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And teach it all the harmony
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel :
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Has track'd your steps and serv'd your will.
Now in humbler, happier lot,
This is all remember d not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
From you, he only dares to crave,
The artist who this idol wrought,
To live in happier form again :
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
And taught it justly to reply
The murmuring of summer seas,
And airs of evening; and it knew
It talks according to the wit
This is a Catullian melody of the first water. The transformation of the dreaming wood of the tree into a guitar was probably suggested by Catullus's Dedication of the Galley, a poem with which I know he was conversant, and which was particularly calculated to please him; for it records the consecration of a favorite old sea-boat to the Dioscuri. The modern poet's imagination beats the ancient; but Catullus equals him in graceful flow; and there is one very Shelleian passage in the original :
Ubi iste, post phaselus, antea fuit
For of old, what now you see
On the Cytorian heights, and there
MUSIC, MEMORY, AND LOVE.
Music, when soft voices die,1
1“ Music, when soft voices die.”—This song is a great favorite with musicians: and no wonder. Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote anything of the kind more lovely.
BORN, 1796,-DIED, 1821.
KEATS was a born poet of the most poetical kind. All his feelings came to him through a poetical medium, or were speedily colored by it. He enjoyed a jest as heartily as any one, and sympathized with the lowliest common-place; but the next minute his thoughts were in a garden of enchantment, with nymphs, and fauns, and shapes of exalted humanity;
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace.
It might be said of him, that he never beheld an oak-tree without seeing the Dryad. His fame may now forgive the critics who disliked his politics, and did not understand his poetry. Repeated editions of him in England, France, and America, attest its triumphant survival of all obloquy; and there can be no doubt that he has taken a permanent station among the British Poets, of a very high, if not thoroughly mature, description.
Keats's early poetry, indeed, partook plentifully of the exuberance of youth; and even in most of his later, his sensibility, sharpened by mortal illness, tended to a morbid excess. His region is "a wilderness of sweets,"-flowers of all hue, and "weeds of glorious feature," where, as he says, the luxuriant soil brings
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth.
But there also is the "rain-scented eglantine," and bushes of May-flowers, with bees, and myrtle, and bay,-and endless paths into forests haunted with the loveliest as well as the gentlest