No More Learning

All false art, all empty wisdom, lasts its time; but it destroys
itself in the end, and its highest cultivation is at the same time
the moment of its decline. That as regards metaphysics this
time has now come, is proved by the state to which it has
declined among all cultivated nations, notwithstanding the zeal
with which every other kind of science is being worked out.
The old arrangement of the university studies preserves its out-
lines still; a single academy of sciences bestirs itself now and
then, by holding out prizes, to induce another attempt to be
made therein: but it is no longer counted among fundamental
sciences; and any one may judge for himself how an intellectu-
ally gifted man to whom the term “great metaphysician” were
applied, would take this well-meant, but scarcely by any one cov-
eted, compliment.
But although the period of the decline of all dogmatic meta-
physics is undoubtedly come, there are many things wanting to
enable us to say that the time of its re-birth by means of a thor-
ough and complete critique of the reason has already appeared.
All transitional phases from one tendency to its opposite pass
through the state of indifference; and this moment is the most
dangerous for an author, but as it seems to me the most favor-
able for the science. For when, through the complete dissolu-
tion of previous combinations, party spirit is extinguished, men's
minds are in the best mood for listening gradually to propos-
als for a combination on another plan. If I say that I hope
that these Prolegomena' will perhaps make research in the
field of criticism more active, and will offer to the general spirit
of philosophy, which seems to be wanting in nourishment on its
speculative side, a new and very promising field for its occupa-
tion, I can already foresee that every one who has trodden unwill-
ingly and with vexation the thorny way I have led him in the
Critique) will ask me on what I ground this hope. I answer,
On the irresistible law of necessity.
That the spirit of man will ever wholly give up metaphysical
investigations, is just as little to be expected as that in order
(


## p. 8496 (#100) ###########################################

8496
IMMANUEL KANT
not always to be breathing bad air we should stop breathing
altogether. Metaphysics will always exist in the world, then;
and what is more, exist with every one, but more especially with
reflecting men, who in default of a public standard will each
fashion it in his own way. Now, what has hitherto been termed
metaphysics can satisfy no acute mind; but to renounce it entirely
is impossible: hence a critique of the pure reason itself must be
at last attempted, and when obtained must be investigated and
subjected to a universal test; because otherwise there are no
means of relieving this pressing requirement, which means some-
thing more than mere thirst for knowledge.
Translation of Ernest Belford Bax.


## p. 8496 (#101) ###########################################

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## p. 8496 (#102) ###########################################


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JOHN KEATS.


## p. 8496 (#103) ###########################################

$147
11
JOIIN KEITS
11745 1821)
BY LOUISE VOGEY GUINEY
܀ ;i"; »
HTY 1! 1 people who read poetry have a favoritism for Keets;
die is in many reupects the p 'pular hero o. Eglish liter-
ature. He was young, ni ch'virussly devoted to his art;
lie has a mastery of expression almost ur part. ! It is neither
oscure lot plemie, are le has had froin tikili 2! 1,(? trag
iuulemas on other irinds: in Ilv. ), in Terti, rt, in Rimini wd Wila
the VI:1::3'*? . 11 Lanier and Lowril, in Yüts Porn
til Breath, and touch of Keats like an incant":? l'. ! sllat mellom
tij prozira! genius that it shall nid in t.
tie triture of its race: it it slizll byen essenti, ir tt by! "Li’octi.
Viwmi says vulnewhere in his ever 111. 6i ma? ? ? (+1: "How is it
"! ' good! , but reprochet fod; this is one of its attribute
? ? ? :is excellent, hefuful, poiftet, desirable, for its own sake, but
it over iss, and spreads the likenes vi itself uil rould it.
a great gol will impart great good. And as hie mix, 11t have added,
it wi'l hatte derived it. Keats first woke and knew hirsli reiling
Speiser's world of fairy, where abstract harmones Wandt t,
And thri'm livine is all areting,
A: 112! lth is the rossy grouri. ”
TIK
.
Tint Wits really his operring event.
Ilis vlter story is scontri d.
Irtit count as it can that Keats was of commonplace Stoak, born
on the 31st of October, 1795, early orphaned, hainig
Pince Wilste prematurely ilirough the fault of stipri
lefill schooling in his boyfcond and kind frien is the ti
friend's iter to suur him on to achieve his bizonte Pin
funt in a universiiy save as a passing guest, that I
to a country surzen, and got absorbed, liit! . . 1:1. te with
fydusive postai 1:2. in literature; that he was ir pers. ), but
P. : Tiarly wain, with a head and files of dirt ad serious beauty:
21714] that his behaviur in all the relatius von bis was cheerful, dis-
1. . . TESTU! , nieciest, honorable, kind: that his burit brokt. -- but not
"Die of lis anxieties, of which a fevered in vendir was chief,-
6? ! ? *llat le died in exile at Rone on the 24 of Fibruary, 1821, agedi
1. 12-13'-twenty, incertain of the fate of his third and last brok, in
1-532


## p. 8496 (#104) ###########################################


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## p. 8497 (#105) ###########################################

8497
1
JOHN KEATS
(1795-1821)
BY LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY
N
EARLY all people who read poetry have a favoritism for Keats;
he is in many respects the popular hero of English liter-
ature. He was young, and chivalrously devoted to his art;
he has a mastery of expression almost unparalleled; he is neither
obscure nor polemic; and he has had from the first a most fecundating
influence on other minds: in Hood, in Tennyson, in Rossetti and Mat-
thew Arnold, in Lanier and Lowell, in Yeats and Watson, one feels
the breath and touch of Keats like an incantation. It is a test of the
truly original genius that it shall stand in line with the past and
the future of its race; that it shall be essentially filial and paternal.
Newman says somewhere in his ever lucid manner: “Good is not
only good, but reproductive of good; this is one of its attributes;
nothing is excellent, beautiful, perfect, desirable, for its own sake, but
it overflows, and spreads the likeness of itself all around it.
A great good will impart great good. ” And as he might have added,
it will have derived it. Keats first woke and knew himself reading,
Spenser's world of faëry, where abstract harmonies wander,
.
“And the gloom divine is all around,
And underneath is the mossy ground. ”
That was really his opening event. His outer story is soon told.
Let it count as it can that Keats was of commonplace stock, born
on the 31st of October, 1795, early orphaned, having a small com-
petence wasted prematurely through the fault of others; that he had
careful schooling in his boyhood, and kind friends then and famous
friends after to spur him on to achieve his best, never having set
foot in a university save as a passing guest; that he was apprenticed
to a country surgeon, and got absorbed, little by little and with
exclusive passion, in literature; that he was small in person, but
muscularly made, with a head and face of alert and serious beauty;
and that his behavior in all the relations of life was cheerful, dis-
interested, modest, honorable, kind; that his health broke,— but not
because of his anxieties, of which a fevered love-affair was chief,–
and that he died in exile at Rome on the 23d of February, 1821, aged
five-and-twenty, uncertain of the fate of his third and last book, in
XV-532


