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JOHN KEATS (Continued)
THE TERROR OF DEATH .
LAST SONNET .
ON LIVING Too LONG .
PAST AND PRESENT
SHE IS Not FAIR .
THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE
THE ARMADA .
SIR WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.
RUBAIYAT OF OM. KHAYYÁM OF NAISHÁPÚR . . 970
fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The redbreast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;
Each lonely scéne shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
ODE WRITTEN IN
How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
An Ode for Music
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own'd his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds, his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong:
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale She callid on Echo still through all the song ;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;
And longer had she sung :—but with a frown
Revenge impatient rose:
And with a withering look
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.