Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, 35 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate, can e’er return. 40 O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 45 When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 50 _John Keats._ CCXXVIII _STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES._ The sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear The purple noon’s transparent light: The breath of the moist air is light 5 Around its unexpanded buds; Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean-floods, The City’s voice itself is soft like solitude’s. I see the Deep’s untrampled floor 10 With green and purple sea-weeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown: I sit upon the sands alone; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 15 Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion-- How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, 20 Nor that content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found, And walked with inward glory crowned-- Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; Others I see whom these surround; 25 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, 30 And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 35 Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.