Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/57

Rh To musty laws lined out with wretched rule

And compass vile: so that ye taught a school

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:

A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!

That blasphem'd the bright Lyrist to his face,

And did not know it,—no, they went about,

Holding a poor, decrepid standard out,

Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large

The name of one Boileau!

O ye whose charge

It is to hover round our pleasant hills!

Whose congregated majesty so fills

My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace

Your hallowed names, in this unholy place,

So near those common folk; did not their shames

Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames

Delight you? did ye never cluster round

Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,

And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu

To regions where no more the laurel grew?

Or did ye stay to give a welcoming

To some lone spirits who could proudly sing

Their youth away, and die? 'T was even so:

But let me think away those times of woe:

Now 't is a fairer season; ye have breathed

Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed

Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard

In many places;—some has been upstirr'd

From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,

By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,

Nested and quiet in a valley mild,

Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild

About the earth: happy are ye and glad.

These things are, doubtless; yet in truth we 've had

Strange thunders from the potency of song;

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong

From majesty: but in clear truth the themes

Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower

Of light is Poesy; 't is the supreme of power;

'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.

The very archings of her eyelids charm

A thousand willing agents to obey,

And still she governs with the mildest sway:

But strength alone though of the Muses born

Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

Of Poesy, that it should be a friend

To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds

A silent space with ever sprouting green.

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,

Nibble the little cuppèd flowers and sing.

Then let us clear away the choking thorns

From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

Yeanèd in after-times, when we are flown,

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown

With simple flowers: let there nothing be

More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;

Nought more ungentle than the placid look

Of one who leans upon a closèd book;

Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes