VIII. ΤΟ T IME'S sea hath been five years at its slow ebb; Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand; Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web, And snared by the ungloving of thine hand. And yet I never look on midnight sky, But I behold thine eyes' well memoried light; I cannot look upon the rose's dye, But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight; I cannot look on any budding flower, But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips, And harkening for a love-sound, doth devour Its sweets in the wrong sense:-Thou dost eclipse Every delight with sweet remembering, And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. O IX. TO SLEEP. SOFT embalmer of the still midnight! Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine; O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close, Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws A lady whom he saw for some few moments at Vauxhall. Around my bed its lulling charities; Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength, for darkness burrowing like a mole Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.' 1819. X. ON FAME. AME, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees, But makes surrender to some thoughtless boy, And dotes the more upon a heart at ease; The rough draft of this sonnet is to be seen in the flyleaf of the "Paradise Lost," that contains Keats's Notes on Milton-published in the American magazine, "The Dial." It is as follows: "O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Our gloom-flush'd eyes embower'd from the light; O soothest Sleep, if so it please thee, close My willing eyes in midst of this thine hymn, Or wait the amen ere thy poppy throws Its sweet dark dews o'er every pulse and limb, The rest is illegible and unfinished. The version in Keats's own copy of "Endymion" only differs from the VOL. III. 36 text in the substitution, in the eighth line, of the epithet 'dewy' for 'lulling.' She is a Gipsy,- will not speak to those Who have not learnt to be content without her; A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd close, Who thinks they scandal her who talk about her; A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; Ye love-sick Bards! repay her scorn for scorn; Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that ye are ! Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 1819. XI. ON FAME. "You cannot eat your cake and have it too."-Proverb. OW fever'd is the man, who cannot look blood, Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom, Should darken her pure grot with muddy gloom; But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed, And the ripe plum still wears its dim attire; The undisturbed lake has crystal space; Why then should man, teasing the world for grace, Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed? 1819. No God, no Demon of severe response, Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell. Then to my human heart I turn at once. Heart! Thou and I are here, sad and alone; I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain! O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan, To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain. Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease, My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; Yet would I on this very midnight cease, And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds; Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser-Death is Life's high meed. 1819. XIII. ON A DREAM. S Hermes once took to his feathers light, When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and slept, So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright, So play'd, so charm'd, so conquer'd, so bereft The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes, And seeing it asleep, so fled away, Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day; But to that second circle of sad Hell, Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell Their sorrows,-pale were the sweet lips I saw, Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form I floated with, about that melancholy storm. 1819. XIV. I F by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, To fit the naked foot of poesy; Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress 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. 1819. |