AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS,

Author of _Endymion, Hyperion,_ etc.

[Greek:

Astaer prin men elampes eni zooisin eoos.

Nun de thanon lampeis esperos en phthimenois.]

PLATO.

PREFACE.

[Greek:

Pharmakon aelthe Bion poti son stoma, pharmakon eides.

Pos teu tois cheilessi potedrame kouk eglukanthae; Tis de Brotos tossouton anameros ae kerasai toi, Ae dounai laleonti to pharmakon; ekphugen odan.]

MOSCHUS, EPITAPH. BION.

It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be cla.s.sed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. 15 My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled proves 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. 20

John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the [23rd] of [February] 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 ma.s.sy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of 25 ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open s.p.a.ce 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.

30 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 canker-worms 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 35 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 acknowledgments, from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.

40 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 a.s.sociates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled 45 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 ill.u.s.trious 50 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 prost.i.tutes to cast his opprobrious stone? 55 Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the n.o.blest, specimens of the workmanship of G.o.d. Nor shall it be your excuse that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none.

The circ.u.mstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's life were 60 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 65 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 circ.u.mstances before the completion 70 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 career. 75 May the unextinguished spirit of his ill.u.s.trious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against oblivion for his name!

ADONAIS.

1.

I weep for Adonais--he is dead!

Oh weep for Adonais, though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

And thou, sad Hour selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 5 And teach them thine own sorrow! Say: 'With me Died Adonais! Till the future dares Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity.'

2.

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness? Where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her paradise 5 She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death.

3.

Oh weep for Adonais--he is dead!

Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!-- Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 5 For he is gone where all things wise and fair Descend. Oh dream not that the amorous deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

4.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!

Lament anew, Urania!--He died Who was the sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, 5 Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of l.u.s.t and blood. He went unterrified Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite Yet reigns o'er earth, the third among the Sons of Light.

5.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!

Not all to that bright station dared to climb: And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time In which suns perished. Others more sublime, 5 Struck by the envious wrath of man or G.o.d, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the th.o.r.n.y road Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.

6.

But now thy youngest, dearest one has perished, The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true love tears instead of dew.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 5 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom whose petals, nipt before they blew, Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies--the storm is overpast.

7.

To that high Capital where kingly Death Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal.--Come away!

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 5 Is yet his fitting charnel-roof, while still He lies as if in dewy sleep he lay.

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

8.

He will awake no more, oh never more!

Within the twilight chamber spreads apace The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; 5 The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

9.

Oh weep for Adonais!--The quick Dreams, The pa.s.sion-winged ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not-- 5 Wander no more from kindling brain to brain, But droop there whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength or find a home again.

10.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head, And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 'Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead!

See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes, Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies 5 A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain,'

Lost angel of a ruined paradise!