence  of  delicious  twenty 
times,  and  Mr.  Bridges  calls  attention  to  the  undue  reiteration  of  such 
words  as  melUng,  fainting,  swimnting,  swooning,  and  panting.  Peculiarly 
offensive  is  the  word  stare  which  is  continually  introduced  in  the  poet's 
early  love  scenes  (about  ten  times),  whilst  squeeze  {Cal.  81 ;  End.,  iv.  665) 
is,  if  possible,  worse. 

Other  favourite  words  are  tiptoe,  tease  and  ^nest.  In  no  way  perhaps 
is  the  mastery  over  language  shown  more  indisputably  than  in  the  power 
to  elevate  a  common  word  either  by  its  association  or  position  or  the  feel- 
ing put  into  it,  into  a  world  of  higher  thought  or  emotion  ;  but  this  is  the 
last  reward  of  a  consummated  style  and  is  hardly  to  be  expected  in  a  mere 
tyro,  particularly  if  he  is  ill-educated.  Keats  does  not  always  know  when 
a  common  word  is  elevated  by  its  context,  or  when  the  whole  sentiment 
of  his  passage  is  degraded  by  a  common  word.  This  is  admirably  illustrated 
by  his  use  of  the  word  tease  which  occurs  no  less  than  ten  times  in  his 
poetry  and  rings  the  changes  on  all  grades  of  emotion  from  the  execrable 
"  No  little  fault  or  blame  Canst  thou  lay  on  me  for  a  teasing  girl "  {End. 
i.  617  rej.),  almost  paralleled  in  vulgarity  in  his  Song  of  Four  Fairies 
written  at  a  time  when  he  might  have  been  expected  to  know  better,  "  and 
Oberon  will  tease,"  to  the  great  passage  in  the  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn — 
Thou,  silent  fbrm,  Aost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity. 

The  same  gradation  of  feeling  can  be  traced  in  his  employment  of  the 
word  tiptoe,  which  he  introduces  once  at  least  with  exquisite  effect ;  but 
ntst  vaa  always  a  snare  to  him j.  its  singularly  inappropriate  introduction 
into  Hyperion  to  describe  the  assembly  of  the  Titans  being  one  of  the  few 
serious  fiaws  in  the  essential  dignity  of  the  poem. 

From  considering  Keats's  predisposition  to  certain  wwds  we  pass 
naturally  to  a  discussion  of  the  peculiar  word  formations  to  which  he  had 
an  unfortunate  leaning.  First  among  these  is  the  love  of  abstract  nouns, 
some  of  them  manufactured  for  the  occasion,  and  the  majority  of  them 


574  JOHN  KEATS 

strained  from  their  usual  sigaificaace  to  express  a  concrete  idea.  The 
fault  here,  therefore,  is  twofold — a  lack  of  resource  in  language  which  leads 
to  the  tiresome  recurrence  of  the  same  word  formation,  and  a  laclc  of 
definiteness  in  expression.  The  favourite  abstract  noun  in  Keats  is  that 
which  is  easiest  to  make — ^the  adjective  transformed  by  the  addition 
of  -ness,  or  the  simple  present  participle.  So  we  have  in  /  stood  tip-toe 
the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots  (40),  Apollo  kisses  the  dewiness  of  the 
flowers  (£3),  the  streams  are  called  freshnesses  (70),  and  later  on  in  the  same 
poem  we  have  delieiousness,  silkiness,  clearness,  and  nearness.  To  the  same 
period  or  a  little  later  belong  Uafiness  {Cal.  34;  Sleep  and  Poetry,  7), 
cragginess  {ib.  126),  smoothness  {ib.  377),  nothingness  (ib.  169,  and  End.  i.  3), 
gloominess,  pleasantness  {=pleasant  scene,  End.  i.  S&)  cloudiness  (»&.  i.  741), 
tapemess,  [thy  &ager' a  taperness  =sthy  taper  finger  (ib.  i.  782).]  Of  present 
participles  used  as  nouns,  and  usually  in  the  same  vague  seuse,  we  have, 
among  others,  in  /  stood  tip-toe,  fluttertngs  (92;,  doings  and  cooings  (68, 64), 
wandering  and  pondering  (121,  122;,  smotherings  (132),  shiftings  {Sleep  and 
Poetry,  286),  mutterings  («6.  40;,  imaginings  {ib.  Tl,  and  End.  iii.),  folly- 
ing  {End.  i.  612),  towery  perching  {ib.  i.  635),  feathery  whizzing  (t&.  i.  333), 
tannings  {ib.  ii.  664),  hoverings  {ib.  ii.  931),  fingering  {ib.  ii.  5ij,  pleasurings 
{ib.  iv.  716),  illuminings  (>6.  iv.  fi84),  thunderings  {Sonnet  to  Haydon),  spiriting 
{Sonnet  to  Spenser).  And  the  use  of  abstract  for  concrete  extends  beyond 
words  of  this  formation ;  cf.  e.g.  those  three  grossly  offensive  phrases  quite 
close  together  in  End.  ii. — smooth  excess  (743),  slippery  blisses  (758;,  milky 
sovereignties  (759). 

The  number  of  cases  in  which  these  words  bear  the  rhyme  demon- 
strates clearly  that  Keats  was  often  led  into  the  habit  through  insufficient 
mastery  over  his  versification  ;  bmt  the  chief  reason  for  their  employment 
has  a  different  cause.  His  desire  to  place  upon  record  his  appreciation  of 
nature  and  his  enthusiasm  for  the  beautiful  has  outrun  his  power  of 
accurate  portrayal,  and  he  substitutes  for  that  vivid  delineation  of 
significant  det^  which  brings  a  whole  picture  before  the  mind  terms 
which  merely  convey  a  vague  and  formless  impression  of  it.  The  fitult 
resolves  itself  into  a  lack  of  definiteness,  where  definiteness  is  in  reality 
the  secret  of  all  great  art.  Vagueness  has  indeed  a  distinct  poetic  value 
varying  in  almost  exact  proportion  to  the  artist's  power  over  detail,  and  a 
comparison  with  Milton  (the  great  master  i<u  this  kind)  will  at  once  show 
the  weakness  of  Keats.  Probably  Milton's  influence  more  than  any  other 
helped  Keats  to  throw  off  this  early  vice,  as  well  as  to  discover  where  the 
abstract  can  be  used  with  really  telling  poetic  effect.  Lamia  is  spoken  of 
as  the  "  brilliance  feminine  "  (i.  92),  but  only  when  a  vivid  picture  of  her 
dazzling  charms  has  already  been  given  us,  which  the  phrase  at  once 
recalls,  adding  to  it  a  touch  of  mystery.  '  So  too  of  the  "  wide  quietness  " 
in  which  the  temple  of  Psyche  is  to  be  built ;  the  two  divine  lovers  are 
not  presented,  as  they  would  have  been  presented  in  1816,  couched  in 
floweriness  and  rooty  blossomings,  but 

mid  hush'd,  cool-rooted  flowers,  fragrant-ey'd. 


APPENDIX  C  976 

The  picture  is  vivid  and  clear  in  every  detail,  and  when  we  reach  the 
phtase  "  wide  quietness  "  there  is  added  to  it  a  suggestion  of  infinite  calm 
— that  sense  of  distance  without  which  a  landscape  carries  no  meaning  to 
our  hearts. 

Analogous  in  its  effect  to  this  use  of  abstract  nouns  is  the  predilection 
for  adverbs  formed  from  present  participles.  These  are  particularly 
offensive  when  they  are  combined,  as  often  in  Keats,  with  the  word  so, 
used  not  in  its  proper  grammatical  significance,  but  loosely,  as  in  the 
emasculate  conversation  of  the  drawing-room,  to  mean  indescribably.  In 
CaUdore,  the  worst  specimen  of  this  style,  we  have  so  lingerittgly  (6),  so 
elegantly  (11),  so  invitingly  (31),  so  sweetly  .  .  .  so  completely  (62,  63),  with 
the  companion  phrase  quite  transcendent  (133),  and  other  cases  of  the  present 
participle  adverb  and  of  so  used  independently.  This  vulgarism  tends  to 
disappear  as  Keats  develops  in  literary  power,  but  examples  of  it  survive 
to  mar  his  finest  work.  Even  in  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  we  have  so 
dreamingly  (xxxiv.)  and  the  vague  use  of  so  occurs  more  than  once  in 
Lamia.  A  similar  vulgarism  introduced  from  conversation  is  the  use  of  the 
auxiliary  do  for  emphasis — do  smile  {End.  iv.  116),  do  gently  murder  half  my 
soul  {End.  iv.  309),  do  come  now  {End.  i.  406,  rej.),  and  the  pronunciation  of 
perhaps  as  a  monosyllable  {S.  and  P.  33,  324 ;  Ep.  to  Reynolds,  14). 

Another  marked  feature  of  the  early  poems  is  the  love  of  -y  adjectives. 
Here  again  it  is  only  the  excessive  and  unnatural  use  that  calls  for 
censure — up  to  a  certain  point  they  are  perfectly  justifiable  and  have  the 
highest  authority.  These  adjectives  are  a  natural  formation  from  the 
noun,  but  it  is  obvious  that  they  should  only  be  formed  when  their 
relation  with  the  noun  from  which  they  are  formed  and  the  noun  which 
they  qualify  are  alike  clear — otherwise  they  are  merely  an  easy  way  of 
escaping  the  difficulty  of  accurate  expression.  This  is  not  seldom  the 
case  in  Keats,  e.g.  pillowy  silkiness  (/  stood  tip-toe,  188),  liny  marble 
(S.  and  P.  364). 

