CCXXXV HAPPY INSENSIBILITY In a drear-nighted December, The north cannot undo them With a sleety whistle through them, In a drear-nighted December, About the frozen time. Ah! would 'twere so with many J. Keats CCXXXVI Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow. Soft shall be his pillow. There through the summer day Cool streams are laving: Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, He, the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying; Eleu loro There shall he be lying. Her wing shall the eagle flap O'er the falsehearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never! Eleu loro Never, O never! Sir W. Scott CCXXXVII LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! And the harvest's done. 'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, 'I met a lady in the meads, 'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. 'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said 'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore ; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. 'And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. 'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all : They cried-"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gapéd wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. 'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.' J. Keats CCXXXVIII THE ROVER A weary lot is thine, fair maid, To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A doublet of the Lincoln green No more of me you knew My Love! No more of me you knew. 'This morn is merry June, I trow, But she shall bloom in winter snow Q He turn'd his charger as he spake He gave the bridle-reins a shake, THE FLIGHT OF LOVE When the lamp is shatter'd Sweet tones are remember'd not; As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, No song when the spirit is mute- Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possesst. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? |