The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.

Man's Love
FROM "DON JUAN"

M

AN'S love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart; Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.

The Love of Women

FROM "DON JUAN"

love it known

To be a lovely and a fearful thing; For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring To them but mockeries of the past alone,

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, Deadly, and quick, and crushing; yet, as real Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel.

They are right; for man, to man so oft unjust,
Is always so to women; one sole bond
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust;

Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond Over their idol, till some wealthier lust

Buys them in marriage-and what rests beyond? A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's over.

John Keats

FROM "DON JUAN"

The entirely false idea that Keats fell into a decline and died as a result of the severe criticism on his "Endymion" in the "Quarterly Review", was shared by Shelley and Byron, and was generally prevalent until the publication of Milnes' "Life of Keats."

JOHN KEATS, who was killed off by one critique,

as he really promised something great,

If not intelligible, without Greek

Contrived to talk about the Gods of late, Much as they might have been supposed to speak. Poor fellow! His was an untoward fate; 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, Should let itself be snuffed out by an article.

From "The Isles of Greece"
FROM "DON JUAN"

HE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!

Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse:
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations-all were his!
He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now-

The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame,

Though linked among a fettered race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?

Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopyla!

What, silent still? and silent all?
Ah! no-the voices of the dead
Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one, arise-we come, we come!"
'Tis but the living who are dumb.

THE

The Destruction of Sennacherib

HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew
still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.