Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet, if we could scorn

Hate and pride and fear,

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then as I am listening now.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I arise from dreams of Thee,
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of Thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me (who knows how?)
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs, they faint
On the dark and silent stream,

The champak odours pine
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,-
As I must die on thine,
Beloved as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale!
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O, press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

TO NIGHT.

Swiftly walk over the Western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty Eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovèst dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear:
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day!

Kiss him until he be wearied out!
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand!
Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee:

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree;

And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,

Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried-
"Wouldst thou me?"

Thy sweet child, Sleep the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide bee-
"Shall I nestle by thy side?

Wouldst thou me ?" And I replied-
No! not thee.

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon!

Sleep will come when thou art fled :
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovèd Night!
Swift be thine approaching flight!
Come soon, soon!

A BRIDAL SONG.

The golden gates of sleep unbar

Where Strength and Beauty, met together, Kindle their image like a star

In a sea of glassy weather!

Night! with all thy stars look down;
Darkness! weep thy holiest dew :
Never smiled the inconstant Moon
On a pair so true.

Let eyes not see their own delight!
Haste, swift Hour! and thy flight
Oft renew!

Fairies! sprites! and angels! keep her;
Holy stars! permit no wrong;
And return to wake the sleeper,
Dawn! ere it be long.

O joy! O fear! what will be done

In the absence of the sun?

Come along!

SONG.

False Friend! wilt thou smile or weep
When my life is laid asleep?

Little cares for a smile or a tear
The clay-cold corpse upon the bier.
Farewell! heigh ho!

What is this whispers low?

There is a snake in thy smile, my Dear!
And bitter poison within thy tear.

Sweet Sleep! were Death like to thee,
Or if thou couldst mortal be,
I would close these eyes of pain:
When to wake? Never again.
O World! farewell!

Listen to the passing bell!

It says thou and I must part,
With a light and a heavy heart.

POLITICAL GREATNESS.

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,

Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom Tyranny makes tame :
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts;
History is but the shadow of their shame;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,
As to Oblivion their millions fleet

Staining that heaven with obscene imagery

Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man, who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquish'd will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears,-being Himself alone.

A WAIL.

Rough Wind! that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song,—
Wild Wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long!
Sad Storm, whose tears are vain!
Bare Woods, whose branches strain !
Deep Caves! and dreary Main!
Wail for the world's wrong!

JOHN KEATS.

1795-1821.

HYMN TO PAN.

O Thou! whose mighty palace-roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death,
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness,-

Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress

Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken,—

And through whole solemn hours dost sit and hearken

The dreary melody of bedded reeds,

In desolate places where dank moisture breeds

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth,

Bethinking thee how melancholy loath

Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx,—do thou now,
By thy Love's milky brow,

By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

O Thou! for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide

Through sunny meadows that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms,-O Thou! to whom