Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. _J. Keats_ CCXI _LOVE_ All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean'd against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight; She stood and listen'd to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story-- An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo'd The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade,-- There came and look'd him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight! And that unknowing what he did, He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;-- And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; And how she tended him in vain-- And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;-- And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;--