Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/284

268

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 longer stay Would bar return and make a man forget his mortal way! O horrible! to lose the sight of well-remembered face, Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow,—constant to every place, Filling the air as on we move with portraiture intense, More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions anifold!

No, no,—that horror cannot be! for at the cable's length Man feels the gentle anchor pull, and gladdens in its strength: One hour, half idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall. But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial; He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down, Upon rough marble diadem, that hill's eternal crown.