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JOHN KEATS (1795-1821)

PON the death of his mother in 1810 Keats became an

apprentice to a surgeon. Although he followed this profession for seven years, he did not find it congenial and finally in 1817 abandoned it for poetry. His first volumes were harshly criticized by the reviews. Some of his contemporaries suggested that this harsh treatment was the chief cause of his early death. But his spirit was not broken by it although he undoubtedly felt the injustice of the prejudiced criticism. He had always had a delicate constitution, and during a walking tour he caught a cold which developed into consumption. He sought health in the warmer climate of Italy, but the disease had advanced so far that he died soon after his arrival at Rome.

In a letter written to his friend Bailey in 1817 Keats expressed the dominating influence of his life and poetry, “Oh for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!" With such a wish it is not strange that he should have evolved as his creed,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

He found this beauty in the classical and medieval legends. He expressed it in colorful and imaginative language so vivid that every word added a distinctive touch. Keats was primarily a word painter of the sensuous.

Nowhere throughout his poetry are these traits more effectively illustrated than in The Eve of St. Agnes. Keats was not only inspired by the spirit of medieval romance, but he has also breathed that spirit into every stanza. The poem is a reproduction of a romantic mood rather than a narrative of actual events. Keats should be read by the business writer who wishes to acquire distinctive and colorful diction.

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES

I

St. Agnes' Eve-Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:

Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

II

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:

The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:

Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries,

He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

III

Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor;
But no already had his deathbell rung:
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,

And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

IV

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft;
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide,
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft,
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide:
The level chambers, ready with their pride,
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests:

The carved angels, ever eager-eyed,

Star'd, where upon their heads the cornice rests,

With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts.

V

At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
Numerous as shadows haunting faerily

The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with triumphs gay
Of old romance. These let us wish away,
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there,
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day,
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care,
As she had heard old dames full many times declare.

VI

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
Young virgins might have visions of delight.
And soft adorings from their loves receive
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
If ceremonies due they did aright;
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
And couch supine their beauties, lilly white;
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire.

VII

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline:
The music, yearning like a God in pain,
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine,
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
Pass by-she heeded not at all: in vain
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier,

And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain,

But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere:

She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year.

VIII

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes,
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short:
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;

'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn,
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort,1
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn,
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn.

IX

So, purposing each moment to retire,

She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors,
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire

For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,

Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores

All saints to give him sight of Madeline,

But for one moment in the tedious hours,

That he might gaze and worship all unseen;

Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss-in sooth such things have been.

X

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel:
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes,
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords,
Whose very dogs would execrations howl
Against his lineage: not one breast affords
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul,
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul.

XI

Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came,
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand,
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame,
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond

The sound of merriment and chorus bland:
He startled her; but soon she knew his face,

And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand,

Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place: "They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race!

XII

"Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand; "He had a fever late, and in the fit

"He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: "Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit "More tame for his gray hairs-Alas me! flit! "Flit like a ghost away."-"Ah, Gossip dear, "We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, "And tell me how"-"Good Saints! not here, not here; "Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier."