JOHN KEATS.
Born Oct. 29, 1796. | Died Dec. 27, 1820.
Who kill’d John Keats?
“I” says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
“’Twas one of my feats.”
Who shot the arrow?
“The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey, or Barrow.”
Lord Byron. July, 1821.
The following imitation of two Odes by John Keats is taken from The Diversions of the Echo Club, by Bayard Taylor:—
Ode on a Jar of Pickles.
I.
A sweet, acidulous, down-reaching thrill
Pervades my sense: I seem to see or hear
The lushy garden-grounds of Greenwich Hill
In autumn, when the crispy leaves are sere:
And odours haunt me of remotest spice
From the Levant or musky-aired Cathay,
Or from the saffron-fields of Jericho,
Where everything is nice:
The more I sniff, the more I swoon away,
And what else mortal palate craves, forego.
II.
Odours unsmelled are keen, but those I smell
Are keener; wherefore let me sniff again!
Enticing walnuts, I have known ye well
In youth, when pickles were a passing pain;
Unwitting youth, that craves the candy stem,
And sugar-plums to olives doth prefer,
And even licks the pots of marmalade
When sweetness clings to them:
But now I dream of ambergris and myrrh,
Tasting these walnuts in the poplar shade.
III.
Lo! hoarded coolness in the heart of noon,
Plucked with its dew, the cucumber is here,
As to the Dryad’s parching lips a boon,
And crescent bean-pods, unto Bacchus dear;
And, last of all, the pepper’s pungent globe,
The scarlet dwelling of the sylph of fire,
Provoking purple draughts; and, surfeited,
I cast my trailing robe
O’er my pale feet, touch up my tuneless lyre,
And twist the Delphic wreath to suit my head.
IV.
Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured
Than fretful men’s in parched and palsied days;
And, by the mid-May’s dusky leaves embowered,
Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise.
No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born,
Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine;
Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed,
The lemon-tinted morn
Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine:
Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
Alone, and idly loitering?
The season’s o’er—at operas
No “stars” now sing.
Oh, what can ail thee, seedy swell,
So moody! in the dumps so down?
Why linger here when all the world
Is “out of town?”
I see black care upon thy brow,
Tell me, are I.O.U.’s now due?
And in thy pouch, I fear thy purse
Is empty, too.
“I met a lady at a ball,
Full beautiful—a fairy bright;
Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!)
Struck by the sight—
“I gazed, and long’d to know her then:
So I entreated the M.C.
To introduce me—and he did!
Sad hour for me.
“We paced the mazy dance, and too,
We talked thro’ that sweet evening long,
And to her—it came to pass,
I breathed Love’s song.
“She promised me her lily hand,
She seemed particularly cool:
No warning voice then whispered low,
‘Thou art a fool!’
“Next day I found I lov’d her not,
And then she wept and sigh’d full sore,
Went to her lawyer, on the spot,
And talked it o’er.
“She brought an action, too, for breach
Of promise—’tis the fashion—zounds!
The jury brought in damages
Five thousand pounds!
“And this is why I sojourn here
Alone, and idly loitering,
Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’
No ‘stars’ now sing!”
The Figaro. September 15, 1875.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and oer’darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils,
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
’Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read.
John Keats.
Keats Improved.
“In his opinion, a railway was in itself a beautiful object.”—Mr. Labouchere in the Debate on the Ambleside Railway Bill.
A Locomotive is a joy for ever:
It’s loveliness enchants us; it shall never
Be blamed for noisiness, but still will keep
The country quiet for us, and our sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and easy breathing.
Therefore in every Railway Bill we’re wreathing,
An iron band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of the sentimental, who to mirth,
More manly natures, spite of foggy days,
Of all the unhealthy and smoke-darkened ways,
Made for our travelling: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty makes the whistle’s squall,
Sweet to our spirits. Such the bellman’s tune,
Roofs, old and rotten, leaking, a shady boon
For passengers; and such Excursion bills,
With the waste walls they cling to; and loud shrills,
With which the drivers nightly shindy make,
Sharp shunting shocks, the grinding of the brake,
The rich soot-sprinkling that befouls our homes;
And such too is the grandeur of the domes,
Art hath imagined for the Engine shed.
All lovely tales that ever we have read,
Of Attic temples on the river’s brink,
Before that roof at Cannon Street must shrink!
