Staffa

by John Keats

    Not Aladdin magian
    Ever such a work began;
    Not the wizard of the Dee
    Ever such a dream could see;
    Not St. John, in Patmos' Isle,
    In the passion of his toil,
    When he saw the churches seven,
    Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven,
    Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder.
    As I stood its roofing under
    Lo! I saw one sleeping there,
    On the marble cold and bare.
    While the surges wash'd his feet,
    And his garments white did beat.
    Drench'd about the sombre rocks,
    On his neck his well-grown locks,
    Lifted dry above the main,
    Were upon the curl again.
    "What is this? and what art thou?"
    Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow;
    "What art thou? and what is this?"
    Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss
    The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes;
    Up he started in a trice:
    "I am Lycidas," said he,
    "Fam'd in funeral minstrely!
    This was architectur'd thus
    By the great Oceanus!
    Here his mighty waters play
    Hollow organs all the day;
    Here by turns his dolphins all,
    Finny palmers great and small,
    Come to pay devotion due
    Each a mouth of pearls must strew.
    Many a mortal of these days,
    Dares to pass our sacred ways,
    Dares to touch audaciously
    This Cathedral of the Sea!
    I have been the pontiff-priest
    Where the waters never rest,
    Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
    Soars for ever; holy fire
    I have hid from mortal man;
    Proteus is my Sacristan.
    But the dulled eye of mortal
    Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal;
    So for ever will I leave
    Such a taint, and soon unweave
    All the magic of the place."
    - - - - - - -
    So saying, with a Spirit's glance
    He dived!