Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,

But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear;

Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks;

Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks;

Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air;

Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair;

But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,

As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found.

At such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain;

Forgotten is the worldly heart- alone, it beats in vain.

Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful day

To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay,

He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth

To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North.

Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care,

Beyond the sweet and bitter world, - beyond it unaware!

Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a

MRS. C.

UPON my life Sir Nevis I am piqued
That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd
To do an honor to your old bald pate
And now am sitting on you just to bait,
Without your paying me one compliment.
Alas, 't is so with all, when our intent
Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind
We fair ones show a preference, too blind!
You Gentle man immediately turn tail-
O let me then my hapless fate bewail!
Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd
The pleasant Valleys- have I not madbrain'd
Deserted all my Pickles and preserves
My China closet too - with wretched Nerves
To boot-say, wretched ingrate, have I not
Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot?
'Tis true I had no corns-no! thank the
fates

My Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates.
And if not Mr. Bates why I'm not old!
Still dumb ungrateful Nevis - still so cold!

Here the Lady took some more whisky and was putting even more to her lips when she dashed it to the Ground, for the Mountain began to grumble-which continued for a few minutes before he thus began —

BEN NEVIS.

What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus dares

Disturb my slumber of a thousand years?
Even so long my sleep has been secure —
And to be so awak'd I'll not endure.

Oh pain - for since the Eagle's earliest scream
I've had a damn'd confounded ugly dream,
A Nightmare sure. What! Madam, was it
you?

It cannot be! My old eyes are not true!
Red-Crag, my Spectacles! Now let me see!
Good Heavens! Lady, how the gemini
Did you get here? O, I shall split my sides!
I shall earthquake-

Of all the toil and vigour you have spent
To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose?
Red Crag I say! OI must have them close!
Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe
A vein of Sulphur-go, dear Red Crag, go—
And rub your flinty back against it- budge!
Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must!
I must embrace you with my dearest gust!
Block-head, d'ye hear! Block-head, I'll
make her feel.

There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel A cave of young earth dragons; - well my boy

Go thither quick and so complete my joy.
Take you a bundle of the largest pines,
And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines,
Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest,
Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best

Until ten thousand now no bigger than
Poor Alligators-poor things of one span
Will each one swell to twice ten times the
size

Of northern whale then for the tender prize-
The moment then- for then will Red Crag rub
His flinty back-and I shall kiss and snub
And press my dainty morsel to my breast.
Block-head make haste!

O Muses, weep the rest
The Lady fainted and he thought her dead;
So pulled the clouds again about his head
And went to sleep again; soon she was rous'd
By her affrighted servants- next day, hous'd
Safe on the lowly ground she bless'd her fate
That fainting fit was not delayed too late.

But what surprised me above all is how the lady got down again. I felt it horribly. 'Twas the most vile descent shook me all to pieces.

SHARING EVE'S APPLE

Printed by Mr. Forman and assigned to 1818. Mr. Forman does not give his authority, save to say that the verses have been handed about in manuscript.

O BLUSH not so! O blush not so!
Or I shall think you knowing;
And if you smile the blushing while,
Then maidenheads are going.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't,

And a blush for having done it:

There's a blush for thought and a blush for nought,

And a blush for just begun it.

O sigh not so! O sigh not so!

For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin; By these loosen'd lips you have tasted the pips And fought in an amorous nipping.

Will you play once more at nice-cut-core,
For it only will last our youth out,
And we have the prime of the kissing time,
We have not one sweet tooth out.

There's a sigh for yes, and a sigh for no, And a sigh for I can't bear it!

O what can be done, shall we stay or run? O cut the sweet apple and share it!

A PROPHECY:

TO GEORGE KEATS IN AMERICA

In a letter to his brother and his wife, October 24, 1818, Keats says: 'If I had a prayer to make for any great good, next to Tom's recovery, it should be that one of your children should be the first American Poet. I have a great mind to make a prophecy, and they say prophecies work on their own fulfilment.'

'T Is the witching time of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the Stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen.
For what listen they?

For a song and for a charm,

See they glisten in alarm,

And the Moon is waxing warm

To hear what I shall say.

Moon! keep wide thy golden ears

Hearken, Stars! and hearken, Spheres!Hearken, thou eternal Sky!

I sing an infant's Lullaby,

O pretty lullaby!

