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Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock
A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock
Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne ?
From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey,
Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay !
FROM SCENES OF INFANCY.
E’En as I muse, my former life returns, And youth's first ardour in my bosom burns. Like music melting in a lover's dream, I hear the murmuring song of Teviot's stream : The crisping rays, that on the waters lie, Depict a paler moon, a fainter sky; While through inverted alder-boughs below The twinkling stars with greener lustre glow.
On these fair banks thine ancient bards no more, Enchanting stream ! their melting numbers pour ; But still their viewless harps, on poplars hung, Sigh the soft airs they learn'd when time was
young : And those who tread with holy feet the ground, At lonely midnight, hear their silver sound ; When river-breezes wave their dewy wings, And lightly fan the wild enchanted strings.
What earthly hand presumes, aspiring bold, The airy harp of ancient bards to hold,
With ivy's sacred wreath to crown his head,
BORN 1796-DIED 1820.
Tuis young poet was of humble origin. He was born in
London, educated at Enfield, and apprenticed to a surgeon at the age of fifteen. John Keats was as unlucky in his early friends and patrons as he was happy in natural genius ; yet they probably all meant well and even kindly by him: and we can only regret that he became, from evil juxta-position, the foot-ball between contending partisans. Lord Byron has attributed the death of this youth to the injustice and acrimony of the critics; but whatever effect their severity may have had on his poetically-constituted and singular mind, the immediate and unequivocal cause of his death was confirmed phthisis, to which he fell a victim in Rome, in his twenty-fourth year. With the productions of Collins, Chatterton, Bruce, White, and others, full in memory, it is impossible not to be. struck by the early writings of John Keats, which, amid their wild extravagance, display much of the power, fervour, and exuberance of original genius.
EXTRACT FROM HYPERION.
Lo ! 'tis for the Father of all verse. Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue, Let the rose glow intense, and warm the air, And let the clouds of even and of morn Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; Let the red wine within the goblet boil, Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd shells, On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green, And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song, And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the
shade : Apollo is once more the golden theme ! Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? Together had he left his mother fair And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, And in the morning twilight wandered forth Beside the osiers of a rivulet, Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle
There was no covert, no retired cave
shape, " Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up, Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast Unwearied ear of the whole universe Listen’d, in pain and pleasure, at the birth Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me,
youth, What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad
When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs