Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/158

122 mortal body of a thousand days

Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own room,

Where thou didst dream alone on budded bays,

Happy and thoughtless of thy day of doom!

My pulse is warm with thine old Barley-bree,

My head is light with pledging a great soul,

My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see,

Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal;

Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor,

Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find

The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and o'er,—

Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind,—

Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name,—

O smile among the shades, for this is fame!

Aladdin magian

Ever such a work began;

Not the wizard of the Dee

Ever such a dream could see;

Not St. John, in Patmos' isle,

In the passion of his toil,

When he saw the churches seven,

Golden aisled, built up in heaven,

Gazed at such a rugged wonder,

As I stood its roofing under.

Lo! I saw one sleeping there,

On the marble cold and bare;

While the surges wash'd his feet,

And his garments white did beat

Drench'd about the sombre rocks;

On his neck his well-grown locks,

Lifted dry above the main,

Were upon the curl again.

'What is this? and what art thou?'

Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow;

'What art thou? and what is this?'

Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss

The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes;

Up he started in a trice:

'I am Lycidas,' said he,

'Famed in funeral minstrelsy!

This was architectured thus

By the great Oceanus!—

Here his mighty waters play