Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/192

156 High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought

Of every guest: that each, as he did please,

Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease.

What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?

What for the sage, old Apollonius?

Upon her aching forehead be there hung

The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue;

And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him

The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim

Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage,

Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage

War on his temples. Do not all charms fly

At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:

We know her woof, her texture; she is given

In the dull catalogue of common things.

Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,

Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine—

Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made

The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,

Scarce saw in all the room another face,

Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took

Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look

'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance

From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance,

And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher

Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir,

Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,

Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.

Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch,

As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:

'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins;

Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains

Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.

'Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?

Know'st thou that man?' Poor Lamia answer'd not.

He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot

Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal:

More, more he gazed: his human senses reel:

Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs:

There was no recognition in those orbs.

'Lamia!' he cried—and no soft-toned reply.

The many heard, and the loud revelry

Grew hush: the stately music no more breathes;

The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths.

By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

A deadly silence step by step increased,

Until it seem'd a horrid presence there,

And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

'Lamia!' he shriek'd; and nothing but the shriek

With its sad echo did the silence break.

'Begone, foul dream!' he cried, gazing again

In the bride's face, where now no azure vein

Wander'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom

Misted the cheek; no passion to illume

The deep-recessed vision:—all was blight;

Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.

'Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!

Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban

Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images

Here represent their shadowy presences,