Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 116

John Keats. 1795-1821

628. Ode on Melancholy

NO, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats. 1795-1821

629. Fragment of an Ode to Maia (Written on May-Day, 1818)

MOTHER of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!

May I sing to thee As thou wast hymned on the sh.o.r.es of Baiae?

Or may I woo thee In earlier Sicilian? or thy smiles Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian isles, By bards who died content on pleasant sward, Leaving great verse unto a little clan?

O give me their old vigour! and unheard Save of the quiet primrose, and the span Of heaven, and few ears, Rounded by thee, my song should die away Content as theirs, Rich in the simple wors.h.i.+p of a day.

John Keats. 1795-1821

630. Bards of Pa.s.sion and of Mirth Written on the Blank Page before Beaumont and Fletcher's Tragi-Comedy 'The Fair Maid of the Inn'

BARDS of Pa.s.sion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth!

Have ye souls in heaven too, Doubled-lived in regions new?

Yes, and those of heaven commune With the spheres of sun and moon; With the noise of fountains wondrous, And the parle of voices thund'rous; With the whisper of heaven's trees And one another, in soft ease Seated on Elysian lawns Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Underneath large blue-bells tented, Where the daisies are rose-scented, And the rose herself has got Perfume which on earth is not; Where the nightingale doth sing Not a senseless, tranced thing, But divine melodious truth; Philosophic numbers smooth; Tales and golden histories Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then On the earth ye live again; And the souls ye left behind you Teach us, here, the way to find you, Where your other souls are joying, Never slumber'd, never cloying.

Here, your earth-born souls still speak To mortals, of their little week; Of their sorrows and delights; Of their pa.s.sions and their spites; Of their glory and their shame; What doth strengthen and what maim.

Thus ye teach us, every day, Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Pa.s.sion and of Mirth, Ye have left your souls on earth!

Ye have souls in heaven too, Double-lived in regions new!

John Keats. 1795-1821

631. Fancy

EVER let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home: At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; Then let winged Fancy wander Through the thought still spread beyond her: Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Summer's joys are spoilt by use, And the enjoying of the Spring Fades as does its blossoming; Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, Blus.h.i.+ng through the mist and dew, Cloys with tasting: What do then?

Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear f.a.ggot blazes bright, Spirit of a winter's night; When the soundless earth is m.u.f.fled, And the caked snow is shuffled From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; When the Night doth meet the Noon In a dark conspiracy To banish Even from her sky.

Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overawed, Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!

She has va.s.sals to attend her: She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or th.o.r.n.y spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth: She will mix these pleasures up Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear Distant harvest-carols clear; Rustle of the reaped corn; Sweet birds antheming the morn: And, in the same moment--hark!

'Tis the early April lark, Or the rooks, with busy caw, Foraging for sticks and straw.

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold The daisy and the marigold; White-plumed lilies, and the first Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; Shaded hyacinth, alway Sapphire queen of the mid-May; And every leaf, and every flower Pearled with the self-same shower.

Thou shalt see the fieldmouse peep Meagre from its celled sleep; And the snake all winter-thin Cast on sunny bank its skin; Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, When the hen-bird's wing doth rest Quiet on her mossy nest; Then the hurry and alarm When the beehive casts its swarm; Acorns ripe down-pattering While the autumn breezes sing.

O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Every thing is spoilt by use: Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where 's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new?

Where 's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where 's the face One would meet in every place?

Where 's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft?

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.

Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the G.o.d of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipt its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bring.-- Let the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

John Keats. 1795-1821

632. Stanzas

IN a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy!

But were there ever any Writhed not at pa.s.sed joy?

To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

John Keats. 1795-1821

633. Las Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest 's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

'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.

'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true!"

'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 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's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side.