384 KEATS INEXTRICABLE CONSUMMATION—ISABELLA.

Of ancient Nox; then skeletons of man,

Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan,

And elephant, and eagle- and huge jaw
Of nameless monster."

p. 111.

There he finds ancient Glaucus enchanted by Circe hears his wild story and goes with him to the deliverance and restoration of thousands of drowned lovers, whose bodies were piled and stowed away in a large submarine palace. When this feat is happily performed, he finds himself again on dry ground, with woods and waters around him; and cannot help falling desperately in love with a beautiful damsel whom he finds there. pining for some such consolation; and who tells a long story of having come from India in the train of Bacchus, and having strayed away from him into that forest! So they vow eternal fidelity; and are wafted up to heaven on flying horses; on which they sleep and dream among the stars; and then the lady melts away, and he is again alone upon the earth; but soon rejoins his Indian love, and agrees to give up his goddess, and live only for her: But she refuses, and says she is resolved to devote herself to the service of Diana: But, when she goes to accomplish that dedication, she turns out to be the goddess herself in a new shape! and finally exalts her lover with her to a blessed immortality!

We have left ourselves room to say but little of the second volume; which is of a more miscellaneous character. Lamia is a Greek antique story, in the measure and taste of Endymion. Isabella is a paraphrase of the same tale of Boccacio which Mr. Cornwall has also imitated, under the title of " A Sicilian Story." It would be worth while to compare the two imitations; but we have no longer time for such a task. Mr. Keats has followed his original more closely, and has given a deep pathos to several of his stanzas. The widowed bride's discovery of the murdered body is very strikingly given.

"Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies!
She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone,
And put it in her bosom, where it dries.

BOCCACIO'S ISABELLA.

Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care,
But to throw back at times her veiling hair.
"That old nurse stood beside her, wondering,
Until her heart felt pity to the core,
At sight of such a dismal labouring;

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar,
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing:

Three hours they labour'd at this travail sore;
At last they felt the kernel of the grave, &c.
"In anxious secrecy they took it home,

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And then the prize was all for Isabel!
She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb;
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell
Pointed each fringed lash: The smeared loam
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well,

She drench'd away: and still she comb'd, and kept
Sighing all day and still she kiss'd, and wept!

"Then in a silken scarf-sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully,
She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden pot, wherein she laid it by,

385

The following lines from an ode to a Nightingale are equally distinguished for harmony and high poetic feeling:

O for a beaker full of the warm South!

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth!

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim!

Fade far away! dissolve and quite forget

What Thou among the leaves hast never known-
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

VOL. II.

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C C

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies!
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs.

The voice I hear, this passing night, was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown!
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home!
She stood in tears amid the alien corn!

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."- p. 108 — 111. We know nothing at once so truly fresh, genuine, and English, and, at the same time so full of poetical feeling, and Greek elegance and simplicity, as this address to Autumn:

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Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun!
Conspiring with him now, to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run!
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
"Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes, whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half reap'd furrow, sound asleep!

Drows'd with the fumes of poppies; while thy hook
Spares the next swath, and all its twined flowers!
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head, across a brook;

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours!

"Where are the songs of Spring! Ay, where are they?
Think not of them! Thou hast thy music too;
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue!
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows; borne aloft

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies!
And full grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now, with treble soft,
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gath'ring swallows twitter in the skies!"

One of the sweetest of the smaller poems is that entitled "The Eve of St. Agnes:" though we can now afford but a scanty extract. The superstition is, that if a maiden goes to bed on that night, without supper, and never looks up after saying her prayers, till she falls asleep, she will see her destined husband by her bedside the moment she opens her eyes. The fair Madeline, who was in love with the gentle Porphyro, but thwarted by an imperious guardian, resolves to try this spell: and Porphyro, who has a suspicion of her purpose, naturally determines to do what he can to help it to a happy issue; and accordingly prevails on her ancient nurse to admit him to her virgin bower; where he watches reverently, till she sinks in slumber; - and then, arranging a most elegant dessert by her couch, and gently rousing her with a tender and favourite air, finally reveals himself, and persuades her to steal from the castle under his protection. The opening stanza is a fair specimen of the sweetness and force of the composition. St. Agnes Eve! Ah, bitter cold it was!

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The owl, for all his feathers, was acold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold!

Numb were the bedesman's fingers, while he told
His rosary; and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,

Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayers he saith." But the glory and charm of the poem is in the description of the fair maiden's antique chamber, and of all that passes in that sweet and angel-guarded sanctuary: every part of which is touched with colours at once rich and delicate- and the whole chastened and harmonised, in the midst of its gorgeous distinctness, by a pervading grace and purity, that indicate not less clearly the exaltation than the refinement of the author's fancy. We cannot resist adding a good part of this de

scription.

"Out went the taper as she hurried in!

Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died:
The door she closed! She panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide!

SPELL, AND REPOSE, OF PURE MADELINE.

388 KEATS

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No utter'd syllable

or woe betide!

But to her heart, her heart was voluble;

Paining with eloquence her balmy side!

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass;
And diamonded with panes of quaint device
Innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger moth's deep damask'd wings!
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for Heaven's grace and boon!
Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross, soft amethyst;
And on her hair, a glory like a saint!
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest
Save wings, for heaven! - Porphyro grew faint,
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint!
"Anon his heart revives! Her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels, one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees!
Half hidden like a Mermaid in sea weed,
Pensive a while she dreams awake, and sees
In fancy fair, St. Agnes on her bed!

But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled!
"Soon, trembling, in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful dream, perplex'd she lay;
Until the poppied warmth of Sleep oppress'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away!
Haven'd alike from sunshine and from rain,

As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again!

Stolen to this paradise, and so entranc'd,

Porphyro gaz'd upon her empty dress,

And listen'd to her breathing; if it chanc'd

To sink into a slumb'rous tenderness?

Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,

And breath'd himself; -- then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as Fear in a wide wilderness,

And over the hush'd carpet silent stept.

Then, by the bed-side, where the sinking moon
Made a dim silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet, &c.
"And still she slept —an azure-lidded sleep!
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd;