 Section 29 of John Keats' selected poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. Lamea Part I Upon a time before the fairy broods drove nymph and satyr from the prosperous woods, before King Oberon's bright dyadim, scepter and mantel, clasped with dewy gem, frighted away the dryads and the fawns from rushes-green and bricks and cowslip lawns, the ever smitten hermes empty left his golden throne bent warm on amorous theft. From high Olympus had he stolen light on this side of Jove's clouds to escape the sight of his great summoner, and made retreat into a forest on the shores of Crete. For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt a nymph, to whom all hoof had setters knelt, at whose white feet the languid tritons poured pearls, while on land they withered and adored. Fast by the springs where she to bathe was want, and in those meeds where sometimes she might haunt were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any muse, though fancy's casket were unlocked to choose. Ah, what a world of love was at her feet! So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat burnt from his winged heels to either ear, that from a whiteness as the lily-clear blushed into roses mid his golden hair, fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. From veil to veil from wood to wood he flew, breathing upon the flowers his passion new, and wound with many a river to its head, to find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret bed. In vain the sweet nymph might know where be found, and so he rested on the lonely ground, pensive and full of painful jealousies of the wood-gods and even the very trees. There as he stood he heard a mournful voice, such as once heard in gentle heart destroys all pain but pity. Thus the lone voice spank. When from this withered tomb shall I awake, when move in a sweet body fit for life and love and pleasure and the ruddy strife of hearts and lips, ah, miserable me! For God dove foot and glided silently round a bush and tree, soft brushing in his speed the taller grasses and full flowering weed, until he found a palpitating snake bright and Cirque Couchon in a dusky break. She was a Gordian shape of dazzling hue for millions spotted gold and green and blue, striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred, and full of silver moons that as she breathed, dissolved or bright or shone, or entered their lusters with the gloomier tapestries. So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries, she seemed at once some penance lady elf, some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. Upon her crest she wore a wanish fire sprinkled with stars like Ariadne's tire. Her head was serpent, but ah, bittersweet! She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete. And for her eyes what could such eyes do there but weep and weep that they were born so fair? As Prosser Pine still weeps for her Sicilian air. Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake came as through bubbling honey, for love's sake, and thus, while Hermes on his penions lay, like a stooped falcon ere he takes his prey. Fair Hermes crowned with feathers, fluttering light. I had a splendid dream of thee last night. I saw thee sitting on a throne of gold among the gods upon Olympus old, the only sad one. For thou didst not hear the soft, loot-fingered muses chanting clear, nor even Apollo when he sang alone, deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious moan. I dreamt I saw thee robed in purple flakes, brick amorous through the clouds as morning bricks, and swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart, strike for the Cretan Isle. And hear thou art, two gentle Hermes, hast thou found the maid? Where at the star of Lethe not delayed his rosy eloquence, and thus inquired, thou smooth lit serpent surely high-inspired, thou beautyous wreath with melancholy eyes, possess whatever bliss thou canst devise, telling me only where my nymph is fled, where she doth breathe. Bright planet thou hast said, returned the snake, but sealed with oath's fair God. I swear, said Hermes, by my serpent rod, and by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown. Bright flew his earnest words, among the blossoms blown, then, thus again, the brilliance feminine. Too frail of heart for this lost nymph of thine, free as the air, invisibly she strays about these thornless wiles, her pleasant days she tastes unseen, unseen her nimble feet, leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet, from weary tendrils and bowed branches green, she plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen. And by my power is her beauty veiled, to keep it unaffronted, unassailed by the long glances of unlovely eyes, of satyrs, fawns, and bleared silliness sighs. Still grew her immortality, for woe of all these lovers, and she grieved so. I took compassion on her, bad her steep her hair and weird syrups, that would keep her loveliness invisible, yet free to wander as she loves, in liberty. Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone, if thou wilt, as thou swearst, grant my boon. Then once again the charm to God began an oath, and through the serpents years it ran, warm, trembulous, devout, sultarian. Ravished she lifted her cercian head, blushed alive damask, and swift, blisping, said, I was a woman, let me have once more a woman's shape, and charming as before. I love a youth of Corinth. Oh, the bliss! Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy brow, and thou shalt see thy sweet nymph, even now. Where God on half-shut feathers sank serene, she breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen of both the guarded nymph near smiling on the green. It was no dream. For, say a dream it was, real are the dreams of God's, and smoothly pass their pleasures in a long, immortal dream. One warm, flushed moment hovering it might seem dashed by the wooden nymph's beauty, so he burned. Then lighting on the printless birger turned to the swooned serpent, and with languid arm a delicate, put to proof the lithe cadoucian charm. So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent, full of adoring tears and blandishment, and wards her stepped. She like a moon in wane faded before him, cowered, nor could restrain her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower that faints into itself at evening hour. But the God, fostering her chilled hand, she felt the warmth, her eyelids opened and bland, and like new flowers at morning song of bees, bloomed and gave up her honey to the lithe. Into the green, recessed woods they flew, nor grew they pale as mortal lovers do. Left to herself the serpent now began to change. Her elfin blood in madness ran, her mouth foamed, and the grass therewith be sprint withered at dew so sweet and virulent. Her eyes and torture fixed, and anguished rear, hot, glazed and wide, with lidlashes all sear, flashed phosphor and sharp sparks, without one cooling tear. The colors all inflamed throughout her train, she writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain. A deep, vulcanian yellow took the place of all her milder, mooned bodies' grace, and as the lava ravishes the mead, spoiled all her silver mail and golden breed, made gloom of all her freckling streaks and bars, eclipsed her crescents and licked up her stars. So that in moments few she was undressed of all her sapphires, greens and amethyst and rubious argent, of all these bereft nothing but pain and ugliness were left. Still shone her crown, that vanished also she melted, and disappeared as suddenly, and in the air her new voice looting soft cried, Lysius, gentle Lysius! Born aloft with the bright mists about the mountain's whore, these words dissolved, creeds and forests heard no more. With her fled Lemia, now a Lady Bright, a full-born beauty new and exquisite. She fled into that valley they pass o'er, who go to Corinth, from Sancris shore, and rested at the foot of those wild hills, the rugged founts of the Perian rills, and of that other ridge whose barren back stretches with all its mist and cloudy rack, south-westward to Cleone. There she stood, about a young bird's flutter from a wood, fair on a sloping green of mossy tread, by a clear pool, wherein she passioned to see herself escaped from so sore ills, while her robes flaunted with the daffodils. Ah, happy Lysius! For she was a maid more beautiful than ever twisted braid, or sighed, or blushed, or unspring-floweredly spread a green curtain to the menstrual sea. A virgin pure slipped, yet in the law of love, deep learned to the red heart's core. Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain, to unperplexed bliss from its neighbor pain. Defined their pettish limits, and estranged their points of contact, and swift counter-change, intrigue with a specious chaos, and dispart its most ambiguous atoms with sure art. As though in Cupid's college she had spent sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshunt, and kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. Why this fair creature chose so fairly by the wayside to linger, we shall see. But first is fit to tell how she can muse and dream, when in the serpent prison-house of all she lists, strange or magnificent, however where she willed her spirit went. Whether to faint Lysium, or wear down through trest-lifting waves the naryad's fair, wind into Thethys' bower by many a pearly stare, or where God Bacchus strains his cups divine, stretched out at ease beneath the glutinous pine, or wherein Pluto's garden's palatine mossipers' columns gleam and fare a piazian line, and sometimes into city she would send her dream with feast and rioting to blend. And once, while among mortals dreaming thus, she saw the young Corinthian Lysius charioting foremost in the envious race like a young jove with calm, uneager face, and fell into a swooning love of him. Now, on the moth-time of that evening dim, he would return that way as well she knew to Corinth from the shore. For freshly blew the eastern soft wind, and his galley now grated the keystones with her brazen prow in port sincreas from Eugenia Isle, fresh anchored, with he had been a while to sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there waits with high marble doors for blood and incense rare. Jove heard his vows, and bettered his desire, for by some freakful chance he made retire from his companions, and set forth to walk, perhaps grown weary of their Corinth talk. Over the solitary hills he fared, thoughtless at first, but ere Eve's star appeared, his fantasy was lost, where reason fades, in the calmed twilight that platonic shades. Eve held him coming, nearer, more near, close to her passing, in indifference, drear. His silent sandals swept the mossy green, so neighboured to him, and yet so unseen she stood. He passed. Shut up in mysteries his mind wrapped like his mantle, while her eyes followed his steps, but her neck regal white turned, zealobling thus, ah, Lysius bright, and will you leave me on the hills alone? Lysius, look back, and be some pity-shome. He did, not with cold wonder, fearingly, but orpheus-like, at an uridice, for so delicious were the words she sung, it seemed he had loved them a whole summer long, and soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, and still the cup was full, while he, afraid lest she should vanish ere his slip had paid due adoration, thus began to adore. Her soft look, growing coy, she saw his chain so sure. Leave the alone, look back, ah, gotta see whether my eyes can ever turn from thee, for pity do not this sad heart be lie, even as thou vanishest so I shall die. Stay, though a dyad of the rivers stay, to thy far wishes will thy streams obey. Stay, though the greenest woods be thy domain, alone they can drink up the morning rain. Though a descended pleod will not one of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine, so sweetly to these ravaged ears of mine came thy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade, thy memory will waste me to a shade, for pity do not melt. If I should stay, said Lamia, here upon this floor of clay, and pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, what canst thou say or do of charm enough to dull the nice remembrance of my home? Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam over these hills and veils, where no joy is, empty of immortality and bliss. Thou art a scholar, Lysius, and must know that finer spirits cannot breathe below in human climes and live. Alas, poor youth, what taste of purer air has thou to soothe my essence? What serenar palaces, where I may all my many senses please, and by mysterious slights a hundred thirsts appease? It cannot be, adieu. So said she rose, tiptoe, with white arms spread. He, sick to lose the amorous promise of her lone complaint, swooned, murmuring of love and pale with pain. The cruel lady, without any show of sorrow, for her tender favourites woe, but rather, if her eyes could brighter be, with brighter eyes and slower thanity, put her new lips to his, and gave afresh the life she had so tangled in her mesh. And as he, from one trance, was wickening into another, she began to sing. Happy in beauty, life and love, and everything, a song of love too sweet for earthly liars, while like held breath the stars drew in their panting fires, and then she whispered in such trembling tone as those who, safe together, met alone, for the first time through many anguished days, use other speech than looks, meeting him raise his drooping head and clear his soul of doubt, for that she was a woman, and without any more subtle fluid in her veins than throbbing blood, and that the self-same pains inhabited her frail strong heart as his. And next she wondered how his eyes could miss her face so long in Corinth, where, she said, she dwelt but half retired, and there had led days happy as the gold coin could invent, without the aid of love, yet incontent, till she saw him, as once she passed him by, or against a column he lent thoughtfully, that Venus-temple porch, mid-basket-heaped of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reaped, late on that eve, as it was the night before the Adonian feast, whereof she saw no more but wept alone those days, for why should she adore? Lysius from death awoke into a maze to see her still, and singing so sweet blaze, then from a maze into delight he fell, to hear her whisper woman's lore so well, and every word she spake enticed him on to unperplexed delight and pleasure known. Let the mad poets say what air they please of the sweets of fairies, parries, goddesses. There is not such a treat among them all, haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, as a real woman, lineal indeed, from Pyrrhus pebbles, or old Adam's seed. Thus Gentilemia judged, and judged aright, that Lysius could not love in half a fright, so threw the goddess off, and won his heart more pleasantly, by playing woman's part, with no more awe than water beauty gave, that while it smote, still guaranteed to save. Lysius to all made eloquent reply, marrying to every word a twin-born sigh, and, last, pointing to Corinth, asked her sweet if it was too far that night for her soft feet. The way was short, for Lamea's eagerness made by a spell the triple league decrease, to a few paces, not at all surmised by blinded Lysius, so in her comprised. They passed the city gates, he knew not how, so noiseless, and he never thought to know. As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all throughout her palaces imperial, and all her populous streets and temples lewd, muttered like tempest in the distance brewed, to the widespread at night above her towers. Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours shuffle their sandals, or the pavement white, companioned or alone, while many a light flared here and there, from wealthy festivals, and through their moving shadows on the walls, or found them clustered in the cornest shade of some arched temple door, or dusky colonnade. Muffling his face, of greeting friends in fear, her fingers he pressed hard as one came near with curled gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth bald crown, slow-stepped and roamed in philosophic gown. Lysius shrank closer as they met, and passed into his mantle, adding wings to haste, while hurried Lamea trembled. Ah, said he, why do you shudder love so loofily? Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew? I'm weary, said fair Lamea. Tell me, who is that old man? I cannot bring to mind his features. Lysius, wherefore did you blind yourself from his quick eyes? Lysius replied, to his apollonious sage, my trusty guide and good instructor. But tonight he seems the ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams. While yet he spake they had arrived before a pillared porch with lofty portal door, where hung a silver lamp whose phosphor glow reflected in the slab at depths below, mild as a star in water. For so new and so unsullied was the marble hue, so through the crystal-polish liquid fine ran the dark rains that none but feet divine could air have touched there. Sounds aeolian breathe from the hinges as the ample span of the wide doors disclosed a place unknown, some time to any, but those two alone, and a few Persian mutes, who that same year were seen about the markets. None knew where they could inhabit. The most curious were foiled who watched to trace them to their house, and but the flitter-winged verse must tell, for truth's sake, what woe afterwards befell, would humor many a heart to leave them thus shut from the busy world of more incredulous. End of Part 1 of Lamea by John Keats, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 30 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. Lamea Part 2 Love in a hut with water and a crust is, love for divas, cinders, ashes, dust. Love in a palace is perhaps at last more grievous torment than a hermit's fast. That is a doubtful tale in fairyland, hard for the non-elect to understand. Had Lysius lived to hand his story down, he might have given the moral a fresh frown, or clenched it quite. But too short was their bliss to breed distrust and hate that make the soft voice hiss. Besides their nightly, with terrific glare, love, jealous groan of so complete a pair, hovered and buzzed his wings with fearful roar above the lentil of their chamber-door, and down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. For all this came a ruin. Side by side they were enthroned in the eventide upon a couch, near to a curtaining whose airy texture from a golden string floated into the room, and let appear unveiled the summer heaven, blue and clear betwixt two marble shafts. There they reposed where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, saving a tithe which love still opened he kept, that they might see each other while they almost slept. When from the sloped side of a suburb hill deafening the swallow's twitter came a thrill of trumpets. Lyceus started. The sounds fled, but left a thought abusing in his head. For the first time since first he harbored in that purple-linen palace of sweet sin, his spirit passed beyond its golden borne, into the noisy world almost foresworn. The lady, ever-watchful, penetrant, saw this with pain, so arguing a watt of something more, more than her empyrey of joys, and she began to moan and sigh, because he mused beyond her, knowing well that but a moment's thought his passions passing bell. Why do you sigh, fair creature, whispered he? Why do you think, returned she tenderly, you have deserted me? Where am I now? Not in your heart while care weighs on your brow. No, no, you have dismissed me. And I go from your breast houseless. Ay, it must be so. He answered, bending to her open eyes where he was mirrored, small in paradise. Why, silver-planet, both of eve and morn, why will you plead yourself so sad forelorn, while I am striving how to fill my heart with deeper crimson and a double smart? How to entangle, trample up and snare your soul in mine, and labyrinth you there like the hens sent in an unbudded rose? Ay, a sweet kiss. You see your mighty woes. My thoughts shall I unveil them? Listen, then. What mortal hath a prize that other men may be confounded and abashed with all, but let's it sometimes pace a broad majestical and triumph, as in thee I should rejoice amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. Let my foes choke, and my friends shout afar, while through the thronged streets your bridal car wheels round its dazzling spokes. The lady's cheek trembled. She nothing said. But pale and meek arose and knelt before him, wept a rain of sorrows at his words, at last with pain beseeching him, the while his hand she wrung, to change his purpose. He thereot was stung perverse with stronger fancy to reclaim her wild and timid nature to his aim. Besides for all his love and self-despite against his better self, he took delight luxurious in her sorrows soft and new. His passion, cruel-grown, took on a hue fierce and sanguineous, as was possible in one whose brow had no dark veins to swell. Fine was the mitigated fury like Apollo's presence when in act to strike the serpent. Ha! the serpent! Certes, she was none. She burnt. She loved the tyranny, and all subdued, consented to the hour when to the bridal he should lead his paramour. Whispering in midnight silence said the youth, Sure, some sweet name thou hast, though by my truth I have not asked it, ever thinking thee not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, as still I do. Hast any mortal name fit appellation for this dazzling frame, or friends or kensfolk on the citied earth to shower our marriage-feast and nuptial mirth? I have no friends, said Lamia. No, not one. My presence in wide Corinth hardly known. My parents' bones are in their dusty urns, supple-curd, where no kindled incense burns, seeing all their luckless race are dead save me, and I neglect the holy rite for thee. Even as you list, invite your many guests, but if, as now it seems, your vision rests with any pleasure on me, do not bid old Apollonius from him keep me hid. Lucia's perplexed at words so blind and blank made close inquiry from whose touch she shrank feigning asleep, and he to the dull shade of deep sleep in a moment was betrayed. It was the custom, then, to bring away the bride from home at blushing shut of day, veiled in a chariot, heralded along by strewn flowers, torches, and a merry song with other pageants, but this fair and known had not a friend. So being left alone, Lyceus was gone to summon all his kin, and knowing surely she could never win his foolish heart from its mad pompousness, she set herself high-thoughted how to dress the misery in fit magnificence. She did so, but is doubtful how and whence came, and who were her subtle servitors? About the halls and two and from the doors there was a noise of wings, till in short space the glowing banquet room shone with wide arch and grace, a haunting music so perhaps and lone, supportrous of the fairy-roof, made moaned throughout, as fearful the whole char might fade. Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade of palm and plantain, met from either side, high in the midst in honor of the bride, two palms and then two plantains, and so on from either side their stems branched one to one, all down the isled place, and beneath all there ran a stream of laps straight on, from wall to wall. So canopied lay an untasted feast teeming with odors, lamia regal dressed, silently paced about, and as she went in pale, contented sort of discontent, missioned her viewless servants to enrich the fretted splendor of each nook and niche. Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, came jasper panels, then anon their burst-forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, and with a larger wove in small intricacies, approving all she faded at self-will, and shut the chamber up, close, hushed, and still, complete and ready for the revel's rude, when dreadful guests would come to spoil her solitude. The day appeared, and all the gossip routed, oh senseless listious madman, wherefore flout the silent blessing fate warm cloistered ours, and show to common eyes these secret bowers. The herd approached, each guest with busy brain, arriving at the portal, gazed amain, and entered marveling, for they knew the street, remembered it from childhood, all complete, without a gap, yet near before had seen that royal porch, that high-built fair demean. So when they hurried all, mazed, curious, and keen, save one, who looked thereon with eyes severe, and with calm-planted steps walked in austere. It was apollonious, something too he laughed, as though some naughty problem that had daft his patient thought, and now began to thaw, and solve, and melt. Was just as he foresaw. He met within the murmurous vestibule his young disciple. "'Tis no common rule, listious,' said he, for uninvited guest to force himself upon you, and infest with an unbidden presence the bright throng of younger friends. Yet must I do this wrong, and you forgive me?' Lysius blushed, and led the old man through the inner doors broadspread, with reconciling words and courteous mean, turning into sweet milk the softest spleen. Of wealthy luster was the banquet room, filled with pervading brilliance and perfume, for each lucid panel fuming stood a censor fed with myrrh and spiced wood, each by a sacred tripod held aloft, whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft, wool-wooft carpets. Fifty wreaths of smoke from fifty censors their light voyage took to the high roof, still mimicked as they rose along the mirrored walls by twin clouds odorous. Twelve-sfeared tables by silk seats in speared, high as the level of a man's breast-reared on liberty's paws, upheld a heavy gold of cups and goblets, and the store of thrice-toed of Ciri's horn. And in huge vessels wine came from the gloomy ton with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the table stood, each shrining in the midst the image of a god. When in an atti chamber every guest had felt a cold full sponge to pleasure pressed by ministering slaves upon his hands and feet, and fragrant oils with ceremony-meat poured on his hair, they all moved to the feast in white robes, and themselves in order placed around the silken couches, wondering whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring. Soft went the music, the soft air along, while fluent Greek avowed undersong kept up among the guests, discoursing low at first, for scarcely was the wine at flow. But when the happy vintage touched their brains, louder they talked, and louder came the strains of powerful instruments. The gorgeous dyes, the space, the splendor of the draperies, the roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, beautiful slaves, and lamea's self appear. Now when the wine has done its rosy deed, and every soul from human trammels freed, no more so strange. For merry wine's sweet wine will make elysian shades not too fair. Too divine! Soon was God back us at meridian height. Fleshed were their cheeks and bright eyes, double bright. Garlands of every green and every scent from veils deflowered, or forest trees branch-brent, and baskets of bright, oshered gold were brought high as the handles heaped to suit the thought of every guest, that each, as he did please, might fancy fit his brows silk-pillowed at his ease. What wreath for lamea? What for lyceus? What for the sage, old Apollonius? Upon her aching forehead be there hung the leaves of willow and of adder's tongue, and for the youth quick let us strip for him the thersis that his watching eyes may swim into forgetfulness. And for the sage let speargrass and the spiteful thistle wage war on his temples. Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven. We know her woof, her texture, she is given in the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule and line, empty the haunted air and nomad mine, unweave a rainbow, as it air while made the tender-personed lamea melt into a shade. By her glad lyceus sitting in chief place, scarce saw in all the room another face, till, checking his love trance, a cup he took, full-brimmed, an opposite sent forth a look, crossed the broad table, to beseech a glance from his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, and pledge him. The bald-head philosopher had fixed his eye without a twinkle or stir, full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride. Lyceus then pressed her hand with devout touch, as pale it lay upon the rosy couch. Was icy, and the cold ran through his veins. Then sun it grew hot, and all the pains of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. Lamea, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start? Wherefore dost thou that man? Poor Lamea answered not. He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot own day the lovelorn piteous appeal. More and more he gazed, his human senses real, some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs. There was no recognition in those orbs. Lamea he cried, and no soft tone reply, the many heard, and the loud revelry grew hush. The stately music no more breathes, the myrtles sickened in a thousand wreaths. By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased. A deadly silence, step by step increased, until it seemed a horrid presence there, and not a man that felt a terror in his hair. Lamea he shrieked, and nothing but the shriek with a sad echo did the silence break. Begone foul dream, he cried, gazing again in the bride's face, where now no azure vein wandered on fair space and temples. No soft bloom misted the cheek, no passion to illumine the deep, recessed vision. All was blight. Lamea, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man! Turn them aside, wretch, or the righteous ban of all the gods whose dreadful images here represent their shadowy presences. They pierced them on the sun with a thorn of painful blindness, leaving thee forlorn in trembling dotage to the feeblest fright of conscience, for their long offended might, for all thine happiest proud-heart sophistries, unlawful magic, and enticing lies. Corinthians, look upon that gray-beard wretch, mark how possessed his lashless eyelids stretch around his demon eyes. Corinthians, see, my sweet bride withers at their potency. Fool said they surfaced in an undertone, gruff with contempt, which a death-nighing moan from Lyceus answered. As heart struck and lost, he sank supine beside the aching ghost. Fool, fool, repeated he, while his eyes still relented not, nor moved. From every eel of life have I preserved thee to this day, and shall I see thee made a serpent's prey? Then Lamea breathed to death-breath. The sophist sigh, like a sharp spear, went through her utterly, keen, cruel, persient, stinging. She, as well as her weak hand, could any meaning tell, motioned him to be silent. Vainly so. He looked and looked again a level, no. A serpent, and echoed he. No sooner said, than with a frightful scream, she vanished. And Lyceus' arms were empty of delight, as were his limbs of life from that same night. On the high couch he lay. His friends came round, supported him. No pulse or breath they found. And in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound. End of Part 2 of Lamea by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 31 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. To Byron. Byron, how sweetly sad thy melody, attuning still the soul to tenderness, as if soft pity with unusual stress had touched her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, had caught the tones, nor suffered them to die. Or shadowing sorrow doth not make thee less delightful, thou thy griefs dust dress with a bright halo shining beamily, as when a cloud, the golden moon doth veil, its sides are tinged with a resplendent glow, through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, and like fair veins in sable marble flow. Still warble dying swan, still tell the tale, the enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe. End of To Byron by John Keats. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Section 32 of John Keats' Selected Poems. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. A Song About Myself. There was a naughty boy, a naughty boy was he. He would not stop at home, he could not quiet be. He took in his knapsack a book full of vowels, and a shirt with some towels, a slight cap for nightcap, a hairbrush, comb ditto, new stockings for old ones with splitto. This knapsack, tight at spack, he riveted close, and followed his nose to the north to the north, and followed his nose to the north. There was a naughty boy, and a naughty boy was he, for nothing would he do but scribble poetry. He took an ink stand in his hand, and a pen, biggest ten in the other, and away in a pother he ran to the mountains and fountains and ghosties and posties, and witches and ditches, and wrote in his coat when the weather was cool, fear of gout, and without when the weather was warm, ah, the charm, when we choose to follow one's nose to the north to the north, to follow one's nose to the north. There was a naughty boy, and a naughty boy was he. He kept little fishes in washing-tubs three, in spite of the might of the maid, nor afraid of his granny-good. He often would hurly-burly get up early, and go by hook or crook to the brook, and bring home Miller's thumb-tittle-bat, not over a fat, minnows small as the snall of a glove, not above the size of a nice little baby's little fingers. Oh, he made, twas his trade, a fish, a pretty kettle, a kettle, a kettle of fish, a pretty kettle, a kettle. There was a naughty boy, and a naughty boy was he. He ran away to Scotland, the people, for to see. There he found that the ground was as hard, that a yard was as long, that a song was as merry, that a cherry was as red, that lead was as weighty, that forescore was as 80, that a door was as wooden, as in England. So he stood in his shoes, and he wondered, he wondered. He stood in his shoes, and he wondered. End of A Song About Myself by John Keats. Also, End of John Keats Selected Poems. Selected and recorded by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio.