SATURN DETHRONED. Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds THE VOICE OF A MELANCHOLY GODDESS SPEAKING As when upon a trancèd summer-night A FALLEN GOD. The bright Titan, frenzied with new woes, Upon the boundaries of day and night, He stretch'd himself, in grief and radiance faint. OTHER TITANS FALLEN. Scarce images of life, one here, one there, ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.18 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk. Of beeches green, and shadows numberless, O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 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; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards; Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, ; Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Now more than ever seems it rich to die, Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. Was it a vision, or a waking-dream? Fled is that music? Do I wake or sleep? 18" Ode to a Nightingale."―This poem was written in a house at the foot of Highgate Hill, on the border of the fields looking towards Hampstead. The poet had then his mortal illness upon him, and knew it. Never was the voice of death sweeter. 19" Charm'd magic casements," &c.-This beats Claude's Enchanted Castle, and the story of King Beder in the Arabian Nights. You do not know what the house is, or where, nor who the bird. Perhaps a king himself. But you see the window, open on the perilous sea, and hear the voice from out the trees in which it is nested, sending its warble over the foam. The whole is at once vague and particular, full of mysterious life. You see nobody, though something is heard; and you know not what of beauty or wickedness is to come over that sea. Perhaps it was suggested by some fairy tale. I remember nothing of it in the dream-like wildness of things in Palmerin of England, a book which is full of colour and home landscapes, ending with a noble and affecting scene of war; and of which Keats was very fond. |