LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring | Above the goodly land, more his than ours,
How little fades from earth when sink to rest The hours and cares that move a great man's breast!
Though nought of all we saw the grave may spare,
His life pervades the world's impregnate air; Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our footsteps lies,
His spirit breathes amid his native skies; With meaning won from him for ever glows Each air that England feels, and star it knows;
His whispered words from many a mother's voice
Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice;
And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth
Are blent with rays of each new morning's birth.
Amid the sights and tales of common things, Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths
Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round, Of life that tills, and tombs that load, the ground,
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, And haunt with living presence heart and eye; And tones from him, by other bosoms caught, Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought; And the long sigh, and deep impassioned
Rouse custom's trance and spur the faltering
He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers,
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
O shaping brain! O flashing fancy's hues!
O boundless heart, kept fresh by pity's dews!
O wit humane and blithe! O sense sublime!
For each dim oracle of mantled time!
Transcendant form of man! in whom we
read
Mankind's whole tale of impulse, thought and deed!
Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee, We know how vast our world of life may be; Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine,
Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine.
LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.
SOULS of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid tavern?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison? O generous food!
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,—
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine,
And pledging with contented smack,
The Mermaid in the zodiac.
Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid tavern?
JOHN KEATS
WHERE dosi 'hou careless lie
Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge that sleeps, doth die:
And this security,
It is the common moth
That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys
Philarete on Willy calls,
To sing out his pastorals;
Warrants fame shall grace his rhym
'Spite of envy and the times;
And shows how in care he uses
To take comfort from his muSES.
PRYTHEE, Willy! tell me this-
What new accident there is
That thou, once the blithest lad,
Art become so wondrous sad,
And so careless of thy quill,
As if thou hadst lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so cheered me with thy song
That I have forgot my wrong.
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old wont thou hast lost.
Tell me have I ought mis-said,
That hath made thee ill-apaid?
Hath some churl done thee a spite!
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night?
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass?
Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Worse than this my banishment?
Why, doth that so evil seem
That thou nothing worse dost deem?
Shepherds there full many be
That will change contents with thee:
Those that choose their walks at will
On the valley or the hill-
Or those pleasures boast of can
Groves or fields may yield to man-
Never come to know the rest,
Wherewithal thy mind is blest.
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troop at sports.
And in company some while
Happens to strain forth a smile,
Feels more want and outward smart,
And more inward grief of heart,
Than this place can bring to thee,
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth—
But what find'st thou in this earth
Wherein aught may be believed
Worth to make me joyed or grieved?
And yet feel I, naitheless,
Part of both I must confess.
Sometime I of mirth do borrow-
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But my present state is such
As nor joy nor grieve I much.
Why hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall
His well-tuned pastoral,
And my ears that music bar
Which I more long after far
Than the liberty I want?
That were very much to grant.
But doth this hold alway, lad-
Those that sing not must be sad?
Didst thou ever that bird hear
Sing well that sings all the year?
Tom the piper doth not play
Till he wears his pipe away-
There's a time to slack the string,
And a time to leave to sing.
Yea! but no man now is still
That can sing or tune a quill.
Now to chaunt it were but reason-
Song and music are in season.
Now, in this sweet jolly tide,
Is the earth in all her pride;
The fair lady of the May,
Trimmed up in her best array,
Hath invited all the swains,
With the lasses of the plains,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.
Coridon, with his bold rout,
Hath already been about
For the elder shepherd's dole,
And fetched in the summer-pole;
Whilst the rest have built a bower
To defend them from a shower-
Coiled so close, with boughs all green,
Titan cannot pry between.
Now the dairy wenches dream
Of their strawberries and cream;
And each doth herself advance
To be taken in to dance;
Every one that knows to sing
Fits him for his carolling;
So do those that hope for meed
Either by the pipe or reed;
And, though I am kept away,
I do hear, this very day,
Many learned grooms do wend
For the garlands to contend;
Which a nymph, that hight Desert,
Long a stranger in this part,
With her own fair hand hath wrought-
A rare work, they say, past thought,
As appeareth by the name,
For she calls thein wreaths of fame.
She hath set in their due place
Every flower that may grace;
And among a thousand moe,
Whereof some but serve for show,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,
That they may not blasted be;
Which with time she edged about,
Lest the work should ravel out;
And that it might wither never,
Intermixed it with live-ever.
These are to be shared among
Those that do excel for song,
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then for those among the rest
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a kidling with the dam,
A fat wether and a lamb.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar,
There's appointed guerdons too:
He that best the first can do
Shall for his reward be paid
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid
With fine bone of a strange beast
That men bring out of the west;
For the next a scrip of red,
Tasselled with fine colored thread;
There's prepared for their meed
That in running make most speed,
Or the cunning measures foot,
Cups of turned maple-root,
Whereupon the skilful man
Hath engraved the loves of Pan;
And the last hath for his due
A fine napkin wrought with blue.
