IV. EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA.

'O! WERE I ONE OF THE OLYMPIAN TWELVE

DAISY'S SONG

FOLLY'S SONG

.427

428

428

'ASLEEP! O SLEEP A LITTLE WHILE, WHITE

LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A VISIT TO

BURNS'S COUNTRY.

446

NOTE. The frontispiece is a photogravure by John Andrew and
Son from a painting made by Joseph Severn in his old age after the
picture painted by him in his youth. The painting was in the posses-
sion of the late John W. Field, Esq., and is now the property of
Williams College, by whose courtesy this copy was made.

THE POEMS OF JOHN KEATS

EARLY POEMS

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 distil,
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 kingfisher saw his plumage bright, Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light 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

Of the bright waters; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously

Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide,
Which, as it were in gentle amity,

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
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.

ON DEATH

CAN death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss 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.

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 earth the good man base detraction bars From thy fair name, and waters it with tears.

TO BYRON

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,
Hadst 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 veil,
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.

'WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN'

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 spirit leaps, and prances,
E'en then my soul with exultation dances
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

Thy winning graces; - to be thy defender
I hotly burn-to be a Calidore-

A very Red Cross Knight-a stout Leander-
Might I be lov'd 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 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?
God! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats
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,