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THE COMPLETE 
 
 POETICAL WORKS AND LETTERS OF 
 
 JOHN KEATS 
 
 CambriDgc CrDifion 
 
 / . y/,,,yy,.ji(:u,/ /// /J/.9 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 €bc QiOcrsfiDc preys', «iramtirii)0c 
 

 %3^ 
 
 46(>5o 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1899, BV HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 TWO COPIES RI.CE1VED. 
 
 
 i^ui/ : U (Ot)tl 
 
 «ECOND COPY, 
 
 
EDITOR'S NOTE 
 
 . HE period of Keats's poetical production was so brief, and he leaped so quickly 
 the possession of his poetical powers, that almost any arrangement of his 
 .-, Tvbich was orderly, would serve. Yet since Keats has left in all but a very 
 1 y casos indication of the date of composition, and since even delicate intimations 
 ot poetic growth in the case of so rare a genius are worth attention, I have endeav- 
 ored to make the arrangement as nearly chronological as the evidence, chiefly 
 obtainable from Keats's letters, will permit. The head-notes disclose all instances 
 where I have had to fall back on conjecture. The adoption of this order has com- 
 pelled me to disregard the grouping of the volumes published by Keats and the 
 posthumous publication by editors, but for the information of students a biblio- 
 graphical note, setting forth the historical order of publication, is given in the 
 Appendix. 
 
 The text of the poems published in Keats's three volumes has been carefully 
 collated with copies of the first editions. I am indebted to Mr. F. H. Day for the 
 opportunity of using the volumes of 1817 and 1820, and to Col. T. W. Higgin- 
 sou for Endymion. In reprinting the posthumous poems I have followed some- 
 times Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters and Literary Bem.ains of John Keats, 
 London,- 1848, and the same editor's Aldine edition of 1876, sometimes Mr. 
 Sidney Colvin in his Letters of John Keats, London, 1891, where so many of 
 the poems are taken from Keats's own copy, and sometimes the text given by 
 Mr. H. Buxton Forman in his careful four volume edition, London, 1883. There 
 are a good many manuscripts, and these, together with the printed verses, have 
 a variety of readings. All variations of consequence are noted in the Appendix ; 
 it was beyond the scope of this series to give every minute alteration. For an ex- 
 hf}' ;tive statement, the curious student is referred to the invaluable edition by 
 7oriran. I have not deemed it indispensable to follow scrupulously the spell- 
 
 _, nd punctuation even of the poems whose publication was supervised by Keats, 
 1.1 it I have not wilfujly departed from either in accordance with any mere change 
 oC fashion; the spelhng conforms to the accepted spelling of Keats's day; the 
 capitalization is somewhat modified ; the punctuation is studied with reference to 
 the legibility of the passage. 
 
 For the prefatory notes I have been mainly indebted to Keats's letters, and have 
 
 endeavored, as far as possible, to put the reader in possession of such light as 
 
 Keatp himself throws on his composition. I have also, in pursuance of the plan 
 
 :^.do}i*ed for the arrangement of the poems, indicated in each instance the date, 
 
 y or approximately. In accordance with the general scheme of the Cam- 
 
 e editions, these prefatory notes are rarely critical ; they are designed to be 
 
EDITOR'S NOTE 
 
 rather historical and bibliographical. In the preparation of these notes, as also of 
 the Notes and Illustrations in the Appendix, I must again acknowledge my great 
 indebtedness to Mr. Forman. 
 
 In undertaking to assemble Keats's Coiniplete Poetical Works, I have been 
 aware that I was including some things which neither Keats nor any one else 
 would call poetical. Yet besides the contribution which verse males to beauty, 
 there is also the light which it throws on the poetical mind and "hiiacter. And 
 since the volume of Keats's production is not large, and much of his posthumous 
 poetry is rightly classed with his own acknowledged work, it seemed best to give 
 everything, but to make the natural discrimination between the poetry in the body 
 of the volume and that which follows in the division. Supplementary Verse. The 
 personality of Keats is so vivid, that just as his friends in his lifetime and after 
 his death carefully garnered every scrap which he wrote, so the friends created 
 by his life and his poetry may be trusted to know what his imperishable verse is, 
 and yet will handle affectionately even the toys he played with. 
 
 Although I have endeavored to draw from Keats's letters such passages as tl irow 
 direct light on his poetry, there yet remains an undefined scholia in the whole 1 od\ 
 of his familiar correspondence. No attentive reader of Keats's letters will fail 
 to find in these unstudied, spontaneous expressions of the poet's mind a lambent 
 light playing all over the surface of his poetry, and therefore it is not a wide 
 departure from the scheme of this series of poets to include, in the same volume 
 with Keats's poems, a collection also of his letters. This collection is complete, 
 though one or two brief notes will not be found here, because already printed in 
 the headings to poems. I have been dependent for the text mainly upon Mr. 
 Colvin, supplemented by the minute garnering of Mr. Forman. I have to thank 
 Mr. John Gilmer Speed for his courtesy in permitting the use of letters whii ii 
 he derived from the papers of his grandfather, Geoi'ge Keats. 
 
 Cambridge, August, 1899. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 PAGE 
 XV 
 
 POEMS 
 
 EARLY POEMS. 
 
 Imitation of Spenser 
 
 On Death 
 
 To Chatterton 
 
 To Byron 
 
 ' Woman ! when I behold thee flip- 
 pant, VAIN ' 
 
 To Some Ladies 
 
 On receiving a Curious Shell and a 
 Copy of Verses from the Same La- 
 dies 
 
 Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh 
 Hunt left Prison .... 
 
 To Hope 
 
 Ode to Apollo 
 
 Hymn to Apollo 
 
 To a Young Lady who sent me a 
 Laurel Crown .... 
 
 Sonnet : ' How many bauds gild the 
 lapses of time ' 
 
 Sonnet : ' Keen, fitful gusts are 
 whisp'king here and there ' 
 
 Spenserian Stanza, written at the 
 Close of Canto IL, Book V., of 
 ' The Faerie Queene ' . . . 
 
 On leaving Some Friends at an 
 Early Hour 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's 
 Homer 
 
 Epistle to George Felton Mathew 
 
 To : ' Hadst thou ltv'd in days 
 
 of old' 
 
 Sonnet: 'As from the darkening 
 gloom a silver dove ' . . . 
 
 Sonnet to Solitude .... 
 
 Sonnet : ' To one who has been long 
 IN CITY pent' 
 
 To A Friend who sent me Some Roses 
 
 Sonnet : ' Oh ! how I love, on a fair 
 summer's eve' .... 
 
 ' I STOOD tiptoe upon A LITTLE HILL ' 
 
 Sleep and Poetry .... 
 Epistle to my Brother George . 
 To my Brother George 
 
 33 
 
 33 
 
 To 'Had I a man's fair form, 
 
 then might my sighs' . 
 Specimen of an Induction to a 
 
 Poem 
 
 Calidore: a Fragment . 
 Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke 
 To My Brothers .... 
 Addressed to Benjamn Robert 
 
 Haydon. 
 
 I. 'Great spirits now on earth 
 
 ARE sojourning ' . . . . 
 
 II. ' Highmindedness, a jealousy 
 
 FOR good ' 
 
 To Kosciusko 34 
 
 To G. A. W 34 
 
 Stanzas: 'In a drear-nighted De- 
 cember' 34 
 
 Written in Disgust of Vulgar Su- 
 perstition 35 
 
 Sonnet : ' Happy is England ! I could 
 be content ' 35 
 
 On the Grasshopper and Cricket 35 
 
 Sonnet : ' After dark vapours have 
 oppress'd our plains ' . 
 
 Written on the Blank Space at the 
 END OF Chaucer's Tale of ' The 
 Floure and the Lefe' . 
 
 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles 
 
 To Haydon (with the preceding 
 sonnet) 
 
 To Leigh Hunt, Esq 
 
 On the Sea 
 
 Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen ' 37 
 
 On 'Think not of it, sweet 
 
 ONE, so' 38 
 
 On a Picture of Leander . . 38 
 
 On Leigh Hunt's Poem ' The Story 
 OF RnnNi' 38 
 
 Sonnet : ' When I have fears that 
 i may cease to be ' . . . 39 
 
 On seeing a Lock op Milton's Hair 39 
 
 On sitting down to read ' King 
 Lear' once again . . . .40 
 
 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern . 40 
 
 36 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 Robin Hood 41 
 
 To THE Nile 41 
 
 To Spenser 42 
 
 Song written on a Blank Page in 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's Works 
 BETWEEN ' Cupid's Revenge ' and 
 'The Two Noble Kinsmen' . 42 
 Fragment : ' Welcome Joy and wel- 
 come Sorrow' 42 
 
 What the Thrush said ... 43 
 In Answer to a Sonnet ending thus : 
 
 ' Dark eyes are dearer far 
 Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell.' . 43 
 
 To John Hamilton Reynolds . . 44 
 The Human Seasons ... 44 
 
 ENDYMION 45 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819. 
 
 .Isabella, or the Pot of Basil . 110 
 
 '' To Homer 119 
 
 Fragment op an Ode to Maia . 119 
 Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! 
 
 hush, hush, my dear ! ' . . . 120 
 Verses written during a Tour in 
 Scotland. 
 I. On Visiting the Tomb of 
 
 Burns 120 
 
 II. To Ailsa Rock . , . .121 
 in. Written in the Cottage 
 
 where Burns was born . 121 
 rV. At Fingal's Cave . . .122 
 V. Written upon the Top of 
 
 Ben Nevis .... 123 
 Translation from a Sonnet of Ron- 
 sard 123 
 
 To A Lady seen for a Few Moments 
 
 AT Vauxhall 123 
 
 Fancy 124 
 
 Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of 
 
 Mirth' 125 
 
 Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet 
 
 dove died ' 125 
 
 Ode on Melancholy .... 126 
 The Eve of St. Agnes . . . 127 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn . . . 134 
 Ode on Indolence .... 135 
 Sonnet: 'Why did I laugh to- 
 night? No voice will tell' . 137 
 
 Ode to Fanny 137 
 
 A Dream, after reading Dante's 
 Episode op Paolo and Francesca 138 
 ■^ La Belle Dame sans Merci . . 139 
 i Chorus of Faxribs .... 140 
 Faery Songs: 
 I. Shed no tear! O sbced no 
 tear! 141 
 
 II. Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver- 
 wing ! 14: 
 
 On Fame 14: 
 
 Another on Fame . . . .14! 
 
 To Sleep 14'. 
 
 Ode to Psyche .... 14'. 
 Sonnet : ' Ip by dull rhymes our 
 
 English must be chain'd' . . 14^ 
 Ode to a Nightingale . . . 14< 
 Lamia . . 14( 
 
 TRAGEDIES. 
 
 Otho the Great : a tragedy in five 
 ACTS 15i 
 
 King Stephen: a dramatic frag- 
 ment 19i 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. MARK . . 19( 
 
 HYPERION: A FRAGMENT . . 19i 
 
 TO AUTUMN 2ir 
 
 VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE. 
 
 Sonnet: 'The day is gone and all 
 ITS sweets are gone' . . .214 
 
 Lines to Fanny 214 
 
 To Fanny : ' I cry your mercy — 
 
 PITY — LOVE — AY, LOVE ! ' . . 2H 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS; OR, THE 
 JEALOUSIES 21( 
 
 THE LAST SONNET . . . . 23S 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE. 
 I. Hyperion: a Vision . . 23; 
 
 II. Fragments: 
 
 I. ' Where 's the Poet ? show 
 
 HIM ! SHOW him ' . . .238 
 II. Modern Love ... 238 
 
 III. Fragment op 'The Castle 
 
 Builder' 239 
 
 IV. Extracts from an Opera : 
 
 ' O ! WERE I one op THE 
 
 Olympian twelve ' . 23S 
 Daisy's Song . . . .239 
 Folly's Song . . .240 
 
 'O, I AM FRIGHTEN'd with 
 
 most hateful thoughts ! ' 240 
 Song : ' The stranger 
 
 lighted prom his steed ' 240 
 ' Asleep ! O sleep a little 
 
 WHILE, WHITE PEARL ! ' . 240 
 
 III. Familiar Verses : 
 Stanzas to Miss Wylie ... 240 
 Epistle to John Hamilton Rey- 
 nolds 240 
 
 A Draught of Sunshine . . .242 
 At Te-?-tmottth 242 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 IX 
 
 The Devon Maid .... 243 
 Acrostic : Geokgiana Augusta Keats 243 
 
 Meg Merrilies 243 
 
 A Song about myself . . . 244 
 
 To Thomas Keats 245 
 
 The Gadfly 245 
 
 On hearing the Bagpipe and seeing 
 ' The Stranger ' played at Inver- 
 
 ARY 246 
 
 Lines written in the Highlands 
 
 AFTER A Visit to Burns's Country 246 
 Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis • 247 
 
 Sharing Eve's Apple • . . . 248 
 A Prophecy: to George Keats in 
 
 America .... , . 249| 
 A Little Extempore . . . . 249 
 Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Ar- ' 
 
 MiTAGE Brown .... 250 
 
 ' Two OR THREE POSIES ' . . . 251 
 
 A Party of Lovers . . . .251 
 To George Keats: written in sick- 
 ness 251 
 
 On Oxford , 252 
 
 To A Cat 252 
 
 LETTERS 
 
 1. Charles Cowden Clarke October 31, 1816 . 
 
 2. The Same December 17, 1816 
 
 3. John Hamilton Reynolds March 2, 1817 . . 
 
 4. The Same March 17, 1817 . 
 
 5. George and Thomas Keats April 15, 1817 . . 
 
 6. John Hamilton Reynolds April 17, 1817 . . 
 
 7. Leigh Hunt May 10, 1817 . . 
 
 8. Benjamin Robert Haydon May 10, 1817 . . 
 
 9. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey May 16, 1817 . . 
 
 10. The Same July 8, 1817 . . 
 
 11. Marlvne and Jane Reynolds September 5, 1817 . 
 
 12. Fanny Keats September 10, 1817 
 
 13. Jane Reynolds September 14, 1817 
 
 14. John Hamilton Reynolds September 21, 1817 
 
 15. The Same September, 1817 . 
 
 16. Benjamin Robert Haydon . . September 28, 1817 
 
 17. Benjamin Bailey October 8, 1817 . . 
 
 18. The Same November 1, 1817 
 
 19. Thf Same November 5, 1817 . 
 
 20. Charles Wbntworth Dilke November, 1817 . 
 
 21. Benjamin Bailey November 22, 1817 
 
 22. John Hamilton Reynolds November 22, 1817 
 
 23. George and Thomas Keats December 22, 1817 
 
 24. The Same January 5, 1818 . 
 
 . 25. Benjamin Robert Haydon January 10, 181S 
 
 26. John Taylor January 10, 1818 . 
 
 27. George and Thomas Keats January 13, 1818 
 
 28. John Taylor January 23, 1818 . 
 
 29. George and Thomas Keats January 23, 1818 
 
 30. Benjamin Bailey January 23, 1818 . 
 
 31. John Taylor . January 30, 1818 
 
 32. John Hjucilton Reynolds January 31, 1818 . 
 
 33. The Same February 3, 1818 
 
 34. John Taylor February 5, 1818 . 
 
 35. George and Thomas Keats February 14, 1818 
 
 36. John Hamilton Reynolds February 19, 1818 
 
 37. George and Thomas Keats February 21, 1818 
 
 38. John Taylor February 27, 1818 
 
 39. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey March, 1818 . . 
 
 40. Benjamin Bailey March 13, 1818 
 
 41. John Hamilton Reynolds March 14, 
 
 . 255 
 . 255 
 
 . 255 
 . 255 
 
 . 256 
 . 257 
 
 . 258 
 . 260 
 
 . 262 
 , 263 
 
 . 263 
 . 264 
 
 . 265 
 . 267 
 
 . 269 
 . 269 
 
 . 270 
 . 271 
 
 . 27? 
 . 2731 
 
 .273" 
 , 275 
 
 . 276 
 . 277 
 
 . 279 
 , 280 
 
 . 280 
 , 281 
 
 . 281 
 . 283 
 
 . 284 
 , 285 
 
 . 285 
 , 28(; 
 
 . 286 
 , 287 
 
 . 288 
 , 289 
 
 . 290 
 "90 
 
 . 92 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 42. Benjamin Robekt Haydon March 21, 1818 
 
 43. Messrs. Taylor and Hessey March 21, 1818 . 
 
 4^1. James Rice March 24, 1818 . 
 
 45. John Hamilton Reynolds March 25, 1818 . 
 
 46. Benjamin Robert Haydon April 8, 1818 . . 
 
 47. John Hamilton Reynolds April 9, 1818 . . 
 
 48. The Same April 10, 1818 . . 
 
 49. John Taylor April 24, 1818 . 
 
 50. John Hamilton Reynolds April 27, 1818 . . 
 
 51. The Same May 3, 1818 . . 
 
 52. Mrs. Jeffrey May, 1818 . . . 
 
 53. Benjamin Balley May 28, 1818 . . 
 
 54. Misses M. and S. Jeffrey June 4, 1818 . . 
 
 55. Benjamin Bailey June 10, 1818 . 
 
 56. John Taylor June 21, 1818 . 
 
 57. Thomas Keats June 29, 1818 , 
 
 .58. Fanny Keats July 2, 1818 . . . 
 
 59. Thomas Keats July 2, 1818 . . 
 
 60. The Same July 10, 1818 . 
 
 61. John Hamilton Reynolds July 11, 1818 . . 
 
 62. Thomas Keats July 17, 1818 . , 
 
 63. Benjamin Bailey July 18, 1818 . . 
 
 64. Thomas Keats , July 23, 1818 . , 
 
 65. The Same August 3, 1818 . 
 
 66. Mrs. Wylie August 6, 1818 . . 
 
 67. Fanny Keats August 18, 1818 
 
 68. The Same August 25, 1818 , 
 
 69. Jane Reynolds September 1, 1818 
 
 70. Charles Wentworth Dilke September 21, 1818 
 
 71. John Hamilton Reynolds September 22, 1818 
 
 72. Fanny Keats October 9, 1818 . 
 
 73. James Augustus Hessey October 9, 1818 
 
 74. George and Georgiana Keats October 13-31, 1818 
 
 75. Fanny Keats October 16, 1818 . 
 
 76. The Same October 26, 1818 . 
 
 77. Richard Woodhouse October 27, 1818 . 
 
 78. Fanny Keats November 5, 1818 
 
 79. James Rice November 24, 1818 
 
 80. Fanny Keats December 1, 1818 . 
 
 81. George and Georgiana Keats December 18, 1818 
 
 82. Richard Woodhouse December 18, 1818 
 
 83. Mrs. Reynolds December 22, 1818 
 
 84. Benjamin Robert Haydon December 22, 1818 
 
 85. John Taylor December 24, 1818 . 
 
 86. Benjamin Robert Haydon December 27, 181 s 
 
 87. Fanny Keats . December 30, 1818 
 
 88. Benjamin Robert Haydon January 4, 1819 . 
 
 89. The Same January 7, 1819 . 
 
 90. The Same January, 1819 . . 
 
 91. Fanny Keats January, 1819 . . 
 
 92. Charles Wentworth Dilke and Mrs. Dilke . . January 24, 1819 . 
 
 93. Fanny Keats February 11, 1819 . 
 
 94. George and Georgiana Keats February 14, 1819 
 
 95. Fanny Keats February 27, 1819 
 
 96. Benjamin Robert Haydon March 8, 1819 , . 
 
 97. Fanny Keats March 13, 1819 . . 
 
 98. The Same March 24, 1819 . 
 
 y 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS xi 
 
 9. Joseph Severn March 29 (?), 1819 . . .373 
 
 It^O. Benjamin Robert Haydon April 13, 1819 .... 373 
 
 10(1. Fanny Keats Aprill3, 1819 . . . . 374 
 
 102. The Same April 17, 1819 .... 375 
 
 103. The Same May 13, 1819 . . . .375 
 
 104. William Haslam May 13, 1819 .... 375 
 
 105. Fanny Keats May 26, 1819 . . . .376 
 
 106. Miss Jeffrey May 31, 1819 .... 376 
 
 107. The Same June 9, 1819 377 
 
 108. Fanny Keats June 9, 1819 . . . . 37H 
 
 109. James Elmes June 12, 1819 . . . .378 
 
 110. Fanny Keats June 14, 1819 .... 379 
 
 111. The Same June 16, 1819 .... 379 
 
 112. Benjamin Robert Haydon June 17, 1819 .... 379 
 
 113. Fanny Brawne July 3, 1819 380 
 
 114. Fanny Keats July 6, 1819 .... 381 
 
 115. Fanny Brawne July 8, 1819 382 
 
 116. John Hamilton Reynolds July 11, 1819 .... 38'i 
 
 117. Fanny Brawne July 15, 1819 383 
 
 118. The Same July 27, 1819 .... 384 
 
 119. Charles Wbntworth Dilke July 31, 1819 .... 38.5 
 
 120. Fanny Brawne August 9, 1819 . . . 38(! 
 
 121. Benjamin Bailey August 15, 1819 . . .387 
 
 122. Fanny Brawne August 16, 1819 ... 388 
 
 123. John Taylor August 23, 1819 . . .389 
 
 124. John Hamilton Reynolds August 25, 1819 . . . 390 
 
 125. Fanny Keats August 28, 1819 ... 390 
 
 126. John Taylor September 1, 1819 . . 392 
 
 127. The Same September 5, 1819 . . 392 
 
 128. Fanny Brawne September 14, 1819 . . 39:; 
 
 129. George and Georgiana Keats September 17, 1819 . . 394 
 
 130. 407 
 
 131. John Hamilton Reynolds September 22, 1819 . . 407 
 
 132. Charles Wentworth Dllke September 22, 1819 . . 409 
 
 133. Charles Armitage Brown September 23, 1819 . .410 
 
 134. The Same September 23, 1819 . , 41 1 
 
 135. Charles Wentworth Dilke October 1, 1819 . . . 412 
 
 136. Benjamin Robert Haydon October 3, 1819 ... 412 
 
 137. Fanny Brawne October 11, 1819 . . .4]) 
 
 138. The Same October 13, 1819 . . . 41-". 
 
 139. Fanny Keats October 16, 1819 . . .414 
 
 140. Fanny Brawne October 19, 1819 ... 434 
 
 141. Joseph Severn October 27, 1819 . . . 415 
 
 142. John Taylor November 17, 1819 . . 415 
 
 143. Fanny Keats November 17, 1819 . . 41(; 
 
 144. Joseph Severn December 6, 1819 . . 41 6 
 
 145. James Rice December, 1819 . . . 41*! 
 
 146. Fanny Keats December 20, 1819 . . 417 
 
 147. The Same December 22, 1819 . .4'^ 
 
 148. Georgiana Augusta Keats January 13, 1820 . . . 4)8 
 
 149. Fanny Brawne 423 
 
 150. Fanny Keats February 6, 1820 . . . 4;^3 
 
 151. The Same February 8, 1820 . . . 424 
 
 152. Fanny Brawne 424 
 
 153. The Same 424 
 
 154. Fanny Keats February 11, 1820 . . 425 
 
 155. The Same February 14, 1820 ... 425 
 
xii , TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 15G. Fanny Brawne 425 
 
 157. The Same 425 
 
 ir.8. The Same 426 
 
 159. James Rice , February 10, 1820 . . .426 
 
 160. Fanny Keats February 19, 1820 . . 427 
 
 161. Fanny Brawne 427 
 
 162. The Same 427 
 
 163. The Same 428 
 
 164. John Hamilton Reynolds February 23, 1820 . . 428 
 
 165. Fanny Brawne 429 
 
 166. Fanny Keats February 24, 1820 . . 429 
 
 167. Fanny Brawne 429 
 
 168. The Same 429 
 
 169. The Same 430 
 
 170. The Same 430 
 
 171. The Same 430 
 
 172. The Same 430 
 
 173. Charles Wentworth Dilke March 4, 1820 . . . .431 
 
 174. Fanny Brawne 432 
 
 175. The Same 432 
 
 176. The Same 432 
 
 177. The Same 432 
 
 178. Fanny Keats March 20, 1820 ... 433 
 
 179. Fanny Brawne 433 
 
 180. The Same 433 
 
 181. The Same . . . - 433 
 
 182. Fanny Keats April 1, 1820 .... 434 
 
 183. The Same AprQ, 1820 434 
 
 184. The Same April 12, 1820 .... 434 
 
 185. The Same April 21, 1820 .... 435 
 
 186. The Same May 4, 1820 .... 435 
 
 187. Charles Wentworth Dilke May, 1820 436 
 
 188. Fanny Brawne 436 
 
 189. The Same 436 
 
 190. The Same 436 
 
 191. John Taylor . June 11, 1820 .... 437 
 
 192. Charles Armitage Brown June, 1820 . . . ... 437 
 
 193. Fanny Keats June 26, 1820 .... 438 
 
 194. Fanny Brawne • . 438 
 
 195. Fanny Keats July 5, 1820 439 
 
 196. Benjamin Robert Haydon July, 1820 440 
 
 197. Fanny Keats July 22, 1820 .... 440 
 
 198. Fanny Brawne 440 
 
 199. The Same 441 
 
 200. Fanny Keats August 14, 1820 ... 442 
 
 201. Percy Bysshe Shelley August, 1820 .... 442 
 
 202. John Taylor August 14, 1820 ... 443 
 
 203. Benjamin Robert Haydon August, 1820 .... 444 
 
 204. John Taylor August 15, 1820 ... 444 
 
 205. Charles Armitage Brown August, 1820 .... 444 
 
 206. Fanny Keats August 23, 1820 ... 445 
 
 207. Charles Armitage Brown August, 1820 .... 445 
 
 208. September, 1820 . . .445 
 
 209. Charles Armitage Brown September 28, 1820 . . 446 
 
 210. Mrs. Brawne October 24, 1820 ... 447 
 
 211. Charles Armitage Brown November 1, 1820 . . 447 
 
 212. The Same , November 30, 1820 . . 448 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS xiii 
 N(!tes and illustrations. 
 
 JL. Poems 451 
 
 n. Letters 459 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OP KEATS'S POEMS 463 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES • 465 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 467 
 
 INDEX TO LETTERS 471 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 John Keats was born in Finsbury, London, on either the 29th or the 31st of 
 October, 1795. He died in an apartment overlooking the Piazza di Spagna, 
 Rome, February 23, 1821. Thus his life was a brief span of a few months more 
 than twenty-five years, and as his first acknowledged verses were written in the 
 autumn of 1813, and his last sonnet was composed in the autumn of 1820, his 
 poetical career was seven years long. Within that time he composed the verses 
 included in this volume, yet by far the largest portion may be referred to the three 
 years 1818-1820, and if one distilled the whole, the precious deposit would be but 
 a few hundred lines. For all that, perhaps because of it, and because Keats with 
 his warm human passion wrote what is almost an autobiography in his letters, we 
 are able to get a tolerably clear notion of his early training and associations, and 
 to follow quite closely the development of his nature after he began to devote him- 
 self to poetry. 
 
 His father, Thomas Keats, was not a Londoner by birth, but came from the 
 country to the town early, and was head hostler in a livery stable before he was 
 twenty. He married Frances Jennings, the daughter of his master, who thereupon 
 retired from business, leaving it in the hands of his son-in-law. The young couple 
 lived over the stable at first, but when their family increased, they removed to a 
 house in the neighborhood. John Keats was the first born. He had two brothers 
 and a sister who grew to maturity. George Keats was sixteen months his junior ; 
 Thomas was four years younger, and Fanny, who was born in 1803, was a girl of 
 ten when John Keats was making his first serious ventures in poetry. 
 
 The little that is known of Keats's parents is yet sufficient to show them persons 
 of generous qualities and lively temperament. They were prosperous in their 
 lives, and meant to better the condition of their children, so they sent the boys to 
 good schools. The father died when John Keats was in his tenth year, and his 
 mother shortly after married a man who appears to have been her husband's suc- 
 cessor in business as well as in affections, but the marriage proved an unhappy 
 one ; there was a separation, and the stepfather scarcely came into the boy's life to 
 affect him for good or for ill. He was still a school-boy, not yet fifteen, when 
 his mother died, and he grieved for her with the force of a passionate nature that 
 through a short life was to find various modes of expressing its keen sensibility. 
 
 As Keats went early to school, the influences which came most forcibly into his 
 boyhood were from his brothers and schoolmates. Tom, the youngest brother, was 
 always frail. George, who was nearer John's age, was like him in spirit and more 
 robust. His recollections of his brothers, written after both Tom and John had 
 died, are frank enough to make the relation undoubtedly truthful : — 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 ' I loved .him [John] from hoyhood, even when he wronged me, for the goo 
 I ess of his heart and the nobleness of his spirit. Before we left school we qua 
 telled often, and fought fiercely, and I can safely say and my schoolfellows w; 
 bear witness, that John's temper was the cause of all, still we were more attache > 
 than brothers ever are. From the time we were boys at school, where we loved 
 jfltngled and fought alternately, until we separated in 1818, I in a great measure 
 r llieved him by continual sympathy, explanation and inexhaustible spirits an( 
 good humor, from many a bitter fit of hypochondriasm. He avoided teasing an^ 
 one with his miseries but Tom and myself, and often asked our forgiveness ; vent 
 ing and discussing them gave him relief.' 
 
 The school which the boys attended was kept by the Rev. John Clarke at En 
 field, and a son of Mr. Clarke was Charles Cowden Clarke, the 'ever young 
 hearted ' as his happy-natured wife calls him, who was seven or eight years th( 
 senior of John Keats, but became his intimate friend and remained such througl 
 b\s life. Clarke's own reminiscence of his friend seenas to fill out George Keats'; 
 s" etch : — 
 
 ' He was a favorite with all. Not the less beloved was he for having a highb 
 p'lgnacious spirit, which when roused was one of the most picturesque exhibition; 
 — off the stage — I ever saw. . . . His passion at times was almost ungoverna 
 ble ; and his brother George, being considerably the taller and stronger, used fre 
 niiently to hold him down by main force, laughing when John was in one of hi 
 
 oods, and was endeavoring to beat him. It was all, however, a wisp-of-strav 
 ."onflagration ; for he had an intensely tender affection for his brothers, and provec! 
 it upon the most trying occasions. He was not merely the favorite of all, like i 
 pet prize-fighter, for his terrier courage ; but his highmindedness, his utter uncc n 
 sciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his generosity, wrought so general s 
 feeling in his behalf that I never heard a word of disapproval from any one, supe 
 ■ or or equal, who had known him.' 
 
 The reader will look in vain for any signs of a polemic nature in Keats's verse 
 but it is easy enough to find witness to his moodiness, as in such a sonnet as tha 
 Ix^ginning : — 
 
 ' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell,' 
 
 d of the ungovernable passion there is evidence enough in his later life, thougl 
 
 it took then another form. Yet the boyish impulsiveness which had its rude ex 
 
 !)ression in animal spirits turned in youth into a headlong eagerness for booki 
 
 fore, during, and after school hours. According to Charles Cowden Clarke h( 
 
 m all the literature prizes of the school, and took upon himself for fun the trans 
 
 don of the entire ^neid into prose. He read voraciously, and the same friend 
 
 says : ' In my mind's eye I now see him at supper, sitting back on the form f I'om 
 
 the table, holding the folio volume of Burnet's History of his Own Time between 
 
 himseU and the table, eating his meal from behind it. This work, and Leigh 
 
 If unt's Examiner, which my father took in, and I used to lend to Keats — no 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 doubt laid the foundation of his love of civil and religious liberty.' Still moro 
 definite in its relation to his art was the intimate acquaintance he then formed with 
 Tooke's Pantheon and Lenipriere's Dictionary. 
 
 The death of Keats's mother brought an interruption to his schooling. The 
 grandmother, who was still living, created a trust for the benefit of the Keats chil- 
 idren, and committed its care to two guardians, one of whom, Mr. Richard Abbey, 
 jwas the active trustee, and though the fund seems to have been reasonably suffi- 
 cient to protect the young people against the ordinary demands for a living, both 
 John and George Keats seem always to have been sorely pinched for means. Mv. 
 Abbey at once removed John Keats from school and had him apprenticed to a 
 surgeon, Mr. Hammond, for a term of five years. Mr. Hammond lived at Edmoi - 
 jn, not far from Enfield, and Keats was wont to walk over to the Clarkes' once a 
 week or oftener to see his friends and borrow books. 
 
 He was just fifteen when he began thus to equip himself for a place in the world, 
 and for a little more than five years he was in training for the practice of medicine 
 and surgery. His apprenticeship to Mr. Hammond did not last as long as this, for 
 the indentures were cancelled about a year before the term expired, but Keats then 
 went up to London to continue his studies at St. Thomas's and Guy's hospitals. 
 He passed with credit his examination as licentiate at Apothecaries' Hall, July 26, 
 1815, and received an appointment at Guy's in the March following. It does not 
 appear exactly when he abandoned his profession. It may be said, with some 
 truth, that he never actually abandoned it in intention ; he held it in reserve as 
 a possible resort, but it seems doubtful if he ever took up the practice for- 
 r ally outside the walls of the hospital. Once when his friend Charles Cowdei> 
 Clarice asked him about his attitude toward his profession, he expressed his grave 
 doubt if he should go on with it. 'The other day,' be said to him, 'during 
 the lecture, there came a sunbeam into the room, and ith i< a whole troop of 
 creatures floating in the ray; and I was off with theia 'o Obei'oi; nd fairy land.' 
 ' My last operation,' he told another man, ' was the opering of a man's temporal 
 artery. I did it with the utmost nicety, but refle.-ting or. what passed through mj 
 mind at the time, my dexterity seemed a miracle, and I never took up the lancet 
 again.' 
 
 It may be assumed that not later than thf. sunimer of 1816, when Keats was 
 app 'oaching his majority, he laid aside his instninients, never to resume them. It 
 is bt easy to reckon the contribution wliich tliese years of study and of brie 
 prav^tice in the medical art made to his intellectual, much less to his poetical 
 development. With his active mind he no doobr- appropriated some facts — per- 
 haps we owe to his studies some lines in hift verse, as that in ' Isabella,' where in 
 describing the Ceylon diver contributing ^o ihe brothers' wealth, he says : — 
 
 ' For them his ears ijush'd blood ; ' 
 
 but it is more probable that, like many another young student, he went through his 
 tasks with sufficient fidelity to secure^ proper credit, but without any of that devo- 
 
xviii JOHN KEATS 
 
 ~^! ! I \ , a poeti< 
 
 tiou which is the only real ' learning by heart. It is more j t'le pui 
 
 'luring tlie years in which he was forming his mental habits, he - v,j.of essioi ' 
 
 atellectual exercise while he was obeying instinctively the voice^ ^-^ y^j^^j^g g„f • | 
 liim more and more loudly. " .''pieces from ' I 
 
 ^^-^The actual record of his poetry up to this date of the summ^ -ferred to this 
 extensive, but it is indicative of his growing power, of his tastv ■" - n ofi 
 
 observation, of his companionship, and most notably of his cons^i, ;ss < , .^ 
 poetic spirit. Along with a few pieces like the lines ' To Some Ladies,' y ■, i 
 show how little skill he had in making poetry a mere parlor maid, there are j Vemf 
 Avhich show how he was struggling to do what other poets have done, as the lines 
 To Hope ' and the ' Ode ' and ' Hymn to Apollo.' The lines ' To Hope,' with a^ 
 : lieir formal use of poetic conventions, have an interest from the attemjjt he ma '? 
 at using the instrument he most highly valued in expressing his own moods and k 
 youthful fervor which found a suburban Hampden in Leigh Hunt. His friends!, 
 with Hunt was in part founded on an admiration for the political hissing whicl 
 Hunt and his friends kept up, and which was translated by his own independencf 
 of spirit into a valiant revolutionary sound, but more on an appreciation of Hunt',' 
 good taste in literature, his enjoyment of the Elizabethans and Milton, and his 
 literary temper. Hunt was more of a public figure than Clarke or Reynol '^ 
 James Rice, Mathew, or any other of Keats's chosen companions, but the basis /. 
 Keats's friendship, apart from his brothers, was a community pf literary taitt 
 more even than of literary production. It is a pleasure to get such glimpses a; 
 we do of this coterie exchanging books, revelling in their discovery of great author: 
 v/ho had been wr nped in the cereclotli of an antique speech, and celebrating t^ i: 
 own admiration ■ ■ these bards that ' gild the lapses of time.' It was not i 
 Examiner tha^ hli d Keats's mind, it was Spenser and Milton, Chapman a 
 Chaucer, and when ha cme away from Hunt's cottage, 'brimful of tie friend^ 
 ness ' he there had found, it was of Lycidas and Petrarch and Laura that he sau: 
 as he fared on foot in the cool bleak air. In his 'Epistle to George Feltoi 
 Mathew,' it is poetry anvl the brotherhood which springs from poetry that promp 
 the expression of friendsinp, and there is no prettier tale in literary friendshi] 
 than that which shows Keats and Clarke sitting up through the night readins 
 Chapman's Homer, and Keats ia the morning sending his friend the well-turnec 
 sonnet which has been the key that unlocks Chapman to many readers. 
 
 These early verses thus are j\ill of Keats's personal history, for he was living ir 
 the land of fancy and was rejoicing in the companionship of lovers of that land 
 but they are also witnesses to the feeling which he had for nature. It is true tlw 
 flinging of himself on the grass, afterv bein<:: pent up in the city, is to read somt 
 'debonair and gentle tale of love and laiiguishment,' and a fair summer's ev( 
 suggests thoughts of Milton's fate and Sydney's bier; nevertheless, these expres 
 8ii>ns occur in the constricted sonnet. WJtitn Keats allows himself freedom and 
 the rush of spontaneous emotion, as in the ivi.'^s ' I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, 
 the reflection of nature in mythology and pov^Uy is merely incidental to the joyou5 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 nature i!si f, a delight so genuine that it ahnost covers from sight the 
 lal, y i L.gligent beadroll of poetic subjects. Keats was born almost 
 ' "")wbells, but his school days and early youth wei-e spent in the 
 f'jnfield and Edmonton, and he escaped often from the city to 
 erely for companionship, but because there the nightingale sang, 
 V in the woods or the stroll on the heath brought him face to 
 .c jiitude which yielded indeed in his mind to pleasant converse, yet 
 
 ,s he tx ie\r well, the direct road to converse with nature. Perhaps, in the 
 'I stood tiptoe,' it is the close and loving observation of nature which first 
 ai-,et :s one's attention, but a nearer scrutiny quickly reveals that imaginative ren- 
 dering which lifts these lines far above the level of descriptive poetry. If in some 
 '' Wordsworth's s^ -.etches from nature written when he was of the same age one 
 cries a profounder consciousness of human personality and a deeper sense of 
 mental relations, one is aware also of longer stretches of purely descriptive 
 V e'rse ; with Keats there is an instant alchemy by which all sights and sounds are 
 transmuted into the elements of a poetic world. 
 
 As this poem goes on it trembles into a half dreamy rapture of the poet away 
 from all scenes into the world of visions, but it is in ' Sleei> and Poetry,' written 
 apparently at about the same time, that we discover a more precise witness to the 
 i; ^tic ideals now well formed in Keats's mind. The poet placed this piece last in 
 Ills first printed volume, as if he intended to make it his personal apology. It is in 
 pavt an impassioned plea for the freedom of imagination as against the artifices of 
 the school of Pope, but even when thus half formally reciting his creed, Keats 
 shows how little of the dogmatist there was in his nature, how little even of the 
 "vi'icjby the careless wandering of his own poem, and the unconscious expression 
 j his own delight in everything that is beautiful in nature or art ; so that as he 
 • rites his . ye takes in the walls of the room where he lies, and he falls to versify- 
 ag its contents. He thi-ills with the consciousness of being a poet, and flushes 
 •-►ver the prospect of what he may do, yet at present what he does is rather the 
 overflow of a poetic nature than the studied product of an artist. 
 
 The poems which precede ' Endymion ' are many of them chiefly interesting for 
 the hints they give thus of a nature which was gathering itself for a large leap. 
 They are, as the reader will see, tentative excursions into the airy region, and they 
 contain besides little witnesses to some of the important compelling influences which 
 were forming Keats's mind. Thus the sonnets to Haydon illustrate Keats's recog- 
 nition of Wordsworth, and also the great impression made upon him by the intro- 
 duction which Haydon gave him to Greek art. They bear evidence, too, of his 
 increasing study of Shakespeare and of his admiration for Milton, whose minor 
 poems seem at this time to have exercised much influence over his style. Hunt's 
 influence can be seen in the poems, but more indirectly than directly, for Hunt 
 with his fine taste had done much to open the way to a return of lovers of poetry 
 to the spacious days of Elizabeth. The poems are sometimes exercises, son.^t"i;nt-; 
 illuminations of a poetic mind, and they have a rare value to the student of ' m ' 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 as they disclose the mingling of great poetic traditions with tl f ; usts of 
 nature which was itself to add to tlie stock of great English v i- h. 
 
 There was ahout a year's space between Keats's abandonm ' ' 
 
 and his occupation upon a long and serious poem. The group ' 
 tied 'Early Poems' gives the product of that period. That i . ilx 
 stood tiptoe upon a little hill' to the end of the section may )•« rt. 
 time, and the first one may fairly be taken as a sort of prologue to his a(topti»i' 
 a poetical life. When he was writing these poems he was li ''ng much with 
 brothers, to whom he was warmly attached, and was in a circli of ardent frienas 
 men and women. He was an animated talker, with bursts of indignation, and a 
 prey somewhat to moods of depression. His appearance has been described by 
 many, and is thus summed up by Mr. Colvin : ^ ' A small, handS' rne, ardent-looking 
 youth — the stature little over five feet; the figure compact an" yr^i t -aed, wltl; 
 the neck thrust eagerly forward, carrying a strong and shapely head set off by 
 thickly clustering gold-brown hair ; the features powerful, finished, and mobile ; the 
 mouth rich and wide, with an expression at once combative and sensitive in the 
 extreme ; the forehead not high, but broad and strong ; the eyebrows nobly arched, 
 and eyes hazel-brown, liquid-flashing, visibly inspired — "an eye that had an in- 
 ward look, perfectly divine, like a Delphian priestess who saw visions." ' 
 
 Keats was in London and its neighborhood during most of this year, but after 
 the publication of his first volume of poems he went to the Isle of Wight and later 
 to the seashore, and soon began to occupy himself with his serious labor of 
 ' Endymion.' While he was working upon this ijoem he wrote but few verses. His 
 letters, however, show him immersed in literature and the friendships which with 
 him were so identified with literature, and kept, moreover, in a state of restless- 
 ness by what in homely phrase may be termed the growing pains of his poetic 
 nature. ' I went to the Isle of Wight,' he writes to Leigh Hunt, May 10, 1817, 
 ' thought so much about poetry, so long together, that I could not get to sleep at 
 night ; and, moreover, I know not how it was, I could not get wholesome food. 
 By this means, in a week or so, I became not over capable in my upper stories, 
 and set off pell mell for Margate, at least a hundred and fifty miles, because, 
 forsooth, I fancied that I should like my old lodging here, and could contrive to 
 do without trees. Another thing, I was too much in solitude and consequently was 
 obliged to be in continual burning of thought, as an only recourse. However, Tom 
 is with me at present, and we are very comfortable. . . . These last two days I 
 have felt more confident. I have asked myself so often why I should be a poet 
 more than other men, seeing how great a thing it is, — how great things are to be 
 gained by it, what a thing to be in the mouth of Fame, — that at last the idea has 
 grown so monstrously beyond my seeming power of attainment, that the other day 
 ^ nearly consented with myself to drop into a Phaethon. Yet 't is a disgrace to 
 
 V even in a huge attempt ; and at this moment I drive the thought from me.' 
 J .ase lines were written when Keats was deep in ' Endymion,' and with others 
 1 Keats [Men of Letters Series]. By Sidney Colvin. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 they intimate with some clearness howjeriously Keats took himself, as the saying 
 is. Much reading of great poetry had set standards for him rather than furnished 
 models. It is not difficult to trace Keats's indebtedness to other poets, so far as 
 words and turns of expression go, yet his confessed imitations show almost as con- 
 clusively as his original verse how incapable he was of merely reproducing out of 
 the quarries of other poetry his own fair buildings. His was a nature possessed 
 of poetic power, yet fed more than usual by great poetry. That he should have 
 gone by turns to ancient mythology and mediaeval romance for his themes, and 
 have treated both in a spirit of romance, was due to a large artistic endowment, 
 which bade him see both nature and humanity as subjects for composition, furnish- 
 ing images to be delighted in. He was conscious of poetic genius, and never more 
 so than wlien reading great poetry. In the presence of Shakespeare and Spenser 
 he could exclaim, ' I too am a poet,' and this was no mere excitement such as 
 hurries lesser men into clever copying, but an exhilaration which sent his pulses 
 bounding as his own conceptions rose fair to view. It was obedience to this 
 strong impulse to produce a great work of art which led him to sketch * Endymion ' 
 and try his powers upon an attack on the very citadel of poetic beauty. Fame 
 waved a wreath before him, yet it was not Fame but Poetry that really urged him 
 forward. It is not unfair to translate even a confession of desire for fame into 
 an acknowledgment of conscious power. 
 
 ' Endymion ' was published in the spring of 1818, and Keats's own attitude to- 
 ward his work at this time is well expressed in the sonnet ' When I have fears that 
 I may cease to be,' and in that written on sitting down to read King Lear once 
 again. The very completion of his task set free new fancies, and there is a spon- 
 taneity in his occasional verse and in his lettei-s which witnesses to a rapid matur- 
 ing of power and a firmness of tread. The interesting letter to Reynolds of Feb- 
 ruary 3, 1818, which contains a spirited criticism of Wordsworth and holds the 
 Robin Hood verses, is quick with gay strength, and shows the poet alert and sane. 
 
 The publication of ' Endymion ' was an important event to Keats and his circle. 
 His earlier volume, the verses which he had since written and shown, and his own 
 personality, had raised great expectations among his near friends and the few who 
 could discern poetry without waiting for the poet to be famous ; and now he was 
 staking all, as It were, upon this single throw. The book was coarsely and roughly 
 handled by the two leading reviews of the day, Blackwood' s and the Quarterly. 
 Criticism in those days was far from impersonal. A poet was condemned or 
 praised, not for his work, but for his politics, the fx'iends he associated with, his 
 religion, and anything In his private life which might be known to the reviewer. 
 Keats knew the worthlessness of much of this ci-lticlsm, but he felt nevertheless 
 keenly the hostility of what, rightly or wrongly, was looked upon as the supreme 
 court in the republic of letters. 
 
 Under other circumstances he might have felt this even more keenly, and there 
 appears to be evidence that he recurred afterward with bitterness to the attitude 
 of the reviews ; but just at this time other matters filled his mind. His brother. 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 George Keats, with his wife, went to America to try fortune in the new world, and 
 Keats immediately afterward took a long walking tour in the north with his friend 
 Brown. His letters and the few poems of travel he wrote show how ardently he 
 threw himself into this acquaintance with a new phase of nature. But he was to 
 pass through experiences which entered more profoundly into life. In December 
 of the same year, 1818, his brother Tom died. He had been his constant com- 
 panion and nurse, and was with him at his death. Then, when his whole nature 
 was deeply stirred, he came to know and ardently to love a girl who by turns fas- 
 cinated and repelled him, until he was completely enthralled, without apparently 
 finding in her the repose which his restless nature needed. 
 
 Keats's first mention of Fanny Brawne scarcely prepares one for the inroads 
 made upon him by this personage during the rest of his short life. He went to 
 live with his friend Brown after Tom's death, and Mrs. Brawne became his next- 
 door neighbor. ' She is a very nice woman,' he writes, ' and her daughter senior 
 is I think beautiful and elegant, graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. We 
 have a little tiff now and then — and she behaves a little better, or I must have 
 sheered off.' The passion which he conceived for Miss Brawne rapidly mounted 
 into a dominant place, and it is one of the marks of Keats's deeper nature, not 
 disclosed to his friends, intimate as he was with them, that for the two years which 
 intervened before he left England a dying man, he carried this passion as a sort of 
 vulture gnawing at his vitals, concealed for the most part, though not wholly. 
 Some overt expression it found, as in the ' Ode to Fanny,' the ' Lines to Fanny,' 
 and the verses addressed to the same person beginning : — 
 
 ' I cry your pity — mercy — love, ay love,' 
 and it may be traced, with little doubt, in those poems which emphasize his moods, 
 such as the ' Ode to Melancholy ' and the sonnet beginning : — 
 
 ' Why did I laugh to-night ? ' 
 and that also beginning : — 
 
 ' The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone.' 
 
 The letters contain infrequent allusions, except of course the posthumously pub- 
 lished letters to the lady herself. 
 
 But with this overmastering passion to reckon with, the student of Keats can 
 scarcely avoid regarding it as strongly influencing the poet's career during his 
 remaining days. The turbulent experience of death and love acted upon a physical 
 organism predisposed to decay, and soon it was apparent that Keats was himself 
 invaded by the disease of consumption, which had wasted his brother Tom. But 
 before this ravaging of his powers set in, that is, during the first half of 1819, when 
 he was at once deepened by sorrow and excited by love, he wrote that great group 
 of poems which begins with ' The Eve of St. Agnes ' and closes with ' Lamia.' 
 If one takes as in some respects the high-water mark of his genius the mystic ' La 
 Belle Dame sans merci,' it is not perhaps too speculative a judgment which sees 
 the keenest anguish of a passionate soul transmuted into terms of impersonal 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 poesy. There is no hectic flush about the poetry of this half year, but au increas- 
 ing firmness of touch and rich, yet reserved imagination. 
 
 But great as his products wei'e, he had not found his public, and the little 
 property he had was slipping away, so that he was confronted by the fear of pov- 
 erty as his weakness grew upon him. Nothing seemed to go well with him ; his 
 love affair brought him little else than exquisite pain. It is probable that on 
 Keats's side the pride which was so dominant a chord in his nature forbade a man 
 who could scarce support himself and felt the damp dews of decline chilling his 
 vitality from seeking refuge in marriage with a girl who was in happier circum- 
 stance than he. He tried to turn his gifts into money by aiming at fortune with 
 a play for the popular stage. He tried his hand at work for the periodicals. He 
 even considered the possibility of returning to his profession of surgery for a liveli- 
 hood. But all these projects failed him, and he turned with an almost savage and 
 certainly sardonic humor to a scheme for flinging at the head of the public a popular 
 poem. ' The Cap and BeUs ' is a melancholy example of what a great poet can 
 produce who is consumed by a hopeless passion and wasted by disease. 
 
 Keats clung to his fi'iends and wrote affectionate letters to his family. His 
 brother George came over from America on a brief business visit, and was dis- 
 turbed to find John so altered ; and scarcely had George returned in January, 
 1820, than the poet had a sharp attack with loss of blood. He rallied as the 
 spring came on, and early in the summer saw to the publication of his last volume, 
 containing ' Hyperion, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, Lamia,' and the ' Odes,' per- 
 haps the most precious cargo carried in a vessel of this size in English literature in 
 this century. 
 
 A month after the publication of the volume he was writing to Shelley, who had 
 sent him an invitation to visit him in Pisa : ' There is no doubt that an English 
 winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. There- 
 fore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery.' 
 In September he put himself into the hands of his cheerful and steadfast friend 
 Severn the artist, and they took passage for Naples. It was when they were 
 detained by winds off the coast of England that Keats wrote his last sonnet, with 
 its veiled homage to Fanny Brawne, and in Naples Harbor he wrote to Mi's. 
 Bi-awne in a feverish mood : ' I dare not fix my mind upon Fanny, I have not 
 dared to think of her. The only comfort I have had that way has been in think- 
 ing for hours together of having the knife she gave me put in a silver case — 
 the hair in a locket — and the pocket-book in a gold net. Show her this. I dare 
 say no more.' And then there is the letter to Brown, with its agony of separation, 
 in which he gives way to the torment of his love, with despair written in every line. 
 It is difficult to say as one thinks of Keats's ashes whether the fire of passion or 
 the fire of physical consumption had most to do with causing them. 
 
 lo was in November, 1820, that the travellers reached Rome, and for a little 
 whiJe Keats could take short strolls on the Pincian Hill; but the fatal disease was 
 mali ing rapid progress, and on the 22d of February, 1821, he died, and three days 
 
JOHN KEATS 
 
 later he was buried in the Protestant cemetery, where upon his gravestone may 
 be read the words which Keats had said of himself : — 
 
 ' Here lies one -whose name was writ in water.' 
 
 In his first sonnet on Fame, Keats, in a saner mood, puts by the temptation 
 which would withdraw him from the high serenity of conscious worth. In the 
 second, wherein he seems almost to be seeing Fanny Brawne mocking behind the 
 figure of Fame, he shows a more scornful attitude. There is little doubt that not- 
 withstanding his close companionship with poets living and dead Keats never could 
 long escape from the allurements of this ' wayward girl,' yet it may surely be said 
 that his escape was most complete when he was fulfilling the highest law of his 
 nature and creating those images of beauty which have given him Fame while he 
 sleeps. 
 
 H. E. S. 
 
POEMS 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 In this group are included the contents 
 of the volume Poems by John Keats, pub- 
 lished in March, 1817, as well as certain 
 
 poems composed before the publication of 
 Endymion. The order followed is as nearly 
 chronological as the evidence permits. 
 
 IMITATION OF SPENSER 
 
 Lord Houghton states, on the authority of 
 the notes of Charles Armitage Brown, given 
 to him in Florence in 1832, that this was the 
 earliest known composition of Keats, and that 
 it was written during his residence in Edmon- 
 ton at the end of his eighteenth year, which 
 would make the date in the autumn of 1813. 
 The poem was included in the 1817 volume, 
 which bore on its title-page this motto : — 
 
 What more felicity can fall to creature 
 Than to enjoy delight with liberty ? 
 
 Fate of the Butterfly. — Spenser. 
 
 Now Morning from her orient chamber 
 
 came, 
 And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant 
 
 hill; 
 Crowning its lawny crest with amber 
 
 flame, 
 Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill; 
 Which, pure from mossy beds, did down 
 
 distil. 
 And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
 By many streams a little lake did fill, 
 Which round its marge reflected woven 
 
 bowers. 
 And, in its middle space, a sky that never 
 
 lowers. 
 
 There the kingfisher saw his plumage 
 
 bright, 
 Vying with fish of brilliant dye below; 
 Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
 Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby 
 
 glow: 
 There saw the swan his neck of arched 
 
 snow. 
 
 And oar'd himself along with majesty; 
 Sparkled his jetty eyes; his feet did show 
 Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
 And on his back a fay reclin'd voluptuously. 
 
 Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
 That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
 I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile; 
 Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen: 
 For sure so fair a place was never seen. 
 Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : 
 It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
 Of the bright waters ; or as when on high. 
 Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the 
 ccerulean sky. 
 
 And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
 Slopings of verdure through the glossy 
 
 tide, 
 Which, as it were in gentle amity, 
 Rippled delighted up the flowery side; 
 As if to glean the ruddy tears, it tried. 
 Which fell profusely from the rose-tree 
 
 stem ! 
 Haply it was the workings of its pride. 
 In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
 Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 
 
 ON DEATH 
 
 Assigned by George Keats to the year 1814, 
 and first printed in Forman's edition, 1883. 
 
 Can death be sleep, when life is but a 
 dream. 
 And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by ? 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 The transient pleasures as a vision seem, 
 And yet we think the greatest pain 's to 
 die. 
 
 How strange it is that man on earth should 
 roam, 
 
 And lead a life of woe, but not forsake 
 His rugged path; nor dare he view aloue 
 
 His future doom, which is but to awake. 
 
 TO CHATTERTON 
 
 First printed in Life, Letters, and Literary 
 Remains, but undated. Keats's admiration of 
 Chatterton was early and constant. 
 
 O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate ! 
 Dear child of sorrow — son of misery ! 
 How soon the film of death obscur'd that 
 eye, 
 Whence Genius mildly flash'd, and high 
 
 debate. 
 How soon that voice, majestic and elate. 
 Melted in dying numbers ! Oh ! how 
 
 nigh 
 Was night to thy fair morning. Thou 
 didst die 
 A half-blown flow'ret which cold blasts 
 
 amate. 
 But this is past: thou art among the stars 
 
 Of highest Heaven : to the rolling spheres 
 Thou sweetly singest : nought thy hymning 
 mars, 
 Above the ingrate world and human 
 fears. 
 On earth the good man base detraction 
 bars 
 From thy fair name, and waters it with 
 tears. 
 
 TO BYRON 
 
 The date of December, 1814, is given to this 
 sonnet by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters, and 
 Literary Hemains, where it was first published. 
 
 Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 
 Attuning still the soul to tenderness, 
 
 As if soft Pity, with unusual stress. 
 Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thou, 
 
 being by, 
 Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer'd them 
 to die. 
 O'ershadowing sorrow doth not make 
 
 thee less 
 Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress 
 With a bright halo, shining beamily. 
 As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, 
 Its sides are ting'd with a resplendent 
 glow. 
 Through the dark robe oft amber rays pre- 
 vail, 
 And like fair veins in sable marble flow; 
 Still warble, dying swan ! still tell the tale. 
 The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing 
 
 < WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD 
 THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN' 
 
 In the 181*7 volume, where this poem was 
 first published, with no title, it is placed at 
 the end of a group of poems which are thus 
 advertised on the leaf containing the dedica- 
 tion : ' The Short Pieces in the middle of the 
 Book as well as some of the Sonnets, were 
 written at an earlier period than the rest of 
 the Poems.' In the absence of any documen- 
 tary evidence, it seems reasonable to place it 
 near the 'Imitation of Spenser' rather than 
 near ' Calidore.' 
 
 Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 
 Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of 
 
 fancies ; 
 Without that modest softening that en- 
 hances 
 The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
 That its mild light creates to heal again: 
 E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and 
 
 prances. 
 E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
 For that to love, so long, I 've dormant 
 
 lain : 
 But when I see thee meek, and kind, and 
 tender, 
 
TO SOME LADIES 
 
 Heavens ! how desperately do I adore 
 Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 
 
 I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
 A very Red Cross Knight — a stout Le- 
 ander — 
 Might I be lov'd by thee like these of 
 yore. 
 
 Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted 
 hair; 
 Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and 
 
 creamy breast. 
 Are things on which the dazzled senses 
 rest 
 Till the fond, fixfed eyes forget they stare. 
 From such fine pictures, Heavens ! I cannot 
 dare 
 To turn my admiration, though unpos- 
 
 sess'd 
 They be of what is worthy, — though not 
 drest 
 In lovely modesty, and virtues rare. 
 Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark; 
 These lures I straight forget, — e'en ere 
 I dine. 
 Or thrice my palate moisten: but when I 
 mark 
 Such charms with mild intelligences 
 shine, 
 My ear is open like a greedy shark, 
 To catch the timings of a voice divine. 
 
 Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 
 Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? 
 God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that 
 bleats 
 For man's protection. Surely the All-see- 
 ing. 
 Who joys to see us with his gifts agree- 
 ing. 
 Will never give him pinions, who intreats 
 Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely 
 cheats 
 A dove-like bosom. In truth there is no 
 
 freeing 
 One's thoughts from such a beauty; when 
 I hear 
 lay that once I saw her hand awake, 
 
 Her form seems floatingpalpable, and near: 
 Had I e'er seen her from an arbour take 
 
 A dewy flower, oft would that hand appear, 
 And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture 
 shake. 
 
 TO SOME LADIES 
 
 This and the poem following were included 
 in the 1817 volume. George Keats says fur- 
 ther that it was ' written on receiving a copy 
 of Tom Moore's " Golden Chain " and a most 
 beautiful Dome shaped shell from a Lady.' 
 The exact title of Moore's poem is 'The 
 Wreath and the Chain,' and it will be readily 
 seen how expressly imitative these lines are of 
 Moore's verse in general. The poems are not 
 dated, but they are the first in a group stated 
 by Keats to have been ' written at an earlier 
 period than the rest of the Poem ; ' it is safe to 
 assume that they belong very near the begin- 
 ning of Keats's poetical career. It is quite 
 likely that they were included in the volume a 
 few years later on personal grounds. 
 
 What though, while the wonders of nature 
 exploring, 
 I cannot your light, mazy footsteps at- 
 tend ; 
 Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 
 Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's 
 friend: 
 
 Yet over the steep, whence the mountain- 
 stream rushes, 
 With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 
 Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its pas- 
 sionate gushes. 
 Its spray that the wild flower kindly 
 bedews. 
 
 Why linger you so, the wild ^abyrinth 
 strolling ? 
 Why breathless, unable yom^Holiss to de- 
 clare ? 
 Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender 
 condoling. 
 Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy 
 air. 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are 
 
 And splendidly mark'd with the story di- 
 
 yet drooping, 
 
 vine 
 
 I see you are treading the verge of the 
 
 Of Armida the fair, and Rinaldo the 
 
 sea: 
 
 bold? 
 
 And now ! ah, I see it — you just now are 
 
 
 stooping 
 
 Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flow- 
 
 To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 
 
 ing? 
 
 
 Hast thou a sword that thine enemy's 
 
 If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 
 
 smart is ? 
 
 Had brought me a gem from the fret- 
 
 Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing ? 
 
 work of Heaven; 
 
 And wear'st thou the shield of the fam'd 
 
 And smiles, with his star-cheering voice 
 
 Britomartis ? 
 
 sweetly blending. 
 
 
 The blessings of Tighe had melodiously 
 
 What is it that hangs from thy shoulder. 
 
 given; 
 
 so brave, 
 
 
 Embroider'd with many a spring peering 
 
 It had not created a warmer emotion 
 
 flower ? 
 
 Than the present, fair nymphs, I was 
 
 Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 
 
 blest with from you; 
 
 And hastest thou now to that fair* lady's 
 
 Than the shell, from the bright golden 
 
 bower ? 
 
 sands of the ocean, 
 
 
 Which the emerald waves at your feet 
 
 Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy 
 
 gladly threw. 
 
 thou art crown 'd; 
 
 
 Full many the glories that brighten thy 
 
 For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar plea- 
 
 youth ! 
 
 sure. 
 
 I will tell thee my blisses, which richly 
 
 (And blissful is he who such happiness 
 
 abound 
 
 finds,) 
 
 In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 
 
 To possess but a span of the hour of leisure. 
 
 
 In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 
 
 On this scroll thou seest written in charac- 
 
 
 ters fair 
 
 
 A sun-beaming tale of a wreath, and a 
 
 ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS 
 
 chain: 
 
 SHELL AND A COPY OF 
 
 And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 
 
 VERSES FROM THE SAME 
 
 Of charming my mind from the trammels 
 
 LADIES 
 
 of pain. 
 
 Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a 
 
 This canopy mark: 'tis the work of a fay; 
 
 gem 
 
 Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon 
 
 Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the 
 
 languish. 
 
 mountain ? 
 
 When lovely Titania was far, far away, 
 
 Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem, 
 
 And cruelly left him to sorrow and an- 
 
 When it flutters in sunbeams that shine 
 
 guish. 
 
 throvigh a fountain ? 
 
 
 
 There, oft would he bring from his soft- 
 
 Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 
 
 sighing lute 
 
 That goblet right heavy, and massy, and 
 
 Wild strains to which, spell-bou- ' liC^e 
 
 gold? 
 
 nightingales listen'd ! A 
 
 
TO HOPE 
 
 The wondering spirits of Heaven were 
 mute, 
 And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morn- 
 ing oft glisten'd. 
 
 In this little dome, all those melodies 
 strange, 
 Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will 
 sigh; 
 Nor e'er will the notes from their tender- 
 ness change, 
 Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 
 
 So when I am in a voluptuous vein, 
 
 I pillow my head on the sweets of the 
 rose. 
 And list to the tale of the wreath and the 
 chain. 
 Till its echoes depart; then I sink to re- 
 pose. 
 
 Adieu, valiant Eric ! with joy thou art 
 
 crown'd. 
 
 Full many the glories that brighten thy 
 
 youth; 
 
 I too have my blisses, which richly abound 
 
 In magical powers to bless, and to soothe. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT 
 MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT 
 PRISON 
 
 Either the 2d or .3d of February, 1815. 
 Charles Cowden Clarke, to whom Keats 
 showed the sonnet, writes in his recollections: 
 ' This I feel to be the first proof I had re- 
 ceived of his having committed himself in 
 verse ; and how clearly do I recollect the con- 
 scious look and hesitation with which he of- 
 fered it ! There are some momentary glances 
 by beloved friends that fade only with life.' 
 The sonnet was printed in the 1817 volume. 
 
 What though, for showing truth to flat- 
 
 ter'd state. 
 Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has 
 
 he. 
 In his immortal spirit, been as free 
 
 As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. 
 Minion of grandeur ! think you he did 
 wait? 
 Think you he nought but prison-walls 
 
 did see. 
 Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the 
 key? 
 Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
 In Spenser's halls he stray'd, and bowers 
 fair, 
 Culling enchanted flowers; and he flew 
 With daring Milton through the fields of 
 air: 
 To regions of his own his genius true 
 Took happy flights. Who shall his fame 
 impair 
 When thou art dead, and all thy wretched 
 crew ? 
 
 TO HOPE 
 
 Keats dates this poem in the volume of 1817, 
 February, 1815. 
 
 When by my solitary hearth I sit, 
 And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in 
 gloom ; 
 When no fair dreams before my ' mind's 
 eye ' flit. 
 And the bare heath of life presents no 
 bloom ; 
 Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me 
 
 shed, 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
 head. 
 
 Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 
 Where woven boughs shut out the moon's 
 bright ray. 
 Should sad Despondency my musings 
 fright. 
 And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness 
 away, 
 Peep with the moonbeams through the 
 
 leafy roof, 
 And keep that fiend Despondence far 
 aloof. 
 
 I 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
 Strive for her sou to seize my careless 
 heart; 
 When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air, 
 Preparing on his spell-bound prey to 
 dart: 
 Chase him away, sweet Hope, with 
 
 visage bright, 
 And fright him as the morning fright- 
 ens night ! 
 
 Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
 
 Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow, 
 
 O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy 
 
 cheer; 
 
 Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts 
 
 borrow: 
 
 Thy heaven-born radiance around me 
 
 shed, 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
 head ! 
 
 Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 
 
 From cruel parents, or relentless fair, 
 O let me think it is not quite in vain 
 To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 
 Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me 
 
 shed. 
 And wave thy silver pinions o'er my 
 head. 
 
 In the long vista of the years to roll, 
 
 Let me not see our country's honour fade : 
 O let me see our land retain her soul. 
 Her pride, her freedom; and not free- 
 dom's shade. 
 From thy bright eyes unusual bright- 
 ness shed — 
 Beneath thy pinions canopy my head ! 
 
 Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. 
 
 Great liberty ! how great in plain attire ! 
 With the base purple of a court oppress'd, 
 Bowing her head, and ready to expire: 
 But let me see thee stoop from Hea- 
 ven on wings 
 That fill the skies with silver glitter- 
 ings ! 
 
 } 
 
 And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 
 
 Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy 
 cloud ; 
 Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven 
 afar: 
 So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit 
 shroud, 
 Sweet Hope, celestial influence round 
 
 me shed, 
 Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 
 
 ODE TO APOLLO 
 
 The Ode and the Hymn which follows were 
 first printed by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters 
 and Literary Remains ; the former is there 
 dated February, 1815. 
 
 In thy western halls of gold 
 
 When thou sittest in thy state, 
 Bards, that erst sublimely told 
 
 Heroic deeds, and sang of fate. 
 With fervour seize their adamantine 
 lyres, 
 Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle 
 radiant fires. 
 
 Here Homer with his nervous arms 
 Strikes the twanging harp of war, 
 And even the western splendour warms, 
 
 While the trumpets sound afar: 
 But, what creates the most intense sur- 
 prise, 
 His soul looks out through renovated eyes. 
 
 Then, through thy Temple wide, melodi- 
 ous swells 
 The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: 
 The soul delighted on each accent 
 dwells, — 
 Enraptur'd dwells, — not daring to re- 
 spire. 
 The while he tells of grief around a funeral 
 pyre. 
 
 'T is awful silence then again; 
 Expectant stand the spheres ; 
 Breathless the laurell'd peers. 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN 
 
 Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, 
 Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders 
 
 cease, 
 And leave once more the ravish'd heavens 
 
 in peace. 
 
 Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand, 
 
 And quickly forward spring 
 The Passions — a terrific band — 
 
 And each vibrates the string 
 That with its tyrant temper best accords. 
 While from their Master's lips pour forth 
 the inspiring words. 
 
 A silver trumpet Spenser blows, 
 
 And, as its martial notes to silence flee. 
 From a virgin chorus flows 
 
 A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 
 'T is still ! Wild warblings from the 
 .^olian lyre 
 Enchantment softly breathe, and trem- 
 blingly expire. 
 
 Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers 
 
 Float along the pleased air. 
 Calling youth from idle slumbers. 
 
 Rousing them from Pleasure's lair: — 
 Then o'er the strings his fingers gently 
 move. 
 And melt the soul to pity and to love. 
 
 But when Thou joinest with the Nine, 
 And all the powers of song combine, 
 
 We listen here on earth: 
 The dying tones that fill the air, 
 And charm the ear of evening fair. 
 From thee. Great God of Bards, receive 
 their heavenly birth. 
 
 HYMN TO APOLLO 
 
 Goir of the golden bow, 
 
 And of the golden lyre. 
 And of the golden hair, 
 And of the golden fire. 
 Charioteer 
 Of the patient year. 
 
 Where — where slept thine ire. 
 When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath, 
 Thy laurel, thy glory, 
 The light of thy story. 
 Or was I a worm — too low crawling, for 
 death ? 
 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd. 
 
 The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd; 
 The eagle's feathery mane 
 
 For wrath became stijffen'd — the sound 
 Of breeding thunder 
 Went drowsily under. 
 Muttering to be unbound. 
 O why didst thou pity, and for a worm 
 Why touch thy soft lute 
 Till the thunder was mute. 
 Why was not I crush'd — such a pitiful 
 germ ? 
 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 The Pleiades were up. 
 
 Watching the silent air; 
 The seeds and roots in the Earth 
 Were swelling for summer fare; 
 The Ocean, its neighbour. 
 Was at its old labour, 
 When, who — who did dare 
 To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his 
 brow. 
 
 And grin and look proudly. 
 And blaspheme so loudly. 
 And live for that honour, to stoop to thee 
 now ? 
 
 O Delphic Apollo ! 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT 
 ME A LAUREL CROWN 
 
 First printed by Lord Houghton in the Life, 
 Letters and Literary Remains, but undated. 
 
 Fresh morning gusts have blown away all 
 fear 
 
 From my glad bosom, — now from gloom- 
 iness 
 
 I mount for ever — not an atom less 
 
8 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Than the proud laurel shall content my 
 
 bier. 
 No ! by the eternal stars ! or why sit here 
 In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples 
 
 press 
 Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless 
 By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. 
 Lo ! who dares say, ' Do this ? ' Who dares 
 call down 
 My will from its high purpose ? Who 
 say, ' Stand,' 
 Or ' Go ? ' This mighty moment I would 
 frown 
 On abject Csesars — not the stoutest 
 band 
 Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown : 
 Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle 
 band ! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Published in the 1817 volume. Lord Hough- 
 ton states that this sonnet ' was the means of 
 introducing Keats to Mr. Leigh Hunt's society. 
 Mr. Cowden Clarke had brought some of his 
 young friend's verses and read them aloud. 
 Mr. Horace Smith, who happened to be there, 
 was struck with the last six lines, especially 
 the penultimate, saying " what a well condensed 
 expression ! " and Keats was shortly after in- 
 troduced to the literary circle.' This would 
 appear to fix the date as not later than the 
 summer of 1815. 
 
 How many bards gild the lapses of time ! 
 A few of them have ever been the food 
 Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
 Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
 And often, when I sit me down to rhyme. 
 These will in throngs before my mind 
 
 intrude. 
 But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
 Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime. 
 So the unnumber'd sounds that evening 
 store ; 
 The songs of birds — the whispering of 
 
 the leaves — 
 The voice of waters — the great bell 
 that heaves 
 
 With solemn sound, — and thousand others 
 more, 
 That distance of recognizance bereaves. 
 Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 According to Charles Cowden Clarke, this 
 sonnet was written upon Keats first visiting 
 Hunt in the Vale of Health. It was published 
 in the 1817 volume. 
 
 Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 
 there 
 
 Among the bushes, half leafless and dry, 
 
 The stars look very cold about the sky, 
 And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
 Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 
 
 Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 
 
 Or of those silver lamps that burn on 
 high. 
 Or of the distance from home's pleasant 
 
 lair: 
 For I am brimful of the friendliness 
 
 That in a little cottage I have found; 
 Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 
 
 And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd ; 
 Of lovely Laura in her light green dress. 
 
 And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 
 
 SPENSERIAN STANZA 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF CANTO II. 
 BOOK V. OF 'THE FAERIE QUEENE ' 
 
 Given by Lord Houghton in Life, Letters and 
 Literary Memains, who comments as follows: 
 ' His sympathies were very mucli on the side 
 of the revolutionary Giant, who "undertook for 
 to repair " the " realms and nations run awry," 
 and to suppress " tyrants that make men sub- 
 ject to their law," " and lordings curbe that 
 commons over-aw," while he grudged the le- 
 gitimate victory, as he rejected the conserva- 
 tive philosophy, of the "righteous Artegall" 
 and his comrade, the fierce defender of privi- 
 lege and order. And he expressed in this 
 ex post facto prophecy, his ct 'icti'^- f '^^ 
 
 /' 
 
EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW 
 
 ultimate triumph of freedom and equality by 
 the power of transmitted knowledge.' No 
 date is assigned, and the verse may as well he 
 placed in the early period of Keats's acquaint- 
 ance with Spenser and friendship with Leigh 
 Hunt. 
 
 In after-time, a sage of mickle lore 
 Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took, 
 And did refit his limbs as heretofore, 
 Aud made him read in raauy a learned 
 
 book, 
 And into many a lively legend look; 
 Thereby in goodly themes so training 
 
 him, 
 That all his brutishness he quite for- 
 sook, 
 When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim. 
 The one he struck stone-blind, the other's 
 eyes wox dim. 
 
 ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS 
 AT AN EARLY HOUR 
 
 Written, as Clarke intimates, in connection 
 with Keats's visits to Leigh Hunt in the Vale 
 of Health. Published in the 1817 volume. 
 
 Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 
 On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear 
 
 and far; 
 Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 
 Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen 
 The silver strings of heavenly harp at ween: 
 And let there glide by many a pearly 
 
 car, 
 Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond 
 jar, 
 And half - discover'd wings, and glances 
 
 keen. 
 The while let music wander round my ears. 
 And as it reaches each delicious ending. 
 Let me write down a line of glorious 
 tone. 
 And full of marv wonders of the spheres: 
 For what a height m* ' "is contend- 
 ing! 
 'Tis not content so soon 'o be alone. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO 
 CHAPMAN'S HOMER 
 
 It was Charles Cowden Clarke who was with 
 Keats when the friends made the acquaintance 
 of this translation of Homer by the EHza- 
 bethan poet. The two young men had sat up 
 nearly aU one night in the summer of 1815 in 
 Clarke's lodging, reading from a folio volume 
 of the book which they had borrowed. Keats 
 left for his own lodgings at dawn, and when 
 Clarke came down to breakfast the next morn- 
 ing, he found this sonnet which Keats had 
 sent him. 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the realms of 
 gold. 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms 
 
 seen; 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his 
 
 demesne: 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and 
 
 bold: 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific — and all his 
 men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON 
 MATHEW 
 
 Mathew, who was of Keats's age, was his 
 companion when he first went to London. The 
 two had common tastes in literature and read 
 together, and Mathew also made essays in 
 writing, so that Keats, who was living much in 
 Elizabethan literature at the time, might easily 
 transfer in imagination some of the great deeds 
 of partnership to himself and his friend. It 
 is worth while to note Mathew's own recollec- 
 tion, thirty years later, of the contrast of him- 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 self with Keats: ' Keats and I, though about 
 the same age, and both inclined to literature, 
 were in many respects as different as two in- 
 dividuals could be. He enjoyed good health — 
 a fine flow of animal spirits — was fond of 
 company — could amuse himself admirably 
 with the frivolities of life — and had great 
 confidence in himself. I, on the other hand, 
 was languid and melancholy — fond of repose 
 — thoughtful beyond my years — and diffi- 
 dent to the last degree.' The epistle is dated 
 November, 1815, in the volume of 1817, where 
 it is the first of a group of three epistles with 
 the motto from Browne's Britannia's Pas- 
 torals : 
 
 Among the rest a shepherd (though but young 
 Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill 
 His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill. 
 
 Sweet are the pleasures that to verse 
 belong, 
 And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; 
 Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to 
 
 view 
 A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 
 Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, 
 Who, with combined powers, their wit em- 
 
 ploy'd 
 To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. 
 The thought of this great partnership dif- 
 fuses 
 Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 
 Of all that 's high, and great, and good, 
 and healing. lo 
 
 Too partial friend ! fain would I follow 
 
 thee 
 Past each horizon of fine poesy; 
 Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 
 As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 
 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far 
 
 parted, 
 Just when the sun his farewell beam has 
 
 darted : 
 But 't is impossible ; far different cares 
 Beckon me sternly from soft ' Lydian airs,' 
 And hold my faculties so long in thrall, 
 That I am oft in doubt whether at all 20 
 I shall again see Phoebus in the morning: 
 Or flush'd Aurora iu the roseate dawning ! 
 
 Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 
 Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 
 Or again witness what with thee I 've seen, 
 The dew by fairy feet swept from the 
 
 green, 
 After a night of some quaint jubilee 
 Which every elf and fay had come to see: 
 When bright processions took their airy 
 
 march 
 Beneath the curved moon's triumphal 
 
 arch. 30 
 
 But might I now each passing moment 
 give 
 
 To the coy Muse, with me she would not 
 live 
 
 In this dark city, nor would condescend 
 
 'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 
 
 Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be 
 kind. 
 
 Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 
 
 Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, ro- 
 mantic, 
 
 That often must have seen a poet fran- 
 tic; 
 
 Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are 
 growing. 
 
 And flowers, the glory of one day, are 
 blowing; 40 
 
 Where the dark-leav'd laburnum's droop- 
 ing clusters 
 
 Reflect athwart the stream their yellow 
 lustres. 
 
 And intertwined the cassia's arms unite. 
 
 With its own drooping buds, but very white. 
 
 Where on one side are covert branches 
 hung, 
 
 'Mong which the nightingales have always 
 sung 
 
 In leafy quiet: where to pry, aloof 
 
 Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, 
 
 Would be to find where violet beds were 
 nestling, 
 
 And where the bee with cowslip bells was 
 wrestling. 5° 
 
 There must be too a ruin da '■'v d gloomy, 
 
 To say ' Joy not ;i;uch in all that 's 
 
 bloomy.' 
 
TO 
 
 Yet this is vain — O Mathew, lend tby 
 
 aid 
 To find a place where I may greet the 
 
 maid — 
 Where we may soft humanity put on, 
 And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatter- 
 ton; 
 And that warm-hearted Shakspeare sent to 
 
 meet him 
 Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to en- 
 treat him. 
 With reverence would we speak of all the 
 
 sages 
 Who have left streaks of light athwart 
 
 their ages: 60 
 
 And tliou shouldst moralize on Milton's 
 
 blindness. 
 And mourn the fearful dearth of human 
 
 kindness 
 To those who strove with the bright golden 
 
 wing 
 Of genius, to flap away each sting 
 Thrown by the pitiless world. We next 
 
 could tell 
 Of those who in the cause of freedom fell; 
 Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell; 
 Of him whose name to every heart's a 
 
 solace. 
 High - minded and unbending William 
 
 Wallace. 
 While to the rugged north our musing 
 
 turns, 70 
 
 We well might drop a tear for him and 
 
 Burns. 
 
 Felton ! without incitements such as these. 
 How vain for me the niggard Muse to 
 
 tease : 
 For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace. 
 And make ' a sunshine in a shady place: ' 
 For thou wast once a flow'ret blooming 
 
 wild. 
 Close to the source, bright, pure, and unde- 
 
 fil'd. 
 Whence gush the streams of song: in 
 
 happy hour 
 Came chaste Diana from her shady bower, 
 Just as the sun was from the east uprising; 
 
 And, as for him some gift she was devising. 
 Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the 
 
 stream 82 
 
 To meet her glorious brother's greeting 
 
 beam. 
 I marvel much that thou hast never told 
 How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 
 Apollo chang'd thee: how thou next didst 
 
 seem 
 A black-ey'd swan upon the widening 
 
 stream ; 
 And when thou first didst in that mirror 
 
 trace 
 The placid features of a human face; 
 That thou hast never told thy travels 
 
 strange, 90 
 
 And all the wonders of the mazy range 
 O'er pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands; 
 Kissing thy daily food from Naiads' pearly 
 
 hands. 
 
 TO 
 
 A valentine written in 1816 by Keats for his 
 brother George to send to the lady Georgiana 
 Wylie, whom he afterward married, was later 
 expanded into the following lines. It was in- 
 cluded in the 1817 volume. For the original 
 valentine see the notes at the end of this 
 volume. 
 
 Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 
 
 O what wonders had been told 
 
 Of thy lively countenance, 
 
 And thy humid eyes that dance 
 
 In the midst of their own brightness; 
 
 In the very fane of lightness ; 
 
 Over which thine eyebrows, leaning, 
 
 Picture out each lovely meaning: 
 
 In a dainty bend they lie. 
 
 Like to streaks across the sky, 10 
 
 Or the feathers from a crow, 
 
 Fallen on a bed of snow. 
 
 Of thy dark hair, that extends 
 
 Into many graceful bends: 
 
 As the leaves of Hellebore 
 
 Turn to whence they sprung before. 
 
 And behind each ample curl 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 Peeps the richness of a pearl. 
 Downward too flows many a tress 
 With a glossy waviness; 20 
 
 Full, and round like globes that rise 
 From the censer to the skies 
 Through sunny air. Add too, the sweet- 
 ness 
 Of thy honied voice; the neatness 
 Of thine ankle lightly turn'd: 
 With those beauties scarce discern'd, 
 Kept with such s^eet privacy, 
 That they seldom meet the eye 
 Of the little Loves that fly 
 Round about with eager pry; 30 
 
 Saving when, with freshening lave. 
 Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave; 
 Like twin water-lilies, bora 
 In the coolness of the morn. 
 O, if thou hadst breath^ then, 
 Now the Muses had been ten. 
 Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 
 Than twin-sister of Thalia ? 
 At least for ever, evermore 
 Will I call the Graces four. 40 
 
 Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry 
 
 Lifted up her lance on high, 
 
 Tell me what thou wouldst have been ? 
 
 Ah ! I see the silver sheen 
 
 Of thy broider'd, floating vest 
 
 Cov'ring half thine ivory breast: 
 
 Which, O Heavens ! I should see, 
 
 But that cruel Destiny 
 
 Has plac'd a golden cuirass there; 
 
 Keeping secret what is fair. 50 
 
 Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested 
 
 Thy locks in knightly casque are rested: 
 
 O'er which bend four milky plumes 
 
 Like the gentle lily's blooms 
 
 Springing from a costly vase. 
 
 See with what a stately pace 
 
 Comes thine alabaster steed; 
 
 Servant of heroic deed ! 
 
 O'er his loins his trappings glow 
 
 Like the northern lights on snow. 60 
 
 Mount his back ! thy sword uusheath ! 
 
 Sign of the enchanter's death; 
 
 Bane of every wicked spell; 
 
 Silencer of dragon's yell. 
 Alas ! thou this wilt never do: 
 Thou art an enchantress too, 
 And wilt surely never spill 
 Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Lord Houghton gives the date of 1816. It 
 appears in the Aldine edition of 1876. 
 
 As from the darkening gloom a silver dove 
 Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light. 
 On pinions that nought moves but pure 
 delight, 
 So fled thy soul into the realms above, 
 Regions of peace and everlasting love; 
 Where happy spirits, crown'd with cir- 
 clets bright 
 Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight. 
 Taste the high joy none but the blest can 
 
 prove. 
 There thou or joinest the immortal quire 
 
 In melodies that even heaven fair 
 Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire. 
 
 Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the 
 air 
 On holy message sent — What pleasure 's 
 higher ? 
 Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ? 
 
 SONNET TO SOLITUDE 
 
 Published in The Examiner, 5 May, 1816, and 
 the first piece printed by Keats. It was re- 
 issued in the 1817 volume. 
 
 O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell. 
 Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
 Of murky buildings: climb with me the 
 steep, — 
 Nature's observatory, — whence the dell. 
 In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, 
 May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the 
 deer's swift leap 
 Startles the wild bee from the foxglove 
 bell. 
 
SONNET 
 
 13 
 
 But though I '11 gladly trace these scenes 
 with thee, 
 Yet the sweet converse of an innocent 
 
 mind, 
 
 Whose words are images of thoughts re- 
 
 fin'd, 
 
 Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be 
 
 Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 
 
 When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 George Keats has a memorandum on this 
 sonnet, ' written in the Fields, June, 1816.' 
 Published in the 1817 volume. 
 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 
 'T is very sweet to look into the fair 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe 
 a prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happy, when, with heart's 
 content, 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright ca- 
 reer, 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided 
 by: 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 That falls through the clear ether si- 
 lently. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO SENT 
 SOME ROSES 
 
 ME 
 
 The friend was Charles J. Wells, author of 
 the dramatic poem Joseph and his Brethren, 
 which was published in 1824, when it died al- 
 most at once and was recalled to life by a few 
 words printed by D. G. Rossetti in 1863, and has 
 since been reprinted for the curious. In Tom 
 Keats's copy book the sonnet is dated 29 June, 
 1816. It is included in the volume of 1817. 
 
 As late I rambled in the happy fields. 
 What time the skylark shakes the tremu- 
 lous dew 
 From his lush clover covert ; — when anew 
 Adventurous knights take up their dinted 
 
 shields: 
 I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 
 A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 't was the first 
 
 that threw 
 Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it 
 grew 
 As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. 
 And, as I feasted on its fragraucy, 
 
 I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd: 
 
 But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me. 
 
 My sense with their deliciousness was 
 
 spell'd: 
 
 Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 
 
 Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and 
 
 friendliness unquell'd. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 First printed by Lord Houghton in the Life, 
 Letters and Literary Remains, with the date 
 1816. 
 
 Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve. 
 When streams of light pour down the 
 
 golden west. 
 And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest 
 The silver clouds, far — far away to leave 
 All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet re- 
 prieve 
 From little cares ; to find, with easy quest, 
 A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty 
 drest. 
 And there into delight my soul deceive. 
 There warm my breast with patriotic lore. 
 Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's 
 bier — 
 Till their stern forms before my mind 
 arise: 
 Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar. 
 Full often dropping a delicious tear. 
 When some melodious sorrow spells 
 mine eyes. 
 
 ii 
 
14 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 'I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A 
 LITTLE HILL' 
 
 ' Places of nestling green, for poets made.' 
 
 Leigh Hunt, The Story of Bimini. 
 
 Leigh Hunt, in Lord Byron and Some of His 
 Contemporaries, says that ' this poem was sug- 
 gested to Keats by a delightful summer's day 
 as he stood beside the gate that leads from the 
 Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by 
 Caen Wood ; ' but it is not needful for one to 
 put himself into the same geograpliieal position. 
 It is more to the point to remember that when 
 Keats wrote the lines which here follow he was 
 living in the Vale of Health in Hampstead, 
 happy in the association of Hunt and kindred 
 spirits, and trembling with the consciousness of 
 his own poetic power. He had not yet essayed 
 a long flight, as in Endymion ; but these lines 
 indeed were written as a prelude to a poem 
 which he was devising, which should narrate 
 the loves of Diana, and it will be seen how, 
 with circling flight, he draws nearer and nearer 
 to his theme ; but after all, his song ends with 
 a half agitated and passionate speculation over 
 his own poetic birth. The date of the poem, 
 which is the first after the dedication, in the 
 1817 volume, was presumably in the summer 
 of 1816, for Keats appears to have written 
 promptly under the stimulus of momentary 
 experience. 
 
 I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, 
 The air was cooling, and so very still 
 That the sweet buds which with a modest 
 
 pride 
 Pull droopingly, in slanting cnrve aside, 
 Their scantly-Ieav'd and finely tapering 
 
 stems, 
 Had not yet lost those starry diadems 
 Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
 The clouds were pure and white as flocks 
 
 new shorn. 
 And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly 
 
 they slept 
 On the blue fields of heaven, and then there 
 
 crept 10 
 
 A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
 Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
 For not the faintest motion could be seen 
 
 Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 
 There was wide wandering for the greedi- 
 est eye 
 To peer about upon variety; 
 Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim, 
 And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
 To picture out the quaint and curious 
 
 bending 
 Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: 20 
 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 
 Guess where the jaunty streams refresh 
 
 themselves. 
 I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
 As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
 Had play'd upon my heels: I was light- 
 hearted. 
 And many pleasures to my vision started; 
 So I straightway began to pluck a posy 
 Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 
 
 A bush of May flowers with the bees 
 about them; 
 
 Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without 
 them ! 30 
 
 And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 
 
 And let long grass grow round the roots 
 to keep them 
 
 Moist, cool, and green; and shade the vio- 
 lets, 
 
 That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 
 
 A filbert-hedge with wild-briar over- 
 
 twin'd. 
 And clumps of woodbine taking the soft 
 
 wind 
 Upon their summer thrones; there too 
 
 should be 
 The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
 That with a score of light green brethren 
 
 shoots 
 From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: 40 
 Round which is heard a spring-head of 
 
 clear waters 
 Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters. 
 The spreading blue-bells: it may haply 
 
 mourn 
 That such fair clusters should be rudely 
 
 torn 
 
I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL 
 
 IS 
 
 From their fresh beds, aud scattered 
 
 thoughtlessly 
 By infant hands, left on the path to die. 
 
 Open afresh your round of starry folds. 
 Ye ardent marigolds ! 
 Dry up the moisture from your golden lids, 
 For great Apollo bids so 
 
 That in these days your praises should be 
 
 sung 
 On many harps, which he has lately strung; 
 And when again your dewiness he kisses. 
 Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 
 So haply when I rove in some far vale, 
 His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 
 
 Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a 
 
 flight: 
 With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate 
 
 white. 
 And taper fingers catching at all things. 
 To bind them all about with tiny rings. 60 
 
 Linger awhile upon some bending planks 
 That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks. 
 And watch intently Nature's gentle doings : 
 They will be found softer than ring-dove's 
 
 cooings. 
 How silent comes the water round that bend; 
 Not the minutest whisper does it send 
 To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass 
 Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 
 Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they 
 
 reach 
 To where the hurrying freshnesses aye 
 
 preach 70 
 
 A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 
 Where swarms of minnows show their little 
 
 heads, 
 Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the 
 
 streams, 
 To taste the luxury of sunny beams 
 Temper'd with coolness. How they ever 
 
 wrestle 
 With their own sweet delight, and ever 
 
 nestle 
 Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. 
 If you but scantily hold out the hand, 
 
 That very instant not one will remain ; 
 But turn your eye, and they are there again. 
 The ripples seem right glad to reach those 
 
 cresses, 81 
 
 And cool themselves among the em'rald 
 
 tresses; 
 The while they cool themselves, they fresh- 
 ness give. 
 And moisture, that the bowery green may 
 
 live : 
 So keeping up an interchange of favours, 
 Like good men in the truth of their be- 
 haviours. 
 Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 
 From low-hung branches; little space they 
 
 stop; 
 But sip, and twitter, and their feathers 
 
 sleek; 
 Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: 90 
 Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden 
 
 wings, 
 Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. 
 Were I in such a place, I sure should pray 
 That nought less sweet, might call my 
 
 thoughts away, 
 Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 
 Fanning away the dandelion's down; 
 Than the light music of her nimble toes 
 Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 
 How she would start, and blush, thus to be 
 
 caught 
 Playing in all her innocence of thought. 100 
 O let me lead her gently o'er the brook. 
 Watch her half -smiling lips, and downward 
 
 look; 
 O let me for one moment touch her wrist; 
 Let me one moment to her breathing list; 
 And as she leaves me, may she often turn 
 Her fair eyes looking through her locks au- 
 
 burne. 
 What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 
 O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes ; 
 O'er which it well might take a pleasant 
 
 sleep. 
 But that 't is ever startled by the leap 1 10 
 Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 
 Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are 
 
 quitting; 
 
i6 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 
 Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 
 Coming into the blue with all her light. 
 O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight 
 Of this fair world, and aU its gentle livers; 
 Spangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers, 
 Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling 
 
 streams, 
 Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120 
 Lover of loneliness, and wandering. 
 Of upcast eye, and tender pondering ! 
 Thee must I praise above all other glo- 
 ries 
 That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 
 For what has made the sage or poet write 
 But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 
 In the calm grandeur of a sober line. 
 We see the waving of the mountain pine; 
 And when a tale is beautifully staid. 
 We feel the safety of a hawthorn glade : 130 
 When it is moving on luxurious wings. 
 The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings: 
 Fair dewy roses brush against our faces. 
 And flowering laurels spring from diamond 
 
 vases; 
 O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet- 
 briar, 
 And bloomy grapes laughing from green 
 
 attire ; 
 While at our feet, the voice of crystal 
 
 bubbles 
 Charms us at once away from all our trou- 
 bles: 
 So that we feel uplifted from the world. 
 Walking upon the white clouds wreath'd 
 and curl'd. 140 
 
 So felt he, who first told, how Psyche 
 
 went 
 On the smooth wind to realms of wonder- 
 ment; 
 What Psyche felt, and Love, when their 
 
 full lips 
 First touch'd; what amorous and fondling 
 
 nips 
 They gave each other's cheeks; with all 
 
 their sighs. 
 And how they kist each other's tremulous 
 eyes: 
 
 The silver lamp, — the ravishment, — the 
 
 wonder — 
 The darkness, — loneliness, — the fearful 
 
 thunder; 
 Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up- 
 flown, 149 
 To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 
 So did he feel, who puU'd the boughs 
 
 aside, 
 That we might look into a forest vsdde, 
 To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 
 Coming with softest rustle through the 
 
 trees; 
 And garlands woven of flowers wild, and 
 
 sweet, 
 Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: 
 Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled 
 Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 
 Poor Nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did 
 
 weep to find 
 Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 160 
 Along the reedy stream ; a half-heard strain, 
 Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 
 
 What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
 Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
 In some delicious ramble, he had found 
 A little space, with boughs all woven round; 
 And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
 Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool. 
 The blue sky here, and there, serenely peep- 
 ing 
 Through tendril wreaths fantastically creep- 
 ing. 170 
 And on the bank a lonely flower he spied, 
 A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of 
 
 pride, 
 Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clear- 
 ness. 
 To woo its own sad image into nearness: 
 Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move; 
 But still would seem to droop, to pine, to 
 
 love. 
 So while the Poet stood in this sweet spot, 
 Some fainter gleamings o'er his fancy 
 
 shot; 
 Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
 Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 180 
 
I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL 
 
 17 
 
 Where had he been, from whose warm 
 
 head outflew 
 'hat sweetest of all songs, thf t ever new, 
 'hat aye refreshing, pure delii^iousness, 
 oming ever to bless 
 'he wanderer by moonlight ? to him 
 
 bringing 
 hapes from the invisible world, unearthly 
 
 singing 
 rom out the middle air, from flowery 
 
 nests, 
 .nd from the pillowy silkiness that rests 
 nil in the speculation of the stars. 189 
 
 h ! surely he had burst our mortal bars; 
 ato some wond'rous region he had gone, 
 'o search for thee, divine Endymion ! 
 
 He was a Poet, sure a lover too, 
 7ho stood on Latmus' top, what time 
 
 there blew 
 oft breezes from the myrtle vale below; 
 nd brought in faintness solemn, sweet, 
 
 and slow 
 . hymn from Dian's temple; while up- 
 swelling, 
 lie incense went to her own starry dwell- 
 ing, 
 ut though her face was clear as infant's 
 eyes, 199 
 
 hough she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice, 
 he Poet wept at her so piteous fate, 
 ^ept that such beauty should be deso- 
 late: 
 in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 
 nd gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 
 
 Queen of the wide air; thou most lovely 
 
 queen 
 f all the brightness that mine eyes have 
 
 seen ! 
 s thou exceedest all things in thy shine, 
 o every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
 ' for three words of honey, that I might 
 'ell but one wonder of thy bridal night ! 2 10 
 
 Where distant ships do seem to show 
 
 their keels, 
 hcebus awhile delay'd his mighty wheels. 
 
 And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes, 
 
 Ere he his unseen pomp would solem- 
 nize. 
 
 The evening weather was so bright, and 
 clear, 
 
 That men of health were of unusual cheer; 
 
 Stepping like Homer at the trumpet's 
 call, 
 
 Or young Apollo on the pedestal: 
 
 And lovely women were as fair and warm, 
 
 As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 220 
 
 The breezes were ethereal, and pure. 
 
 And crept through half closed lattices to 
 cure 
 
 The languid sick; it cool'd their fever'd 
 sleep, 
 
 And soothed them into slumbers full and 
 deep. 
 
 Soon they awoke clear-eyed: nor burnt 
 with thirsting, 
 
 Nor with hot fingers, nor with temples 
 bursting: 
 
 And springing up, they met the wond'ring 
 sight 
 
 Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with 
 delight; 
 
 Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss 
 and stare. 
 
 And on their placid foreheads part the 
 hair. 230 
 
 Young men and maidens at each other 
 gaz'd. 
 
 With hands held back, and motionless, 
 amaz'd 
 
 To see the brightness in each other's eyes; 
 
 And so they stood, fiU'd with a sweet sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Until their tongues were loos'd in poesy. 
 
 Therefore no lover did of anguish die: 
 
 But the soft numbers, in that moment 
 spoken. 
 
 Made silken ties, that never may be broken. 
 
 Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 
 
 That foUow'd thine, and thy dear shep- 
 herd's kisses: 240 
 
 Was there a Poet born ? — But now no 
 more, 
 
 My wand'ring spirit must no further soar. 
 
i8 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 SLEEP AND POETRY 
 
 The last poem in the 1817 volume. Charles 
 Cowden Clarke relates that ' it was in the 
 library of Hmit's cottage, where an extempore 
 bed had been put up for Keats on the sofa, that 
 he composed the framework and many lines 
 of this poem, the last sixty or seventy being 
 an inventory of the art garniture of the room.' 
 It may be assigned to the summer of 1816. 
 
 As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
 Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
 Rest I ne wist, for there n' as erthly wight 
 (As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 
 Than I, for I n' ad sicknesse nor disese. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 What is more gentle than a wind in sum- 
 mer ? 
 
 What is more soothing than the pretty 
 hummer 
 
 That stays one moment in an open flower, 
 
 And buzzes cheerily from bower to bower ? 
 
 What is more tranquil than a musk-rose 
 blowing 
 
 In a green island, far from all men's know- 
 ing? 
 
 More healthful than the leafiness of dales ? 
 
 More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
 
 More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 
 
 More full of visions than a high romance ? 
 
 What, but thee, Sleep ? Soft closer of our 
 eyes ! 1 1 
 
 Low murmurer of tender lullabies ! 
 
 Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 
 
 Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping 
 willows ! 
 
 Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
 
 Most happy listener ! when the morning 
 blesses 
 
 Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
 
 That glance so brightly at the new sun- 
 rise. 
 
 But what is higher beyond thought than 
 
 thee? 
 Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 
 More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, 
 
 more regal, 21 
 
 Than wings o:^ swans, than doves, than dim- 
 seen ekgle ? 
 What is it ? } And to what shall I compare 
 
 it ? j 
 It has a gloijy, and nought else can share it: 
 The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and 
 
 holy, 
 Chasing away all worldliness and folly: 
 Coming sometimes like fearful claps of 
 
 thunder, 
 Or the low rumblings earth's regions un- 
 der; 
 And sometimes like a gentle whispering 29 
 Of all the secrets of some wond'rous thing 
 That breathes about us in the vacant air; 
 So that we look around with prying stare. 
 Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lim- 
 ning; 
 And catch soft floatings from a faint-heard 
 
 hymning; 
 To see the laurel wreath, on high suspended. 
 That is to crown our name when life is 
 
 ended. 
 Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 
 And from the heart up-springs, rejoice ! 
 
 rejoice 
 
 Sounds which will reach the Framer of all 
 
 things, 
 And die away in ardent mutterings. 40 
 
 No one who once the glorious sun has 
 
 seen, 
 And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 
 For his great Maker's presence, but must 
 
 know 
 What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow; 
 Therefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
 By telling what he sees from native merit. 
 
 O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen, 
 That am not yet a glorious deuizen 
 Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel j 
 Upon some mountain-top until I feel 5c | 
 A growing splendour round about me hung 
 And echo back the voice of thine owi | 
 
 tongue ? 
 O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen. 
 That am not yet a glorious denizen 
 
SLEEP AND POETRY 
 
 19 
 
 Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent 
 
 prayer; 
 Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
 Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 
 Of flowering bays, that I may die a death 
 Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 
 The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo 
 Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear 61 
 The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to 
 
 me the fair 
 Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
 Will be elysium — an eternal book 
 Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
 About the leaves, and flowers — about the 
 
 playing 
 Of nymphs in woods, and fountains; and 
 
 the shade 
 Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid; 
 And many a verse from so strange influence 
 That we must ever wonder how, and whence 
 It came. Also imaginings will hover 71 
 Round my fire-side, and haply there dis- 
 cover 
 Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander 
 In happy silence, like the clear Meander 
 Through its lone vales; and where I found 
 
 a spot 
 Of awfuUer shade, or an enchanted grot. 
 Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd 
 
 dress 
 Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness. 
 Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 
 All that was for our human senses fitted. 
 Then the events of this wide world I 'd 
 
 seize 81 
 
 Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 
 Till at its shoulders it should proudly see 
 Wings to find out an immortality. 
 
 Stop and consider ! life is but a day; 
 A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way 
 From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep 
 While his boat hastens to the monstrous 
 
 steep 
 Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
 Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; 
 The reading of an ever-changing tale; 91 
 The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; 
 
 A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; 
 A laughing school-boy, without grief or 
 
 care. 
 Riding the springy branches of an elm. 
 
 O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
 Myself in poesy ; so I may do the deed 
 That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
 Then I will pass the countries that I see 
 In long perspective, and continually 100 
 Taste their pure fountains. First the realm 
 
 I '11 pass 
 Of Flora, and old Pan: sleep in the grass. 
 Feed upon apples red, and strawberries. 
 And choose each pleasure that my fancy 
 
 sees; 
 Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady 
 
 places, 
 To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 
 Play with their fingers, touch their shoul- 
 ders white 
 Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 
 As hard as lips can make it: till agreed, 
 A lovely tale of human life we '11 read, no 
 And one will teach a tame dove how it best 
 May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest; 
 Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 
 Will set a green robe floating round her 
 
 head. 
 And still will dance with ever-varied ease, 
 Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 
 Another will entice me on, and on 
 Through almond blossoms and rich cinna- 
 mon; 
 Till in the bosom of a leafy world 
 We rest in silence, like two gems upcurl'd 
 In the recesses of a pearly shell. 121 
 
 And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 
 Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 
 Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
 Of human hearts: for lo ! I see afar, 
 O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
 And steeds with streamy manes — the 
 
 charioteer 
 Looks out upon the ^vinds with glorious fear: 
 And now the numerous tramplings quiver 
 
 lightly 
 
20 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with 
 sprightly 130 
 
 Wheel downward come they into fresher 
 skies, 
 
 Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright 
 eyes. 
 
 Still downward with capacious whirl they 
 glide; 
 
 And now I see them on a green-hill's side 
 
 In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
 
 The charioteer with wond'rous gesture 
 talks 
 
 To the trees and mountains ; and there soon 
 appear 
 
 Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear. 
 
 Passing along before a dusky space 
 
 Made by some mighty oaks : as they would 
 chase 140 
 
 Some ever-fleeting music, on they sweep. 
 
 Lo ! how they murmur, laugh, and smile, 
 and weep: 
 
 Some with upholden hand and mouth severe ; 
 
 Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
 
 Between their arms; some, clear in youth- 
 ful bloom, 
 
 Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom; 
 
 Some looking back, and some with upward 
 gaze; 
 
 Yes, thousands in a thousand different ways 
 
 Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 
 
 Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls ; 
 
 And now broad wings. Most awfully in- 
 tent 151 
 
 The driver of those steeds is forward bent. 
 
 And seems to listen: O that I might know 
 
 All that he writes with such a hurrying 
 glow. 
 
 The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
 Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
 A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
 And, like a muddy stream, would bear 
 
 along 
 My soul to nothingness: but I will strive 
 Against all doubtings, and will keep alive 
 The thought of that same chariot, and the 
 
 strange 161 
 
 Journey it went. 
 
 Is there so small a range 
 In the present strength of manhood, that 
 
 the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly 
 As she was wont of old ? prepare her 
 
 steeds. 
 Paw up against the light, and do strange 
 
 deeds 
 Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us 
 
 all? 
 From the clear space of ether, to the small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding ? From the 
 
 meaning 
 Of Jove's large eyebrow, to the tender 
 
 greening 170 
 
 Of April meadows ? here her altar shone, 
 E'en in this isle; and who could paragon 
 The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
 Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
 Its mighty self of eonvolutiug sound, 
 Huge as a planet, and like that roll round, 
 Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
 Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh 
 
 cloy'd 
 With honours ; nor had any other care 
 Than to sing out and soothe their wavy 
 
 hair. 180 
 
 Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a 
 schism 
 Nurtured by foppery aud barbarism, 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 
 Men were thought wise who could not un- 
 derstand 
 His glories : with a puling infant's force 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. 
 And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 
 The winds of heaven blew, the ocean 
 
 roll'd 
 Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The 
 
 blue 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 190 
 Of summer nights collected still to make 
 The morning precious: beauty was awake ! 
 Why were ye not awake ? But ye were 
 
 dead 
 To things ye knew not of, — were closely 
 wed 
 
SLEEP AND POETRY 
 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched 
 
 rule 
 And compass vile: so that ye taught a 
 
 school 
 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and 
 
 fit, 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
 Their verses tallied; Easy was the task: 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
 Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 201 
 
 That blasphem'd the bright Lyrist to his 
 
 face. 
 And did not know it, — no, they went about, 
 Holding a poor, decrepid standard out, 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in 
 
 large 
 The name of one Boileau ! 
 
 O ye whose charge 
 It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
 Whose congregated majesty so fills 
 My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
 Your hallowed names, in this unholy place, 
 So near those common folk; did not their 
 
 shames 2 1 1 
 
 Affright you ? Did our old lamenting 
 
 Thames 
 Delight you ? did ye never cluster round 
 Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
 And weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
 To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
 Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
 To some lone spirits who could proudly 
 
 sing 
 Their youth away, and die ? 'T was even 
 
 so: 219 
 
 But let me think away those times of woe: 
 Now 't is a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
 Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
 Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been 
 
 heard 
 In many places; — some has been upstirr'd 
 From out its crystal dwelling in a lake, 
 By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake, 
 Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
 Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating 
 
 wild 
 About the earth: happy are ye and glad. 
 
 These things are, doubtless; yet in truth 
 
 we 've had 230 
 
 Strange thunders from the potency of song; 
 Mingled indeed with what is sweet and 
 
 strong 
 From majesty: but in clear truth the themes 
 Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
 Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless 
 
 shower 
 Of light is Poesy; 'tis the supreme of 
 
 power; 
 'T is might half slumb'ring on its own right 
 
 arm. 
 The very archings of her eyelids charm 
 A thousand willing agents to obey, 
 And still she governs with the mildest sway: 
 But strength alone though of the Muses 
 
 born 241 
 
 Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, 
 Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and 
 
 sepulchres 
 Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs 
 And thorns of life; forgetting the great 
 
 end 
 Of Poesy, that it should be a friend 
 To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts 
 
 of man. 
 
 Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 248 
 E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 
 Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
 A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
 All tenderest birds there find a pleasant 
 
 screen. 
 Creep through the shade with jaunty flut- 
 tering, 
 Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
 Then let us clear away the choking thorns 
 From round its gentle stem; let the young 
 
 fawns, 
 Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 
 Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
 With simple flowers: let there nothing be 
 More boisterous than a lover's bended knee; 
 Nought more ungentle than the placid look 
 Of one who leans upon a closed book; 262 
 Nought more untranquil than the grassy 
 slopes 
 
EARLY POEMS 
 
 Between two hills. All hail, delightful 
 
 hopes ! 
 As she was wont, th' imagination 
 Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
 And they shall be accounted poet kings 
 Who simply tell the most heart -easing 
 
 things, 
 O may these joys be ripe before I die. 
 
 Will not some say that I presumptu- 
 ously 270 
 Have spoken ? that from hastening disgrace 
 'Twere better far to hide my foolish face ? 
 That whining boyhood should with rever- 
 ence bow 
 Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach? 
 
 How! 
 If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
 In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
 If I do fall, at least I will be laid 
 Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 
 And over me the grass shall be smooth 
 
 shaven ; 
 And there shall be a kind memorial 
 graven. 2S0 
 
 But off, Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
 They should not know thee, who athirst to 
 
 gain 
 A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 
 What though I am not wealthy in the dower 
 Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 
 The shiftings of the mighty winds that 
 
 blow 
 Hither and thither all the changing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of man : though no great minist'ring rea- 
 son sorts 
 Out the dark mysteries of human souls 
 To clear conceiving : yet there ever 
 rolls 290 
 
 A vast idea before me, and I glean 
 Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've 
 
 seen 
 The end and aim of Poesy. 'T is clear 
 As anything most true ; as that the year 
 Is made of the four seasons — manifest 
 As a large cross, some old cathedral's 
 crest, 
 
 Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore 
 
 should I 
 Be but the essence of deformity, 
 A coward, did my very eyelids wink 
 At speaking out what I have dared to 
 
 think. 300 
 
 Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 
 Over some precipice ; let the hot sun 
 Melt my Daedalian wings, and drive me 
 
 down 
 Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an in- 
 ward frown 
 Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 
 An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an 
 
 isle, 
 Spreads awfully before me. How much 
 
 toil! 
 How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 
 Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 
 Ah, what a task ! upon my bended 
 
 knees, 310 
 
 I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
 Impossible ! 
 
 For sweet relief I '11 dwell 
 On humbler thoughts, and let this strange 
 
 assay 
 Begun in gentleness die so away. 
 E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades : 
 I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
 That smooth the path of honour ; brother- 
 hood. 
 And friendliness the nurse of mutual good. 
 The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant 
 
 sonnet 
 Into the brain ere one can think upon it; 320 
 The silence when some rhymes are coming 
 
 out ; 
 And when they 're come, the very pleasant 
 
 rout: 
 The message certain to be done to-morrow. 
 'T is perhaps as well that it should be to 
 
 borrow 
 Some precious book from out its snug 
 
 retreat. 
 To cluster round it when we next shall 
 
 meet. 
 Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
 
SLEEP AND POETRY 
 
 23 
 
 Are fluttering round the room like doves in 
 
 pairs ; 
 Many delights of that glad day recalling, 
 When first my senses caught their tender 
 
 falling. 330 
 
 And with these airs come forms of elegance 
 Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's 
 
 prance, 
 Careless, and grand — fingers soft and 
 
 round 
 Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift 
 
 bound 
 Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
 Made Ariadne's cheek look bliiGhingly. 
 Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
 Of words at opening a portfolio. 
 
 Things such as these are ever harbingers 
 To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 340 
 Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes : 
 A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
 A butterfly, with golden wings broad 
 
 parted. 
 Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it 
 
 smarted 
 With over pleasure — many, many more. 
 Might I indulge at large in all my store 
 Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
 Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
 For what there may be worthy in these 
 
 rhymes 
 I partly owe to him : and thus, the 
 
 chimes 350 
 
 Of friendly voices had just given place 
 To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
 The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
 It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
 Of pleasure's temple. Round about were 
 
 hung 
 The glorious features of the bards who 
 
 sung 
 In other ages — cold and sacred busts 
 Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 
 To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 
 Then there were fauns and satyrs taking 
 
 aim 360 
 
 At swelling apples with a frisky leap 
 And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious heap 
 
 Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view a 
 
 fane 
 Of liny marble, and thereto a train 
 Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the 
 
 sward : 
 One, loveliest, holding her white hand 
 
 toward 
 The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 
 Bending their graceful figures till they meet 
 Over the trippings of a little child : 
 And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 370 
 Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 
 See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping 
 Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 
 A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 
 At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle 
 
 motion 
 With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 
 Heaves calmly its broad swelling smooth- 
 
 iness o'er 
 Its rocky marge, and balances once more 
 The patient weeds ; that now unshent by 
 
 foam 
 Feel all about their undulating home. 3S0 
 
 Sappho's meek head was there half smiling 
 
 down 
 At nothing ; just as though the earnest 
 
 frown 
 Of over-thinking had that moment gone 
 From off her brow, and left her all alone. 
 
 Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying 
 
 eyes. 
 As if he always listened to the sighs 
 Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's, 
 
 worn 
 By horrid suffrance — mightily forlorn. 
 
 Petrarch, outstepping from the shady 
 
 green. 
 Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can 
 
 wean 390 
 
 His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy 
 
 they ! 
 For over them was seen a free display 
 Of outspread wings, and from between them 
 
 shone 
 
24 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
 She overlook'd thiugs that I scarce could 
 
 tell. 
 The very sense of where I was might well 
 Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that there 
 
 came 
 Thought after thought to nourish up the 
 
 flame 
 Within my breast ; so that the morning 
 
 light 
 Surprised me even from a sleepless 
 
 night ; 4°° 
 
 And up I rose ref resh'd, and glad, and gay, 
 Resolving to begin that very day 
 These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 
 I leave them as a father does his son. 
 
 EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER 
 GEORGE 
 
 Written according to George Keats at Mar- 
 gate, August, 1816, and included in the 1817 
 volimie. 
 
 Full many a dreary hour have I past, 
 My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast 
 With heaviness; in seasons when I've 
 
 thought 
 No spherey strains by me could e'er be 
 
 caught 
 From the blue dome, though I to dimness 
 
 gaze 
 On the far depth where sheeted lightning 
 
 plays; 
 Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, 
 Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think di- 
 vinely : 
 That I should never hear Apollo's song, 
 Though feathery clouds were floating all 
 along lo 
 
 The purple west, and, two bright streaks 
 
 between, 
 The golden lyre itself were dimly seen: 
 That the still murmur of the honey bee 
 Would never teach a rural song to me: 
 That the bright glance from beauty's eye- 
 lids slanting 
 Would never make a lay of mine enchanting. 
 
 Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold 
 Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 
 
 But there are times, when those that love 
 
 the bay, 
 Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; 20 
 A sudden glow comes on them, nought 
 
 they see 
 In water, earth, or air, but poesy. 
 It has been said, dear George, and true I 
 
 hold it, 
 (For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,) 
 That when a Poet is in such a trance, 
 In air he sees white coursers paw and 
 
 prance. 
 Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. 
 Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel; 
 And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning 
 
 call. 
 Is the swift opening of their wide portal, 30 
 When the bright warder blows his trumpet 
 
 clear. 
 Whose tones reach nought on earth but 
 
 Poet's ear. 
 When these enchanted portals open wide. 
 And through the light the horsemen swiftly 
 
 glide. 
 The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls. 
 And view the glory of their festivals: 
 Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 
 Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 
 Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant 
 
 run 
 Like the bright spots that move about the 
 
 sun ; 40 
 
 And, when upheld, the wine from each 
 
 bright jar 
 Pours with the lustre of a falling star. 
 Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers. 
 Of which no mortal eye can reach the flow- 
 ers; 
 And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 
 'T would make the Poet quarrel with the 
 
 rose. 
 All that 's reveal'd from that far seat of 
 
 blisses, 
 Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 
 As gracefully descending, light and thin. 
 
EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 
 
 25 
 
 Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50 
 When he upsvvimmeth from the coral caves, 
 And sports with half his tail above the 
 waves. 
 
 These wonders strange he sees, and many 
 
 more, 
 Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. 
 Should he upon an evening ramble fare 
 With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, 
 Would he naught see but the dark, silent 
 
 blue, 
 With all its diamonds trembling through 
 
 and through ? 
 Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 59 
 Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 
 And staidly paces higher up, and higher. 
 Like a sweet nun in holiday attire ? 
 Ah, yes ! much more would start into his 
 
 sight — 
 The revelries, and mysteries of night: 
 And should I ever see them, I will tell you 
 Such tales as needs must with amazement 
 
 spell you. 
 
 These are the living pleasures of the 
 
 bard : 
 But richer far posterity's award. 
 What does he murmur with his latest breath. 
 While his proud eye looks through the film 
 
 of death ? 70 
 
 ' What though I leave this dull and earthly 
 
 mould. 
 Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 
 With after times. — The patriot shall feel 
 My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel; 
 Or in the senate thunder out my numbers. 
 To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 
 The sage will mingle with each moral theme 
 My happy thoughts sententious; he will 
 
 teem 
 With lofty periods when my verses fire 
 
 him, 
 And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire 
 
 him. 80 
 
 Lays have I left of such a dear delight 
 That maids will sing them on their bridal 
 
 night. 
 
 Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, 
 When they have tired their gentle limbs 
 
 with play. 
 And f orm'd a snowy circle on the grass. 
 And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass 
 Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine 
 
 head 
 Crowned with flowers purple, white, and 
 
 red: 
 For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sigh- 
 ing, 89 
 Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying: 
 Between her breasts, that never yet felt 
 
 trouble, 
 A bunch of violets full blown, and double. 
 Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 
 A little book, — and then a joy awakes 
 About each youthful heart, — with stifled 
 
 cries. 
 And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling 
 
 eyes: 
 For she 's to read a tale of hopes and fears ; 
 One that I foster'd in my youthful years: 
 The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet 
 
 sleep. 
 Gush ever and anon with silent creep, 100 
 Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet 
 
 rest 
 Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's 
 
 breast. 
 Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, 
 
 adieu ! 
 Thy dales and hills are fading from my 
 
 view: 
 Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading 
 
 pinions, 
 Far from the narrow bounds of thy do- 
 minions. 
 Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 
 That my soft verse will charm thy daugh- 
 ters fair, 
 And warm thy sons ! ' Ah, my dear friend 
 and brother, 109 
 
 Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother, 
 For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 
 Happier, and dearer to society. 
 At times, 't is true, I 've felt relief from 
 pain 
 
26 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 When some bright thought has darted 
 
 through my brain: 
 Through all that day I 've felt a greater 
 
 pleasure 
 Than if I 'd brought to light a hidden trea- 
 sure. 
 As to my sonnets, though none else should 
 
 heed them, 
 I feel delighted, still, that you should read 
 
 them. 
 Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoy- 
 ment, 
 Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd em- 
 ployment I20 
 Of scribbling lines for you. These things 
 
 I thought 
 While, in my face, the freshest breeze I 
 
 caught. 
 E'en now I 'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers 
 That crowns a lofty cliff, which proudly 
 
 towers 
 Above the ocean waves. The stalks and 
 
 blades 
 Chequer my tablet with their quivering 
 
 shades. 
 On one side is a field of drooping oats. 
 Through which the poppies show their 
 
 scarlet coats; 12S 
 
 So pert and useless, that they bring to mind 
 The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 
 And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
 Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple, 
 
 and green; 
 Now 't is I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
 Mark the bright silver curling round her 
 
 prow. 
 I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, 
 And the broad-winged sea-gull never at rest; 
 For when no more he spreads his feathers 
 
 free, 
 His breast is dancing on the restless sea. 
 Now I direct my eyes into the west, 
 Which at this moment is in sunbeams 
 
 drest: 140 
 
 Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say 
 
 adieu ! 
 'T was but to kiss my hand, dear George, 
 
 to you ! 
 
 TO MY BROTHER GEORGE 
 
 The first in the group of sonnets in the 1817 
 volume. A transcript by George Keats bears 
 the date ' Margate, August, 1816.' 
 
 Many the wonders I this day have seen: 
 The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
 That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the lau- 
 rell'd peers 
 Who from the feathery gold of evening 
 
 lean ; — 
 The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, 
 Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, 
 
 its fears, — 
 Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears 
 Must think on what will be, and what has 
 
 been. 
 E'en now, dear George, while this for you I 
 write, 
 Cynthia is from her silken curtains peep- 
 ing 
 So scantly, that it seems her bridal night. 
 And she her half-discover'd revels keep- 
 ing. 
 But what, without the social thought of 
 
 thee. 
 Would be the wonders of the sky and sea ? 
 
 TO 
 
 There is no clue to the identity of the per- 
 son addressed and no date is affixed. It was 
 published in the 1817 volume, and there follows 
 the one addressed to his brother George. 
 
 Had I a man's fair form, then might my 
 sighs 
 Be echoed swiftly through that ivory 
 
 shell 
 Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so 
 well 
 Would passion arm me for the enterprise: 
 But ah ! I am no knight whose foeman dies; 
 No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; 
 I am no happy shepherd of the dell 
 Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's 
 eyes. 
 
SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM 
 
 27 
 
 Yet must I dote upon thee, — call thee 
 sweet, 
 Sweeter by far than Hybla's honied roses 
 When steep'd in dew rich to intoxica- 
 tion. 
 Ah ! I will taste that dew, for me 't is meet, 
 And when the moon her pallid face dis- 
 closes, 
 I '11 gather some by spells, and incan- 
 tation. 
 
 SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION 
 TO A POEM 
 
 This poem was published in the 1817 volume 
 where it immediately precedes Calidore. Leigh 
 Himt, when reviewing the volume on its ap- 
 pearance, speaks of the two poems as connected, 
 and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written 
 continuously. The same copy contains a memo- 
 randum ' marked by Leigh Hunt — 1816.' 
 
 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
 
 For large white plumes are dancing in mine 
 
 eye. 
 Not like the formal crest of latter days: 
 But bending in a thousand graceful ways; 
 So graceful, that it seems no mortal hand, 
 Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand. 
 Could charm them iuto such an attitude. 
 We must think rather, that in playful mood, 
 Some mountain breeze had turned its chief 
 
 delight, 
 To show this wonder of its gentle might. 10 
 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry; 
 For while I muse, the lance points slant- 
 ingly 
 Athwart the morning air; some lady sweet. 
 Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 
 From the worn top of some old battlement 
 Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent: 
 And from her own pure self no joy dissem- 
 bling, 
 Wraps round her ample robe with happy 
 
 trembling. 
 Sometimes, when the good Knight his rest 
 
 would take, 
 It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 20 
 
 With the young ashen boughs, 'gainst 
 
 which it rests, 
 And th' half -seen mossiness of linnets' 
 
 nests. 
 Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty, 
 When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye, 
 And his tremendous hand is grasping it, 
 And his dark brow for very wrath is knit ? 
 Or when his spirit, with more calm intent. 
 Leaps to the honours of a tournament. 
 And makes the gazers round about the 
 
 ring 
 Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 30 
 No, no ! this is far off: — then how shall I 
 Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy. 
 Which linger yet about long gothic arches. 
 In dark green ivy, and among wild larches? 
 How sing the splendour of the revelries, 
 When butts of wine are drunk off to the 
 
 lees? 
 And that bright lance, against the fretted 
 
 wall. 
 Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 
 Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and 
 
 shield ? 
 Where ye may see a spur in bloody field. 40 
 Light-footed damsels move with gentle 
 
 paces 
 Round the wide hall, and show their happy 
 
 faces; 
 Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens: 
 Like those fair stars that twinkle in the 
 
 heavens. 
 Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: 
 Or wherefore comes that knight so proudly 
 
 by? 
 Whei'efore more proudly does the gentle 
 
 knight. 
 Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 
 
 Spenser ! thy brows are archfed, open, kind, 
 And come like a clear sunrise to my 
 
 mind; 50 
 
 And always does my heart with pleasure 
 
 dance, 
 When I think on thy noble countenance: 
 Where never yet was ought more earthly 
 
 seen 
 
28 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Than the pure freshness of thy laurels 
 
 green. 
 Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 
 Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh 
 My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 
 Thus startled unaware, 
 Be jealous that the foot of other wight 
 Should madly follow that bright path of 
 
 light 60 
 
 Trac'd by thy lov'd Libertas; he will 
 
 speak, 
 And tell thee that my prayer is very meek; 
 That I will follow with due reverence, 
 And start with awe at mine own strange 
 
 pretence. 
 Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope 
 To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny 
 
 slope: 
 The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the 
 
 flowers ; 
 Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlook- 
 ing towers. 
 
 CALIDORE 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 
 His healthful spirit eager and awake 
 To feel the beauty of a silent eve, 
 Which seem'd full loth this happy world to 
 
 leave ; 
 The light dwelt o'er the scene so linger- 
 
 ingly. 
 He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 
 And smiles at the far clearness all around. 
 Until his heart is well nigh over wound. 
 And turns for calmness to the pleasant 
 
 green 
 Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that 
 
 lean 10 
 
 So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 
 And show their blossoms trim. 
 Scarce can his clear and nimble eyesight 
 
 follow 
 The freaks and dartings of the black-wing'd 
 
 swallow. 
 Delighting much, to see it half at rest, 
 
 Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 
 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark 
 
 anon. 
 The widening circles into nothing gone. 
 
 And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
 Comes up with ripple, and with easy 
 float, 20 
 
 And glides into a bed of water-lilies: 
 Broad-leav'd are they, and their white can- 
 opies 
 Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' 
 
 dew. 
 Near to a little island's point they grew; 
 Whence Calidore might have the goodliest 
 
 view 
 Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery 
 
 shore 
 Went off in gentle windings to the hoar 
 And light blue mountains : but no breath- 
 ing man 
 With a warm heart, and eye prepared to scan 
 Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly 
 by 30 
 
 Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
 On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
 Greeted, as he had known them long before. 
 
 The sidelong view of swelling leafiness. 
 Which the glad setting sun in gold doth 
 
 dress; 
 Whence, ever and anon, the jay outsprings, 
 And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 
 
 The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, 
 
 Stands venerably proud; too proud to 
 
 mourn 
 
 Its long lost grandeur : fir-trees grow 
 
 around, 40 
 
 Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the 
 
 ground. 
 
 The little chapel, with the cross above, 
 Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, 
 That on the windows spreads his feathers 
 
 light, 
 And seems from purple clouds to wing its 
 
 flight. 
 
CALIDORE 
 
 29 
 
 Green tufted islands casting their soft 
 
 shades 
 Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, 
 That through the dimness of their twilight 
 
 show 
 Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the 
 
 glow 
 Of the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems 
 Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which 
 
 hems • 51 
 
 A. little brook. The youth had long been 
 
 viewing 
 These pleasant things, and heaven was 
 
 bedewing 
 The mountain flowers, when his glad senses 
 
 caught 
 A. trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was 
 
 fraught 
 With many joys for him : the warder's ken 
 Had found white coursers prancing in the 
 
 glen : 
 Friends very dear to him he soon will see; 
 So pushes off his boat most eagerly, 
 And soon upon the lake he skims along, 60 
 Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; 
 Nor minds he the white swans that dream 
 
 so sweetly: 
 His spirit flies before him so completely. 
 
 And now he turns a jutting point of land, 
 W^hence may be seen the castle gloomy, and 
 
 grand : 
 Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling 
 
 peaches, 
 Before the point of his light shallop reaches 
 Those marble steps that through the water 
 
 dip: 
 Now over them he goes with hasty trip, 
 And scarcely stays to ope the folding 
 
 doors: 70 
 
 Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 
 3i halls and corridors. 
 
 Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed 
 
 things 
 That float about the air on azure wings. 
 Had been less heartfelt by him than the 
 
 clang 
 
 Of clattering hoofs; into the court he 
 
 sprang. 
 Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain. 
 Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd 
 
 rein; 
 While from beneath the threat'ning port- 
 cullis 
 They brought their happy burthens. What 
 
 a kiss, So 
 
 What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's 
 
 hand ! 
 How tremblingly their delicate ankles 
 
 spann'd ! 
 Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 
 While whisperings of affection 
 Made him delay to let their tender feet 
 Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet 
 From their low palfreys o'er his neck they 
 
 bent: 
 And whether there were tears of languish- 
 
 ment, 
 Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their 
 
 tresses, 
 He feels a moisture on his cheek, and 
 
 blesses go 
 
 With lips that tremble, and with glistening 
 
 eye, 
 All the soft luxury 
 
 That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, 
 Fair as some wonder out of fairy land. 
 Hung from his shoulder like the drooping 
 
 flowers 
 Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer 
 
 showers : 
 And this he fondled with his happy cheek, 
 As if for joy he would no further seek; 
 When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond 
 Came to his ear, like something from be- 
 yond 100 
 His present being: so he gently drew 
 His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses 
 
 new. 
 From their sweet thrall, and forward gently 
 
 bending, 
 Thank'd Heaven that his joy was never 
 
 ending; 
 While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly 
 
 press'd 
 
3° 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 A hand Heaven made to succour the dis- 
 tress'd ; 
 
 A hand that from the world's bleak promon- 
 tory 
 
 Had lifted Calidore for deeds of glory. 
 
 Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 
 There stood a knight, patting the flowing 
 
 hair i lo 
 
 Of his proud horse's mane: he was withal 
 A man of elegance, and stature tall: 
 So that the waving of his plumes would be 
 High as the berries of a wild ash-tree. 
 Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 
 His armour was so dexterously wrought 
 In shape, that sure no living man had 
 
 thought 
 It hard, and heavy steel: but that indeed 
 It was some glorious form, some splendid 
 
 weed. 
 In which a spirit new come from the 
 
 skies I20 
 
 Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 
 'Tis the far-fam'd, the brave Sir Gondi- 
 
 bert, 
 Said the good man to Calidore alert; 
 While the young warrior with a step of 
 
 grace 
 Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face, 
 And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 
 The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 
 Of the aspiring boy; who as he led 
 Those smiling ladies, often turned his head 
 To admire the visor arched so gracefully 130 
 Over a knightly brow; while they went by 
 The lamps that from the high-roof'd hall 
 
 were pendent, 
 And gave the steel a shining quite tran- 
 scendent. 
 
 Soon in a pleasant chamber they are 
 
 seated ; 
 The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already 
 
 greeted 
 All the green leaves that round the window 
 
 clamber. 
 To show their purple stars, and bells of 
 
 amber. 
 
 Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel. 
 Gladdening in the free, and airy feel 
 Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond 140 
 Is looking round about him with a fond 
 And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 
 To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant 
 
 spurning 
 Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of 
 
 arm 
 Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 
 From lovely woman : while brimful of this. 
 He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss. 
 And had such manly ardour in his eye. 
 That each at other look'd half-staringly; 
 And then their features started into 
 
 smiles, 150 
 
 Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 
 
 Softly the breezes from the forest came, 
 
 Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; 
 
 Clear was the song from Philomel's far 
 bower; 
 
 Grateful the incense from the lime-tree 
 flower; 
 
 Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's 
 tone ; 
 
 Lovely the moon in ether, all alone: 
 
 Sweet too the converse of these happy mor- 
 tals, 
 
 As that of busy spirits when the portals 
 
 Are closing in the west; or that soft hum- 
 ming 160 
 
 We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 
 
 Sweet be their sleep. . . . 
 
 EPISTLE TO CHARLES 
 COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 This epistle printed in the 1817 volume is 
 there dated September, 1816, when Clarke was 
 in his twenty-ninth year. He was by eight 
 years Keats's senior, and he lived till his nineti- 
 eth year. 
 
 Oft have you seen a swan superbly frown- 
 
 And with proud breast his own white 
 shadow crowni ig; 
 
EPISTLE TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 31 
 
 He slants his neck beneath the waters 
 
 bright 
 So silently, it seems a beam of light 
 Come from the galaxy: anon he sports, — 
 With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr 
 
 courts. 
 Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 
 In striving from its crystal face to take 
 Some diamond water-drops, and them to 
 
 treasure 
 In milky nest, and sip them off at lei- 
 sure. 10 
 But not a moment can he there insure them, 
 Nor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 
 For down they rush as though they would 
 
 be free. 
 And drop like hours into eternity. 
 Just like that bird am I in loss of time, 
 Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; 
 With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas 
 
 rent, 
 I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; 
 Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 
 In which a trembling diamond never 
 
 lingers. 20 
 
 By this, friend Charles, you may full 
 
 plainly see 
 Why I have never penn'd a line to thee : 
 Because my thoughts were never free, and 
 
 clear, 
 And little fit to please a classic ear; 
 Because my wine was of too poor a savour 
 For one whose palate gladdens in the fla- 
 vour 
 Of sparkling Helicon: — small good it were 
 To take him to a desert rude, and bare, 
 Who had on Baise's shore reclin'd at ease. 
 While Tasso's page was floating in a 
 
 breeze 30 
 
 That gave soft music from Armida's 
 
 bowers. 
 Mingled with fragrance from her rarest 
 
 flowers : 
 Small good to one who had by Mulla's 
 
 stream 
 Fondled the maidens with the breasts of 
 
 Who had beheld Belphcebe in a brook, 
 And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 
 And Archimago leaning o'er his book: 
 Who had of all that 's sweet tasted, and 
 
 seen, 
 From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen; 
 From the sequester'd haunts of gay Tita- 
 
 nia, 40 
 
 To the blue dwelling of divine Urania: 
 One, who of late had ta'en sweet forest 
 
 walks 
 With him who elegantly chats and talks — 
 The wrong'd Libertas, — who has told you 
 
 stories 
 Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; 
 Of troops chivalrous prancing through a 
 
 city. 
 And tearful ladies made for love, and pity: 
 With many else which I have never known. 
 Thus have I thought; and days on days 
 
 have flown 
 Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 50 
 
 For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 
 Nor should I now, but that I 've known you 
 
 long; 
 That you first taught me all the sweets of 
 
 song: 
 The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, 
 
 the fine: 
 What swell'd with pathos, and what right 
 
 divine: 
 Spenserian vowels that elope with ease. 
 And float along like birds o'er summer 
 
 seas: 
 Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian ten- 
 derness: 
 Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair 
 
 slenderness. 
 Who read for me the sonnet swelling 
 
 loudly 60 
 
 Up to its climax, and then dying proudly ? 
 Who found for me the grandeur of the 
 
 ode, 
 Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 
 Who let me taste that more than cordial 
 
 dram. 
 The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 
 Show'd me that epic was of all the king. 
 
32 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's 
 ring? 
 
 You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty. 
 
 And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; 
 
 The might of Alfred, and the shaft of 
 Tell; 70 
 
 The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 
 
 Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never 
 seen, 
 
 Or known your kindness, what might I 
 have been ? 
 
 What my enjoyments in my youthful years, 
 
 Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 
 
 And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 
 
 And can I e'er repay the friendly debt ? 
 
 No, doubly no; — yet should these rhym- 
 ings please, 
 
 I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease; 
 
 For I have long time been my fancy feed- 
 ing 80 
 
 With hopes that you would one day think 
 the reading 
 
 Of my rough verses not an hour misspent; 
 
 Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 
 
 Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw 
 the spires 
 
 In lucent Thames reflected:^ — warm de- 
 sires 
 
 To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dim- 
 ness 
 
 And morning shadows streaking into slim- 
 ness. 
 
 Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water; 
 
 To mark the time as they grow broad, and 
 shorter; 
 
 To feel the air that plays about the hills, 90 
 
 And sips its freshness from the little rills; 
 
 To see high, golden corn wave in the light 
 
 When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's 
 night, 
 
 And peers among the cloudlet's jet and 
 white, 
 
 As though she were reclining in a bed 
 
 Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 
 
 No sooner had I stepp'd into these plea- 
 sures, 
 
 Than I began to think of rhymes and mea- 
 sures; 
 
 The air that floated by me seem'd to say 
 ' Write ! thou wilt never have a better 
 
 day.' 100 
 
 And so I did. W^hen many lines I 'd 
 
 written. 
 Though with their grace I was not over- 
 smitten. 
 Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought 1 'd 
 
 better 
 Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter. 
 Such an attempt required an inspiration 
 Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation; — 
 Which, had I felt, these scribblings might 
 
 have been 
 Verses from which the soul would never 
 
 wean ; 
 But many days have past since last my 
 
 heart 109 
 
 Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; 
 By Arne delighted, or by Handel mad- 
 
 den'd; 
 Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sad- 
 
 den'd: 
 What time you were before the music 
 
 sitting, 
 And the rich notes to each sensation fitting. 
 Since I have walk'd with you through shady 
 
 lanes 
 That freshly terminate in open plains. 
 And revell'd in a chat that ceased not 
 When at night-fall among your books we 
 
 got: 
 No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 
 Nor when reluctantly I took my hat; 120 
 No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 
 Mid-way between our homes : — your ac- 
 cents bland 
 Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 
 Could hear your footsteps touch the grav'ly 
 
 floor. , 
 
 Sometimes I lost them, and then found 
 
 again ; 
 You changed the foot-path for the grassy 
 
 plain. 
 In those still moments I have wish'd you 
 
 joys 
 That well you know to honour: — ' Life's 
 
 very toys 
 
• ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 33 
 
 iiVith him,' said I, ' will take a pleasant 
 
 charm ; 
 [t cannot be that ought will work him 
 
 harm.' 130 
 
 rhese thoughts now come o'er me with all 
 * their might: — 
 
 ^gain I shake your hand, — friend Charles, 
 
 good night. 
 
 TO MY BROTHERS 
 
 Though the poem is thus headed in the 1817 
 'olume, where it is dated November IS, 1816, 
 t might as properly have the heading given it 
 n Tom Keats's copybook : ' Written to his 
 Brother Tom on his Birthday,' with the same 
 late. 
 
 Jmall, busy flames play through the fresh- 
 laid coals. 
 And their faint cracklings o'er our si- 
 lence creep 
 Like whispers of the household gods that 
 keep 
 5l gentle empire o'er fraternal souls, 
 ^nd while, for rhymes, I search around the 
 poles, 
 Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep. 
 Upon the lore so voluble and deep, 
 rhat aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
 Chis is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice 
 
 That thus it passes smoothly, quietly: 
 ^any such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 
 
 May we together pass, and calmly try 
 iVhat are this world's true joys, — ere the 
 great Yoice, 
 From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN 
 ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 The first of these two sonnets was sent by 
 Seats with this brief note : ' November 20, 
 .816. My dear Sir — Last evening wrought 
 ne up, and I cannot forbear sending you the 
 bllowing.' In his prompt acknowledgment 
 3aydon suggested the omission of the last four 
 vords in the penultimate line, and proposed 
 lending the sonnet to Wordsworth. Keats re- 
 
 plied on the same day as his first note : ' Your 
 letter has filled me with a proud pleasure, and 
 shall be kept by me as a stimulus to exertion — 
 I begin to fix my eye upon one horizon. My 
 feelings entirely fall in with yours in regard to 
 the Ellipsis, and I glory in it. The Idea of 
 your sending it to Wordsworth put me out of 
 breath. You know with what Reverence I 
 woidd send my Well-wishes to him.' The pre- 
 sentation copy of the 1817 volume bears the 
 inscription ' To W. Wordsworth with the Au- 
 thor's sincere Reverence.' Both sonnets were 
 printed, but in the reverse order in the 1817 
 volume, and the ellipsis was preserved. 
 
 Great spirits now on earth are sojourning ; 
 He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake. 
 Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide awake. 
 Catches his freshness from Archangel's 
 
 wing: 
 He of the rose, the violet, the spring, 
 The social smile, the chain for Freedom's 
 
 sake: 
 And lo ! — whose steadfastness would 
 never take 
 A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 
 And other spirits there are standing apart 
 Upon the forehead of the age to come; 
 These, these will give the world another 
 heart, 
 And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
 Of mighty workings in the human mart ? 
 Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 
 
 HiGHMiNDEDNESS, a jealousy for good, 
 A loving-kindness for the great man's 
 
 fame, 
 Dwells here and there with people of no 
 name. 
 In noisome alley, and in pathless wood: 
 And where we think the truth least under- 
 stood, 
 Oft may be found a ' singleness of aim,' 
 That ought to frighten into hooded shame 
 A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. 
 How glorious this affection for the cause 
 Of steadfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 
 
34 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 What when a stout unbending champion 
 awes 
 Envy, and Malice to their native sty ? 
 Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still ap- 
 plause, 
 Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 
 
 TO KOSCIUSKO 
 
 First published in The Examiner, where it 
 is dated ' Dec, 1816.' It is included in the 
 1817 volume. 
 
 Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone 
 Is a full harvest whence to reap high 
 
 feeling; 
 
 It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 
 
 Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 
 
 And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 
 
 The names of heroes, burst from clouds 
 
 concealing. 
 Are changed to harmonies, for ever 
 stealing 
 Through cloudless blue, and round each 
 
 silver throne. 
 It tells me too, that on a happy day, 
 
 When some good spirit walks upon the 
 earth. 
 Thy name with Alfred's, and the great 
 of yore. 
 Gently commingling, gives tremendous 
 birth 
 To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
 To where the great God lives for ever- 
 more. 
 
 TO G. A. W. 
 
 Georgiana Augusta Wylie, who afterward 
 married George Keats. For other verses ad- 
 dressed to this lady see pp. 11, 240, 243. 
 
 This sonnet in Tom Keats's copybook is 
 dated December, 1816 ; it was published in the 
 1817 volume. 
 
 Nymph of the downward smile and side- 
 long glance. 
 In what diviner moments of the day 
 Art thou most lovely ? When gone far 
 astray 
 
 Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? 
 Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance 
 Of sober thought ? Or when starting 
 
 away. 
 With careless robe, to meet the mornii^ 
 ray. 
 Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ? 
 Haply 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly. 
 
 And so remain, because thou listenest: 
 But thou to please wert nurtured so com- 
 pletely 
 That I can never tell what mood is best. 
 I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more 
 neatly 
 Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 There is no date given to this poem by Lord 
 Houghton, who published it in the 1848 edi- 
 tion, and no reference occurs to it in the Letters. 
 It was probably an early careless poem, very 
 likely a set of album verses. 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 
 Too happy, happy tree. 
 Thy branches ne'er remember 
 Their green felicity: 
 The north cannot undo them, 
 With a sleety whistle through them; 
 Nor frozen thawings glue them 
 From budding at the prime. 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 Too happy, happy brook. 
 Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
 Apollo's summer look; 
 But with a sweet forgetting. 
 They stay their crystal fretting. 
 Never, never petting 
 
 About the frozen time. 
 
 Ah ! would 't were so with many 
 
 A gentle girl and boy ! 
 But were tliere ever any 
 
 Writh'd not at passed joy ? 
 To know the change and feel it, 
 When there is none to heal it, 
 
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 
 
 35 
 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 WRITTEN IN DISGUST OF 
 VULGAR SUPERSTITION 
 
 In Tom Keats's copybook this sonnet is 
 dated ' Sunday evening, Dee. 24, 1816.' Lord 
 Houghton gives it in the Aldine edition, and 
 heads it ' Written on a Summer Evening.' Pos- 
 sibly the seventh line may be adduced as evi- 
 dence of the wintry season. 
 
 The church bells toll a melancholy round, 
 
 Calling the people to some other prayers, 
 
 Some other gloominess, more dreadful 
 
 cares. 
 
 More hearkening to the sermon's horrid 
 
 sound. 
 Surely the mind of man is closely bound 
 In some black spell; seeing that each one 
 
 tears 
 Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian 
 airs. 
 And converse high of those with glory 
 
 crown'd. 
 Still, still they toll, and I should feel a 
 damp, — 
 A chill as from a tomb, did I not know 
 That they are dying like an outburnt lamp; 
 That 't is their sighing, wailing ere they 
 
 go 
 Into oblivion; — that fresh flowers will 
 grow. 
 And many glories of immortal stamp. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Published in the 1817 volume, hut there is 
 no evidence as to its exact date. It is the 
 latest in order of the sonnets, immediately pre- 
 ceding Sleep and Poetry. 
 
 Happy is England! I could be content 
 To see no other verdure than its own; 
 To feel no other breezes than are blown 
 
 Through its tall woods with high romances 
 blent : 
 
 Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 
 For skies Italian, and an inward groan 
 To sit upon an Alp as on a throne. 
 And half forget what world or worldling 
 
 meant. 
 Happy is England, sweet her artless daugh- 
 ters ; 
 Enough their simple loveliness for me, 
 Enough their whitest arms in silence 
 clinging: 
 Yet do I often warmly burn to see 
 Beauties of deeper glance, and hear 
 their singing. 
 And float with them about the summer 
 waters. 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
 CRICKET 
 
 Written December 30, 1816, on a challenge 
 from Leigh Hunt, who printed both his and 
 Keats's sonnets in his paper. The Examiner. 
 Keats included the sonnet in his 1817 volume. 
 Leigh Hunt's sonnet will be found in the 
 Notes and Illustrations. 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead : 
 
 When all the birds are faint with the 
 
 hot sun. 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown 
 
 mead; 
 That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the 
 lead 
 In summer luxury, — he has never done 
 With his delights; for when tired out 
 with fun, 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 
 
 weed. 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
 there shrills 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing 
 ever, 
 And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost, 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy 
 hills. 
 
36 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Printed in The Examiner, February 23, 1817, 
 and dated by Lord Houghton, when reprinting 
 it, ' January, 1817.' 
 
 After dark vapours have oppress'd our 
 plains 
 For a loug dreary season, comes a day 
 Born of the gentle South, and clears 
 away 
 From the sick heavens all unseemly stains. 
 The anxious month, relieved its pains, 
 Takes as a long-lost right the feel of 
 
 May; 
 The eyelids with the passing coolness 
 play, 
 Like rose leaves with the drip of summer 
 
 rains. 
 And calmest thoughts come round us; as, 
 of leaves 
 Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — 
 Autumn suns 
 Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 
 Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's 
 breath, — 
 The gradual sand that through an hour- 
 glass runs, — 
 A woodland rivulet, — a Poet's death. 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BLANK 
 SPACE AT THE END OF 
 CHAUCER'S TALE OF 'THE 
 FLOURE AND THE LEFE' 
 
 Written in February, 1817, and published ui 
 The Examiner, March 16, 1817. There is a 
 pleasant story that Charles Cowden Clarke had 
 fallen asleep over the book, and woke to find 
 this epilogue. 
 
 This pleasant tale is like a little copse : 
 The honied lines so freshly interlace, 
 To keep the reader in so sweet a place, 
 
 So that he here and there full-hearted 
 stops ; 
 
 And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops 
 Come cool and suddenly against his face. 
 
 And, by the wandering melody, may trace 
 Which way the tender-legged linnet hops. 
 Oh! what a power has white simplicity ! 
 
 What mighty power has this gentle story ! 
 
 I, that do ever feel athirst for glory, 
 Could at this moment be content to lie 
 
 Meekly upon the grass, as those whose 
 sobbings 
 
 Were heard of none beside the mournful 
 robins. 
 
 ON SEEING THE ELGIN 
 MARBLES 
 
 This and the following sonnet were printed 
 in The Examiner, March 9, 1817, and reprinted 
 in Life, Letters and Literary Remains. 1 
 
 My spirit is too weak — mortality 
 
 Weighs heavily on me like unwilling 
 
 sleep, 
 And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 
 Of godlike hardship tells me I must die 
 Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
 Yet 't is a gentle luxury to weep 
 That I have not the cloudy winds to 
 keep, 
 Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. 
 Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
 Bring round the heart an indescribable 
 feud ; 
 So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, 
 That mingles Grecian grandeur with the 
 rude 
 Wasting of old Time — with a billowy 
 main — 
 A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 
 
 TO HAYDON 
 (with the preceding sonnet) 
 
 / 
 
 Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speal^ 
 Definitively of these mighty things; 
 Forgive me, that I have not Eagle' « 
 wings — \ 
 
 That what I want I know not where t 
 seek: 
 
ON SE 
 
 LINES 
 
 37 
 
 And think thaP^®^ "Pd not be over meek, 
 In rolling out'uptt^ow'd thunderings, 
 Even to the steep of Heliconian springs, 
 Were I of ample strength for such a 
 
 freak — 
 Think too, that all those numbers should 
 be thine; 
 Whose else ? In this who touch thy 
 vesture's hem ? 
 For when men star'd at what was most 
 divine 
 With browless idiotism — o'erwise 
 phlegm — 
 Thou hadst beheld the Hesperean shine 
 Of their star in the East, and gone to 
 worship them. 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 
 
 This stood as dedication to the 1817 volume, 
 which was published in the month of March. 
 Charles Cowden Clarke makes the statement : 
 ■ On the evening when the last proof sheet was 
 brought from the printer, it was accompanied 
 by the information that if a " dedication to the 
 book was intended, it must be sent forthwith." 
 Whereupon he withdrew to a side table, and in 
 the buzz of a mixed conversation (for there 
 were several friends in the room) he composed 
 and brought to Charles Oilier, the publisher, 
 the dedication sonnet to Leigh Hunt.' 
 
 Glory and loveliness have pass'd away; 
 
 For if we wander out in early morn. 
 
 No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
 Into the east, to meet the smiling day: 
 No crowd of nymphs sof t-voic'd and young, 
 and gay, 
 
 In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 
 
 Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
 The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
 But there are left delights as high as these. 
 
 And I shall ever bless my destiny, 
 That in a time, when under pleasant trees 
 
 Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
 A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 
 
 With these poor offerings, a man like 
 thee. 
 
 ON THE SEA 
 
 Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated April 17, 
 1817. ' From want of regular rest,' Keats 
 says, ' I have been rather narvus, and the pas- 
 sage in Leai " Do you not hear the sea ? " — 
 
 has haunted me intensely.' He then copies the 
 sonnet, which was published in The Champion, 
 August 17 of the same year. The letter was 
 written from Carisbrooke. He had been sent 
 away from London by his brothers a month 
 before, shortly after the appearance of his first 
 volume of Poems, and his letters show the 
 nervous, restless condition into which he had 
 been driven by that venture. 
 
 It keeps eternal whisperings around 
 
 Desolate shores, and with its mighty 
 
 swell 
 Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the 
 spell 
 Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy 
 
 sound. 
 Often 't is in such gentle temper found, 
 That scarcely will the very smallest shell 
 Be mov'd for days from where it some- 
 time fell. 
 When last the winds of Heaven were 
 
 unbound. 
 O ye ! who have your eyeballs vex'd and 
 tir'd, 
 Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; 
 O ye ! whose ears are dinn'd with up- 
 roar rude. 
 Or fed too much with cloying melody, — 
 Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, 
 and brood 
 Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 First published, with the date 1817, in Life, 
 Letters and Literary Remains. It is barely 
 possible that this is the ' song ' to which Keats 
 refers in a letter to Benjamin Bailey, dated 
 November 22, 1817, when he says : ' I am cer- 
 tain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart's 
 affections, and the truth of Imagination. What 
 the Imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth 
 
38 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 — whether it existed before or not — for I 
 have the same idea of all our passions as of 
 Love : they are all, in their sublime, creative 
 of essential Beauty. In a word, you may know 
 my favourite speculation by my first Book, and 
 the little Song I sent in my last, which is a 
 representation from the fancy of the probable 
 mode of operating in these matters.' 
 
 Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 
 
 I 've left my little queen, 
 Her languid arms in silver slumber lying: 
 
 Ah ! through their nestling touch. 
 
 Who — who could tell how much 
 There is for madness — cruel, or comply- 
 ing? 
 
 Those faery lids how sleek ! 
 
 Those lips how moist ! — they speak. 
 In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds: 
 
 Into my fancy's ear 
 
 Melting a burden dear, 
 How 'Love doth know no fulness, and no 
 bounds.' 
 
 True ! — tender monitors I 
 
 I bend unto your laws : 
 This sweetest day for dalliance was born ! 
 
 So, without more ado, 
 
 I '11 feel my heaven anew. 
 For all the blushing of the hasty morn. 
 
 ON 
 
 Published with the date 1817 by Lord 
 Houghton in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
 mains, but slightly varied in form when re- 
 printed in the Aldine edition. 
 
 Think not of it, sweet one, so; — 
 
 Give it not a tear; 
 Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go 
 
 Any — any where. 
 
 Do not look so sad, sweet one, — 
 
 Sad and fadingly; 
 Shed one drop, then it is gone. 
 
 Oh ! 't was born to die ! 
 
 Still so pale ? (w p-elo''^*" ,weep; 
 
 Weep, I '11 cc Vj' t ' aC;" ..^s, 
 For each will I ./ent a bliss 
 
 For thee in after years. 
 
 Brighter has it left thine eyes 
 
 Than a sunny rill; 
 And thy whispering melodies 
 
 Are more tender still. 
 
 Yet — as all things mourn awhile 
 
 At fleeting blisses; 
 E'en let us too; but be our dirge 
 
 A dirge of kisses. 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 
 
 This sonnet was printed in 1829 in The Gem, 
 a Literary Annual, edited by Thomas Hood. 
 It is not dated, but may fairly be assigned to 
 this time. 
 
 Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
 Down-looking aye, and with a chasten'd 
 
 light 
 Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, 
 And meekly let your fair hands joined be. 
 As if so gentle that ye could not see, 
 
 Untoucli'd, a victim of your beauty bright, 
 Sinking away to his young spirit's night, 
 Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea: 
 'T is young Leander toiling to his death ; 
 Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary 
 lips 
 For Hero's cheek, and smiles against 
 her smile. 
 O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
 Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam 
 awhile : 
 He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous 
 breath ! 
 
 ON LEIGH HUNT'S POEM, 'THE 
 STORY OF RIMINI' 
 
 Dated 1817 in the Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, and placed next after the preceding. 
 
ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR 
 
 39 
 
 W.^ .;o peer up at the morning sun, 
 
 Wi^"\ ilf-shut eyes and comfortable 
 
 Let hi°i, with this sweet tale, full often 
 seek 
 For meadows where the little rivers run; 
 Who loves to linger with that brightest one 
 Of Heaven — Hesperus — let him lowly 
 
 speak 
 These numbers to the night, and star- 
 light meek, 
 Or moon, if that her hunting be begun. 
 He who knows these delights, and too is 
 prone 
 To moralize upon a smile or tear. 
 Will find at once a region of his own, 
 
 A bower for his spirit, and will steer 
 To alleys, where the fir-tree drops its cone, 
 Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are 
 sear. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, but dated 1817 in a manuscript copy 
 owned by Sir Charles DUke. Keats sends it 
 as his ' last sonnet ' in a letter to Reynolds 
 written on the last day of January, 1818. 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to 
 be 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming 
 brain, 
 Before high pil^d books, in charactry. 
 Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd 
 grain; 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd 
 face. 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
 And think that I may never live to trace 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
 chance ; 
 And when I feel, fair creature of an hour ! 
 That I shall never look upon thee more, 
 Never have relish in the faery power 
 
 Of unreflecting love ; — then on the shore 
 Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
 Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 
 
 ON SEEING A LOCK OF 
 MILTON'S HAIR 
 
 ' I was at Hunt's the other day,' writes 
 Keats to Bailey, January 23, 1818, ' and he 
 surprised me with a real authenticated lock of 
 Milton's Hair. I know you would like what I 
 wrote thereon, so here it is — as they say of a 
 sheqj in a Nursery Book.'' ' This I did, ' he 
 adds, after copying the lines, ' at Hunt's at 
 his request — perhaps I should have done 
 something better alone and at home.' Lord 
 Houghton printed the verse in Life, Letters 
 and Literary Remains. 
 
 Chief of organic numbers ! 
 
 Old Scholar of the Spheres ! 
 Thy spirit never slumbers. 
 But rolls about our ears, 
 For ever and for ever ! 
 O what a mad endeavour 
 Worketh he. 
 Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse 
 Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse 
 And melody. 
 
 How heavenward thou soundest, 
 
 Live Temple of sweet noise. 
 And Discord unconfoundest. 
 
 Giving Delight new joys. 
 And Pleasure nobler pinions ! 
 O, where are thy dominions ? 
 Lend thine ear 
 To a young Delian oath, — ay, by thy soul. 
 By all that from thy mortal lips did roll. 
 And by the kernel of thine earthly love. 
 Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, 
 I swear ! 
 When every childish fashion 
 
 Has vanish' d from my rhyme. 
 Will I, grey-gone in passion, 
 Leave to an after-time. 
 Hymning and harmony 
 Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy 
 
 life; 
 But vain is now the burning and the strife. 
 Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife 
 
 With old Philosophy, 
 And mad with glimpses of futurity ! 
 
4° 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 For many years my offering must be husli'd ; 
 When I do speak, I'll think upon this 
 hour, 
 Because I feel my forehead hot and flush' d. 
 Even at the simplest vassal of thy 
 power, — 
 A lock of thy bright hair — 
 Sudden it came, 
 And I was startled, when I caught thy name 
 
 Coupled so unaware; 
 Yet, at the moment, temperate was my 
 
 blood. 
 I thouo-ht I had beheld it from the flood. 
 
 ON SITTING DOWN TO READ 
 'KING LEAR' ONCE AGAIN 
 
 In a letter to his brothers, dated January 23, 
 1818, Keats says : ' I tliink a little change has 
 taken place in my intellect lately — I cannot 
 bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who 
 for so long a time have been addicted to pas- 
 siveness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of 
 great productions than a very gradual ripen- 
 ing of the intellectual powers. As an instance 
 of this — observe — I sat down yesterday to 
 read King lisar once again : the thing ap- 
 peared to demand the prologue of a sonnet, 
 I wrote it, and began to read — (I know you 
 would like to see it). So you see,' he goes on 
 after copying the sonnet, ' I am getting at it 
 with a sort of determination and strength, 
 though verily I do not feel it at this moment.' 
 The sonnet was printed in Life, Letters and 
 Literary Remains. 
 
 O GOLDKN-TONGUED Romance, with se- 
 rene lute ! 
 Fair plumfed Syren, Queen of far away ! 
 Leave melodizing on this wintry day. 
 Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute: 
 Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute. 
 Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay. 
 Must I burn through; once more humbly 
 assay 
 The bitter sweet of this Shakespearean 
 
 fruit: 
 Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, 
 Begetters of our deep eternal theme ! 
 
 When through the old oak forest I am gone, 
 
 Let me not wander in a barren dream, 
 But when I am consumed in the Fire, 
 Give me new Phceuix-wings to fly at my 
 desire. 
 
 LINES ON THE MERMAID 
 TAVERN 
 
 In sending his Robin Hood verses to Rey- 
 nolds (see next poem), Keats added the follow- 
 ing, but from the tenor of bis letter, it would 
 apijear that they had been written earlier and 
 were sent at Reynolds's request. The poem was 
 published by Keats in his Lamia, Isabella, 
 The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems, 1820. 
 The friends were then in full tide of sympathy 
 with the Elizabethans, and would have been 
 very much at home with Shakespeare, Jonson, 
 and Marlowe at the Mermaid. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
 Have ye tippled drink more fine 
 
 Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 
 Of venison ? O generous food ! 
 
 Drest as though bold Robin Hood lo 
 
 Would, with his maid Marian, 
 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
 I have heard that on a day 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
 Nobody knew whither, till 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 To a sheepskin gave the story. 
 Said he saw you in your glory, 
 Underneath a new-old sign 
 Sipping beverage divine, 20 
 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
TO THE NILE 
 
 41 
 
 ROBIN HOOD 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 The friend was J. H. Reynolds, who had sent 
 Keats two sonnets which he had written on 
 Robin Hood. Keats's letter, dated February 
 3, 1S18, is full of energetic pleasantry on the 
 poetry which ' has a palpable design upon us,' 
 and concludes : ' Let us have the old Poets 
 and Robin Hood. Your letter and its sonnets 
 gave me more pleasure than will the Fourth 
 Book of Childe Harold, and the whole of any- 
 body's life and opinions. In return for your 
 Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins. 
 I hope they '11 look pretty.' Keats included 
 the poem in his Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. 
 Agnes and other Poems, 1820, with some trifling 
 changes of text. 
 
 No ! those days are gone away, 
 And their hours are old and gray, 
 And their minutes buried all 
 Under the down-trodden pall 
 Of the leaves of many years : 
 Many times have Winter's shears, 
 Frozen North, and chilling East, 
 Sounded tempests to the feast 
 Of the forest's whispering fleeces. 
 Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 10 
 
 No, the bugle sounds no more, 
 And the twanging bow no more; 
 Silent is the ivory shrill 
 Past the heath and up the hill ; 
 There is no mid-forest laugh. 
 Where lone Echo gives the half 
 To some wight, amaz'd to hear 
 Jesting, deep in forest drear. 
 
 On the fairest time of June 
 You may go, with sun or moon, 20 
 
 Or the seven stars to light you, 
 Or the polar ray to right you; 
 But you never may behold 
 Little John, or Robin bold; 
 Never one, of all the clan, 
 Thrumming on an empty can 
 Some old hunting ditty, while 
 He doth his green way beguile 
 
 To fair hostess Merriment, 
 Down beside the pasture Trent; 3( 
 
 For he left the merry tale. 
 Messenger for spicy ale. 
 
 Gone, the merry morris din ; 
 Gone, the song of Gamelyn; 
 Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
 Idling in the ' grene shawe ; ' 
 All are gone away and past ! 
 And if Robin should be cast 
 Sudden from his turfed grave. 
 And if Marian should have 4c 
 
 Once again her forest days, 
 She would weep, and he would craze: 
 He would swear, for all his oaks, 
 Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes. 
 Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
 She would weep that her wild bees 
 Sang not to her — Strange ! that honey 
 Can't be got without hard money ! 
 
 So it is ; yet let us sing 
 Honour to the old bow-string ! 5c 
 
 Honour to the bugle horn ! 
 Honour to the woods unshorn ! 
 Honour to the Lincoln green ! 
 Honour to the archer keen ! 
 Honour to tight little John, 
 And the horse he rode upon ! 
 Honour to bold Robin Hood, 
 Sleeping in the underwood ! 
 Honour to Maid Marian, 
 And to all the Sherwood clan ! 6c 
 
 Though their days have hurried bj'. 
 Let us two a burden try. 
 
 TO THE NILE 
 
 Composed February 4, 1818, in company with 
 Shelley and Hunt, who each wrote a sonnet on 
 the same theme. It was first published by 
 Lord Houghton in the Life, Letters and Liter- 
 ary Remains. 
 
 Son of the old moon-mountains African ! 
 Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile ! 
 We call thee fruitful, and that very while 
 
42 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 A desert fills our seeing's inward span; 
 Nurse of swart nations since the world 
 began, 
 Art thou so fruitful? or dost thou be- 
 guile 
 Such men to honour thee, who, worn with 
 toil, 
 Rest for a space 'twixt Cairo and De- 
 can ? 
 O may dark fancies err ! They surely 
 do; 
 'T is ignorance that makes a barren waste 
 Of all beyond itself. Thou dost bedew 
 Green rushes like our rivers, and dost 
 taste 
 The pleasant sun-rise. Green isles hast 
 thou too. 
 And to the sea as happily dost haste. 
 
 TO SPENSER 
 
 Printed in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
 mains, and undated. Afterward, when Lord 
 Houghton printed it in the Aldine edition of 
 1876, he noted that he had seen a transcript 
 given by Keats to Mrs. Longmore, a sister of 
 Reynolds, dated by the recipient, February 5, 
 1818. But Lord Houghton is confident that 
 the sonnet was written much earlier. 
 
 Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 
 
 A forester deep in thy midmost trees, 
 Did last eve ask my promise to refine 
 Some English that might strive thine ear 
 
 to please. 
 But Elfin Poet, 't is impossible 
 Eor an inhabitant of wintry earth 
 
 To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill 
 Fire-wing'd and make a morning in his 
 mirth. 
 It is impossible to escape from toil 
 O' the sudden and receive thy spiriting: 
 The flower must drink the nature of the 
 soil 
 Before it can put forth its blossoming: 
 Be with me in the summer days, and I 
 Will for thine honour and his pleasure 
 try. 
 
 SONG 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK PAGE IN BEAU- 
 MONT AND FLETCHER'S WORKS, BE- 
 TWEEN 'CUPID's revenge' AND 
 'THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN' 
 
 First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, and undated. 
 
 Spirit here that reignest ! 
 Spirit here that painest ! 
 Spirit here that burnest ! 
 Spirit here that mournest ! 
 
 Spirit, I bow 
 
 My forehead low, 
 Enshaded with thy pinions. 
 
 Spirit, I look 
 
 All passion-struck 
 Into thy pale dominions. 
 
 Spirit here that laughest ! 
 Spirit here that quaffest ! 
 Spirit here that dancest ! 
 Noble soul that prancest ! 
 Spirit, with thee 
 I join in the glee 
 A-nudging the elbow of Momus. 
 Spirit, I flush 
 With a Bacchanal blush 
 Just fresh from the Banquet of 
 Comus. 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 Under the flag 
 Of each his faction, they to battle bring 
 Their embryo atoms. 
 
 MlLTOS. 
 
 Published in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
 mains, without date. 
 
 Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 
 Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; 
 
 Come to-day, and come to-morrow, 
 I do love you both together ! 
 I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; 
 
 And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; 
 
WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A SONNET 
 
 43 
 
 Fair and foul I love together. 
 Meadows sweet where flames are under, 
 And a giggle at a wonder; 
 Visage sage at pantomime; 
 Funei'al, and steeple-chime; 
 Infant playing with a skull; 
 Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull; 
 Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; 
 Serpents in red roses hissing; 
 Cleopatra regal-dress'd 
 With the aspic at her breast; 
 Dancing music, music sad, 
 Both together, sane and mad; 
 Muses bright, and muses pale; 
 Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; — 
 Laugh and sigh, and laugh again; 
 Oh, the sweetness of the pain ! 
 Muses bright and muses pale. 
 Bare your faces of the veil; 
 Let me see; and let me write 
 Of the day, and of the night — 
 Both together : — let me slake 
 All my thirst for sweet heart-ache ! 
 Let my bower be of yew, 
 Interwreath'd with myrtles new; 
 Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, 
 And my couch a low grass-tomb. 
 
 WHAT THE THRUSH SAID 
 
 In a long letter to Reynolds, dated February 
 19, 1818, Keats writes earnestly of the sources 
 of inspiration to a poet, and especially of the 
 need of a receptive attitude : ' Let us open our 
 leaves like a flower, and be passive and re- 
 ceptive ; budding' patiently under the eye of 
 Apollo and taking hints from every noble 
 insect that favours us with a visit — Sap will 
 be given us for meat, and dew for drink. I 
 was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, 
 by the beauty of the morning operating on a 
 sense of Idleness. I have not read any Book 
 — the Morning said I was right — I had no 
 idea but of the Morning, and the Thrush said 
 I was right, seeming to say,' and then follows 
 the poem. It was first printed in Life, Letters 
 and Literary Hemains. 
 
 O THOU whose face hath felt the Winter's 
 
 wind, 
 Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung 
 
 in mist, 
 And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing 
 
 stars, 
 To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. 
 O thou, whose only book has been the light 
 Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on 
 Night after night when Phcebus was away, 
 To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. 
 O fret not after knowledge — I have none, 
 And yet my song comes native with the 
 
 warmth. 
 O fret not after knowledge — I have none. 
 And yet the Evening listens. He who sad- 
 dens 
 At thought of idleness cannot be idle. 
 And he 's awake who thinks himself asleep. 
 
 WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A 
 SONNET ENDING THUS: — 
 
 ' Dark eyes are dearer far 
 Than those that mock the hyacinthine bell ' 
 
 By J. H. Reynolds. 
 
 Dated by Lord Houghton ' February, 1818,' 
 in Life, Letters and Literary Re?nains, where it 
 was first printed. 
 
 Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the do- 
 main 
 Of Cynthia, — the wide palace of the 
 sun, — 
 The tent of Hesperus, and all his train, — 
 The bosomer of clouds, gold, gray, and 
 dun. 
 Blue ! 'T is the life of waters — ocean 
 And all its vassal streams, pools num- 
 berless. 
 May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can 
 
 Subside, if not to dark blue nativeness. 
 Blue ! Gentle cousin of the forest-green, 
 Married to green in all the sweetest 
 flowers, — 
 Forget-me-not, — the blue bell, — and, that 
 queen 
 
44 
 
 EARLY POEMS 
 
 Of secrecy, the violet: what strange 
 
 powers 
 Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! But how 
 
 great. 
 When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate ! 
 
 TO JOHN HAMILTON 
 REYNOLDS 
 
 Undated, but placed by Lord Houghton di- 
 rectly after the preceding in Life, Letters and 
 Literary Remains. 
 
 O THAT a week could be an age, and we 
 Felt parting and warm meeting every 
 week; 
 Then one poor year a thousand years would 
 be. 
 The flush of welcome ever on the cheek: 
 So could we live long life in little space, 
 
 So time itself would be annihilate. 
 So a day's journey in oblivious haze 
 
 To serve our joys would lengthen and 
 dilate. 
 O to arrive each Monday morn from Ind ! 
 To land each Tuesday from the rich Le- 
 vant ! 
 In little time a host of joys to bind, 
 
 And keep our souls in one eternal pant ! 
 
 This morn, my friend, and yester-evening 
 
 taught 
 Me how to harbor such a happy thought. 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 
 
 This sonnet was sent by Keats in a letter to 
 Benjamin Bailey, from Teignmouth, March 13, 
 1818, and was printed the next year in Leigh 
 Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book, but Keats did 
 not include the verses in his 1820 volume. 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 
 
 There are four seasons in the mind of 
 man: 
 He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 
 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span: 
 He has his Summer, when luxuriously 
 
 Spring's honied cud of youthful thought 
 he loves 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 
 Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 
 
 He furleth close; contented so to look 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 Or else he would forego his mortal na- 
 ture. 
 
 I 
 
ENDYMION 
 
 Keats began this poem in the spring of 
 317 and finished it and saw it through the 
 ress in just about a year. It is interesting 
 » follow in his correspondence the growth 
 
 * the poem. The subject in general had 
 3en in his mind at least since the sum- 
 ler of 1816, when he wrote / stood tiptoe 
 ion a little hill, and the poem Sleep and 
 oetry hints also at the occupation of his 
 liud, though through all the earlier and 
 irtly imitative period of his poetical growth 
 3 was drawn almost equally by the ro- 
 lance to which Spenser and Leigh Hunt in- 
 oduced him, and the classic themes which 
 !s early studies, Chapman and the Elgin 
 larbles, all conspired to make real. In 
 pril, 1817, he writes as one absorbed in 
 le delights of poetry and stimulated by it 
 
 • production. ' I find,' he writes to Eey- 
 jlds from Carisbrooke, April 18, ' I can- 
 it exist without Poetry — half the day 
 ill not do — the whole of it — I began 
 ith a little, but habit has made me a Le- 
 iathan. I had become all in a Tremble 
 'om not having written anything of late 
 -the Sonnet overleaf \_0n the Sea] did 
 le good. I slept the better last night for 
 
 — this morning, however, I am nearly as 
 ad again. Just now I opened Spenser, 
 ad the first lines I saw were these — 
 
 The noble heart that harbours virtuous 
 
 thought, 
 nd is with child of glorious great intent, 
 an never rest until it forth have brought 
 h' eternal brood of glory excellent." 
 
 . . I shall forthwith begin my Endymion, 
 hich I hope I shall have got some way 
 ith by the time you come, when we will 
 ;ad our verses in a delightful place I have 
 st my heart upon, near the Castle.' 
 He reported progress to his friends from 
 me to time during the summer: the poem 
 
 was his great occupation, and he had the 
 alternate exhilaration and depression which 
 such an undertaking naturally would pro- 
 duce in a temperament as sensitive as his; 
 indeed, one is not surprised to find him 
 near the end of September expressing him- 
 self to Haydon as tired of the poem, and 
 looking forward to a Romance to which he 
 meant to devote himself the next summer, 
 for so did his mind swing back and forth, 
 though in truth romance was always upper- 
 most, whether expressed in terms of Gre- 
 cian mythology or medisevalism. But the 
 main significance oi Endymion, as one traces 
 the growth of Keats's mind, is in the strong 
 impulse which possessed him to try his 
 wings in a great flight. In a letter to Bai- 
 ley, October 8, 1817, he quotes from his 
 own letter to George Keats ' in the spring,' 
 and thus at the very time of his setting 
 forth on his great venture, the following 
 notable passage : — 
 
 ' As to what you say about my being a 
 Poet, I can return no answer but by saying 
 that the high idea I have of poetical fame 
 makes me think I see it towering too high 
 above me. At any rate I have no right to 
 talk until Endymion is finished — it will be 
 a test, a trial of my Powers of Imagina- 
 tion, and chiefly of my invention, which is 
 a rare thing indeed — by which I must 
 make 4000 lines of one bare circumstance, 
 and fill them with Poetry : and when I con- 
 sider that this is a great task, and that 
 when done it will take me but a dozen 
 paces towards the temple of fame — it 
 makes me say: God forbid that I should 
 be without such a task ! I have heard Hunt 
 say, and I may be asked — " Why endeavour 
 after a long Poem ? " To which I would 
 answer. Do not the lovers of poetry like to 
 have a little region to wander in, where 
 
 45 
 
46 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 tliey may pick and choose, and in which 
 the images are so numerous that many are 
 forgotten and found new in a second read- 
 ing: which may be food for a week's stroll 
 in summer ? Do not they like this better 
 than what they can read through before 
 Mrs. Williams comes down stairs ? a morn- 
 ing work at most. 
 
 ' Besides, a long poem is a test of inven- 
 tion, which I take to be the polar star of 
 Poetry, as Fancy is the sails, and Imagina- 
 tion the rudder. Did our great Poets ever 
 write short Pieces ? I mean in the shape of 
 Tales — this same invention seems indeed 
 of late years to have been forgotten as a 
 poetical excellence — But enough of this; 
 I put on no laurels till I shall have finished 
 Endymion.'' 
 
 Keats was drawing near the end of his 
 task when he wrote to Bailey November 
 22: 'At present I am just arrived at Dork- 
 ing — to change the scene, change the air 
 
 and give me a spur to wind up my Poem, 
 of which there are wanting 500 lines.' And 
 at the end of the first draft is written ' Bar- 
 ford Bridge [near Dorking] November 28, 
 1817.' Early in January, 1818, Keats gave 
 the first book to Taylor, who ' seemed,' 
 he says, ' more than satisfied with it,' and 
 to Keats's surprise proposed issuing it in 
 quarto if Haydon would make a drawing 
 for a frontispiece. Haydon, when asked, 
 was more eager to paint a picture from 
 some scene in the book, but proposed now 
 to make a finished chalk sketch of Keats's 
 head to be engraved for a frontispiece; 
 for some unmentioned reason, this plan was 
 not carried out. 
 
 Keats was copying out the poem for the 
 printer, giving it in book by book and read- 
 ing the proofs until April, when it was 
 ready save the Preface. This with dedica- 
 tion and title-page he had sent to his Pub- 
 lishers March 21. They were as follows: 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 By John Keats 
 
 'The stretched metre of an antique song.' 
 
 SJtakspeare's Sonnets. 
 
 INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY FEELING OF PRIDE AND REGRET 
 
 AND WITH 'A BOWED MIND' 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 THE MOST ENGLISH OF POETS EXCEPT SHAKSPEARE, 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 In a great nation, the work of an indi- 
 vidual is of so little importance; his plead- 
 ings and excuses are so uninteresting; his 
 * way of life ' such a nothing, that a Preface 
 seems a sort of impertinent bow to strangers 
 who care nothing about it. 
 
 A Preface, however, should be down in 
 so many words; and such a one that by an 
 
 eye-glance over the type the Reader may 
 catch an idea of an Author's modesty, and 
 non-opinion of himself — which I sincerely 
 hope may be seen in the few lines I have 
 to write, notwithstanding many proverbs of 
 many ages old which men find a great plea- 
 sure in receiving as gospel. 
 
 About a twelvemonth since, I published 
 a little book of verses ; it was read by some 
 dozen of my friends who lik'd it; and some 
 
ENDYMION 
 
 47 
 
 dozen whom I was unacquainted with, who 
 did not. 
 
 Now, when a dozen human beings are at 
 words with another dozen, it becomes a 
 matter of anxiety to side with one's friends 
 — more especially when excited thereto by 
 a great love of Poetry. I fought under 
 disadvantages. Before I began I had no 
 inward feel of being able to finish; and as 
 I proceeded my steps were all uncertain. 
 So this Poem must rather be considered as 
 an endeavour than as a thing accomplished ; 
 a poor prologue to what, if I live, I humbly 
 hope to do. In duty to the Public I should 
 have kept it back for a year or two, know- 
 ing it to be so faulty; but I really cannot 
 do so, — by repetition my favourite pas- 
 sages sound vapid in my ears, and I would 
 rather redeem myself with a new Poem 
 should this one be found of any interest. 
 
 I have to apologize to the lovers of sim- 
 plicity for touching the spell of loneliness 
 that hung about Endymion; if any of my 
 lines plead for me with such people I shall 
 be proud. 
 
 It has been too much the fashion of late 
 to consider men bigoted and addicted to 
 every word that may chance to escape their 
 lips; now I here declare that I have not 
 any particular affection for any particular 
 phrase, word, or letter in the whole affair. 
 I have written to please myself, and in 
 hopes to please others, and for a love of 
 fame; if I neither please myself, nor 
 others, nor get fame, of what consequence 
 is Phraseology. 
 
 I would fain escape the bickerings that 
 all works not exactly in chime bring upon 
 their begetters — but this is not fair to ex- 
 pect, there must be conversation of some 
 sort and to object shows a man's conse- 
 quence. In ease of a London drizzle or a 
 Scotch mist, the following quotation from 
 Marston may perhaps 'stead me as an um- 
 brella for an hour or so: ' let it be the cur- 
 tesy of my peruser rather to pity my self- 
 hindering labours than to malice me.' 
 
 One word more — for we cannot help 
 
 seeing our own affairs in every point of 
 view — should any one call my dedication 
 to Chatterton affected I answer as follow- 
 eth: 'Were I dead, sir, I should like a 
 book dedicated to me.' 
 Teignmouth, 
 March 19th, 1818. 
 
 This Preface was shown either before or 
 after it was in type to Reynolds and other 
 friends, and Reynolds objected to it in 
 terms which may be inferred from the fol- 
 lowing letter which Keats wrote him April 
 9, 1818, and which is so striking a reflection 
 of his mind, when contemplating his finished 
 work, that it should be read in connection 
 with the poem : — 
 
 * Since you all agree that the thing is 
 bad, it must be so — though I am not aware 
 there is anything like Hunt in it (and if 
 there is, it is my natural way, and I have 
 something in common with Hunt). Look 
 it over again, and examine into the motives, 
 the seeds, from which any one sentence 
 sprung — I have not the slightest feel of 
 humility toward the public — or to anything 
 in existence, — but the eternal Being, the 
 Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of 
 Great Men. When I am writing for my- 
 self for the mere sake of the moment's 
 enjoyment, perhaps nature has its course 
 with me — but a Preface is written to the 
 Public ; a thing I cannot help looking upon 
 as an Enemy, and which I cannot address 
 without feelings of Hostility. If I write a 
 Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will 
 not be in character with me as a public 
 speaker — I would be subdued before my 
 friends, and thank them for subduing me — 
 but among Multitudes of Men — I have no 
 feel of stooping; I hate the idea of hu- 
 mility to them. 
 
 ' I never wrote one single line of Poetry 
 with the least Shadow of public thought. 
 
 ' Forgive me for vexing you and making 
 a Trojan horse of such a Trifle, both with 
 respect to the matter in question, and my- 
 self — but it eases me to tell you — I could 
 
48 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 not live without the love of iny friends — I 
 would jump down ^tna for any great Pub- 
 lic good — but I hate a mawkish Popularity. 
 I cannot be subdued before them; my Glory 
 would be to daunt and dazzle the thousand 
 jabberers about pictures and books. I see 
 swarms of Porcupines with their quills 
 erect "like lime-twigs set to catch my 
 winged book," and I would fright them away 
 with a torch. You will say my Preface is 
 not much of a Torch. It would have been 
 too insulting " to begin from Jove," and I 
 could not set a golden head upon a thing of 
 clay. If there is any fault in the Preface 
 it is not affectation, but an undersong of 
 disrespect to the Public. If I write an- 
 other Preface, it must be without a thought 
 of those people — I will think about it. If it 
 should not reach you in four or five days, tell 
 Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and 
 let the Dedication simply stand " Inscribed 
 to the Memory of Thomas Chatterton." ' 
 The next day he wrote to his friend, in- 
 closing a new draft: ' I am anxious you 
 should find this Preface tolerable. If there 
 is an affectation in it 't is natural to me. 
 Do let the Printer's Devil cook it, and let 
 me be as " the casing air." You are too 
 good in this matter — were I in your state, 
 I am certain I should have no thought but 
 of discontent and illness — I might though 
 be taught Patience: I had an idea of giving 
 no Preface; however, don't you think this 
 had better go ? O, let it — one should not 
 be too timid — of committing faults.' 
 
 The Dedication stood as Keats proposed, 
 and the new Preface, which is as follows : 
 
 PREFACE 
 Knowing within myself the manner i; 
 which this Poem has been produced, it ii 
 not without a feeling of regret that I make 
 it public. 
 
 What manner I mean, will be quite clear 
 to the reader, who must soon perceive great 
 inexperience, immaturity, and every error 
 denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a 
 deed accomplished. The two first books, 
 and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are 
 not of such completion as to warrant their 
 passing the press; nor should they if I 
 thought a year's castigation would do them 
 any good; — it will not: the foundations are 
 too sandy. It is just that this youngster 
 should die away: a sad thought for me, if 
 I had not some hope that while it is dwin- 
 dling I may be plotting, and fitting myself 
 for verses fit to live. 
 
 This may be speaking too presumptu- 
 ously, and may deserve a punishment: but 
 no feeling man will be forward to inflict 
 it: he will leave me alone, with the convic- 
 tion that there is not a fiercer hell than 
 the failure in a great object. This is not 
 written with the least atom of purpose to 
 forestall criticisms of course, but from the 
 desire I have to conciliate men who are 
 competent to look, and who do look with a 
 zealous eye, to the honour of English lit- 
 erature. 
 
 The imagination of a boy is healthy, and 
 the mature imagination of a man is healthy; 
 but there is a space of life between, in which 
 the soul is in a ferment, the character un- 
 decided, the way of life uncertain, the 
 ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds 
 mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters 
 which those men I speak of must necessarily 
 taste in going over the following pages. 
 
 I hope I have not in too late a day 
 touched the beaijtif ul mythology of Greece, 
 and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try 
 once more, before I bid it farewel. 
 
 Teignmouth, 
 April 10, 1818. 
 
 1 
 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 49 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy for ever: 
 Its loveliness increases; it will never 
 Pass into uothiuguess; but still will keep 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 
 
 breathing. 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreath- 
 ing 
 A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 
 Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth 
 Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er - darken'd 
 
 ways lo 
 
 Made for our searching : yes, in spite of 
 
 all, 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the 
 
 moon. 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a shady 
 
 boon 
 For simple sheep; and such are daffodils 
 With the green world they live in ; and clear 
 
 rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert make 
 'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake. 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 
 
 blooms : 19 
 
 And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 
 An endless fountain of immortal drink. 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
 
 Nor do we merely feel these essences 
 For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
 That whisper round a temple become soon 
 Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
 The passion poesy, glories infinite, 29 
 
 Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
 Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, 
 That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er- 
 
 cast. 
 They alway must be with us, or we die. 
 
 Therefore 't is with full happiness that I 
 Will trace the story of Endymion. 
 
 The very music of the name has gone 
 Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
 Is growing fresh before me as the green 
 Of our own valleys: so I will begin 
 Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40 
 Now while the early budders are just new. 
 And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
 About old forests; while the willow trails 
 Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails 
 Bring home increase of milk. And, as the 
 
 year 
 Grows lush in juicy stalks, I '11 smoothly 
 
 steer 
 My little boat, for many quiet hours, 
 With streams that deepen freshly into bow- 
 ers. 
 Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
 Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and 
 white, 50 
 
 Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
 Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
 I must be near the middle of my story. 
 O may no wintry season, bare, and hoary. 
 See it half-finish'd : but let Autumn bold, 
 With universal tinge of sober gold, 
 Be all about me when I make an end. 
 And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
 My herald thought into a wilderness: 
 There let its trumpet blow, and quickly 
 dress 60 
 
 My uncertain path with green, that I may 
 
 speed 
 Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 
 
 Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
 A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed 
 So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
 Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious 
 
 fruits. 
 And it had gloomy shades, sequestered 
 
 deep. 
 Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's 
 
 keep 
 A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost 
 
 glens. 
 Never again saw he the happy pens 70 
 
 Whither his brethren, bleating with con- 
 tent. 
 
5° 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
 Among the shepherds, 't was believed ever, 
 That not one fleecy lamb which thns did 
 
 sever 
 From the white flock, but pass'd unworrifed 
 By angry wolf, or pard with prying head, 
 Until it came to some imfooted plains 
 Where fed the herds of Pan: aye great his 
 
 gains 
 Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there 
 
 were many, 
 Winding through palmy fern, and rushes 
 
 fenny, So 
 
 And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly 
 To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
 Stems thronging all around between the 
 
 swell 
 Of turf and slanting branches: who could 
 
 tell 
 The freshness of the space of heaven 
 
 above, 
 Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through 
 
 which a dove 
 Would often beat its wings, and often too 
 A little cloud would move across the blue. 
 
 Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
 There stood a marble altar, with a tress 90 
 Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
 Had taken fairy phantasies to strew 
 Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve. 
 And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
 For 't was the morn: Apollo's upward fire 
 Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 
 Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 
 A melancholy spirit well might win 
 Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 
 Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine 100 
 Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing 
 
 sun; 
 The lark was lost in him; cold springs had 
 
 run 
 To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 
 Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the 
 
 mass 
 Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed ten- 
 fold, 
 To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. 
 
 Now while the silent workings of the 
 
 dawn 
 Were busiest, into that self- same lawn 
 All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
 A troop of little cliildren garlanded; no 
 Who gathering round the altar seem'd to pry 
 Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
 Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited 
 For many moments, ere their ears were 
 
 sated 
 With a faint breath of music, which ev'n 
 
 then 
 Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. 
 Within a little space again it gave 
 Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, 
 To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes 
 
 breaking 
 Through copse - clad valleys, — ere their 
 
 death, o'ertaking 120 
 
 The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 
 
 And now, as deep into the wood as we 
 Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd 
 
 light 
 Fair faces and a rush of garments white. 
 Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 
 Into the widest alley they all past, 
 Making directly for the woodland altar. 
 O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue 
 
 faulter 
 In telling of this goodly company, 
 Of their old (piety, and of their glee: 130 
 But let a portion of ethereal dew 
 Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
 My soul; that I may daje, in wayfaring. 
 To stammer where old Chaucer used to 
 
 sing. 
 
 Leading the way, young damsels danced 
 
 along. 
 Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; 
 Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'd 
 With April's tender younglings: next, well 
 
 trimm'd, 
 A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt 
 
 looks 
 As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 140 
 Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, 
 
 ii 
 
When the great deity, for earth too ripe, 
 Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
 In music, through the vales of Thessaly: 
 Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the 
 
 ground, 
 And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 
 With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, 
 Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
 A venerable priest full soberly. 
 Begirt with minist'ring looks: alway his 
 
 eye 150 
 
 Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
 And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
 From his right hand there swung a vase, 
 
 milk-white, 
 Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous 
 
 light; 
 And in his left he held a basket full 
 Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could 
 
 cull: 
 Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 
 Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
 His aged head, crowned with beechen 
 
 wreath, 
 Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth 160 
 Of winter hoar. Then came another 
 
 crowd 
 Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 
 Their share of the ditty. After them ap- 
 
 pear'd, 
 Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd 
 Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought 
 
 car, , 
 Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 
 The freedom of three steeds of dapple 
 
 brown: 
 Who stood "therein did seem of great re- 
 
 liown 
 Among the throng. His youth was fully 
 
 blown. 
 Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 
 And, for those simple tim^ his garments 
 
 were 171 
 
 A chieftain kings ; beneath his breast, half 
 
 bare, 
 Was hung a silver bugle, and between 
 His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear 
 
 keen. 
 
 A smile was on his countenauv-e ; he seem 
 To common lookers-on, like one wl 
 
 dream'd 
 Of idleness in groves Elysian: 
 But there were some who feelingly cou: 
 
 scan 
 A lurking trouble in his nether lip, 
 And see that oftentimes the reins would si r 
 Through his forgotten hands: then won 
 
 they sigh. 
 And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cr , 
 Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day 
 Why should our young Endymion pi 
 
 away ! 
 
 Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged. 
 Stood silent round the shrine: each lo - 
 
 was changed 
 To sudden veneration : women meek 
 Beckon'd their sons to silence; while ea 
 
 cheek 
 Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight f e 
 Endymion too, without a forest peer. 
 Stood, wan, and pale, and with an aw 
 
 face. 
 Among his brothers of the mountain cha 
 In midst of all, the venerable priest 
 Eyed them with joy from greatest to 1 
 
 least. 
 And, after lifting up his aged hands. 
 Thus spake he: ' Men of Latmos ! shephi ' 
 
 bands ! 
 Whose care it is to guard a thousand floe • 
 Whether descended from beneath the ro 
 That overtop your mountains ; whet ; 
 
 come 
 From valleys where the pipe is ne 
 
 dumb ; 20. 
 
 Or from your swelling downs, where sw <- 
 
 air stirs 
 Blue harebells lightly, and where pric 
 
 furze 
 Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose preci 
 
 charge 
 Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge. 
 Whose mellow reeds are touch'd \ 
 
 sounds forlorn 
 By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn 
 
52 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Mothers and wives ! who day by day pre- 
 pare 
 The scrip, with needments, for the moun- 
 tain air; 
 And all ye gentle girls who foster up 
 Udderless lambs, and in a little cup 210 
 Will put choice honey for a f avour'd youth : 
 Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 
 Our vows are wanting to our great god 
 
 Pan. 
 Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
 Night-swollen mushrooms ? Are not our 
 
 wide plains 
 Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have 
 
 not rains 
 Green'd over April's lap ? No howling sad 
 Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have hrtd 
 Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
 The earth is glad: the merry lark has 
 pour'd 220 
 
 His early song against yon breezy sky, 
 That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.' 
 
 Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a 
 
 spire 
 Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
 Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
 With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god. 
 Now while the earth was drinking it, and 
 
 while 
 Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant 
 
 pile, 
 ind gummy frankincense was sparkling 
 
 bright 
 Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy 
 
 light 230 
 
 Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus 
 
 sang: 
 
 ' O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth 
 
 hang 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
 Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, 
 
 death 
 Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness; 
 Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels 
 
 darken; 
 
 And through whole solemn hours dost sit, 
 
 and hearken 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
 In desolate places, where dank moisture 
 
 breeds 240 
 
 The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth; 
 Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
 Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou 
 
 now, 
 By thy love's milky brow ! 
 By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
 Hear us, great Pan ! 
 
 ' O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, 
 turtles 
 Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
 What time thou wanderest at eventide 
 Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the 
 side 250 
 
 Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom 
 Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
 Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees 
 Their golden honeycombs; our village leas 
 Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied 
 
 corn ; 
 The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
 To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries 
 Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies 
 Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-bud- 
 ding year 
 All its completions — be quickly near, 260 
 By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
 O forester divine ! 
 
 ' Thou, to whom every faun and satyr 
 
 flies 
 For willing service ; whether to surprise 
 The squatted hare while in half-sleeping 
 
 fit; 
 Or upward ragged precipices flit 
 To save poor lambkins from the eagle's 
 
 maw; 
 Or by mysteiious enticcmn t draw 
 Bewilder'd shepherds to th ir path again; 
 Or to tread breathless 1 md the frothy 
 
 main, 270 
 
 And gather up all fancifnUest shells 
 For thee to tun:.ble ^l^^« \';, tads' cells. 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peep- 
 ing; 
 
 Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping. 
 
 The while they pelt each other on the 
 crown 
 
 With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones 
 brown — 
 
 By all the echoes that about thee ring. 
 
 Hear us, O satyr king ! 
 
 ' O Hearkener to the loud - clapping 
 
 shears, 
 While ever and anon to his shorn peers 280 
 A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn. 
 When snouted wild-boars routing tender 
 
 corn 
 Anger our huntsman: Breather round our 
 
 farms. 
 To keep off mildews, and all weather 
 
 harms : 
 Strange ministrant of vmdescribed sounds, 
 That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
 And wither drearily on barren moors: 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
 Great son of Dryope, 290 
 
 The many that are come to pay their vows 
 With leaves about their brows ! 
 
 ' Be still the unimaginable lodge 
 
 For solitary thinkings; such as dodge 
 
 Conception to the very bourne of heaven. 
 
 Then leave the naked brain: be still the 
 leaven, 
 
 That spreading in this dull and clodded 
 earth 
 
 Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth : 
 
 Be still a symbol of immensity; 
 
 A firmament reflected in a sea; 300 
 
 An element filling the space between; 
 
 An unknown — but no more: we humbly 
 screen 
 
 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly 
 bending. 
 
 And giving out a shout most heaven-rend- 
 ing. 
 
 Conjure thee to receive our humble Psean, 
 
 Upon thy Mount Lycean ! ' 
 
 Even while they brought the burden to a 
 
 close, 
 A shout from the whole multitude aros .\ 
 That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
 Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals , o 
 Of dolphins bob their noses through he 
 
 brine. 
 Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine 
 Young companies nimbly began danci • 
 To the swift treble pipe, and hum >ing 
 
 string. 
 Aye, those fair living forms swam hear anly 
 To tunes forgotten — out of memory: 
 Fair creatures ! whose young childi en's 
 
 children bred 
 Thermopylae its heroes — not yet deadi 
 But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
 High genitors, unconscious did they cu .;, 
 Time's sweet first-fruits — they danc .. <<> 
 
 weariness. 
 And then in quiet circles did they pre t 
 The hillock turf, and caught the latt( end 
 Of some strange histoi-y, potent to se 
 A young mind from its bodily tenem i 
 Or they might watch the quoit-pi hers, 
 
 intent 
 On either side ; pitying the sad deai . 
 Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel bre? ^i 
 Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr pej 1 : ■ 't. 
 Who now, ere Phoebus mounts tt '•- 
 
 ment, 
 Fondles the flower amid the sobbr>L 'i in. 
 The archers too, upon a wider pla 1. 
 Beside the feathery whizzing of tl ; sLait» 
 And the dull twanging bowstring and ti 
 
 raft 
 Branch down sweeping from a tall asli to 
 Call'd up a thousand thoughts to < uvelop 
 Those who would watch. Perha'js, tl 
 
 trembling knee 
 And frantic gape of lonely Niobe 
 Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her loi ely j ou 
 Were dead and gone, and hei" carets) 
 
 tongue 
 Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip, 
 And very, very deadliness did nip 
 Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from 
 
 sad mood 
 
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, 
 Uplifting his strong bow into the air, 
 Many might after brighter visions stare: 
 After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
 Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways. 
 Until, from the horizon's vaulted side, 
 There shot a golden splendour far and 
 wide, ' 35° 
 
 Spangling those million pou tings of the 
 
 brine 
 With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful 
 
 thine 
 From the exaltation of Apollo's bow; 
 A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 
 Who tli\is were ripe for high contemplating. 
 Might turn their steps towards the sober 
 
 r'ng 
 "vl'bere sat Endymion and the aged priest 
 1 on<i shepherds gone in eld, whose looks 
 
 increased 
 iie silvf ry setting of their mortal star. 
 lere tiiey discoursed upon the fragile 
 bar 360 
 
 nat keeps us from our homes ethereal; 
 ;id what our duties there: to nightly call 
 esjAT, the beauty-crest of summer wea- 
 ther; 
 o summon all the downiest clouds together 
 ^,-' o'he n's purple couch; to emulate 
 
 dnist'ring the potent rule of fate 
 ,*\it] spe<;d of fire-tail'd exhalations; 
 IvTo tint linr pallid cheek with bloom, who 
 cons 
 •weet poesy by moonlight: besides these, 
 . world of other unguess'd offices. 370 
 
 Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, 
 Into Elysii^m; vying to rehearse 
 Each one Ins own anticipated bliss, 
 >ne felt hiBart-certain that he could not 
 
 miss 
 lis quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd 
 boughs, 
 Tiere eve, y zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 
 r lips with music for the welcoming, 
 ftther wit ti'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 
 \neet his rosy child, with feathery sails, 
 leping, eye-earnestly, through almond 
 vr. ! 3s : 380 
 
 Who, suddenly, should stoop through the 
 
 smooth wind, 
 And with the balmiest leaves his temples 
 
 bind; 
 And, ever after, through those regions be 
 His messenger, his little Mercury. 
 Some were athirst in soul to see again 
 Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide cham- 
 paign 
 In times long past; to sit with them, and 
 
 talk 
 Of all the chances in their earthly walk; 
 Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 
 Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 390 
 Benighted, close they huddled from the 
 
 cold. 
 And shared their famish'd scrips. Thus 
 
 all out-told 
 Their fond imaginations, — saving him 
 Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels 
 
 dim, 
 Endymion: yet hourly had he striven 
 To hide the cankering venom, that had 
 
 riven 
 His fainting recollections. Now indeed 
 His senses had swoou'd off: he did not heed 
 The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 
 Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe, 400 
 Or anxious calls, or close of trembling 
 
 palms, 
 Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms: 
 But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, 
 Like one who on the earth had never stept. 
 Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man. 
 Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 
 
 Who whispers him so pantingly and 
 close ? 
 Peona, his sweet sister: of all those. 
 His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs 
 
 she made, 
 And breathed a sister's sorrow to per- 
 suade 4IC 
 A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
 Her eloquence did breathe away the curse: 
 She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
 Of happy changes in emphatic dreams. 
 Along a path between two little streams, — 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 55 
 
 Guarding his forehead, with her round 
 
 elbow, 
 From low-grown branches, and his foot- 
 steps slow 
 From stumbling over stumps and hillocks 
 
 small ; 
 Until they came to where these streamlets 
 
 fall, 
 With mingled babblings and a gentle 
 rush, 420 
 
 Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 
 With crystal mocking of the trees and 
 
 sky. 
 A little shallop, floating there hard by. 
 Pointed its beak over the fringed bank; 
 And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank. 
 And dipt again, with the young couple's 
 
 weight, — 
 Peona guiding, through the water straight, 
 Towards a bowery island opposite; 
 Which gaining presently, she steered light 
 Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove, 430 
 Where nested was an arbour, overwove 
 By many a summer's silent fingering; 
 To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 
 Her playmates, with their needle broid- 
 ery, 
 And minstrel memories of times gone by. 
 
 So she was gently glad to see him laid 
 LFnder her favourite bower's quiet shade. 
 On her own couch, new made of flower 
 
 leaves. 
 Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
 When last the sun his autumn tresses 
 
 shook, 440 
 
 And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls 
 
 took. 
 Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: 
 But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
 Peona's busy hand against his lips, 
 A.nd still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
 [n tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
 A. patient watch over the stream that creeps 
 Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
 Held her in peace: so that a whispering 
 
 blade 
 Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 450 
 
 Down in the bluebells, or a wren light 
 
 rustling 
 Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be 
 
 heard. 
 
 O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird, 
 That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the 
 
 mind 
 Till it is hush'd and smooth ! O unconfined 
 Restraint ! imprison'd liberty ! great key 
 To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy. 
 Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled 
 
 caves. 
 Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
 And moonlight; aye, to all the mazy 
 
 world 460 
 
 Of silvery enchantment ! — who, upf ui4'd 
 Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
 But renovates and lives? — Thus, in the 
 
 bower, 
 Endymion was calm'd to life again. 
 Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain. 
 He said: 'I feel this thine endearing love 
 All through my bosom: thou art as a dove 
 Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked 
 
 wings 
 About me; and the pearliest dew not brings 
 Such morning incense from the fields of 
 
 May, 470 
 
 As do those brighter drops that twinkling- 
 stray 
 From those kind eyes, — the very home and 
 
 haunt 
 Of sisterly affection. Can I want 
 Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such 
 
 tears ? 
 Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
 That, any longer, I will pass my days 
 Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 
 My voice upon the mountain-heights; once 
 
 more 
 Make my horn parley from their foreheads 
 
 hoar: 
 Again my trooping hounds their tongues 
 
 shall loH 480 
 
 Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll 
 The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow: 
 And, when the pleasant sun is getting low, 
 
S6 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead 
 To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
 Our idle sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet ! 
 And, if thy lute is here, softly intreat 
 My soul to keep in its resolved course.' 
 
 Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
 Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad ex- 
 claim, 490 
 And took a lute, from which there pulsing 
 
 came 
 A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
 In which her voice should wander. 'T was 
 
 a lay 
 More subtle cadenced, more forest wild 
 Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child; 
 And nothing since has floated in the air 
 So mournful strange. Surely some influ- 
 ence rare 
 Went, spiritual, through the damsel's hand ; 
 For still, with Delphic emphasis, shespann'd 
 The quick invisible strings, even though 
 she saw 500 
 
 Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
 Before the deep intoxication. 
 But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
 Her self-possession — swung the lute aside, 
 And earnestly said: 'Brother, 'tis vain to 
 
 hide 
 That thou dost know of things mysterious, 
 Immortal, starry; such alone could thus 
 Weigh down thy nature. Hast thoii sinn'd 
 
 in aught 
 Offensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
 A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 510 
 Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd 
 
 bent, 
 Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
 Her naked limbs among the alders green; 
 And that, alas ! is death. No, I can trace 
 Something more high perplexing in thy 
 face ! ' 
 
 Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her 
 
 hand, 
 And said, * Art thou so pale, who wast so 
 
 bland 
 And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 
 
 Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss ! — 
 Ah ! thou hast been unhappy at the change 
 Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed 
 
 more strange ? 521 
 
 Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
 Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize. 
 That toiling years would put within my 
 
 grasp, 
 That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
 No man e'er panted for a mortal love. 
 So all have set my heavier grief above 
 These things which happen. Rightly have 
 
 they done: 
 I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
 Heave his broad shoulder o'er the edge of 
 
 the world, 530 
 
 Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
 My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
 I, who, for very sport of heart, would 
 
 race 
 With my own steed from Araby; pluck 
 
 down 
 A vulture from his towery perching ; frown 
 A lion into growling, loth retire — 
 To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding fire, 
 And sink thus low ! but I will ease my 
 
 breast 
 Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 
 
 ' This river does not see the naked sky. 
 Till it begins to progress silverly 541 
 
 Around the western border of the wood. 
 Whence, from a certain spot, its winding 
 
 flood 
 Seems at the distance like a crescent moon: 
 And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
 Had I been used to pass my weary eves; 
 The rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
 So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
 And I could witness his most kingly hour, 
 When he doth tighten up the golden reins. 
 And paces leisurely down amber plains 551 
 His snorting four. Now when his chariot 
 
 last 
 Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast. 
 There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
 Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red: 
 At which I wondered greatly, knowing well 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 That but one night had wrought this flow- 
 ery spell; 
 And, sitting down close by, began to muse 
 What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, 
 
 Morpheus, 
 In passing here, his owlet pinions shook; 
 Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 561 
 Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth, 
 Had dipt his rod in it: such garland wealth 
 Came not by common growth. Thus on I 
 
 thought. 
 Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
 Moreover, through the dancing poppies 
 
 stole 
 A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; 
 And shaping visions all about my sight 
 Of colours, wings, and bursts of spangly 
 
 light; 
 The which became more strange, and 
 
 strange, and dim, 570 
 
 And then were gulf 'd in a tumultuous swim : 
 And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
 The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
 Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream 
 That never tongue, although it overteem 
 With mellow utterance, like a cavern 
 
 spring. 
 Could figure out and to conception bring 
 All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
 Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
 Among the stars in virgin splendour pours ; 
 And travelling my eye, until the doors 581 
 Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, 
 I became loth and fearful to alight 
 From such high soaring by a downward 
 
 glance : 
 So kept me steadfast in that airy trance. 
 Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
 When, presently, the stars began to glide. 
 And faint away, before my eager view: 
 At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue, 
 And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge; 
 And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw 
 
 emerge 591 
 
 The loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er 
 A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did 
 
 soar 
 So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 
 
 Commingling with her argent spheres did 
 roll 
 
 Through clear and cloudy, even when she 
 . went 
 
 At last into a dark and vapoury tent — 
 
 Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 
 
 Of planets all were in the blue again. 
 
 To commune with those orbs, once more I 
 raised 600 
 
 My sight right upward: but it was quite 
 dazed 
 
 By a bright something, sailing down apace. 
 
 Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 
 
 Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, 
 
 Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
 
 W^hence that completed form of all com- 
 pleteness ? 
 
 Whence came that high perfection of all 
 sweetness ? 
 
 Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, 
 O where 
 
 Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 
 
 Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western 
 sun; 610 
 
 Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me 
 shun 
 
 Such follying before thee — yet she had. 
 
 Indeed, locks bright enough to make me 
 mad; 
 
 And they were simply gordian'd up and 
 braided, 
 
 Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded, 
 
 Her pearl round ears, white neck, and 
 orbed brow ; 
 
 The which were blended in, I know not 
 how. 
 
 With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 
 
 Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faint- 
 est sighs. 
 
 That, when I think thereon, my spirit 
 clings 620 
 
 And plays about its fancy, till the stings 
 
 Of human neighbourhood envenom all. 
 
 Unto what awful power shall I call ? 
 
 To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hover- 
 ing feet, 
 
 More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely 
 sweet 
 
■ o' 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Than those of sea-born Venus, when she 
 
 rose 
 From out her cradle shell. The wind out- 
 blows 
 Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
 'T is blue, and over-spangled with a million 
 Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, 
 Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 631 
 Handfuls of daisies.' — 'Endymion, how 
 
 strange ! 
 Dream within dream ! ' — ' She took an 
 
 airy range, 
 And then, towards me, like a very maid, 
 Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 
 And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 't was 
 
 too much; 
 Methought I fainted at the charmed touch, 
 Yet held my recollection, even as one 
 Who dives three fathoms where the waters 
 
 run 
 Gurgling in beds of coral: for anon, 640 
 I felt upmounted in that region 
 Where falling stars dart their artillery forth. 
 And eagles struggle with the buffeting 
 
 north 
 That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 
 Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 
 But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous 
 
 sky. 
 Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying 
 
 high, 
 And straightway into frightful eddies 
 
 swoop'd; 
 Such as ay muster where gray time has 
 
 scoop'd 
 Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's 
 
 side: 650 
 
 There hollow sounds aroused me, and I 
 
 sigh'd 
 To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 
 I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 
 The wooing arms which held me, and did 
 
 give 
 My eyes at once to death : but 't was to live, 
 To take in draughts of life from the gold 
 
 fount 
 Of kind and passionate looks; to count, 
 
 and count 
 
 The moments, by some greedy help that 
 
 seem'd 
 A second self, that each might be redeem'd 
 And plunder'd of its load of blessed- 
 ness. 660 
 Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dared to press 
 Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 
 And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
 Into a warmer air: a moment more. 
 Our feet were soft in flowers. There was 
 
 store 
 Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 
 A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
 Loiter'd around us; then of honey cells, 
 Made delicate from all white-flower bells; 
 And once, above the edges of our nest, 670 
 An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I 
 guess'd. 
 
 ' Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'd 
 
 me 
 In midst of all this heaven ? Why not see. 
 Far off, the sliadows of his pinions dark, 
 And stare them from me ? But no, like a 
 
 spark 
 That needs must die, although its little 
 
 beam 
 Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
 Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
 And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
 A careful moving caught my waking 
 
 ears, 680 
 
 And up I started: Ah ! my sighs, my tears. 
 My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies 
 
 hung 
 Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 
 A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 
 Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
 With leaden looks: the solitary breeze 
 Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did 
 
 tease 
 With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 
 Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 
 Faint fare -thee -wells, and sigh -shrilled 
 
 adieus ! — 690 
 
 Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues 
 Of heaven and earth had faded: deepest 
 
 shades 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 59 
 
 Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny 
 
 glades 
 Were full of pestilent light; our taintless 
 
 rills 
 Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with upturn'd 
 
 gills 
 Of dying fish; the vermeil rose had blown 
 In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown 
 Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 
 Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and 
 
 stirr'd 
 In little journeys, I beheld in it 700 
 
 A disguised demon, missioned to knit 
 My soul with under darkness; to entice 
 My stumblings down some monstrous pre- 
 cipice : 
 Therefore I eager foUow'd, and did curse 
 The disappointment. Time, that aged 
 
 nurse, 
 Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle 
 
 heaven ! 
 These things, with all their comfortings, 
 
 are given 
 To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 
 Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
 Of weary life.' 
 
 Thus ended he, and both 
 Sat silent: for the maid was very loth 711 
 To answer; feeling well that breathed 
 
 words 
 Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as 
 
 swords 
 Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
 Of grasshoppers against the sun. She 
 
 weeps. 
 And wonders; struggles to devise some 
 
 blame ; 
 To put on such a look as would say. Shame 
 On this poor weakness ! but, for all her 
 
 strife, 
 She could as soon have crush'd away the 
 
 life 
 From a sick dove. At length, to break the 
 
 pause, 720 
 
 She said with trembling chance: *Is this 
 
 the cause ? 
 
 That one who through this middle earth 
 
 should pass 
 Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
 His name upon the harp-string, should 
 
 achieve 
 No higher bard than simple maidenhood, 
 Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the 
 
 blood 
 Left his young cheek ; and how he used to 
 
 stray 
 He knew not where; and how he would 
 
 say, nay, 
 If any said 't was love : and yet 't was 
 
 love; 730 
 
 What could it be but love ? How a ring- 
 dove 
 Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path ; 
 And how he died: and then, that love doth 
 
 scathe 
 The gentle heart, as northern blasts do 
 
 roses; 
 And then the ballad of his sad life closes 
 With sighs, and an alas ! — Endymion ! 
 Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 
 Among the winds at large — that all may 
 
 hearken ! 
 Although, before the crystal heavens 
 
 darken, 
 I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 740 
 Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 
 The semblance of gold rocks and bright 
 
 gold sands, 
 Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted 
 
 strands 
 With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 
 And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 
 My pleasant days, because I could not 
 
 mount 
 Into those regions ? The Morphean foimt 
 Of that fine element that visions, dreams. 
 And fitful whims of sleep are made of, 
 
 streams 
 Into its airy channels with so subtle, 750 
 So thin a breathing, not the spider's shuttle. 
 Circled a million times within the space 
 Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a 
 
 trace, 
 A tinting of its quality: how light 
 
6o 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Must dreams themselves be; seeing they 're 
 
 more slight 
 Than the mere nothing that engenders 
 
 them ! 
 Then wherefore sully the entrusted gem 
 Of high and noble life with thoughts so 
 
 sick? 
 Why pierce high-fronted honour to the 
 
 quick 
 For nothing but a dream ? ' Hereat the 
 
 youth 760 
 
 Look'd up : a conflicting of shame and ruth 
 Was in bis plaited brow: yet his eyelids 
 Widen'd a little, as when Zephyr bids 
 A little breeze to creep between the fans 
 Of careless butterflies: amid his pains 
 He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew, 
 Full palatable; and a colour grew 
 Upon his cheek, while thus he lifef ul spake. 
 
 V ' Peona ! ever have I long'd to slake 
 My thirst for the world's praises: nothing 
 base, 770 
 
 No merely slumberous phantasm, could 
 
 unlace 
 The stubborn canvas for my voyage pre- 
 pared — 
 Though now 'tis tatter'd; leaving my bark 
 
 bared 
 And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope 
 Is of too wide, too rainbow-large a scope, . 
 To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 
 Wherein lies happiness ? In that which 
 
 becks 
 Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
 A fellowship with essence; till we shine, 
 Full alchemized, and free of space. Be- 
 hold 780 
 The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 
 A rose leaf round thy finger's taperness. 
 And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy 
 
 stress 
 Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds, 
 And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 
 iEolian magic from their lucid wombs: 
 Then old songs waken from enclouded 
 
 tombs ; 
 Old ditties sigh above their father's grave; 
 
 Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave 
 Round every spot where trod Apollo's 
 
 foot; 7go 
 
 Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit. 
 Where long ago a giant battle was; 
 And, from the turf, a lullaby doth pass 
 In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 
 Feel we these things ? — that moment have 
 
 we stept 
 Into a sort of oneness, and our state 
 Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 
 Richer entanglements, enthralments far 
 More self-destroying, leading, by degrees. 
 To the chief intensity: the crown of these 
 Is made of love and friendship, and sits 
 
 high 801 
 
 Upon the forehead of humanity. 
 All its more ponderous and bulky worth 
 Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 
 A steady splendour; but at the tip-top. 
 There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 
 Of light, and that is love: its influence 
 Thrown in our eyes genders a novel sense. 
 At which we start and fret: till in the end. 
 Melting into its radiance, we blend, 810 
 
 Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 
 Nor with aught else can our souls interknit 
 So wiugedly: when we combine therewith. 
 Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 
 And we are nurtured like a pelican brood. 
 Aye, so delicious is the unsating food, 
 That men, who might have tower'd in the 
 
 van 
 Of all the congregated world, to fan 
 And winnow from the coming step of time 
 All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 820 
 Left by men-slugs and human serpentry. 
 Have been content to let occasion die. 
 Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium. 
 And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb. 
 Than speak against this ardent listless- 
 
 ness: 
 For I have ever thought that it might bless 
 The world with benefits unknowingly; 
 As does the nightingale, up-perched high. 
 And cloister'd among cool and bunched 
 
 leaves — 829 
 
 She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 
 
BOOK FIRST 
 
 6i 
 
 How tiptoe Night holds back her dark- 
 gray hood. 
 Just so may love, although 't is understood 
 The mere commingling of passionate breath, 
 Produce more than our searching witness- 
 
 eth: 
 What I know not: but who, of men, can 
 
 tell 
 That flowers would bloom, or that green 
 
 fruit would swell 
 To melting pulp, that fish would have 
 
 bright mail. 
 The earth its dower of river, wood, and 
 
 vale. 
 The meadows runnels, runnels pebble- 
 stones, 839 
 The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones, 
 Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet. 
 If human souls did never kiss and greet ? 
 
 V 
 
 ' Now, if this earthly love has power to 
 
 make 
 Men's being mortal, immortal; to shake 
 Ambition from their memories, and brim 
 Their measure of content; what merest 
 
 whim. 
 Seems all this poor endeavour after fame, 
 To one, who keeps within his steadfast 
 
 aim 
 A love immortal, an immortal too. 
 Look not so wilder'd; for these things are 
 
 true 850 
 
 And never can be born of atomies 
 That buzz about our slumbers, like brain- 
 flies, 
 Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I 'm sure. 
 My restless spirit never could endure 
 To brood so long upon one luxury. 
 Unless it did, though fearfully, espy 
 A hope beyond the shadow of a dream. 
 My sayings will the less obscured seem 
 When I have told thee how my waking 
 
 sight 
 Has made me scruple whether that same 
 
 night S60 
 
 Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet 
 
 Peona ! 
 Beyond the matron-temple of Latona, 
 
 Which we should see but for these dark- 
 ening boughs, 
 Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged 
 
 brows 
 Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart, 
 And meet so nearly, that with wings out- 
 
 raught. 
 And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 
 Past them, but he must brush on every 
 
 side. 
 Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool 
 
 cell, 
 Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 870 
 Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 
 Right upward, through the bushes, to the 
 
 sky. 
 Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their 
 
 stalks set 
 Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 
 Edges them round, and they have golden 
 
 pits: 
 'T was there I got them, from the gaps and 
 
 slits 
 In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my 
 
 seat, 
 When all above was faint with mid-day 
 
 heat. 
 And there in strife no burning thoughts to 
 
 heed, 
 I 'd bubble up the water through a reed; 
 So reaching back to boyhood: make me 
 
 ships 881 
 
 Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder 
 
 chips, J 
 
 With leaves stuck in them; and the Nep- 
 tune be 
 Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily. 
 When lovelorn hours had left me less a 
 
 child, 
 I sat contemplating the figures wild 
 Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror 
 
 through. 
 Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew 
 A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; 
 So plainly character'd, no breeze would 
 
 shiver 890 
 
 The happy chance: so happy, I was fain 
 To follow it upon the open plain, 
 
62 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 And, therefore, was just going; when, be- 
 hold ! 
 A wonder, fair as any I have told — 
 The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, 
 Smiling in the clear well. My heart did 
 
 leap 
 Through the cool depth. — It moved as if 
 
 to flee — 
 I started up, when lo ! refreshfully, 
 There came upon my face, in plenteous 
 
 showers, 
 Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and 
 flowers, 900 
 
 Wrapping all objects from my smother'd 
 
 sight, 
 Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 
 Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 
 Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 
 Of death, for the fair form had gone again. 
 Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain 
 Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth 
 On the deer's tender haunches: late, and 
 
 loth, 
 'T is scared away by slow returning plea- 
 sure. 
 How sickening, how dark the dreadful lei- 
 sure 910 
 Of weary days, made deeper exquisite, 
 By a foreknowledge of unslumbrous night ! 
 Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, 
 Than when I wander'd from the poppy 
 
 hill: 
 And a whole age of lingering moments 
 
 crept 
 Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 
 Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 
 Yes, thrice have I this fair enchantment 
 
 seen; 
 
 Once more been tortured with renewed life. 
 
 When last the wintry gusts gave over 
 
 strife 920 
 
 "\Yitli the conquering sun of spring, and 
 
 left the skies 
 Warm and serene, but yet with moisten'd 
 
 eyes 
 In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, — 
 That time thou didst adorn, with amber 
 studs, 
 
 My hunting cap, because I laugh'd and 
 
 smiled. 
 Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 
 All torment from my breast; — 'twas even 
 
 then. 
 Straying about, yet coop'd up in the den 
 Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance 
 From place to place, and following at 
 
 chance, 930 
 
 At last, by hap, through some young trees 
 
 it struck, 
 And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 
 In the middle of a brook, — whose silver 
 
 ramble 
 Down twenty little falls through reeds and 
 
 bramble, 
 Tracing along, it brought me to a cave. 
 Whence it ran brightly forth, and white 
 
 did lave 
 The nether sides of mossy stones and 
 
 rock, — 
 'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to 
 
 mock 
 Its own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 
 Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and 
 
 spread 940 
 
 Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's 
 
 home. 
 "Ah ! impious mortal, whither do I roam ! " 
 Said I, low-voiced: "Ah, whither! 'T is the 
 
 grot 
 Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot. 
 Doth her resign; and where her tender 
 
 hands 
 She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 
 Or 't is the cell of Echo, where she sits, 
 And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 
 Are gone in tender madness, and anon. 
 Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 
 Of sadness. O that she would take my 
 
 vows, 951 
 
 And breathe them sighingly among the 
 
 boughs. 
 To sue her gentle ears for whose fair head. 
 Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their 
 
 bed. 
 And weave them dyingly — send honey- 
 whispers 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 63 
 
 ound every leaf, that all tliose gentle 
 
 lispers 
 [ay sigh my love unto her pitying ! 
 charitable Echo ! hear, and sing 
 his ditty to her ! — tell her " — So I stay'd 
 ^y foolish tongue, and listening, half 
 
 afraid, 960 
 
 ;ood stupefied with my own empty folly, 
 nd blushing for the freaks of melancholy, 
 lit tears were coming, when I heard my 
 
 name 
 ost fondly lipp'd, and then these accents 
 
 came: 
 Endymion ! the cave is secreter 
 ban the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall 
 
 stir 
 o sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light 
 
 noise 
 E thy combing hand, the while it travel- 
 ling cloys 
 nd trembles through my labyrinthine 
 
 hair." 
 t that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah ! 
 
 where 970 
 
 re tliose swift moments ? » Whither are 
 
 they fled ? 
 11 smile no more, Peona; nor will wed 
 trrow, the way to death; but patiently 
 3ar up against it: so farewell, sad sigh; 
 ad come instead demurest meditation, 
 J occupy me wholly, and to fashion 
 y pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 
 more will I count over, link by link, 
 y chain of grief: no longer strive to find 
 half-forgetfulness in mountain wind 9S0 
 .ustering about my ears: aye, thou shalt 
 
 see, 
 Bares '"- of sisters, what my life shall be ; 
 hat Ji calm round of hours shall make 
 
 my days, 
 lere is a paly flame of hope that plays 
 'here'er I look: but yet, I'll say 'tis 
 
 naught — 
 ad here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 
 Iready, a more healthy countenance ? 
 Y this the sun is setting; we may chance 
 eet some of our near-dwellers with my 
 
 car.' 
 
