TO THE MOON.

[John Keats, born in Moorfields, London, 29th October, 1796; died at Rome, 24th February, 1821. Whilst at school, and whilst serving his ap prenticeship to a surgeon at Edmonton, Keats was an earnest student. In 1817 he published a volume of juvenile verses, and in the following year, Endymion, a Poetic Romance, This poem was severely criticized by the Quarterly Review, and it was for some time the popular belief that the harsh criticism was the immediate cause of the poet's early death. On this subject Byron wrote:

"Who killed John Keats?

'I,' says the Quarterly,
So savage and tarta ly,

"Twas one of my feats.""

The fact was, however, that he died of consumption, and it was the hope of finding some relief from that ailment which caused him to proceed to the Continent. In 1820 he issued his third and last volume, containing Lamia, Isabella, The Bre of St. Agnes, and Hyperim. His poetry is characterized by profuse imagery and redundant fancy.]

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:

O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine,
Couched in thy brightness, dream of fields divine:
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes;
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent: the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf
Takes glimpses of thee: thou art a relief
To the poor patient oyster, where it slee; a
Within its pearly house. The mighty de ps
The monstrous set is thine-the myriad sea!
O Moon! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee.
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load.

What is there in thee, Moon! that thou should'st

move

My heart so potently? When yet a child

I oft have dried my tears when thon hast smiled.
Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went
From eve to mo n across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously:
No tumbling water ever spake romance,

But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance:
No woods were green enough, no bower divine,
Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer tide of blossoming.
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing,

And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing sprigh
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain
By thee were fashioned to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend
With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen-
Thou wast the mountain 10-the sage's pen-
The poet's harp-the voice of friends - the sun;
Thou wast the river-thou wast glory won;
Thou wast my clarion's blast-thou wast my steed→
My goblet full of wine my topmost deed: -
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon!
O what a wild and harmonized tune
My spirit struck from all the beautiful!
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull
Myself to immortality.—

SERVIAN LYRIC.1

Was it a vine, with clusters white,

That clung round Buda's stateliest tower? O no: it was a lady bright,

That hung upon an armed knight—
It was their parting hour.

They had been wedded in their youth:

Together they had spent their bloom; That hearts so long entwined in truth Asunder should be torn in ruth,

It was a cruel doom.

"Go forth," she said, "pursue thy way;
But some fair garden shouldst thou see,
Alone among the arbours stray,
And pluck a rose-leaf from the spray,
The freshest there may be;

"Unclasp thy mail, when none is by,
That leaf upon thy breast to lay.
How soon 'twill wither, fade and die,
Observe-for that poor leaf am I,
From thee, my stem away."

"And thon, my soul." the soldier said,
"When I am wandering faint and far,
Go thou to our own greenwood shade,
Where I the marble fountain made,
And placed the golden ja..

"Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well; But the strain would expire on my tongne, And the theme is too soft for my shen."

duns, jewellers, mercers, milliners: I think they always fix on Mondays for dunning: I suppose it is because they know one is sure to be horribly vapoured after a Sunday-evening's party, and they like to increase one's miseries.

Just as I was stepping into my carriage, fancying that I had got over the désagrémens of the day, a letter arrives to say that my mother is very ill and wants to see me: drove to Grosvenor Square in no very good humour for nursing, and, as I expected, found that Madame Ma Mère fancies herself much worse than she really is. Advised her to have dear

Dr. Emulsion, who always tells people they are not in danger, and who never disturbs his patient's mind with the idea of death until the moment of its arrival: found my sister support

Monday.-Awoke with a headache, the certain effect of being bored all the evening before by the never-dying strain at the Countess of Leyden's. Nothing ever was half so tiresome as musical parties: no one gives them except those who can exhibit themselves, and fancy they excel. If you speak, during the performance of one of their endless pieces, they look cross and affronted: except that all the world of fashion are there, I never would go to another; for, positively, it is ten times more fatiguing than staying at home. To be compelled to look charmed, and to applaud, when you are half-dead from suppressing yawns, and to see half-a-dozen very tolerable men, with whom one could have had a very pleasant chat, except for the stupid music, is really too bad. Let me see, what have I done this day? Oh! I remember everything went wrong, as it always does when I have a headache. Flounce, more than usually stupid, tortured my hair; and I flushed my face by scolding her. I wish people could scold without getting red, for it disfigures one for the whole day; and the consciousness of this always makes me more angry, as I think it doubly provoking in Flounce to discompose me, when she must know it spoils my looks.

