John Keats

The Complete Works: Poetry, Plays, Letters and Extensive Biographies


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hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;

      There was no recognition in those orbs.

      “Lamia!” he cried – and no soft-toned reply.

      The many heard, and the loud revelry

      Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;

      The myrtle sicken’d in a thousand wreaths.

      By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

      A deadly silence step by step increased,

      Until it seem’d a horrid presence there,

      And not a man but felt the terror in his hair.

      “Lamia!” he shriek’d; and nothing but the shriek

      With its sad echo did the silence break.

      “Begone, foul dream!” he cried, gazing again

      In the bride’s face, where now no azure vein

      Wander’d on fair-spaced temples; no soft bloom

      Misted the cheek; no passion to illume

      The deep-recessed vision: – all was blight;

      Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white.

      “Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man!

      Turn them aside, wretch! or the righteous ban

      Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images

      Here represent their shadowy presences,

      May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn

      Of painful blindness; leaving thee forlorn,

      In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright

      Of conscience, for their long offended might,

      For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries,

      Unlawful magic, and enticing lies.

      Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch!

      Mark how, possess’d, his lashless eyelids stretch

      Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see!

      My sweet bride withers at their potency.”

      “Fool!” said the sophist, in an undertone

      Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan

      From Lycius answer’d, as heart-struck and lost,

      He sank supine beside the aching ghost.

      “Fool! Fool!” repeated he, while his eyes still

      Relented not, nor mov’d; “from every ill

      Of life have I preserv’d thee to this day,

      And shall I see thee made a serpent’s prey?”

      Then Lamia breath’d death breath; the sophist’s eye,

      Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly,

      Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as well

      As her weak hand could any meaning tell,

      Motion’d him to be silent; vainly so,

      He look’d and look’d again a level – No!

      “A Serpent!” echoed he; no sooner said,

      Than with a frightful scream she vanished:

      And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,

      As were his limbs of life, from that same night.

      On the high couch he lay! – his friends came round —

      Supported him – no pulse, or breath they found,

      And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.

      Isabella

Or The Pot of Basil. A Story From BoccaccioI

      Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

      Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye!

      They could not in the selfsame mansion dwell

      Without some stir of heart, some malady;

      They could not sit at meals but feel how well

      It soothed each to be the other by;

      They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep

      But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

II

      With every morn their love grew tenderer,

      With every eve deeper and tenderer still;

      He might not in house, field, or garden stir,

      But her full shape would all his seeing fill;

      And his continual voice was pleasanter

      To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;

      Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,

      She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

III

      He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,

      Before the door had given her to his eyes;

      And from her chamber-window he would catch

      Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;

      And constant as her vespers would he watch,

      Because her face was turn’d to the same skies;

      And with sick longing all the night outwear,

      To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

IV

      A whole long month of May in this sad plight

      Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:

      “Tomorrow will I bow to my delight,

      Tomorrow will I ask my lady’s boon.” —

      “O may I never see another night,

      Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune.” —

      So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,

      Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

V

      Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek

      Fell sick within the rose’s just domain,

      Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek

      By every lull to cool her infant’s pain:

      “How ill she is,” said he, “I may not speak,

      And yet I will, and tell my love all plain:

      If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears,

      And at the least ‘twill startle off her cares.”

VI

      So said he one fair morning, and all day

      His heart beat awfully against his side;

      And to his heart he inwardly did pray

      For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide

      Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away —

      Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride,

      Yet brought him to the meekness of a child:

      Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

VII

      So once more he had wak’d and anguished

      A dreary night of love and misery,

      If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed

      To every symbol on his forehead high;

      She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

      And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly,

      “Lorenzo!” – here she ceas’d her timid quest,

      But