Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/67

Rh He slants his neck beneath the waters bright

So silently, it seems a beam of light

Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,—

With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,

Or ruffles all the surface of the lake

In striving from its crystal face to take

Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure

In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.

But not a moment can he there insure them,

Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;

For down they rush as though they would be free,

And drop like hours into eternity.

Just like that bird am I in loss of time,

Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;

With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent,

I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;

Still scooping up the water with my fingers,

In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see

Why I have never penn'd a line to thee:

Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,

And little fit to please a classic ear;

Because my wine was of too poor a savour

For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour

Of sparkling Helicon:—small good it were

To take him to a desert rude, and bare,

Who had on Baiæ's shore reclin'd at ease,

While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze

That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,

Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:

Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream

Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;

Who had beheld Belphœbe in a brook,

And lovely Una in a leafy nook,

And Archimago leaning o'er his book:

Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and seen,

From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;

From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:

One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest walks

With him who elegantly chats and talks—

The wrong'd Libertas,—who has told you stories

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories;

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city,

And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:

With many else which I have never known.

Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown

Slowly, or rapidly—unwilling still

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.

Nor should I now, but that I 've known you long;

That you first taught me all the sweets of song:

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine:

What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:

Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,

And float along like birds o'er summer seas:

Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness:

Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.

Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly

Up to its climax, and then dying proudly?

Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,

Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?

Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,

The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?

Show'd me that epic was of all the king,