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And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
And the Heaven's reject not?
Of the night for the morrow;
From the sphere of our sorrow.
TO A LADY WITH A GUITAR.
Ariel to Miranda:Take This slave of music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst; and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again, And, too intense, is turned to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken : Your guadian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own : From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor : When you die, the silent moon In her interlunar swoon, Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel : When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
The artist who this idol wrought,
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And airs of evening; and it knew
This is a Catullian melody of the first water. The transformation of the dreaming wood of the tree into a guitar was probably suggested by Catullus's Dedication of the Galley,—a poem with which I know he was conversant, and which was particularly calculated to please him ; for it records the consecration of a favorite old sea-boat to the Dioscuri. The modern poet's imagination beats the ancient; but Catullus equals him in graceful flow; and there is one very Shelleian passage in the original :
Ubi iste, post phaselus, antea fuit
For of old, what now you see
MUSIC, MEMORY, AND LOVE.
Music, when soft voices die, 1
1 “ Music, when soft voices die.”—This song is a great favorite with musicians: and no wonder. Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote anything of the kind more lovely.
BORN, 1796,-DIED, 1821.
KEATS was a born poet of the most poetical kind. All his feel. ings came to him through a poetical medium, or were speedily colored by it. He enjoyed a jest as heartily as any one, and sympathized with the lowliest common-place; but the next minute his thoughts were in a garden of enchantment, with nymphs, and fauns, and shapes of exalted humanity ;
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace.
It might be said of him, that he never beheld an oak-tree without seeing the Dryad. His fame may now forgive the critics who disliked his politics, and did not understand his poetry. Repeated editions of him in England, France, and America, attest its triumphant survival of all obloquy; and there can be no doubt that he has taken a permanent station among the British Poets, of a very high, if not thoroughly mature, description.
Keats's early poetry, indeed, partook plentifully of the exube. rance of youth; and even in most of his later, his sensibility, sharpened by mortal illness, tended to a morbid excess. His region is “a wilderness of sweets,”—flowers of all hue, and “weeds of glorious feature,”—where, as he says, the luxuriant soil brings
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth.
But there also is the “rain-scented eglantine,” and bushes oi May-flowers, with bees, and myrtle, and bay,—and endless paths into forests haunted with the loveliest as well as the gentlest