ENDYMION: A POETIC ROMANCE. BY JOHN KEATS.

"THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN ANTIQUE SONG."

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR TAYLOR AND HESSEY,

93, FLEET STREET.

1818.

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.

PREFACE.

Knowing within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public.

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good;--it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live.

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honour of English literature.

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages.

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid it farewel.

  _Teignmouth,

  April 10, 1818._

ERRATUM.

Page 108, line 4 from the bottom, for "her" read "his."

ENDYMION.

BOOK I.

  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                    10

  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                      20

  We have imagined for the mighty dead;

  All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

  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                     30

  Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

  That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,

  They alway must be with us, or we die.

    Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I

  Will trace the story of Endymion.

  The very music of the name has gone

  Into my being, and each pleasant scene

  Is growing fresh before me as the green

  Of our own vallies: so I will begin

  Now while I cannot hear the city's din;                        40

  Now while the early budders are just new,

  And run in mazes of the youngest hue

  About old forests; while the willow trails

  Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

  Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

  Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer

  My little boat, for many quiet hours,

  With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

  Many and many a verse I hope to write,

  Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,                  50

  Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

  Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,

  I must be near the middle of my story.

  O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,

  See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,

  With universal tinge of sober gold,

  Be all about me when I make an end.

  And now at once, adventuresome, I send

  My herald thought into a wilderness:

  There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress                  60

  My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

  Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

    Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread

  A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed

  So plenteously all weed-hidden roots

  Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.

  And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,

  Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep

  A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,

  Never again saw he the happy pens                              70

  Whither his brethren, bleating with content,

  Over the hills at every nightfall went.

  Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,

  That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever

  From the white flock, but pass'd unworried

  By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,

  Until it came to some unfooted plains

  Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains

  Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,

  Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,                  80

  And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly

  To a wide lawn, whence one could only see

  Stems thronging all around between the swell

  Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell

  The freshness of the space of heaven above,

  Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove

  Would often beat its wings, and often too

  A little cloud would move across the blue.

    Full in the middle of this pleasantness

  There stood a marble altar, with a tress                       90

  Of flowers budded newly; and the dew

  Had taken fairy phantasies to strew

  Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,

  And so the dawned light in pomp receive.

  For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire

  Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre

  Of brightness so unsullied, that therein

  A melancholy spirit well might win

  Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine

  Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine                        100

  Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing...