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could otherwise deserve ; and so the pity is not exclusively on his own side : we pity him, too, and would fain see him out of that cold chapel, gathered into a warmer place than the grave. But it was not to be. We must therefore console ourselves in knowing, that this icy endurance of his was the last, and that he soon found himself at the sunny gate of heaven.

6A little moonlight room.”—The poet does not make his “little moonlight room” comfortable, observe. The high taste of the exordium is kept up. All is still wintry. There is to be no comfort in the poem, but what is given by love. All else may be left to the cold walls.

7.Tears.”—He almost shed tears of sympathy, to think how his treasure is exposed to the cold; and of delight and pride, to think of her sleeping beauty, and her love for himself. This passage, “asleep in lap of legends old,” is in the highest imaginative taste, fusing together the imaginative and the spiritual, the remote and the near. Madeline is asleep in her bed; but she is also asleep in accordance with the legends of the season : and therefore the bed becomes their lap as well as sleep's. The poet does not critically think of all this; he feels it : and thus should other young poets draw upon the prominent points of their feelings upon a subject, sucking the essence out of them into analogous words, instead of beating about the bush for thoughts, and, perhaps, getting clever ones, but not thoroughly pertinent, not wanted, not the best. Such, at least, is the diffe. rence between the truest poetry and the degrees beneath it.

8 Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt.

What he means by Merlin's “monstrous debt,” I cannot say. Merlin, the famous enchanter, obtained King Arthur his interview with the fair Iogerne ; but though the son of a devil, and conversant with the race, I am aware of no debt that he owed them. Did Keats suppose that he had sold himself, like “ Faus

tus ?

9 Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died.

This is a verse it he taste of Chaucer, full of minute grace and

truth. The smoke of the wax-taper seems almost as ethereal and fair as the moonlight, and both suit each other and the heroine. But what a lovely line is the seventh about the heart,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side!

And the nightingale ! how touching the simile! the heart a

tongueless nightingale,” dying in the bed of the bosom. What thorough sweetness, and perfection of lovely imagery! How one delicacy is heaped upon another! But for a burst of richness, noiseless, colored, suddenly enriching the moonlight, as if a door of heaven were opened, read the stanza that follows.

10 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Could all the pomp and graces of aristocracy, with Titian's and Raphael's aid to boot, go beyond the rich religion of this picture, with its “twilight saints,” and its scutcheons,blushing with the blood of queens ?”

11 “ Save wings for heaven.—The lovely and innocent creature, thus praying under the gorgeous painted window, completes the exceeding and unique beauty of this picture,-one that will for ever stand by itself in poetry, as an addition to the stock. It would have struck a glow on the face of Shakspeare himself. He might have put Imogen or Ophelia under such a shrine. How proper as well as pretty the heraldic term gules, considering the occasion. “ Red” would not have been a fiftieth part as good. And with what elegant luxury he touches the " silver cross” with “ amethyst,” and the fair human hand with “ color,” the kin of their carnation! The lover's growing “ faint” is one of the few inequalities which are to be found in the latter productions of this great but young and over-sensitive poet. He had, at the time of his writing this, the seeds of a mortal illness in him, and he doubtless wrote as he had felt, for he was also deeply in love ; and extreme sensibility struggled in him with a great understanding.

12 Unclasps her warmed jewels.—How true and cordial the warmed jewels, and what matter of fact also, made elegant, in

rose

the rustling downward of the attire; and the mixture of dress and undress, and of the dishevelled hair, likened to a “mermaid in sea-weed !" But the next stanza is perhaps the most exquisite in the poem.”

13 “ As though a rose had shut.—Can the beautiful go beyond this? I never saw it. And how the imagery rises! flown like a thought-blissfully haven'd-clasp'd like a missal in a land of Pagans : that is to say, where Christian prayer-books must not be seen, and are, therefore, doubly cherished for the danger. And then, although nothing can surpass the preciousness of this idea, is the idea of the beautiful, crowning all

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

Thus it is that poetry, in its intense sympathy with creation, may be said to create anew, rendering its words more impressive than the objects they speak of, and individually more lasting; the spiritual perpetuity putting them on a level (not to speak it profanely) with the fugitive compound.

14 Lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon.”—Here is delicate modulation, and super-refined epicurean nicety!

Lucent syrups tinct with cinnamon;

make us read the line delicately, and at the tip-end, as it were, of one's tongue.

15 « Beyond a mortal man.”—Madeline is half awake, and Porphyro reassures her, with loving, kind looks, and an affectionate embrace.

16 « Heart-shap'd and vermeil-dyed.”—With what a pretty wilful conceit the costume of the poem is kept up in this line about the shield! The poet knew when to introduce apparent trifles forbidden to those who are void of real passion, and who, feeling nothing intensely, can intensify nothing.

17Carpets rose.”—This is a slip of the memory, for there were hardly carpets in those days. But the truth of the painting makes amends, as in the unchronological pictures of old masters.

LONELY SOUNDS.

Undescribed sounds
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors.

w

ORION.

At this, with madden'd stare, And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood, Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.

CIRCE AND HER VICTIMS.

Fierce, wan, And tyrannizing was the lady's look, As over them a gnarlèd staff she shook. Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh'd out, And from a basket emptied to the rout Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick And roar'd for more, with many a hungry lick About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, Anon she took a branch of misletoe, And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling phial : Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial Were sharpening for their pitiable bones. She lifted up the charm: appealing groans From their poor breasts went suing to her ear In vain : remorseless as an infanľs bier, She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil; Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, Increasing gradual to a tempest rage, Shrieks, yells, and groans, of torture pilgrimage. A BETTER ENCHANTRESS IMPRISONED IN THE SHAPE

OF A SERPENT.

She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue,
Striped like a zebra, speckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson-barrd,
And full of silver moons, that as she breath'd
Dissolv'd or brighter shone, or interwreath'd
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries.
So, rainbow-sided, full of miseries,
See seem’d, at once, some penanc'd lady elf,
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar;
Her head was serpent; but ah, bitter sweet !
She had a woman's mouth, with all its pearls complete

SATURN DETHRONED.

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat grey-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head,
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deaden'd more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade : the Naiad, ʼmid her reeds,
Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin sand large footmarks went,
Nor further than to where his feet had stray'd,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed.

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