Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim:--
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim:--
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Golden Treasury
In a word, the
Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted
of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself--hence
the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with
each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness,
is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with
the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely
proportionate to Strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to
grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to
love most wisely.
166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
--Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
J. KEATS.
167. ODE ON THE POETS.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Doubled-lived in regions new?
--Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wonderous
And the parle of voices thunderous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim:--
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!
J. KEATS.
168. LOVE.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story--
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted
of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself--hence
the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with
each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness,
is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with
the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely
proportionate to Strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to
grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to
love most wisely.
166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
--Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
J. KEATS.
167. ODE ON THE POETS.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Have ye souls in heaven too,
Doubled-lived in regions new?
--Yes, and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
With the noise of fountains wonderous
And the parle of voices thunderous;
With the whisper of heaven's trees
And one another, in soft ease
Seated on Elysian lawns
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
Underneath large blue-bells tented,
Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not;
Where the nightingale doth sing
Not a senseless, tranced thing,
But divine melodious truth;
Philosophic numbers smooth;
Tales and golden histories
Of heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and then
On the earth ye live again;
And the souls ye left behind you
Teach us, here, the way to find you
Where your other souls are joying,
Never slumber'd, never cloying.
Here, your earth-born souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week;
Of their sorrows and delights;
Of their passions and their spites;
Of their glory and their shame;
What doth strengthen and what maim:--
Thus ye teach us, every day,
Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of Mirth
Ye have left your souls on earth!
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new!
J. KEATS.
168. LOVE.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story--
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