## p. 8498 (#106) ###########################################

8498
JOHN KEATS
stard
endom
aut :0 $
caligero
ship is
such bi
Words
cres he
Shelleu
unike
ben
bealth
able,
amo
TUTT
insta
tica
which lay his whole gathered force, his brave bid for human remem-
brance.
Keats's early attempts were certainly over-colored. Endymion,'
despite its soft graces and two enchanting lyric interludes, is a dis-
quieting performance. Yet it turned out to be, as he knew, a rock
under his feet whence he could make a progress, and not a quick-
sand which he had to abandon in order to be saved. Like Mozart's
or Raphael's, his work is singularly of a piece. His ambition in his
novice days was great and conscious: “I that am ever all athirst for
glory! ” he cries in a sonnet composed in 1817. Everything he wrote
was for a while embroidered and interrupted with manifold invoca-
tions to his Muse, or melodiously irrelevant remarks concerning his
own unworthiness and pious intentions. And there is nothing finer
in the history of English letters than his growth, by self-criticism,
from these molluscous moods into the perception and interpretation
of objective beauty. His dominant qualities, bad and good, exist
from the first, and all along: they seem never to have moved from
their own ground. But they undergo the most lovely transformations;
in his own Hebraic phrase, they “die into life,” into the perfected
splendor of the Keats we know. He embraced discipline. Knowing
no Greek (it was part of Shelley's generous plan, when both were
unwittingly so near the grave, to keep Keats's body warm, and
teach him Greek and Spanish ”), the little London poet turned loyally
to Greek ideals: the most unlikely loadstones, one would think, for
his opulent and inebriate imagination. Towards these ideals, and not
only towards the entrancing mythologies extern to them, he toiled.
Recognizing the richness and redundance of his rebellious fancy, he
therefore set before himself truth, and the calm report of it; height
and largeness; severity, and poise, and restraint. The processes are
perceptible alike in lyric, narrative, and sonnet, taken in the lump
and chronologically; the amazing result is plain at last in the recast
and unfinished Hyperion, and in the incomparable volume of 1820,
containing Lamia,' 'Isabella, (The Eve of Saint Agnes,' and the
Odes. It is as if a dweller in the fen country should elect to build
upon Jura. This may be the award of a vocation and a concentrated
mind, or even the happy instinct of genius. It betokens, no less, sov-
ereignty of another sort. “Keats had flint and iron in him," says Mr.
Matthew Arnold; «he had character. ” Even as the gods gave him
his natural life of the intellect, he matched them at their own game;
for he earned his immortality.
Now, what is the outstanding extraneous feature of Keats's poetry?
It is perhaps the musical and sculptural effect which he can make
with words: a necromancy which he exercises with hardly a rival,
and
TH
LU
a
)
>
among the greatest ); and among these he justly hoped to
(
even


## p. 8499 (#107) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8499
a
stand. Observe that a facility of this sort cannot be natural
endowment, since we must still, as Sir Philip Sidney bewails, “be
put to school to learn our mother-tongue”; and that it implies ascetic
diligence in the artist compassing it. Moreover, Keats's craftsman-
ship is no menace to him. It is true that he carries, in general, no
such hindering burden of thought along his lyre as Donne, Dryden,
Wordsworth, Browning; but neither, once having learned his strength,
does he ever fall into the mere teasing ecstasy of symbolic sound, as
Shelley does often, as Swinburne does more often than not. Keats,
unlike Shelley or a cherub, is not all wing; he stands foursquare”
when he wills, or moves like the men of the Parthenon frieze, with a
health and joyous gravity entirely carnal. The most remarkable of
all his powers is this power of deliciously presenting the inconceiv-
able, without strain or fantasticality, so that it takes rank at once
among laws which any one might have seen and said — laws neces-
sary to man in his higher moods. Neither Virgil, nor Dante, nor
Milton, - although he touches deep truths, and Keats only their beau-
tiful analogies,— has a more illumining habit of speech. Mr. Bradford
Torrey, in a recent essay in the Atlantic Monthly, cited, as master
instances of “verbal magic » in English, a passage from Shakespeare,
another from Wordsworth, which have long had the profound admira-
tion of feeling hearts. These are —
- boughs that shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang,
and again —
<< — old unhappy far-off things,
And battles long ago. ”
The condition of the best «magic) is surely that it shall be unac-
countable; but the magnificent lines just cited are not at all so,- at
least fundamentally, to any acquainted with what may be called their
historic context. Shakespeare eyeing the melancholy winter trees as
he writes his sonnet, and sympathetically conscious of the glorious
abbey churches newly dismantled on every side, unroofed, emptied,
discolored, their choral voices hushed; Wordsworth conjecturing the
matter of his Scots girl-gleaner's song to have been (as indeed it
must have been, caught from her aged grandsire's lips at home! )
a memory of the Forty-five, an echo of the romantic Jacobite insur-
rection, enough in itself to inspire poets forever;— these are but
transmuting their every-day tradition and impression into literature.
But the “younger brother » is not so to be tracked; when we come
to the finest definite images of his pages, such as
<Magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn,”