Then, my Willy, why art thou
Careless of thy merit now?
What dost thou here, with a wight
That is shut up from delight
In a solitary den,
As not fit to live with men?
Go, my Willy! get thee gone-
Leave me in exile alone;
Hie thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy song!
Thou art young, yet such a lay
Never graced the month of May,
As, if they provoke thy skill,
Thou canst fit unto thy quill.
I with wonder heard thee sing
At our last year's revelling.
Then I with the rest was free,
When, unknown, I noted thee,
And perceived the ruder swains
Envy thy far sweeter strains.
Yea, I saw the lasses cling
Round about thee in a ring,
As if each one jealous were
Any but herself should hear;
And I know they yet do long
For the residue of thy song.
Haste thee then to sing it forth;
Take the benefit of worth;
And Desert will sure bequeath
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath
Hie thee, Willy! hie away.
Phila! rather let me stay,
And be desolate with thee,
Than at those their revels be.
Naught such is my skill, I wis,
As indeed thou deem'st it is;
But whate'er it be, I must
Be content, and shall, I trust.
For a song I do not pass
'Mongst my friends; but what, alas! Should I have to do with them
That my music do contemn?
Some there are, as well I wot,
That the same yet favor not;
Yet I cannot well avow
They my carols disallow;
But such malice I have spied,
'Tis as much as if they did.
Willy! what may those men be Are so ill to malice thee?
Some are worthy-well esteemed; Some without worth, are so deemed; Others of so base a spirit
They have nor esteem nor merit
PHILARETE.
What's the wrong?
A slight offence, Wherewithal I can dispense; But hereafter, for their sake, To myself I'll music make.
What, because some clown offends, Wilt thou punish all thy friends?
Do not, Phil! misunderstand me-
Those that love me may command me:
But thou know'st I am but young,
And the pastoral I sung
Is by some supposed to be,
By a strain, too high for me;
So they kindly let me gain
Not my labor for my pain.
Trust me, I do wonder why
They should me my own deny.
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
On the wings of borrowed wit;
I'll make my own feathers rear me,
Whither others cannot bear me.
Yet I'll keep my skill in store, Till I've seen some winters more.
But in earnest mean'st thou so?-
Then thou art not wise, I trow:
Better shall advise thee Pan,
For thou dost not rightly then;
That's the ready way to blot
All the credit thou hast got.
Rather in thy age's prime
Get another start of time;
And make those that so fond be,
Spite of their own dúlness, see
That the sacred muses can
Make a child in years a man.
It is known what thou canst do;
For it is not long ago,
When that Cuddy, thou and I,
Each the other's skill to try,
At Saint Dunstan's charmed well,
As some present there can tell,
Sang upon a sudden theme,
Sitting by the crimson stream;
Where if thou didst well or no
Yet remains the song to show.
Much experience more I've had
Of thy skill, thou happy lad;
And would make the world to know it,
But that time will further show it.
Envy makes their tongues now run,
More than doubt of what is done;
For that needs must be thine own,
Or to be some other's known;
But how then will 't suit unto
What thou shalt hereafter do?
Or I wonder where is he
Would with that song part with thee!
Nay, were there so mad a swain
Could such glory sell for gain,
Phoebus would not have combined
That gift with so base a mind.
Never did the nine impart
The sweet secrets of their art
Unto any that did scorn
We should see their favors worn.
Therefore, unto those that say
Were they pleased to sing a lay
They could do 't, and will not tho'
This I speak, for this I know-
None e'er drank the Thespian spring,
And knew how, but he did sing;
For, that once infused in man,
Makes him shew 't, do what he can;
Nay, those that do only sip,
Or but e'en their fingers dip
In that sacred fount, poor elves!
Of that brood will show themselves.
Yea, in hope to get them fame,
They will speak, though to their shame,
Let those, then, at thee repine
That by their wits measure thine;
Needs those songs must be thine own,
And that one day will be known.
That poor imputation, too,
I myself do undergo;
But it will appear, ere long,
That 't was envy sought our wrong,
Who, at twice ten, have sung more
Than some will do at four score.
Cheer thee, honest Willy! then,
And begin thy song again.
Fain I would; but I do fear,
When again my lines they hear,
If they yield they are my rhymes,
They will feign some other crimes;
And 't is no safe venturing by
Where we see detraction lie;
For, do what I can, I doubt
She will pick some quarrel out;
And I oft have heard defended
Little said is soon amended.
See'st thou not, in clearest days
Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays?
And that vapors, which do breathe
From the earth's gross womb beneath.
Seem unto us with black steams
To pollute the sun's bright beams-
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it, unblemished, fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With detraction's breath on thee-
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapors from each rotten vale,
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