Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/282

246 And put thee to a little pain

To save thee from a worse.

Better than Southey it had been,

Better than Mr. D

Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween,

Better than Mr. V.

Forgive me, pray, good people all,

For deviating so—

In spirit sure I had a call—

And now I on will go.

Has any here a daughter fair

Too fond of reading novels,

Too apt to fall in love with care

And charming Mister Lovels,

O put a Gadfly to that thing

She keeps so white and pert—

I mean the finger for the ring,

And it will breed a wort.

Has any here a pious spouse

Who seven times a day

Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse

And have her holy way—

O let a Gadfly's little sting

Persuade her sacred tongue

That noises are a common thing,

But that her bell has rung.

And as this is the summum bo-

num of all conquering,

I leave 'withouten wordes mo'

The Gadfly's little sting.

late two dainties were before me plac'd

Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,

From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent

That Gods might know my own particular taste:

First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste,

The Stranger next with head on bosom bent

Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,

Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.

O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away—

O Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst charm—

O Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway—

Again thou, Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm—

Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart

Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part.

is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,

Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;

There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,

Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;

There is Joy in every spot made known by times of old,

New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;

There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart,

More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,

When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,

Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,

Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago was born

One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.

Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;

Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his Lay;