## p. 8500 (#108) ###########################################

8500
JOHN KEATS
T
we feel that he lived in Illyria, rather than in the capital of his
Sacred Majesty George the Fourth. Some conception which defies
genesis is under his every stanza; word on word is wrought of mir-
acles. Yet the whole is fragrant of obedience, temperance, labor.
This it is which makes the art of Keats a very heartening spectacle,
over and above its extreme solace and charm; and his own clan will
always be his most vehement adorers, because they, better than any,
have insight into his heroic temper.
Time, accumulatively wise with the imparted second thoughts of
all men of genius, has not failed to make huge excisions in Keats's
dramatic, satiric, and amatory work; and to name the earliest and
the latest verses among utterances forgivably imperfect. But striking
away from Keats's fame all which refuses to cohere, leaves large to
the eye what a noble and endearing shrine of song! Far more effect-
ually than any other at our command, the lad John Keats, being but
heard and seen, bears in upon the docile intelligence what is meant
by pure poesy; the most elemental and tangible, as well as the
most occult and uncataloguable (if one may coin so fierce a word! ) of
mortal pleasures. Although he must always call forth personal love
and reverence, his value is unmistakably super-personal. Keats is the
Celt, the standard-bearer of revealed beauty, among the English, and
carries her colors triumphantly into our actual air.
Louise Amor
ogen Guinen
FROM (THE EVE OF ST. AGNES)
S":
T. Agnes's Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seemed taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel isle by slow degrees,
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze,


## p. 8501 (#109) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8501
i
Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails.
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
A casement high and triple-arched there was,
All garlanded with carven imageries
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass,
And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings,
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven; - Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed
Her soothèd limbs, and soul fatigued away:
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day:
Blissfully havened both from joy and pain;
Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth and lavendered,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrups, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon.
.


## p. 8502 (#110) ###########################################

8502
JOHN KEATS
-
She hurried at his words, beset with fear,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spear;
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
They glide like phantoms into the wide hall;
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flagon by his side;
The wakeful bloodhound rose and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns;
By one and one the bolts full easy slide;
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.
FROM (ENDYMION)
A
THING of beauty is a joy for ever;
Its loveliness increases: it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:


## p. 8503 (#111) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8503
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.
FROM (HYPERION)
D
EEP in the shady sadness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair.
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud.
Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
No further than to where his feet had strayed,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bowed head seemed listening to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seemed no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one who with a kindred hand
Touched his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a goddess of the infant world.
Her face was large as that of Memphian Sphinx,
Pedestaled haply in a palace court,
When sages looked to Egypt for their lore.
But oh! how unlike marble was that face:
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder laboring up.
.


## p. 8504 (#112) ###########################################

8504
JOHN KEATS
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
M
Y HEART aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness, –
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Oh for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth:
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim;
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known, -
The weariness, the fever, and the fret,
Here where men sit and hear each oti groan;
Where palsy shakes a few sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen Moon is on her throne,
Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.


## p. 8505 (#113) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8505
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death, -
Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath,-
Now more than ever seems it rich to die;
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faëry lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:- Do I wake or sleep?


## p. 8506 (#114) ###########################################

8506
JOHN KEATS
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
TH
HOU still unravished bride of quietness !
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time!
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal -- yet do not grieve:
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss;
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er returi.


## p. 8507 (#115) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8507
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty," -- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
FANCY
E
.
VER let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home;
At a touch sweet pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth:
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
*Cloys with tasting: what do then?
Sit thee by the ingle when
The sear fagot blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the plowboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overawed,
Fancy, high commissioned: send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring in spite of frost
Beauties that the earth had lost;


## p. 8508 (#116) ###########################################

8508
JOHN KEATS
She will bring thee, altogether,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth;
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it: thou shalt hear
Distant harvest carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And in the same moment - hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt at one glance behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plumed lilies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf and every flower
Pearlèd with the self-same shower
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its cellèd sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm ;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Everything is spoilt by use:
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she'll bring. –
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.


