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From The Sensitive Plant." A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night, And the spring arose on the garden fair, And the spirit of love fell everywhere; And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose froin the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrumento, Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense; And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare; And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime, Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom, Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, With gollen and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells
love make dear,
(Only overhead the sweet nightingale
Forest Scenery. From Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude.'
The noonday sun
Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples.
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
The purple noon's transparent light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Arises from its measured motion;
Nor peace within, nor calm around,
The sage in meditation found,
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
Even as the winds and waters are;
And weep away the life of care
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Insults with this untimely moan;
Shall on its stainless glory set,
On a Faded Violet.
The colour from the flower is gone,
Which breathed of thee, and only thee. A withered, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.
I sigh-it breathes no more on me;
Is such as mine should be.
Lines to an Indian Air. I arise from dreams of thee,
The nightingale's complaint, In the first sweet sleep of night,
It dies upon her heart,
O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass !
I die, I faint, I fail;
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas! On the dark and silent stream,
My heart beats loud and fast; The Champak odours fail
Oh! press it close to thine again, Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
Where it will break at last.
То Music, when soft voices die,
Rose leaves, when the rose is dearl, Vibrates in the memory
Are heaped for the beloved's be 1; Odours, when sweet violets sicken, And so thy thoughts, when thou a t gone,
Live within the sense they quicken. Love itself shall slumber on.
JOHN KEATS was born in London, October 29, 1795, in the house of his grandfather, who kept a livery-stable at Moorfields. ceived his education at Enfield, and in his fifteenth year was a sprenticed to a surgeon.
Most of his time, however, was devoted to the cultivation of bis literary talents, which were early conspi.uous. During his apprenticeship, he made and carefully wrote out a literal translation of Virgil's ' Æneid, but he does not appear to hav: been familiar with more difficult Latin poetry, nor to have even commenced learning the Greek language (Lord Houghton). One of his earliest friends and critics was Mr. Leigh Hunt, who, being shewn some of his poetical pieces, was struck, he says, with the exuberant specimens of genuine though young poetry that were laid before lim, and the promise of which was seconded by the fine fervid countenance of the writer. A volume of these juvenile poems was published in 1817. In 1818 Keats published his 'Endymion, a Poetic Romance,' defective in many parts, but evincing rich though undisciplined powers of imagination. The poem was criticised, in a strain of contemptuous severity, by Mr. John Wilson Croker in the ‘Quarterly Review; and such was the sensitiveness of the young poet panting for distinction, and flattered by a few private friends--that the critique imbittered his existence. "The first effects,' says She:ley, ‘are described to me to have resembled insanity, and it was by assiduous watching that he was restrained from effecting purposes or suicide. The agony of his sufferings at length produced the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and the usual process of consumptiou appears to have begun.' The process had begun, as was too soon apa parent; but the disease was a family one, and would probably have appeared had no hostile criticism existed. Lord Houghton, Keata's