From the young day when first thy infant hand
Plucked witless the weak flowers, till thine arm
Could bend that bow heroic to all times.
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
Of loveliness new born."-Apollo then,
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answered, while his white melodious throat
Throbbed with the syllables.-" Mnemosyne !1
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips
Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes :
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,

Like one who once had wings.-O why should I
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air
Yields to my step aspirant? why should I
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet?
Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing :
Are there not other regions than this isle?
What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun!
And the most patient brilliance of the moon!
And stars by thousands! Point me out the way
To any one particular beauteous star,

And I will fit into it with my lyre,

And make its silvery splendour pant with bliss.
I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is

power?

Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity

1 The Goddess of Memory, a Titan.

Makes this alarum in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores
In fearless, yet in aching ignorance?
O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp
That waileth every morn and eventide,
Tell me why thus I rave about these groves!
Mute thou remainest-Mute! yet I can read
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face :
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, re-
bellions,

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,

Creations, and destroyings, all at once
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,
And deify me, as if some blithe wine
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
And so become immortal." Thus the God,
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples, stedfast kept
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.

J. KEATS

13.-SEA DRIFT1

OUT of the cradle endlessly rocking,

Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,

Out of the Ninth-month midnight

Over the sterile sands, and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wandered alone, bareheaded, barefoot,

1 The name of a series, of which this poem is the first.

Down from the showered halo,

Up from the mystic play of shadows turning and twisting as if they were alive,

Out from the patches of briars and blackberries, From the memories of the bird that chanted to

me,

From your memories, sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,

From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,

From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,

From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,

From the myriad thence-aroused words,

From the word stronger and more delicious than

any,

From such as now they start, the scene revisiting, (As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing), Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,

A man, yet by these tears a little boy again, Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the

waves,

I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,

Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,

A reminiscence sing.

Once in Paumánok,1

When the lilac-scent was in the air, and Fifthmonth grass was growing,

1 The Indian name of Long Island, in the State of New York, where the poet was born.

Up this sea-shore in some briars,

Two feathered guests from Alabama, two together, And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown;

And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,

And every day the she-bird crouched on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,

And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing them,

Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

Shine! shine! shine!

Pour down your warmth, great sun,

While we bask, we two together.

Two together!

Winds blow south, or winds blow north,

Day come white, or night come black,

Home, or rivers and mountains from home,

Singing all time, minding no time,

While we two keep together.

Till of a sudden,

Maybe killed, unknown to her mate,

One forenoon the she-bird crouched not on the

nest,

Nor returned that afternoon, nor the next,

Nor ever appeared again.

And thenceforward all summer in the sound of

the sea,

And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,

Over the hoarse surging of the sea,

Or flitting from briar to briar by day,

I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the

he-bird,

The solitary guest from Alabama.

Blow! blow! blow!

Blow up, sea-winds, along Paumánok's shore!
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Yes, when the stars glistened,

All night long on the prong of a moss-scalloped stake,

Down almost amid the slapping waves,

Sat the lone singer, wonderful, causing tears.

He called on his mate,

He poured forth the meanings which I of all men know.

Yes, my brother, I know,

The rest might not, but I have treasured every note ; For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,

Silent, avoiding the moonbeam, blending myself with the shadows,

Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights after their sorts,

The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,

1, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,

Listened long and long.

Listened to keep, to sing, now translating the notes, Following you, my brother.