## p. 8509 (#117) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8509
TO AUTUMN
SES
EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


## p. 8510 (#118) ###########################################

8510
JOHN KEATS
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
A"
H, WHAT can ail thee, wretched wight, *
Alone and palely loitering ?
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone ?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faëry's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faöry's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone:
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
“I love thee true. ”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighèd deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes —
So kissed to sleep.
And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed - ah! woe betide -
* In the version by Lord Houghton of this poem, this line and its repetition
in the second stanza run, «Oh, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! ) and that
form of the line is often met, with other changes.


## p. 8511 (#119) ###########################################

JOHN KEATS
8511
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hillside.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd — "La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall! »
I saw their starved lips in the gloom
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hillside.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
SONNET
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER
M
UCH have I traveled 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-browed 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
Looked at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
SONNET
ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES
M* Weighs heavily
Y spirit is too weak: mortality
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep;
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship, tells me I must die,
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep


## p. 8512 (#120) ###########################################

8512
JOHN KEATS
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep,
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an undescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time — with a billowy main –
A sun a shadow of a magnitude.
SONNET
WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE IN SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS,
FACING A Lover's COMPLAINT)
B
ܬ܀
RIGHT star, would I were steadfast as thou art:
Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors;
No- yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever- - or else swoon to death.


## p. 8513 (#121) ###########################################

8513
JOHN KEBLE
(1792–1866)
AG
He Christian Year,' a small volume of religious poems, ap-
peared in 1827. The verses had all the scholarly simplicity
resulting from classical study, and critics quickly recognized
artistic workmanship. But the immediate and astonishing popu-
larity of the work was due to its personal character. It was the
most soothing, tranquillizing, subduing work of the day,” said New-
man: “if poems can be found to enliven in dejection and to comfort
in anxiety, to cool the over-sanguine, to refresh the weary, and to
awe the worldly, to instill resignation into
the impatient and calmness into the fearful
and agitated, they are these. ” Many men
and women found solace in these voicings
of their own religious life.
The author, John Keble, was not ambi-
tious of literary fame. He had written his
poems from time to time as he felt the
need of self-expression, and it was only
after long persuasion from his friends that
he consented to make them public.
There is something of the mellow bright-
ness of a summer Sunday about his life and
work. “Dear John Keble,” as his associates
JOHN KEBLE
called him, was a most ardent churchman.
With a rare patience and sympathy for repentant sinners he combined
an implacable condemnation of wrong-doing, which won him respect
as well as love. Throughout the religious storm which, emanating
from Oxford, shook all England, - which forced John Henry Newman
unwillingly away from his friends and his church, — Keble was
stanch support to more vacillating spirits. His sermon upon apos-
tasy preached in 1833 stirred up people's consciences, and may be
said to have initiated the Tractarian movement. He himself wrote
several of the more important «Tracts for the Times. '
His entire life was passed in intimate connection with the church.
He was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, in 1792, but was very young
when his father became vicar of Coln-St. -Aldwynd. The elder Keble
a sweet-natured man and a fine classical student, who took
charge himself of his son's early education; and so successfully that

(
a
was
XV-533


## p. 8514 (#122) ###########################################

8514
JOHN KEBLE
was
at fifteen John Keble was admitted to Corpus Christi College, Oxford.
From that time the University became very dear to him; and later
he exercised an important influence over a long succession of under-
graduates. He was appointed a Fellow of Oriel College in 1811, and
a tutor in Oxford for several years. Then he returned to his
country home, and led a serene yet earnest life with his family while
serving as his father's curate. The great success of The Christian
Year resulted in his appointment as professor of poetry at Oxford in
1833,— a congenial position, which he filled most capably. Soon after
his father's death in 1835, he married and became vicar of Hursley
near Winchester, where he lived until his death in 1866.
He was not a prolific writer, and his occasional poems were
carefully and frequently remodeled. In 1846 he published a second
volume, called “Lyra Innocentium”; but although graceful and pleas-
ing, it was less cordially received than (The Christian Year. '
THE NIGHTINGALE
L
ESSONS sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense of learning,
Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art ?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet and lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.
Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men:
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die, -
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.


