JOHN KEATS.

He is to weet a melancholy carle: Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair, As hath the seeded thistle when in parle It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair Its light balloons into the summer air; Therto his beard had not begun to bloom, No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor sheer; No care had touch'd his cheek with mortal doom, But new he was and bright as scarf from Persian loom. Ne cared he for wine, or half and half, Ne cared he for fish or flesh or fowl, And sauces held he worthless as the chaff; He 'sdeigned the swine-head at the wassail-bowl; Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl; Ne with sly Lemans in the scorner's chair; But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul Panted, and all his food was woodland air Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers rare. The slang of cities in no wise he knew, Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek; He sipp'd no olden Tom or ruin blue, Or nantz or cherry-brandy drank full meek By many a damsel hoarse and rouge of cheek; Nor did he know each aged watchman's beat, Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek For curlèd Jewesses, with ankles neat, Who as they walk abroad make tinkling with their feet.

The Gothic looks solemn, The plain Doric column Supports an old Bishop and Crosier; The mouldering arch, Shaded o'er by a larch Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier. Vicè—that is, by turns,— O'er pale faces mourns The black tassell'd trencher and common hat; The Chantry boy sings, The Steeple-bell rings, And as for the Chancellor—dominat. There are plenty of trees, And plenty of ease, And plenty of fat deer for Parsons; And when it is venison, Short is the benison,— Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.