And put thee to a little pain
To save thee from a worse.
Better than Southey it had been,
Better than Mr. D
Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween,
Better than Mr. V.
Forgive me, pray, good people all,
For deviating so—
In spirit sure I had a call—
And now I on will go.
Has any here a daughter fair
Too fond of reading novels,
Too apt to fall in love with care
And charming Mister Lovels,
O put a Gadfly to that thing
She keeps so white and pert—
I mean the finger for the ring,
And it will breed a wort.
Has any here a pious spouse
Who seven times a day
Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse
And have her holy way—
O let a Gadfly's little sting
Persuade her sacred tongue
That noises are a common thing,
But that her bell has rung.
And as this is the summum bo-
num of all conquering,
I leave 'withouten wordes mo'
The Gadfly's little sting.
On hearing the Bag-pipe and seeing 'The Stranger' played at Inverary
'On entering Inverary,' Keats writes to his brother Tom, July 18, 1818, 'we saw a Play Bill. Brown was knocked up from new shoes—so I went to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There they went on about interesting creaters and human nater till the Curtain fell and then came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller fainted down went the Curtain and out came the Bag-pipe—at the heartrending, shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew amain. I never read or saw this play before; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched players themselves were little in comparison with it—thank heaven it has been scoffed at lately almost to a fashion.'
Of late two dainties were before me plac'd
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent,
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Gods might know my own particular taste:
First the soft Bag-pipe mourn'd with zealous haste,
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
Sigh'd; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe went,
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away—
O Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst charm—
O Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway—
Again thou, Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm—
Alas! I could not choose. Ah! my poor heart
Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part.
Lines written in the Highlands after a Visit to Burns's Country
In a letter to Benjamin Bailey from the Island of Mull, July 22, 1818.
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle has been fought, where glory had the gain;
There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been,
Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green;
There is ⟨a⟩ Joy in every spot made known by times of old,
New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told;
There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf,
Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away;