Listen, listen, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my Lullaby!

Though the Rushes, that will make
Its cradle, still are in the lake —
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree-
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep-
Listen, Starlight, listen, listen,
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten,
And hear my lullaby!

Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee
Midst of the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee!
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!
Child, I know thee! Child no more,
But a Poet evermore!

See, see, the Lyre, the Lyre,
In a flame of fire,

Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring,
Past the eyesight's bearing.
Awake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze-

Amaze, amaze !

It stares, it stares, it stares,

It dares what no one dares !

It lifts its little hand into the flame

Inclosed in a letter to George and Georgi ana Keats, written April 15, 1819.

WHEN they were come into the Faery's Court
They rang no one at home-all gone to sport
And dance and kiss and love as faeries do
For Faries be as humans lovers true.
Amid the woods they were so lone and wild,
Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd,
And where the very brooks, as if afraid,
Hurry along to some less magic shade.
'No one at home!' the fretful Princess cry'd;
And all for nothing such a dreary ride,
And all for nothing my new diamond cross;
No one to see my Persian feathers toss,
No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool,
Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule.

Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand you gaping there,

Burst the door open, quick- or I declare
I'll switch you soundly and in pieces tear.'
The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape
Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape,

The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in

time

The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme.
'O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell
What your poor servants know but too too
well?

Know you the three great crimes in Faeryland?
The first, alas! poor Dwarf, I understand,
I made a whipstock of a faery's wand;
The next is snoring in their company;
The next, the last, the direst of the three,
Is making free when they are not at home.
I was a Prince-a baby prince - my doom,
You see, I made a whipstock of a wand,
My top has henceforth slept in faery land.
He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-up Prince
But he has never been a King's son since

He fell a snoring at a faery Ball.

Yon poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing Picklock'd a faery's boudoir - now no king But ape - so pray your highness stay awhile, 'Tis sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow — Persist and you may be an ape to-morrow.' While the Dwarf spake, the Princess, all for spite,

Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lily white, Clench'd her small teeth, and held her lips apart,

Try'd to look unconcern'd with beating heart.
They saw her highness had made up her mind,
A-quavering like the reeds before the wind
And they had had it, but O happy chance!
The Ape for very fear began to dance
And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache -
She staid her vixen fingers for his sake,
He was so very ugly: then she took
Her pocket-mirror and began to look
First at herself and then at him, and then
She smil'd at her own beauteous face again.
Yet for all this- for all her pretty face
She took it in her head to see the place.
Women gain little from experience
Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense.
The more their beauty the more fortune too-
Beauty before the wide world never knew
So each fair reasons- - tho' it oft miscarries.
She thought her pretty face would please the
fairies.

'My darling Ape, I wont whip you to-day,
Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.'
They all three wept but counsel was as vain
As crying cup biddy to drops of rain.

Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw
The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.
The Princess took it, and dismounting straight
Tripp'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate
And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteous
Opened she enter'd with her servants three.
Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen
But the Mule grazing on the herbage green.
End of Canto XII.

By many a Damsel hoarse, and rouge of

cheek;

Nor did he know each aged Watchman's

beat,

Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with their feet.

'TWO OR THREE POSIES'

At the close of a letter, April 17, 1819, to his sister Fanny, Keats writes: 'Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine with us to-day [at Wentworth Place]. They will enjoy the country after Westminster. O there is nothing like fine weather, and health, and Books, and a fine country, and a contented Mind, and diligent habit of reading and thinking, and an amulet against the ennui- and, please heaven, a little claret wine cool out of a cellar a mile deep with a few or a good many ratafia cakes - a rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry bed to say your prayers to Flora in, a pad nag to go you ten miles or so; two or three sensible people to chat with; two or three spiteful folks to spar with; two or three odd fishes to laugh at and two or three numskulls to argue instead of using dumb bells on a rainy

with

day.'

'Somewhere in the Spectator is related an account of a man inviting a party of stutterers and squinters to his table. It would please me more to scrape together a party of lovers not to dinner but to tea. There would be no fighting as among knights of old.' Keats to George and Georgiana Keats, September 17, 1819. The play on names seems to indicate some trifling reference to Keats's publishers of Taylor and Hessey.

PENSIVE they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs,
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea forget their appetite.
See with cross'd arms they sit -ah! happy

crew,