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Keats and the dynamics of form Tiefensee, Dianne 1986

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KEATS A N D THE DYNAMICS OF F O R M by D I A N N E TIEFENSEE A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL F U L F I L M E N T OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE D E G R E E OF MASTER OF ARTS in THE F A C U L T Y OF G R A D U A T E STUDIES (Department of English) We accept this thesis as conforming to the required standard THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA August 1986 Dianne Tiefensee, 1986 In presenting this thesis in partial fulfilment of the requirements for an advanced degree at the The University of British Columbia, I agree that the Library shall make it freely available for reference and study. I further agree that permission for extensive copying of this thesis for scholarly purposes may be granted by the Head of my Department or by his or her representatives. It is understood that copying or publication of this thesis for financial gain shall not be allowed without my written permission. (Department of English) The University of British Columbia 2075 Wesbrook Place Vancouver, Canada V6T 1W5 Date: August 1986 ABSTRACT Of the many topics which have fascinated Keats's readers, three are remarkable for the continuing disputes they incite: the cause and nature of the prodigious and rapid development through which Keats firmly established himself in the ranks of great English poets in such an incredibly short time; Milton's influence on the Hyperion poems; and the origins of the distinctive Keatsian ode. The rapidity and extensiveness of Keats's development can be partially attributed to the process of discovery through writing which renders his earlier works the most important influence upon his later work. His ideas and his craftsmanship developed in tandem, enabling him to combine and alter traditional forms to suit his unique purposes — as, for example, he combines and modifies ode and sonnet forms to create odes which are innovative and unique. Nevertheless, Keats could not have soared to the heights he did in the short time he had, had Milton not preceded him. Although poets and dramatists have always reworked their predecessors' material in original ways, it was only from Milton that Keats could have learned not only to select appropriate traditional forms, but, also, to combine and modify those forms, and to adapt lyric forms as foundations upon which to build the blank verse of The Fall of Hyperion. Hence, Keats's process of development, his ode form, and the influence of Milton are integrally related, in fact, interdependent, and actually cannot be separated. However, to avoid repetition, I propose to discuss first Keats's growth in craftsmanship as it manifests itself in his development of the Keatsian ode, and then, to discuss Milton's influence on the Hyperion poems, particularly the ways in which Milton provides the model from which Keats effects startling changes in the blank verse of The Fall of Hyperion as i compared to that of Hyperion — changes which are most dramatic in the segments which appear to be transposed directly from Hyperion. i i ACKNOWLEDGEMENT I wish to thank Professor Lee M . Johnson, who taught me what I know about poetic form and proposed the questions which led to this study. He is a most patient and enthusiastic mentor. i i i TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ii Acknowledgement iv Introduction v I. The Development of the Keatsian Ode Stanza 1 II. Milton and Hyperion 35 III. Milton and The Fall of Hyperion 51 IV. Conclusion 101 V. Bibliography 105 iv INTRODUCTION This study focusses upon issues which other scholars have addressed: the nature and development of the Keatsian ode stanza, the ordering of the ode sequence, Milton's influence on the Hyperion poems, and, unifying all of these apparently isolated topics, Keats's poetic development Keats's poetic development is a process of discovery informed by his belief in Negative Capability and Soul-making, the latter becoming more and more clearly his underlying theme, and the former, the habit of mind through which he resists the temptation to make final judgments, constantly exploring the innumerable dark passages of Thought in order to use the experiences and Circumstances of this vale of Soul-making in such a way that the Intelligence which is the spark of Divinity in Humanity can develop its unique Identity and become a Soul.t The purpose of this thesis is to discover how Keats exercised Negative Capability in his own poetic development, and what Negative Capability means in stylistic and metrical terms. The most controversial of the issues here addressed is the nature of the Keatsian ode stanza in the context of Keats's work and in the context of the poetic tradition. H . W. Garrod's description of the stanza as a combination of the English and Italian sonnet forms,! Ian Gordon's account of the stanza as a derivation of the English Pindaric,* and John Heath-Stubbs' brief mention of the stanza as a modification of tJohn Keats, The Letters of John Keats, ed. Hyder Edward Rollins (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard UP, 1958. Hereafter cited as Letters. IDiscussed by Ian Gordon in his "Keats and the English Pindaric," Review of English Literature 8 (1967): 9-23. *Ian A. Gordon, "Keats and the English Pindaric," Review of English Literature 8 (1967): 9-23. Hereafter cited as Gordon. v the canzonet are mutually compatible. Each of them can be accepted on its own terms, but, for this very reason, all of them must be considered together; the stanza itself, Keats's work as a whole, and Keats's sensibility are all characterized by a powerful and pervasive quality that binds together diverse perspectives and various forms to create a whole that is not only greater than the sum of its parts, but which also transcends the differences between those parts. This quality is the "capacity to remain in uncertainties, Mystery and doubt" (Letters, I. 193) which permitted and compelled Keats to modify, and combine existing forms in innovative ways in order to create forms that served his unique purposes exactly as Milton modified and combined existing canzone forms in order to create the unique structure in which Lycidas is embodied. Like the various accounts of the nature of the Keatsian ode stanza, most of the general descriptions of the ode sequence -as a whole are acceptable within their limits, with the exception of Robert Gitting's view of the odes, and of "everything else [Keats] wrote [as] distinct and separate stages in his life and thought"$ John Holloway and Professor Garrod perceive the sequence as a sequence not of time, but of mood — it is both, and also, "a generative movement bringing into existence what is not yet in existence — another kind of life."* But, in my opinion, Van Ghent, Gittings, Garrod, and Holloway cannot possibly discover the story of the ode sequence because they perceive "To Autumn" as an offshoot which stands by itself, and "Indolence" as "too bad to deserve much attention" (Holloway, p. 416). Excluding the t John Heath-Stubbs, The Ode:A History of the Ode (London: Oxford UP, 1969), p. 93. Hereafter cited as Ode. ^Robert Gittings, The Odes of Keats and their earliest known Manuscripts, (London: Heinemann, 1970), p. 7. Hereafter cited as Gittings. •Dorothy Van Ghent, Keats: The Myth of the Hero, Rev. and ed. Jeffrey Cane Robinson (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1983), p. 7. vi ode from the sequence destroys the sequence because the indolence which the speaker commands at the end of the ode is, as William F. Zak proposes, Negative Capability, the quality for which the speaker is striving from the beginning of the sequence.t Also, "Indolence" is the ode in which Keats comments on his own work in the odes, a critical essay that demonstrates a strong and pervasive habit which asserts itself, for example, in several of Keats's sonnets, his verse episties, "Sleep and Poetry," and The Fall of Hyperion. Moreover, "Indolence" gives substance to the moments of recognition through which Keats abandoned Maia and Hyperion, and anticipates the dreamer's epiphanic moment in The Fall. Keats's abandonment of Hyperion is a remarkable moment in his career, an act which, concomitant with his abandonment of Maia, represents a resolution, a recognition which enabled him to write the great odes, which, in turn, enabled him to compose the utterly masterful later Hyperion poem. Helen Vendler realizes that "Indolence" must be included in the ode sequence, but she fails to recognize it as a peripeteia, and deems it the seminal opening ode. This creates within the sequence a hiatus which she attempts to correct by inserting The Fall. Although her placing of "Indolence" is, in my opinion, utterly unacceptable, her inclusion of The Fall could be somewhat defended, in that the poet's public development is a part of his personal development, an aspect of his "intent to devote himself . . . rather to the ardors than to the pleasures of song."± Nevertheless, the odes can be arranged in such a way that "Indolence" is more appropriately placed and the sequence is complete in itself. In that ordering, the "Ode to a Grecian Urn" t William F. Zak, "The Confirmation of Keats's Belief in Negative Capability: The 'Ode on Indolence,'" Keats-Shelley Journal 25 (1976): 55-64. IHelen Vendler, The Odes of John Keats (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1983), p. 291. vii and "To Autumn" represent the mature, universal perspective of the poet who has achieved Identity through exercising Negative Capability, and the inclusion of The Fall is unnecessary. In regard to my treatment of the Hyperion poems, and of Milton's influence upon them, there is very little common ground shared by other critics and myself. Stuart Sperry proposes correctly that the "second Hyperion should not be described as a waning of Milton's influence"; however, "a rigorously critical and interpretive assimilation of Paradise Lost"t is only a part of the process which took place as Keats moved from the epic to the dream vision. Paul Sherwin's view of Hyperion as an expression of Keats's anxiety of influence has merit,$ but, in view of Keats's belief that "when we have acquired more strength [than when the Mind is in its infancy], a Bias becomes no Bias" (F 2>Letters, I. 277), Sherwin's conviction that Keats desires "a 'power for making' that will enable him to dispossess his precursors" (Sherwin, 385) may attribute overly harsh motives to Keats. Sherwin's choosing not to discuss the Hyperion poem in which Milton's influence is most strongly evident combines with his revisionist point of view to tempt him to perceive Hyperion as a "'progress' poem" (Sherwin, 385) that fails to progress. To my knowledge, my reading of Hyperion as an "eternal moment" which represents the human condition is unique, and the demythologizing of myth which Keats effects in The Fall and the manner in which he employs the myth and material of Hyperion for that purpose has hitherto been unrecognized. Also, although Professor Havens has tStuart Sperry, "Keats, Milton, and The Fall of Hyperion," PMLA 11 (1962): 78. Hereafter cited as Sperry. JPaul Sherwin, "Dying into Life: Keats's Struggle with Milton in Hyperion" PMLA 93 (1978): 383-95. Hereafter cited as Sherwin. viii carefully traced stylistic and linguistic peculiarities from Paradise Lost through Hyperion and The Fall of Hyperion^ no one has investigated the antipodal ghost forms which pattern the blank verse of these poems or addressed the question of their significance in relation to the themes of the poems. Keats's poetic development has intrigued other scholars, but no previous discussion of his development has taken Keats's Negative Capability into consideration. Claude Finney sees Keats's career as consisting of two separate and distinct stages, the first characterized by his criticism of life,:}: and the second, by his having abandoned that outlook after discovering that "there is something real in the world." 'Keats's earlier work is not a criticism of life, but rather, the record of his struggle to identify and articulate his belief in Negative Capability and the Soul-making philosophy which, to varying degrees, informs his poetry from the beginning. The prosodic analysis of Keats's style offered by Walter Jackson Bate does little to relate form with content, and deals only with smaller aspects of form like diction, rhyming patterns, and melody.tt M . R. Ridley's study of sources seems to be thorough, and his description of Keats's revising while composing is interesting, but his inwardly directed conclusions are presumptuous — more discussion of these allusions' and revisions' effects on the poems would be more valuable than speculations about the thoughts which prompted them.$t t Raymond Dexter Havens, The Influence of Milton on English Poetry (New York: Russell and Russell, 1961), pp. . Hereafter cited as Havens. ^Claude Lee Finney, The Evolution of Keats's Poetry (New York: Russell and Russell, 1936), p. 572. *Letters, I. 277. Quoted by Finney, p. 572. t tWal ter Jackson Bate, The Stylistic Development of Keats (New York: Modern Language Association of America; London: Oxford UP, 1945). $ $ M . R. Ridley, Keats's Craftsmanship (Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1933). ix My conception of Keats's poetic development as a process of discovery informed by Negative Capability determines the differences between other critics' and my own perceptions of the smaller issues discussed in this thesis — the nature of the Keatsian ode stanza, the ordering of the ode sequence, and Milton's influence upon the Hyperion poems. I am convinced that there is an overall pattern to Keats's development that has not been appreciated, partly because he has been applauded as a master of style, but his style has been considered only in terms of diction, rhyming patterns, melody, and so on, rather in terms of larger structural patterns and forms, and partly because Keats has been largely considered as, not a poet of ideas, but as an Imagist poet who happens to write in metrical verse. The ways in which the ideas expressed in his letters are intimately related to his themes and style has never been explored in terms of the harmony between his intellectual, spiritual, and poetic growth — a harmony which, together with his genius, creates the decorum with which his style is perfectly suited to his content x I. T H E DEVELOPMENT OF THE KEATSIAN ODE STANZA The many English poems called odes are so diverse in subject matter, form, and style that no scholar has been able to provide for the term "ode" a definition which is acceptable to all. Therefore, many poems which are designated odes by some readers are not considered as such by others. In the case of John Keats's odes of 1819, though, no such disagreement occurs; that is, all scholars regard the poems as odes. Moreover, most readers agree that they "stand in a class by themselves"Ode, p. 93); many critics consider Keats's odes, particularly "Ode to a Nightingale," "Ode to a Grecian Urn," and "To Autumn," to be the most brilliant odes in the language, and most critics are impressed, if not intrigued, by Keats's innovative ode stanza. But, before we can determine the nature and the degree of these poems' uniqueness, we must at least summarize the history of the ode tradition which lies behind them. The ode is a classical form, and the word is derived from the Greek "oide," which means simply a poem to be sung. For the early Greeks, the arts of poetry, music, and the dance were a unity; the extant odes of Pindar, which are the major Greek contribution to the English ode, are merely the verbal element of his choral odes. Although Pindar wrote ten different types of odes,16 those that have survived are all of one category, the epinicia. They are public, occasional poems, and their tone is emotional, exalted, and intense. They are not easily accessible, being characterized by brilliant imagery, abrupt shifts in subject matter, and apparent disorder of form within the individual sections, but coherence and unity are achieved by patterns of dominating images, emotional relationships between subjects, and complex metrical organization. In English, the regular Pindaric ode is a learned imitation of Pindar's form, with all the 1 6The categories are: songs for victories in the great games (epinicia), hymns, songs of thanksgiving or petition (addressed chiefly to Apollo), choral ballets with orchestral accompaniments (for festivals), processional songs with flute accompaniment, songs in honour of gods or great men with choruses of maidens and flute accompaniment, laudatory poems, drinking songs, hymns to Bacchus, laments.Listed in Carol Maddison, Apollo and the Nine (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960), pp. 5—6. Hereafter cited as Maddison. 1 2 strophes and antistrophes written in one kind of stanza, and all the epodes in another. The early English Pindaric odes, and many later ones, were usually inspired by a particular occasion, and were written to eulogize either a person (Jonson's "Ode to Sir Lucius Cary and H . Morison"), a place (Jonson's "To Penshurst"), or the reunited arts of music and poetry (Dryden's "Alexander's Feast"). "Alexander's Feast" is an irregular ode. This modification of the Pindaric ode was introduced in 1656 by Abraham Cowley, who imitated the Pindaric style and matter but disregarded the recurrent strophic triad, allowing each stanza to Find its own pattern of varying line-lengths, numbers of lines, and rhyme scheme. This irregular stanzaic structure, altering freely in accordance with shifts in subject and mood has been the most common for the English ode ever since, reaching its peak in Wordsworth's "Intimations of Immortality." The odes of Horace, which are the major Latin contribution to the English ode, cannot be categorized as Pindar's. A few of the many classes of poems which his odes represent are the erotic, political, consolatory, and sympotic, but each of his eighty-five odes is different from the others. The Horatian Ode is stanzaic and regular, based upon a limited number of metrical variations. It is personal rather than public, general rather than occasional, tranquil rather than intense, contemplative rather than brilliant, and intended for the reader in his library rather than for the spectator in the theatre. The Horatian Ode was introduced into English through Ben Jonson's translations of Horace's "Carmina IV, i , " and "Carmina, III. ix" and Milton's translation, "The Fifth Ode of Horace, Lib. 1." As we might expect, original English Horatian Odes tend to be contemplative and philosophical, written to eulogize a time of day (Collins's "Ode to Evening"), a state of being (Pope's "Ode to Solitude"), or an abstract concept (Gray's "Hymn to Adversity" and Wordsworth's "Ode to Duty").1 7 1 7 Much of the material in the last two and one-half paragraphs is taken from two sources: "Ode," Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1974), pp. 585-86; M . H . Abrams, "Ode," A Glossary of Literary Terms, (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971), pp. 116-117. 3 Perhaps the integral orderliness and stately dignity of the Horatian Ode both preserved its purity throughout the period in which it was employed in English, and also contributed to its virtual abandonment after Wordsworth; Horace's form was neither vulnerable to corruption nor amenable to extemporization. The Pindaric Ode, as the evolution of the irregular Ode demonstrates, was less inviolable, but more malleable, which may somewhat account for the fact that the influences of Ronsard and Petrarch18 manifested themselves in the Pindaric Ode rather than in the Horatian. But, because the canzone — the Continental form which had the most profound impact upon the English Ode — was designed to give the effect of the varying metres of the odes in Greek classical drama, as well as those of Pindar (Ode, p. 13), the susceptibility of the Pindaric Ode to Continental influence may be attributed to the close relationship between the Pindaric Ode and the canzone. [W] liters of canzone exercised great freedom in constructing the initial stanzas of these poems, but . . . . in succeeding stanzas they followed exactly the form of the first Thus many different stanzaic forms are to be found in canzone, though each single poem is of regular formation One form of the canzone, in which the stanza is divided into three parts, the first two alike in structure, and the third different from them, reproduces exactly the most prominent characteristic of Pindar's verse-structure. (Shafer, pp. 142—43) Turning again to Keats's odes, we find that inquiries into the nature of his unique stanza have led various readers to diverse conclusions. Basically, the stanza has the rhyme scheme a b a b c d e c d e , and the lines are of five stresses. It has been suggested that this stanza is derived from the sonnet, with the second quatrain of the octave omitted. The influence of Dryden and of Chapman's translations of the Homeric Hymns has been pointed out . . . . . The stanza is suggestive of some Italian canzone forms, which Keats might have known about from Leigh Hunt At any rate these odes stand outside both the Pindaric and the Horatian traditions. (Ode, p. 95) In his essay, "Keats and the English Pindaric," Ian Gordon summarizes the work done by Garrod and developed by writers like M . R. Ridley, W. J. Bate, and Ian Jack (Gordon, p. 18), work which has established the opinion that: 18Robert Shafer, The English Ode to 1660 (Princeton: Princeton UP, 1918), pp. 54 and 142. Hereafter cited as Shafer. 