Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/262

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 Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound In crimped shroude farre under grounde; And how a litling child mote be A saint er its nativitie, Gif that the modre (God her blesse!) Kepen in solitarinesse, And kissen devoute the holy croce Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force,— He writith; and thinges many mo Of swiche thinges I may not shew. Bot I must tellen verilie Somdel of Saintè Cicilie, And chieflie what he auctorethe Of Sainte Markis life and dethe:" At length her constant eyelids come Upon the fervent martyrdom; Then lastly to his holy shrine Exalt amid the taper's shine At Venice,—

1819.

 

have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
 * And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
 * Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
 * That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
 * Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 