On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke I'll pawn 105 110 My hopes of Heaven-you know what they are worth- What now they seem and are-but let them chide, Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden, I will not, as most dedicators do, Assure myself and all the world and you, 115 120 That you are faultless-would to God they were Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear 125 As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds 130 135 A Pythian exhalation, which inspires Love, only love-a wind which o'er the wires There is a mood which language faints beneath; His bloodless steed. And what is that most brief and bright delight 140 Which rushes through the touch and through the sight, A naked Seraph? None hath ever known. 145 dream It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream What is that joy which serene infancy Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show 150 155 sincere 160 Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were. Wonderful, and the immortality Of this great world, which all things must inherit, Was felt as one with the awakening spirit, 165 Distinctions which in its proceeding change It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily, 170 For all those exiles from the dull insane Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain, If day should part us night will mend division And we will move possessing and possessed 175 180 185 ADONAIS AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS, AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETC. Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν Εῷος νῦν δὲ θανὼν λάμπεις Εσπερος ἐν φθιμένοις.—PLATO. 6 [Adonais was composed at Pisa during the early days of June, 1821, and printed, with the author's name, at Pisa, with the types of Didot,' by July 13, 1821. Part of the impression was sent to the brothers Ollier for sale in London. An exact reprint of this Pisa edition (a few typographical errors only being corrected) was issued in 1829 by Gee & Bridges, Cambridge, at the instance of Arthur Hallam and Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). The poem was included in Galignani's edition of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats, Paris, 1829, and by Mrs. Shelley in the Poetical Works of 1839. Mrs. Shelley's text presents three important variations from that of the ed. princeps. In 1876 an edition of the Adonais, with Introduction and Notes, was printed for private circulation by Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B. Ten years later a reprint in exact facsimile' of the Pisa edition' was edited with a Bibliographical Introduction by Mr. T. J. Wise (Shelley Society Publications, 2nd Series, No. 1, Reeves & Turner, London, 1886). Our text is that of the ed. princeps, Pisa, 1821, modified by Mrs. Shelley's text of 1839. The readings of the ed. princeps, wherever superseded, are recorded in the footnotes. The Editor's Notes at the end of the volume should be consulted.] PREFACE Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, ποτὶ σὺν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες. IT is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled prove at least that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years. John Keats died at Rome of a -MOSCHUS, EPITAPH. BION. consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the of 1821; and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place. The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and where cankerworms abound, what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage criticism on his Endymion, which appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgements from more candid critics of the true greatness of his powers were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted. It may be well said that these wretched men know not what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows or one like Keats's composed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to Endymion, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, Paris, and Woman, and a Syrian Tale, and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the illustrious obscure? Are these the men who in their venal good nature presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman and Lord Byron? What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none. The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's life were not made known to me until the Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of Endymion was exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend.' Had I known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from such stuff as dreams are made of.' His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future careermay the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name! 427 ADONAIS I I WEEP for Adonais-he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be A II Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise. She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, III Oh, weep for Adonais-he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed 5 10 15 20 For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV Most musical of mourners, weep again! 25 Lament anew, Urania!--He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 30 Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. V Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 35 40 |