缪斯对她心爱的儿子们是严厉的，她把绿色大地上所有欢乐的钥匙给了一些人，却连那欢乐也从他们的生活中夺了回来;让他们以希望为食，这是一株痛苦生长的植物，深深扎根于过去;真理，这是一门令人怀疑的艺术，让希望使流逝的时间变得甜蜜;因为人直到末了，都不知道所吃的是神的菜、或是自己的心。啊，严厉、无情的缪斯，给济慈如此高贵的地位，只想到他死后会跻身英国诗人之列;让他随期望一起消逝，无力展现未来!是什么使我们的时代把他从你过于严酷的怀抱中夺了出来，使他的名声与莎士比亚的名声同甘共苦?他孤独地躺在罗马古石的皱眉和罗马紫罗兰的冰冷之下;我们对他最神圣的诗句所作的最狂野的咒语，对他苍白的坟墓所作的一切赞美，如大海对月亮所作的一切赞美，都不能使那愁眉苦脸的影子动摇，打破他的梦，现在给他一句话!当年轻的主人认为，我们的强横的英国疏忽了她伟大的诗人的培养，把他们践踏在人生的小路上，死后还用荣耀来培养他们时，他自己的名声中有没有一种胜利的火焰迅速地落在他的心上; the glow Cast back upon the bleak and aching air Blown around his days -- ? Happily so! But he, whose soul was mighty as the soul Of Milton, who held the vision of the world As an irradiant orb self-filled with light, Who schooled his heart with passionate control To compass knowledge, to unravel the dense Web of this tangled life, he would weigh slight As thistledown blown from his most fairy fancy That pale self-glory, against the mystery, The wonder of the various world, the power Of "seeing great things in loneliness." Where bloodroot in the clearing dwells Along the edge of snow; Where, trembling all their trailing bells, The sensitive twinflowers blow; Where, searching through the ferny breaks, The moose-fawns find the springs; Where the loon laughs and diving takes Her young beneath her wings; Where flash the fields of arctic moss With myriad golden light; Where no dream-shadows ever cross The lidless eyes of night; Where, cleaving a mountain storm, the proud Eagles, the clear sky won, Mount the thin air between the loud Slow thunder and the sun; Where, to the high tarn tranced and still No eye has ever seen, Comes the first star its flame to chill In the cool deeps of green; -- Spirit of Keats, unfurl thy wings, Far from the toil and press, Teach us by these pure-hearted things, Beauty in loneliness. Where, in the realm of thought, dwell those Who oft in pain and penury Work in the void, Searching the infinite dark between the stars, The infinite little of the atom, Gathering the tears and terrors of this life, Distilling them to a medicine for the soul; (And hated for their thought Die for it calmly; For not their fears, Nor the cold scorn of men, Fright them who hold to truth:) They brood alone in the intense serene Air of their passion, Until on some chill dawn Breaks the immortal form foreshadowed in their dream, And the distracted world and men Are no more what they were. Spirit of Keats, unfurl thy deathless wings, Far from the wayward toil, the vain excess, Teach us by such soul-haunting things Beauty in loneliness. The minds of men grow numb, their vision narrows, The clogs of Empire and the dust of ages, The lust of power that fogs the fairest pages, Of the romance that eager life would write, These war on Beauty with their spears and arrows. But still is Beauty and of constant power; Even in the whirl of Time's most sordid hour, Banished from the great highways, Afflighted by the tramp of insolent feet, She hangs her garlands in the by-ways; Lissome and sweet Bending her head to hearken and learn Melody shadowed with melody, Softer than shadow of sea-fern, In the green-shadowed sea: Then, nourished by quietude, And if the world's mood Change, she may return Even lovelier than before. -- The white reflection in the mountain lake Falls from the white stream Silent in the high distance; The mirrored mountains guard The profile of the goddess of the height, Floating in water with a curve of crystal light; When the air, envious of the loveliness, Rushes downward to surprise, Confusion plays in the contact, The picture is overdrawn With ardent ripples, But when the breeze, warned of intrusion, Draws breathless upward in flight, The vision reassembles in tranquillity,