Dressing from twelve to three. Madame Tornure sent me a most unbecoming cap: mem. I shall leave her off when I have paid her bill. Heigh-ho, when will that be? Tormented by

she had sat up all night with her: by-the-by, she did not look half so fatigued and ennuied as I did. They seemed both a little surprised is no standing a sick room in May. My sister at my leaving them so soon; but really there begged of me to come soon again, and cast a look of alarm (meant only for my eye) at my mother; I really think she helps to make her hippish, for she is always fancying her in danger. Made two or three calls: drove in the park: saw Belmont, who looked as if he expected to see me, and who asked if I was to be at the Duchess of Winterton's to-night. I promised to go-he seemed delighted. What would Lady Allendale say, if she saw the pleasure which the assurance of my going gave him? I long to let her see my triumph. Dined tête-à-tête-my lord very sulky-abused my friend Lady Winstanley, purposely to pique me he wished me not to go out; said it was shameful, and mamma so ill; just as if my staying at home would make her any better. Found a letter from madame the governess, saying that the children want frocks and stockings:-they are always wanting:-I do really believe they wear out their things purposely to plague me. Dressed for the Duchess of Winterton's: wore my new Parisian robe of blonde lace, trimmed, in the most divine way, with lilies of the valley. Flounce said I looked myself, and I believe there was some truth in it for the little discussion with my Caro had given an animation and lustre to my eyes. I gave Flounce my puce-coloured satin pelisse as a peace-offering for the morning scold.-The party literally full almost to suffocation. Belmont was hovering near the door of the anteroom, as if waiting my approach: he said I never looked so resplendent: Lady Allendale appeared ready to die with envy-very few

Tuesday.-Awoke in good spirits, having had delightful dreams-sent to know how mamma felt, and heard she had a bad night: -must call there, if I can:-wrote madame a lecture, for letting the children wear out their clothes so fast: Flounce says they wear out twice as many things as Lady Woodland's children. Read a few pages of Amelia Mansfield: very affecting: put it by for fear of making my eyes red. Lady Mortimer came to see me, and told me a great deal of scandal chit-chat: she is very amusing. I did not get out until past five: too late then to go and see mamma. Drove in the park and saw Lady Litchfield walking: got out and joined her: the people stared a good deal. Belmont left his horse and came to us: he admired my walking dress very much.-Dined alone, and so escaped a lecture:-had not nerves sufficient to see the children-they make such a noise and spoil one's clothes. Went to the opera: wore my tissue turban, which has a good effect. Belmont came to my box and sat every other visitor out. My lord came in and looked, as usual, sulky. Wanted me to go away without waiting for the dear delightful squeeze of the round room. My lord scolded the whole way home, and said I should have been by the sickbed of my mother instead of being at the opera. I hummed a tune, which I find is the best mode of silencing him, and he muttered something about my being unfeeling and incorrigible.

Wednesday. Did not rise till past one o'clock, and from three to five was occupied in trying on dresses and examining new trimmings. Determined on not calling to see mamma this day, because, if I found her much worse, I might be prevented from going to Almack's, which I have set my heart on:drove out shopping, and bought some lovely things: met Belmont, who gave me a note which he begged me to read at my leisure:— had half a mind to refuse taking it, but felt confused, and he went away before I recovered my self-possession:-almost determined on returning it without breaking the seal, and put it into my reticule with this intention; but somehow or other my curiosity prevailed, and

darts, and declarations:-felt very angry at first; for really it is very provoking that one can't have a comfortable little flirtation half-adozen times with a man, but that he fancies he may declare his passion, and so bring on a dénouement; for one must either cut the creature, which, if he is amusing, is disagreeable, or else he thinks himself privileged to repeat his love on every occasion. How very silly men are in acting thus; for if they continued their assiduities without a positive declaration, one might affect to misunderstand their attentions, however marked; but those decided declarations leave nothing to the imagination; and offended modesty, with all the guards of female propriety, are indispensably up in arms. I remember reading in some book that “A man has seldom an offer of kindness to make to a woman, that she has not a presentiment of it some moments before;" and I think it was in the same book that I read, that a continuation of quiet attentions, leaving their meaning to the imagination, is the best mode of gaining a female heart. My own experience has proved the truth of this. I wish Belmont had not written to me:-I don't know what to do:-how shocked my mother and sister would be if they knew it !—I have promised to dance with him at Almack's too:how disagreeable! I shall take the note and return it to him, and desire that he will not address me again in that style. I have read the note again, and I really believe he loves me very much:-poor fellow, I pity him:— how vexed Lady Winstanley would be if she knew it I must not be very angry with him: I'll look grave and dignified, and so awe him, but not be too severe. I have looked over the billet again, and don't find it so presumptuous as I first thought it:-after all, there is nothing to be angry about, for fifty women of rank have had the same sort of thing happen to them without any mischief following it. Belmont says I am a great prude, and I believe I am; for I frequently find myself recurring to the sage maxims of mamma and my sister, and asking myself what would they think of so and so. Lady Winstanley laughs at them and calls them a couple of precise quizzes; but still I have remarked how much more lenient they are to a fault than she is. Heigh-ho, I am afraid they have been too lenient to mine:but I must banish melancholy reflections, and dress for Almack's. Flounce told me, on finishing my toilette, that I was armed for conquest; and that I never looked so beautiful. Mamma would not much approve of Flounce's

familiar mode of expressing her admiration; but, poor soul, she only says what she thinks. -I have observed that my lord dislikes Flounce very much; but so he does every one that I

like.

