The Poetical Works and Other Writings of John Keats

Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine?
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and gold?
And splendidly mark'd with the story divine

Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the bold?

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing?
Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is?

Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing?

And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd Britomartis ?

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder, so brave,

Embroider'd with many a spring peering flower?

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave?

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower?

Ah! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth!

I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless, and to sooth.

On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair
A sun-beamy tale of a wreath, and a chain ;
And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare

Of charming my mind from the trammels of pain.

This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay;

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish,

When lovely Titania was far, far away,

And cruelly left him to sorrow, and anguish.

In line 37 we have And for So, and in line 39 song for tale. None of these variations are shown by the other copy, which corresponds almost exactly with the volume of 1817, but reads line 31 thus:

The wandering spirits of Heaven are mute.

There, oft would he bring from his soft sighing lute
Wild strains to which, spell-bound, the nightingales

listen'd;

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft glisten'd.

In this little dome, all those melodies strange,

Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh; Nor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change; 35 Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd;
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,

I too have my blisses, which richly abound

In magical powers, to bless and to sooth.

ΤΟ

HADST thou liv'd in days of old,

O what wonders had been told
Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes that dance

In the midst of their own brightness;
In the very fane of lightness.
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning:
In a dainty bend they lie,
Like to streaks across the sky,
Or the feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair that extends
Into many graceful bends :
As the leaves of Hellebore

Turn to whence they sprung before.
And behind each ample curl

Peeps the richness of a pearl.
Downward too flows many a tress
With a glossy waviness;

Full, and round like globes that rise
From the censer to the skies

ΤΟ

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness

Of thy honey'd voice; the neatness

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd :

With those beauties, scarce discern'd,

Kept with such sweet privacy,