22 Poems of John Keats. 



"Forest on forest hung about his head 

 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there ; 

 Not so much life, as on a summer's day, 

 Robs not one light seed from the feathery grass, 

 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest; 

 A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

 By reason of his fallen divinity, 

 Spreading a shade the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

 Press' d her cold finger close unto her lips!" 



Such was the lair of Saturn, hurled down from his throne and seek- 

 ing in the majesty of silence and solitude a fit asylum for hi 

 departed greatness. But although the old man was fallen from his 

 high career ; his right hand nerveless, listless, dead, unsceptred, 



" While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the earth, 

 His ancient mother !" 



All consolation was not to be denied him. The picture therefore 

 presented is not without a direct appeal to human sympathies. 

 There is a certain charm (if the term may be used) in fallen great- 

 ness which peculiarly affects a sensitive or imaginative mind. Like 

 the columns of a ruined temple, proud and perfect once but noble 

 still, although the ivy twines around their shattered fragments, and 

 wild flowers spring beneath them. The contemplation of wrecked 

 majesty calls up emotions in which the memories of the past are as 

 faintly, yet beautifully blended. Besides, the human mind rises with 

 adversity ; for the height and pomp of power is intoxication to it, and 

 what in prosperity might have been arrogance, in misfortune may 

 become a patient and admirable self-endurance. But touching in- 

 deed is the portraiture of fallen greatness, when its darker shades 

 are relieved by the brighter tints of fidelity, constant to the last; and 

 this was to be the consolation of Saturn ; let us continue our quota- 

 tions : 



" It seemM no force could wake him from his place, 

 But there came one, who with a kindred hand 

 Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 

 With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 

 She was a goddess of the infant world, 

 By her in stature the tall Amazon 

 Had stood a pigmy's height ; she would have ta'en 

 Achilles by the hair and bent his neck, 

 Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel : 

 Her face was large as that of Memphian Sphinx 

 Presented haply in a palace court, 

 Where sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 

 But oh ! how unlike marble was that face 

 How beautiful! if sorrow had not made 



Sorrow more beautiful than beauty's self. 



# * # # * 



One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 



Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 



Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 



The other upon Saturn's bended neck 



She laid, and to the level of his ear, 



Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke : " 