Never was there such a delightful ball:*though I am fatigued beyond measure, I must note down this night's adventures: I found the rooms quite filled, and narrowly escaped being locked out by the inexorable regulations of the Lady Patronesses, for it only wanted a quarter to twelve when I entered. By-the-by, I have often wondered why people submit to the haughty sway of those ladies; but I suppose it is that most persons dislike trouble, and so prefer yielding to their imperious dictates to incurring a displeasure, which would be too warmly and too loudly expressed, not to alarm the generality of quiet people. There is a quackery in fashion, as in all other things, and any one who has courage enough (I was going to write impudence), rank enough, and wealth enough, may be a leader. But here am I moralizing on the requisites of a leader of fashion, when I should be noting down the delicious scene of this night in her favourite and favoured temple. I tried to look very grave at poor Belmont; but the lights, the music, and the gaiety of the scene around me, with the consciousness of my looking more than usually well, gave such an exhilaration to my spirits, that I could not contract my brows into anything like a frown, and without a frown, or something approaching it, it is impossible to look grave. Belmont took advantage of my good spirits to claim my hand and pressed it very much. I determined to postpone my lecture to him until the next good opportunity, for a ball-room is the worst place in the world to act the moral or sentimental. Apropos of Belmont, what have I done with his note?My God, what a scrape have I got into! left my reticule, into which I had put the note, on my sofa, and the note bears the evident marks of having been opened by some one who could not fold it again: it must have been Flounce. I have often observed her curiosity -and now I am completely in her power. What shall I do? After serious consideration, I think it the wisest plan to appear not to suspect her, and part with her the first good opportunity. I feel all over in a tremor, and can write no more.

I

Thursday.-Could not close my eyes for three hours after I got to bed; and when I did, dreamed of nothing but detections, duels, and exposures:-awoke terrified:-I feel nervous and wretched:--Flounce looks more than

usually important and familiar-or is it conscience that alarms me? Would to Heaven I had never received that horrid note—or that I had recollected to take it to Almack's and give it back to him. I really feel quite ill. Madame requested an audience, and has told me she can no longer remain in my family, as she finds it impossible to do my children justice unassisted by me. I tried to persuade her to stay another quarter, but she firmly, but civilly, declined. This is very provoking, for the children are fond of and obedient to madame, and I have had no trouble since she has been with them; besides, my mother recommended her, and will be annoyed at her going. I must write to madame and offer to double her salary; all governesses, at least all that I have tried, like money. I must lie down, I feel so fatigued and languid:-mamma is worse, and really I am unable to go to her; for I am so nervous that I could be of no use.

Friday. I am summoned to my mother, and my lord says she is in the utmost danger. Madame, to add to my discomforts, has declined my offers: I feel a strong presentiment of evil, and dread I know not what..

Good Heavens! what a scene have I witnessed-my dear and excellent mother was insensible when I got to her, and died without seeing or blessing me. Oh! what would I not give to recall the past, or to bring back even the last fleeting week, that I might atone, in some degree, for my folly-my worse than folly-my selfish and cruel neglect of the best of mothers! Never shall I cease to abhor myself for it. Never till I saw that sainted form for ever insensible did I feel my guilt. From day to day I have deceived myself with the idea that her illness was not dangerous, and silenced all the whispers of affection and duty, to pursue my selfish and heartless pleasures. How different are the resignation and fortitude of my sister, from my frantic grief! she has nothing to accuse herself of, and knows that her care and attention soothed the bed of death. But how differently was I employed! distraction is in the thought; I can write no more, for my tears efface the words.

Saturday. My dear and estimable sister has been with me, and has spoken comfort to my afflicted soul. She conveyed to me a letter from my sainted parent, written a few hours before her death, which possibly this exertion accelerated. The veil which has so long shrouded my reason is for ever removed, and all my selfishness and misconduct are laid bare to my view. Oh my mother-you whose pure counsel and bright example in life could not preserve your

unworthy child-from the bed of death your last effort has been to save her. As a daughter, a wife, and a mother, how have I blighted your hopes and wounded your affections.

My sister says, that my mother blessed me with her last words, and expressed her hopes that her dying advice would snatch me from the paths of error. Those dying hopes, and that last blessing, shall be my preservatives. I will from this hour devote myself to the performance of those duties that I have so shamefally, so cruelly neglected. My husband, my children with you will I retire from those scenes of dissipation and folly, so fatal to my repose and virtue; and in retirement commune with my own heart, correct its faults, and endeavour to emulate the excellencies of my lamented mother.

Oh! may my future conduct atone for the past-but never, never let the remembrance of my errors be effaced from my mind.

HYMN

BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI

Hast thou a charm to stay the Morning Star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy buse
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gazed up on thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense.
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought.
Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret Joy:
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty Vision passing-there,

As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstacy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake! Green Vales and icy Cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale!

O struggling with the Darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
Companion of the Morning Star at dawn,
Thyself Earth's ROSY STAR, and of the dawn

Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amainTorrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bale the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garl inds at your feet?-
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise !

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure serene Into the depth of clonds that veil thy breast-Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base, Slow-traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the s'ars and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

COLERIDGE,