ODE ON MELANCHOLf. 
505 
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms from every clime, 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
011 JjWKttfJfllg. 
Keats,. 
0, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine \ 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d 
By night shade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrows’ mysteries; 
For shade to shade will come too drowsily, 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 
But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, 
And hides the green hill in an April shroud: 