 This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a 
 star 9go 
 
 Through autumn mists, and took Peona's 
 hand : 
 
 They stept into the boat, and lauuch'd from 
 land. 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! O 
 
 balm ! 
 All records, saving thine, come cool, and 
 
 calm. 
 And shadowy, through the mist of passed 
 
 years : 
 For others, good or bad, hatred and 
 
 tears 
 Have become indolent; but touching thine, 
 One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth 
 
 pine, 
 One kiss brings honey-dew from buried 
 
 days. 
 The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er 
 
 their blaze. 
 Stiff - holden shields, far - piercing spears, 
 
 keen blades. 
 Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all 
 
 dimly fades 10 
 
 Into some backward corner of the brain; 
 Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
 The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
 Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded 
 
 cheat ! 
 Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 
 Wide sea, that one continuous murmur 
 
 breeds 
 Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
 Many old rotten - timber'd boats there 
 
 be 
 Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 
 To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, 20 
 And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and 
 
 dry. 
 But wherefore this ? What care, though 
 
 owl did fly 
 About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 
 What care, though striding Alexander past 
 
64 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 
 Though old Ulysses tortured from his 
 
 slumbers 
 The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet 
 
 leaning 
 Amid her window- flowers, — sighing, — 
 
 weaning 
 Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow. 
 Doth more aVail than these: the silver 
 
 flow 30 
 
 Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
 Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
 Are things to brood on with more ardency 
 Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 
 Must such conviction come upon his head, 
 Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to 
 
 tread. 
 Without one muse's smile, or kind behest, 
 The path of love and poesy. But rest. 
 In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 
 Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 40 
 Love's standard on the battlements of song. 
 So once more days and nights aid me along, 
 Like legion'd soldiers. 
 
 Brain-sick shepherd-prince. 
 What promise hast thou faithful guarded 
 
 since 
 The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sor- 
 rows 
 Come with the constant dawn upon thy 
 
 morrows ? 
 Alas ! 't is his old grief. For many days, 
 Has he been wandering in uncertain ways: 
 Through wilderness, and woods of mossed 
 
 oaks; 
 Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the 
 
 strokes 50 
 
 Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening 
 
 still. 
 Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
 Now he is sitting by a shady spring. 
 And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
 Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree 
 Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see 
 A bud which snares his fancy: lo ! but now 
 He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: 
 
 how ! 
 
 It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his 
 
 ^ sight; 
 And, in the middle, there is softly pight 60 
 A golden butterfly; upon whose wings 
 There must be surely character'd strange 
 
 things. 
 For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles 
 
 oft. 
 
 Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 
 FoUow'd by glad Endymiou's clasped 
 
 hands: 
 Onward it flies. From languor's sullen 
 
 bands 
 His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 
 Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
 It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was; 
 And like a new-born spirit did he pass 70 
 Through the green evening quiet in the sun. 
 O'er many a heath, through many a wood- 
 land dun. 
 Through buried paths, where sleepy twi- 
 light dreams 
 The summer time away. One track un- 
 seams 
 A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
 Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew, 
 He sinks adown a solitary glen. 
 Where there was never sound of mortal 
 
 men. 
 Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences 
 Melting to silence, when upon the breeze So 
 Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, 
 To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
 Went swift beneath the merry - winged 
 
 guide. 
 Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 
 That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever 
 
 pour'd 
 Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, 
 And, downward, suddenly began to dip. 
 As if, athirst with so much toil^ 't would 
 
 sip 
 The crystal spout-head: so it did, with 
 
 touch 
 Most delicate, as though afraid, to smutch, 90 
 Even with mealy gold, the waters clear. 
 But, at that very touch, to disappear 
 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 65 
 
 >o fairy-quick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
 i^udymion sought around, and shook each 
 
 bed 
 )f covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
 iimself along the grass. What gentle 
 
 tongue, 
 Vhat whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest ? 
 t was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
 n the fountain's pebbly margin, and she 
 
 stood 
 Mong lilies, like the youngest of the 
 
 brood. 100 
 
 '!o him her dripping hand she softly kist, 
 Lnd anxiously began to plait and twist 
 ler ringlets round her fingers, saying: 
 
 ' Youth ! 
 ^00 long, alas, hast thou starved on the 
 
 ruth, 
 'he bitterness of love: too long indeed, 
 eeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 
 'hy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer 
 ill the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
 'o Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 
 rolden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, no 
 ''ermilion - tail'd, or finn'd with silvery 
 
 gauze ; 
 'ea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws 
 L virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands, 
 "awny and gold, oozed slowly from far 
 
 lands 
 ly my diligent springs: my level lilies, 
 
 shells, 
 ly charming rod, my potent river spells ; 
 es, every thing, even to the pearly cup 
 leander gave me, — for I bubbled up 
 'o fainting creatures in a desert wild, 
 lut woe is me, I am but as a child 120 
 
 'o gladden thee; and all I dare to say, 
 3, that I pity thee; that on this day 
 've been thy guide ; that thou must wander 
 
 far 
 a other regions, past the scanty bar 
 'o mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 
 rom every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
 ato the gentle bosom of thy love. 
 Vhj it is thus, one knows in heaven above: 
 lUt, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 
 have a ditty for my hollow cell.' 130 
 
 Hereat she vanish'd from Endymion's 
 gaze. 
 Who brooded o'er the water in amaze: 
 The dashing fount pour'd on, and where 
 
 its pool 
 Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool. 
 Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting- 
 still. 
 And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
 Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer, 
 Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr 
 Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down; 
 And, while beneath the evening's sleepy 
 frown 140 
 
 Glowworms began to trim their starry 
 
 lamps. 
 Thus breathed he to himself: ' Whoso en- 
 camps 
 To take a fancied city of delight, 
 
 what a wretch is he ! and when 't is his. 
 After long toil and travelling, to miss 
 The kernel of his hopes, how more than 
 
 vile : 
 Yet, for him there 's refreslmient even in 
 
 toil: 
 Another city doth he set about. 
 Free from the smallest pebble -bead of 
 
 doubt 149 
 
 That he will seize on trickling honey-combs : 
 Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams. 
 And onward to another city speeds. 
 But this is human life: the war, the deeds, 
 The disappointment, the anxiety. 
 Imagination's struggles, far and nigh, 
 All human; bearing in themselves this good. 
 That they are still the air, the subtle food. 
 To make us feel existence, and to show 
 How quiet death is. Where soil is, men 
 
 grow, 159 
 
 Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me. 
 There is no depth to strike in: I can see 
 Naught earthly worth my compassing; so 
 
 stand 
 Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 
 Alone ? No, no; and by the Orphean lute. 
 When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 
 
 1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak, 
 With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek, 
 
66 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 But the soft shadow of my thrice seen love, 
 Than be — I care not what. O meekest 
 
 dove 
 Of heaven ! O Cynthia, ten-times bright 
 
 and fair ! 170 
 
 From thy blue throne, now filling all the 
 
 air, 
 Glance but one little beam of temper'd 
 
 light 
 Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 
 And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 
 Yet do not so, sweet queen ; one torment 
 
 spared,- 
 Would give a pang to jealous misery, 
 Worse than the torment's self: but rather 
 
 tie 
 Large wings upon my shoulders, and point 
 
 out 
 My love's far dwelling. Though the play- 
 ful rout 179 
 Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou, 
 Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 
 Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle 
 
 stream. 
 O be propitious, nor severely deem 
 My madness impious; for, by all the stars 
 That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars 
 That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 
 Am sailing with thee through the dizzy 
 
 sky! 
 How beautiful thou art ! The world how 
 
 deep ! 
 How tremulous-dazzliugly the wheels sweep 
 Around their axle ! Then these gleaming 
 
 reins, 190 
 
 How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 
 Its airy goal, haply some bower veils 
 Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my 
 
 spirit fails — 
 Dear goddess, help ! or the wide gaping 
 
 air 
 Will giilf me — help ! ' — At this, with 
 
 madden' d stare. 
 And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he 
 
 stood ; 
 Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the 
 
 flood. 
 Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
 
 And, but from the deep cavern there was 
 
 borne 
 A voice, he had been froze to senseless 
 
 stone; 200 
 
 Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd 
 
 moan 
 Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it 
 
 forth: ' Descend, 
 Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys 
 
 bend 
 Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
 Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder ; 
 
 hurl'd ] 
 
 As from thy threshold; day by day hast 
 
 been j 
 
 A little lower than the chilly sheen 
 Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
 Into the deadening ether that still charms 
 Their marble being : now, as deep pro- 
 found 
 As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is 
 
 crown'd 2 1 1 
 
 With immortality, who fears to follow 
 Where airy voices lead: so through the 
 
 hollow, 
 The silent mysteries of earth, descend ! ' 
 
 He heard but the last words, nor could 
 contend 
 One moment in reflection: for he fled 
 Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
 From the clear moon, the trees, and com- 
 ing madness. m 
 
 'T was far too strange, and wonderful 
 for sadness; 
 Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 220 
 To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light. 
 The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly. 
 But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy; 
 A dusky empire and its diadems; 
 One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
 Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, 
 Along whose track the prince quick foot- 
 steps told, 
 With all its lines abrupt and angular: 
 Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star, 
 Through a vast autre ; then the metal woof, 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 67 
 
 ke Vulcan's rainbow, with some mon- 
 strous roof 231 
 iTves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss, 
 seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
 mcy into belief: anon it leads 
 arough winding passages, where sameness 
 
 breeds 
 exing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
 '^hether to silver grots, or giant range 
 f sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
 bhwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge 
 ow fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath 
 Dwers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he 
 seeth 241 
 
 hundred waterfalls, whose voices come 
 at as the murmuring surge. Chilly and 
 
 numb 
 is bosom grew, when first he, far away, 
 escried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
 Id Darkness from his throne : 't was like 
 
 the sun 
 prisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun 
 ime the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, 
 e saw not fiercer wonders — past the 
 
 wit 
 f any spirit to tell, but one of those 250 
 '^ho, when this planet's sphering time doth 
 
 close 
 ill be its high remembrancers : who they ? 
 ae mighty ones who have made eternal 
 
 day 
 )r Greece and England. While astonish- 
 ment 
 "ith deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he 
 
 went 
 ito a marble gallery, passing through 
 mimic temple, so complete and true 
 I sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd 
 3 search it inwards; whence far oflF ap- 
 
 pear'd, 
 lirough a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine, 
 ad, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 261 
 quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, 
 lie youth approach'd; oft turning his 
 
 veil'd eye 
 own sidelong aisles, and into niches old: 
 ad when, more near against the marble 
 cold 
 
 He had touch'd his forehead, he began to 
 
 thread 
 All courts and passages, where silence dead. 
 Roused by his whispering footsteps, mur- 
 
 mur'd faint: 
 And long he traversed to and fro, to ac- 
 quaint 
 Himself with every mystery, and awe; 270 
 Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 
 Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim. 
 To wild uncertainty and shadows grim. . 
 There, when new wonders ceased to float 
 
 before. 
 And thoughts of self came on, how crude 
 
 and sore 
 The journey homeward to habitual self ! 
 A mad pursuing of the fog-born elf. 
 Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle- 
 brier. 
 Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire, 
 Into the bosom of a hated thing. 280 
 
 What misery most drowningly doth sing 
 In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught 
 The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 't is the 
 
 thought. 
 The deadly feel of solitude: for lo ! 
 He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 
 Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 
 In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-piled, 
 The cloudy rack slow journeying in the 
 
 west. 
 Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest 
 Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous 
 
 air ; 290 
 
 But far from such companionship to wear 
 An unknown time, surcharged with grief, 
 
 away, 
 Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 
 Tracing fantastic figures with his spear ? 
 'No!' exclaim'd he, 'why should I tarry 
 
 here ? ' 
 No ! loudly echoed times innumerable. 
 At which he straightway started, and 'gan 
 
 tell 
 His paces back into the temple's chief; 
 Warming and glowing strong in the belief 
 Of help from Dian: so that when again 300 
 
68 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 He caught her airy form, thus did he plain, 
 Moving more near the while: ' O Haunter 
 
 chaste 
 Of river sides, and woods, and heathy 
 
 waste, 
 Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 
 Art thou now forested ? O woodland 
 
 Queen, 
 What smoothest air thy smoother forehead 
 
 woos ? 
 Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 
 Of thy disparted nymphs ? Through what 
 
 dark tree 
 Glimmers thy crescent ? Wheresoe'er it be, 
 'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost 
 
 taste 3 lo 
 
 Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost 
 
 waste 
 Thy loveliness in dismal elements; 
 But, finding in our green earth sweet con- 
 tents, 
 There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 
 It feels Elysian, how rich to me. 
 An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name ! 
 Within my breast there lives a choking 
 
 flame — 
 O let me cool 't the zephyr-boughs among ! 
 A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 
 O let me slake it at the running springs ! 320 
 Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 
 O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 
 Before mine eyes thick films and shadows 
 
 float — 
 O let nie 'noint them with the heaven's 
 
 light ! 
 Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles 
 
 white ? 
 O think how sweet to me the freshening 
 
 sluice ! 
 Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry- 
 juice ? 
 O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
 If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
 O think how I should love a bed of 
 
 flowers ! — 330 
 
 Young goddess ! let me see my native 
 
 bowers ! 
 Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! ' 
 
 Thus ending loudly, as he would o'er- 
 
 leap 
 His destiny, alert he stood: but when 
 Obstinate silence came heavily again, 
 Feeling about for its old couch of space 
 And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face. 
 Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold 
 
 thrill. 
 But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the 
 
 rill 
 To its old channel, or a swollen tide 340 
 To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, 
 And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle 
 
 crowns 
 Upheaping through the slab: refreshment 
 
 drowns 
 Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 
 Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride 
 In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 
 Before his footsteps; as when heaved anew 
 Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the 
 
 shore, 
 Down whose green back the short-lived 
 
 foam, all hoar. 
 Bursts gradual, with a wayward indo- 
 lence. 350 
 
 Increasing still in heart, and pleasant 
 
 sense. 
 Upon his fairy journey on he hastes; 
 So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
 One moment with his hand among the 
 
 sweets: 
 Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom 
 
 beats 
 As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
 Of which the throbs were born. This still 
 
 alarm, 
 This sleepy music, forced him walk tip- 
 toe: 
 For it came more softly than the east could 
 
 blow 
 Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles; 360 
 
 Or than the west, made jealous by the 
 
 smiles 
 Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the 
 
 lyre 
 To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 
 
 I 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 69 
 
 O did he ever live, that lonely man, 
 V^ho loved — and music slew not ? 'T is 
 
 the pest 
 If love, that fairest joys give most unrest; 
 'hat things of delicate and tenderest worth 
 .re swallow'd all, and made a seared 
 
 dearth, 
 >y one consuming flame: it doth immerse 
 Lud suffocate true blessings in a curse. 370 
 [alf-happy, by comparison of bliss, 
 s miserable. 'T was even so with this 
 )ew-dropping melody, in the Carian's 
 
 ear ; 
 'irst heaven, then hell, and then forgotten 
 
 clear, 
 ''anish'd in elemental passion. 
 
 And down some swart abysm he had 
 gone, 
 lad not a heavenly guide benignant led 
 'o where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst 
 
 his head 
 ►rushing, awakened : then the sounds again 
 7ent noiseless as a passing noontide 
 rain 3 So 
 
 )ver a bower, where little space he stood; 
 'or as the sunset peeps into a wood, 
 o saw he panting light, and towards it 
 
 went 
 !'hrough winding alleys; and lo, wonder- 
 ment ! 
 Jpon soft verdure saw, one here, one there, 
 Jupids a-slumbering on their pinions fair. 
 
 After a thousand mazes overgone, 
 Lt last, with sudden step, he came upon 
 L chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high, 
 ^uU of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, 390 
 Lnd more of beautiful and strange beside : 
 ^or on a silken couch of rosy pride, 
 n midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
 )f fondest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth, 
 Chan sighs could fathom, or contentment 
 
 reach : 
 llnd coverlids gold-tinted like the peach, 
 )r ripe October's faded marigolds, 
 ^ell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
 STot hiding up an Apollonian curve 
 
 Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenting 
 
 swerve 400 
 
 Of knee from knee, nor ankles pointing 
 
 light; 
 But rather, giving them to the fiU'd sight 
 Officiously. Sideway his face reposed 
 On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed, 
 By tenderest pressure, a faint damask 
 
 mouth 
 To slumbery pout; just as the morning 
 
 south 
 Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his 
 
 head. 
 Four lily stalks did their white honours 
 
 wed 
 To make a coronal; and round him grew 
 All tendrils green, of every bloom and 
 
 hue, 410 
 
 Together intertwined and trammell'd fresh: 
 The vine of glossy sprout; the ivy mesh. 
 Shading its Ethiop berries ; and woodbine. 
 Of velvet-leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
 Convolvulus in streaked vases flush; 
 The creeper, mellowing for an autumn 
 
 blush ; 
 And virgin's bower, trailing airily ; 
 With others of the sisterhood. Hard by. 
 Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
 One, kneeling to a lyre, touch'd tlie 
 
 strings, 42° 
 
 Muffling to death the pathos with his wings; 
 And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
 At the youth's slumber; while another took 
 A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. 
 And shook it on his hair; another flew 
 In through the woven roof, and fluttering- 
 
 wise 
 Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 
 
 At these enchantments, and yet many 
 more. 
 
 The breathless Latmian wonder'd o'er and 
 o'er; 
 
 Until impatient in embarrassment, 430 
 
 He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading 
 went 
 
 To that same feather'd lyrist, who straight- 
 way. 
 
7° 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Smiling, thus whisper'd : ' Though from 
 
 upper day 
 Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence 
 
 here 
 Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer ! 
 For 't is the nicest touch of human honour, 
 When some ethereal and high-favouring 
 
 donor 
 Presents immortal bowers to mortal sense; 
 As now 't is done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
 Was I in no wise startled. So recline 440 
 Upon these living flowers. Here is wine. 
 Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
 Since Ariadne was a vintager. 
 So cool a purple: taste these juicy pears. 
 Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
 Were high about Pomona: here is cream. 
 Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 
 Sweeter than that nurse Amalthea skimmi'd 
 For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd 
 By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
 Ready to melt between an infant's gums: 
 And here is manna pick'd from Syrian 
 
 trees, 452 
 
 In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 
 Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee 
 
 know 
 Of all these things around us.' He did 
 
 so. 
 Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre; 
 And thus : ' I need not any hearing tire 
 By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 
 For a mortal youth, and how she strove to 
 
 bind 
 Him all in all unto her doating self. 460 
 Who would not be so prison'd ? but, fond 
 
 elf, 
 He was content to let her amorous plea 
 Faint through his careless arms; content to 
 
 see 
 An unseized heaven dying at his feet; 
 Content, O fool ! to make a cold retreat. 
 When on the pleasant grass such love, love- 
 lorn. 
 Lay sorrowing; when every tear was born 
 Of diverse passion; when her lips and eyes 
 Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick 
 
 sighs 
 
 Came vex'd and pettish through her nos- 
 trils small. 470 
 
 Hush ! no exclaim — yet, justly might'st 
 thou call 
 
 Curses upon his head. — I was half glad. 
 
 But my poor mistress went distract and 
 mad, 
 
 When the boar tusk'd him : so away she flew 
 
 To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings 
 drew 
 
 Immortal tear-drops down the thunderer's 
 beard; 
 
 Whereon, it was decreed he should be 
 rear'd 
 
 Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he, 
 
 That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 
 
 Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 480 
 
 Aye, sleep; for when our love-sick queen 
 did weep 
 
 Over his waned corse, the tremulous 
 shower 
 
 Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy 
 power, 
 
 Medicined death to a lengthened drowsi- 
 ness : 
 
 The which she fills with visions, and doth 
 dress 
 
 In all this quiet luxury; and hath set 
 
 Us y^ung immortals, without any let. 
 
 To watch his slumber through. 'T is well 
 nigh pass'd, 
 
 Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 
 
 She scuds with summer breezes, to pant 
 through 490 
 
 The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 
 
 Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. 
 
 Look! how those winged listeners all this 
 while 
 
 Stand anxious : see ! behold ! ' — This cla- 
 mant word 
 
 Broke through the careful silence; for 
 they heard 
 
 A rustling noise of leaves, and out there 
 flutter'd 
 
 Pigeons and doves: Adonis something 
 mutter'd, 
 
 The while one hand, that erst upon his 
 thigh 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 71 
 
 Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradu- 
 ally 
 dp to his forehead. Then there was a 
 
 hum 500 
 
 Df sudden voices, echoing, ' Come ! come ! 
 !^rise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth 
 
 walk'd 
 Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 
 Full soothingly to every nested finch: 
 Rise, Cupids ! or we '11 give the bluebell 
 
 pinch 
 Co your dimpled arms. Once more sweet 
 
 life begin ! ' 
 \.t this, from every side they hurried in, 
 [tubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 
 ^nd doubling overhead their little fists 
 [n backward yawns. But all were soon 
 
 alive: 510 
 
 ?OT, as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 
 [n nectar'd clouds and curls through water 
 
 fair, 
 50 from the arbour roof down swell'd an air 
 3dorous and enlivening; making all 
 Ho laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 
 For their sweet queen: when lo ! the 
 
 wreathed green 
 Disparted, and far upward could be seen 
 Slue heaven, and a silver car, air-borne, 
 IVhose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds 
 
 of morn, 
 Spun off a drizzling dew, — which falling 
 
 chill 520 
 
 3n soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 
 S^estle and turn uneasily about, 
 soon were the white doves plain, with necks 
 
 stretch'd out, 
 ^nd silken traces lighten'd in descent; 
 ^nd soon, returning from love's banish- 
 ment, 
 ^ueen Venus leaning downward open- 
 
 arm'd: 
 Her shadow fell upon his breast, and 
 
 charm'd 
 A. tumult to his heart, and a new life 
 [nto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife. 
 But for her comforting ! unhappy sight, 530 
 But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, who 
 
 can write 
 
 Of these first minutes ? The unchariest 
 
 muse 
 To embracements warm as theirs makes 
 
 coy excuse. 
 
 O it has ruffled every spirit there. 
 Saving Love's self, who stands superb to 
 
 share 
 The general gladness: awfully he stands; 
 A sovereign quell is in his waving hands; 
 No sight can bear the lightning of his bow; 
 His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
 What themselves think of it; from forth 
 
 his eyes 540 
 
 There darts strange light of varied hues 
 
 and dyes: 
 A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
 Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
 Of his fair eyes run liquid through their 
 
 souls. 
 Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
 The burning prayer within him; so, bent 
 
 low. 
 He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
 But Venus, bending forward, said: ' My 
 
 child, 
 Favour this gentle youth; his days are wild 
 With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 
 Thou know'st the deepness of his misery. 
 Ah, smile not so, my son: I tell thee true. 
 That when through heavy hours I used to 
 
 rue 553 
 
 The endless sleep of this new-born Adon', 
 This stranger ay I pitied. For upon 
 A dreary morning once I fled away 
 Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 
 For this my love: for vexing Mars had 
 
 teased 
 Me even to tears: thence, when a little 
 
 eased, 
 Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood, 
 I saw this youth as he despairing stood: 561 
 Those same dark curls blown vagrant in 
 
 the wind; 
 Those same full fringed lids a constant 
 
 blind 
 Over his sullen eyes: I saw him throw 
 Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though 
 
72 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Death had come sudden; for no jot he 
 
 moved, 
 Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved 
 Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 
 Had zoned her through the night. There 
 
 is no trace 
 Of this in heaven: I have mark'd each 
 
 cheek, 570 
 
 And find it is the vainest thing to seek ; 
 And that of all things 't is kept secretest. 
 Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest: 
 So still obey the guiding hand that fends 
 Thee safely through these wonders for 
 
 sweet ends. 
 'T is a concealment needful in extreme ; 
 And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam 
 Thou shouldst mount up with me. Now 
 
 adieu ! 
 Here must we leave thee.' — At these 
 
 words upflew 
 The impatient doves, uprose the floating 
 
 car, 580 
 
 Up went the hum celestial. High afar 
 The Latmian saw them minish into naught; 
 And, when all were clear vanish'd, still he 
 
 caught 
 A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 
 When all was darken'd, with ^tnean throe 
 The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 
 And left him once again in twilight lone. 
 
 He did not rave, he did not stare aghast, 
 For all those visions were o'ergone, and 
 
 past. 
 And he in loneliness: he felt assured 590 
 Of happy times, when all he had endured 
 Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
 So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
 Through caves, and palaces of mottled 
 
 ore. 
 Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquois 
 
 floor, 
 Black polish'd porticos of awful shade. 
 And, at the last, a diamond balustrade, 
 Leading afar past wild magnificence. 
 Spiral through ruggedest looplioles, and 
 
 thence 
 Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 
 
 Enormous chasms, where, all foam and 
 
 roar, 601 
 
 Streams subterranean tease their granite 
 
 beds; 
 Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads 
 Of a thousand fountains, so that he could 
 
 dash 
 The waters with his spear; but at the 
 
 splash, 
 Done heedlessly, those spouting columns 
 
 rose 
 Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to en- 
 close 
 His diamond path with fretwork, streaming 
 
 round 
 Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound, 
 Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet 
 
 shells 610 
 
 Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he 
 
 dwells 
 On this delight; for, every minute's space, 
 The streams with changed magic interlace: 
 Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 
 Cover'd with crystal vines; then weeping 
 
 trees. 
 Moving about as in a gentle wind, 
 Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 
 Pour'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies. 
 Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries 
 Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads 
 
 fair. 620 
 
 Swifter than lightning went these wonders 
 
 rare; 
 And then the water, into stubborn streams 
 Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken 
 
 beams. 
 Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof. 
 Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
 Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth fare- 
 well 
 To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and 
 
 dell. 
 And torrent, and ten thousand jutting 
 
 shapes, 
 Half seen through deepest gloom, and 
 
 griesly gapes, 
 Blackening on every side, and overhead 630 
 A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 73 
 
 With starlight gems: aye, all so huge and 
 
 strange, 
 The solitary felt a hurried change 
 Working within him into something 
 
 dreary, — 
 Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 
 And purhlind amid foggy, midnight wolds. 
 But he revives at once: for who beholds 
 New sudden things, nor casts his mental 
 
 slough ? 
 Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk be- 
 low, 639 
 Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
 In sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown 
 About her majesty, and front death-pale. 
 With turrets crown'd. Four maued lions 
 
 hale 
 The sluggish wheels; solemn their toothed 
 
 maws. 
 Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
 Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
 Cowering their tawny brushes. Silent sails 
 Phis shadowy queen athwart, and faints 
 
 away 
 [n another gloomy arch. 
 
 AYlierefore delay, 
 foung traveller, in such a mournful place ? 
 A.rt thou wayworn, or canst not further 
 
 trace 65 1 
 
 Fhe diamond path ? And does it indeed 
 
 end 
 (Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward 
 
 bend 
 Fhy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
 Dall ardently ! He was indeed wayworn; 
 (Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost; 
 Fo cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there 
 
 crost 
 Fowards him a large eagle, 'twixt whose 
 
 wings, 
 iVithout one impious word, himself he 
 
 flings, 
 Committed to the darkness and the gloom: 
 Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant 
 
 doom, 661 
 
 Swift as a fathoming plummet down he 
 
 fell 
 
 Through unknown things; till exhaled as- 
 phodel. 
 
 And rose, with spicy fannings interbreathed, 
 
 Came swelling forth where little caves were 
 wreathed 
 
 So thick with leaves and mosses, that they 
 seem'd 
 
 Large honeycombs of green, and freshly 
 teem'd 
 
 With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 
 
 The eagle landed him, and farewell took. 
 
 It was a jasmine bower, all bestrewn 670 
 With golden moss. His every sense had 
 
 grown 
 Ethereal for pleasure; 'bove his head 
 Flew a delight half-graspable ; his tread 
 Was Hesperean; to his capable ears 
 Silence was music from the holy spheres; 
 A dewy luxury was in his eyes; 
 The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
 And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave 
 
 and cell 
 He wander'd through, oft wondering at 
 
 such swell 
 Of sudden exaltation: but, 'Alas !' 680 
 
 Said he, * will all this gush of feeling pass 
 Away in solitude ? And must they wane. 
 Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 
 Without an echo ? Then shall I be left 
 So sad, so melancholy, so bereft ! 
 Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love, 
 My breath of life, where art thou ? High 
 
 above, 
 Dancing before the morning gates of 
 
 heaven ? 
 Or keeping watch among those starry seven, 
 Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the 
 
 waters, 690 
 
 One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd 
 
 daughters ? 
 Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 
 Weaving a coronal of tender scions 
 For very idleness ? W^here'er thou art, 
 Methinks it now is at my will to start 
 Into thine arms; to scare Aurora's train. 
 And snatch thee from the morning; o'er 
 
 the main 
 
74 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 
 From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff 
 Thy shepherd vest, and woo thee 'mid 
 
 fresh leaves. 7°° 
 
 No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 
 Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 
 O let me then by some sweet dreaming 
 
 flee 
 To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 
 Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 
 For some few hours the coming solitude.' 
 
 Thus spake he, and that moment felt 
 
 endued 
 With power to dream deliciously; so wound 
 Through a dim passage, searching till he 
 
 found 
 The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, 
 
 where 7'° 
 
 He threw himself, and just into the air 
 Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O 
 
 bliss ! 
 A naked waist: 'Fair Cupid, whence is 
 
 this ? ' 
 A well - known voice sigh'd, * Sweetest, 
 
 here am I ! ' 
 At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
 They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 
 O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon ! 
 That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet 
 
 o'er 
 These sorry pages; then the verse would 
 
 soar 
 And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 
 Over his nested young: but all is dark 721 
 Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 
 Exhales in mists to heaven. Aye, the count 
 Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 
 Is folded by the Muses; the bright roll 
 Is in Apollo's hand: our dazed eyes 
 Have seen a new tinge in the western skies: 
 The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet. 
 Although the sun of poesy is set, 
 These lovers did embrace, and we must 
 
 weep 730 
 
 That there is no old power left to steep 
 A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 
 Long time in silence did their anxious fears 
 
 Question that thus it was; long time they 
 
 lay 
 Fondling and kissing every doubt away; 
 Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 
 To mellow into words, and then there ran 
 Two bubbling springs of talk from their 
 
 sweet lips. 
 ' O known Unknown ! from whom my be- 
 ing sips 739 
 Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 
 Be ever in these arms ? in this sweet spot 
 Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 
 These toying hands and kiss their smooth 
 
 excess ? 
 Why not for ever and for ever feel 
 That breath about my eyes ? Ah, thou wilt 
 
 steal 
 Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 
 Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 
 My lonely madness. Speak, delicious fair 
 Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 
 To pluck thee from me ? And, of thine 
 own will, 750 
 
 Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. 
 
 Still 
 Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
 How can we part ? Elysium ! Who art 
 
 thou? 
 Who, that thou canst not be for ever here. 
 Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere ? 
 Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embrace, 
 By the most soft completion of thy face. 
 Those lips, O slippery blisses, twinkling 
 
 eyes. 
 And by these tenderest, milky sovereign- 
 ties — 
 These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine, 
 The passion ' — ' O doved Ida the di- 
 vine ! 761 
 Endymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me ! 
 His soul will 'scape us — O felicity ! 
 How he does love me ! His poor temples 
 
 beat 
 To the very tune of love — how sweet, 
 
 sweet, sweet. 
 Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and 
 
 die; 
 Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 75 
 
 [n tranced dullness; speak, and let that 
 
 spell 
 bright this lethargy ! I cannot quell 
 [ts heavy pressure, and will press at least 
 yiy lips to thine, that they may richly 
 feast 771 
 
 Jntil we taste the life of love again. 
 PVhat ! dost thou move ? dost kiss ? O 
 
 bliss ! O pain ! 
 [ love thee, youth, more than I can con- 
 ceive ; 
 ind so long absence from thee doth be- 
 reave 
 Vly soul of any rest: yet must I hence: 
 iTet, can I not to starry eminence 
 [Jplif t thee ; nor for very shame can own 
 Vlyself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan 
 Dr thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 780 
 !^nd I must blush in heaven. O that I 
 Had done it already ; that the dreadful 
 
 smiles 
 ^.t my lost brightness, my impassion'd 
 
 wiles, 
 Had waned from Olympus' solemn height, 
 ^d from all serious Gods; that our de- 
 light 
 ^as quite forgotten, save of us alone ! 
 A.nd wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to 
 
 atone 
 For endless pleasure, by some coward 
 
 blushes : 
 Yet must I be a coward ! — Honour rushes 
 loo palpable before me — the sad look 790 
 3f Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom 
 
 shook 
 With awe of purity — no Cupid pinion 
 [n reverence veiled — my crystalline do- 
 minion 
 Half lost, and all old hymns made nul- 
 
 lity! 
 But what is this to love ? 1 could fly 
 With thee into the ken of heavenly pow- 
 ers. 
 So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent 
 
 hours, 
 Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at 
 
 once 
 That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 
 
 Perhaps her love like mine is but un- 
 known — 800 
 
 I do think that I have been alone 
 
 In chastity: yes, Pallas has been sighing, 
 While every eve saw me my hair uptying 
 With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet 
 love, 
 
 1 was as vague as solitary dove, 
 
 Nor knew that nests were built. Now a 
 
 soft kiss — 
 Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss, 
 An immortality of passion 's thine : 
 Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 
 Of heaven ambrosial; and we will shade 810 
 Ourselves whole summers by a river glade; 
 And I will tell thee stories of the sky. 
 And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 
 My happy love will overwiug all bounds ! 
 O let me melt into thee; let the sounds 
 Of our close voices marry at their birth; 
 Let us entwine hoveringly — O dearth 
 Of human words ! roughness of mortal 
 
 speech ! 
 Lispings empyrean will I sometime teach 
 Thine honey'd tongue — lute-breathings, 
 
 which I gasp 820 
 
 To have thee understand, now while I 
 
 clasp 
 Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am 
 
 pain'd, 
 Endymion: woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd 
 In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole 
 
 life ? ' — 
 Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 
 Melted into a languor. He return'd 
 Entranced vows and tears. 
 
 Ye who have yearn'd 
 With too much passion, will here stay and 
 
 pity, 
 
 For the mere sake of truth; as 't is a ditty 
 Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 
 By a cavern wind unto a forest old; 831 
 And then the forest told it in a dream 
 To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level 
 
 gleam 
 A poet caught as he was journeying 
 To Phcebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 
 
76 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
 And after, straight in that inspired place 
 He sang the story up into the air, 
 Giving it universal freedom. There 
 Has it been ever sounding for those ears 840 
 Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend 
 
 cheers 
 Yon sentinel stars; and he who listens 
 
 to it 
 Must surely be self-doom'd or he will 
 
 rue it: 
 For quenchless burnings come upon the 
 
 heart, 
 Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
 Should be engulfed in the eddying wind. 
 As much as here is penn'd doth always 
 
 find 
 A resting-place, thus much comes clear and 
 
 plain ; 
 Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 
 And 't is but echoed from departing sound. 
 That the fair visitant at last unwound 851 
 Her gentle limbs, and left the youth 
 
 asleep. — 
 Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 
 
 Now turn we to our former chroni- 
 clers. — 
 Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
 Sweet paining on his ear: he sickly guess'd 
 How lone he was once more, and sadly 
 
 press'd 
 His empty arms together, hung his head. 
 And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
 Sat silently. Love's madness he had 
 
 known : 860 
 
 Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
 Meanings had burst from him; but now 
 
 that rage 
 Had pass'd away: no longer did he wage 
 A rough-voiced war against the dooming 
 
 stars. 
 No, he had felt too much for such harsh 
 
 jars: 
 The lyre of his soul ^olian tuned 
 Forgot all violence, and but communed 
 With melancholy thought : O he had 
 
 swoou'd 
 
 Drunken from pleasure's nipple; and his 
 
 love 
 Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he 
 
 to move 870 
 
 From the imprinted couch, and when he 
 
 did, 
 'T was with slow, languid paces, and face 
 
 hid 
 In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he 
 
 stray 'd 
 Half seeing visions that might have dis- 
 
 may'd 
 Alecto's serpents; ravishments more keen 
 Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did 
 
 lean 
 Over eclipsing eyes: and at the last 
 It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 
 O'erstudded with a thousand, thousand 
 
 pearls. 
 And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn 
 
 curls, 8S0 
 
 Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 
 In which whales harbour close, to brood 
 
 and sulk 
 Against an endless storm. Moreover too. 
 Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue, 
 Ready to snort their streams. In this cool 
 
 wonder 
 Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 
 On all his life : his youth, up to the day 
 When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and gar- 
 lands gay. 
 He stept upon his shepherd throne: the look 
 Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 890 
 And all the revels he had lorded there: 
 Each tender maiden whom he once thought 
 
 fair. 
 With every friend and fellow- woodlander — 
 Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the 
 
 spur 
 Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his plans 
 To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd 
 
 clans : 
 That wondrous night: the great Pan-festi- 
 val: 
 His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings all. 
 Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd: 
 Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd 900 
 
BOOK SECOND 
 
 77 
 
 iigh. with excessive love. 'Aud now,' 
 
 thought he, 
 How long must I remain in jeopardy 
 )f blank amazements that amaze no more ? 
 ^ow I have tasted her sweet soul to the 
 
 core, 
 Lll other depths are shallow: essences, 
 )nce spiritual, are like muddy lees, 
 ileant but to fertilize my earthly root, 
 ^nd make my branches lift a golden fruit 
 nto the bloom of heaven: other light, 
 though it be quick and sharp enough to 
 
 blight 910 
 
 ['he Olympian eagle's vision, is dark, 
 )ark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 
 dy silent thoughts are echoing from these 
 
 shells ; 
 )r they are but the ghosts, the dying swells 
 )f noises far away ? — list ! ' — Hereupon 
 le kept an anxious ear. The humming 
 
 tone 
 )ame louder, and behold, there as he lay, 
 )n either side outgush'd, with misty spray, 
 L copious spring; and both together dash'd 
 Iwift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and 
 
 lash'd 920 
 
 Lmong the conchs and shells of the lofty 
 
 grot, 
 weaving a trickling dew. At last they 
 
 shot 
 )own from the ceiling's height, pouring a 
 
 noise 
 Ls of some breathless racers whose hopes 
 
 poise 
 Jpon the last few steps, and with spent 
 
 force 
 lloug the ground they took a winding 
 
 course, 
 jndymion follow'd — for it seem'd that 
 
 one 
 iver pursued, the other strove to shun — 
 'ollow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh 
 le had left thinking of the mystery, — 930 
 Lnd was now rapt in tender hoverings 
 )ver the vanish'd bliss. Ah ! what is it 
 
 sings 
 lis dream away ? What melodies are 
 
 these ? 
 
 They sound as through the whispering of 
 
 trees. 
 Not native in such barren vaults. Give 
 
 ' O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
 Such tenderness as mine ? Great Dian, 
 
 why, 
 Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
 Were rippling round her dainty fairness 
 
 now, 935 
 
 Circling about her waist, and striving how 
 To entice her to a dive ! then stealing in 
 Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 
 
 that her shining hair was in the sun, 
 And I distilling from it thence to run 
 
 In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 
 To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 
 Between her kissing breasts, and every 
 
 charm 
 Touch raptured ! — see how painfully I 
 
 flow: 
 Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 
 Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me 
 
 lead, 950 
 
 A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 
 Where all that beauty snared me.' — 
 
 ' Cruel god. 
 Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod 
 Will stagnate all thy fountains: — tease me 
 
 not 
 With siren words — Ah, have I really got 
 Such power to madden thee ? And is it 
 
 true — 
 Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 
 My very thoughts : in mercy then away. 
 Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 959 
 
 My own dear will, 't would be a deadly 
 
 bane.' 
 ' O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a 
 
 pain 
 Like this of mine, then would I fearless 
 
 turn 
 And be a criminal.' ' Alas, I burn, 
 
 1 shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 
 Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 
 Of mine was once made perfect in these 
 
 woods. 
 
78 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent 
 
 floods, 
 Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment 
 
 gave; 
 But ever since I heedlessly did lave 
 In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow 970 
 Grew strong within me: wherefore serve 
 
 me so, 
 And call it love ? Alas ! 't was cruelty. 
 Not once more did I close my happy eye 
 Amid the thrush's song. Away ! avaunt ! 
 
 't was a cruel thing.' — ' Now thou dost 
 
 taunt 
 So softly, Arethusa, that I think 
 If thou wast playing on my shady brink, 
 Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent 
 
 maid ! 
 Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 
 Of angry powers: there are deities gSo 
 
 Will shade us with their wings. Those 
 
 fitful sighs 
 'Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour 
 A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, 
 Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel 
 Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, 
 
 steal 
 Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 
 These dreary caverns for the open sky. 
 
 1 will delight thee all my winding course, 
 From the green sea up to my hidden source 
 About Arcadian forests; and will show 990 
 The channels where my coolest waters flow 
 Through mossy rocks; where 'mid exuber- 
 ant green, ^ 
 
 I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 
 Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim 
 Round flowery islands, and take thence a 
 
 skim 
 Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 
 Buzz from their honey'd wings: and thou 
 
 shouldst please 
 Thyself to choose the richest, where we 
 
 might 
 Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. 
 Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness. 
 And let us be thus comforted ; unless looi 
 Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless 
 
 stream 
 
 Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate 
 
 beam. 
 And pour to death along some hungry 
 
 sands.' — 
 ' What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
 Severe before me : persecuting fate ! 
 Unhappy Arethusa ! thou wast late 
 A huntress free in ' — At this, sudden 
 
 fell 
 Those two sad streams adown a fearful 
 
 dell. 
 The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no 
 
 more, loio 
 
 Save echo, faint repeating o'er and o'er 
 The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
 Of that dark gulf he wept, and said : ' I 
 
 urge 
 Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage, 
 By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage, 
 If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains; 
 And make them happy in some happy 
 
 plains.' 
 
 He turn'd — there was a whelming sound 
 
 — he stept. 
 There was a cooler light; and so he kept 
 Towards it by a sandy path, and lo ! 1020 
 More suddenly than doth a moment go. 
 The visions of the earth were gone and 
 
 fled — 
 He saw the giant sea above his head. 
 
 BOOK 111 
 
 There are who lord it o'er their fellow- 
 men 
 With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen 
 Their baaing vanities, to browse away 
 The comfortable green and juicy hay 
 From human pastures; or, O torturing 
 
 fact! 
 Who, through an idiot blink, will see un- 
 
 pack'd 
 Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 
 Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not 
 
 one tinge 
 Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 79 
 
 Lble to face an owl's, they still are dight 
 Jy the blear-eyed nations in empurpled 
 
 vests, 1 1 
 
 Lnd crowns, and turbans. With unladen 
 
 breasts, 
 lave of blown self-applause, they proudly 
 
 mount 
 ^o their spirit's perch, their being's high 
 
 account, 
 ?heir tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their 
 
 thrones — 
 Lmid the fierce intoxicating tones 
 )f trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd 
 
 drums, 
 lnd sudden cannon. Ah ! how all this 
 
 hums, 
 n wakeful ears, like uproar past and 
 
 gone — 
 iike thunder-clouds that spake to Baby- 
 lon, 20 
 Lnd set those old Chaldeans to their 
 
 tasks. — 
 Ire then regalities all gilded masks ? 
 fo, there are throned seats unscalable 
 Jut by a patient wing, a constant spell, 
 )r by ethereal things that, unconfined, 
 3an make a ladder of the eternal wind, 
 Lnd poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 
 ?o watch the abysm-birth of elements. 
 Lye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate 
 L thousand Powers keep religious state, 30 
 n water, fiery realm, and airy bourne ; 
 Lnd, silent as a consecrated urn, 
 lold spherey sessions for a season due. 
 fet few of these far majesties, ah, few ! 
 lave bared their operations to this globe — 
 ''ew, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 
 )ur piece of heaven — whose benevolence 
 Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every 
 
 sense 
 ^'illing with spiritual sweets to plenitude, 
 \.s bees gorge full their cells. And, by 
 
 the feud 40 
 
 Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 
 Sterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 
 ^s of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 
 iVhen thy gold breath is misting in the 
 
 west, 
 
 She unobserved steals unto her throne. 
 And there she sits most meek and most 
 
 alone ; 
 As if she had not pomp subservient; 
 As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 
 Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; 
 As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart, 
 Waiting for silver-footed messages. 51 
 
 O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest 
 
 trees 
 Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: 
 O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 
 The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 
 Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 
 Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping 
 
 kine, 
 Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields 
 
 divine : 
 Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 
 Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes; 
 And yet thy benediction passeth not 61 
 
 One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 
 Where pleasure may be sent: the nested 
 
 wren 
 Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken. 
 And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 
 Takes glimpses of thee; thou art a relief 
 To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
 Within its pearly house. — The mighty 
 
 deeps, 
 The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad 
 
 sea ! 
 O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to 
 
 thee, 7f> 
 
 And Tellus feels his forehead's cumbrous 
 
 load. 
 
 Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What 
 far abode 
 Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
 Such utmost beauty ? Alas, thou dost pine 
 For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale 
 For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost be- 
 wail 
 His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost 
 
 thou sigh ? 
 Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's 
 eye, 
 
8o 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Or what a thing is love ! 'Tis She, but lo! 
 
 How changed, how full of ache, how gone 
 in woe ! So 
 
 She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveli- 
 ness 
 
 Is wan on Neptune's blue : yet there 's a 
 stress 
 
 Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, 
 
 Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
 
 The curly foam with amorous influence. 
 
 O, not so idle : for down-glancing thence, 
 
 She fathoms eddies, and runs wild about 
 
 O'erwhelming water-courses; scaring out 
 
 The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and 
 fright'ning 
 
 Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd light- 
 ning. 90 
 
 Where will the splendour be content to 
 reach ? 
 
 O love ! how potent hast thou been to 
 teach 
 
 Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty 
 dwells. 
 
 In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, 
 
 In light, in gloom, in star or blazing sun. 
 
 Thou pointest out the way, and straight 't is 
 won. 
 
 Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath; 
 
 Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams 
 of death; 
 
 Thou madest Pluto bear thin element; 
 
 And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast 
 sent 100 
 
 A moonbeam to the deep, deep water- 
 world, 
 
 To find Endymion. 
 
 On gold sand impearl'd 
 With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, 
 Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her 
 
 light 
 Against his pallid face: he felt the charm 
 To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
 Of his heart's blood: 't was very sweet; he 
 
 stay'd 
 His wandering steps, and half-entranced 
 
 laid 
 His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds. 
 
 To taste the gentle moon, and freshening 
 beads, no 
 
 Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' 
 tails. 
 
 And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
 
 Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering 
 hand 
 
 Were lifted from the water's breast, and 
 fann'd 
 
 Into sweet air; and sober'd morning came 
 
 Meekly through billows: — when like taper- 
 flame 
 
 Left sudden by a dallying breath of air, 
 
 He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 
 
 Along his fated way. 
 
 Far had he roam'd, 
 With nothing save the hollow vast, that 
 
 foam'd 120 
 
 Above, around, and at his feet; save things 
 More dead than Morpheus' imaginings: 
 Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates 
 
 large 
 
 Of 
 
 brazen beaks and 
 
 gone sea-warriors ; 
 
 targe; 
 Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 
 The sway of human hand ; gold vase em- 
 
 boss'd 
 With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
 No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
 But those of Saturn's vintage; mouldering 
 
 scrolls, 
 Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those 
 
 souls 130 
 
 Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures 
 
 rude 
 In ponderous stone, developing the mood 
 Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man. 
 Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan. 
 And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 
 Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 
 These secrets struck into him; and unless 
 Dian had chased away that heaviness. 
 He might have died : but now, with cheered 
 
 feel, 
 He onward kept; wooing these thoughts to 
 
 steal 140 
 
 About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 8i 
 
 •What is there in thee, Moon ! that 
 
 thou shouldst move 
 My heart so potently ? When yet a child 
 [ oft have dried my tears when thou hast 
 
 smiled, 
 rhou seem'dst my sister: hand in hand we 
 
 went 
 From eve to morn across the firmament. 
 STo apples would I gather from the tree, 
 fill thou hadst cool'd their cheeks de- 
 
 liciously: 
 Ho tumbling water ever spake romance, 
 3ut when my eyes with thine thereon could 
 
 dance: 150 
 
 ^o woods Avere green enough, no bower 
 
 divine, 
 Jntil thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine: 
 in sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take, 
 )r drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake; 
 ^nd, in the summer tide of blossoming, 
 '^o one but thee hath heard me blithely sing 
 \nd mesh my dewy flowers all the night. 
 Ho melody was like a passing spright 
 .f it went not to solemnize thy reign, 
 fes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160 
 iy thee were fashion'd to the self-same end ; 
 Ind as I grew in years, still didst thou 
 
 blend 
 Vith all my ardours; thou wast the deep 
 
 glen; 
 ?hou wast the mountain-top — the sage's 
 
 pen — 
 ?he poet's harp — the voice of friends — 
 
 the sun; 
 thou wast the river — thou wast glory 
 
 won; 
 Chou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast 
 
 my steed — 
 tly goblet full of wine — my topmost 
 
 deed: — 
 Chou wast the charm of women, lovely 
 
 Moon ! 
 
 ) what a wild and harmonized tune 170 
 kly spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
 3n some bright essence could I lean, and 
 
 lull 
 
 Myself to immortality: I prest 
 !Tature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 
 
 But gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 
 My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 
 She came, and thou didst fade, and fade 
 
 away — 
 Yet not entirely; no, thy starry sway 
 Has been an under-passion to this hour. 
 Now I begin to feel thine orby power 180 
 Is coming fresh upon me: O be kind. 
 Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 
 My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, for- 
 give 
 That I can think away from thee and live ! — 
 Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 
 One thought beyond thine argent luxuries ! 
 How far beyond ! ' At this a surprised 
 
 start 
 Frosted the springing verdure of his heart; 
 For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 
 How his own goddess was past all things 
 
 fair, 190 
 
 He saw far in the concave green of the sea 
 An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 
 Upon a weeded rock this old man sat. 
 And his white hair was awful, and a mat 
 Of weeds were cold beneath his cold thin 
 
 feet; 
 And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 
 A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, 
 O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest 
 
 groans 
 Of ambitiovis magic: every ocean-form 
 Was woven in with black distinctness; 
 
 storm, 200 
 
 And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 
 Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted 
 
 shore 
 Were emblem'd in the woof; with every 
 
 shape 
 That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape 
 
 and cape. 
 The gulphing whale was like a dot in the 
 
 spell. 
 Yet look upon it, and 't would size and 
 
 swell 
 To its huge self; and the minutest fish 
 Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish, 
 And show his little eye's anatomy. 
 Then there was pictured the regality 2 10 
 
82 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Of Neptune; and the sea-nymphs round 
 
 his state, 
 In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 
 Beside this old man lay a pearly wand, 
 And in his lap a book, the which he conu'd 
 So steadfastly, that the new denizen 
 Had time to keep him in amazed ken. 
 To mark these shadowings, and stand in 
 
 The old man raised his hoary head and 
 
 saw 
 The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to 
 
 see, 
 His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 220 
 He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white 
 
 brows 
 Went arching up, and like two magic 
 
 ploughs 
 Furrow'd deep wrinkles in his forehead 
 
 large, 
 Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge, 
 Till round his wither'd lips had gone a 
 
 smile. 
 Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 
 Had watch'd for years in forlorn hermitage, 
 Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 
 Eased in one accent his o'erburden'd soul. 
 Even to the trees. He rose: he grasp'd 
 
 his stole, 230 
 
 With convulsed clenches waving it abroad, 
 And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 
 Echo into oblivion, he said: — 
 
 ' Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay 
 
 my head 
 In peace upon my watery pillow: now 
 Sleep will come smoothly to my weary 
 
 brow. 
 O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! 
 O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and 
 
 stung 
 With new-born life ! What shall I do ? 
 
 Where go, 
 When I have cast this serpent-skin of 
 
 woe ? — 240 
 
 I'll swim to the sirens, and one moment 
 
 listen 
 
 Their melodies, and see their long hair 
 
 glisten ; 
 Anon upon that giant's arm I '11 be, 
 That writhes about the roots of Sicily: 
 To northern seas I '11 in a twinkling sail. 
 And mount upon the snortings of a whale 
 To some black cloud ; thence down I '11 
 
 madly sweep 
 On forked lightning, to the deepest deep. 
 Where through some sucking pool I will 
 
 be hurl'd 
 With rapture to the other side of the 
 
 world ! 250 
 
 O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 
 I bow full-hearted to your old decree ! 
 Yes, every god be thank'd, and power be- 
 nign, ^ 
 For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine.j, 
 Thou art the man!' Endymion started- 
 "^ back 
 Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom 1 
 
 the rack 
 Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 
 Mutter'd: ' What lonely death am I to diet: 
 In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze, 
 And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 
 Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 
 And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 
 Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw, 263 
 And keep me as a chosen food to draw 
 His magian fish through hated fire and 
 
 flame ? 
 O misery of hell ! resistless, tame, 
 Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shout. 
 Until the gods through heaven's blue look 
 
 out ! — 
 O Tartarus ! but some few days agone 
 Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 
 Her voice I hung like fruit among greer 
 
 leaves: 27; 
 
 Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripr 
 
 sheaves 
 Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop. 
 But never may be garner'd. I must stoop 
 My head, and kiss death's foot. Love 
 
 love, farewell ! 
 Is there no hope from thee ? This horri( 
 
 spell 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 83 
 
 Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By 
 
 Dian's hind 
 Feeding from her white fingers, on the 
 
 wind 
 I see thy streaming hair ! and now, by 
 
 Pan, 
 I care not for this old mysterious man ! ' 280 
 
 He spake, and walking to that aged form, 
 Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan 
 
 warm 
 With pity, for the gray-hair'd creature 
 
 wept. 
 Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow 
 
 kept? 
 Had he, though blindly contumelious, 
 
 brought 
 Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human 
 
 thought, 
 Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
 He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears. 
 The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
 Before that care-worn sage, who trembling 
 
 felt 290 
 
 About his large dark locks, and faltering 
 
 spake : 
 
 ' Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus' 
 sake ! 
 I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
 A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
 Into mine own: for why ? thou openest 
 The prison gates that have so long opprest 
 My weary watching. Though thou know'st 
 1 it not, 
 
 [Thou art commission'd to this fated spot 
 iFor great enfranchisement. O weep no 
 
 more ! 
 :I am a friend to love, to loves of yore: 300 
 Aye, hadst thou never loved an unknown 
 
 power, 
 I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
 But even now most miserable old, 
 I saw thee, and my blood no longer cold 
 Gave mighty pulses: in this tottering case 
 Grew a new heart, which at this moment 
 
 plays 
 As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, 
 
 For thou shalt hear this secret all display'd, 
 Now as we speed towards our joyous task.' 
 
 So saying, this young soul in age's 
 
 mask 3 10 
 
 Went forward with the Carian side by side: 
 
 Resuming quickly thus; while ocean's tide 
 
 Hung swollen at their backs, and jewell'd 
 
 sands 
 Took silently their foot-prints. 
 
 ' My soul stands 
 Now past the midway from mortality, 
 And so I can prepare without a sigh 
 To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
 I was a fisher once, upon this main. 
 And my boat danced in every creek and bay; 
 Rough billows were my home by night and 
 
 day, — 3=0 
 
 The sea-gulls not more constant; for I had 
 No housing from the storm and tempests 
 
 mad, 
 But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 
 Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease: 
 Long years of misery have told me so. 
 Aye, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
 One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
 To look so plainly through them ? to dispel 
 A thousand years with backward glance 
 
 sublime ? 
 To breathe away as 'twere all scummy 
 
 slime 330 
 
 From off a crystal pool, to see its deep. 
 And one's own image from the bottom 
 
 peep ? 
 Yes: now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
 My long captivity and moanings all 
 Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 
 The which I breathe away, and thronging 
 
 come 
 Like things of yesterday my youthful plea- 
 
 ' I touch'd no lute, I sang not, trod no 
 
 measures : 
 I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
 My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous 
 
 roars, 340 
 
84 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 And craggy isles, and sea-mew's plaintive 
 
 cry 
 Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
 Dolphins were still my playmates; shapes 
 
 unseen 
 Would let me feel their scales of gold and 
 
 green, 
 Nor be my desolation; and, full oft, 
 When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft 
 Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
 To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and 
 
 wipe 
 My life away like a vast sponge of fate, 349 
 Some friendly monster, pitying my sad 
 
 state, 
 Has dived to its foundations, gulf 'd it down, 
 And left me tossing safely. But the crown 
 Of all my life was utmost quietude : 
 More did I love to lie in cavern rude, 
 Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's 
 
 voice, 
 And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice ! 
 There blush'd no summer eve but I would 
 
 steer 
 My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 
 The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery 
 
 steep. 
 Mingled with ceaseless bleatings of his 
 
 sheep: 360 
 
 And never was a day of summer shine, 
 But I beheld its birth upon the brine: 
 For I would watch all night to see unfold 
 Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morn- 
 ing gold 
 Wide o'er the swelling streams: and con- 
 stantly 
 At brim of day-tide, on some grassy lea, 
 My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 
 The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 
 With daily boon of fish most delicate: 
 They knew not whence this bounty, and 
 
 elate 370 
 
 Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile 
 
 beach. 
 
 * Why was I not contented ? Wherefore 
 reach 
 At things which, but for thee, O Latmian ! 
 
 Had been my dreary death ? Fool ! I began 
 To feel distemper'd longings: to desire 
 The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
 Could grant in benediction : to be free 
 Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
 I wasted, ere in one extremist fit 379 
 
 I plunged for life or death. To interknit 
 One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
 Might seem a work of pain; so not enough 
 Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt. 
 And buoyant round my limbs. At first I 
 
 dwelt 
 Whole days and days in sheer astonishment; 
 Forgetful utterly of self-intent; 
 Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 
 Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth 
 
 show 
 His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 
 I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 390 
 'T was freedom ! and at once I visited 
 The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 
 No need to tell thee of them, for I see 
 That thou hast been a witness — it must be 
 For these I know thou canst not feel a 
 
 drouth. 
 By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 
 So I will in my story straightway pass 
 To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 
 That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla 
 
 fair ! 
 Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 400 
 To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger- 
 youth ! 
 I loved her to the very white of truth. 
 And she would not conceive it. Timid 
 
 thing ! 
 She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing. 
 Round every isle, and point, and promon- 
 tory, 
 From where large Hercules wound up his 
 
 story 
 Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 
 The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 
 Gleam delicately through the azure clear: 
 Until 't was too fierce agony to bear; 410 
 And in that agony, across my grief 
 It flash'd, that Circe might find some re- 
 lief— 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 85 
 
 Cruel enchantress ! So above the water 
 I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' 
 
 daughter. 
 
 ^sea's isle was wondering at the moon : — 
 It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 
 Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 
 
 *' When I awoke, 't was in a twilight 
 
 bower; 
 Just when the light of morn, with hum of 
 
 bees, 
 Stole through its verdurous matting of 
 
 fresh trees. 420 
 
 How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a 
 
 lyre. 
 And over it a sighing voice expire. 
 It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and 
 
 anon 
 
 The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
 Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry 
 
 Jove ! 
 [With tears, and smiles, and honey-words 
 
 she wove 
 [A net whose thraldom was more bliss than 
 
 all 
 [The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did 
 
 fall 
 The dew of her rich speech: "Ah ! art 
 
 awake ? 
 
 let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's 
 sake ! 430 
 
 1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have 
 shed 
 
 An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold 
 
 dead ; 
 JAnd now I find thee living, I will pour 
 ;From these devoted eyes their silver store, 
 .Until exhausted of the latest drop, 
 [So it will pleasure thee, and force thee 
 
 stop 
 Here, that I too may live: but if beyond 
 Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art 
 I fond 
 
 Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 
 If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 
 jif smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour 
 I mute, 441 
 
 Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit. 
 
 let me pluck it for thee ! " Thus she 
 
 link'd 
 Her charming syllables, till indistinct 
 Their music came to my o'er-sweeten'd 
 
 soul; 
 And then she hover'd over me, and stole 
 So near, that if no nearer it had been 
 This f urrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 
 
 ' Young man of Latmos ! thus particu- 
 lar 
 
 Am I, that thou may'st plainly see how 
 far 450 
 
 This fierce temptation went: and thou 
 may'st not 
 
 Exclaim, How, then, was Scylla quite for- 
 got ? 
 
 ' Who could resist ? Who in this uni- 
 verse ? 
 She did so breathe ambrosia; so immerse 
 My fine existence in a golden clime. 
 She took me like a child of suckling time. 
 And cradled me in roses. Thus con- 
 
 demn'd. 
 The current of my former life was stemm'd. 
 And to this arbitrary queen of sense 
 
 1 bow'd a tranced vassal: nor would thence 
 Have moved, even though Amphion's harp 
 
 had woo'd 461 
 
 Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
 For as Apollo each eve doth devise 
 A new apparelling for western skies; 
 So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 
 Shed balmy consciousness within that 
 
 bower. 
 And I was free of haunts umbrageous; 
 Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
 Of squirrels, foxes shy, and antler'd deer, 
 And birds from coverts innermost and 
 drear 470 
 
 Warbling for very joy mellifluous sor- 
 row — 
 To me new-born delights ! 
 
 ' Now let me borrow. 
 For moments few, a temperament as stern 
 As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
 
86 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 These uttering lips, while I in calm speech 
 tell 
 
 How specious 
 hell. 
 
 tell 
 
 heaven was changed to real 
 
 'One morn she left me sleeping: half 
 
 awake 
 I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to 
 
 slake 
 My greedy thirst with nectarbus camel- 
 draughts; 
 But she was gone. Whereat the barbed 
 
 shafts 480 
 
 Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. 
 That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. 
 Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom 
 Damp awe assail'd me; for there 'gan to 
 
 boom 
 A sound of moan, an agony of sound. 
 Sepulchral from the distance all around. 
 Then came a conquering earth-thunder, and 
 
 rumbled 
 That fierce complain to silence: while I 
 
 stumbled 
 Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd. 
 I came to a dark valley. — Groanings 
 
 swell'd 490 
 
 Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, 
 The nearer I approach'd a flame's gaunt 
 
 blue. 
 That glared before me through a thorny 
 
 brake. 
 This fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 
 Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was 
 
 near 
 A sight too fearful for the feel of fear: 
 In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 
 The banquet of my arms, my arbour queen, 
 Seated upon an uptoru forest root; 
 And all around her shapes, wizard and 
 
 brute, 500 
 
 Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpent- 
 
 ing, 
 Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and 
 
 sting ! 
 O such deformities ! old Charon's self. 
 Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 
 And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 
 
 It could not be so fantasied. Fierce, wan, 
 And tyrannizing was the lady's look, 
 As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 
 Ofttimes upon the sudden she laugh'd out, 
 And from a basket emptied to the rout 510 
 Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd 
 
 quick 
 And roar'd for more; with many a hungry 
 
 lick 
 About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow, 
 Anon she took a branch of mistletoe, 
 And emptied on 't a black dull-gurgling 
 
 phial: 
 Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing 
 
 trial 
 Was sharpening for their pitiable bones. 
 She lifted up the charm: appealing groans 
 From their poor breasts went sueing to her 
 
 ear 
 In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier 520 
 She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty 
 
 oil. 
 Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil. 
 Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. 
 Shrieks, yells, and groans of torture-pil- 
 grimage ; 
 Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 
 And puff from the tail's end to stifled 
 
 throat: 
 Then was appalling silence: then a sight 
 More wildering than all that hoarse af- 
 fright ; 
 For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind 
 
 writhen, 
 Went through the dismal air like one huge 
 
 Python 530 
 
 Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish 'd. 
 Yet there was not a breath of wind: she 
 
 banish'd 
 These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the 
 
 dark 
 Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and 
 
 satyrs stark. 
 With dancing and loud revelry, — and went 
 Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 
 Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd 
 Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 
 In human accent: " Potent goddess ! chief 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 87 
 
 Of pains resistless ! make my beiug brief, 
 Or let me from this heavy prison fly: 541 
 Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 
 I sue not for my happy crown again; 
 I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; 
 I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife: 
 I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 
 My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 
 I will forget them ; I will pass these joys ; 
 Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too 
 
 high: 
 
 Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, 550 
 
 Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh. 
 From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh. 
 And merely given to the cold bleak air. 
 Have mercy, Goddess ! Circe, feel my 
 
 prayer ! " 
 
 'That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
 Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had 
 
 come 
 Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
 I saw a fury whetting a death-dart; 
 And my slain spirit, overwrought with 
 
 fright. 
 Fainted away in that dark lair of night. 560 
 Think, my deliverer, how desolate 
 My waking must have been ! disgust, and 
 [ hate, 
 
 I And terrors manifold divided me 
 I A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 
 I Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 
 I fled three days — when lo ! before me 
 
 stood 
 Glaring the angry witch. O Dis, even now, 
 A clammy dew is beading on my brow, 
 At mere remembering her pale laugh, and 
 
 curse. 
 " Ha ! ha ! Sir Dainty ! there must be a 
 
 nurse 570 
 
 Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, ex- 
 press. 
 To cradle thee my sweet, and lull thee: 
 
 yes, 
 I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch: 
 My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 
 So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 
 Unheard of yet; and it shall still its cries 
 
 Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 
 
 Oh, no — it shall not pine, and pine, and 
 
 pine 
 More than one pretty, trifling thousand 
 
 years; 
 And then 't were pity, but fate's gentle 
 
 shears 580 
 
 Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt ! 
 Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not 
 
 hurt 
 One hair of thine: see how I weep and sigh, 
 That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 
 And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 
 Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe. 
 Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 
 And speak a blessing: Mark me ! thou hast 
 
 thews 
 Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race: 
 But such a love is mine, that here I chase 
 Eternally away from thee all bloom 591 
 Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 
 Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery 
 
 vast; 
 And there, ere many days be overpast. 
 Disabled age shall seize thee; and even 
 
 then 
 Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 
 But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 
 Ten hundred years : which gone, I then be- 
 queath 
 Thy fragile bones to unknown burial. 
 Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! " — As shot stars 
 
 fall, 600 
 
 She fled ere I could groan for mercy. 
 
 Stung 
 And poisoned was my spirit: despair sung 
 A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 
 A hand was at my shoulder to compel 
 My sullen steps; another 'fore my eyes 
 Moved on with pointed finger. In this 
 
 giiise 
 Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 
 I found me; by my fresh, my native home. 
 Its tempering coolness, to my life akin. 
 Came salutary as 1 waded in; 610 
 
 And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 
 Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and 
 
 drave 
 
88 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Large froth before me, while there yet 
 remaiu'd 
 
 Hale strength, nor from my bones all mar- 
 row drain'd. 
 
 * Young lover, I must weep — such hell- 
 ish spite 
 
 With dry cheek who can tell? While 
 thus my might 
 
 Proving upon this element, dismay'd. 
 
 Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid; 
 
 I look'd — 't was Scylla ! Cursed, cursed 
 Circe ! 
 
 vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy ? 
 Could not thy harshest vengeance be con- 
 tent, 621 
 
 But thou must nip this tender innocent 
 
 Because I loved her ? ^- Cold, O cold in- 
 deed 
 
 Were her fair limbs, and like a common 
 weed 
 
 The sea-swell took her hair. Dead as she 
 was 
 
 1 clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 
 Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd 
 
 brine, 
 
 Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 
 
 Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and 
 pearl. 
 
 Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl 630 
 
 Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and be- 
 hold ! 
 
 'T was vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 
 
 And all around — But wherefore this to 
 thee 
 
 Who in few minutes more thyself shalt 
 see ? — 
 
 I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 
 
 My fever'd parchiugs up, my scathing 
 dread 
 
 Met palsy half way: soon these limbs be- 
 came 
 
 Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, 
 and lame. 
 
 ' Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space, 
 Without one hope, without one faintest 
 trace 640 
 
 Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
 
 Of colour' d phantasy: for I fear 'twould 
 
 trouble 
 Thy brain to loss of reason: and next tell 
 How a restoring chance came down to quell 
 One half of the witch in me. 
 
 ' On a day, 
 Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
 I saw grow up from the horizon's brink 
 A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
 Away from me again, as though her course 
 Had been resumed in spite of hindering 
 force — 650 
 
 So vanish'd: and not long, before arose 
 Dark clouds, and muttering of winds mo- 
 rose. 
 Old JEolus would stifle his mad spleen, 
 But could not; therefore, all the billows 
 
 green 
 Toss'd up the silver spume against the 
 
 clouds. 
 The tempest came: I saw that vessel's 
 
 shrouds 
 In perilous bustle; while upon the deck 
 Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the 
 
 wreck; 
 The final gulfing; the poor struggling souls; 
 I heard their cries amid loud thunder- 
 rolls. 660 
 
 they had all been saved but crazed eld 
 Aunull'd my vigorous cravings; and thus 
 
 quell'd 
 And curb'd, think on 't, O Latmian ! did I 
 
 sit 
 Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 
 Against that hell-born Circe. The crew 
 
 had gone. 
 By one and one, to pale oblivion; 
 And I was gazing on the surges prone. 
 With many a scalding tear, and many a 
 
 groan. 
 When at my feet emerged an old man's 
 
 hand, 
 Grasping this scroll, and this same slender 
 
 wand. 670 
 
 1 knelt with pain — reach'd out my hand 
 
 — had grasp'd 
 
 i 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 89 
 
 These treasures — toucli'd the knuckles — 
 
 they unclasp'd — 
 I caught a finger: but the downward weight 
 O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan 
 
 abate 
 The storm, and through chill aguish gloom 
 
 outburst 
 The comfortable sun. I was athirst 
 To search the book, and in the warming 
 
 air 
 Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
 ! Strange Tuatters did it treat of, and drew 
 
 on 
 My soul page after page, till well nigh 
 
 won 6S0 
 
 : Into forge tfulness; when, stupefied, 
 I read these words, and read again, and 
 
 tried 
 My eyes against the heavens, and read 
 
 again. 
 .0 what a load of misery and pain 
 Each Atlas-line bore off ! — a shine of hope 
 Came gold around me, cheering me to 
 
 cope 
 Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
 For thou hast brought their promise to an 
 
 end.' 
 
 In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 
 Doomed with enfeebled carcase to outstretch 690 
 His loathed existence through ten centuries. 
 And then to die alone. Who can devise 
 A total opposition ? No one. So 
 One million times ocean must ebh and flow, 
 And he oppressed. Yet he shall not die, 
 These things accomplish' d : — If he utterly 
 Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
 The meanings of all motions, shapes, and 
 
 sounds ■ 
 If he explores all forms and substances 
 Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
 He shall not die. Moreover, and in chief, 701 
 He must pursue this task of joy and grief 
 Most piously ; — all lovers tempest-tost. 
 And in the savage overwhelming lost. 
 He shall deposit side by side, until 
 Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil: 
 Which done, and all these labours ripened. 
 
 A youth, by heavenly power loved and led. 
 Shall stand before him • whom he shall direct 
 How to consummate all. The youth elect 710 
 Must do the thing, or both will be de- 
 stroyed. — 
 
 ' Then,' cried the young Endymion, over- 
 
 joy'd, 
 
 ' We are twin brothers in this destiny ! 
 
 Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 
 
 Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
 
 What ! if from thee my wandering feet 
 had swerved, 
 
 Had we both perish'd ? ' — ' Look ! ' the 
 sage replied, 
 
 ' Dost thou not mark a gleaming through 
 the tide, 
 
 Of divers brilliances ? 't is the edifice 
 
 I told thee of, where lovely Scylla lies; 720 
 
 And where I have enshrined piously 
 
 All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd 
 to die 
 
 Throughout my bondage.' Thus discours- 
 ing, on 
 
 They went till unobscured the porches 
 shone ; 
 
 Which hurryingly they gain'd, and euter'd 
 straight. 
 
 Sure never since king Neptune held his 
 state 
 
 Was seen such wonder underneath the 
 stars. 
 
 Turn to some level plain where haughty 
 Mars 
 
 Has legion'd all his battle; and behold 
 
 How every soldier, with firm foot, doth 
 hold 730 
 
 His even breast: see, many steeled squares, 
 
 And rigid ranks of iron — whence who 
 dares 
 
 One step ? Imagine further, line by line. 
 
 These warrior thousands on the field su- 
 pine : — 
 
 So in that crystal place, in silent rows. 
 
 Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and 
 woes. — 
 
 The stranger from the mountains, breath- 
 less, traced 
 
9° 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Such thousands of shut eyes in order 
 placed; 
 
 Such ranges of white feet, and patient lips 
 
 All ruddy, — for here death no blossom 
 nips. 740 
 
 He mark'd their brows and foreheads; saw 
 their hair 
 
 Put sleekly on one side with nicest care; 
 
 And each one's gentle wrists, with rever- 
 ence, 
 
 Put cross-wise to its heart. 
 
 ' Let us commence,' 
 Whisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy, 
 
 ' even now.' 
 He spake, and, trembling like an aspen- 
 bough. 
 Began to tear his scroll in pieces small, 
 Uttering the while some mumblings fu- 
 neral. 
 He tore it into pieces small as snow 
 That drifts unfeather'd when bleak north- 
 erns blow; 750 
 And having done it, took his dark blue 
 
 cloak 
 And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
 His wand against the empty air times 
 
 nine. — 
 ' What more there is to do, young man, is 
 
 thine : 
 But first a little patience ; first undo 
 This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
 Ah, gentle ! 't is as weak as spider's skein; 
 And shouldst thou break it — What, is it 
 
 done so clean ? 
 A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave ! 
 The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 
 Here is a shell; 'tis pearly blank to me, 761 
 Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
 Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's 
 
 sake ! 
 Olympus ! we are safe ! Now, Carian, 
 
 break 
 This wand against yon lyre on the pedes- 
 tal.' 
 
 'T was done : and straight with sudden 
 swell and fall 
 
 Sweet music breathed her soul away, and 
 
 sigh'd 
 A lullaby to silence. — * Youth ! now strew 
 These minced leaves on me, and passing 
 
 through 
 Those files of dead, scatter the same 
 around, 770 
 
 And thou wilt see the issue.' — 'Mid the 
 
 sound 
 Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
 Endymion from Glaucus stood apart. 
 And scatter'd in his face some fragments 
 
 light. 
 How lightning-swift the change ! a youth- 
 ful wight 
 Smiling beneath a coral diadem, 
 Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, 
 Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous 
 
 corse, 
 Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest 
 
 force 
 Press'd its cold hand, and wept, — and 
 Scylla sigh'd ! 7S0 
 
 Endymion, with quick hand, the charm ap- 
 plied — 
 The nymph arose: he left them to their joy. 
 And onward went upon his high employ. 
 Showering those powerful fragments on 
 
 the dead. 
 And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head. 
 As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 
 Death felt it to his inwards: 'twas too 
 
 much: 
 Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 
 The Latmian persevered along, and thus 
 All were reanimated. There arose 790 
 
 A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 
 Of gladness in the air — while many, who 
 Had died in mutual arms devout and true. 
 Sprang to each other madly; and the rest 
 Felt a high certainty of being blest. 
 They gazed upon Endymion. Enchant- 
 ment 
 Grew drunken, and would have its head 
 
 and bent. 
 Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers, 
 Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed 
 full showers 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 91 
 
 Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds 
 divine. 800 
 
 The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 
 Of happiness, from fairy press oozed out. 
 Speechless they eyed each other, and about 
 The fair assembly wandered to and fro, 
 Distracted with the richest overflow 
 Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. 
 
 ' Away ! ' 
 
 Shouted the new born god; 'Follow, and 
 
 pay 
 
 Our piety to Neptunus supreme ! ' — 
 Then Scylla, blushing sweetly from her 
 
 dream. 
 They led on first, bent to her meek sur- 
 prise, Sio 
 Through portal columns of a giant size 
 Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. 
 Joyous all follow'd, as the leader call'd, 
 Down marble steps; pouring as easily 
 As hour-glass sand — and fast, as you 
 
 might see 
 Swallows obeying the south summer's call. 
 Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 
 
 Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor 
 far, 
 Ere from among some rocks of glittering 
 spar, 8 19 
 
 Just within ken, they saw descending thick 
 Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
 Moved either host. On a wide sand they 
 
 met. 
 And of those numbers every eye was wet; 
 For each their old love found. A mur- 
 muring rose, 
 Like what was never heard in all the 
 
 throes 
 Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit 
 To tell; 't is dizziness to think of it. 
 
 This mighty consummation made, the 
 
 host 
 Moved on for many a league; and gain'd 
 
 and lost 
 Huge sea-marks; van ward swelling in 
 
 array, 830 
 
 And from the rear diminishing away, — 
 Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus 
 
 cried, 
 ' Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! 
 God Neptune's palaces.' With noise in- 
 creased, 
 They shoulder'd on towards that brighten- 
 ing east. 
 At every onward step proud domes arose 
 In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden 
 
 glows 
 Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
 Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
 Still onward; still the splendour gradual 
 swell'd. 840 
 
 Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
 By jasper pillars, letting through their 
 
 shafts 
 A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
 Each gazer drank; and deeper drank more 
 
 near: 
 For what poor mortals fragment up, as 
 
 mere 
 As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
 Of one fair palace, that far, far surpass'd. 
 Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
 Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 
 
 As large, as bright, as colour'd as the 
 
 bow 850 
 
 Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 
 Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
 Through which this Paphian army took its 
 
 march. 
 Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
 Whence could be seen, direct, a golden 
 
 gate. 
 To which the leaders sped; but not half 
 
 raught 
 Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 
 And made those dazzled thousands veil 
 
 their eyes 
 Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
 Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 860 
 Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the 
 
 blaze, 
 And then, behold ! large Neptune on his 
 
 throne 
 
92 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Of emerald deep: yet not exalt alone; 
 
 At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
 
 His left sat smiling Beauty's paragon. 
 
 Far as the mariner on highest mast 
 Can see all round upon the calmed vast, 
 So wide was Neptune's hall : and as the blue 
 Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
 Their doming curtains, high, magnificent, S70 
 Awed from the throne aloof; — and when 
 
 storm rent 
 Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's 
 
 air; 
 But soothed as now, flash'd sudden every- 
 where. 
 Noiseless, sub-marine cloudlets, glittering 
 Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
 From natural west, and east, and south, and 
 
 north, 
 A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
 A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's 
 
 head. 
 Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
 As breezeless lake, on which the slim 
 
 canoe sso 
 
 Of f eather'd Indian darts about, as through 
 The delicatest air: air verily. 
 But for the portraiture of clouds and sky : 
 This palace floor breath-air, — but for the 
 
 amaze 
 Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and 
 
 blaze 
 Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes. 
 Globing a golden sphere. 
 
 They stood in dreams 
 
 Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
 
 The Nereids danced; the Sirens faintly 
 sang; 
 
 And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping 
 head. 890 
 
 Then Love took wing, and from his pinions 
 shed 
 
 On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
 
 The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
 
 Fair Scylla and her guides to conference; 
 
 And when they reach'd the throned emi- 
 nence 
 
 She kiss'd the sea-nymph's cheek, — who 
 
 sat her down 
 A-toying with the doves. Then, — ' Mighty 
 
 crown 
 And sceptre of this kingdom ! ' Venus 
 
 said, 
 ' Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid: 
 Behold ! ' — Two copious tear-drops instant 
 
 fell 900 
 
 From the God's large eyes; he smiled de- 
 lectable. 
 And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
 ' Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the 
 
 bands 
 Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the 
 
 hour 
 I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
 Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not 
 
 yet 
 Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net ? 
 A little patience, youth ! 't will not be long. 
 Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
 A humid eye, and steps luxurious, gio 
 
 Where these are new and strange, are 
 
 ominous. 
 Aye, I have seen these signs in one of 
 
 heaven. 
 When others were all blind; and were I 
 
 given 
 To utter secrets, haply I might say 
 Some pleasant words : — but Love will have 
 
 his day. 
 So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon. 
 Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, 
 Visit thou my Cytherea: thou wilt find 
 Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind; 
 And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have 
 
 done, 920 
 
 All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! ' — 
 Thus the fair goddess : while Endymion 
 Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 
 
 Meantime a glorious revelry began 
 Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 
 In courteous fountains to all cups out- 
 reach' d; 
 And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaustless, 
 pleach'd 
 
BOOK THIRD 
 
 93 
 
 New growth about each shell aud pendent 
 
 lyre; 
 The which, in disentangling for their fire, 
 Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 930 
 For dainty toying. Cupid, empire-sure, 
 Flutter'd and laugh 'd, and oft-times through 
 
 the throng 
 Made a delighted way. Then dance, and 
 
 song. 
 And garlanding, grew wild; and pleasure 
 
 reign'd. 
 In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, 
 And strove who should be smother' d deep- 
 est in 
 Fresh crush of leaves. 
 
 O 't is a very sin 
 For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
 In such a place as this. O do not curse, 939 
 High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 
 
 All suddenly were silent. A soft blend- 
 ing 
 Of dulcet instruments came charmingly; 
 And then a hymn. 
 
 ' King of the stormy sea ! 
 Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
 Of elements ! Eternally before 
 Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn 
 
 rock, 
 At thy f ear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 
 Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 
 All mouutain-rivers, lost in the wide home 
 Of thy capacious bosom, ever flow. 950 
 
 Thou frownest, and old ^olus thy foe 
 Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff com- 
 plaint 
 Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds 
 
 faint 
 When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam 
 Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright 
 
 team 
 Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 
 To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
 Apollo singeth, while his chariot 
 Waits at the doors of heaven. Thou art 
 not 
 
 For scenes like this : an empire stern hast 
 thou; 960 
 
 And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet 
 now. 
 
 As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 
 
 To blend aud interknit 
 
 Subdued majesty with this glad time. 
 
 O shell-borne King sublime ! 
 
 We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 
 
 We sing, aud we adore ! 
 
 ' Breathe softly, flutes ; 
 Be tender of your strings, ye soothing 
 
 lutes; 
 Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O 
 
 vain ; 970 
 
 Not flowers budding in an April rain. 
 Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's 
 
 flow, — 
 No, nor the -S^olian twang of Love's own 
 
 bow. 
 Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
 Of goddess Cytherea ! 
 Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair 
 
 eyes 
 On our soul's sacrifice. 
 
 ' Bright-winged Child ! 
 
 Who has another care when thou hast 
 smiled ? 
 
 Unfortunates on earth, we see at last 980 
 
 All death-shadows, and glooms that over- 
 cast 
 
 Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pin- 
 ions. 
 
 O sweetest essence ! sweetest of all min- 
 ions ! 
 
 God of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair. 
 
 And panting bosoms bare ! 
 
 Dear unseen light in darkness ! eclipser 
 
 Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 
 
 Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until 
 
 We fill — we fill ! 989 
 
 And by thy Mother's lips ' 
 
 Was heard no more 
 For clamour, when the golden palace door 
 Open'd again, and from without, in shone 
 
94 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 A new maguificence. On oozy throne 
 Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, 
 To take a latest glimpse at his sheepfold, 
 Before he went into his quiet cave 
 To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
 Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid- 
 sea, 
 Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
 Of Doris, and the -Sigean seer, her spouse — 
 Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
 Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 1002 
 His fingers went across it — All were mute 
 To gaze on Amphitrite, queen of pearls, 
 And Thetis pearly too. — 
 
 The palace whirls 
 Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
 Was there far strayed from mortality. 
 He could not bear it — shut his eyes in 
 
 vain; 
 Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
 ' O I shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! 
 Where is my lovely mistress ? Well- 
 away ! ion 
 I die — I hear her voice — I feel my 
 
 wing — ' 
 At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden 
 
 ring 
 Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
 To usher back his spirit into life: 
 But still he slept. At last they interwove 
 Their cradling arms, and purposed to con- 
 vey 
 Towards a crystal bower far away. 
 
 Lo ! while slow carried through the pity- 
 ing crowd. 
 
 To his inward senses these words spake 
 aloud ; 1020 
 
 Written in starlight on the dark above: 
 
 ' Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 
 
 How have I dwelt in fear of fate ; 't is 
 done — 
 
 Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 
 
 Arise then! for the hen -dove shall not 
 hatch 
 
 Her ready eggs, before I 'II kissing snatch 
 
 Thee into endless heaven. Aioake! aioake!' 
 
 The youth at once arose: a placid lake 
 Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green. 
 Cooler than all the wonders he had seen, 
 LuU'd with its simple song his fluttering 
 breast. 103 1 
 
 How happy once again in grassy nest ! 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 Muse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 
 O first-born on the mountains ! by the 
 
 hues 
 Of heaven on the spiritual air begot: 
 Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot. 
 While yet our England was a wolfish den; ' 
 Before our forests heard the talk of men; 
 Before the first of Druids was a child ; — 
 Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild. 
 Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 
 There came an eastern voice of solemn 
 
 mood: — 10 
 
 Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth 
 
 the Nine, 
 Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 
 Such home-bred glory, that they cried in 
 
 vain, 
 ' Come hither. Sister of the Island ! ' Plain 
 Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she 
 
 spake 
 A higher summons : — still didst thou be- 
 take 
 Thee to thy native hopes. O thou hast 
 
 won 
 A full accomplishment ! The thing is 
 
 done. 
 Which undone, these our latter days had 
 
 risen 
 On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'st 
 
 what prison 20 
 
 Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and 
 
 frets 
 Our spirits' wings: despondency besets 
 Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow morn 
 Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 
 Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 
 Long have I said, how happy he who 
 
 shrives 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 95 
 
 To thee ! But then I thought on poets 
 
 gone, 
 And could not pray : — nor can I now — so 
 
 on 
 I move to the end in lowliness of heart. — 
 
 ' Ah, woe is me ! that I should fondly 
 part 30 
 
 From my dear native laud ! Ah, foolish 
 maid ! 
 
 Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myri- 
 ads bade 
 
 Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields ! 
 
 To one so friendless the clear freshet 
 yields 
 
 A bitter coolness ; the ripe grape is sour : 
 
 Yet I would have, great gods ! but one 
 short hour 
 
 Of native air — let me but die at home.' 
 
 Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
 Was offering up a hecatomb of vows, 
 When these words reach'd him. Where- 
 upon he bows 40 
 His head through thorny-green entangle- 
 ment 
 Of underwood, and to the sound is bent. 
 Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 
 
 ' Is no one near to help me ? No fair 
 
 dawn 
 Of life from charitable voice ? No sweet 
 
 saying 
 To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing ? 
 No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so 
 
 sweet 
 That 1 may worship them ? No eyelids 
 
 meet 
 To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 
 Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 50 
 Redemption sparkles ! — I am sad and 
 
 lost.' 
 
 Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been 
 
 tost 
 Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air. 
 Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only 
 
 bear 
 
 A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
 See not her charms ! Is Phoebe passion- 
 less ? 
 Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
 Yet if thou wilt behold all beauty's store. 
 Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
 Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 60 
 For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
 Amongst them ? Feelest not a kindred 
 
 pain, 
 To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
 After some warm delight, that seems to 
 
 perch 
 Dovelike in the dim cell lying beyond 
 Their upper lids ? — Hist ! 
 
 ' O for Hermes' wand, 
 To touch this flower into human shape ! 
 That woodland Hyacinthus could escape 
 From his green prison, and here kneeling 
 
 down 
 Call me his queen, his second life's fair 
 
 crown ! 70 
 
 Ah me, how I could love ! — My soul doth 
 
 melt 
 For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have 
 
 felt 
 So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
 To what my own full thoughts had made 
 
 too tender, 
 That but for tears my life had fled away ! 
 Ye deaf and senseless minutes of the day. 
 And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true. 
 There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
 But in the eye of love : there 's not a sound, 
 Melodious howsoever, can confound 80 
 
 The heavens and earth in one to such a 
 
 death 
 As doth the voice of love : there 's not a 
 
 breath 
 Will mingle kindly with the meadow air, 
 Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
 Of passion from the heart ! ' — i, 
 
 Upon a bough 
 He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
 Thirst for another love : O impious. 
 That he can even dream upon it thus ! — 
 
96 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Thought he, ' Why am I not as are the 
 
 dead, 
 Since to a woe like this I have been led 90 
 Through the dark earth, and through the 
 
 wondrous sea ? 
 Goddess ! I love thee not the less: from 
 
 thee 
 By Juno's smile I turn not — no, no, no — 
 While the great waters are at ebb and 
 
 flow. — 
 I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 
 For both, for both my love is so immense, 
 I feel my heart is cut for them in twain.' 
 
 And so he groan'd, as one by beauty 
 
 slain. 
 The lady's heart beat quick, and he could 
 
 see 
 Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 100 
 He sprang from his green covert: there 
 
 she lay, 
 Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay; 
 With all her limbs on tremble, and her 
 
 eyes 
 Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries: 
 ' Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive that I 
 Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 
 
 pardon me, for I am full of grief — 
 Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest 
 
 thief ! 
 Who stolen hast away the wings where- 
 with 
 
 1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
 Thou art my executioner, and I feel m 
 Loving and hatred, misery and weal. 
 Will in a few short hours be nothing to me, 
 And all my story that much passion slew 
 
 me; 
 Do smile upon the evening of my days; 
 And, for my tortured brain begins to craze, 
 Be thou my nurse; and let me understand 
 How dying I shall kiss that lily hand. — 
 Dost weep for me ? Then should I be con- 
 tent. 
 Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 120 
 Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd 
 
 earth 
 Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-girth 
 
 Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 
 To meet oblivion.' — As her heart would 
 
 burst 
 The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then re- 
 plied: 
 ' Why must such desolation betide 
 As that thou speakest of ? Are not these 
 
 green nooks 
 Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
 Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder 
 
 thrush, 
 Schooling its half-fledged little ones to 
 
 brush 130 
 
 About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 
 Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold 
 
 snails 
 Will slime the rose to-night. Though if 
 
 thou wilt, 
 Methinks 't would be a guilt — a very 
 
 guilt — M 
 
 Not to companion thee, and sigh away ■ 
 
 The light — the dusk — the dark — till 
 
 break of day ! ' 
 ' Dear lady,' said Endymion, ' 'tis past: 
 I love thee ! and my days can never last. 
 That I may pass in patience still speak: 
 Let me have music dying, and I seek 140 
 No more delight — I bid adieu to all. 
 Didst thou not after other climates call, 
 And murmur about Indian streams ? ' ^ 
 
 Then she. 
 Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, 
 For pity sang this roundelay 
 
 ' O Sorrow, 
 Why dost borrow 
 The natural hue of health, from vermeil 
 lips ? — 
 To give maiden blushes 
 To the white rose bushes ? 150 
 
 Or is 't thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 * O Sorrow, 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — 
 
 To give the glowworm light ? 
 
 Or, on a moonless night, 
 To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 97 
 
 **0 Sorrow, 
 Why dost borrow 
 The mellow ditties from a mourning 
 tongue ? — i6o 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 Unto the nightingale, 
 That thou mayst listen the cold dews 
 among ? 
 
 ' O Sorrow, 
 Why dost borrow 
 Heart's lightness from the merriment of 
 May ? — 
 A lover would not tread 
 A cowslip on the head, 
 Though he should dance from eve till peep 
 of day — 
 Nor any drooping flower 170 
 
 Held sacred for thy bower, 
 Wherever he may sport himself and play. 
 
 ' To Sorrow, 
 
 I bade good morrow, 
 And thought to leave her far away behind; 
 
 But cheerly, cheerly. 
 
 She loves me dearly; 
 She is so constant to me, and so kind: 
 
 I would deceive her, 
 
 And so leave her, 180 
 
 But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 
 
 ' Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
 I sat a- 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 enaraour'd bride. 
 Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 
 But hides and shrouds 191 
 
 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 — 
 'T was Bacchus and his crew ! 
 
 The earnest trumpet spake, and silver 
 
 thrills 
 From kissing cymbals made a merry din — 
 
 'T was Bacchus and his kin ! 
 Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
 Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all 
 
 on flame; 201 
 
 All 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 ! 
 
 ' Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
 Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 210 
 
 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, 220 
 
 Your lutes, and gentler fate ? — 
 " We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 
 
 A conquering ! 
 Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill be- 
 tide, 
 We dance before him thorough kingdoms 
 
 wide : — 
 Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
 To our wild minstrelsy ! " 
 
 * Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence 
 
 came ye, 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 Why have ye left your forest haunts, why 
 
 left 230 
 
 Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
 
98 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 " For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
 For wine we left our heath, and yellow 
 
 brooms. 
 And cold mushrooms; 
 For wine we follow Bacchus through the 
 
 earth; 
 Great god of breathless cups and chirping 
 
 mirth ! — 
 Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
 To our mad minstrelsy ! " 
 
 ' Over wide streams and mountains great 
 
 we went, 
 And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
 Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 241 
 
 With Asian elephants: 
 Onward these myriads — with song and 
 
 dance. 
 With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' 
 
 prance, 
 Web-footed alligators, crocodiles, 
 Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
 Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
 Of seamen, and stout galley- rowers' toil : 
 With toying oars and silken sails they glide. 
 Nor care for wind and tide. 250 
 
 'Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' 
 
 manes. 
 From rear to van they scour about the 
 
 plains ; 
 A three days' journey in a moment done: 
 And always, at tlie rising of the sun. 
 About the wilds they hunt with spear and 
 
 horn. 
 On spleenful unicorn. 
 
 ' I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 
 
 Before the vine-wreath crown ! 
 
 I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 
 
 To the silver cymbals' ring ! 260 
 
 I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
 Old Tartary the fierce ! 
 
 The Kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres vail. 
 
 And from their treasures scatter pearled 
 hail; 
 
 Great Brahma from his mystic heaven 
 groans, 
 
 And all his priesthood moans; 
 Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning 
 
 pale. — 
 Into these regions came I following him, 
 Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
 To stray away into these forests drear 270 
 
 Alone, without a peer: 
 And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 
 
 • Young Stranger ! 
 
 I 've been a ranger 
 
 In search of pleasure throughout every 
 clime : 
 Alas, 't is not for me } 
 Bewitch'd I sure must be. 
 
 To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 
 
 • Come then. Sorrow ! 
 
 Sweetest Sorrow ! 280 
 
 Like an own babe I nurse thee on my 
 breast: 
 I thought to leave thee 
 And deceive thee. 
 But now of all the world I love thee best. 
 
 • There is not one, 
 No, no, not one 
 
 But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid; 
 
 Thou art her mother. 
 
 And her brother. 
 Her playmate, and her wooer in the 
 shade.' v 290 
 
 O what a sigh she gave in finishing. 
 And look, quite dead to every worldly 
 
 thing ! 
 Endymion could not speak, but gazed on 
 
 her: 
 And listened to the wind that now did stir 
 About the crisped oaks full drearily, 
 Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
 Remember'd from its velvet summer song. 
 At last he said: ' Poor lady, how thus long 
 Have I been able to endure that voice ? 299 
 Fair Melody ! kind Siren ! I 've no choice; 
 I must be thy sad servant evermore: 
 I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
 Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no ! 
 
 ! 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 99 
 
 Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be 
 
 so? 
 Say, beautifuUest, shall I never think ? 
 
 thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
 Of recollection ! make my watchful care 
 Close up its bloodshot eyes, nor see de- 
 spair ! 
 
 Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
 Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 310 
 
 1 'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 
 O let it blush so ever ! let it soothe 
 
 My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 
 
 With the tinge of love, panting in safe 
 alarm. — 
 
 This cannot be thy band, and yet it is; 
 
 And this is sure thine other softling — this 
 
 Thine own fair bosom, and I am so near ! 
 
 Wilt fall asleep ? O let me sip that tear ! 
 
 And whisper one sweet word that I may 
 know 
 
 This is this world — sweet dewy blossom ! ' 
 — Woe ! 320 
 
 Woe ! woe to that Endymion ! Where is 
 he'? — 
 
 Even these words went echoing dismally 
 
 Through the wide forest — a most fearful 
 tone, 
 
 Like one repenting in his latest moan; 
 
 And while it died away a shade pass'd by. 
 
 As of a thundercloud. When arrows fly 
 
 Through the thick branches, poor ring- 
 doves sleek forth 
 
 Their timid necks and tremble; so these 
 both 328 
 
 Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 
 
 Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 
 
 Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime 
 
 Beyond the tall tree tops; and in less time 
 
 Than shoots the slanted hail-storm, down 
 he dropt 
 
 Towards the ground; but rested not, nor 
 stopt 
 
 One moment from his home: only the 
 sward 
 
 He with his wand light touch'd, and hea- 
 venward 
 
 Swifter than sight was gone — even be- 
 fore 
 
 The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
 Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
 Above the crystal circlings white and 
 
 clear; 34° 
 
 And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise. 
 How they can dive in sight and unseen 
 
 rise — 
 So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet- 
 
 • black, 
 Each with large dark blue wings upon his 
 
 back. 
 The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 
 On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
 The other's fierceness. Through the air 
 
 they flew, 
 High as the eagles. Like two drops of 
 
 dew 
 Exhaled to Phoebus' lips, away they are 
 
 gone, 349 
 
 Far from the earth away — unseen, alone. 
 Among cool clouds and winds, but that the 
 
 free. 
 The buoyant life of song can floating be 
 Above tbeir heads, and follow them untired. 
 Muse of my native land, am I inspired ? 
 This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
 Wide pinions to keep here; nor do I dread 
 Or height, or depth, or width, or any 
 
 chance 
 Precipitous: I have beneath my glance 
 Those towering horses and their mournful 
 
 freight. 359 
 
 Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
 Fearless for power of thought, without 
 
 thine aid ? — 
 There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
 From some approaching wonder, and be- 
 hold 
 Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils 
 
 bold 
 Snuff at its faint extreme, and seem to 
 
 tire. 
 Dying to embers from their native fire ! 
 
 There curl'd a purple mist around them ; 
 soon. 
 It seem'd as when around the pale new 
 moon 
 
ENDYMION 
 
 Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping 
 willow: 
 
 'T was Sleep slow journeying with head on 
 pillow 37° 
 
 For the first time, since he came nigh dead- 
 born 
 
 From the old womb of night, his cave for- 
 lorn 
 
 Had he left more forlorn; for the first 
 time, 
 
 He felt aloof the day and morning's 
 prime — 
 
 Because into his depth Cimmerian 
 
 There came a dream, showing how a young 
 man, 
 
 Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery 
 skin, 
 
 Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool 
 win 
 
 An immortality, and how espouse 
 
 Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his 
 house. 380 
 
 Now was he slumbering towards heaven's 
 gate. 
 
 That he might at the threshold one hour 
 wait 
 
 To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
 
 Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 
 
 His litter of smooth semilucent mist. 
 
 Diversely tinged with rose and amethyst, 
 
 Puzzled those eyes that for the centre 
 sought; 
 
 And scarcely for one moment could be 
 caught 
 
 His sluggish form reposing motionless. 
 
 Those two on winged steeds, with all the 
 stress 390 
 
 Of vision search'd for him, as one would 
 look 
 
 Athwart the sallows of a river nook 
 
 To catch a glance at silver-throated eels, — 
 
 Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog con- 
 ceals 
 
 His rugged forehead in a mantle pale. 
 
 With an eye-guess towards some pleasant 
 vale 
 
 Descry a favourite hamlet faint and far. 
 
 These raven horses, though they foster'd 
 
 are 
 Of earth's splenetic &ve, dully drop 
 Their fuU-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide, 
 
 and stop; 400 
 
 Upon the spiritless mist have they out- 
 spread 
 Their ample feathers, are in slumber 
 
 dead, — 
 And on those pinions, level in mid air, 
 Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
 Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
 Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile 
 The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! 
 
 he walks 
 On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks 
 To divine powers: from his hand full fain 
 Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly 
 
 grain : 4 10 
 
 He tries the nerve of Phcebus' golden bow. 
 And asketh where the golden apples grow: 
 Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield. 
 And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
 A Jovian thunderbolt: arch Hebe brings 
 A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
 And tantalizes long; at last he drinks. 
 And lost in pleasure, at her feet he sinks, 
 Touching with dazzled lips her starlight 
 
 hand. 
 He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 420 
 Are visible above: the Seasons four, — 
 Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden 
 
 store 
 In Autumn's sickle. Winter frosty hoar. 
 Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still 
 
 the blast. 
 In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
 To sway their floating morris. ' Whose is 
 
 this ? 
 Whose bugle ? ' he inquires: they smile — 
 
 ' O Dis ! 
 Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou not , 
 
 know I 
 
 Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'T is ' 
 
 Dian's: lo ! 429 
 
 She rises crescented ! ' He looks, 't is she, 
 His very goddess : good-bye earth, and sea, 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 And air, and pains, and care, and suffering; 
 Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he 
 
 spring 
 Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, 
 
 o'erhead. 
 Of those same fragrant exhalations bred, 
 Beheld awake his very dream : the gods 
 Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and 
 
 nods; 
 And Phoebe bends towards him crescented. 
 
 state perplexing ! On the pinion bed. 
 Too well awake, he feels the panting side 440 
 Of his delicious lady. He who died 
 
 For soaring too audacious in the sun, 
 When that same treacherous wax began to 
 
 rim, 
 Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
 His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 
 To that fair - shadow'd passion pulsed its 
 
 way — 
 Ah, what perplexity ! Ah, well a day ! 
 So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow. 
 He could not help but kiss her: then he 
 
 grew 
 Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 450 
 
 Yoimg Phoebe's, golden-hair'd ; and so 'gan 
 
 crave 
 Forgiveness : yet he turn'd once more to look 
 At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was 
 
 shook, — 
 She press'd his hand in slumber; so once 
 
 more 
 He could not help but kiss her and adore. 
 At this the shadow wept, melting away. 
 The Latmian started up : ' Bright goddess, 
 
 stay ! 
 Search my most hidden breast ! By truth's 
 
 own tongue, 
 
 1 have no dfedale heart; why is it wrung 459 
 To desperation ? Is there nought for me, 
 Upon the bourne of bliss, but misery ? ' 
 
 These words awoke the stranger of dark 
 
 tresses : 
 Her dawning love - look rapt Endymion 
 
 blesses 
 With 'haviour soft. Sleep yawn'd from 
 
 underneath. 
 
 ' Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more 
 
 breathe 
 This murky phantasm ! thou contented 
 
 seem'st 
 Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
 What horrors may discomfort thee and 
 
 me. 
 Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart- 
 treachery ! — 469 
 Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 
 Hath no revenge in it: as it is whole 
 In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! 
 Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
 Even when I feel as true as innocence ? 
 I do, I do. — What is this soul then ? 
 
 Whence 
 Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 
 Have no self-passion or identity. 
 Some fearful end must be: where, where 
 
 is it? 
 By Nemesis, I see my spirit flit 479 
 
 Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet : 
 Shall we away?' He roused the steeds; 
 
 they beat 
 Their wings chivalrous into the clear air, 
 Leaving old Sleep within his vapoury lair. 
 
 The good-night blush of eve was waning 
 
 slow, 
 And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
 In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
 Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
 Nor did speed hinder converse soft and 
 
 strange — 
 Eternal oaths and vows they interchange. 
 In such wise, in such temper, so aloof 490 
 Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof, " 
 So witless of their doom, that verily 
 'T is well nigh past man's search their hearts 
 
 to see; 
 Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved 
 
 or toy'd — 
 Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow 
 
 cloy'd. 
 
 Full facing their swift flight, from ebon 
 streak, 
 The moon put forth a little diamond peak, 
 
I02 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 No bigger than an unobserved star, 
 
 Or tiny point of fairy scimetar; 
 
 Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 500 
 
 Her silver sandals, ere delieiously 
 
 She bow'd into the heavens her timid head. 
 
 Slowly she rose, as though she would have 
 
 fled, 
 While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 
 To mark if her dark eyes had yet diseern'd 
 This beauty in its birth — Despair ! despair ! 
 He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 
 In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized 
 
 her wrist; 
 It melted from his grasp; her hand he 
 
 kiss'd, 
 And, horror ! kiss'd his own — he was 
 
 alone. 51° 
 
 Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then 
 Dropt hawk-wise to the earth. 
 
 There lies a den. 
 Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
 Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
 Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
 Dark regions are around it, where the 
 
 tombs 
 Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
 One hour doth linger weeping, for the 
 
 pierce 
 Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart: 
 And in these regions many a venom'd 
 
 dart 520 
 
 At random flies; they are the proper home 
 Of every ill: the man is yet to come 
 Who hath not journey'd in this native hell. 
 But few have ever felt how calm and well 
 Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
 There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure 
 
 pall; 
 Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
 Yet all is still within and desolate. 
 Beset with painful gusts, within ye hear 529 
 No sound so loud as when on curtain'd bier 
 The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
 Who strive therefore: on the sudden it is 
 
 won. 
 Just when the sufferer begins to burn. 
 Then it is free to him ; and from an urn, 
 
 Still fed by melting ice, he takes a 
 
 draught — 
 Young Semele such richness never quaff'd 
 In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
 Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the 
 
 bloom 
 Of health by due; where silence dreariest 
 Is most articulate ; where hopes infest ; 540 
 Where those eyes are the brightest far that 
 
 keep 
 Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
 O happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul ! 
 Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
 In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian ! 
 For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
 Hast thou felt so content: a grievous feud 
 Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
 Aye, his lull'd soul was there, although up- 
 borne 
 With dangerous speed: and so he did not 
 
 mourn 550 
 
 Because he knew not whither he was going. 
 So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
 Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
 Could rouse from that fine relish, that high 
 
 feast. 
 They stung the feather 'd horse; with fierce 
 
 alarm 
 He flapp'd towards the sound. Alas, no 
 
 charm 
 Could lift Endymion's head, or he had 
 
 view'd 
 A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
 And silvery was its passing: voices sweet 
 Warbling the while as if to lull and greet 
 The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled 
 
 they, 561 
 
 While past the vision went in bright array. 
 
 ' Who, who from Dian's feast would be 
 
 away ? 
 For all the golden bowers of the day 
 Are empty left ? Who, who away would 
 
 be 
 From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
 Not Hesperus: lo ! upon his silver wings 
 He leans away for highest heaven and sings, 
 Snapping his lucid fingers merrily ! — 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 103 
 
 Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ! 570 
 Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
 Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, 
 Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 
 
 Your baskets high 
 With fennel green, and balm, and golden 
 
 pines. 
 Savory, latter-mint, and columbines, 
 Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme; 
 Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
 All gather'd in the dewy morning: hie 
 
 Away ! fly, fly ! — 580 
 
 Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
 Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
 Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feath- 
 
 er'd wings, 
 Two fanlike fountains, — thine illumiuings 
 
 For Dian play: 
 Dissolve the frozen purity of air; 
 Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare 
 Show cold through watery pinions; make 
 
 more bright 
 The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage 
 
 night: 
 
 Haste, haste away ! — 590 
 
 Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
 And of the Bear has Pollux mastery: 
 A third is in the race ! who is the third. 
 Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 
 
 The ramping Centaur ! 
 The Lion's mane 's on end: the Bear how 
 
 fierce ! 
 The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
 Some enemy: far forth his bow is bent 
 Into the blue of heaven. He '11 be shent. 
 
 Pale unrelentor, 600 
 
 When he shall hear the wedding lutes 
 
 a-playing. — 
 Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
 So timidly among the stars: come hither ! 
 Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow 
 
 whither 
 
 They all are going. 
 Danae's Son, before Jove newly bow'd. 
 Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
 Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthrall: 
 Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 
 
 Thy tears are flowing. — 610 
 
 By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! ' — 
 
 More 
 Endymion heard not: down his steed him 
 
 bore. 
 Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 
 
 His first touch of the earth went nigh to 
 
 kill. 
 ' Alas ! ' said he, ' were I but always borne 
 Through dangerous winds, had but my 
 
 footsteps worn 
 A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
 Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
 For my own sullen conquering: to him 
 Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief 
 
 is dim, 620 
 
 Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see 
 The grass; I feel the solid ground — Ah, 
 
 me ! 
 It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — 
 
 who ? who 
 Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
 Behold upon this happy earth we are; 
 Let us ay love each other; let us fare 
 On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
 Among the abodes of mortals here below. 
 Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny ! 
 Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly, 630 
 But with thy beauty will I deaden it. 
 Where didst thou melt to ? By thee will 
 
 I sit 
 For ever: let our fate stop here — a kid 
 I on this spot will offer: Pan will bid 
 Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
 His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
 To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 
 Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have 
 
 been 
 Presumptuous against love, against the 
 
 sky. 
 Against all elements, against the tie 640 
 Of mortals each to each, against the blooms 
 Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tombs 
 Of heroes gone ! Against his proper glory 
 Has my own soul conspired: so my story 
 Will I to children utter, and repent. 
 There never lived a mortal man, who bent 
 His appetite beyond his natural sphere. 
 But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, 
 
 here, 
 
I04 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 
 My life from too thin breathing: gone and 
 
 past 650 
 
 Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, 
 
 farewell ! 
 And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 
 Of visionary seas ! No, never more 
 Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 
 Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 
 Adieu, my daintiest Dream ! although so 
 
 vast 
 My love is still for thee. The hour may 
 
 come 
 When we shall meet in pure elysium. 
 On earth I may not love thee; and there- 
 fore 
 Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 660 
 All through the teeming year : so thou wilt 
 
 shine 
 On me, and on this damsel fair of mine, 
 And bless our simple lives. My Indian 
 
 bliss ! 
 My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 
 One sigh of real breath — one gentle 
 
 squeeze. 
 Warm as a dove's nest among summer 
 
 trees. 
 And warm with dew at ooze from living 
 
 blood ! 
 Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that ! — 
 
 all good 
 We '11 talk about — no more of dreaming. 
 
 — Now, 
 Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the 
 
 brow 670 
 
 Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 
 Would hide us up, although spring leaves 
 
 were none; 
 And where dark yew trees, as we rustle 
 
 through 
 Will drop their scarlet berry cups of dew ? 
 O thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ; 
 Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to 
 
 grace 
 Those gentle limbs on mossy bed reclined: 
 For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou 
 
 find. 
 And by another, in deep dell below. 
 
 See, through the trees, a little river go 680 
 All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 
 Honey from out the gnarled hive I '11 bring. 
 And apples, wan with sweetness, gather 
 
 thee, — 
 Cresses that grow where no man may them 
 
 see. 
 And sorrel untorn by the dew-claw'd stag: 
 Pipes will I fashion of the syrinx flag. 
 That thou mayst always know whither I 
 
 roam. 
 When it shall please thee in our quiet 
 
 home 
 To listen and think of love. Still let me 
 
 speak; 
 Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 690 
 For yet the past doth prison me. The 
 
 rill, 
 Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fill 
 With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn. 
 And thou shalt feed them from the squir- 
 rel's barn. 
 Its bottom will I strew with amber shells, 
 And pebbles blue from deep enchanted 
 
 wells. 
 Its sides I '11 plant with dew-sweet eglan- 
 tine. 
 And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 
 I will entice this crystal rill to trace 
 Love's silver name upon the meadow's 
 face. 700 
 
 I '11 kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 
 And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 
 To Empress Dian, for a hunting-spear; 
 To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear. 
 That I may see thy beauty through the 
 
 night; 
 To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 
 Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, 
 And they shall bring thee taper fishing- 
 rods 
 Of gold, and lines of Naiads' long bright 
 
 tress. 
 Heaven shield thee for thine utter loveli- 
 ness ! 710 
 Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 
 'Fore which I '11 bend, bending, dear love, 
 to thee: 
 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 105 
 
 Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall 
 speak 
 
 Laws to my footsteps, colour to my cheek, 
 
 Trembling or steadfastness to this same 
 voice, 
 
 And of three sweetest pleasurings the 
 choice: 
 
 And that affectionate light, those diamond 
 things, 
 
 Those eyes, those passions, those supreme 
 pearl springs, 
 
 Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to plea- 
 sure. 
 
 Say, is not bliss within our perfect seiz- 
 ure ? 720 
 
 that I could not doubt ! ' 
 
 The mountaineer 
 Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to 
 
 clear 
 His brier'd path to some tranquillity. 
 It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye, 
 And yet the tears she wept were tears of 
 
 sorrow; 
 Answering thus, just as the golden mor- 
 row 
 Beam'd upward from the valleys of the 
 
 east: 
 ' O that the flutter of his heart had ceased. 
 Or the sweet name of love had pass'd 
 
 away. 
 Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift de- 
 cay 730 
 Wilt thou devote this body to the earth: 
 And I do think that at my very birth 
 
 1 lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly; 
 
 For at the first, first dawn and thought of 
 
 thee. 
 With uplift hands I blest the stars of hea- 
 ven. 
 Art thou not cruel ? Ever have I striven 
 To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
 When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
 Favour from thee, and so I gave and gave 
 To the void air, bidding them find out 
 love: 740 
 
 But when I came to feel how far above 
 All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood. 
 
 All earthly pleasure, all imagined good. 
 Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, — 
 Even then, that moment, at the thought of 
 
 this, 
 Fainting I fell into a bed of flowers, 
 And languish'd there three days. Ye 
 
 milder powers. 
 Am I not cruelly wrong'd ? Believe, be- 
 lieve 
 Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
 With my own fancies garlands of sweet 
 life, 750 
 
 Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter 
 
 strife ! 
 I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — ■ 
 Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chid- 
 den. 
 By things I tremble at, and gorgon wrath. 
 Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went: 
 
 henceforth 
 Ask me no more ! I may not utter it. 
 Nor may I be thy love. We might com- 
 mit 
 Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might 
 
 die; 
 We might embrace and die: voluptuous 
 
 thought ! 
 Enlarge not to my hunger, or I 'm caught 
 In trammels of perverse deliciousness. 761 
 No, no, that shall not be: thee will I bless, 
 And bid a long adieu.' 
 
 The Carian 
 No word return'd: both lovelorn, silent, 
 
 wan. 
 Into the valleys green together went. 
 Far wandering, they were perforce con- 
 tent 
 To sit beneath a fair lone beechen tree; 
 Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
 Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 
 
 Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 770 
 Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
 Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
 Truth the best music in a first-born song. 
 Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere 
 long, 
 
io6 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 And thou shalt aid — hast thou not aided 
 
 me? 
 Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 
 Has been thy meed for many thousand 
 
 years ; 
 Yet often have I, on the brink of tears, 
 Mourn 'd as if yet thou wert a forester; — 
 Forgetting the old tale. 
 
 He did not stir 
 His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small 
 
 pulse 781 
 
 Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
 Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
 Through the old garden-ground of boyish 
 
 days. 
 A little onward ran the very stream 
 By which he took his first soft poppy 
 
 dream ; 
 And on the very bark 'gainst which he 
 
 leant 
 A crescent he had carved, and round it 
 
 spent 
 His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
 Had swollen and green'd the pious charac- 
 
 tery, 790 
 
 But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a 
 
 slope 
 Up which he had not fear'd the antelope; 
 And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
 He had not with his tamed leopards play'd; 
 Nor could an arrow light, or javelin. 
 Fly in the air where his had never been — 
 And yet he knew it not. 
 
 O treachery ! 
 Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
 With all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
 But who so stares on him ? His sister 
 sure ! 800 
 
 Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure — 
 Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
 His lady smiles; delight is in her face; 
 It is no treachery. 
 
 ' Dear brother mine ! 
 Endymion, weep not so ! Why shouldst 
 thou pine 
 
 When all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 
 Thank the great gods, and look not bit- 
 terly; 
 And speak not one pale word, and sigh no 
 
 more. 
 Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
 Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. Sio 
 Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain, 
 Come hand in hand with one so beauti- 
 ful. 
 Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
 The flowers of autumn for j'our coronals. 
 Pan's holy priest for ybimg Endymion calls; 
 And when he is restored, thou, fairest 
 
 dame, 
 Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
 To see ye thus, — not very, very sad ? 
 Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad: 
 O feel as if it were a common day; 820 
 
 Free-voiced as one who never was away. 
 No tongue shall ask, Whence come ye ? but 
 
 ye shall 
 Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
 Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
 Into the hours that have pass'd us by, 
 Since in my arbour I did sing to thee. 
 O Hermes ! on this very night will be 
 A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; 
 For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 
 Good visions in the air, — whence will be- 
 fall, 830 
 As say these sages, health perpetual 
 To shepherds and their flocks ; and further- 
 more, 
 In Dian's face they read the gentle lore: 
 Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 
 Our friends will all be there from nigh and 
 
 far. 
 Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 
 And many, even now, their foreheads shade 
 With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 
 New singing for our maids shalt thou devise, 
 And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's 
 brows. 840 
 
 Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 
 This wayward brother to his rightful joys! 
 His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst 
 poise 
 
 J 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 107 
 
 His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I 
 
 pray, 
 To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say 
 What ails thee ? ' He could bear no more, 
 
 and so 
 Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow, 
 And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said: 
 ' I would have thee my only friend, sweet 
 
 maid ! 
 My only visitor ! not ignorant though, 850 
 That those deceptions which for pleasure 
 
 go 
 'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may 
 
 be: 
 But there are higher ones I may not see. 
 If impiously an earthly realm I take. 
 Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 
 Night after night, and day by day, until 
 Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 
 Let it content thee, Sister, seeing me 
 More happy than betides mortality. 
 A hermit young, I '11 live in mossy cave, 860 
 Where thou alone shalt come to me, and 
 
 lave 
 Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 
 Through me the shepherd realm shall pro- 
 sper well; 
 For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 
 And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 
 With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone, 
 Peona, mayst return to me. I own 
 This may sound strangely: but when, dear- 
 est girl, 
 Thou seest it for my happiness, no pearl 
 Will trespass down those cheeks. Compan- 
 ion fair ! 870 
 Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 
 This sister's love with me ? ' Like one re- 
 
 sign'd 
 And bent by circumstance, and thereby 
 
 blind 
 In self-commitment, thus that meek un- 
 known : 
 * Aye, but a buzzing by my ears has flown. 
 Of jubilee to Dian: — truth I heard ! 
 Well then, I see there is no little bird, 
 Tender soever, but is Jove's own care. 
 Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware. 
 
 Behold I find it ! so exalted too ! 880 
 
 So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 
 There was a place untenanted in it; 
 In that same void white Chastity shall sit. 
 And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 
 With sanest lips I vow me to the number 
 Of Dian's sisterhood; and, kind lady. 
 With thy good help, this very night shall 
 
 see 
 My future days to her fane consecrate.' 
 
 As feels a dreamer what doth most cre- 
 ate 
 His own particular fright, so these three 
 
 felt: 890 
 
 Or like one who, in after ages, knelt 
 To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine 
 After a little sleep : or when in mine 
 Far uuder-gTouud, a sleeper meets his 
 
 friends 
 Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
 Towards common thoughts and things for 
 
 very fear; 
 Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
 By thinking it a thing of yes and no. 
 That housewives talk of. But the spirit- 
 blow 
 Was struck, and all were dreamers. At 
 
 the last goo 
 
 Endymion said: * Are not our fates all 
 
 cast ? 
 Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender 
 
 pair ! 
 Adieu ! ' Whereat those maidens, with 
 
 wild stare, 
 Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot 
 His eyes went after them, until they got 
 Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly 
 
 maw. 
 In one swift moment, would what then he 
 
 saw 
 Engulf for ever. ' Stay,' he cried, ' ah, 
 
 stay ! 
 Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to 
 
 say: 
 Sweet Indian, I would see thee once again. 
 It is a thing I dote on: so I 'd fain, 911 
 
 Peona, ye should hand in hand repair, 
 
To8 
 
 ENDYMION 
 
 Into those holy groves that silent are 
 Behind great Dian's temple. I '11 be yon, 
 At Vesper's earliest twinkle — they are 
 
 gone — 
 But once, once, once again — ' At this he 
 
 press'd 
 His hands against his face, and then did 
 
 rest 
 His head upon a mossy hillock green, 
 And so remain'd as he a corpse had been 
 All the long day; save when he scantly 
 
 lifted 920 
 
 His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 
 With the slow move of time, — sluggish 
 
 and weary 
 Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 
 Had reaeh'd the river's brim. Then up he 
 
 rose. 
 And, slowly as that very river flows, 
 Walk'd towards the temple grove with this 
 
 lament: 
 ' Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is 
 
 sent 
 Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 
 Before the serene father of them all 
 Bows down his summer head below the 
 
 west. 930 
 
 Now am I of breath, speech, and speed 
 
 possest. 
 But at the setting I must bid adieu 
 To her for the last time. Night will-strew 
 On the damp grass myriads of lingering 
 
 leaves. 
 And with them shall I die; nor much it 
 
 grieves 
 To die, when summer dies on the cold 
 
 sward. 
 Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 
 Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly po- 
 sies. 
 Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbour- 
 roses; 939 
 My kingdom 's at its death, and just it is 
 That I should die with it: so in all this 
 We miscall grief, bale, sorrow, heart-break, 
 
 woe. 
 What is there to plain of ? By Titan's foe 
 I am but rightly served.' So saying, he 
 
 Tripp'd lightly on, in sort of death ful glee; 
 Laughing at the clear stream and setting 
 
 sun. 
 As though they jests had been: nor had he 
 
 done 
 His laugh at nature's holy countenance, 
 Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance. 
 And then his tongue with sober seemlihed 
 Gave utterance as he enter'd: *Ha!' I 
 
 said, 95 1 
 
 • King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom. 
 And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 
 This dusk religion, pomp of solitude. 
 And the Promethean clay by thief endued, 
 By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 
 Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 
 Myself to things of light from infancy; 
 And thus to be cast oixt, thus lorn to die, 
 Is sure enough to make a mortal man 960 
 Grow impious.' So he inwardly began 
 On things for which no wording can be 
 
 found; 
 Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 
 Beyond the reach of music: for the choir 
 Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough 
 
 brier 
 Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull 
 The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full. 
 Through the dark pillars of those 'Sylvan 
 
 aisles. 
 He saw not the two maidens, nor their 
 
 smiles. 
 Wan as primroses gather'd at midnight 970 
 By chilly-finger'd spring. ' Unhappy wight ! 
 Endymion ! ' said Peona, ' we are here ! 
 What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on 
 
 bier ? ' 
 Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 
 Press'd, saying: * Sister, I would have com- 
 mand. 
 If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate.' 
 At which that dark-eyed stranger stood 
 
 elate 
 And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love. 
 To Endymion's amaze: 'By Cupid's dove, 
 And so thou shalt ! and by the lily truth 
 Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved 
 
 youth ! ' 981 
 
BOOK FOURTH 
 
 109 
 
 And as she spake, into her face there 
 
 came 
 Light, as reflected from a silver flame: 
 Her long black hair swell'd ampler, in dis- 
 
 •play 
 Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day 
 Dawn'd blue, and full of love. Aye, he 
 
 beheld 
 Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 
 Her lucid bow, continuing thus: "Drear, 
 
 drear 
 Has our delaying been; but foolish fear 
 Withheld me first; and then decrees of 
 
 late ; 990 
 
 And then 't was fit that from this mortal 
 
 state 
 
 Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd- 
 
 f or change 
 Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 
 These forests, and to thee they safe shall be 
 As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee 
 To meet us many a time.' Next Cynthia 
 
 bright 
 Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good 
 
 night: 
 Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 
 Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 999 
 She gave her fair hands to him, and behold, 
 Before three swiftest kisses he had told. 
 They vanish'd far away ! — Peona went 
 Home through the gloomy wood in won- 
 derment. 
 
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 The most pregnant year of Keats's genius 
 was that which dates roughly from the 
 spring of 1818 to the spring of 1819, as 
 one may readily see who scans the titles of 
 the poems included in this division. The 
 group here given, beginning with Isabella 
 
 ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF 
 BASIL 
 
 A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 
 
 Keats and Reynolds projected a volume of 
 metrical tales translated from or based on Boc- 
 caccio. Apparently, Keats began Isabella, 
 •which was to be one of his contributions, some 
 time before he went to Teignmouth, where he 
 finished Endymion. At any rate, from that 
 place April 27, 1818, he wrote to Reynolds, 
 who was then quite ill : ' 1 have written for my 
 folio Shakespeare, in which there are the first 
 few stanzas of my Pot of Basil. I have the 
 rest here finished, and will copy the whole out 
 fairly shortly, and George wUl bring it you — 
 The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, 
 whether we publish or no : so there is content 
 in this world — mine is short — you must be 
 deliberate about yours ; you must not think of 
 it till many months after you are quite well : 
 then put your passion to it, and I shall be 
 boimd up with you in the shadows of Mind, as 
 we are in our matters of human life.' Keats 
 did not wait for Reynolds, but published his 
 Isabellam the volume entitled Lamia, Isabella, 
 The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems issued 
 in the summer of 1820. 
 
 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 
 
 Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
 They could not in the self-same mansion 
 dwell 
 Without some stir of heart, some mal- 
 ady; 
 
 and closing with Lamia, includes, besides 
 those poems and The Eve of St. A gnes, the 
 great Odes, Fancy, and some of the notable 
 Sonnets. The division, besides being a con- 
 venient one, seems almost logical and not 
 merely chronological. 
 
 They could not sit at meals but feel how 
 
 well 
 It soothed each to be the other by; 
 They could not, sure, beneath the same 
 
 roof sleep 
 But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 
 
 n 
 With every morn their love grew tenderer, 
 With every eve deeper and tenderer still;. 
 He might not in house, field, or garden 
 stir, 
 But her full shape would all his seeing 
 fill; 
 And his continual voice was pleasanter 
 
 To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; 
 Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, 
 She spoilt her half-done broidery with the 
 same. 
 
 He knew whose gentle hand was at the 
 latch, 
 Before the door had given her to his 
 eyes; 
 And from her chamber-window he would 
 catch 
 Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; 
 And constant as her vespers would he 
 watch. 
 Because her face was turn'd to the same 
 skies; 
 And with sick longing all the night out- 
 wear. 
 To hear her morning-step upon the stair. 
 
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 
 
 A whole long month of May in this sad 
 plight 
 Made their cheeks paler by the break of 
 June: 
 ' To-morrow will I bow to my delight, 
 
 To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.' — 
 ' O may I never see another night, 
 
 Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's 
 tune.' — 
 So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, 
 Moneyless days and days did he let pass ; 
 
 Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
 
 Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 
 Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth 
 seek 
 By every lull to cool her infant's pain: 
 * How ill she is ! ' said he, ' I may not 
 speak. 
 And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: 
 If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her 
 
 tears. 
 
 And at the least 't will startle off her 
 cares.' 
 
 So said he one fair morning, and all day 
 1 His heart beat awfully against his side; 
 And to his heart he inwardly did pray 
 
 For power to speak; but still the ruddy 
 tide 
 Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away — 
 
 Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 
 Yet brought him to the meekness of a 
 
 child: 
 Alas! when passion is both meek and wild ! 
 
 VII 
 
 So onc( more he had %Faked and anguished 
 A dreary night of love and misery, 
 
 If Isabel's quick eye liad not been wed 
 To every symbol oii his forehead high: 
 
 She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 
 And straight all 1 ash'd; so, lisped ten- 
 derly. 
 
 ' Lorenzo ! ' — here she ceased her timid 
 
 quest, 
 But in her tone and look he read the rest. 
 
 * O Isabella, I can half perceive 
 
 That I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 
 If thou didst ever any thing believe, 
 
 Believe how I love thee, believe how 
 near 
 My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve 
 
 Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would 
 not fear 
 Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live 
 Another night, and not my passion shrive. 
 
 ' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry 
 cold, 
 Lady ! thou leadest me to summer clime. 
 And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 
 In its ripe warmth this gracious morning 
 time.' 
 So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, 
 And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: 
 Great bliss was with them, and great hap- 
 piness 
 Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 
 
 Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air. 
 Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart 
 
 Only to meet again more close, and share 
 The inward fragrance of each other's 
 heart. 
 
 She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
 Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart; 
 
 He with light steps went up a western hill. 
 
 And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his 
 fill. 
 
 XI 
 
 AU close they met again, before the dusk 
 Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
 veil, 
 All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
 Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
 veil, 
 
112 THE POEMS 
 
 OF 1818-1819 
 
 Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, 
 
 
 Unknown of any, free from whispering 
 
 XV 
 
 tale. 
 
 For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 
 
 Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 
 
 And went all naked to the hungry shark; 
 
 Than idle ears should pleasure in their 
 
 For them his ears gush'd blood; for them 
 
 woe. 
 
 in death 
 
 
 The seal on the cold ice with piteous 
 
 XII 
 
 bark 
 
 Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot 
 
 Lay full of darts; for them alone did 
 
 be — 
 
 seethe 
 
 Too many tears for lovers have been 
 
 A thousand men in troubles wide and 
 
 shed, 
 
 dark: 
 
 Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
 
 Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel. 
 
 Too much of pity after they are dead, 
 
 That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and 
 
 Too many doleful stories do we see. 
 
 peel. 
 
 Whose matter in bright gold were best 
 
 
 be read; 
 
 XVI 
 
 Except in such a page where Theseus' 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because their 
 
 spouse 
 
 marble founts 
 
 Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 
 
 Gush'd with more pride than do a 
 
 
 wretch's tears ? — 
 
 XIII 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because fair 
 
 But, for the general award of love, 
 
 orange-mounts 
 
 The little sweet doth kill much bitter- 
 
 Were of more soft ascent than lazar 
 
 ness; 
 
 stairs ? — 
 
 Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 
 
 Why were they proud ? Because red- 
 
 And Isabella's was a great distress, 
 
 lined accounts 
 
 Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian 
 
 Were richer than the songs of Grecian 
 
 clove 
 
 years ? — 
 
 Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the 
 
 Why were they proud ? again we ask 
 
 less — 
 
 aloud. 
 
 Even bees, the little almsmen of spring- 
 
 Why in the name of Glory were they 
 
 bowers. 
 
 proud ? 
 
 Know there is richest juice in poison- 
 
 
 flowers. 
 
 XVII 
 
 
 Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 
 
 XIV 
 
 In hungry pride and gainful cowardice. 
 
 With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt. 
 
 As two close Hebrews in that land inspired. 
 
 Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 
 
 Paled in and vineyarded from beggar- 
 
 And for them many a weary hand did swelt 
 
 spies; 
 
 In torched mines and noisy factories. 
 
 The hawks of ship-mast forests — the uu- 
 
 And many once proud-quiver'd loins did 
 
 tired 
 
 melt 
 
 And pannier'd mules for dufeats and old 
 
 In blood from stinging whip; — with 
 
 lies — 
 
 hollow eyes 
 
 Quick cat's-paws on the generous stiay- 
 
 Many all day in dazzling river stood. 
 
 away, — 
 
 To take the rich-ored drif tings of the flood. 
 
 Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 
 
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 
 
 How was it these same ledger-men could 
 
 spy 
 
 Fair Isabella in her downy nest ? 
 How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 
 A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's 
 pest 
 Into their vision covetous and sly ! 
 
 How could these money-bags see east 
 and west ? — 
 Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
 Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 
 
 O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 
 
 Of thee we now should ask forgiving 
 boon, 
 And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, 
 
 And of thy roses amorous of the moon, 
 And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 
 
 Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's 
 tune, 
 For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
 The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. 
 
 Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale 
 Shall move on soberly, as it is meet; 
 
 There is no other crime, no mad assail 
 To make old prose in modern rhyme 
 more sweet: 
 
 But it is done — succeed the verse or fail — 
 To honour thee, and thy gone spirit 
 greet; 
 
 To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, 
 
 An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 
 
 XXI 
 
 These brethren having found by many 
 signs 
 What love Lorenzo for their sister had. 
 And how she loved him too, each unconfines 
 His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh 
 mad 
 That he, the servant of their trade designs. 
 Should in their sister's love be blithe and 
 glad, 
 
 When 't was their plan to coax I 
 
 grees 
 To some high noble and his olive-t 
 
 XXII 
 
 And many a jealous conference had t 
 And many times they bit their lips a 
 
 Before they flx'd upon a surest way 
 To make the youngster for his cri 
 atone ; 
 
 And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
 Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone 
 
 For they resolved in some forest dim 
 
 To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
 Into the sunrise, o'er the balustrade 
 
 Of the garden-terrace, towards him they 
 bent 
 Their footing through the dews; and to 
 him said, 
 
 ' You seem there in the quiet of content, 
 Lorenzo, and we are most loth jto invade 
 
 Calm speculation; but if you are wise. 
 
 Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 ' To-day we purpose, aye, this hour we 
 mount 
 To spur three leagues towards the Apen- 
 nine; 
 Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun 
 count 
 His dewy rosary on the eglantine.' 
 Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
 Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' 
 whine ; 
 And went in haste, to get in readiness, 
 With belt, and spur, and bracing hunts- 
 man's dress. 
 
 And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
 Each third step did he pause, and lis- 
 ten'd oft 
 
 If he could hear his lady's matin-song, ~" 
 Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; 
 
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 s thus over his passion hung, 
 ard a laugh full musical aloft; 
 looking up, he saw her features 
 bright 
 through an in-door lattice, all delight. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 -ve, Isabel! ' said he, ' I was in pain 
 i-.est I should miss to bid thee a good 
 morrow: 
 Jh ! what if I should lose thee, when so 
 fain 
 I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
 Of a poor three hours' absence ? but we '11 
 gain 
 Out of the amorous dark what day doth 
 borrow. 
 Good bye ! I '11 soon be back.' — ' Good 
 
 bye ! ' said she : — 
 And as he went she chanted n^errily. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 So the two brothers and their murder'd 
 man 
 Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's 
 stream 
 Gurgles through straighten'd banks, and 
 still doth fan 
 Itself with dancing bulrush, and the 
 bream 
 Keeps head against thte freshets. Sick and 
 wan 
 The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 
 Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the 
 
 water 
 Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 
 There in that forest did his great love 
 cease ; 
 Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom 
 win, 
 It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
 As the break-covert bloodhounds of such 
 sin: 
 They dipp'd their swords in the water, 
 and did tease 
 
 Their horses homeward, with convulsed 
 
 spur. 
 Each richer by his being a murderer. 
 
 They told their sister how, with sudden 
 speed, 
 
 Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands. 
 Because of some great urgency and need 
 
 In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 
 Poor Girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed, 
 
 And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed! 
 bands ; 
 To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 
 And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 
 
 XXX 
 She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; 
 
 Sorely she wept until the night came on. 
 And then, instead of love, O misery ! 
 
 She brooded o'er the luxury alone: 
 His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 
 
 And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
 Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
 And on her couch low murmuring, 
 ' Where ? O where ? ' 
 
 But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 
 Its fiery vigil in her single breast; 
 
 She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 
 Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
 
 Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 
 Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 
 
 Came tragic; passion not to be subdued. 
 
 And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 
 
 In the mid days of autumn, on their eves 
 The breath of Winter comes from far 
 away, 
 
 And the sick west continually bereaves 
 Of some gold tinge, and plays a rounde- 
 lay 
 
 Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
 To make all bare before he dares to stray 
 
 From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 
 
 By gradual decay from beauty fell, 
 
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL 
 
 "5 
 
 
 To speak as when on earth it was awake. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 And Isabella on its music hung: 
 
 Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
 
 Languor there was in it, and tremulous 
 
 She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all 
 
 shake. 
 
 pale, 
 
 As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung; 
 
 Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 
 
 And through it moan'd a ghostly under- 
 
 Could keep him off so long ? They spake 
 
 song, 
 
 a tale 
 
 Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars 
 
 Time after time, to quiet her. Their 
 
 among. 
 
 crimes 
 
 
 Came on them, like a smoke from Hin- 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 nom's vale; 
 
 Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy 
 
 And every night in dreams they groan'd 
 
 bright 
 
 aloud, 
 
 With love, and kept all phantom fear 
 
 To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 
 
 aloof 
 
 
 From the poor girl by magic of their light. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 The while it did unthread the horrid 
 
 And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
 
 woof 
 
 But for a thing more deadly dark than 
 
 Of the late darken' d time, — the murder- 
 
 all; 
 
 ous spite 
 
 It came like a fierce potion, drunk by 
 
 Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine 
 
 chance, 
 
 roof 
 
 Which saves a sick man from the feath- 
 
 In the forest, — and the sodden turfed 
 
 er'd pall 
 
 dell. 
 
 For some few gasping moments; like a 
 
 Where, without any word, from stabs he 
 
 lance, 
 
 fell. 
 
 Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 
 
 
 With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and 
 
 Saying moreover, ' Isabel, my sweet ! 
 
 brain. 
 
 Red whortleberries droop above my 
 
 
 head. 
 
 XXXV 
 
 And a large flint-stone weighs upon my 
 
 It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
 
 feet; 
 
 The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 
 
 Around me beeches and high chestnuts 
 
 Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb 
 
 shed 
 
 Had marr'd his glossy hair which once 
 
 Their leaves and prickly uuts; a sheepfold 
 
 could shoot 
 
 bleat 
 
 Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
 
 Conies from beyond the river to my bed: 
 
 Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 
 
 Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 
 
 From his lorn voice, and past his loamed 
 
 And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 
 
 ears 
 Had made a miry channel for his tears. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 
 ' I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Upon the skirts of human nature dwell- 
 
 Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow 
 
 ing 
 
 spake ; 
 
 Alone: I chant alone the holy mass, 
 
 For there was striving, in its piteous 
 
 While little sounds of life are round me 
 
 tongue. 
 
 knelling. 
 
ii6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, 
 And many a chapel bell the hour is tell- 
 ing. 
 
 Paining me through: those sounds grow 
 strange to me, 
 
 And thou art distant in Humanity. 
 
 * I know what was, I feel full well what is, 
 
 And I should rage, if spirits could go 
 mad; 
 Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 
 That paleness warms my grave, as 
 though I had 
 A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
 To be my spouse: thy paleness makes 
 me glad; 
 Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 
 A greater love through all my essence 
 steal.' 
 
 XLI 
 
 The Spirit mourn'd ' Adieu ! ' — dissolved, 
 and left 
 The atom darkness in a slow turmoil; 
 As when of healthful midnight sleep be- 
 reft, 
 Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless 
 toil. 
 We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 
 And see the spangly gloom froth up and 
 boil: 
 It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
 And in the dawn she started up awake 
 
 XLII 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! ' said she, ' I knew not this hard 
 
 life, 
 I thought the worst was simple misery; 
 1 thought some Fate with pleasure or with 
 strife 
 Portion'd us — happy days, or else to 
 die; 
 But there is crime — a brother's bloody 
 knife ! 
 Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my in- 
 fancy : 
 I '11 visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 
 And greet thee morn and even in the skies.' 
 
 When the full morning came, she had de- 
 vised 
 How she might secret to the forest hie; 
 How she might find the clay, so dearly 
 prized, 
 And sing to it one latest lullaby; 
 How her short absence might be unsur- 
 mised. 
 While she the inmost of the dream would 
 try. 
 Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse. 
 And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 
 
 See, as they creep along the river side. 
 How she doth whisper to that aged 
 Dame, 
 And, after looking round the champaign 
 wide. 
 Shows her a knife. — ' What feverous 
 hectic flame 
 Burns in thee, child ? — what good can 
 thee betide. 
 That thou shouldst smile again ? ' — 
 The evening came, 
 And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed; 
 The flint was there, the berries at his head. 
 
 Who hath not loiter'd in a green church- 
 yard. 
 And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 
 Work through the clayey soil and gravel 
 hard, 
 To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral 
 stole ; 
 Pitying each form that hungry Death hath 
 marr'd. 
 And filling it once more with human soul ? 
 Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 
 When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 
 
 She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as 
 though 
 One glance did fully all its secrets tell; 
 
 Jl 
 
ISABELLA, \ >R THE POT OF BASIL 
 
 "7 
 
 Clearly she saw, as other eyes would i > 
 Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal \ 
 
 Upon the murderous spot she seem 
 grow. 
 Like to a native lily of the dell: 
 
 Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 
 
 To dig more fervently than misers can. 
 
 XLVII 
 
 Soon she tnrn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
 Her silk had play'd in purple phanta- 
 sies: 
 She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than 
 stone. 
 And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
 And freezes utterly unto the bone 
 
 Those dainties made to still an infant's 
 cries; 
 Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her 
 
 care. 
 But to throw back at times her veiling hair. 
 
 XLVIII 
 That old nurse stood beside her wonder- 
 ing, 
 Until her heart felt pity to the core 
 At sight of such a dismal labouring. 
 
 And so she kneeled, with her locks all 
 hoar, 
 And put her lean hands to the horrid 
 thing : 
 Three hours they labour'd at this travail 
 sore: 
 At last they felt the kernel of the grave. 
 And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 
 
 XLIX 
 
 Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circum- 
 stance ? 
 Why linger at the yawning tomb so 
 long ? 
 O for the gentleness of old Romance, 
 
 The simple plaining of a minstrel's song ! 
 Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 
 For here, in truth, it doth not well be- 
 long 
 To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale. 
 And taste the music of that vision pale. 
 
 ' iib duller steel than the Persian sword 
 iiiey cut away no formless monster's 
 head, 
 But one, whose gentleness did well accord 
 With death, as life. The ancient harps 
 have said, 
 Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
 
 If Love impersonate was ever dead, 
 Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 
 'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not 
 dethron'd. 
 
 In anxious secrecy they took it home, 
 
 And then the prize was all for Isabel: 
 She calm'd its wild hair with a golden 
 comb. 
 And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 
 Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared 
 loam 
 With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, 
 She drench'd away: and still she comb'd, 
 
 and kept 
 Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd and 
 wept. 
 
 Then in a silken scarf, — sweet with the 
 dews 
 Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
 And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 
 Through the cold serpent-pipe refresh- 
 fully,- 
 She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did 
 choose 
 A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, 
 And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
 Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. 
 
 And she forgot the stars, the moon, and 
 
 sun. 
 
 And she forgot the blue above the trees. 
 
 And she forgot the dells where waters 
 
 run. 
 
 And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 
 
THE POEKo OF i5io-i8i9 
 
 She had no knowledge when the day v/as 
 
 done, 
 And the new morn she saw not: but in 
 
 peace 
 Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 
 And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 
 
 LIV 
 And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 
 Whence thick, and green, and beautiful 
 it grew, 
 So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
 
 Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew 
 Nurture besides, and life, from human 
 fears. 
 From the fast mouldering head there 
 shut from view: 
 So that the jewel, safely casketed, 
 Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. 
 
 O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 
 
 O Music, Music, breathe despoudingly ! 
 O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 
 
 Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
 Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and 
 smile; 
 
 Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
 And make a pale light in your cypress 
 
 glooms. 
 Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 
 
 Lvr 
 
 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 
 
 Fi'om the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 
 
 Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go. 
 And touch the strings into a mystery; 
 
 Sound mournfully upon the winds and low ; 
 For simple Isabel is soon to be 
 
 Among the dead: She withers, like a palm 
 
 Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 
 
 O leave the palm to wither by itself; 
 
 Let not quick Winter chill its dying 
 hour ! — 
 It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. 
 
 Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
 
 F 
 
 dead eyes; and many a curious 
 
 Among her kindred, wonder'd that such 
 dower 
 Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
 By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 
 
 LVIII 
 
 And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd 
 much 
 Why she sat drooping by the Basil green. 
 And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch ; 
 Greatly they wonder'd what the thing 
 might mean: 
 They could not surely give belief, that such 
 A very nothing would have power to 
 wean 
 Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures 
 
 gay. 
 And even i-emembrance of her love's delay. 
 
 Therefore they watch'd a time when they 
 might sift 
 This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd 
 in vain; 
 For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 
 And seldom felt she any hunger-pain: 
 And when she left, she hurried back, as 
 swift 
 As bird on wing to breast its eggs again: 
 And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
 Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 
 
 LX 
 
 Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 
 
 And to examine it in secret place: 
 The thing was vile with green and livid 
 
 spot. 
 And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face: 
 The guerdon of their murder they had got. 
 And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
 Never to turn again. — Away they went, 
 With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 
 
 O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 
 O Music, Music, breathe despondiugly ! 
 
 I 
 
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA 
 
 119 
 
 O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 
 
 From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O 
 sigh ! 
 Spirits of grief, siug not your ' Well-a- 
 way ! ' 
 For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
 Will die a death too lone and incomplete, 
 Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 
 
 LXII 
 
 Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless 
 things. 
 Asking for her lost Basil amorously: 
 And with melodious chuckle in the strings 
 Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would 
 cry 
 After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 
 
 To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
 'Twas hid from her: 'For cruel 'tis,' said 
 
 she, 
 ' To steal my Basil-pot away from me.' 
 
 And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 
 Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
 
 No heart was there in Florence but did 
 mourn 
 In pity of her love, so overcast. 
 
 And a sad ditty of this story born 
 
 From mouth to mouth through all the 
 country pass'd : 
 
 Still is the burthen sung — * O cruelty. 
 
 To steal my Basil-pot away from me ! ' 
 
 TO HOMER 
 
 The date 1818 was affixed to this by Lord 
 Houghton in Life., Letters and Literary Be- 
 mains, where it was first published, and is found 
 also where it occurs in the Dilke manuscripts. 
 In a letter to Reynolds, dated April 27, 1818, 
 Keats writes eagerly of his desire to study 
 Greek. 
 
 Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 
 Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 
 
 As one who sits ashore and longs perchance 
 To visit dolphin-coral in deep seas. 
 
 So thou wast blind ! — but then the veil 
 was rent. 
 For Jove uncurtain'd Heaven to let thee 
 live. 
 And Neptune made for thee a spumy tent, 
 And Pan made sing for thee his forest- 
 hive; 
 Ay on the shores of darkness there is 
 light. 
 And precipices show untrodden green; 
 There is a budding morrow in midnight; 
 There is a triple sight in blindness 
 keen: 
 Such seeing hadst thou, as it once befell 
 To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, 
 and Hell. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO 
 MAIA 
 
 Copied in a letter to Reynolds, dated May .3, 
 1818, in which Keats says : ' With respect to 
 the affections and Poetry you must know by a 
 sjrmpathy my thoughts that way, and I dare 
 say these few lines will be but a ratification : I 
 wrote them on May day — and intend to finish 
 the ode all in good time ; ' a purpose appar- 
 ently never accomplished. 
 
 Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful 
 Maia! 
 May I sing to thee 
 As thou wast hymned on the shores of 
 Baiae ? 
 Or may I woo thee 
 In earlier Sicilian ? or thy smiles 
 Seek as they once were sought, in Grecian 
 
 isles. 
 By bards who died content on pleasant 
 sward. 
 Leaving great verse unto a little clan ? 
 O, give me their old vigour, and unheard 
 Save of the quiet Primrose, and the span 
 Of heaven and few ears. 
 Rounded by thee, my song should die away 
 
 Content as theirs, ^ 
 
 Rich in the simple worship of a day. 
 
THE POEMS OF 1818-18 
 
 I8-I8I9 
 
 SONG 
 
 First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, and there dated 1818. 
 
 Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 
 dear ! 
 All the house is asleep, but we know very 
 well 
 That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate 
 may hear, 
 Tho' you 've padded his night-cap — O 
 sweet Isabel ! 
 Tho' your feet are more light than a 
 
 Faery's feet, 
 Who dances on bubbles where brook- 
 lets meet, — 
 Hush, hush ! soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my 
 
 dear ! 
 For less than a nothing the jealous can 
 hear. 
 
 No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there 
 On the river, — all 's still, and the night's 
 sleepy eye 
 Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean 
 care, 
 Charm'd to death by the drone of the 
 humming May-fly; 
 And the Moon, whether prudish or 
 
 complaisant, 
 Has fled to her bower, well knowing I 
 want 
 No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, 
 But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd 
 with bloom. 
 
 Ill 
 Lift the latch ! ah gently ! ah tenderly — 
 sweet ! 
 We are dead if that latchet gives one 
 little clink ! 
 Well done — now those lips, and a flowery 
 seat — 
 The old man may sleep, and the planets 
 may wink; 
 
 The shut rose shall dream of our loves 
 
 and awake 
 Full-blown, and such warmth for the 
 morning take. 
 The stock-dove shall hatch her soft brace 
 
 and shall coo. 
 While I kiss to the melody, aching all 
 through. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN DURING A 
 TOUR IN SCOTLAND 
 
 Keats saw his brother George and wife set 
 sail from Liverpool at the end of June, 1818, 
 and then set forth with his friend Charles 
 Armitage Brown on a walking tour through 
 Wordsworth's country and into Scotland. The 
 verses included in this section were all sent in 
 letters, chiefly to his brother Tom. He did not 
 include any in the volume which he published 
 in 1820, and they first saw the light when Lord 
 Houghton included them in the Life, Letters 
 and Literary Remains. The more off-hand and 
 familiar verses written at this time are given in 
 the Appendix. 
 
 ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BUR^f's 
 
 Written at Dumfries on the evening of July 
 1, 1818. ' Burns's tomb,' writes Keats, ' is in 
 the Churchyard corner, not very much to my , 
 taste, though on a scale large enough to show . 
 they wanted to honour him. This Sonnet I have 
 written in a strange mood, half asleep. I know 
 not how it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, 
 all seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish.' 
 
 The Town, the churchyard, and the setting 
 sun, 
 The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills 
 
 all seem. 
 Though beautiful, cold — strange — as 
 in a dream, 
 I dreamed long ago, now new begun. 
 The short-lived, paly Summer is but won 1 
 From Winter's ague, for one hour's 1 
 
 gleam; 
 Though sapphire-warm, their Stars do 
 never beam: 
 
 
VERSES WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 121 
 
 All is cold Beauty; pain is never done: 
 For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, 
 The Real of Beauty, free from that dead 
 hue 
 Sickly imagination and sick pride 
 Cast wan upon it ! Burns ! with honour 
 due 
 I oft have honour'd thee. Great 
 shadow, hide 
 Thy face; I sin against thy native skies. 
 
 TO AILSA ROCK 
 
 The tourists crossed to Ireland for a short 
 trip, and after returning' to Scotland, made 
 their way into Ayrshire, entering' it a little 
 beyond Cairn. Their walk led them into 
 a long wooded glen. ' At the end,' writes 
 Keats, July 10, 1818, ' we had a gradual ascent 
 and got among the tops of the mountains 
 whence in a little time I descried in the Sea 
 Ailsa Rock, 940 feet high — it was 15 MUes 
 distant and seemed close upon us. The effect 
 of Ailsa with the peculiar perspective of the 
 Sea in connection with the ground we stood on, 
 and the misty rain then falling gave me a com- 
 plete Idea of a deluge. AUsa struck me very 
 suddenly — really I was a little alarmed.' 
 
 Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 
 Give answer from thy voice, the sea- 
 fowls' screams ! 
 When were thy shoulders mantled in 
 huge streams ? 
 When, from the sun, was thy broad fore- 
 head hid ? 
 How long is 't since the mighty power bid 
 Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom 
 
 dreams ? 
 Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, 
 Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid. 
 Thou answer'st not; for thou art dead 
 asleep; 
 Thy life is but two dead eternities — 
 The last in air, the former in the deep; 
 First with the whales, last with the eagle- 
 skies — 
 
 Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made 
 thee steep. 
 Another cannot wake thy giant size. 
 
 Ill 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE 
 BURNS WAS BORN 
 
 From Kingswell's, July 13, 1818, Keats 
 wrote of his experience in visiting Burns's 
 birthplace : ' The approach to it [Ayr] is ex- 
 tremely fine — quite outwent my expectations 
 
 — richly meadowed, wooded, heathed and riv- 
 uleted — with a grand Sea view terminated 
 by the black Mountains of the isle of Annan. 
 As soon as I saw them so nearby I said to my- 
 self, " How is it they did not beckon Burns 
 to some grand attempt at Epic ? " The bonny 
 Doon is the sweetest river I ever saw — over- 
 hung with fine trees as far as we could see 
 
 — We stood some time on the Brig across it, 
 over which Tam o' Shanter fled — we took a 
 pinch of snuff on the Keystone — then we 
 proceeded to the " auld Kirk Alloway." As 
 we were looking at it a Farmer pointed the 
 spots where Mungo's Mither hang'd hersel' 
 and " drunken Charlie brake 's neck's bane." 
 Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was born 
 in — there was a board to that effect by the 
 door side — it had the same effect as the same 
 sort of memorial at Stratford on Avon. We 
 drank some Toddy to Burns's memory with an 
 old Man who knew Burns — damn him and 
 damn his anecdotes — he was a great bore — 
 it was impossible for a Southron to understand 
 above 5 words in a hundred. — There was 
 something good in his description of Burns's 
 melancholy the last time he saw him. I was 
 determiried to write a sonnet in the Cottage — 
 I did — but it was so bad I cannot venture it 
 here.' He wrote in the same strain to Rey- 
 nolds, saying, ' I wrote a sonnet for the mere 
 sake of writing some lines under the Roof — 
 they are so bad I cannot transcribe them. . . . 
 I cannot write about scenery and ■visitings — 
 Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable 
 reality, but it is greater than remembrance. 
 . . . One song of Burns's is of more worth to 
 you than all I could think for a whole year in 
 his native country.' 
 
122 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 This mortal body of a thousand days 
 Now fills, O Burns, a space in thine own 
 room. 
 Where thou didst dream alone on budded 
 bays, 
 Happy and thoughtless of thy day of 
 doom ! 
 My pulse is warm with thine old Barley- 
 bree. 
 My head is light with pledging a great 
 soul. 
 My eyes are wandering, and I cannot see, 
 Fancy is dead and drunken at its goal; 
 Yet can I stamp my foot upon thy floor, 
 Yet can I ope thy window-sash to find 
 The meadow thou hast tramped o'er and 
 o'er, — 
 Yet can I think of thee till thought is 
 blind, — 
 Yet can I gulp a bumper to thy name, — 
 O smile among the shades, for this is fame ! 
 
 AT FINGAL'S cave 
 
 The verses which follow were first printed 
 in Life^ Letters and Literary Remains. They 
 occur in a letter to Tom Keats from Oban, 
 July 26, 1818, and were preceded by this de- 
 scription : ' I am puzzled how to give you an 
 Idea of StafPa. It can only be represented by 
 a first-rate drawing. One may compare the 
 surface of the Island to a roof — this roof is 
 supported by grand pillars of basalt standing 
 together as thick as honeycombs. The finest 
 thing ' Fingal's cave — it is entirely a hollow- 
 ing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose now the 
 Giants who rebelled against Jove had taken a 
 whole Mass of black Columns and bound them 
 together like bunches of matches — and then 
 with immense axes had made a cavern in the 
 body of these columns — Of course the roof 
 and floor must be composed of the broken ends 
 of the Columns — such is Fingal's cave, except 
 that the Sea has done the work of excavations, 
 and is continually dashing there — so that we 
 walk along the sides of the cave on the pillars 
 which are left as if for convenient stairs. The 
 
 roof is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the 
 length of some of the entire side-pillars is fifty 
 feet. About the island you might seat an 
 army of men each on a pillar. The length of 
 the Cave is 120 feet, and from its extremity 
 the view into the sea, through the large arch 
 at the entrance — the colour of the column is 
 a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple 
 therein. For solenmity and grandeur it far 
 surpasses the finest Cathedral. At the ex- 
 tremity of the Cave there is a small perfora- 
 tion into another Cave, at which the waters 
 meeting and buffeting each other there is some- 
 times produced a report as of a cannon heard as 
 far as lona, which must be 12 miles. As we 
 approached in the boat, there was such a fine 
 swell of the sea that the pillars appeared rising 
 immediately out of the crystal. But it is im- 
 possible to describe it.' 
 
 Not Aladdin magian 
 
 Ever such a work began; 
 
 Not the wizard of the Dee 
 
 Ever such a dream could see; 
 
 Not St. John, in Patmos' isle. 
 
 In the passion of his toil. 
 
 When he saw the churches seven. 
 
 Golden aisled, built up in heaven. 
 
 Gazed at such a rugged wonder. 
 
 As I stood its roofing under. 
 
 Lo ! I saw one sleeping there. 
 
 On the marble cold and bare; 
 
 While the surges wash'd his feet. 
 
 And his garments white did beat 
 
 Drench'd about the sombre rocks; 
 
 On his neck his well-grown locks, 
 
 Lifted dry above the main. 
 
 Were upon the curl again. 
 
 ' What is this ? and what art thou ? ' 
 
 Whisper'd I, and touch'd his brow; 
 
 ' What art thou ? and what is this ? ' 
 
 Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss 
 
 The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes; 
 
 Up he started in a trice: 
 
 ' I am Lycidas,' said he, 
 
 ' Famed in funeral minstrelsy ! 
 
 This was architectured thus 
 
 By the great Oceanus ! — 
 
 Here his mighty waters play 
 
TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL 123 
 
 Hollow organs all the day ; 
 
 Here, by turns, bis dolpbins all. 
 
 Finny palmers, great and small, 
 
 Come to pay devotion due, — 
 
 Eacb a mouth of pearls must strew ! 
 
 Many a mortal of these days 
 
 Dares to pass our sacred ways; 
 
 Dares to touch, audaciously, 
 
 This cathedral of the sea ! 
 
 I have been the pontiff-priest, 
 
 Where the waters never rest, 
 
 Where a fledgy sea-bird choir 
 
 Soars for ever ! Holy fire 
 
 I have hid from mortal man; 
 
 Proteus is my Sacristan ! 
 
 But the dulled eye of mortal 
 
 Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; 
 
 So for ever will I leave 
 
 Such a taint, and soon unweave 
 
 All the magic of the place.' 
 
 So saying, with a Spirit's glance 
 
 He dived ! 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE TOP OF BEN NEVIS 
 
 Enclosed in a letter to Tom Keats from 
 Letter Findlay, August 3, 1818. 
 
 Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud 
 
 Upon the top of Nevis, blind in mist ! 
 I look into the chasms, and a shroud 
 
 Vaporous doth hide them, — just so 
 much I wist 
 Mankind do know of hell ; I look o'erhead. 
 And there is sullen mist, — even so much 
 Mankind can tell of heaven; mist is spread 
 Before the earth, beneath me, — even 
 such. 
 Even so vague is man's sight of himself ! 
 Here are the craggy stones beneath my 
 feet, — 
 Thus much I know that, a poor witless elf, 
 I tread on them, — that all my eye doth 
 meet 
 I& mist and crag, not only on this height. 
 But in the world of thought and mental 
 might ! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM A SONNET 
 OF RONSARD 
 
 Published in Life, Letters and Literary Re- 
 mains in a letter to Reynolds, of which the 
 probable date is September 22, 1818 ; in a let- 
 ter to Charles Wentworth Dilke September 21, 
 1818, Keats quotes the last line with the re- 
 mark : ' You have passed your Romance, and 
 I never gave in to it, or else I think this line a 
 feast for one of your Lovers.' The text of 
 the sonnet will be found in the Appendix. 
 
 Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, 
 For more adornment, a full thousand 
 years ; 
 She took their cream of Beauty's fairest 
 dyes, 
 And shaped and tinted her above all 
 Peers: 
 Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his 
 wings, 
 And underneath their shadow fill'd her 
 eyes 
 With such a richness that the cloudy Kings 
 
 Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs. 
 When from the Heavens I saw her first 
 descend, 
 My heart took fire, and only burning 
 pains, 
 They were my pleasures — they my Life's 
 sad end; 
 Love pour'd her beauty into my warm 
 veins. 
 
 TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW 
 MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL 
 
 First published in Hood\s Magazine for April 
 1844, and afterward included in Life, Letters 
 and Literary Remains. No date is given, and 
 the poem is placed here from a fancied asso- 
 ciation with the lady whom Keats saw at Hast- 
 ings and who started the train of thought in 
 his letter to his brother and sister, October 25, 
 1818. 
 
124 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-18 
 
 ib-iaig 
 
 Time's sea hath been five years at its slow 
 ebb, 
 Long hours have to and fro let creep the 
 sand, 
 Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web. 
 And snared by the uugloving of thine 
 hand. 
 And yet I never look on midnight sky, 
 But I behold thine eyes' well-memoried 
 light; 
 I cannot look upon the rose's dye, 
 
 But to thy cheek my soul doth take its 
 flight ; 
 I cannot look on any budding flower, 
 
 But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips 
 And hearkening for a love-sound, doth de- 
 vour 
 Its sweets in the wrong sense : — Thovi 
 dost eclipse 
 Every delight with sweet remembering, 
 And grief unto my darling joys dost bring. 
 
 FANCY 
 
 Keats enclosed these lines, as lately written, 
 in a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, 
 January 2, 1819. He included the poem in the 
 1820 volume. Mr. John KJaowles Paine has 
 published a cantata for soprano solo, chorus, 
 and orchestra, entitled The Realm of Fancy, 
 using these lines for his book. 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam. 
 
 Pleasure never is at home: 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth. 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
 
 Then let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still spread beyond 
 
 her: 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
 She '11 dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 O sweet Fancy ! let her loose; 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use, lo 
 
 And the enjoj'ing of the Spring 
 Fades as does its blossoming; 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
 Blushing through the mist and dew, 
 Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 
 The sear faggot blazes bright, 
 
 Spirit of a winter's night; 
 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 20 
 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 
 Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
 
 With a mind self-overawed, 
 
 Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her ! 
 
 She has vassals to attend her: 
 
 She will bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost; 30 
 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 
 All delights of summer weather; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 
 
 With a still, mj'sterious stealth: 
 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup, 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear; 40 
 
 Rustle of the reaped corn; 
 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 
 And, in the same moment — hark ! 
 
 'T is the early April lark, 
 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 
 The daisy and the marigold; 
 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 50 
 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 
 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
 
 Meagre from its celled sleep; 
 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin; 
 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
 
 Hatcliing in the hawthorn- tree, 60 
 
 Wheji the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
 
 Quid on her mossy nest; 
 
SONG 
 
 ^25 
 
 Thi^ %he hurry and alarm 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering 
 While the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Every thing is spoilt by use; 
 Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid td 
 Whose lip mature is ever new ? / 
 
 Where 's the eye, however blue, 
 Doth not weary ? Where 's the face 
 One would meet in every place ? 
 Where 's the voice, however soft. 
 One would hear so very oft ? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
 Let, then, winged Fancy find 
 Thee a mistress to thy mind: 80 
 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter 
 E>e the God of Torment taught her 
 How to frown and how to chide; 
 With a waist and with a side 
 White as Hebe's, when her zone 
 Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
 While she held the goblet sweet, 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash; go 
 
 Quickly break her prison-string, 
 And such joys as these she 'U bring. — 
 Let the winged Fancy roam, 
 Pleasure never is at home. 
 
 ODE 
 
 Written on the blank page before Beaumont 
 and Fletcher's tragi-eomedy, The Fair Maid of 
 the Inn, and addressed thus to these bards in 
 particular. Sent in a letter to George and Geor- 
 giana Keats, January 2, 1819. It is included 
 in the 1820 volume. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Have ye souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new ? 
 Yes, and those of heaven commune 
 
 With the spheres of sun an' ii'->o"r 
 With the noise of fountains wond'rous 
 And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 And one another, in soft ease 1 
 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented. 
 And the rose herself has got 
 Perfume which on earth is not; 
 Where the nightingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
 But divine melodious truth; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth; : 
 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again; 
 And the souls ye left behind you 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
 Where your other souls are joying, 
 Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
 Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
 To mortals, of their little week; ; 
 
 Of their sorrows and delights; 
 Of their passions and their spites; 
 Of their glory and their shame ; 
 What doth strengthen and what maim. 
 Thus ye teach us, every day, 
 Wisdom, though fled far away. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Ye have souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regfions new ! < 
 
 SONG 
 
 ' There is just room, I see, in this page to 
 copy a little thing I wrote off to some Music 
 as it was playing.' Keats to George and 
 Georgiana Keats, January 2, 1819. 
 
 I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died; 
 And I have thought it died of grieving: 
 
12G 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Id it grieve for ? Its feet 
 led, 
 With a su-^en thread of my own hand's 
 weaving; 
 Sweet little red feet ! why should you 
 
 die — 
 Why should you leave me, sweet bird ! 
 
 why? 
 You lived alone in the forest-tree. 
 Why, pretty thing ! would you not live 
 
 with me ? 
 I kiss'd you oft and gave you white peas; 
 Why not live sweetly, as in the green 
 trees ? 
 
 ODE ON MELANCHOLY 
 
 Published in Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. 
 Agnes and other Poems, 1820. There is no 
 date affixed to it, but if it takes its color at 
 all from Keats's own experience, it might not 
 be amiss to refer it to the early part of 1819, 
 when he had come under the influence of his 
 passion for Fanny Brawne. In a letter to 
 Haydon, written between January 7 and 14, 
 1819, Keats says : ' I have been writing a little 
 now and then lately : but nothing to speak of 
 — being discontented and as it were moulting. 
 Yet I do not think I shall ever come to the 
 rope or the pistol. For after a day or two's 
 melancholy, although I smoke more and more 
 my own insufficiency — I see by little and lit- 
 tle more of what is to be done, and how it is 
 to be done, should I ever be able to do it.' 
 
 Lord Houghton, in the Aldine edition of 
 1876, makes the following prefatory note : 
 ' A singular instance of Keats's delicate per- 
 ception occurred in the composition of this 
 Ode. In the original manuscript he had in- 
 tended to represent the vulgar conception of 
 Melancholy with gloom and horror, in contrast 
 with the emotion that incites to — 
 
 " glut thy soiTow on a morning rose 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; '' 
 
 and which essentially 
 
 " lives in Beauty — Beauty that must die, 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu." 
 
 The first stanza, therefore, was the foil ng: 
 as grim a passage as Blake or Fuseli vuuld 
 have dreamed and painted : — 
 
 " Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones, 
 And rear a platform gibbet for a mast, 
 Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans 
 
 To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast ; 
 Although your rudder be a dragon's tail 
 Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony, 
 Tour cordage large uprootings from the skull 
 Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail 
 To find the Melancholy — whether she 
 Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull." 
 
 But no sooner was this written, than the poet 
 became conscious that the coarseness of the 
 contrast would destroy the general effect of 
 luxiuious tenderness which it was the object 
 of the poem to produce, and he confined the^ 
 gross notion of Melancholy to less violent im- 
 ages, and let the ode at once begin, — ' 
 
 No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist 
 Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisot:- 
 ous wine; 
 Nor suflPer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 
 
 By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; 
 Make not your rosary of yew-berries. 
 Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth 
 be 
 Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy 
 owl 
 A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
 For shade to shade will come too drows- 
 
 iiy, 
 
 And drown the wakeful anguish of the 
 soul. 
 
 But when the melancholy fit shall fall 
 Sudden from heaven like a weeping 
 cloud, 
 That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 
 And hides the green hill in an April 
 shroud ; 
 Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
 Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, 
 Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, 
 And feed deep, deep upon her peerless 
 eyes. 
 
THE EVE OF S' 
 
 ■S.A'NF:. 
 
 ES 
 
 127 
 
 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that 
 must die; 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his 
 lips 
 Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, 
 Turning to poison while the bee-mouth 
 sips: 
 Aye, in the very temple of Delight 
 
 Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 
 Though seen of none save him whose 
 strenuous tongue 
 Can burst Joy's grape against his palate 
 fine; 
 His soul shall taste the sadness of her 
 might, 
 And be among her cloudy trophies 
 hung. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 Begun early in 1819. In a letter to George 
 and Georgiana Keats, dated February 14, 1819, 
 Keats says : ' I was nearly a fortnight at Mr. 
 John Snook's and a few days at old Mr. Dilke's 
 (Chichester in Hampshire). Nothing worth 
 j speaking of happened at either place. I took 
 i down some t hin pap er and wrote on it a little 
 I poem called St. Agnes's Eve.' The poem 
 underwent a great deal of revision, and was not 
 in final form before September ; it was pub- 
 lished in the 1820 volume. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it 
 
 was ! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the 
 
 frozen grass. 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while 
 
 he told 
 His rosary, '^ ■ d whib his frosted breath. 
 Like pious ■ • ma censer old, 
 Seem'd ta' j - 1' "or heaven, without 
 
 a def , 
 Past the s :et Virgin - picture, while his 
 
 pra . er he saith. 
 
 Kis prayer he saith, this patient, holy 
 
 man; 
 Then takti his lamp, and riseth from his 
 
 knees, 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 
 
 wan. 
 Along the <?.hapel aisle by slow degrees : 
 The sculpturetl dead, on each side, seem 
 
 to frees-e, 
 Eroprison'd \n u ick, purgatorial rails: 
 Knights, ladies, j i aying in dumb orat'ries. 
 He passeth by; id his weak spirit fails 
 To think how the\ may ache in icy hoods 
 
 and mails. 
 
 Noi 
 
 neth through a little 
 
 '■>Dr, 
 
 And scarce th^ ^ steps, ere Music's 
 golden tongue 
 
 Flatter'd toi tears this aged man and 
 poor; j 
 
 But 1 ^ — all eady had his death-bell rung; 
 
 The .j.> 'i' all his life were said and 
 i.ing. 
 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' 
 Eve: 
 
 Anot'ier way he werit, and soon among 
 
 Rough a">hes sat lie for his soul's re- 
 prieve. 
 And all night kept -.v^ake, for sinners' sake 
 to grieve. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the pre- 
 lude soft; 
 
 And so it chanced, for many a door was 
 wide. 
 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 
 chide: 
 
 The level chambers, ready with their 
 pride. 
 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand 
 q^uests: 
 
 Tl rved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 
 \ 
 
128 
 
 THK POLMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Stared, where upon tb ir be.jc.s the <!or- 
 nice rests, 
 With hair blown back, and wii> fs put ci oss- 
 wise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the arge:it revelry, 
 With plume, tiara, and all ^.'ioh array. 
 Numerous as shadows haunting f airily 
 The brain, new-stuff 'd, iifi youtVi with 
 
 triumphs gay ' 
 
 Of old romance. Thest; let wish 
 
 away, 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one uady 
 
 there, j 
 
 Whose heart had brooded . all that ■; intry 
 
 day. 
 On love, and wing'd St Agues' luintly 
 
 care, 
 A.S she had heard old d»mes full jtnany 
 
 times declare. ' 
 
 They told her how, upon k>t. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might ba"e visijns of 
 
 delight, 
 And soft adorings from ieir loves re- 
 ceive 
 Upon the honey'd middle of the night. 
 If ceremonies due they did aright; 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
 I And couch supine their beauties, lily 
 ' white ; 
 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re- 
 quire 
 )f Heaven with upward eyes for all that 
 they desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful Made- 
 line: 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
 She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes 
 
 divine, 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
 
 train 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
 
 And back retired; not cool'd by high dis- 
 dain, 
 
 But she saw not: her heart was other- 
 where ; 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest 
 of the year. 
 
 VIII 
 
 She danced along with vague, regardless 
 
 eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and 
 
 short: 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she 
 
 sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd 
 
 resort 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 
 
 scorn, 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort. 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un- 
 shorn. 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
 
 morn. 
 
 IX 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire. 
 She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 
 
 moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart 
 
 on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
 Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, 
 
 and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all un- 
 seen; 
 Perchance speak, kneel touch, kiss — in 
 sooth such Jii; 'b iiave btjen. 
 
 He ventures in: ;< t no buzz'd whisper tell: 
 All eyes be mul'ied, or a hund'/ed swords ■ 
 Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rousj 
 
 citadel : 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian 
 
 hordes, 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 129 
 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 
 And as she mutter'd ' Well-a — well-a- 
 
 Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
 
 day!' 
 
 Against his lineage: not one breast af- 
 
 He found him in a little moonlight room, 
 
 fords 
 
 Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
 
 'Now tell me where is Madeline,' said 
 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and in 
 
 he. 
 
 soul. 
 
 * tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 
 XI 
 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature 
 
 see. 
 
 came. 
 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
 
 piously.' 
 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's 
 
 
 flame, 
 
 XIV 
 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 
 ' St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agues' Eve — 
 
 The sound of merriment and chorus 
 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days: 
 
 bland: 
 
 Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
 
 He startled her; but soon she knew his 
 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elve" avA 
 
 face. 
 
 Fays, 
 
 And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied 
 
 To venture so: it fills me with amaze 
 
 hand. 
 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — Sr, Agues' 
 
 Saying, ' Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee 
 
 Eve! 
 
 from this place; 
 
 God's help ! my lady fair the 
 
 They are all here to - night, the whole 
 
 plays 
 
 bloodthirsty race ! 
 
 This very night: good angels her de- 
 
 XII 
 
 CGIVG ! 
 
 But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time 
 
 Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarf- 
 
 to grieve.' 
 
 ish Hildebrand; 
 
 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 
 XV 
 
 He cursed thee and thine, both house and 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
 
 land : 
 
 While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
 
 Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 a whit 
 
 Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle- 
 
 More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me ! 
 
 book, 
 
 flit! 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
 
 Flit like a ghost away.' — * Ah, Gossip 
 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she 
 
 dear. 
 
 told 
 
 We 're safe enough ; here in this arm- 
 
 His lady's purpose; and he scarce conld 
 
 chair sit, 
 
 brook 
 
 And tell me how ' — ' Good Saints ! not 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
 
 here, not here; 
 
 ments cold. 
 
 Follow me, child, or else these stones will 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 be thy bier.' 
 
 
 
 XVI 
 
 XIII 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full-blown 
 
 He foUow'd through a lowly arched way. 
 
 rose, 
 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 
 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained 
 
 plume ; 
 
 heart 
 
130 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame 
 
 start: 
 ' A cruel man and impious thou art: 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 
 
 dream 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I 
 
 deem 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that thou 
 
 didst seem.' 
 
 XVII 
 ' I will not harm her, by all saints I 
 
 swear,' 
 Quoth Porphyro: ' O may I ne'er find 
 
 grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its 
 
 last prayer. 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 ■ >r ook with ruffian passion in her face: 
 (rood Angela, believe me by these tears; 
 
 I will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 
 
 ears. 
 And beard them, though they be more 
 
 fang'd than wolves and bears.' 
 
 XVIII 
 
 ' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
 
 soul? 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard 
 
 thing. 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight 
 
 toll; 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 
 
 evening. 
 Were never miss'd.' Thus plaining, doth 
 
 she bring 
 A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
 So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or 
 
 woe. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 
 hide 
 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 
 That he might see her beauty unespied, 
 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless 
 
 bride, 
 While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
 eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met. 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all the mon- 
 strous debt. 
 
 'It shall be as thou wishest,' said the 
 
 Dame: 
 • All cates and dainties shall be stored 
 
 there 
 Quickly on this feast-night: by the tam- 
 bour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to 
 
 spare. 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce 
 
 dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience; 
 
 kneel in prayer 
 The while: Ah! thou must needs the 
 
 lady wed. 
 Or may I never leave my grave among 
 
 the dead.' 
 
 So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
 The Dame return 'd, and whisper 'd in 
 
 his ear 
 To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd 
 
 and chaste; 
 Where Porphyro took covert, pleased 
 
 amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues in 
 
 her brain. 
 
 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
 
 I 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 131 
 
 When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace 
 
 maid, 
 
 and boon ; 
 
 Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: 
 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 
 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
 
 prest. 
 
 She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
 
 She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
 
 She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove 
 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew 
 
 fray'd and fled. 
 
 faint; 
 
 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 
 
 XXIIl 
 
 mortal taint. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
 
 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 
 
 XXVI 
 
 died: 
 
 Anon his heart revives: her vespers 
 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 
 done, 
 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 
 
 No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 
 frees; 
 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels on. by 
 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
 
 one; 
 
 As though a tongueless nightingale 
 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
 
 should swell 
 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 
 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in 
 
 knees: 
 
 her dell. 
 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
 
 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 
 
 XXIV 
 
 sees. 
 
 A casement high and triple arch'd there 
 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
 
 was. 
 
 But dares not look behind, or all the charm 
 
 All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
 
 is fled. 
 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 
 
 
 knot-grass. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint de- 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 
 
 vice. 
 
 nest. 
 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid 
 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 
 
 dyes, 
 
 lay. 
 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 
 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep op- 
 
 wings; 
 
 press'd 
 
 And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- 
 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 
 
 ries. 
 
 away; 
 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- 
 
 Flown, like a thought, until the morrow- 
 
 ings. 
 
 day; 
 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of 
 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and 
 
 queens and kings. 
 
 pain; 
 
 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart Pay- 
 
 XXV 
 
 nims pray; 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry 
 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from 
 
 moon, 
 
 rain, 
 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's 
 
 As though a rose should shut, and be a bud 
 
 fair breast. 
 
 again. 
 
132 THE POEMS 
 
 OF 1818-1819 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 XXXI 
 
 Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
 
 These delicates he heap'd with glowing 
 
 Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
 
 band 
 
 And listen'd to her breathing, if it 
 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 
 chanced 
 
 Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they 
 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
 
 stand 
 
 Which when he heard, that minute did 
 
 In the retired quiet of the night, 
 
 he bless, 
 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume 
 
 And breathed himself: then from the 
 
 light. — 
 
 closet crept, 
 
 * And now, my love, my seraph fair, 
 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
 
 awake ! 
 
 And over the hush'd carpet, silent, 
 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine ere- 
 
 stept, 
 
 mite: 
 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! 
 
 Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' 
 
 — how fast she slept. 
 
 sake. 
 
 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
 
 XXIX 
 
 doth ache.' 
 
 Then by the bed-side, where the faded 
 
 
 moon 
 
 XXXII 
 
 JMade a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved 
 
 j*i table, and, half anguish'd, threw 
 
 arm 
 
 thereon 
 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
 
 dream 
 
 jet: — 
 
 By the dusk curtains: — 't was a mid- 
 
 for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 
 night charm 
 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream: 
 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying 
 
 gleam ; 
 
 tone : — 
 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet 
 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise 
 
 lies : 
 
 is gone. 
 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 
 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's 
 
 XXX 
 
 eyes; 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
 
 So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phan- 
 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 
 
 tasies. 
 
 der'd, 
 
 
 While he from forth the closet brought 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 a heap 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow 
 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
 
 lute, — 
 
 gourd ; 
 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten- 
 
 With jellies soother than the creamy 
 
 derest be, 
 
 curd, 
 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since 
 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; 
 
 mute. 
 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 
 In Provence call'd ' La belle dame sans 
 
 From Fez; and spiced dainties, every 
 
 mercy : ' 
 
 one. 
 
 Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Leba- 
 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 
 
 non. 
 
 moan: 
 
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 ^53 
 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and 
 
 Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind 
 
 suddenly 
 
 blows 
 
 Her blue aff rayed eyes wide open shone: 
 
 Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp 
 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
 
 sleet 
 
 sculptured stone. 
 
 Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon 
 
 
 hath set. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
 
 'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw- 
 
 There was a painfid change, that nigh 
 
 blown sleet: 
 
 expell'd 
 
 ' This is no dream, my bride, my Made- 
 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and 
 
 line ! ' 
 
 deep 
 
 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and 
 
 At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
 
 beat: 
 
 And moan forth witless words with 
 
 ' No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
 
 many a sigh; 
 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
 
 While still her gaze on Porphyro would 
 
 pine. — 
 
 keep; 
 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 
 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous 
 
 bring ? 
 
 eye, 
 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 
 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived 
 
 dreamingly. 
 
 thing; — 
 
 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned 
 
 XXXV 
 
 wing.' 
 
 * Ah, Porphyro! ' said she, * but even now 
 
 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 ear. 
 
 * My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 
 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
 
 bride ! 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
 
 clear: 
 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and 
 
 How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill. 
 
 vermeil dyed ? 
 
 and drear ! 
 
 Ah, silver shrine, here wQl I take my 
 
 Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
 
 rest 
 
 Those looks immortal, those complain- 
 
 After so many hours of toil and quest. 
 
 ings dear ! 
 
 A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 
 Oh leave me not in this eternal woe. 
 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
 
 For if thou diest, my Love, I know not 
 
 nest 
 
 where to go.' 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st 
 
 
 well 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 
 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing 
 
 ' Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery 
 
 star 
 
 land. 
 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- 
 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 
 
 pose; 
 
 Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand : — 
 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 
 The bloated wassailers will never heed: — 
 
 Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
 
134 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to 
 
 see, — 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 
 
 mead: 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a home 
 
 for thee.' 
 
 XL 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with 
 
 fears, 
 For there were sleeping dragons all 
 
 around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 
 
 spears — 
 Down the wide stairs a darkling way they 
 
 found. — 
 In all the house was heard no human 
 
 sound. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by 
 
 each door; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 
 
 and hound, 
 Flutter'd in the besieging wind's up- 
 roar; 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
 
 floor. 
 
 XLI 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 
 
 hall; 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they 
 
 glide. 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 
 
 his hide. 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy 
 
 slide : — 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn 
 
 stones; — 
 The key turns, and the door upon its hinges 
 
 groans. 
 
 XLII 
 
 And they are gone : aye, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many a 
 woe. 
 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade 
 and form 
 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
 worm, 
 
 Were long be-uightmared. Angela the 
 old 
 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face 
 deform ; 
 
 The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes 
 cold. 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 Lemprifere's classical dictionary made Keats 
 acquainted with the names and attributes of the 
 inhabitants of the heavens in the ancient world, 
 and the Shakesperean Chapman introduced 
 him to Homer, but his acquaintance with the 
 subtlest spirit of Greece was by a more direct 
 means. Keats did not read Greek, and he had 
 no scholar's knowledge of Greek art, but he 
 had the poetic divination whicli scholars some- 
 times fail to possess, and when he strolled into 
 the British Museum and saw the Elgin marbles, 
 the greatest remains in continuous series of per- 
 haps the greatest of Greek sculptures, he saw 
 them as an artist of kindred spirit with their 
 makers. He saw them also with the complex 
 emotion of a modern, and read into them his 
 own thoughts. The result is most surely read 
 in his longer poem of Hyperion, but the spirit 
 evoked found its finest expression in this ode. 
 
 The ode appears to have been composed in 
 the spring of 1819 and first published in Janu- 
 ary, 1820, in Annals of the Fine Arts. There are 
 then about four years in time between the son- 
 net, ' On first looking into Chapman's Homer,' 
 and this ode ; if the former suggests a Balboa, 
 this suggests a Magellan who has traversed the 
 Pacific. It is not needful to find any single 
 piece of ancient sculpture as a model for the 
 poem, although there is at Holland House, 
 where Keats might have seen it, an urn with 
 just such a scene of pastoral sacrifice as is de- 
 scribed in the fourth stanza. The ode was 
 included by Keats in Lamia, Isabella, The Eve 
 of St. Agties and other Poems. 
 
 \ 
 
ODE ON INDOLENCE 
 
 ^35 
 
 Thou still uiiravish'd bride of quietness, 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow 
 Time, 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
 rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy 
 shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 What men or gods are these ? what 
 maidens loth ? 
 What mad pursuit ? What struggle to es- 
 cape ? 
 What pipes and timbrels ? What wild 
 ecstasy ? lo 
 
 II 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those un- 
 heard 
 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
 play on; 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd 
 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst 
 not leave 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
 bare; 
 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou 
 kiss. 
 Though winning near the goal — yet, do 
 not grieve; 
 She cannot fade, though thou hast not 
 thy bliss, 19 
 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot 
 shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
 adieu; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
 
 For ever piping songs for ever new; 
 More happy love! more happy, happy 
 love! 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
 For ever panting, and for ever young; 
 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and 
 cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead, and a parching 
 tongue. 30 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands 
 drest? 
 What little town by river or sea shore. 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. 
 Is emptied of this folk, this pious 
 morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- 
 turn. 40 
 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought. 
 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
 
 thought 
 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste, 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
 woe 
 Than ours, a friend to man, to whom 
 thou say'st, 
 ' Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is 
 all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to 
 know. 50 
 
 ODE ON INDOLENCE 
 
 ' They toil not, neither do they spin.' 
 
 Published in Life, Letters and Literary He- 
 mains. In a letter to George and Georgiana 
 Keats, dated March 19, 1819, Keats uses lan- 
 guage which shows this poem to have been 
 just then in his mind : ' This morning I am in a 
 sort of temper, indolent and supremely careless 
 
136 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-18 
 
 I5-I»I9 
 
 — I long after a stanza or two of Thomson's 
 Castle of Indolence — my passions are all 
 asleep, from my having slumbered till nearly 
 eleven, and weakened the animal fibre all over 
 me, to a delightful sensation, about three de- 
 grees on this side of f aintness. If I had teeth 
 of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call 
 it languor, but as I am I must call it laziness. 
 In this state of effeminacy the fibres of the 
 brain are relaxed in common with the rest of 
 the body, and to such a happy degree that 
 pleasure has no show of enticement and pain 
 no unbearable power. Neither Poetry, nor 
 Ambition, nor Love have any alertness of 
 countenance as they pass by me ; they seem 
 rather like figures on a Greek vase — a man 
 and two women whom no one but myself could 
 distinguish in their disguisement. This is the 
 only happiness, and is a rare instance of the 
 advantage of the body overpowering the Mind.' 
 
 One morn before me were three figures 
 seen, 
 With bowed necks, and joined hands, 
 side-faced; 
 And one behind the other stepp'd serene, 
 In placid sandals, and in white robes 
 graced ; 
 They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn. 
 When shifted round to see the other 
 side; 
 They came again; as when the urn 
 once more 
 Is shifted round, the first seen shades re- 
 turn; 
 And they were strange to me, as may 
 betide 
 With vases, to one deep in Phidian 
 lore. 
 
 How is it, Shadows ! that I knew ye 
 not? 
 How came ye muffled in so hush a mask ? 
 Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 
 
 To steal away, and leave without a task 
 My idle days ? Ripe was the drowsy 
 hour; 
 
 The blissful cloud of summer-indolence 
 Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew 
 less and less; 
 Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath 
 no flower: 
 O, why did ye not melt, and leave my 
 sense 
 Unhaunted quite of all but — nothing- 
 ness ? 
 
 A third time pass'd they by, and, passing, 
 turn'd 
 Each one the face a moment whiles to 
 me; 
 Then faded, and to follow them I burn'd 
 And ached for wings, because I knew 
 the three; 
 The first was a fair Maid, and Love her 
 name ; 
 The second was Ambition, pale of cheek, 
 And ever watchful with fatigued 
 eye; 
 The last, whom I love more, the more of 
 blame 
 Is heap'd upon her, maiden most un- 
 meek, — 
 I knew to be my demon Poesy. 
 
 They faded, and, forsooth ! I wanted 
 wings : 
 O folly ! What is Love ? and where is 
 it? 
 And for that poor Ambition ! it springs 
 From a man's little heart's short fever- 
 fit; 
 For Poesy ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
 At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy 
 noons. 
 And evenings steep'd in honied indo- 
 lence ; 
 O, for an age so shelter'd from annoy. 
 That I may never know how change the 
 moons. 
 Or hear the voice of busy common- 
 sense ! 
 
ODE TO FANNY 
 
 137 
 
 And once more came they by ; — alas ! 
 wherefore ? 
 My sleep had been embroider'd with dim 
 dreams; 
 My soul had been a lawn besprinkled 
 o'er 
 With flowers, and stirring shades, and 
 baffled beams: 
 The morn was clouded, but no shower fell, 
 Tho' in her lids hung the sweet tears of 
 May; 
 The open casement press'd a new- 
 leaved vine. 
 Let in the budding warmth and throstle's 
 lay; 
 O Shadows ! 't was a time to bid farewell ! 
 Upon your skirts had fallen no tears 
 of mine. 
 
 VI 
 So, ye three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot 
 raise 
 My head cool - bedded in the flowery 
 grass ; 
 For I would not be dieted with praise, 
 
 A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
 Fade softly from my eyes and be once 
 more 
 In masq\ie-like figures on the dreamy 
 urn; 
 Farewell ! I yet have visions for the 
 night, 
 And for the day faint visions there is store ; 
 Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle 
 spright, 
 Into the clouds, and nevermore return ! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Published in ii/«. Letters and Literary Re- 
 mains. In a letter to his brother George and 
 wife, Keats writos March 19, 1819: 'I am 
 ever afraid that yimr anxiety for me will lead 
 you to fear for the violent'.e of my tempera- 
 ment continually siaotliered down : for that 
 reason I did not intend to have sent you the 
 following' sonnet — but look over the two last 
 
 pages [of his letter] and ask yourselves whether 
 I have not that in me which will bear the buf- 
 fets of the world. It will be the best comment 
 on my sonnet ; it will show you that it was 
 written with no Agony but that of ignorance ; 
 with no thirst of anything but Knowledge 
 when pushed to the point, though the first 
 steps to it were through my human passions, — 
 they went away and I wrote with my Mind 
 — and perhaps I must confess a little bit of my 
 heart. ' 
 
 Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
 tell; 
 No God, no Demon of severe response, 
 Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell: 
 Then to my human heart I turn at once. 
 Heart ! Thou and I are here sad and alone ; 
 I say, why did I laugh ? O mortal pain ! 
 O Darkness ! Darkness ! ever must I moan. 
 To question Heaven and Hell and Heart 
 in vain. 
 Why did I laugh ? I know this Being's 
 lease, 
 My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads; 
 Yet would I on this very midnight cease, 
 And the world's gaudy ensigns see in 
 shreds* 
 Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense 
 
 indeed, 
 But Death intenser — Death is Life's high 
 meed. 
 
 ODE TO FANNY 
 
 First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, and there undated. 
 
 Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 
 
 O ease my heart of verse and let me rest; 
 Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood 
 Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full 
 breast. 
 A theme ! a theme ! great Nature ! 
 
 give a theme ; 
 Let me begin my dream. 
 I come — I see thee, as thou standest there; 
 Beckon me not into the wintry air. 
 
138 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-18 
 
 i»-i»i9 
 
 Ah ! dearest love, sweet home of all my 
 fears, 
 And hopes, and joys, and panting mis- 
 eries, — 
 To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears 
 A smile of such delight, 
 As brilliant and as bright, 
 As when with ravished, aching, vassal 
 eyes. 
 Lost in soft amaze, 
 I gaze, I gaze ! 
 
 Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my 
 feast ? 
 What stare outfaces now my silver moon ! 
 Ah ! keep that hand unravished at the least ; 
 Let, let the amorous burn — 
 But, pr'ythee, do not turn 
 The current of your heart from me so 
 soon. 
 O ! save, in charity. 
 The quickest pulse for me. 
 
 Save it for me, sweet love ! though music 
 breathe 
 Voluptuous visions into the warm air. 
 Though swimming through the dance's dan- 
 gerous wreath; 
 Be like an April day. 
 Smiling and cold and gay, 
 A temperate lily, temperate as fair; 
 Then, Heaven ! there will be 
 A warmer June for me. 
 
 Why, this — you '11 say, my Fanny ! is not 
 true: 
 Put your soft hand upon your snowy side. 
 Where the heart beats: confess — 'tis 
 nothing new — 
 Must not a woman be 
 A feather on the sea, 
 Sway'd to and fro by every wind and 
 tide? 
 Of as uncertain speed 
 As blow-ball from the mead ? 
 
 I know it — and to know it is despair 
 To one who loves you as I love, sweet 
 Fanny ! 
 
 Whose heart goes fluttering for you every- 
 where. 
 Nor, when away you roam, 
 Dare keep its wretched home : 
 Love, love alone, has pains severe and 
 many : 
 Then, loveliest ! keep me free 
 From torturing jealousy. 
 
 Ah ! if you prize my subdued soul above 
 The poor, the fading, brief pride of an 
 hour; 
 Let none profane my Holy See of love, 
 Or with a rude hand break 
 The sacramental cake: 
 Let none else touch the just new-budded 
 flower; 
 If not — may my eyes close, 
 Love ! on their last repose. 
 
 A DREAM, AFTER READING 
 DANTE'S EPISODE OF PAOLO 
 AND FRANCESCA 
 
 To George and Georgiana Keats, April 18 or 
 19, 1819, Keats writes: 'The fifth canto of 
 Dante pleases me more and more — it is that 
 one in which he meets with Paolo and Fran- 
 cesca. I had passed many days in rather a 
 low state of mind, and in the midst of them I 
 dreamt of being in that region of Hell. The 
 dream was one of the most delightful enjoy- 
 ments I ever had in my life. I floated about 
 the whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with 
 a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were 
 joined as it seemed for an age — and in the 
 midst of all lis jold and d.irkness I was warm 
 — even flo^>^^ tree-tops sprung up, and we 
 rested on tb.. i. sometimes with the lightness 
 of a cloud, t i 1 the wind blew us away again. 
 I tried a sou-t t upon it — there are fourteen 
 lines, but nobiiing of what I felt in it — that 
 I could dream it every night.' Keats after- 
 wards printed ti\e sonnet in The Indicator for 
 June 28, 1820. 
 
 As Hermes once took tc his feathers light. 
 When lulled Argus, ' affled, swoon'd and 
 slept 
 So on a Delpliic reed, ay idle spright 
 
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
 
 139 
 
 So play'd, so cbarm'd, so couquer'd, so 
 bereft 
 The dragon- world of all its hundred eyes; 
 
 And, seeing it asleep, so fled away — 
 Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies, 
 Nor unto Tempe where Jove grieved a 
 day; 
 But to that second circle of sad hell, 
 
 Where 'mid the gust, the whirlwind, and 
 
 the flaw 
 
 Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell 
 
 Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips 
 
 I saw. 
 
 Pale were the lips I kiss'd, and fair the form 
 
 I floated with, about that melancholy stoi-m. 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
 
 Sent in a letter to George and Georgiana 
 Keats, April 28, )^/±y, and printed by Leigh 
 Hunt in '^'"- Indicator, May 10, 1820. Hunt 
 says the poem was suggested by that title at 
 the head of a translation from Alan Chartier 
 at the end of Chaucer's works. 
 
 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 
 Alone and palely loitering ? 
 
 The sedge is wither'd from the lake. 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 II 
 
 A " wh; t can ail theo, wretched wight, 
 
 J hau<j^ard and so woe-begone ? 
 Tl squirrel's granary is full, 
 .ixud tlie harvest 's done. 
 
 I sf!e a lily on thy brow, 
 
 With anguish moi^ and fever dew; 
 And on thy iheek ;t*fading rose 
 
 I'^ast withereth too. 
 
 I met a lady ni tie meads. 
 
 Full beau'ilul — a faery's child; 
 
 Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes we.^e wild. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed, 
 
 And nothing else saw all day long. 
 
 For sideways would she lean, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 VI 
 
 I made a garland for her head. 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 
 
 She look'd at me as she did love. 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 She found me roots of relish sweet. 
 And honey wild, and manna dew; 
 
 And sure in language strange she said — 
 ' I love thee true.' 
 
 VIII 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she gazed, and sighed deep, 
 And there I shut her wild wild eyes 
 
 So kiss'd to sleep. 
 
 IX 
 And there we slumber'd on the moss. 
 
 And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 
 On the cold hill side. 
 
 I saw pale kings, and princes too. 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; 
 
 They cried — ' La Belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thrall ! ' 
 
 I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 
 And I awoke, and found me here 
 On the cold hill side. 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here. 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Though the sedge is wither'd from the 
 lake. 
 
 And no birds sing. 
 
140 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 CHORUS OF FAIRIES 
 
 Inclosed in a letter to George and Georgiana 
 Keats, April 28, 1819, and printed in Life, 
 Letters and Literary Remains- 
 
 FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER 
 
 SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND 
 
 BREAMA 
 
 SALAMANDER 
 
 Happy, happy glowing fire ! 
 
 ZEPHYR 
 
 Fragrant air ! delicious light ! 
 
 DUSKETHA 
 
 Let me to my glooms retire ! 
 
 BREAMA 
 
 I to green-weed rivers bright ! 
 
 SALAMANDER 
 
 Happy, happy glowing fire ! 
 
 Dazzling bowers of soft retire, 
 
 Ever let my nourish'd wing. 
 
 Like a bat's, still wandering. 
 
 Faintly fan your fiery spaces. 
 
 Spirit sole in deadly places. lo 
 
 In unhaunted roar and blaze, 
 
 Open eyes that never daze. 
 
 Let me see the myriad shapes 
 
 Of men, and beasts, and fish, and apes, 
 
 Portray'd in many a fiery den. 
 
 And wrought by spumy bitumen. 
 
 On the deep intenser roof. 
 
 Arched every way, aloof. 
 
 Let me breathe upon my skies, 
 
 And anger their live tapestries; 20 
 
 Free from cold, and every care, 
 
 Of chilly rain, and shivering air. 
 
 Spright of Fire ! away ! away ! 
 Or your very roundelay 
 Will sear my plumage newly budded 
 From its quilled sheath, and studded 
 With the self-same dews that fell 
 On the May-grown Asphodel. 
 Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 
 
 BREAMA 
 
 Spright of Fire — away ! away ! 30 
 
 Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn. 
 And see my cool sedge-shaded urn. 
 Where it rests its mossy brim 
 'Mid water-mint and cresses dim; 
 And the flowers, in sweet troubles, 
 Lift their eyes above the bubbles, 
 Like our Queen, when she would please 
 To sleep, and Oberon will tease. 
 Love me, blue-eyed Faery ! true, 
 Soothly I am sick for you. 40 
 
 ZEPHYR 
 
 Gentle Breama ! by the first 
 
 Violet young nature nurst, 
 
 I will bathe myself with thee, 
 
 So you sometime follow me 
 
 To my home, far, far, in west. 
 
 Far beyond the seatcL and quest 
 
 Of the golden-browed sun. 
 
 Come with me, o'er tops of trees, 
 
 To my fragrant palaces, 
 
 Where they ever floating are 50 
 
 Beneath the cherish of a star 
 
 Call'd Vesper, who with silver veil 
 
 Ever hides his brilliance pale. 
 
 Ever gently-drowsed doth keep | 
 
 Twilight for the Fays to sleep. 
 
 Fear not that your watery hair 
 
 Will thirst in drouthy ringlets there; 
 
 Clouds of stored summer rains 
 
 Thou shalt taste, before the stains .'^ 
 
 Of the mountain soil they take, 60 
 
 And too unlucent for thee make. 
 
 I love the*^, crystal Fapiy, true f 
 
 Sooth I aai. as sick for you ! 
 
 SALAMANDER 
 
 Out, ye aguish Faeries, out ! 
 Chilly lovers, what a rout 
 Keep ye with your frozen breath, 
 Colder thiiii the mortal death. 
 Adder-eyt J Dusketha, speak. 
 Shall we leave tUem, aitd go seek 
 In the earth's wide entrails old 7 
 
 Couches warm as theirs is cold ? 
 O for a fitly gloom a ad thee. 
 
FAERY SONGS 
 
 141 
 
 Dusketha, so enchantinglj' 
 Freckle-wing'd and lizard-sided ! 
 
 DUSKETHA 
 
 By thee, Spright, will I be guided ! 
 
 I care not for cold or heat; 
 
 Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet, 
 
 To my essence are the same ; — 
 
 But I honour more the flame. 
 
 Spright of fire, I follow thee 80 
 
 Wheresoever it may be; 
 
 To the torrid spouts and fountains, 
 
 Underneath earth-quaked mountains; 
 
 Or, at thy supreme desire. 
 
 Touch the very pulse of fire 
 
 With my bare unlidded eyes. 
 
 SALAMANDER 
 
 Sweet Dusketha ! paradise ! 
 Off, ye icy Spirits, fly ! 
 Frosty creatures of the sky ! 
 
 DUSKETHA 
 
 Breathe upon them, fiery Spright ! 9° 
 
 ZEPHYR, BREAMA (to each other) 
 Away ! away to our delight ! 
 
 SALAMANDER 
 
 Go, feed on icicles, while we 
 Bedded in tongued flames will be. 
 
 DUSKETHA 
 
 Lead me to these fev'rous glooms, 
 Spright of Fire ! 
 
 BREAMA 
 
 Me to the blooms, 
 Blue eyed Zephyr of those flowers 
 Far in the west where the May -cloud lowers: 
 And the beams of still Vesper, where 
 
 winds are all whist. 
 Are shed thro' the rair " he milder 
 mist, 
 And twilight your floating bowers. loo 
 
 FAERY SONGS 
 
 These two songs are fijiven in Life, Letters 
 and Literary Eemains, but without date. It 
 
 seems not inapt to place them near the Song of 
 Four Fairies. 
 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Weep no more ! O weep no more ! 
 Young buds sleep in the root's white core. 
 Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes. 
 For 1 was taught in Paradise 
 To ease my breast of melodies — 
 Shed no tear. 
 
 Overhead ! look overhead 
 'Mong the blossoms white and red — 
 Look up, look up — I flutter now 
 On this flush pomegranate bough. 
 See me ! 't is this silvery bill 
 Ever cures the good man's ill. 
 Shed no tear ! O shed no tear ! 
 The flower will bloom another year. 
 Adieu, Adieu — I fly, adieu, 
 I vanish in the heaven's blue — 
 
 Adieu, Adieu ! 
 
 Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! 
 
 That I must chant thy lady's dirge. 
 And death to this fair haunt of spring, 
 Of melody, and streams of flowery 
 verge, — 
 
 Poor silver-wing ! ah ! woe is me ! 
 That I must see 
 These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall ! 
 Go, pretty page ! and in her ear 
 Whisper that the hour is near ! 
 Softly tell her not to fear 
 Such calm favonian burial ! 
 
 Go, pretty page ! and soothly tell, — 
 
 The blossoms hang by a melting spell. 
 
 And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice 
 
 Upon her closed eyes. 
 That now in vain are weeping their last 
 tears. 
 At sweet life leaving, and those arbours 
 green, — 
 Rich dowry from the Spirit of the 
 Spheres, — 
 
 Alas ! poor Queen ! 
 
142 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 ON FAME 
 
 ' You cannot eat your cake and have it too.' — Proverb. 
 
 Sent with the next two to George and Georgi- 
 ana Keats, April 30, 1819, and printed in it/e, 
 Letters and Literary Remains. 
 
 How fever'd is that man, who cannot look 
 Upon his mortal days with temperate 
 blood, 
 Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book, 
 And robs his fair name of its maiden- 
 hood: 
 It is as if the rose should pluck herself, 
 
 Or the ripe plum finger its misty bloom; 
 As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf, 
 
 Should darken her pure grot with muddy 
 gloom. 
 But the rose leaves herself upon the brier. 
 For winds to kiss and grateful bees to 
 feed, 
 And the ripe plum still wears its dim at- 
 tire. 
 The undisturbed lake has crystal space : 
 Why then should man, teasing the 
 world for grace, 
 Spoil his salvation for a fierce miscreed ? 
 
 ANOTHER ON FAME 
 
 Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy 
 To those who woo her with too slavish 
 knees. 
 But makes surrender to some thoughtless 
 boy. 
 And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
 She is a Gipsy, — will not speak to those 
 Who have not learnt to be content with- 
 out her ; 
 A Jilt, whose ear was never whisper'd 
 close, 
 Who thinks they scandal her who talk 
 about her; 
 A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 
 
 Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar; 
 Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for 
 scorn; 
 
 Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye 
 are ! 
 Make your best bow to her and bid adieu. 
 Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 
 
 TO SLEEP 
 
 O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, 
 
 Shutting, with careful fingers and benign. 
 Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from 
 the light, 
 Enshaded in forge tfulness divine: 
 O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, 
 close. 
 In midst of this thine hymn, my willing 
 eyes, 
 Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
 Around my bed its dewy charities; 
 Then save me, or the passed day will 
 shine 
 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes; 
 Save me from curious conscience, that 
 still lords 
 Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a 
 mole ; 
 Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
 And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 
 
 ODE TO PSYCHE 
 
 ' The following poem — the last I have writ- 
 ten — is the first and only one with which I have 
 taken even moderate pains. I have, for the 
 most part, dashed off my lines in a hurry. This 
 I have done leisurely — I think it reads the more 
 richly for it, and will I hope encourage me to 
 write other things in even a more peaceable 
 and healthy spirit. You must recollect that 
 Psyche was not embodied as a goddess before 
 the time of Apuleius the Platonist, who lived 
 after the Augustan age, and consequently the 
 Goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed to 
 with any of the ancient fervour — and perhaps 
 never thought of in the old religion — I am 
 more orthodox than to let a heathen Goddess 
 be so neglected.' Keats to his Brother and 
 Sister, April 30, 1819. H afterward included 
 the poem in his volumf uantia, Isabella, The 
 Eve of St. Agnes and ' ic-r J 'items, 1820. 
 
ODE TO PSYCHE 
 
 143 
 
 Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, 
 
 wrung 
 By sweet enforcement and remembrance 
 dear, 
 And pardon that thy secrets should be sung 
 
 Even into thine own soft-conched ear: 
 Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
 
 The winged Psyche with awaken'd eyes ? 
 
 1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 
 And, on the sudden, fainting with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
 In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring 
 roof 10 
 
 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where 
 there ran 
 
 A brooklet, scarce espied: 
 
 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant- 
 eyed, 
 Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
 They lay calm-breathing on the bedded 
 grass; 
 Their arms embraced, and their pinions 
 
 too; 
 Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade 
 adieu, 
 As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
 And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
 At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 20 
 
 The winged boy I knew; 
 But who wast thon,0 happy, happy dove ? 
 His Psyche true ! 
 
 O latest-born and loveliest vision far 
 Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
 Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd star. 
 Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the 
 sky; 
 Fairer than these, though temple thou hast 
 none, 
 
 Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
 Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan 
 
 Upon the midnight hours; 31 
 
 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 
 From chain-swung censer teeming; 
 
 No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 
 
 brightest ! though too late for antique 
 
 vows, 
 
 Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 
 When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
 
 Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 
 Yet even in these days so far retired 40 
 
 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans, 
 
 Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 
 
 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
 So let me be thy choir, and make a moan 
 
 Upon the midnight hours; 
 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense 
 sweet 
 From swinged censer teeming; 
 Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 
 
 Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 
 In some untrodden region of my mind, 
 Where branched thoughts, new-grown with 
 pleasant pain, 52 
 
 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; 
 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, 
 and bees, 
 The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to 
 sleep; 
 And in the midst of this wide quietness 
 A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
 With the wreath'd trellis of a working 
 brain, 60 
 
 With buds, and bells, and stars without 
 a name, 
 With all the gardener Fancy e'er could 
 feign, 
 Who breeding flowers, will never breed 
 the same: 
 
144 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 And there shall be for thee all soft delight 
 
 That shadowy thought can win, 
 A bright torch, and a casement ope at 
 night, 
 
 To let the warm Love in ! 
 
 SONNET 
 
 In copying his ' Ode to Psyche, ' Keats added 
 the flourish ' Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche,' 
 and went on ' lucipit altera soneta.' ' I have 
 been endeavouring,' he writes, 'to discover a 
 better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The legiti- 
 mate does not suit the language over well from 
 the pouncing rhymes — the other kind appears 
 too elegiac — and the couplet at the end of it 
 has seldom a pleasing effect — I do not pre- 
 tend to have succeeded — it will explain itself.' 
 The sonnet was printed in Life, Letters and Lit- 
 erary Remains. 
 
 If by dull rhymes our English must be 
 chain'd, 
 And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet 
 Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness; 
 Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd, 
 Sandals more interwoven and complete 
 To fit the naked foot of poesy; 
 Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the 
 
 stress 
 Of every chord, and see what may be 
 gain'd 
 By ear industrious, and attention meet; 
 Misers of sound and syllable, no less 
 Than Midas of his coinage, let us be 
 
 Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath 
 crown : 
 So, if we may not let the Muse be free. 
 She will be bound with garlands of her 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 First published in the July, 1819, Annals of 
 the Fine Arts and included in the 1820 volume. 
 It was composed in May, 1819. In the Aldine 
 edition of 1876 Lord Houghton prefixes this 
 note: ' In the spring of 1819 a nightingale 
 bmlt her nest next Mr. Be van's house. Keats 
 
 took great pleasure in her song, and one morn- 
 ing took his chair from the breakfast table to 
 the grass plot under a plum tree, where he 
 remained between two and three hours. He 
 then reached the house with some scraps of 
 paper in his hand, which he soon put together 
 in the form of this Ode.' Haydon in a letter 
 to Miss Mitf ord says : ' The death of his bro- 
 ther [in December, 1818] wounded him deeply, 
 and it appeared to me from that hour he began 
 to droop. He wrote his exquisite ' Ode to the 
 Nightingale ' at this time, and as we were one 
 evening walking in the Kilburn meadows he 
 repeated it to me, before he put it to paper, in 
 a low, tremulous undertone which affected me 
 extremely.' It may well be that Tom Keats 
 was in the poet's mind when he wrote line 26. 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness 
 pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
 drunk, 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards had 
 sunk: 
 'T is not through envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
 That thou, light-winged Dryad of the 
 trees, 
 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows number- 
 less, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated 
 ease. lo 
 
 O for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved 
 earth. 
 Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 
 Dance, and Provencal song, and sun- 
 burnt mirth ! 
 O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
 crene. 
 With beaded bubbles winking at the 
 brim. 
 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 I4S 
 
 That I might drink, and leave the world 
 unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the for- 
 est dim: 20 
 
 III 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 What thou among the leaves hast never 
 known. 
 The weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 Here, where men sit and hear each other 
 groan ; 
 Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray 
 hairs. 
 Where youth grows pale, and spectre- 
 thin, and dies; 
 Where but to think is to be full of 
 sorrow 
 
 And leaden-eyed despairs, 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous 
 eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond to- 
 morrow. 30 
 
 Away ! away ! for I wiU fly to thee, 
 
 Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 
 Though the dull brain perplexes and re- 
 tards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night, 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
 throne, 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry 
 Fays; 
 
 But here there is no light. 
 Save what from heaven is with the breezes 
 blown 
 Throng a verdurons o-looms and wind- 
 ing raossy ways. 40 
 
 I cannot see what flowers are at my feet. 
 Nor what soft incense hangs upon the 
 
 boughs, 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 
 
 sweet 
 
 Wherewith the seasonable month en- 
 dows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
 wild; 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglan- 
 tine; 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in 
 leaves ; 
 
 And mid-May's eldest child. 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
 wine. 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on sum- 
 j^ mer eves. 50 
 
 Darkling I listen; and, for many a time 
 I have been half in love with easeful 
 Death, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused 
 rhyme. 
 To take into the air my quiet breath; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
 To cease upon the midnight with no 
 pain. 
 
 While thou art pouring forth thy soul 
 abroad 
 
 In such an ecstasy ! 
 Still would st thou sing, and I have ears 
 in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 60 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
 Bird! 
 No hungry generations tread thee down; 
 The voice I hear this passing night was 
 heard 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
 Perhaps the self-same song that found a 
 path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
 sick for home. 
 She stood in tears amid the alien com ; 
 The same that oft-times hath 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening on 
 the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands for- 
 lorn. 70 / 
 
 \ 
 
146 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 
 . To toll me back from thee to my sole 
 
 self! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 
 Past the near meadows, over the still 
 stream. 
 Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried 
 deep 
 
 In the next valley-glades: 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 Fled is that music: — do I wake or 
 sleep ? 80 
 
 LAMIA 
 
 In the early summer of 1819 Keats felt the 
 pressure of want of money and determined to 
 go into the country, where he could live cheaply, 
 and devote himself to writing. He went ac- 
 cordingly to Shanklin, Isle of Wight, and wrote 
 thence to Reynolds, July 12, ' I have finished 
 the Act [the first of Otho the Great], and in the 
 interval of beginning the 2nd have proceeded 
 pretty well with Lamia, finishing the first part 
 which consists of about 400 lines. I have 
 great hope of success [in this enterprise of 
 maintenance], because I make use of my judg- 
 ment more deliberately than I have yet done.' 
 He continued to work at Lamia in connection 
 with the tragedy, completing it in August at 
 Winchester. It formed the leading poem in the 
 volume Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes 
 and other Poems, published in 1820. Keats's 
 own judgment of it is in his words : ' I am cer- 
 tain there is that sort of fire in it which must 
 take hold of people in some way — give them 
 either pleasant or unpleasant association.' He 
 found the germ of the story in Burton's Anat- 
 omy of Melancholy, where it is credited to Phi- 
 lostratus. The passage will be found in the 
 Notes. Lord Houghton says, on the authority 
 of Brown, that Keats wrote the poem after 
 much study of Dryden's versification. 
 
 PART I 
 Upon a time, before the faery broods 
 Drove Nymph and Satyr from the pro- 
 sperous woods, 
 
 Before King Oberon's bright diadem. 
 Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem. 
 Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 
 From rushes green, and brakes, and cow- 
 
 slipp'd lawns. 
 The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 
 His golden throne, bent warm on amorous 
 
 theft; 
 From high Olympus had he stolen light, 
 On this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the 
 
 sight lo 
 
 Of his great summoner, and made retreat 
 Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 
 For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 
 A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt; 
 At whose white feet the languid Tritons 
 
 poured 
 Pearls, while on land they wither'd and 
 
 adored. 
 Fast by the springs where she to bathe was 
 
 wont. 
 And in those meads where sometimes she 
 
 might haunt. 
 Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any 
 
 Muse, 
 Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to 
 
 choose. 2o 
 
 Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 
 So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 
 Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 
 That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 
 Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair. 
 Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders 
 
 bare. 
 
 From vale to vale, from wood to wood, 
 
 he flew, 
 Breathing upon the flowers his passion new, 
 And wound with many a river to its bead, 
 To find where this sweet nymph. prepa-ed 
 
 her secret bed: 30 
 
 In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere^ 
 
 be found. 
 And so he rested, on the lonely gromid, 
 Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
 Of the Wood-Gods, and < ven the very trees. 
 There as he stood, he ueard, a mournful 
 
 voice, 
 
 
 _L. 
 
LAMIA 
 
 147 
 
 Such as once heard, in gentle heart, de- 
 stroys 
 All pain but pity: thus the lone voice spake: 
 ' When from this wreathed tomb shall I 
 
 awake ! 
 When move in a sweet body fit for life, 
 And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy 
 strife 40 
 
 Of hearts and lips ! Ah, miserable me ! ' 
 The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
 Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his 
 
 speed. 
 The taller grasses and full-flowering weed, 
 Until he found a palpitating snake, 
 Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky 
 brake. 
 
 She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
 
 Vermilion - spotted, golden, green, and 
 blue; 
 
 Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
 
 Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd; 
 
 And full of silver moons, that, as she 
 breathed, 51 
 
 Dissolved, or brighter shone, or inter- 
 wreathed 
 
 Their lustres with the gloomier tapes- 
 tries — 
 
 So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries. 
 
 She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady 
 elf, 
 
 Some demon's mistress, or the demon's 
 self. 
 
 Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
 
 Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar: 
 
 Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 
 
 i She had a woman's mouth with all its 
 
 pearls complete: 60 
 
 And for her eyes — what could such eyes 
 do there 
 
 But weep, and weep, that they were born 
 so fair ? 
 
 As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian 
 air. 
 
 Her throat was serpent, but the words she 
 spake 
 
 Came, as through bubbling honey, for 
 Love's sake. 
 
 And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay, 
 Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : 
 
 ' Fair Hermes ! crown'd with feathers, 
 
 fluttering light, 
 I had a splendid dream of thee last night: 
 I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold, 70 
 Among the Gods, upon Olympus old, 
 The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
 The soft, lute - finger'd Muses chanting 
 
 clear. 
 Nor even Apollo when he sang alone. 
 Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long 
 
 melodious moan. 
 I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. 
 Break amorous through the clouds, as 
 
 morning breaks, 
 And, swiftly as a bright Phcebean dart. 
 Strike for the Cretan isle; and here thou 
 
 art ! 
 Too gentle Hermes, hast thou found the 
 
 maid ? ' 80 
 
 Whereat the star of Lethe not delay'd 
 His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired: 
 ' Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high- 
 inspired ! 
 Thou beauteous wreath, with melancholy 
 
 eyes. 
 Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
 Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
 Where she doth breathe ! ' ' Bright planet, 
 
 thou hast said,' 
 Return'd the snake, ' but seal with oaths, 
 
 fair God ! ' 
 ' 1 swear,' said Hermes, ' by my serpent rod, 
 And by thine eyes, and by thy starry 
 
 crown ! ' 90 
 
 Light flew his earnest words, among the 
 
 blossoms blown. 
 Then thus again the brilliance feminine: 
 ' Too frail of heart ! for this lost nymph of 
 
 thine. 
 Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
 About these thornless wilds; her pleasant 
 
 days 
 She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble 
 
 feet 
 Leave traces in the grass and flowers sweet; 
 
148 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches 
 
 green, 
 She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes un- 
 seen : 
 And by my power is her beauty veil'd 100 
 To keep it unaff routed, unassail'd 
 By the love-glances of unlovely eyes. 
 Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
 Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
 Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
 I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
 Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 
 Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
 To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
 Thou shalt behold her, Hermes, thou alone. 
 If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my 
 
 boon ! ' III 
 
 Then, once again, the charmed God began 
 An oath, and through the serpent's ears it 
 
 ran 
 Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
 Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, 
 Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping 
 
 said, 
 ' I was a woman, let me have once more 
 A woman's shape, and charming as before. 
 I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 
 Give me my woman's form, and place me 
 
 where he is. 120 
 
 Stoop, Hermes, let me breathe upon thy 
 
 brow. 
 And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even 
 
 now.' 
 The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, 
 She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was 
 
 seen 
 Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling 
 
 on the green. 
 It was no dream; or say a dream it was. 
 Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly 
 
 pass 
 Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 
 One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it 
 
 might seem 
 Dash'd by the wood-nymph's beauty, so he 
 
 burn'd; 130 
 
 Then, lighting on the printless verdure, 
 
 turn'd 
 
 To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid 
 
 arm. 
 Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean 
 
 charm. 
 So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 
 Full of adoring tears and blandishment. 
 And towards her stept: she, like a moon in 
 
 wane. 
 Faded before him, cower'd, nor could re- 
 strain 
 Her fearful sobs, self -folding like a flower 
 That faints into itself at evening hour: 
 But the God fostering her chilled hand, 140 
 She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd 
 
 bland. 
 And, like new flowers at morning song of 
 
 bees, 
 Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the 
 
 lees. 
 Into the green-recessed woods they flew; 
 Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 
 
 Left to herself, the serpent now began 
 To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, 
 Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, there- 
 with besprent, 
 Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent; 
 Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish 
 
 drear, 150 
 
 Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all 
 
 sear, 
 Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks, without 
 
 one cooling tear. 
 The colours all inflamed throughout her 
 
 train. 
 She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet 
 
 pain : 
 A deep volcanian yellow took the place 
 Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
 And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
 Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede: 
 Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks 
 
 and bars, 
 Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her 
 
 stars : 16° 
 
 So that, in moments few, she was undrest 
 Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst, 
 And rubious-arffent : of all these bereft, 
 
LAMIA 
 
 149 
 
 Nothing but pain and ugliness were left. 
 Still shone her crown; that vanish'd, also 
 
 she 
 Melted and disappear'd as suddenly; 
 And in the air, her new voice luting soft, 
 Cried, 'Lycius! gentle Lycius!' — Borne 
 
 aloft 
 With the bright mists about the mountains 
 
 hoar 
 These words dissolved : Crete's forests 
 
 heard no more. 170 
 
 Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
 A full-born beauty new and exquisite ? 
 She fled into that valley they pass o'er 
 Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore: 
 And rested at the foot of those wild hills. 
 The rugged founts of the Peraean rills, 
 And of that other ridge whose barren back 
 Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy 
 
 rack, 
 South-westward to Cleone. There she 
 
 stood 179 
 
 About a young bird's flutter from a wood, 
 Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread, 
 By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
 To see herself escaped from so sore ills, 
 While her robes flaunted with the daffo- 
 
 dUs. 
 
 Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
 More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
 Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flowered 
 
 lea 
 Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy: 
 A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
 Of love deep learned to the red heart's 
 core : 190 
 
 Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
 To unperplex bliss from its neighbour 
 
 pain; 
 Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
 Their points of contact, and swift counter- 
 change ; 
 Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dis- 
 part 
 Its most ambiguous atoms with sure art; 
 As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
 
 Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unshent, 
 And kept his rosy terms in idle languish- 
 ment. 
 
 Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
 By the wayside to linger, we shall see; 201 
 But first 't is fit to tell how she could muse 
 And dream, when in the serpent prison- 
 house, 
 Of all she list, strange or magnificent: 
 How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit 
 
 went; 
 Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
 Down through tress-lifting waves the Ne- 
 reids fair 
 Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly 
 
 stair; 
 Or where God Bacchus drains his cups 
 
 divine, 
 Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous 
 pine; 210 
 
 Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
 Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian 
 
 line. 
 And sometimes into cities she would send 
 Her dream, with feast and rioting to blend; 
 And once, while among mortals dreaming 
 
 thus. 
 She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
 Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
 Like a young Jove with calm uneager 
 
 face. 
 And fell into a swooning love of him. 219 
 Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
 He would return that way, as well she 
 
 knew. 
 To Corinth from the shore; for freshly 
 
 blew 
 The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
 Grated the quay-stones with her brazen 
 
 prow 
 In port Cenchreas, from Egina isle 
 Fresh anchor'd; whither he had been awhile 
 To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
 Waits with high marble doors for blood 
 
 and incense rare. 
 Jove heard his vows, and better'd his de- 
 sire; 
 
15° 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 For by some freakful chance he made re- 
 tire 230 
 From his companions, and set forth to 
 
 walk, 
 Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinth 
 
 talk: 
 Over the solitary hills he fared, 
 Thoughtless at first, but ere eve's star ap- 
 
 pear'd 
 His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
 In the calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
 Lamia beheld him coming, near, more 
 
 near — 
 Close to her passing, in indifference drear, 
 His silent sandals swept the mossy green; 
 So neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen 240 
 She stood: he pass'd, shut up in mysteries. 
 His mind wrapp'd like his mantle, while 
 
 her eyes 
 Follow'd his steps, and her neck regal 
 
 white 
 Turn'd — syllabling thus, ' Ah, Lycius 
 
 bright! 
 And will you leave me on the hills alone ? 
 Lycius, look back! and be some pity shown.' 
 He did; not with cold wonder fearingly, 
 But Orpheus-like at an Eurydice; 
 For so delicious were the words she sung, 
 It seem'd he had loved them a whole sum- 
 mer long: 250 
 And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty 
 
 up. 
 Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup. 
 And still the cup was full, — while he, 
 
 afraid 
 Lest she should vanish ere his lips had paid 
 Due adoration, thus began to adore; 
 Her soft look growing coy, she saw his 
 
 chain so sure: 
 ' Leave thee alone! Look back! Ah, God- 
 dess, see 
 Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 
 For pity do not this sad heart belie — 
 Even as thou vanishest so I shall die. 260 
 Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 
 To thy far wishes will thy streams obey: 
 Stay ! though the greenest woods be thy 
 domain. 
 
 Alone they can drink up the morning rain: 
 Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 
 Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 
 Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 
 So sweetly to these ravish'd ears of mine 
 Came thy sweet greeting, that if thou 
 
 shouldst fade, 
 Thy memory will waste me to a shade: — 
 For pity do not melt ! ' — 'If I should 
 
 stay,' 271 
 
 Said Lamia, ' here, upon this floor of clay. 
 And pain my steps upon these flowers too 
 
 rough, 
 What canst thou say or do of charm enough 
 To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 
 Thou canst not ask me with thee here to 
 
 roam 
 Over these hills and vales, where no joy 
 
 is, — 
 Empty of immortality and bliss ! 
 Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 
 That finer spirits cannot breathe below 280 
 In human climes, and live: Alas ! poor 
 
 youth. 
 What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 
 My essence ? What serener palaces. 
 Where I may all my many senses please. 
 And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts 
 
 appease ? 
 It cannot be — Adieu ! ' So said, she rose 
 Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick 
 
 to lose 
 The amorous promise of her lone complain, 
 Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with 
 
 pain. 
 The cruel lady, without any show 290 
 
 Of sorrow for her tender favourite's woe, 
 But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 
 With brighter eyes and slow amenity. 
 Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 
 The life she had so tangled in her mesh: 
 And as he from one trance was wakening 
 Into another, she began to sing, 
 Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every 
 
 thing, 
 A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres. 
 While, like held breath, the stars drew in 
 
 their panting fires. 300 
 
LAMIA 
 
 151 
 
 And then she whisper'd in such trembling 
 
 tone, 
 As those who, safe together met alone 
 For the first time through many anguish 'd 
 
 days, 
 Use other speech than looks; bidding him 
 
 raise 
 His drooping head, and clear his soul of 
 
 doubt, 
 For that she was a woman, and without 
 Any more subtle fluid in her veins 
 Than throbbing blood, and that the self- 
 same pains 
 Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 
 And next she wonder'd how his eyes could 
 
 miss 310 
 
 Her face so long in Corinth, where, she 
 
 said, 
 She dwelt but half retired, and there had 
 
 led 
 Days happy as the gold coin could invent 
 Without the aid of love ; yet in content 
 Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 
 Where 'gainst a column he leant thought- 
 
 fully 
 At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets 
 
 heap'd 
 Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 
 Late on that eve, as 't was the night before 
 The Adonian feast; whereof she saw no 
 
 more, 320 
 
 But wept alone those days, for why should 
 
 she adore ? 
 Lycius from death awoke into amaze, 
 To see her still, and singing so sweet lays; 
 Then from amaze into delight he fell 
 To hear her whisper woman's lore so well; 
 And every word she spake enticed him on 
 To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 
 Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 
 Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 
 There is not such a treat among them 
 
 all, 330 
 
 Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall. 
 As a real woman, lineal indeed 
 From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 
 Thus gentle Lamia judged, and judged 
 
 aright, 
 
 That Lycius could not love in half a fright. 
 So threw the goddess off, and won his heart 
 More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 
 With no more awe than what her beauty 
 
 gave. 
 That, while it smote, still guaranteed to 
 
 save. 
 Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 340 
 
 Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh: 
 And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her 
 
 sweet, 
 If 't was too far that night for her soft 
 
 feet. 
 The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 
 Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 
 To a few paces ; not at all surmised 
 By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised: 
 They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. 
 So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 
 
 As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all, 350 
 Throughout her palaces imperial. 
 And all her populous streets and temples 
 
 lewd, 
 Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance 
 
 brew'd. 
 To the wide-spreaded night above her 
 
 towers. 
 Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool 
 
 hours, 
 Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement 
 
 white, 
 Companion'd or alone ; while many a light 
 Flared, here and there, from wealthy festi- 
 vals. 
 And threw their moving shadows on the 
 
 walls. 
 Or found them cluster'd in the corniced 
 
 shade 360 
 
 Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky 
 
 colonnade. 
 
 Muffling his face, of greeting friends in 
 
 fear. 
 Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came 
 
 near 
 With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and 
 
 smooth bald crown, 
 
152 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic 
 
 gown : 
 Lycius shrank closer, as they met and 
 
 past, 
 Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
 While hurried Lamia trembled: 'Ah,' said 
 
 he, 
 * Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 
 Why does your tender palm dissolve in 
 
 dew?' — 370 
 
 'I'm wearied,' said fair Lamia: 'tell me 
 
 who 
 Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 
 His features: — Lycius ! wherefore did you 
 
 blind 
 Yourself from his quick eyes ? ' Lycius 
 
 replied, 
 ' 'T is ApoUonius sage, my trusty guide 
 And good instructor; but to-night he seems 
 The ghost of folly haunting my sweet 
 
 dreams.' 
 
 While yet he spake they had arrived 
 
 before 
 A pillar'd porch, with lofty portal door. 
 Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor 
 
 glow 380 
 
 Reflected in the slabbed steps below. 
 Mild as a star in water; for so new 
 And so unsullied was the marble hue, 
 So through the crystal polish, liquid fine, 
 Ran the dark veins, that none but feet 
 
 divine 
 Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds 
 
 -Siolian 
 Breathed from the hinges, as the ample 
 
 span 
 Of the wide doors disclosed a place un- 
 known 
 Some time to any, but those two alone. 
 And a few Persian mutes, who that same 
 
 year 39° 
 
 Were seen about the markets: none knew 
 
 where 
 They could inhabit; the most curious 
 Were foil'd, who watch' d to trace them to 
 
 their house: 
 And but the flitter-winged verse must tell, 
 
 For truth's sake, what woe afterwards 
 befell, 
 
 'T would humour many a heart to leave 
 them thus. 
 
 Shut from the busy world of more incredu- 
 lous. 
 
 PART II 
 
 Love in a hut, with water and a crust. 
 
 Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, 
 
 dust; 
 Love in a palace is perhaps at last 
 More grievous torment than a hermit's 
 
 fast: — 
 That is a doubtful tale from faery land. 
 Hard for the non-elect to understand. 
 Had Lycius lived to hand his story down. 
 He might have given the moral a fresh 
 
 frown. 
 Or clench'd it quite: but too short was 
 
 their bliss 
 To breed distrust and hate, that make the 
 
 soft voice hiss. 10 
 
 Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
 Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
 Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful 
 
 roar. 
 Above the Untel of their chamber door. 
 And down the passage cast a glow upon 
 
 the floor. 
 
 For all this came a ruin: side by side 
 They were enthroned, in the even tide. 
 Upon a couch, near to a curtaining 
 Whose airy texture, from a golden string. 
 Floated into the room, and let appear 20 
 Unveil'd the summer heaven, blue and 
 
 clear, 
 Betwixt two marble shafts: — there they 
 
 reposed, 
 Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids 
 
 closed. 
 Saving a tithe which love still open kept, 
 That they might see each other while they 
 
 almost slept; 
 When from the slope side of a suburb 
 
 hill, 
 
LAMIA 
 
 153 
 
 Deafening the swallow's twitter, came a 
 
 thrill 
 Of trumpets — Lycius started — the sounds 
 
 fled, 
 But left a thought, a buzzing in his head. 
 For the first time, since first he harbour'd 
 
 in 30 
 
 That purple-lined palace of sweet sin. 
 His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 
 Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 
 The lady, ever watchful, penetrant. 
 Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 
 Of something more, more than her empery 
 Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh 
 Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 
 That but a moment's thought is passion's 
 
 passing bell. 
 
 * Why do you sigh, fair creature ? ' whis- 
 
 per'd he: 40 
 
 * Why do you think ? ' return'd she ten- 
 
 derly : 
 
 * You have deserted me ; — where am I 
 
 now ? 
 Not iu your heart while care weighs on 
 
 your brow: 
 No, no, you have dismiss'd me; and I go 
 From your breast houseless: aye, it must be 
 
 so.* 
 , He answer'd, bending to her open eyes, 
 Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, 
 ' My silver plauet, both of eve and morn ! 
 '. Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn. 
 While I am striving how to fill my heart 50 
 With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 
 1 How to entangle, trammel up and snare 
 Your soul iu mine, and labyrinth you 
 
 there, 
 Like the hid scent in an unbudded rose ? 
 Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty 
 
 woes. 
 My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Lis- 
 ten then ! 
 What mortal hath a prize, that other men 
 May be confounded and abash'd withal, 
 But lets it sometimes pace abroad majes- 
 
 tical. 
 And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 60 
 Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 
 
 Let my foes choke, and my friends shout 
 
 afar, 
 While through the thronged streets your 
 
 bridal car 
 Wheels round its dazzling spokes.' — The 
 
 lady's cheek 
 Trembled; she nothing said, but, pale and 
 
 meek, 
 Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 
 Of sorrows at his words ; at last with 
 
 pain 
 Beseeching him, the while his hand she 
 
 wrung, 
 To change his purpose. He thereat was 
 
 stung. 
 Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 70 
 Her wild and timid nature to his aim; 
 Besides, for all his love, in self despite, 
 Against his better self, he took delight 
 Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new. 
 His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 
 Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible 
 In one whose brow had no dark veins to 
 
 swell. 
 Fine was the mitigated fury, like 
 Apollo's presence when iu act to strike 
 The serpent — Ha ! the serpent ! certes, 
 
 she 80 
 
 Was none. She burnt, she loved the 
 
 tyranny. 
 And, all subdued, consented to the hour 
 When to the bridal he should lead his par- 
 amour. 
 Whispering in midnight silence, said the 
 
 youth, 
 ' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, 
 
 by my truth, 
 I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
 Not mortal, but of heavenly progeny, 
 As still I do. Hast any mortal name, 
 Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
 Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth. 
 To share our marriage feast and nuptial 
 
 mirth?' 91 
 
 ' I have no friends,' said Lamia, ' no, not 
 
 one; 
 My presence in wide Corinth hardly known: 
 My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
 
 .Vv^ c_ 
 
 V^ e V 
 
IS4 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 Sepulchred, where no kindled incense 
 
 burns, 
 Seeing all their luckless race are dead, 
 
 save me, 
 And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
 Even as you list invite your many guests; 
 But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
 With any pleasure on me, do not bid 100 
 Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid.' 
 Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and 
 
 blank. 
 Made close inquiry; from whose touch she 
 
 shrank, 
 Feigning a sleep; and he to the dull shade 
 Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 
 
 It was the custom then to bring away 
 The bride from home at blushing shut of 
 
 day, 
 Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
 By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage 
 
 song, 
 With other pageants: but this fair un- 
 known 1 10 
 Had not a friend. So being left alone, 
 (Lycius was gone to summon all his kin,) 
 And knowing surely she could never win 
 His foolish heart from its mad pompous- 
 
 ness, 
 She set herself, high-thoughted, how to 
 
 dress 
 The misery in fit magnificence. 
 She did so, but 't is doubtful how and 
 
 whence 
 Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
 About the halls, and to and from the doors. 
 There was a noise of wings, till in short 
 
 space 120 
 
 The glowing banquet - room shone with 
 
 wide-arched grace. 
 A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
 Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
 Throughout, as fearful the whole charm 
 
 might fade. 
 Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glade 
 Of palm and plantain, met from either side. 
 High in the midst, in honour of the bride : 
 Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 
 
 From either side their stems branch'd one 
 
 to one 
 All down the aisled place; and beneath all 
 There ran a stream of lamps straight on 
 
 from wall to wall. 131 
 
 So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
 Teeming with odours. Lamia, regal drest. 
 Silently paced about, and as she went. 
 In pale contented sort of discontent, 
 Mission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
 The fretted splendour of each nook and 
 
 niche. 
 Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at 
 
 first. 
 Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
 Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees, 140 
 And with the larger wove in small intrica- 
 cies. 
 Approving all, she faded at self-will, 
 And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd 
 
 and still. 
 Complete and ready for the revels rude. 
 When dreadful guests would come to spoil 
 
 her solitude. 
 
 The day appear'd, and all the gossip 
 rout. 
 
 O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore 
 flout 
 
 The silent-blessing fate, warm cloister'd 
 hours, 
 
 And show to common eyes these secret 
 bowers ? 
 
 The herd approach'd; each guest, with busy 
 brain, 150 
 
 Arriving at the portal, gazed amain. 
 
 And enter'd marvelling: for they knew the 
 street, 
 
 Remember'd it from childhood all complete 
 
 Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
 
 That royal porch, that high-built fair de- 
 mesne ; 
 
 So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and 
 keen : 
 
 Save one, who look'd thereon with eye se- 
 vere. 
 
 And with calm-planted steps walk'd in aus- 
 tere: 
 
LAMIA 
 
 ^55 
 
 'T was ApoUonius: something too he 
 
 laugh'd, 
 As though some knotty problem, that had 
 
 daft i6o 
 
 His patient thought, had now begun to 
 
 thaw. 
 And solve and melt: — 'twas just as he 
 
 foresaw. 
 
 He met within the murmurous vestibule 
 His young disciple. ' 'T is no common rule, 
 Lycius,' said he, 'for uninvited guest 
 To force himself upon you, and infest 
 With an unbidden presence the bright 
 
 throng 
 Of younger friends; yet must I do this 
 
 wrong. 
 And you forgive me.' Lycius blush'd, and 
 
 led 
 The old man through the inner doors broad- 
 spread; 170 
 With reconciling words and courteous mien 
 Turning into sweet milk the sophist's 
 spleen. 
 
 Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room, 
 Fill'd with pervading brilliance and per- 
 fume : 
 Before each lucid panel fuming stood 
 A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood. 
 Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, 
 Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the 
 
 soft 
 Wool - woof ed carpets : fifty wreaths of 
 
 smoke 
 From fifty censers their light voyage took 
 To the high roof, still mimick'd as they 
 
 rose iSi 
 
 Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds 
 
 odorous. 
 Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats in- 
 
 spher'd, 
 High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
 On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
 Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
 Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
 Came from the gloomy tun with merry 
 
 shine. 
 
 Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood. 
 Each shrining in the midst the image of a 
 God. 190 
 
 When in an antechamber every guest 
 Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure 
 
 press'd, 
 By ministering slaves, upon his hands and 
 
 feet, 
 And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
 Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the 
 
 feast 
 In white robes, and themselves in order 
 
 placed 
 Around the silken couches, wondering 
 Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of 
 
 wealth could spring. 
 
 Soft went the music the soft air along. 
 While fluent Greek a vowel'd imder-song 
 Kept up among the guests, discoursing 
 
 low 201 
 
 At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow; 
 But when the happy vintage touch'd their 
 
 brains, 
 Louder they talk, and louder come the 
 
 strains 
 Of powerful instruments: — the gorgeous 
 
 dyes, 
 The space, the splendour of the draperies, 
 The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer, 
 Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
 Now, when the wine has done its rosy 
 
 deed. 
 And every soul from human trammels 
 
 freed, 210 
 
 No more so strange ; for merry wine, sweet 
 
 wine, 
 Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too 
 
 divine. 
 Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; 
 Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes 
 
 double bright: 
 Garlands of every green, and every scent 
 From vales deflower'd, or forest - trees 
 
 branch-rent. 
 In baskets of bright osier'd gold were 
 
 brouffht 
 
156 
 
 THE POEMS OF 1818-1819 
 
 High as the handles heap'd, to suit the 
 
 thought 
 Of every guest: that each, as he did please, 
 Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow'd at 
 
 his ease. 220 
 
 What wreath for Lamia ? What for Ly- 
 
 cius ? 
 What for the sage, old ApoUonius ? 
 Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
 The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue ; 
 And for the youth, quick, let us strip for 
 
 him 
 The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may 
 
 swim 
 Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage, 
 Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle 
 
 wage 
 War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
 At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 230 
 There was an awful rainbow once in 
 
 heaven: 
 We know her woof, her texture; she is 
 
 given 
 In the dull catalogue of common things. 
 Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings. 
 Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, 
 Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
 Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
 The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a 
 
 shade. 
 
 By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
 Scarce saw in all the room another face, 240 
 Till, checking his love trance, a cup he 
 
 took 
 Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a 
 
 look 
 'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
 From his old teacher's wrinkled counte- 
 nance. 
 And pledge him. The bald-head philoso- 
 pher 
 Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or 
 
 stir. 
 Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride. 
 Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling 
 her sweet pride. 
 
 Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout 
 
 touch. 
 As pale it lay upon the rosy couch: 250 
 
 'T was icy, and the cold ran through his 
 
 veins; 
 Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
 Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
 
 * Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost 
 
 thou start ? 
 Know'st thou that man ? ' Poor Lamia an- 
 
 swer'd not. 
 He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
 Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: 
 More, more he gazed: his human senses 
 
 reel: 
 Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs: 
 There was no recognition in those orbs. 260 
 ' Lamia ! ' he cried — and no soft-toned 
 
 reply. 
 The many heard, and the loud revelry 
 Grew hush: the stately music no more 
 
 breathes ; 
 The myrtle sicken'd in a thousand wreaths. 
 By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure 
 
 ceased; 
 A deadly silence step by step increased. 
 Until it seem'd a horrid presence there. 
 And not a man but felt the terror in his 
 
 hair. 
 ' Lamia ! ' he shriek'd ; and nothing* but 
 
 the shriek 
 With its sad echo did the silence break. 270 
 
 * Begone, foul dream ! ' he cried, gazing 
 
 again 
 
 In the bride's face, where now no azure 
 vein 
 
 Wander 'd on fair-spaced temples; no soft 
 bloom 
 
 Misted the cheek; no passion to illume 
 
 The deep-recessed vision: — all was blight; 
 
 Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly 
 white. 
 
 ' Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruth- 
 less man ! 
 
 Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous 
 ban 
 
 Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 
 
 Here represent their shadowy presences. 
 
LAMIA 
 
 157 
 
 May pierce them on the sudden with the 
 thorn 281 
 
 Of painful blindness ; leaving thee for- 
 lorn, 
 
 In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 
 
 Of conscience, for their long - ofifended 
 might, 
 
 For all thine impious proud-heart sophis- 
 tries, 
 
 Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 
 , Corinthians ! look upon that gray-beard 
 wretch ! 
 
 Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids 
 stretch 
 
 Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 
 
 My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 
 ' * Fool ! ' said the sophist, in an under-tone 
 
 Gruff with contempt; which a death-uigh- 
 ing moan 
 
 From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and 
 lost. 
 
 He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 
 1 * Fool ! Fool ! ' repeated he, while his eyes 
 still 
 
 Relented not, nor moved; 'from every ill 
 Of life have I preserved thee to this day, 
 And shall I see thee made a serpent's 
 
 prey ? ' 
 Then Lamia breathed death breath; the 
 
 sophist's eye. 
 Like a sharp spear, went through her ut- 
 terly, 300 
 Keen, cruel, perceant, stinging: she, as 
 
 well 
 As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
 Motion 'd him to be silent; vainly so, 
 He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
 ' A serpent ! ' echoed he; no sooner said. 
 Than with a frightful scream she vanished: 
 And Lycius' arms were empty of delight, 
 As were his limbs of life, from that same 
 
 night. 
 On the high couch he lay ! — his friends 
 
 came round — 
 Supported him — no pulse or breath they 
 
 found, 3 10 
 
 And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body 
 
 wound. 
 
TRAGEDIES 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS 
 
 When Keats went to the Isle of Wight in 
 the early summer of 1819, it was with the de- 
 termination to make his literary powers yield 
 him a support, and the theatre, which he knew 
 well, offered the surest means, in his judg- 
 ment, for an immediate return. There was, 
 indeed, something of a literary revival of the 
 drama at this time, and Keats had often dis- 
 cussed with his friends the merits of plays then 
 before the public, and especially the character 
 of Kean's acting. They were rather skeptical 
 of Keats's ability to produce a successful play, 
 and their doubts had some good basis, if we 
 may judge from the account which Charles 
 Armitage Brown gives of Keats's mode of com- 
 position. Lord Houghton quotes the following 
 from a manuscript by Brown, who was Keats's 
 companion at Shanklin : ' At Shanklin he un- 
 dertook a difficult task : I engaged to furnish 
 him with the title, characters and dramatic 
 conduct of a tragedy, and he was to enwrap it 
 in poetry. The progress of this work was curi- 
 ous, for while I sat opposite to him, he caught 
 my description of each scene entire, with the 
 characters to be brought forward, the events, 
 and everything connected with it. Thus he 
 went on, scene after scene, never knowing nor 
 enquiring into the scene which was to follow, 
 iintil four acts were completed. It was then 
 he required to know at once all the events that 
 were to occupy the fifth act ; I explained them 
 to him, but, after a patient hearing and some 
 thought, he insisted that many incidents in it 
 were too humorous, or, as he termed them, too 
 melodramatic. He wrote the fifth act in ac- 
 cordance with his own views, and so contented 
 was I with his poetry that at the time, and for a 
 long time after, I thought he was in the right.' 
 
 Keats himself says little of the tragedy, ex- 
 cept as a piece of work solely designed for pro- 
 
 158 
 
 fit. ' Brown and I,' he writes to John Taylor, 
 his publisher, ' have together been engaged 
 (this I should wish to remain secret) on a Tra- 
 gedy which I have just finished and from 
 which we hope to share moderate profits. . . . 
 I feel every confidence that, if I choose, I may 
 be a popular writer. That I will never be ; 
 but for all that I will get a livelihood.' He 
 wrote shortly after to the same friend : ' Brown 
 likes the tragedy very much. But he is not a 
 fit judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife 
 to his plot ; and of course he will be fond of 
 his child.' The money to be got from the 
 tragedy was uppermost in his mind when he 
 wrote to his brother George, who shared his 
 pecuniary difficulties : ' We are certainly in a 
 very low estate — I say we, for 1 am in such a 
 situation, that were it not for the assistance of 
 Brown and Taylor, I must, be as badly off as a 
 man can be. I could not raise any sum by the 
 promise of any poem, no, not by the mortgage 
 of my intellect. We must wait a little while. 
 I really have hopes of success. I have finished 
 a tragedy, which if it succeeds will enable me 
 to sell what I may have in manuscript to a 
 good advantage. I have passed my time in 
 reading, writing, and fretting — the last I in- 
 tend to give up, and stick to the other two. 
 They are the only chances of benefit to us. . . . 
 Take matters as coolly as you can ; and confi- 
 dently expecting help from England, act as if 
 no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is a tol- 
 erable tragedy ; it would have been a bank to 
 me, if just as I had finished it, I had not heard 
 of Kean's resolution to go to America. That 
 was the worst news I could have had. There 
 is no actor can do the principal character be- 
 sides Kean. At Covent Garden there is a great 
 chance of its being damn'd. Were it to suc- 
 ceed even there it would lift me out of the 
 mire ; I mean the mire of a bad reputation 
 which is continually rising against me. My 
 name with the literary fashionables is vulgar. 
 I am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 159 
 
 lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as far 
 as regards our pockets.' 
 
 Keats continued to pin his faith on Kean. 
 ' The report seems now,' he writes to the same, 
 September 27, ' more in favour of Kean's stop- 
 ping- in Eng-land. If he should I have confi- 
 dent hopes of our tragedy. If he invokes the 
 hot-blooded character of Ludolph, — and he is 
 the only actor that can do it, — he will add to 
 
 his own fame and improve my fortune.' Keats 
 waited with slowly ebbing hopes. Elliston 
 read it, but wished to put it off till another 
 season. ' Perhaps,' Keats writes in December, 
 ' we may give it another furbish, and try it at 
 Covent Garden. 'T would do one's heart good 
 to see Macready in Ludolph.' But the play 
 never was acted at either Drury Lane or Co- 
 vent Garden. 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Otho the Great, Emperor of Germany. 
 
 Ludolph, his Son. 
 
 CoNBAD, Duke of Franconia. 
 
 Albert, a Knight, favoured by Otho. 
 
 SiGLFBED, an Officer, friend of Ludolph. 
 
 Theodore, | /-,a:„„~. 
 ' \ Officers. 
 60NFRED, ) 
 
 Ethelbert, an Abbot. 
 Gebsa, Prince of Hungary. 
 An Htmgariun Captain. 
 Physician. 
 Page. 
 
 Nobles, Knights, Attendants, and Soldiers. 
 Ebminia, Niece of Otho. 
 Aueanthe, Conrad^s Sister. 
 Ladies and Attendants. 
 Scene. — The Castle of Friedburg, its vicinity, and 
 the Hungarian Camp. 
 Time. — One Day. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. — Aji Apartment in the Castle 
 
 Enter Conrad. 
 Conrad. So, I am safe emerged from 
 these broils ! 
 f^mid the wreck of thousands I am whole ; 
 For every crime I have a laurel-wreath, 
 For every lie a lordship. Nor yet has 
 My ship of fortune f url'd her silken sails, — 
 Let her glide on ! This danger'd ueck is 
 
 saved, 
 By dexterous policy, from the rebel's axe; 
 A.nd of my ducal palace not one stone 
 [s bruised by the Hungarian petards. 
 Foil hard, ye slaves, and from the miser- 
 earth 10 
 Bring forth once more my bullion, trea- 
 sured deej), 
 
 With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and 
 
 gold, 
 And precious goblets that make rich the 
 
 wine. 
 But why do I stand babbling to myself ? 
 Where is Aurauthe ? I have news for 
 
 her 
 Shall — 
 
 Enter Auranthe. 
 
 Auranthe. Conrad ! what tidings ? Good, 
 if I may guess 
 From your alert eyes and high-lifted brows. 
 What tidings of the battle ? Albert ? Lu- 
 dolph ? Otho ? 
 Conrad. You guess aright. And, sister, 
 slurring o'er 
 Our by-gone quarrels, I confess my heart 
 Is beating with a child's anxiety, 21 
 
 To make our golden fortune known to 
 you. 
 Auranthe. So serious ? 
 Conrad. Yes, so serious, that before 
 
 I utter even the shadow of a hint 
 Concerning what will make that sin-worn 
 
 cheek 
 Blush joyous blood through every linea- 
 ment. 
 You must make here a solemn vow to 
 me. 
 Auranthe. I pr'ythee, Conrad, do not 
 overact 
 The hypocrite. What vow would you im- 
 pose ? 
 Conrad. Trust me for once. That you 
 may be assured 30 
 
 'T is not confiding to a broken reed, 
 A poor court-bankrupt, outwitted and lost, 
 
i6o 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Revolve these facts in your acutest mood, 
 In such a mood as now you listen to me: — 
 A few days since, I was an open rebel, — 
 Against the Emperor, had suborn'd his 
 
 son, — 
 Drawn off his nobles to revolt, — and 
 
 shown 
 Contented fools causes for discontent, 
 Fresh hatched in my ambition's eagle-nest; 
 So thrived I as a rebel, — and, behold ! 40 
 Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend, 
 His right hand, his brave Conrad. 
 
 Auranthe. I confess 
 
 You have intrigued with these unsteady 
 
 times 
 To admiration; but to be a favourite — 
 Conrad. I saw my moment. The Hun- 
 garians, 
 Collected silently in holes and corners, 
 Appear'd, a sudden host, in the open day. 
 I should have perish'd in our empire's 
 
 wreck, 
 But, calling interest loyalty, swore faith 
 To most believing Otho; and so help'd 50 
 His blood-stain'd ensigns to the victory 
 In yesterday's hard fight, that it has turn'd 
 The edge of his sharp wrath to eager kind- 
 ness. 
 Auranthe. So far yourself. But what is 
 this to me 
 More than that I am glad ? I gratulate 
 you, 
 Conrad. Yes, sister, but it does regard 
 you greatly. 
 Nearly, momentously, — aye, painfully ! 
 Make me this vow — 
 
 Auranthe. Concerning whom or what ? 
 Conrad. Albert ! 
 
 Auranthe. I would inquire somewhat of 
 him: 
 You had a letter from me touching him ? 60 
 Nb treason 'gainst his head in deed or 
 
 word ! 
 Surely you spared him at my earnest 
 
 prayer ? 
 Give me the letter — it should not ex- 
 ist ! 
 
 Conrad. At one pernicious charge of the 
 
 enemy, 
 I, for a moment- whiles, was prisoner ta'en 
 And rifled, — stuff ! the horses' hoofs have 
 
 minced it ! 
 Auranthe. He is alive ? 
 Conrad. He is ! but here make oath 
 
 To alienate him from your scheming brain, 
 Divorce him from your solitary thoughts. 
 And cloud him in such utter banishment, 70 
 That when his person meets again your 
 
 eye, 
 Your vision shall quite lose its memory, 
 And wander past him as through vacancy. 
 Auranthe. I '11 not be perjured. 
 Conrad. No, nor great, nor mighty; 
 
 You would not wear a crown, or rule a 
 
 kingdom. 
 To you it is indifferent. 
 
 Auranthe. What means this ? 
 
 Conrad. You '11 not be perjured ! Go to 
 
 Albert then. 
 That camp-mushroom — dishonour of our 
 
 house. 
 Go, page his dusty heels upon a inarch, 
 Furbish his jingling baldric while he sleeps, 
 And share his mouldy ration in a siege. 81 
 Yet stay, — perhaps a charm may call you 
 
 back, 
 And make the widening circlets of your 
 
 eyes 
 Sparkle with healthy fevers. — The Em- 
 peror 
 Hath given consent that you should marry 
 
 Ludolph ! 
 Auranthe. Can it be, brother ? For a 
 
 golden crown 
 With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank 
 
 you ! 
 This is to wake in Paradise ! Farewell 
 Thou clod of yesterday — 't was not my- 
 self ! 
 Not till this moment did I ever feel 90 
 
 My spirit's faculties ! I '11 flatter you 
 For this, and be you ever proud of it; 
 Thou, Jove-like, struck'dst thy forehead, 
 And from the teeming marrow of thy brain 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 i6i 
 
 I spring complete Minerva ! but the 
 
 prince — 
 His highness Ludolph — where is he ? 
 
 Conrad. I know not: 
 
 When, lackying my counsel at a beck, 
 The rebel lords, on bended knees, received 
 The Emperor's pardon, Ludolph kept aloof. 
 Sole, in a stiff, fool-hardy, sulky pride; loo 
 Yet, for all this, I never saw a father 
 In such a sickly longing for his son. 
 We shall soon see him, for the Emperor 
 He will be here this morning. 
 
 Auranthe. That I heard 
 
 Among the midnight rumours from the 
 
 camp. 
 Conrad. You give up Albert to me ? 
 Auranthe. Harm him not ! 
 
 E'en for his highness Ludolph's sceptry 
 
 hand, 
 I would not Albert suffer any wrong. 
 Conrad. Have I not laboured, plotted — ? 
 Auranthe. See you spare him: 
 
 Nor be pathetic, my kind benefactor ! no 
 On all the many bounties of your hand, — 
 'T was for yourself you laboured — not for 
 
 me ! 
 Do you not count, when I am queen, to 
 
 take 
 Advantage of your chance discoveries 
 Of my poor secrets, and so hold a rod 
 Over my life ? 
 
 Conrad. Let not this slave — this vil- 
 lain — 
 Be cause of feud between us. See ! he 
 
 comes ! 
 Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite 
 
 safe ! 
 In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the 
 
 way, 
 And wish'd with silent curses in my grave. 
 Or side by side with' whelmed mariners. 121 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 Albert. Fair on your graces fall this 
 early morrow ! 
 So it is like to do without my prayers. 
 For your right noble names, like favourite 
 tunes. 
 
 Have fallen full frequent from our Em- 
 peror's lips. 
 High commented with smiles. 
 
 Auranthe. Noble Albert ! 
 
 Conrad (aside). Noble ! 
 Auranthe. Such salutation argues a glad 
 heart 
 In our prosperity. We thank you, sir. 
 
 Albert. Lady ! 
 
 O, would to Heaven your poor servant 
 Could do you better service tbau mere 
 words ! 130 
 
 But I have other greeting than mine own, 
 From no less man than Otho, who has sent 
 This ring as pledge of dearest amity; 
 'Tis chosen I hear from Hymen's jewelry, 
 And you will prize it, lady, I doubt not. 
 Beyond all pleasures past, and all to come. 
 To you great duke — 
 
 Conrad. To me ! What of me, ha ? 
 
 Albert. What pleased your grace to say ? 
 Conrad. Your message, sir ! 
 
 Albert. You mean not this to me ? 
 Conrad. Sister, this way; 
 
 For there shall be no ' gentle Alberts ' now, 
 
 [ A side. 
 No ' sweet Auranthes ! ' 141 
 
 \_Exeunt Conrad and Auranthe. 
 Albert (solus). The duke is out of temper; 
 if he knows 
 More than a brother of his sister ought, 
 I should not quarrel with his peevishness. 
 Auranthe — Heaven preserve her always 
 
 fair ! — 
 Is in the heady, proud, ambitious vein; 
 I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell ! 
 She has taken flight from me, then let her 
 
 soar, — 
 He is a fool who stands at pining gaze ! 
 But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sor- 
 row: 150 
 No leveling bluster of my licensed thoughts. 
 No military swagger of my mind. 
 Can smother from myself the wrong I 've 
 
 done him, — 
 Without design indeed, — yet it is so, — 
 And opiate for the conscience have I none ! 
 
 ^Exit. 
 
1 62 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 The Cotirt-yard of the 
 Castle 
 
 Martial Music. Enter, from the outer gate, 
 Otho, Nobles, Knights, and Attendants. 
 The Soldiers halt at the gate, with Banners 
 in sight. 
 Otho. Where is my noble Herald ? 
 
 Enter Conrad, from the Castle, attended 
 by two Knights and Servants. Albert 
 following. 
 
 Well, hast told 
 Auranthe our intent imperial ? 
 Lest our rent banners, too o' the sudden 
 
 shown, 
 Should fright her silken casements, and 
 
 dismay 
 Her household to our lack of entertain- 
 ment. 
 A victory ! 
 
 Conrad. God save illustrious Otho ! 
 Otho. Aye, Courad, it will pluck out all 
 gray hairs; 
 It is the best physician for the spleen; 
 The courtliest iuviter to a feast; 
 The subtlest excuser of small faults; lo 
 
 And a nice judge in the age and smack of 
 wine. 
 
 Enter from the Castle, Auranthe, followed 
 by Pages, holding up her robes, and a train 
 of Women. She kneels. 
 
 Hail my sweet hostess ! I do thank the 
 
 stars. 
 Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes, 
 That, after sucli a merry battle fought, 
 I can, all safe in body and in soul. 
 Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too. 
 My ring ! now, on my life, it doth rejoice 
 These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory ! 
 Keep it, my brightest daughter; it may 
 
 prove 
 The little prologue to a line of kings, 20 
 I strove against thee and my hot-blood son, 
 Dull blockhead that I was to be so blind. 
 But now my sight is clear; forgive me, 
 
 lady. 
 
 Auranthe. My lord, I was a vassal to 
 
 your frown, 
 And now your favour makes me but more 
 
 humble; 
 In wintry wiuds the simple snow is safe. 
 But fadeth at the greeting of the sun: 
 Unto thine anger I might well have spoken. 
 Taking on me a woman's privilege. 
 But this so sudden kindness makes me 
 
 dumb. 30 
 
 Otho. What need of this? Enough, if 
 
 you will be 
 A potent tutoress to my wayward boy. 
 And teach him, what it seems his nurse 
 
 could not, 
 To say, for once, I thank you ! Sigifred ! 
 Albert. He has not yet returned, my 
 
 gracious liege. 
 Otho. What then ! No tidings of my 
 
 friendly Arab ? 
 Conrad. None, mighty Otho. 
 
 [ To one of his Knights who goes out. 
 
 Send forth instantly 
 
 An hundred horsemen from my honoured 
 
 gates. 
 To scour the plains and search the cot- 
 tages. 
 Cry a reward, to him who shall first bring 
 News of that vanished Arabian, 41 
 
 A full-heap'd helmet of the purest gold. 
 Otho. More thanks, good Conrad; for, 
 
 except my son's, 
 There is no face I rather would behold 
 Than that same quick-eyed pagan's. By 
 
 the saints. 
 This coming night of banquets must not 
 
 light 
 Her dazzling torches; nor the music 
 
 breathe 
 Smooth, without clashing cymbal, tones of 
 
 peace 
 And in-door melodies; nor the ruddy wine 
 Ebb spouting to the lees; if I pledge not, 50 
 In my first cup, that Arab ! 
 
 Albert. Mighty Monarch, 
 
 I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds 
 So hang upon your spirit. Twice in the 
 
 fight 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 163 
 
 It was my chance to meet his olive brow, 
 Triumphant in the enemy's shatter'd 
 
 rhomb; 
 And, to say truth, in any Christian arm 
 I never saw such prowess. 
 
 Otho. Did you ever ? 
 
 O, 't is a noble boy ! — tut ! — what do I 
 
 say? 
 I mean a triple Saladin, whose eyes, 
 When in the glorious scuffle they met 
 mine, 60 
 
 Seem'd to say — ' Sleep, old man, in safety 
 
 sleep; 
 I am the victory ! ' 
 
 Conrad. Pity he 's not here. 
 
 Otho. And my son too, pity he is not 
 here. 
 Lady Auranthe, I would not make you 
 
 blush. 
 But can you give a guess where Ludolph 
 
 is? 
 Know you not of him ? 
 
 Auranthe. Indeed, my liege, no secret — 
 Otho. Nay, nay, without more words, 
 
 dost know of him ? 
 Auranthe. I would I were so over-fortu- 
 nate, 
 Both for his sake and mine, and to make 
 
 glad 
 A father's ears with tidings of his son. 70 
 Otho. I see 't is like to be a tedious day. 
 Were Theodore and Gonfred and the rest 
 Sent forth with my commands ? 
 
 Albert. Aye, my lord. 
 
 Otho. And no news ! No news ! 'Faith ! 
 't is very strange 
 He thus avoids us. Lady, is 't not strange ? 
 Will he be truant to you too ? It is a 
 shame. 
 Conrad. Will 't please your highness en- 
 ter, and accept, 
 The unworthy welcome of your servant's 
 
 house ? 
 Leaving your cares to one whose diligence 
 May in few hours make pleasures of them 
 all. 80 
 
 Otho. Not so tedious, Conrad. No, no, 
 
 I must see Ludolph or the — What 's that 
 
 shout ? 
 Voices without. Huzza ! huzza ! Long live 
 
 the Emperor ! 
 Other voices. Fall back ! Away there ! 
 Otho. Say what noise is that ? 
 
 Albert advancing from the hack of the 
 Stage, tohither he had hastened on hearing 
 the cheers of the soldiery. 
 
 Albert. It is young Gersa, the Hungarian 
 prince, 
 Pick'd like a red stag from the fallow herd 
 Of prisoners. Poor prince, forlorn he steps. 
 Slow, and demure, and proud in his de- 
 spair. 
 If I may judge by his so tragic bearing, 89 
 His eye not downcast, and his folded arm. 
 He doth this moment wish himself asleep 
 Among his fallen captains on yon plains. 
 
 Enter Gersa, in chains, and guarded. 
 
 Otho. Well said, Sir Albert. 
 Gersa. Not a word of greeting, 
 
 No welcome to a princely visitor, 
 Most mighty Otho ? Will not my great 
 
 host 
 Vouchsafe a syllable, before he bids 
 His gentlemen conduct me with all care 
 To some securest lodging — cold perhaps ! 
 Otho. What mood is this? Hath fortune 
 
 touch'd thy brain ? 
 Gersa. O kings and princes of this fev'- 
 rous world, 100 
 
 What abject things, what mockeries must 
 
 ye be, 
 What nerveless minions of safe palaces ! 
 When here, a monarch, whose proud foot 
 
 is used 
 To fallen princes' necks, as to his stirrup, 
 Must needs exclaim that I am mad for- 
 sooth, 
 Because I cannot flatter with bent knees 
 My conqueror ! 
 
 Otho. Gersa, I think you wrong me: 
 I think I have a better fame abroad. 
 
 Gersa. I pr'ythee mock me not with gen- 
 tle speech, 109 
 
r64 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 But, as a favour, bid me from thy presence ; 
 Let me no longer be the wondering food 
 Of all these eyes; pr'ythee command me 
 
 hence ! 
 Otho. Do not mistake me, Gersa. That 
 
 you may not, 
 Come, fair Aurauthe, try if your soft hands 
 Can manage those hard rivets to set free 
 So brave a prince and soldier. 
 
 Auranthe (sets him free). Welcome task ! 
 Gersa. 1 am wound up in deep astonish- 
 ment ! 
 Thank you, fair lady. Otho ! emperor ! 
 You rob me of myself; my dignity 
 Is now your infant; I am a weak child. 120 
 Otho. Give me your hand, and let this 
 
 kindly grasp 
 Live in our memories. 
 
 Gersa. In mine it vnll. 
 
 I blush to think of my unchasten'd tongue; 
 But I was haunted by the monstrous ghost 
 Of all our slain battalions. Sire, reflect. 
 And pardon you will grant, that, at this 
 
 hour. 
 The bruised remnants of our stricken camp 
 Are huddling undistinguish'd my dear 
 
 friends, 
 With common thousands, into shallow 
 
 graves. 
 Otho. Enough, most noble Gersa. You 
 
 are free 130 
 
 To cheer the brave remainder of your host 
 By your own healing presence, and that 
 
 too, 
 Not as their leader merely, but their king; 
 For, as I hear, the wily enemy. 
 Who eased the crownet from your infant 
 
 brows, 
 Bloody Taraxa, is among the dead. 
 
 Gersa. Then I retire, so generous Otho 
 
 please. 
 Bearing with me a weight of benefits 
 Too heavy to be borne. 
 
 Otho. It is not so; 
 
 Still understand me, King of Hungary, 140 
 Nor judge my open purposes awry. 
 Though I did hold you high in my esteem 
 For your self's sake, I do not personate 
 
 The stage-play emperor to entrap applause, 
 To set the silly sort o' the world agape, 
 And make the politic smile; no, I have 
 
 heard 
 How in the Council you condemn'd this 
 
 war, 
 Urging the perfidy of broken faith, — 
 For that I am your friend. 
 
 Gersa. If ever, sire. 
 
 You are my enemy, I dare here swear 150 
 'T will not be Gersa's fault. Otho, fare- 
 well ! 
 Otho. Will you return. Prince, to our 
 
 banqueting ? 
 Gersa. As to my father's board I will 
 
 return. 
 Otho. Conrad, with all due ceremony, 
 
 give 
 The prince a regal escort to his camp; 
 Albert, go thou and bear him company. 
 Gersa, farewell ! 
 
 Gersa. All happiness attend you ! 
 
 Otho. Return with what good speed you 
 
 may; for soon 
 
 We must consult upon our terms of peace. 
 
 [^Exeunt Gersa and Albert with others. 
 
 And thus a marble column do I build 160 
 
 To prop my empire's dome. Conrad, in 
 
 thee 
 I have another steadfast one, to uphold 
 The portals of my state; and, for my own 
 Pre-eminence and safety, I will strive 
 To keep thy strength upon its pedestal. 
 For, without thee, this day I might have 
 
 been 
 A show-monster about the streets of Prague, 
 In chains, as just now stood that noble 
 
 prince: 
 And then to me no mercy had been shown. 
 For when the conquer'd lion is once dun- 
 
 geon'd, 170 
 
 Who lets him forth again ? or dares to 
 
 give 
 An old lion sugar-cakes of mild reprieve ? 
 Not to thine ear alone I make confession, 
 But to all here, as, by experience, 
 I know how the great basement of all 
 
 power •* 
 
 
SCENE III 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 165 
 
 Is frankness, and a true tongue to the 
 
 world ; 
 And how intriguing secrecy is proof 
 Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state. 
 Conrad, I owe thee much. 
 
 Conrad. To kiss that hand, 
 
 My emperor, is ample recompense, iSo 
 
 For a mere act of duty. 
 
 Otho. Thou art wrong; 
 
 For what can any man on earth do more ? 
 We will make trial of your house's wel- 
 come. 
 My bright Auranthe ! 
 
 Conrad. How is Friedburg honoured ! 
 
 Enter Ethelbert and six Monks. 
 
 Ethelbert. The benison of heaven on your 
 head, 
 Imperial Otho ! 
 
 Otho. Who stays me ? Speak ! Quick ! 
 Ethelbert. Pause but one moment, mighty 
 
 conqueror 
 
 Upon the threshold of this house of joy. 
 Otho. Pray, do not prose, good Ethelbert, 
 but speak 
 What is your purpose. 
 
 Ethelbert. The restoration of some cap- 
 tive maids, 190 
 Devoted to Heaven's pious ministries. 
 Who, driven forth from their religious 
 
 cells, 
 And kept in thraldom by our enemy. 
 When late this province was a lawless spoil. 
 Still weep amid the wild Hungarian camp, 
 Though hemm'd around by thy victorious 
 arms. 
 Otho. Demand the holy sisterhood in our 
 name 
 From Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethel- 
 bert. 
 Ethelbert. The saints will bless you for 
 
 this pious care. 
 Otho. Daughter, your hand; Ludolph's 
 would fit it best. 200 
 
 Conrad. Ho ! let the music sound ! 
 [Music. Ethelbert raises his hands, as in 
 benediction of Otho. Exeunt severally. 
 The scene closes on them. 
 
 Scene III. — T/te Country, with the 
 Castle in the distance 
 
 Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 
 
 Ludolph. You have my secret; let it not 
 
 be breathed. 
 Sigifred. Still give me leave to wonder 
 
 that the Prince 
 Ludolph and the swift Arab are the same; 
 Still to rejoice that 't was a German 
 
 arm 
 Death doing in a turban'd masquerade. 
 Ludolph. The emperor must not know it, 
 
 Sigifred. 
 Sigifred. I pr'ythee, why ? What hap- 
 pier hour of time 
 Could thy pleased star point down upon 
 
 from heaven 
 With silver index, bidding thee make 
 
 peace ? 
 Ludolph. Still it must not be known, good 
 
 Sigifred; 10 
 
 The star may point oblique. 
 
 Sigifred. If Otho knew 
 
 His son to be that unknown Mussulman, • 
 After whose spurring heels he sent me 
 
 forth. 
 With one of his well -pleased Olympian 
 
 oaths. 
 The charters of man's greatness, at this 
 
 hour 
 He would be watching round the castle 
 
 walls, 
 And, like an anxious warder, strain his 
 
 sight 
 For the first glimpse of such a son re- 
 
 turn'd — 
 Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians, 
 That Saracenic meteor of the fight, 20 
 
 That silent fury, whose fell scimitar 
 Kept danger all aloof from Otho's head, 
 And left him space for wonder. 
 
 Ludolph. Say no more. 
 
 Not as a swordsman would I pardon claim, 
 But as a son. The bronzed centurion. 
 Long toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high 
 
 deeds 
 Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, 
 
i66 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
 Of favour with my sire than I can have. 
 Sigifred, My lord, forgive me that I can- 
 not see 30 
 How this proud temper with clear reason 
 
 squares. 
 What made you then, with such an anxious 
 
 love, 
 Hover around that life, whose bitter days 
 You vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium. 
 Or the mad-fumed wine ? Nay, do not 
 
 frown, 
 I rather would grieve with you than up- 
 braid. 
 Ludolph. I do believe you. No, 't was not 
 to make 
 A father liis son's debtor, or to heal 
 His deep heart-sickness for a rebel child. 
 'T was done in memory of my boyish days. 
 Poor cancel for his kindness to my youth, 41 
 For all his calming of my childish griefs. 
 And all his smiles upon my merriment. 
 No, not a thousand foughten fields could 
 
 sponge 
 Those days paternal from my memory. 
 Though now upon my head he heaps dis- 
 grace. 
 Sigifred. My prince, you think too 
 
 harshly — 
 Ludolph. Can I so ? 
 
 Hath he not gall'd my spirit to the quick ? 
 And with a sullen rigour obstinate 49 
 
 Pour'd out a phial of wrath upon my faults ? 
 Hunted me as the Tartar does the boar, 
 Driven me to the very edge o' the world. 
 And almost put a price upon my head ? 
 Sigifred. Remember how he spared the 
 
 rebel lords. 
 Ludolph. Yes, yes, I know he hath a no- 
 ble nature 
 That cannot trample on the fallen. But 
 
 his 
 Is not the only proud heart in his realm. 
 He hath wrong'd me, and I have done him 
 
 wrong; 
 He hath loved me, and I have shown him 
 
 kindness; 
 We should be almost equal. 
 
 Sigifred. Yet, for all this, 
 
 I would you had appear'd among those 
 
 lords, 61 
 
 And ta'en his favour. 
 
 Ludolph. Ha ! till now I thought 
 
 My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour 
 
 dear. 
 What ! would you have me sue before his 
 
 throne 
 And kiss the courtier's missal, its silk 
 
 steps ? 
 Or hug the golden housings of his steed. 
 Amid a camp, whose steeled swarms I 
 
 dared 
 But yesterday ? And, at the trumpet 
 
 sound, 
 Bow like some unknown mercenary's flag 
 And lick the soiled grass ? No, no, my 
 
 friend, 70 
 
 I would not, I, be pardon'd in the heap. 
 And bless indemnity with all that scum, — 
 Those men I mean, who on my shoulders 
 
 propp'd 
 Their weak rebellion, winning me with 
 
 lies, 
 And pitying forsooth my many wrongs; 
 Poor self-deceived wretches, who must 
 
 think 
 Each one himself a king in embryo, 
 Because some dozen vassals cried — my 
 
 lord! 
 Cowards, who never knew their little hearts. 
 Till flurried danger held the mirror up, 80 
 And then they own'd themselves without a 
 
 blush. 
 Curling, like spaniels, round my father's 
 
 feet. 
 Such things deserted me and are forgiven, 
 While I, less guilty, am an outcast still. 
 And will be, for I love such fair disgrace. 
 Sigifred. I know the clear truth; so 
 
 would Otho see, 
 For he is just and noble. Fain would I 
 Be pleader for you — 
 
 Ludolph. He '11 hear none of it; 
 
 You know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate; 
 Endanger not yourself so uselessly. go 
 
 I will encounter his thwart spleen myself. 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 167 
 
 To-day, at the Duke Conrad's, where he 
 
 keeps 
 His crowded state after the victory, 
 There will I be, a most unwelcome guest. 
 And parley with him, as a son should do, 
 Who doubly loathes a father's tyranny; 
 Tell him how feeble is that tyranny; 
 How the relationship of father and son 
 Is no more valid than a silken leash 
 Where lions tug adverse, if love grow not 
 From interchanged love through many 
 
 years. 10 1 
 
 Aye, and those turreted Franconian walls, 
 Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl — 
 My fair Auranthe ! Yes, I will be there. 
 Sigifred. Be not so rash; wait till his 
 
 wrath shall pass, 
 Until his royal spirit softly ebbs 
 Self-influenced ; then, in his morning dreams 
 He will forgive thee, and awake in grief 
 To have not thy good morrow. 
 
 Ludolph. Yes, to-day 
 
 I must be there, while her young pulses 
 
 beat 1 10 
 
 Among the new - plumed minions of the 
 
 war. 
 Have you seen her of late ? No ? Au- 
 ranthe, 
 Franconia's fair sister, 't is I mean. 
 She should be paler for my troublous 
 
 days — 
 And there it is — my father's iron lips 
 Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my 
 
 right. 
 Sigifred (aside) . Auranthe ! I had hoped 
 
 this whim had pass'd. 
 Ludolph. And, Sigifred, with all his love 
 
 of justice, 
 When will he take that grandchild in his 
 
 arms. 
 That, by my love I swear, shall soon be 
 
 his ? 120 
 
 This reconcilement is impossible, 
 For see — but who are these ? 
 
 Sigifred. They are messengers 
 
 From our great emperor; to you, I doubt 
 
 not, 
 For couriers are abroad to seek you out. 
 
 Enter Theodore and Gonfred. 
 Theodore. Seeing so many vigilant eyes 
 explore 
 The province to invite your highness back 
 To your high dignities, we are too happy. 
 Gonfred. We have eloquence to colour 
 justly 
 The emperor's anxious wishes. 
 
 Ludolph. Go. I follow you. 
 
 \_Exeu7it Theodore atid Gonfred. 
 
 I play the prude: it is but venturing — 
 
 Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my 
 
 friend, 13 1 
 
 Let us to Friedburg castle. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — An antechamber in the Castle 
 
 Enter Ludolph and Sigifred. 
 
 Ludolph. No more advices, no more cau- 
 tioning; 
 
 I leave it all to fate — to any thing ! 
 
 I cannot square my conduct to time, place. 
 
 Or circumstance; to me 'tis all a mist ! 
 Sigifred. I say no more. 
 Ludolph. It seems I am to wait 
 
 Here in the anteroom ; — that may be a 
 trifle. 
 
 You see now how I dance attendance here, 
 
 Without that tyrant temper, you so blame, 
 
 Snapping the rein. You have medicined 
 me 
 
 With good advices; and I here remain, 10 
 
 In this most honourable anteroom, 
 
 Your patient scholar. 
 
 Sigifred. Do not wrong me, Prince. 
 
 By Heavens, I 'd rather kiss Duke Conrad's 
 slipper. 
 
 When in the morning he doth yawn with 
 pride. 
 
 Than see you humbled but a half-degree ! 
 
 Truth is, the Emperor would fain dismiss 
 
 The Nobles ere he sees you. 
 
 Enter Gonfred from the Council-room. 
 Ludolph. Well, sir ! what ? 
 
1 68 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Gonfred. Great honour to the Prince ! 
 
 The Eniperor, 
 Hearing that his brave son had reappeared, 
 Instant dismiss'd the Council from his 
 
 sight, 20 
 
 As Jove fans off the clouds. Even now 
 
 they pass. \_Exit. 
 
 Enter the Nobles from the Council-room. 
 They cross the Stage, bowing with respect 
 to LuDOLPH, he frowning on them. Con- 
 rad follows. Exeunt Nobles. 
 
 Ludolph. Not the discoloured poisons of 
 
 a fen, 
 Which he, who breathes, feels warning of 
 
 his death, 
 Could taste so nauseous to the bodily sense, 
 As these prodigious sycophants disgust 
 The soul's tine palate. 
 
 Conrad. Princely Ludolph, hail ! 
 
 Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the 
 
 realm ! 
 Strength to thy virgin crownet's golden 
 
 buds. 
 That they, against the winter of thy sire, 
 May burst, and swell, and flourish round 
 
 thy brows, 30 
 
 Maturing to a weighty diadem ! 
 Yet be tiiat hour far off; and may he live, 
 Who waits for thee, as the chapp'd earth 
 
 for rain. 
 Set my life's star ! I have lived long 
 
 enough, 
 Since under my glad roof, propitiously, 
 Father and son each other re-possess. 
 Ludolph. Fine wording, Duke ! but words 
 
 could never yet 
 Forestall the fates; have you not learnt that 
 
 yet? 
 Let me look well: your features are the 
 
 same; 
 Your gait the same ; your hair of the same 
 
 shade; 40 
 
 As one I knew some passed weeks ago, 
 Who sung far different notes into mine 
 
 ears. 
 I have mine own particular comments on 't; 
 You have your own, perhaps. 
 
 Conrad. My gracious Prince, 
 
 All men may err. In truth I was deceived 
 In your great father's nature, as you were. 
 Had I known that of him I have since 
 
 known, 
 And what you soon will learn, I would have 
 
 turn'd 
 My sword to my own throat, rather than 
 
 held 
 Its threatening edge against a good King's 
 
 quiet: 50 
 
 Or with one word fever'd you, gentle 
 
 Prince, 
 Who seem'd to me, as rugged times then 
 
 went, 
 Indeed too much oppress'd. May I be 
 
 bold 
 To tell the Emperor you will haste to him ? 
 Ludolph. Your Dukedom's privilege will 
 
 grant so much. 
 
 [Exit COXRAD. 
 He 's very close to Otho, a tight leech ! 
 Your hand — I go ! Ha ! here the thunder 
 
 comes 
 Sullen against the wind ! If in two angry 
 
 brows 
 My safety lies, then Sigifred, I 'm safe. 
 
 Enter Otho and Conrad. 
 
 Otho. Will you make Titan play the 
 
 lackey-page 60 
 
 To chattering pigmies ? I would have you 
 
 know 
 That such neglect of our high Majesty 
 Annuls all feel of kindred. What is son, — 
 Or friend — or brother — or all ties of 
 
 blood, — 
 When the whole kingdom, centred in our- 
 
 self. 
 Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ? 
 By Peter's chair ! I have upon my tongue 
 A word to fright the proudest spirit 
 
 here ! — 
 Death ! — and slow tortures to the hardy 
 
 fool. 
 Who dares take such large charter from 
 
 our smiles ! 70 
 
 Conrad, we would be private ! Sigifred ! 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 169 
 
 Off ! And none pass this way on pain of 
 death ! 
 
 \_Exeunt Conrad and Sigifred. 
 Ludolph. This was but half expected, my 
 good sire, 
 Yet I am grieved at it, to the full height, 
 As though my hopes of favour had been 
 whole. 
 OtTio. How you indulge yourself ! What 
 
 can you hope for ? 
 Ludolph. Nothing, my liege, I have to 
 hope for nothing. 
 I come to greet you as a loving son. 
 And then depart, if I may be so free, 
 Seeing that blood of yours in my warm 
 veins So 
 
 Has not yet mitigated into milk. 
 Otho. What would you, sir ? 
 Ludolph. A lenient banishment; 
 
 So please you let me unmolested pass 
 This Conrad's gates, to the wide air again. 
 I want no more. A rebel wants no more. 
 
 Olho. And shall I let a rebel loose again 
 To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my 
 
 head? 
 No, obstinate boy, you shall be kept caged 
 
 up. 
 Served with harsh food, with scum for 
 Sunday-drink. 
 Ludolph. Indeed ! 
 
 Otho. And chains too heavy for your life: 
 I '11 choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous 
 face go 
 
 Shall be a hell to look upon, and she — 
 Ludolph. Ha ! 
 
 Otho. Shall be your fair Auranthe. 
 Ludolph. Amaze ! Amaze ! 
 
 Otho. To-day you marry her. 
 Ludolph. This is a sharp jest ! 
 
 Otho. No. None at all. When have I 
 
 said a lie ? 
 Ludolph. If I sleep not, I am a waking 
 
 wretch. 
 Otho. Not a word more. Let me em- 
 brace my child. 
 Ludolph. I dare not. 'T would pollute 
 so good a father ! 
 O heavy crime! that your son's blinded eyes 
 
 Could not see all his parent's love aright. 
 As now I see it. Be not kind to me — loi 
 Punish me not with favour. 
 
 Olho. Are you sure, 
 
 Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ? 
 Ludolph. My father, none ! 
 Otho. Then you astonish me. 
 
 Ludolph. No, I have no plea. Disobedi- 
 ence, 
 Rebellion, obstinacy, blasphemy, 
 Are all my counsellors. If they can make 
 My crooked deeds show good and plausible, 
 Then grant me loving pardon, but not else, 
 Good Gods ! not else, in any way, my liege ! 
 Otho. You are a most perplexing, noble 
 boy. Ill 
 
 Ludolph. You not less a perplexing noble 
 
 father. 
 Otho. Well, you shall have free passport 
 through the gates. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Ludolph. Farewell ! and by these tears 
 believe. 
 And still remember, I repent in pain 
 All my misdeeds ! 
 
 Otho. Ludolph, I will ! I will ! 
 
 But, Ludolph, ere you go, I would inquire 
 If you, in all your wandering, ever met 
 A certain Arab haunting in tliese parts. 
 Ludolph. No, my good lord, I cannot say 
 I did. 120 
 
 Otho. Make not your father blind before 
 his time; 
 Nor let these arms paternal hunger more 
 For an embrace, to dull the appetite 
 Of my great love for thee, my supreme 
 
 child ! 
 Come close, and let me breathe into thine 
 
 ear. 
 I knew you through disguise. You are the 
 
 Arab ! 
 You can't deny it. [^Embracing him. 
 
 Ludolph. Happiest of days ! 
 
 Otho. We '11 make it so. 
 Ludolph. 'Stead of one fatted calf 
 
 Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last, 
 Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stun- 
 ningr mace 130 
 
lyo 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Of Mars, and all the soldiery shall feast 
 Nobly as Nimrod's masons, when the 
 
 towers 
 Of Nineveh new kiss'd the parted clonds ! 
 Otho. Large as a God speak out, where 
 
 all is thine. 
 Ludolph. Ay, father, but the fire in my 
 sad breast 
 Is quench'd with inward tears ! I must 
 
 rejoice 
 For yon, whose wings so shadow over me 
 In tender victory, but for myself 
 I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe 
 mine ! '39 
 
 Too great a boon ! I pr'ythee let me ask 
 What more than I know of could so have 
 
 changed 
 Your purpose touching her. 
 
 Otho. At a word, this: 
 
 In no deed did you give me more offence 
 Than your rejection of Erminia. 
 To my appalling, I saw too good proof 
 Of your keen-eyed suspicion, — she is 
 naught ! 
 Ludolph. You are convinced ? 
 Otho. Ay, spite of her sweet looks. 
 
 O, that my brother's daughter should so fall ! 
 Her fame has pass'd into the grosser lips 
 Of soldiers in their cups. 
 
 Ludolph. 'T is very sad. 
 
 Otho. No more of her. Auranthe — Lu- 
 dolph, come ! 151 
 This marriage be the bond of endless peace ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — The entrance of Gersa's 
 Tent in the Hungarian Camp 
 
 Enter Erminia. 
 
 Erminia. Where ! where ! where shall I 
 find a messenger ? 
 A trusty soul ? A good man in the camp ? 
 Shall I go myself ? Monstrous wicked- 
 ness ! 
 O cursed Conrad ! devilish Auranthe ! 
 Here is proof palpable as the bright sun ! 
 O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears ! 
 IShouts in the camp. 
 
 Enter an Hungarian Captain. 
 Captain. Fair prisoner, you hear those 
 joyous shouts ? 
 The king — aye, now oux king, — but still 
 
 your slave, 
 Young Gersa, from a short captivity 
 Has just returu'd. He bids me say, bright l 
 
 dame, 10 
 
 That even the homage of his ranged chiefs 
 Cures not his keen impatience to behold 
 Such beauty once again. What ails you, 
 lady? 
 Erminia. Say, is not that a German, yon- 
 der ? There ! 
 Captain. Methinks by his stout bearing 
 he should be — 
 Yes — it is Albert; a brave German knight, 
 And much in the Emperor's favour. 
 
 Erminia. I would fain 
 
 Inquire of friends and kinsfolk; how they 
 
 fared 
 In these rough times. Brave soldier, as 
 
 you pass 
 To royal Gersa with my humble thanks, 20 
 Will you send yonder knight to me ? 
 Captain. I will. [ExU. 
 
 Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be 
 a man 
 Frank, open, generous; Albert I may trust. 
 O proof ! proof ! proof ! Albert 's an 
 
 honest man; 
 Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here, 
 Would I hold more trustworthy. Now ! 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 
 Albert. Good Gods ! 
 
 Lady Erminia ! are you prisoner 
 In this beleaguer'd camp? Or are yon 
 
 here 
 Of your own will ? You pleased to send 
 
 for me. 
 By Venus, 't is a pity I knew not 3° 
 
 Your plight before, and, by her Son, I 
 
 swear 
 To do you every service you can ask. 
 What would the fairest — ? 
 
 Erminia. Albert, will you swear ? 
 
 Albert. I have. Well? 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 171 
 
 Erminia. Albert, you have fame to lose. 
 If men, in court and camp, lie not outright. 
 You should be, from a thousand, cliosen 
 
 forth 
 To do an honest deed. Shall I confide — ? 
 Albert. Aye, any thing to me, fair crea- 
 ture. Do ; 
 Dictate my task. Sweet woman, — 
 
 Erminia. Truce with that. 
 
 You understand me not ; and, in your 
 speech, 40 
 
 I see how far the slander is abroad. 
 Without proof could you think me inno- 
 cent ? 
 Albert. Lady, I should rejoice to know 
 
 you so. 
 Erminia. If you have any pity for a 
 maid, 
 Suffering a daily death from evil tongues; 
 Any compassion for that Emperor's niece. 
 Who, for your bright sword and clear hon- 
 esty. 
 Lifted you from the crowd of common men 
 Into the lap of honour; — save me, knight ! 
 Albert. How? Make it clear; if it be 
 possible, 50 
 
 I by the banner of Saint Maurice swear 
 To right you. 
 
 Erminia. Possible ! — Easy. O my 
 heart ! 
 This letter 's not so soil'd but you may 
 
 read it ; — 
 Possible ! There — that letter ! Read — 
 read it. \_Gives him a letter. 
 
 Albert (reading). 
 
 ' To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the 
 threat you made at parting, and I will for- 
 get to send the Emperor letters and papers 
 of yours I have become possessed of. His 
 life is no trifle to me; his death you shall 
 find none to yourself.' (Speaks to himself.) 
 'Tis me — my life that's pleaded for! 
 (Reads.) ' He, for his own sake, will be 
 dumb as the grave. Erminia has my shame 
 fix'd upon her, sure as a wen. We are 
 safe. 
 
 ' AURANTHE.' 
 
 A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp ! 
 Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon ! 
 Where got you this ? Where ? When ? 
 Ermiyiia. I found it in the tent, among 
 some spoils 
 Which, being noble, fell to Gersa's lot. 70 
 Come in, and see. 
 
 {^They go in and return. 
 Albert. Villainy ! Villainy ! 
 
 Conrad's sword, his corslet, and his helm, 
 And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel — 
 Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. 
 
 Haste, haste away ! 
 Albert. O, I am tortured by this villainy. 
 Erminia. You needs must be. Carry it 
 swift to Otho; 
 Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner 
 Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood. 
 Forced from their quiet cells, are parcel'd 
 
 out 
 For slaves among these Huns. Away ! 
 Away ! 80 
 
 Albert. I am gone. 
 
 Erminia. Swift be your steed ! Within 
 this hour 
 The Emperor will see it. 
 
 Albert. Ere I sleep: 
 
 That I can swear. [^Hurries out. 
 
 Gersa (without). Brave captains ! thanks. 
 Enough 
 Of loyal homage now ! 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 
 Erminia. Hail, royal Hun ! 
 
 Gersa. What means this, fair one ? Why 
 in such alarm ? 
 
 Who was it hurried by me so distract ? 
 
 It seem'd you were in deep discourse to- 
 gether; 
 
 Your doctrine has not been so harsh to 
 him 
 
 As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be 
 plain. 
 
 I am no jealous fool to kill you both, 90 
 
 Or, for such trifles, rob th' adorned world 
 
 Of such a beauteous vestal. 
 
 Erminia. I grieve, my Lord, 
 
 To hear j-ou condescend to ribald-phrase. 
 
172 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Gersa. This is too much ! Hearken, my 
 
 lady pure ! 
 Erminia. Silence ! and hear the magic of 
 a name — 
 Erminia ! I am she, — the Emperor's 
 
 niece ! 
 Praised be the Heavens, I now dare own 
 myself ! 
 Gersa. Erminia ! Indeed ! I 've heard 
 of her, 
 Pr'ythee, fair lady, what chance brought 
 you here ? 99 
 
 Erminia. Ask your own soldiers. 
 Gersa. And you dare own your name. 
 For loveliness you may — and for the rest 
 My vein is not censorious. 
 
 Erminia. Alas ! poor me ! 
 
 'Tis false indeed. 
 
 Gersa. Indeed you are too fair: 
 
 The swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast, 
 When to the stream she launches, looks 
 
 not back 
 With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings 
 So white as your soul is, if that but be 
 Twin picture to your face, Erminia ! 
 To-day, for the first day, I am a king, 109 
 Yet would I give my unworn crown away 
 To know you spotless. 
 
 Erminia. Trust me one day more. 
 
 Generously, without more certain guaran- 
 tee. 
 Than this poor face you deign to praise so 
 
 much; 
 After that, say and do whate'er you please. 
 If I have any knowledge of you, sir, 
 I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve 
 
 miich 
 To hear my story. O be gentle to me, 
 For I am sick and faint with many wrongs. 
 Tired out, and weary-worn with contume- 
 lies. 119 
 Gersa. Poor lady ! 
 
 Enter Ethelbert. 
 
 Erminia. Gentle Prince, 't is false indeed. 
 Good morrow, holy father ! I have had 
 Your prayers, though I look'd for you in 
 vain. 
 
 Ethelbert. Blessings upon you, daughter ! 
 Sure you look 
 Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days. 
 Young man, you heard this virgiu say 't was 
 
 false, — 
 'T is false, I say. What ! can you not 
 
 employ 
 Your temper elsewhere, 'mong those burly 
 
 tents, 
 But you must taunt this dove, for she hath 
 
 lost 
 The Eagle Otho to beat off assault ? 
 Fie ! Fie ! But I will be her guard my- 
 self, 130 
 I' the Emperor's name. I here demand 
 Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false ! 
 Gersa. Peace ! peace, old man ! I can- 
 not think she is. 
 Ethelbert. Whom I have known from her 
 first infancy, 
 Baptized her in the bosom of the Church, 
 Watch'd her, as anxious husbandmen the 
 
 grain. 
 From the first shoot till the unripe mid- 
 May, 
 Then to the tender ear of her June days. 
 Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid g^een. 
 Is blighted by the touch of calumny; 140 
 You cannot credit such a monstrous tale. 
 Gersa. I cannot. Take her. Fair Er- 
 minia, 
 I follow you to Friedburg, — is 't not so ? 
 Erminia. Ay, so we purpose. 
 Ethelbert. Daughter, do you so ? 
 
 How 's this ? I marvel ! Yet you look 
 not mad. 
 Erminia. I have good news to tell you, 
 
 Ethelbert. 
 Gersa. Ho ! ho, there ! Guards ! 
 Your blessing, father ! Sweet Erminia, 
 Believe me, I am well nigh sure — 
 
 Erminia. Farewell 
 
 Short time will show. {Enter Chiefs. 
 
 Yes, father Ethelbert, 
 
 I have news precious as we pass along. 151 
 
 Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall guide 
 
 me. 
 Erminia. To no ill. 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 173 
 
 Gersa. Command an escort to the Fried- 
 burg lines. [^Exeunt Chiefs. 
 Pray let me lead. Fair lady, forget not 
 Gersa, how he believed you innocent. 
 I follow you to Friedburg with all speed. 
 
 \_Exeunt. 
 
 ACT III 
 Scene I. — The Country 
 Enter Albert. 
 Albert. O that the earth were empty, as 
 
 when Cain 
 Had no perplexity to bide his head ! 
 Or that the sword of some brave enemy 
 Had put a sudden stop to my hot breath, 
 And hurl'd me down the illimital)le gulf 
 Of times past, unremember'd ! Better so 
 Than thus fast-limed in a cursed snare, 
 The white limbs of a wanton. This the end 
 Of an aspiring life ! My boyhood past 
 In feud with wolves and bears, when no 
 
 eye saw 10 
 
 The solitary warfare, fought for love 
 Of honour "mid the growling wilderness. 
 My sturdier youth, maturing to the sword. 
 Won by the syren-trumpets, and the riug 
 Of shields upon the pavement, when bright 
 
 mail'd 
 Henry the Fowler pass'd the streets of 
 
 Prague. 
 Was 't to this end I louted and became 
 The menial of Mars, and held a spear 
 Sway'd by command, as corn is by the 
 
 wind ? 
 Is it for this, I now am lifted up 20 
 
 By Europe's throned Emperor, to see 
 My honour be my executiouer, — 
 My love of fame, my prided honesty 
 Put to the torture for confessional ? 
 Then the damn'd crime of blurting to the 
 
 world 
 A woman's secret ! — Though a fiend she 
 
 be. 
 Too tender of my ignominious life; 
 But then to wrong the generous Emperor 
 In such a searching point, were to give up 
 
 My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday ! 30 
 I must confess, — aud cut my throat, — to- 
 day ? 
 To-morrow ? Ho ! some wine ! 
 
 Enter Sigifred. 
 
 Sigifred. A fine humour — 
 
 Albert. Who goes there ? Count Sigi- 
 fred ? Ha! ha! 
 Sigifred. What, man, do you mistake the 
 hollow sky 
 For a throng'd tavern, — aud these stubbed 
 
 trees 
 For old serge hangings, — me, your humble 
 
 friend. 
 For a poor waiter ? Why, man, how you 
 
 stare ! 
 What gipsies have you been carousing 
 
 with? 
 No, no more wine; methinks you've had 
 enough. 39 
 
 Albert. You well may laugh and banter. 
 What a fool 
 An injury may make of a staid man ! 
 You shall know all anon. 
 
 Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ? 
 
 Albert. 'T was with some people out of 
 common reach; 
 Revenge is difficult. 
 
 Sigifred. I am your friend; 
 
 We meet again to-day, and can confer 
 Upon it. For the present I 'm in haste. 
 Albert. Whither? 
 
 Sigifred- To fetch King Gersa to the 
 feast. 
 The Emperor on this marriage is so hot, 
 Pray Heaven it end not in apoplexy ! 
 The very porters, as I pass'd the doors, 50 
 Heard his loud laugh, aud auswer'd in full 
 
 choir. 
 I marvel, Albert, you delay so long 
 From these bright revelries; go, show your- 
 self, 
 You may be made a duke. 
 
 Albert. Ay, very like: 
 
 Pray, what day has his Highness fix'd 
 upon ? 
 Sigifred. For what ? 
 
174 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT III 
 
 Albert. The marriage. What else can I 
 
 mean ? 
 Sigifred. To-day. O, I forgot, you could 
 not know; 
 The news is scarce a minute old with me. 
 Albert. Married to-day ! To-day ! You 
 
 did not say so ? 
 Siyifred. Now, while I speak to you, 
 their comely heads 60 
 
 Are bow'd before the mitre. 
 
 Albert. O ! monstrous ! 
 
 Sigifred. What is this ? 
 
 Albert. Nothing, Sigifred. Farewell ! 
 
 We '11 meet upon our subject. Farewell, 
 
 count ! \^Exit. 
 
 Sigifred. Is this clear-headed Albert ? 
 
 He brain-turn'd ! 
 
 'T is as portentous as a meteor. [Exit. 
 
 Scene II. — An Apartment in the Castle 
 Enter as from the Marriage, Otho, Lu- 
 
 DOLPH, AURANTHE, CONRAD, NobleS, 
 
 Knights, Ladies, etc. Music. 
 
 Otho. Now Ludolph ! Now, Auranthe ! 
 Daughter fair ! 
 What can I find to grace your nuptial 
 
 day 
 More than my love, and these wide realms 
 in fee ? 
 Ludolph. I have too much. 
 Auranthe. And I, my liege, by far. 
 
 Ludolph. Auranthe ! I have ! O, my 
 bride, my love ! 
 Not all the gaze upon us can restrain 
 My eyes, too long poor exiles from thy 
 
 face, 
 From adoration, and my foolish tongue 
 From uttering soft responses to the love 
 I see in thy mute beauty beaming forth ! 10 
 Fair creature, bless me with a single word ! 
 All mine ! 
 
 Auranthe. Spare, spare me, my Lord; I 
 
 swoon else. 
 Ludolph. Soft beauty ! by to-morrow I 
 should die, 
 Wert thou not mine. 
 
 [They talk apart. 
 
 1st Lady. How deep she has bewitch'd 
 him ! 
 
 1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for 
 love philtres. 
 
 2c? Lady. They hold the Emperor in ad- 
 miration. 
 
 Otho. If ever king was happy, that am I ! 
 What are the cities 'yond the Alps to 
 
 me. 
 The provinces about the Danube's mouth, 
 The promise of fair sail beyond the Rhone; 
 Or routing out of Hyperborean hordes, 21 
 To these fair children, stars of a new age ? 
 Unless perchance I might rejoice to win 
 This little ball of earth, and chuck it them 
 To play with ! 
 
 Auranthe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know. 
 
 Ludolph. Let me not famish. 
 
 Otho {to Conrad). Good Franconia, 
 
 You heard what oath I sware, as the sun 
 
 rose. 
 That unless Heaven would send me back 
 
 my sou. 
 My Arab, — no soft music should enrich 
 The cool wine, kiss'd off with a soldier's 
 smack; 30 
 
 Now all my empire, barter'd for one feast, 
 Seems poverty. 
 
 Conrad. Upon the neighbour-plain 
 
 The heralds have prepared a royal lists; 
 Your kniglits, found war-proof in the bloody 
 
 field. 
 Speed to the game. 
 
 Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ? 
 
 Ludolph. My lord ! 
 
 Otho. A tourney ? 
 
 Conrad. Or, if 't please you best — 
 
 Ludolph. I want no more ! 
 
 1st Lady. He soars ! 
 
 2d Lady. Past all reason. 
 
 Ludolph. Though heaven's choir 
 Should in a vast circumference descend 39 
 And sing for my delight, I 'd stop my ears ! 
 Though bright Apollo's car stood burning 
 
 here. 
 And he put out an arm to bid me mount, 
 His touch an immortality, not I ! 
 This earth, this palace, this room, Auranthe ! 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 ^75 
 
 Oiho. This is a little painful; just too 
 much. 
 Jonrad, if he flames longer in this wise, 
 
 shall believe in wizard-woven loves 
 ind old romances; but I '11 break the spell, 
 iudolph ! 
 
 Conrad. He '11 be calm, anon. 
 
 Ludolpk. You call'd ! 
 
 res, yes, yes, I offend. You must forgive 
 
 me: so 
 
 fot being quite recover'd from the stun 
 
 >f your large bounties. A tourney, is it 
 
 not? 
 , [^ senet heard faintly. 
 
 I Conrad. The trumpets reach us. 
 ' Ethelhert (without). On your peril, sirs, 
 •etain us ! 
 
 1st Voice (without). Let not the abbot 
 pass. 
 
 2d Voice (without). No, 
 •n your lives ! 
 
 1st Voice (without). Holy father, you 
 must not. 
 
 Ethelbert (without). Otho ! 
 
 Otho. Who calls on Otho ? 
 
 Ethelbert (without). Ethelbert ! 
 
 . Otho. Let him come in. 
 I 
 
 Enter Ethelbert leading in Erminia. 
 
 Thou cursed abbot, why 
 !ast brought pollution to our holy rites ? 
 ast thou no fear of hangman, or the fag- 
 
 got? 
 Ludolph. What portent — what strange 
 
 prodigy is this ? 6o 
 
 Conrad. Av/aj ! 
 Ethelbert. You, Duke ? 
 
 Erminia. Albert has surely fail'd me ! 
 Dok at the Emperor's brow upon me 
 
 bent! 
 Ethelbert. A sad delay ! 
 Conrad. Away, thou guilty thing ! 
 
 Ethelbert. You again, Duke ? Justice, 
 
 most noble Otho ! 
 ou — go to your sister there and plot 
 
 again, 
 quick plot, swift as thought to save your 
 
 heads ; 
 
 For lo ! the toils are spread around your 
 
 den, 
 The world is all agape to see dragg'd forth 
 Two ugly monsters. 
 
 Ludolph. What means he, my lord ? 
 
 Conrad. I cannot guess. 
 Ethelbert. Best ask your lady sister, 
 
 Whether the riddle puzzles her beyond 71 
 The power of utterance. 
 
 Conrad. Foul barbarian, cease; 
 
 The Princess faints ! 
 
 Ludolph. Stab him ! O, sweetest wife ! 
 [Atteiidants bear o^Auranthe. 
 Erminia. Alas ! 
 Ethelbert. Your wife ! 
 
 Ludolph. Ay, Satan ! does thatyerkye ? 
 Ethelbert. Wife ! so soon ! 
 Ludolph. Ay, wife ! Oh, impudence ! 
 Thou bitter mischief ! Venomous bad 
 
 priest ! 
 How dar'st thou lift those beetle brows at 
 
 me? 
 Me — the prince Ludolph, in this presence 
 here, 78 
 
 Upon my marriage day, and scandalize 
 My joys with such opprobrious surprise ? 
 Wife ! Why dost linger on that syllable. 
 As if it were some demon's name pro- 
 nounced 
 To summon harmful lightning, and make 
 
 yawn 
 The sleepy thunder ? Hast no sense of 
 
 fear? 
 No ounce of man in thy mortality ? 
 Tremble ! for, at my nod, the sharpen'd axe 
 Will make thy bold tongue quiver to the 
 
 roots, 
 Those gray lids wink, and thou not know 
 it, monk ! 
 Ethelbert. O, poor deceived Prince ! I 
 pity thee ! 89 
 
 Great Otho ! I claim justice — 
 
 Ludolph. Thou shalt have 't ! 
 
 Thine arms from forth a pulpit of hot fire 
 Shall sprawl distracted ! O that that dull 
 
 cowl 
 Were some most sensitive portion of thy 
 life. 
 
176 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT III 
 
 That I might give it to my hounds to tear ! 
 
 Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve 
 
 To girth ray saddle ! And those devil's 
 beads 
 
 Each one a life, that I might, every day, 
 
 Crush cue with Vulcan's hammer ! 
 
 Otho. Peace, my son ; 
 
 You far outstrip my spleen in this affair. 
 
 Let us be calm, and hear the abbot's plea 
 
 For this intrusion. 
 
 Ludolph. I am silent, sire. 
 
 Otho. Courad, see all depart not wanted 
 here. 102 
 
 \_Exeunt Knights, Ladies, etc. 
 
 Ludolph, be calm. Ethelbert, peace awhile. 
 
 This mystery demands an audience 
 
 Of a just judge, and that will Otho be. 
 Ludolph. Why has he time to breathe 
 
 another word ? 
 Otho. Ludolph, old Ethelbert, be sure, 
 comes not 
 
 To beard us for no cause ; he 's not the 
 man 
 
 To cry himself up an ambassador 
 
 Without credentials. 
 
 Ludolph. I '11 chain up myself. 
 
 Otho. Old abbot, stand here forth. Lady 
 
 Erminia, m 
 
 Sit. And now, abbot ! what have you to 
 say? 
 
 Our ear is open. First we here denounce 
 
 Hard penalties against thee, if 't be found 
 
 The caiise for which you have disturb'd us 
 here, 
 
 "Making our bright hours muddy, be a thing 
 
 Of little moment. 
 
 Ethelbert. See this innocent ! 
 
 Otho ! thou father of the people call'd. 
 
 Is her life nothing ? Her fair honour no- 
 thing ? 
 
 Her tears from matins until even-song 120 
 
 Nothing ? Her burst heart nothing ? Em- 
 peror ! 
 
 Is this your gentle niece — the simplest 
 flower 
 
 Of the world's herbal — this fair lily 
 blanch'd 
 
 Still with the dews of piety, this meek lady 
 
 Here sitting like an angel newly-shent, 
 Who veils its snowy wings and grows all 
 
 pale, — 
 Is she nothing ? 
 
 Otho. What more to the purpose, abbot ? 
 
 Ludolph. Whither is he winding ? 
 
 Conrad. No clue yet ! 
 
 Ethelbert. You have heard, my Liege, and 
 
 so, no doubt, all here, 129 
 
 Foul, poisonous, malignant whisperings; 
 
 Nay open speech, rude mockery grown 
 
 common. 
 Against the spotless nature and clear fame 
 Of the princess Erminia, your niece. 
 I have intruded here thus suddenly, 
 Because 1 hold those base weeds, with tight 
 
 hand. 
 Which now disfigure her fair growing stem, 
 Waiting but for your sign to pull them up 
 By the dark roots, and leave her palpable. 
 To all men's sight, a lady innocent. 
 The ignominy of that whisper'd tale 140 
 About a midnight gallant, seen to climb 
 A window to her chamber neighbour'd 
 
 near, 
 I will from her turn off, and put the load 
 On the right shoulders; on that wretch's 
 
 head, 
 Who, by close stratagems, did save her- 
 self, 
 Chiefly by shifting to this lady's room 
 A rope-ladder for false witness. 
 
 Ludolph. Most atrocious ! 
 
 Otho. Ethelbert, proceed. 
 Ethelbert. With sad lips I shall: 
 
 For, in the healing of one wound, I fear 
 To make a greater. His young highness 
 here 150 
 
 To-day was married. 
 Ludolph. Good. 
 
 Ethelbert. Would it were good ! 
 
 Yet why do I delay to spread abroad 
 The names of those two vipers, from whose 
 
 jaw 
 A deadly breath went forth to taint and 
 
 blast 
 This guileless lady ? 
 
 Otho. Abbot, speak their names. 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 177 
 
 Ethelbert. A minute first. It cannot be 
 — but may 
 I ask, great judge, if you to-day have put 
 A letter by unread ? 
 
 Otho. Does 't end in this ? 
 
 Conrad. Out with their names ! 
 Ethelbert. Bold sinner, say you so ? 
 
 Ludolph. Out, hideous monk ! 
 Otho. Confess, or by the wlieel — 
 
 Ethelbert. My evidence cannot be far 
 away; 161 
 
 And, though it never come, be on my head 
 The crime of passing an attaint upon 
 The slanderers of this virgin. 
 
 Ludolph. Speak aloud ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Auranthe, and her brother 
 
 there. 
 Conrad. Amaze ! 
 
 Ludolph. Throw them from the win- 
 dows ! 
 Otho. Do what you will ! 
 Ludolph. What shall I do with them ? 
 Something of quick dispatch, for should she 
 
 hear, 
 My soft Auranthe, her sweet mercy would 
 Prevail against my fury. Damned priest ! 
 What swift death wilt thou die ? As to the 
 lady, 171 
 
 I touch her not. 
 
 Ethelbert. Illustrious Otho, stay ! 
 
 An ample store of misery thou hast. 
 Choke not the granary of thy noble mind 
 With more bad bitter grain, too difficult 
 A cud for the repentance of a man 
 Gray-growing. To thee only I appeal, 
 Not to thy noble son, whose yeasting youth 
 Will clear itself, and crystal turn again. 
 A young man's heart, by Heaven's bless- 
 ing, is 180 
 A wide world, where a thousand new-born 
 
 hopes 
 Empurple fresh the melancholy blood : 
 But an old man's is narrow, tenantless 
 Of hopes, and stuff 'd with many memories, 
 Which, being pleasant, ease the heavy 
 
 pulse — 
 Painful, clog up and stagnate. Weigh this 
 matter 
 
 Even as a miser balances his coin ; 
 
 And, in the name of mercy, give command 
 
 That your knight Albert be brought here 
 
 before you. 189 
 
 He will expound this riddle; he will show 
 A noon-day proof of bad Auranthe's guilt. 
 Otho. Let Albert straight be suinmon'd. 
 \_Exit one of the Nobles. 
 Ludolph. Impossible ! 
 
 I cannot doubt — I will not — no — to 
 
 doubt 
 Is to be ashes ! — wither'd up to death ! 
 Otho. My gentle Ludolph, harbour not a 
 
 fear; 
 You do yourself much wrong. 
 
 Ludolph. O, wretched dolt ! 
 
 Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck. 
 Wilt thou infuriate me? Proof! Thou fool! 
 Why wilt thou tease impossibility igq 
 
 With such a thick-skuU'd persevering suit ? 
 Fanatic obstinacy ! Prodigy ! 
 Monster of folly ! Ghost of a turn'd 
 
 brain ! 
 You puzzle me, — you haunt me, — when I 
 
 dream 
 Of you my brain will split ! Bold sor- 
 cerer ! 
 Juggler ! May I come near you ? On my 
 
 soul 
 I know not whether to pity, curse, or 
 
 laugh. 
 
 Enter Albert, and the Nobleman. 
 
 Here, Albert, this old phantom wants a 
 proof ! 
 
 Give him his proof ! A camel's load of 
 proofs ! 
 Otho. Albert, I speak to you as a man 
 
 Whose words once utter'd pass like current 
 gold; 210 
 
 And therefore fit to calmly put a close 
 
 To this brief tempest. Do you stand pos- 
 sess'd 
 
 Of any proof against the honourableness 
 
 Of Lady Auranthe, our new-spoused daugh- 
 ter ? 
 Albert. You chill me with astonishment. 
 How 's this ? 
 
178 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT III 
 
 My liege, what proof should I have 'gainst 
 
 a fame 
 Impossible of slur ? 
 
 [Otho rises. 
 Erminia. O wickedness ! 
 
 Ethelbert. Deluded monarch, 't is a cruel 
 lie. 218 
 
 Oiho. Peace, rebel-priest ! 
 Conrad. Insult beyond credence ! 
 
 Erminia. Almost a dream ! 
 Ludolph. We have awaked from ! 
 
 A foolish dream that from my brow hath 
 
 wrung 
 A wrathful dew. O folly !- why did I 
 So act the lion with this silly gnat ? 
 Let them depart. Lady Erminia ! 
 I ever grieved for you, as who did not ? 
 But now you have, with such a brazen 
 
 front, 
 So most maliciously, so madly striven 
 To dazzle the soft moon, when tenderest 
 
 clouds 
 Should be unloop'd around to curtain her; 
 I leave you to the desert of the world 230 
 Almost with pleasure. Let them be set 
 
 free 
 For me ! I take no personal revenge 
 More than against a nightmare, which a 
 
 man 
 Forgets in the new dawn. [^Exit Ludolph. 
 Olho. Still in extremes ! No, they must 
 
 not be loose. 
 Ethelbert. Albert, I must suspect thee of 
 a crime 
 So fiendish — 
 
 Otho. Fear'st thou not my fury, monk ? 
 Conrad, be they in your safe custody 
 Till we determine some fit punishment. 240 
 It is so mad a deed, I must reflect 
 And question them in private; for per- 
 haps. 
 By patient scrutiny, we may discover 
 Whether they merit death, or should be 
 
 placed 
 In care of tlie physicians. 
 
 [^Exeunt Otho and Nobles, Albebt 
 following. 
 
 Conrad. My guards, ho ! 
 Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there ? 
 Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back, 
 Aud shrink away from a weak woman's 
 
 eye? 
 Turn, thou court - Janus ! thou forgett'st 
 
 thyself; 
 Here is the duke, waiting with open 
 arms, 
 
 Enter Guards. 
 To thank thee; here congratulate each 
 other; 250 
 
 Wring hands; embrace; and swear how 
 
 lucky 't was 
 That I, by happy chance, hit the right 
 
 man 
 Of all the world to trust in. 
 
 Albert. Trust ! to me ! 
 
 Conrad (aside). He is the sole one in this 
 
 mystery. 
 Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my 
 prayers for Heaven ! 
 You, who could do this deed, would ne'er 
 
 relent. 
 Though, at my words, the hollow prison- 
 vaults 
 Would groan for pity. 
 
 Conrad. Manacle them both ! 
 
 Ethelbert. I know it — it must be — I 
 see it all ! 259 
 
 Albert, thou art the minion ! 
 
 Erminia. Ah ! too plain — 
 
 Conrad. Silence ! Gag up their mouths ! 
 I cannot bear 
 More of this brawling. That the Emperor 
 Had placed you in some other custody ! 
 Bring them away. 
 
 ^Exeunt all but Albert. 
 Albert. Though my name perish from 
 the book of honour. 
 Almost before the recent ink is dry. 
 And be no more remeraber'd after death, 
 Than any drummer's in the muster-roll; 
 Yet shall I season high my sudden fall 269 
 With triumph o'er that evil-witted duke ! 
 He shall feel what it is to have the hand 
 Of a man drowning, on his hateful throat. 
 
SCENE 1 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 179 
 
 Enter Gersa and Sigifked. 
 Gersa. What discord is at ferment in 
 
 this house ? 
 Sigifred. We are without conjecture; not 
 a soul 
 We met could answer any certainty. 
 
 Gersa. Young Ludolph, like a fiery ar- 
 row, shot 
 By us. 
 
 Sigifred. The Emperor, with cross'd 
 
 arms, in thought. 
 Gersa. In one room music, in another 
 sadness. 
 Perplexity every where ! 
 
 Albert. A trifle more ! 
 
 Follow ; your presences will much avail 280 
 To tune our jarred spirits. 1 '11 explain. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene I. — Avranthe's Apariment 
 AuRANTHE and Conrad discovered. 
 
 Conrad. Well, well, I know what ugly 
 
 jeopardy 
 We are caged in ; you need not pester that 
 Into my ears. Pr'ythee, let me be spared 
 A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me 
 Of remedies with some deliberation. 
 You cannot doubt but 't is in Albert's 
 
 power 
 To crush or save us ? 
 
 Auranthe. No, I cannot doubt. 
 
 He has, assure yourself, by some strange 
 
 means, 
 My secret; which I ever hid from him, 9 
 Knowing his mawkish honesty. 
 
 Conrad. Cursed slave ! 
 
 Auranthe. Ay, I could almost curse him 
 
 now myself. 
 Wretched impediment ! Evil genius ! 
 A glue upon my wings, that cannot spread. 
 When they should span the provinces ! A 
 
 snake, 
 A scorpion, sprawling on the first gold 
 
 step, 
 Conducting to the throne, high canopied. 
 
 Conrad. You would not hear my counsel, 
 when his life 
 
 Might have been trodden out, all sure and 
 hush'd; 
 
 Now the dull animal forsooth must be 
 
 Intreated, managed ! When can you con- 
 trive 20 
 
 The interview he demands ? 
 
 Auranthe. As speedily 
 
 It must be done as my bribed woman can 
 
 Unseen conduct him to me; but I fear 
 
 'T will be impossible, while the broad day 
 
 Comes through the panes with persecuting 
 glare. 
 
 Methinks, if 't now were night I could in- 
 trigue 
 
 With darkness, bring the stars to second me, 
 
 And settle all this trouble. 
 
 Conrad. Nonsense ! Child ! 
 
 See him immediately; why not now? 
 Auranthe. Do you forget that even the 
 senseless door-posts 30 
 
 Are on the watch and gape through all the 
 house ? 
 
 How many whisperers there are about. 
 
 Hungry for evidence to ruin me: 
 
 Men I have spurn'd, and women I have 
 taunted ? 
 
 Besides, the foolish prince sends, minute 
 whiles. 
 
 His pages — so they tell me — to inquire 
 
 After my health, intreating, if I please, 
 
 To see me. 
 
 Conrad. Well, suppose this Albert here; 
 
 What is your power with him ? 
 
 Auranthe. He should be 
 
 My echo, my taught parrot ! but I fear 40 
 
 He will be cur enough to bark at me; 
 
 Have his own say; read me some silly creed 
 
 'Bout shame and pity. 
 
 Conrad. What will you do then ? 
 
 Auranthe. What I shall do, I know not; 
 what I would 
 
 Cannot be done; for see, this chamber- 
 floor 
 
 Will not yield to the pick-axe and the 
 spade, — 
 
 Here is no quiet depth of hollow ground. 
 
i8o 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Conrad. Sister, you have grown sensible 
 and wise, 
 Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now, 49 
 I hope, resolved between us. 
 
 Auranthe. Say, virhat is 't ? 
 
 Conrad. You need not be his sexton too; 
 a man 
 May carry that with him shall make him 
 
 die 
 Elsewhere, — give that to him; pretend 
 
 the while 
 You will to-morrow succumb to his wishes. 
 Be what they may, and send him from the 
 
 Castle 
 On some fool's errand: let his latest groan 
 Frighten the wolves ! 
 
 Auranthe. Alas ! he must not die ! 
 
 Conrad. Would you were both hearsed 
 up in stifling lead ! 
 Detested — 
 
 Auranthe. Conrad, hold ! I would not 
 bear 59 
 
 The little thunder of your fretful tongue, 
 Tho' I alone were taken in these toils. 
 And you could free me; but remember, 
 
 sir, 
 You live alone in my security: 
 So keep your wits at work, for your own 
 
 sake, 
 Not mine, and be more mannerly. 
 
 Conrad. Thou wasp ! 
 
 If my domains were emptied of these folk, 
 And I had thee to starve — 
 
 Auranthe. O, marvellous ! 
 
 But Conrad, now be gone; the Host is 
 
 look'd for; 
 Cringe to the Emperor, entertain the Lords, 
 And, do ye mind, above all things, pro- 
 claim 70 
 My sickness, with a brother's sadden'd eye. 
 Condoling with Prince Ludolph. In fit 
 
 time 
 Return to me. 
 
 Conrad. I leave you to your thoughts. 
 
 lExit. 
 Auranthe {sold). Down, down, proud 
 temper ! down, Auranthe'r pride ! 
 Why do I anger him when I should kneel ? 
 
 Conrad ! Albert ! help ! help ! What can 
 I do? 
 
 wretched woman ! lost, wreck'd, swal- 
 
 low'd up, 
 Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown, 
 Orbing along the serene firmament 79 
 
 Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon; 
 And thou, bright sceptre ! lustrous in my 
 
 eyes, — 
 There — as the fabled fair Hesperian tree. 
 Bearing a fruit more precious ! graceful 
 
 thing, 
 Delicate, godlike, magic ! must I leave 
 Thee to melt in the visionary air, 
 Ere, by one grasp, this common hand is 
 
 made 
 Imperial ? I do not know the time 
 When I have wept for sorrow; but me- 
 
 thinks 88 
 
 1 could now sit upon the ground, and shed 
 Tears, tears of misery ! O, the heavy day ! 
 How shall 1 bear my life till Albert comes ? 
 Ludolph ! Erminia ! Proofs ! O heavy 
 
 day ! 
 Bring me some mourning weeds, that I 
 
 may 'tire 
 Myself, as tits one wailing her own death: 
 Cut off these curls, and brand this lily 
 
 hand. 
 And throw these jewels from my loathing 
 
 sight, — 
 Fetch me a missal, and a string of beads, — 
 A cup of bitter'd water, and a crust, — 
 I will confess, O holy Abbot ! — How ! 99 
 What is this ? Auranthe ! thou fool, dolt, 
 Whimpering idiot ! up ! up ! and quell ! 
 I am safe ! Coward ! why am I in fear? 
 Albert ! he cannot stickle, chew the cud 
 In such a fine extreme, — impossible ! 
 Who knocks ? 
 
 \_Goes to the door, listens, and opens it. 
 
 Enter Albert. 
 Albert, I have been waiting for you here 
 With such an aching heart, such swooning 
 
 throbs 
 On my poor brain, such cruel — cruel sor- 
 row. 
 
SCENE I 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 i8i 
 
 That I should claim your pity ! Art not 
 
 well ? 109 
 
 Albert. Yes, lady, well. 
 
 Aurantke. You look not so, alas ! 
 
 But pale, as if you brought some heavy 
 
 news. 
 
 Albert. You know full well what makes 
 
 me look so pale. 
 Aurantke. No ! Do I ? Surely I am 
 still to learn 
 Some horror; all I know, this present, is 
 I am near hustled to a dangerous gulf, 
 Which you can save me from, — and there- 
 fore safe. 
 So trusting in thy love; that should not 
 
 make 
 Thee pale, my Albert. 
 
 Albert. It doth make me freeze. 
 
 Aurantke. Why should it, love ? 
 Albert. You should not ask me that, 
 
 But make your own heart monitor, and save 
 Me the great pain of telling. You must 
 know. 121 
 
 Aurantke. Something has vext you, Al- 
 bert. There are times 
 When simplest things put on a sombre 
 
 cast; 
 A melancholy mood will haunt a man. 
 Until most easy matters take the shape 
 Of unachievable tasks; small rivulets 
 Then seem impassable. 
 
 Albert. Do not cheat yourself 
 
 With hope that gloss of words, or suppliant 
 
 action, 
 Or tears, or ravings, or self-threaten'd 
 death, 129 
 
 Can alter my resolve. 
 
 Aurantke. You make me tremble; 
 
 Not so much at your threats, as at your 
 
 voice, 
 Untuned, and harsh, and barren of all love. 
 Albert. You suffocate me ! Stop this 
 devil's parley. 
 And listen to me; know me once for all. 
 Aurantke. I thought I did. Alas ! I 
 
 am deceived. 
 Albert. No, yon are not deceived. You 
 took me for 
 
 A man detesting all inhuman crime; 
 
 And therefore kept from me your demon's 
 
 plot 
 Against Erminia. Silent? Be so still; 
 For ever ! Speak no more; but hear my 
 words, 14c 
 
 Thy fate. Your safety I have bought to- 
 day 
 By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn 
 I '11 expiate with truth. 
 
 Aurantke. O cruel traitor ! 
 
 Albert. For I would not set eyes upon 
 thy shame; 
 I would not see thee dragg'd to death by 
 
 the hair. 
 Penanced, and taunted on a scaffolding ! 
 To-night, upon the skirts of the blind wood 
 That blackens northward of these horrid 
 
 towers, 
 I wait for you with horses. Choose your 
 fate. 149 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Aurantke. Albert, you jest; I'm sure 
 you must. 
 You, an ambitious Soldier ! I, a Queen, 
 One who could say, — here, rule these Pro- 
 vinces ! 
 Take tribute from those cities for thyself ! 
 Empty these armouries, these treasuries. 
 Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod ! 
 Go ! Conquer Italy ! 
 
 Albert. Auranthe, you have made 
 
 The whole world chaff to me. Your doom 
 is fix'd. 
 Aurantke. Out, villain ! dastard ! 
 Albert. Look there to the door ! 
 
 Who is it ? 
 
 Aurantke. Conrad, traitor ! 
 
 Albert. Let him in. 
 
 Enter Conrad. 
 Do not affect amazement, hypocrite, 160 
 At seeing me in this chamber. 
 
 Conrad. Auranthe ? 
 
 Albert. Talk not with eyes, but speak 
 your curses out 
 Against me, who would sooner crush and 
 grind 
 
l82 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 A brace of toads, than league with them 
 
 t' oppress 
 An innoceiit lady, gull an Emperor, 
 More generous to me than autumn sun 
 To ripening harvests. 
 
 A uranthe. No more insult, sir ! 
 
 Albert. Ay, clutch your scabbard; but, 
 for prudence sake. 
 Draw not the sword; 't would make an up- 
 roar, Duke, 
 You would not hear the end of. At night- 
 fall 170 
 Your lady sister, if I guess aright, 
 Will leave this busy castle. You had best 
 Take farewell too of worldly vanities. 
 Conrad. Vassal ! 
 
 Albert. To-morrow, when the Emperor 
 sends 
 For loving Conrad, see you fawn on him. 
 Good even ! 
 
 A uranthe. You '11 be seen ! 
 Albert. See the coast clear then. 
 
 Auranthe (as he goes). Remorseless Al- 
 bert ! Cruel, cruel wretch ! 
 
 [^She lets him out. 
 Conrad. So, we must lick the dust ? 
 Auranthe. I follow him. 
 
 Conrad. How ? Where ? The plan of 
 
 your escape ? 
 Auranthe. He waits 
 
 For me with horses by the forest-side, 180 
 Northward. 
 
 Conrad. Good, good ! he dies. You go, 
 
 say you ? 
 Auranthe. Perforce. 
 
 Conrad. Be speedy, darkness! Till that 
 comes, 
 Fiends keep you company ! \_Exit. 
 
 Auranthe. And you ! And you ! 
 And all men ! Vanish ! 
 
 \_Retires to an inner apartment. 
 
 Scene II. — A?i Apart?nent in the Castle 
 
 Enter Ludolph and a Page. 
 Page. Still very sick, my lord; but now 
 I went. 
 Knowing my duty to so good a Prince ; 
 
 And there her women, in a mournful throng. 
 Stood in the passage whispering; if any 
 Moved, 't was with careful steps, and hush'd 
 
 as death: 
 They bade me stop. 
 
 Ludolph. Good fellow, once again 
 
 Make soft inquiry; pr'ythee, be not stay'd 
 By any hindrance, but with gentlest force 
 Break through her weeping servants, till 
 
 thou com'st 
 E'en to her chamber door, and there, fair 
 
 boy — 10 
 
 If with thy mother's milk thou hast suck'd 
 
 in 
 Any divine eloquence — woo her ears 
 With plaints for me, more tender than the 
 
 voice 
 Of dying Echo, echoed. 
 
 Page. Kindest master ! 
 
 To know thee sad thus, will unloose my 
 
 tongue 
 In mournful syllables. Let but my words 
 
 reach 
 Her ears, and she shall take them coupled 
 
 with 
 Moans from my heart, and sighs not coun- 
 terfeit. 
 May I speed better ! [Exit Page. 
 
 Ludolph (solus). Auranthe ! My Life ! 
 Long have I loved thee, yet till now not 
 
 loved: 20 
 
 Remembering, as I do, hard-hearted times 
 When I had heard e'en of thy death per- 
 haps, 
 And thoughtless, sufPer'd thee to pass alone 
 Into Elysium ! — now I follow thee 
 A substance or a shadow, wheresoe'er 
 Thou leadest me, — whether thy white feet 
 
 press. 
 With pleasant weight, the amorous-aching 
 
 earth, 
 Or thro' the air thou pioneerest me, 
 A shade ! Yet sadly I predestinate ! 
 O unbenignest Love, why wilt thou let 30 
 Darkness steal out upon the sleepy world 
 So wearily ; as if night's chariot-wheels 
 Were clogg'd in some thick cloud ? O, 
 
 changeful Love, 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 183 
 
 Let not her steeds with drowsy-footed pace 
 
 Pass the high stars, before sweet embas- 
 sage 
 
 Comes from the pillow'd beauty of that 
 fair 
 
 Completion of all delicate Nature's wit ! 
 
 Pout her faint lips anew with rubious 
 health; 
 
 And, with thine infant fingers, lift the 
 fringe 
 
 Of her sick eyelids; that those eyes may 
 glow 40 
 
 With wooing light upon me, ere the Morn 
 
 Peers with disrelish, gray, barren, and 
 cold ! 
 
 Enter Gersa and Courtiers. 
 
 Otho calls me his Lion — should I blush 
 To be so tamed ? so — 
 J Gersa. Do me the courtesy, 
 
 ■ Gentlemen, to pass on. 
 
 1st Knight. We are your servants. 
 
 [^Exeunt Courtiers. 
 Ludolph. It seems then, Sir, you have 
 found out the man 
 You would confer with; — me ? 
 
 Gersa. If I break not 
 
 Too much upon your thoughtful mood, I 
 
 will 
 Claim a brief while your patience. 
 
 Ludolph. For what cause 
 
 Soe'er, I shall be honour'd. 
 
 Gersa. I not less. 
 
 Ludolph. What may it be ? No trifle 
 
 (can take place 51 
 
 Of such deliberate prologue, serious 'hav- 
 
 iour. 
 But, be it what it may, I caimot fail 
 ) To listen with no common interest; 
 r For though so new your presence is to 
 me, 
 I have a soldier's friendship for your fame. 
 Please you explain. 
 
 Gersa. As thus: — for, pardon me, 
 
 I cannot in plain terms grossly assault 
 A noble nature; and would faintly sketch 
 What your quick apprehension will fill up; 
 So finely I esteem you. 
 
 Ludolph. I attend. 61 
 
 Gersa. Your generous father, most illus- 
 trious Otlio, 
 Sits in the banquet-room among his chiefs; 
 His wine is bitter, for you are not there; 
 His eyes are fix'd still on the open doors, 
 And ev'ry passer in he frowns upon, 
 Seeing no Ludolph comes. 
 
 Ludolph. I do neglect — 
 
 Gersa. And for your absence may I guess 
 
 the cause ? 
 Ludolph. Stay there ! No — guess ? 
 More princely you must be 69 
 
 Than to make guesses at me. 'T is enough. 
 I 'm sorry I can hear no more. 
 
 Gersa. And I 
 
 As grieved to force it on you so abrupt; 
 Yet, one day, you must know a grief, whose 
 
 sting 
 Will sharpen more the longer 't is con- 
 ceal'd. 
 Ludolph. Say it at once, sir ! dead — 
 
 dead — is she dead ? 
 Gersa. Mine is a cruel task: she is not 
 dead, 
 And would, for your sake, she were inno- 
 cent — 
 Ludolph. Thou liest ! Thou amazest me 
 beyond 
 All scope of thought, convulsest my heart's 
 
 blood 79 
 
 To deadly churning ! Gersa, yon are young, 
 As I am; let me observe you, face to face: 
 Not gray-brow'd like the poisonous Ethel- 
 
 bert. 
 No rheumed eyes, no furrowing of age. 
 No wrinkles, where all vices nestle in 
 Like crannied vermin — no ! but fresh and 
 
 young. 
 And hopeful featured. Ha ! by Heaven 
 
 you weep 
 Tears, human tears ! Do you repent you 
 
 then 
 Of a cursed torturer's office ? Why shouldst 
 
 join — 
 Tell me, the league of devils ? Confess — 
 
 confess — 
 The Lie ! 
 
i84 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Gersa. Lie ! — but begoue all ceremo- 
 nious points 9° 
 
 Of honour battailous ! I could not turn 
 
 My wrath against thee for the orbed world. 
 Ludolph. Your wrath, weak boy ? Trem- 
 ble at mine, unless 
 
 Retraction follow close upon the heels 
 
 Of that late stouuding insult ! Why has 
 my sword 
 
 Not done already a sheer judgment on 
 thee ? 
 
 Despair, or eat thy words ! Why, thou 
 wast nigh 
 
 Whimpering away my reason ! Hark ye, 
 Sir, 
 
 It is no secret, that Erminia, 
 
 Erniinia, Sir, was hidden in your tent; loo 
 
 O bless'd asylum ! Comfortable home ! 
 
 Begone ! I pity thee; thou art a gull, 
 
 Erminia's last new puppet ! 
 
 Gersa. Furious fire ! 
 
 Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst 
 flame ! 
 
 And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie ! 
 
 Thou liest ! Thou, Auranthe's fool ! A 
 wittol — 
 Ludolph. Look ! look at this bright 
 sword : 
 
 There is no part of it, to the very hilt. 
 
 But shall indulge itself about thine heart ! 
 
 Draw ! but remember thou must cower tiiy 
 plumes, no 
 
 As yesterday the Arab made thee stoop — 
 Gersa. Patience ! Not here; I would 
 not spill thy blood 
 
 Here, underneath this roof where Otho 
 breathes, — 
 
 Thy father, — almost mine. 
 
 Ludolph. O faltering coward ! 
 
 Re-enter Page. 
 
 Stay, stay ; here is one I have half a word 
 
 with. 
 Well — What ails thee, child ? 
 
 Page. My lord ! 
 
 Ludolph. Good fellow ! 
 
 Page. They are fled ! 
 
 Ludolph. They ! Who ? 
 
 Page. When anxiously 
 
 I hasten'd back, your grieving messenger, 
 I fouud the stairs all dark, the lamps ex- 
 tinct. 
 And not a foot or whisper to be heard. 120 
 I thouglit her dead, and on the lowest step 
 Sat listening; when presently came by 
 Two muffled up, — one sighing heavily, 
 The other cursing low, whose voice I knew 
 For the Duke Conrad's. Close I foUow'd 
 
 them 
 Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open 
 
 air; 
 And, as I follow'd, heard my lady speak. 
 Ludolph. Thy life answers the truth ! 
 Page. The chamber 's empty ! 
 
 Ludolph. As I will be of mercy ! So, at 
 last, 129 
 
 This nail is in my temples ! 
 
 Gersa. Be calm in this. 
 
 Ludolph. I am. 
 
 Gersa. And Albert too has disappear'd; 
 Ere I met you, I sought him every where; 
 You would not hearken. 
 
 Ludolph. Which way went they, boy ? 
 Gersa. I '11 hunt with you. 
 Ludolph. No, no, no. My senses are 
 Still whole. I have survived. My arm is 
 
 strong — 
 My appetite sharp — for revenge ! I '11 no 
 
 sharer 
 In my feast; my injury is all my own. 
 And so is my revenge, my lawful chat- 
 tels ! 
 Terrier, ferret them out ! Burn — burn 
 
 the witch ! 
 Trace me their footsteps ! Away ! 140 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Scene I . — A part of the Forest 
 
 Enter Conrad and Auranthe, 
 
 Auranthe. Go no further; not a step 
 more. Thou art 
 A master-plague in the midst of miseries. 
 Go, — I fear thee ! I tremble every limb,^ 
 
SCENE II 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 185 
 
 Who never shook before. There 's mood}' 
 
 death 
 In thy resolved looks ! Yes, I could kneel 
 To pray thee far away ! Courad, go ! 
 
 go! — 
 There ! yonder underneath the boughs I see 
 Our horses ! 
 
 Conrad. Ay, and the man. 
 A uranthe. Yes, he is there. 
 
 Go, go, — no blood ! no blood ! — go, gen- 
 tle Conrad ! 
 Conrad. Farewell ! 
 
 A uranthe. Farewell ! For this Heaven 
 pardon you ! 10 
 
 [^Exit AURANTHE. 
 Conrad. If he survive one hour, then 
 may I die 
 In unimagined tortures, or breathe through 
 A long life in the foulest sink o' the world ! 
 He dies ! 'T is well she do not advertise 
 The caitiff of the cold steel at his back. 
 
 [^Exit Conrad. 
 
 Enter Ludolph and Page. 
 
 Ludolph. Miss'd the way, boy ? Say not 
 
 that on your peril ! 
 Page. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace 
 
 them further. 
 Ludolph. Must I stop here ? Here soli- 
 tary die ? 
 
 Stifled beneath the thick oppressive shade 
 
 Of these dull boughs, — this oven of dark 
 thickets, — 20 
 
 Silent, — without revenge ? — pshaw ! — 
 bitter end, — 
 
 A bitter death, — a suffocating death, — 
 
 A gnawing — silent — deadly, quiet death ! 
 
 Escaped ? — fled ? — vanish'd ? melted into 
 air? 
 
 She 's gone ! I cannot clutch her ! no re- 
 venge ! 
 
 A muffled death, ensnared in horrid silence ! 
 
 Suck'd to my grave amid a dreamy calm ! 
 
 O, where is that illustrious noise of war. 
 
 To smother up this sound of labouring 
 breath, 29 
 
 This rustle of the trees ! 
 
 [AcRANTHE shrieks at a distance. 
 
 Page. My lord, a noise ! 
 
 This way — hark ! 
 
 Ludolph. Yes, yes ! A hope ! A music ! 
 A glorious clamour ! How I live again ! 
 
 [^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Another part of the Forest 
 
 Enter Albert (wounded). 
 
 Albert. O ! for enough life to support me 
 on 
 To Otho's feet ! 
 
 *^"-~..^n<er Ludolph. 
 
 Ludolph. Thrice villanous, stay there ! 
 Tell me where that detested woman is, 
 Or this is through thee ! 
 
 Albert. My good Prince, with me 
 
 The sword has done its worst; not without 
 
 worst 
 Done to another, — Conrad has it home — 
 I see you know it all — 
 
 Ludolph. Where is his sister ? 
 
 Enter Auranthe. 
 
 Auranthe. Albert ! 
 
 Ludolph. Ha ! There ! there ! — He is 
 the paramour ! — 
 There — hug him — dying ! O, thou inno- 
 cence, 
 Shrine him and comfort him at bis last 
 gasp, 10 
 
 Kiss down his eyelids ! Was he not thy 
 
 love? 
 Wilt thou forsake him at his latest hour ? 
 Keep fearful and aloof from his last gaze. 
 His most uneasy moments, when cold death 
 Stands with the door ajar to let him in ? 
 Albert. O that that door with hollow slam 
 would close 
 Upon me sudden, for I cannot meet. 
 In all the unknown chambers of the dead, 
 Such horrors — 
 
 Ludolph. Auranthe ! what can he mean ? 
 What horrors ? Is it not a joyous time ? 
 Am I not married to a paragon 21 
 
 ' Of personal beauty and untainted soul ? ' 
 A blushing fair-eyed purity ? A sylph, 
 
i86 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT V 
 
 Whose snowy timid hand has never siiin'd 
 
 Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself ? 
 
 Albert, you do insult my bride — your mis- 
 tress — 
 
 To talk of horrors on our wedding-night ! 
 Albert. Alas ! poor Prince, I would you 
 knew my heart ! 
 ^ 'T is not so guilty — 
 
 Ludolph. Hear, he pleads not guilty ! 
 
 You are not ? or, if so, what matters it ? 
 
 You have escaped me, free as the dusk 
 air, 3 1 
 
 Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge; 
 
 I cannot catch you ! You should laugh at 
 me, 
 
 Poor cheated Ludolph ! Make the forest 
 hiss 
 
 With jeers at me ! You tremble; faint at 
 once, 
 
 You will come to again. O cockatrice, 
 
 I have you ! Whither wander those fair 
 eyes 
 
 To entice the Devil to your help, that he 
 
 May change you to a spider, so to crawl 
 
 Into some cranny to escape my wrath ? 40 
 Albert. Sometimes the counsel of a dy- 
 ing man 
 
 Doth operate quietly when his breath is 
 gone: 
 
 Disjoin those hands — part — part — do 
 not destroy 
 
 Each other — forget her ! — Our miseries 
 
 Are equal shared, and mercy is — 
 
 Ludolph. A boon 
 
 When one can compass it. Auranthe, try 
 
 Your oratory; your breath is not so hitch'd. 
 
 Ay, stare for help ! 
 
 [Albert groans and dies. 
 There goes a spotted soul 
 
 Howling in vain along the hollow night ! 
 
 Hear him ! He calls you — sweet Auran- 
 the, come ! 50 
 Auranthe. Kill me ! 
 
 Ludolph. No ! What, upon our mar- 
 riage-night ! 
 
 The earth would shudder at so foul a deed ! 
 
 A fair bride ! A sweet bride ! An inno- 
 cent bride ! 
 
 No ! we must revel it, as 't is in use 
 In times of delicate brilliant ceremony: 
 Come, let me lead you to our halls again ! 
 Nay, linger not ; make no resistance, 
 
 sweet; — 
 Will you ? Ah, wretch, thou canst not, for 
 
 I have 
 The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a 
 
 lamb ! 
 Now — one adieu for Albert ! — Come 
 
 away 
 
 60 
 \^Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — An inner Court of the 
 Castle 
 
 Enter Sigifred, Gonfred, and Theodore, 
 
 meeting. 
 
 \st Knight. Was ever such a night ? 
 
 Sigifred. What horrors more ? 
 
 Things unbelieved one hour, so strange 
 
 they are. 
 The next hour stamps with credit. 
 
 l.s< Knight. Your last news ? 
 
 Gonfred. After the Page's story of the 
 death 
 Of Albert and Duke Conrad ? 
 
 Sigifred. And the return 
 
 Of Ludolph with the Princess. 
 
 Gonfred. No more, save 
 
 Prince Gersa's freeing Abbot Ethelbert, 
 And the sweet lady, fair Erminia, 
 From prison. 
 
 \st Knight. Where are they now ? Hast 
 yet heard ? 
 
 Gonfred. With the sad Emperor they 
 are closeted; 10 
 
 I saw the three pass slowly up the stairs, 
 The lady weeping, the old Abbot cowl'd. 
 
 Sigifred. What next ? 
 
 \st Knight. I ache to think on 't. 
 
 Gonfred. 'T is with fate. 
 
 1st Knight. One while these proud towers 
 are hush'd as death. 
 
 Gonfred. The next our poor Prince fills 
 the arched rooms 
 With ghastly ravings. 
 
 Sigifred. I do fear his brain. 
 
SCENE IV 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 187 
 
 Gonfred. I will see more. Bear you so 
 stout a heart ? 
 
 \_Exeunt into the Castle. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Cabinet, opening towards 
 a terrace 
 
 Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, and a Phy- 
 sician, discovered. 
 
 Otho. O, my poor boy ! My son ! My 
 sou ! My Liidolph ! 
 Have ye no comfort for me, ye physicians 
 Of the weak body aud soul ? 
 
 Ethelbert. 'T is not in medicine, 
 
 Either of heaven or earth, to cure, unless 
 Fit time be chosen to administer. 
 
 Otho. A kind forbearance, holy Abbot. 
 Come, 
 Erminia; here, sit by me, gentle girl; 
 Give me thy hand; hast thou forgiven me ? 
 Erminia. Would I were with the saiuts 
 
 to pray for you ! 
 Otho. Why will ye keep me from my 
 darling child ? 10 
 
 Physician. Forgive me, but he must not 
 
 see thy face. 
 Otho. Is then a father's countenance a 
 Gorgon ? 
 Hath it not comfort in it ? Would it not 
 Cousole my poor boy, cheer him, help his 
 
 spirits ? 
 Let me embrace him; let me speak to him; 
 I will ! Who hinders me ? Who 's Em- 
 peror ? 
 Physician. You may not, Sire; 'twould 
 overwhelm him quite. 
 He is so full of grief aud passionate wrath; 
 Too heavy a sigh would kill him, or do 
 
 worse. 
 He must be saved by fine contrivances; 20 
 And, most especially, we must keep clear 
 Out of his siglit a father whom he loves; 
 His heart is full, it can contain no more, 
 And do its ruddy office. 
 
 Ethelbert. Sage advice; 
 
 We must endeavour how to ease and slacken 
 The tight-wound energies of his despair, 
 Not make them tenser. 
 
 Otho. Enough ! I hear, I hear; 
 
 Yet you were about to advise more, — I 
 listen. 
 Ethelbert. This learned doctor will agree 
 with me. 
 That not in the smallest point should he be 
 thwarted, 30 
 
 Or gainsaid by one word; his very mo- 
 tions, 
 Nods, becks, and hints, should be obey'd 
 
 with care, 
 Even on the moment; so his troubled mind 
 May cure itself. 
 
 Physician. There are no other means. 
 Otho. Open the door; let 's hear if all is 
 
 quiet. 
 Physician. Beseech you, Sire, forbear. 
 Erminia. Do, do. 
 
 Otho. I command ! 
 
 Open it straight; — hush ! — quiet ! — my 
 
 lost boy ! 
 My miserable child ! 
 
 Ludolph (indistinctly loithout). Fill, fill 
 
 my goblet, — here 's a health ! 
 Erminia. O, close the door ! 
 
 Otho. Let, let me hear his voice; this 
 cannot last: 39 
 
 And fain would I catch up his dying words, 
 Though my own knell they be ! This can- 
 not last ! 
 O let me catch his voice — for lo ! I hear 
 This silence whisper me that he is dead ! 
 It is so ! Gersa ? 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 Physician. Say, how fares the prince ? 
 Gersa. More calm; his features are less 
 wild and flush'd; 
 Once he complain'd of weariness. 
 
 Physician. Indeed ! 
 
 'T is good, — 'tis good; let him but fall 
 
 asleep. 
 That saves him. 
 
 Otho. Gersa, watch him like a child; 
 
 Ward him from harm, — and bring me 
 
 better news ! 
 
 Physician. Humour him to the height. 
 
 I fear to go; 50 
 
i8S 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT V 
 
 For should he catch a glimpse of my dull 
 
 garb, 
 It might affright him, fill him with suspi- 
 cion 
 That we believe him sick, which must not 
 
 be. 
 Gersa. I will invent what soothing means 
 
 I can. 
 
 lExit Gersa. 
 Physician. This should cheer up your 
 
 Highness; weariness 
 Is a good symptom, and most favourable; 
 It gives me pleasant hopes. Please you, 
 
 walk forth 
 Upon the terrace ; the refreshing air 
 Will blow one half of your sad doubts 
 
 away. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — A Banqueting Hall, bril- 
 liantly illuminated, and set forth with 
 all costly fnagitijicence, with supper- 
 tables laden with services of gold and 
 silver. A door in the back scene, guarded 
 by two Soldiers. Lords, Ladies, Knights, 
 Gentlejnen, etc., whispering sadly, and 
 ranging themselves j part entering and 
 part discovered. 
 
 \st Knight. Grievously are we tantalized, 
 one and all; 
 Sway'd here and there, commanded to and 
 
 fro. 
 As though we were the shadows of a sleep. 
 And link'd to a dreaming fancy. What do 
 we here ? 
 Gonfred. I am no seer; you know we 
 must obey 
 The prince from A to Z, though it should 
 
 be 
 To set the place in flames. I pray, hast 
 
 heard 
 Where the most wicked Princess is ? 
 
 1st Knight. There, sir, 
 
 In the next room ; have you remark'd those 
 two 9 
 
 Stout soldiers posted at the door ? 
 
 Gonfred. For what ? 
 
 [They whisper. 
 1st Lady. How ghast a train ! 
 
 2d Lady. Sure this should be some splen- 
 did burial. 
 
 1st Lady. What fearful whispering ! See, 
 see, — Gersa there ! 
 
 Enter Gersa. 
 Gersa. Put on your brightest looks; 
 smile if you can; 
 
 Behave as all were happy; keep your eyes 
 
 From the least watch upon him; if he 
 speaks 
 
 To any one, answer collectedly, 
 
 Without surprise, his questions, howe'er 
 strange. 
 
 Do this to the utmost — though, alas ! with 
 me 
 
 The remedy grows hopeless ! Here he 
 comes, — 20 
 
 Observe what I have said — show no sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Enter Ludolph, followed by Sigifred and 
 Page. 
 Ludolph. A splendid company ! rare 
 
 beauties here ! 
 I should have Orphean lips, and Plato's 
 
 fancy, 
 Amphion's utterance, toned with his lyre. 
 Or the deep key of Jove's sonorous mouth. 
 To give fit salutation. Methought I heard. 
 As I came in, some whispers — what of 
 
 that? 
 'Tis natural men should whisper; at the 
 
 kiss 
 Of Psyche given by Love, there was a 
 
 buzz 
 Among the gods ! — and silence is as natu- 
 ral. 30 
 These draperies are fine, and, being a 
 
 mortal, 
 I should desire no better; yet, in truth. 
 There must be some superior costliness, 
 Some wider-domed high magnificence ! 
 I would have, as a mortal I may not, 
 Hangings of heaven's clouds, purple and 
 
 gold, 
 Slung from the spheres; gauzes of silver 
 
 mist, 
 
SCENE V 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 189 
 
 Loop'd up with cords of twisted wreathed 
 
 light, 
 And tassel'd round with weeping meteors ! 
 These pendent lamps and chandeliers are 
 
 bright 40 
 
 As earthly fires from dull dross can be 
 
 cleansed ; 
 Yet could my eyes drink up intenser beams 
 Undazzled — this is darkness — when I 
 
 close 
 These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, — 
 Skies full of splendid moons, and shooting 
 
 stars, 
 And spouting exhalations, diamond fires, 
 And panting fountains quivering with deep 
 
 glows ! 
 Yes — this is dark — is it not dark ? 
 
 Sigifred. My Lord, 
 
 'T is late; the lights of festival are ever 49 
 Quench'd in the morn. 
 
 Ludolph. 'T is not to-morrow then ? 
 
 Sigifred. 'Tis early dawn. 
 Gersa. Indeed full time we slept; 
 
 Say you so. Prince ? 
 
 Ludolph. I say I quarrel'd with you; 
 
 We did not tilt each other — that 's a 
 
 blessing, — 
 Good gods ! no innocent blood upon my 
 
 head ! 
 Sigifred. Retire, Gersa ! 
 Ludolph. There should be three more 
 
 here: 
 For two of them, they stay away perhaps, 
 Being gloomy-minded, haters of fair rev- 
 els, — 
 They know their own thoughts best. 
 
 As for the third. 
 Deep blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids, 
 Fiuish'd with lashes fine for more soft 
 
 shade, 60 
 
 Completed by her twin-arch'd ebon-brows; 
 White temples, of exactest elegance. 
 Of even mould, felicitous and smooth; 
 Cheeks fashion'd tenderly on either side. 
 So perfect, so divine, that our poor eyes 
 Are dazzled with the sweet proportioning. 
 And wonder that 't is so — the magic 
 
 chance ! 
 
 Her nostrils, small, fragrant, fairy-delicate; 
 Her lips — I swear no human bones e'er 
 
 wore 
 So taking a disguise; — you shall behold 
 
 her ! 70 
 
 W^e '11 have her presently ; ay, you shall see 
 
 her. 
 And wonder at her, friends, she is so fair; 
 She is the world's chief jewel, and, by 
 
 heaven, 
 She 's mine by right of marriage ! — she is 
 
 mine ! 
 Patience, good people, in fit time I send 
 A summoner, — she will obey my call, 
 Being a wife most mild and dutiful. 
 First I would hear what music is prepared 
 To herald and receive her; let me hear ! 
 Sigifred. Bid the musicians soothe him 
 
 tenderly. 80 
 
 \_A soft strain of Music. 
 
 Ludolph. Ye have none better ? No, I 
 
 am content; 
 'T is a rich sobbing melody, with reliefs 
 Full and majestic; it is well enough, 
 And will be sweeter, when yon see her pace 
 Sweeping into this presence, glistened o'er 
 With emptied caskets, and her train upheld 
 By ladies, habited in robes of lawn. 
 Sprinkled with golden crescents, others 
 
 bright 
 In silks, with spangles shower'd, and bow'd 
 
 to S9 
 
 By Duchesses and pearled Margravines ! 
 Sad, that the fairest creature of the earth — 
 I pray you mind me not — 't is sad, I say, 
 That the extremest beauty of the world 
 Should so entrench herself away from me, 
 Behind a barrier of engender'd guilt ! 
 2d Lady. Ah ! what a moan ! 
 \st Knight. Most piteous indeed ! 
 
 Ludolph. She shall be brought before this 
 
 company. 
 And then — then — 
 \st Lady. He muses. 
 Gersa. O, Fortune, where will this 
 
 end? 
 Sigifred. I guess his purpose ! Indeed 
 
 he must not have 
 
1 9© 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT V 
 
 That pestilence brought in, — that cannot 
 be, loo 
 
 There we must stop him. 
 
 Gersa. I am lost ! Hush, hush ! 
 
 He is about to rave again. 
 
 Ludolph. A barrier of guilt ! I was the 
 fool, 
 She was the cheater ! Who 's the cheater 
 
 now, 
 And who the fool ? The entrapp'd, the 
 
 caged fool. 
 The bird-limed raven ? She shall croak to 
 
 death 
 Secure ! Methinks I have her in my fist, 
 To crush her with my heel ! Wait, wait ! 
 
 I marvel 
 My father keeps away. Good friend — ah ! 
 
 Sigifred ! 
 Do bring him to me, — and Erminia no 
 I fain would see before I sleep — and Eth- 
 
 elbert, 
 That he may bless me, as I know he will. 
 Though I have cursed him. 
 
 Sigifred. Rather suffer me 
 
 To lead you to them. 
 
 Ludolph. No, excuse me, — no ! 
 
 The day is not quite done. Go, bring them 
 
 hither. [Exit Sigifrkd. 
 
 Certes, a father's smile should, like sun 
 
 light. 
 Slant on my sheafed harvest of ripe bliss. 
 Besides, I thirst to pledge my lovely bride 
 In a deep goblet: let me see — what wine ? 
 The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek ? 
 Or pale Calabrian ? Or the Tuscan grape ? 
 Or of old ^Etna's pulpy wine-presses, 122 
 Black staln'd with the fat vintage, as it 
 
 were 
 The purple slaughter-house, where Bac- 
 chus' self 
 Prick'd his own swollen veins ? Where is 
 my page ? 
 Page. Here, here ! 
 
 Ludolph. Be ready to obey me; anon 
 thou shalt 
 Bear a soft message for me ; for the hour 
 Draws near when I must make a winding 
 up 
 
 Of bridal mysteries — a fine-spun ven- 
 geance ! 
 
 Carve it on my tomb, that, when I rest 
 beneath, 130 
 
 Men shall confess this Prince was guU'd 
 and cheated, 
 
 But from the ashes of disgrace he rose 
 
 More than a fiery phoenix, and did burn 
 
 His ignominy up in purging fires ! 
 
 Did I not send, Sir, but a moment past, 
 
 For my Father ? 
 
 Gersa. You did. 
 
 Ludolph. Perhaps 't would be 
 
 Much better he came not. 
 
 Gersa. ■ He enters now ! 
 
 Enter Otho, Erminia, Ethelbert, Sigi- 
 fred, and Physician. 
 
 Ludolph. O thou good man, against whose 
 
 sacred head 
 I was a mad conspirator, chiefly too, 139 
 For the sake of my fair newly wedded wife. 
 Now to be punish'd, do not look so sad ! 
 Those charitable eyes will thaw my heart, 
 Those tears will wash away a just resolve, 
 A verdict ten times sworn ! Awake — 
 
 awake — 
 Put on a judge's brow, and use a tongue 
 Made iron-stern by habit ! Thou shalt see 
 A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold ! 
 Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce 
 What I alone will execute 
 
 Otho. Dear son, 
 
 What is it ? By your father's love, I sue 
 That it be nothing merciless ! 
 
 I^udolph. To that demon ? 
 
 Not so ! No ! She is in temple-stall 152 
 Being garnish'd for the sacrifice, and I, 
 The Priest of Justice, will immolate her 
 Upon the altar of wrath ! She stings me 
 
 through ! — 
 Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut. 
 So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain ! 
 I feel her gnawing here ! Let her but 
 
 vanish. 
 Then, father, I will lead your legions forth, 
 Compact in steeled squares, and speared 
 
 files, 160 
 
SCENE V 
 
 OTHO THE GREAT 
 
 191 
 
 And bid our trumpets speak a fell rebuke 
 To nations drows'd in peace ! 
 
 Otho. To-morrow, son, 
 
 Be your word law; forget to-day — 
 
 Ludolph. I will 
 
 When I have finish'd it ! Now, — now, 
 
 I 'm pight, 
 Tight-footed for the deed ! 
 
 Erminia. Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 Ludolph. What angel's voice is that ? 
 Erminia ! 
 Ah ! gentlest creature, whose sweet inno- 
 cence 
 Was almost murder'd; I am penitent; 
 Wilt thou forgive me ? And thou, holy 
 
 man, 
 Good Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with 
 you ? 170 
 
 Erminia. Die, my lord ! 
 Ludolph. I feel it possible. 
 
 Otho. Physician ? 
 
 Physician. I fear me he is past my skill. 
 Otho. Not so ! 
 
 Ludolph. I see it — I see it — I have 
 been wandering ! 
 Half mad — not right here — I forget my 
 
 purpose. 
 Bestir — bestir — Auranthe ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 Youngster ! Page ! go bid them drag her 
 
 to me ! 
 Obey ! This shall finish it ! 
 
 {^Draws a dagger. 
 Othu. Oh, my son ! my son ! 
 
 Sigifred. This must not be — stop there ! 
 
 Ludolph. Am I obey'd ? 
 
 A little talk with her — no harm — haste ! 
 
 haste ! \_Exit Page. 
 
 Set her before me — never fear I can strike. 
 
 Several Voices. My Lord ! My Lord ! 
 
 Gersa. Good Prince ! 
 
 Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me ? out 
 — out — away ! 182 
 
 There she is ! take that ! and that ! no, no — 
 That 's not well done. — Where is she ? 
 
 The doors open. Enter Page. Several wo- 
 men are seen grouped about Auranthe in 
 the inner-room. 
 
 Page. Alas ! My Lord, my Lord ! they 
 cannot move her ! 
 Her arms are stiff, — her fingers clench'd 
 and cold ! 
 Ludolph. She 's dead ! 
 
 \_Staggers and falls into their arms. 
 Ethelbert. Take away the dagger. 
 Gersa. Softly; so ! 
 
 Otho. Thank God for that ! 
 Sigifred. It could not harm him now. 
 Gersa. No ! — brief be his anguish ! 
 Ludolph. She 's gone ! I am content — 
 Nobles, good night ! 190 
 
 We are all weary — faint — set ope the 
 
 doors — 
 I will to bed ! — To-morrow — 
 
 [Dies. 
 The Curtain falls. 
 
KING STEPHEN 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT 
 
 Lord Houg^hton, when reprinting this piece 
 in the Aldine edition of 187tj, appends the fol- 
 lowing- note from the MSS. of Charles Armi- 
 tag-e Brown : ' As soon as Keats had finished 
 Oiho the Great I pointed out to him a subject 
 for an English historical tragedy in the reign 
 of Stephen, beginning with his defeat by the 
 Empress Maud and ending with the death of 
 his son Eustace. He was struck with the vari- 
 
 ety of events and characters which must neces- 
 sarily be introduced, and I offered to give, as 
 before, their dramatic conduct. " Tlie play must 
 open," I began. " with the field of battle, when 
 Stephen's forces are retreating." — " Stop," 
 he cried, "I have been too long in leading 
 strings ; I will do all this myself." He imme- 
 diately set about it, and wrote two or three 
 scenes.' 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I . — Field of Battle 
 
 Alarum. Enter King Stephen, Knights, 
 and Soldiers. 
 
 Stephen. If shame can on a soldier's vein- 
 
 swoU'u front 
 Spread deeper crimson than the battle's 
 
 toil, 
 Blush in your casing helmets ! for see, see ! 
 Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, 
 Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm 
 
 array. 
 Are routed loose about the plashy meads. 
 Of honour forfeit. O, that my known 
 
 voice 
 Could reach your dastard ears, and fright 
 
 you more ! 
 Fly, cowards, fly ! Glocester is at your 
 
 backs ! 
 Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried 
 
 manes. 
 Ply well the rowell with faint trembling 
 
 heels, lo 
 
 Scampering to death at last ! 
 
 1st Knight. The enemy 
 
 Bears his flaunt standard close upon their 
 
 2d Knight. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing 
 the fens 
 Will swamp them girth-deep. 
 
 Stephen. Over head and ears. 
 
 No matter ! 'Tis a gallant enemy; 
 How like a comet he goes streaming on. 
 But we must plague him in the flank, — 
 
 hey, friends ? 
 We are well breathed, — follow ! 
 
 Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers, as 
 
 defeated. 
 Stephen. De Redvers ! 
 
 What is the monstrous bugbear that can 
 fright 20 
 
 Baldwin ? 
 
 Baldwin. No scare-crow, but the fortu- 
 nate star 
 Of boisterous Chester, whose fell truncheon 
 
 now 
 Points level to the goal of victory. 
 This way he comes, and if you would main- 
 tain 
 Your person unaffronted by vile odds, 
 Take horse, my Lord. 
 
 Stephen. And which way spur for life ? 
 Now I thank Heaven I am in the toils, 
 That soldiers may bear witness how my 
 arm 
 
 192 
 
SCENE II 
 
 KING STEPHEN 
 
 193 
 
 Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more 
 Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, 
 Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 31 
 This is a brag, — be 't so, — but if 1 fall, 
 Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre. 
 On, fellow soldiers ! Earl of Redvers, 
 
 back ! 
 Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow- 
 beat 
 The diadem. [Exeunt. Alarum. 
 
 Scene II. — A7iother pa7-t of the Field 
 
 Trumpets sounding a Victory. Enter 
 Glocester, Knights, and Forces. 
 
 Glocester. Now may we lift our bruised 
 visors up. 
 And take the flattering freshness of the 
 
 air, 
 While the wide din of battle dies away 
 Into times past, yet to be echoed sure 
 In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 
 1st Knight. ' Will Stephen's death be 
 mark'd there, my good Lord, 
 Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers ? 
 Glocester. Fain would I know the great 
 usurper's fate. 
 
 Enter two Captains severally. 
 \st Captain. My Lord ! 
 2d Captain. Most noble Earl ! 
 
 \st Captain. The King — 
 2d Captain. The Empress greets — 
 
 Glocester. What of the King? 
 1st Captain. He sole and lone maintains 
 A hopeless bustle 'mid our swarming arms. 
 And with a nimble savageness attacks, 13 
 Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 
 Eludes death, giving death to most that 
 
 dare 
 Trespass within the circuit of his sword ! 
 He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is 
 
 taken ; 
 And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 
 He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt 
 
 down. 
 God save the Empress ! 
 
 Glocester. Now our dreaded Queen: 
 
 What message from her Highness ? 
 
 2d Captain. Royal Maud 
 
 From the throng'd towers of Lhicoln hath 
 
 look'd down, 22 
 
 Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 
 And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet. 
 She greets most noble Glocester from her 
 
 heart, 
 Entreating him, his captains, and brave 
 
 knights. 
 To grace a banquet. The high city gates 
 Are envious which shall see your triumph 
 
 pass; 
 The streets are full of music. 
 
 Enter 2d Knight. 
 
 Glocester. Whence come you ? 
 
 2d Knight. From Stephen, my good 
 Prince, — Stephen ! Stephen ! 30 
 Glocester. Why do you make such echo- 
 ing of his name ? 
 2d Knight. Because I think, my lord, he 
 is no man, 
 But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from 
 
 wounds, 
 And misbaptized with a Christian name. 
 Glocester. A mighty soldier ! — Does he 
 
 still hold out ? 
 2c? Knight. He shames our victory. His 
 valour still 
 Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords, 
 And holds our bladed falchions all aloof — 
 His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter- 
 sick. 
 Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight. 
 Broke short in his hand; upon the which 
 he flung 41 
 
 The heft away with such a vengeful force, 
 It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, 
 
 who tlien 
 Spleen-hearted came in full career at him. 
 Glocester. Did no one take him at a van- 
 tage then ? 
 2d Knight. Three then with tiger leap 
 upon him flew, 
 Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and 
 nimbly held, 
 
194 
 
 TRAGEDIES 
 
 ACT 1 
 
 He stung away agaiu, and stood to breathe, 
 Smiling. Anon upon him rush'd once more 
 A throng of foes, and in this reuew'd strife, 
 My sword»met his and snapp'd off at the 
 hilt. 51 
 
 Glocester. Come, lead me to this man — 
 and let us move 
 In silence, not insulting his sad doom 
 With clamorous trumpets. To the Em- 
 press bear 
 My salutation as befits the time. 
 
 \_Exeunt Glocester and Forces. 
 
 Scene III. — The Field of Battle 
 Enter Stephen unarmed. 
 
 Stephen. Another sword ! And what if 
 
 I could seize 
 One from Bellona's gleaming armoury, 
 Or choose the fairest of her sheafed spears ! 
 Where are my enemies ? Here, close at 
 
 hand, 
 Here come the testy brood. O, for a 
 
 sword ! 
 I 'm faint — a biting sword ! A noble 
 
 sword ! 
 A hedge-stake — or a ponderous stone to 
 
 hurl 
 With brawny vengeance, like the labourer 
 
 Cain. 
 Come on ! Farewell my kingdom, and all 
 
 hail 
 Thou superb, plumed, and helmeted re- 
 nown, lO 
 All hail — I would not truck this brilliant 
 
 day 
 To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard — 
 Come on ! 
 
 Enter De Kaims and Knights, etc. 
 De Kaims. Is 't madness or a hunger 
 after death 
 That makes thee thus unarm 'd throw 
 
 taunts at us ? — 
 Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dips in 
 The gloomy current of a traitor's heart. 
 Stephen. Do it, De Kaims, I will not 
 budge an inch. 
 
 De Kaims. Yes, of thy madness thou 
 
 shalt take the meed. 
 Stephen. Darest thou ? 
 De Kaims. How dare, against a man dis- 
 
 arm'd ? 
 Stephen. What weapons has the lion but 
 himself ? 20 
 
 Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the 
 
 price 
 Of all the glory I have won this day, 
 Being a king, I will not yield alive 
 To any but the second man of the realm, 
 Robert of Glocester. 
 
 De Kaims. Thou shalt vail to me. 
 
 Stephen. Shall I, when I have sworn 
 against it, sir ? 
 Thou think'st it brave to take a breathing 
 
 king, 
 That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty 
 
 Maud, 
 The awed presence-chamber may be bold 
 To whisper, there 's the man who took 
 alive ■ 30 
 
 Stephen — me — prisoner. Certes, De 
 
 Kaims, 
 The ambition is a noble one. 
 
 De Kaims. 'T is true. 
 
 And, Stephen, I must compass it. 
 
 Stephen. No, no, 
 
 Do not tempt me to throttle you on the 
 
 gorge. 
 Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow 
 
 breast, 
 Just when your knighthood is grown ripe 
 
 and full 
 For lordship. 
 
 A Soldier. Is an honest yeoman's spear 
 Of no use at a need ? Take that. 
 
 Stephen. Ah, dastard ! 
 
 De Kaims. What, you are vulnerable ! 
 
 my prisoner ! 
 Stephen. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and 
 demand 4° 
 
 Death as a sovereign right unto a king 
 Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer. 
 If not in title, yet in noble deeds, 
 The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilt, 
 De Kaims, 
 
SCENE IV 
 
 KING STEPHEN 
 
 '95 
 
 For I will never by mean hands be led 
 From this so famous field. Do you hear ! 
 
 Be quick ! 
 Trumpets. Enter the Earl o/" Chester and 
 Knights. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Presence CJuunber. Queen 
 Maud in a Chair of State, the Earls 
 of Glocester a7id Chester, Lords, 
 Attendants 
 
 Maud. Glocester, no more : I will behold 
 that Boulogne: 
 Set him before me. Not for the poor sake 
 Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, 
 As thou with wary speech, yet near enough. 
 Hast hinted. 
 
 'Glocester. Faithful counsel have I given; 
 If wary, for your Highness' benefit. 
 
 Maud. Tlie Heavens forbid that I should 
 not think so, 
 For by thy valour have I won this realm, 
 Which by thy wisdom I will ever keep. 
 To sage advisers let me ever bend lo 
 
 A meek attentive ear, so that they treat 
 Of the wide kingdom's rule and govern- 
 ment. 
 Not trenching on our actions personal. 
 Advised, not school'd, I would be; and 
 
 henceforth 
 Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms. 
 Not side-ways sermon'd at. 
 
 Glocester. Then in plain terms, 
 
 Once more for the fallen king — 
 
 Maud. Your pardon. Brother, 
 
 I would no more of that; for, as I said, 
 'T is not for worldly pomp I wish to see 
 The rebel, but as dooming judge to give 20 
 A sentence something worthy of his guilt. 
 Glocester. If 't must be so, I '11 bring him 
 to your presence. 
 
 [^Exit Glocester. 
 Maud. A meaner summoner might do as 
 well — 
 My Lord of Chester, is 't true what I 
 
 hear 
 Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner. 
 That he, as a fit penance for his crimes. 
 
 Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food 
 Off Glocester's golden dishes — drinks pure 
 
 wine. 
 Lodges soft ? 
 
 Chester. More than that, my gracious 
 
 Queen, 
 Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, me- 
 
 thinks, 30 
 
 Full soldier as he is, and without peey 
 In counsel, dreams too much among his 
 
 books. 
 It may read well, but sure 't is out of date 
 To play the Alexander with Darius. 
 
 Maud. Truth ! I think so. By Heavens 
 
 it shall not last ! 
 Chester. It would amaze your Highness 
 
 now to mark 
 How Glocester overstrains his courtesy 
 To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne — 
 Maud. That ingrate ! 
 Chester. For whose vast ingratitude 
 
 To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, 
 The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps, 
 And with a sort of lackeying friendliness. 
 Talks off the mighty frowning from his 
 
 brow, 43 
 
 Woos him to hold a duet in a smile, 
 Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess — 
 Maud. A perjured slave ! 
 Chester. And for his perjury, 
 
 Glocester has fit rewards — nay, I believe. 
 He sets his bustling household's wits at 
 
 work 
 For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours, 
 And make a heaven of his purgatory; 50 
 Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss 
 Of feasts and music, and all idle shows 
 Of indoor pageantry; while syren whispers, 
 Predestined for his ear, 'scape as half- 
 
 check'd 
 From lips the courtliest and the rubiest, 
 Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. 
 Maud. A frost upon his summer ! 
 Chester. A queen's nod 
 
 Can make his June December. Here he 
 
THE EVE OF ST. MARK 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 In a letter to George and Georgiana Keats, 
 dated February 14, 1819, Keats says that he 
 means to send them in the next packet ' The 
 Pot of Basil,' ' St. Agnes' Eve,' and ' if I 
 should have finished it a little thing called " The 
 Eve of St. Mark." ' He does not refer to the 
 poem again directly, until writing from Win- 
 chester to the same, September 20, when he 
 says : ' The great beauty of poetry is that it 
 makes everything in every place interesting. 
 The palatine Vienna and the abbotine Win- 
 chester are equally interesting. Some time 
 since I began a poem called " The Eve of St. 
 Mark,'' quite in the spirit of town quietude. 
 I think I will give you the sensation of walk- 
 ing about an old country town in a coolish even- 
 ing. I know not whether I shall ever finish it. 
 I will give it as far as I have gone.' The 
 poem appears never to have been finished, and 
 was published in this fragmentary form in Life. 
 Letters and Literary Remains. 
 
 Mr. Formau gives an interesting extract from 
 
 a letter written him by Mr. Rossetti, which 
 throws a possible light on the origin of the 
 poem. He had been reading Keats"s letters to 
 Fanny Brawne, and writes : ' I should think it 
 very conceivable — nay, I will say to myself 
 highly probable and almost certain, — that the 
 " Poem which I have in my head " referred to 
 by Keats at page 106 was none other than the 
 fragmentary " Eve of St. Mark." By the light 
 of the extract, . . . I judge that the heroine — 
 remorseful after trifling with a sick and now 
 absent lover — might make her way to the 
 minster-porch to learn his fate by the spell, 
 and perhaps see his figure enter but not re- 
 turn.' The extract from Keats's letter is as 
 follows : ' If my health would bear it, I could 
 write a Poem which I have in my head, which 
 would be a consolation for people in such a 
 situation as mine. I would show some one in 
 Love as I am, with a person living in such 
 Liberty as you do.' 
 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell; 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
 That call'd the folk to evening prayer; 
 The city streets were clean and fair 
 From wholesome drench of April rains; 
 And, on the western window panes, 
 The chilly sunset faintly told 
 Of unmatured green valle3's cold, 
 Of the green thorny bloomless hedge. 
 Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, i 
 Of primroses by shelter'd rills, 
 And daisies on the aguish hills. 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell: 
 The silent streets were crowded well 
 With staid and pious companies, 
 Warm from their fireside orat'ries; 
 And moving, with demurest air, 
 To even-song, and vesper prayer. 
 
 196 
 
 Each arched porch, and entry low, 
 Was fill'd with patient folk and slow, 20 
 With whispers hush, and shuffling feet, 
 While play'd the organ loud and sweet. 
 
 The bells had ceased, the prayers begun, 
 And Bertha had not yet half done 
 A curious volume, patch'd and torn, 
 That all day long, from earliest morn. 
 Had taken captive her two eyes, 
 Among its golden broideries; 
 Perplex'd her with a thousand things, — 
 The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, 30 
 Martyrs in a fiery blaze, 
 Azure saints and silver raj'S, 
 Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
 Candlesticks John saw in Heaven, 
 The winged Lion of Saint Mark, 
 
THE EVE OF ST. MARK 
 
 197 
 
 And the Covenantal Ark, 
 With its many mysteries, 
 Cherubim and golden mice. 
 
 Bertha was a maiden fair, 
 
 Dwelling in th' old Minster-square; 40 
 
 From her fireside she could see, 
 
 Sidelong, its ricli antiquity. 
 
 Far as the Bishop's garden-wall; 
 
 Where sycamores and elm-trees tall, 
 
 Full-leaved, the forest had outstript. 
 
 By no sharp north-wind ever uipt, 
 
 So shelter'd by the mighty pile. 
 
 Bertha arose, and read awhile. 
 
 With forehead 'gainst the window-pane. 
 
 Again slie tried, and then again, 50 
 
 Until the dusk eve left her dark 
 
 Upon the legend of St. Mark. 
 
 From plaited lawn-frill, fine and thin, 
 
 She lifted up her soft warm chin, 
 
 With aching neck and swimming eyes, 
 
 And dazed with saintly imag'ries. 
 
 All was gloom, and silent all. 
 
 Save now and then the still foot-fall 
 
 Of one returning homewards late, 
 
 Past the echoing minster-gate. 60 
 
 The clamorous daws, that all the day 
 
 Above tree-tops and towers play. 
 
 Pair by paif had gone to rest, 
 
 Each iu its ancient belfry-uest, 
 
 Where asleep they fall betimes. 
 
 To music and the drowsy chimes. 
 
 All was silent, all was gloom, 
 
 Abroad and iu the homely room: 
 
 Down she sat, poor cheated soul ! 
 
 And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; 70 
 
 Lean'd forward, with bright drooping hair 
 
 And slant book, full against the glare. 
 
 Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 
 
 Hover'd about, a giant size. 
 
 On ceiling-beam and old oak chair. 
 
 The parrot's cage, and panel-square; 
 
 And the warm angled winter-screen, 
 
 On which were many monsters seen, 
 
 Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice. 
 
 And legless birds of Paradise, 80 
 
 Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 
 
 And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 
 
 Untired she read, her shadow still 
 
 Glower'd about, as it would fill 
 
 The room with wildest forms and shades, 
 
 As though some ghostly queen of spades 
 
 Had come to mock behind her back. 
 
 And dance, and ruffle her garments black. 
 
 Untired she read the legend page, 
 
 Of holy Mark, from youth to age, 90 
 
 On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 
 
 Rejoicing for his many pains. 
 
 Sometimes the learned eremite. 
 
 With golden star, or dagger bright, 
 
 Referr'd to pious poesies 
 
 Written in smallest crow-quill size 
 
 Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme 
 
 Was parcell'd out from time to time: 
 
 ' Als writith he of swevenis. 
 
 Men han beforne they wake in bliss, ico 
 
 Whanne that hir friendes thinke him bound 
 
 In crimped shroude farre under grounde; 
 
 And how a litling child mote be 
 
 A saint er its nativitie, 
 
 (Jif that the modre (God her blesse !) 
 
 Kepen in solitarinesse, 
 
 And kissen devoute the holy croce. 
 
 Of Goddes love, and Sathan's force, — 
 
 He writith; and thinges many mo 
 
 Of swiche thinges I may not show. no 
 
 Bot I must tellen verilie 
 
 Spmdel of Saints Cicilie, 
 
 And chieflie what he auetorethe 
 
 Of Saints Markis life and dethe: ' 
 
 At length her constant eyelids come 
 Upon the fervent martyrdom; 
 Then lastly to his holy shrine, 
 Exalt amid the tapers' shine 
 At Venice, — 
 
HYPERION 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 The first mention of Hyperion in Keats's 
 letters occurs in that written on Christmas day, 
 1818, to his brother and sister in America, in 
 which he says : ' I think you knew before you 
 left England that my next subject would be 
 " the fall of Hyperion." I went on a little 
 with it last night, but it will take some time to 
 get into the vein again. I will not give you 
 any extracts because I wish the whole to make 
 an impression.' He speaks of it a week later 
 as ' scarce begun.' Again, February 14, 1819, 
 he writes to the same : ' I have not gone on 
 with Hyperion — for to tell the truth I have 
 not been in great cue for writing lately — I 
 must wait for the spring to rouse me up a lit- 
 tle.' In August he told Bailey that he had 
 been writing parts of Hyperion, but it is quite 
 plain that he did little continuous work on it, 
 but was drawn off by his tales and tragedy. 
 From Winchester, September 22, 1819, he 
 writes to Reynolds : ' I have given up Hyperion 
 — there were too many Miltonic inversions in 
 it — Miltonic verse cannot be written but in an 
 artful, or, rather, artist's humour. I wish to 
 give myself up to other sensations. English 
 ought to be kept up. It may be interesting to 
 you to pick out some lines from Hyperion, and 
 put a mark X to the false beauty proceeding 
 from art, and one || to the true voice of feeling. 
 Upon my soul 't was imagination — I cannot 
 make the distinction — every now and then 
 there is a Miltonic intonation — but I cannot 
 make the division properly.' From the silence 
 regarding the poem in his after letters, it would 
 appear that he left it at this stage. 
 
 That Keats designed a large epic in Hype- 
 rion, which was to be in ten books, is plain, but 
 it is also tolerably clear that he abandoned his 
 purpose, for he did not actually forbid the 
 publication of the fragment, though it is doubt- 
 ful if the whole reason for his action is given 
 in the Publishers' Advertisement to the 1820 
 volume, containing the poem. ' If any apology 
 be thought necessary,' it is there said, ' for the 
 
 appearance of the unfinished poem of Hyperion, 
 the publishers beg to state that they alone are 
 responsible, as it was printed at their particular 
 request, and contrary to the wish of the au- 
 thor. The poem was intended to have been of 
 equal length with Endymion, but the reception 
 given to that work discouraged the author 
 from proceeding.' 
 
 Keats's friend Woodhouse, in his interleaved 
 and annotated copy of Endymion, says of Hy- 
 perion : ' The poem if completed would have 
 treated of the dethronement of Hyperion, the 
 former God of the Sun, by Apollo, — and inci- 
 dentally of those of Oceanus by Neptune, of 
 Saturn by Jupiter, etc., and of the war of the 
 Giants for Saturn's reestablishment, with other 
 events, of which we have but very dark hints in 
 the mythological poets of Greece and Rome.' 
 
 It is not impossible that besides the inertia 
 produced by diminution of physical powers, an- 
 other reason existed for Keats's failure to com- 
 plete his poem. In the two full books which 
 we have, he had stated so fully and explicitly 
 the underlying thought in his interpretation of 
 the myth that his interest in any delineation 
 of a hopeless struggle might well have been 
 unequal to the task. The speeches successively 
 of Oceanus and Clymene which so enraged 
 Enceladus were the masculine and feminine 
 confessions that as their own supremacy over 
 the antecedent chaos had been due to the law 
 which made order expel disorder, so the suprem- 
 acy of the new race of gods over them was 
 due to the still further law 
 
 'That first in beauty sliould be first in might.' 
 
 Nay, more, the vision they have is not of a 
 
 restoration of the old order, but of the defeat of 
 
 the new by some still more distant evolution. 
 
 ' Another race may drive 
 
 Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.' 
 
 Of the relation of this poem to Hyperion, a 
 Vision, see the Appendix, where the other frag- 
 ment is printed. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 199 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 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, 
 Still as the silence round about his lair; 
 Forest on forest hung about his head 
 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was 
 
 there, 
 Not so much life as on a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed from the feather'd 
 
 grass. 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did it 
 
 rest. 10 
 
 A stream went voiceless by, still deadened 
 
 more 
 By reason of his fallen divinity 
 Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her 
 
 reeds 
 Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 
 
 Along the margin-sand large foot-marks 
 
 went, 
 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; and his realmless eyes were 
 
 closed ; 
 While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to 
 
 the Earth, 20 
 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 
 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. 
 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. 30 
 Her face was large as that of Memphian 
 
 sphinx, 
 Pedestal'd haply in a palace-court, 
 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. 
 There was a listening fear in her regard. 
 As if calamity had but begun; 
 As if the vanward clouds of evil days 39 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
 One hand she 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 ear 
 Leaning with parted lips, some words she 
 
 spake 
 In solemn teuour and deep organ tone: 
 Some mourning words, which in our feeble 
 
 tongue 
 Would come in these like accents; O how 
 
 frail 50 
 
 To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
 * Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, 
 
 poor old King ? 
 I have no comfort for thee, no not one: 
 I cannot say, " O wherefore sleepest thou ? " 
 For heaven is parted from thee, and the 
 
 earth 
 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God; 
 And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
 Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the 
 
 air 
 Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
 Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- 
 mand, 60 
 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
 And thy sharp lightning in unpractised 
 
 hands 
 Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 O 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 ? 70 
 Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I 
 
 weep.' 
 
 As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
 Those green - robed senators of mighty 
 
 woods, 
 Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest 
 
 stars. 
 Dream, and so dream all night without a 
 
 stir, 
 Save from one gradual solitary gust 
 Which comes upon the silence, and dies off, 
 As if the ebbing air had but one wave: 
 So came these words and went; the while 
 
 in tears 
 She touch'd her fair large forehead to the 
 ground, 80 
 
 Just where her falling hair might be out- 
 spread 
 A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
 One moon, with alteration slow, had shed 
 Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
 And still these two were postured motion- 
 less, 
 Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern; 
 The frozen God still couchant on the earth. 
 And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet: 
 Until at length old Saturn lifted up 89 
 
 His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 
 And all tlie gloom and sorrow of the place. 
 And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then 
 
 spake, 
 As with a palsied tongue, and while his 
 
 beard 
 Shook horrid with such aspen-malady: 
 ' 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, 
 Naked and bare of its great diadem, loi 
 Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had 
 
 power 
 To make me desolate ? whence came the 
 
 strength ? 
 How was it nurtured to such bursting forth. 
 While Fate seeui'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, 109 
 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. 120 
 Search, Tliea, 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 130 
 Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall 
 
 be 
 Beautiful things made new, for the sur- 
 prise , 
 
 L _.. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 Of the sky-children; I will give command: 
 Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? ' 
 
 This passion lifted him upon his feet, 
 And made his hands to struggle in the air, 
 His Druid locks to shake and ooze with 
 
 sweat, 
 His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
 He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing 
 
 deep; 139 
 
 A little time, and then again he snatch'd 
 Utterance thus: — ' But cannot I create ? 
 Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 
 Another world, another universe. 
 To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
 Where is another chaos ? Where ? ' — That 
 
 word 
 Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 
 The rebel three. — Thea was startled up. 
 And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
 As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of 
 
 'This cheers our fallen house: come to 
 our friends, 150 
 
 Saturn ! come away, and give them 
 
 heart; 
 
 1 know the covert, for thence came I 
 
 hither.' 
 Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she 
 
 went 
 With backward footing through the shade 
 
 a space: 
 He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the 
 
 way 
 Through aged boughs, that yielded like the 
 
 mist 
 Which eagles cleave upmounting from 
 
 their nest. 
 
 Meanwhile in other realms big tears 
 were shed. 
 
 More sorrow like to this, and such like 
 woe, 
 
 Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of 
 scribe: 160 
 
 The Titans fierce, self - hid, or prison- 
 bound. 
 
 Groan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
 And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's 
 
 voice. 
 But one of the whole mammoth-brood still 
 
 kept 
 His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty; 
 Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
 Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming 
 
 up 
 From man to the sun's God; yet unsecure : 
 For as among us mortals omens drear 
 Fright and perplex, so also shudder'd he. 
 Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated 
 screech, 171 
 
 Or the familiar visiting of one 
 Upon the first toll of his passing-bell, 
 Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp; 
 But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve. 
 Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace 
 
 bright 
 Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
 And touch'd with shade of bronzed obe- 
 lisks. 
 Glared a blood-red through all its thousand 
 
 courts, 
 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries; 180 
 And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
 Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagles' 
 
 wings, 
 Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
 Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds 
 
 were heard, 
 Not heard before by Gods or wondering 
 
 men. 
 Also, when he would taste the spicy 
 
 wreaths 
 Of incense, breathed aloft from sacred hills, 
 Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
 Savour of poisonous brass and metal sick: 
 And so, when harbour'd in the sleepy west, 
 After tlie full completion of fair day, 191 
 For rest divine upon exalted couch 
 And slumber in the arms of melody. 
 He paced away the pleasant hours of ease 
 With stride colossal, on from hall to hall; 
 While far within each aisle and deep re- 
 cess. 
 His winged minions in close clusters stood. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 Amazed and full of fear; like anxious men 
 Who on wide plains gather in panting 
 
 troops, 
 When earthquakes jar their battlements 
 
 and towers. 200 
 
 Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy 
 
 trance. 
 Went step for step with Thea through the 
 
 woods, 
 Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
 Came slope upon the threshold of the west; 
 Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
 In smoothest silence, save what solemn 
 
 tubes, 
 Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of 
 
 sweet 
 And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melo- 
 dies; 
 And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
 In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 2 10 
 That inlet to severe magnificence 
 Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 
 
 He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
 His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his 
 
 heels. 
 And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire, 
 That scared away the meek ethereal Hours 
 And made their dove-wings tremble. On 
 
 he flared. 
 From stately nave to nave, from vault to 
 
 vault, 
 Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed 
 
 light. 
 And diamond - paved lustrous long ar- 
 cades, 220 
 Until he reach'd the great main cupola; 
 There standing fierce beiieath, he stampt 
 
 his foot, 
 And from the basements deep to the high 
 
 towers 
 Jarr'd his own golden region; and before 
 The quavering thunder thereupon had 
 
 ceased. 
 His voice leapt out, despite of godlike 
 
 curb. 
 To this result: ' O dreams of day and 
 
 night ! 
 
 O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
 O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 
 
 lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded 
 
 pools ! 230 
 
 Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? 
 
 why 
 Is my eternal essence thus distraught 
 To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
 Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
 Am I to leave 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 ? It is left 
 Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240 
 The blaze, the splendour, and the symme- 
 try, 
 
 1 cannot see — but darkness, death and 
 
 darkness. 
 Even here, into my centre of repose, 
 The shady visions come to domineer. 
 Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. — 
 Fall ! — No, by Tellns and her briny robes ! 
 Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
 I will advance a terrible right arm 
 Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel 
 
 Jove, 
 And bid old Saturn take his throne again.' 
 He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier 
 
 threat 251 
 
 Held struggle with his throat, but came 
 
 not forth; 
 For as in theatres of crowded men 
 Hubbub increases more they call out 
 
 « Hush ! ' 
 So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 
 Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and 
 
 cold; 
 And from the mirror'd level where he stood 
 A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
 At this, through all his bulk an agony 
 Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 
 
 crown, 260 
 
 Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
 Making slow way, with head and neck con- 
 vulsed 
 From ovei'-strained might. Released, he 
 
 fled 
 
HYPERION 
 
 203 
 
 To the eastern gates, and full six dewy 
 
 hours 
 Before the dawn in season due should 
 
 blush, 
 He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy 
 
 portals, 
 Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them 
 
 wide 
 Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
 The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
 Each day from east to west the heavens 
 
 through, 270 
 
 Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds; 
 Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and 
 
 hid, 
 But ever and anon the glancing spheres. 
 Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
 Glow'd through, and wrought upon the 
 
 muffling dark 
 Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir 
 
 deep 
 Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old, 
 Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
 Then living on the earth, with labouring 
 
 thought 
 Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280 
 Now lost, save what we find on remnants 
 
 huge 
 Of stone, or marble swart; their import 
 
 gone, 
 Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings 
 
 this orb 
 Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings, 
 Ever exalted at the God's approach: 
 And now, from forth the gloom their 
 
 plumes immense 
 Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were; 
 While still the dazzling globe maintaiu'd 
 
 eclipse, 
 Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
 Fain would he have commanded, fain took 
 
 throne 2qo 
 
 And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
 He might not: — No, though a primeval 
 
 God: 
 The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
 Therefore the operations of the dawn 
 Stay'd in their birth, even as here 't is told. 
 
 Those silver wings expanded sisterly. 
 Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide 
 Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night; 
 And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new 
 
 woes, 299 
 
 Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
 His spirit to the sorrow of the time; 
 And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
 Upon the boundaries of day and night, 
 He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance 
 
 faint. 
 There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
 Look'd down on him with pity, and the 
 
 voice 
 Of Coelus, from the universal space. 
 Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear: 
 ' O brightest of my children dear, earth-born 
 And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 310 
 All unrevealed even to the powers 
 Which met at thy creating; at whose joys 
 And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
 I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and 
 
 whence ; 
 And at the fruits thereof what shapes they 
 
 be. 
 Distinct, and visible; symbols divine, 
 Manifestations of that beauteous life 
 Diffused unseen throughout eternal space: 
 Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest 
 
 child ! 
 Of these, thy brethren and the God- 
 desses ! 320 
 There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
 Of son against his sire. I saw him fall, 
 I saw my first-born tumbled from his 
 
 throne ! 
 To me his arms were spread, to me his 
 
 voice 
 Found way from forth the thunders round 
 
 his head ! 
 Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face. 
 Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear 
 
 there is: 
 For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
 Divine ye were created, and divine 
 In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd, 330 
 Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and 
 
 ruled : 
 
204 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 Now I behold in you fear, hope, and 
 
 wratli ; 
 Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
 I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
 In men who die. — This is the grief, O 
 
 Son ! 
 Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
 Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable, 
 As thou canst move about, an evident 
 
 God; 
 And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
 Ethereal presence: — I am but a voice; 340 
 My life is but the life of winds and tides. 
 No more than winds and tides can I 
 
 avail: — 
 But thou canst. — Be thou therefore in the 
 
 van 
 Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's 
 
 barb 
 Before the tense string murmur. — To the 
 
 earth ! 
 For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his 
 
 woes. 
 Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright 
 
 sun. 
 And of thy seasons be a careful nurse.' — 
 Ere half this region-whisper had come 
 
 down, 
 Hyperion arose, and on the stars 350 
 
 Lifted his curved- lids, and kept them wide 
 Until it ceased; and still he kept them 
 
 wide: 
 And still they were the same bright, pa- 
 tient stars. 
 Then with a slow incline of his broad 
 
 breast, 
 Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
 Forward he stoop 'd over the airy shore. 
 And plunged all noiseless into the deep 
 
 night. 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide 
 
 wings 
 Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 
 And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad 
 
 place 
 
 Where Cybele and the bruised Titans 
 
 mourn'd. 
 It was a den where no insulting light 
 Could glimmer on their tears; where their 
 
 own groans 
 They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
 Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents 
 
 hoarse. 
 Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
 Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that 
 
 seem'd 10 
 
 Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 
 Forehead to forehead held their monstrous 
 
 horns; 
 And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 
 Made a fit roofing to this nest of vroe. 
 Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 
 Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 
 Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assem- 
 bled: 
 Some chain'd in torture, and some wander- 
 ing. 
 CcEus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 
 Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 20 
 
 With many more, the brawniest in assault. 
 Were pent in regions of laborious breath; 
 Dungeon'd in opaque element to keep 
 Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all 
 
 their limbs 
 Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and 
 
 screw'd; 
 Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
 Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 
 With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of 
 
 pulse. 
 Mnemosyne was straying in the world; 
 Far from her moon had Phcebe wandered; 30 
 And many else were free to roam abroad, 
 But for the main, here found they covert 
 
 drear. 
 Scarce images of life, one here, one there. 
 Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal 
 
 cirque 
 Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 
 When the chill rain begins at shut of eve. 
 In dull November, and their chancel vault, 
 The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout 
 
 nijrht. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 205 
 
 Each oue kept shroud, nor to his neighbour 
 
 gave 
 Or word, or look, or action of despair. 40 
 Creiis was one; his ponderous iiou luace 
 Lay by him, aud a sliatter'd rib of rock 
 Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and 
 
 pined, 
 lapetus another; in his grasp, 
 A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue 
 Squeezed from the gorge, and all its un- 
 
 curl'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 50 
 He ground severe his skull, with open 
 
 mouth 
 And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 
 Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
 Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs, 
 Though feminine, than any of her sons: 
 More thought than woe was in her dusky 
 
 face. 
 For she was prophesying of her glory; 
 And in her wide imagination stood 
 Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes, 
 By Oxns or in Ganges' sacred isles. 60 
 
 Even as Hope upon her anchor leans. 
 So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
 Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
 Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve. 
 Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 
 Shadow'd Enceladus; once tame and mild 
 As grazing ox un worried in the meads; 
 Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth, 
 He meditated, plotted, and even now 
 Was hurling mountains in that second 
 
 war, 70 
 
 Not long delay'd, that scared the younger 
 
 Gods 
 To hide themselves in forms of beast and 
 
 bird. 
 Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone 
 Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd 
 
 close 
 Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
 Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
 
 In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
 Of Ops the queen all clouded round from 
 
 sight; 
 
 No shape distinguishable, more than when 
 
 Thick night coufouuds the pine-tops with 
 
 the clouds: 80 
 
 Aud many else whose names may not be 
 
 told. 
 For when the Muse's wings are air-ward 
 
 spread, 
 Who shall delay her flight? And she 
 
 must chant 
 Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had 
 
 climb'd 
 With damp and slippery footing from a 
 
 depth 
 More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
 Their heads appear'd, and up their stature 
 
 grew 
 Till on the level height their steps found 
 
 ease: 
 Then Thea spread abroad her trembling 
 
 arms 
 Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 90 
 And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's 
 
 face: 
 There saw she direst strife; the supreme 
 
 God 
 At war with all the frailty of grief. 
 Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, 
 Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all de- 
 spair. 
 Against these plagues he strove in vain: 
 
 for Fate 
 Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
 A disanointing poison: so that Thea, 
 Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass 
 First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 100 
 
 As with us mortal men, the laden heart 
 Is persecuted more, and fever'd more. 
 When it is nighing to the mournful house 
 Where other hearts are sick of the same 
 
 bruise ; 
 So Saturn, as lie walk'd into the midst, 
 Felt faint, aud would have sunk among the 
 
 rest, 
 But that he met Enceladus's eye, 
 
2o6 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 Whose mightiuess, and awe of him, at 
 once 
 
 Came like an inspiration; and he shouted, 
 
 ' Titans, behold your God ! ' at which some 
 groau'd; "o 
 
 Some started on their feet; some also 
 shouted ; 
 
 Some wept, some wail'd — all bow'd with 
 reverence; 
 
 And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
 
 Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her fore- 
 head wan. 
 
 Her eyebrows thin and jet, and hollow 
 eyes. 
 
 There is a roaring in the bleak-grown 
 pines 
 
 When Winter lifts his voice; there is a 
 noise 
 
 Among immortals when a God gives sign. 
 
 With hushing finger, how he means to 
 load 
 
 His tongue with the full weight of utter- 
 less thought, I20 
 
 With thunder, and with music, and with 
 pomp: 
 
 Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown 
 pines; 
 
 Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd 
 world, 
 
 No other sound succeeds; but ceasing here. 
 
 Among these fallen, Saturn's voice there- 
 from 
 
 Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
 
 Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt 
 short, 
 
 Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
 
 Thus grew it up: — ' Not in my own sad 
 breast. 
 
 Which is its own great judge and searcher 
 out, 130 
 
 Gan I find reason why ye should be thus: 
 
 Not in the legends of the first of days. 
 
 Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
 
 Which starry Uranus with finger bright 
 
 Saved from the shores of darkness, when 
 the waves 
 
 Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow 
 gloom ; — 
 
 And the which book ye know I ever kept 
 For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, in- 
 firm ! 
 Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
 Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 
 At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 141 
 One against one, or two, or three, or all 
 Each several one against the other three, 
 As fire with air loud warring when rain- 
 floods 
 Drown both, and press them both against 
 
 earth's face, 
 Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath 
 Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that 
 
 strife, 
 Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read 
 
 it deep, 
 Can I find reason why ye should be thus: 
 No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search. 
 And pore on Nature's universal scroll 151 
 Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
 The first-born of all shaped and palpable 
 
 Gods, 
 Should cower beneath what, in comparison. 
 Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
 O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye 
 
 are here ! 
 O Titans, shall I say "Arise!"— Ye 
 
 groan: 
 Shall I say " Crouch ! " — Ye groan. 
 
 What can I then ? 
 O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
 What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren 
 Gods, 160 
 
 How we can war, how engine our great 
 wrath ! 
 
 speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
 Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
 Ponderest high and deep; and in thy face 
 
 1 see, astonied, that severe content 
 Which comes of thought and musing: give 
 
 us help ! ' 
 
 So ended Saturn; and the God of the 
 Sea, 
 Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
 But cogitation in his watery shades. 
 Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 170 
 
HYPERION 
 
 207 
 
 In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring 
 tongue 
 aught iufaut-ltke from the far-foamed 
 sands, 
 ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, pas- 
 sion-stung, 
 Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies ! 
 Shut up your senses, stifle up your eai's, 
 My voice is not a bellows uuto ire. 
 Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring 
 
 proof 
 How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop; 
 And in the proof much comfort will I give. 
 If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 180 
 We fall by course of Nature's law, not 
 
 force 
 Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
 Hast sifted well the atom-universe; 
 But for this reason, that thou art the King, 
 And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
 One avenue was shaded from thine e^'es, 
 Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
 And first, as thou wast not the first of pow- 
 ers, 
 So art thou not the last; it cannot be; 
 Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 190 
 From chaos and parental darkness came 
 Light, the first fruits of that intestine 
 
 broil. 
 That sullen ferment, which for wondrous 
 
 ends 
 Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour 
 
 came, 
 And with it light, and light engendering 
 Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd 
 The whole enormous matter into life. 
 Upon that very hour, our parentage, 
 The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest: 
 Then thou first-born, and we the giant- 
 race, 200 
 Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous 
 
 realms. 
 Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 't is 
 
 pain; 
 O folly ! for to bear all naked truths, 
 And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
 That is the top of sovereignty. Mark 
 well ! 
 
 As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
 Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though 
 
 once chiefs; 
 And as we show beyond that Heaven and 
 
 Earth 
 In form and shape compact and beautiful, 
 In will, in action free, companionship, 210 
 And thousand other signs of purer life; 
 So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
 A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
 And fated to excel us, as we pass 
 In glory that old Darkness: nor are we 
 Thereby more conquer' d, than by us the 
 
 rule 
 Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull 
 
 soil 
 Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed, 
 And feedeth still, more comely than itself ? 
 Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves ? 
 Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 221 
 Because it cooeth, and bath snowy wings 
 To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
 We are such forest-trees, and our fair 
 
 boughs 
 Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
 But eagles goldeu-feather'd, who do tower 
 Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
 In right thereof; for 't is the eternal law 
 That first in beauty should be first in 
 
 might: 229 
 
 Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
 Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
 Have ye beheld the young God of the Seas, 
 My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 
 Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along 
 By noble winged creatures he hath made ? 
 I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
 With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
 That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
 To all my empire; farewell sad I took, 
 And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
 Had wrought upon ye; and how I might 
 
 best 241 
 
 Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
 Receive the truth, and let it be your balm.' 
 
 Whether through poz'd conviction, or 
 disdain, 
 
208 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
 Left nmrmuiiug, what deepest thought can 
 
 tell? 
 But so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
 Save one whoui none regarded, Clymene: 
 And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd, 
 With hectic lips, and eyes up -looking 
 
 mild, 250 
 
 Thus wording timidly among the fierce: 
 ' O Father, I am here the simplest voice. 
 And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
 And this thing woe crept in among our 
 
 hearts. 
 There to remain forever, as I fear: 
 I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
 So weak a creature could turn off tlie help 
 Which by just right should come of mighty 
 
 Gods; 
 Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
 Of wh;>t I heard, and how it made me 
 
 weep, 260 
 
 And know that we had parted from all 
 
 hope. 
 I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 
 Where a sweet clime was breathed from a 
 
 laud 
 Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and 
 
 flowers. 
 Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; 
 Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth; 
 So that I felt a movement in my heart 
 To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
 With songs of misery, music of our woes; 
 And sat me down, and took a mouthed 
 
 shell 270 
 
 And miirmur'd into it, and made melody — 
 
 melody no more ! for wliile I sang, 
 And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
 The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
 Just opposite, an island of the sea, 
 
 There came enchantment with the shifting 
 
 wind, 
 That did both drown and keep alive my 
 
 ears. 
 
 1 threw my shell away upon the sand, 
 And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd 
 With that new blissful golden melody. 280 
 A living death was in each gush of sounds. 
 
 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. 
 Each like a dove leaving its olive perch. 
 With music wing'd instead of silent plumes, 
 To hover round my head, and make me 
 
 sick 
 Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame, 
 And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 290 
 When, past all hindrance of my trembling 
 
 hands, 
 A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all 
 
 tune. 
 And still it cried, " Apollo ! young Apollo ! 
 The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apol- 
 lo ! " 
 I fled, it foUow'd me, and cried, " Apollo ! " 
 O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 
 Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thou 
 
 felt. 
 Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
 Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be 
 
 heard.' 
 
 So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous 
 brook 300 
 
 That, lingering along a pebbled coast. 
 Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met. 
 And shudder'd; for the overwhelming 
 
 voice 
 Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath: 
 The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
 In the half-glutted hollows of I'eef-rocks, 
 Came booming thus, while still upon his 
 
 arm 
 He lean'd; not rising, from supreme con- 
 tempt. 
 * Or shall we listen to the over- wise. 
 Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 310 
 
 Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
 That rebel Jove's whole armoury were 
 
 spent, 
 Not world on world upon these shoulders 
 
 piled, 
 Could agonize me more than baby-words 
 In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 209 
 
 Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Ti- 
 tans all. 
 Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
 Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
 Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the 
 
 Waves, 
 Thy scalding in the seas ? What ! have I 
 
 roused 32° 
 
 Your spleens with so few simple words as 
 
 these ? 
 O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost: 
 O joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
 Wide -glaring for revenge.' — As this he 
 
 said, 
 He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
 Still without intermission speaking thus: 
 ' Now ye are flames, I '11 tell you how to 
 
 burn. 
 And purge the ether of our enemies; 
 How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire, 
 And singe away the swollen clouds of 
 
 Jove, 330 
 
 Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
 O let him feel the evil he hath done; 
 For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 
 Much pain have I for more than loss of 
 
 realms: 
 The days of peace and slumberous calm 
 
 are fled; 
 Those days, all innocent of scathing war. 
 When all the fair Existences of heaven 
 Came open-eyed to guess what we would 
 
 speak : — 
 That was before our brows were taught to 
 
 frown, 
 Before our lips knew else but solemn 
 
 sounds; 340 
 
 That was before we knew the winged 
 
 thing. 
 Victory, might be lost, or might be won. 
 And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
 Our brightest brother, still is undis- 
 
 graced — 
 Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here ! ' 
 
 All eyes were on Enceladns's face, 
 And they beheld, while still Hyperion's 
 name 
 
 Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
 A pallid gleam across his features stern: 
 Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
 Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them 
 
 all, 351 
 
 And in each face he saw a gleam of light, 
 But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar 
 
 locks 
 Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel 
 When the prow sweeps into a midnight 
 
 cove. 
 In pale and silver silence they remain'd, 
 Till suddenly a splendour, like the morn, 
 Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
 All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
 And every gulf, and every chasm old, 360 
 And every height, and every sullen depth, 
 Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented 
 
 streams: 
 And all the everlasting cataracts. 
 And all the headlong torrents far and near, 
 Mantled before in darkness and huge 
 
 shade. 
 Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
 It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 
 His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd 
 
 to view 
 The misery his brilliance had betray'd 
 To the most hateful seeing of itself. 370 
 Golden his hair of short Numidian curl. 
 Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 
 In midst of his own brightness, like the 
 
 bulk 
 Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
 To one who travels from the dusking 
 
 East: 
 Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's 
 
 harp, 
 He utter'd, while his hands contemplative 
 He press'd together, and in silence stood. 
 Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 
 At sight of the dejected King of Day, 380 
 And many hid their faces from the light: 
 But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
 Among the brotherhood; and, at their 
 
 glare, 
 Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
 And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 
 
HYPERION 
 
 To where he tower'd on his eminence. 
 There those four shouted forth old Saturn's 
 
 name; 
 Hyperion from the peak loud answered 
 
 * Saturn ! ' 
 Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 
 In whose face was no joy, though all the 
 
 Gods 390 
 
 Gave from their hollow throats the name 
 
 of ♦ Saturn ! ' 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 
 
 Amazed were those Titans utterly. 
 
 O leave them, Muse ! O leave them to 
 
 their woes; 
 For thou art weak to sing such tumults 
 
 dire: 
 A solitary sorrow best befits 
 Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
 Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt 
 
 find 
 Many a fallen old Divinity 
 Wandering in vain about bewildered shores. 
 Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp, 
 And not a wind of heaven but will 
 
 breathe i i 
 
 In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute; 
 For lo ! 't is for the Father of all verse. 
 Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue. 
 Let the rose glow intense and warm the air. 
 And let the clouds of even and of morn 
 Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; 
 Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
 Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd 
 
 shells, 
 On sands or in great deeps, vermilion turn 
 Through all their labyrinths; and let the 
 
 maid 21 
 
 Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss sur- 
 prised. 
 Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 
 Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 
 And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and 
 
 beech. 
 In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest 
 
 song. 
 
 And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath 
 
 the shade: 
 Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 
 Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
 Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
 Together had he left his mother fair 31 
 
 And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 
 And in the morning twilight wandered 
 
 forth 
 Beside the osiers of a rivulet, 
 Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
 The nightingale had ceased, and a few 
 
 stars 
 Were lingering in the heavens, while the 
 
 thrush 
 Began calm-throated. Throughout all the 
 
 isle 
 There was no covert, no retired cave 
 Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of 
 
 waves, 40 
 
 Though scarcely heard in many a green re- 
 cess. 
 He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright 
 
 tears 
 Went trickling down the golden bow he 
 
 held. 
 Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 
 While from beneath some cumbrous boughs 
 
 hard by 
 With solemn step an awful Goddess came. 
 And there was purport in her looks for 
 
 him. 
 Which he with eager guess began to read 
 Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said: 
 ' How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea ? 
 Or hath that antique mien and robed 
 
 form 5 > 
 
 Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
 Sure I have heard those vestments sweep' 
 
 ing o'er 
 The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
 In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 
 The rustle of those ample skirts about 
 These grassy solitudes, and seen the flow- 
 ers 
 Lift up their heads, and still the whisper 
 
 pass'd. 
 Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before. 
 
HYPERION 
 
 And their eternal calm, and all that face, 
 Or I have dream 'd.' — * Yes,' said the su- 
 preme shape, 6i 
 ' Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking 
 
 "P 
 Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
 Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all 
 
 the vast 
 Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
 Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
 Of such new tuneful wonder. Is 't not 
 
 strange 
 That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell 
 
 me, youth. 
 What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
 When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy 
 
 griefs 70 
 
 To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
 The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, 
 From the young day when first thy infant 
 
 hand 
 Pluek'd witless the weak flowers, till thine 
 
 arm 
 Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
 Show thy heart's secret to an ancient 
 
 Power 
 Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones 
 For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
 Of loveliness new-born.' — Apollo then. 
 With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
 Thus answer'd, while his white melodious 
 
 throat 81 
 
 Throbb'd with the syllables: — 'Mnemo- 
 syne ! 
 Thy name is on my tongue, I know not 
 
 how; 
 Why should I tell thee what thou so well 
 
 seest ? 
 Why should I strive to show what from 
 
 thy lips 
 Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, 
 
 dark. 
 And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: 
 I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 
 Until a melancholy numbs my limbs; 
 And tlien upon the grass I sit, and moan, go 
 Like one who once had wings. — O why 
 
 should I 
 
 Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liege- 
 less air 
 Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I' 
 Spurn the green turf as hateful to my 
 
 feet? 
 Goddess benign, point forth some unknown 
 
 thing: 
 Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
 What are the stars ? There is the sun, the 
 
 sun ! 
 And the most patient brilliance of the 
 
 moon ! 
 And stars by thousands ! Point me out 
 
 the way 
 To any one particular beauteous star, 100 
 And I will flit into it with my lyre. 
 And make its silvery splendour pant with 
 
 bliss. 
 I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where 
 
 is power ? 
 Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 
 Makes this alarum in the elements, 
 While I here idle listen on the shores 
 In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 
 O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp. 
 That waileth every morn and eventide. 
 Tell me why thus I rave, about these 
 
 groves ! no 
 
 Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can 
 
 read 
 A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
 Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 
 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. 
 And deify me, as if some blithe wine 
 Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, 119 
 And so become immortal.' — Thus the God, 
 While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 
 Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast 
 
 kept 
 Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
 Soon wild commotions shook him, and made 
 
 flush 
 All the immortal fairness of his limbs: 
 Most like the struggle at the gate of death; 
 
HYPERION 
 
 Or liker still to one who should take leave 
 Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 
 As hot as death's is chill, with fierce con- 
 vulse 
 Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd : 130 
 His very hair, his golden tresses famed 
 Kept undulation round bis eager neck. 
 
 During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 
 
 Her arms as one who prophesied. — At 
 
 length 
 Apollo shriek 'd; — and lo ! from all his 
 
 limbs 
 Celestial 
 
TO AUTUMN 
 
 In a letter to Reynolds, written from Win- 
 chester, September 22, 1819, Keats jots down 
 these sentences : ' How beautiful the season is 
 now — How fine the air. A temperate sharp- 
 ness about it. Really, without joking', chaste 
 weather — Dian skies — I never liked stubble- 
 fields so much as now — Aye, better than the 
 
 chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stnb- 
 ble-field looks warm in the same way that some 
 pictures look warm. This struck me so much 
 in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.' 
 These autumn days in Winchester were the last 
 of happy health for Keats. The poem was in- 
 cluded in the 1820 volume. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 With fruit tlie vines that round the 
 thatch-eaves run; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage- 
 trees, 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the 
 core; 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the 
 hazel shells 
 With a sweet kernel; to set budding 
 more, 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
 Until they think warm days will never 
 cease, 
 For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their 
 clammy cells. 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
 . Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
 
 find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
 wind ; 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
 Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while 
 
 J;hy hook 
 
 Spares the next swath and all its 
 twined flowers: 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look. 
 Thou watcbest the last ooziugs, hours 
 by hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
 where are they ? 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music 
 too, — 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying 
 day, 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy 
 hue; 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats 
 mourn 
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or 
 dies; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
 hilly bourn; 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble 
 
 soft 
 The redbreast whistles from a garden- 
 croft. 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the 
 skies. 
 
 213 
 
VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 Although these are not the only poems 
 which owe their origin to Keats's consuming 
 passion, they are grouped here because, ap- 
 
 SONNET 
 
 The date 1819 is appended to this sonnet in 
 Life, Letters and Literary Remains. Mr. For- 
 man connects it with a letter written to Fanny 
 Brawne, October 11, 1819. 
 
 The day is gone, and all its sweets are 
 gone ! 
 Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft band, and 
 softer breast, 
 Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi- 
 tone, 
 Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and 
 lang'rous waist ! 
 Faded the flower and all its budded charms. 
 Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes. 
 Faded the shape of beauty from my arms. 
 Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, 
 paradise ! 
 Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve. 
 
 When the dusk holiday — or holinight — 
 Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave 
 The woof of darkness thick, for hid de- 
 light: 
 But, as I 've read love's missal through to- 
 day, 
 He '11 let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray. 
 
 LINES TO FANNY 
 
 First published in Life, Letters and Literary 
 Remains, and there dated October, 1819 ; their 
 exact date seems to be indicated by a passage 
 in a letter to Fanny Brawne, written October 
 13, 1819, intimating some work, and breaking 
 out into : ' I cannot proceed with any degree of 
 content. I must write you a line or two and 
 see if that will assist in dismissing you from 
 iny mind for ever so short a time.' 
 
 parently written in the same period, they stand 
 as a painful witness to the ebbing tide of 
 Keats's life. 
 
 What can I do to drive away 
 Remembrance from my eyes ? for they 
 
 have seen. 
 Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen ! 
 Touch has a memory. O say, love, say. 
 What can I do to kill it and be free 
 In my old liberty ? 
 
 When every fair one that I saw was fair. 
 Enough to catch me in but half a snare. 
 Not keep me there: • 
 
 When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things, 
 My muse had wings. 
 And ever ready was to take her course 
 Whither I bent her force, 
 Uniutellectual, yet divine to me; — 
 Divine, I say ! — What sea-bird o'er the 
 
 sea 
 Is a philosopher the while he goes 
 Winging along where the great water 
 
 throes ? 
 
 How shall I do 
 
 To get anew 
 Those moulted feathers, and so mount once 
 more 
 
 Above, above 
 
 The reach of fluttering Love, 
 And make him cower lowly while I soar ? 
 Shall I gulp wine ? No, that is vulgar- 
 ism, 
 A heresy and schism. 
 
 Foisted into the canon law of love; — 
 No, — wine is only sweet to happy men; 
 
 More dismal cares 
 
 Seize on me unawares, — 
 Where shall I learn to get my peace again ? 
 To banish thoughts of that most hateful 
 land, 
 
 214 
 
TO FANNY 
 
 215 
 
 Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked 
 strand 
 
 Where they were wreck'd and live a 
 wrecked life; 
 
 That monstrous region, whose dull rivers 
 pour, 
 
 Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, 
 
 Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods; 
 
 Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scour- 
 ging rods. 
 
 Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; 
 
 Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, 
 and blind, 
 
 Would fright a Drjad; whose harsh herb- 
 aged meads 
 
 Make lean and lank the starved ox while 
 he feeds; 
 
 There bad flowers have no scent, birds no 
 sweet song. 
 
 And great unerring Nature once seems 
 wrong. 
 
 O, for some sunny spell 
 
 To dissipate the shadows of this hell ! 
 
 Say they are gone, — with the new dawn- 
 ing light 
 
 Steps forth my lady bright ! 
 
 O, let me once more rest 
 
 My soul upon that dazzling breast ! 
 
 Let once again these aching arms be placed, 
 
 The tender gaolers of thy waist ! 
 
 And let me feel that warm breath here and 
 there 
 
 To spread a rapture in my very hair, — 
 
 O, the sweetness of the pain ! 
 
 Give me those lips again ! 
 
 Enough ! Enough ! it is enough for me 
 
 To dream of thee ! 
 
 TO FANNY 
 
 With the date 1819 in Life, Letters and Lit- 
 erary Remains. 
 
 I CRY your mercy — pity — love — aye, 
 love ! 
 Merciful love that tantalizes not, 
 Oue-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless 
 love, 
 Unmask'd, and being seen — without a 
 blot! 
 O ! let me have thee whole, — all — all — 
 be mine ! 
 That shape, that fairness, that sweet mi- 
 nor zest 
 Of love, your kiss, — those hands, those 
 eyes divine. 
 That warm, white, lucent, million-plea- 
 sured breast, — 
 Yourself — your soul — in pity give me 
 all. 
 Withhold no atom's atom, or I die. 
 Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall, 
 
 Forget, in the mist of idle misery. 
 Life's purposes — the palate of my mind 
 Losing its gust, and my ambition blind ! 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 OR, THE JEALOUSIES 
 
 A Faery Tale. Unfinished 
 
 In a letter to John Taylor, his publisher, 
 written from Harapstead, November 17, 1819, 
 Keats, who was then in his most restless mood, 
 writes impulsively : ' I have come to a deter- 
 mination not to publish anything I have now 
 ready written ; but, for all that, to publish a 
 poem before long, and that I hope to make a 
 fine one. As the marvellous is the most en- 
 ticing, and the surest guarantee of harmonious 
 numbers, I have been endeavouring to per- 
 suade myself to untether Fancy, and to let her 
 manage for herself. I and myself cannot agree 
 about this at all. Wonders are no wonders to 
 me. I am more at home amongst men and 
 women. I would rather read Chaucer than 
 Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as yet 
 have, however badly it might show in a drama, 
 would, I think, be sufficient for a poem. I 
 wish to diffuse the colouring of " St. Agnes' 
 Eve " throughout a poem in which character 
 and sentiment would be the figures to such 
 drapery. Two or three such poems, if God 
 should spare me, written in the course of the 
 
 next six years, would be a famous Gradus ad 
 Parnassum altissimum — I mean they would 
 nerve me up to the writing of a few fine plays 
 — my greatest ambition, when I do feel am- 
 bitious. I am sorry to say that is very seldom.' 
 Lord Houghton quotes from Keats's friend, 
 Charles Armitage Brown : ' This Poem was 
 written subject to future amendments and 
 omissions ; it was begun without a plot, and 
 without any presented laws for the supernatu- 
 ral machinery.' Keats apparently designed 
 publishing the poem with the signature ' Lucy 
 Vaughan Lloyd,' and it can only be taken as 
 one of his feverish attempts at using his intel- 
 lectual powers for self-maintenance, when he 
 was discouraged at the prospect of commercial 
 success with his genuine poetry. Hunt pub- 
 lished some of the stanzas in The Indicator 
 August 23, 1820, as written by 'a very good 
 poetess Lucy V L ' and Lord Hough- 
 ton included the whole in Life, Letters and 
 Literary Remains. 
 
 In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 
 There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the 
 
 air, 
 A faery city, 'neath the potent rule 
 Of Emperor Elfinan; famed ev'ry where 
 For love of mortal women, maidens fair. 
 Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands 
 
 were made 
 Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare, 
 To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet 
 
 staid: 
 He loved girls smooth as shades, but hated 
 
 a mere shade. 
 
 This was a crime forbidden by the law; 
 And all the priesthood of his city wept. 
 For ruin and dismay they well foresaw, 
 If impious prince no bound or limit kept. 
 And faery Zendervester overstept; 
 They wept, he sinn'd, and still he would 
 
 sin on, 
 They dreamt of sin, and he sinn'd while 
 
 they slept; 
 In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the 
 throne. 
 Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lam- 
 poon. 
 
 2l6 
 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 217 
 
 Which seeing, his high court of parlia- 
 ment 
 
 Laid a remonstrance at his Highness' 
 feet, 
 
 Praying his royal senses to content 
 
 Themselves with what in faery land was 
 sweet. 
 
 Befitting best that shade with shade 
 should meet: 
 
 Whereat, to calm their fears, he pro- 
 mised soon 
 
 From mortal tempters all to make re- 
 treat — 
 
 Ay, even on the first of the new moon, 
 An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's 
 boon. 
 
 Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy 
 
 To Piginio, of Imaus sovereign. 
 
 To half beg, and half demand, respect- 
 
 fully. 
 The hand of his fair daughter Bella- 
 
 naine; 
 An audience had, and speeching done, 
 
 they gain 
 Their point, and bring the weeping bride 
 
 away; 
 Whom, with but one attendant, safely 
 
 lain 
 Upon their wings, they bore in bright 
 
 array, 
 While little harps were touch'd by many a 
 
 lyric fay. 
 
 As in old pictures tender cherubim 
 
 A child's soul thro' the sapphired canvas 
 
 bear. 
 So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim 
 With the sweet princess on her plumaged 
 
 lair, 
 Speed giving to the winds her lustrous 
 
 hair; 
 And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake. 
 Save when, for healthful exercise and 
 
 air. 
 
 She chose to ' promener a I'aile,' or take 
 A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's 
 sake. 
 
 ' Dear Princess, do not whisper me so 
 
 loud,' 
 Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant, 
 ' Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud. 
 Close at your back, that sly old Crafti- 
 
 cant ? 
 He hears a whisper plainer than a rant: 
 Dry up your tears, and do not look so 
 
 blue; 
 He 's Elfinan's great state-spy militant, 
 He 's running, lying, flying footman, 
 
 too — 
 Dear mistress, let him have no handle 
 
 against you ! 
 
 ' Show him a mouse's tail, and he will 
 
 guess, 
 With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse; 
 Show him a garden, and with speed no 
 
 less. 
 He '11 surmise sagely of a dwelling- 
 house. 
 And plot, in the same minute, how to 
 
 chouse 
 The owner out of it; show him a — ' 
 
 ' Peace ! 
 Peace ! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to 
 
 rouse ! ' 
 Return'd the princess, ' my tongue shall 
 
 not cease 
 Till from this hated match I get a free 
 
 release. 
 
 ' Ah, beauteous mortal ! ' ' Hush ! ' quoth 
 
 Coralline, 
 ' Really you must not talk of him indeed.' 
 ' You hush ! ' replied the mistress, with 
 
 a shine 
 Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed 
 In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and 
 
 dread : 
 
2l8 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 'T was not the glance itself made nursey 
 
 He goes on to expose, with heart and 
 
 fliuch, 
 
 soul. 
 
 But of its threat she took the utmost 
 
 What vice in this or that year was the 
 
 heed; 
 
 rage. 
 
 Not liking in her heart an hour-long 
 
 Backbiting all the world in every page; 
 
 pinch, 
 
 With special strictures on the horrid 
 
 Or a sharp needle run into her back an 
 
 crime. 
 
 inch. 
 
 (Section'd and subsection'd with learn- 
 
 
 ing sage,) 
 
 IX 
 
 Of faeries stooping on their wings sub- 
 
 So she was silenced, and fair Bellanaine, 
 
 lime 
 
 Writhing her little body with ennui, 
 
 To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in 
 
 Continued to lament and to complain, 
 
 their prime. 
 
 That Fate, cross-purposing, should let 
 
 
 her be 
 
 XII 
 
 Ravish'd away far from her dear coun- 
 
 Turn to the copious index, you will find 
 
 tree; 
 
 Somewhere in the column, headed let- 
 
 That all her feelings should be set at 
 
 ter B, 
 
 nought, 
 
 The name of Bellanaine, if you 're not 
 
 In trumping up this match so hastily. 
 
 blind; 
 
 With lowland blood; and lowland blood 
 
 Then pray refer to the text, and you 
 
 she thought 
 
 will see 
 
 Poison, as every stanch true-born Imaian 
 
 An article made up of calumny 
 
 ought. 
 
 Against this highland princess, rating 
 116 r 
 
 X 
 
 For giving way, so over fashionably. 
 
 Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or 
 
 To this new-fangled vice, which seems a 
 
 four 
 
 burr 
 
 White Provence rose-leaves with her 
 
 Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er 
 
 faery tears. 
 
 could stir. 
 
 But not for this cause; — alas ! she had 
 
 
 more 
 
 XIII 
 
 Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears 
 
 There he says plainly that she loved a 
 
 In the famed memoirs of a thousand 
 
 man ! 
 
 years. 
 
 That she around him flutter'd, flirted, 
 
 Written by Crafticant, and published 
 
 toy'd. 
 
 By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly com- 
 
 Before her marriage with great Elfi- 
 
 peers 
 
 nan; 
 
 Who raked up ev'ry fact against the 
 
 That after marriage too, she never joy'd 
 
 dead,) 
 
 In husband's company, but still employ'd 
 
 In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's 
 
 Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land; 
 
 Head. 
 
 Where lived the youth, who worried and 
 
 
 annoy'd 
 
 XI 
 
 Her tender heart, and its warm ardours 
 
 Where, after a long hypercritic howl 
 
 fann'd 
 
 Against the vicious manners of the 
 
 To such a dreadful blaze, her side would 
 
 age, 
 
 scorch her hand. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 219 
 
 But let us leave this idle tittle-tattle 
 To waiting - maids, and bed -room co- 
 teries, 
 Nor till fit time against her fame wage 
 
 battle. 
 Poor Eliinan is very ill at ease. 
 Let us resume his subject if you please : 
 For it may comfort and console him 
 
 much, 
 To rhyme and syllable his miseries; 
 Poor Elfinan ! whose cruel fate was 
 such, 
 He sat and cursed a bride he knew he 
 could not touch. 
 
 Soon as (according to his promises) 
 The bridal embassy had taken wing. 
 And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb 
 
 trees. 
 The emperor, empierced with the sharp 
 
 sting 
 Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring 
 Like any drone shut from the fair bee- 
 queen, 
 Into his cabinet, and there did fling 
 His limbs upon the sofa, full of spleen. 
 And damn'd his House of Commons, in 
 complete chagrin. 
 
 ' I '11 trounce some of the members,' cried 
 
 the Prince, 
 ' I '11 put a mark against some rebel 
 
 names, 
 I '11 make the Opposition-benches wince, 
 I '11 show them very soon, to all their 
 
 shames. 
 What 'tis to smother up a Prince's 
 
 flames; 
 That ministers should join in it, I own, 
 Surprises me ! — they too at these high 
 
 games 
 
 Am I an Emperor ? Do I wear a crown ? 
 j Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown ! 
 
 ' I '11 trounce 'em ! — there 's the square- 
 cut chancellor, 
 
 His son shall never touch that bishopric ; 
 
 And for the nephew of old Palfior, 
 
 I 'il show him that his speeches made me 
 sick, 
 
 And give the colonelcy to Phalaric; 
 
 The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant, 
 
 Sliall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick; 
 
 And for the Speaker's second cousin's 
 aunt. 
 She sha'n't be maid of honour, — by heaven 
 that she sha'n't ! 
 
 xvm 
 ' I '11 shirk the Duke of A. ; I '11 cut his 
 
 brother; 
 I '11 give no garter to his eldest son; 
 I won't speak to his sister or his mother ! 
 The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and- 
 
 run; 
 But how in tlie world can I contrive to 
 
 stun 
 That fellow's voice, which plagues me 
 
 worse than any, 
 That stubborn fool, that impudent state- 
 dun, 
 Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a 
 
 zany, — 
 That vulgar commoner, Esquire Bianco- 
 
 pany ? 
 
 ' Monstrous affair ! Pshaw ! pah ! what 
 
 ugly minx 
 Will they fetch from Imaus for my 
 
 bride ? 
 Alas ! my wearied heart within me 
 
 sinks. 
 To think that I must be so near allied 
 To a cold dullard fay, — ah, woe betide ! 
 Ah, fairest of all human loveliness ! 
 Sweet Bertha ! what crime can it be to 
 
 glide 
 About the fragrant plaitings of thy dress. 
 Or kiss thine eye, or count thy locks, tress 
 
 after tress ? ' 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 XX 
 
 So said, one minute's while his eyes re- 
 
 main'd 
 Half lidded, piteous, languid, innocent; 
 But, in a wink, their splendour they re- 
 
 gain'd. 
 Sparkling revenge with amorous fury 
 
 blent. 
 Love thwarted in bad temper oft has 
 
 vent: 
 He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the 
 
 bell. 
 And order'd some death-warrants to be 
 
 sent 
 For signature: — somewhere the tem- 
 pest fell, 
 As many a poor fellow does not live to 
 
 tell. 
 
 XXI 
 
 ' At the same time, Eban,' — (this was 
 
 his page, 
 A fay of colour, slave from top to toe, 
 Sent as a present, while yet under age, 
 From the Viceroy of Zanguebar, — wise, 
 
 slow, 
 His speech, his only words were 'yes' 
 
 and ' no,' 
 But swift of look, and foot, and wing 
 
 was he,) — 
 ' At the same time, Eban, this instant 
 
 SO 
 To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I 
 
 see 
 Among the fresh arrivals in our empery. 
 
 ' Bring Hum to me ! But stay — here 
 take my ring, 
 
 The pledge of favour, that he not sus- 
 pect 
 
 Any foul play, or awkward murdering, 
 
 Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect; 
 
 Throw in a hint, that if he should neg- 
 lect 
 
 One hour, the next shall see him in my 
 grasp. 
 
 And the next after that shall see him 
 neck'd. 
 
 Or swallow'd by my hunger - starved 
 asp, — 
 And mention ('t is as well) the torture of 
 the wasp.' 
 
 XXIII 
 
 These orders given, the Prince, in half a 
 pet. 
 
 Let o'er the silk his propping elbow 
 slide, 
 
 Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret, 
 
 Fell on the sofa on his royal side. 
 
 The slave retreated backwards, humble- 
 eyed. 
 
 And with a slave-like silence closed the 
 door. 
 
 And to old Hum thro' street and alley 
 hied ; 
 
 He ' knew the city,' as we say, of yore, 
 And for short cuts and turns, was nobody 
 knew more. 
 
 XXIV 
 
 It was the time when wholesale dealers 
 
 close 
 Their shutters with a moody sense of 
 
 wealth. 
 But retail dealers, diligent, let loose 
 The gas (objected to on score of health), 
 Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by 
 
 stealth, 
 And make it flare in many a brilliant 
 
 form. 
 That all the powers of darkness it re- 
 
 pell'th. 
 Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith 
 
 and harm. 
 And supersedeth quite the use of the glow- 
 worm. 
 
 Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks, 
 (Of pastry he got store within the pal- 
 ace,) 
 With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and 
 
 solemn looks. 
 Incognito upon his errand sallies. 
 His smelling-bottle ready for the allies ; 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with dis- 
 dain, 
 
 Vowing he 'd have them sent on board 
 the galleys; 
 
 Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain. 
 Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it 
 drive amain. 
 
 XXVI 
 * I '11 pull the string,' said he, and further 
 
 said, 
 ' Polluted Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack ! 
 Whose springs of life are all dried up 
 
 and dead. 
 Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all 
 
 slack, 
 Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is 
 
 a crack ; 
 And evermore thy steps go clatter-clit- 
 
 ter; 
 Whose glass once up can never be got 
 
 back. 
 Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and 
 
 bitter, 
 That 'tis of modern use to travel in a 
 
 litter. 
 
 XXVII 
 ' Thou inconvenience ! thou hungry crop 
 For all corn ! thou snail-creeper to and 
 
 fro, 
 Who while thou goest ever seem'st to 
 
 stop, 
 And fiddle-faddle standest while you go; 
 I' the morning, freighted with a weight 
 
 of woe. 
 Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest. 
 And in the evening tak'st a double row 
 Of dowdies, for some dance or party 
 
 drest. 
 Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest 
 
 east and west. 
 
 XXVIII 
 ' By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien. 
 An inch appears the utmost thou couldst 
 
 budge: 
 Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign, 
 
 Round to the curb-stone patient dost 
 
 thou trudge, 
 School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge, 
 A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare; 
 Quiet and plodding thou dost bear no 
 
 grudge 
 To whisking tilburies, or phaetons rare, 
 Curricles, or mail-coaches, swift beyond 
 
 compare.' 
 
 XXIX 
 
 Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check. 
 
 And bade the coachman wheel to such a 
 street. 
 
 Who turning much his body, more his 
 neck, 
 
 Louted full low, and hoarsely did him 
 greet: 
 
 ' Certes, Monsieur were best take to his 
 feet, 
 
 Seeing his servant can no farther drive 
 
 For press of coaches, that to-night here 
 meet. 
 
 Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive, 
 When first for April honey into faint flow- 
 ers they dive.' 
 
 Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went 
 To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass 
 With head inclined, each dusky linea- 
 ment 
 Show'd in the pearl-paved street as in a 
 
 glass; 
 His purple vest, that ever peeping was 
 Rich from the fluttering crimson of his 
 
 cloak, 
 His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash 
 Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance 
 took 
 Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he 
 might look. 
 
 XXXI 
 He smiled at self, and, smiling, show'd 
 
 his teeth. 
 And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the 
 
 more; 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 Lifted his eyebrows, spurn'd the path be- 
 
 Coming down stairs, — by St. Bartholo- 
 
 neath, 
 
 mew ! 
 
 Show'd teeth again, and smiled as hereto- 
 
 As backwards as he can, — is 't some- 
 
 fore, 
 
 thing new ? 
 
 Until he knoek'd at the magician's door; 
 
 Or is 't his custom, in the name of fun ? ' 
 
 Where, till the porter answer'd, might 
 
 'He always comes down backward, with 
 
 be seen. 
 
 one shoe ' — 
 
 In the clear panel more he could adore, — 
 
 Return'd the porter — * off, and one shoe 
 
 His turban wreathed of gold, and white. 
 
 on. 
 
 and green, 
 
 Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my 
 
 Mustaehios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sa- 
 
 man John ! ' 
 
 bre keen. 
 
 
 
 XXXV 
 
 XXXII 
 
 It was indeed the great Magician, 
 
 ' Does not your master give a rout to- 
 
 Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair, 
 
 night ? ' 
 
 And retrograding careful as he can, 
 
 Quoth the dark page; * Oh, no ! ' return'd 
 
 Backwards and downwards from his own 
 
 the Swiss, 
 
 two pair: 
 
 ' Next door but one to us, upon the right, 
 
 ' Salpietro ! ' exclaimed Hum, ' is the dog 
 
 The Magazin des Modes now open is 
 
 there ? 
 
 Against the Emperor's wedding; — and, 
 
 He 's always in my way upon the mat ! ' 
 
 sir, this 
 
 ' He 's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows 
 
 My master finds a monstrous horrid bore; 
 
 where,' — 
 
 As he retired, an hour ago iwis. 
 
 Replied the Swiss, — ' the nasty, yelping 
 
 "With his best beard and brimstone, to 
 
 brat ! ' 
 
 explore 
 
 ' Don't beat him ! ' return'd Hum, and on 
 
 And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. 
 
 the floor came pat. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 ' Gad ! he 's obliged to stick to business ! 
 
 Then facing right about, he saw the 
 
 For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty 
 
 Page, 
 
 price ; 
 
 And said : ' Don't tell me what you want. 
 
 And as for aqua vitse — there 's a mess ! 
 
 Eban; 
 
 The denies sapientioe of mice 
 
 The Emperor is now in a huge rage, — 
 
 Our barber tells me too are on the rise, — 
 
 'T is nine to one he '11 give you the rattani 
 
 Tinder 's a lighter article, — nitre pure 
 
 Let us away ! ' Away together ran 
 
 Goes off like lightning, — grains of Para- 
 
 The plain-dress'd sage and spangled 
 
 dise 
 
 blackamoor. 
 
 At an enormous figure ! — stars not 
 
 Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan. 
 
 sure ! — 
 
 And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's 
 
 Zodiac will not move without a slight dou- 
 
 chamber door. 
 
 ceur ! 
 
 When Eban thought he heard a soft impe- 
 
 
 rial snore. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 
 ' Venus won't stir a peg without a fee. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 And master is too partial entre nous 
 
 ' I thought you guess'd, foretold, or pro- 
 
 To — ' 'Hush — hush!' cried Eban, 
 
 phesied. 
 
 ♦ sure that is he 
 
 That 's Majesty was in a raving fit ? ' 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 223 
 
 ' He dreams,' said Hum, ' or I have ever 
 
 XL 
 
 lied, 
 
 Then turning round, he saw those trem- 
 
 That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit.' 
 
 bling two: 
 
 ' He 's not asleep, and you have little 
 
 ' Eban,' said he, ' as slaves should taste 
 
 wit,' 
 
 the fruits 
 
 Replied the Page, ' that little buzzing 
 
 Of diligence, I shall remember you 
 
 noise, 
 
 To-morrow, or next day, as time suits, 
 
 Whate'er your palmistry may make of 
 
 In a finger conversation with my mutes, — 
 
 it, 
 
 Begone ! — for you, Chaldean ! here re- 
 
 Comes from a plaything of the Em- 
 
 main ! 
 
 peror's choice. 
 
 Fear not, quake not, and as good wine 
 
 From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his 
 
 recruits 
 
 toys.' 
 
 A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you 
 
 
 drain ? 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd 
 
 Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer: 
 
 champagne ? ' 
 
 Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'erthe- 
 
 
 less, 
 
 XLI 
 
 Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by 
 
 ' Commander of the Faithful ! ' answer'd 
 
 ear. 
 
 Hum, 
 
 Crept silently, and waited in distress, 
 
 In preference to these, I '11 merely taste 
 
 Knowing the Emperor's moody bitter- 
 
 A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.' 
 
 ness; 
 
 * A simple boon ! ' said Elfinan, ' thou 
 
 Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan 
 
 may'st 
 
 Tremble and quake to death, — he feared 
 
 Have Nantz, with which my morning- 
 
 less 
 
 coffee 's laced.' ' 
 
 A dose of senna-tea, or nightmare Gor- 
 
 * I '11 have a glass of Nantz, then,' — said 
 
 ge"- 
 
 the Seer, — 
 
 Than the Emperor when he play'd on his 
 
 ' Made racy — (sure my boldness is mis- 
 
 Man-Tiger-Organ. 
 
 placed !) — 
 
 
 With the third part — (yet that is drink- 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 ing dear ! ) — 
 
 They kiss'd nine times the carpet's vel- 
 
 Of the least drop of creme de citron crystal 
 
 vet face 
 
 clear.' 
 
 Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow- 
 
 
 green, 
 
 XLII 
 
 Where the close eye in deep rich fur 
 
 ' I pledge you, Hum ! and pledge my 
 
 might trace 
 
 dearest love. 
 
 A silver tissue, seantly to be seen, 
 
 My Bertha!' 'Bertha! Bertha !' cried 
 
 As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in 
 
 the sage. 
 
 green; 
 
 ' I know a many Berthas ! ' * Mine 's 
 
 Sudden the music ceased, sudden the 
 
 above 
 
 hand 
 
 All Berthas ! ' sighed the Emperor. ' I 
 
 Of majesty, by dint of passion keen, 
 
 engage,' 
 
 Doubled into a common fist, went grand, 
 
 Said Hum, ' in duty, and in vassalage. 
 
 And knock'd down three cut glasses, and 
 
 1 ' Mr. Nisby is of opinion that laced coffee is bad for 
 
 his best ink-stand. 
 
 the heaid.' — Spectator. 
 
224 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 To mention all the Berthas in the 
 
 earth; — 
 There 's Bertha Watson, — and Miss 
 
 Bertlia Page, — 
 This famed for languid eyes, and that for 
 
 mirth, — 
 There 's Bertha Blount of York, — and 
 
 Bertha Knox of Perth.' 
 
 XLIII 
 'You seem to know' — 'I do know,' 
 
 answer'd Hum, 
 ' Your Majesty 's in love with some fine 
 
 girl 
 Named Bertha; but her surname will not 
 
 come. 
 Without a little conjuring.* ' 'T is Pearl, 
 'T is Bertha Pearl ! What makes my 
 
 brains so whirl ? 
 And she is softer, fairer than her name ! ' 
 ' Where does she live ? ' ask'd Hum. 
 
 ' Her fair locks curl 
 So brightly, they put all our fays to 
 
 shame ! — 
 Live ? — O ! at Canterbury, with her old 
 
 grand dame.' 
 
 ' Good ! good ! ' cried Hum, ' I 've known 
 
 her from a child ! 
 She is a changeling of my management; 
 She was born at midnight in an Indian 
 
 wild ; 
 Her mother's screams with the striped 
 
 tiger's blent, 
 While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo 
 
 sent 
 Into the jungles; and her palanquin. 
 Rested amid the desert's dreariment. 
 Shook with her agony, till fair were seen 
 The little Bertha's eyes ope on the stars 
 
 serene.' 
 
 XLV 
 * I can't say,' said the monarch, ' that 
 
 may be 
 Just as it happen'd, true or else a bam ! 
 Drink up your brandy, and sit down by 
 
 me. 
 
 Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I 
 
 am; 
 And if your science is not all a sham, 
 Tell me some means to get the lady 
 
 here.' 
 ' Upon my honour ! ' said the son of 
 
 Cham.i 
 ' She is my dainty changeling, near and 
 
 dear, 
 Although her story sounds at first a little 
 
 queer.' 
 
 XLVI 
 ' Convey her to me. Hum, or by my 
 
 crown. 
 My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted 
 
 globe, 
 I '11 knock you — ' ' Does your majesty 
 
 mean — down ? 
 No, no, you never could my feelings 
 
 probe 
 To such a depth ! ' The Emperor took 
 
 his robe, 
 And wept upon its purple palatine. 
 While Hum continued, shamming half 
 
 a sob, — 
 ' In Canterbury doth your lady shine ? 
 But let me cool your brandy with a lit.le 
 
 wine.' 
 
 XLVII 
 Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he 
 
 took. 
 That since belong'd to Admiral De Witt, 
 Admired it with a connoisseuring look. 
 And with the ripest claret crowned it. 
 And, ere the lively head could burst and 
 
 flit. 
 He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside 
 
 down. 
 His mouth being held conveniently fit 
 To catch the treasure : ' Best in all the 
 
 town ! ' 
 He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a 
 
 pleasant frown. 
 
 1 Cham is said to have been the inventor of magic. 
 Lucy learnt this from Bayle's Dictionary, and had 
 copied a long Latin note from that work. 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 225 
 
 XL VIII 
 ' Ah ! good my Prince, weep not ! ' And 
 
 then again 
 He flll'd a bumper. ' Great Sire, do not 
 
 weep ! 
 Your pulse is shocking, but I '11 ease 
 
 your pain.' 
 'Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee 
 
 keep 
 Your voice low,' said the Emperor, ' and 
 
 steep 
 Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine; 
 And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do 
 
 peep 
 For the rose-water vase, magician mine ! 
 And sponge my forehead — so my love doth 
 
 make me pine.' 
 
 XLIX 
 ' Ah, cursed Bellanaine ! ' ' Don't think 
 
 of her,' 
 Rejoin'd the Mago, ' but on Bertha muse; 
 For, by my choicest best barometer, 
 You shall not throttled be in marriage 
 
 noose; 
 I 've said it, sire; you only have to choose 
 Bertha or Bellanaine.' So saying, he 
 
 drew 
 From the left pocket of his threadbare 
 
 hose, 
 A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new; 
 Holding it by his thumb and finger full in 
 
 view. 
 
 * Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy- 
 work, 
 
 Her name, see here. Midsummer, ninety- 
 one ' — 
 
 Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk. 
 
 And wept as if he never would have 
 done. 
 
 Honouring with royal tears the poor 
 homespun; 
 
 Whereon were broider'd tigers with black 
 eyes. 
 
 And long-tailed pheasants, and a rising 
 sun, 
 
 Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies 
 Bigger than stags — a moon — with other 
 mysteries. 
 
 LI 
 The monarch handled o'er and o'er again 
 These day-school hieroglyphics with a 
 
 sigh; 
 Somewhat in sadness, but pleased in the 
 
 main, 
 Till this oracular couplet met his eye 
 Astounded — Cupid, I do thee defy ! 
 It was too much. He shrunk back in 
 
 his chair, 
 Grew pale as death, and fainted — very 
 
 nigh ! 
 ' Pho ! nonsense ! ' exclaim'd Hum, ' now 
 
 don't despair: 
 She does not mean it really. Cheer up, 
 
 hearty — there ! 
 
 LII 
 
 ' And listen to my words. You say you 
 
 won't, 
 On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine; 
 It goes against your conscience — good ! 
 
 well, don't. 
 You say, you love a mortal. I would 
 
 fain 
 Persuade your honour's highness to re- 
 frain 
 From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say. 
 What good would that do ? And, to be 
 
 more plain, 
 You would do me a mischief some odd 
 
 day. 
 Cut ojff my ears and hands, or head too, by 
 
 my fay ! 
 
 LIII 
 
 ' Besides, manners forbid that I should 
 pass any 
 
 Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince 
 
 Who should indulge his genius, if he has 
 any, 
 
 Not, like a subject, foolish matter mince. 
 
 Now I think on't, perhaps I could con- 
 vince 
 
226 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 Your Majesty there is no crime at all 
 
 'Those wings to Canterbury you must 
 
 In loving pretty little Bertha, since 
 
 beat. 
 
 She 's very delicate — not over tall, — 
 
 If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize. 
 
 A fairy's hand, and in the waist why — 
 
 Look in the Almanack — Moore never 
 
 very small.' 
 
 lies — 
 
 
 April the twenty-fourth — this coming 
 
 LIV 
 
 day. 
 
 * Ring the repeater, gentle Hum ! ' ' 'T is 
 
 Now breathing its new bloom upon the 
 
 live,' 
 
 skies, 
 
 Said gentle Hum; ' the nights draw in 
 
 Will end in St. Mark's Eve ; — you must 
 
 apace ; 
 
 away, 
 
 The little birds I hear are all alive; 
 
 For on that eve alone can you the maid 
 
 I see the dawning touch'd upon your face ; 
 
 convey.' 
 
 Shall I put out the candles, please your 
 
 
 Grace ? ' 
 
 LVII 
 
 ' Do put them out, and, without more 
 
 Then the magician solemnly 'gan to 
 
 ado, 
 
 frown. 
 
 Tell me how I may that sweet girl em- 
 
 So that his frost-white eye-brows, beet- 
 
 brace, — 
 
 ling low, 
 
 How you can bring her to me.' ' That 's 
 
 Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles 
 
 for you, 
 
 brown 
 
 Great Emperor ! to adventure, like a lover 
 
 Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow: 
 
 true.' 
 
 Forth from his hood that hung his neck 
 
 
 below 
 
 LV 
 
 He lifted a bright casket of pure gold, 
 
 * I fetch her ! ' — ' Yes, an 't like your 
 
 Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool 
 
 Majesty; 
 
 or snow. 
 
 And as she would be frighten'd wide 
 
 Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old 
 
 awake, 
 
 And legend-leaved book, mysterious to 
 
 To travel such a distance through the 
 
 behold. 
 
 sky. 
 
 
 Use of some soft manoeuvre you must 
 
 LVIII 
 
 make, 
 
 ' Take this same book — it will not bite 
 
 For your convenience, and her dear 
 
 you, Sire; 
 
 nerves' sake; 
 
 There, put it underneath your royal 
 
 Nice way would be to bring her in a 
 
 arm; 
 
 swoon, 
 
 Though it 's a pretty weight, it will not 
 
 Anon, I '11 tell what course were best to 
 
 tire, 
 
 take; 
 
 But rather on your journey keep you 
 
 You must away this morning.' ' Hum ! 
 
 warm : 
 
 so soon ? ' 
 
 This is the magic, this the potent charm, 
 
 'Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve 
 
 That shall drive Bertha to a fainting- 
 
 o'clock at noon.' 
 
 fit ! 
 
 
 When the time comes, don't feel the least 
 
 LVI 
 
 alarm. 
 
 At this great Caesar started on his feet. 
 
 But lift her from the ground, and swiftly 
 
 Lifted his wings, and stood attentive- 
 
 flit 
 
 wise. 
 
 Back to your palace 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 227 
 
 LIX 
 
 LXII 
 
 ' What shall I do with that same book ? ' 
 
 ' Wounds ! how they shout ! ' said Hum, 
 
 * Why merely 
 
 ' and there, — see, see, 
 
 Lay it on Bertha's table, close beside 
 
 Th' ambassador 's return'd from Pigmio ! 
 
 Her work-box, and 't will help your pur- 
 
 The morning 's very fine, — uncommonly! 
 
 pose dearly; 
 
 See, past the skirts of yon white cloud 
 
 I say no more.' ' Or good or ill betide, 
 
 they go, 
 
 Through the wide air to Kent this morn 
 
 Tinging it with soft crimsons ! Now 
 
 I glide ! ' 
 
 below 
 
 Exclaim'd the Emperor, ' When I return, 
 
 The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines 
 
 Ask what you will, — I'll give you my 
 
 They dip, move on, and with them moves 
 
 new bride ! 
 
 a glow 
 
 And take some more wine, Hum ; — 0, 
 
 Along the forest side ! Now amber lines 
 
 Heavens ! I burn 
 
 Reach the hill top, and now throughout the 
 
 To be upon the wing ! Now, now, that 
 
 valley shines.' 
 
 minx I spurn ! ' 
 
 
 
 LXIII 
 
 LX 
 
 * Why, Hum, you 're getting quite poeti- 
 
 'Leave her to me,' rejoiu'd the magiau: 
 
 cal ! 
 
 * But how shall I account, illustrious fay ! 
 
 Those nows you managed in a special 
 
 For thine imperial absence ? Pho ! I 
 
 style.' 
 
 can 
 
 ' If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall 
 
 Say you are very sick, and bar the way 
 
 See scraps of mine will make it worth 
 
 To your so loving courtiers for one day; 
 
 your while. 
 
 If either of their two Archbishops' graces 
 
 Tit-bits for Phoebus ! — yes, you well 
 
 Should talk of extreme unction, I shall 
 
 may smile. 
 
 say 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the bells ! ' « A little 
 
 You do not like cold pig with Latin 
 
 further yet. 
 
 phrases. 
 
 Good Hum, and let me view this mighty 
 
 Which never should be used but in alarm- 
 
 coil.' 
 
 ing cases.' 
 
 Then the great Emperor full graceful set 
 
 
 His elbow for a prop, and snufif'd his 
 
 LXI 
 
 mignonette. 
 
 ' Open the window. Hum ; I 'm ready 
 
 
 now !' 
 
 LXIV 
 
 ' Zooks ! ' exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash 
 
 The morn is full of holiday: loud bells 
 
 he drew, 
 
 With rival clamors ring from every spire; 
 
 ' Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow 
 
 Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells 
 
 Of yonder hill, what crowds of people ! ' 
 
 In echoing places; when the winds re- 
 
 ' Whew ! 
 
 spire. 
 
 The monster's always after something 
 
 Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues 
 
 new,' 
 
 of fire; 
 
 Return'd his Highness, ' they are piping 
 
 A metropolitan murmur, lifef ul, warm. 
 
 hot 
 
 Comes from the northern suburbs; rich 
 
 To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum ! 
 
 attire 
 
 do 
 
 Freckles with red and gold the moving 
 
 Tighten my belt a little, — so, so, — not 
 
 swarm ; 
 
 Too tight, — the book ! — my wand ! — so, 
 
 While here and there clear trumpets blow 
 
 nothing is forgot.' 
 
 a keen alarm. 
 
228 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 And now the fairy escort was seen clear, 
 Like the old pageant of Aurora's train, 
 Above a pearl-built minster, hovering 
 
 near; 
 First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain, 
 Balanced upon his gray-grown pinions 
 
 twain. 
 His slender wand officially reveal'd; 
 Then black gnomes scattering sixpences 
 
 like rain; 
 Then pages three and three; and next, 
 
 slave-held, 
 The Imaian 'scutcheon bright, — one mouse 
 
 in argent field. 
 
 Gentlemen pensioners next; and after 
 
 them, 
 A troop of winged Janizaries flew; 
 Then slaves, as presents bearing many a 
 
 gem; 
 Then twelve physicians fluttering two 
 
 and two; 
 And next a chaplain in a cassock new; 
 Then Lords in waiting; then (what head 
 
 not reels 
 For pleasure ?) — the fair Princess in 
 
 full view. 
 Borne upon wings, — and very pleased 
 
 she feels 
 To have such splendour dance attendance 
 
 at her heels. 
 
 LXVII 
 
 For there was more magnificence behind : 
 
 She waved her handkerchief. ' Ah, very 
 grand ! ' 
 
 Cried Elfinan, and closed the window- 
 blind; 
 ' And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally 
 stand, — 
 
 Adieu ! adieu ! I 'm off for Angle-land ! 
 
 I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing 
 
 About you, — feel your pockets, I com- 
 mand, — 
 
 I want, this instant, an invisible ring, — 
 Thank you, old mummy ! — now securely I 
 take wing.' 
 
 LXVIII 
 Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor. 
 And lighted graceful on the window-sill; 
 Under one arm the magic book he bore. 
 The other he could wave about at will; 
 Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill : 
 He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said — 
 
 ' Poor Bell ! 
 Farewell ! farewell ! and if for ever ! still 
 For ever fare thee well ! ' — and then he 
 
 fell 
 A laughing ! — snapp'd his fingers ! — 
 
 shame it is to tell ! 
 
 ' By 'r Lady ! he is gone ! ' cries Hum, 
 
 ' and I, — 
 (I own it), — have made too free with 
 
 his wine; 
 Old Crafticant will smoke me. By-the- 
 
 bye ! 
 This room is full of jewels as a mine, — 
 Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine ! 
 Some time to-day I must contrive a 
 
 minute. 
 If Mercury propitiously incline, 
 To examine his scrutoire, and see what 's 
 
 in it. 
 For of superfluous diamonds I as well may 
 
 thin it. 
 
 LXX 
 ' The Emperor 's horrid bad ; yes, that 's 
 
 my cue ! ' 
 Some histories say that this was Hum's 
 
 last speech; 
 That, being fuddled, he went reeling 
 
 through 
 The corridor, and scarce upright could 
 
 reach 
 The stair-head ; that being glutted as a 
 
 leech, 
 And used, as we ourselves have just now 
 
 said. 
 To manage stairs reversely, like a peach 
 Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his 
 
 head 
 With liquor and the staircase : verdict — 
 
 found stone dead. 
 
THE CAP i 
 
 \ND BELLS 229 
 
 LXXI 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 This, as a falsehood, Craf ticanto treats ; 
 
 ' From two to half-past, dusky way we 
 
 And as his style is of strange elegance, 
 
 made. 
 
 Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits. 
 
 Above the plains of Gobi, — desert, 
 
 (Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a 
 
 bleak; 
 
 glance 
 
 Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade 
 
 At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make 
 
 Of darkness, a great mountain (strange 
 
 dance 
 
 to speak), 
 
 His woven periods into careless rhyme; 
 
 Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken 
 
 0, little faery Pegasus ! rear — prance — 
 
 peak, 
 
 Trot round the quarto — ordinary time ! 
 
 A fan-shaped burst of blood-red, arrowy 
 
 March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof 
 
 fire. 
 
 sublime ! 
 
 Turban'd with smoke, which still away 
 
 
 did reek. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 Solid and black from that eternal pyre. 
 
 ' Well, let us see, — tenth book and chapter 
 
 Upon the laden winds that scantly could 
 
 nine,' — 
 
 respire. 
 
 Thus Craf ticant pursues his diary : — 
 
 
 ' 'T was twelve o'clock at night, the wea- 
 
 LXXV 
 
 ther fine. 
 
 * Just upon three o'clock, a falling star 
 
 Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry 
 
 Created an alarm among our troop. 
 
 A flight of starlings making rapidly 
 
 Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a 
 
 Towards Thibet. Mem. : — birds fly in 
 
 jar, 
 
 the night; 
 
 A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop. 
 
 From twelve to half -past — wings not fit 
 
 Then passing by the Princess, singed her 
 
 to fly 
 
 hoop: 
 
 For a thick fog — the Princess sulky 
 
 Could not conceive what Coralline was at. 
 
 quite: 
 
 She clapp'd her hands three times, and 
 
 Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her 
 
 cried out " Whoop ! " 
 
 nurse a bite. 
 
 Some strange Imaian custom. A large 
 bat 
 Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 ' Five minutes before one — brought 
 
 against my hat. 
 
 down a moth 
 
 
 With my new double-barrel — stew'd 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 the thighs, 
 
 ' Five minutes thirteen seconds after 
 
 And made a very tolerable broth — 
 
 three. 
 
 Princess turn'd dainty, to our great sur- 
 
 Far in the west a mighty fire broke out, 
 
 prise. 
 
 Conjectured, on the instant, it might be 
 
 Alter'd her mind, and thought it very 
 
 The city of Balk — 't was Balk beyond 
 
 nice: 
 
 all doubt: 
 
 Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a 
 
 A griffin, wheeling here and there about 
 
 pun, 
 
 Kept reconnoitering us — doubled our 
 
 She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us 
 
 guard — 
 
 flies 
 
 Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout. 
 
 About this time, — a sad old figure of 
 
 Till he sheer'd off — the Princess very 
 
 fun; 
 
 scared — 
 
 Bad omen — this new match can't be a 
 
 And many on their marrow-bones for death 
 
 happy one. 
 
 prepared. 
 
230 
 
 THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 The Princess fell asleep, and, in her 
 
 'At half-past three arose the cheerful 
 
 dream, 
 
 moon — 
 
 Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her 
 
 Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud — 
 
 esteem. 
 
 Where from the earth we heard a lively 
 
 
 tune 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Of tambourines and pipes, severe and 
 
 ' About this time — making delightful 
 
 loud, 
 
 way — 
 
 While on a flowery lawn a brilliant 
 
 Shed a quill-feather from my larboard 
 
 crowd 
 
 wing — 
 
 Cinque-parted danced, some half asleep 
 
 Wish'd, trusted, hoped 't was no sign of 
 
 reposed 
 
 decay — 
 
 Beneath the green-faned cedars, some 
 
 Thank Heaven, I 'm hearty yet ! — 't was 
 
 did shroud 
 
 no such thing: — 
 
 In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance 
 
 At five the golden light began to spring, 
 
 dozed. 
 
 With fiery shudder through the bloomed 
 
 Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids 
 
 east; 
 
 closed. 
 
 At six we heard Panthea's churches 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 ring — 
 The city all his unhived swarms had cast. 
 
 ' Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a 
 
 To watch our grand approach, and hail us 
 
 kettle-drum — 
 
 as we pass'd. 
 
 It went for apoplexy — foolish folks ! — 
 
 
 Left it to pay the piper — a good sum — 
 
 LXXXI 
 
 (I 've got a conscience, maugre people's 
 
 ' As flowers turn their faces to the sun. 
 
 jokes,) 
 
 So on our flight with hungry eyes they 
 
 To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax 
 
 gaze, 
 
 Her Highness' pug-dog — got a sharp 
 
 And, as we shaped our course, this, that 
 
 rebuff — 
 
 way run, 
 
 She wish'd a game at whist — made 
 
 With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd 
 
 three revokes — 
 
 amaze : 
 
 Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a 
 
 Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays. 
 
 huff; 
 
 And progresses through its own laby- 
 
 His Majesty will know her temper time 
 
 rinth; 
 
 enough. 
 
 Buds gather'd from the green spring's 
 
 
 middle-days, 
 
 LXXIX 
 
 They scatter'd — daisy, primrose, hya- 
 
 ' She cried for chess — I play'd a game 
 
 cinth — 
 
 with her — 
 
 Or round white columns wreathed from 
 
 Castled her king with such a vixen 
 
 capital to plinth. 
 
 look, 
 
 
 It bodes ill to his Majesty — (refer 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 To the second chapter of my fortieth 
 
 ' Onward we floated o'er the panting 
 
 book, 
 
 streets. 
 
 And see what hoity-toity airs she took). 
 
 That seem'd throughout with upheld 
 
 At half-past four the morn essay'd to 
 
 faces paved; 
 
 beam — 
 
 Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision 
 
 Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook, — 
 
 meets 
 
THE CAP AND BELLS 
 
 231 
 
 Legions of holiday; bright standards 
 
 Congees and scrape-graces of every sort, 
 
 waved, 
 
 And all the smooth routine of gallan- 
 
 And fluttering ensigns emulously craved 
 
 tries, 
 
 Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous 
 
 Was seen, to our immoderate surprise. 
 
 roar, 
 
 A motley crowd thick gather'd in the 
 
 From square to square, among the build- 
 
 hall, 
 
 ings raved, 
 
 Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with 
 
 As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once 
 
 wild cries 
 
 more 
 
 Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, 
 
 The craggy hollowness of a wild-reefed 
 
 Where the Chief Justice on his knees and 
 
 shore. 
 
 hands doth crawl. 
 
 LXXXIII 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 * And " Bellanaine for ever ! " shouted 
 
 ' Counts of the palace, and the state pur- 
 
 they! 
 
 veyor 
 
 While that fair Princess, from her 
 
 Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal 
 
 winged chair, 
 
 beds. 
 
 Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to 
 
 The Common Council and my fool Lord 
 
 pay 
 
 Mayor 
 
 Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon 
 
 Marching a-row, each other slipshod 
 
 fair. 
 
 treads; 
 
 Still emptied, at meet distance, here and 
 
 Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads 
 
 there, 
 
 Of cinder wenches meet and soil each 
 
 A plenty horn of jewels. And here I 
 
 other; 
 
 (Who wish to give the devil her due) 
 
 Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting 
 
 declare 
 
 breeds, 
 
 Against that ugly piece of calumny, 
 
 Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a 
 
 Which calls them Highland pebble-stones 
 
 bother. 
 
 not worth a fly. 
 
 And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell 
 
 
 and pother. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 
 * Still " Bellanaine ! " they shouted, while 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 we glide 
 
 ' A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's 
 
 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, 
 
 back, 
 
 The city's delicacy, and the pride 
 
 Rode to the Princess swift with spurring 
 
 Of our Imperial Basilic; a row 
 
 heels, 
 
 Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make 
 
 And close into her face, with rhyming 
 
 show 
 
 clack. 
 
 Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, 
 
 Began a Prothalamion ; — she reels, 
 
 All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo ! 
 
 She falls, she faints ! — while laughter 
 
 The strangest sight — the most unlook'd- 
 
 peals 
 
 for chance — 
 
 Over her woman's weakness. " Where ! " 
 
 All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's 
 
 cried I, 
 
 dance. 
 
 " Where is his Majesty ? " No person 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 feels 
 
 ' 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court 
 
 Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly 
 
 At the open doors, with wide saluting 
 
 I plunged into the crowd to find him or 
 
 eyes, 
 
 to die. 
 
232 
 
 THE LAST SONNET 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 * Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and 
 
 ran 
 To the first landing, where, incredible ! 
 I met, far gone in liquor, that old man. 
 
 That vile impostor Hum, ' 
 
 So far so well, — 
 For we have proved the Mago never fell 
 Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence; 
 And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, 
 Plain in our own original mood and 
 tense, 
 The sequel of this day, though labour 't is 
 immense ! 
 
 THE LAST SONNET 
 
 On his way to Italy as his last chance of life, 
 the vessel which bore Keats had been beating 
 about the English Channel for a fortnight, 
 when an opportunity was given for landing for 
 a brief respite on the Dorsetshire coast. ' The 
 bright beauty of the day,' says Lord Hough- 
 ton, Keats's biographer, ' and the scene revived 
 
 the poet's drooping heart, and the inspiration 
 remained with him for some time even after 
 his return to the ship. It was then that he 
 composed that sonnet of solemn tenderness.' 
 The date of the poem would thus be Septem- 
 ber or October, 1820. 
 
 Bright star, would I were steadfast as 
 thou art ! 
 Not in lone splendour hung aloft the 
 night, 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart. 
 
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 The moving waters at their priestlike task 
 Of pure ablution round earth's human 
 shores 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the 
 moors : 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening 
 breast. 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell. 
 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 
 And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 
 
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 The collection -which follows is not intended 
 to be taken exactly as containing the leavings 
 of Keats's genius ; there J?xe verses in the pre- 
 vious groups which might be placed here, if 
 the intention was to make a marked division 
 between his well-defined poetry and his experi- 
 ments and mere scintillations ; doubtless, too. 
 
 on any such principle it would be just to take 
 back into the respectability of larger type some 
 of the lines here included. But it seemed 
 wise to put into a subordinate group the poet's 
 fragmentary and posthumous poems, and those 
 which were plainly the mere playthings of his 
 muse. 
 
 I. HYPERION: A VISION 
 
 Contributed by Lord Houghton to the third 
 volume of the Bibliographical and Historical 
 Miscellanies of the Philobiblion Society, 1856- 
 1857. Lord Houghton afterward included it 
 in a new edition of The Life and Letters of 
 John Keats, 1867. He also printed it in the 
 Aldine edition of 1876, and always regarded it 
 as an early version of the poem. But Mr. Col- 
 vin quotes from Brown's MS. : ' In the even- 
 ings [of November and December, 1819] at his 
 own desire, he occupied a separate apartment, 
 and was deeply engaged in remodeling the frag- 
 ment of Hyperion into the form of a Vision.' 
 This attempt may well have added to Keats's 
 reluctance to permit the fragmentary Hyperion 
 to appear in the 1820 volume. For a full dis- 
 cussion of the question see the Appendix in 
 John Keats by Sidney Colvin. 
 
 Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they 
 
 weave 
 A paradise for a sect ; the savage, too, 
 From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep 
 Guesses at heaven ; pity these have not 
 Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf 
 The shadows of melodious utterance, 
 But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die ; 
 For Poesy alone can tell her dreams, — 
 With the fine spell of words alone can save 
 Imagination from the sable chain lo 
 
 And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say, 
 'Thou art no Poet — may'st not tell thy 
 
 dreams ' ? 
 Since every man whose soul is not a clod 
 
 Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved. 
 And been well nurtured in his mother tongue. 
 Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse 
 Be poet's or fanatic's will be known 
 When this warm scribe, my hand, is in the 
 grave. 
 
 Methought I stood where trees of every clime. 
 Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech, 20 
 With plantane and spice-blossoms, made a 
 
 screen. 
 In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise 
 Soft-showering in mine ears), and (by the touch 
 Of scent) not far from roses. Twining round 
 I saw an arbour with a drooping roof 
 Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms. 
 Like floral censers, swinging light in air ; 
 Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound 
 Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits. 
 Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal 30 
 By angel tasted or our Mother Eve ; 
 For empty shells were scatter'd on the grass. 
 And grapestalks but half-bare, and remnants 
 
 more 
 Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not 
 
 know. 
 Still was more plenty than the fabled horn 
 Thrice emptied could pour forth at banqueting. 
 For Proserpine return'd to her own fields. 
 Where the white heifers low. And appetite. 
 More yearning than on earth I ever felt. 
 Growing within, I ate deliciously, — 40 
 
 And, after not long, thirsted ; for thereby 
 Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice 
 Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took. 
 And pledging all the mortals of the world. 
 And all the dead whose names are in our lips, 
 Drank. That full draught is parent of my 
 
 theme. 
 
234 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 No Asian poppy nor elixir fine 
 Of the soon-fadinor, jealous Caliphat, 
 No poison gender'd in close monkish cell, 
 To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, 50 
 
 Could so have rapt unwilling life away. 
 Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd 
 Upon the grass, I struggled hard against 
 The domineering potion, but in vain. 
 The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank, 
 Like a Silenus on an antique vase. 
 How long I slumber'd 't is a chance to guess. 
 When sense of life return'd, I started up 
 As if with wings, but the fair trees were gone. 
 The mossy mound and arbour were no more : 60 
 I look'd around upon the curved sides 
 Of an old sanctuary, with roof august, 
 Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds 
 Might spread beneath as o'er the stars of hea- 
 ven. 
 So old the place was, I remember'd none 
 The like upon the earth : what I had seen 
 Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent tow- 
 ers, 
 The superannuations of sunk realms, 
 Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and 
 
 winds, 
 Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things 70 
 To that eternal domed monument. 
 Upon the marble at my feet there lay 
 Store of strange vessels and large draperies, 
 Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove, 
 Or in that place the moth could not corrupt, 
 So white the linen, so, in some, distinct 
 Ran imageries from a sombre loom. 
 All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay 
 Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish. 
 Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries. 80 
 
 Turning from these with awe, once more I 
 
 raised 
 My eyes to fathom the space every way : 
 The embossed roof, the silent massy range 
 Of columns north and south, ending in mist 
 Of nothing ; then to eastward, where black 
 
 gates 
 Were shut against the sunrise evermore ; 
 Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off 
 An image, huge of feature as a cloud. 
 At level of whose feet an altar slept, 
 To be approach'd on either side by steps 90 
 
 And marble balustrade, and patient travail 
 To count with toil the innumerable degrees. 
 Toward the altar sober-pac'd I went, 
 Repressing haste as too unholy there ; 
 And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine 
 One ministering ; and there arose a flame 
 When in raid-day the sickening east-wind 
 
 Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm 
 
 rain 
 Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers, 
 And fills the air with so much pleasant health 100 
 That even the dying man forgets his shroud ; — 
 Even so that lofty sacrificial fire. 
 Sending forth Maian incense, spread around 
 Forgetf ulness of everything but bliss, 
 And clouded all the altar with soft smoke ; 
 From whose white fragrant curtains thus I 
 
 heard 
 Language pronoune'd : ' If tliou canst not as- 
 cend 
 These steps, die on that marble where thou 
 
 art. 
 Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust, 
 Will parch for lack of nutriment ; thy bones 1 10 
 WiU wither in few years, and vanish so 
 That not the quickest eye could find a grain 
 Of what thou now art on that pavement cold. 
 The sands of thy short life are spent this 
 
 hour, 
 And no hand in the universe can turn 
 Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt 
 Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.' 
 I heard, I look'd : two senses both at once. 
 So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny 
 Of that fierce threat and the hard task pro- 
 posed. 120 
 Prodigious seem'd the toil ; the leaves were yet 
 Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill 
 Struck from the paved level up my limbs. 
 And was ascending quick to put cold grasp 
 Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat, 
 I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek 
 Stung my own ears ; I strove hard to escape 
 The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step. 
 Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace : the cold 
 Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart ; 130 
 And when I clasp 'd my hands I felt them not. 
 One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd 
 The lowest stair ; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd 
 To pour in at the toes ; I mounted up 
 As once fair angels on a ladder flew 
 From the green turf to heaven. ' Holy Power,' 
 Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine, 
 ' Wliat am I that should so be saved from 
 
 death ? 
 What am I that another death come not 
 To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here ? ' 140 
 Then said the veiled shadow : ' Thou hast felt 
 What 't is to die and live again before 
 Thy fated hour ; that thou hadst power to do 
 
 so 
 Is thine own safety ; thou hast dated on 
 Thy doom.' ' High Prophetess,' said I, ' purge 
 off, 
 
HYPERION: A VISION 
 
 235 
 
 Benign, if so it please thee, ray mind's film.' 
 ' 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. 
 All else who find a haven in the world, 150 
 
 Where they may thoughtless sleep away their 
 
 days, 
 K by a chance into this fane they come, 
 Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.' 
 ' Are there not thousands in the world,' said I, 
 Encouraged 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.' 160 
 
 ' Those whom thou spakest of are no visiona- 
 ries,' 
 Rejoin'd 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 ? 170 
 What haven ? every creature hath its home, 
 Every sole man hath days of joy and pain. 
 Whether his labours be sublime or low — 
 The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct : 
 Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 
 Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve. 
 Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared, 
 Such things as thou art are admitted oft 
 Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile. 
 And suffer'd in these temples : for that cause 180 
 Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.' 
 
 ' That I am favour'd for unworthiness. 
 By such propitious parley medicined 
 In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice, 
 Aye, and could weep for love of such award.' 
 So answer'd I, continuing, ' If it please, 
 Majestic shadow, tell me where I am. 
 Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls ; 
 What image this whose face I cannot see 
 For the broad marble knees ; and who thou 
 
 art, 190 
 
 Of accent feminine so courteous ? ' 
 
 Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd, 
 Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her 
 breath 
 
 Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping 
 
 hung 
 About a golden censer from her hand 
 Pendent ; and by her voice I knew she shed 
 Long-treasured tears. ' This temple, sad and 
 
 lone, 
 Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war 
 Foughten long since by giant hierarchy 
 Against rebellion : this old image here, 200 
 
 Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell. 
 Is Saturn's ; I, Moneta, left supreme, 
 Sole goddess of this desolation.' 
 I had no words to answer, for my tongue, 
 Useless, could find about its roofed home 
 No syllable of a fit majesty 
 To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn : 
 There was a silence, while the altar's blaze 
 Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon. 
 And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled 
 Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps 211 
 
 Of other crisped spicewood : then again 
 I look'd upon the altar, and its horns 
 Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame, 
 And then upon the offerings again ; 
 And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cried : 
 ' The sacrifice Ls done, but not the less 
 Will I be kind to thee for thy good will. 
 My power, which to me is still a curse. 
 Shall be to thee a wonder ; for the scenes 220 
 Still swooning vivid through my globed brain, 
 With an eleetral changing misery, 
 Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold 
 Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.' 
 As near as an immortal's sphered words 
 Could to a mother's soften were these last : 
 And yet I had a terror of her robes. 
 And chiefly of the veils that from her brow 
 Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries. 
 That made my heart too small to hold its 
 
 blood. 230 
 
 This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand 
 Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face, 
 Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright- 
 
 blanch'd 
 By an immortal sickness which kills not ; 
 It works a constant change, which happy death 
 Can put no end to ; deathwards progressing 
 To no death was that visage ; it had past 
 The lily and the snow ; and beyond these 
 I must not think now, though I saw that face. 
 But for her eyes I should have fled away ; 240 
 They held me back with a benignant light, 
 Soft, mitigated by divinest lids 
 Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd 
 Of all external things ; they saw me not. 
 But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild 
 
 moon. 
 
236 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 Who comforts those she sees not, who knows 
 
 not 
 What eyes are upward cast. As I had found 
 A grain of gold upon a mountain's side, 
 And, twing'd with avarice, strain'd out my 
 
 eyes 
 To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, 25° 
 So, at the view of sad Moneta's brow, 
 I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow 
 Behind environ'd : what high tragedy 
 In the dark secret chambers of her skull 
 Was acting, that could give so dread a stress 
 To her cold lips, and fill with such a light 
 Her planetary eyes, and touch her voice 
 With such a sorrow ? ' Khade of Memory ! ' 
 Cried I, with act adorant at her feet, 
 ' By all the gloom hung round thy fallen 
 
 house, 260 
 
 By this last temple, by the golden age, 
 By great Apollo, thy dear foster-child. 
 And by thyself, forlorn divinity. 
 The pale Omega of a wither'd race, 
 Let me behold, according as thou saidst. 
 What in thy brain so ferments to and fro ! ' 
 No sooner had this conjuration past 
 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 270 
 
 Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn. 
 Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star. 
 Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs. 
 And saw what first I thought an image huge. 
 Like to the image pedestall'd so high 
 In Saturn's temple ; then Moneta's voice 
 Came brief upon mine 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 280 
 Of things as nimbly as the outward eye 
 Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme 
 Of those few words hung vast before my mind 
 With half-unravell'd web. I sat myself 
 Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see. 
 And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life 
 Was in this shrouded vale, — not so much air 
 As in the zoning of a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed from the f eather'd grass 
 But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest. 
 A stream went noiseless by, still deaden'd more 
 By reason of the fallen divinity 292 
 
 Spreading more shade ; the Naiad 'mid her 
 
 reeds 
 Prest her cold finger closer to her lips. 
 
 Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went 
 No further 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, and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
 While his bowed head seem'd listening to the 
 Earth, 301 
 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 
 
 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 Mnemosyne, 
 And griev'd I hearken'd. ' That divinity 
 Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlomest 
 
 wood, 309 
 
 And with slow pace approach our fallen king, 
 Is Thea, softest-natured 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. 
 There was a list'ning fear in her regard. 
 As if calamity had but begun ; 
 As if the venom' d cloud of evil days 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
 Was with its stored thunder labouring up. 
 One hand she press' d upon that aching spot 320 
 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 ear 
 Leaning, with parted lips some words she spoke 
 In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone ; 
 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 ? 330 
 
 I have no comfort for thee ; no, not one ; 
 I cannot say, 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 thy hoary majesty. 
 Thy thunder, captious at the new command, 
 Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
 And thy sharp lightning, in unpractis'd hands, 
 Scourges and burns our once serene domain. 341 
 
 ' With such remorseless speed still come new 
 woes. 
 That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
 Saturn ! sleep on : me thoughtless, why should I 
 
HYPERION: A VISION 
 
 237 
 
 Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
 Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
 ■ Saturn ! sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.' 
 
 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 35» 
 
 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 prest her fair large forehead to the earth. 
 Just where her fallen hair might spread in 
 
 curls, 
 A soft and silken net for Saturn's feet. 
 Long, long these two were postured motionless. 
 Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave 
 Of their own power. A long awful time 360 
 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 or 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 
 Her silver seasons shedded on the night, 37° 
 And every day by day methought I grew 
 More gaunt and ghostly. Oftentimes I pray'd 
 Intense, that death would take me from the 
 
 vale 
 And all its burthens ; gasping with despair 
 Of change, hour after hour I eurs'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, 
 And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet. 
 
 As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and 
 leaves 3S0 
 
 FiUs 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 windings of the foxes' hole, 
 With sad, low tones, while thus he spoke, and 
 
 sent 
 Strange moanings to the solitary Pan. 
 ' Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd 
 
 "P 
 And buried from all godlike exercise 
 Of influence benign on planets pale, 39° 
 
 And peaceful sway upon man's harvesting. 
 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 ancient courses 
 
 keep ; 
 Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the 
 
 earth, 
 Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon ; 
 StLU buds the tree, and still the seashores mur- 
 mur; 
 There is no death in all the universe, 
 No smell of death. — There shall be death. 
 Moan, moan ; 400 
 
 Moan, Cybele, moan ; for thy pernicious babes 
 Have chang'd a god into an aching palsy. 
 Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength 
 
 left; 
 Weak as the reed, weak, feeble as my voice. 
 Oh ! Oh ! 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 ; 410 
 
 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.' So he feebly ceased. 
 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 unison of sense 
 Which marries sweet sound with the grace of 
 
 form, 
 And dolorous accent from a tragic harp 420 
 
 With lai-ge limb'd visions. More I scrutinized. 
 Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees. 
 Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent 
 
 forms, 
 With leaves all hush'd ; his awful presence 
 
 there 
 ( Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie 
 To what I erewhile heard : only his lips 
 Trembled amid the white curls of his beard ; 
 They told the truth, though round the snowy 
 
 locks 
 Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven 
 A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose 430 
 And stretcht her white arm through the hol- 
 low dark. 
 Pointing somewhither : whereat he too rose, 
 Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea 
 To grow pale from the waves at dull mid- 
 night. 
 They melted from my sight into the woods ; 
 Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, ' These twain 
 Are speeding to the families of grief. 
 
238 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 Where, rooft in by black rocks, they waste in 
 
 pain 
 And darkness, for no hope.' And she spake 
 
 on, 
 As ye may read who can unwearied pass 44o 
 Onward from the antechamber of this dream, 
 Where, even at the open doors, awhUe 
 I must delay, and glean ray memory 
 Of her high phrase — perhaps no further dare. 
 
 ' Mortal, that thou may'st 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 thro' the trees. 
 In melancholy realms big tears are shed. 
 More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
 Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe. 
 The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound, lo 
 Groan for the old allegiance once more, 
 Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice. 
 But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps 
 His sovereignty, 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 insecure. 
 For as upon the earth dire prodigies 
 Fright and perplex, so also shudders he ; 
 Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's hated screech, 
 Or the familiar visiting of one 21 
 
 Upon the first toll of his passing bell. 
 Or prophesyiugs of the midnight lamp ; 
 But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve, 
 Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
 Bastion'd with pyramids of shining gold, 
 And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks. 
 Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts. 
 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
 And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 3° 
 
 Flash angerly ; when he would taste the wreaths 
 Of incense breath'd aloft from sacred hills. 
 Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes 
 Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick ; 
 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. 
 With strides colossal, on from hall to hall, 4° 
 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 where 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, 
 ReUev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne S' 
 Was sitting on a square-edg'd pohsh'd stone. 
 That in its lucid depths reflected pure 
 Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on 
 From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault. 
 Through bow'rs 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 earthy fire, 60 
 
 That scar'd away the meek ethereal hours. 
 And made their dove-wings tremble. On he 
 
 flared. 
 
 II. FRAGMENTS 
 
 The three fragments that follow are pub- 
 lished in Life, Letters and Literary Remains, 
 without date. 
 
 Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him. 
 Muses nine ! that I may know him ! 
 'Tis the man who witKa man 
 
 Is an equal, be he King, 
 Or poorest of the beggar-clan. 
 
 Or any other wondrous thing 
 A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato ; 
 
 'T is the man who with a bird. 
 Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to 
 
 All its instincts ; he hath heard 
 The Lion's roaring, and can tell 
 
 What his horny throat expresseth, 
 And to him the Tiger's yell 
 
 Comes articulate and presseth 
 On his ear like mother- tongue. 
 
 MODERN LOVE 
 
 And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up 
 For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ; 
 A thing of soft misnomers, so divine 
 That silly youth doth think to make itself 
 Divine by loving, and so goes on 
 Yawning and doting a whole summer long, 
 Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara. 
 
FRAGMENTS 
 
 239 
 
 And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots ; 
 Then Cleopatra lives at number seven, 
 And Antony resides in Brunswick Square. 
 Fools ! if some passions high have warm'd the 
 
 world, 
 If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for 
 
 hearts, 
 It is no reason why such agonies 
 Should be more common than the growth of 
 
 weeds. 
 Fools ! make me whole again that weighty 
 
 pearl 
 The Queen of Egypt melted, and I 'U say 
 That ye may love in spite of beaver hats. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF ' THE CASTLE BUILDER ' 
 
 To-night I '11 have my friar — let me think 
 About my room — I '11 have it in the pink ; 
 It should be rich and sombre, and the moon, 
 Just in its mid-life in the midst of June, 
 Should look thro' four large windows and dis- 
 play 
 Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way. 
 Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor ; 
 The tapers keep aside, an hour and more, 
 To see what else the moon alone can show ; 
 While the night-breeze doth softly let us know 
 My terrace is well bower'd with oranges. 
 Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees 
 A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove 
 Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love ; 
 A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there. 
 All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair ; 
 A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon 
 A glorious folio of Anacreon ; 
 A skull upon a mat of roses lying, 
 Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ; 
 An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails 
 Of passion-flower ; — just in time there sails 
 A cloud across the mioon, — the lights bring 
 
 in! 
 And see what more my phantasy can win. 
 It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad ; 
 The draperies are so, as tho' they had 
 Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet ; 
 And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet 
 A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face. 
 In letters raven-sombre, you may trace 
 Old * Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin.' 
 Greek busts and statuary have ever been 
 Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far, 
 Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar ; 
 Therefore 't is sure a want of Attic taste 
 
 That I should rather love a Gothic waste 
 Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay, 
 Than on the marble fairness of old Greece. 
 My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece 
 And black Nuniidian sheep -wool should be 
 
 wrought. 
 Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought. 
 My ebon sofas shoiild delicious be 
 With down from Leda's cygnet progeny. 
 My pictures all Salvator's, save a few 
 Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new, 
 Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence. 
 My wine — O good ! 't is here at my desire, 
 And I must sit to supper with my friar. 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA 
 
 First given in it/V, Letters and Literary Re- 
 mains, and there dated 1818. In that case, it is 
 most likely that the verses formed a portion of 
 some experiment going on to the autumn after 
 Keats's return from his northern journey. 
 
 O ! WERE I one of the Olympian twelve, 
 Their godships should pass this into a law, — 
 That -vhen a man doth set himself in toil 
 After some beauty veiled far away, 
 Each step he took should make his lady's 
 
 hand 
 More soft, more white, and her fair cheek more 
 
 fair ; 
 And for each briar-berry he might eat, 
 A kiss should bud upon the tree of love. 
 And pulp and ripen richer every hour, 
 To melt away upon the traveller's lips. 
 
 daisy's song 
 
 The sun, with his great eye. 
 Sees not so much as I ; 
 And the moon, all silver-proud. 
 Might as well be in a cloud. 
 
 And O the spring — the spring ! 
 I lead the life of a King ! 
 Couch'd in the teeming grass, 
 I spy each pretty lass. 
 
 I look where no one dares, 
 And I stare where no one stares. 
 And when the night is nigh. 
 Lambs bleat my lullaby. 
 
240 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 folly's song 
 
 When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 
 
 Huzza for folly ! 
 And when maidens go a-Maying, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 When a milk-pail is upset, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 And the clothes left in the wet, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 When the barrel 's set abroach, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 When the pig is over-roasted. 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 And the cheese is over-toasted. 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 When Sir Snap is with his lawyer, 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 And Miss Chip has kiss'd the sawyer ; 
 
 Huzza, etc. 
 
 O, I AM frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! 
 Perhaps her voice is not a nightingale's. 
 Perhaps her teeth are not the fairest pearl ; 
 Her eye-lashes may be, for aught I know. 
 Not longer than the May-fly's small fan- 
 horns ; 
 There may not be one dimple on her hand ; 
 And freckles many ; ah ! a careless nurse. 
 In haste to teach the little thing to walk. 
 May have erumpt up a pair of Dian's legs, 
 And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck. 
 
 The stranger lighted from his steed. 
 And ere he spake a word, 
 
 He seiz'd my lady's lily hand, 
 And kiss'd it all unheard. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the hall, 
 And ere he spake a word. 
 
 He kiss'd my lady's cherry lips, 
 And kiss'd 'em all unheard. 
 
 The stranger walk'd into the bower. 
 But my lady first did go, — 
 
 Ay hand in hand into the bower, 
 Where my lord's roses blow. 
 
 My lady's maid had a silken scarf. 
 And a golden ring had she, 
 
 And a kiss from the stranger, as off he went 
 Again on his palfrey. 
 
 Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! 
 And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee. 
 And let me call Heaven's blessing on thine 
 
 eyes. 
 And let me breathe into the happy air, 
 That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 
 Vows of my slavery, my giving up, 
 My sudden adoration, my great love ! 
 
 III. FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE 
 
 These verses belong to 1816. It is not im- 
 possible that like the valentine on p. 11, they 
 were written for the use of George Keats. 
 
 COME, Georgiana ! the rose is full blown. 
 The riches of Flora are lavishly strown. 
 The air is all softness, and crystal the streams ; 
 The West is resplendently clothed in beams. 
 
 come ! let us haste to the freshening shades, 
 The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening 
 
 glades ; 
 Where the faeries are chanting their evening 
 
 hymns. 
 And the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims. 
 
 And when thou art weary, I '11 find thee a bed 
 Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head : 
 And there Georgiana I '11 sit at thy feet, 
 While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat. 
 
 So fondly I '11 breathe, and so softly I '11 sigh, 
 Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr is 
 
 nigh; 
 Yet no — as I breathe I will press thy fair knee. 
 And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes 
 
 from me. 
 
 Ah ! whv, dearest girl, should we lose all these 
 
 blisses ? 
 That mortal 's a fool who such happiness misses : 
 So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand. 
 With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly 
 
 bland. 
 
 EPISTLE TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 ' My dear Reynolds,' writes Keats from 
 Teignmouth, March 25, 1818, ' In hopes of 
 cheering you through a minute or two, I was 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 241 
 
 determined, will he, nill he, to send you some 
 lines, so you will excuse the unconnected sub- 
 ject and careless verse. You know, I am sure, 
 Claude's Enchanted Castle, and I wish you may 
 be pleased with my remembrance of it.' 
 
 Deak Reynolds ! As last night I lay in bed, 
 There came before my eyes that wonted thread 
 Of shapes, and shadows, and remembrances. 
 That every other minute vex and please : 
 Things all disjointed come from north and 
 
 south, — 
 Two Witch's eyes above a Cherub's mouth, 
 Voltaire with casque and shield and habergeon, 
 And Alexander with his nightcap on ; 
 Old Socrates a-tying his cravat. 
 And Hazlitt playing with Miss Edgeworth's 
 
 cat ; 10 
 
 And Junius Brutus, pretty well so so. 
 Making the best of 's way towards Soho. 
 
 Few are there who escape these visitings, — 
 Perhaps one or two whose lives have patent 
 
 wing^. 
 And thro' whose curtains peeps no hellish nose. 
 No wild-boar tushes, and no Mermaid's toes ; 
 But flowers bursting out with lusty pride, 
 And young -^oUan harps personify'd ; 
 Some Titian colours touch'd into real life, — 
 The sacrifice goes on ; the pontiff knife 20 
 
 Gleams in the Sun, the milk-white heifer lows. 
 The pipes go shrilly, the libation flows : 
 A white sail shows above the green-head cliff. 
 Moves round the point, and throws her anchor 
 
 stiff; 
 The mariners join hymn with those on land. 
 
 You know the Enchanted Castle, — it doth 
 stand 
 Upon a rock, on the border of a Lake, 
 Nested in trees, which all do seem to shake 
 From some old magic-like Urganda's sword. 
 O Phoebus ! that I had thy sacred word 3° 
 
 To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise. 
 Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies ! 
 
 You know it well enough, where it doth seem 
 A mossy place, a Merlin's Hall, a dream ; 
 You know the clear Lake, and the little Isles, 
 The mountains blue, and cold near neighbour 
 
 rills. 
 All which elsewhere are but half animate ; 
 There do they look alive to love and hate, 
 To smiles and frowns ; they seem a lifted 
 
 mound 
 Above some giant, pulsing underground. 40 
 
 Part of the building was a chosen See, 
 Built by a banish'd Santon of Chaldee ; 
 The other part, two thousand years from him. 
 Was buUt by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ; 
 Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun, 
 Built by a Lapland Witch turn'd maudlin Nun ; 
 And many other juts of aged stone 
 Founded with many a mason-devil's groan. 
 
 The doors all look as if they op'd themselves : 
 The windows as if latcli'd by Fays and Elves, 5° 
 And from them comes a silver flash of light. 
 As from the westward of a Summer's night; 
 Or like a beauteous woman's large blue eyes 
 Gone mad through olden songs and poesies. 
 
 See ! what is coming from the distance dim ! 
 A golden Galley all in silken trim ! 
 Three rows of oars are lightening, moment 
 
 whiles 
 Into the verd'rous bosoms of those isles ; 
 Towards the shade, under the Castle wall. 
 It comes in silence, — now 't is hidden all. 60 
 The Clarion soimds, and from a Postern-gate 
 An echo of sweet music doth create 
 A fear in the poor Herdsman who doth bring 
 His beasts to trouble the enchanted spring, — 
 He tells of the sweet music, and the spot, 
 To all his friends, and they believe him not. 
 
 O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake. 
 Would all their colours from the sunset take : 
 From something of material sublime, 69 
 
 Rather than shadow our own soul's day-time 
 In the dark void of night. For in the world 
 We jostle, — but my flag is not unf url'd 
 On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophise 
 I dare not yet ! O, never will the prize. 
 High reason, and the love of good and ill. 
 Be my award ! Things cannot to the will 
 Be settled, but they tease us out of thought ; 
 Or is it imagination brought 
 Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd, 
 Lost in a sort of Purgatory blind, 80 
 
 Cannot refer to any standard law 
 Of either earth or heaven ? It is a flaw 
 In happiness, to see beyond our bourn. — 
 It forces us in summer skies to mourn, 
 It spoils the singing of the Nightingale. 
 
 Dear Reynolds ! I have a mysterious tale. 
 And cannot speak it : the first page I read 
 Upon a Lampit rock of green sea-weed 
 Among the breakers ; 't was a quiet eve, 
 The rocks were silent, the wide sea did weave 
 An untumultuous fringe of silver foam 9' 
 
 Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home 
 
242 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 And should have been most happy, — but I saw 
 
 As doth a mother wild, 
 
 Too far into the sea, where every maw 
 
 When her young infant child 
 
 The greater on the less feeds evermore. — 
 
 Is in an eagle's claws — 
 
 But I saw too distinct into the core 
 
 And is not this the cause 
 
 Of an eternal fierce destruction, 
 
 Of madness ? — God of Song, 
 
 And so from happiness I far was gone. 
 
 Thou bearest me along 
 
 Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day. 
 
 Through sights 1 scarce can bear : 
 
 I 've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers 
 
 let me, let me share 
 
 gay '°° 
 
 With the hot lyre and thee, , 
 
 Of periwinkle and wild strawberry, 
 
 The staid Philosophy. 
 
 Still do I that most fierce destruction see, — 
 
 Temper my lonely hours, 
 
 The Shark at savage prey, — the Hawk at 
 
 And let me see thy bowers 
 
 pounce, — 
 
 More unalarm'd ! 
 
 The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce, 
 
 
 Ravening a worm, — Away, ye horrid moods ! 
 
 AT TEIGNMOUTH 
 
 Moods of one's mind ! You know I hate them 
 
 
 well. 
 
 Sent as part of a letter to Haydon, written 
 
 You know I 'd sooner be a clapping Bell 
 
 from Teignmouth, March 21, 1818. 'I have 
 
 To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church, 
 
 enjoyed the most delightful walks these three 
 
 Than with these horrid moods be left i' the 
 
 fine days beautiful enough to make me content 
 
 lurch. 
 
 here all the summer could I stay.' 
 
 A DRAUGHT OF SUNSHINE 
 
 Here all the summer could I stay, 
 
 
 For there 's Bishop's teign 
 
 Sent in a letter to Reynolds, dated January 
 
 And King's teign 
 
 31, 1818. ' I cannot write in prose,' says Keats ; 
 
 And Coomb at the clear teign head — 
 
 'it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here 
 
 Where close by the stream 
 
 goes.' 
 
 You may have your cream 
 
 
 All spread upon barley bread. 
 
 Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 
 
 
 Away with old Hock and Madeira, 
 
 There 's arch Brook 
 
 Too earthly ye are for mj' sport ; 
 
 And there 's larch Brook 
 
 There 's a beverage brighter and clearer. 
 
 Both turning many a mill ; 
 
 Instead of a pitiful rummer. 
 
 And cooling the drouth 
 
 My wine overbrims a whole summer ; 
 
 Of the salmon's mouth 
 
 My bowl is the sky. 
 
 And fattening his silver giU. 
 
 And I drink at my eye, 
 
 
 Till I feel in the brain 
 
 There is Wild wood, 
 
 A Delphian pain — 
 
 A Mild hood 
 
 Then follow, my Caius ! then follow : 
 
 To the sheep on the lea o' the down, 
 
 On the green of the hill 
 
 Where the golden furze 
 
 We will drink our fill 
 
 With its green, thin spurs, 
 
 Of golden sunshine. 
 
 Doth catch at the maiden's gown. 
 
 Till our brains intertwine 
 
 
 With the glory and grace of Apollo ! 
 
 There is Newton marsh 
 
 God of the Meridian, 
 
 With its spear grass harsh — 
 
 And of the East and West, 
 
 A pleasant summer level 
 
 To thee my soul is flown, 
 
 Where the maidens sweet 
 
 And my body is earthward press'd. — 
 
 Of the Market Street, 
 
 It is an awful mission, 
 
 Do meet in the dusk to revel. 
 
 A terrible division ; 
 
 
 And leaves a gulf austere 
 
 There 's the Barton rich 
 
 To be fill'd with worldly fear. 
 
 With dyke and ditch 
 
 Aye, when the soul is fled 
 
 And hedge for the thrush to live in ; 
 
 To high above our head. 
 
 And the hollow tree 
 
 Affrighted do we gaze 
 
 For the buzzing bee. 
 
 After its airy maze. 
 
 And a bank for the wasp to hive in. 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 243 
 
 And O, and O 
 
 The daisies blow 
 And the primroses are waken'd, 
 
 And the violets white 
 
 Sit in silver plight, 
 And the green bud 's as long as the spike end. 
 
 Then who would go 
 
 Into dark Soho, 
 And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, 
 
 When he can stay 
 
 For the new-mown hay. 
 And startle the dappled Prickets ? 
 
 THE DEVON MAID 
 
 Immediately after the preceding', Keats 
 adds : ' I know not if this rhyming fit has done 
 anything — it will be safe with you if worthy 
 to put among my Lyrics. Here 's some dog- 
 grel for you,' and these four stanzas follow. 
 
 Where be ye going, you Devon Maid ? 
 
 And what have ye there in the Basket ? 
 Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, 
 
 Will ye give me some cream if I ask it ? 
 
 I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, 
 
 And I love your junkets mainly. 
 But 'hind the door I love kissing more, 
 
 look not so disdainly. 
 
 I love your hills, and I love your dales, 
 . And I love your flocks a-bleating ^ 
 But O, on the heather to lie together. 
 With both our hearts a-beating ! 
 
 I '11 put your Basket all safe in a nook. 
 Your shawl I hang up on the willow. 
 
 And we will sigh in the daisy's eye 
 And kiss on a grass green pillow. 
 
 fxEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 
 
 This is dated 'Foot of Helvellyn, June 27,' 
 1818, and was sent, as something overlooked, 
 to his brother and sister. September 18, 1819. 
 ' I wrote it in a great hurry which you will 
 see. Indeed I would not copy it if I thought 
 it would ever be seen by any but yourselves.' 
 
 GrvE me your patience, sister, while I frame 
 Exact in capitals your golden name ; 
 Or sue the fair Apollo and he will 
 Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill 
 
 Great love in me for thee and Poesy. 
 Imagine not that greatest mastery 
 And kingdom over all the Realms of verse, 
 Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we 
 
 nurse 
 And surety give to love and Brotherhood. 
 
 Anthropophagi in Othello's mood ; 
 Ulysses storm'd and his enchanted belt 
 Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt 
 Unbosom'd so and so eternal made, 
 Such tender incense in their laurel shade 
 To all the regent sisters of the Nine 
 As this poor offering to you, sister mine. 
 
 Kind sister I ay, this third name says you are ; 
 Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where ; 
 And may it taste to you like good old wine, 
 Take you to real happiness and give 
 Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive. 
 
 MEG MERRILIES 
 
 Sent in a letter to Fanny Keats, written from 
 Auchencairn, July 2, 1818. 'We are in the 
 midst of Meg Merrilies country of whom I sup- 
 pose you have heard.' Fanny Keats was a 
 girl of fifteen at this time. 
 
 Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 
 
 And liv'd uiwn the Moors: 
 Her bed it was the brown heath turf. 
 
 And her house was out of doors. 
 
 Her apples were swart blackben-ies. 
 
 Her currants pods o' broom ; 
 Her wine was dew of the wild white rose. 
 
 Her book a churchyard tomb. 
 
 Her Brothers were the craggy hills. 
 
 Her Sisters larchen trees — 
 Alone with her great family 
 
 She liv'd as she did please. 
 
 No breakfast had she many a morn. 
 
 No dinner many a noon, 
 And 'stead of supper she would stare 
 
 Full hard against the Moon. 
 
 BTit every morn of woodbine fresh 
 
 She made her garlanding. 
 And every night the dark glen Yew 
 
 She wove, and she would sing. 
 
 And with her fingers old and brown 
 She plaited Mats o' Rushes, 
 
244 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 And gave them to the Cottagers 
 
 And away 
 
 She met among the Bushes, 
 
 In a Pother 
 
 
 He ran 
 
 Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen 
 
 To the mountains, 
 
 And tall as Amazon : 
 
 And fountains 
 
 An old red blanket cloak she wore ; 
 
 And ghostes, 
 
 A chip hat had she on. 
 
 And Postes, 
 
 God rest her aged bones somewhere — 
 
 And witches, 
 
 She died full long agone ! 
 
 And ditches, 
 
 
 And wrote 
 
 
 In his coat, 
 
 A SONG ABOUT MYSELF 
 
 When the weather 
 
 
 Was cool. 
 
 ' I have so many interruptions,' writes Keats 
 
 Fear of gout, 
 
 to his sister Fanny from Kircudbright, July 2, 
 
 And without 
 
 1818, ' that I cannot manage to fill a Letter 
 in one day — since I scribbled the song [Meg 
 Merrilies] we have walked through a beautiful 
 country to Kircudbright — at which place I 
 will write you a song about myself.' 
 
 There was a naughty Boy, 
 
 A naughty boy was he. 
 
 He would not stop at home. 
 
 He could not quiet be — 
 
 He took 
 
 In his Knapsack 
 
 A Book 
 
 Full of vowels ; 
 
 And a shirt 
 
 With some towels — 
 
 A slight cap 
 
 For night cap — 
 
 A hair brush, 
 
 Comb ditto. 
 
 New Stockings, 
 
 For old ones 
 
 Would split O ! 
 
 This Knapsack, 
 
 Tight at 's back. 
 
 He rivetted close 
 And foUow'd his Nose 
 
 To the North, 
 
 To the North, 
 And follow'd his nose 
 
 To the North. 
 
 There was a naughty boy 
 
 And a naughty boy was he, 
 For nothing would he do 
 But scribble poetry — 
 
 He took 
 
 An inkstand 
 
 In his hand, 
 
 And a Pen 
 
 Big as ten 
 
 In the other, 
 
 When the weather 
 
 Was Warm — 
 
 Och the charm 
 
 When we choose 
 To follow one's nose 
 
 To the north, 
 
 To the north, 
 To follow one's nose 
 To the north. 
 
 There was a naughty boy 
 
 And a naughty boy was he. 
 He kept little fishes 
 In washing tubs three 
 
 In spite 
 
 Of the might 
 
 Of the Maid, 
 
 Nor afraid 
 
 Of his Granny — good — 
 
 He often would, 
 
 Hurly burly, 
 
 Get up early. 
 
 And go 
 
 By hook or crook 
 
 To the brook. 
 
 And bring home 
 
 Miller's thumb. 
 
 Tittlebat 
 
 Not over fat. 
 
 Minnows small 
 
 As the stall 
 
 Of a glove. 
 
 Not above 
 
 The size 
 
 Of a nice 
 
 Little Baby's 
 
 Little fingers — 
 
 O. he made, 
 
 'T was his trade. 
 Of Fish a pretty Kettle 
 
 A Kettle — 
 
 A Kettle 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 245 
 
 Of Fish, a pretty Kettle, 
 
 I saw her wrappit in her hood 
 
 A Kettle ! 
 
 Frae wind and raining — 
 
 
 Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood 
 
 There was a naughty Boy, 
 
 Twixt growth and waning — 
 
 And a naughty Boy was he, 
 
 She turn'd her dazed eyes full oft 
 
 He ran away to Scotland 
 
 For there her Brithers 
 
 The people for to see — 
 
 Came riding with her Bridegroom soft 
 
 Then he found 
 
 And mony ithers. 
 
 That the ground 
 
 Young Tam came up and eyed me quick 
 
 Was as hard, 
 
 With reddened cheek — 
 
 That a yard 
 
 Braw Tom was daffed like a chick — 
 
 Was as long, 
 
 He couldna speak — 
 
 That a song 
 
 Ah, Marie, tliey are all gane hame 
 
 Was as merry, 
 
 Through blustering weather 
 
 That a cherry 
 
 An' every heart is full on flame 
 
 Was as red — 
 
 An' light as feather. 
 
 That lead 
 
 Ah ! Marie, they are all gone hame 
 
 Was as weighty, 
 
 Frae happy wadding, 
 
 That fourscore 
 
 Whilst I — Ah is it not a shame ? 
 
 Was as eighty, 
 
 Sad tears am shedding. 
 
 That a door 
 
 
 Was as wooden 
 
 THE GADFLY 
 
 As in England — 
 
 
 So he stood in his shoes 
 
 Inclosed in a letter to Tom Keats, July 17, 
 
 And he wonder'd, 
 
 1818. 
 
 He wonder'd, 
 
 All gentle folks who owe a grudge 
 
 He stood in his shoes 
 
 To any living thing 
 
 And he wonder'd. 
 
 Open your ears and stay your t(r)udge 
 
 
 Whilst I in dudgeon sing. 
 
 TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 The Gadfly he hath stung me sore — 
 
 Belantbee (for Ballantrae) July 10 [1818.] 
 
 may he ne'er sting you ! 
 
 
 But we have many a horrid bore, — 
 
 Ah ! ken ye what I met the day 
 
 He may sting black and blue. 
 
 Out cure the Mountains 
 
 
 A coming down by craggies gray 
 
 Has any here an old gray Mare 
 
 An mossie fountains — 
 
 With three legs all her store, 
 
 Ah goud-hair'd Marie yeve I pray 
 
 put it to her Buttocks bare 
 
 Ane minute's guessing — 
 
 And straight she '11 run on four. 
 
 For that I met upon the way 
 
 
 Is past expressing. 
 
 Has any here a Lawyer suit 
 
 As I stood where a rocky brig 
 
 Of 1743, 
 
 A torrent crosses 
 
 Take Lawyer's nose and put it to 't 
 
 I spied upon a misty rig 
 
 And you the end will see. 
 
 A troup 0' Horses — 
 
 
 And as they trotted down the glen 
 
 Is there a Man in Parliament 
 
 I sped to meet them 
 
 Dum(bjfounder'd in his speech, 
 
 To see if I might know the Men 
 
 let his neighbour make a rent 
 
 To stop and greet them. 
 
 And put one in his breech. 
 
 First Willie on his sleek mare came 
 
 
 At canting gallop 
 
 Lowther how much better thou 
 
 His long hair rustled like a flame 
 
 Hadst figur'd t' other day 
 
 On board a shallop, 
 
 When to the folks thou mad'st a bow 
 
 Then came his brother Rab and then 
 
 And hadst no more to say. 
 
 Young Peggy's Mither 
 
 
 And Peggy too — adown the glen 
 
 If lucky Gadfly had but ta'en 
 
 They went togither — 
 
 His seat . . . 
 
246 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 And put thee to a little pain 
 To save thee from a worse. 
 
 Better than Southey it had been, 
 
 Better than Mr. D 
 
 Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween, 
 
 Better than Mr. V . 
 
 Forgive me, pray, good ])eople all. 
 
 For deviating so — 
 In spirit sure I had a call — 
 
 And now I on will go. 
 
 Has any here a daughter fair 
 
 Too fond of reading novels, 
 Too apt to fall in love with care 
 
 And charming Mister Lovels, 
 
 put a Gadfly to that thing 
 She keeps so white and pert — 
 
 1 mean the finger for the ring, 
 And it will breed a wort. 
 
 Has any here a pious spouse 
 
 Who seven times a day 
 Scolds as King David pray'd, to chouse 
 
 And have her holy way — 
 
 let a Gadfly's little sting 
 Persuade her sacred tongue 
 
 That noises are a common thing, 
 But that her bell has rung. 
 
 And as this is the summum bo- 
 num of all conquering, 
 
 1 leave ' withouten wordes mo ' 
 The Gadfly's little sting. 
 
 ON HE.\RING THE BAG-PIPE AND SEEING 
 
 'the stranger' played at INVERARY 
 
 'On entering Inverary,' Keats writes to his 
 brother Tom, July 18, 1818, ' we saw a Play 
 Bill. Brown was knocked up from new shoes 
 — so I went to the Barn alone where I saw the 
 Stranger accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There 
 they went on about interesting creaters and 
 human nater till the Curtain fell and then 
 came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller fainted 
 down went the Curtain and out came the Bag- 
 pipe — at the heartrending, shoemending recon- 
 ciliation the Piper blew amain. I never read 
 or saw this play before ; not the Bag-pipe nor 
 the wretched players themselves were little in 
 
 comparison with it — thank heaven it has been 
 scoffed at lately almost to a fashion.' 
 
 Of late two dainties were before me plac'd 
 Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innocent, 
 From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent 
 That Gods might know my own particular 
 
 taste : 
 First the soft Bag-pipe mourn' d with zealous 
 haste, 
 The Stranger next with head on bosom bent 
 Sigh'd ; rueful again the piteous Bag-pipe 
 went. 
 Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste. 
 O Bag-pipe, thou didst steal my heart away — 
 Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didst 
 charm — 
 Bag-pipe thou didst re-assert thy sway — 
 
 Again thou, Stranger, gav'st me fresh alarm — 
 Alas ! I could not choose. Ah ! my poor heart 
 Mum chance art thou with both oblig'd to part. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER 
 A VISIT TO BURNS'S COUNTRY 
 
 In a letter to Benjamin Bailey from the 
 Island of Mull, July 22, 1818. 
 
 There is a charm in footing slow across a silent 
 
 plain. 
 Where patriot battle has been fought, where 
 
 glory had the gain ; 
 There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids 
 
 old have been. 
 Where mantles gray have rustled by and swept 
 
 the nettles green ; 
 There is Joy in every spot made known by 
 
 times of old, 
 New to the feet, although each tale a hundred 
 
 times be told ; 
 There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in 
 
 the heart. 
 More parching to the tongue than all, of more 
 
 divine a smart, 
 When weary steps forget themselves upon a 
 
 pleasant turf, 
 Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron 
 
 scurf. 
 Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago 
 
 was born 
 One who was great through mortal days, and 
 
 died of fame unshorn. 
 Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they 
 
 are far away ; 
 Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the 
 
 Sun may hear his Lay ; 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 247 
 
 Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shal- 
 lows clear, 
 
 But their low voices are not heard, though 
 come on travels drear ; 
 
 Blood-red the sun may set behind black moun- 
 tain peaks ; 
 
 Blue J^des may sluice and drench their time in 
 Caves and weedy creeks ; 
 
 Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the 
 Air ; 
 
 Ring-doves may fly eonvuls'd across to some 
 higli-cedar'd lair ; 
 
 But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the 
 gi'ound. 
 
 As Palmer's, that with weariness, mid-desert 
 shrine hath found. 
 
 At such a time the soul 's a child, in child- 
 hood is the brain ; 
 
 Forgotten is the worldly heart — alone, it beats 
 in vain. — 
 
 Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a 
 healthfvd day 
 
 To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when 
 first began decay. 
 
 He might make tremble many a one whose spirit 
 had gone forth 
 
 To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the 
 silent North. 
 
 Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the 
 bourn of Care, 
 
 Beyond the sweet and bitter world, — beyond 
 it unaware ! 
 
 Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a 
 longer stay 
 
 Would bar return, and make a man forget his 
 mortal way : 
 
 O horrible ! to lose the sight of well remem- 
 ber'd face. 
 
 Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow — constant 
 to every place ; 
 
 Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portrai- 
 ture intense ; 
 
 More warm than those heroic tints that pain a 
 Painter's sense. 
 
 When shapes of old come striding by, and vis- 
 ages of old. 
 
 Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and pas- 
 sions manifold. 
 
 No, no, that horror cannot be, for at the cable's 
 length 
 
 Man feels the gentle anchor pull and gladdens 
 in its strensrth : — 
 
 One hour, half-idiot, he stands by mossy water- 
 fall. 
 
 But in the very next he reads his soul's Memo- 
 rial : — 
 
 He reads it on the mountain's height, where 
 chance he may sit down 
 
 Upon rough marble diadem — that hill's eter- 
 nal Crown. 
 
 Yet be his Anchor e'er so fast, room is there 
 for a prayer 
 
 That man may never lose his Mind on Moun- 
 tains black and bare ; 
 
 That he may stray league after league some 
 great birthplace to find 
 
 And keep his vision clear from speck, his in- 
 ward sight unbliud. 
 
 MRS. CAMERON AND BEN NEVIS 
 
 In his letter to Tom Keats, Aug-ust 3, 1818, 
 which contains the sonnet written on Ben Ne- 
 vis, Keats concludes a lively account of the 
 ascent they made with this bit of nonsense : — 
 
 After all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 
 years of age and the fattest woman in all In- 
 verness-shire who got up this Mountain some 
 few years ago — true she had her servants — 
 but then she had herself. She ought to have 
 hired Sisyphus, — " Up the high hill he heaves 
 a huge round — Mrs. Cameron." 'T is said a 
 little conversation took place between the 
 mountain and the Lady. After taking a glass 
 of Whisky as she was tolerably seated at ease 
 she thus beg'an — 
 
 Upon my life Sir Nevis I am piqued 
 That I have so far panted tugg'd and reek'd 
 To do an honor to your old bald pate 
 And now am sitting on you just to bait. 
 Without your paying me one compliment. 
 Alas, 't is so with all, when our intent 
 Is plain, and in the eye of all Mankind 
 We fair ones show a preference, too blind ! 
 You Gentle man immediately turn tail — 
 O let me then my hapless fate bewail ! 
 Ungrateful Baldpate have I not disdain'd 
 The pleasant Valleys — have I not madbrain'd 
 Deserted all my Pickles and preserves 
 My China closet too — with wretched Nerves 
 To boot — say, wretched ingrate, have I not 
 Left my soft cushion chair and caudle pot ? 
 'Tis true I had no corns — no! thank the 
 
 fates 
 My Shoemaker was always Mr. Bates. 
 And if not Mr. Bates why I 'm not old ! 
 Still dumb ungrateful Nevis — still so cold ! 
 
248 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 Here the Lady took some more whisky and 
 was putting even more to her lips when she 
 dashed it to the Ground, for the Mountain be- 
 gan to grumble — which continued for a few 
 minutes before he thus began — 
 
 BEN NEVIS. 
 
 What whining bit of tongue and Mouth thus 
 
 dares 
 Disturb my slumber of a thousand years ? 
 Even so long my sleep has been secure — 
 And to be so awak'd I '11 not endure. 
 Oh pain — for since the Eagle's earliest scream 
 I 've had a damn'd confounded ugly dream, 
 A Nightmare sure. What ! Madam, was it 
 
 you? 
 It cannot be ! My old eyes are not true ! 
 Red-Crag, my Spectacles ! Now let me see ! 
 Good Heavens ! Lady, how the gemini 
 Did you get here ? 0, I shall split my sides ! 
 I shall earthquake — 
 
 Sweet Nevis do not quake, for though I love 
 Your honest Countenance all things above, 
 Truly I should not like to be convey'd 
 So far into your Bosom. — gentle Maid 
 Loves not too rough a treatment, gentle Sir — 
 Pray thee be calm and do not quake nor stir 
 No, not a Stone, or I shall go in fits — 
 
 BEN NEVIS. 
 
 I must — I shall — I meet not such tit bits — 
 I meet not such sweet creatures every day — 
 By my old nightcap night and day 
 I must have one sweet Buss — I must and shall ! 
 Red Crag ! — What ! Madam, can you then re- 
 pent 
 Of all the toil and vigour you have spent 
 To see Ben Nevis and to touch his nose ? 
 Red Crag I say ! I must have them close ! 
 Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe 
 A vein of Sulphur — go, dear Red Crag, go — 
 And rub your flinty back against it — budge ! 
 Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must ! 
 I must embrace you with my dearest gust ! 
 Block-head, d' ye hear ! — Block-head, I '11 
 
 make her feel. 
 There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel 
 A cave of young earth dragons ; — well my 
 
 boy 
 Go thither quick and so complete my joy. 
 Take you a bundle of the largest pines, 
 And when the sun on fiercest Phosphor shines, 
 Fire them and ram them in the Dragon's nest. 
 Then will the dragons fry and fizz their best 
 
 Until ten thousand now no bigger than 
 Poor Alligators — poor things of one span — 
 Will each one swell to twice ten times the 
 
 size 
 Of northern whale — then for the tender prize — 
 The moment then — for then will Red Crag rub 
 His flinty back — and I shall kiss and sn«|b 
 And press my dainty morsel to my breast. 
 Block-head make haste ! 
 
 O Muses, weep the rest — 
 The Lady fainted and he thought her dead ; 
 So pulled the clouds again about his head 
 And went to sleep again ; soon she was rous'd 
 By her affrighted servants — next day, hous'd 
 Safe on the lowly ground she bless' d her fate 
 That fainting fit was not delayed too late. 
 
 But what surprised me above all is how 
 the lady got down again. I felt it horribly. 
 'T was the most vile descent — shook me all 
 to pieces. 
 
 SHARING eve's APPLE 
 
 Printed by Mr. Forraan and assigned to 1818. 
 Mr. Forman does not give his authority, save 
 to say that the verses have been handed about 
 in manuscript. 
 
 BLUSH not so ! blush not so ! 
 
 Or I shall think you knowing ; 
 And if you smile the blushing while, 
 
 Then maidenheads are going. 
 
 There 's a blush for won't, and a blush for 
 shan't. 
 And a blush for having done it : 
 There 's a blush for thought and a blush for 
 nought. 
 And a blush for just begun it. 
 
 sigh not so ! O sigh not so ! 
 
 For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin ; 
 By these loosen' d lips you have tasted the pips 
 
 And foiight in an amorous nipping. 
 
 Will you play once more at nice-cut-core. 
 For it only will last our youth out. 
 
 And we have the prime of the kissing tinae. 
 We have not one sweet tooth out. 
 
 There 's a sig-h for yes, and a sigh for no. 
 
 And a sigh for I can't bear it ! 
 what can be done, shall we stay or run ? 
 
 cut the sweet apple and share it ! 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 249 
 
 A PROPHECY : 
 TO GEORGE KEATS IN AMERICA 
 
 In a letter to his brother and his wife, Octo- 
 ber 24, 1818, Keats says : ' If I had a prayer 
 to make for any great good, next to Tom's re- 
 covery, it should be tLat one of your children 
 should be the first American Poet. I have a 
 great mind to make a prophecy, and they say 
 prophecies work on their own fultilment.' 
 
 'T IS the witching time of night, 
 
 Orbed is the moon and bright, 
 
 And the Stars they glisten, glisten, 
 
 Seeming with bright eyes to listen. 
 
 For what listen they ? 
 
 For a song and for a charm, 
 
 See they glisten in alarm. 
 
 And the Moon is waxing warm 
 
 To hear what I shall say. 
 
 Moon 1 keep wide thy golden ears — 
 
 Hearken, Stars ! and hearken, Spheres ! — 
 
 Hearken, thou eternal Sky ! 
 
 I sing an infant's Lullaby, 
 
 pretty lullaby ! 
 
 Listen, listen, listen, listen. 
 
 Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten. 
 
 And hear my Lullaby ! 
 
 Though the Rushes, that will make 
 
 Its cradle, still are in the lake — 
 
 Though the linen that will be 
 
 Its swathe, is on the cotton tree — 
 
 Though the woollen that will keep 
 
 It warm, is on the silly sheep — 
 
 Listen, Starlight, listen, listen. 
 
 Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten. 
 
 And hear my lullaby ! 
 
 Child, I see thee ! Ch'ld, I 've found thee 
 
 Midst of the quiet all around thee ! 
 
 Child, I see thee ! Child, I spy thee ! 
 
 And thy mother sweet is nigh thee ! 
 
 Child, I know thee ! Child no more. 
 
 But a Poet evermore ! 
 
 See, see, the Lyre, the Lyre, 
 
 In a flame of fire. 
 
 Upon the little cradle's top 
 
 Flaring, flaring, flaring, 
 
 Past the eyesight's bearing. 
 
 Awake it from its sleep. 
 
 And see if it can keep 
 
 Its eyes upon the blaze — 
 
 Amaze, amaze ! 
 
 It stares, it stares, it stares. 
 
 It dares what no one dares ! 
 
 It lifts its little hand into the flame 
 
 Unharm'd, and on the strings 
 Paddles a little tune, and sings. 
 With dumb endeavour sweetly - 
 Bard art thou completely ! 
 
 Little child 
 
 0' th' western wild. 
 Bard art thou completely ! 
 Sweetly with dumb endeavour, 
 A Poet now or never, 
 
 Little child 
 
 O' th' western wild, 
 A Poet now or never ! 
 
 A LITTLE EXTEMPORE 
 
 Inclosed in a letter to Geoi^e and Geoi^- 
 ana Keats, written April 15, 1819. 
 
 When they were come into the Faery's Court 
 
 They rang — no one at home — all gone to sport 
 
 And dance and kiss and love as faeries do 
 
 For Faries be as humans lovers true. 
 
 Amid the woods they were so lone and wild, 
 
 Where even the Robin feels himself exil'd, 
 
 And where the very brooks, as if afraid, 
 
 Hurry along to some less magic shade. 
 
 ' No one at home ! ' the fretful Princess cry'd ; 
 
 ' And all for nothing such a dreary ride, 
 
 And all for nothing my new diamond cross ; 
 
 No one to see my Persian feathers toss, 
 
 No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool, 
 
 Or how I pace my Otaheitan mule. 
 
 Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, whj' stand you gaping 
 
 there. 
 Burst the door open, quick — or I declare 
 I '11 switch you soundly and in pieces tear.' 
 The Dwarf began to tremble, and the Ape 
 Star'd at the Fool, the Fool was all agape, 
 The Princess grasp'd her switch, but just in 
 
 time 
 The dwarf with piteous face began to rhyme. 
 ' O mighty Princess, did you ne'er hear tell 
 What your poor servants know but too too 
 
 well? 
 Know you the three great crimes in Faeryland ? 
 The first, alas ! poor Dwarf, I understand, 
 I made a whipstock of a faery's wand ; 
 The next is snoring in their company ; 
 The next, the last, the direst of the three. 
 Is making free when they are not at home. 
 I was a Prince — a baby prince — my doom. 
 You see, I made a whipstock of a wand. 
 My top has henceforth slept in faery land. 
 He was a Prince, the Fool, a grown-tip Prince, 
 But he has never been a King's son since 
 He fell a snoring at a faery Ball. 
 
25° 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 You poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor thing 
 Pieklock'd a faery's boudoir — now no king 
 But ape — so pray your highness. stay awhile, 
 'T is sooth indeed, we know it to our sorrow — 
 Persist and you may be an ape to-morrow.' 
 While the Dwarf spake, the Princess, all for 
 
 spite, 
 Peel'd the brown hazel twig to lily white, 
 Cleneh'd her small teeth, and held her lips 
 
 apart, 
 Try'd to look unconcern'd with heating heart. 
 They saw her highness had made up her mind, 
 A-quavering like the reeds before the wind — 
 And they had had it, but O happy chance ! 
 The Ape for very fear began to dance 
 And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache — 
 She staid her vixen fingers for his sake, 
 He was so very ugly : then she took 
 Her pocket-mirror and began to look 
 First at herself and then at him, and then 
 She smil'd at her own beauteous face again. 
 Yet for all this — for all her pretty face — • 
 She took it in her head to see the place. 
 Women gain little from experience 
 Either in Lovers, husbands, or expense. 
 The more their beauty the more fortune too — 
 Beauty before the wide world never knew — 
 So each fair reasons — tho' it oft miscarries. 
 She thought her pretty face would please the 
 
 fairies. 
 ' My darling Ape, I wont whip you to-day. 
 Give me the Picklock sirrah and go play.' 
 They all three wept but counsel was as vain 
 As crying cup biddy to drops of rain. 
 Yet lingering by did the sad Ape forth draw 
 The Picklock from the Pocket in his Jaw. 
 The Princess took it, and dismounting straight 
 Tripp'd in blue silver'd slippers to the gate 
 And touch'd the wards, the Door full courteous 
 Opened — she enter'd with her servants three. 
 Again it clos'd and there was nothing seen 
 But the Mule grazing on the herbage green. 
 End of Canto XII. 
 
 CANTO THE XIII 
 
 The Mule no sooner saw himself alone 
 
 Than he prick'd up his Ears — and said ' well 
 
 done ; 
 At least unhappy Prince I may be free — 
 No more a Princess shall side-saddle me. 
 
 King of Otaheite — tho' a Mule, 
 
 "Aye, every inch a King" — tho' "Fortune's 
 
 Fool," 
 Well done — for by what Mr. Dwarfy said 
 
 1 would not give a sixpence for her head.' 
 Even as he spake he trotted in high glee 
 To the knotty side of an old Pollard tree, 
 
 And rubb'd his sides against the mossed bark 
 Till his Girths burst and left him naked stark 
 Except his Bridle — how get rid of that 
 Buckled and tied with >uany a twist and plait. 
 At last it struck him to pretend to sleep. 
 And then the thievish Monkeys down would 
 
 creep 
 And filch the unpleasant tramm.els quite away. 
 No sooner thought of than adown he lay, 
 Shamm'd a good snore — the Monkey-men de- 
 scended 
 And whom they thought to injure they be- 
 friended. 
 They hung his Bridle on a topmost bough 
 And off he went run, trot, or anyhow — 
 
 SPENSERIAN STANZAS ON CHARLES ARMI- 
 TAGE BROWN 
 
 Inclosed in a letter to George and Georgi- 
 ana Keats, April 16 or 17, 1819 : ' Brown this 
 morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas 
 against Mrs., Miss Brawne and me ; so I shall 
 amuse myself with him a little : in the manner 
 of Spenser.' 
 
 He is to weet a melancholy Carle : 
 Thin in the waist, with bushy head of hair. 
 As hath the seeded thistle when in parle 
 It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fair 
 Its light balloons into the summer air ; 
 There to his beard had not begun to bloom. 
 No brush had touch'd his chin, or razor 
 
 sheer ; 
 No care had touched his cheek with mortal 
 doom. 
 But new he was, and bright, as scarf from Per- 
 sian loom. 
 
 Ne cared he for wine, or half-and-half ; 
 Ne cared he for fish, or flesh, or fowl ; 
 And sauces held he worthless as the chaff ; 
 He 's deigned the swineherd at the wassail 
 
 bowl; 
 Ne with lewd ribbalds sat he cheek by jowl ; 
 Ne with sly Lemans in the scorn er's chair ; 
 But after water-brooks this Pilgrim's soul 
 Panted, and all his food was woodland air ; 
 Though he would oft-times feast on gilliflowers 
 
 rare. 
 
 The slang of cities in no wise he knew ; 
 Tipping the wink to him was heathen Greek ; 
 He sipp'd no ' olden Tom,' or ' ruin blue,' 
 Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek 
 
FAMILIAR VERSES 
 
 25^ 
 
 By many a Damsel hoarse, and rouge of 
 
 cheek ; 
 Nor did he know each aged Watchman's 
 
 beat, 
 Nor in obscured purlieus would he seek 
 For curled Jewesses, with ankles neat. 
 Who, as they walk abroad, make tinkling with 
 
 their feet. 
 
 ' TWO OR THREE POSIES ' 
 
 At the close of a letter, April 17, 1819, to 
 his sister Fanny, Keats writes : ' Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dilke are commg- to dine with us to-day [at 
 Wentworth Place]. They will enjoy the 
 country after Westminster. there is nothing- 
 like fine weather, and health, and Books, and a 
 fine country, and a contented Mind, and dili- 
 gent habit of reading- and thinking, and an 
 amulet against the ennui — and, please hea- 
 ven, a little claret wine cool out of a cellar a 
 mile deep — with a few or a good many ratafia 
 cakes — a rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry 
 bed to say your prayers to Flora in, a pad nag 
 to go you ten miles or so ; two or three sensi- 
 ble people to chat with ; two or three spiteful 
 folks to spar with ; two or three odd fishes to 
 laugh at and two or three numskulls to argue 
 with — instead of using dumb bells on a rainy 
 day.' 
 
 Two or three Posies 
 
 With two or three simples — 
 
 Two or three Noses 
 
 With two or three pimples — 
 
 Two or three wise men 
 
 And two or three ninny's — 
 
 Two or three purses 
 
 And two or three guineas — 
 
 Two or three raps 
 
 At two or three doors — 
 
 Two or three naps 
 
 Of two or three hours — 
 
 Two or three Cats 
 
 And two or three mice — 
 
 Two or three sprats 
 
 At a very great price — 
 
 Two or three sandies 
 
 And two or three tabbies — 
 
 Two or three dandies 
 
 And two Mrs. mum ! 
 
 Two or three Smiles 
 
 And two or three frowns — 
 
 Two or three Miles 
 
 To two or three towns — 
 
 Two or three pegs 
 For two or three bonnets — 
 Two or three dove eggs 
 To hatch into sonnets — 
 
 A PARTY OF LOVERS 
 
 'Somewhere in the Spectator is related an 
 account of a man inviting a party of stutterers 
 and squinters to his table. It would please me 
 more to scrape together a party of lovers — 
 not to dinner but to tea. There would be no 
 fighting as among knights of old.' Keats to 
 George and Georgiana Keats, September 17, 
 1819. The play on names seems to indicate 
 some trifling reference to Keats's publishers of 
 Taj'lor and Hessey. 
 
 Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 
 Nibble their toast, and cool their tea with sighs. 
 Or else forget the purpose of the night. 
 Forget their tea — forget their appetite. 
 See with cross'd arms they sit — ah! happy 
 
 crew. 
 The fire is going out and no one rings 
 For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings. 
 A fly is in the milk-pot — must he die 
 
 By a humane society ? 
 No, no ; there Mr. Werter takes his spoon, 
 Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo ! soon 
 The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark, 
 Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark. 
 
 Arise ! take snuffers by the handle. 
 There 's a large cauliflower in each candle. 
 A winding-sheet, ah me ! I must away 
 To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay. 
 ' Alas, my friend ! your coat sits very well ; 
 Where may your Taylor live ? ' 'I may not 
 tell, 
 
 pardon me • — I'm absent now and then. 
 Where might my Taylor live ? I say again 
 
 1 cannot tell, let me no more be teaz'd — 
 
 He lives in Wapping, might live where he 
 pleas'd.' 
 
 TO GEORGE KEATS 
 WRITTEN IN SICKNESS 
 
 This is from a transcript by George Keats, 
 and dated 1819 ; but Keats's letters do not dis- 
 close any sickness during that year which 
 would be likely to call forth the lines, and the 
 date is probably 1820. 
 
252 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE 
 
 Brotheb belov'd if health shall smile again, 
 Upon this wasted form and f ever'd cheek : 
 If e'er returning vigour bid these weak 
 And languid limbs their gladsome strength re- 
 gain, 
 Well may thy brow the placid glow retain 
 Of sweet content and thy pleas' d eye may 
 
 speak 
 The conscious self applause, but should I seek 
 To utter what this heart can feel, — Ah ! vain 
 Were the attempt ! Yet kindest friends while 
 o'er 
 My couch ye bend, and watch with tenderness 
 The being whom your cares could e'en restore. 
 From the cold grasp of Death, say can you 
 
 guess 
 The feelings which these lips can ne'er ex- 
 press ? 
 Feelings, deep fix'd in grateful memory's store. 
 
 ON OXFORD 
 
 Charles Armitage Brown, writing to Henry 
 Snook from Hampstead 24 March, 1820, says : 
 ' Tom shall have one of his [ Keats 's] bits of 
 comic verses, — I met with them only yester- 
 day, but they have been written long ago, — 
 it is a song on the City of Oxford.' 
 
 The Gothic looks solemn, 
 
 The plain Doric column 
 Supports an old Bishop and Crozier ; 
 
 The mouldering arch, 
 
 Shaded o'er by a larch. 
 Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier. 
 
 Vice, — that is, by turns, — 
 O'er pale faces mourns 
 
 The black tassell'd trencher and common hat ; 
 
 The charity boy sings. 
 
 The Steeple-bell rings 
 And as for the Chancellor — dominat. 
 
 There are plenty of trees, 
 
 And plenty of ease. 
 And plenty of fat deer for Parsons ; 
 
 And when it is venison. 
 
 Short is the benison, — 
 Then each on a leg or thigh fastens. 
 
 TO A CAT 
 
 These verses were addressed by Keats to a 
 cat belonging to Mrs. Reynolds of Little Bri- 
 tain, the mother of his friend John Hamilton 
 Reynolds. Mrs. Reynolds gave the verses to 
 her son-in-law, Tom Hood, who published them 
 in his Comic Annual for 1830. 
 
 Cat ! who has[t] pass'd thy grand clima[e]- 
 teric. 
 How many mice and rats hast in thy days 
 Destroy'd ? — How many tit-bits stolen ? 
 Gaze 
 With those bright languid segments green, and 
 
 prick 
 Those velvet ears — but pr'ythee do not stick 
 Thy latent talons in me — and upraise 
 Thy gentle mew — and tell me all thy frays 
 Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick : 
 Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists 
 
 For all the wheezy asthma, — and for all 
 Thy tail's tip is nick'd off — and though the 
 fists 
 Of many a maid has given thee many a maul. 
 Still is that fur as soft as when the lists 
 
 In youth thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 Ya 
 
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 1. TO CHAKLES COWDEN CLAKKE 
 
 [London, October 31, 1816.] 
 My daintie Davie — I will be as punc- 
 tual as the Bee to the Clover. Very glad 
 am I at the thoughts of seeing so soon this 
 glorious Haydon and all his creation. I 
 pray thee let me know when you go to 
 OUier's and where he resides — this I for- 
 got to ask you — and tell me also when 
 you will help me waste a sullen day — God 
 'ield you^ — J. K. 
 
 2. TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE 
 
 [London,] Tuesday [December 17, 1816]. 
 My DEAR Charles — You may now look 
 at Minerva's ^gis with impunity, seeing 
 that my awful Visage - did not turn you 
 into a John Doree. You have accordingly 
 a legitimate title to a Copy — I will use 
 my interest to procure it for you. I '11 tell 
 you what — I met Reynolds at Haydon's a 
 few mornings since — he promised to be 
 with me this Evening and Yesterday I had 
 the same promise from Severn and I must 
 put you in mind that on last All hallow- 
 mas' day you gave me your word that you 
 would spend this Evening with me — so no 
 putting off. I have done little to Endy- 
 miou lately - — I hope to finish it in one 
 more attack. I believe you I went to 
 Richards's — it was so whoreson a Night 
 that I stopped there all the next day. His 
 Remembrances to you. (Ext. froni the 
 common place Book of my Mind — Mem. 
 
 — Wednesday — Hampstead — call in 
 Warner Street — a sketch of Mr. Hunt.) 
 
 — I will ever consider you my sincere and 
 affectionate friend — you will not doubt 
 that I am yours. 
 
 God bless you — John Keats. 
 
 3. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [London,] Sunday Evening 
 [March 2, 1817?]. 
 
 My dear Reynolds — Your kindness ^ 
 affects me so sensibly that I can merely put 
 down a few mono-sentences. Your Criti- 
 cism only makes me extremely anxious that 
 I should not deceive you. 
 
 It 's the finest thing by God as Hazliti 
 would say. However I hope I may not 
 deceive you. There are some acquaint- 
 ances of mine who will scratch their Beards 
 and although I have, I hope, some Charity, 
 I wish their Nails may be long. I will be 
 ready at the time you mention in all Hap- 
 piness. 
 
 There is a report that a young Lady of 
 16 has written the new Tragedy, God bless 
 her — I will know her by Hook or by 
 Crook in less than a week. My Brothers' 
 and my Remembrances to your kind Sis- 
 ters. 
 
 Yours most sincerely 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 4. TO THE S.-UVIB 
 
 [London, March 17, 1817.] 
 My dear Reynolds — My Brothers are 
 anxious that I should go by myself into the 
 'country — they have always been extremely 
 fond of me, and now that Haydon has 
 pointed out how necessary it is that I should 
 be alone to improve myself, they give up 
 the temporary pleasure of living with me 
 continually for a great good which I hope 
 will follow. So I shall soon be out of 
 Town. You must soon bring all your pre- 
 sent troubles to a close, and so must I, but 
 we must, like the Fox, prepare for a fresh 
 swarm of flies. Banish money — Banish 
 
256 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 sofas — Banish Wine — Banish Music ; but 
 right Jack Health, honest Jack Health, 
 true Jack Health — Banish health and 
 banish all the world. I must . . . myself 
 ... if I come this evening, I shall horri- 
 bly commit myself elsewhere. So I will 
 send my excuses to them and Mrs. Dilke 
 by my brothers. 
 
 Your sincere friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 5. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 [Southampton,] Tuesday Morn 
 [AprillS, 1817]. 
 
 My DEAR Brothers — I am safe at 
 Southampton — after having ridden three 
 stages outside and the rest in for it began to 
 be very cold. I did not know the Names of 
 any of the Towns I passed through — all I 
 can tell you is that sometimes I saw dusty 
 Hedges — sometimes Ponds — then nothing 
 
 — then a little Wood with trees look you 
 like Launce's Sister ' as white as a Lily 
 and as small as a Wand ' — then came 
 houses which died away into a few strag- 
 gling Barns — then came hedge trees 
 aforesaid again. As the Lamplight crept 
 along the following things were discovered 
 
 — ' long heath broom furze ' — Hurdles 
 here and there half a Mile — Park pal- 
 ings when the Windows of a House were 
 always discovered by reflection — One 
 Nymph of Fountain — N. B. Stone — 
 lopped Trees — Cow ruminating — ditto 
 Donkey — Man and Woman going gin- 
 gerly along — William seeing his Sisters 
 over the Heath — John waiting with a 
 Lanthorn for his Mistress — Barber's Pole 
 
 — Doctor's Shop — However after having 
 had my fill of these I popped my Head out 
 just as it began to Dawn — N. B. this Tues- 
 day Morn saw the Sun rise — of which I 
 shall say nothing at present. I felt rather 
 lonely this Morning at Breakfast so I went 
 and unbox'd a Shakspeare — ' There 's 
 my Comfort.' ^ I went immediately after 
 Breakfast to Southampton Water where I 
 
 enquired for the Boat to the Isle of Wight 
 as I intend seeing that place before I set- 
 tle — it will go at 3, so shall I after having 
 taken a Chop. I know nothing of this 
 place but that it is long — tolerably broad 
 
 — has bye streets — two or three Churches 
 
 — a very respectable old Gate with two 
 Lions to guard it. The Men and Women 
 do not materially differ from those I have 
 been in the Habit of seeing. I forgot to 
 say that from dawn till half-past six I went 
 through a most delightful Country — some 
 open Down but for the most part thickly 
 wooded. What surprised me most was an 
 immense quantity of blooming Furze on 
 each side the road cutting a most rural 
 dash. The Southampton water when I 
 saw it just now was no better than a low 
 water Water which did no more than 
 answer my expectations — it will have 
 mended its Manners by 3. From the 
 Wharf are seen the shores on each side 
 stretching to the Isle of Wight. You, 
 Haydon, Reynolds, etc. have been pushing 
 each other out of my Brain by turns. I 
 have conned over every Head in Haydon's 
 Picture — you must warn them not to be 
 afraid should my Ghost visit them on 
 Wednesday — tell Haydon to Kiss his Hand 
 at Betty over the Way for me yea and to 
 spy at her for me. I hope one of you will 
 be competent to take part in a Trio while I 
 am away — you need only aggravate your 
 voices a little and mind not to speak Cues 
 and all — when you have said Rum-ti-ti — 
 you must not be rum any more or else 
 another will take up the ti-ti alone and then 
 he might be taken God shield us for little 
 better than a Titmouse. By the by talking 
 of I'itmouse Remember me particularly to 
 all n y Friends — give my Love to the Miss 
 Reynoldses and to Fanny who I hope you 
 will soon see. Write to me soon about them 
 ay[ — and you George particularly how you 
 gtet on with Wilkinson's plan. What could 
 I) have done without ray Plaid ? I don't 
 ffeel inclined to write any more at present 
 for I feel rather muzzy — you must be con- 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 257 
 
 tent with this fac simile of the rough plan 
 of Aunt Dinah's Counterpane.^ 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Reynolds shall hear from me soon. 
 
 6. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 
 
 Carisbrooke, AprU 17th [1827]. 
 My dear Reynolds — Ever since I 
 wrote to my Brothers from Southampton 
 I have beeu in a taking — and at this 
 moment I am about to become settled — 
 for I have unpacked my books, put them 
 into a snug corner, pinned up Haydon, 
 Mary Queen of Scots, and Milton with his 
 daughters in a row. In the passage I found 
 a head of Shakspeare which I had not be- 
 fore seen. It is most likely the same that 
 George spoke so well of, for I like it ex- 
 tremely. Well — this head I have hung 
 over my Books, just above the three in a 
 row, having first discarded a French Am- 
 bassador — now this alone is a good morn- 
 ing's work. Yesterday I went to Shanklin, 
 which occasioned a great debate in my 
 mind whether I should live there or at 
 Carisbrooke. Shanklin is a most beautiful 
 place — Sloping wood and meadow ground 
 reach round the Chine, which is a cleft be- 
 tween the Cliffs of the depth of nearly 300 
 feet at least. This cleft is filled with trees 
 and bushes in the narrow part, and as it 
 widens becomes bare, if it were not for 
 primroses on one side, which spread to the 
 very verge of the Sea, and some fishermen's 
 huts on the other, perched midway in the 
 Balustrades of beautiful green Hedges 
 along their steps down to the sands. But 
 the sea, Jack, the sea — the little waterfall 
 — then the white cliff — then St. Cathe- 
 rine's Hill — ' the sheep in the meadows, the 
 cows in the corn.' Then, why are you at 
 Carisbrooke ? say 5'ou. Because, in the first 
 place, I should be at twice the Expense, 
 and three times the inconvenience — next 
 that from here I can see your continent — 
 
 from a little hill close by the whole north 
 Angle of the Isle of Wight, with the water 
 between us. In the 3rd place, i see Caris- 
 brooke Castle from my window, and have 
 found several delightful woud-alleys, and 
 copses, and quick freshes. As for prim- 
 roses — the Island ought to be called 
 Primrose Island — that is, if the nation of 
 Cowslips agree thereto, of which there are 
 divers Clans just beginning to lift up their 
 heads. Another reason of my fixing is, that 
 I am more in reach of the places around 
 me. I intend to walk over the Island east 
 — West — North — South. I have not 
 seen many specimens of Ruins — I don't 
 think however I shall ever see one to sur- 
 pass Carisbrooke Castle. The trench is 
 overgrown with the smoothest turf, and the 
 Walls with ivy. The Keep within side is 
 one Bower of ivy — a colony of Jackdaws 
 have been there for many years. 1 dare 
 say I have seen many a descendant of some 
 old cawer who peeped through the Bars 
 at Charles the first, when he was there in 
 Confinement. On the road from Cowes to 
 Newport I saw some extensive Barracks, 
 which disgusted me extremely with the 
 Government for placing such a Nest of De- 
 bauchery in so beautiful a place. I asked a 
 man on the Coach about this — and he said 
 that the people had been spoiled. In the 
 room where I slept at Newport, I found 
 this on the Window — ' O Isle spoilt by the 
 milatary ! . . .' 
 
 The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that 
 it would be no bad thing to be the favourite 
 of some Fairy, who would give one the 
 power of seeing how our Friends got on at 
 a Distance. I should like, of all Loves, a 
 sketch of you and Tom and George in ink 
 whicli Haydon will do if you tell him how 
 I want them. From want of regidar rest I 
 have been rather narvus — and the passage 
 in Lear — ' Do you not hear the sea?' — 
 has haunted me intensely. 
 
 [Here follows the sonnet ' On the Sea,' p. 37.] 
 
258 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 April 18th. 
 Will you have the goodness to do this ? 
 Borrow a Botanical Dictionary — turn to 
 the words Laurel and Pruuus, show the ex- 
 planations to your sisters and Mrs. Dilke 
 and without more ado let them send me the 
 Cups Basket and Books they trifled and 
 put off and off while I was in town. Ask 
 them what they can say for themselves — 
 ask Mrs. Dilke wherefore she does so dis- 
 tress me — let me know how Jane has her 
 health — the Weather is unfavourable for 
 her. Tell George and Tom to write. I '11 
 tell you what — ou the 23d was Shakspeare 
 born. Now if I should receive a letter from 
 you and another from my Brothers on that 
 day 't would be a pai'lous good thing. When- 
 ever you write say a word or two on some 
 Passage in Shakspeare that may have come 
 rather new to you, which must be con- 
 tinually happening, notwithstanding that 
 we read the same Play forty times — for 
 instance, the following from the Tempest 
 never struck me so forcibly as at present, 
 
 ' Urchins 
 Shall, for the vast of night that they may work. 
 All exercise on thee — ' 
 
 How can I help bringing to your mind the 
 line — 
 In the dark backward and abysm of time — 
 I find I cannot exist without Poetry — 
 without eternal Poetry — half the day will 
 not do — the whole of it — I began with a 
 little, but habit has made me a Leviathan. 
 I had become all in a Tremble from not 
 having written anything of late — the Son- 
 net overleaf did me good. I slept the better 
 last night for it — this Morning, however, 
 I am nearly as bad again. Just now I 
 opened Spenser, and the first Lines I saw 
 were these — 
 
 'The noble heart that harbours virtuous 
 
 thought, 
 And is with child of glorious great intent, 
 Can never rest until it forth have brought 
 Th' eternal brood of glory excellent — ' 
 
 Let me know particularly about Haydon, 
 ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be 
 
 only ten lines — 1 hope all is well — I shall 
 forthwith begin my Endymion, which I 
 hope I shall have got some way with by the 
 time you come, when we will read our 
 verses in a delightful place I have set my 
 heart upon, near the Castle. Give my Love 
 to your Sisters severally — to George and 
 Tom. Remember me to Rice, Mr. and 
 Mrs. Dilke and all we know. 
 
 Your sincere Friend John Keats. 
 
 Direct J. Keats, Mrs. Cook's, New Vil- 
 lage, Carisbrooke. 
 
 7. TO LEIGH HUNT 
 
 Margate, May 10, 1817. 
 My deak Hunt — The little gentleman 
 that sometimes lurks in a gossip's bowl, 
 ought to have come in the very likeness of 
 a roasted crab, and choaked me outright for 
 not answering your letter ere this: how- 
 ever, you must not suppose that I was in 
 town to receive it: no, it followed me to the 
 Isle of Wight, and I got it just as I was 
 going to pack up for Margate, for reasons 
 which you anon shall hear. On arriving at 
 this treeless affair, I wrote to my brother 
 George to request C. C. C. to do the thing 
 you wot of respecting Rimini; and George 
 tells me he has undertaken it with great 
 pleasure; so I hope there has been an un- 
 derstanding between you for many proofs: 
 C. C. C. is well acquainted with Bensley. 
 Now why did you not send the key of your 
 cupboard, which, I know, was full of pa- 
 pers? We would have locked them all in 
 a trunk, together with those you told me 
 to destroy, which indeed I did not do, for 
 fear of demolishing receipts, there not being 
 a more unpleasant thing in the world (saving 
 a thousand and one others) than to pay a 
 bill twice. Mind you, old Wood 's a ' very 
 varmint,' shrouded in covetousness: — and 
 now I am upon a horrid subiect — what a 
 horrid one you were upon last Sunday, and 
 well you handled it. The last Examiner 
 was a battering-ram against Christianity, 
 blasphemy, TertuUian, Erasmus, Sir Philip 
 
 
TO LEIGH HUNT 
 
 259 
 
 Sidney; and then the dreadful Petzelians 
 and their expiation hj blood ; and do Chris- 
 tians shudder at the same thing in a news- 
 paper which they attriimte to their God in 
 its most aggravated foiin? What is to be 
 the end of this? I must mention Hazlitt's 
 Southey.^ O that he had left out the grey 
 hairs; or that they had been in any other 
 paper not concluding with such a thunder- 
 clap ! That sentence about making a page 
 of the feeling of a whole life, appears to me 
 like a whale's back in the sea of prose. 
 I ought to have said a word on Shak- 
 speare's Christianity. There are two which 
 I have not looked over with you, touching 
 the thing: the one for, the other against: 
 that in favour is in Measure for Measure, 
 Act II. Scene ii. — 
 
 Isab. Alas, alas ! 
 Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; 
 And He that might the 'vantage best have took. 
 Found out the remedy. 
 
 That against is in Twelfth Night, Act III. 
 Scene ii. — 
 
 Maria. For there is no Christian that means 
 to be saved by believing rightly, can ever be- 
 lieve such impossible passages of grossness. 
 
 Before I come to the Nymphs,^ I must 
 get through all disagreeables. I went to 
 the Isle of Wight, thought so much about 
 poetry, so long together, that I could not 
 get to sleep at night; and, moreover, I know 
 not how it was, I could not get wholesome 
 food. By this means, in a week or so, I be- 
 came not over capable in my upper stories, 
 and set off pell-mell for Margate, at least 
 a hundred and fifty miles, because, forsooth, 
 I fancied that I should like my old lodging 
 here, and could contrive to do without trees. 
 Another thing, I was too much in soli- 
 tude, and consequently was obliged to be in 
 continual burning of thought, as an only 
 resource. However, Tom is with me at 
 present, and we are very comfortable. We 
 intend, though, to get among some trees. 
 How have you got on among them? How 
 are the Nymphs ? 1 suppose they have led 
 
 you a fine dance. Where are you now ? — 
 in Judea, Cappadocia, or the parts of Libya 
 about Cyrene ? Stranger from ' Heaven, 
 Hues, and Prototypes,' I wager you have 
 given several new turns to the old saying, 
 ' Now the maid was fair and pleasant to 
 look on,' as well as made a little variation 
 in ♦ Once upon a time.' Perhaps, too, you 
 have rather varied, ' Here endeth the first 
 lesson.' Thus I hope you have made a 
 horseshoe business of ' unsuperfluous life,' 
 'faint bowers,' and fibrous roots. I vow 
 that I have been down in the mouth lately 
 at this work. These last two days, how- 
 ever, I have felt more confident — I have 
 asked myself so often why I should be a 
 poet more than other men, seeing how 
 great a thing it is, — how great things are 
 to be gained by it, what a thing to be in 
 the mouth of Fame, — that at last the idea 
 has grown so monstrously beyond my seem- 
 ing power of attainment, that the other day 
 I nearly consented with myself to drop into 
 a Phaethon. Yet 'tis a disgrace to fail, 
 even in a huge attempt; and at this mo- 
 ment I drive the thought from me. 1 began 
 my poem about a fortnight since, and have 
 done some every day, except travelling 
 ones. Perhaps I may have done a good 
 deal for the time, but it appears such a 
 pin's point to me, that I will not copy any 
 out. When I consider that so many of 
 tliese pin-points go to form a bodkin-point 
 (God send I end not my life with a bare 
 bodkin, in its modern sense!), and that it 
 requires a thousand bodkins to make a spear 
 bright enough to throw any light to pos- 
 terity, I see nothing but continual uphill 
 journeying. Now is there anything more 
 unpleasant (it may come among the thou- 
 sand and one) than to be so journeying and 
 to miss the goal at last ? But I intend to 
 whistle all these cogitations into the sea, 
 where I hope they will breed storms violent 
 enough to block up all exit from Russia. 
 Does Shelley go on telling strange stories 
 of the deaths of kings ? '' Tell him, there 
 are strange stories of the deaths of poets. 
 
26o 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Some have died before they were con- 
 ceived. ' How do you make that out, 
 Master Vellum ? ' Does Mrs. S. cut bread 
 and butter as neatly as ever ? Tell her to 
 procure some fatal scissors, and cut the 
 thread of life of all to-be-disappointed 
 poets. Does Mrs. Hunt tear linen as 
 straight as ever ? Tell her to tear from 
 the book of life all blank leaves. Remem- 
 ber me to them all; to Miss Kent and the 
 little ones all. 
 
 Your sincere Friend 
 
 John Keats alias Junkets. 
 
 You shall hear where we move. 
 
 8. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Margate, Saturday Eve [May 10, 1817]. 
 My Dear Haydon, 
 
 ' Let Fame, that all pant after in their lives, 
 Live register'd upon our brazen tombs. 
 And so gi-aee iis in the disgrace of death : 
 When spite of cormorant devouring Time 
 The endeavour of this preseiat breath may buy 
 That Honour which shall bate his Scythe's keen 
 
 edge 
 And make us heirs of all eternity.' 
 
 Love's Labour 's Lost^ I. i. 1 — 7. 
 
