388 KEATS

66

SPELL, AND REPOSE, OF PURE MADELINE.

No utter'd syllable

or woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble;
Paining with eloquence her balmy side!

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass;
And diamonded with panes of quaint device
Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes,

As are the tiger moth's deep damask'd wings!

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon!
Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross, soft amethyst ;
And on her hair, a glory like a saint!

She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest

Save wings, for heaven! - Porphyro grew faint,
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint!
"Anon his heart revives! Her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels, one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees!
Half hidden like a Mermaid in sea weed,
Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees
In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed!

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;
Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away y!
Haven'd alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again!
"Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd,
Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,

And listen'd to her breathing; if it chane'd

To sink into a slumb'rous tenderness?

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath'd himself; - then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness,

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And over the hush'd carpet silent stept.

"Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking moon
Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set

A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet, &c.
"And still she slept-

an azure-lidded sleep! In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd;

FANCY.

While he, from forth the closet, brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd
From Fez; and spiced dainties every one,
From silken Samarcand, to cedar'd Lebanon.
"Those delicates he heap'd with glowing hand,
On golden dishes, and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver; sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,

Filling the chilly room with perfume light.

And now, my love! my Seraph fair! awake!

Ope thy sweet eyes! for dear St. Agnes' 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!
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear faggot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;

When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon,
In a dark conspiracy

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;
While-plum'd lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway

Sapphire queen of the mid-May;

390

66

And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake, all winter thin,
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest

Quiet on her mossy nest;

Then the hurry and alarm

When the bee-hive casts its swarm;

Acorns ripe down pattering,

While the autumn breezes sing."—p. 122 - - 125.

Mr.

There is a fragment of a projected Epic, entitled 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. 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.

ROGERS'S HUMAN LIFE.

391

Human Life: a Poem.

(MARCH, 1819.)

By SAMUEL ROGERS. 4to. pp. 94. London: 1819.

THESE are very sweet verses. They do not, indeed, stir the spirit like the strong lines of Byron, nor make our hearts dance within us, like the inspiring strains of Scott: but they come over us with a bewitching softness that, in certain moods, is still more delightful and soothe the troubled spirits with a refreshing sense of truth, purity, and elegance. They are pensive rather than passionate; and more full of wisdom and tenderness than of high flights of fancy, or overwhelming bursts of emotion-while they are moulded into grace, at least as much by the effect of the moral beauties they disclose, as by the taste and judgment with which they are constructed.

The theme is HUMAN LIFE!-not only " the subject of all verse"--but the great centre and source of all interest in the works of human beings to which both verse and prose invariably bring us back, when they succeed in rivetting our attention, or rousing our emotions - and which turns every thing into poetry to which its sensibilities can be ascribed, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested! Yet it is not by any means to that which, in ordinary language, is termed the poetry or the romance of human life, that the present work is directed. The life which it endeavours to set before us, is not life diversified with strange adventures, embodied in extraordinary characters, or agitated with turbulent passions—not the life of warlike paladins, or desperate lovers, or sublime ruffians or piping shepherds or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots or preaching pedlars - or conquerors, poets, or any other species of madmen but the ordinary, practical, and amiable life of social,

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392 ROGERS CONTEMPLATIVE AND INDULGENT.

intelligent, and affectionate men in the upper ranks of society such, in short, as multitudes may be seen living every day in this country-for the picture is entirely English and though not perhaps in the choice of every one, yet open to the judgment, and familiar to the sympathies, of all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual characters. It is properly and peculiarly contemplative-and consists of a series of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, and on the marvellous, though unnoticed changes which the ordinary course of our existence is continually bringing about in our being. Its marking peculiarity in this respect is, that it is free from the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all indeed in any species of satirical or sarcastic remark. The poet looks here on man, and teaches us to look on him, not merely with love, but with reverence; and, mingling a sort of considerate pity for the shortness of his busy little career, and the disappointments and weaknesses by which it is beset, with a genuine admiration of the great capacities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to be reserved, works out a very beautiful and engaging picture, both of the affections by which Life is endeared, the trials to which it is exposed, and the pure and peaceful enjoyments with which it may often be filled.

This, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true virtue and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to meditate more, on the varying and crowded scene of human existence.-When the inordinate hopes of early youth, which provoke their own disappointment, have been sobered down by longer experience and more extended views -- when the keen contentions and eager rivalries which employed our riper age, have expired or been abandoned when we have seen, year after year, the objects of our fiercest hostility, and of our fondest affections, lie down together in the hallowed peace of the grave-when ordinary pleasures and amusements begin to be insipid, and the gay