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POEMS

EARLY POEMS

IN this group are included the contents of the volume Poems by John Keats, published in March, 1817, as well as certain

IMITATION OF SPENSER

Lord Houghton states, on the authority of the notes of Charles Armitage Brown, given to him in Florence in 1832, that this was the earliest known composition of Keats, and that it was written during his residence in Edmonton at the end of his eighteenth year, which would make the date in the autumn of 1813. The poem was included in the 1817 volume, which bore on its title-page this motto:

What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty?
Fate of the Butterfly.

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SPENSER.

Now Morning from her orient chamber

came,

And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill;

Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,

Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil,

And after parting beds of simple flowers, By many streams a little lake did fill, Which round its marge reflected woven

bowers,

And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright,

Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; Whose silken fins, and golden scales' light Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow:

There saw the swan his neck of arched snow,

poems composed before the publication of Endymion. The order followed is as nearly chronological as the evidence permits.

And oar'd himself along with majesty; Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony, And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously.

Ah! could I tell the wonders of an isle That in that fairest lake had placed been, I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: For sure so fair a place was never seen, Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye: It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen Of the bright waters; or as when on high, Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cœrulean sky.

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously
Slopings of verdure through the glossy
tide,

Which, as it were in gentle amity,
Rippled delighted up the flowery side;
As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried,
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree
stem !

Haply it was the workings of its pride, In strife to throw upon the shore a gem Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem.

ON DEATH

Assigned by George Keats to the year 1814, and first printed in Forman's edition, 1883.

CAN death be sleep, when life is but a dream,

And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?

The transient pleasures as a vision seem, And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

How strange it is that man on earth should

roam,

And lead a life of woe, but not forsake His rugged path; nor dare he view alone His future doom, which is but to awake.

TO CHATTERTON

First printed in Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, but undated. Keats's admiration of Chatterton was early and constant.

O CHATTERTON! how very sad thy fate! Dear child of sorrow -son of misery! How soon the film of death obscur'd that

eye,

Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high

debate.

How soon that voice, majestic and elate, Melted in dying numbers! Oh! how nigh

Was night to thy fair morning. Thou didst die

A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts amate.

But this is past: thou art among the stars

Of highest Heaven: to the rolling spheres Thou sweetly singest: nought thy hymning

mars,

Above the ingrate world and human

fears.

On earth the good man base detraction

bars

From thy fair name, and waters it with

tears.

TO BYRON

The date of December, 1814, is given to this sonnet by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, where it was first published.

BYRON ! how sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,

As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,

Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them to die.

O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less

Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress With a bright halo, shining beamily, As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent

glow,

Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,

And like fair veins in sable marble flow; Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale, The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing

woe.

'WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN'

In the 1817 volume, where this poem was first published, with no title, it is placed at the end of a group of poems which are thus advertised on the leaf containing the dedication: The Short Pieces in the middle of the Book as well as some of the Sonnets, were written at an earlier period than the rest of the Poems.' In the absence of any documentary evidence, it seems reasonable to place it near the Imitation of Spenser' rather than near Calidore.'

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Her form seems floating palpable, and near; Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shake.

TO SOME LADIES

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This and the poem following were included in the 1817 volume. George Keats says further that it was written on receiving a copy of Tom Moore's "Golden Chain" and a most beautiful Dome shaped shell from a Lady.' The exact title of Moore's poem is 'The Wreath and the Chain,' and it will be readily seen how expressly imitative these lines are of Moore's verse in general. The poems are not dated, but they are the first in a group stated by Keats to have been written at an earlier period than the rest of the Poems;' it is safe to assume that they belong very near the beginning of Keats's poetical career. It is quite likely that they were included in the volume a few years later on personal grounds.

WHAT though while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountainstream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes,

Its spray that the wild flower kindly bedews.

Why linger you so, the wild labyrinth strolling?

Why breathless, unable your bliss to de

clare ?

Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender

condoling,

Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy

air.

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