4 The stanza of the odes has been built "out of the sonnet" and . . . . "each Ode is something in the nature of a sonnet-sequence." . . . . The locus classicus from which Garrod's discussion starts is Keats's letter of May 3 1818 to John Hamilton Reynolds in which appeared the opening lines (all Keats ever was to write) of the "Ode to Maia." Garrod linked this fragmentary ode with the occurrence . . . . of two things in close proximity: a draft of his "Ode to Psyche" and a remark by Keats that he is "endeavouring to discover a better sonnet stanza." Garrod was led to make two observations on the "Ode to Maia": "it is the earliest poem of Keats which we can say with certainty that he himself called it an Ode," and "the most obvious circumstances in connexion with its form is that its fourteen lines less resemble an Ode than a sonnet" he further suggested that this "approximation to a sonnet form" was the starting-point for the great odes of the 1820 volume. (Gordon, pp. 17—18) To refute Garrod's conclusions, Gordon argues that: [Garrod's] conclusion rests ultimately on a close reading of a few key passages in Keats's letters; and (so long as they are read in the editions available to Garrod, . . . . the suggestion seems convincing Unhappily, these key passages! as they appear in the more accurate transcription in the 1958 (H. E. Rollins) edition of the letters, no longer support Garrod's two initial observations on the "Ode to Maia." This ode was not, in fact, the first of his poems to be designated by Keats as an ode; and Keats wrote it out as a stanza of thirteen lines. (Gordon, p. 18) Gordon concedes that "Garrod's parallels between the sonnet and the versification of the odes are just There was unquestionably cross-fertilization. Less acceptable is his outright rejection of the Pindaric as the source of the overall structure" (Gordon, p. 19). Gordon claims that when Keats "began to write odes, he began as a writer of an eighteenth century genre. When he went on . . . . to develop his unique ode-structure, it was on the basis of the Pindaric" (Gordon, p. 19). To support his argument, Gordon claims that the first of Keats's odes, the "Ode to Apollo," is Horatian, and that the "Pindarics of Gray lie behind the unusual invocation to the "Muse of my Native Land" at the beginning of Book IV of Endymion; thus, these early works establish Keats as "a writer of an eighteenth century genre." Then, Keats wrote his irregular Pindaric, "Lines on Seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair," followed by the "Ode to Maia," which, whether it is printed "as Keats evidently wrote it, as eleven lines of iambic pentameter with two short lines interposed, or, as the printed texts have it, as ten lines of iambic pentameter with 5 four short lines interposed, it looks on the printed page like the opening of a Pindaric. To see it as a sonnet seems perversity" (Gordon, p. 22). Finally, Gordon states that: . . . the earliest of the great odes, the 'Ode to Psyche,' is a re-working of the irregular Pindaric. The stanzas are long. The line length is uneven. There is no regularity in the rhyme scheme. From there he moved rapidly to his final achievement in the form, a group of odes with massive stanzas, all matching in rhyme schemes It is a new form of English ode, but it would have been impossible without the Pindaric to provide it with mass and structure. (Gordon, p. 22). Clearly, it is possible to discover and delineate these various antecedents through Keats's odes. But, the pursuance of such exercises addresses only one question: Which traditional form did Keats modify to devise his ode stanza? But the very fact that individuals with diverse points of view can perceive the ghosts of various forms within Keats's odes suggests far more interesting questions. Is it possible that more than one traditional form lies behind Keats's ode stanza? If so, how did Keats manage to combine these forms? What aspects of Keats's sensibility impelled him to modify and combine traditional forms and to do so in the idiosyncratic manner that he devised? Of course, Gordon's ability to pursue his "Pindaric" argument validly while accepting certain aspects of Garrod's "sonnet" argument partly reflects the aspects of Garrod's observations which Gordon accepts regarding the structure of the stanza per se, while his own hypothesis more particularly concerns the overall structure of the odes. In the end, though, the fact remains that any and all of the theories about the ghost forms lying beneath Keats's ode stanza can be intelligently demonstrated, which leads one to conclude that, in some way, each of the theories must be correct, but that, in other ways, each must be falling short of the mark. It seems apparent that any analysis of Keats's odes which attempts to establish any one traditional form as the basis of Keats's ode stanza demonstrates an "irritable reaching after fact and reason" which suggests a disregard for the "capacity to be in uncertainties, Mysteries, [and] doubts" (Letters, I. 193) that is reflected by Keats's 6 unique synthesizing of all the possibilities that he found available in the English literary tradition. Just as a lack of Negative Capability restricts and limits one's capacity to appreciate the complex richness of life, so does a one-sided view of Keats's use of form restrict and limit our appreciation of the rich complexity of Keats's odes. Although Keats did not dismiss the traditional ode forms out of hand, he certainly did modify these forms even from the beginning, and he did eventually incorporate his manipulations of the sonnet into his odes; therefore, our examination of his experiments with the ode may be more easily approached with a clear understanding of his similar and simultaneous experiments with the sonnet, particularly those which, in terms of form, bear the seeds from which the later odes will partially spring. "To my Brother George" is the first of several sonnets in which the English and Italian sonnet forms are combined. The sonnet opens with a Petrarchan octave which describes immediate earthly wonders and seems to move toward more universal and timeless concerns as the octave draws to a close. But, it is as though thinking about "what will be, and what has been" (8) pulls the speaker back to the present moment, and the volte effects a turn, not into a sestet, but into a reflexive self-consciousness, through which a Shakespearean quatrain and couplet close the poem. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping. But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the skv and sea? (To my Brother George, 9-14) 1 ' The shift to the Shakespearean form reflects the speaker's decision to remain in the earthly, temporal mode; in the quatrain, he makes a direct connection with the 1 9 With the exception of quotes from and references to Endymion, for which the text is Jack Stillinger's edition of Keats's poems, all quotes are from H . W. Garrod's edition, and all discussions of specific passages refer to the same. 7 addressee, and recalls the content of the octave with a reference to the complementary wonders of the night, of the moment of writing. Then, the couplet captures the essence of the whole poem and articulates two interrelated aspects of Keats's sensibility that lead him to combine existing forms and to develop new ones: one is his conviction that the wonders of eternity and the heavens, the ideal that we yearn to somehow know and attain is pointless without the earthly ties of love; the other is his consistent tendency to move from one form to the other within a sonnet if the direction of his thought changes in midstream. Typically, and significantly, he does not go back and rewrite the sonnet, to render it a Shakespearean sonnet, but leaves it as it stands; this habit allows the actual process of his thoughts to lie naked before us, and should demonstrate to us that the process is an actual element of the poem. This turn of thought and its concomitant "reversal of form" will be inversely repeated in the third stanza of the "Ode to Psyche." "O thou whose face has felt the winter's wind" is an unrhymed sonnet which, in its form, looks forward to the unrhymed sonnets with which Keats will come to organize segments of blank verse in The Fall of Hyperion, and to "If by dull rhymes our English must be chained" in that the set rhyme schemes condemned in the later sonnet are here abandoned. The former sonnet's lack of of a set rhyming pattern is the antithesis of the intricately "interwoven and complete" (Dull Rhymes, 5) rhyme scheme which holds the latter together like interconnected links of a chain. Syntax, rhetorical figures of anaphora and parallelism, and the divisions of thought organize this sonnet as a Petrarchan sonnet; at the same time, though, the only rhyme in the poem — "on, none, none" (6, 9, 11) — serves as a linking rhyme which reminds us of the close relationship between the Petrarchan sonnet and the canzone. Thematically, the sonnet introduces Keats's concern with the world of circumstance that is a vale of Soul-making, with the vocation of the poet, and with the nature of imaginative vision, all of which will inform The Fall of Hyperion and the great odes. In particular, the 8 themes of "To Autumn," the "Ode on Melancholy" and the "Ode on Indolence" are foreshadowed in this sonnet, "Autumn" and "Melancholy," in the octave and "Indolence," in the sestet "Read me a Lesson, Muse" is even more eccentric than the unrhymed sonnet described above in that the English sonnet's rhyme scheme is combined with a syntactic structure which works against the rhyme scheme, but with the segments of thought; the poem divides itself into segments containing nine lines and five lines. Hence, the eleventh line's final rhyme forms a link with the poem's opening section, and this linking effect, in conjunction with the approximately two-thirds to one-third division of the poem's lines suggests, in a general way, a canzone structure. While Keats was experimenting with the sonnet, and before the ode and sonnet coalesced in the "Ode to Maia," he was serving his apprenticeship with the ode. The ode "To Hope," written in the same month as the "Ode to Apollo," is typically Horatian in that it eulogizes a quality and is written in a set stanza which is repeated throughout: six iambic pentameter lines with the rhyme scheme a b a b c c. But, the uniform pentameter lines separate "To Hope" from earlier English Horatian odes like Wordsworth's "Ode to Duty," Gray's "Hymn to Adversity," and Pope's "Ode to Solitude," all of which employ varied line-lengths within the stanza. Similarly, the "Ode to Apollo" (p. 8) appears, at first glance, to be in the Horatian mode,20 composed of a repeated six-line stanza with the same rhyme scheme as that of the ode "To Hope." Upon more closely examining the poem, though, we find that, in each stanza, the quatrain's lines are shorter than those of the couplet, and all of the quatrains are differently constructed with unique arrangements of hexameter, tetrameter, and anacreontic lines. Also, the final Alexandrine is eliminated in the stanzas devoted to the epic poets Homer, Milton, and Tasso, and each of these stanzas closes with a heroic couplet Vergil is set apart from all the other poets by a "Gordon cites this poem as Keats's first ode, arguing that it is "of the Horatian type, of eight matching six-line stanzas" (p. 19). 9 five-line stanza comprising a pentameter quatrain followed by an Alexandrine tail-rhyme. With two exceptions, all the stanzas begin with an open quatrain; stanza four, which is devoted to Milton, begins with a closed quatrain, as do the Petrarchan sonnets Milton perfected in English, and stanza eight, which circles back to the beginning by referring again to Apollo, reverses the pattern of the other stanzas in that the open quatrain follows the couplet, but is like most of the others in that it ends with an Alexandrine. Hence, the great poets of the past are contained within the stanzas devoted to Apollo, and the poem is thematically enclosed by a circle, but is structurally open-ended, closing with an open quatrain, which opens up the possibility of later great poets' breaking into that seemingly completed chain. This combination of closure and open-endedness is typical of a pattern which Keats will repeat in various ways throughout his career (as in the Hyperion poems, both of which are fragments, yet their themes are fully developed and resolved). This pattern of open-ended closure is, like his hybrid Shakespearean/Petrarchan sonnets, but one of the ways in which Keats brings together alternatives in such a way that apparent opposites are reconciled. Keats's next experiments with the ode are contained in his first narrative poem, Endymion. The first three of these21 are interesting in that, as we move from one to the next, the structure of each is somewhat more intricate, but the progressive changes converge dramatically in the fourth, the "Ode to Sorrow" (IV, 146-290). This set-piece is particularly fascinating in two ways: in its content, or rather, in the arrangement of its content, it looks forward to the "Ode on Melancholy" in that the embedding of a narrative which describes and defines the function of the rites of Bacchus — "to scare thee, Melancholy (203) — within an ode to Sorrow is a structural inversion of the later ode's assertion that Melancholy's "sovran shrine" is contained within the "temple of Delight"; in its form, it combines the Horatian and the irregular Pindaric odes. 2 1 "Hymn to Pan" (I. 232-306); "Complaint to Diana" (II. 302-332); and "Hymn to Neptune" (III. 943-989). 10 The first five and the last three stanzas of "this roundelay" (IV. 445) could stand alone as an ode to Sorrow: the stanzas are homogeneously composed of tercets in which two rhyming short lines are followed by a pentameter line, and, within each stanza, the pentameter lines are rhymed. Each of the two middle stanzas contains three tercets, while the first three and last three stanzas each contain two. This arrangement of like stanzas — three, two, and three tercets — is reminiscent of Collins's habit of placing the epode between the strophe and the antistrophe in his Pindaric odes, particularly in that the shifts in tone and content parallel the changes in stanzaic structure. More importantly, though, this tripartite structure is typical of Keats in that, in many of his lyrical poems, the stanzas proceed in accordance with a specific mode of thought: the mode of "intense, imaginative meditation that brings together the senses, the emotions, and the intellectual faculties of man, brings them together in a moment of dramatic, creative experience."22 "Poetry of meditation" involves "the 'three powers of the soul' — memory, understanding, and will" (Martz, p. xviii), and progresses through three stages: opening "by a 'composition of place,' by a composition through 'some similitude or comparison,' or by a 'simple proposing' of the subject . . . . or problem for meditation" (Martz, p. ix—xx); proceeding to the contemplation or "intellectual analysis"; and closing with "the expression of 'affections,' the direction of the will" (Martz, p. xxi). In the light of Keats's view of life as a "Mansion of Many Apartments" (Letters, I. 280-84), this process is perfectly suited to his progression from the "infant or thoughtless Chamber," through the "Chamber of Maiden-Thought" (which includes both imagination and reflection), to the "Third Chamber," (which Keats does not really define). Typically, diction, rhetoric, and syntax become more assured and orderly as we progress from the statement of the problem to the conclusions. "Louis L. Martz, The Poetry of Meditation (New Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1954), p. 1. Hereafter cited as Martz. 11 The ode to Sorrow does conform to this pattern of meditative poetry. As the ode opens, a highly impersonal tone is established and the problem is proposed in a series of rhetorical questions which unite inanimate, animate, and human nature in a common vulnerability to sorrow's whims. The two nine-line stanzas are an intellectual analysis of the problem; in the fourth stanza, the speaker paradoxically intimates that a lover would not be so cruel, while claiming that Sorrow's constancy and "kindness" (stanza 5) impel her to bestow her attentions upon us; in the fifth stanza, the speaker shifts to the first person, and, a more personal tone emerges as she prepares to recount her attempt to "leave her [Sorrow] far away behind" (IV, 175). In the three final stanzas, she expresses her conclusions, stating that her attempt to leave Sorrow, her search for "pleasure throughout every clime" (IV, 274—95), was fruitless and that Sorrow is, in fact, her only comfort Before the maid breaks into her account of Bacchanalian pleasure-seeking, two transitional stanzas lead us into a more intimate awareness of her individual situation. Depicting the maid as lonely and weeping, these stanzas greatly heighten the mournful tone established at the outset, thus linking the Bacchanalian section with the stanzas devoted to Sorrow. But these structurally less regular stanzas also set the stage for the introduction of Bacchus and his followers, and open the Bacchanalian section, which is an irregular Pindaric ode." It is composed of nine stanzas, each one unique in its length, its arrangement of long and short lines, and its rhyme scheme. As in the ode to Sorrow in which this section is embedded, the tone and content divide the piece into three sections; the first six stanzas are the composition of place, the next two, the analysis, and the last, the conclusion. Because the worship of Bacchus is related to physical sensation, it is fitting that the composition of place, which corresponds to Keats's "infant or thoughtless Chamber," comprises by far the largest portion of this "The form of this passage (IV, 182—272) is clearly the prototype for "Lines on Seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair," the form of which Gordon finds comparable with that of the "Ode to Maia," supporting his argument that Keats based his ode structure on the irregular Pindaric Ode, and not the sonnet. 12 "ode." As we have seen, the first two stanzas introduce the maid, alone and weeping, hiding from the world. The "noise of revellers" (194) breaks in upon her, and the mood begins to lighten as the sound of "earnest trumpet . . . . and silver thrills from kissing cymbals made a merry din" (197—98), and the progression from "earnest" and "silver," to "kissing" and "merry" grows into true Bacchanalian frenzy as the revellers, "faces all on flame [are] madly dancing . . . . To scare thee, Melancholy" (201—203). The maiden does forget Sorrow and her twin, Melancholy, but her realization that "forgetfulness of everything but bliss" (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 104) is transitory is foreshadowed even while she remembers that: 0 then, O then, thou [Melancholy] wast a simple name! And I forgot thee, as the berried holly By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon:— 1 rush'd into the folly! (IV, 204-208) Just as the holly will reappear in the late fall, so will Melancholy return in the three final stanzas of the passage, the last three stanzas of the Sorrow ode; to think that Melancholy can be "scared away" permanently is to rush into "folly." Three shorter stanzas complete this contemplation of place: one devoted to a description of Bacchus and his "advisor," Silenus, one to the Damsels, and one to the Satyrs. The Damsels and Satyrs explain why they follow Bacchus, and the original progression from merriness to madness is repeated as we move, with wine and song, from Silenus' "tipsily quaffing" (217) through the Damsels' "wild minstrelsy" (227) to the Satyrs' "mad minstrelsy" (238). As a whole, the passage is chiastic; this opening movement from sorrowful solitude to merry community is reversed in the remainder of the piece. Stanzas seven and eight describe the carefree wanderings of the maid and other revellers as a group, whereas stanza nine describes the observations which lead her, as an individual, to the truth implied by her reference to the "buried holly" and the "folly" of her belief in 13 pleasure as a permanent alternative to Sorrow. She learns that Bacchus demands subjection (257—58), causes pain — "singing from parch'd throats" (259-60) — defeats pride (261—62), and induces poverty (263—64), thereby evoking dread in those who are devoted to order and other-worldly concerns (265—7). With this understanding, and feeling "sick hearted, weary" (269), the maid resolves "to stray away into these forests drear" (270), to return to Sorrow and her previous loneliness. Hence, just as the worship of Bacchus is embedded within the ode to Sorrow, so does Melancholy dwell within pleasure-seeking revelry. In relation to the respective content of each segment, the irregular Pindaric form of the core of this passage and the Horatian form of its encasement are perfectly appropriate. Sorrow's Horatian-like stanzas suit this contemplative eulogy of a mournful and passive state of being, while the Pindaric irregularity and energetic shifting of tone and subject matter in the central stanzas is perfectly suited to a passage which is not a hymning or eulogizing of Bacchus but rather, an active narrative in which the essence of Bacchanalian worship is captured merely to illustrate the achievement of the heroine, her attainment of knowledge through experience. The uninhibited nature of the revellers, and of this period in the maid's life, are reflected in the freedom with which couplets are interspersed with unrhymed lines. "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat weeping: in the whole world wide There was no one to ask me why I wept,— And so I kept Brimming the water-lily cups with tears Cold as my fears. "Beneath my palm trees, by the river side, I sat a weeping: what enamour'd bride, _J Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, But hides and shrouds Beneath dark palm trees by a river side? "And as I sat, over the light blue hills There came a noise of revellers: the rills Into the wide stream came of purple hue— 'Twas Bacchus and his crew! The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills y 14 From kissing cymbals made a merry d in-'Twas Bacchus and his kin! Like to a moving vintage down they came, Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame Al l madly dancing through the pleasant valley, To scare thee, Melancholy! O then, O then, thou wast a simple name! And I forgot thee, as the berried holly By shepherds is forgotten, when, in June, Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon I rush'd into the folly! '2l "Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, with sidelong laughing; And little rills of crimson wine imbrued His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white For Venus' pearly bite: And near him rode Silenus on his ass, Pelted with flowers as he on did pass Tipsily quaffing. "Whence came ye, merry Damsels! whence came ye! So many, and so many, and such glee? _ Why have ye left your bowers desolate, Your lutes, and gentler fate?— 'We follow Bacchus! Bacchus on the wingTj A conquering! _ J _ Bacchus, young Bacchus! good or ill betide, We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide:— Come hither, lady fair, and joined be To our wild minstrelsy!' _ [ (IV. 192-226) Yet, each of these single lines refers back to previous rhymes or lines (e. g. 192 to 188-89 and 182-83) and forward to others (e.g. 192 to 223-24), sometimes forming a closed quatrain which hearkens back to a couplet (e.g. 295—98 to 202—203). That these linking rhymes which look back and forward are reminiscent of the chiave of a canzone is interesting, and, in view of the briefness of Keats's career at the time of writing, it is even more interesting that the couplets provide an essential but unrestrictive orderliness, while occasional rhymes and occasionally rhyming couplets simultaneously create a sense of freedom and provide coherence to the passage as a whole. Another noteworthy feature of this passage is its three-way tripartite structure. As we have seen, each of the two nine-stanza sections of the poem divides in three, 15 as does the poem as a whole. This interlinking of thirds creates a formal cohesion which is even more comprehensive than that produced by the linking rhymes. The most significant feature of this passage, though, is that it demonstrates not only Keats's conviction that pleasure and pain are inseparable parts of a whole that is the human condition, but also, his reluctance to choose one traditional form over another when alternatives are available. This reluctance leads to his penchant for modifying and combining forms in unique ways, a tendency which formally demonstrates the same conviction that is thematically expressed by paradoxical truths such as that Melancholy dwells within Delight. The "Ode to Maia," the last ode that Keats wrote before the great odes, is of particular interest The poem's importance as the main point of intersection, and of dispute, in the ongoing debate on whether the ode or the sonnet provides the basis for Keats's innovative ode stanza, and the respective biases of editors in this debate, is reflected by the various titles which the poem bears in certain editions of Keats's work.24 It is clear, though, that these discussions intersect at the "Ode to Maia" because Keats's experiments with the sonnet, the ode, and the canzone converge in this ode, and because the poem does anticipate the "Ode to Psyche" in several ways. In the earlier poem, the poet invokes the goddess as a muse and commits himself to worshipping her in song while he requests inspiration from her; in the later poern, the poet more confidently addresses the goddess and commits himself to her, but is "by [his] own eyes inspired" (43). As the "Ode to Maia" is published, the poem is ode-like in nature; it contains fourteen lines which divide into an octave and a sestet like a Petrarchan sonnet, and its rhyme scheme is canzone-like in that the final rhyme of the tenth line links the sestet to the octave. Considering the poem as of thirteen lines, as Gordon claims Keats intended the poem to be, we find that its 2 4Heath entitles the poem "Ode to May. A Fragment," while de Selincourt entitles it "Fragment of an Ode to Maia, May, 1818" (p. 248), and Stillinger heads the poem with its opening line, treating it as a sonnet 16 similarity to the sonnet vanishes, but, although the poem is like the opening of an irregular Pindaric ode, it is even more closely related to the canzone by virtue of the linking rhyme and the two-thirds to one-third proportion created by the divisions of thought It is my opinion that the "Ode to Maia" is of vital importance in Keats's development, because, i f we could consider his works as one long meditative poem, this ode marks the occurrence of that spark of Keatsian illumination that is a recognition, the point at which, for example, a Petrarchan or Shakespearean sonnet shifts into a hybrid (as in "To my Brother George" and "To thou whose face has felt the winter wind," respectively), and enables Keats to achieve in the "Ode to Psyche" that for which he has been striving from the beginning. Even as early as in the "Ode to Apollo," he is attempting to combine the Horatian ode with the Pindaric, and to reflect shifts in the development of his subject with modifications in the form. In the sonnets, he is beginning to reveal the process of his thought by changing from one sonnet form to its sister form as some illuminating thought either holds him to earth, as in "Brother George," or brings him to recognize the spiritual within the earthly, as in "Thou whose face has felt the winter wind." The "Ode to Sorrow" is the boldest of his early attempts to integrate these tendencies; he encloses a "Pindaric ode" within a "Horatian ode," unifying the two forms through a triple meditational process, and, although the end result is worlds removed from that which finally emerges in the "Ode to Psyche," it is perfectly clear that his intention is to reconcile the physical, the mental, and the spiritual, and to illustrate his deep-seated conviction that these elements of human nature are as inseparable and interdependent as the essential elements of the human condition: pain and pleasure. Admittedly, Keats does not fully realize this ambition in the "Ode to Maia." However, I believe that the glimmerings of canzone- like cohesion that appear in the central section of the "Ode to Sorrow" come to fruition in this poem and enable him 17 to dissolve and re-create the sonnet forms which will soon provide the basis for his unique ode stanza, formally demonstrating that the mortal/physical and the immortal/spiritual facets of the human soul are united by the divinity which resides within humanity; the inspired mind, the myth-making imagination. Moreover, the "Ode to Maia" is a fragment because the insight that accompanies Keats's finally achieving this harmony makes him realize that the fruits of his "working brain" (Psyche, 60) should be devoted, not to Maia, the goddess of illusion, but to Psyche, the "human" goddess who represents exactly that toward which Keats's whole being was directed: the integration of the human soul through its chrysalis-shedding metamorphosis, the realization of an Identity through the development of an Intelligence into a Soul through the circumstances of this vale of Soul-making (Letters, II. 102—104). Because I perceive Keats's work as a continual process of discovery, I think he had not perfected his distinctive ode stanza at the time he composed the "Ode to Psyche," but rather, discovered that stanza in the ode. Whether or not this is the case, it is most fitting that Psyche's Ode is not embodied in the perfected form. The asymmetrical stanzas, each comprising a different number of lines, are suitable for the opening ode which proposes the subject for the entire ode sequence.25 Because the stanzas are of different lengths, because the stanzas include pentameter lines with shorter lines, and because the stanzas do progress in the meditative mode that parallels the tripartite Pindaric structure, the poem can be perceived, as Gordon claims, as an irregular Pindaric ode. At the same time, though, the poem is not public, written for an occasion, but personal and contemplative, like Horace's odes. Moreover, the poem "Robert Gleckner, in his article, "The Problems of the Limited Canon," Studies in English Literature 5 (1965): 577—585, outlines the perspectives from which Keats's great odes, as a sequence, have been approached by critics, and discusses clearly and perceptively the respective problems of each approach. The problems he presents are real and must be seriously considered by any scholar who undertakes a discussion of the odes as a sequence. Here, though, it is not my intent to discuss the odes in such a way, but merely to point out that the odes' being a sequence and Psyche's initial position in that sequence increases the significance of the poem's being embodied in an irregular form. 18 represents the culmination of Keats's peculiar manipulations and combinations of the English and Italian sonnet forms and the canzone within the ode. Just as the ode itself, as the composition of place for the sequence, is appropriately "unstructured" and irregular, so is the ode's opening stanza less orderly and definite in form than the stanzas which follow i t It has been suggested that this stanza begins as a sonnet which then runs on for a further nine lines. This may be true, but, whatever Keats's intention was at the outset, the stanza virtually divides at the end of the short twelfth line, with the first half introducing the subject in a general way, and the second half moving to the specific; oddly, the rhyme scheme of the opening, general section appears to be more orderly than that of the specific section, but we will see that this is not the case. Before considering the peculiarities of each of the major divisions of this stanza, though, let us note that the thirteenth line links the major divisions through the rhyming of "eyed" (13) with "espied" and "side" (12 and 9), and therefore, partially performs the function of a canzone's chiave. Looking at the first half of the stanza, and bearing in mind the fact that, in the holograph, the tenth line's final word was "fan" (Gittings, pp. 50-51), we find that the rhyme scheme suggests two open quatrains followed by a closed quatrain, which implies a typical Keatsian combining of the English and Italian sonnet forms. In a sense, the syntax is reinforced by the rhyme scheme although, in another sense, a minor binary division occurs; the rhetorical question emerges from the invocation, and the first six lines are one unit while the general description of Psyche and her lover are another. At the same time, though, the rhetorical question prompts the general description and is thus linked to the second unit of six lines by both rhyme and logic. The result is that the twelve lines ultimately cannot be divided, and the rhetorical question functions, through logic, in the same way as, through rhyme, a chiave functions in a canzone, or, as a third quatrain functions in a Petrarchan octave:a b b a a b b a. 19 The second half of the stanza divides, syntactically, into two quatrains which specifically describe the lovers, and a tercet in which another rhetorical question hearkens back to the first to remind us that the speaker's underlying concern is to distinguish between poetic vision and fanatic dreams. The form of the tercet is very different from that of the first eight lines, and its first line is like a chiave, looking back to both of the previous "quatrains" — "knew" rhymes with "too" (16) and "adieu" (17) — and forward to "true" (23); in effect, these eleven lines are very like a short unrhymed canzone, even though the expansion which suggests a suspending of the lovers' overflowing expression of love renders the "vers/" non-identical (lines 14-16 each contain eleven syllables). Hence, the English and Italian sonnet forms and the canzone come together, in a general way, in this first stanza of an ode in which these same forms will be repeated more distinctly in the stanzas which follow. Although the arrangement of long and short lines is unique in each quatrain, the rhyme scheme and segments of thought clearly define the second stanza as a Shakespearean sonnet lacking a couplet (obviously, a final couplet would effect closure, which would be inappropriate at this point in the poem). The speaker continues in the mode of address that was resumed in the closing lines of the opening stanza and which is retained throughout the remainder of the poem, and the initial "quatrain" expands upon Psyche's beauty, picking up and repeating "fair," to make a connection with stanza one (9), and to provide a starting point for stanza two. The speaker begins to reflect, and the problem is articulated in the second and third quatrains; although Psyche is the "loveliest . . . . [o]f all Olympus' faded hierarchy" (24—25), she is the "latest born" (24) and she alone has been deprived of worship. Throughout the stanza, anaphora and parallelism begin to impose order upon the verses, and line-lengths are distinctly arranged in each quatrain; short lines occur in the second and third, but, in all cases, rhymed lines are of equal length. The somewhat amorphous but ingenious combination of sonnet and canzone forms in stanza one's 20 composition of place have given way to stanza two's unfinished but more clearly defined Shakespearean sonnet as the speaker's thoughts become more clearly directed toward the problem. This dynamic manipulation of form continues into stanza three, which demonstrates a development through which fourteen lines begin as a Shakespearean sonnet, only to become essentially a Petrarchan sonnet: Petrarchan in nature, although hybrid in form, just as the sonnet "To my Brother George" is Shakespearean in nature, and hybrid in form. In an open quatrain, the speaker reasserts more clearly and concisely the problem articulated in stanza two. In the second quatrain, he moves from contemplating the past back into the present, and realizes that he is, at the present moment, actually involved in hymning Psyche. His recognition of the nature of his act is demonstrated by the fact that the quatrain begins as an open quatrain, with a set of rhymes which differs from the first quatrain's, but then becomes a closed quatrain that renders these eight lines an octave, and the stanza, a typically Keatsian unorthodox sonnet In the octave's final line, the speaker confidently defines the cause of this reversal in form and content which leads toward closure in the Petrarchan sense; that is, toward the sestet's resolution which is not an ending, but rather, an expression of the affections through which the will is directed to expanded horizons and, in a sense, a new beginning. The cause of this change in direction and its concomitant change in form is a transformation which has occurred within the speaker: in the first stanza, he asks if he did see Psyche with awaken'd eyes" (6); now, he confidently asserts that he is "by [his] own eyes inspired" (43), that, although his thoughts began to be organized by the vision of Psyche and Cupid, he is now inspired by poetic vision from within. Like its octave, the last six lines of this stanza are a Petrarchan sestet in nature if not in rhyme; they are almost a repetition of the last six lines of stanza two. One change that has occurred, though, is that the speaker needs no longer 21 lament the neglect of Psyche because she is now being eulogized by him; having already begun to prove himself worthy, he can, with clear conscience, implore her to let him be her choir, her voice, her prophet Another very minor revision effects a major alteration between stanzas two and three; that is, the incense offered up to other deities is "from chain-swung censer teeming" (33), accompanying vows through which worshippers were enchained by restricting and constraining doctrine, whereas the incense offered up to Psyche by this prophet is "from swinged censer teeming" (47), accompanying freely-given vows through which the poet will devote himself to Psyche, to matters of the Soul itself and not to "the pious frauds of Religion" (Letters, II. 80). It is no wonder that stanza two is "enchained" by the "dull" rhyme scheme of a traditional sonnet form, while being deprived of the grace of being a sonnet, nor that a part of that stanza's rhyme scheme reoccurs in the third stanza, in a sonnet that literally and formally removes the "chain" from the lines. Through these three stanzas, the speaker has actually proposed and analyzed the problem and arrived at a conclusion, his conclusion being his commitment to Psyche. The last stanza is, in one sense, a more definite statement of the specific manner in which he will honour that commitment, promising the "buds," "bells," and "stars" of a "working brain" (60-61), and, in another sense, the first fruit of that "working brain." The stanza is a poem in itself, and it is so ingeniously structured that, like the "Ode to Maia," it can be simultaneously perceived in diverse ways. One might say that the stanza is a caudate sonnet because the first fourteen lines express the speaker's intention, while the last four are somewhat set apart; the theme of the entire stanza is recapitulated in these Final lines, one of the two strongest final pauses in the stanza precedes them, and the only short lines in the stanza appear here. Considering the body of the "sonnet," we find that, here again, Keats "dissolves, diffuses, and dissipates in order to re-create."" It is almost as "Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Biographia Literaria, Ch. IV, in The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 4th ed., vol. 2 (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979), p. 396. Hereafter 22 though this "sonnet" is a combination of the modifications Keats effects in the sonnet "To Sleep" and the second sonnet "To Fame," both written at approximately the same time as the "Ode to Psyche." He has taken the rhyme scheme of the Shakespearean sonnet and moved the couplet to diminish the definitive effect of a closing couplet; as in the sonnet "On Fame," the couplet rhyme is preserved, but, as in "To Sleep," its position is between the second and third quatrains, and the stanza divides, with the segments of thought, into an octave and a sestet, to produce a Petrarchan sonnet with a modified Shakespearean rhyme scheme. Yet, just as the closing quatrain is somewhat set apart from the fourteen lines which precede them, so is the opening quatrain somewhat distinct, separated syntactically by the stanza's other strong final pause, and contextually, by its thought; the final quatrain is a general summation, the opening quatrain is a general statement of intention, while the specific details are enclosed in the ten lines embedded between the two. Before considering these central lines more closely, though, let us once more view the stanza as a whole. r ( Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane j \ In some untrodden region of my mind, \ " Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain, j y Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind: < / Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees \ Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep; j And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 11 The moss-lain Dryads shall be luH'd to sleep;  I/'And in the midst of this wide quietness J A rosy sanctuary will I dress (With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain, f With buds, and bells, and stars without a name, •|With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, LWho_ breeding_ flowers, will never breed the same: _ /And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, J A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, \To let the warm Love in! (Ode to Psyche, 50-67) Whereas stanza one is canzone- like in a very general way, this stanza is almost a perfect canzone, with a fronte composed of two identical piedi, a six-line sirima, and a commiato. The stanza lacks a chiave, but the third line of the first "(cont'd) cited as Coleridge. 23 versi performs the function of a chiave, linking the fronte to the sirima by rhyme; "brain" looks back to "pain" and "fane," and forward to "feign": not merely to rhymes, but to homonymns.27 On the literal level, the commiato Teturns to the content of stanza one, enclosing, within the initial image of Psyche and Cupid and a return to them, all the speaker's reflections and his transformation from a person of sensation "wandering thoughtlessly" to a committed and proven poet who has progressed to the "Thinking Chamber." On another level, though, the alternating quatrain opens the "casement" of the speaker's mind to all the "soft delight/ That shadowy thought can win." Just as in the "Ode to Apollo," the ending provides a sense of resolution while offering the prospect of ever increasing opportunity. Moreover, just as Keats discovered, in the "Ode to Maia," the synthesis of forms which enabled him to write the "Ode to Psyche," so did he discover in the poem-within-a-poem, the final stanza of the "Ode to Psyche," the ode stanza which is the foundation of the later odes. Like a butterfly within its chrysalis, enclosed within the opening and closing "general" quatrains lie the ten lines which express the specific vows of the speaker. These lines embody, within this stanza, the transition from the Shakespearean to the Petrarchan sonnet, a transition which renders the first fourteen lines of the stanza a hybrid form which represents the reconciled realms of sensation and spirituality and reflects the orderly thought process which Keats needed for the middle and final segments of his "long poem," the ode sequence; that is, for the odes which represent understanding and will, just as "Psyche" represented memory. The "Ode to Psyche" is not only a poetic masterpiece, but also an absolutely brilliant demonstration of the development of Keats's craftsmanship. A l l the elements of this poem appear in embryonic forms in earlier works, but here, Keats finally manages 2 7This actually foreshadows a Keatsian idiosyncracy that will surface in the later odes in far more subtle and complex ways, creating far-reaching difficulties of interpretation that have not yet been overcome: that is, his habit of not only attributing a positive and a negative value to a particular quality or emotion, but of presenting a positive and a negative manifestation of a quality or emotion, both of which carry one name, such as "Beauty," "Melancholy," "Love," "Ambition," "Poesy," and "Indolence." 24 to create a form that incorporates a multitude of alternatives into a coherent and integrated whole: the contemplative and personal tone of the Horatian ode exists in perfect harmony with the brilliant intensity of the Pindaric ode; Renaissance sonnet forms and classical ode forms combine to create a new Keatsian ode; and, ultimately, with these mergings, the world of temporality and sensation is married to the realm of eternity and the spirit Since it is not my intention to discuss at this time the ode sequence as a sequence, it is not necessary to elaborate upon the remainder of the odes specifically. However, there are two odes in which Keats's basic ode stanza is modified, and these modifications, at least, deserve to be briefly mentioned. In each of these, the "Ode to a Nightingale" and "To Autumn," the poem's theme, the structural deviation, and the poem's position in the sequence are all inseparably interrelated. As I have already implied, I see the ode sequence as Keats's depiction of his development as a true poet, a priest of the soul. On one level, this development is his real personal concern; on another, it is a metaphor for his view of life as a "Mansion of Many Apartments," as an evolution of the Soul through the experiences of this "world of circumstance" which he terms a "vale of Soul-making." (Just as his early poetry is his later poetry in its embryonic stage, so is the "Chambers" theory the primitive expression which enabled Keats to crystallize his "Soul-making philosophy; the progression through the Chambers of Life is the process through which Soul-making must be achieved.) We have noted that the "Ode to Psyche" portrays the speaker's experience in the "infant or thoughtless Chamber" and his initiation into the "Chamber of Maiden-Thought," where he "is impelled by the awakening of the thinking principle within him," and "intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere, [thinking] of nothing but pleasant wonders, and . . . . of delaying there forever in delight" {Letters, I. 281). 25 However, another of the effects of entering into the thinking Chamber "is that tremendous one of sharpening one's vision into the heart and nature of man — of convincing' one's nerves that the World is full of Misery and Heartbreak, Pain, Sickness, and oppression" (Letters, I. 281). The Chamber of Maiden-Thought "becomes gradually darken'd," leading him to a gloomy Melancholy, and to his assertion that "in the very temple of Delight/ Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine" (25—26). This is true in that one kind of melancholy dwells there, at the heart of aesthetic and sensuous beauty. The speaker has discovered half the truth, and has thereby lost his innocence. In the "Ode to a Nightingale," the effects of his experience in the Shrine of Melancholy are reflected by his aching heart and "a drowsy numbness," and the shortened eighth line reflects his loss of innocence. He attempts to escape the truth he has discovered, not through beautiful illusions, but through oblivion. But, in the eighth line of the fourth stanza, he returns to reality; hence, the shortened line represents both his loss of innocence and his acceptance of this world's "dark passages," its pain and suffering. The poet has gained a mature sense of responsibility that makes it impossible for him to escape the whole truth by "dressing" the dark side with the ornaments of Fancy 2 8; in a sense, the inability to escape through fancy is yet another loss. The poem is chiastic, and the turning point at the end of the fourth stanza creates an almost perfect binary division which symbolizes the dual nature of Beauty. But the speaker does not fully understand that which he knows, and his lack of real understanding is also reflected by the shortened eighth line. By meditating upon the experiences illustrated by the odes from "Psyche" to the "Nightingale," in the first four stanzas of the "Ode on Indolence," the poet begins to assimilate what he has learned. This poem has created more confusion amongst 2 8 To Keats, as to Coleridge, "fancy and imagination [are] two distinct and widely different faculties, instead of being, according to the general belief, either two names with one meaning, or at furthest the lower and higher degree of one and the same power" (Coleridge, p. 394) 26 Keats's readers than any of the other odes of 1819 (with the possible exception of the epigrammatic ending of the "Grecian Urn"). Even with its stanzas sensibly arranged — a state in which it has never been published — this poem is ambiguous, as it must be. With the glimmerings of "truth" which have begun to haunt the speaker in "Melancholy" and "Nightingale," he is inevitably confused. Beauty had been to him "buds and bells, and stars," the products of Fancy's garden. Now, he is beginning to realize that "Beauty" is immensely more complex than he had imagined. Of course, as an aspiring poet, and as a human being, Love, Ambition, and Poesy are qualities that are also close to his heart To maintain his integrity, he must arrive at "definitions" for these terms which will clarify his more catholic conceptions of these qualities. The only method by which he can do so is to dissolve his earlier narrow "definitions" of those terms in ambiguity to allow for that transformation. Through indolence, and "Indolence," he succeeds in doing so, and, at the end of the poem, he attains true understanding. He is a prophet inspired by true imagination, and blessed with poetic vision. Appropriately, the two metrical feet which were lost in the eighth line of the Nightingale's ode are, in "Indolence," restored. However, this poet is concerned not only with his own development, but also, with the ways in which poetry can "soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man" (Sleep and Poetry, 247), which compels him to be equally concerned with the function of Art and of the Artist in "the great world" (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 168). Therefore, once he has isolated himself to study and grow, and has gained his Identity, he must share his experience and knowledge. He does so in a poem that is simultaneously a work of art and a meditation upon the nature of a work of art: the "Ode on a Grecian Urn." The ode opens as he describes his being "intoxicated with the light and the atmosphere," of being transported by his realization that Art immortalizes ephemeral beauty. In the eighth line of the fifth stanza, which recalls the shortened eighth line of the stanza of "Nightingale," and its significance, he comes to 27 the point at which the Chamber "becomes gradually darken'd" and he returns from the Vale of Tempe to the world of circumstance which is his true province; he has, after all, elected to become "a physician to all men" (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 190) — not a fanatic who will "dress" the truth with the ornaments of Fancy, but a poet who will tell the whole truth. The whole truth is that Beauty encompasses not only aesthetic beauty, but also tragic circumstances: both are required for the development of a Soul. Appropriately, the perfectly symmetrical chiastic structure of the poem reflects both the aesthetic beauty of the artifact, represented by the urn and the poem, and the immortal beauty of Art, symbolized by the double-sided images on the urn, the immortalized lovers eternally in love, and their corresponding sacrifice of human love and human experience. True Art must show both. "To Autumn" is the poem which the poet is now able to compose, the hymn which expresses "the state of devotion which results from the integration of the three-fold Image of God: memory, understanding, and will" (Martz, p. 56): an apostrophe that celebrates the world of process. The abundance of Autumn and the ecstasy of the singing poet are reflected in the run-on lines, the run-on stanza, and the repeated rhyming patterns that run from one stanza to the next That this is a world of process, a never-ending cycle, is demonstrated by the eleven-line stanza and by the final rhymes — the poem is filled with over-lapping circles formed by the rhymes, but is not contained by one. Golden lines proclaim the perfectness of this world of circumstance; simultaneously, their elegaic connotations remind us that mutability, death, and our knowledge of our own mortality are part of the beauty of life, while the final line's "gathering swallows" are a consolation and a promise. Even though we have only briefly considered the development of Keats's poetic form through this representative sample of sonnets and odes, we can clearly see that the development of Keats's craftsmanship involves no radical changes, but rather, that the basic elements of his later style, like those of his later themes, are present from 28 the beginning, and that the dramatic metamorphosis which occurs is not the result of some startling reversal in his attitudes or his methods, but rather, a rapid integration and consolidation of those which were there from the beginning. Nothing in Keats's experience or in his work is isolated. Through composing the odes and compiling the Lamia volume in which five of the great odes were first published, he became more consciously aware of the instinctive insights which compelled him to abandon Hyperion and articulated the themes which emerged from Hyperion. As we have seen, the ode sequence symbolically expresses the true poet's development; the Lamia volume is the "long poem" through which Keats explores "the possibilities of poetic form [and locates] himself within poetic tradition."29 In The Fall of Hyperion, he relates the experience of his poetic and spiritual development in a deeply personal narrative that is a subjective extension of Hyperion's Book III, and also, a more literal expression of the theme of the ode sequence. 2 9 Neil Fraistat, The Poem and the Book: Interpreting Collections of Romantic Poetry" (Chapel Hil l and London: U of North Carolina P, 1985), p. 100. Hereafter cited as Fraistat. II. MILTON A N D HYPERION In the process of discovering and articulating the concerns that led him to abandon Hyperion and that provide the subject matter for the odes and The Fall of Hyperion, Keats also effected major changes in his craftsmanship. Just as his experiments with the sonnet, the canzone, and the ode coalesced in the "Ode to Psyche," enabling him to develop and perfect the Keatsian ode, so does his perfecting his lyric style in the odes enable him to structure The Fall of Hyperion in blank verse that is far removed from that of Hyperion. In the first two books of Hyperion, the structure of the blank verse is based upon heroic couplets, the verse form which allowed poets like Jonson, Dry den, and Pope to "define issues, balance arguments, and, in the process, to give the impression of a clear and balanced mind," 3 0 and, therefore, was traditionally favoured for poetry which dealt with argument, satire, and public issues in general. But the Titans and their very public political concerns are abandoned by the narrator and his Muse at the end of Book II, and Book Ill's more personal concern with the process of Apollo's deification through his realization of pain and suffering is expressed in blank verse in which the strict confines of the heroic couplet are somewhat loosened; final pauses and caesuras are less frequent, and the sentences become longer and more easily flowing than in Books I and II. In The Fall of Hyperion, the blank verse is far more complex. In his major poems, Milton employed the unrhymed sonnet and canzone as underlying forms upon which to structure particular segments of blank verse: "segments which in their contexts play a major role in his definition of the Christian hero."31 In the light of Keats's proclaiming, when he abandoned Hyperion, that "life to him [Milton] would be death to me" (Letters, II. 212), it is perhaps surprising that the passages of The Fall of Hyperion that are transposed from Hyperion are the passages 3 0William Bowman Piper, The Heroic Couplet (Cleveland: Case Western Reserve UP, 1969), p. 24. 3 1 Lee M . Johnson, "Milton's Blank Verse Sonnets," in Milton Studies 5 (1973): 131. 29 30 which demonstrate the most remarkable evidence of Milton's influence on Keats. In those passages, Keats effected astounding revisions to render sonnets and canzoni which help him define on one level, the true poet, and on another, the spiritually evolved Soul who has attained disinterestedness, like Socrates and Jesus (Letters, II. 80). Milton's blank verse sonnets "nearly always appear at points of resolution in the destinies of the characters who speak them" (Johnson, p. 130). The "resolutions of a character's history normally appears near the end of an episode or with the conclusion of a series of actions, and sonnets at these points have an apocalyptic significance" (Johnson, p. 131). So do Keats's blank verse sonnets appear in the conclusions of narrative or dramatic actions, except where he reverses this pattern to emphasize his rejection of the Judeo- Christian Western religious and political tradition represented by Milton. It is commonplace to remark that Keats "abandoned the epic structure of the first Hyperion for a form that is both more personal and allegoric — that of a vision or a dream" (Sperry, p. 77). But, in a sense, Hyperion can also be perceived as an allegorical poem, particularly if we recall that allegory is not a form or a genre, but a structural principle whereby a work simultaneously conveys meaning on various levels. Because myths trace the essential, constantly recurring processes of real life back to a unique fundamental event, an event which becomes destiny, myth is a form frequently used for allegory; historical/political events can be related in such a way that the author can work through them to higher philosophical and/or religious truths. In Paradise Lost, Milton employs Biblical myth and incorporates classical myth into his Miltonic Christian myth (as, for example, his reworking of Athena's springing fully-armed from the head of Zeus) to "justify the ways of God to men,"32 to express in poetic terms his Doctrina Christiana. In Hyperion, Keats combines classical and Biblical myth with Milton's myth to create a new myth which represents the "John Milton, Paradise Lost, Complete Poems and Major Prose, ed. Merrit Y. Hughes (Indianapolis: Odyssey P, 1957), I. 26. 31 philosophical/religious/cultural tradition of Western civilization to address the question: "Do generations press on generations, without progress made?"33 In The Fall of Hyperion, Keats demythologizes myth, demonstrating that frozen racial mythic memories are brought to life by the human myth-making imagination and that, to avoid the "pious frauds of religion," we must incarnate those myths on our own terms, subjecting them to our imagination, and not be subjected to them through political and religious institutions which both define this world as an evil vale of tears, and also, offer saviours through whom we seek to escape our mortality and personal responsibility. In The Fall of Hyperion, Keats expresses his secular doctrine of Soul-making, and the myth he uses to do so is his own: that which he created and embodied in Hyperion. Although the characters in Hyperion are named after Greek gods and goddesses, the characters' roles and the setting echo Paradise Lost. For example, Oceanus' role is somewhat a combination of Raphael's and Michael's in Paradise Lost; whereas Raphael and Michael explain God's laws, and Michael reveals the history of mankind to Adam, Oceanus blends the classical and Judeo-Christian myths of creation, and relates "historical events" in an endeavour to explain the grand design in which the Titans' fall is merely a motif. He is a "sage" (II. 167) in that he does touch upon Keats's major themes. He defines and advocates "Negative Capability": . . . to bear all truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty, (II. 203-205) and he senses the connection between "the eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, — and the Memory of great Men" (Letters, I. 266). . . . for 'tis the eternal law That first in beauty should be first in might: Yea, by that law, another race may drive Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. (II. 228-31) 3 3William Wordsworth, The Excursion (London, 1814), V. 418-19 (p. 222). 32 Also, Oceanus understands Saturn's "tragic flaw," and he knows that the blindness that accompanies sheer supremacy (II. 185) is not a flaw confined to Saturn or to the Titans, but is a condition which invariably and inescapably accompanies absolute power. But Oceanus epitomizes the "grand march of intellect . . . [through which] a mighty providence subdues the mightiest minds to the service of the time being, whether it be in human Knowledge or Religion" (Letters, II. 282). He has neither a "mighty abstract Idea . . . of Beauty in all things" (Letters, I. 403), nor Negative Capability. He is a "sophist" (II. 167) who explores the destiny of the Titans and of those who follow them, not for a love of truth, but in the spirit of an intellectual game through which he attempts to deny and repress the grief he feels. Therefore, his perception of "Truth" is limited; he does not understand that, because it is as real and true as the Olympians' physical beauty, the Titans' grief is a part of Beauty in the overall scheme of things. Becuase the poem opens with Saturn in the underworld — "far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,/ Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star" (I. 2-3) — in an environment with "no stir of air" (I. 7) and a voiceless stream, an atmosphere that is further "deadened" (I. 11) by Saturn's presence, we are reminded of the Greeks' Saturn, who emerged from the underworld to overthrow Coelus, and, at the same time, connects him with Milton's Satan in Hell at the opening of Paradise Lost. But Milton's Satan and his God coalesce in Saturn when he pathetically wonders if he cannot: . . . fashion forth Another world, another universe, To overbear and crumble this to nought. (I. 142- 44) God and Satan are inseparable from Saturn — all gods and demons are creations of the human myth-making imagination. 33 As others have noted, the Titans are assembled in a rocky den which parallels the rebel angels' Pandemonium. But the Titans are also associated with Adam and Eve and represent their descendants, the human race. Coelus perceives in the Titans "fear, hope, and wrath;/ Actions of rage and passion" (I. 332-33), the signs of emotional upheaval which demonstrate, as in Paradise Lost, the difference between the innocent and the fallen worlds. In the persons of Creus, Iapetus, and Cottus, respectively, we see the Titans sinning against inanimate nature, animate nature, human nature, and the Self. Creus was one; his ponderous iron mace Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined. Iapetus another; in his grasp, A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length Dead; and because the creature could not spit Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin uppermost, As though in pain; for still upon the flint He ground severe his skull . . . (II. 41-51) Also, the emotional and physical symptoms of the Titans' fallen condition are paralleled by Asia's mental derangement, an inability to face reality, which results in a misuse of imagination in the extreme: "thought" manifests itself in delusions of grandeur, "[f]or she was prophecying of her glory" (II. 56-57). These private traumas and conflicts manifest themselves on a universal scale in the Titans' "thousand eyes/ Wide-glaring for revenge" (II. 323-24) and in their meditating and plotting war (II. 69), led by Enceladus, who is, of course, the Belial of Hyperion. The Titans place all their hope for regaining power in Hyperion, the only one of their race who will not be usurped for at least another generation. The contrast between him and his fellow Titans is emphasized by his arrival at the rocky den, by the "stationing" through which: . . . he stay'd to view The misery his brilliance had betray'd To the most hateful seeing of itself. (II. 368-70) 34 However, we must also notice that when we are first introduced to Hyperion, we learn that the indications of the Titans' fallen state — the emotional upheaval, the various degrees of insanity, and the sins against nature in all its forms — are not results of their having fallen, but rather, are the causes of their fall. Hyperion is introduced, not as a regal and majestically composed god, but rather, he is immediately compared to "us mortals" (I. 169), frightened and perplexed (I. 170). The omens which cause him to shudder (I. 170) are not only Jove's "eagle's wings" (I. 182), but also the "neighing steeds" (I. 184) of Revelations. He possesses not divine vision, but mortal sight The blaze, the splendour, and the symmetry I cannot see, but darkness, death, and darkness. (I. 241-42) Hyperion's palace is described as a church, as . . . he flared From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades, Until he reach'd the great main copula. (I. 217-21) and as the garden of Eden: . . . this haven of my rest, This cradle of my glory, this soft clime, This calm luxuriance of blissful light, These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, Of all my lucent empire. (I. 235-39) This should be a sacred place, but echoes of Pandemonium ring through its "diamond-paved . . . arcades" and "crystalline pavilions." Its doors await "the God to enter in" (I. 212), but Hyperion enters "full of wrath" (I. 213), which is "most unlike gods" (I. 327). He asks, "[A]m I too to fall?" (I. 234), but he is already fallen, and it is he who "jarr'd his own golden region" (I. 224). Hyperion is not in control of himself, and the emotions he displays are those of Milton's fallen angels: sorrow, wrath, anxiety, a desire for revenge and a desire for power beyond that which is his divine right He whose duty it is to "be a careful nurse" (II. 348) of the "sacred seasons [which] must not be disturbed" (I. 293) 35 violates the eternal laws of the universe by letting the sun peek out "full six dewy hours/ Before the dawn in season due should blush" (I. 264-65). Then, he abdicates his duties to Coelus, to "plung[e] all noiseless into the deep night" (I. 357) to join the conspiring Titans, thus associating himself with Milton's Satan, who plunges into Chaos on his mission of revenge. Hyperion's abnegation of responsibility is paralleled by Phoebe's wandering "far from her moon" (II. 30), and these actions reveal that the Titans were not overthrown by the Olympians, but rather, that they shirked their "acts which Deity supreme doth ease its heart of love in" (I. 111-12), leaving their positions of authority open to contest. Oceanus and his daughter, Clymene, are associated with the sea, with eternity, and hence, the immutable and ideal values of the transcendental realm. Both are distinct from their fellows. Oceanus has at least entered into the Chamber of Maiden Thought, but, instead of - exploring the dark passages with an open mind, he grasps after answers: unlike Miltons' angels', his thought is not intuitive, but rather, is an abuse of imagination through which he attempts to escape reality through intellectualization. Clymene, like Cassandra and like Milton's Eve, is granted "second sight," but, unlike Eve, she lacks understanding of that which she perceives. Clymene prophesies the coming of Apollo, describing to the Titans the complex music that announces his coming — music which, unlike their melodies, includes both harmony and counterpoint as well as melody. Each family of rapturous hurried notes, That fell, one after one, yet all at once, Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string: And then another, then another strain. (II. 282-85) Sadly though, she can neither be understood by the Titans, nor can she herself understand the implications of that which she relates. While she describes Apollo's music, her language abounds with oxymoronic imagery which symbolizes Apollo's capacity* to accommodate seemingly opposite emotions simultaneously: "living death" (II. 281), "did both drown and keep alive my ears" (II. 277), and "one after one, yet all 36 at once" (II. 283). Yet, Clymene perceives her situation, and that of her fellows, in terms of either joy or grief. . . . all my knowledge is that joy is gone, And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, There to remain for ever. (II. 253-55) Because she must "unperplex bliss from its neighbour pain" (Lamia, I. 192), Clymene is unable to accommodate two emotions simultaneously: hence, she must choose between grief and joy. The music makes her "sick/ Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame./ And I was stopping up my frantic ears" (II. 288-90). Clymene epitomizes the tragedy of the Titans, the primitive unevolved souls who are possessed of a mentality which perceives everything in terms of dichotomies, and must completely reject one alternative to accept another, never realizing that both one and the other, in fact, all possibilities, comprise the "Truth." Keats indicates his disapproval of the power-mongering political aspects of human nature in several ways: by associating with Satan not only the Titans, but also, the invisible Olympians, referred to as the "rebel three" (I. 147); by depicting Saturn as a spiritual and emotional cripple who has no conception of himself as an individual and perceives his role as his identity, thinking that Zeus now possesses his identity because he fills Saturn's former role; and by imploring his Muse to: Leave them . . . for anon wilt find Many a fallen old Divinity Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. (III. 7-9) Before we follow the Muse into Book III, though, let us consider more closely the action in Books I and II. Although we have encountered individual Titans performing significant but isolated minor acts, we must admit that there is really no overall dramatic action and no real narrative movement No changes are occurring and no potential for change is indicated; the action is suspended throughout The Titans have fallen from power, but the "rebel three" who are said to have taken power do not appear in the poem. It 37 is as though the Titans are caught in the instant between their demise and the Olympians' triumph, and are suspended in an eternal moment That this is so is suggested in the poem's opening, in Saturn's being frozen like a statue, removed from light, from conscious nature, and from any means of measuring time. Also, although the mythical Titans represent the Age of Gold, while the Olympians represent the Age of Silver, to be followed by the Heroes and Man, the Ages of Bronze and Iron, Hyperion's mythical beings and imagery are manipulated in such a way that the characters are simultaneously Titans and representatives of later races, and the Ages are merged. For example, Thea's description contains several similes which, in the Titans' "time," allude to the future: She was a Goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestal'd haply in a palace court (I. 26-32) But here, they are gathered together and pointed toward the past: When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. (I. 33) Saturn, King of the golden Titans,' is associated only with Olympian silver: he is "gray-hair'd" (I. 4); his "hoar locks/ Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel/ When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove" (II. 353-55) in silvery phosphorescence; and his voice leaves "the dinn'd air vibrating silverly" (I. 128). His Titan/human subjects have limbs "[ljock'd up like veins of metal" (II. 25), and their rocky den's "slaty ridge [is]/ Stubborn'd with iron" (II. 16-17). Hyperion alone is golden, but all the Ages coalesce in his palace, "bastioned with pyramids of glowing gold, . . . [but] touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks" (II. 177-78), while the incense offered up to him tastes/smells "of poisonous brass and metal sick" (II. 189). Clearly, the "form of thought" is not "naturalistic and temporalistic in terms of past and future. But the form of thought . . . is mystical, in terms of an eternal moment." Like the "Ode to 38 a Grecian Urn," the poem "is striving to move beyond the region of becoming into the realm of being."34 Saturn's being again locked in the underworld from whence he emerged to overthrow Coelus signifies that the seeds of defeat are sown in the moment of victory, and that historical and political movements, like all things of this world, are of limited duration. Titans, Olympians, and political and religious movements come and go; the progression of "hungry generations" is an ebb and flow, and that "ebb/flow" is not progress, but rather, a process that remains constant: the more things change, the more they remain the same. Hyperion shows us that this is a fallen or imperfect world, and, "in truth — the nature of the world will not admit of [perfectibility] — the inhabitants of the world will correspond to itself — Let the fish philosophize the ice away from the Rivers in winter time and they shall be at continual play in the tepid delight of summer . . . — The point at which Man may arrive is as far as the parallel state in inanimate nature, no further" (Letters, II. 101). However, when the narrator and the Muse move to Book III, to Apollo, we discover that progress can occur within an individual; the real dramatic action of the poem is Apollo's metamorphosis. Just as the Titans' misery and Hyperion's splendour each act as a foil to the other when they are juxtaposed, so does the Titans' lack of intuitive imagination heighten the impact of Apollo's comprehension of: Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain. (III. 114-17) At the same time, Apollo's celestial beauty overshadows Hyperion's splendour and emphasizes Hyperion's ungodlike qualities, while his "knowledge enormous" (III. 113) emphasizes the Titans' primitive mentality. Al l of these contrasts are heightened yet further by not only the counterbalancing of Apollo's deification against the Titans' fall, 3 4 Kenneth Burke, A Grammar of Motives (New York: Prentice-Hall, 1945), p. 449. 39 but also, by the fact that his deification occurs within the poem, while their fall is, from the beginning, a fait accompli. Apollo, like Saturn, Oceanus, and Clymene, is a composite character. He is obviously the god of harmony, order, music and poetry. That he is destined to become the god of the sun is implied by imagery; Apollo is "golden," like Hyperion, and the colours of Hyperion's palace are his: "vermeil," "rose," "red," and "vermillion." Unlike his namesake, though, he is not born a god, but rather, achieves deity through an intuitive and supremely intense realization of human suffering. Like Christ, he "dies into [eternal] life" (III. 130). Apollo's Delos is Edenic, blessed with warm air, species of trees from diverse climatic regions, and "the Zephyr breath[ing] the loudest song" (III. 26). Whereas Saturn is introduced in his shady vale "far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star" (I. 3), the Titans, in their rocky den where "no insulting light could glimmer on their tears" (II. 5), and Hyperion, entering his palace after the sun has set, Apollo appears "in the morning twilight" (III. 33). But, Keats's Apollo is also related to Milton's Adam. Just as Adam dreams of Eve and awakes to find her true, so does Apollo dream of Mnemosyne and awake to find her true, and we discover that Mnemosyne's "straying in the world" (II. 29), unlike Phoebe's wandering "far from her moon" (II. 30), is not an abnegation of responsibility, but rather, is her duty. Her function — symbolized by her being the Titan mentor of Apollo, who is of a later race than the "rebel three" — is to link the past with the future. Mnemosyne symbolizes memory, the faculty which enables us to make our experiences real, to "feel them upon our pulses." In Mnemosyne's silent face, Apollo reads the "wondrous lesson" (III. 112) of good and evil "all at once" (III. 116), the lesson through which he gains the knowledge enormous that makes a god of him (III. 113). Hyperion is a fragment, not because Keats was abandoning its epic structure, or its "unnatural aloofness and austerity" (Havens, p. 213). The Neither was he led to do 40 so by "his own uncertainty about": "where his sympathy lies in the struggle between the Titans and the Olympians; the significance of the many comparisons made between divine and human affairs; or the relationship of the deification of Apollo in Book III to the war between the gods that is the main subject of Books I and II." 3 5 Whether consciously or not, Keats abandoned Hyperion because the poem had gone as far as it could go when he wrote: "Celestial: he was the God!" 3 6 Keats's deletion of "he was the God" from the final line is a synecdoche of his abandoning the poem; it is Apollo's similarity to Christ that is the major Miltonic element Keats was compelled to abandon. Apollo's transformation must herald a new era, that of the complex imaginative human soul, but Keats's Apollo cannot be one who is worshipped as "the God"; nor can he become a Christ, a saviour who dies for our sins. Throughout the poem, the narrator is the god whose desires are his universe, who is omnipresent and omniscient, surveying "all at once" past, present, and future in an eternal moment His sympathies lie both with the Titans and the Olympians and with neither the Titans nor the Olympians. There can be no war between the gods, because a war would symbolize a transformation, a rebirth that would refute the constant process — as true as it is oxymoronic — that is the human condition depicted in Books I and II. The narrator is the "superior being" to whom: "Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine" and to whom the reasonings of the Titans, "our reasonings[J may take the same tone — though erroneous they may be fine — This is the very thing in which consists poetry" (Letters, II. 80-81). Poetry is, in various ways, the subject of The Fall of Hyperion. As early as "Sleep and Poetry," Keats distinguished between poetry that is merely skill in numbers or an escape from reality through beautiful illusions and true poetry — an imaginative activity that involves craftsmanship and a true perception of universal value and 35Jack Stillinger, John Keats: Complete Poems (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1982), p. 461. 36 Hyperion'% final line, quoted in Fraistat, p. 138. 41 meaning. Clearly, such a conception of the nature of poetry necessarily compels the poet to be equally concerned with the nature of the poetical character and the relationship of the poet with his world. It is in The Fall of Hyperion that these crucial issues and Keats's struggles with them are most directly and eloquently expressed, but these issues all surface in Hyperion. Bad poetry, that which fails to reveal the pictures on both sides of the Grecian Urn, may be that to which Saturn alludes when he mentions the "spirit-leaved book" (Hyperion, I. 133). It could be that this Testament is not wholly true, that it merely perpetrates beautiful illusions which cheat its readers of one of the most important benefits of poetry — inspiration and guidance that comes from identifying with a hero who comes to terms with his world and struggles with real experiences, to transcend the Self he was, to bid farewell to the joys "of Flora, and old Pan" (Sleep and Poetry, 101), and "pass them for a nobler life" (Sleep and Poetry, 124). Or it could be that Saturn, the interpeter of that "spirit-leaved book," uses the Word falsely, reading only the leaves which fit with his philosophy and through which he can maintain his subjection of the Titans. Both possibilities could also attribute to Oceanus' interpretation of the eternal laws as those laws are translated in his "poem," the formal oration in which he demonstrates the abuse of imagination, and of skill in numbers and rhetoric to "soothe the cares" of the Titans, not entirely with beautiful illusions, but without the "whole truth" which would acknowledge their grief. Moreover, it is not only the "spirit-leaved book" and Oceanus' poem that fail to meet Keats's criteria, but also, Hyperion itself, because the grief and the joy are too clearly unperplexed, and the Titans and Apollo are too thoroughly distinguished from one another. To a certain extent, we can empathize with the Titans, but their misery is almost totally unrelieved by nobility, and we are unable or unwilling to identify with them. From the opposite direction, the same problem exists with Apollo; 42 because he begins from a state of pure innocence, his deification has little impact upon us. Similarly, "the great world" depicted in Hyperion, is too clearly split: Saturn's shady vale represents both the "Hell within" fallen man and Earth as a vale of tears; the Titan's rocky den is the community of mortals in which we interrelate and define ourselves as social human beings; and Apollo's Delos is both the Garden of Eden and the "Paradise within," the inner world in which one can develop as an individual. III. MILTON A N D THE F A L L OF HYPERION The problems which haunted Keats when he abandoned Hyperion haunt the speaker of The Fall of Hyperion; they are immediately stated in the opening verse paragraph, and brought to consciousness through his dream. Although only a small proportion of the actual lines of Hyperion appear in The Fall of Hyperion, all of Hyperion finds its way into The Fall of Hyperion in some form. Book I, which deals with individual Titans — Hyperion, Saturn, and Thea — is the myth employed by the speaker/poet in The Fall of Hyperion. Book II, which deals with the Titans in their community, informs the entire poem — in the "poets" and "fanatics" who are juxtaposed in the opening verse paragraph, but who seem to merge as fanatics in the dialogue between the dreamer and Moneta; fanatics are both the men of action whom Moneta denounces as "no visionaries" (I. 161) and the poets whom the dreamer condemns as "careless Hectorers in proud bad verse" (I. 208). Through them, Keats condemns the model of "progress" which the Titans represent in Hyperion. Also, although Apollo's experience in Book III is the prototype for the action of The Fall of Hyperion, the dreamer begins as a "Titan," a fallen mortal whose motives for aspiring to be a poet may be questionable. As the poem opens, the dreamer is concerned with the distinction between false dreams and true vision, between poets and fanatics, and with the relationship between these people and these phenomena and the world. If the distinction were easily discernible, there would be no problem, but this is not the case: "Who alive can say/ 'Thou art no poet; may'st not tell thy dreams?'" (I. 11-12). Because this dreamer aspires to be a true poet, he must learn to distinguish between fanatic dreams and poetic visions — "diverse, sheer opposites, antipodes" (I. 200) which are often and easily confused. Basically, the action of the poem defines the process through which the dreamer learns to make this important distinction, and to develop into a true poet, or attain his unique Identity, thus transforming an Intelligence into a 43 44 Soul. His action proceeds through three stages which correspond to the stages of the meditational process which governs the odes: the contemplation of place or posing of the problem (memory); the analysis of the problem (understanding); and the direction of the affections (will). In the opening verse paragraph, Keats not only poses the problem, but also, demonstrates his intention to structure blank verse upon underlying forms which amplify the meaning and significance of certain passages. In a general way, this verse paragraph is a canzone; the fronte is composed of two six-line piedi which balance the poet's concern with dreams and utterance against his addressing the universal circumstances of the human condition, to call attention to the relationship between the poet and the world. The last one-and-one-half lines of the fronte pose the question which acts as a chiave, binding the passage with rhyme and with the thematic relationship between the fronted poets and dreams and the sirima's particular "dream." The second verse paragraph is a composition of place which represents the traditions of Western civilization; the traditions which define the dreamer's origins and the "place" from which he must turn away to develop his unique Identity. The third verse paragraph, the largest portion of the poem, is the analysis of the problem through the interaction between the dreamer and Moneta, his mentor. The fourth verse paragraph concludes his analysis of the problem and prepares us for the conclusion. The final verse paragraph of Canto 1 and the verse paragraph which is Canto 2 express the direction of the dreamer's affections. Each verse paragraph has a tripartite structure which reflects the meditational process, and each either contains or comprises a sonnet or canzone-like passage which acknowledges and draws our attention to stages of the dreamer's poetic and spiritual development. Once the problem is posed, the action of the poem begins as the speaker enters his dream, in the Edenic garden which parallels Apollo's Delos. But, this garden of innocence, plenitude, and light represents the Infant Chamber, the realm of 45 sensation, and its enticements must be passed "for a nobler life." However, it is only through sensation that one can pass beyond sensation, to perception and conception; hence, the dreamer "ate deliriously" (I. 40), "drank" (I. 46) the "transparent juice" (I. 42), and the "cloudy swoon came on" (I. 55). His "sense of life returnfs]" (I. 58), and, like Endymion's Indian maid and the speaker in the "Ode to Melancholy," the dreamer discovers within the Edenic garden of delight, the Shrine of Melancholy — the solemn temple contained in a dream-within-a-dream — and the scene is set for his study, growth, and development This verse paragraph consists of two perfectly balanced nineteen-and-one-half line segments followed by a more complexly structured passage of twenty-three lines. The perfect symmetry of the first two sections suggests a thematic relationship between them.37 The description of the Garden is perfectly balanced by the dreamer's "appetite," or, we might say, the scene in which the dreamer finds himself is perfectly balanced by his action; the perfect symmetry between the two reflects the appropriateness of his action to his situation, and sets the stage for the more complex material and, accordingly, more complex structure which follows. The last twenty-three lines structurally resemble an unrhymed caudate Petrarchan sonnet. The first sentence contains fourteen lines in which the speaker's description of the temple and his comparison of earth's Cathedrals with that "eternal domed monument" (71) are balanced over a colon which, in the ninth line, both divides the sentence and joins the "old sanctuary" with "earth's Cathedrals." The political aspects of organized religion covertly emerge in the connotations of fortresses and religious wars that reverberate through "buttress'd walls, rent towers" and "sunk realms" (67-68), and the "superannuations of sunk realms" (68) and "faulture of decrepit things" (70) initiates this poet's movement away from the obsolete religions of the East The "old 37"Symmetry in literature usually calls attention to thematic relationships. . . . " Lee M . Johnson, "Milton's Mathematical Symbol of Theodicy," Computers and Mathematics with Applications 12B. 3/4 (1986): 617. 46 sanctuary" (62) appears to predate these Cathedrals, and its description's running into the ninth line suggests that its influence overflows into that of "earth's Cathedrals." Moreover, this temple seems more earthly than those Cathedrals, by virtue of not only its position in the "octave," but also, its: . . . roof august, Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven. (62-64) Surely this is a natural amphitheatre like the Titans' rocky den, or, again like the Titans' rocky den, Earth itself. Hence, the "old sanctuary" is of the temporal terrestrial realm, and its description belongs in the "octave," while the Cathedrals' description's position in the "sestet" places those earthly monuments in the eternal celestial realm and reflects, with a force that derives from its subtlety, the hypocritical elements of religious institutions whose interests are more political than their leaders admit, and whose enslaving doctrines provide the most flagrant example of the use of mythology, or, for that matter, poetry, as an instrument of subjection. The "sonnet's" "tail" recalls the "octave" and "sestet," describing in the first sentence the "strange vessels" (73) and draperies belonging to the "old sanctuary," and then, the familiar artifacts connected with the religious rituals of "Cathedrals." These artifacts are "mingled in a heap confus'd" (78), just as elements of Greek, Judeo-Christian, and Miltonic mythology are mingled in Hyperion to represent the conglomerate philosophical/religious/cultural tradition from which the speaker has resolved to turn away. The third verse paragraph begins the poem's demonstration of the Greek proverb which informs the Keatsian philosophy of Soul-making that The Fall of Hyperion expresses: "ta pathemata mathemata," the suffered is the learned. The dreamer turns toward the West, away from the mythologies of the East, and Moneta's voice penetrates the "maian incense" (I. 103), the influence of Maia, who, through illusions, "spreads around/ Forgetfulness of everything but bliss" (I. 103-104). Moneta 47 tells him, "If thou canst not ascend,/ These steps, die in that marble where thou art" (I. 107-108). The time limit set by the "hourglass" and "these gummed leaves" (I. 116) indicates that the first of the dark passages in the Thinking Chamber involves the recognition of one's mortality, and the death the dreamer escapes is the spiritual death that accompanies a failure to enter into that Chamber, to take responsibility for one's life and actions. Climbing the stairs of Saturn's Temple, the dreamer rises above Maia's tempting but deceptive mist Once he manages to "usurp this height" (147), he begins to analyze the problem, wondering first why he is saved from death rather than some member or members of the "thousands in the world" (I. 154): Who love their fellows even to the death; Who feel the giant agony of the world; And more, like slaves to poor humanity, Labour for mortal good . . . (I. 156-59) These are men of action, like Oceanus and Enceladus: political reformers, philosophers, and missionaries who use imagination as an escape, and as a means to power, dreaming of "Paradise for a sect" These "thousands in the world" represent the "greater part of the Benefactors [of] and to Humanity [in whom] some meretritious motive has sullied their greatness — some melodramatic scenery has fascinated them" (R. II. 79), and they demonstrate a spirit of identification that, paradoxically, leads to more serious and dangerous forms of separation on increasingly large scales. As individuals, we seek to overcome our feelings of separateness by identifying ourselves with groups. Whether these groups be social organizations, religious institutions, political parties, or nations, the end result is the same. In order to enhance our feelings of identity with the members of the group, we must emphasize the ways in which our group and its members are different from other groups and their members. Either/or attitudes reach holocaustic proportions, with "Titans" pitted against "Olympians." Within each group, self-sacrificing souls — "fanatics" — "seek no wonder but the human face;/ No music but a happy-noted voice" (163-64), deceiving 48 themselves and their fellows, or, more precisely, their followers, with false hopes of Utopias on earth or in Heaven: Paradise for a sect, a chosen few. The speaker is "here alone" (I. 160) because it is only as an individual that one can develop his unique Identity, thus gaining, as a separate being, the autonomy with which he can interrelate with others according to his own conscience, and not be deceived by and subjected to the false precepts by which individuals identify themselves as members of groups. The speaker then suggests that perhaps "a poet is a sage;/ A humanist, Physician to all men" (I. 189-90), and reversely identifies himself with them; compared with them, he feels he is not a poet "as Vultures feel/ They are no birds when Eagles are abroad" (I. 191-92). But, like Adam with Raphael and Michael, he is again wrong; he has been given the opportunity for study and growth because he is a dreamer, not a poet, not a "sage" like Oceanus, who can imaginatively employ his skill in the arts of numbers and rhetoric, but who, "teasing the world for grace,/ Spoil[s] his salvation for a Fierce miscreed."38 The dreamer invokes "faded, farflown Apollo" (I. 204), whom poets, good and bad, have claimed as their patron, imploring Apollo to purge the world of these "mock lyricists, large self- worshippers,/ And careless Hectorers in proud bad verse" (I. 207-208), even if such drastic measures demand that he "breathe death with them" (I. 209). The speaker's condemnation of the group gathered together under the title of "poets" is extremely vicious because he is attempting to dissociate himself from them. He must do so because he needs to purge and strengthen himself; he is beginning to realize that visionary imagination must find its material in the common human experience and its "agonies, the strife/ Of human hearts" (Sleep and Poetry, 124-25). He is bidding farewell to the joys "of Flora, and old Pan," exactly as he resolved to do when he turned from the East "to the West" (I. 87), as Keats did when he rejected Maia in favour of Psyche, and as John Keats, "On Fame, II. 13-14. 49 the speaker in the "Ode on Indolence" does when he rejects his demon "Poesy" for true visionary imagination. Apollo is relegated to a very minor role in The Fall of Hyperion. In fact, he does not appear in the poem. But twice, he is invoked by the dreamer-poet; once, when the dreamer implores Apollo to purge the world of all false poets, and again, when the dreamer first introduces the "story" of Hyperion immediately before actual lines from Hyperion are introduced into the poem. . . . "Shade of Memory!" Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, "By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house, By this last Temple, by the golden age, By great Apollo, thy dear foster child, ... (I. 282-86) With this impulsive and instinctive utterance, the dreamer reminds us of Mnemosyne's role as Apollo's mentor in Hyperion, and he merges Moneta with Mnemosyne, calling Moneta "Shade of Memory!" It seems that, at this point, Moneta is both herself and Mnemosyne. Then she splits, appearing as either Moneta or Mnemosyne. Such splittings and mergings are common in dreams — scenes, characters, and situations shift in most unpredictable and bizarre ways which make perfect sense, while the dreamer is in the dream. So does the Moneta/Mnemosyne image make perfect sense in this dream. The Fall of Hyperion is an internalized drama in which all the action of the poem is a metaphor for the "action" that is taking place within the protagonist. The poem portrays the development of the poetical character, which is a drama of the mind and soul. Therefore, on one level, all the characters represent some aspect of the hero's personality. The men of action and the false poets are the Love, Ambition, and Poesy that the speaker of the "Ode on Indolence" banishes, the traits in himself which could tempt him to seek fame and p o w e r writing poetry which p r o m i s e s U t o p i a s and allows him and his readers to escape reality. Saturn and Thea are, as Jung would say, his animus and anima, and Moneta and Mnemosyne are complementary aspects of his consciousness. Moneta is the admonisher, the conscience which forces him to bear 50 responsibility for his own development, for his own soul, and, through her dialogue and her "power," her knowledge of the "mysteries" which comprise the human condition, enables him to purge himself of the "fanatics" within himself. Mnemosyne is the memory which enables him to link the past with the present and the future, to make the "difference of high sensation with [rather than] without knowledge" (Letters, I. 277) so he can learn from his experiences and "know them to the full" (Letters, I. 279). In the passage quoted above, Mnemosyne and Moneta merge because the dreamer has arrived at the point from which he needs both conscience and memory, and Mnemosyne brings with her the dreamer's memory of Hyperion. Before we go on to examine the final section of this verse paragraph, though, let us consider the structure of the verse paragraph up to the point at which material from Hyperion is introduced. The opening passage of the verse paragraph is its longest segment, consisting of one hundred and one lines (I. 81-181), and, because it is the composition of place for this verse paragraph, just as the second verse paragraph is the composition of place for the poem, its structure echoes that of its counterpart Forty lines which set the scene are perfectly balanced by forty lines which describe the dreamer's performing the "hard task proposed" (I. 120), indicating, again, that the dreamer's action is perfectly appropriate to his situation. Then, Moneta explains why the dreamer is "here alone" in a more complex passage of verse which first dissolves in ambiguity the dreamer's conceptions of benefactors, dreamers, and visionaries, and then posits against them the universality of the human condition with the individuality of a human life. Moneta suggests that the dreamer is preferred over the man of action, because he at least has the potential to become a "visionary," whereas the man of action, in his singleminded striving for identification with a group, has refused to acknowledge his separateness, and hence, has forfeited his capacity to develop his unique Identity. The imperfect balancing of these "groups" — the aspiring visionaries against the human race — suggests that there should be a connection between the 51 "benefactors" and "dreamers," and between the community and the individual, and, at the same time, reflects the division between benefactors and dreamers, on one hand, and individuals and the community, on the other. In the last five lines, Moneta blends pain and "bliss," perplexing them as confusingly as dreamers and benefactors have been perplexed throughout this passage, telling the dreamer it is so "that happiness be somewhat shared" that dreamers such as he "are admitted oft/ Into like gardens" and "suffer'd/ In these Temples" (I. 177-180): "suffer'd" in that the dreamers are allowed into the Temples, and in that they endure suffering there as well. It is significant that, while Moneta's speech is thematically related to the passage which marks the dreamer's resolution to turn away from the religions of the east her speech is further removed from the sonnet form than that passage was. Both serve as conclusions to a composition cf place — the former, to the dreamer's entering into the dream-within-a-dream, the latter, to his having arrived at a "new" state of mind. The former is concerned with religious institutions and the "appearances" of religion; the latter, with "religious" leaders and the community they serve. However, both passages of verse are nearly the same length (twenty-three and twenty-one lines respectively), and both divide into three sections which recall the divisions of a caudate Petrarchan sonnet But the narrative passage approaches the sonnet form, because it marks the dreamer's resolving to turn toward the West to take responsibility for his spiritual development, whereas Moneta's speech diminishes, in terms of form, because the state of mind at which the dreamer is now arrived is necessarily that of confusion. The purpose of Moneta's speech is to provide food for thought and to dissolve in ambiguity the dreamer's conceptions of "visionaries," "dreamer's," and through these, of the related "poets" and "fanatics" which are his major concern. This verse paragraph's central passage (I. 182-254), the dreamer's analysis of the problem, divides into three parts. In the first twenty-two lines, the dreamer 52 hesitantly and tentatively identifies himself as a poet, and Moneta confuses the issue by proclaiming that "[tjhe poet and the dreamer are distinct,/ Diverse, sheer opposites, antipodes" (I. 199-200). In the next twenty-four lines, the analysis of the immediate problem, the dreamer dissociates himself from the group with which he had desired identification: "poets." Thus, he begins to find and know his true Self, which is paradoxically demonstrated by his beginning to transcend his Self, his shifting from solipsistic questions — "Why am I here alone?" and "What am I?" — to an imperative concern with others — "tell me where I am,/ Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls,/ What Image this . . . and who thou art" (I. 211-214). Moneta replies, referring to the war that was a fait accompli at the opening of Hyperion. He is now aware of Moneta as an individual and is able to empathize with her, knowing "from her voice" that "she shed/ Long-treasured tears" (220-221). Then, the last section of this analysis of the problem begins in shared silence, and the thirteen lines of silence are balanced by fourteen lines in which the dreamer's having attained a "nobler" state, as demonstrated by his newfound ability to empathize with Moneta and to forget his own problems in his concern for hers, is symbolized by his being united with Moneta in a passage of verse in which her words and his feelings combine to remind us again of the Petrarchan sonnet, the form which Milton so extensively employed to express divine love. Moneta proclaims the "sacrifice . . . done" (I. 241), and offers to share with him the knowledge that is at once her "power and her curse" (I. 243), providing the "octave" for which his initial reaction to her words is the "sestet." In the third major portion of this verse paragraph, the dreamer relates the extrasensory experience through which his "globed brain" (I. 245) receives the frozen knowledge that Moneta stores in the archives of her "hollow brain" (I. 276). Then, his inspired "analysis" of that Knowledge is demonstrated by his merging of Moneta with Mnemosyne. Finally, he is exalted to his "Eagle's watch." The distinction between 53 "globed" and "hollow" is extremely significant, for, at this point, the dreamer has reached the level of development at which he has "sensation with knowledge," but where "Knowledge is Sorrow" (Letters, I. 279). This is the stage at which Moneta is frozen, for, as Moneta, per se, she is a mythical being, a frozen image who is being brought to life in the poem by the human myth-making imagination of which she is not possessed. Just as self-seeking martyrs cannot evolve as unique Souls, neither can Moneta progress to the stage at which "Sorrow is Wisdom" (Letters, I. 279). Conversely, the dreamer's imaginative power and his potential for growth is demonstrated by the extrasensory nature of his experience, and is initiated by his intuitive merging of Mnemosyne and Moneta, referring to Moneta as "Shade of Memory," to symbolize the close relationship between sensation, knowledge, and memory. Mnemosyne brings with her the myth of Hyperion, and together, Moneta and Mnemosyne bring the dreamer to the "shady vale" where, by observing and thinking, he can continue to grow and develop. Because the introduction of Hyperion's "story" is immediately followed by the integration of lines from Hyperion into the epiphany passage which resolves this verse paragraph, and because the passages of The Fall of Hyperion which include segments of verse from Hyperion demonstrate the climax of the dreamer's development, the most startling changes in Keats's poetic development, and, most astonishingly, the manner in which Keats's work both reflects Milton's influence and rejects Milton's philosophy, we might be well advised, at this point, to isolate temporarily the sections of the later poem which include passages of the earlier in order to discover the essential differences between Keats's craftsmanship in the two pieces of blank verse. Hyperion's opening sentence provides the first instance of Hyperion's appearance in The Fall of Hyperion. Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn quiet as a stone, 54 Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung above his head Like cloud on cloud. {Hyperion, I. 1-7) At first glance, this sentence may appear to be quite Miltonic; three adverbial phrases are combined in an emphatic tri-colon construction which opens the poem. However, unlike the vast majority of Milton's blank verse sentences, this sentence is cumulative. Consider what happens when the lines are arranged to form a periodic sentence. Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star: Forest on forest hung above his head Like cloud on cloud; and still as the silence Round about his lair, sat gray-hair'd Saturn, Quiet as a stone. Of course, Keats's version imprisons Saturn in the centre of the sentence, fittingly bereft of dignity of place, but the fact remains that the periodic sentence is far more Miltonic in that: two similes follow the tri-colon to create suspense before Saturn is introduced; the final word of the sentence is metrically stressed and carries all the weight of the tri-colon, the descriptive similes, and Saturn; and the final simile's opening trochees fall heavily on "stone," causing the entire simile to vibrate against Saturn's dignity of place at the end of the previous line, creating an irony which is similar to, but more effective than that of Saturn's plebeian position in Keats's cumulative sentence. Significantly, in The Fall of Hyperion, Keats does not waste the excellent tri-colon construction merely to image the plight of Saturn, the fallen divinity, but, rather, uses it to set the tone for the most crucial passage in the poem, the passage in which Saturn's loss of divinity coalesces with the dreamer's exchange of mortal sight for divine vision. No sooner had this conjuration passed My devout lips; than side by side we stood, (Like a stunt bramble by a solemn Pine) Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, 55 Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from_ the fiery_ noon^ and_evejs one_star1  Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs, And saw, what first I thought an Image huge, Like to the Image pedestal'd so high In Saturn's Temple. Then Moneta's voice {Came brief upon my ear, — "So Saturn sat When he had lost his realms" — Whereon there grew A power within me of enormous ken, To see as a God sees, and take the depth Of things as nimbly as the outward eye Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme At those few words hung vast before my mind, With half unravel'd web. I set myself Upon an Eagle's watch, that_I jrught_see, _ The tri- colon hangs over the entire section which follows, by virtue of its weight and of Keats's having rewritten the next included line from Hyperion to repeat resoundingly the final word of the tri-colon's first line immediately before the first medial pause that follows the dreamer's metamorphosis (311), and to enhance that repetition by modifying "vale" with "shrouded," to deepen the "shady sadness" of the vale. Thus, the dreamer's metamorphosis is contained within the "shrouded vale," and the extreme contrast between his exhilaration and Saturn's desolation intensifies the impact of both. Also, the world as a "vale of tears" has become a "vale of Soul-making," and the dreamer's epiphany's occurring in that vale is more true to Keats's philosophy than is Apollo's deification on Edenic Delos. In this passage, the lines dealing with Saturn {Hyperion, I. 4-7) have been omitted, but the thought expressed by those lines is incorporated into the new material (I. 297-310), and Saturn is depicted as far more silent and still than in Hyperion's opening verse paragraph. Here, he is thrice removed from life by being "thought an Image" that is "like . . . the Image . . . in Saturn's Temple," and by being pitifully embodied in another's words: "So Saturn sat/ When he had lost his realms" (I. Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air As in the zoning of a summer's day Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 291-314) 56 298-302). His impotence is potently underscored by being immediately contrasted with the dreamer's epiphany: at Moneta's words, "there grew/ A power within me of enormous ken,/ To see as a God sees" (I. 302-304). Conversely, juxtaposed with Saturn's being reduced to less than an image, the dreamer's being exalted as godly is marvellously enhanced. It is interesting, in view of the dreamer's concern with language and the nature of the true poet that the words which initiate the dreamer's epiphany are a direct quotation — Moneta's spoken words — and that, in this subtle manner, Keats's concern with the poetical character is combined with mortal sight, divine vision, and the mind. Even more fascinating is the relationship between this passage and Milton's parallel concerns, expressed eloquently in the Petrarchan sonnet "On his Blindness," and sublimely, in the Invocation to Light, in Paradise Lost. So much the rather thou Celestial light Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight {Paradise Lost, III. 51-55) Just as Milton "may see and tell/ Of things invisible to mortal sight," Keats's metamorphosed dreamer "might see,/ And seeing ne'er forget." The dreamer's setting himself "upon an Eagle's watch" is antithetical to his previous pejorative assessment of himself in comparison with other poets, and his having succeeded in dissociating himself from this sorry crew of "sick Eaglefs] looking at the sky"3 9 is symbolized by his rebirth "upon an Eagle's watch" with "enormous ken,"4 0 the intuitive Reason of angels, which enables him "to see as a God sees." Moreover, the contrast between Vultures and Eagles not only underscores the contrast between "poets" and "fanatics" with which the poem opens, but also qualifies the previous assertion that "a poet is a sage; a humanist, Physician to all men," a description of the poetical character which certainly echoes "Lycidas," as does the "lofty theme" with which The Fall of Hyperion 3 9John Keats, "On Seeing the Elgin Marbles," 1. 5. 4 0John Milton, Lycidas, (Hughes), 1. 11. 57 is concerned. Moreover, just as Milton's "lofty rhyme" is built upon the form of a canzone?1 so is Keats's "lofty theme." This passage, so intimately related with Milton's and Keats's shared concern with visionary imagination and the poetical character, approaches the form of an unrhymed canzone: the fronte contains the dreamer's imperfect mortal perception of Saturn, imperfect both in terms of mortal sight and of mortal perception; the sirima's first sentence describes the dreamer's attainment of divine vision, the second relates that vision to his mind, and he resolves to "see,/ And seeing, ne'er forget"; the third describes, in general terms, the scene before him. The chiave, Moneta's words, links the fronte to the sirima; her telepathic reply to the simile which images Saturn in the dreamer's mind is, at the same time, the stimulus for the dreamer's epiphany. The chiave does not link the fronte to the sirima with rhyme, but it is contained within rhyme: "high" in the fronte rhymes with "eye" in the sirima, and "mind" connects with both, by assonance. Centred in the chiave, and contrasted with the dreamer's ecstasy, Saturn's despair is depicted far more graphically and powerfully than in the centre of Hyperion's opening sentence. Moreover, this vital canzone-like passage is set within old verse that is altered and molded in such a way that the entire passage (I. 291-326) approaches the form of a canzone. The fronte consists of two sentences in which the self-effacing dreamer doubts even his own perceptions, and compares himself with Moneta as "a stunt bramble by a solemn Pine." The chiave instigates the emotional ascent which reaches its height in the sirima's second sentence, and the third sentence initiates the emotional descent that must accompany the dreamer's real understanding of the misery he is witnessing: his empathy with Saturn's situation deepens his perception of the scene before his mind. The commiato portrays particular aspects of Saturn's condition, completing the emotional arc which the passage describes. The fronte and sirima are 4 1 F . T. Prince discusses Lycidas and its structure as canzone in "Lycidas" in his The Italian Element in Milton's Verse (London: Oxford UP, 1954), pp. 71-88. 58 connected, not only by the chiave, but also by a half-rhyme which encloses the new material, the smaller canzone, within "star" (269) and "air" (311), and the main body of the larger canzone is contained by final assonance: "pass'd" (291) and "grass" (313). By means of these major changes, the couplet-based blank verse of Hyperion has been transposed into The Fall of Hyperion in a canzone-like form. But minor alterations also facilitate that transformation. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass. (Hyperion, I. 7-9) becomes: No stir of life Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air As in the zoning of a summer's day Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass. We have already noted how this revision links the fronte and its heavy tri-colon with the sirima. But also, this alteration allows for the half-rhyme ("air" and "star") and links "life," by assonance, to the rhyme that unifies the contained canzone: "high," "eye," and "mind." Moreover, the new version makes more sense, in that "no stir of air" rather than "not so much life/ Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass." One more noteworthy change occurs as: No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred. (Hyperion, I. 16-19) becomes: No farther than to where old Saturn's feet Had rested, and there slept, how long a sleep! Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred. (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 320-24) The second version removes "stray'd" to separate the commialo from the sirima by removing the assonance between "day" and "stray'd"; thus, Saturn is distanced from the poet and from "life," to be depicted as even more isolated and withdrawn. Also, 59 the insertion of "degraded, cold" anticipates the long list of adjectives that describe his hand, and intensifies the sense of isolation, of Saturn's imprisonment within himself. And, the addition of "feet" and "sleep" at the ends of consecutive lines emphasizes the final and internal assonance through which the coherence of the commiato is achieved. Considering as a whole this final section of the verse paragraph, we find that its structure reflects and amplifies its content. This passage, being the expression of the will for the entire verse paragraph, appropriately divides in half, to weight heavily the canzone-W&t passage by virtue of its length as well as its form. The division between the first two sections — the dreamer's experiencing sensation without knowledge, and his assimilation of knowledge — occurs within a line to stress the necessity for sensation to be followed by knowledge, a necessity which is emphasized by that segment's containing more lines than the sensation segment. Also, the perfect symmetry between the combined "sensation" and "knowledge" sections and the "high sensation with knowledge" conclusion asserts, on a formal aesthetic level, the intimate relationship between sensation with knowledge and the attainment of one's unique Identity. In the next verse paragraph, Keats continues to integrate material from Hyperion; in fact, Hyperion's third verse paragraph is almost literally copied into the new poem. It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one who with a kindred hand Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne,-] And griev'd I hearken'd. "That divinity _ _ J Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood, And with slow pace approach our fallen King, 1 Is Thea, softest-natur'd of our Brood." I mark'd the goddess in fair statuary Surpassing wan Moneta by the head, And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears. * i There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear — 60 Was with its stored thunder labouring up.  One hand was press'd upon that aching spot Where beats the human heart; as if just there Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain; The other upon Saturn's bended neck She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear ' Leaning, with parted lips, some words she spoke In solemn tenor and deep organ tune; Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue Would come in this-like accenting, how frail To that large utterance of the early Gods! —  "Saturn! look up — and for what, poor lost king?— 1 I have no comfort for thee, no — not one; I cannot cry, Wherefore thus sleepest thou: For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God; The Ocean too, with all its solemn noise, Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air ^ Is_ emptied of thine _hoary_ Majesty. —-{ _ _ SThy thunder, captious at the new command, • Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; And thy sharp lightning in unpracticed hands Scorches and burns our once serene domain. With such remorseless speed still come new woes That unbelief has not a space to breathe. _ _ i Saturn, sleep on: Me thoughtless, why should I ~~ Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? Saturn, sleep on, while at thy feet I weep. (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 327-71) The opening lines are repeated verbatim (Hyperion, I. 22-25; The Fall of Hyperion, I. 327-30). Then, a major alteration allows Mnemosyne to introduce Thea, an alteration necessitated by the later poem's narrator's lack of omniscience. However, one of the most interesting aspects of this revision is Keats's treatment of Thea's description. In Hyperion, She was a Goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestal'd haply in a palace court (I. 26-32) When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. But oh! how unlike marble was that face: How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. (Hyperion, I. 26-36) This accumulation of images clinched by a couplet has been compressed into three 61 lines {The Fall of Hyperion, I. 336-38) in which Thea's physical superiority is cryptically described in two lines, and her more valuable spiritual superiority is eloquently compressed into one superb line in which her capacity for love and compassion is symbolized by a humanizing metaphor that illuminates her spiritual beauty. Several minor changes {The Fall of Hyperion, I. 348; 352; 354-56; 358-61; 368) render the expression more concise and, in one case (348), add a word which recalls Moneta's "hollow brain" and creates subtle irony: "hollow" expands the line to twelve syllables, and the content ("hollow") vibrates against the form (expansion). A more extensive revision removes three lines. 0 aching time! O moments big as years! Al l as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, And press it so upon our weary griefs. . . . {Hyperion, I. 64-66) These lines are replaced by a single line {The Fall of Hyperion, I. 366) which not only expresses the same thought and piles "new woes" upon the implied "weary griefs" of which we are already aware, but also, with the following line, forms a couplet that movingly draws to a close the main body of the unrhymed caudate sonnet which is Thea's speech {The Fall of Hyperion, 1. 353-71). Although most of the material for this sonnet is taken, almost verbatim, from Hyperion, its form is radically transformed, as it must be. In Hyperion, Thea is a realistic image. She is simply a Titan who understands neither the situation in which she finds herself and her fellows, nor why it should be so. Her function in the poem is to represent the female half of the human race, and to provide an audience for Saturn's pathetic speeches in Book I. In the corresponding passage of Hyperion, the lines of verse are based upon couplets. Saturn, look up! — though wherefore, poor old King?) 1 have no comfort for thee, no not one: V I cannot say, "O wherefore sleepest thou?" ) For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth | Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God; J And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, } Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air ?• Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. ) 62 Thy thunder, conscious of the new command. Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house; _ And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands -Scorches and burns our once serene domain.._ 0 aching time! O moments big as years! — All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth, And press it so upon our weary griefs That unbelief has not a space to breathe. Saturn, sleep on: — O thoughtless, why did I) Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude? > Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes? J Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep. (I. 52-71) The first eight lines are one sentence, built in a symmetrical pattern: a triplet, a couplet, and a triplet (I. 52-59). Another symmetrical unit concludes the passage: two couplets, a double couplet unit, and two couplets (I. 60-71). But, minimal revisions transform the passage into a caudate sonnet, and the couplets, subsumed by the larger form, virtually disappear. In The Fall of Hyperion, Thea is the antithesis of the "thousands . . . [who] labour for mortal good"; she symbolizes "disinterestedness," which is Love: "a pure desire of the benefit of others." Because Thea's speech is the verbal expression of the love which moves her to reach out beyond her own "cruel pain" (I. 346) to express compassion for Saturn in a physical way, it is fitting that her speech is a sonnet. Because the nature of her love is spiritual, it is also fitting that the sonnet is Petrarchan; her speech expresses, in human terms, a spiritual love which manifests the divine. And, that Thea speaks a perfect unrhymed Petrarchan sonnet, whereas, in the previous verse paragraph, the dreamer's epiphany is embodied in an imperfect canzone is perfectly in accord with the dynamic manner in which Keats employs the sonnet and canzone forms at crucial points in his characters' development, rendering the forms increasingly perfect as a character evolves into a poet or a Soul. The poet's gaining the "Eagle's watch" provides him with the opportunity to "see and ne'er forget," to study and grow, but he has not yet proved himself a true poet Thea has attained Identity and is proving her capacity for disinterestedness; hence, her speech takes the form traditionally associated with divine, or disinterested love — the Petrarchan sonnet 63 In the octave, the first sentence, Thea recognizes that there is no glimmer of hope with which she can comfort Saturn, and his loss is described in worldly terms: the terrestrial elements — earth, air, and water — are lost to him. In the first sentence of the sestet, Saturn's loss is defined in heavenly terms: the celestial element — fire (lightning and its effect, thunder) — is not only lost to him, but is being used as a weapon against him and his house. Synopsizing all that has gone before, and confirming that there is no hope, the couplet separates the sonnet from its tail, which draws a circle back to the beginning: "Saturn, sleep on" (368) parallels "Saturn! look up" (354). The final line repeats the second imperative and movingly describes the gesture by which Thea expresses her grief and compassion: "at thy feet I weep" (371). The only rhyme in this sonnet ("command" and "hands") clearly defines the divisions of the sonnet, distinguishing the sestet from the octave and tail to foreground the sestet. However, this perfect caudate Petrarchan sonnet compels us to recall the passages it so closely resembles: the lines which underscore the dreamer's resolving to bid farewell to the realms of Flora and old Pan, to turn away from the outworn doctrines which subject our imaginations to our mythologies, and to take personal responsibility for his poetic and spiritual development; and the lines in which Moneta and the dreamer are united by the dreamer's empathy and compassion for Moneta. Now, the perfect sonnet which Thea speaks, and the verse paragraph in which it is placed, exalt the speaker as he "deifies" Thea. Although it is Thea who speaks this sonnet, it is the poem's narrator, the dreamer striving to become a poet, who determines the form in which her words are conveyed to the reader. Being studious observers of language and of the ways in which speakers use language, we know that Thea did not speak a sonnet to Saturn in "real life," in Hyperion. Our narrator chooses to relate the essence of Thea's actual words in sonnet form, just as he chooses to transform the speaker of those words into a symbolic image: together, the 64 image and the form represent Keats's most cherished value, disinterestedness. Through this act, the speaker confers value upon Thea, which is in itself, a form of love. Like those of the speaker in the "Ode to Psyche," the dreamer's thoughts are organized by the vision of Thea and Saturn, and he is composing poetry. Thus, the sonnet exalts both Thea and the narrator, and the dreamer proves himself a true poet, a Soul who has attained Identity. Most of the revisions we have examined so far have involved segments of new material worked into the new, changes in diction which render the revised material more concise or which create rhyme or assonance that contributes to the unity and coherence of larger forms, and omissions and/or additions of lines which allow a different underlying form to support the blank verse: minor revisions with major consequences. However, the most far-reaching and startling of Keats's transformations are to be found in the final verse paragraph of The Fall of Hyperion, Canto 1, the verse paragraph in which the dreamer's will is expressed. As when, upon a tranced summer-night, Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night, without a noise Save from one gradual solitary gust, Swelling upon the silence; dying off; As if the ebbing air had but one wave; So came these words, and went; the while in tears She press'd her fair large forehead to the earth, Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls, A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 1 Long, long, those two were postured motionless, Like sculpture builded up upon the grave Of their own power. A long awful time I look'd upon them; still they were the same; The frozen God still bending to the Earth, And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet <Moneta silent Without stay of prop But my own weak mortality, I bore /The load of this eternal quietude, The unchanging gloom, and the three fixed shapes Ponderous upon my senses a whole moon. For by my burning brain I measured sure j Her silver seasons shedded on the night 1 And ever day by day methought I grew ( More gaunt and ghostly — Oftentimes I pray'd j Intense, that Death would take me from the vale J And all its burthens — Gasping with despair Of change hour after hour I curs'd myself; Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes, And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone, , And all the gloom and sorrow of the place, \ A n d that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. • / As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves Fills forest dells with a pervading air, Known to the woodland nostril, so the words Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around, •/ Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks, And to the winding in the foxes' holes, With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent L Strange musings to the solitary Pan. (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 372-411) The verse paragraph begins, as does the fourth verse paragraph of Hyperion, by setting the scene for Saturn's speech (Hyperion, I. 72-94; The Fall of Hyperion, I. 372-411). As before, we find that minor alterations serve various purposes: "touch'd" (379) and "bending" (386) are more concise than "press'd" (Hyperion, I. 80) and "couchant" (Hyperion, I. 73-74); "forests" (373) replaces more than a line of verse (Hyperion, I. 73-74) to compress the language; the replacement of "old Saturn lifted up/ His faded eyes" (Hyperion, I. 89-90) with "old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes/ And looked around" (400-401) emphasizes "faded eyes," which hearkens back to the contrast between Saturn and the dreamer in the epiphany passage; and "that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet" (403) draws the opening of the verse paragraph to a close by repeating "feet" to echo back to the point at which the old material is abandoned (387), and new material inserts the dreamer into the scene. This repetition causes the lines which introduce Saturn's speech to be omitted (Hyperion, I. 192-94), but the thought conveyed by those lines is included much more forcefully in the new passage (404-411), which states that Saturn's words "sent/ Strange musings to the solitary Pan" (411). Through the rhyming of "air" with the "despair" (398) that the dreamer, Saturn, and Thea are feeling, all three are irrevocably joined with the earth, Pan's realm, and with Saturn's utterance, the articulation of those "strange musings." Significantly, the poet can now return to "Pan's realm," which he resolved to quit for a "nobler life," because he has attained his unique Identity; he is an autonomous 66 individual with the wider perspective and wisdom that enables him to relate honestly and morally with his world according to his own principles and values. The four lines which describe the passing of time and the motionless posturing of Saturn and Thea (Hyperion, I. 83-88) are greatly altered (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 382-87): the simile — "like sculpture builded up upon the grave/ Of their own power," emphasizes the intimate relationship between Hyperion's Titans' thirst for power and their fallen condition, and is far more poignant than "like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern"; and time is fragmented in such a way that the simile is enclosed within "[l]ong, long" (382) and "[a] long awful time" (384), just as Saturn and Thea are imprisoned in Time. The moon's having "shed/ Her silver seasons four upon the night" (Hyperion, I. 84) is omitted, only to reappear as a golden line — "[h]er silver seasons shedded on the night" (393). The elegaic connotations of the golden line and the moon's connection with the dreamer, rather than with the Titans, combine to demythologize the single most powerful symbol of imagination and the transcendent realm; this moon is simply a beautiful natural sphere whose phases enable the poet to measure time. The occurrence of "night" at the end of the line not only links the dreamer with Saturn, but also emphasizes the difference between this seemingly eternal "night" and "a tranced summer-night." The "eternal night" in which the poet transcends his mortality by absolutely acknowledging it and strives toward a state of being — of consolidating the Identity he has become — is far removed from "a tranced summer-night" in which he, the poet, incarnates and humanizes Saturn and Thea, transporting them from the "eternal moment" in which they were frozen in Hyperion. Let us consider Saturn's speech, as it appears in Hyperion. O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face; Look up, and let me see our doom in it; Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 67 Naked and bare of its great diadem, Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power To make me desolate? whence came the strength? How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth, While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp? _ But it is so; and I am smother'd up, And buried from all godlike exercise Of influence benign on planets pale, Of admonitions to the winds and seas, Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, And all those acts which Deity supreme Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone Away from my own bosom: I have left My strong identity, my real self, Somewhere between the throne^ and where I sit Here on this spot of earth. | Search, Thea, search! Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of light; Space region'd with life-air; and barren void; Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. — Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest A certain shape or shadow, making way With wings or chariot fierce to repossess A heaven he lost ere while: it must — it must Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. Yes, there must be a golden victory; There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be Beautiful things made new, for the surprise Of the sky-children; I will give command: Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn? (I. 95-134) The discourse divides approximately in half: the first twenty-and-one-half lines are devoted to Saturn's loss of identity and power, and the last eighteen-and-one-half lines are concerned with his denial of that loss. The opening sentence is divided in such a way that the three-part question (102-105) and its reply (106-11), which deals with Saturn's loss of power, are contained within the two sentences concerned with his loss of identity (95-102; 112-116). It would appear that Saturn's impotence is at the core of his shattered identity. But, the fact that the reply to his question of how or through whom his power escaped him is a definition of his lack of power, rather than an answer to the question, implies that his power depended upon his maintaining an integrated identity, and his fall is not due to external forces, but rather, to a 68 deficiency from within. This deficiency is explicit in The Fall of Hyperion, in the sculpture simile (I. 383-84); a thirst for power over others and the ability to develop one's Identity are mutually exclusive. The second half of Saturn's speech divides almost in half: in the first part (116-24), Saturn implores Thea to search the universe for his lost identity; in the final part (125-34), he denies the defeat he has already described and resolves to regain command. His resolution is pathetically undercut by his final plea — "Thea! Thea! Where is Saturn?" (134) — which epitomizes the manner in which this speech constantly turns back upon itself to depict the vicious circle of his own making in which Saturn is enslaved. The blank verse of this speech, like all the blank verse of Books I and II of Hyperion, is based upon couplets, and parallelism and repetition are the cohesive elements. The first part of each half of the speech is built up by the repetition of imperatives: "look up" (97; 98), "tell me" (98; 99; 100; 121), and "search" (116; 121). The first part of the segment devoted to Saturn's loss of power asks "who" (102), "whence" (102), and "how" (104); the reply (106-12) is composed mainly of parallel prepositional phrases. The theme, Saturn's identity, is repeated at intervals to connect the various segments, and, even though the imperfect symmetry of the divisions of the speech —reflecting the intimate but mutually exclusive relationship between Saturn's concerns — anticipates Keats's later use of symmetry to suggest thematic relationships, the speech is formulaic. However, the speech is utterly transformed in The Fall of Hyperion. The old is integrated with the new in an apostrophe that has universal implications, and again, as with Thea's sonnet, we do not hear Saturn's exact words, but rather, the poem that the narrator composes for him. Moan, brethren, moan; for we are swallow'd up And buried from all godlike exercise Of influence benign on planets pale, And peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 69 And all those acts which Deity supreme Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail. Moan, brethren, moan; for lo! the rebel spheres Spin round, the stars their antient courses keep, Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth, Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon, Still buds the tree, and still the sea-shores murmur. There is no death in all the universe No smell of Death — there shall be death — moan, moan, Moan, Cybele, moan, for thy pernicious babes Have chang'd a God into a shaking Palsy. Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left, Weak as the reed — weak — feeble as my voice — O, O the pain, the pain of feebleness. Moan, moan; for still I thaw — or give me help; Throw down those Imps, and give me victory. Let me hear other groans; and trumpets blown Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival From the gold peaks of heaven's high piled clouds; Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir Of strings in hollow shells; and let there be Beautiful things made new, for the surprize Of the sky-children - (I. 412-38) Hyperion's Saturn's solipsistic point of view is modified as this Saturn opens with a powerful injunction: "Moan, brethren, moan" (412). His complaint is not that he alone is "smother'd up" (Hyperion, I. 106), but that "we are swallow'd up" (412), which recalls the loss of identity that was his theme in Hyperion, Book I, and graphically depicts the dangerous spirit of identification which characterizes Hyperion's Titans, Saturn's speech in Book II, and The Fall of Hyperion's men of action and the poets from whom the speaker dissociates himself through his dialogue with Moneta. Saturn's lack of power is shared by all, and is initially expressed as in Hyperion (107-12) with "winds and seas" (109) omitted. The omission of "winds and seas" effects the removal of earth, in specific terms, from the sentence, and the sentence becomes a vision of the human condition in the universe, and of Time in Eternity: the only finite verbs in the passage are "ease" (416) and the repeated imperative "moan" (412), both in the present tense, which designates an immediate action and an eternal state. The next sentence begins in eternity, as conceptual "spheres spin" (418-19), and moves toward time, as concrete "stars their antient courses keep" (419). Then, present time prevails 70 over "earth . . . sun and moon" (I. 420-21), as the action of sun, wind, and seas upon earth repeats "still" with each verb. Throughout the universe, everything functions as before, and the lack of Saturn's "godlike influence" (413-14) effects no change. At the very core of this lament, one of the paradoxes which lie at the heart of the poem is expressed: "There is no death in all the universe . . . there shall be death" (423-4). Saturn does not say, "there was no death," and now "there shall be death": rather, there is no death in the sense of universal or eternal death, which is reflected by the eternal action of "Deity supreme" (416) despite the waning of Saturn's influence, but, at the same time, there is death in this life, which is reflected by the change in Saturn's point of view as his recognition of his, and his brethren's "weak mortality" (389) compels him to define his lack of power in personal terms (427-29). But, he aborts the opportunity for enlightenment that this recognition might offer by attempting to deny the mortality that he recognizes, and his denial is iterated in lines repeated from Hyperion, with some minor but far-reaching alterations. Saturn's assertion that "[tjhere must be Gods thrown down" (Hyperion, I. 127) becomes a demand — "[tjhrow down those Imps" (431). The exchange of "Imps" for "Gods" foregrounds another paradox which informs the poem: the spirit of identification which unites the Titans also compels Saturn to reinforce his side's position as "Gods" while reducing the opposition to "Imps," thereby intensifying their sense of "brotherhood" within the group and of division from others, inevitably to create the conditions for the most large-scale cooperative effort known to man: war. The extra force gained from this revision is reinforced by the imperative form of the sentence and the omission of Saturn's pathetically undercutting final line (Hyperion, I. 134). The new version also introduces a mixed binary and ternary rhythm which suits the form of Saturn's lament. The speech is a chant,42 perfectly suited to the occasion 4 2 "Chant rhythm can be very simply described as mixed binary and ternary . . . . little measures of two pulses may be followed by little measures of three." Jane-Marie Luecke, Measuring Old English Rhythm, Vol. 9 Literary Monographs, ed. Eric Rothstein (Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1978), p. 32. 71 and the content, and thereby contributes to the sense of religious ritual that pervades this passage of verse, and renders Saturn, who now admits his mortality and his weakness, a powerful demagogue. Saturn's chant is not only utterly coherent and unified in itself, but it expresses, both explicitly and metaphorically, the themes of the passage with which the verse paragraph begins — time and eternity, mortality and immortality, and the relationship between an individual and his community. But again, as with Thea's sonnet, it is the poet who composes Saturn's lament, and, just as Thea's sonnet is not merely Thea's sonnet, but rather, a symbol of a rarely expressed but nevertheless true and universal value, so is Saturn's lament not merely his lament, but rather, a symbol of a true and universal tragedy. And language is the power, the instrument through which we communicate to initiate, maintain, and solidify the bonds of identification simultaneously with the knives of division. The most tragic aspect of this dilemma is that those whom Saturn represents, political and religious "Benefactors" everywhere, "know not what they do." They truly desire to benefit "the great world," but actually cause misery for themselves and others by perpetrating and championing "causes" which promise Utopia — merely "beautiful things made new," because perfectibility is not possible in this world, and even our conceptions of perfection are imperfect. However, we have known Saturn and his all too common "tragic flaw" since the opening of Hyperion; it is the poet's character that actually is illuminated through Saturn's chant This poet is no longer the dreamer who needed to be reassured of his worth by being told that the men of action and the poets are, in fact, less worthy than he. This is not the dreamer who so desperately needed to strengthen himself by 2(cont'd) Scansion of a few lines of Saturn's chant to demonstrate the rhythm: / / I - / ^ "Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth" (420) "Still buds the tree, and still the sea-shores murmur" (422) / "Throw down those Imps and give me victory" (431) 72 impulsively and viciously wishing death on false poets, hoping he would not be included in their ranks, but fearing that he might be. The author of Saturn's lament is a true poet who represents the autonomous individual, and the form of Saturn's lament, combined with the poet's ability able to compose that lament, represents the other side of the Grecian Urn upon which Saturn's tragedy is painted. We are inspired by this dreamer who, through his own experience, guides us through the passages of the Thinking Chamber, the vale of Soul-making. The dreamer's lessons begin as he recognizes without denial his mortality and his separateness from his fellow human beings, and realizes that he cannot Find or seek salvation in "the group," but that he alone is responsible for his life, his actions, his Soul. He isolates himself from the institutions and "brotherhoods" whose leaders would tell him how he ought to act and what he should believe in order to discover for himself how he must act and what he must believe because it is true. His experience is equally as paradoxical as that of the identiFication-seekers whose end is increasingly fatal division; by accepting his separateness and developing his unique Identity, he becomes able to perceive the futility and the evil of the ways of Saturn and those he represents, not with self-righteous indignation and hatred, but with the absolute understanding of Saturn's situation that enables him to acknowledge his and Saturn's shared humanity, and to feel compassion even for this fellow human being who represents the values he himself condemns. Therefore, he is able to impart universal value and meaning to Saturn's solipsistic utterance, which enables us to empathize with Saturn because his grief and his capacity for evil are blended with the nobility that the poet has conferred upon him; we realize not only that humanity embraces "these twain" (460), Saturn and Thea, but also, that each of us has elements of both within us. The Final section of this verse paragraph is derived, in part, from material in the Fifth verse paragraph of Hyperion. But, so much new material is added, and that 73 which is repeated is so thoroughly rewritten that the benefit which might derive from comparing the old with the new is too slight to warrant the effort However, before we examine the verse paragraph as a whole, let us briefly consider the first seven lines of its final section. — So he feebly ceas'd, With such a poor and sickly sounding pause, Methought I heard some old man of the earth Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes And ears act with that pleasant unison of sense Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form, And dolorous accent from a tragic harp With large-limb'd visions. (The Fall of Hyperion, I. 438-45) In accord with the structural patterns of this poem, language is the focus of the transition (438-45) from Saturn's lament to the events which follow. The three lines devoted to Saturn's having "feebly ceas'd" speaking (438), and the four lines devoted to the dreamer's inability to compose poetry are balanced by a semi-colon; hence, the dreamer and Saturn are simultaneously juxtaposed and connected, as are the functions of language as spontaneous verbal communication and as poetry. Moreover, power is equated with language. Yet, a double paradox exists: although Saturn "feebly ceas'd," the dreamer thinks he "heard some old man of the earth/ Bewailing earthly loss" (440-41), and, although the dreamer's "eyes/ And ears [could not] act with that pleasant unison of sense/ Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form" (441-43), the words which proclaim his inability to compose poetry define the process of composition, and are poetic. Both Saturn and the dreamer are exhibiting the very powers that the words of the passage claim they lack. This paradox occurs because the poet gains his knowledge of Saturn through an extrasensory intuitive experience which parallels that through which he absorbed Moneta's knowledge. The "hard task" which he performed was initiated by his sensory faculties: "I heard, I look'd! two senses both at once" (I. 118). But, through sensation, he has transcended the realm of sensation, and he composes not the poetry that is merely an activity of "eyes and ears," but that through which "Poesy alone can tell 74 her dreams." He does not need to hear the formulaic and melodramatic speeches in which Saturn is "bewailing earthly loss," because he is able to articulate the lament that all "Saturns" would chant if they knew themselves as well as the poet knows them, and if they were inspired by visionary imagination. Because this poet is a visionary, he universalizes Saturn's personal and sectarian concerns and endows them with a metaphysical dimension. Considering this verse paragraph as a whole, we must conclude that it is the most complex verse paragraph of the poem, and rightly so, for it deals with the complex relationship between the poet, or the individual, and his world. We know that autonomy and its correlative, disinterestedness, come from within and are achieved by an individual alone; this is demonstrated by the dreamer's isolating himself within a dream-within-a-dream which leads to his epiphany, and is symbolized by his isolating Thea and her sonnet within a verse paragraph in which Saturn is oblivious to her ministrations. Admittedly, we have seen that the dreamer's metamorphosis, his gradual evolution toward autonomy is a "hard task"; but that task is remarkably easy in comparison with his going out into the world and relating with his fellow human beings in such a way that he preserves his autonomy and acts according to the dictates of his own conscience, to become a true benefactor of and for humanity. This verse paragraph does conform to the meditational pattern that characterizes Keats's work. The first forty lines (372-421) remove the dreamer from his "Eagle's watch," and place him with Saturn and Thea in the vale of Soul-making, and the problem is posed: the speaker is in the realm of "solitary Pan," the "great world" in which he must function and relate with his community. Saturn's lament composes most of the central portion, the twenty-nine-and-one-half-line section which is the analysis of the problem. And the remaining twenty-seven-and-one-half lines do state the speaker's conclusions and express his will. He poetically proclaims that he is composing true poetry, and, with conscience, through Moneta, he sends Saturn and Thea, who 75 symbolize the conflicting aspects of human nature that we all must deal with, "speeding to the families of grief (I. 461). In other words, he offers his poem to the world. And, as a final gesture which symbolizes his having succeeded in humanizing and demythologizing "the myth," he strips the symbolism from the image of Moneta/Mnemosyne, declaring that he "must delay, and glean [his] memory of her high phrase" (I. 468). We would expect that the structure of the verse paragraph would reflect and support its "meditational" composition, but it does not Thus far, within each narrative division of the poem, with the exception of Thea's verse paragraph, the composition of place and the analysis of the problem have been exactly or approximately symmetrical, and often, separated within a line, while the conclusion has been distinguished from these sections by a clear-cut separation from the central segment