Few are there who escape these visitings, Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent wings,

20

And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose,
No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes;
But flowers bursting out with lusty pride,
And young Æolian harps personify'd;
Some Titian colours touch'd into real life,
The sacrifice goes on; the pontiff knife
Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows,
The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows:
A white sail shows above the green-head cliff,
Moves round the point, and throws her anchor
stiff;

The mariners join hymn with those on land.

Part of the building was a chosen See, Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee; The other part, two thousand years from him, Was built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim; Then there's a little wing, far from the Sun, Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun; And many other juts of aged stone Founded with many a mason-devil's groan.

The doors all look as if they op'd themselves: The windows as if latch'd by Fays and Elves, 50 And from them comes a silver flash of light, As from the westward of a Summer's night; Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes Gone mad through olden songs and poesies.

60

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake,
Would all their colours from the sunset take:
From something of material sublime,
69
Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time
In the dark void of night. For in the world
We jostle, but my flag is not unfurl'd
On the Admiral-staff, and so philosophise
I dare not yet! O, never will the prize,
High reason, and the love of good and ill,
Be
my award! Things cannot to the will
Be settled, but they tease us out of thought;
Or is it imagination brought

Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind,
Cannot refer to any standard law

80

Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated January 31, 1818. 'I cannot write in prose,' says Keats; 'it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here goes.'

HENCE Burgundy, Claret, and Port,

Away with old Hock and Madeira, Too earthly ye are for my sport;

There's a beverage brighter and clearer. Instead of a pitiful rummer,

My wine overbrims a whole summer;
My bowl is the sky,

And I drink at my eye,

Till I feel in the brain

A Delphian pain

Then follow, my Caius ! then follow:

On the green of the hill

We will drink our fill
Of golden sunshine,

Till our brains intertwine

With the glory and grace of Apollo !

God of the Meridian,

And of the East and West,

To thee my soul is flown,

And my body is earthward press'd.

It is an awful mission,

A terrible division;

And leaves a gulf austere

To be fill'd with worldly fear.

Aye, when the soul is fled
To high above our head,

Affrighted do we gaze

After its airy maze,

And O, and O

The daisies blow

And the primroses are waken'd,

And the violets white

Sit in silver plight,

And the green bud 's as long as the spike end.

Then who would go

Into dark Soho,

And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, When he can stay

For the new-mown hay,

And startle the dappled Prickets?

THE DEVON MAID

Immediately after the preceding, Keats adds: 'I know not if this rhyming fit has done anything-it will be safe with you if worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here's some doggrel for you,' and these four stanzas follow.

WHERE be ye going, you Devon Maid?

And what have ye there in the Basket? Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers,
And I love your junkets mainly,
But 'hind the door I love kissing more,
O look not so disdainly.

I love your hills, and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleatingBut O, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

I'll put your Basket all safe in a nook, Your shawl I hang up on the willow, And we will sigh in the daisy's eye And kiss on a grass green pillow.

ACROSTIC:

GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS

This is dated 'Foot of Helvellyn, June 27,' 1818, and was sent, as something overlooked, to his brother and sister, September 18, 1819. 'I wrote it in a great hurry which you will see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought it would ever be seen by any but yourselves.' GIVE me your patience, sister, while I frame Exact in capitals your golden name; Or sue the fair Apollo and he will Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill

There was a naughty boy

And a naughty boy was he,

He kept little fishes

In washing tubs three
In spite

Of the might

Of the Maid,

Nor afraid

Of his Granny-good-
He often would,
Hurly burly,
Get up early,
And go

By hook or crook

To the brook,
And bring home
Miller's thumb,
Tittlebat
Not over fat,
Minnows small
As the stall
Of a glove,
Not above

The size

Of a nice

Little Baby's
Little fingers —

O, he made,

'T was his trade,

Of Fish a pretty Kettle

A Kettle

A Kettle