Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/271

Rh Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.'

'None can usurp this height,' return'd that shade,

'But those to whom the miseries of the world

Are misery, and will not let them rest.

All else who find a haven in the world,

Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,

If by a chance into this fane they come,

Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.'

'Are there not thousands in the world,' said I,

Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,

'Who love their fellows even to the death,

Who feel the giant agony of the world,

And more, like slaves to poor humanity,

Labour for mortal good? I sure should see

Other men here, but I am here alone.'

'Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,'

Rejoin'd that voice; 'they are no dreamers weak;

They seek no wonder but the human face,

No music but a happy-noted voice:

They come not here, they have no thought to come;

And thou art here, for thou art less than they.

What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,

To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,

A fever of thyself: think of the earth;

What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee?

What haven? every creature hath its home,

Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,

Whether his labours be sublime or low—

The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct:

Only the dreamer venoms all his days,

Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.

Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared,

Such things as thou art are admitted oft

Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,

And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause

Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.'

'That I am favour'd for unworthiness,

By such propitious parley medicined

In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,

Aye, and could weep for love of such award.'

So answer'd I, continuing, 'If it please,

Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,

Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls;

What image this whose face I cannot see

For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,

Of accent feminine so courteous?'

Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd,

Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath

Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung

About a golden censer from her hand

Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed

Long-treasured tears. 'This temple, sad and lone,

Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war

Foughten long since by giant hierarchy

Against rebellion: this old image here,

Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,

Is Saturn's; I, Moneta, left supreme,

Sole goddess of this desolation.'

I had no words to answer, for my tongue,

Useless, could find about its roofed home

No syllable of a fit majesty

To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn:

There was a silence, while the altar's blaze

Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon,

And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled

Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps

Of other crisped spicewood: then again

I look'd upon the altar, and its horns

Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame,

And then upon the offerings again;

And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried:

'The sacrifice is done, but not the less

Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.

My power, which to me is still a curse,

Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes

Still swooning vivid through my globed brain,

With an electral changing misery,

Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold

Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.'

As near as an immortal's sphered words

Could to a mother's soften were these last:

And yet I had a terror of her robes,

And chiefly of the veils that from her brow

Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries,

That made my heart too small to hold its blood.

This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand

Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,

Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd

By an immortal sickness which kills not;

It works a constant change, which happy death

Can put no end to; deathwards progressing

To no death was that visage; it had past

The lily and the snow; and beyond these

I must not think now, though I saw that face.

But for her eyes I should have fled away;

They held me back with a benignant light,

Soft, mitigated by divinest lids

Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd

Of all external things; they saw me not,

But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild moon,