## p. 8515 (#123) ###########################################

JOHN KEBLE
8515
ord
atei
and
bis
See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging
O'er the moss and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipped with vernal red,
And her kindly flower displayed
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.
shie
sta
afte:
rsies
were
Deas
Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.
If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.
Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining;
All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.
CHRIST IN THE GARDEN
From The Christian Year)
O
LORD my God, do thou thy holy will —
I will lie still;
I will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm,
And break the charm
Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast,
In perfect rest.


## p. 8516 (#124) ###########################################

8516
JOHN KEBLE
Wild Fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile
With thy false smile;
I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways;
Be silent, Praise,
Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all
That hear thy call.
Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find
All to thy mind,
Think who did once from heaven to hell descend,
Thee to befriend:
So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call,
Thy best, thine all.
1.
“O Father! not my will, but thine, be done,– ”
So spake the Son.
Be this our charin, mellowing earth's ruder noise
Of griefs and joys:
That we may cling forever to Thy breast
In perfect rest!
MORNING
From the (Episcopal Church Hymnal)
Ew every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove;
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
N"
New mercies each returning day
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.
If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still of countless price
God will provide for sacrifice.
Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
As more of heaven in each we see;
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.


## p. 8517 (#125) ###########################################

JOHN KEBLE
8517
The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all we need to ask;
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God.
Only, O Lord, in thy dear love,
Fit us for perfect rest above;
And help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.
nd,
EVENING HYMN
From the Episcopal Church Hymnal)
UN of my soul, thou Savior dear,
It is not night if thou be near;
Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide thee from thy servant's eyes.
S
ise
When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My weary eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
Forever on my Savior's breast.
Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without thee I dare not die.
brought,
If some poor wandering child of thine
Have spurned to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin :
Let him no more lie down in sin.
Watch by the sick; enrich the poor
With blessings from thy boundless store;
Be every mourner's sleep to-night
Like infant's slumbers, pure and light.
2n.
Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take,
Till in the ocean of thy love
We lose ourselves in heaven above.
1


## p. 8518 (#126) ###########################################

8518
ki sever
tai there
GOTTFRIED KELLER
that 2016
maducro
(1815-1890)
(titral th
it is the
T
incress o
Tas Tepe
msaid
Bust
the col
These t
they al
IT DE
iemon
horing
HE German Cantons of Switzerland, which during the early
eighteenth century occupied so prominent a place in the
annals of German culture, have in the present century done
much to regain this prominence. The brilliantly imaginative and
richly colored paintings of Arnold Böcklin, Conrad Ferdinand Meyer's
semi-historical romances, charged with the emotional fervor of our own
time, and above all, the exquisite tales of Gottfried Keller, with their
blending of the humorous and the tragic, of the romantic and the
realistic, declare the energy of Teutonic gen-
ius beyond the bounds of the fatherland.
Keller is the most distinguished novelist in
German literature since Goethe wrote his
(Wilhelm Meister and Kleist his Michael
Kohlhaas. ' His work has the freshness and
vitality, the human charm, which make it
of universal interest. His touch is as firm
and sure as it is tender and sympathetic;
his technique is that of the realist, but his
heart is a poet's. If his writings won their
way slowly, the hold they have at last
obtained upon the public is the firmer. Kel-
GOTTFRIED KELLER ler has taken his place in the front rank
among German writers of fiction in this
century, and his title is secure.
Gottfried Keller was born at Zürich of humble parentage on July
19th, 1815. While he was still a boy, he heard some say, “The great
Goethe is dead ;) and ever afterward that name haunted him. He
describes finding the fifty volumes of Goethe's works tied together
on his bed; he attacked the knot, and “the golden fruit of eighty
years fell asunder. » From that hour he read and re-read Goethe,
discovering new beauties with each perusal. Nevertheless he mistook
his vocation, and expended much fruitless effort in an attempt to
become a landscape painter. Gradually, and only after several years
of unhappy struggling, it became clear to him that his talents
were a poet's, not a painter's; even his sketch-books contained more
writing than drawing. His lyric poems and critical essays attracted
attention; he received a government stipend which enabled him to
study at the University of Heidelberg. In 1850 he went to Berlin, and

