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lectual companionship, more delightful from what they recall, than for what they are—more interesting for what they suggest, than for what they were ever meant to be.


Where's the Poet? show him ! show him!
Muses nine! that I may know him !
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth ;
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.


And what is love? It is a doll dress'd up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Anthony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warm’d the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.


To-night I'll have my friar-let me think About my room-I'll have it in the pink; It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, Should look thro’ four large windows and display Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way, Their glassy diamonding on 'Turkish floor; The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, To see what else the moon alone can show; While the night-breeze doth softly let us know My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ; A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there, All finished but some ringlets of her hair ; A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon A glorious folio of Anacreon ; A skull upon a mat of roses lying, Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ; An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails Of passion-flower ;-just in time there sails A cloud across the moon-the lights bring in ! And see what more my phantasy can win. It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad; The draperies are so, as tho' they had Been made for Cleopatra's winding sheet ; And opposite the stedfast eye doth ineet A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face, In letters raven-sombre, you may trace, Old “ Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin." Greek busts and statuary have ever been Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar; Therefore 'tis sure a want of attic taste That I should rather love a gothic waste Of eyesight on cinque-colored potter's clay,

Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. To My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece

And black Numidian sheep wool should be wrought,
Gold, black, and heavy from the Lama brought.
My ebon sofas should delicious be
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new,
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence.
My wine-O good ! 'tis here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.


Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryo atoms.”


Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,

Lethe's weed, and Herme's feather ; Come to-day, and come to-morrow,

I do love you both together!

I love to mark sad faces in fair weather ;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder ;

Fair and foul I love together:
Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomime ;
Funeral, and steeple-chime ;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing ;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast ;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright, and muses pale ;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale ;-
Laugh and sigh ; and laugh again ;
Oh the sweetness of the pain !

Moses bright, and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil ;
Let me see: and let me write
Of the day, and of the night-
Both together :- let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache !
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath'd with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass tomb.

A singular instance of Keats's delicate perception occurred in the composition of the “ Ode on Melancholy.” In the original manuscript, he had intended to represent the vulgar connection of Melancholy with gloom and horror, in contrast with the emotion that incites to,

glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies ;"

and which essentially

* lives in Beauty-Beauty that must die, And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adien."

The first stanza, therefore, was the following: as grim a picture as Blake or Fuseli could have dreamed and painted :

* Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,

And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,
Suitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans
To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast ;
Although your rudder be a dragon's tail
Long severed, yet still hard with agony,
Your cordage large uprootings from the skull
Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail
To find the Melancholy-whether she
Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull."

ut no sooner was this written, than the poet became conscious

at the coarseness of the contrast would destroy the general effect fluxurious tenderness which it was the object of the poem to roduce, and he confined the gross notion of melancholy to less iolent images, and let the ode at once begin,

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine ;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine,” &c.

The “Eve of St. Agnes” was begun on a visit in Hampshire, at the commencement of this year, and finished on his return to Hampstead. It is written still under Spenserian influences, but with a striking improvement in form, both of diction and versification; the story is easily conducted, and the details picturesque in the highest degree, without the intricate designing of the earlier poems. Lord Jeffrey remarks: “The glory and charm of the poem is the description of the fair maiden's antique chamber and of all that passes in that sweet and angel-guarded sanctuary, eve. ry part of which is touched with colors at once rich and delicate, and the whole chastened and harmonized in the midst of its gor. geous distinctness by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate not less clearly the exaltation, than the refinement of the author's fancy."

The greater part of this summer (1819] was passed at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight, in company with Mr. Brown, who ear. nestly encouraged the full development of the genius of his friend. A combination of intellectual effort was here attempted which could hardly have been expected to be very successful. They were to write a play between them—Brown to supply the fable, characters, and dramatic conduct-Keats, the diction and the verse. The two composers sat at a table, and as Mr. Brown sketched out the incidents of each scene, Keats translated them into his rich and ready language. As a literary diversion, this process

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