Part 77 (1/2)

Fled is the music:--Do I wake or sleep?”

As another poet* has said, speaking of Keats's odes, ”Greater lyrical poetry the world may have seen than any that is in these; lovelier it surely has never seen, nor ever can it possibly see.”

*Swinburne.

Hyperion, which also ranks among Keats's great poems, is an unfinished epic. In a far-off way the subject of the poem reminds us of Paradise Lost. For here Keats sings of the overthrow of the t.i.tans, or earlier Greek G.o.ds, by the Olympians, or later Greek G.o.ds, and in the majestic flow of the blank verse we sometimes seem to hear an echo of Milton.

Hyperion, who gives his name to the poem, was the Sun-G.o.d who was dethroned by Apollo. When the poem opens we see the old G.o.d Saturn already fallen--

”Old Saturn lifted up His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, And that fair kneeling G.o.ddess; and then spake, As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard Shook horrid with such aspen-malady: 'O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face; Look up, and let me see our doom in it; Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape Is Saturn's; if thou hear'st the voice Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkled brow, Naked and bare of its great diadem, Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power To make me desolate? whence came the strength?

How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth, While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp?

But it is so.'”

Saturn is king no more. Fate willed it so. But suddenly he rises and in helpless pa.s.sion cries out against Fate--

”Saturn must be King.

Yes, there must be a golden victory; There must be G.o.ds thrown down and trumpets blown

Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir Of strings in hollow sh.e.l.ls; and there shall be Beautiful things made new, for the surprise Of the sky-children; I will give command: Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?”

The volume containing these and other poems was published in 1820, little more than three years after Keats's first volume, and never, perhaps, has poet made such strides in so short a time. And this last book was kindly received. Success had come to Keats, but young though he still was, the success was too late. For soon it was seen that his health had gone and that his life's work was done. As a last hope his friends advised him to spend the winter in Italy. So with a friend he set out. He never returned, but died in Rome in the arms of his friend on the 23rd February 1821. He was only twenty-six. Before he died he asked that on his grave should be placed the words, ”Here lies one whose name was writ in water.” He had his wish: but we, to whom he left his poetry, know that his name is written in the stars.

How Sh.e.l.ley mourned for him you have read. How the friends who knew and loved him mourned we learn from what they say of him.

”I cannot afford to lose him,” wrote one. ”If I know what it is to love, I truly love John Keats.” Another says,* ”He was the most unselfish of human creatures,” and still another,** ”a sweeter tempered man I never knew.”

*Haydon.

**Bailey.

In a letter which reached Rome too late was this message for Keats, ”Tell that great poet and n.o.ble-hearted man that we shall all bear his memory in the most precious parts of our hearts, and that the world shall bow their heads to it, as our loves do.”

We bow our heads to his memory and say farewell to him in these words of his own fairy song--

”Shed no tea! oh shed no tear!

The flower will bloom another year.

Weep no more! oh weep no more!

Young buds sleep in the roots' white core.

Dry your eyes! oh dry your eyes!

For I was taught in Paradise To ease my heart of melodies-- Shed no tear.

”Overhear! look overhead!

'Mong the blossoms white and red-- Look up, look up. I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill.

Shed not tear! oh shed not tear!