The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies - John Keats

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the gold coin could invent

      Without the aid of love; yet in content

      Till she saw him, as once she pass’d him by,

      Where ‘gainst a column he leant thoughtfully

      At Venus’ temple porch, ‘mid baskets heap’d

      Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap’d

      Late on that eve, as ’twas the night before

      The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no more,

      But wept alone those days, for why should she adore?

      Lycius from death awoke into amaze,

      To see her still, and singing so sweet lays;

      Then from amaze into delight he fell

      To hear her whisper woman’s lore so well;

      And every word she spake entic’d him on

      To unperplex’d delight and pleasure known.

      Let the mad poets say whate’er they please

      Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses,

      There is not such a treat among them all,

      Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall,

      As a real woman, lineal indeed

      From Pyrrha’s pebbles or old Adam’s seed.

      Thus gentle Lamia judg’d, and judg’d aright,

      That Lycius could not love in half a fright,

      So threw the goddess off, and won his heart

      More pleasantly by playing woman’s part,

      With no more awe than what her beauty gave,

      That, while it smote, still guaranteed to save.

      Lycius to all made eloquent reply,

      Marrying to every word a twinborn sigh;

      And last, pointing to Corinth, ask’d her sweet,

      If ’twas too far that night for her soft feet.

      The way was short, for Lamia’s eagerness

      Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease

      To a few paces; not at all surmised

      By blinded Lycius, so in her comprized.

      They pass’d the city gates, he knew not how,

      So noiseless, and he never thought to know.

      As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,

      Throughout her palaces imperial,

      And all her populous streets and temples lewd,

      Mutter’d, like tempest in the distance brew’d,

      To the wide-spreaded night above her towers.

      Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours,

      Shuffled their sandals o’er the pavement white,

      Companion’d or alone; while many a light

      Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals,

      And threw their moving shadows on the walls,

      Or found them cluster’d in the corniced shade

      Of some arch’d temple door, or dusky colonnade.

      Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear,

      Her fingers he press’d hard, as one came near

      With curl’d gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown,

      Slow-stepp’d, and robed in philosophic gown:

      Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past,

      Into his mantle, adding wings to haste,

      While hurried Lamia trembled: “Ah,” said he,

      “Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully?

      Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?” —

      “I’m wearied,” said fair Lamia: “tell me who

      Is that old man? I cannot bring to mind

      His features: – Lycius! wherefore did you blind

      Yourself from his quick eyes?” Lycius replied,

      “’Tis Apollonius sage, my trusty guide

      And good instructor; but tonight he seems

      The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams.”

      While yet he spake they had arrived before

      A pillar’d porch, with lofty portal door,

      Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow

      Reflected in the slabbed steps below,

      Mild as a star in water; for so new,

      And so unsullied was the marble hue,

      So through the crystal polish, liquid fine,

      Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine

      Could e’er have touch’d there. Sounds Æolian

      Breath’d from the hinges, as the ample span

      Of the wide doors disclos’d a place unknown

      Some time to any, but those two alone,

      And a few Persian mutes, who that same year

      Were seen about the markets: none knew where

      They could inhabit; the most curious

      Were foil’d, who watch’d to trace them to their house:

      And but the flitter-winged verse must tell,

      For truth’s sake, what woe afterwards befel,

      ’Twould humour many a heart to leave them thus,

      Shut from the busy world of more incredulous.

      Lamia Part II

      Love in a hut, with water and a crust,

      Is – Love, forgive us! – cinders, ashes, dust;

      Love in a palace is perhaps at last

      More grievous torment than a hermit’s fast: —

      That is a doubtful tale from faery land,

      Hard for the non-elect to understand.

      Had Lycius liv’d to hand his story down,

      He might have given the moral a fresh frown,

      Or clench’d it quite: but too short was their bliss

      To breed distrust and hate, that make the soft voice hiss.

      Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare

      Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair,

      Hover’d and buzz’d his wings, with fearful roar,

      Above the lintel of their chamber door,

      And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor.

      For all this came a ruin: side by side

      They were enthroned, in the even tide,

      Upon a couch, near to a curtaining

      Whose airy texture, from a golden string,

      Floated into the room, and let appear

      Unveil’d the summer heaven, blue and clear,

      Betwixt two marble shafts: – there they reposed,

      Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed,

      Saving a tythe which love still open kept,

      That they might see each other while they almost slept;

      When from the slope side of a suburb hill,

      Deafening the swallow’s twitter, came a thrill

      Of

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