Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, The voice I hear, this passing night, was heard The same that oft-times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."- p. 108-111. We know nothing at once so truly fresh, genuine, and English,— and, at the same time so full of poetical feeling, and Greek elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn: 66 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun! Conspiring with him now, to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run! Drows'd with the fumes of poppies; while thy hook Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours! "Where are the songs of Spring! Ay, where are they? One of the sweetest of the smaller poems is that entitled "The Eve of St. Agnes:" though we can now afford but a scanty extract. The superstition is, that if a maiden goes to bed on that night, without supper, and never looks up after saying her prayers, till she falls asleep, she will see her destined husband by her bedside the moment she opens her eyes. The fair Madeline, who was in love with the gentle Porphyro, but thwarted by an imperious guardian, resolves to try this spell: and Porphyro, who has a suspicion of her purpose, naturally determines to do what he can to help it to a happy issue; and accordingly prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him to her virgin bower; where he watches reverently, till she sinks in slumber; - and then, arranging a most elegant dessert by her couch, and gently rousing her with a tender and favourite air, finally reveals himself, and persuades her to steal from the castle under his protection. The opening stanza is a fair specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition. "St. Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter cold it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was acold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the bedesman's fingers, while he told Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayers he saith." But the glory and charm of the poem is in the description of the fair maiden's antique chamber, and of all that passes in that sweet and angel-guarded sanctuary: every part of which is touched with colours at once rich and delicate- and the whole chastened and harmonised, in the midst of its gorgeous distinctness, by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate not less clearly the exaltation than the refinement of the author's fancy. We cannot resist adding a good part of this de scription. "Out went the taper as she hurried in! Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died: 388 KEATS SPELL, AND Repose, of PURE MADELINE. No utter'd syllable But to her heart, her heart was voluble; "A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass; Save wings, for heaven! - Porphyro grew faint, 66 But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled! Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lay; And listen'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And over the hush'd carpet silent stept. "Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking moon A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon FANCY. While he, from forth the closet, brought a heap "Those delicates he heap'd with glowing hand, Filling the chilly room with perfume light. And now, my love! my Seraph fair! awake! Ope thy sweet eyes! for dear St. Agues' sake!'" 389 It is difficult to break off in such a course of citation: But we must stop here; and shall close our extracts with the following lively lines: "O sweet Fancy! Let her loose! Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is muffled, To banish Even from her sky. Thou shalt hear Distant harvest carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn; And, in the same moment - hark! Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw. Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Then the hurry and alarm When the bee-hive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down pattering, While the autumn breezes sing."—p. 122 There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled 66 Hyperion," on the expulsion of Saturn and the Titanian deities by Jupiter and his younger adherents, of which we cannot advise the completion: For, though there are passages of some force and grandeur, it is sufficiently obvious, from the specimen before us, that the subject is too far removed from all the sources of human interest, to be successfully treated by any modern author. Mr. Keats has unquestionably a very beautiful imagination, a perfect ear for harmony, and a great familiarity_with the finest diction of English poetry; but he must learn not to misuse or misapply these advantages; and neither to waste the good gifts of nature and study on intractable themes, nor to luxuriate too recklessly on such as are more suitable. |