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Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light :

These the queen of spells drew in ;

She spread a charm around the spot, And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently,

Upon the slumbering maid.

The Cloud.*
. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams ;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet birds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under ;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sist the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning, my pilot, sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rilis, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack

When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings ;
And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.
That orbed maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer ;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march,

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the

tomb, I arise and upbuild it again.

To a Skylark.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still, and higher,

From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire ;

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

of the sunken sun,
O’er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy Alight ;
Like a star of heaven,

In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

**The odes To the Skylark and The Cloud, in the opinion of many critics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his productions. They were written as his mind prompted, listening to the carolling of the bird aloft in the azure sky of Italy: or marking the cloud as it sped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. His extreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectual pursuits, and rendered his mind keenly alive to every perception of outward objects, as well as to his internal sensations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of human life, the disappointments we meet, and the galling sense of our own mistakes and errors, fraught with pain; to escape from such he delivered up his soul poetry, and felt happy when he sheltered himself from the influence of human sympathies in the wildest regions of fancy.'DIkS SHELLEY, Pref. to Poet. Works.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over. flowed.

133

What thou art we know not ;

Better than all measures
What is most like thee?

Of delight and sound,
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Better than all treasures
Drops so bright to see,

That in books are found,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !
Like a poet hidden

Teach me half the gladness
In the light of thought,

That thy brain must know,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Such harmonious madness
Till the world is wrought

From my lips would flow,
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,

From 'The Sensitive Plant.'
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: And the young winds fed it with silver dew,

And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
Like a glowworm golden

And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

And the spring arose on the garden fair,
Its aërial hue

And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere ; Among the flowers and grass which screen it from And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast the view :

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
Like a rose embowered

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In its own green leaves,

In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
By warm winds deflowered,

Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want,
Till the scent it gives

As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged
thieves :

The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Sound of vernal showers

Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,

And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,

From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
All that ever was

Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Teach us, sprite or bird,

Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
What sweet thoughts are thine

Till they die of their own dear loveliness ;

;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine

And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,

Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

That the light of its tremulous bells is seen
Chorus hymeneal,

Through their pavilions of tender green ;
Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all

And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,
But an empty vaunt-

Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

Of music so delicate, soft, and intense,

It was felt like an odour within the sense ;
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?

And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?

Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, What shapes of sky or plain?

Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ;
With thy clear keen joyance

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,
Languor cannot be :

As a Mänad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Shadow of annoyance

Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Never came near thee :

Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;
Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
Waking or asleep,

The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
Thou of death must deem

And all rare blossoms from every clime,
Things more true and deep

Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? And on the stream whose inconstant bosom,

Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom,
We look before and after,

With golden and green light, slanting through
And pine for what is not :

Their heaven of many a tangled hue,
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught :

Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest And starry river-buds glimmered by, thought.

And around them the soft stream did glide and dance

With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear

;

And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,
If we were things born

Which led through the garden along and across,
Not to shed a tear,

Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near. Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,

Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells
As fair as the fabulous asphodels;
And flowerets which, drooping as day drooped too,
Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue,
To roof the glowworm from the evening dew.
And from this undefiled Paradise
The flowers—as an infant's awakening eyes
Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet
Can first lull, and at last must awaken it-
When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them,
As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem,
Shone smiling to heaven, and every one
Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ;
For each one was interpenetrated
With the light and the odour its neighbour shed,
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear,
Wrapt and filled by their mutual atmosphere.
But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit
Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
Received more than all, it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver ;
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower ;
Radiance and odour are not its dower :
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not-the beautiful!
The light winds which, from unsustaining wings,
Shed the music of many murmurings;
The beams which dart from many a star
Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar ;
The plumed insects swift and free,
Like golden boats on a sunny sea,
Laden with light and odour which pass
Over the gleam of the living grass ;
The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie
Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high,
Then wander like spirits among the spheres,
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears;

Forest Scenery.
From Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude.

The noonday sun
Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence
A narrow vale embosoms. There huge caves,
Scooped in the dark base of those airy rocks,
Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever.
The meeting boughs and implicated leaves
Wove twilight o'er the poet's path, as, led
By love, or dream, or god, or mightier death,
He sought in nature's dearest haunt, some bank,
Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark the shades accumulate—the oak,
Expanding its immense and knotty arms,
Embraces the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall cedar overarching frame
Most solemn domes within, and far below,
Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and the acacia floating hang,
Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents clothed
In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,
Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The gray trunks; and, as gamesome infants' eyes,
With gentle meanings and most innocent wiles,
Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,
These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs,
Uniting their close union ; the woven leaves
Make network of the dark-blue light of day
And the night's noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns
Beneath these canopies extend their swells,
Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyes with blooms
Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen
Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with

jasmine,
A soul-dissolving odour, to invite
To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell
Silence and twilight here, twin sisters, keep
Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades,
Like vaporous shapes half seen; beyond, a well,
Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,
Images all the woven boughs above;
And each depending leaf, and every speck
Of azure sky, darting between their chasms;
Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves
Its portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,
Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous insect, floating motionless,
Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.

