Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee; Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun, As though they jests had been: nor had he done His laugh at nature's holy countenance, Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance, And then his tongue with sober seemlihed Gave utterance as he enter'd: 'Ha!' I said, 951 'King of the butterflies; but by this gloom, 960 Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight 970 By chilly-finger'd spring. 'Unhappy wight ! Endymion!' said Peona, 'we are here! What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?' Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand Press'd, saying: 'Sister, I would have com Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'dfor change Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range These forests, and to thee they safe shall be As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee To meet us many a time.' Next Cynthia bright Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good night: Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 999 She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, Before three swiftest kisses he had told, They vanish'd far away! - Peona went Home through the gloomy wood in wonderment. THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 The most pregnant year of Keats's genius was that which dates roughly from the spring of 1818 to the spring of 1819, as one may readily see who scans the titles of the poems included in this division. The group here given, beginning with Isabella ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO Keats and Reynolds projected a volume of metrical tales translated from or based on Boccaccio. Apparently, Keats began Isabella, which was to be one of his contributions, some time before he went to Teignmouth, where he finished Endymion. At any rate, from that place April 27, 1818, he wrote to Reynolds, who was then quite ill: 'I have written for my folio Shakespeare, in which there are the first few stanzas of my Pot of Basil. I have the rest here finished, and will copy the whole out fairly shortly, and George will bring it you The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, whether we publish or no: so there is content in this world-mine is short-you must be deliberate about yours; you must not think of it till many months after you are quite well: then put your passion to it, and I shall be bound up with you in the shadows of Mind, as we are in our matters of human life.' Keats did not wait for Reynolds, but published his Isabella in the volume entitled Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems issued in the summer of 1820. I FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell Without some stir of heart, some malady; and closing with Lamia, includes, besides those poems and The Eve of St. Agnes, the great Odes, Fancy, and some of the notable Sonnets. The division, besides being a convenient one, seems almost logical and not merely chronological. They could not sit at meals but feel how well It soothed each to be the other by; They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep But to each other dream, and nightly weep. II With every morn their love grew tenderer, With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden stir, But her full shape would all his seeing fill; And his continual voice was pleasanter To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. III He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, Before the door had given her to his eyes; And from her chamber-window he would catch Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; And constant as her vespers would he watch, Because her face was turn'd to the same skies; And with sick longing all the night outwear, To hear her morning-step upon the stair. |