 | Vigil and vision |  |
56
KEATS.
IF, in our English muster-roll of song,Our nightingale was Shakspeare, Nature's son,
Milton our thrush, second (save him) to none,
Shelley our skylark lilting loud and long,
Thou wast the ousel of our tuneful throng,
That, in the solemn setting of the sun,
When all was silent else for day fordone,
Wakedst the woods with music sweet and strong.
Yet but brief time with us thou might'st abide:
Alack! La Belle Dame sans merci,
The woodnymph wild and sweet, the April-eyed
Strong sorceress, that men call Poesy,
Unsparing whom she loves , had thee in thrall
And to her heaven too soon did thee recall.
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