172 From the Second Hyperion I Turning from these with awe, once more I raised My eyes to fathom the space every way; The embossèd roof, the silent massy range Of columns north and south, ending in mist Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates Were shut against the sunrise evermore.— Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off An image, huge of feature as a cloud, At level of whose feet an altar slept, To be approach'd on either side by steps And marble balustrade, and patient travail To count with toil the innumerable degrees. Towards the altar sober-paced I went, Repressing haste, as too unholy there; And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine One minist'ring; and there arose a flame.— When in mid-way the sickening east wind Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, And fills the air with so much pleasant health That even the dying man forgets his shroud ;— Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, Sending forth Maian incense, spread around Forgetfulness of everything but bliss, And clouded all the altar with soft smoke. ... II 'High Prophetess,' said I,' purge off, Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.''None can usurp this height,' return'd that shade, 'But those to whom the miseries of the world Maian]*. Are misery, and will not let them rest. Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.'— 'Those whom thou spak'st of are no visionaries,' Rejoin'd that voice-' They are no dreamers weak, They seek no wonder but the human face; No music but a happy-noted voice They come not here, they have no thought to come— To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing, Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. . . .' sooth] gentle. Keats. 173 La Belle Dame sans Merci O WHAT can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; I met a Lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a faery's child ;—- I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide ! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill-side. I saw pale Kings, and Princes too, I saw their starved lips in the gloam And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, TELL me where is Fancy bred, It is engender'd in the eyes, Keats. 175* Let us all ring Fancy's knell : L'Allegro HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorn Shakespeare. 'Mongst horrid shapes and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come thou Goddess fair and free, The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring As he met her once a-Maying, And fresh-blown Roses wash'd in dew, So bucksom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles, 24. buxom] well-favoured. debonair] gracious. ΙΟ 20 |