But  it  is  evident  that  Keats  had  a  further  reason  for  their  use — a 
metrical  one.  Bver  since  those  changes  in  th^  language  had  taken  place 
which  mark  the  transition  from  IMiddle  English  to  Modern  English,  the 
loss  of  unaccented  syllables  and  in  particular  of  the  unaccented  -e  had 
given  a  weight  to  the  language  which  made  it  particularly  difficult  to  give 
lightness  and  variety  to  the  verse.  Especially  true  is  this  of  the  heroic 
couplet.  Even  if  we  had  a  poet  to-day  who  could  equal  Chaucer  in 
metrical  skill,  he  would  be  unable  to  produce,  within  the  bounds  of  that 
metre,  effects  comparable  to  those  which  Chaucer  produced  in  the  Canter- 
bury Tales;  and  these  -y  words  have  a  peculiar  value  to  the  modern 
metrist  in  that  their  unaccented  syllable  is  free  from  the  weight  which  a 
consonant  seldom  fails  to  g^ve.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Keats  was 
troubled  by  the  weight  of  his  unaccented  syllables,  and  that  he  feU  into 
the  habit  of  using  an  undue  number  of  these  adjectives  because  they  gave 
him  some  relief  from  it.  Take  e.g.  one  of  his  worst  words — boundly  "  my 
boundly  reverence  "(S.  and  P.  209;.     Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold  suggests  that 


SjTe  JOHN  KEATS 

bomtdfy  is  on  the  analogy  of  rotmdly  which  Keats  had  found  in  Browne, 
This  seems  to  me  very  far-fetched.  I  think  that  obviously  Keats  was  led  to 
it  through  a  desire,  perhaps  unconscious  on  his  part,  to  write  a  euphonious 
verse.  He  may  have  meant  boundless  or  bounden;  in  the  one  case  he  would 
have  had  an  ugly  repetition  of  his  sibilant,  in  the  other  an  ugly  repetition 
of  a  nasal — he  felt  it  and  he  cut  the  difficulty  in  a  manner  that  seemed  to 
him  at  that  period  quite  natural  and  quite  justifiable.  But  the  greatest 
artists  do  not  avoid  the  difficulties  of  their  material,  they  triumph  over 
them  ;  and  it  is  noticeable  that  as  Keats  gains  a  mastery  over  the  language 
these  words  become  more  and  more  sparingly  used  till  they  assume  their 
proper  proportion  among  his  adjectives.  Out  of  about  fifty  which  we  find 
in  the  poems  (not  counting  those  in  ordinary  use)  only  fifteen  appear 
after  Endyittion  (t.«.  after  1817),  of  these  only  seven  are  new  to  him,  and 
of  those  seven  only  two  or  three  are  not  justified,  either  by  some  literary 
aesociatiion,  or  by  th«ir  unquestionable  effectiveness.  These  are  fledgic 
and  seeptry.    A  full  list  will  be  found  in  the  Glossary.' 

All  these  features  of  Keats's  early  style,  some  of  them  showing  traces 
of  survival  even  in  his  maturer  poems,  were  natural  to  him,  and  would 
have  had  their  place  in  his  work  if  he  had  never  read  a  line  of  poetry, 
supposing,  for  the  moment,  that  he  would  in  that  case  have  written  any 
himself.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  in  every  case  he  had  a  prece- 
dent or  an  analogy  by  which  he  could  have  defended  himself.  Stumbefy 
may  be,  as  Mr.  Arnold  remarks,  "  a  very  vile  word,"  but  it  is  used  by 
Shakespeare  and  Milton :  paly  by  the  side  of  pale  is  a  totally  unjustifiable 
formation,  but  it  is  found  in  Shakespeare,  Collins  and  Coleridge.  So 
that  the  study  of  Keats's  idiosyncrasies  of  diction  leads  naturally  to  a 
consideration  of  the  influence  upon  him  of  other  authors,  from  whom 
he  leafnt  both  good  and  bad,  though  only  as  he  developed  was  he  able  to 
discriminate  the  good  from  the  bad.  Our  next  duty  therefore  is  to 
examine  the  points  of  affinity  between  the  vocabulary  of  Keats  and  that 
of  those  authors  whom  he  read  most  assiduously,  remembering  at  the 
same  time  no  one  author  can  be  viewed  entirely  apart  from  the  rest  An 
exact  chronological  treatment  of  these  influences  is  impossible,  as  in  many 
cases  they  were  contemporary  with  one  another ;  in  tracing  the  develop^ 
ment  of  his  style,  however,  it  is  obviously  the  proper  course  to  begin  by  a 
discussion  of  those  who  encouraged  him  in  his  own  evil  tendencies. 

The  worst  of  these  is  Leigh  Hunt.  Of  the  general  vulgarity  of  Hunt's 
influence  enough  has  been  said  in  the  General  Introduction ;  it  will  be 
suflicient  now  to  show  how  he  encouraged  by  example,  if  not  always  by 
precept,  the   worst  elements  in  Keats's  vocabulary.      In    The  Story  of 

1  Mr.  Bridges  criticises  Mr.  W.  T.  Arnold's  reference  to  Keats's  predilection  for  -y 
adjectives  in  the  witty  remark,  "  I  never  heard  of  any  one  objecting  to  Shakespeare's 
'  I  can  call  spirits  from  the  vasty  deep.'  Indeed  what  is  in  question  is  very  much  the 
same  with  the  words  as  with  the  spirits,  whether  they  do  come  when  you  do  call  for 
them."  Exactly,  and  the  point  which. Mr.  Arnold  proves,  I  think,  condusively,  is  that 
in  many  cases  they  do  not  come,  but  that  the  words  produced  carry  po  more  con- 
viction than  the  spMt  rapping  of  the  liioderh  exorcist. 


APPENDIX  C  577 

Rimini  (1816)  we  have  the  same  love  of  abstract  nouns  to  express  a 
concrete  thing;  especially  abstract  nouns  formed  from  present  parti- 
ciples, e.g.  smearings,  measurings,  doings  ;  the  same  love  of  adverbs  from 
present  participles — thrilUngly,  smilingly,  crushingly,  preparingly ;  the 
same  delight  in  the  use  of  -y  adjectives  which  have  no  good  authority, 
or  are  obscure  in  their  meaning,  scattery,  glary,  flamy.  In  Foliage 
published  in  1818  (but  much  of  it  written  somewhat  earlier)  Hunt  draws 
on  the  same  vocabulary ;  of  pres.  part,  adverbs  we  have,  glancingly,  pout- 
ingly,  kneadingly,  of  -y  adjectives  we  have  leafy  and  rooty,  strawy,  surfy  and 
layery.  It  must  be  remembered,  moreover,  that  such  words  would  pro- 
bably be  found  in  undue  excess  in  Hunt's  familiar  conversation  and  that 
Keats,  in  associating  with  Hunt,  would  have  them  continually  before  him. 
In  both  of  Hunt's  volumes,  as  would  be  expected,  words  abound  which 
express  a  sense  of  luxury  and  ill-defined  delight,  nor  are  we  surprised  to 
find  as  common  to  both  Keats  and  Hunt  the  word  tiptoe '  used  metaphori- 
cally, but  without  poetic  effect  (in  Hunt's  tiptoe  looks),  stare  in  the  offensive 
sense  already  referred  to,  and  twice,  the  objectionable /ee/  as  a  noun. 

But  before  a  personal  acquaintance  with  Hunt  had  come  to  swell  the 
force  of  distant  admiration,  another  influence  had  begun  to  work  which 
in  itself  would  lend  support  to  the  dangerous  idiosyncrasies  of  the  un- 
trained poet.  This  was  Chapman.  In  our  reverence  for  the  greatest 
of  Elizabethan  translators  and  our  gratitude  to  him  for  the  inspiration 
which  he  gave  to  Keats  we  should  remember  also  that  no  writer  of  his 
eminence  ever  took  grosser  liberties  with  the  language,  or  bent  it  more 
remorselessly  to  fit  the  Procrustean  bed  of  his  ideas.  And  just  as  in  his 
Odyssey  he  illustrated  all  those  laxities  of  form  for  which  the  early  versi- 
fication of  Keats  has  been  condemned,  so  it  was  with  his  use  of  diction. 
If  he  did  not  find  a  word  bearing  the  required  metrical  value,  in  which 
to  express  his  conception  of  Homer's  meaning,  he  had  no  hesitation  in 
coining  a  new  form,  and  he  did  this  in  the  same  manner  as  did  Keats  in 
a  later  day.     In  him  we  find  : — 

(fl)  The  excessive  use  of  the  abstract  noun  formed  either  in  -ing  or 
-ment,  e.g.  embracings  for  embraces,  deservings  for  deserts,  murmurings, 
dephrings,  etc.,  designmenis,  procurement,  intendment,  etc.  Mr.  Colvin 
attributes  to  Chapman  Keats's  use  of  abstract  nouns  in  -ness  and  refers  to 
the  Hymn  to  Pan,  where  we  find  cliffy  highnesses  and  wat'ry  softnesses. 
These  are  indeed  in  the  manner  of  Keats,  and  Keats  doubtless  knew  the 
Hymn  to  Pan  well,  but  it  is  right  to  add  that  in  reading  through  the  whole 
of  Chapman  I  have  found  no  other  examples  of  this  particular  formation. 

(6)  Excessive  use  of  -y  adjectives,  some  of  them  felicitous  but  many 
of  them  strange  and  even  awkward,  e.g.  beamy,  cavy,  cliffy,  cloddy,  gleby, 
gulfy,  foody,  flamy,  barky,  nervy,  orby,  oxy,  rooty,  spurry. 

'  Mr.  Bridges  attributes  Keats's  use  of  tiptoe  to  Shakespeare.  Of  such  a  passage 
as  End.  i.  831  this  statement  is  obviously  correct,  but  Keats's  earlier  employment  of 
it,  in  the  1817  volume,  as  well  as  certain  of  its  uses  in  Bndymion,  betray  a  far  different 
origin. 

37 


578  JOHN  KEATS 

(c)  The  vulgar  use  of  so,  e.g.  so  languishingly  (Od.  i.  97),  so  weak 
and  wan  (Od.  vi.  2). 

