Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; I look'd--'twas Scylla! Cursed, cursed Circe! O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy? Could not thy harshest vengeance be content, But thou must nip this tender innocent Because I loved her?--_Cold, O cold indeed Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed The sea-swell took her hair._
or thus from the love-making of Cynthia:--
Now I swear at once That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce-- Perhaps her love like mine is but unknown-- O I do think that I have been alone In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, _While every eve saw me my hair uptying, With fingers cool as aspen leaves_.
In like manner the unfortunate opening of Book III above cited leads on, as Mr de Sélincourt has justly observed, to a passage in praise of the moon which is among the very finest and best sustained examples of Keats's power in nature-poetry. For quotation I will take not this but a second invocation to the moon which follows a little later, for the reason that in it the raptures and longings which the poet puts into the mouth of his hero are really in a large measure his own:--
What is there in thee, Moon! that thou shouldst move My heart so potently? When yet a child I oft have dry'd my tears when thou hast smil'd. Thou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we went From eve to morn across the firmament. No apples would I gather from the tree, Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously: No tumbling water ever spake romance, But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance: No woods were green enough, no bower divine, Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: In sowing time ne'er would I dibble take, Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; And, in the summer tide of blossoming, No one but thee hath heard me blythly sing And mesh my dewy flowers all the night. No melody was like a passing spright If it went not to solemnize thy reign. Yes, in my boyhood every joy and pain By thee were fashioned in the self-same end; And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend With all my ardours: thou wast the deep glen; Thou wast the mountain-top--the sage's pen-- The poet's harp--the voice of friends--the sun; Thou wast the river--thou wast glory won; Thou wast my clarion's blast--thou wast my steed-- My goblet full of wine--my topmost deed:-- Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon! O what a wild and harmonized tune My spirit struck from all the beautiful!