To some blind spell: seeing that each one tears Himself from fireside joys and Lydian airs, Fond converse high of those with glory crown'd. Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp, A chill as from a tomb, did I not know That they are dying like an outburnt lamp,— That 'tis their sighing, wailing, as they go Into oblivion-that fresh flowers will grow, And many glories of immortal stamp.

1816.

TO G. A. W.

YMPH of the downward smile and sidelong glance!

In what diviner moments of the day
Art thou most lovely! when gone
far astray

Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ?
Or when serenely wandering in a trance
Of sober thought? Or when starting away,
With careless robe to meet the morning ray,
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance?
Haply 'tis when thy ruby lips part sweetly,

And so remain, because thou listenest:
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely
That I can never tell what mood is best,
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly
Trips it before Apollo than the rest.

ΓΟ

AD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory
shell,

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well
Would passion arm me for the enterprise:
But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell;
I am no happy shepherd of the dell
Whose lips have trembled with a maiden s eyes.
Yet must I doat upon thee,-call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honey'd roses
When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.
Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet,
And when the moon her pallid face discloses,
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME
SOME ROSES.

S late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew

From his lush clover covert;-when

anew

Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that
threw

Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd ; But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.

SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell.
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings: climb with me
the steep,-

Nature's observatory-whence the dell,
In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift

leap

Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,

Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.1

H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest

The silver clouds, far-far away to leave

1 I believe this to be Keats's first published verse, it appeared in the "Examiner," 1816.

All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bierTill their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME

A LAUREL CROWN.

RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear

From my glad bosom,-now from
gloominess

I mount for ever-not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say,
66 Stand,"

Or "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars-not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:

Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

HAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait? Think you he nought but prison-walls did see, Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key? Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate! In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair, Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew With daring Milton through the fields of air: To regions of his own his genius true Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair When thou art dead, and all thy wretched crew?

TO KOSCIUSKO.

ROOD Kosciusko! thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling;

It comes upon us like the glorious
pealing

Of the wide spheres-an everlasting tone.
And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown,
The names of heroes, burst from clouds con-
cealing,

Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing