At Fingal’s Cave by John Keats — Past Poetry archive

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 aisled, built up in heaven, Gazed 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, “Famed in funeral minstrelsy! This was architectured 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!