(d)  An  occasional  familiarity  of  phrase  which  seems  singularly  incon- 
gruous in  a  heroic  poem.  Can  we  wonder  at  the  banality  of  some  of 
Endymion's  language  to  Peona  or  to  Cynthia  when  Keats  found  in  his 
great  epic  model  Calypso  thug  addressing  Odysseus : — 

O  ye  are  a  shrewd  one,  and  so  habited 
In  taking  heed  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is 
To  be  unwary,  nor  use  words  amiss. 
How  hast  thou  charm'd  me,  were  I  ne'er  so  sly ! 
In  all  this  we  can  see  how  Chapman  would  seem  to  Keats  to  lend 
suppoi't  to  some  of  his  natural  tendencies  of  style.     But  that  the  influence 
of  Chapman  continues  far  beyond  this  early  period,  is  evident  in  Hyperion, 
and  though  there  is  little  that  can  be  attributed  to  the  influence  of  Chap- 
man only,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  translations  contributed  con- 
siderably to  the  vein  of  Elizabethanism  which  runs  through  the  work  of 
the  maturer  Keats.     For  example,  the  interchange  of  the  different  parts 
of  speech  is  common  to  all  Elizabethan  writers,  but  certain  of  Keats's 
verb-nouns  have  a  distinct  ring  of  Chapman  about  them.     Such  are  ex- 
claim, proclaim,  pierce.     Cf.  Chapman's  use  of  impair,  upbraids,  manage. 
Again,  the  love  of  abstracts  in  the  plural.     This  is  a  feature  of  Keats's 
latest  work  and  by  it  he  obtains  at  times  the  most  successful  effects.    The 
form  imageries,  indeed,  is  rightly  attributed  to  Spenser,  but  the  peculiar 
musical  effect  obtained  by  words  of  this  kind,  especially  when  placed  at 
the  end  of  the  line,  is  extremely  common  in  Chapman,  e.g.  : — 
in  his  effeminacies  (II.  vi.  347). 

Never  war  gives  Troy  satieties  (II.  xiii.  576). 

Grace  this  day  with  fit  iransparences  (II.  xvii.  561). 

But  Ithacus  our  strongest  phantasies  (Od.  iv.  391). 

In  pleasure  of  their 'high  fed  fantasies  (Od.  xx.  IS). 

Where,  after,  we  will  prove  what  policies  (Od.  xxiii.  107). 
Keats  has  the  following : — 

Poured  into  shapes  of  curtain'd  canopies 

Spangled,  and  rich  with  liquid  broideries  (End.  ii.  618,  619). 

Her  silk  had  play'd  in  purple  phantasies  (Is.  xlvii.). 

So  rainbow-sided,  touch'd  with  miseries  (Lam.  i.  54). 

And  with  the  larger  wove  in  small  intricacies  (Lam.  ii.  141). 

The  space,  the  splendour  of  the  draperies  (Lam.  ii.  206). 

All  garlanded  with  carven  imag'ries  (St.  Ag.). 
'mong  thousand  heraldries  (St.  Ag.). 

And  daz'd  with  saintly  imageries  (St.  Mark). 

Among  its  golden  broideries  (St.  Mark). 

With  its  many  mysteries  (St.  Mark). 

And  hopes,  and  joys,  and  panting  miseries  (Ode  to  Fanny,  ii.). 

Bigger  than  stags, — a  moon, — with  other  mysteries  (Cap  and  Bells). 

And  all  the  smooth  routine  of  gallantries  (Cap  and  Bells). 


APPENDIX  C  579 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Arnold  is  right  in  attributing  to 
Chapman's  influence  Keats's  love  of  the  word  sphere  both  in  usual  and 
unusual  senses.  I  have  noticed  it  about  twenty  times  in  Chapman  and 
its  use  often  seems  somewhat  strained.  He  is  particularly  fond  of  apply- 
ing it  to  the  eyes,  e.g.  spheres  of  eyes  {Od.  xiii.  635),  visual  spheres,  let  mine 
eyelids  close  their  spheres  {Od.  xix.  801).  It  was  passages  such  as  these 
which  suggested  to  Keats  (Hyp.  i.  117),  "Open  thine  eyes  eterne,  and 
sphere  them  round."  The  line,  "Twelve  sphered  tables,  by  silk  seats 
insphered"  (Lamia,  ii.  183)  employs  the  word  in  a  more  natural  sense,  and 
is  also  paralleled  in  Chapman.  Cf.  also  note  to  Hyperion,  ii.  79.  The  follow- 
ing old  words  would  also  be  known  to  him  in  Chapman  as  in  Spenser  and 
other  Elizabethans,  beldame,  battailous,  disparted,  gaze  (in  phrase  at  gaze) 
horrid,  sallows.^  On  the  other  hand  Mr.  Arnold  can  hardly  be  right  in 
attributing  to  Chapman  Keats's  use  of  wicker  =  basket  (End.  i.  137). 
Chapman's  phrase  is  "press  of  wicker"  (Od.  ix.  360),  i.e.  of  wickerwork, 
which  is  exactly  the  modern  use.  Keats  is  more  likely  adopting  a  modern 
colloquialism,  to  be  found  in  many  parts  of  England  at  the  present  day. 

The  seventeenth-century  poet  who  may  be  ranked  next  to  Chapman 
in  his  efifect  upon  Keats's  style  and  vocabulary  is  William  Browne  of 
Tavistock.  A  quotation  from  Britannia's  Pastorals,  which  heads  the 
early  Epistles,  shows  that  Keats  must  have  read  Browne  soon  after  he  had 
become  familiar  with  the  translation  of  Homer,  whilst  reminiscences  of 
Browne  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale  and  La  Belle 
Dame  sans  Merci  suggest  that  either  Keats  continued  to  read  him,  or,  as  is 
more  likely,  that  at  an  early  period  he  had  studied  him  in  such  detail  as 
to  make  a  permanent  impression  on  him.  Certainly  there  was  much  in 
Browne  which  would  have  attracted  Keats  at  that  time ;  his  freshness  of 
mind,  his  rambling  delight  in  nature,  find  expression  in  a  versification 
which  has  all  the  laxity  of  Keats's  immature  couplets  and  in  a  vocabulary 
with  many  of  the  features  which  mark  the  1817  volume.  There  is  the 
same  love  of  abstract  nouns  in  -ment  and-  ing(8),  languishment,  embrace- 
ment,  dreariment,  procurement,  fa/mishmmt,  sonnetings,  banquetings,  shading 
(shade),  WMtterings,  fondlings ;  and  the  same  licentious  use  of  adjectives 
in  -y,  many  of  them  forms  quite  unjustifiable  except  for  purposes  of  metre, 
e.g.  calmy,  greeny,  scaly,  pitchy,  lawny,  plumy,  flaggy,  rushy,  swarty ; 
the  same  love  also  of  compound  adjectives  of  a  land  especially  dear  to 
Keats  at  an  early  period,  e.g.  lily-silken,  silver-seeming,  silver-circling. 
Of  words  and  forms  rare  or  archaic  common  to  the  vocabulary  of  Browne 
and  Keats  one  may  notice  the  following :  mfew,  y-pight,  freshet,  writhen, 
raught,  rillets,  teen,  undersong.  None  of  them,  except  perhaps  writhen, 
would  he  owe  entirely  to  Browne,  but  this  fact  does  not  make  the  in- 
fluence of  Browne  by  any  means  unimportant. 

A  similar  influence,  as  far  as  vocabulary,  at  least,  is  concerned,  was 

'The  spelling  "chace"  for  "chase"  is  more  likely  to  be  due  to  the  influence  of 
Chapman  than  to  that  of  Somerville,  whom  we  do  not  know  that  Keats  ever  read. 


580  JOHN  KEATS 

doubtless  exerted  by  Sandys's  translation  of  Ovid,  which  Keats  must  have 
been  continually  reading  in  1817-18.  We  have  the  evidence  of  Wood- 
house  to  the  effect  that  the  somewhat  strange  use  of  the  word  brawniest 
in  Hyp.  ii.  21  "the  brawniest  in  assault"  was  suggested  by  Sandys,  big- 
brawned  ^gaon,  and  Mr.  Forman  has  pointed  out  that  the  only  known 
literary  use  of  the  word  bowse  before  Keats  is  to  be  found  in  Sandys. 
Similarly  the  form  spry  {End.  iv.  157),  which  some  have  taken  to  be  an 
unfortunately  Cockney  mispronunciation  of  spray,  whilst  others,  e.g.  Mr. 
Arnold,  have  asserted  that  it  has  nothing  to  justify  it  except  the  necessity 
of  a  rhyme  (which  would  indeed  have  been  quite  a  sufficient  justification 
in  the  eyes  of  Spenser),  was  traced  by  Mr.  Forman  (following  Woodhouse) 
to  Sandys,  "  who,  he  remarks,  will  certainly  do  as  an  authority  in  default 
of  a  better."  It  is  interesting  to  be  able  to  add,  as  a  further  justification 
of  Keats  in  its  use,  that  he  was  not  merely  drawing  upon  a  form  which  he 
had  noticed  in  one  passage.  In  the  early  editions  of  both  Defoe  and 
Smollett,  both  of  whom  we  have  evidence  that  Keats  knew,  the  word  is 
spelt  sprye.  Apparently,  therefore,  the  form  was  by  no  means  as  un- 
common as  has  been  supposed,  and  Keats,  having  met  it  in  several  places, 
would  feel  perfectly  well  justified  in  employing  it.  Other  rare  words  which 
a  study  of  Sandys  would  familiarise  to  him  are  disparted,  embracements, 
covert,  sallows,  spume,  nervy,  spumy. 

