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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 fla es 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,
And one annihilation. Woe is me!
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,
—“We are the masters of thy slave;
6 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 ye 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
And come and be my guest,—for I am Love's.
State of its of fooruse, Shelte
, tunidas itke reunt as a kelime of me already dead, the top-flicet altiusin 'to its calped realitu : - Face que prin excclans teen in love with
Autijoue , fint is full content in
:ary letter of five it, ifor, a
the repopagchidin I (heue A loch et; ite person when it clefiae mea
cloud nestat and hoon ken elasti taun it beulaus te
embrace. If you
aut curious, howerce, to hear what I am and have bear, it will tell you something с,—
laje feeling ou e alwap in love with something or other; the enfere it is not easy In epinte cared in flesh and it, causide in seeking in
a muntal comop the likes 7 what is herbase, eterud - ja Zmande.
AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETO.
'Αστήρ πρίν μεν έλαμπες ένα ζώοισιν έφος:
Νύν δε θανών, λάμπεις εσπερος εν φθιμένοις. «
arhie diatok ie tomatetzt g
by Stelle 2 Stella – Page 315,
It has been stated before now that Adonais in modelled on
Brion. Stelle bunicelf iz court the remark
row ah, gue the Poten neatro zou moschun; and it selure to me a plausible suspections that the name Adrenie
släns zu a florie form of "adnie", but is not, I there to be formed
classe author) was adopted by
M. M. Rosetti
Φάρμακον ήλθε, Βίων, ποτί σον στόμα, φάρμακον είδες
Πώς τευ τοις χείλεσσι ποτέδραμε, κούκ έγλυκάνθη;
Τίς δε βρωτός τοσσούτον ανάμερος, ή κεράσαι τοι,
"Η δούναι λαλέοντι το φάρμακον; έκφυγεν ηδάν.
Moschus, EPITAPH. Bion. a
Ir is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this
poem, a criticism upon the clairns 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 composi-
tions were inodelled, 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
John Keats died at Rome, of a consumption, in his twenty-
fourth 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 deso-
late, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The ceme-
tery 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
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
Au incorrect at alement. John Keate dies the
Februay, Bre, e filin soothes
come to the sweeth ishik toother like a betina.
How did it touch the like and ká change ile biten ho santuen?
to berage of een
to give thee the prison
an those didat e peak? Flea he not from the voice of thy
e to teacht Shell, here arfer to the milerozih Bakal Persis notice of Learn
Gyulha, whom te loftes te terme enurucat it was not by Southey
deine Ilali Neau/ huiluau Itap been elevhese itathe accesiber to it
have the tuch erit quidosans. m kamio. 750 aw wusthed
- and not be alone believed to be the Rev. u.
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 penetrabie stuff. COne 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
bad celebrated with various degrees of complacency and
panegyric, “ Paris," and " Woman," and a “Syrian Tale,"
and Mrs. Letanu, 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
The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keate'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 unre. anited 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 liad lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied
to attitaihick that the cenner of Shelly accoday to Medhin it was affirmed by trbhouse Lend Broughton
Thu, u learn, is correct. hat literary enquirert, at the filent day attribute to Giffore the croiler of keat. _ Wm. Rasti