Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/194

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O Melancholy, linger here awhile!
 * O Music, Music, breathe despondingly!

O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle,
 * Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us—O sigh!

Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile;
 * Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily,

And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe,
 * From the deep throat of sad Melpomene!

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go,
 * And touch the strings into a mystery;

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low;
 * For simple Isabel is soon to be

Among the dead: She withers, like a palm Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. O leave the palm to wither by itself;
 * Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!—

It may not be—those Baalites of pelf,
 * Her brethren, noted the continual shower

From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf.
 * Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower

Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much
 * Why she sat drooping by the Basil green,