As  a  whole,  however,  the  influence  of  Leigh  Hunt  and  of  the  seventeenth- 
century  poets  (Chapman  and  Browne  especially)  was  rather  to  encourage 
the  natural  tendencies  of  the  immature  Keats  than  to  add  to  the  resources 
of  his  vocabulary  in  a  manner  which  would  be  permanently  useful  to  him. 
Hence  it  has  seemed  best  to  discuss  them  first.  The  other  authors  who 
may  have  left  traces  upon  the  work  of  Keats  will  be  considered  in  their 
chronological  order. 
' — I  First  of  these  was  Spenser. 

As  I  have  already  implied,  there  has  been,  in  my  opinion,  a  tendency 
to  overrate  the  predominance  of  the  influence  of  Spenser  on  both  the 
thought  and  the  language  of  Keats.  The  reason  of  this  is  partly  because 
it  has  been  the  subject  of  the  most  thorough  and  scholarly  investigation, 
first  by  Mr.  Arnold  and  then  quite  exhaustively  by  Mr.  Read,  partly  also 
because  the  well-known  story  of  Keats's  first  acquaintance  with  Spenser, 
as  told  by  Clarke,  has  something  arrestingly  dramatic  about  it.  It  was 
the  first  influence  to  make  itself  felt  upon  him,  but,  in  spite  of  its  great 
attraction,  at  no  period  of  his  literary  life  can  it  be  said  to  have  been  the 
foremost  influence.  Almost  at  once  it  was  subordinated  to  the  phraseology 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  then  to  the  seventeenth  century  and  Leigh 
Hunt,  then  to  Shakespeare  and  then  to  Milton.  After  this  Keats's  style  is 
more  truly  eclectic,  and  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Chatterton  and  Spenser  all 
are  laid  under  contribution,  so  that  it  would  be  diflicult  to  assign  the 
mastery  to  any  one  of  them.  At  the  same  time  it  must  be  recognised  that 
Spenser's  vocabulary  has  lefl  its  mark  upon  all  the  work  of  Keats,  and 
even  though  it  is  not  the  sole  or  principal  source  of  many  of  the  words 


APPENDIX  C  581 

which  have  been  attributed  to  it,  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  many  cases  Keats 
saw  them  first  in  Spenser,  so  that  when  he  met  them  afterwards  in  other 
writers  that  he  happened  to  be  studying  at  the  time  more  closely,  he  was 
already  familiar  with  them.  Almost  certainly  the  following  came  to  Keats 
from  Spenser,  daedaU,  elf  (for  man),  lifeful,  touted,  needments,  tinct ;  whilst 
Spenser  shared  with  other  writers  in  familiarising  Keats  with  a  large 
number  of  words,  among  which  I  should  regard  as  the  most  justly  associ- 
ated with  his  name,  beldame,  beadsman,  bedight,  covert,  dreariment,  raft, 
shallop.    A  full  list  will  be  found  in  the  Glossary. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  great  literary  force  which  freed  or 
rather  was  freeing  Keats  from  idiosyncrasies  of  vocabulary,  and  giving  him 
a  firm  grasp  of  the  richness  and  the  strength  of  the  English  tongue,  just 
as  it  freed  him  from  undue  subservience  to  any  one  master,  was  Shake- 
speare. In  Shakespeare  he  found  many  of  those  qualities  which  in  their 
exaggeration  in  Keats  and  others  have  been  mentioned  for  censure, 
but  here  he  found  them  in  their  due  proportion  and  used  with  that 
easy  mastery  which  proclaims  the  consummate  artist.  A  glance  at  the 
Glossary  will  prove,  what  has,  I  think,  been  overlooked  before,  not 
only  how  many  words  Keats  undoubtedly  learnt  from  Shakespeare,'  but 
also  how  many,  whose  presence  in  his  work  has  been  attributed  solely  to 
others,  and  generally  to  Spenser,  are  to  be  found  in  Shakespeare  also ;  and 
that  too  at  a  time  when  we  know  that  Shakespeare  was  forming  the  princi- 
pal object  of  his  study.  And  as  the  great  dramatist  became  daily  a  greater 
wonder  to  him  and  he  came  to  understand  him  to  his  very  depths,  he 
caught  something  of  that  power  over  language,  which  is  indefinable, 
because  it  cannot  be  analysed  into  mannerisms,  and  is  only  called  Shake- 
spearian from  its  inevitable  fitness  and  its  supreme  felicity.  It  is  difficult, 
for  example,  to  avoid  associating  with  Shakespeare's  influence  some  of 
those  compound  adjectives,  characteristic  of  Keats's  maturer  work,  which 
suggest  a  far  fuller  meaning  than  is  afForded  by  regarding  the  first  part  of 
the  compound  as  in  purely  adverbial  relation  with  the  second.  In  his 
early  poems,  doubtless,  Keats  had  formed  his  compounds  on  the  analogy 
of  the  looser  Elizabethan  writers  such  as  Browne  and  Chapman,  but  for 
any  parallel  to  the  wealth  and  the  subtlety  of  meaning  carried  by  Keats's 
dark-clustered,  wild-bridged,  soft-conched,  soft-lifted,  high-sorrowful,  and  others 
of  the  same  pregnant  force,  we  must  turn,  I  think,  to  Shakespeare.  Cf. 
for  example,  deep-contemplative  (As  You  Like  Jt,  ii.  7.  31)  and  three  which 
occur  in  Troilus  and  Cressida,  a  play  studied  by  Keats  with  peculiar  care, 

' "  There  is  hardly  any  direct  imitation  or  adaptation  of  Shakespeare  in  detail " 
(Arnold,  JTeais,  xxxviii.).  "  Spenser,  Leigh  Hunt  and  Milton,  these  then  are  the  three 
names  which  1  think  a  student  of  Keats  has  constantly  to  bear  in  mind  "  (ii.  xxxvi.). 
Mr.  Read,  indeed,  duly  records  the  presence  of  many  of  his  Spenserian  words  in 
Shakespeare  also ;  he  differs  from  me  in  his  estimate  of  the  importance  of  this  fact, 
whilst  any  mention  of  the  Shakespearian  words  which  do  not  occur  in  Spenser  is  beyond 
the  immediate  scope  of  his  inquiry.  Yet  only  in  the  light  of  these  can  a  judgment  upon 
the  whole  question  of  the  relative  importance  of  Keats's  debt  to  these  two  authors  be 
arrived  at. 


582  JOHN  KEATS 

subtU-potent  (iii.  2.  26),  dumb-discotiysive  (iv.  4.  92),  mommtaryswift  (iv. 
2.  14). 

Undoubtedly  Shakespearian  in  Keats  are  a-cold,  amort,  angerly,  close 
(embrace),  dibble,  coverture, pleached,rubicms,  ruddy  (drops),  sliver, snail-paced, 
throe '  (as  a  verb),  and  to  the  influence  of  Shakespeare  with  that  of  others 
the  words,  beldame,  beadsman,  bruit,  capable,  daft,  darkling,  dight,  eld, 
ebon,  honey  dew,  Ubbard,  lush,  parle,pight,  rack  (of  clouds),  tiptoe;  phantasy, 
yerk,  pleasure,  scandal  apd  quire  as  verbs,  and  the  adjectives  fenny,  mealy, 
paly,  slumbery.  (Cf.  also  General  Introduction,  p.  xxxiii.  Introduction 
to  End.  bk.  ii.  p.  429.) 

It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  influence  of  Milton  (more  especially  in  the 
early  poems)  whilst  it  is  as  prominent  as  that  of  any  other  author,  is 
shown  far  more  in  allusion  and  reminiscence  of  Miltonic  cadence,  than  by 
the  borrowing  of  definitely  Miltonic  words.^  But  before  Hyperion  we 
have  alp,  argent,  capable  (of  an  ear),  delectable  (also  in  Shakespeare,  though 
with  different  stress),  drear,  and  dight,  the  one  often  attributed  solely  to 
Chatterton  and  the  other  to  Spenser,  dulcet,  lave  (also  in  Chatt.),  eld  (also 
Shak.),  monstrous  {i.e.  peopled  with  monsters),  eclipsing  (in  a  sense  definitely 
reminiscent  of  Paradise  Lost,  ii.  666),  snuff  (verb),  bloomy,  oozy,  and  wormy, 
and  contemporary  or  later  than  Hyperion,  besprent  (with  dew),  adjectives 
in  -ant,  formed  on  the  analogy  of  the  Miltonic  adjective  of  the  same 
formation  (which,  however,  can  be  paralleled  in  Chatterton  also')  e.g. 
adorant,  aspirant,  couchant;  lucent  (also  a  favourite  word  in  Gary's  Dante), 
park  (also  Shak.  and  Marston),  rhomb,  sciential,  slope,  syllabling,  sooth,  and 
the  form  foughten.  The  Miltonisms  of  Hyperion  are  noticed  in  the  intro- 
duction to  that  poem.  Mr.  Arnold  has  pointed  out  that  the  immense 
increase  of  adjectives  in  -ed,  which  in  Keats's  later  work  supplant  the  -y 
adjectives,  is  also  chiefly  due  to  the  study  of  Milton.  A  full  list  of  these  is 
not  given  in  the  Glossary,  because,  as  the  N.  £.  D.  points  out,  the  termina- 
tion -ed  is  now  added  without  restriction  to  any  substantive  from  which  it 
is  desired  to  form  an  adjective  with  sense  "possessing,  provided  with, 
characterised  by."  Hence  only  those  are  given  which  are  distinctly 
participial  rather  than  adjectival,  or  which  afford  an  interesting  literary 
parallel  within  the  known  limits  of  Keats's  reading. 

The  influence  of  the  eighteenth  century  upon  the  vocabulary  of  Keats 
was,  as  Mr.  Colvin  has  pointed  out,  predominant  in  the  poet's  Juvenilia. 
This  was  partly  no  doubt  because  he  read  the  eighteenth-century  Spen- 
serians  without  being  able  to  discriminate  between  their  work  and  that  of 
Spenser  himself,  but  it  was  also  due  to  the  fact  that  the  poetic  diction  in 

' "  I  believe  that  Keats  invented  the  verb  '  to  throe' "  (Arnold,  xlv.). 

'These  are  pointed  out  in  the  notes  passim.  Keats  probably  borrowed  more  from 
Comus  than  from  any  other  poem  (or  part  of  a  poem)  of  the  same  length,  and  he  drew 
upon  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  continually  all  through  his  literary  life.  The  influence 
of  Paradise  Lost,  too,  began  earlier  than  has  often  been  supposed.  Cf.  notes  to  End- 
in.  and  iv.  passim.  It  is  mteresting  to  know  upon  the  authority  of  Severn  that  Keats's 
next  poem,  which  he  would  discuss  with  his  friend  on  his  voyage  to  Italy,  was  to  be 
upon  the  subject  of  Sabrina. 

'  And  in  Shakespeare,  as  Professor  Bradley  has  pointed  out  to  me.  Cf.  Timon  of 
Athens,  iv.  3.  5,  dividant ; iv .  3.  25,  operant ;iv.  3.  115,  trenchant;  iv.  3. 135,  mountant. 


APPENDIX  C  583 

vogue  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  still  the  language  of  verse  in  Keats's 
own  day,  and  before  he  began  to  liave  definite  theories  about  his  art  he 
would  naturally  accept  its  recognised  medium  of  expression.  We  find 
accordingly  such  eighteenth-century  phrases  as,  verdant  hill,  laurelled 
peers,  tuneful  thtmders,  ravished  heavens,  trembUmgly  expire,  renovated  eyes, 
melt  the  soul,  radiant  jwes,  delicious  tear,  romantic  eye,  etc. ;  together  with 
a  typically  eighteenthrcentury  personification.  Disappointment,  parent  of 
Despair,  Despondence,  miserable  bane,  etc.  These  and  such  phrases  it  would 
be  a  mistake  to  attribute  to  any  definite  influence,  they  were  the  poetical 
stock-in-trade  of  the  period ;  but  certain  authors  of  the  eighteenth  century 
made  a  less  transient  appeal  to  Keats  and  are  worthy  of  a  short  notice  in 
this  connection.     These  are  Thomson,  Collins  and  Chatterton. 

From  Thomson  Keats  certainly  took  the  word  clamant,  his  phrase 
athwart  the  gloom  is  repeated  by  Keats  in  Sleep  and  Poetry,  his  famous  line 
And  hold  high  converse  with  the  mighty  dead  is  more  than  once  adapted  by 
Keats,  and  his  line  The  blackbird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake  is  at  least 
echoed  in  the  last  stanza  of  the  Ode  to  A  utumn.  -  Another  word,  used  in  Keats 
with  peculiar  lingering  effect,  is  also  a  favourite  of  Thomson' s— gradual. 
Whe,re,iaAiiis gradual,  life  at  length  goes  out  {Winter,  890). 

larger  prospects  of  the  beauteous  whole 
Would,  gradual  open  on  our  opening  minds  ( Winter,  580). 
gradual  sinks  the  breeze 
Into  a  perfect  calm. 
A  similar  effect  is  gained  by  Keats  in  his  exquisite  description  of  the  sea : — 
Down  whose  green  back  the  short-liv'd  foam,  all  hoar. 
Bursts  gradual,  with  a  wayward  indolence  {End.  ii.  349,  350), 
I  cannot  parallel  this  use  exactly  in  any  other  author. 

Probably  from  Thomson  also  is  the  phrase  horizontal  sun,  and  the 
adjective  plumy  as  applied  to  birds,  though  this  is  found  in  other  authors, 
whilst  Thomson  helped  to  familiarise  him  with  the  words  disparted,  drear, 
ciHed,  herbaged,  sleeked  (of  wings),  s^ume,  spumy,  and  umbrageous,  which 
in  previous  investigations  have  either  been  left  unnoticed  in  his  vocabulary, 
or  attributed  with  too  much  confidence  to  another  writer. 

The  influence  of  Collins  is  slighter,  but  it  is  not  unimportant,  and,  if 
we  remember  the  small  bulk  of  Collins's  work,  as  large  as  could  be  ex- 
pected. The'  word  brede  has  been  attributed  to  Chaucer '  in  whom  it  means 
breadth  and  to  Waller  in  whom  it  means  embroidery.  .  There  is  no  evidence 
that  Keats  ever  read  Waller,  nor  is  it^asy  to  see  why  he  should  ever  have 
been  induced  to  do  so,  and  though  the  meaning  "  breadth  "  will  fit  in  with 
the  passage  in  the  Grecian  Urn,  it  will  not  fit  in  with  the  passage  in  Lamia ; 
and  it  is  very  unlikely  that  Keats  would  use  an  extremely  rare  word  in 
two  different  senses.  He  therefore  meant  by  it  in  both  cases  embroidery, 
and  his  mind  was  turning  back,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  to  the  Ode 
to  Evening  "  with  brede  etherial  wove."     It  can  hardly  be  doubted  either 

'  Speaking  more  accurately  the  poet  of  The  Flawre  and  the  Leafe,  in  which  Irede  is 
found  in  line  43. 


584  JOHN  KEATS 

that  chilly  fingef'd  spring  (End.  iv.  971)  owes  something  to  Collins'g 
Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold,  and  though  his  lines  Heard  melodies  are 
sweet  but  those  unheard  Are  sweeter  may  owe  a  more  direct  debt  to  Words- 
worth, Keats  knew  also  their  original  in  the  Ode  to  the  Passions,  "In 
notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet."  Adjectives  formed  both  in -y  and 
-ed  are  used  in  Collins  to  a  fault:  common  to  both  poets  are  pillared, 
laurelled,  honied,  curtained,  shouldered,  paly,  though  they  are  found  else- 
where, and  CoUins's  love  of  Spenser  and  Milton  would  continually  recall 
to  Keats  the  language  and  tone  of  his  two  greatest  masters.^ 

But  the  poet  of  the  eighteenth  century  who  influenced  Keats  most 
deeply  was  that  one  who  least  of  all  partook  of  the  qualities  of  his  age. 
Chatterton  appealed  to  Keats  in  his  earliest  years  of  the  poetic  life ;  to 
him  Endymion  was  dedicated,  and  in  revulsion  from  the  classicalism  of 
Milton  he  turned  to  Chatterton  as  his  model.  Apart  from  the  unfortu- 
nately Rowleian  old  English  of  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark  (99-114)  there  is 
nothing  in  his  vocabulary  which  owes  its  presence  exclusively  to  Chatter- 
ton ;  at  the  same  time  there  are  many  words  which  gained  an  additional 
hold  upon  him  through  Chatterton's  use  of  them,  which,  as  we  know, 
would  convince  him  perhaps  more  than  it  would  convince  us  of  their 
unimpeachable  integrity.  Of  these  I  should  especially  call  attention  to 
amate,  argent,  darkling,  drear,  eterne,  languishment,  lave  ;  mickU,  dight  and 
pight  (great  favourites  with  Chatterton),  ope,  perceaunt,  shent,  shoon,  sith, 
teene,  paly.  He  would  also  find  in  Chatterton  engine  used  as  a  verb, 
whilst  the  same  authority  was  joined,  as  we  have  seen,  with  what  to  Keats 
seemed  the  essentially  antagonistic  authority  of  Milton,  in  suggesting  to 
him  the  -ant  adjectives. 

Of  the  influences  of  Keats's  contemporaries  it  is  not  necessary  to  say 
much  here.  A  glance  at  the  Glossary  will  show  that  he  did  not  stand 
alone  in  his  age  in  his  love  of  words  which  were  already  either  obsolete 
or  rare  in  common  speech.  The  great  characteristic  of  the  whole 
literary  movement  of  which  he  was  a  member  was  its  recognition  of  the 
glories  of  the  past,  and  he  would  have  found  ample  corroboration  of  his 
own  practice  in  Coleridge,  in  Southey,  in  Scott,'  in  the  Essays  of  Hazlitt 
and  Lamb,  even  in  the  poems  of  Wordsworth.  But  in  Keats  less  than  any 
of  them  was  this  practice  studied.  Limited  as  was  the  vocabulary  of  his 
everyday  life,  it  sought  reinforcement  in  that  language  in  which  alone 
the  poetic  side  of  his  nature  could  iind  full  expression.  Naturally  and 
without  conscious  effort,  he  adapted  that  language  to  his  own  needs,  and 
in  those  poems  which  are  most  essentially  original  and  characteristic  of 
his  genius  he  resumed  that  flexi^bility,  that  beauty,  that  "old  vigour," 
which  have  made  it  a  worthy  vehicle  for  the  richest  literature  of  the 
world. 

1  In  Collins  these  are  blended  with  the  conventional  poetic  diction  of  the  day,  and 
some  of  its  phrases  also  are  common  to  Collins  and  Keats. 

'Dr.  Murray  has  pointed  out  to  me  the  interesting  fact  that  a  large  number  of 
good  Elizabethan  words,  which  are  absent  from  our  literature  in  the  later  seventeenth 
and  eighteenth  centuries,  reappear  in  the  pages  of  the  iVaveriey  Naruels. 


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INDEX  OF  TITLES  AND  FIRST  LINES  OF  POEMS 


Text.      Notes, 


A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for  ever 

Acrostic :  Georgiana  Augusta  Keats 

Addressed  to  Haydon.    Sonnet 

Addressed  to  the  Same    .        . 

After  dark  vapours  have  oppress'd  our  plains  . 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight    , 

Ah !  who  can  e'er  forget  so  fair  a  being  ? 

Ah  I  woe  is  me  1  poor  silver-wing ! 

Ailsa  Rock,  To.    Sonnet 

And  what  is  love  ?     It  is  a  doll  dress'd  up 

Another  sword  1    And  what  if  I  could  seize    . 

.  Apollo,  Hymn  to 

Ode  to 

As  from  the  darkening  gloom  a  silver  dove     . 
As  Hermes  once  took  to  his  feathers  light 
As  late  I  rambled  in  the  happy  fields 
Asleep  I    O  sleep  a  little  while,  white  pearl    . 
Autumn,  To    .        .        .        . 


Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 

Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  La     . 

Bluel  Tis  the  life  of  heaven, — the  domain    . 

Brawne,  vide  Fanny        .        ... 

Bright  star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art 

Brother  George,  To  my.     Epistle  . 

Brother  George,  To  my.     Sonnet  . 

Brothers,  To  my.     Sonnet       .... 

Brown,  Charles  Armitage,  Spenserian  Stanzas  on 

Burns,  Sonnet  on  Visiting  the  Tomb  of  . 

Sonnet  written  in  the  Cottage  where  Burns 

Byron  I  how  sweetly  sad  thy  melody !     . 
Byron,  To.    Sonnet 


Calidore.    A  Fragment 

Can  death  be  sleep,  when  life  is  but  a  dream  . 
Cap  and  Bells,  The ;  or.  The  Jealousies.    A  Faery 
Castle  Builder,  The,  Fragment  of 
Cat !  who  hast  pass'd  thy  grand  climacteric    . 
Chapman.    On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer, 

Chatterton,  To.     Sonnet 

Chief  of  organic  numbers !  .  . 
Clarke,  Epistle  to  Charles  Cowden  . 
Come  hither  all  sweet  maidens  soberly    . 


was  born 


Tale 
Sonnet 


53 

420 

357 

557 

37 

399 

37 

399 

273 

540 

245 

526 

20 

393 

259 

535 

282 

547 

352 

557 

344 

556 

350 

.S5b 

348 

5.56 

351 

55b 

285 

549 

33 

397 

261 

535 

205 

482 

201 

481 

244 

52b 

279 

545 

288 

551 

24 

395 

31 

.396 

34 

39« 

361 

558 

281 

546 

283 

547 

347 

556 

347 

5Sb 

10 

391 

347 

550 

3b3 

559 

352 

557 

353 

557 

3<) 

398 

348 

556 

257 

533 

27 

395 

275 

540 

Daisy's  Song 


260 


534 


JOHN  KEATS 


Dear  Reynolds  I  as  last  night  I  lay  in  bed 
Death,  On       .       .  .... 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  a  vale 

Draught  of  Sunshine,  A 

Dream,  On  a,  after  reading  Dante's  Episode  of 
Francesca.    Sonnet  .... 


Paolo  and 


Elgin  Marbles,  On  seeing  the.    Sonnet 
Emma,  To       .        ,        .        .        . 
Endymion  :  a  Poetic  Romance, 


Book  I 
Book  II 
Book  III 
Book  IV 


Epistles  (published  1817) 

Epistle  to  John  Hamilton  Reynolds 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  The     . 

Eve  of  St.  Mark,  The      .        .        . 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam 

Extempore,  An        .... 


'*  Faerie  Queene,  The,"  Spenserian  Stanza  written  at  the  close 
of  Canto  II.,  Book  V.,  of         .        .        . 

Faery  Songs 

Fair  Isabel^  poor  simple  Isabel  1  .  .  . 
F»me,  like  a  wayward  girl,  will  still  be  coy  . 
Fame,  On.  Two  Sonnets  .... 
Fanatics  have  their  dreams,  wherewith  they  weave 

Fancy      

Fanny,  Ode  to         .        .        .  .        . 

Fanny,  Lines  to 

Fanny,  Sonnet  to    .        .  ... 

Fill  for  me  la  brimming  bowl  .... 
"  Flowre  and  the  Lefe,"  Sonnet  written  in  the 

FpUy's  Song 

Four  Fairies,  Song  of 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year 
Fresh  morning  gusts  have  blown  away  all  fear 
Full  many  a  dreary  hour  have  I  past 


Give  me  a  golden  pen,  and  let  me  lean    . 
Give  me  your  patience  Sister  while  I  frame    . 
Glocester,  no  more.    I  will  behold  that  Boulogne 
Glory  and  loveliness  have  passed  away  . 
Go  no  further ;  not  a  step  more.    Thou  art    . 
God  of  the  golden  bow    .  ... 

Good  Kosciusko,  thy  great  name  alone  . 
Grasshopper  and  Cricket,  On  the.    Sonnet 
0feat  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning 

Qrecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a 

Gdevously  are  we  tantalised,  one  and  alt 

Had  I  a  man's  fair  form,  then  might  my  sighs 
H'adst  thou  liv'd  in  days  of  old 
Happy,  happy  glowing  fire  I    .        . 
Happy  is  England  I    I  could  be  content 
Hast  thou  from  the  caves  of  Golconda,  a  gem 
Haydon  1  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  speak 


Text. 

Notes. 

270 

537 

347 

550 

aoy 

495 

353 

557 

285 

549 

275 

540 

38s 

562 

53 

420 

75 

429 

98 

436 

122 

443 

22 

394 

270 

537 

180 

464 

241 

535 

198 

479 

359 

558 

339 

558 

259 

334 

164 

460 

28s 

550 

285 

550 

229 

515 

igg 

479 

251 

530 

253 

532 

287 

551 

383 

562 

274 

540 

355 

557 

267 

537 

280 

545 

349 

536 

24 

395 

36 

399 

357 

557 

345 

555 

2 

387 

330' 

555 

350 

550 

.38 

402 

38 

402 

37 

402 

194 

476 

335 

555 

31 

396 

l6 

392 

267 

537 

39 

403 

15 

392 

274 

540 

Missing  Page 


604 


JOHN  KEATS 


Lovers,  A  Party  of . 


Maia,  Fragment  of  an  Ode  to 

Many  the  wonders  I  this  day  have  seen 

Mathew,  George  Felton,  Epistle  to 

Meg  Merrilies 

Melancholy,  Ode  on        .        .        . 

Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on  the 

Milton.     Lines  on  seeing  a  lock  of  Milton's  hair 

Modern  Love  .        .  .        . 

Mortal,  that  thou  mayst  understand  aright 

Mother  of  Hermes  t  and  still  youthful  Maia !  , 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 

Muse  of  my  native  land  I  loftiest  Muse  1 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  spirit  is  too  weak ;  mort^ity     . 

Nature  witheld  Cassandra  in  the  skies 

Nightingale,'  Ode  to  a     . 

Nile,  To  the.    Sonnet     .        .        . 

No  more  advices,  no  more  cautioning 

No,  no,  go  not  to  Lethe,  neither  twist 

No !  those  days  are  gone  away 

Not  Aladdin  magian 

Now,  Ludolph  1  Now,  Auranthe !  Daughter  fair ! 

Now  may  we  lift  our  bruised  vizors  up    . 

Now  Morning  from  her  orient  chamber  came 

Nymph  of  the  downward  smile,  and  sidelong  glance 

O  Chatterton  I  how  very  sad  thy  fate  I    . 

O  come  my  dear  Emma  I  the  rose  is  full  blown 

O  Goddess !  hear  these  tuneless  numbers,  wrung 

O  golden-tongued  Romance  with  serene  lute  I 

O,  my  poor  boy  I  My  son  !  My  son  I  My  Ludolph 

O  Peace  I  and  dost  tjiou  with  thy  presence  bless 

O  soft  embalmer  of  the  still  midnight  I    . 

O  Solitude  I  if  I  must  with  thee  dwells    . 

O  Sorrow         .        .        .        .        . 

O  sovereign  power  of  love!  O  grief  I  O  balm  i 

O  that  a  week  could  be  an  age,  and  we  . 

O  that  the  earth  were  empty,  as  when  Cain    . 

O  thou  whose  face  hath  felt  the  Winter's  wind 

O  thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang  . 

O !  were  I  one  of  the  Olympian  twelve   . 

O  what  can  ail  thee.  Knight  at  arms 

Oft  have  you  seen  a  swan  superbly  frowning  . 

Oh  1  for  enough  life  to  support  me  on     . 

Oh  1  how  I  love,  on  a  fair  summer's  eve 

Oh,  I  am  firighten'd-with  most  hateful  thoughts ! 

Old  Meg  she  was  a  Gipsy       .... 

On  a  Picture  of  Leander.     Sonnet . 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer.    Sonnet 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket.    Sonnet 

On  leaving  some  Friends  at  an  early  Hour.     Sonnet 

On  receiving  a  curious  Shell,  and  a  Copy  of  Verses 

On  seeing  the  Elgin  Marbles  for  the  first  time.    Sonnet 

On  sitting  down  to  read  "  King  Lear  "  once  again.     Sonnet 

One  morn  before  me  were  three  figures  seen  , 


Text. 
362 

248 
31 

22 
261 
206 
202 
257 

239 
248 
36 
IZ2 
191 

283 
191 
278 

303 
206 
203 
262 
314 
342 
19 

33 

348 
385 
r96 
277 

334 
384 
284 

34 
125 

75 
280 
312 
258- 

58 
354 
244 

27 

331 
273 
355 
261 
275 

36 

38 

36 

15 
275 
277 
249 


Notes. 
559 

529 
396 
394 
535 
482 
481 
533 
557 
524 
529 
398 
443 
472 

540 

548 
472 
542 
553 
482 
482 
535 
553 
555 
393 
397 

556 
562 
477 
541 
555 
562 
548 

397 
446 

429 

545 
553 
533 
422 

557 
526 

395 
555 
540 
556 
535 
540 

398 
402 

399 
392 
540 

541 
529 


Missing  Page 


606 


JOHN  KEATS 


The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead    . 

The  stranger  lighted  firom  his  steed 

The  sun,  with  his  great  eye     .        .        .        . 

The  town,  the  churchyard,  and  the  setting  sun 

There  are  who  lord  it  o'er  their  fellow-men 

There  is  a  charm  in  footing  slow  across  a  silent  pli 

Think  not  of  it,  sweet  one,  so  .        .        . 

