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

      “She cry’d for chess I play’d a game with her

      Castled her king with such a vixen look,

      It bodes ill to his Majesty (refer

      To the second chapter of my fortieth book,

      And see what hoity-toity airs she took).

      At half-past four the morn essay’d to beam

      Saluted, as we pass’d, an early rook

      The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream,

      Talk’d of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem.

      “About this time, making delightful way,

      Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing

      Wish’d, trusted, hop’d ’twas no sign of decay

      Thank heaven, I’m hearty yet! ’twas no such thing:

      At five the golden light began to spring,

      With fiery shudder through the bloomed east;

      At six we heard Panthea’s churches ring

      The city wall his unhiv’d swarms had cast,

      To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass’d.

      “As flowers turn their faces to the sun,

      So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze,

      And, as we shap’d our course, this, that way run,

      With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp’d amaze;

      Sweet in the air a mild-ton’d music plays,

      And progresses through its own labyrinth;

      Buds gather’d from the green spring’s middle-days,

      They scatter’d, daisy, primrose, hyacinth,

      Or round white columns wreath’d from capital to plinth.

      “Onward we floated o’er the panting streets,

      That seem’d throughout with upheld faces paved;

      Look where we will, our bird’s-eye vision meets

      Legions of holiday; bright standards waved,

      And fluttering ensigns emulously craved

      Our minute’s glance; a busy thunderous roar,

      From square to square, among the buildings raved,

      As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more

      The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore.

      “And ‘Bellanaine for ever!’ shouted they,

      While that fair Princess, from her winged chair,

      Bow’d low with high demeanour, and, to pay

      Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair,

      Still emptied at meet distance, here and there,

      A plenty horn of jewels. And here I

      (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare

      Against that ugly piece of calumny,

      Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly.

      “Still ‘Bellanaine!’ they shouted, while we glide

      ‘Slant to a light Ionic portico,

      The city’s delicacy, and the pride

      Of our Imperial Basilic; a row

      Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show

      Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,

      All down the steps; and, as we enter’d, lo!

      The strangest sight the most unlook’d for chance

      All things turn’d topsy-turvy in a devil’s dance.

      “‘Stead of his anxious Majesty and court

      At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,

      Congèes and scrape-graces of every sort,

      And all the smooth routine of gallantries,

      Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,

      A motley crowd thick gather’d in the hall,

      Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries

      Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall,

      Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.

      “Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor

      Of moth’s-down, to make soft the royal beds,

      The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor

      Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads;

      Powder’d bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads

      Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;

      Toe crush’d with heel ill-natur’d fighting breeds,

      Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother,

      And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.

      “A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown’s back,

      Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,

      And close into her face, with rhyming clack,

      Began a Prothalamion; she reels,

      She falls, she faints! while laughter peels

      Over her woman’s weakness. ‘Where!’ cry’d I,

      ‘Where is his Majesty?’ No person feels

      Inclin’d to answer; wherefore instantly

      I plung’d into the crowd to find him or die.

      “Jostling my way I gain’d the stairs, and ran

      To the first landing, where, incredible!

      I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,

      That vile impostor Hum.”

      So far so well,

      For we have prov’d the Mago never fell

      Down stairs on Crafticanto’s evidence;

      And therefore duly shall proceed to tell,

      Plain in our own original mood and tense,

      The sequel of this day, though labour ’tis immense!

      Think not of it, sweet one, so; -

      Give it not a tear;

      Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go

      Any – anywhere.

      Do not look so sad, sweet one, —

      Sad and fadingly;

      Shed one drop, then it is gone,

      O ’twas born to die.

      Still so pale? then dearest weep;

      Weep, I’ll count the tears,

      And each one shall be a bliss

      For thee in after years.

      Brighter has it left thine eyes

      Than a sunny rill;

      And

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