Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, With music sweet as love, which overflows Or how could thy notes flow in such a her bower; Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue crystal stream? With some pain is fraught; Among the flowers and grass, which screen Our sweetest songs are those that tell of it from the view; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives saddest thought. Makes faint with too much sweet these I know not how thy joy we ever should heavy-wingéd thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Joyous and clear and fresh thy music Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine! I have never heard Praise of love or wine the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, That panted forth a flood of rapture so The world should listen then, as I am JOHN KEATS. 129 JOHN KEATS. [1796-1821.] THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES. SAINT AGNES' Eve, -ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 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 grasped his fingers in her palsied hand, Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race! "Get hence! get hence! there's dwarf- He had a fever late, and in the fit Then there's that old Lord Maurice, More tame for his gray hairs-Alas me! flit! Flit like a ghost away."-"Ah! gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this armchair sit, And tell me how"-"Good saints! not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." grace, 131 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn aud evening, Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepyeyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his deinon all the monstrous debt. "It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame: "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while. Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, When my weak voice shall whisper its Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." |