The collection which follows is not intended to be taken exactly as containing the leavings of Keats's genius; there are verses in the previous groups which might be placed here, if the intention was to make a marked division between his well-defined poetry and his experiments and mere scintillations; doubtless, too,
Contributed by Lord Houghton to the third volume of the Bibliographical and Historical Miscellanies of the Philobiblion Society, 18561857. Lord Houghton afterward included it in a new edition of The Life and Letters of John Keats, 1867. He also printed it in the Aldine edition of 1876, where he recorded it as an early version of the poem. But Mr. Colvin quotes from Brown's MS.: 'In the evenings [of November and December, 1819] at his own desire, he occupied a separate apartment, and was deeply engaged in remodeling the fragment of Hyperion into the form of a Vision.' This attempt may well have added to Keats's reluctance to permit the fragmentary Hyperion to appear in the 1820 volume. For a full discussion of the question see the Appendix in John Keats by Sidney Colvin.
on any such principle it would be just to take back into the respectability of larger type some of the lines here included. But it seemed wise to put into a subordinate group the poet's fragmentary and posthumous poems, and those which were plainly the mere playthings of his
Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse Be poet's or fanatic's will be known When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the
Methought I stood where trees of every clime, Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 20 With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a
In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch Of scent) not far from roses. Twining round I saw an arbour with a drooping roof Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms, Like floral censers, swinging light in air; Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits, Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal 30 By angel tasted or our Mother Eve;
For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass, And grapestalks but half-bare, and remnants
Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not
Still was more plenty than the fabled horn Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting, For Proserpine return'd to her own fields, Where the white heifers low. And appetite, More yearning than on earth I ever felt, Growing within, I ate deliciously, And, after not long, thirsted; for thereby Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took, And pledging all the mortals of the world, And all the dead whose names are in our lips, Drank. That full draught is parent of my
So old the place was, I remember'd none The like upon the earth: what I had seen Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent tow- ers,
The superannuations of sunk realms,
Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds,
Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things To that eternal domed monument. Upon the marble at my feet there lay Store of strange vessels and large draperies, Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, So white the linen, so, in some, distinct Ran imageries from a sombre loom. All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish, Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
Turning from these with awe, once more I raised
My eyes to fathom the space every way: The embossed roof, the silent massy range Of columns north and south, ending in mist Of nothing; then to eastward, where black gates
Were shut against the sunrise evermore; Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off An image, huge of feature as a cloud, At level of whose feet an altar slept, To be approach'd on either side by steps And marble balustrade, and patient travail To count with toil the innumerable degrees. Toward the altar sober-pac'd I went, Repressing haste as too unholy there; And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine One ministering; and there arose a flame When in mid-day the sickening east-wind
Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, And fills the air with so much pleasant health 100 That even the dying man forgets his shroud; Even so that lofty sacrificial fire, Sending forth Maian incense, spread around Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
And clouded all the altar with soft smoke; From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
Language pronounc'd: 'If thou canst not ascend
These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust, Will parch for lack of nutriment; thy bones 110 Will wither in few years, and vanish so That not the quickest eye could find a grain Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
And no hand in the universe can turn Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.' I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once, So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny
Of that fierce threat and the hard task pro- posed. Prodigious seem'd the toil; the leaves were yet Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill Struck from the paved level up my limbs, And was ascending quick to put cold grasp Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat. I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek Stung my own ears; I strove hard to escape The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step. Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart; And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not. One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd The lowest stair; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd To pour in at the toes; I mounted up As once fair angels on a ladder flew From the green turf to heaven. 'Holy Power,' Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine, 'What am I that should so be saved from
What am I that another death come not
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