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 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, 20 Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; Thought after thought to nourish up the light Written according to George Keats at Margate, August, 1816, and included in the 1817 volume. FULL many a dreary hour have I past, 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 10 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 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, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, As gracefully descending, light and thin, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, him. 80 Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night. For tasting joys like these, sure I should be Happier, and dearer to society. At times, 't is true, I've felt relief from pain MANY the wonders I this day have seen: The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; the laurell'd peers Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoy- Who from the feathery gold of evening 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 't is meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses, I'll gather some by spells, and incan tation. SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM This poem was published in the 1817 volume where it immediately precedes Calidore. Leigh Hunt, when reviewing the volume on its appearance, speaks of the two poems as connected, and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written continuously. The same copy contains a memorandum 'marked by Leigh Hunt — 1816.' Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry; For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye. Not like 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, Could charm them into such an attitude. We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight, 10 To show this wonder of its gentle might. Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet, 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 young 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, Stare at the grandeur of the balancing? 30 And that bright lance, against the fretted wall, 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 |