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 awaked eyes?
I wandered 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 fan
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A Brooklet scarce espied

'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed, Blue, freckle pink, and budded Syrian

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 aurorian love.
The winged boy I knew;

But who wast thou O happy happy dove?
His Psyche true?

O latest born, and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded Hierarchy !
Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star,

Or Vesper amorous glow-worm of the sky; Fairer than these though Temple thou hadst none, Nor Altar heap'd with flowers;

Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;

No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet

From chain-swung Censer teemingNo shrine, no grove, no Oracle, no heat Of pale mouth'd Prophet dreaming!

O Bloomiest! though too late for antique vows;
Too, too late for the fond believing Lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the Air, the water and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retir'd
From happy Pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired.
O let me be thy Choir and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;

Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swinged Censer teeming;

Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouth'd Prophet dreaming!

Yes, I will be thy Priest, and build a fane

In some untrodden region of my Mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind.

Far, far around shall those dark cluster'd trees

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; And there by Zephyrs streams and birds and bees The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep. And in the midst of this wide-quietnesss

A rosy Sanctuary will I dress

With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain;
With buds and bells and stars without a name;
With all the gardener-fancy e'er could feign,

Who breeding flowers will never breed the same-
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win ;

A bright torch and a casement ope at night

To let the warm Love in.

Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.
Incipit altera Sonneta.

I have been endeavouring to discover a better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The legitimate does not suit the language over well from the pouncing rhymes-the other appears too elegiac-and the couplet at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect—I do not pretend to have succeeded it will explain itself.

If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained Loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;

Let us inspect the Lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown,
So, if we may not let the muse be free,

She will be bound with Garlands of her own.

This is the third of May, and everything is in delightful forwardness; the violets are not withered before the peeping of the first rose. You must let me know everything-how parcels go and come-what papers you have, and what newspapers you want, and other things. God bless you, my dear brother and sister,

Your ever affectionate brother,
John Keats.

My dear Fanny,

CV.

To FANNY KEATS.

[Postmark, Hampstead, 13 May 1819.]

I have a Letter from George at last-and it contains, considering all things, good news-I have been with it to day to Mrs. Wylie's, with whom I have left it. I shall have it again as soon as possible and then I will walk over and read it to you. They are quite well and settled tolerably in comfort after a great deal of fatigue and harrass. They had the good chance to meet at Louisville with a Schoolfellow of ours. You may expect me within three days. I am writing to night several notes concerning this to many of my friends.' Good night! god bless you.

CVI.

John Keats

To WILLIAM HASLAM.

My dear Haslam,

[Postmark, Hampstead, 13 May 1819.]

We have news at last—and tolerably good-they have not gone to the Settlement-they are both in good Health I read the letter to Mrs. Wylie to day and

As far as I am aware, this and the next are all of the "several notes" which have as yet come to the surface; but it is quite likely that others may be extant, and will be brought to light sooner or later.

requested her after her Sons had read it-they would enclose it to you immediately which was faithfully promised. Send it me like Lightning that I may take it to Walthamstow.

Yours ever and amen

John Keats

My dear Fanny,

CVII.

To FANNY KEATS.

[Postmark, Hampstead, 26 May 1819.]

I have been looking for a fine day to pass at Walthamstow there has not been one Morning (except Sunday and then I was obliged to stay at home) that I could depend upon. I have I am sorry to say had an

accident with the Letter-I sent it to Haslam and he returned it torn into a thousand pieces. So I shall be obliged to tell you all I can remember from Memory. You would have heard from me before this but that I was in continual expectation of a fine Morning-I want also to speak to you concerning myself. Mind I do not purpose to quit England, as George [h]as done; but I am afraid I shall be forced to take a voyage or two. However we will not think of that for some Months. Should it be a fine morning tomorrow you will see me. Your affectionate Brother

John