« ZurückWeiter »
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May,
The eye-lids with the passing coolness play, Like rose-leaves with the drip of summer rains. And calmest thoughts come round us—as of leaves
Budding-fruit ripeningin stillness-autumn suns Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, Sweet Sappho's cheek,— a sleeping infant's breath,The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,
A woodland rivulet,-a Poet's death.
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES FOR
THE FIRST TIME.
Y spirit is too weak; mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud; So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old Time- with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
(WITH THE ABOVE.)
AYDON! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitively of these mighty things; Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings, That what I want I know not where to seek. And think that I would not be over-meek,
In rolling out upfollow'd thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, Were I of ample strength for such a freak. Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine;
Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture's hem? For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm, Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine Of their star in the east, and gone to worship
HEN I have fears that I may cease to be
Hold like full garners the full-ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And feel that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour !
That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love !- then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think, Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, THE
“STORY OF RIMINI."
HO loves to peer up at the morning sun,
Of Heaven-Hesperus- let him lowly speak
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek, Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. He who knows these delights, and too is prone
To moralise upon a smile or tear,
A bower for his spirit, and will steer
Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear. 1817.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF. 79
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
This sonnet was prefixed to Keats's first volume. On the evening the last proof-sheet was brought from the printer," writes Mr. Cowden Clarke, "it was accompanied by the information that if a dedication was intended, it must be sent forthwith. Whereupon Keats withdrew to a side table, and, amid the buzz of a mixed conversation, he composed this sonnet, and sent it to Charles Ollier for publication."
LORY and Loveliness have pass'd away;
For if we wander out in early morn, No wreathed incense do we see upborne Into the east to meet the smiling day: No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay,
In woven baskets bringing ears of corn,
Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
And I shall ever bless my destiny,
Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free,
With these poor offerings, a man like thee.
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK SPACE OF A LEAF AT
THE END OF CHAUCER'S TALE OF THE
FLOWRE AND THE LEFE.
HIS pleasant tale is like a little copse :
The honied lines so freshly interlace, To keep the reader in so sweet a place,
: Mr. Clarke had fallen waking, found it on his lap asleep over the book, and on with this addition.
So that he here and there full-hearted stops;
Come cool and suddenly against his face,
And, by the wandering melody, may trace Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. Oh! what a power has white simplicity!
What mighty power has this gentle story!
I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, Could at this moment be content to lie
Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings Were heard of none beside the mournful robins. 1817
ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER.
OME hither, all sweet maidens soberly,
Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd light Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, And meekly let your fair hands joined be, As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night, Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea : 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips, Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile: He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!