The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, In which every sound, and odour, and beam, Move as reeds in a single stream ;

Each and all like ministering angels were
For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear,
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by,
Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky.

And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love,
And delight, though less bright, was far more deep,
And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep,
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were

drowned
In an ocean of dreams without a sound;
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress
The light sand which paves it-consciousness
(Only overhead the sweet nightingale
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail,
And snatches of its Elysian chant
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant);
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest
Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ;
A sweet child weary of its delight,
The feeblest, and yet the favourite,
Cradled within the embrace of night.

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Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within, nor calm around,

To
Nor that content, surpassing wealth,

Music, when sost voices die,
The sage in meditation found,

Vibrates in the memory-
And walked with inward glory crowned ;
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,

Live within the sense they quicken.
Others I see whom these surround-
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Are heaped for the beloved's bed ;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Yet now despair itself is mild,

Love itself shall slumber on.
Even as the winds and waters are ;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care

JOHN KEATS.
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,

JOHN KEATS was born in London, October 29, And I might feel in the warm air

1795, in the house of his grandfather, who kept My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

a livery-stable at Moorfields. He received his Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. education at Enfield, and in his fifteenth year was

apprenticed to a surgeon. Most of his time, howSome might lament that I were cold,

ever, was devoted to the cultivation of his literary As I, when this sweet day is gone,

talents, which were early conspicuous. During Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

his apprenticeship, he made and carefully wrote Insults with this untimely moan ;

out a literal translation of Virgil's Æneid, but They might lament—for I am one

he does not appear to have been familiar with Whom men love not; and yet regret,

more difficult Latin poetry, nor to have even Unlike this day, which, when the sun

commenced learning the Greek language (Lord Shall on its stainless glory set,

Houghton). One of his earliest friends and Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

critics was Mr Leigh Hunt, who, being shewn

some of his poetical pieces, was struck, he says, On a Faded Violet.

with the exuberant specimens of genuine though The colour from the flower is gone,

young poetry that were laid before him, and the Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me :

promise of which was seconded by the fine fervid The odour from the flower is flown,

countenance of the writer. A volume of these Which breathed of thee, and only thee. juvenile poems was published in 1817. In 1818

Keats published his Endymion, a Poetic Romance, A withered, lifeless, vacant form,

defective in many parts, but evincing rich though It lies on my abandoned breast,

undisciplined powers of imagination. The poem And mocks the heart which yet is warm

was criticised, in a strain of contemptuous severity, With cold and silent rest.

by Mr John Wilson Croker in the Quarterly Re

view; and such was the sensitiveness of the young I weep-my tears revive it not ;

poet-panting for distinction, and flattered by a I sigh-it breathes no more on me ;

few private friends—that the critique imbittered Its mute and uncomplaining lot

his existence. The first effects,' says Shelley, Is such as mine should be.

‘are described to me to have resembled insanity,

and it was by assiduous watching that he was reLines to an Indian Air.

strained from effecting purposes of suicide. The

agony of his sufferings at length produced the I arise from dreams of thee,

rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and the usual In the first sweet sleep of night,

process of consumption appears to have begun.' When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright ;

The process had begun, as was too soon apparent; I arise from dreams of thee,

but the disease was a family one, and would And a spirit in my feet

probably have appeared had no hostile criticism Has led me-who knows how ?

existed. Lord Houghton, Keats's biographer, states To thy chamber window, sweet.

that the young poet profited by the attacks of the

critics, their effect being 'to purify his style, correct The wandering airs they faint

his tendency to exaggeration, enlarge his poetical On the dark and silent stream,

studies, and produce, among other improved The Champak odours fail

efforts, that very Hyperion which called forth Like sweet thoughts in a dream ;

from Byron a eulogy as violent and unqualified as The nightingale's complaint,

the former onslaught.' Byron had termed the It dies upon her heart,

juvenile poetry of Keats, the drivelling idiotism As I must do on thine,

of the manikin.' Keats's poetry falling into the O beloved as thou art !

hands of Jeffrey, he criticised it in the Edinburgh O lift me from the grass !

Review, in a spirit of kindliness and just appreI die, I saint, I sail ;

ciation which formed a strong contrast to the Let thy love in kisses rain

criticism in the Quarterly. But this genial critique On my lips and eyelids pale.

did not appear till 1820, too late to cheer the then My cheek is cold and white, alas!

dying poet. 'Mr Keats,' says the eloquent critic, My heart beats loud and fast;

' is, we understand, still a very young man ; and Oh! press it close to thine again,

his whole works, indeed, bear evidence enough of Where it will break at last.

the fact. They manifestly require, therefore, all

136

the indulgence that can be claimed for a first inspired by the Titans : it is as sublime as attempt ; but we think it no less plain that they Æschylus.” deserve it ; for they are flushed all over with the It was the misfortune of Keats, as a poet, to rich lights of fancy, and so coloured and bestrown be either extravagantly praised or unmercifully with the flowers of poetry, that, even while per- condemned. The former was owing to the generplexed and bewildered in their labyrinths, it is ous partialities of friendship, somewhat obtrusimpossible to resist the intoxication of their sweet-ively displayed; the latter, in some degree, to ness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantments resentment of that friendship, connected as it was they so lavishly present. The models upon which with party politics and peculiar views of society as he has formed himself in the Endymion, the well as of poetry. In the one case his faults, and earliest and by much the most considerable of his in the other his merits, were entirely overlooked. poems, are obviously the Faithful Shepherdess of A few years dispelled 'these illusions and prejuFletcher, and the Sad Shepherd of Ben Jonson, dices. Keats was a true poet. If we consider his the exquisite metres and inspired diction of which extreme youth and delicate health, his solitary he has copied with great boldness and fidelity; and interesting self-instruction, the severity of the and, like his great originals, has also contrived to attacks made upon him by his hostile and powerimpart to the whole piece that true rural and ful critics, and, above all, the original richness and poetical air which breathes nly in them and in picturesqueness of his conceptions and imagery, Theocritus—which is at once homely and majestic, even when they run to waste, he appears to be luxurious and rude, and sets before us the genuine one of the greatest of the young poets-resembling sights, and sounds, and smells of the country, the Milton of Lycidas, or the Spenser of the Tears with all the magic and grace of Elysium.' The of the Muses. What easy, finished, statuesque genius of the poet was still further displayed in beauty and classic expression, for example, are his latest volume, Lamia, Isabella, the È ve of St displayed in this picture of Satúrn and Thea! Agnes, &c. This volume was well received. The state of the poet's health now became so alarming Saturn and Thea.From 'Ilyperion.' that, as a last effort for life, he was advised to try the milder climate of Italy. A young friend, Mr Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Severn, an artist (now British consul at Rome),

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, generously abandoned his professional pros

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,

Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone, pects at home, in order to accompany Keats ;

Still as the silence round about his lair ; and they sailed in September 1820. The invalid

Forest on forest hung about his head suffered severely during the voyage, and he

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, had to endure a ten days' quarantine at Naples.

Not so much life as on a summer's day The thoughts of a young lady to whom he was

Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, betrothed, and the too great probability that he But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. would see her no more, added a deeper gloom to A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more his mind, and he seems never to have rallied from By reason of his fallen divinity this depression. At Rome, Mr Severn watched Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds over him with affectionate care; Dr Clark also Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips. was unremitting in his attendance; but he daily Along the margin sand large footmarks went

No further than to where his feet had strayed, got worse, and died on the 23d of February 1821.

And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery at

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Rome, one of the most beautiful spots on which the eye and heart of man can rest.

• It is,' says

Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed;

While his bowed head seemed listening to the earth, Lord Houghton,'a grassy slope amid verdurous

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. ruins of the Honorian walls of the diminished

It seemed no force could wake him from his place ; city, and surmounted by the pyramidal tomb But there came one, who with a kindred hand which Petrarch attributed to Remus, but which Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low antiquarian truth has ascribed to the humbler With reverence, though to one who knew it not. name of Caius Cestius, a Tribune of the people She was a goddess of the infant world ; only remembered by his sepulchre. In one of By her in stature the tall Amazon those mental voyages into the past which often Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta’en

Achilles by the hair, and bent his neck ; precede death, Keats had told Severn that “he

Or with a finger stayed Ixion's wheel. thought the intensest pleasure he had received

Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, in life was in watching the growth of flowers ;"

Pedestaled haply in a palace court, and another time, after lying a while still and

When sages looked to Egypt for their lore. peaceful, he said: “I feel the flowers growing But oh! how unlike marble was that face ! over me." And there they do grow even all the winter long-violets and daisies mingling * Byron could not, however, resist the seeming smartness of with the fresh herbage, and, in the words of saying in Don Juan that Keats was killed off by one critique : Shelley, “making one in love with death to

"Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, think that one should be buried in so sweet a

Should let itself be snuffed out by an article ! place." Keats had a few days before his death Mr Croker, writing to a friend about this article,' in a letter

xpressed a wish to Mr Severn that on his which we have seen, said : Gifford added some pepper to my gravestone should be the inscription : “ Here grill.', A miserable piece of cookery they made of it! 'High as is lies one whose name was writ in water.” Shelley personal friends and by Shelley; and even ten years after his honoured the memory of Keats with his exquisite death, when the first Memoir was proposed, the woman he had elegy Adonais. Even Byron felt that the young Mr Dilke : " The kindest act would be to let him rest for ever in poet's death was

a loss to literature. The i the obscurity to which circumstances have condemned him.". --fragment of Hyperion, he said, “ seems actually Papers of a Critic, vol. i. p. 11.

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