tia!
ke
(C
ہوا ہے
$


## p. 8519 (#127) ###########################################

GOTTFRIED KELLER
8519
spent several years in poverty and obscurity. He wished to become
In-
a dramatist, but of his dramatic plans none was ever executed.
stead there appeared a new volume of poems, and in 1854 his first
great novel, Der Grüne Heinrich' (Green Henry). This autobio-
graphic romance had cost him five years of almost reluctant effort;
The
for in it he lays bare the truth and poetry” from his own life.
central theme is practically the same as that of Wilhelm Meister':
it is the story of a young man's mistake in the choice of a profes-
sion; of his misdirected efforts, and his intellectual growth. With
fineness of observation and fullness of poetic fancy Keller has told the
tale of his own artistic and religious development and mental strug-
gle. This novel received a thorough revision in after years, and
was republished in its new form in 1879. The author burned all the
unsold copies of the first edition.
But the work upon which Keller's fame most securely rests is
the collection of tales bearing the title Die Leute von Seldwyla'
(Seldwyla Folk): « The immortal Seldwylars, Paul Heyse called them.
These tales have no other connection with one another than this, that
they all treat of the simple country people who dwell in the imagi-
nary but typically Swiss village of Seldwyla. So faithfully realistic is
the delineation of Swiss character that many of Keller's countrymen
remonstrated against this frank exposure of their national foibles; but
this realism is realism with a soul, and over all these delightful
pages plays the fancy of a true poet, with his genial humor and
loving insight into the human heart. No short story in German lit-
erature surpasses in beauty, pathos, and tragic significance the famous
tale of Romeo and Juliet of the Village. In it are reproduced in
humble bucolic surroundings the conditions which brought about the
tragedy in Verona. Two peasants are rival claimants for a strip of
land; one has a son, the other a daughter: these love each other,
are united; but, conscious of the hopelessness of their situation, they
go to death together.
In 'The Smith of his Own Fortunes' satiri-
cal humor prevails, but not without sympathy and an ultimate human
reconciliation.
But few of these tales have been done into English,
and yet they are among the most finished and delicate bits of short-
story telling in modern literature.
With the appearance of these volumes Keller's fame became es-
tablished; and when in after years he returned to Zürich he was at
least “a writer,” he said, “even though an insignificant one. ” In 1861
he received the post of secretary for the Canton Zürich, and for
fifteen years faithfully performed the duties of his office. The posi-
no sinecure, and left him little leisure for literary work.
Nevertheless he had written a few tales and poems, and after his
retirement from office he devoted himself diligently to literature.
tion was
.


