Where some old cavern hoar seems yet to keep
The moonlight of the expired night asleep,
Through which the awakened day can never peep;
A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's,

Where secure sleep may kill thine innocent lights;
Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain
Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again.
And we will talk, until thought's melody
Become too sweet for utterance, and it die
In words, to live again in looks, which dart
With thrilling tone into the voiceless heart,
Harmonizing silence without a sound.

Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound,
And our veins beat together; and our lips,
With other eloquence than words, eclipse

The soul that burns between them; and the wells
Which boil under our being's inmost cells,
The fountains of our deepest life, shall be
Confused in passion's golden purity,
As mountain-springs under the morning Sun.
We shall become the same, we shall be one
Spirit within two frames, oh! wherefore two?
One passion in twin-hearts, which grows and grew
Till like two meteors of expanding flame,

Those spheres instinct with it become the same,
Touch, mingle, are transfigured; ever still
Burning, yet ever inconsumable:

In one another's substance finding food,

Like flames too pure and light and unimbued

To nourish their bright lives with baser prey,
Which point to Heaven and cannot pass away:
One hope within two wills, one will beneath
Two overshadowing minds, one life, one death,
One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality,
Woe is me!

And one annihilation.

The winged words on which my soul would pierce
Into the height of love's rare Universe,

Are chains of lead around its flight of fire.
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

Weak verses, go, kneel at your Sovereign's feet,
And
say:-
:-"We are the masters of thy slave;
"What wouldest thou with us and ours and thine?"
Then call your sisters from Oblivion's cave,
All singing loud: "Love's very pain is sweet,
But its reward is in the world divine,

Which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave."
So shall ус live when I am there.

Then haste
Over the hearts of men, until ye meet
Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest,

And bid them love each other and be blest:

And leave the troop which errs, and which

reproves,

And come and be my guest,-for I am Love's.

added

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find as full content in of five 14, 1822, again he says; – "The repopagchidion I cannot look at ; the person whom it celebrates trae a

letter

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J.A. Symonds.

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ADONAIS.

AN ELEGY ON

THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS,

AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETC.

Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζώοισιν έφος·
Νῦν δὲ θανών, λάμπεις ἔσπερος ἐν φθιμένοις, α

PLATO.

Sheller under the litte

"This distisk is translated by Shelley

I Stella.

- Aage 015.

-

court the remark, give the prom.

it seems to me a "plausible suggestions that the name Adriais stand zu a alone form of "advice", but in not, I classic author ) was adopted by Edyll 7 Bio

theve, to be found in
any
poet to wall to mind the

M. M. Rosette.

PREFACE.

Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, ποτὶ σὸν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες
Πῶς τευ τοῖς χείλεσσι ποτέδραμε, κοὐκ ἐγλυκάνθη;
Τις δὲ βροτὸς τοσσοῦτον ἀνάμερος, ἢ κεράσαι τοι,
Η δοῦναι λαλέοντι τὸ φάρμακον ; ἔκφυγεν ᾠδάν.

MOSCHUS, EPITAPH. BION.

له

Ir is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem, a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled, prove at least that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of "Hyperion," as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years.

b

John Keats died at Rome, of a consumption, in his twentyfourth year, on the 27th of December, 1820, and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I
have dedicated these unworthy verses, was not less delicate
and fragile than it was beautiful; and where canker-worms

Fa
I an incorect statement. John Tomate dies the 23 of February.

с

Bion, a potion came to thy mouth which soother like a potion.

всем

Thou didst speak? Flex be not from the voice of thy
Ringing? — J. P. Hahaffy.

1821.

was

вати

To doubt Shelly here refere to the writer of the Quarterly Reviews notice of Leaon aux Cegular, whom he (after he became convinces it not by Southey) - and not be alone-believes to be the Rev. Hu. (late Dean / Milman. It appears elsewhere that be ascribed to the have the harsh critique ADONAIS. rendymion. T5I am matted

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abound, what wonder, if its young flower was blighted in
the bud? The savage criticism on his "Endymion," which
appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most violent
effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated
ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid
consumption ensued; and the succeeding acknowledgments
from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers,
were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.

It may be well said, that these wretched men know not
what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders
without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a
heart made callous by many blows, or one, like Keats's,
composed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates
is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calum-
niator. As to "Endymion," was it a poem, whatever might
be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who
had celebrated with various degrees of complacency and
panegyric, "Paris," and "Woman," and a "Syrian Tale,"
and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barret, and Mr. Howard Payne,
and a long list of the illustrious obscure? Are these the
men, who in their venal good-nature, presumed to draw a
parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman and Lord Byron?
What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed
all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery
dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his
opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the mean-
est, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of
the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that,
murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used

none.

The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's .ife were not made known to me until the Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of Endymion" was exasperated at the bitter sense of unreqnited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied

to stali paitively that the civices of Shelly was not by according to mashin it was affirmee by Sorthouse (end Brought,

and

to be the handswak of leoleridge, 12. The lobe
& Judge-
lear in correct. Host literary enquirers, at the permet day,
1. Gifford the reviews of Keat. _ "M.M. Rritic

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