The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats

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The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters - John  Keats


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A griffin, wheeling here and there about,

       Kept reconnoitring us doubled our guard

       Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout,

       Till he sheer’d off the Princess very scar’d

       And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar’d.

      LXXVII.

      “At half-past three arose the cheerful moon

       Bivouack’d for four minutes on a cloud

       Where from the earth we heard a lively tune

       Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud,

       While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd

       Cinque-parted danc’d, some half asleep reposed

       Beneath the green-fan’d cedars, some did shroud

       In silken tents, and ‘mid light fragrance dozed,

       Or on the opera turf their soothed eyelids closed.

      LXXVIII.

      “Dropp’d my gold watch, and kill’d a kettledrum

       It went for apoplexy foolish folks!

       Left it to pay the piper a good sum

       (I’ve got a conscience, maugre people’s jokes,)

       To scrape a little favour; ‘gan to coax

       Her Highness’ pug-dog got a sharp rebuff

       She wish’d a game at whist made three revokes

       Turn’d from myself, her partner, in a huff;

       His majesty will know her temper time enough.

      LXXIX.

      “She cry’d for chess I play’d a game with her

       Castled her king with such a vixen look,

       It bodes ill to his Majesty (refer

       To the second chapter of my fortieth book,

       And see what hoity-toity airs she took).

       At half-past four the morn essay’d to beam

       Saluted, as we pass’d, an early rook

       The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream,

       Talk’d of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem.

      LXXX.

      “About this time, making delightful way,

       Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing

       Wish’d, trusted, hop’d ’twas no sign of decay

       Thank heaven, I’m hearty yet! ’twas no such thing:

       At five the golden light began to spring,

       With fiery shudder through the bloomed east;

       At six we heard Panthea’s churches ring

       The city wall his unhiv’d swarms had cast,

       To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass’d.

      LXXXI.

      “As flowers turn their faces to the sun,

       So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze,

       And, as we shap’d our course, this, that way run,

       With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp’d amaze;

       Sweet in the air a mild-ton’d music plays,

       And progresses through its own labyrinth;

       Buds gather’d from the green spring’s middle-days,

       They scatter’d, daisy, primrose, hyacinth,

       Or round white columns wreath’d from capital to plinth.

      LXXXII.

      “Onward we floated o’er the panting streets,

       That seem’d throughout with upheld faces paved;

       Look where we will, our bird’s-eye vision meets

       Legions of holiday; bright standards waved,

       And fluttering ensigns emulously craved

       Our minute’s glance; a busy thunderous roar,

       From square to square, among the buildings raved,

       As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more

       The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore.

      LXXXIII.

      “And ‘Bellanaine for ever!’ shouted they,

       While that fair Princess, from her winged chair,

       Bow’d low with high demeanour, and, to pay

       Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair,

       Still emptied at meet distance, here and there,

       A plenty horn of jewels. And here I

       (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare

       Against that ugly piece of calumny,

       Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly.

      LXXXIV.

      “Still ‘Bellanaine!’ they shouted, while we glide

       ‘Slant to a light Ionic portico,

       The city’s delicacy, and the pride

       Of our Imperial Basilic; a row

       Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show

       Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,

       All down the steps; and, as we enter’d, lo!

       The strangest sight the most unlook’d for chance

       All things turn’d topsy-turvy in a devil’s dance.

      LXXXV.

      “‘Stead of his anxious Majesty and court

       At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,

       Congèes and scrape-graces of every sort,

       And all the smooth routine of gallantries,

       Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,

       A motley crowd thick gather’d in the hall,

       Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries

       Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall,

       Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.

      LXXXVI.

      “Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor

       Of moth’s-down, to make soft the royal beds,

       The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor

       Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads;

       Powder’d bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads

       Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;

       Toe crush’d with heel ill-natur’d fighting breeds,

       Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother,

       And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.

      LXXXVII.

      “A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown’s back,

       Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,

       And close into her face, with rhyming clack,

       Began a Prothalamion; she reels,

       She falls, she faints! while laughter peels

       Over her woman’s weakness. ‘Where!’ cry’d I,

       ‘Where is his Majesty?’ No person feels

       Inclin’d to answer; wherefore instantly

      


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