Poems of John Keats . 187 



Still, whatever might be the reason, these mercantile gentlemen were 

 very proud, and having designed their beautiful sister for a nobler 

 and richer (though they could not for a more faithful) hand than that 

 of the pennyless Lorenzo, and finding that Isabel's affections were 

 not to be turned or thwarted, they lure her lover on a pretended 

 journey "three miles towards the Apennine," and, having murdered 

 him in a neighbouring forest, turn 



*' Their horses homeward with convulsed spur, 

 Each richer by his being a murderer." 



From this part, the tale of Keats assumes a deeper interest, and is 

 continued in an unlaboured style of much feeling. The brothers, 

 after their crime, inform Isabel that Lorenzo has taken ship for 

 foreign lands on their business ; but although the fond maiden sees 

 nothing for the time to alarm her suspicions of his actual fate, she 

 cannot sustain her lover's absence. Without Lorenzo the world is to 

 Isabel a desert ; all her thoughts, impressions, feelings, are centered 

 upon him ; in the whole circle of existence she has but one object 

 of her affections, and, that being removed from her, she can only pass 

 the hours " upon which she hangs with feverish unrest," in painting 

 its most dear image, by day devoting all her occupations to it, and 

 by night 



" Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 

 And in her low couch muttering 'where, oh, where?* " 



At length Lorenzo's protracted absence worked a sad change in the 

 lovely Isabel. The following stanza is so deeply tinged with poetic 

 melancholy, and so sweet in expression, that we cannot help tran- 

 scribing them: 



" In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 

 The breath of winter comes from far away, 



And the sick west continually bereaves 

 Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 



Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 

 To make all bare before he dares to stray 



From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 



By gradual decay from beauty fell 



" Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 



She ask'd her brothers with a cheek all pale, 



Striving to be herself, what dungeon climes 

 Could keep him off so long ? they spake a tale 



Time after time to quiet her. Their crimes 



Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom's vale, 



And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 



To see their victim in his blood-steep'd shroud!" 



The remainder of this poem we would recommend to the admirers 

 of the descriptive and pathetic. They will read how the ghost of 

 the murdered Lorenzo appeared to poor Isabel in her dreams, warn- 

 ing her of his hapless fate, and praying her to shed one tear upon 

 his grave, how Isabel went to the spot, and having found a soiled 



