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SONNET

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN

FRESH morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,-now from gloominess
I mount for ever-not an atom less

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say, "Stand,"
Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frown 11
On abject Cæsars-not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

HYMN TO APOLLO

I.

GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,

And of the golden fire,
Charioteer

Of the patient year,

Where-where slept thine ire,

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,
Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story,

Or was I a worm-too low crawling, for death? O Delphic Apollo !

II.

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.

Sonnet 11 mighty] very Woodhouse.

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 !

III.

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 !

SONNET

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the Eastern light,
On pinions that naught moves but pure delight,
So fled thy soul into the realms above,
Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright
Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight,

Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire

In melodies that even Heaven fair
Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire

Of the omnipotent Father, cleavest the air
On holy message sent-What pleasures higher?
Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

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KEATS

STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE

I.

O COME Georgiana! the rose is full blown,
The riches of Flora are lavishly strown,

The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,
The West is resplendently clothed in beams.

II.

O come! let us haste to the freshening shades,
The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades;
Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,
And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims.

III.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed,
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head:
And there Georgiana I'll sit at thy feet,
While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat.

IV.

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.

V.

Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses?
That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses:
So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,
With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.

Title] Stanzas to Miss Wylie G. Keats's transcript: To Emma, Woodhouse's.

I 1 Georgiana !] my dear Emma! Woodhouse. III 3 There, beauteous Emma, Woodhouse.

SONNET

OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far-far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bier-
Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

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When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

SONNET

BEFORE he went to feed with owls and bats
Nebuchadnezzar had an ugly dream,

Worse than an Hus'if's when she thinks her cream Made a Naumachia for mice and rats.

So scared, he sent for that "Good King of Cats"
Young Daniel, who soon did pluck away the beam
From out his eye, and said he did not deem
The sceptre worth a straw-his Cushions old door-mats.
A horrid nightmare similar somewhat

Of late has haunted a most motley crew,

Most loggerheads and Chapmen-we are told

That any Daniel tho' he be a sot

Can make the lying lips turn pale of hue

By belching out "ye are that head of Gold."

SONNET

WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF VULGAR SUPERSTITION

THE church bells toll a melancholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound

In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.

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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.

SONNET

AFTER dark vapors have oppress'd our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieved of its pains,

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Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May; The eyelids with the passing coolness play Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains. The calmest thoughts come round us; as of leaves Budding-fruit ripening in stillness-Autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheavesSweet Sappho's cheek-a smiling infant's breathThe gradual sand that through an hour-glass runsA woodland rivulet-a Poet's death.

SONNET

[Written at the end of" The Floure and the Lefe"]

THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse:
The honied lines do freshly interlace
To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And by the wandering melody may trace
Which way the tender-legged linnet hops.
Oh! what a power hath white Simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I that for ever feel athirst for glory
Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings
Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.

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