From The Sensitive Plant.' And the young winds fed it with silver dew And the spring arose on the garden tair, And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair, and passion so pale, And the byacinth purple, and white, and blue, And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Mænud, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, And all rare blossoms from every clime, Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom, Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels; And flowrets which, drooping as day drooped too, To roof the glowworm from the evening dew. And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers-as an infant's awakening eyes When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit It loves even like Love, it- deep heart is full, The light winds which, from unsustaining wings, Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; The plumed insects swift and free, The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Each and all like ministering angels were And when evening descended from heaven above, And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sonná; Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it-consciousness. (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day night fail, And snatches of its Elysian chunt Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant); The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Forest Scenery.-From Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude.) The noonday sun Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents clothed Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyes with blooms Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine, To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades, Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples, The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown; The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion; How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowned; Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure, Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; Which I have borne, and yet must bear, My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Some might lament that I were cold, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not; and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. On a Faded Violet. The colour from the flower is gone, me: The odour from the flower is flown, A withered, lifeless, vacant form, And mocks the heart which yet is warm I weep-my tears revive it not; JOHN KEATS was born in London, October 29, 1795, in the house of his grandfather, who kept a livery-stable at Moorfields. He received his education at Enfield, and in his fifteenth year was a prenticed to a surgeon. Most of his time, however, was devoted to the cultivation of his literary talents, which were early conspi :uous. During his apprenticeship, he made and carefully wrote out a literal translation of Virgil's · Æneid,' but he does not appear to have been familiar with more difficult Latin poetry, nor to have even commenced learning the Greek language (Lord Houghton). One of his earliest friends and critics was Mr. Leigh Hunt, who, being shewn some of his poetical pieces, was struck, he says, with the exuberant specimens of genuine though young poetry that were laid before Lim, and the promise of which was seconded by the fine fervid countenance of the writer. A volume of these juvenile poems was pub lished in 1817. In 1818 Keats published his 'Endymion, a Poetic Romance,' defective in many parts, but evincing rich though undisciplined powers of imagination. The poem was criticised, in a strain of contemptuous severity, by Mr. John Wilson Croker in the Quarterly Review;' and such was the sensitiveness of the young poet – panting for distinction, and flattered by a few private friends-that the critique imbittered his existence. The first effects,' says She'ley, are described to me to have resembled insanity, and it was by assiduous watching that he was restrained from effecting purposes of suicide. The agony of his sufferings at length produced the rupture of a blood vessel in the lungs, and the usual process of consumption appears to have begun.' The process had begun, as was too soon a parent; but the disease was a family one, and would probably have appeared had no hostile criticism existed. Lord Houghton, Keats's |