## p. 8520 (#128) ###########################################

8520
GOTTFRIED KELLER
time. I
i IT
at best
IT 220
A volume of legends had appeared in 1872; in 1876 came two vol-
umes of Swiss tales, entitled Zürich Stories, and others appeared
in 1881 with the title of "Das Sinngedicht' (The Epigram). His latest
important work was the less satisfactory, satirical novel of Martin
Salander,' published in 1886. It has the qualities of truth and sin-
cerity; but as he said himself, it is deficient in beauty.
Keller was an extremely modest man, and under a bluff exterior
was concealed a shy nature. He was surprised at his own literary
eminence; and when upon the occasion of his seventieth birthday, for
which his distinguished countryman Böcklin designed the medallion,
all Germany did him homage, he was deeply touched, and thought
too much praise had been bestowed upon his "yarns. ” He died in
the fullness of his fame, on July 15th, 1890.
Mare
To
this ma
efforts
auto
nie, a
THE FOUNDING OF A FAMILY
formet
From “The Smith of his Own Fortunes, in (Seldwyla Folk)
Tie.
[John Kabys, having exhausted his meagre patrimony in idle expectation
of a fortune which did not appear, was at last forced to earn his own liveli-
hood, and accordingly opened a barber-shop in his native town. Here one day
he casually learned from a customer that a wealthy old gentleman in Augsburg
had been making inquiries if there were still Kabyses in Seldwyla. Acting
upon this hint, John went to Augsburg, and the scenes of the following extract
took place. The fact that John in his efforts to render his position more
secure subsequently became the father of his uncle's heir, thus supplanting
himself, gives a touch of humorous irony to the title of the tale. ]
Fou
"C®
>
HOME up with me to the hall of knights! ” said Mr. Litumlei.
They went; when the old man had paced solemnly up and
down a few times, he began: “Hear my purpose and my
proposition, my dear grand-nephew! You are the last of your
race; this is a serious fate! But I have one not less serious to
bear! Look upon me: Well, then! I am the first of mine! ”
Proudly he drew himself up; and John looked at him, but
could not discover what it all meant. The other then continued:
«I am the first of mine,' means the same as — I have deter-
mined to found a race as great and glorious as you here see
painted on the walls of this hall! You see, these are not my
ancestors, but the members of an extinct patrician family of this
city. When I came here thirty years ago, this house happened
to be for sale with all its contents and memorials; and I acquired
the whole apparatus at once, as a foundation for the realization
15 SELL
܀
'S


## p. 8521 (#129) ###########################################

GOTTFRIED KELLER
8521
of my favorite idea. For I possessed a large fortune, but no
name, no ancestors; and I don't even know the baptismal name
of my grandfather who married a Kabys. I indemnified myself
at first by explaining the painted ladies and gentlemen here as
my ancestors, and by making some of them Litumleis, others
Kabyses, by means of such tickets as you see: but my family
recollections extended to only six or seven persons; the rest of
this mass of pictures — the result of four centuries — mocked my
efforts. All the more urgently I was thrown upon the future,
upon the necessity of inaugurating a lasting race myself, whose
honored ancestor I am. Long ago I had my portrait painted,
and a genealogical tree as well, at whose root stands my name.
But an ill star obstinately pursues me! I already have my third
wife, and as yet not one of them has presented me with a girl,
to say nothing of a son and heir to the family name. My two
former wives, from whom I procured a divorce, have since out
of malice had several children by other husbands; and my present
wife, whom I have had now seven years, would undoubtedly do
the same if I should let her go.
“Your appearance, dear grand-nephew, has given me the idea
of resorting to an artificial assistance, such as in history was
frequently made use of in dynasties great and small. What do
you say to this ? — You live with us as a son of the house; I
will make you my legal heir! In return, you will perform the
following: You sacrifice externally your own family traditions
(for you are the last of your race anyway); and at my death
i. e. , on your accession as my heir, — you assume my name! I
spread the report privately that you are a natural son of mine,
the fruit of a mad prank in my youth; you adopt this view and
do not contradict it! Later on perhaps a written document about
it might be composed, -a memoir, a little novel, a noteworthy
a
love story in which I cut a fiery though imprudent figure, and
sow misery for which I atone in old age. Finally you bind
yourself to accept from my hand whatever wife I shall choose
for you from among the distinguished daughters of the city, for
the further prosecution of my design. This in all and in detail
is my proposition. ”
During this speech John had turned red and white alternately;
not from shame or fright, but from astonishment and joy at the
fortune that had arrived at last, and at his own wisdom which
had brought it to him. But he by no means allowed himself


## p. 8522 (#130) ###########################################

8522
GOTTFRIED KELLER
paid that I
png op
Katrs soft
croir su
stament
tata othe
elements
to cheris
Fita Sot
abundan
Malter.