lay,
Not the poor singer of an empty day.

Yet there is another side to the work of Keats, more wonderful in its
broken promise than all the soft perfections of his tender Muse. He grew
tired of imitation and ease. Weakness may exclude the world by
forgetting it; only strength can conquer the world. What if this law be
also the law of beauty? The thought inspires his last great attempt, the
fragment of _Hyperion_. Men have their dynasties and revolutions; but
the immortals also, whom men worship, must change to live.

So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
A power more strong in beauty.

And this power cannot be won by those who shirk the challenge of ugly
facts.

O folly! for to bear all naked truths,
And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
That is the top of sovereignty.

As if to enforce his thought by repetition, Keats made an allegorical
framework for his revised version of the poem. There he exhibits himself
as wandering among the delights of the garden of this life, and indulging
himself to the point of drunkenness. Awaked from his swoon, he finds
himself at the steps of the temple of fame. He is told he must climb or
die. After an agony of struggle he mounts to the top, and has speech
there with a veiled figure, who tells him that this temple is all that
has been spared in the war between the rival houses of the Gods. When he
asks why he has been saved from death, the veiled figure makes reply:

"None can usurp this height," return'd that shade,
"But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest."
* * * * *
"Are there not thousands in the world," said I,
Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
"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 sure should see
Other men here, but I am here alone."
"Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,"
Rejoined that voice; "they are no dreamers weak;
They seek no wonder but the human face,
No music but a happy-noted voice:
They come not here, they have no thought to come;
And thou art here, for thou art less than they.
What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,
To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,
A fever of thyself: think of the earth;
What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee?
What haven? every creature