Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs ;

Many delights of that glad day recalling, When first my senses caught their tender falling.

330

Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

Of liny marble, and thereto a train Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward:

toward

eyes from her sweet face. Most happy
they!

For over them was seen a free display
Of outspread wings, and from between them

shone

Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,

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Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see

In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel; And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,

Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,

Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.

When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant

There is no clue to the identity of the person addressed and no date is affixed. It was published in the 1817 volume, and there follows the one addressed to his brother George.

HAD I a man's fair form, then might my sighs

Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell

Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so well

Would passion arm me for the enterprise: But ah! I am no knight whose foeman dies;

No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; I am no happy shepherd of the dell Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes.

Yet must I dote upon thee,-call thee sweet,

Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses When steep'd in dew rich to intoxication.

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 't is meet, And when the moon her pallid face discloses,

I'll gather some by spells, and incan

tation.

SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION

TO A POEM

This poem was published in the 1817 volume where it immediately precedes Calidore. Leigh Hunt, when reviewing the volume on its appearance, speaks of the two poems as connected, and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written continuously. The same copy contains a memorandum 'marked by Leigh Hunt - 1816.'

Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;

For large white plumes are dancing in mine

eye.

Not like the formal crest of latter days: But bending in a thousand graceful ways; So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, Could charm them into such an attitude. We must think rather, that in playful mood, Some mountain breeze had turned its chief

delight,

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To show this wonder of its gentle might.
Lo! I must tell a tale of chivalry;
For while I muse, the lance points slant-
ingly

Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet,
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet,
From the worn top of some old battlement
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent:
And from her own pure self no joy dissem-
bling,

Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling.

Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest would take,

It is reflected, clearly, in a lake,

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