Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/68

32 Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring?

You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,

And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;

The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;

The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell

Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,

Or known your kindness, what might I have been?

What my enjoyments in my youthful years,

Bereft of all that now my life endears ?

And can I e'er these benefits forget?

And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?

No, doubly no;—yet should these rhymings please,

I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease;

For I have long time been my fancy feeding

With hopes that you would one day think the reading

Of my rough verses not an hour misspent;

Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!

Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires

In lucent Thames reflected:—warm desires

To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness

And morning shadows streaking into slimness,

Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;

To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;

To feel the air that plays about the hills,

And sips its freshness from the little rills;

To see high, golden corn wave in the light

When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,

And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,

As though she were reclining in a bed

Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures,

Than I began to think of rhymes and measures;

The air that floated by me seem'd to say

'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.'

And so I did. When many lines I 'd written,

Though with their grace I was not over-smitten,

Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I 'd better

Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.

Such an attempt required an inspiration

Of a peculiar sort,—a consummation;—

Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been

Verses from which the soul would never wean;

But many days have past since last my heart

Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;

By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;

Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sadden'd:

What time you were before the music sitting,

And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.

Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes

That freshly terminate in open plains,

And revell'd in a chat that ceasèd not

When at night-fall among your books we got:

No, nor when supper came, nor after that,—

Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;

No, nor till cordially you shook my hand

Mid-way between our homes:—your accents bland

Still sounded in my ears, when I no more

Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly floor.

Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;

You changed the foot-path for the grassy plain.

In those still moments I have wish'd you joys

That well you know to honour:—'Life's very toys