of the passage, and also, by a unique length and structure, containing or comprising a sonnet- or canzone- like passage which symbolizes its speakers having attained a higher level of spiritual development In this verse paragraph, that familiar and significant structural pattern is reversed. The analysis and the conclusion are balanced against each other, and are joined/divided by a mere semi-colon in the centre of a line (I. 441), which intimately connects Saturn with the poet This relationship is emphasized by the symmetry between the parts which reflects both the common bond of humanity that unites the poet and Saturn in their roles as representative human beings, and also, the authorial link between the poet and Saturn's chant — the power of the human myth-making imagination that has simultaneously breathed life into Saturn and demythologized the myth he represented in Hyperion. But, the absence of perfect symmetry reflects the uniqueness and separateness of each individual. Also, the opening segment of the verse paragraph, the composition of place, is the passage which is distinguished by a different length and more complex form. In a general way, the opening segment of this verse paragraph is organized by the canzone 76 form: the first thirty-two lines are divided in half, each section ending with "at his feet" (387; 403); "Moneta silent" (388) serves as a link between Saturn's and Thea's segment and the dreamer's segment, and, as before, this c/z/ave-like phrase focusses on language, or rather, the absence of language, which signifies the poet's having internalized Moneta and his having attained autonomy. The passage which links Saturn, Thea, and the dreamer to Saturn's lament is at once a valediction, as a commiato often is, a transition to Saturn's speech, and the poet's assertion of his autonomy, his conviction that he can now trust himself to remain true to himself in the "great world." Before we consider the implications of the apparent disparity between the meditational thematic progress of this verse paragraph and its reversed structure, let us consider the relationship of this canzone- like passage with its antecedents. It is clear that, although sonnet-like passages draw attention to stages of an individual's development as an autonomous human being, and that these stages climax in the perfect Petrarchan sonnet which Thea speaks to Saturn, canzone- like passages celebrate stages of an individual's "public" development, his consolidating his unique Identity to the point at which he transcends his Self, to become a priest of the soul, a true benefactor of and to humanity. The dreamer's concern with the distinction between "poets" and "fanatics," with the "truth" of dreams and the nature of Poesy, and with the relationship between himself and his world are immediately, albeit ambiguously expressed in the poem's opening verse paragraph — an imperfect canzone. When the ambiguity into which these terms are necessarily dissolved begins to clear, and the poet gains visionary imagination, his epiphany is embodied in a canzone- within- a canzone. Then, he writes a perfect sonnet for Thea to speak, to symbolize his conception of the spiritually evolved individual. And now, he composes a canzone which briefly but powerfully relates his representative experience. Because this passage returns the poet to Earth and initiates his "hard task" in the world, and because it 77 completes the action which begins when he turns away from the east and isolates himself to perform the "hard task" of suffering and learning through which he develops his Intelligence into a Soul, it is also appropriate that the passage contains forty lines. The segments of the verse paragraph in which his "hard task" is proposed and initiated, the composition of place and the analysis of the problem for the first part of the third verse paragraph, each contain forty lines, and the symmetry between them enhances the content, reflecting the appropriateness of his action to his situation. Now, the process comes to fruition. Therefore, this verse paragraph's opening passage is simultaneously an expression of the direction of the speaker's will and a composition of place, because the development by which he achieves his autonomous Identity is, indeed, the expression of his Will and an end in itself — the lesson which this vale of Soul-making teaches — and, at the same time, this lesson must be learned before one is fit to enter the "great world" and relate with one's fellow beings with conscience. And, to Keats as to Milton, that huge step back to the community in which an individual is a social being is obligatory. A "cloistered virtue" is of no value, and Keats's conviction that this is so is reflected in the fact that Saturn's lament, which joins all of humanity with one another, with the "great world," and with the transcendental realm, occupies the central position and is the analysis of the problem, as we read the verse paragraph from either direction — according to its thematic movement, or according to its structural pattern. Of course, the verse paragraph's final section, the expression of the will, is also a composition of place; it is the poet's "will" in the sense of his offering his legacy to the great world as he prepares to leave it, to "pass/ Unwearied from the Antichamber of this dream" (I. 464-65) to where "we shall enjoy ourselves here after by having what we called happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone and so repeated" (Letters, I. 185). Ultimately, the verse paragraph cannot be separated into the usual "meditational" stages, just as the individual as a separate being and the 78 individual as a "man of action" cannot be divided, but is an integrated and indivisible entity. This verse paragraph serves the same function in The Fall of Hyperion as the "Grecian Urn" does in the ode sequence; it is the "long poem" in which the poet synopsizes and poetically expresses his previous experiences and brings together and resolves the themes which have been developed through the poem. Together, the experiences, the themes, and the form in which they are embodied express both Keats's philosophy of Soul-making and his rejection of ideologies which not only hinder, but prevent, the development of an Identity, of an autonomous Soul who realizes that it is the principles for which "Saturn" stands that are condemnable, but that "Saturn" himself is a fellow human being toward whom he and we can feel compassion and demonstrate disinterestedness. In Keats's case, this means he has come to realize that life to Milton would not mean death to him, but rather, that the religious and political ideologies which Milton represents refute the purposes and values for which Keats lives. By using the structural patterns upon which Milton built the blank verse of Paradise Lost, and by reversing that pattern in this crucial synecdochic verse paragraph, he tells us that Milton can and must "live," but that he, Keats, rejects the myth which Milton incarnates, and refutes Milton's apocalyptic element Thus, through form, he silently declaims predestination and the need for a saviour to mediate between this world and the next, and proclaims personal responsibility. I think it is fair to say that Canto 1 represents the stage of spiritual development that Keats defines as the second stage in the "Chamber of Maiden-Thought," where we "are in a Mist . . . We feel the 'burden of the Mystery'" (Letters, I. 281); this stage is the "Antichamber of this dream," and Canto 2 represents the dreamer's entering into the Third Chamber of Thought So those who dare to pass beyond the Antichamber of this dream alone, with only memory as guide and intermediary between this realm and the transcendent realm enter into Canto 2. f "Mortal that thou mayst understand aright, I humanize my sayings to thine ear, Making comparisons of earthly things; Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees — In melancholy realms big tears are shed, More sorrow like to this, and suchlike woe, Tpo_hug_eJb^morta^toiigue^ qr_ pen of scribe. The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, Groan for the old allegiance once more, Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. But one of our whole eagle-brood still keeps His Sov'reignty, and Rule, and Majesty; Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up From man to the sun's God: yet unsecure, For as upon the Earth dire prodigies Fright and perplex, so also shudders he: Nor at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's Even screech, Or the familiar visitings of one Upon the first toll of his passing bell: \ But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,  ^Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, / Bastion d with pyramids of glowing gold, ' And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks, Glares a blood red through all the thousand Courts, Arches, and domes, and fiery galeries; And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds Flush angerly: when he would taste the wreaths Of incense breath'd aloft from sacred hills, Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes Savour qf_ pdsonous_brass _and_metals _sicL_ _ _ Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West, ' After the full completion of fair day, For rest divine upon exalted couch ^ And slumber in the arms of melody, \ He paces through the pleasant hours of ease, I With stride colossal, on from Hall to Hall; / While, far within each aisle and deep recess, ' His winged minions in close clusters stand Amaz'd, and full of fear; like anxious men Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops, When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers. Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy trance Goes, step for step, with Thea from yon woods, Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, Is sloping to the threshold of the west —  Thither we tend." \ Now in clear light I stood, Reliev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne /Was sitting on a square edg'd polish'd stone, { That in its lucid depth reflected pure \ Her priestess-garments. My quick eyes ran on 80 From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, Thro' bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light, And diamond paved lustrous long arcades. Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion; His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels, And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours And made their dove-wings tremble: on he flared (The Fall of Hyperion, II. 1-61) The verse paragraph opens with new material which gives voice to the dreamer's concern with the necessity to "humanize . . . language" (II. 2-5), implying that language cannot be beautiful unless it communicates "the high phrase" (I. 468) in a form through which the listener understands the "sayings" (II. 2) to be "the truth" (I. 452). Then, Hyperion's sixth verse paragraph is repeated, with several minor changes and a few major omissions: "or prophesyings of the midnight lamp" (Hyperion, I. 174) is omitted; between "Flush angerly" and "when he would taste. . . . " (II. 30), almost four lines are omitted (Hyperion, I. 182-85); and the last nine lines of the verse paragraph are replaced by new material which reintroduces the dreamer; then, the first line of Hyperion's seventh verse paragraph is omitted, but the following seven lines are included, as a set of four (Hyperion, I. 214-217) and a set of three (Hyperion, I. 218-20), but in reverse order and separated by a new line (II. 57). The effect of these revisions is that the verse paragraph is organized like the first part of a canzone: the fronte splits into parallel piedi which are almost equal in length; the first piedi opens with a nine-line sentence which sets the scene for the dreamer's observation of Hyperion, and the remaining fourteen-and-one-half lines describe Hyperion; the second piedi opens with an nine-and-one-half line sentence which sets the scene for the dreamer's observation of Hyperion in his palace, and the remaining fifteen-and-one-half lines describe him there. Rhyme connects the chiave with fhe fronte "woods" and "stood") and alliteration connects the chiave with the sirima ("stood" and "stone"). The chiave also links the fronte with the sirima by virtue of the fact that the directive words, "Thither we tend," transport the dreamer 81 to Hyperion's palace, which is described in the fronte, and in which he finds himself in the sirima. The speaker of these "sayings" is unidentified; yet the words are enclosed in quotation marks and are embodied in the extremely long fronte of a canzone which has a comparatively short, unfinished sirima. Also, the chiave seems to effect a translation; the dreamer now stands "in clear light . . . I Relieved from the dusk vale" (II. 49-50) of Soul-making, the world from which he is apotheosized. Yet his "quick," alive, "eyes ran on" (II. 53), and "on Hyperion flared" (II. 61). The scene that the dreamer should survey upon being transported to Hyperion's palace is described while he is still in the dusk vale. Yet, we feel that the dreamer is actually there, as though he can perceive scenes and events he has not yet seen; he can "feel them to the full [because] he has gone the same steps as the Author" (Letters, I. 281); he has "proved upon his pulses" (Letters, I, 279) the universal painful pleasure, the bliss and the agonies and strife that are the human condition. His apotheosis removes the Mist, and Keats's dreamer gains the transcendental realm by attaining his full potential as a mortal, as a human being with the capacity to understand and to communicate with his fellow man, the capacity to love; hence, through the "proper action of Mind and Heart on each other for the purpose of forming the Soul or Intelligence destined to possess the sense of Identity" (Letters, II. 102), the dreamer becomes a true Poet who can explore the dark Passages, make discoveries, and shed a light in them (Letters, I. 281), because he is inspired. The "sayings" are in quotation marks because it is through the inspired poet that "Poesy alone can tell her dreams," and the quotation marks represent the other-worldliness, the mystic quality that distinguishes prophetic vision from fanatic dreams. Moreover, the canzone is predominantly fronte, and the poem is open-ended, because the sirima represents the celestial realm, and "all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" ("Grecian Urn," 49-50) does not include knowledge of life here after. The poem sets in the 82 Aurorean splendour of "Hyperion's palace," in twilight, which is both the sunset and the dawn, an end and a beginning. IV. CONCLUSION It cannot be denied that there is a certain degree of subjectivity involved in determining the manner in which a verse paragraph divides itself into symmetrical or non-symmetrical segments, and in detecting the presence of an unrhymed sonnet- or canzone- like passage, particularly if that sometimes almost amorphous form is not isolated in a speech. Neither can it be denied, though, that poetry does divide itself into segments of action and thought, "natural" segments to which I have adhered in proposing the "formal" segments discussed in this paper. Nevertheless, other readers may perceive other underlying forms in the blank verse of the Hyperion poems. After all, various readers have regarded the Keatsian ode stanza as having been derived from diverse traditional forms — the sonnet, the Pindaric ode, and the canzone. And we have seen that all of these views are, to some extent, viable, and that each of them can, to some extent, be convincingly argued. Yet, none can be accepted as a complete argument, because it is the very presence of all that makes Keats's ode form what it is — a formal symbol of Negative Capability and of the Soul-making philosophy expressed in the poems. The Keatsian ode stanza developed through Keats's "capacity to remain in uncertainty [and] doubt" in the handling of poetic form — to resist confining himself to either one alternative or another — not only to explore various possibilities in isolation, but also, to modify and blend these alternatives in original ways to present hitherto unimagined possibilities. Surely, this is exactly what we might expect from a poet who knows that we can live authentic lives only if we transcend the world of appearances and sensation, dispelling illusions by counterbalancing all the possibilities in a coherent and dynamically progressive manner. By observing the process through which Keats developed his unique ode form, we have seen that, even though he did not profess to employ and modify traditional forms to enhance the "message" of his poetry, he did do so: his Keatsian odes stand 83 84 as concrete proof of this practice. Also, he was "convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing the top thing in the world; the Paradise Lost becomes a greater wonder" (Letters, II. 146). Therefore, we must conclude that it is no coincidence that Keats perfectly matches his pairings of form and content to those which Milton preferred: that spiritual love is expressed in the Petrarchan sonnet, the sonnet form which Milton exclusively employed for that purpose; and that the resolutions of crucial stages in the poet's development, Keats's "lofty theme," are embodied in the canzoni of Lycidas. And, in the light of Keats's belief in individual freedom and responsibility, it is with perfect decorum that he reverses the apocalyptic significance of Milton's use of these forms, presenting his character's final resolutions as beginnings rather than ends, as efficient, rather than final causes. Even if we hesitate to define the underlying structure of Hyperion's blank verse as couplets, and that of The Fall of Hyperion as the sonnet and canzone, we cannot deny that the blank verse of one is immensely different from that of the other: it would be impossible to propose that sonnet- and canzone-like passages appear in Hyperion, whereas their presence in The Fall can be feasibly argued. Also, we must consider that at least one-quarter of The Fall is composed of material from Hyperion, material that is modified and blended with new material, or, in the case of Thea's speech, merely modified, in such a way that the blank verse of the earlier poem is both included in and subsumed by the form of the later poem in the same way as the sonnet, the canzone, and the Pindaric ode are both contained in and subsumed by the Keatsian ode stanza. The speaker in the odes counterbalances possibilities, and struggles to reconcile the material and the ideal in a symbolic act: achieving Identity as a poet The ode form in which the struggle and the act are embodied symbolizes the harmonious reconciliation and transcendence for which he strives. The speaker in The Fall repeats this performance on a universal level, endeavouring to reconcile the tragic tribalism of 85 Hyperion with the personal triumph of the odes' speaker in a symbolic act: composing poetry that has universal value and meaning. Appropriately, and in the same manner as he did in devising his ode form, Keats symbolizes that reconciliation of the material and the ideal, the personal and the universal, in blank verse which combines the "couplets" of Hyperion with the lyric forms from which his ode form springs. In both, the Imagination is the unifying principle, the essence of the intuitive reason which moves through sensation and knowledge to understanding. Keats's ode sequence and his Hyperion poems are the works in which he expresses most candidly his doctrine of Soul-making and demonstrates most overtly the Negative Capability which is the prime requirement for developing one's unique Identity. Interestingly, but not surprisingly, the ode sequence and the Hyperion poems are simultaneously fragments and lyrically complete poetical works. The ode sequence tells the story of the poet's artistic development, but ends with autumn's gathering swallows providing a consolation and a promise in the Autumn ode's final golden line — a line which, in the holograph, ends with a dash, not a period (Gittings, pp. 58-59). The early Hyperion poem is entitled Hyperion: A Fragment, as it must be, because the story expressed therein is but a fragment of a drama that will continue so long as "generations press on generations." The later Hyperion poem is entitled The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream, and it must be open-ended, because Keats compares the Imagination to "Adam's dream — he awoke and found it truth" (Letters, I. 185): awakening from such a dream, a prophetic vision, is the beginning of another stage in the life-long process of discovery which is Soul-making. Also, the poem's open-endedness formally expresses Keats's belief that we must maintain Negative Capability and refrain from irritable reaching after absolute answers: answers that, in this world, are ultimately unknowable. We can be "certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart's affections and the truth of Imagination — What the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth — whether it existed before or not — for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty" {Letters, I. 184). V. BIBLIOGRAPHY Abrams, M . H. "Ode" A Glossary of Literary Terms. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971. 116-117. Bate, Walter Jackson. The Stylistic Development of Keats. New York: Modern Language Association of America; London: Oxford UP, 1945. Burke, Kenneth. A Grammar of Motives. New York: Prentice-Hall, 1945. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. "Chapter IV." Biographia Literaria. The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 4th ed. vol. 2. New York: W. W. Norton, 1979. 392-395. Finney, Claude Lee. The Evolution of Keats's Poetry. New York: Russell and Russell, 1936. Fraistat, Neil. "'Lamia' Progressing: Keats's 1820 Volume." The Poem and the Boot-Interpreting Collections of Romantic Poetry". Chapel Hi l l and London: U of North Carolina P, 1985. 95-140. 87 88 Gittings, Robert The Odes of Keats and their earliest known Manuscripts. London: Heinemann, 1970. Gleckner, Robert "The Problems of the Limited Canon." Studies in English Literature 5 (1965): 577-585. Gordon, Ian A. "Keats and the English Pindaric." Review of English Literature 8 (1967): 9-23. Havens, Raymond Dexter. The Influence of Milton on English Poetry. New York: Russell and Russell, 1961. Heath-Stubbs, John. The Ode:A History of the Ode. London: Oxford UP, 1969. Johnson, Lee M . "Milton's Blank Verse Sonnets." Milton Studies 5 (1973): 129-153. Johnson, Lee M . "Milton's Mathematical Symbol of Theodicy." Computers and Mathematics with Applications 12B. 3/4 (1986): 617-627. Keats, John. The Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H . W. Garrod. Oxford: Clarendon 89 P, 1939. Keats, John. John Keats: Complete Poems, ed. Jack Stlillinger. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1982. Luecke, Jane-Marie. "The Unequal Measures of Gregorian Chant" Measuring Old English Rhythm. Vol. 9. Literary Monographs, ed. Eric Rothstein. Madison: U of Wisconsin P, 1978. 31-48. Maddison, Carol. Apollo and the Nine. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1960. Martz, Louis L. The Poetry of Meditation. New Haven, Conn.: Yale UP, 1954. "Ode." Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1974. 585-586. Milton, John. John Milton: Complete Poems and Major Prose, ed. Merrit Y . Hughes. Indianapolis: Odyssey P, 1957. Piper, William Bowman. The Heroic Couplet. Cleveland: Case Western Reserve UP, 90 1969. Prince, F. T. "Lycidas." The Italian Element in Milton's Verse. London: Oxford UP, 1954. 71-88. Ridley, M . R. Keats's Craftsmanship. Lincoln: U of Nebraska P, 1933. Rollins, Hyder Edward, ed. The Letters of John Keats. 2 vols. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1958. Shafer, Robert. The English Ode to 1660. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1918. Sherwin, Paul. "Dying into Life: Keats's Struggle with Milton in Hyperion" PMLA 93 (1978): 383-95. Sperry, Stuart "Keats, Milton, and The Fall of Hyperion." PMLA 11 (1962): 77-84. Stillinger, Jack. John Keats: Complete Poems. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1982. 91 Van Ghent, Dorothy. Keats: The Myth of the Hero, Rev. and ed. Jeffrey Cane Robinson. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1983. Vendler, Helen The Odes of John Keats. Cambridge, Mass. and London: Belknap P of Harvard UP, 1983. Wordsworth, William. The Excursion. London, 1814. Zak, William F. "The Confirmation of Keats's Belief in Negative Capability: The 'Ode on Indolence,'" Keats-Shelley Journal 25 (1976): 55-64. 

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