give thee joy of new powers, new work, unprecedented futures! We give
the world joy of a new and mighty artist to plan, a new strong artisan
to quarry and to build in the great architectures of humanity!



THE POET KEATS.

His was the soul, once pent in English clay,
Whereby ungrateful England seemed to hold
The sweet Narcissus, parted from his stream,--
Endymion, not unmindful of his dream,
Like a weak bird the flock has left behind.

Untimely notes the poet sung alone,
Checked by the chilling frosts of words unkind;
And his grieved soul, some thousand years astray,
Paled like the moon in most unwelcome day.

His speech betrayed him ere his heart grew cold;
With morning freshness to the world he told
Of man's first love, and fearless creed of youth,
When Beauty he believed the type of Truth.

In the vexed glories of unquiet Troy,
So might to Helen's jealous ear discourse
The flute, first tuned on Ida's haunted hill,
Against OEnone's coming, to betray
In what sweet solitude her shepherd lay.