That lady did, in this lone fane, Whose god was in her heart and brain: And tears from her brown eyes did stain Through the myrtle copses steaming thence Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, One eve he led me to this fane: Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: Awake in a world of ecstasy? That love, when limbs are interwoven, And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boundaries cling ing, And music, when one beloved is singing, And first, I felt my fingers sweep From my touch, that wander'd like quick flame, With some unutterable thing: The awful sound of my own voice made Of wordless thought Lionel stood To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, And the azure sky and the stormless sea And waked in a world, which was to me Nor less Had tended me in my distress, No doubt, though memory faithless be, Is our sweet child. "Tis sure most strange That Lionel great wealth had left As in an English home, dim memory So Rosalind and Helen lived together She ceased." Lo, where red morning through the They raised a pyramid of lasting ice, woods Is burning o'er the dew!" said Rosalind. And with these words they rose, and towards the flood : Under the leaves which their green garments make, Whose polish'd sides, ere day had yet begun, Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun, And know, that if love die not in the dead As in the living, none of mortal kind And when she saw how all things there were plann'd, Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind. 406 Avonais; AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. Αστηρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν έος PLATO. PREFACE. and panegyric," Paris," and "Woman," and a "Syri an Tale," 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 oppro brious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the MOSCHUS, Epitaph. Bion. meanest, 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. Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, ποτὶ σόν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες. It 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, John Keats died at Rome, of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the of 1821; 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 circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's life 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 by the bitter sense of unrequited 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 Rome, and attended in his last illness, by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, “almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend." Had I known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from The genius of the lamented person to whose mem-"such stuff as dreams are made of." His conduct is ory I have dedicated these unworthy verses, was not a golden augury of the success of his future career .. less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend where canker-worms abound, what wonder, if its animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage Oblivion for his name! 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 calumniator. 46 As to Endymion," was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who ADONAIS. I. I WEEP for ADONAIS-he is dead! Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head had celebrated with various degrees of complacency | An echo and a light unto eternity! II. Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd breath, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of death. III. O, weep for Adonais-he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV. Most musical of mourners, weep again! Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, VIII. He will awake no more, oh, never more!Within the twilight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. IX. O, weep for Adonais!-The quick Dreams, Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. X. And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head. She knew not 't was her own; as with no stain Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. light. V. Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time In which suns perish'd; others more sublime, Struck by the envious wrath of man or God, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. VI. But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals nipt before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies-the storm is overpast. VII. To that high Capital, where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal.-Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay ; Awake him not surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. XI. One from a lucid urn of starry dew Wash'd his light limbs, as if embalming them; Another clipt her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem; Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. XII. Another Splendor on his mouth alit, That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart beneath With lightning and with music: the damp death Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips; And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapor, which the cold night clips, It flash'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse. XIII. And others came,-Desires and Adorations, seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. XIV. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, XX. The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. |