This  living  hand,  now  warm  and  capable 

This  mortal  body  of  a  thousand  days 

This  pleasant  tale  is  like  a  little  copse    . 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  , 

Thrush,  What  the,  said 

Thus  in  alternate  uproar  and  sad  peace  . 
Time's  sea  hath  been  five  years  at  its  slow  ebb 
'Tis  the  witching  hour  of  night 
To  ****  (Georgiana  Augusta  Wylie) 

To  ••***•.    Sonnet 

To  G.  A.  W.    Sonnet 

To-night  I'll  have  my  friar — let  me  think 
To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent   . 

Unfelt,  unheard,  unseen  .        . 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell 

Upon  a  time,  before  the  faery  broods 

Vattxhall,  To  a  Lady  seen  for  a  few  moments  at.    Sonnet 


Was  ever  such  a  night  ? 

Welcome  joy,  and  welcome  sorrow  .... 

Well,  well,  I  know  what  ugly  jeopardy 

What  can  I  do  to  drive  away 

What  is  more  gentle  than  a  wind  in  summer  ? 

What  the  Thrush  said.     Lines  from  a  letter  to  John  Hamilton 

Reynolds 

What  though,  for  showing  truth  to  flatter'd  state   . 
What  though  while  the  wonders  of  nature  exploring 

When  by  my  solitary  hearth  I  sit 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be       . 
When  they  were  come  into  the  Faery's  Court 
When  wedding  fiddles  are  a-playing        .... 
Where  be  ye  going,  you  Devon  maid  ?    .        .        .        . 

Where  is  my  noble  herald  ? 

Where's  the  Poet  ?  show  him  I  show  him 

Where — where — where  shall  I  find  a  messenger  ?  .        i 

Who  loves  to  peer  up  at  the  morning  sun       >        . 

Who,  who  from  Dian's  feast  would  be  away  ? 

Why  did  I  laugh  to-night  ?     No  voice  will  tell 

Woman  I  when  I  behold  thee  flippant,  vain    . 

Written  in  Disgust  of  Vulgar  Superstition.    Sonnet 

Written  on  the  day  that  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  left  Prison.   Sonnet 

Written  on  a  Blank  Page  in  Shakespeare's  Poems,  feeing  "A 

Lover's  Complaint ".     Sonnet 

Written  upon  the  top  of  Ben  Nevis.    Sonnet 

You  have  my  secret ;  let  it  not  be  breath'd     .... 
Young  Calidore  is  paddling  o'er  the  lake 


Text. 

Notes 

38 

402 

26d 

5H4 

260 

534 

281 

546 

98 

416 

35» 

558 

25S 

532 

454 

512 

283 

54? 

274 

540 

~*9i 

--47?' 

2S8- 

533 

224 

512 

279 

544 

264 

536 

16 

392 

31 

396 

33 

397 

352 

557 

35 

398 

255 

532 

241 

525 

147 

453 

279 

544 

333 

555 

256 

532 

321 

554 

253 

532 

40 

403 

258 

533 

32 

396 

14 

392 

18 

393 

277 

5«; 

3S9 

558 

355 

557 

261 

535 

29s 

553 

256 

532 

308 

553 

276 

541 

134 

450 

284 

549 

20 

393 

351 

556 

32 

396 

a88 

551 

282 

547 

300 

553 

10 

391 

Missing  Page 


608  JOHN  KEATS 

Gary,  vide  Dante. 

Chalmers,  English  Poets,  423,  485,  526. 

Chambeilayne,  Pharonnida,  415. 

Chapman  (George),  general  influence  upon  Keats,  xxiii,  xxix,  xlv,  xlvi,  36,  398, 
399 ;  upon  Keats's  vocabulary  and  style,  577-9 ;  cf.  also  571, 580  and  Glossary^ 
585-600 ;  his  Homer's  Iliad,  485, 495, 499,  555 ;  as  a  source  for  Hyperion,  xlvi ; 
his  Odyssey,  394,  409,  440;  Hymn  to  Apollo,  434,  518;  Hymn  to  Pan,  420, 
426 ;  The  Works  and  Days  of  Hesiod,  485,  499, 

Chatterton  (Thomas),  xix,  xxiii,  li,  Iv,  395,  408,  419,  451,  526,  536 ;  Endymion 
dedicated  to,  417 ;  ^lla,  535 ;  Excellent  Ballad  of  Charitie,  465,  495 ;  in- 
fluence upon  Keats's  vocabulary,  584 ;  cf.  also  571,  580-4  and  Glossary. 

Chaucer,  xxiv,  56,  274,  409,  463,  469,  570,  571,  575,  583;  The  Canterbury  Tales, 
versification  of,  575 ;  Troilus  and  Cresseyde,  429  ;  The  Flowre  and  the  Leafe 
(pseudo-Chaucerian),  389,  405,  540,  583 ;  cf.  also  Glossary. 

Clarke  (Charles  Cowden),  Epistle  to,  27-30;  influence  on  Keats,  ib.,  xxi-xxiii, 
395 ;  his  Recollections  of  Writers,  etc.,  the  source  of  much  information  upon 
Keats,  387,  388,  392,  397,  398,  402,  441,  448,  470,  540 ;  cf.  also  564,  565, 
568,  569. 

Classics,  vide  Greek. 

Claude,  Enchanted  Castle,  475,  537. 

Coleridge  (Samuel  Taylor),  Ancient  Mariner,  447 ;  Ballad  of  Dark  Ladye,  ib. ; 
Christabel,  409,  467,  469,  526;  Essays  on  the  Fine  Arts,  position  therein 
compared  with  Keats's  in  /  Stood  Tip-toe,  389;  Lectures  on  Shakespeare, 
424;  The  Nightingale,  438,  461,  474;  c/.  also  527,  572,  576. 

Collins  (William),  Ix,  478,  576 ;  How,  sleep  the  brave,  452  ;  Ode  to  Evening,  583 ; 
influence  on  Keats's  vocabulary,  583,  584 ;  tf.  also  Glossary. 

Colvin  (Mr.  Sidney),  debt  of  present  editor  to,  x;  his  Life  of  Keats  (English  Men 
of  Letters  Series)  and  Letters  of  yohn  Keats  quoted  passim  ;  A  Morning's 
Work  in  a  Hampstead  Garden,  473 ;  on  sources  oi  Endymion,  415,  416,  420 ; 
and  of  Hyperion,  485  ;  criticisms  of  Lamia,  xlii,  439 ;  Isabella,  463  ;  Ode  to 
a  Nightingale,  475  ;  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  526;  etc. 

Cortez,  36 ;  substituted  by  Keats  for  Balboa,  399  ;  Titian's  portrait  of,  ib. 

Courthope  (Mr.  W.  J.),  attack  on  Keats  in  Liberal  Movement  in  English  Litera- 
ture, 429. 

Cowper  (William),  On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture,  395. 

Crewe  (Lord),  discovery  oi  MS.  of  Fall  of  Hyperion  and  other. poems,  xi,  515. 

Criticism,  attitude  of  Keats  to,  413,  414,  418,  419 ;  Keats's  powers  of,  ix,  xxxi, 
396,  454.  461.  etc.,  etc. 

Dante,  Keats's  interest  in,  aroused  by  Bailey,  436,  445 ;  Cary's  translation  of, 

445,  465,  466,  550,  567 ;  influence  of,  on  Fall  of  Hyperion,  516. 
Defoe,  580. 
Dilke  (C.  Wentworth),  565 ;  Letter  to,  448 ;  his  view  of  America  contested  by 

Keats,  536. 
Drama,  Keats's  desire  to  excel  in,  Iviii ;  possibilities  of  his  ultimate  success  in, 

lix  ;  c/.  also  551,  552,  554,  555. 
Drayton  (Michael),  Mom  in  the  Moon,  its  influence  on  Endymion,  415,  416,  420. 
Drummond  (of  Hawthornden),  414,  415,  441. 
Dryden  ^ohn),  Annus  Mirabilis,  462;  influence  of  The  Fables  upon  Lamia, 

lii,  liii,  453. 
li\mlof.  History  of  Fiction,  468. 

Edinburgh  Review,  412,  453,  493. 

Elgin  Marbles,  xliii,  Iviii,  274,  275,  400,  410,  422,  476,  540, 

Elizabethans,  Keats's  affinity  with,  xlv-xlvii ;  his  debt  to,  notes,  passim. 

Emotion,  its  antagonism  with  Reason,  xxxvii,  xli,  xlii,  439,  533, 538,  539 ;  the  guide 

to  Truth,  xxxvii. 
Endymion,  original  title  of  /  Stood  Tip-toe,  388. 


Missing  Page 


610  JOHN  KEATS 

Hyperion,  general  introduction  to,  484-94;  date  of  composition,  484;  newly 
discovered  autograph  MS.  of,  494 ;  criticisms  of,  493,  494 ;  Miltoni&m  of, 
4S9-93  i  original  design  of,  486 ;  how  far  adhered  to,  487,  488 ;  relation  with 
the  Fail  of  Hyperion,  515  ;  significance  of,  in  development  of  Keats's  mind 
and  art,  xli;  sources  of,  xlvi,  485. 

Imagination,  Keats's  views  of  the,  xxxvii. 

Indicator,  The,  poems  of  Keats  published  in,  526,  549,  561 ;  Lamia,  Hyperion, 
etc.,  reviewed  by  Hunt  in,  453,  493,  512. 

Jeffrey,  his  criticism  of  Keats,  412,  453,  493. 
Jeffrey  (Miss),  Letter  to,  530. 
Johnson  (Samuel),  xlvii. 

Jonson  (Ben),  xlvii,  420 ;  Epithalamion,  449 ;  Hymn  to  Diana,  449  ;  The  Satyr, 
465  ;  cf.  also  Glossary. 

