Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/63

Rh Yet must I dote upon thee,—call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses

When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 't is meet,

And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I 'll gather some by spells, and incantation.

I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye.

Not like the formal crest of latter days:

But bending in a thousand graceful ways;

So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand,

Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand,

Could charm them into such an attitude.

We must think rather, that in playful mood,

Some mountain breeze had turned its chief delight,

To show this wonder of its gentle might.

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For while I muse, the lance points slantingly

Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet,

Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,

From the worn top of some old battlement

Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:

And from her own pure self no joy dissembling,

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests,

And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests.

Ah! shall I ever tell its cruelty,

When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye,

And his tremendous hand is grasping it,

And his dark brow for very wrath is knit?

Or when his spirit, with more calm intent,

Leaps to the honours of a tournament,

And makes the gazers round about the ring

Stare at the grandeur of the balancing?

No, no! this is far off:—then how shall I

Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy,

Which linger yet about long gothic arches,

In dark green ivy, and among wild larches?

How sing the splendour of the revelries,

When butts of wine are drunk off to the lees?

And that bright lance, against the fretted wall,

Beneath the shade of stately banneral,

Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield?

Where ye may see a spur in bloody field.

Light-footed damsels move with gentle paces

Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces;

Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens:

Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens.

Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry:

Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly by?

Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight,

Rein in the swelling of his ample might?

Spenser! thy brows are archèd, open, kind,

And come like a clear sunrise to my mind;

And always does my heart with pleasure dance,

When I think on thy noble countenance:

Where never yet was ought more earthly seen