Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/40

4 'T is morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea:

And now! ah, I see it—you just now are stooping

To pick up the keepsake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,

Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of heaven;

And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,

The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you;

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean,

Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.

For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar pleasure,

(And blissful is he who such happiness finds,)

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure,

In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL AND A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES

thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem

Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountain?

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,

When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a fountain?

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?

That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?

And splendidly mark'd with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?

Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?

Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,

Embroidered with many a spring peering flower?

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!

I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair

A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain:

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,

When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute

Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales listen'd;