Adonais; AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. Αστηρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑῷος· PLATO. PREFACE. Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, ποτὶ σόν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες. of « Woman,» and a Syrian Tale», and a long list of the illustrious obscure? Are these the men, who in their venal good nature, presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr Milman and Lord Byron? What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery, dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none. Ir is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem, a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's genius who have adorned our age. My known repug-life were not made known to me until the Elegy was nance to the narrow principles of taste on which several ready for the press. I am given to understand that the of his earlier compositions were modelled, prove, at least wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of criticism of Endymion, was exasperated by the bitter Hyperion, as second to nothing that was ever produced sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to by a writer of the same years. have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those John Keats, died at Rome of a consumption, in his on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than twenty-fourth year, on the 1821; those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last the protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is illness by Mr Severn, a young artist of the highest prothe tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, mise, who, I have been informed, «< almost risked his own now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance Had I known these circumof ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among upon his dying friend.»> the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It stances before the completion of my poem, I should have might make one in love with death, to think that one been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to should be buried in so sweet a place. the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr Severn can dispense with a reward from «such stuff as dreams are made of.» His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career—may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name! The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses, was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and where canker-worms abound, what wonder, if its young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage criticism on his Endymion, which appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgments from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted. It may be well said that these wretched men know not what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows, or one, like Keats's, composed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates, is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to « Endymion, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, « Paris, and ADONAIS. I. I WEEP for ADONAIS-he is dead! Most musical of mourners, weep again! Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, VIII. He will awake no more, oh, never more!- Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. IX. O, weep for Adonais!-The quick Dreams, their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. X. And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head, A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his brain.. She knew not 't was her own; as with no stain Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. XIV. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, XX. The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender, By sightless lightning?-th' intense atom glows And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue. Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. XXXI. 'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Acteon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. XXXVII. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom, when thy fangs o'erflow: Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt-as now. XXXVIII. Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion-kites that scream below; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. XXXIX. Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep- And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief XLIV. The splendours of the firmament of time May be eclipsed, but are extinguish'd not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. XLV. The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. XL. He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night; A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain ; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. XLI. He lives, he wakes-'t is Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais.-Thou young Dawn Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, ye Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! XLII. He is made one with Nature: there is heard In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. XLIII. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear XLVI. And many more, whose names on earth are dark, Thou art become as one of us, they cry, XLVII. Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink. XLVIII. Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, O, not of him, but of our joy: 't is nought That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend,-they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gather'd to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. XLIX. Go thou to Rome,-at once the Paradise, From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread. |
