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FAC-SIMILE OF HOLOGRAPH LEAF FROM THE EVE OF ST. MARK

(recto)

A hitherto lost passage belonging between lines 98 and 99, page 342

[graphic]

_Als writeth be of owenemes Hout bear the defects,

Men han when sleep to coatien

before thy waken in Bles Whaune thate hir frunder thinks hem bounds. In crimpede thonde faire undergrounde;

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FAC-SIMILE OF HOLOGRAPH LEAF FROM THE EVE OF ST. MARK

(verso)

343

ODE TO FANNY

I.

PHYSICIAN Nature! let my spirit blood!

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood

Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme;
Let me begin my dream.

I come-I see thee, as thou standest there,
Beckon me not into the wintry air.

II.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,—
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,

As brilliant and as bright,

As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,

I gaze, I gaze!

III.

Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon!
Ah! keep that hand unravished at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn—

But, pr'ythee, do not turn

The current of your heart from me so soon.

O! save, in charity,

The quickest pulse for me.

IV.

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air;

Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath,

Be like an April day,

Smiling and cold and gay,

A temperate lilly, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be

A warmer June for me.

I 8 not] probably a mistake for out.

II 7 Lost in a soft amaze would be more Keats like.

V.

Why, this-you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess-'tis nothing new-
Must not a woman be

A feather on the sea,

Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed

As blow-ball from the mead?

VI.

I know it and to know it is despair

To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny! Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor, when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home,

Love, love alone, his pains severe and many:
Then, loveliest! keep me free,

From torturing jealousy.

VII.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,

Or with a rude hand break

The sacramental cake:

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not-may my eyes close,
Love! on their lost repose.

SONNET

TO SLEEP

O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight,

Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:

O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close

In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,

Sonnet 4 As wearisome as darkness is divine Dilke, draft.

6 My willing eyes in midst of this thine hymn Draft.

Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,-

10

Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

SONG

I.

HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel!

Tho' your feet are more light than a Fairy's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet,Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

II.

No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming
Mayfly ;

And the Moon, whether prudish or complaisant,
Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want

No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom,
But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.

Sonnet 8 lulling Houghton: dewy G. Keats and Dilke, fair copy. 8-12 Its sweet-death dews o'er every pulse and limb— Then shut the hushed Casket of my soul

And turn the key round in the oiled wards
And let it rest until the morn has stole,
Bright tressed From the grey east's shuddering
bourn... Draft.

12 From the west's shuddering bourn... Draft, rejected.

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