'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.
The very archings of her eye-lids charm
A thousand willing agents to obey,

Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
Of light is poesy; 't is the supreme of power;

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And still she governs with the mildest sway:

240

But strength alone though of the Muses born

Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn,

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres

Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs,

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

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Of poesy, that it should be a friend

To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.

250

All tenderest birds there find a pleasant screen,

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering,
Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing.
Then let us clear away the choaking thorns

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From round its gentle stem; let the young fawns,

Yeaned in after times, when we are flown,

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown
With simple flowers: let there nothing be
More boisterous than a lover's bended knee;
Nought more ungentle than the placid look
Of one who leans upon a closed book;
Nought more untranquil than the grassy slopes
Between two hills. All hail delightful hopes!

As she was wont, th' imagination

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone,
And they shall be accounted poet kings

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265

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things.
O may these joys be ripe before I die.

Will not some say that I presumptuously Have spoken? that from hastening disgrace 'T were better far to hide my foolish face?

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(250-1) An idea, says Hunt (see Appendix), " of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words."

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?

How!

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be

In the very fane, the light of Poesy:

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If I do fall, at least I will be laid
Beneath the silence of a poplar shade;

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven;
And there shall be a kind memorial graven.
But off Despondence! miserable bane!

They should not know thee, who athirst to gain
A noble end, are thirsty every hour.
What though I am not wealthy in the dower
Of spanning wisdom; though I do not know
The shiftings of the mighty winds that blow
Hither and thither all the changing thoughts

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Of man: though no great minist`ring reason sorts
Out the dark mysteries of human souls
To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls

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Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an inward frown
Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.

305

An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an isle,
Spreads awfully before me. How much toil!
How many days! what desperate turmoil!
Ere I can have explored its widenesses.
Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees,
I could unsay those- no, impossible!

Impossible!

For sweet relief I'll dwell

On humbler thoughts, and let this strange assay
Begun in gentleness die so away.

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E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades:
I turn full hearted to the friendly aids
That smooth the path of honour; brotherhood,
And friendliness the nurse of mutual good.
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet
Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
The silence when some rhymes are coming out;
And when they're come, the very pleasant rout:
The message certain to be done to-morrow.
'T is perhaps as well that it should be to borrow
Some precious book from out its snug retreat,
To cluster round it when we next shall meet.
Scarce can I scribble on; for lovely airs

Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs;
Many delights of that glad day recalling,
When first my senses caught their tender falling.
And with these airs come forms of elegance
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance,
Careless, and grand fingers soft and round
Parting luxuriant curls; and the swift bound
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow
Of words at opening a portfolio.

Things such as these are ever harbingers
To trains of peaceful images: the stirs
Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes:

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320

325

330

335

340

(354) Hunt's house: he says (see Appendix) the poem "originated in sleeping in a room adorned with busts and pictures,"-"many a bust from Shout," as

Of pleasure's temple. Round about were hung
The glorious features of the bards who sung
In other ages cold and sacred busts
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
To clear Futurity his darling fame!

355

Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim
At swelling apples with a frisky leap

360

And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap

Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train

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Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:
One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward
The dazzling sun-rise: two sisters sweet
Bending their graceful figures till they meet
Over the trippings of a little child:
And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild
Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.

See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping
Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs;
A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims

370

At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle motion
With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean
Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er
Its rocky marge, and balances once more

375

The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam
Feel all about their undulating home.

380

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown
Of over thinking had that moment gone
From off her brow, and left her all alone.

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes,
As if he always listened to the sighs

385

Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's worn
By horrid suffrance-mightily forlorn.

Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,
Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean

390

Shelley wrote to Mrs. Gisborne. In Hunt's Correspondence (Volume i, page 289) we read "Keats's Sleep and Poetry is a description of a parlour that was mine, no bigger than an old mansion's closet." Clarke says (Gentleman's Magazine, Fcbruary 1874) "It was in the library at Hunt's cottage, where an extemporary bed had been made up for him on the sofa."

His eyes from her sweet face.

Most happy they!

For over them was seen a free display

Of out-spread wings, and from between them shone
The face of Poesy: from off her throne

She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell.
The very sense of where I was might well

395

Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came

Thought after thought to nourish up the flame
Within my breast; so that the morning light
Surprised me even from a sleepless night;
And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay,
Resolving to begin that very day

These lines; and howsoever they be done,
I leave them as a father does his son.

Finis.

The imprint of the 1817 volume of Poems is as follows:

C. Richards, Printer, 18, Warwick-street, Golden-square, London.

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