Life of John Keats Part 41

II. _Verses written by Brown and Keats after visiting Beauly Abbey_ (p.

295).--The text, of which there exist two separate transcripts, is as follows. I have printed in italics the lines which Keats, as he told Woodhouse, contributed to the joint work.

ON SOME SKULLS IN BEAULY ABBEY, NEAR INVERNESS

I shed no tears; Deep thought or awful vision, I had none By thousand petty fancies I was crossed.

_Wordsworth._

And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.

_Shakspeare._

1 _In silent barren Synod met Within these roofless walls_, where yet The shafted arch and carved fret Cling to the Ruin The Brethren's Skulls mourn, dewy wet, Their Creed's undoing.

2

_The mitred ones of Nice and Trent Were not so tongue-tied,--no, they went Hot to their Councils, scarce content With Orthodoxy But ye, poor tongueless things, were meant To speak by proxy._

3

Your Chronicles no more exist Since Knox, the Revolutionist Destroy'd the work of every fist That scrawl'd black letter Well! I'm a Craniologist And may do better.

4

This skull-cap won the cowl from sloth Or discontent, perhaps from both And yet one day, against his oath He tried escaping For men, tho' idle may be loth To live on gaping.

5

A Toper this! he plied his gla.s.s More strictly than he said the Ma.s.s And lov'd to see a tempting la.s.s Come to Confession Letting her absolution pa.s.s O'er fresh transgression.

6

This crawl'd thro' life in feebleness Boasting he never knew excess Cursing those crimes he scarce could guess Or feel but faintly With prayer that Heaven would cease to bless Men so unsaintly.

7

Here's a true Churchman! he'd affect Much charity and ne'r neglect To pray for Mercy on th' elect But thought no evil In sending Heathen, Turk and Scot All to the Devil!

8

_Poor Skull! Thy fingers set ablaze, With silver saint in golden rays, The Holy Missal, thou didst craze 'Mid bead and spangle While others pa.s.sed their idle days In coil and wrangle._

9

Long time this sconce a helmet wore, But sickness smites the conscience sore, He broke his sword and hither bore His gear and plunder Took to the cowl--then rav'd and swore At his d.a.m.n'd blunder!

10

_This lily-coloured skull with all The teeth complete, so white and small Belonged to one whose early pall A lover shaded.

He died ere Superst.i.tion's gall His heart invaded._

11

Ha! here is 'undivulged crime!'

Despair forbad his soul to climb Beyond this world, this mortal time Of fever'd badness Until this Monkish Pantomime Dazzled his madness!

12

A younger brother this! a man Aspiring as a Tartar Khan But, curb'd and baffl'd he began The trade of frightening It smack'd of power! and how he ran To deal Heaven's lightning!

13

This idiot-skull belonged to one, A buried miser's only son Who, penitent ere he'd begun To taste of pleasure And hoping Heaven's dread wrath to shun Gave h.e.l.l his treasure.

14

Here is the forehead of an Ape A robber's mask--and near the nape That bone--fie on't, bears just the shape Of carnal pa.s.sion Ah! he was one for theft and rape In Monkish fas.h.i.+on!

15

This was the Porter!--he could sing Or dance, or play--do anything And what the Friars bade him bring They ne'er were balked of; Matters not worth remembering And seldom talk'd of.

16

Enough! why need I further pore?

This corner holds at least a score, And yonder twice as many more Of Reverend Brothers, 'Tis the same story o'er and o'er They're like the others!