Keats  (Fanny),  565  ;  Letters  to,  411,  551. 

Keats  (George),  387,  564-7 ;  Epistle  to,  24 ;   Sonnet  to,  31 ;  Letters  to,  xxxiv, 

409,  411,  453,  477 ;  journal  Letters  to  and  Georgiana  Keats,  xxxvi, 

xxxvii,  479,  481,  525,  526,  528,  536,  339,  549,  552. 
Keats  (Georgiana  nee  Wylie),  392,  564,  566 ;  Poems  to,  16,  33 ;  Letters  to,  vide 

Keats  (George). 
Keats  (John),  vide  Chronological  Table,  564-9. 
Keats  (Thomas),  512,  547,  564-6;  Sonnet  to,  34;  Letters  to,  479,  498,  505,  535, 

546.  547- 
Kirke  White,  408. 

Lamb  (Charles),  at  Haydon's  dinner  party,  438,  566;  criticism  of  Isabella,  463; 
of  Lamia,  456,  463  ;  of  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  469 ;  Essays  of  Elia,  447. 

Lamia,  Isabella,  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  and  other  Poems,  1820,  its  character  and 
reception,  452,  453 ;  Keats  on,  452. 

Landor  (Walter  Savage),  Gebir,  496,  514 ;  on  Koskiusko,  403. 

LempriSre,  Classical  Dictionary,  Keats's  early  reading  of,  xxi ;  limited  extent  of 
its  influence  upon  Keats,  xliv,  499  ;  cf.  also  390,  423,  424,  447,  485,  486,  506, 

Love,  treatment  of,  in  Keats's  early  poetry,  391,  393 ;  influenced  by  the  associa- 
tion in  his  mind  of  Spenser  and  Leigh  Hunt,  xxvii-xxix ;  later  development 
of  Keats,  liv-lvii. 

Lyly,  Endimion,  414. 

Manchester  Quarterly,  The  (1883),  article  by  G.  Milner,  On  some  Marginalia 
made  by  D.  G.  Rossetti  in  a  copy  of  Keats's  Poems,  vide  Rossetti. 

Marlowe  (Christopher),  Hero  and  Leander,  437. 

Marston  (John),  The  Fawn,  418 ;  Antonio  and  Mellida,  422. 

Massinger  (Philip),  590,  595. 

Mathew  (George  Felton),  22,  394,  395. 

Medievalism,  Keats's  affinity  with  the  spirit  of,  Iv-lviii,  469,  526,  527. 

Meredith  (George),  475. 

Milner  (George),  On  some  Marginalia  made  by  D.  G.  Rossetti  in  a  copy  of 
Keats's  Poems,  vide  Rossetti. 

Milnes  (R.  Monckton),  vide  Houghton. 

Milton  (John),  early  influence  upon  Keats,  xxiii ;  influence  upon  Hyperion,  xlvi,  1, 
489-93  ;  influence  on  Keats's  style  and  vocabulary,  574,  576,  580,  582,  584 ; 
cf.  also  Glossary,  585-600 ;  Keats's  criticisms  of,  li ;  his  enthusiasm  for,  489 ; 
his  Notes  on,  455,  497,  503,  512,  546;  Cbmus,  401,  405,  429,  432,  435. 
440,  446,  448,  456,  471,  493,  535,  552,  554,  555 ;  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant, 
474 ;  //  Penseroso,  429,  433,  437,  457,  482,  520 ;  V Allegro,  390,  395,  437. 
448,  457.  478.  556 ;  Lycidas,  388,  397,  402,  422,  433,  435,  439,  446.  478. 
493,  512,  536,  570;  Ode  on  the  Nativity,  446,  451,  478;  Paradise  Lost, 
393.  398.  403.  431.  434-40.  448.  449.  455-7.  467.  47i.  485.  488-512.  520, 
521,  524,  533,  539,  554,  556,  560 ;  Paradise  Regained,  433,  451,  5".  S^IT" 
Samson  Agonistes,  492 ;  Sonnets,  557 ;  cf.  also,  453,  458, 


Missing  Page 


612  JOHN  KEATS 

Saturn,  Keats's  conception  of  the  character,  debt  to  Milton's  Satan,  502 ;  to  King 
Lear,  496  ;  weakening  of  his  character  in  the  Fall  of  Hyperion,  323. 

Scott  (Sir  Walter),  xxviii,  424,  468,  535,  584. 

Sea,  Keats's  feeling  for  the,  541. 

Severn  (Joseph),  564,  568 ;  influences  Keats  in  his  appreciation  of  Elgin 
Marbles,  540 ;  influences  Keats  in  his  appreciation  of  Milton,  489 ;  Life 
and  Letters  (ed.  W.  Sharp),  Ixiii,  414, 551,  552. 

Shakespeare,  extent  and  character  of  his  influence  on  Keats,  xxxii-xxxv ;  influ- 
ence on  Keats's  vocabulary,  581 ;  cf.  also  Glossary,  585-600 ;  as  Keats's 
inspiring  genius,  410 ;  reality  of,  to  Keats,  544;  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well, 
513  ;  Ant.  and  Cleo.,  553 ;  As  You  Like  It,  xxxiii,  388,  445  ;  CoHolanus,  553 ; 
Cymbeline,  429;  Hamlet,  423,  452,  470,  546,  553;  Henry  P'.,  513;  Julius 
Casar,  440 ;  King  Lear,  xxxiii,  xxxiv,  542, 558 ;  influences  Keats's  conception 
of  Saturn,  496  ;  Macbeth,  467,  470,  500,  555  ;  Merchant  of  Venice,  414 ;  Mid- 
summer-Night's Dream,  xxxiii,  392,  395,  397,  431 ;  Much  Ado,  429,  441 ; 
Othello,  lix,  431 ;  Pericles,  424,  437,  527 ;  Richard  II.,  554 ;  Richard 
III.,  437 ;  Romeo  and  jfuliet,  391, 429, 558 ;  Sonnets,  xxxiii,  supply  motto  for 
Endymion,  417 ;  Tempest,  xxxiii,  424,  427,  534 ;  Timon  of  Athens,  500,  582 ; 
Titus  Andronicwi,  500 ;  Troilus  and  Cressida,  xlii,  429,  430,  571 ;  Twelfth 
Night,  430 ;  Venus  and  Adonis,  lix,  432 ;  Winter's  Tale,  421,  437,  455  ;  cf. 
also  409,  410,  521,  S70,  576,  580. 

Shelley  (Percy  Bysshe),  565,  566,  568  ;  his  conception  of  poetry  compared  with 
Keats's,  389 ;  his  criticisms  on  Endymion,  413  ;  on  Hyperion,  494 ;  mistakes 
as  to  Keats's  character,  401 ;  Adonais,  xix,  407;  Defence  of  Poetry,  389; 
Love's  Philosophy,  429  ;  Sonnet  on  Nile,  542  ;  cf.  also  387,  423,  424. 

Smith  (Horace),  397. 

Smollett,  Peregrine  Pickle,  580,  594. 

Sonnet,  Keats's  early  use  of  Italian  form  and  later  preference  for  Shakespearian, 
xxxiii,  543,  544 ;  his  experiments  in  sonnet  form,  548,  549. 

Spence,  Polymetis,  xxi,  xlv,  390,  433,  428^.— — ^ 

Spenser  (Edmund),  Keats  first  introdtoced  to,  by  C.  C.  Clarke,  xxi ;  he  associates 
Spenser  with  Leigh  Hunt,  xxviii ;  the  influence  of  Spenser  upon  his  genius 
as  a  whole,  xxi,  xxii,  xxxiv ;  on  Endymion,  xlv ;  on  the  Eve  of  St.  Agnes, 
Ivii ;  on  his  vocabulary,  570,  571,  578.  579,  and  cf.  Glossary,  585-600 ; 
Keats's  debt  in  Endymion,  bk.  iii.,  to  MftrHage  of -the  Medway,  442,  443 ; 
Colin  Clout's  come  home  againe,  395,  42i>  422 ;  Epithalamium,  xxi,  392, 
395  ;  the  Faerie  Queene,  xxii,  xlvii,  390-5,  397,  421-7,  430,  432,  434,  441, 
442,  450,  455,  457,  468,  472,  485,  508,  526,  544,  558,  560;  Muiopotmos, 
387 ;  Nuptial  Odes,  influence  of,  388 ;  Prothalamium,  421 ;  Shepherd's 
Calendar,  392,  471. 

Spenserians  (17th  century),  influence  on  Endymion,  xlviii,  411 ;  (i8th  century), 
influence  on  early  work  of  Keats,  xxiii,  393,  558,  582,  583. 

Stephens,  Reminiscences  of  Keats  (Houghton  MSS.),  xxvii. 

Tasso,  392. 

Taylor  (John),  Letters  to,  xxxii,  xxxiv,  Iviii,  428,  464,  466. 

Tennyson  (Alfred,  Lord),  398. 

Thomson  (James),  influence  on  Keats's  vocabulary,  583,  and  cf.  Glossary;  The 

Seasons,  420,  449,  556 ;  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  529. 
Tighe  (Mrs.),  xxiii ;  Psyche,  or  the  Legend  of  Love,  390,  392,  478. 
Titian,  Bacchus  and  Ariadne,  410,  431,  446,  447,  455,  461,  474;  his  portrait  of 

Cortez,  399. 
Tooke,  Pantheon,  xxi,  xlv,  485. 

Vergil,  393,  436,  439,  491,  500,  508;  Keats's  translation  of,  xxi. 

Versification  of  1817  volume,  xxix,  405 ;  of  early  Epistles,  394 ;  of  Endymion, 

411 ;  ol  Lamia,  Iii,  453  ;  of  Isabella,  460  ;  oiEve  of  St.  Agnes,  Iv;  oiEve  of 

St.  Mark,  526  ;  oi  Epistle  to  Reynolds,  538. 


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