 To think that I have no right to couple 
 myself with you in this speech would be 
 death to me, so I have e'en written it, and 
 I l^ray God that our ' brazen tombs ' be 
 nigh neighbours. It cannot be long first ; 
 the ' endeavour of this present breath ' will 
 soon be over, and yet it is as well to breathe 
 freely during our sojourn — it is as well 
 as if you have not been teased with that 
 Money affair, that bill-pestilence. How- 
 ever, I must think that difficulties nerve 
 the Spirit of a Man — they make our Prime 
 Objects a Refuge as well as a Passion. The 
 Trumpet of Fame is as a tower of Strength, 
 the ambitious bloweth it and is safe. 1 sup- 
 pose, by your telling me not to give way to 
 forebodings, George has mentioned to you 
 what 1 have lately said in my Letters to 
 him — truth is 1 have been in such a state 
 of Mind as to read over my Lines and hate 
 
 them. I am one that ' gathers Samphire, 
 dreadful trade ' — the Cliif of Poesy 
 towers above me — yet when Tom who 
 meets witli some of Pope's Homer in Plu- 
 tarch's Lives reads some of those to me 
 they seem like Mice to mine. I read and 
 write about eight hours a day. There is an 
 old saying ' well begun is half done ' — 
 't is a bad one. I would use instead, ' Not 
 begun at all tiU half done; ' so according to 
 that I have not begun my Poem and conse- 
 quently (k priori) can say nothing about it. 
 Thank God ! I do begin arduously where 
 I leave off, notwithstanding occasional de- 
 pressions ; and I hope for the support of 
 a High Power while I climb this little emi- 
 nence, and especially in m}' Years of more 
 momentous Labour. I remember your say- 
 ing that you had notions of a good (xenius 
 presiding over you. I have of late had the 
 same thought, for things which I do half at 
 Random are afterwards confirmed by my 
 judgment in a dozen features of Propriety. 
 Is it too daring to fancy Shakspeare this 
 Presider ? When in the Isle of Wight I met 
 with a Shakspeare in the Passage of the 
 House at which I lodged — it comes nearer 
 to my idea of him than any I have seen — 
 I was but there a Week, yet the old woman 
 made me take it with me though I went off 
 in a hurry. Do you not think this is omi- 
 nous of good ? I am glad you say every 
 man of great views is at times tormented 
 as I am. 
 
 Sunday after [May 11] 
 This Morning I received a letter from 
 George by which it appears that Money 
 Troubles are to follow us up for some time 
 to come — perhaps for always — these vexa- 
 tions are a great hindrance to one — the}' 
 are not like Envy and detraction stimulants 
 to further exertion as being immediately 
 relative and reflected on at the same time 
 with the prime object — but rather like a 
 nettle leaf or two in your bed. So now I 
 revoke my Promise of finishing my Poem 
 by the Autumn which I should have done 
 had I gone on as I have done — but 1 can 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 261 
 
 not write while my spirit is fevered in a 
 contrary direction and I am now snre of 
 aaving plenty of it this Summer. At this 
 moment I am in no enviable Situation — 
 I feel that I am not in a Mood to write 
 any to-day; and it appears that the loss of 
 it is the beginning of all sorts of irregu- 
 larities. I am extremely glad that a time 
 must come when everything will leave not 
 a wrack behind. You tell me never to 
 despair — I wish it was as easy for me to 
 observe the saying — truth is I have a 
 horrid Morbidity of Temperament which 
 has shown itself at intervals — it is I have 
 no doubt the greatest Enemy and stumbling- 
 block I have to fear — I may even say that 
 it is likely to be the cause of my disappoint- 
 ment. However every ill has its share of 
 good — this very bane would at any time 
 enable me to look with an obstinate eye on 
 the Devil Himself — aye to be as proud of 
 being the lowest of the human race as 
 Alfred could be in being of the highest. 
 I feel confident I shonld have been a rebel 
 angel had the opportunity been mine. I am 
 very sure that you do love me as your very 
 Brother — I have seen it in your continual 
 anxiety for me — and I assure you that 
 your welfare and fame is and will be a 
 chief pleasure to me all my Life. I know 
 no one but you who can be fully sensible of 
 the turmoil and anxiety, the sacrifice of all 
 what is called comfort, the readiness to 
 measure time by what is done and to die in 
 six hours could plans be brought to conclu- 
 sions — the looking upon the Sun, the Moon, 
 the Stars, the Earth and its contents, as 
 materials to form greater things — that is 
 to say ethereal things — biit here I am 
 talking like a Madman, — greater things 
 than our Creator himself made ! ! 
 
 I wrote to Hunt yesterday — scarcely 
 know what I said in it. I could not talk 
 about Poetry in the way I should have liked 
 for I was not in humor with either his or 
 mine. His self-delusions are very lament- 
 able — the;; have enticed him into a Situa- 
 tion which I should be less eager after than 
 
 that of a galley Slave — what you observe 
 thereon is very true must be in time. 
 
 Perhaps it is a self-delusion to sa}' so — 
 but I think I could not be deceived in the 
 manner that Hunt is — may I die to- 
 morrow if I am to be. There is no greater 
 Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter 
 oneself into an idea of being a great Poet 
 — or one of those beings who are privileged 
 to wear out their Lives in the pursuit of 
 Honor — how comfortable a feel it is to feel 
 that such a Crime must bring its heavy 
 Penalty ? That if one be a Self-deluder 
 accounts must be balanced ? I am glad 
 you are hard at Work — 't will now soon 
 be done — I long to see Wordsworth's as 
 well as to have mine in:^ but I would 
 rather not show my face in Town till the 
 end of the Year — if that will be time 
 enough — if not I shall be disappointed if 
 you do not write for me even when you 
 think best. I never quite despair and I read 
 Shakspeare — indeed I shall I think never 
 read any other Book much. Now this might 
 lead me into a long Confab but I desist. 
 I am very near agreeing with Hazlitt that 
 Shakspeare is enough for us. By the by 
 what a tremendous Southean article his last 
 was — I wish he had left out 'grey hairs.' 
 It was very gratifying to meet your re- 
 marks on the manuscript — I was reading 
 Anthony and Cleopatra when I got the 
 Paper and there are several Passages ap- 
 plicable to the events you commentate. 
 You say that he arrived by degrees and not 
 by any single struggle to the height of his 
 ambition — and that his Life had been as 
 common in particulars as other Men's. 
 Shakspeare makes Enobarb say — 
 
 Wliere 's Antony ? 
 Eros. — He 's walkinp: in the g'arden, and 
 spurns 
 The rush that lies before him ; cries, Fool, Le- 
 pidus ! 
 
 In the same scene we find — 
 
 Let determined things 
 To destiny hold unbewailed their way. 
 
262 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Dolabella says of Anthony's Messenger, 
 
 An argument that he is pluck'd when hither 
 He sends so poor a pinion of his wing. 
 
 Then again — 
 
 JEno. — I see Men's Judgments are 
 A parcel of their fortunes ; and things outward 
 Do draw the inward quality after them. 
 To suffer all alike. 
 
 The following applies well to Bertrand ^ — 
 
 Yet he that can endure 
 To foUow with allegiance a fallen Lord, 
 Does conquer him that did his Master conquer, 
 And earns a place i' the story. 
 
 But how differently does Buonaparte bear 
 his fate from Anthony ! 
 
 'T is good, too, that the Duke of Welling- 
 ton has a good Word or so in the Examiner. 
 A man ought to have the Fame he deserves 
 — and I begin to think that detracting 
 from him as well as from Wordsworth is 
 the same thing. I wish he had a little more 
 taste — and did not in that respect ' deal 
 in Lieutenantry.' You should have heard 
 from me before this — but in the first place 
 I did not like to do so before I had got a 
 little way in the First Book, and in the 
 next as G. told me you were going to write 
 I delayed till I had heard from you. Give 
 my Respects the next time you write to the 
 North and also to John Hunt. Remember 
 me to Reynolds and tell him to write. Ay, 
 and when you send Westward tell your 
 Sister that I mentioned her in this. So now 
 in the name of Shakspeare, Raphael and 
 all our Saints, I commend you to the care 
 of heaven ! 
 
 Your everlasting Friend John Keats. 
 
 9, TO MESSRS. TATLOB AND HESSET 
 
 Margate, May 16, 1817. 
 My deak Sirs — I am extremely indebted 
 to you for your liberality in the shape of 
 manufactured rag, value £20, and shall im- 
 mediately proceed to destroy some of the 
 minor heads of that hydra the dun ; to con- 
 quer which the knight need have no Sword 
 
 Shield Cuirass, Cuisses Herbadgeon Spear || 
 Casque Greaves Paldrons spurs Chevron or 
 any other scaly commodity, but he need 
 only take the Bank-note of Faith and Cash J 
 of Salvation, and set out against the mon- 
 ster, invoking the aid of no Archimago or 
 Urganda, but finger me the paper, light as 
 the Sibyl's leaves in Virgil, whereat the 
 fiend skulks off with his tail between his | 
 legs. Touch him with this enchanted paper, ' 
 and he whips you his head away as fast 
 as a snail's horn — but then the horrid 
 propensity he has to put it up again has 
 discouraged many very valiant Knights. He 
 is such a never-ending still-beginning sort 
 of a body — like my landlady of the Bell. 
 I should conjecture that the very spright 
 that 'the green sour ringlets makes Where- 
 of the ewe not bites ' had manufactured it 
 of the dew fallen on said sour ringlets. I 
 think I could make a nice little allegorical 
 poem, called ' The Dun,' where we would 
 have the Castle of Carelessness, the draw- 
 bridge of credit. Sir Novelty Fashion's 
 expedition against the City of Tailors, etc. 
 etc. I went day by day at my poem for a 
 Month — at the end of which time the other 
 day I found my Brain so over-wrought that 
 I had neither rhyme nor reason in it — so 
 was obliged to give up for a few days. I 
 hope soon to be able to resume my work — 
 I have endeavoured to do so once or twice ; 
 but to no purpose. Instead of Poetry, I 
 have a swimming in my head and feel all 
 the effects of a Mental debauch, lowness of 
 Spirits, anxiety to go on without the power 
 to do so, whiih does not at all tend to my 
 ultimate progression. However tomorrow 
 I will begin my next month. This evening 
 I go to Canterbury, having got tired of 
 Margate. I was not right in my head when 
 I came — At Canterbury I hope the remem- 
 brance of Chaucer will set me forward like 
 a Billiard Ball. I am glad to hear of Mr. 
 T.'s health, and of the welfare of the ' In- 
 town-stayers.' And think Reynolds will 
 like his Trip — I have some idta of seeing 
 the Continent some time this summer. In 
 
 i_. 
 
TO MARIANE AND JANE REYNOLDS 
 
 263 
 
 repeating how sensible I am of your kind- 
 ness, I remain 
 
 Y' obed' serv' and friend John Keats. 
 
 I shall be happy to hear any little intelli- 
 gence in the literary or friendly way when 
 you have time to scribble. 
 
 10. TO THE SAME 
 
 [London] Tuesday Morn [July 8, 1817]. 
 
 My dear Sirs — I must endeavour to 
 lose my maidenhead with respect to money 
 Matters as soon as possible — And I will 
 too — So, here goes ! A couple of Duns 
 that I thought would be silent till the 
 beginning, at least, of next month (when I 
 am certain to be on my legs, for certain 
 sure), have opened upon me with a cry 
 most ' untuneable ; ' never did you hear 
 such wn-* gallant chiding.' Now you must 
 know, I am not desolate, but have, thank 
 God, 25 good notes in my fob. But then, 
 yon know, I laid them by to write with and 
 would stand at bay a fortnight ere they 
 should grab me. In a month's time I must 
 pay, but it would relieve my mind if I owed 
 you, instead of these Pelican duns. 
 
 I am afraid you will say I have ' wound 
 about with circumstance,' when I should 
 have asked plainly — however as I said I 
 am a little maidenish or so, and I feel my 
 virginity come strong upon me, the while 
 I request the loan of a £20 and a £10, 
 which, if you would enclose to me, I would 
 acknowledge and save myself a hot fore- 
 head. I am sure you are confident of my 
 responsibility, and in the sense of square- 
 ness that is always in me. 
 
 Your obliged friend John Keats. 
 
 11. TO MARIANE AND JANE REYNOLDS I'' 
 
 Oxf [ord, September 5, 1817]. 
 My dear Friends — You are I am glad 
 to hear comfortable at Hampton,^^ where I 
 hope you will receive the Biscuits we ate 
 
 the other night at Little Britain. I hope 
 you found them good. There you are among 
 sands, stones. Pebbles, Beeches, Cliffs, 
 Rocks, Deeps, Shallows, weeds, ships, Boats 
 (at a distance). Carrots, Turnips, sun, 
 moon, and stars and all those sort of things 
 
 — here am I among Colleges, halls, Stalls, 
 Plenty of Trees, thank God — Plenty of 
 water, thank heaven — Plenty of Books, 
 thank the Muses — Plenty of Snuff, thank 
 Sir Walter Raleigh — Plenty of segars, — 
 Ditto — Plenty of flat country, thank Tel- 
 lus's rolling-pin. I 'm on the sofa — Buon- 
 aparte is on the snuff-box — But you are 
 by the seaside — argal, you bathe — you 
 walk — you say ' how beautiful ' — find 
 out resemblances between waves and camels 
 
 — rocks and dancing-masters — fireshovels 
 and telescopes — Dolphins and Madonas — 
 which word, by the way, I must acquaint 
 you was derived from the Syriac, and came 
 down in a way which neither of you I am 
 sorry to say are at all capable of compre- 
 hending. But as a time may come when by 
 your occasional converse with me you may 
 arrive at ' something like prophetic strain,' 
 I will unbar the gates of my pride and let 
 my condescension stalk forth like a ghost 
 at the Circus. — The word Ma-don-a, my 
 dear Ladies — or — the word Mad — Ona — 
 so I say ! I am not mad — Howsumever 
 when that aged Tamer Kewthon sold a 
 certain camel called Peter to the overseer 
 of the Babel Sky-works, he thus spake, 
 adjusting his cravat round the tip of his 
 chin — ' My dear Ten-story-up-in-air ! this 
 here Beast, though I say it as should n't 
 say 't, not only has the power of subsisting 
 40 days and 40 nights without fire and 
 candle but he can sing. — Here I have in 
 my Pocket a Certificate from Signor Nico- 
 lini of the King's Theatre; a Certificate to 
 
 this effect ' I have had dinner since I 
 
 left that effect upon you, and feel too heavy 
 in mentibus to display all the Profundity 
 of the Polygon — so you had better each 
 of you take a glass of cherry Brandy and 
 drink to the health of Archimedes, who was 
 
264 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 of so benigu a disposition that he never 
 would leave Syracuse iu his life — So kept 
 himself out of all Kuight-Errautry. — This 
 I know to be a fact; for it is written in the 
 45th book of Winkine's treatise on garden- 
 rollers, that he trod on a fishwoman's toe 
 in Liverpool, and never begged her pardon. 
 Now the long and short is this — that is by 
 comparison — for a long day may be a 
 short year — A long Pole may be a very 
 stupid fellow as a man. But let us refresh 
 ourself from this depth of thinking, and 
 turn to some innocent jocularity — the Bow 
 cannot always be bent — nor the gun always 
 loaded, if you ever let it off — and the life 
 of man is like a great Mountain — his breath 
 is like a Shrewsbury cake — he comes into 
 the world like a shoeblack, and goes out of 
 it like a cobbler — he eats like a chimney- 
 sweeper, drinks like a gingerbread baker 
 
 — and breathes like Achilles — so it being 
 that we are such sublunary creatures, let 
 us endeavour to correct all our bad spelling 
 
 — all our most delightful abominations, and 
 let us wish health to Mariane and Jane, 
 whoever they be and wherever. 
 
 Yours truly John Keats. 
 
 12. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Oxford, September 10 [1817]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — Let us now begin a 
 regular question and answer — a little pro 
 and con; letting it interfere as a pleasant 
 method of my coming at your favorite little 
 wants and enjoyments, that I may meet 
 them in a way befitting a brother. 
 
 We have been so little together since you 
 have been able to reflect on things that I 
 know not whether you prefer the History 
 of King Pepin to Bunyan's Pilgrim's Pro- 
 gress — or Cinderella and her glass slipper 
 to Moore's Almanack. However in a few 
 Letters I hope I shall be able to come at 
 .that and adapt my seribblings to your 
 Pleasure. You must tell me about all you 
 read if it be only six Pages in a Week and 
 
 this transmitted to me every now and then 
 will procure you full sheets of Writing from 
 me pretty frequently. — This I feel as a 
 necessity for we ought to become intimately 
 acquainted, in order that I may not only, 
 as you grow up love you as my only Sister, 
 but contide in you as my dearest friend. 
 When I saw you last I told you of my in- 
 tention of going to Oxford and 't is now a 
 Week since I disembark'd from his Whip- 
 ship's Coach the Defiance iu this place. I 
 am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a 
 young Man with whom I have not been 
 long acquainted, but whom I like very 
 much — we lead very industrious lives — 
 he in general Studies and 1 in proceeding 
 at a pretty good rate with a Poem which I 
 hope you will see early in the next year. — 
 Perhaps you might like to know what I am 
 writing about. I will tell you. Many Years 
 ago there was a young handsome Shepherd 
 who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side 
 called Latmus — he was a very contempla- 
 tive sort of Person and lived solitary among 
 the trees and Plains little thinking that 
 such a beautiful Creature as the Moon was 
 growing mad in Love with him. — However 
 so it was; and when he was asleep on the 
 Grass she used to come down from heaven 
 and admire him excessively for a long time ; 
 and at last could not refrain from carrying 
 him away in her arms to the top of that 
 high Mountain Latmus while be was a 
 dreaming — but I daresay you have read 
 this and all the other beautiful Tales which 
 have come down from the ancient times of 
 that beautiful Greece. If you have not let 
 me know and I will tell you more at large 
 of others quite as delightful. This Oxford 
 I have no doubt is the finest City in the 
 world — it is full of old Gothic buildings — 
 Spires — towers — Quadrangles — Clois- 
 ters — Groves, etc., and is surrounded with 
 more clear streams than ever I saw to- 
 gether. I take a Walk by the Side of one 
 of them every Evening and, thank God, we 
 have not had a drop of rain these many 
 days. I had a long and interesting Letter 
 
 J_________ 
 
TO JANE REYNOLDS 
 
 265 
 
 from George, cross lines by a short one from 
 Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both 
 send their loves to you. Like most English- 
 men they feel a mighty preference for 
 everything English — the French Meadows, 
 the trees, the People, the Towns, the 
 Churches, the Books, the everything — al- 
 thougli they may be in themselves good: 
 yet when put in comparison with our green 
 Island they all vanish like Swallows in 
 October. They have seen Cathedrals, Man- 
 uscripts, Fountains, Pictures, Tragedy, 
 Comedy, — with other things you may by 
 chance meet with in this Country such as 
 Washerwomen, Lamplighters, Turnpike- 
 men, Fishkettles, Dancing Masters, Kettle 
 drums. Sentry Boxes, Rocking Horses, etc. 
 — and, now they have taken them over a 
 set of boxing-gloves. 
 
 I have written to George and requested 
 him, as you wish I should, to write to you. 
 I have been writing very hard lately, even 
 till an utter incapacity came on, and I feel it 
 now about my head: so you must not mind 
 a little out-of-the-way sayings — though by 
 the bye were my brain as clear as a bell 
 I think I should have a little propensity 
 thereto. I shall stop here till I have finished 
 the 3d Book of my Story; which I hope will 
 be accomplish'd in at most three Weeks from 
 to-day — about which time you shall see 
 me. How do you like Miss Taylor's essays 
 in Rhyme ^^ — I just look'd into the Book 
 and it appeared to me suitable to you — 
 especially since I remember your liking for 
 those pleasant little things the Original 
 Poems — the essays are the more mature 
 production of the same hand. While I was 
 speaking about France it occurred to me to 
 speak a few Words on their Language — it 
 is perhaps the poorest one ever spoken since 
 the jabbering in the Tower of Babel, and 
 when you come to know that the real use 
 and greatness of a Tongue is to be referred 
 to its Literature — you will be astonished to 
 find how very in^-rior it is to our native 
 Speech. — I wish/>aie Italian would super- 
 sede French in e'S» y school throughout the 
 
 Country, for that is full of real Poetry and 
 Romance of a kind more fitted for the Plea- 
 sure of Ladies than perhaps our own. — It 
 seems that the only end to be gained in 
 acquiring French is the immense accom- 
 plishment of speaking it — it is none at all 
 — a most lamentable mistake indeed. Ital- 
 ian indeed would sound most musically 
 from Lips which had began to pronounce 
 it as early as French is crammed down our 
 Mouths, as if we were young Jackdaws at 
 the mercy of an overfeeding Schoolboy. Now 
 Fanny you must write soon — and write all 
 you think about, never mind what — only 
 let me have a good deal of your writing — 
 You need not do it all at once — be two or 
 three or four days about it, and let it be a 
 diary of your little Life. You will preserve 
 all my Letters and I will secure yours — 
 and thus in the course of time we shall each 
 of us have a good Bundle — which, here- 
 after, when things may have strangely al- 
 tered and God knows what happened, we 
 may read over together and look with plea- 
 sure on times past — that now are to come. 
 Give my Respects to the Ladies — and so 
 my dear Fanny I am ever 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother John. 
 
 If you direct — Post Office, Oxford — 
 your Letter will be brought to me. 
 
 13. TO JANE REYNOLDS 
 
 Oxford, Sunday Evg. [September 14, 1817]. 
 
 My dear Jane — You are such a literal 
 translator, that I shall some day amuse 
 myself with looking over some foreign 
 sentences, and imagining how you would 
 render them into English. This is an age 
 for typical Curiosities; and I would advise 
 you, as a good speculation, to study Hebrew, 
 and astonish the world with a figurative 
 version in our native tongue. The Momi- 
 tains skipping like rams, and the little hills 
 like lambs, you will leave as far behind as 
 the hare did the tortoise. It must be so or 
 you would never have thought that 1 really 
 
266 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 meant you would like to pro and con about 
 those Honeycombs — no, I had no such 
 idea, or, if I had, 't would be only to tease 
 you a little for love. So now let me put 
 down in black and white briefly my senti- 
 ments thereon. — Imprimis — I sincerely 
 believe that Imogen is the finest creature, 
 and that I should have been disappointed 
 at hearing you prefer Juliet — Item — Yet 
 I feel such a yearning towards Juliet that I 
 would rather follow her into Pandemonium 
 than Imogen into Paradise — heartily wish- 
 ing myself a Romeo to be worthy of her, 
 and to hear the Devils quote the old pro- 
 verb, ' Birds of a feather flock together ' — 
 Amen. — 
 
 Now let us turn to the Seashore. Believe 
 me, my dear Jane, it is a great happiness to 
 see that you are in this finest part of the 
 year winning a little enjoyment from the 
 hard world. In truth, the great Elements 
 we know of, are no mean copiforters: the 
 open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire 
 crown — the Air is our robe of state — the 
 Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty 
 minstrel playing before it — able, like Da- 
 vid's harp, to make such a one as you forget 
 almost the tempest cares of life. I have 
 found in the ocean's music, — varying (tho 
 self-same) more than the passion of Timo- 
 theus, an enjoyment not to be put into 
 words; and, 'though inland far I be,' I 
 now hear the voice most audibly while 
 pleasing myself in the idea of your sensa- 
 tions. 
 
 is getting well apace, and if you 
 
 have a few trees, and a little harvesting 
 about yon, I '11 snap my fingers in Lucifer's 
 eye. I hope you bathe too — if you do not, 
 I earnestly recommend it. Bathe thrice a 
 week, and let us have no more sitting up 
 next winter. Which is the best of Shak- 
 speare's plays ? I mean in what mood and 
 with what accompaniment do you like the 
 sea best ? It is very fine in the morning, 
 when the sun, 
 
 ' Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, 
 Turns into yellow gold his salt sea streams,' 
 
 and superb when 
 
 ' The sun from meridian height 
 Illumines the depth of the sea, 
 
 And the fishes, beginning to sweat, 
 Cry d it ! how hot we shall be,' 
 
 and gorgeous, when the fair planet hastens 
 
 ' To his home 
 Within the Western foam.' 
 
 But don't you think there is something 
 extremely fine after sunset, when there are 
 a few white clouds about and a few stars 
 blinking — when the waters are ebbing, and 
 the horizon a mystery ? This state of things 
 has been so fulfilling to me that I am 
 anxious to hear whether it is a favourite 
 with you. So when you and Marianne club 
 your letter to me put in a word or two 
 about it. Tell Dilke ^^ that it would be 
 perhaps as well if he left a Pheasant or 
 Partridge alive here and there to keep up a 
 supply of game for next season — tell him 
 to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of his 
 disposition, he being a mighty hunter before 
 the Lord — of the Manor. Tell him to shoot 
 fair, and not to have at the Poor devils in 
 a furrow — when they are flying, he may 
 fire, and nobody will be the wiser. 
 
 Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. Dilke, 
 saying that I have not forgiven myself for 
 not having got her the little box of medi- 
 cine I promised, and that, had I remained 
 at Hampstead I would have made precious 
 havoc with her house and furniture — drawn 
 a great harrow over her garden — poisoned 
 Boxer — eaten her clothes-pegs — fried her 
 cabbages — fricaseed (how is it spelt ?) 
 her radishes — ragout'd her Onions — 
 belaboured her &ea/-root — outstripped her 
 scarlet-runners — parlez-vous'd with her 
 french-beans — devoured her mignon or 
 mignionette — metamorphosed her bell- 
 handles — splintered her looking-glasses — 
 bullocked at her cups and saucers — ago- 
 nised her decanters — put old Phillips to 
 pickle in the brine-tub -u- disorganised her 
 piano — dislocated her cfmdlesticks — emp- 
 tied her wine-bins in aitfit of despair — 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 267 
 
 turned out her maid to grass — and aston- 
 ished Brown; whose letter to her on these 
 events I would rather see than the original 
 Copy of the Book of Genesis. Should you 
 see Mr. W. D. remember me to him, and 
 to little Robinson Crusoe, and to Mr. Snook. 
 Poor Bailey, scarcely ever well, has gone 
 to bed, pleased that I am writing to you. 
 To your brother John (whom henceforth I 
 shall consider as mine) and to you, my dear 
 friends, Marianne and Jane, I shall ever 
 feel grateful for having made known to me 
 so real a fellow as Bailey. He delights 
 me in the selfish and (please God) the dis- 
 interested part of my disposition. If the 
 old Poets have any pleasure in looking 
 down at the enjoyers of their works, their 
 eyes must bend with a double satisfaction 
 upon him. I sit as at a feast when he is 
 over them, and pray that if, after my death, 
 any of my labours should be worth saving, 
 they may have so ' honest a chronicler ' as 
 Bailey. Out of this, his enthusiasm iu his 
 own pursuit and for all good things is of 
 an exalted kind — worthy a more healthful 
 frame and an untorn spirit. He must have 
 happy years to come — ' he shall not die by 
 God.' 
 
 A letter from John the other day was a 
 chief happiness to me. I made a little 
 mistake when, just now, I talked of being 
 far inland. How can that be when Endy- 
 mion and I are at the bottom of the sea ? 
 whence I hope to bring him in safety before 
 you leave the seaside; and, if I can so con- 
 trive it. you shall be greeted by him upon 
 the sea-sands, and he shall tell you all his 
 adventures, which having finished, he shall 
 thus proceed — ' My dear Ladies, favourites 
 of my gentle mistress, however my friend 
 Keats may have teased and vexed you, be- 
 lieve me he loves yon not the less — for 
 instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet 
 he has been hauling me through the earth 
 and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I 
 know for all this that he is mightj' fond of 
 me, by his contriving me all sorts of plea- 
 sures. Nor is this the least, fair ladies, this 
 
 one of meeting you on the desert shore, and 
 greeting you in his name. He sends you 
 moreover this little scroll — ' My dear 
 Girls, I send you, per favour of Endymion, 
 the assurance of my esteem for you, and my 
 utmost wishes for your health and pleasure, 
 being ever, 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John Keats. 
 
 14. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Oxford, Sunday Morn [September 21, 1817]. 
 My dear Reynolds — So you are deter- 
 mined to be my mortal foe — draw a Sword 
 at me, and I will forgive — Put a Bullet iu 
 my Brain, and I will shake it out as a dew- 
 drop from the Lion's Mane — put me on a 
 Gridiron, and I will fry with great com- 
 placency — but — oh, horror ! to come upon 
 me iu the shape of a Dun ! Send me bills! 
 as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and 
 I '11 never employ you more. However, 
 needs must, when the devil drives: and for 
 fear of 'before and behind Mr. Honey- 
 comb' I'll proceed. I have not time to 
 elucidate the forms and shapes of the grass 
 and trees; for, rot it! I forgot to bring my 
 mathematical ease with me, which unfortu- 
 nately contained my triangular Prism so 
 that the hues of the grass cannot be dis- 
 sected for you — 
 
 For these last five or six days, we have 
 had regularly a Boat on the Isis, and ex- 
 plored all the streams about, which are 
 more in number than your eye-lashes. We 
 sometimes skim into a Bed of rushes, and 
 there become naturalised river-folks, — 
 there is one particularly nice nest, which we 
 have christened ' Reynolds's Cove,' in which 
 we have read Wordsworth and talked as may 
 be. I think I see you and Hunt meeting 
 in the Pit. — What a very pleasant fellow 
 he is, if he would give up the sovereignty 
 of a Room pro bono. What Evenings we 
 might pass with him, could we have him 
 from Mrs. H. Failings I am always rather 
 rejoiced to find in a man than sorry for; 
 
268 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 they bring us to a Level. He has them, but 
 then his makes -up are very good. He 
 agrees with the Northern Poet^^ in this, 
 ' He is not one of those who much delight 
 to season their fireside with personal talk ' 
 — I must confess however having a little 
 itch that way, and at this present moment 
 I have a few neighbourly remarks to make. 
 The world, and especially our England, 
 has, within the last thirty years, been vexed 
 and teased by a set of Devils, whom I de- 
 test so much that I almost hunger after an 
 Acherontic promotion to a Torturer, pur- 
 posely for their accommodation. These 
 devils are a set of women, who having 
 taken a snack or Luncheon of Literary 
 scraps, set themselves up for towers of 
 Babel in languages, Sapphos in Poetry, 
 Euclids in Geometry, and everything in 
 nothing. Among such the name of Mon- 
 tague has been preeminent. The thing has 
 made a very uncomfortable impression on 
 me. I had longed for some real feminine 
 Modesty in these things, and was therefore 
 gladdened in the extreme on opening the 
 other day, one of Bailey's Books — a book 
 of poetry written by one beautiful Mrs. 
 Philips, a friend of Jeremy Taylor's, and 
 called ' The Matchless Orinda — ' You must 
 have heard of her, and most likely read her 
 Poetry — I wish you have not, that I may 
 have the pleasure of treating you with a 
 few stanzas — I do it at a venture — You 
 will not regret reading them once more. 
 The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at 
 parting, you will judge of. 
 
 I have examin'd and do find, 
 
 Of all that favour me 
 There 's none I grieve to leave behind 
 
 But only, only thee. 
 To part with thee I needs must die, 
 Could parting sep'rate thee and I. 
 
 But neither Chance nor Complement 
 
 Did element our Love ; 
 'T was sacred sympathy was lent 
 
 Us from the Quire above. 
 That Friendship Fortune did create. 
 Still fears a womid from Time or Fate. 
 
 Our chang'd and mingled Souls are grown 
 
 To such acquaintance now. 
 That if each would resume their own, 
 
 Alas ! we know not how. 
 We have each other so engrost, 
 That each is in the Union lost. 
 
 And thus we can no Absence know, 
 
 Nor shall we be confin'd ; 
 Our active Souls will daily go 
 
 To learn each others mind. 
 Nay, should we never meet to Sense, 
 Our Souls would hold Intelligence. 
 
 Inspired with a Flame Divine 
 
 I scorn to court a stay ; 
 For from that noble Soul of thine 
 
 I ne're can be away. 
 But I shall weep when thou dost grieve ; 
 Nor can I die whil'st thou dost live. 
 
 By my own temper I shall guess 
 
 At thy felicity. 
 And only like my happiness 
 
 Because it pleaseth thee. 
 Our hearts at any time will tell 
 If thou, or I, be sick, or well. 
 
 All Honour sure I must pretend, 
 ' A complete AU that is good or great ; 
 friend. This She that would be Rosanid's Friend 
 very odd?y to Must be at least compleat.i 
 me at first. If I have any bravery, 
 
 'T is cause I have so much of thee. 
 
 Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie, 
 
 And all thy thoughts reveal ; 
 Then back again with mine shall flie, 
 
 And thence to me shall steal. 
 Thus still to one another tend ; 
 Such is the sacred name of Friend. 
 
 Thus our twin-Souls in one shall grow. 
 And teach the World new Love, 
 
 Redeem the Age and Sex, and show 
 A Flame Fate dares not move : 
 
 And courting Death to be our friend, 
 
 Our Lives together too shall end. 
 
 A Dew shall dwell upon our Tomb 
 
 Of such a quality. 
 That fighting Armies, thither come, 
 
 Shall reconciled be. 
 We '11 ask no Epitaph, but say 
 Orinda and Rosania. 
 
 In other of her poems there is a most 
 delicate fancy of the Fletcher kind — which 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 269 
 
 we will con over together. So Haydon is 
 in Town. I had a letter from him yester- 
 day. We will contrive as the winter comes 
 on — but that is neither here nor there. 
 Have you heard from Rice ? Has Martin 
 met with the Cumberland Beggar, or been 
 wondering at the old Leech-gatherer ? Has 
 he a turn for fossils ? that is, is he capable 
 of sinking up to his Middle in a Morass ? 
 How is Hazlitt ? We were reading his 
 Table ^^ last night. I know he thinks him- 
 self not estimated by ten people in the 
 world — I wish he knew he is. I am get- 
 ting on famous with my third Book — have 
 written 800 luies thereof, and hope to finish 
 it next Week. Bailey likes what I have 
 done very much. Believe me, my dear Rey- 
 nolds, one of my chief layiugs-up is the 
 pleasure I shall have in showing it to you, 
 I may now say, in a few days. I have 
 heard twice from my Brothers, they are 
 going on very well, and send their Remem- 
 brances to you. We expected to have had 
 notices from little-Hampton this morning 
 — we must wait till Tuesday. I am glad of 
 their Days with the Dilkes. You are, I 
 know, very much teased in that precious 
 London, and want all the rest possible ; so I 
 shall be contented with as brief a scrawl — 
 a Word or two, till there comes a pat hour. 
 
 Send us a few of your stanzas to read in 
 ' Reynolds's Cove.' Give my Love and 
 respects to your Mother, and remember me 
 kindly to all at home. 
 
 Yours faithfully John Keats. 
 
 I have left the doublings for Bailey, who 
 is going to say that he will write to you to- 
 morrow. 
 
 15. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Oxford, September, 1817.] 
 
 Wordsworth sometimes, though in a fine 
 way, gives us sentences in the style of 
 school exercises. — For instance, 
 
 The lake doth fjlitter, 
 Small birds twitter. 
 
 Now I think this is an excellent method of 
 giving a very clear description of an in- 
 teresting place such as Oxford is. 
 
 [Here follows the verses on Oxford, given on 
 p. 252.] 
 
 l(j. TO BENJAMIN ROBEKT HAYDON 
 
 Oxford, September 28 [1817]. 
 My dear Haydon — I read your letter 
 to the young Man, Avhose Name is Cripps. 
 He seemed more than ever anxious to avail 
 himself of your offer. I think I told you 
 we asked him to ascertain his Means. He 
 does not possess the Philosopher's stone — 
 nor Fortunatus's purse, nor Gyges's ring 
 
 — but at Bailey's suggestion, whom I as- 
 sure you is very capital fellow, we have 
 stummed up a kind of contrivance whereby 
 he will be enabled to do himself the benefits 
 you will lay in his Path. I have a great 
 Idea that he will be a tolerable neat brush. 
 'T is perhaps the finest thing that will befal 
 him this many a year: for he is just of an 
 age to get grounded in bad habits from 
 which you will pluck him. He brought a 
 copy of Mary Queen of Scots: it appears 
 to me that he has copied the bad style of 
 the painting, as well as coloured the eye- 
 balls yellow like the original. He has also 
 the fault that you pointed out to me in 
 Hazlitt on the constringing and diffusing of 
 substance. However I really believe that 
 he will take fire at the sight of your Picture 
 
 — and set about things. If he can get 
 ready in time to return to town with me, 
 which will be in a few days — I will bring 
 him to you. You will be glad to hear that 
 within these last three weeks I have written 
 1000 lines — which are the third Book of 
 my Poem. M}^ Ideas with respect to it I 
 assure you are very low — and I would 
 write the subject tlioroughly again — but I 
 am tired of it and think the time would 
 be better spent in writing a new Romance 
 which I have in my eye for next summer — 
 Rome was not built in a Day — and all the 
 good I expect from my employment this 
 
270 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 summer is the fruit of Experience which I 
 hope to gather in my next Poem. Bailey's 
 kindest wishes, and my vow of being 
 Yours eternally John Keats. 
 
 17. TO BENJAMIN BAIIiEY 
 
 Hampstead, Wednesday [October 8, 1817]. 
 
 My dear Bailey — After a tolerable 
 journey, I went from Coach to Coach as far 
 as Hampstead where I found my Brothers 
 — the next Morning finding myself toler- 
 ably well I went to Lamb's Conduit Street 
 and delivered your parcel. Jane and Ma- 
 rianne were greatly improved. Marianne 
 especially, she has no unhealthy plumpness 
 in the face, but she comes me healthy and 
 angular to the chin — I did not see John — 
 I vras extremely sorry to hear that poor 
 Rice, after having had capital health during 
 his tour, was very ill. I daresay you have 
 heard from him. From No. 19 I went to 
 Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neigh- 
 bours. — Shelley was there — 1 know no- 
 thing about anything in this part of the 
 world — every Body seems at Loggerheads. 
 There 's Hunt infatuated — there 's Hay- 
 don's picture in statu quo — There 's Hunt 
 walks up and down his painting room 
 criticising every head most unmercifully. 
 There 's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. ' The 
 web of o)ir life is of mingled yarn.' Hay- 
 don having removed entirely from Marl- 
 borough Street, Cripps must direct his 
 letter to Lisson Grove, North Paddington. 
 Yesterday Morning while I was at Brown's, 
 in came Reynolds, he was pretty bobbish, 
 we had a pleasant day — he would walk 
 home at night that cursed cold distance. 
 Mrs. Bentley's children are making a 
 horrid row — whereby I regret I cannot 
 be transported to your Room to write to 
 you. I am quite disgusted with literary 
 men and will never know another except 
 Wordsworth — no not even Byron. Here 
 is an instance of the friendship of such. 
 
 Haydon and Hunt have known each other 
 many years — now they live, pour ainsi 
 dire, jealous neighbours — Haydon says to 
 me, Keats, don't show your lines to Hunt 
 on any Account, or he will have done half 
 for you — so it appears Hunt wishes it to 
 be thought. When he met Reynolds in the 
 Theatre, John told him that I was getting 
 on to the completion of 4000 lines — Ah ! 
 says Hunt, had it not been for me they 
 would have been 7000 ! If he will say 
 this to Reynolds, what would he to other 
 people ? Haydon received a Letter a little 
 while back on this subject from some Lady 
 
 — which contains a caution to me, through 
 him, on the subject — now is not all this a 
 most paltry thing to think about ? You 
 may see the whole of the case by the follow- 
 ing Extract from a Letter I wrote to George 
 in the Spring — ' As to what you say about 
 my being a Poet, I can return no Answer 
 but by saying that the high Idea I have 
 of poetical fame makes me think I see it 
 towering too high above me. At any rate, 
 I have no right to talk until Endymion 
 is finished — it will be a test, a trial of 
 my Powers of Imagination, and chiefly of 
 my invention, which is a rare thing indeed 
 
 — by which I must make 4000 lines of 
 one bare circumstance, and fill them with 
 poetry : and when I consider that this is a 
 great task, and that when done it will take 
 me but a dozen paces towards the temple 
 of fame — it makes me say — God forbid 
 that I should be without such a task ! I 
 have heard Hunt say, and I may be asked 
 
 — why endeavour after a long Poem ? To 
 which I should answer. Do not the Lovers 
 of Poetry like to have a little Region to 
 wander in, where they may pick and choose, 
 and in which the images are so numerous 
 that many are forgotten and found new in 
 a second Reading: which may be food for 
 a Week's stroll in the Summer ? Do not 
 they like this better than what they can 
 read through before Mrs. Williams comes 
 down stairs? a Morning work at most. 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 271 
 
 ' Besides, a long poem is a test of inven- 
 tion, which I take to be the Polar star of 
 Poetry, as Fancy is the Sails — and Imagi- 
 nation the rudder. Did our great Poets 
 ever write short Pieces ? I mean in the 
 shape of Tales — this same invention seems 
 indeed of late years to have been for- 
 gotten as a Poetical excellence — But 
 enough of this, I put on no Laurels till I 
 shall have finished Endymion, and I hope 
 Apollo is not angered at my having made a 
 Mockery at him at Hunt's ' — 
 
 You see, Bailey, how independent my 
 Writing has been. Hunt's dissuasion was 
 of no avail — I refused to visit Shelley that 
 I might have my own unfettered scope ; — 
 and after all, I shall have the Reputa- 
 tion of Hunt's 4\hve. His corrections and 
 amputations will by the knowing ones be 
 traced in the Poem. This is, to be sure, 
 the vexation of a day, nor would I say so 
 many words about it to any but those whom 
 I know to have my welfare and reputation 
 at heart. Haydon promised to give direc- 
 tions for those Casts, and you may expect 
 to see them soon, with as many Letters — 
 You will soon hear the dinning of Bells 
 — never mind ! you and Gleig ^^ will defy 
 the foul fiend — But do not sacrifice your 
 health to Books: do take it kindly and not 
 so voraciously. I am certain if you are your 
 own Physician, your Stomach will resume 
 its proper strength and then what great 
 benefits will follow. — My sister wrote a 
 Letter to me, which I think must be at the 
 post-office — Ax Will to see. My Brother's 
 kindest remembrances to you — we are 
 going to dine at Brown's where I have some 
 hopes of meeting Reynolds. The little 
 Mercury I have taken has corrected the 
 poison and improved my health — though I 
 feel from my employment that I shall never 
 be again secure in Robustness. Would that 
 you were as well as 
 
 Your Sincere friend and brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 18. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Hampstead: about November 1, 1817.] 
 My dear Bailey — So you have got a 
 Curacy — good, but I suppose you will be 
 obliged to stop among your Oxford favour- 
 ites during Term time. Never mind. 
 When do you preach your first sermon ? — 
 tell me, for I shall propose to the two 
 R.'s ^'^ to hear it, — so don't look into any 
 of the old corner oaken pews, for fear of 
 being put out by us. Poor Johnny Moultrie 
 can't be there. He is ill, I expect — but 
 that 's neither here nor there. All I can 
 say, I wish him as well through it as I am 
 like to be. For this fortnight I have been 
 confined at Hampstead. Saturday evening 
 was my first day in town, when I went to 
 Rice's — as we intend to do every Saturday 
 till we know not when. We hit upon an old 
 gent we had known some few years ago, and 
 had a I'eiry pleasante daye. In this world 
 there is no quiet, — nothing but teasing and 
 snubbing and vexation. My brother Tom 
 looked very unwell yesterday, and I am for 
 shipping him off to Lisbon. Perhaps I ship 
 there with him. I have not seen Mrs. Rey- 
 nolds since I left you, wherefore my con- 
 science smites me. I think of seeing her 
 tomorrow; have you any message ? I hope 
 Gleig came soon after I left. I don't sup- 
 pose I 've written as many lines as you 
 have read volumes, or at least chapters, 
 since I saw you. However, I am in a fair 
 way now to come to a conclusion in at least 
 three weeks, when I assure you I shall be 
 glad to dismount for a month or two ; al- 
 though I '11 keep as tiglit a rein as possible 
 till then, nor suffer myself to sleep. I will 
 copy for you the opening of the Fourth 
 Book, in which you will see from the man- 
 ner I had not an opportunity of mention- 
 ing any poets, for fear of spoiling the effect 
 of the passage by particularising them. 
 
 Thus far had I written when I received 
 your last, which made me at the sight of 
 the direction caper for despair; but for one 
 
^ 
 
 l']2 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 thing I am glad that I have been neglect- 
 ful, and that is, therefrom I have received 
 a proof of your utmost kindness, which at 
 this present 1 feel very much, and I wish I 
 had a heart always open to such sensations; 
 but there is no altering a man's nature, and 
 mine must be radically wrong, for it will 
 lie dormant a whole month. Tliis leads me 
 to suppose that there are no men thoroughly 
 wicked, so as never to be self-spiritualised 
 into a kind of sublime misery; but, alas! 
 't is but for an hour. He is the only Man 
 'who has kept watch on man's mortality,' 
 who has philanthropy enough to overcome 
 the disposition to an indolent enjoyment of 
 intellect, who is brave enough to volunteer 
 for uueomfortable hours. You remember 
 in Hazlitt's essay on commonplace people 
 he says, ' they read the Edinburgh and 
 Quarterly, and think as they do.' Now, 
 with respect to Wordsworth's 'Gipsy,' I 
 think he is right, and yet I think Hazlitt 
 is right, and yet I think Wordsworth is 
 Tightest. If Wordsworth had not been idle, 
 he had not been without his task; nor had 
 the ' Gipsies ' — they in the visible world 
 had been as picturesque an object as he in 
 the invisible. The smoke of their fire, their 
 attitudes, their voices, were all in harmony 
 with the evenings. It is a bold thing to say 
 
 — and I would not say it in print — but 
 it seems to me that if Wordsworth had 
 thought a little deeper at that moment, he 
 would not have written the poem at all. I 
 should judge it to have been written in one 
 of the most comfortable moods of his life 
 
 — it is a kind of sketchy intellectual land- 
 scape, not a search after truth, nor is it fair 
 to attack him on such a subject ; for it is 
 with the critic as with the poet; had Haz- 
 litt thought a little deeper, and been in a 
 good temper, he would never have spied 
 out imaginary faults there. The Sunday 
 before last I asked Haydon to dine with 
 me, when I thought of settling all matters 
 with him, in regard to Cripps, and let you 
 know about it. Now, although I engaged 
 him a fortnight before, he sent illness as an 
 
 % 
 
 excuse. He never will come. I have not 
 
 Ibeen well enough to stand the chance of a 
 wet night, and so have not seen him, nor 
 )6eei\ able to expurgatorise more masks for 
 you ; but I will not speak — your speakers 
 are never doers. Then Reynolds, — every 
 time I see him and mention you, he puts 
 his hand to his head and looks like a son of 
 Niobe's ; but he '11 write soon. 
 
 Rome, you know, was not built in a day. 
 I shall be able, by a little perseverance, to 
 read your letters off-hand. I am afraid 
 your health will suffer from over study be- 
 fore your examination. I think you might 
 regulate the thing according to your own 
 pleasure, — and I would too. They were 
 talking of your being up at Christmas. 
 Will it be before you have passed ? There 
 is nothing, my dear Bailej'^, I should rejoice 
 at more than to see you comfortable, with 
 a little Peona wife; an affectionate wife, I 
 have a sort of confidence, would do you a 
 great happiness. May that be one of the 
 many blessings I wish you. Let me be but 
 the one-tenth of one to you, and I shall 
 think it great. My brother George's kindest 
 wishes to you. My dear Bailey, I am, 
 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 I should not like to be pages in your 
 way ; when in a tolerable hungry mood you 
 have no mercy. Your teeth are the Rock 
 Tarpeian down which you capsize epic 
 poems like mad. I would not for forty 
 shillings be Coleridge's Lays in your way. 
 I hope you will soon get through this abo- 
 minable writing in the schools, and be able 
 to keep the terms with more comfort in the 
 hope of retiring to a comfortable and quiet 
 home out of the way of all Hopkinses and 
 black beetles. When you are settled, I will 
 come and take a peep at your church, your 
 house; try whether I shall have grown too 
 lusty for my chair by the fireside, and take 
 a peep at my earliest bower. A question is 
 the best beacon towards a little speculation. 
 Then ask me after my health and spirits. 
 This question ratifies in my mind what I 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 273 
 
 have said above. Health and (Spirits can 
 only belong unalloyed to the seVtish man — 
 the man who thinks much of/ his fellows 
 can never be in spirits. You Tiiaust forgive, 
 although I have only written three hundred 
 lines; they would have been five, but I 
 have been obliged to go to town. Yester- 
 day I called at Lamb's. Sfc. Jane looked 
 very flash when I first looked in, but was 
 much better before I left. 
 
 19. TO THE S\ME 
 
 [Fragment from an outside sheet: 
 postmark London, November 5, 1817.] 
 
 ... I will speak of something else, or 
 my spleen will get higher and higher — 
 and I am a bearer of the two-edged sword. 
 — I hope you will receive an answer from 
 Haydon soon — if not, Pride ! Pride ! 
 Pride ! I have received no more subscrip- 
 tion — but shall soon lave a full health, 
 Liberty and leisure to gve a good part of 
 my time to him. I will certainly be in time 
 for him. We have promissd him one year: 
 let that have elapsed, then do as we think 
 proper. If I did not know how impossible 
 it is, I should say — ' do not at this time 
 of disappointments, distiifb yourself about 
 others.' 
 
 There has been a fltming attack upon 
 Hunt in the Endinburgt Magazine. I never 
 read anything so virubnt — accusing him 
 of the greatest Crimes, depreciating his 
 Wife, his Poetry, his Sabits, his Company, 
 his Conversation. Thjse Philippics are to 
 come out in numbers — called ' the Cockney 
 School of Poetry.' There has been but 
 one number published — that on Hunt — to 
 which they have prefked a motto from one 
 Cornelius Webb Poeaster — who unfortu- 
 nately was of our )arty occasionally at 
 Hampstead and too: it into his head to 
 write the following. — something about 
 * we '11 talk on Words/orth, Byron, a theme 
 we never tire on;' md so forth till he 
 comes to Hunt and Teats. In the Motto 
 
 they have put Hunt and Keats in large 
 letters — I have no doubt that the second 
 number was intended for me: but have 
 hopes of its non-appearance, from the 
 following Advertisement in last Sunday's 
 Examiner: — ' To Z. — The writer of the 
 Article signed Z., in Blackwood's Edin- 
 burgh Magazine for October 1817 is invited 
 to send his address to the printer of the 
 Examiner, in order that Justice may be 
 Executed on the proper person.' I don't 
 mind the thing much — but if he should go 
 to such lengths with me as he has done 
 with Hunt, I must infallibly call him to an 
 Account if he be a human being, and 
 appears in Squares and Theatres, where we 
 might possibly meet — I don't relish his 
 abuse. . . . 
 
 20. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 [Hampstead, November 1817.] 
 My dear Dilke — Mrs. Dilke or Mr. 
 Wm. Dilke, whoever of you shall receive 
 this present, have the kindness to send pr. 
 bearer Sibylline Leaves, and your petitioner 
 shall ever pray as in duty bound. 
 
 Given under my hand this Wednesday 
 morning of Novr. 1817. John Keats. 
 Vivant Rex et Regina — amen. 
 
 21. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 [Burford Bridge, November 22, 1817.] 
 My dear Bailey — I will get over the 
 first part of this (?mpaid) Letter as soon as 
 possible, for it relates to the affairs of poor 
 Cripps. — To a Man of your nature such 
 a Letter as Haydon's must have been 
 extremely cutting — What occasions the 
 greater part of the World's Quarrels ? — 
 simply this — two Minds meet, and do not 
 understand each other time enough to pre- 
 vent any shock or surprise at the conduct 
 of either party — As soon as I had known 
 Haydon three days, I had got enough of his 
 Character not to have been surprised at 
 
274 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEA^S 
 
 such a Letter as he has hurt you with. 
 Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle 
 with me to drop his acquaintance; although 
 with you it would have been an imperious 
 feelii.g. I wish you knew all that I think 
 about Genius and the Heart — and yet L 
 think that you are thoroughly acquainted 
 with my iunermost breast in that respect, or 
 you could not have known me even thus 
 long, and still hold me worthy to be your 
 dear Friend. In passing, however, I must 
 say one thing that has pressed upon me 
 lately, and increased my Humility and ca- 
 pability of submission — and that is this 
 truth — Men of Genius are great as certain 
 ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass 
 of neutral intellect — but they have not any 
 individuality, any determined Character — 
 I would call the top and head of those who 
 have a proper self Men of Power. 
 
 But I am running my head into a subject 
 which I am certain I could not do justice 
 to under five Years' study, and 3 vols, 
 octavo — and, moreover, I long to be talk- 
 ing about the Imagination — so my dear 
 Bailey, do not think of this unpleasant affair, 
 if possible do not — I defy any harm to 
 come of it — I defy. I shall write to Cripps 
 this week, and request him to tell me all 
 his goings-on from time to time by Letter 
 wherever 1 may be. It will go on well — 
 so don't because you have suddenly dis- 
 covered a Coldness in Haydon suffer your- 
 self to be teased — Do not my dear fellow 
 — O ! I wish I was as certain of the end of 
 all your troubles as that of your momentary 
 start about the authenticity of the Imagi- 
 nation. I am certain of nothing but of 
 the holiness of the Heart's affections, and 
 the truth of Imagination. What the Imagi- 
 nation 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 all, in their sublime, crea- 
 tive of essential Beauty. In a Word, you 
 may know my favourite speculation by my 
 first Book, and the little Song ^^ I sent in 
 my last, which is a representation from the 
 
 fancy of the; probable mode of operating in 
 these Matters. The Imagination may be 
 compared to Adam's dream, — he awoke 
 and found it .truth : — I am more zealous in 
 this affair, bec:ause I 'jave never yet been 
 able to perceive how a.iything can be known 
 for truth by (3onsecu.ive reasoning — and 
 yet it must be. Can^ it be that even the 
 greatest, Philosopher ever arrived at his 
 Goal wi< Jut putting adde numerous objec- 
 tions ? However it may be, O for a life of 
 Sensaf )ns rather than of Thoughts ! It is 
 ' a Vi'ion in the form of Youth,' a shadow 
 of re lity to come — And this consideration 
 has urther convinced m^, — for it has come 
 as auxiliary to another favourite specula- 
 tion of mine, — that we shall enjoy our- 
 selves hereafter by ha^ ing what we called 
 happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tone 
 — And yet such a fate can only befall 
 those who delight in Sensation, rather 
 than hunger as you do after Truth. Adam's 
 dream will do here, and seems to be a Con- 
 viction that Imagination and its empyreal 
 reflection, is the same as human life and its 
 spiritual repetition. But, as I was saying, 
 the Simple imaginative Mind may have its 
 rewards in the repetition of its own silent 
 Working coming continually on the Spirit 
 with a fine Suddeuiess — to compare great 
 things with small, lave you never by being 
 surprised with an oli IMelody, in a delicious 
 place by a delicious voice, felt over again 
 your very speculatiois and surmises at the 
 time it first operate! on your soul ? — do 
 you not remember fo-ming to yourself the 
 Singer's face — more beautiful than it was 
 possible, and yet witi the elevation of the 
 Moment you did not bink so ? Even then 
 you were mounted onthe Wings of Imagi- 
 nation, so high that tie prototype must be 
 hereafter — that deliaous face you will 
 see. What a time ! lam continually run- 
 ning away from the subject. Sure this 
 cannot be exactly the 'ase with a complex 
 mind — one that is im^jinative, and at the 
 same time careful of itffruits, — who would 
 exist partly on Sensatjn, partly on thought 
 
TO JvOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 275 
 
 — to whom it is necessary that years should 
 bring the philosophic Mind ? Such a one I 
 consider yours, and Iherefore it is neces- 
 sary to your eternal happiness that you not 
 only drink this old W'ne of Heaven, which 
 I shall call the red gestiou of our most 
 ethereal Musings up-^n Earth, but also in- 
 crease in knowledge and know all things. 
 I am glad to hear t lat you are a fair 
 way for Easter. Yop will soon get 'irough 
 your unpleasant reading, and then ! — but 
 the world is full of troubles, and . have 
 not much reason to think myself pes ered 
 with many. 
 
 I think Jane or Marianne has a be ter 
 opinion of me than I deserve: for, really 
 and truly, I do not think my Brother's ill- 
 ness connected with .nine — you know more 
 of the real Cause than they do; nor have I 
 any chance of being rack'd as you have 
 been. You perhaps at one time thought 
 there was such a thing as worldly happiness 
 to be arrived at, at certain periods of time 
 marked out, — you have of necessity from 
 your disposition been thus led away — 
 I scarcely remember counting upon any 
 Happiness — I look not for it if it be not 
 in the present hour, — nothing startles me 
 beyond the moment. The Setting Sun will 
 always set me to rights, or if a Sparrow 
 come before my Window, I take part in its 
 existence and pick about the gravel. The 
 first thing that strikes me on hearing a 
 Misfortune having befallen another is this 
 
 — * Well, it cannot be helped : he will have 
 the pleasure of trying the resources of his 
 Spirit ' — and I beg now, my dear Bailey, 
 that hereafter should you obsetve anything 
 cold in me not to put it to the account of 
 heartlessness, but abstraction — for I assure 
 you I sometimes feel not the influence of a 
 passion or affection during a whole Week 
 
 — and so long this sometimes continues, I 
 begin to suspect myself, and the genuine- 
 ness of my feelings at other times — think- 
 ing them a few barren Tragedy Tears. 
 
 My brother Tom is much improved — he 
 is going to Devonshire — whither I shall 
 
 follow him. At present, I am just arrived 
 at Dorking — to change the Scene — change 
 the Air, and give me a spur to wind up my 
 Poem, of which there are wanting 500 lines. 
 I should have been here a day sooner, but 
 the Reynoldses persuaded me to stop in 
 Town to meet your friend Christie. ^^ There 
 were Rice and Martin — we talked about 
 Ghosts. I will have some Talk with Taylor 
 and let you know, — when please God I 
 come down at Christmas. I will find that 
 Examiner if possible. My best regards to 
 Gleig, my Brothers' to you and Mrs. 
 Bentley. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 
 
 I want to say much more to you — a few 
 hints will set me going. Direct Burford 
 Bridge near Dorking. 
 
 22. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [Burford Bridge,] November 22, 1817. 
 My dear Reynolds — There are two 
 things which tease me here — one of them 
 Cripps, and the other that I cannot go with 
 Tom into Devonshire. However, I hope 
 to do my duty to myself in a week or so; 
 and then I '11 try what I can do for my 
 neighbour — now, is not this virtuous? On 
 returning to Town I '11 damm all Idleness 
 — indeed, in superabundance of employ- 
 ment, I must not be content to run here 
 and there on little two-penny errands, but 
 turn Rakehell, i. e. go a masking, or Bailey 
 will think me just as great a Promise 
 Keeper as he thinks you; for myself I do 
 not, and do not remember above one com- 
 plaint against you for matter o' that. Bailey 
 writes so abominable a hand, to give his 
 Letter a fair reading requires a little time: 
 so I had not seen, when I saw you last, his 
 invitation to Oxford at Christmas. I '11 go 
 with you. You know how poorly Rice was. 
 I do not think it was all corporeal, — bod- 
 ily pain was not used to keep him silent. 
 I'll tell you what; he was hurt at what 
 your Sisters said about his joking with your 
 Mother, he was, soothly to sain. It will all 
 
276 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 blow over. God knows, my dear Reynolds, 
 I should not talk any sorrow to you — you 
 must have enough vexations — so I won't 
 any more. If I ever start a rueful subject 
 in a letter to you — blow me ! Why don't 
 you ? — now I am going to ask you a very 
 silly Question neither you nor anybody else 
 could answer, under a folio, or at least a 
 Pamphlet — you shall judge — why don't 
 you, as I do, look unconcerned at what may 
 be called more particularly Heart-vexa- 
 tions ? They never surprise me — lord ! 
 a man should have the fine point of his 
 soul taken off to become fit for this world. 
 I like this place very much. There is 
 Hill and Dale and a little River. I went 
 up Box hill this Evening after the Moon — 
 ' you a' seen the Moon ' — came down, and 
 wrote some lines. Whenever I am sepa- 
 rated from you, and not engaged in a con- 
 tinued Poem, every letter shall bring you 
 a lyric — but I am too anxious for you to 
 enjoy the whole to send you a particle. 
 One of the three books I have with me 
 is Shakspeare's Poems: I never found so 
 many beauties in the sonnets — they seem 
 to be full of fine things said unintentionally 
 — in the intensity of working out conceits. 
 Is this to be borne ? Hark ye ! 
 
 ' When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 
 Which erst from heat did canopy the head, 
 
 And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, 
 Borne on the bier with white and bristly 
 head.' 
 
 He has left nothing to say about nothing or 
 anything: for look at snails — you know 
 what he says about Snails — you know when 
 he talks about ' cockled Snails ' — well, in 
 one of these sonnets, he says — the chap 
 slips into — no ! I lie ! this is in the Venus 
 and Adonis: the simile brought it to my 
 Mind. 
 
 ' As the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 
 Shrinks back into his shelly cave with pain, 
 
 And there all smothered up in shade doth sit, 
 Long after fearing to put forth again ; 
 
 So at his bloody view her eyes are fled. 
 
 Into the deep dark Cabins of her head.' 
 
 He overwhelms a genuine Lover of poesy 
 with all manner of abuse, talking about — 
 
 ' a poet's rage 
 And stretched metre of an antique song.' 
 
 Which, by the bye, will be a capital motto 
 for my poem, won't it ? He speaks too of 
 ' Time's antique pen ' — and * April's first- 
 born flowers ' — and ' Death's eternal cold.' 
 — By the Whim-King ! I '11 give you a 
 stanza, because it is not material in connec- 
 tion, and when I wrote it I wanted you — 
 to give your vote, pro or con. — 
 
 [Here follow lines 581-590, Book IV. of 
 EndymionJ\ 
 
 ... I see there is an advertisement in the 
 Chronicle to Poets — he is so over-loaded 
 with poems on the ' late Princess.' I suppose 
 you do not lack — send me a few — lend 
 me thy hand to laugh a little — send me a 
 little pullet-sperm, a few finch-eggs — and 
 remember me to each of our card-playing 
 Club. When you die you will all be turned 
 into Dice, and be put in pawn with the 
 devil: for cards, they crumble up like any- 
 thing. . . . 
 
 I rest Your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Give my love to both houses — hinc atque 
 illinc. 
 
 23. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Hampstead, December 22, 1817. 
 My dear Brothers — I must crave 
 your pardon for not having written ere 
 this. ... I saw Kean return to the public 
 in Richard III., and finely he did it, and, 
 at the request of Reynolds, I went to criti- 
 cise his Duke in Rich*' — the critique is in 
 to-day's Champion, which I send you with 
 the Examiner, in which you will find very 
 proper lamentation on the obsoletion of 
 Christmas Gambols and pastimes : but it 
 was mixed up with so much egotism of that 
 drivelling nature that pleasure is entirely 
 lost. Hone the publisher's trial, you must 
 find very amusing, and as Englishmen very 
 
TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 277 
 
 eucouraging: his Not Guilty is a thing, 
 which not to have been, woukl have dulled 
 still more Liberty's Emblazoning — Lord 
 Ellenborough has been paid in his own coin 
 — Wooler and Hone have done us an 
 essential service. I have had two very 
 pleasant evenings with Dilke yesterday and 
 to-day, and am at this moment just come 
 from him, and feel in the humour to go on 
 with this, begun in the morning, and from 
 which he came to fetch me. I spent Friday 
 evening with Wells ^<* and went next morn- 
 ing to see Death on the Pale horse. It is a 
 wonderful picture, when West's age is con- 
 sidered ; but there is nothing to be intense 
 upon, no women one feels mad to kiss, no 
 face swelling into reality. The excellence 
 of every art is its intensity, capable of 
 making all disagreeables evaporate from 
 their being in close relationship with Beauty 
 and Truth — Examine King Lear, and you 
 will find this exemplified throughout; but 
 in this picture we have unpleasantness 
 without any momentous depth of specula- 
 tion excited, in vphich to bury its repulsive- 
 ness — The picture is larger than Christ 
 rejected. 
 
 I dined with Haydon the Sunday after 
 you left, and had a very pleasant day. I 
 dined too (for I have been out too much 
 lately) with Horace Smith and met his two 
 Brothers with Hill and Kingston and one 
 Du Bois, they only served to convince me 
 how superior humour is to wit, in respect to 
 enjoyment — These men say things which 
 make one start, without making one feel, 
 they are all alike ; their manners are alike ; 
 they all know fashionables ; they have all 
 a mannerism in their very eating and 
 drinking, in their mere handling a De- 
 canter. They talked of Kean and his low 
 company — would I were with that com- 
 pany instead of yours said I to myself ! 
 I know such like acquaintance will never 
 do for me and yet I am going to Reynolds, 
 on Wednesday. Brown and Dilke walked 
 with me and back from the Christmas pan- 
 tomime. I had not a dispute, but a dis- 
 
 quisition, with Dilke upon various subjects; 
 several things dove-tailed in my mind, and 
 at once it struck nie what quality went to 
 form a Man of Achievement, especially in 
 Literature, and which Shakspeare possessed 
 so enormously — I mean Negative Capabil- 
 ity, that is, when a man is capable of being 
 in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without 
 any irritable reaching after fact and rea- 
 son. Coleridge, for instance, would let go 
 by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught 
 from the Penetralium of mystery, from 
 being incapable of remaining content with 
 half-knowledge. This pursued through vol- 
 umes would perhaps take us no further than 
 this, that with a great poet the sense of 
 Beauty overcomes every other considera- 
 tion, or rather obliterates all consideration. 
 Shelley's poem -^ is out and there are 
 words about its being objected to, as much 
 as Queen Mab was. Poor Shelley I think 
 he has his Quota of good qualities, in sooth 
 la ! Write soon to your most sincere friend 
 and aft'ectionate Brother 
 
 John. 
 
 24. TO THE SAME 
 
 Featherstone Buildings, 
 
 Monday [January 5, 1818]. 
 My dear Brothers — I ought to have 
 written before, and you should have had a 
 long letter last week, but I undertook the 
 Champion for Reynolds, who is at Exeter. 
 1 wrote two articles, one on the Drury Lane 
 Pantomime, the other on the Covent Garden 
 new Tragedy, 22 which they liave not put 
 in; the one they have inserted is so badly 
 punctuated that you perceive I am deter- 
 mined never to write more, without some 
 care in that particular. Wells tells me 
 that you are licking your chops, Tom, in 
 expectation of my book coming out. I am 
 sorry to say I have not begun my correc- 
 tions yet : to-morrow I set out. I called 
 on Sawrey this morning. He did not seem 
 to be at all put out at anything I said and 
 the inquiries I made with regard to your 
 
278 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 spitting of blood, and moreover desired me 
 to ask you to seud him a correct account of 
 all your sensations and symptoms concern- 
 ing the palpitation and the spitting and the 
 cough — if you have any. Your last letter 
 gave me a great pleasure, for I think the 
 invalid is in a better spirit there along the 
 Edge; and as for George, I must immedi- 
 ately, now I think of it, correct a little mis- 
 conception of a part of my last letter. The 
 Misses Reynolds have never said one word 
 against me about you, or by any means 
 endeavoured to lessen you in my estima- 
 tion. That is not what I referred to; but 
 the manner and thoughts which I knew 
 they internally had towards you, time will 
 show. Wells and Severn dined with me 
 yesterday. We had a very pleasant day. 
 I pitched upon another bottle of claret, we 
 enjoyed ourselves very much; were all very 
 witty and full of Rhymes. We played a 
 concert-^ from 4 o'clock till 10 — drank 
 your healths, the Hunts', and (N.B.) seven 
 Peter Pindars. I said on that day the only 
 good thing I was ever guilty of. We were 
 talking about Stephens and the 1st Gallery. 
 I said I wondered that careful folks would 
 go there, for although it was but a shilling, 
 still you had to pay through the Nose. I 
 saw the Peachey family in a box at Drury 
 one night. I have got such a curious . . . 
 or rather I had such, now I am in my own 
 hand . 
 
 I have had a great deal of pleasant time 
 with Rice lately, and am getting initiated 
 into a little band. They call drinking deep 
 dyin' scarlet. They call good wine a pretty 
 tipple, and call getting a child knocking out 
 an apple; stopping at a tavern they call 
 hanging out. Where do you sup ? is where 
 do you hang out ? 
 
 Thursday I promised to dine with Words- 
 worth, and the weather is so bad that I am 
 undecided, for he lives at Mortimer Street. 
 I had an invitation to meet him at Kings- 
 ton's, but not liking that place I sent my 
 excuse. What I think of doing to-day is 
 to dine in Mortimer Street (Words""), and 
 
 sup here in the Feath^ buildings, as Mr. 
 Wells has invited me. On Saturday, I 
 called on Wordsworth before he went to 
 Kingston's, and was surprised to find him 
 with a stiff collar. I saw his spouse, and I 
 think his daughter. I forget whether I had 
 wi'itten my last before my Sunday evening 
 at Haydon's — no, I did not, or I should 
 have told you, Tom, of a young man you 
 met at Paris, at Scott's, . . . Ritchie. I 
 think he is going to Fezan, in Africa; then 
 to proceed if possible like Mungo Park. 
 He was very polite to me, and inquired 
 very particularly after you. Then there was 
 Wordsworth, Lamb, Monkhouse, Landseer, 
 Kingston, and your humble servant. Lamb 
 got tipsy and blew up Kingston — proceed- 
 ing so far as to take the candle across the 
 room, hold it to his face, and show us what 
 a soft fellow he was.^* I astonished Kings- 
 ton at supper with a pertinacity in favour 
 of drinking, keeping my two glasses at 
 work in a knowing way. 
 
 I have seen Fanny twice lately — she in- 
 quired particularly after you and wants a 
 co-partnership letter from you. She has 
 been unwell, but is improving. I think she 
 will be quick. Mrs. Abbey was saying that 
 the Keatses were ever indolent, that they 
 would ever be so, and that it is born in 
 them. Well, whispered Fanny to me, if it 
 is born with us, how can we help it ? She 
 seems very anxious for a letter. As I asked 
 her what I should get for her, she said a 
 ' Medal of the Princess.' ^^ I called on 
 Haslam — we dined very snugly together. 
 He sent me a Hare last week, which I sent 
 to Mrs. Dilke. Brown is not come back. 
 I and Dilke are getting capital friends. He 
 is going to take the Champion. He has 
 sent his farce to Covent Garden. I met 
 Bob Harris -^ on the steps at Covent 
 Garden; we had a good deal of curious chat. 
 He came out with his old humble opinion. 
 The Covent Garden pantomime is a very 
 nice one, but they have a middling Harle- 
 quin, a bad Pantaloon, a worse Clown, and 
 a shocking Columbine, who is one of the 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 279 
 
 Miss Dennets. I suppose you will see my 
 critique on the new tragedy in the next 
 week's Champion. It is a shocking bad 
 one. I have not seen Hunt; he was out 
 when I called. Mrs. Hunt looks as well as 
 ever I saw her after her confinement. 
 There is an article in the se'nnight Exam- 
 iner on Godwin's Mandeville, signed E. 
 K. — I think it Miss Kent's '^'' — I will send 
 it. There are fine subscriptions going on 
 for Hone. 
 
 You ask me what degrees there are be- 
 tween Scott's novels and those of Smollett. 
 They appear to me to be quite distinct in 
 every particular, more especially in their 
 aims. Scott endeavours to throw so inter- 
 esting and romantic a colouring into com- 
 mon and low characters as to give them a 
 touch of the sublime. Smollett on the con- 
 trary pulls down and levels what with other 
 men would continue romance. The grand 
 parts of Scott are within the reach of more 
 minds than the finest humours in Humphrey 
 Clinker. I forget whether that fine thing 
 of the Serjeant is Fielding or Smollett, but 
 it gives me more pleasure than the whole 
 novel of the Anti(;[uary. You must remem- 
 ber what I mean. Some one says to the 
 Serjeant: 'That's a non-sequitur ! ' — 'If 
 you come to that,' replies the Serjeant, 
 ' you 're another ! ' — 
 
 I see by Wells's letter Mr. Abbey -^ does 
 not overstock you with money. Yon must 
 write. I have not seen . . . yet, but expect 
 it on Wednesday. I am afraid it is gone. 
 Severn tells me he has an order for some 
 drawings for the Emperor of Russia. 
 
 You must get well Tom, and then I shall 
 
 Peel whole and genial as the winter air. 
 
 ixive me as many letters as you like, and 
 
 SLrrite to Sawrey soon. I received a short 
 
 do»tter from Bailey about Cripps, and one 
 
 toc:ora Haydon, ditto. Haydon thinks he 
 
 abtiproved very much. Mrs. Wells desires 
 
 tieirticularly ... to Tom and her respects 
 
 s a George, and I desire no better than to 
 
 g 6 ever your most affectionate Brother 
 
 .d John. 
 
 P. S. — I had not opened the Champion 
 before I found both my articles in it. 
 
 I was at a dance at Redhall's, and passed 
 a pleasant time enough — drank deep, and 
 won 10/6 at cutting for half guineas. . . . 
 Bailey was there and seemed to enjoy the 
 evening. Rice said he cared less about 
 the hour than any one, and the proof is his 
 dancing — he cares not for time, dancing as 
 if he was deaf. Old Redhall not being used 
 to give parties, had no idea of the quantity 
 of wine that would be drank, and he ac- 
 tually put in readiness on the kitchen stairs 
 eight dozen. 
 
 Every one inquires after you, and desires 
 their remembrances to you. 
 
 Your Brother John. 
 
 25, TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 [Hampstead,] Saturday Morn 
 [January 10, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Haydon — I should have 
 seen you ere this, but on account of my 
 sister being in Town: so that when I have 
 sometimes made ten paces towards you, 
 Fanny has called me into the City; and the 
 Christmas Holydays are your only time to 
 see Sisters, that is if they are so situated as 
 mine. I will be with you early next week 
 — to-night it should be, but we have a sort 
 of a Club every Saturday evening — to- 
 morrow, but I have on that day an insuper- 
 able engagement. Cripps has been down 
 to me, and appears sensible that a binding 
 to you would be of the greatest advantage 
 to him — if such a thing be done it cannot 
 be before £150 or £200 are secured in sub- 
 scriptions to him. I will write to Bailey 
 about it, give a Copy of the Subscribers' 
 names to every one I know who is likely to 
 get a £5 for him. I will leave a Copy at 
 Taylor and Hessey's, Rodwell and Martin, 
 and will ask Kingston and Co. to cash up. 
 
 Your friendship for me is now getting 
 into its teens — and I feel the past. Also 
 every day older I get — the greater is my 
 idea of your achievements in Art: and I 
 
28o 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 am convinced that there are three things to 
 
 rejoice at in this Age — The Excursion, 
 
 Your Pictures, and Hazlitt's depth of Taste. 
 
 Yours affectionately John Keats. 
 
 26. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 [Hampstead,] Saturday Morning 
 [January 10, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — Several things have 
 kept me from you lately: — first you had 
 got into a little hell, which I was not anx- 
 ious to reconnoitre — secondly, I have made 
 a vow not to call again without my first 
 book: so you may expect to see me in four 
 days. Thirdly, 1 have been racketing too 
 much, and do not feel over well. I have seen 
 Wordsworth frequently — Dined with him 
 last Monday — Reynolds, I suppose you 
 have seen. Just scribble me thus many 
 lines, to let me know you are in the land 
 of the living, and well. Remember me to 
 the Fleet Street Household — and should 
 you see any from Percy Street, give my 
 kindest regards to them. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 27. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead,] Tuesday [January 13, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Brothers — I am certain I 
 think of having a letter to-morrow morning 
 for I expected one so much this morning, 
 having been in town two days, at the end 
 of which my expectations began to get up a 
 little. I found two on the table, one from 
 Bailey and one from Haydon, I am quite 
 perplexed in a world of doubts and fancies 
 — there is nothing stable in the world; 
 uproar 's your only music — I don't mean 
 to include Bailey in this and so dismiss him 
 from this with all the opprobrium he de- 
 serves — that is in so many words, he is 
 one of the noblest men alive at the present 
 day. In a note to Haydon about a week 
 ago (which I wrote with a full sense of 
 what he had done, and how he had never 
 manifested any little mean drawback in his 
 
 value of me) I said if there were three 
 things superior in the modern world, they 
 were ' the Excursion,' ' Haydon's pictures,' 
 and ' Hazlitt's depth of Taste ' — so I do 
 believe — Not thus speaking with any poor 
 vanity that works of genius were the first 
 things in this world. No ! for that sort 
 of probity and disinterestedness which such 
 men as Bailey possess, does hold and grasp 
 the tiptop of any spiritual honours that can 
 be paid to anything in this world — And 
 moreover having this feeling at this present 
 come over me in its full force, I sat down to 
 write to you with a grateful heart, in that 
 I had not a Brother who did not feel and 
 credit me for a deeper feeling and devotion 
 for his uprightness, than for any marks of 
 genius however splendid. I was speaking 
 about doubts and fancies — I mean there 
 has been a quarrel of a severe nature be- 
 tween Haydon and Reynolds and another 
 (' the Devil rides upon a fiddlestick') be- 
 tween Hunt and Haydon — the first grew 
 from the Sunday on which Haydon invited 
 some friends to meet Wordsworth. Rey- 
 nolds never went, and never sent any Notice 
 about it, this offended Haydon more than it 
 ought to have done — he wrote a very 
 sharp and high note to Reynolds and then 
 another in palliation — but which Reynolds 
 feels as an aggravation of the first — Con- 
 sidering all things, Haydon's frequent neg- 
 lect of his Appointments, etc. his notes 
 were bad enough to put Reynolds on the 
 right side of the question — but then Rf^y- 
 nolds has no power of sufferance; no idea 
 of having the thing against him; so he an- 
 swered Haydon in one of the most cutting 
 letters I ever read; exposing to himself all 
 his own weaknesses and going on to a^i 
 excess, which whether it is just or no, iet 
 what I would fain have unsaid, the faint 
 is, they are both in the right and both at. 
 the wrong. >ii> 
 
 The quarrel with Hunt I understand th^ry 
 far. Mrs. H. was in the habit of borrow: ("le- 
 silver of Haydon — the last time she find 
 so, Haydon asked her to return it a the 
 
TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 281 
 
 certain time — she did not — Haydon sent 
 for it — Hunt went to expostulate ou the 
 indelicacy, etc. — they got to words and 
 parted for ever. All I hope is at some 
 time to bring them together again. — Lawk! 
 Molly there 's been such doings — Yester- 
 day evening I made an appointment with 
 Wells to go to a private theatre, and it 
 being in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, 
 and thinking we might be fatigued with 
 sitting the whole evening in one dirty hole, 
 I got the Drury Lane ticket, and therewith 
 we divided the evening with a spice of 
 Richard III 
 
 [Later, January 19 or 20.] 
 Good Lord ! I began this letter nearly a 
 week ago, what have I been doing since — 
 I have been — I mean not been — sending 
 last Sunday's paper to you. I believe be- 
 cause it was not near me — for I cannot 
 find it, and my conscience presses heavy on 
 me for not sending it. You would have 
 had one last Thursday, but I was called 
 away, and have been about somewhere ever 
 since. Where ? What ! Well I rejoice 
 almost that I have not heard from you be- 
 cause no news is good news. I cannot for 
 the world recollect why I was called away, 
 all I know is that there has been a dance at 
 Dilke's, and another at the Loudon Coffee 
 House; to both of which I went. But I 
 must tell you in another letter the circum- 
 stances thereof — for though a week should 
 have passed since I wrote on the other side 
 it quite appals me. I can only write in 
 scraps and patches. Brown is returned 
 from Hampstead. Haydon has returned an 
 answer in the same style — they are all 
 dreadfully irritated against each other. On 
 Sunday I saw Hunt and dined with Hay- 
 don, met Hazlitt and Bewick there, and 
 took Haslam with me — forgot to speak 
 about Cripps though I broke my engage- 
 ment to Haslam's on purpose. Mem. — 
 Haslam came to meet me, found me at 
 Breakfast, had the goodness to go with me 
 my way — I have just finished the revision 
 
 of my first book, and shall take it to Tay- 
 lor's to-morrow — intend to persevere — 
 Do not let me see many days pass without 
 hearing from you. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother John. 
 
 28. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 [Hampstead,] Friday 23d [January 1818]. 
 
 My deak Taylor — I have spoken to 
 Haydon about the drawing. He would do 
 it with all his Art and Heart too, if so I 
 will it ; however, he has written thus to 
 me ; but I must tell you, first, he intends 
 painting a finished Picture from the Poem. 
 Thus he writes — ' When I do anything for 
 your Poem it must be effectual — an honour 
 to both of us : to hurry up a sketch for the 
 season won't do. I think an engraving from 
 your head, from a Chalk drawing of mine, 
 done with all my might, to which I would 
 put my name, would answer Taylor's idea 
 better than the other. Indeed, I am sure 
 of it. This I will do, and this will be ef- 
 fectual, and as I have not done it for any 
 other human being, it will have an effect.' 
 
 What think you of this ? Let me hear. 
 I shall have my second Book in readiness 
 forthwith. 
 
 Yours most sincerely John Keats. 
 
 If Reynolds calls tell him three lines 
 will be acceptable, for I am squat at Hamp- 
 stead. 
 
 29. TO GEORGE AND THOJL\S KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead,] Friday 23d January [1818]. 
 My DEAR Brothers — I was thinking 
 what hindered me from writing so long, for 
 I have so many things to say to you, and 
 know not where to begin. It shall be upon 
 a thing most interesting to you, my Poem. 
 Well ! I have given the first Book to Tay- 
 lor; he seemed more than satisfied with it, 
 and to my surprise proposed publishing it 
 in Quarto if Haydon would make a drawing 
 of some event therein, for a Frontispiece. 
 
282 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 I called on Haydon, he said he would do 
 anything I liked, but said he would rather 
 paint a finished picture, from it, which he 
 seeuis eager to do; this iu a year or two 
 will be a glorious thing for us; and it will 
 be, for Haydon is struck with the 1st Book. 
 I left Haydon and the next day received a 
 letter from him, proposing to make, as he 
 says, with all his might, a finished chalk 
 sketch of my head, to be engraved in the 
 first style and put at the head of my Poem, 
 saying at the same time he had never done 
 the thing for any human being, and that it 
 must have considerable effect as he will put 
 his name to it — I begin to-day to copy my 
 2nd Book — ' thus far into the bowels of 
 the land ' — You shall hear whether it will 
 be Quarto or non Quarto, picture or non 
 picture. Leigh Hunt I showed my 1st Book 
 
 to he allows it not much merit as a 
 
 whole; says it is unnatural and made ten 
 objections to it in the mere skimming over. 
 He says the conversation is unnatural and 
 too high-flown for Brother and Sister — 
 says it should be simple forgetting do ye 
 mind that they are both overshadowed by 
 a supernatural Power, and of force could 
 not speak like Francesca in the Rimini. He 
 must first prove that Caliban's poetry is 
 unnatural — Tliis with me completely over- 
 turns his objections — the fact is he and 
 Shelley are hurt, and perhaps justly, at my 
 not having showed them the affair offi- 
 ciously and from several hints I have had 
 they appear much disposed to dissect and 
 anatomise any trip or slip I may have made. 
 — But who 's afraid ? Ay ! Tom ! Demme 
 if I am. I went last Tuesday, an hour too 
 late, to Hazlitt's Lecture on poetry, got 
 there just as they were coming out, when 
 all these pounced upon me. Hazlitt, John 
 Hunt and Son, Wells, Bewick, all the 
 Landseers, Bob Harris, aye and more — 
 the Landseers enquired after yon partic- 
 ularly — I know not whether Wordsworth 
 has left town — But Sunday I dined with 
 Hazlitt and Haydon, also that I took Has- 
 
 1am with me — I dined with Brown lately. 
 Dilke having taken tbe Champion Theatri- 
 cals was obliged to be in town — Fanny has 
 returned to Walthamstow. — Mr. Abbey 
 appeared very glum, the last time I went 
 to see her, and said in an indirect way, that 
 I had no business there — Rice has been ill, 
 but has been mending much lately — 
 
 I think a little change has taken place in 
 my intellect lately — I cannot bear to be 
 uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so 
 long a time have been addicted to passive- 
 ness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of 
 great productions than a very gradual ripen- 
 ing of the intellectual powers. As an in- 
 stance of this — observe — I sat down yes- 
 terday to read King Lear once again: the 
 thing appeared to demand the prologue of 
 a sonnet, I wrote it, and began to read — 
 (I know you would like to see it.) 
 
 [Here follows the Sonnet, for which see p. 
 40.] 
 
 So you see I am getting at it, with a 
 sort of determination and strength, though 
 verily I do not feel it at this moment — 
 this is my fourth letter this morning, and 
 I feel rather tired, and my head rather 
 swimming — so I will leave it open till to- 
 morrow's post. — 
 
 1 am in the habit of taking my papers 
 to Dilke's and copying there ; so I chat 
 and proceed at the same time. I have been 
 there at my work this evening, and the 
 walk over the Heath takes off all sleep, so 
 I will even proceed with you. I left off 
 short in my last jiist as I began an account 
 of a private theatrical — Well it was of the 
 lowest order, all greasy and oily, insomuch 
 that if they had lived in olden times, when 
 signs were hung over the doors, the only 
 appropriate one for that oily place would 
 have been — a guttered Candle. They 
 played John Bull, The Review, and it was 
 to conclude with Bombastes Furioso — I 
 saw from a Box the first Act of John Bull, 
 then went to Drury and did not return till 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 283 
 
 it was over — when by Wells's interest we 
 got behind the scenes — there was not a 
 yard wide all the way round for actors, 
 scene-shifters, and interlopers to move in 
 
 — for ' Nota Bene ' the Green Room was 
 under the stage, and there was I threatened 
 over and over again to be turned out by 
 the oily scene-shifters, there did I hear a 
 little painted Trollop own, very candidly, 
 that she bad failed in Mar}', with a ' damn'd 
 if she 'd play a serious part again, as long- 
 as she lived,' and at the same time she was 
 habited as the Quaker in the Review. — 
 Tliere was a quarrel, and a fat good- 
 natured looking girl in soldiers' clothes 
 wished she had only been a man for Tom's 
 sake. One fellow began a song, but an un- 
 lucky finger-point from the Gallery sent him 
 off like a shot. One chap was dressed to 
 kill for the King in Bombastes, and he 
 stood at the edge of the scene in the very 
 sweat of anxiety to show himself, but Alas 
 the thing was not played. The sweetest 
 morsel of the night moreover was, that the 
 musicians began pegging and fagging away 
 
 — at an overture — never did you see faces 
 more in earnest, three times did they play 
 it over, dropping all kinds of corrections 
 and still did not the curtain go up. Well 
 then they went into a country dance, then 
 into a region they well knew, into the old 
 boonsome Pothouse, and then to see how 
 pompous o' the sudden they turned; how 
 they looked about and chatted; how they 
 did not care a damn; was a great treat 
 
 I hope I have not tired you by this filliag 
 up of the dash in my last. Constable the 
 bookseller has offered Reynolds ten guineas 
 a sheet to write for his Magazine — it is an 
 Edinburgh one, which Blackwood's started 
 up in opposition to. Hunt said he was 
 nearly sure that the ' Cockney School ' was 
 written by Scott ^ so you are right Tom ! 
 
 — There are no more little bits of news I 
 can remember at present. 
 
 I remain. My dear Brothers, Your very 
 affectionate Brother John. 
 
 30. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 [Hampstead,] Friday Jan^- 23 [1818]. 
 My dear Bailey — Twelve days have 
 pass'd since your last reached me. — What 
 has gone through the myriads of human 
 minds since the 12th ? We talk of the im- 
 mense Number of Books, the Volumes 
 ranged thousands by thousands — but per- 
 haps more goes through the human intelli- 
 gence in Twelve days than ever was written. 
 
 — How has that unfortunate family lived 
 through the twelve? One saying of yours I 
 shall never forget — you may not recollect 
 it — it being perhaps said when you were 
 looking on the Surface and seeming of 
 Humanity alone, without a thought of the 
 past or the future — or the deeps of good 
 and evil — you were at that moment 
 estranged from speculation, and I think 
 you have arguments ready for the Man 
 who would utter it to you — this is a for- 
 midable preface for a simple thing — merely 
 you said, ' Why should ivoman suffer ? ' Aye, 
 why should she ? ' By heavens I 'd coin 
 my very Soul, and drop my Blood for 
 Drachmas ! ' These things are, and he, 
 who feels how incompetent the most skyey 
 Knight-errantry is to heal this bruised fair- 
 ness, is like a sensitive leaf on the hot hand 
 of thought. — Your tearing, my dear 
 friend, a spiritless and gloomy letter up, 
 to re-write to me, is what I shall never 
 forget — it was to me a real thing — Things 
 have happened lately of great perplexity 
 
 — you must have heard of them — Rey- 
 nolds and Haydon retorting and recrimi- 
 nating — and parting for ever — the same 
 thing has happened between Haydon and 
 Hunt. It is unfortunate — Men should 
 bear with each other: there lives not the 
 Man who may not be cut up, aye Lashed to 
 pieces on his weakest side. The best of 
 Men have but a portion of good in them — 
 a kind of spiritual yeast in their frames, 
 which creates the ferment of existence — 
 by which a Man is propelled to act, and 
 strive, and buffet with Circumstance. The 
 
284 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 sure way, Bailey, is first to know a Man's 
 faults, and then be passive — if after that 
 he insensibly draws you towards him then 
 you have no power to break the link. Be- 
 fore I felt interested in either Reynolds or 
 Haydou, I was well read in their faults; 
 yet, knowing them, I have been cementing 
 gradually with both. I have an affection 
 for them both, for reasons almost opposite 
 — and to both must I of necessity cling, 
 supported always by the hope that, when a 
 little time, a few years, shall have tried me 
 more fully in their esteem, I may be able 
 to bring them together. The time must 
 come, because they have both hearts: and 
 they will recollect the best parts of each 
 other, when this gust is overblown. — I had 
 a message from you through a letter to 
 Jane — I think, about Cripps — there can 
 be no idea of binding until a sufficient sum 
 is sure for him — and even then the thing 
 should be maturely considered by all his 
 helpers — I shall try my luck upon as many 
 fat purses as 1 can meet with. — Cripps is 
 improving very fast: I have the greater 
 hopes of him because he is so slow in devel- 
 opment. A Man of great executing powers 
 at 20, with a look and a speech almost 
 stupid, is sure to do something. 
 
 I have just looked through the Second 
 Side of your Letter — I feel a great content 
 at it. — I was at Hunt's the other day, and 
 he surprised me with a real authenticated 
 lock of Milton^s Hair. I know you would 
 like what I wrote thereon, so here it is — 
 as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book : — 
 
 [Here follow the lines, printed above, p. 39.] 
 
 This I did at Hunt's at his request — 
 perhaps I should have done something 
 better alone and at home. — I have sent 
 my first Book to the press, and this after- 
 noon shall begin preparing the Second — 
 my visit to you will be a great spur to 
 quicken the proceeding. — I have not had 
 your Sermon returned — I long to make it 
 the Subject of a Letter to you — What do 
 they say at Oxford ? 
 
 I trust you and Gleig pass much fine 
 time together. Remember me to him and 
 Whitehead. My Brother Tom is getting 
 stronger, but his spitting of Blood con- 
 tinues. I sat down to read King Lear 
 yesterday, and felt the greatness of the 
 thing up to the Writing of a Sonnet pre- 
 paratory thereto — in my next you shall 
 have it. — There were some miserable 
 reports of Rice's health — I went, and lo ! 
 Master Jemmy had been to the play the 
 night before, and was out at the time — he 
 always comes on his legs like a Cat. I have 
 seen a good deal of Wordsworth. Hazlitt 
 is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Insti- 
 tution — I shall be there next Tuesday. 
 
 Your most affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 31. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 [Hampstead, January 30, 1818.] 
 My dear Taylor — These lines as they 
 now stand about ' happiness,' having rung in 
 my ears like ' a chime a mending ' — See 
 here, 
 
 ' Behold 
 Wherein lies happiness, Peona ? fold, etc' 
 
 It appears to me the very contrary of 
 blessed. I hope this will appear to you 
 more eligible. 
 
 ' Wherein lies Happiness ? In that which becks 
 Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
 A fellowship with Essence till we shine 
 Full alchemised, and free of space — Behold 
 The clear religion of Heaven — fold, etc' 
 
 You must indulge me by putting this in, 
 for setting aside the badness of the other, 
 such a preface is necessary to the subject. 
 The whole thing must, I think, have ap- 
 peared to you, who are a consecutive man, 
 as a thing almost of mere words, but I 
 assure you that, when I wrote it, it was a 
 regular stepping of the Imagination to- 
 wards a truth. My having written that 
 argument will perhaps be of the greatest 
 service to me of anything I ever did. It set 
 before me the gradations of happiness, even 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 285 
 
 like a kind of pleasure thermometer, and is 
 my first step towards the chief attempt in 
 the drama. The playing of different natures 
 with joy and Sorrow — 
 
 Do me this favour, and believe me 
 Your sincere friend J. Keats. 
 
 I hope j'our next work will be of a more 
 general Interest. I suppose you cogitate a 
 little about it, now and then. 
 
 32. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Hampstead, Saturday [January 31, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Reynolds — I have parcelled 
 out this day for Letter Writing — more 
 resolved thereon because your Letter will 
 come as a refreshment and will have (sic 
 parvis etc.) the same effect as a Kiss in 
 certain situations where people become 
 over-generous. I have read this first sen- 
 tence over, and think it savours rather; 
 however an inward innocence is like a 
 nested dove, as the old song says. . . . ^^ 
 
 Now I purposed to write to you a serious 
 poetical letter, but I find that a maxim I 
 met with the other day is a just one : ' On 
 cause mieux quand on ne dit pas causons.' 
 I was hindered, however, from my first in- 
 tention by a mere muslin Handkerchief 
 very neatly pinned — but ' Hence, vain de- 
 luding,' etc. Yet I cannot write in prose; 
 it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here 
 goes, — 
 
 [' Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,' printed 
 above in the Appendix, p. 242.] 
 
 My dear Reynolds, you must forgive all 
 this ranting — but the fact is, I cannot 
 write sense this Morning — however you 
 shall have some — I will copy out my last 
 Sonnet. 
 
 [' When I have fears that I may cease to be,' 
 given above, p. 39.] 
 
 I must take a turn, and then write to 
 Teignmouth. Remember me to all, not 
 excepting yourself. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 33. TO THE same 
 
 Hampstead, Tuesday [February 3, 1818]. 
 My dear Reynolds — I thank you for 
 your dish of Filberts — would I could get 
 a basket of them by way of dessert every 
 day for the sum of twopence.^i Would we 
 were a sort of ethereal Pigs, and turned 
 loose to feed upon spiritual Mast and 
 Acorns — which would be merely being a 
 squirrel and feeding upon filberts, for what 
 is a squirrel but an airy pig, or a filbert but 
 a sort of archangelical acorn ? About ihe 
 nuts being worth cracking, all I can say is, 
 that where there are a throng of delightful 
 Images ready drawn, simplicity is the only 
 thing. The first is the best on account of 
 the first line, and the 'arrow, foil'd of its 
 antler'd food,' and moreover (and this is 
 the only word or two I find fault with, the 
 more because I have had so much reason 
 to shun it as a quicksand) the last has 
 ' tender and true.' We must cut this, and 
 not be rattlesnaked into any more of the 
 like. It may be said that we ought to read 
 our contemporaries, that Wordsworth, etc. 
 should have their due from us. But, for 
 the sake of a few fine imaginative or do- 
 mestic passages, are we to be bullied into 
 a certain Philosophy engendered in the 
 whims of an Egotist ? Every man has his 
 speculations, but every man does not brood 
 and peacock over them till he makes a false 
 coinage and deceives himself. Many a man 
 can travel to the very bourne of Heaven, 
 and yet want confidence to put down his 
 half-seeing. Sancho will invent a Journey 
 heavenward as well as anybody. We hate 
 poetry that has a palpable design upon us, 
 and, if we do not agree, seems to put its 
 hand into its breeches pocket. Poetry 
 should be great and unobtrusive, a thing 
 which enters into one's soul, and does not 
 startle it or amaze it with itself — but with 
 its subject. How beautiful are the retired 
 flowers ! — how would they lose their 
 beauty were they to throng into the high- 
 way, crying out, * Admire me, I am a 
 
286 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 violet ! Dote upon me, I am a primrose ! ' 
 Modern poets differ from the Elizabethans 
 in this: each of the moderns like an Elector 
 of Hanover governs his petty state and 
 knows how many straws are swept daily 
 from the Causeways in all his dominions, 
 and has a continual itching that all the 
 Housewives should have their coppers well 
 scoured: The ancients were Emperors of 
 vast Provinces, they had only heard of the 
 remote ones and scarcely cared to visit 
 them. I will cut all this — I will have no 
 more of Wordsworth or Hunt in partic- 
 ular — Why should we be of the tribe of 
 Manasseh, when we can wander with Esau ? 
 Why should we kick against the Pricks, 
 when we can walk on Roses ? Why should 
 we be owls, when we can be eagles ? Why 
 be teased with ' nice-eyed wagtails,' when 
 we have in sight 'the Cherub Contempla- 
 tion ' ? Why with Wordsworth's ' Matthew 
 with a bough of wilding in his hand,' when 
 we can have Jacques ' under an oak,' etc. ? 
 The secret of the Bough of Wilding will 
 run through your head faster than I can 
 write it. Old Matthew spoke to him some 
 years ago on some nothing, and because he 
 happens in an Evening Walk to imagine 
 the figure of the old Man, he must stamp 
 it down in black and white, and it is hence- 
 forth sacred. I don't mean to deny Words- 
 worth's grandeur and Hunt's merit, but I 
 mean to say we need not be teased with 
 grandeur and merit when we can have 
 them nncontaminated and unobtrusive. Let 
 us have the old Poets and Robin Hood. 
 Your letter and its sonnets gave me more 
 pleasure than will the Fourth Book of 
 Childe Harold and the whole of anybody's 
 life and opinions. In return for your Dish 
 of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, 
 I hope they '11 look pretty. 
 
 [To J. H. R. in answer to his Robin Hood 
 Sonnets. See p. 41.] 
 
 I hope you will like them — they are 
 at least written in the Spirit of Outlawry. 
 Here are the Mermaid lines, 
 
 [See p. 40.] 
 
 I will call on you at 4 tomorrow, and we 
 will trudge together, for it is not the thing 
 to be a stranger in the Land of Harpsicols. 
 I hope also to bring you my 2nd Book. In 
 the hope that these Scribblings will be some 
 amusement for you this Evening, I remain, 
 copying on the Hill, 
 
 Your sincere friend and Co-scribbler 
 John Keats. 
 
 34. to john taylor 
 
 Fleet Street, Thursday Morn 
 [February 5, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — I have finished 
 copying my Second Book — but I want it 
 for one day to overlook it. And moreover 
 this day I have very particular employ in 
 the affair of Cripps — so I trespass on your 
 indulgence, and take advantage of your 
 good nature. You shall hear from me or 
 see me soon. I will tell Reynolds of your 
 engagement to-morrow. 
 
 Yours unfeignedly John Keats. 
 
 35. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Hampstead, Saturday Night 
 [February 14, 1818]. 
 My dear Brothers — When once a 
 man delays a letter beyond the proper time, 
 he delays it longer, for one or two reasons 
 — first, because he must begin in a very 
 common-place style, that is to say, with an 
 excuse; and secondly things and circum- 
 stances become so jumbled in his mind, 
 that he knows not what, or what not, he has 
 said in his last — I shall visit you as soon 
 as I have copied my poem all out, I am 
 now much beforehand with the printer, 
 they have done none yet, and I am half 
 afraid they will let half the season by be- 
 fore the printing. I am determined they 
 shall not trouble me when I have copied it 
 all. — Horace Smith has lent me his manu- 
 script called 'Nehemiah Muggs, an ex- 
 posure of the Methodists ' — perhaps I may 
 send you a few extracts — Hazlitt's last 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 287 
 
 Lecture was on Thomson, Cowper, and 
 Crabbe, he praised Thomson and Cowper 
 bnt he gave Crabbe an xmmerciful licking 
 — I think Hunt's article of Fazio — no it 
 was not, but I saw Fazio the first night, 
 it hung rather heavily on me — I am in the 
 high way of being introduced to a squad 
 of people, Peter Pindar, Mrs. Opie, Mrs. 
 Scott — Mr. Robinson a great friend of 
 Coleridge's called on me.'^- Richards tells 
 me that my poems are known in the west 
 country, and that he saw a very clever copy 
 of verses, headed with a Motto from my 
 Sonnet to George — Honours rush so thickly 
 upon me that I shall not be able to bear up 
 against them. What think you — am I to 
 be crowned in the Capitol, am I to be made 
 a Mandarin — No ! I am to be invited, 
 Mrs. Hunt tells me, to a party at Ollier's, 
 to keep Shakspeare's birthday — Shak- 
 speare would stare to see me there. The 
 Wednesday before last Shelley, Hunt and 
 I wrote each a Sonnet on the River Nile, 
 some day you shall read them all. I saw a 
 sheet of Endymion, and have all reason to 
 suppose they will soon get it done, there 
 shall be nothing wanting on my part. I 
 have been writing at intervals many songs 
 and Sonnets, and I long to be at Teign- 
 mouth, to read them over to you: however 
 I think I had better wait till this Book is 
 off my mind; it will not be long first. 
 
 Reynolds has been writing two very 
 capital articles, in the Yellow Dwarf, on 
 popular Preachers — All the talk here is 
 about Dr. Croft the Duke of Devon etc. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother John. 
 
 36. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [Hampstead, February 19, 1818.] 
 My dear Reynolds — I had an idea 
 that a Man might pass a very pleasant life 
 in this manner — Let him on a certain day 
 read a certain page of full Poesy or dis- 
 tilled Prose, and let him wander with it, 
 and muse upon it, and reflect from it, and 
 bring home to it, and prophesy upon it. 
 
 and dream upon it: until it becomes stale 
 
 — But when will it do so ? Never — When 
 Man has arrived at a certain ripeness in 
 intellect any one grand and spiritual pas- 
 sage serves him as a starting-post towards 
 all ' the two-and-thirty Palaces.' How happy 
 is such a voyage of conception, what deli- 
 cious diligent indolence ! A doze upon a 
 sofa does not hinder it, and a nap upon 
 Clover engenders ethereal finger-pointings 
 
 — the prattle of a child gives it wings, and 
 the converse of middle-age a strength to 
 beat them — a strain of music conducts 
 to ' an odd angle of the Isle,' and when the 
 leaves whisper it puts a girdle round the 
 earth. — Nor will this sparing touch of 
 noble Books be any irreverence to their 
 Writers — for perhaps the honors paid by 
 Man to Man are trifles in comparison to the 
 benefit done by great works to the ' spirit 
 and pulse of good ' by their mere passive 
 existence. Memory should not be called 
 Knowledge — Many have original minds 
 who do not think it — they are led away 
 by Custom. Now it appears to me that 
 almost any Man may like the spider spin 
 from his own inwards his own airy Citadel 
 
 — the points of leaves and twigs on which 
 the spider begins her work are few, and 
 she fills the air with a beautiful circuiting. 
 Man should be content with as few points 
 to tip with the fine Web of his Soul, and 
 weave a tapestry empyrean — full of sym- 
 bols for his spiritual eye, of softness for his 
 spiritual touch, of space for his wandering, 
 of distinctness for his luxury. But the 
 minds of mortals are so different and bent 
 on such diverse journeys that it may at first 
 appear impossible for any common taste 
 and fellowship to exist between two or 
 three under these suppositions. It is how- 
 ever quite the contrary. Minds woidd leave 
 each other in contrary directions, traverse 
 each other in numberless points, and at 
 last greet each other at the journey's end. 
 An old man and a child would talk together 
 and the old man be led on his path and the 
 child left thinking. Man should not dispute 
 
288 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 or assert, but whisper results to his Neigh- 
 bour, and thus by every germ of spirit 
 sucking the sap from mould ethereal every 
 human might become great, and humanity 
 instead of being a wide heath of furze and 
 briars, with here and there a remote Oak 
 or Pine, would become a grand democracy 
 of forest trees. It has been an old compar- 
 ison for our urging on — the beehive — 
 however it seems to me that we should 
 rather be the flower than the Bee — for it 
 is a false notion that more is gained by 
 receiving than giving — no, the receiver 
 and the giver are equal in their benefits. 
 The flower, I doubt not, receives a fair 
 guerdon from the Bee — its leaves blush 
 deeper in the next spring — and who shall 
 say between Man and Woman which is the 
 most delighted ? Now it is more noble to 
 sit like Jove than to fly like Mercury: — 
 let us not therefore go hurrying about and 
 collecting honey, bee-like, buzzing here 
 and there impatiently from a knowledge of 
 what is to be arrived at. But let us open 
 our leaves like a flower, and be passive and 
 receptive; budding patiently under the eye 
 of Apollo and taking hints from every noble 
 insect that favours us with a visit — Sap 
 will be given us for meat, and dew for 
 drink. I was led into these thoughts, my 
 dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morn- 
 ing operating on a sense of Idleness. I 
 have not read any Books — the Morning 
 said I was right — I had no idea but of the 
 Morning, and the Thrush said I was right 
 
 — seeming to say, 
 
 [Here follows the sonnet ' What the Thrush 
 said,' p. 43.] 
 
 Now I am sensible all this is a mere 
 sophistication (however it may neighbour 
 to any truths), to excuse my own indolence 
 
 — So I will not deceive myself that Man 
 should be equal with Jove — but think him- 
 self very well off as a sort of scullion- 
 Mercury or even a humble-bee. It is no 
 matter whether I am right or wrong either 
 
 one way or another, if there is sufficient to 
 lift a little time from your shoulders — 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 37. TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Hampstead, Saturday [February 21, 1818.] 
 My DEAR Brothers — I am extremely 
 sorry to have given you so much uneasiness 
 by not writing; however, you know good 
 news is no news or vice versS. I do not 
 like to write a short letter to you, or you 
 would have had one long before. The 
 weather although boisterous to-day has been 
 very much milder; and I think Devonshire 
 is not the last place to receive a temperate 
 Change. I have been abominably idle since 
 you left, but have just turned over a new 
 leaf, and used as a marker a letter of 
 excuse to an invitation from Horace Smith. 
 The occasion of my writing to-day is the 
 enclosed letter — by Postmark from Miss 
 W[ylie]. Does she expect you in town 
 George ? I received a letter the other day 
 from Haydon, in which he says, his Essays 
 on the Elgin Marbles are being translated 
 into Italian, the which he superintends. I 
 did not mention that I had seen the British 
 Gallery, there are some nice things by 
 Stark, and Bathsheba by Wilkie, which is 
 condemned. I could not bear Alston's 
 Uriel. 
 
 Reynolds has been very ill for some time, 
 confined to the house, and had leeches ap- 
 plied to his chest; when I saw him on 
 Wednesday he was much the same, and he 
 is in the worst place for amendment, among 
 the strife of women's tongues, in a hot and 
 parch 'd room: I wish he would move to 
 Butler's for a short time. The Thrushes 
 and Blackbirds have been singing me into 
 an idea that it was Spring, and almost that 
 leaves were on the trees. So that black 
 clouds and boisterous winds seem to have 
 mustered and collected in full Divan, for 
 the purpose of convincing me to the con- 
 trary. Taylor says my poem shall be out 
 
TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 289 
 
 in a month, I thiuk he will be out before 
 it. . . . 
 
 The thrushes are singing now as if they 
 would speak to the winds, because their big 
 brother Jack, the Spring, was not far off. 
 I am reading Voltaire and Gibbon, although 
 I wrote to Reynolds the other day to prove 
 reading of no use; I have not seen Hunt 
 since, I am a good deal with Dilke and 
 Brown, we are very thick; they are very 
 kind to me, they are well. I don't think 
 I could stop in Hampstead but for their 
 neighbourhood. I hear Hazlitt's lectures 
 regularly, his last was on Gray, Collins, 
 Young, etc., and he gave a very fine piece 
 of discriminating Criticism on Swift, Vol- 
 taire, and Rabelais. I was very disappointed 
 at his treatment of Chatterton. 1 generally 
 meet with many I know there. Lord By- 
 ron's 4th Canto is expected out, and I 
 heard somewhere, that Walter Scott has 
 a new Poem in readiness. I am sorry that 
 Wordsworth has left a bad impression 
 wherever he visited in town by his egotism. 
 Vanity, and bigotry. Yet he is a great 
 poet if not a philosopher. I have not yet 
 read Shelley's Poem, I do not suppose you 
 have it yet, at the Teignmouth libraries. 
 These double letters must come rather 
 heavy, I hope you have a moderate portion 
 of cash, but don't fret at all, if you have 
 not — Lord ! I intend to play at cut and run 
 as well as Falstaff, that is to say, before he 
 got so lusty. 
 
 I remain praying for your health my 
 dear Brothers 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 38. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Hampstead, February 27 [1818]. 
 My dear Taylor — Your alteration 
 strikes me as being a great Improvement 
 — And now I will attend to the punctua- 
 tions you speak of — The comma should be 
 at soberly, and in the other passage, the 
 Comma should follow quiet. I am extremely 
 indebted to you for this alteration, and also 
 
 for your after admonitions. It is a sorry 
 thing for me that any one should have to 
 overcome prejudices in reading my verses 
 — that affects me more than any hypererit- 
 icism on any particular passage — In En- 
 dymion, I have most likely but moved into 
 the go-cart from the leading-strings — In 
 poetry I have a few axioms, and you will 
 see how far I am from their centre. 
 
 1st. I think poetry should surprise by 
 a fine excess, and not by singularity; It 
 should strike the reader as a wording of 
 his own highest thoughts, and appear al- 
 most a remembrance. 
 
 2d. Its touches of beauty should never 
 be half-way, thereby making the reader 
 breathless, instead of content. The rise, the 
 progress, the setting of Imagery should, 
 like the sun, come natural to him, shine 
 over him, and set soberly, although in mag- 
 nificence, leaving him in the luxury of twi- 
 light. But it is easier to think what poetry 
 should be, than to write it — And this leads 
 me to 
 
 Another axiom — That if poetry comes 
 not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it 
 had better not come at all. — However it 
 may be with me, I cannot help looking into 
 new countries with ' O for a Muse of Fire to 
 ascend ! ' If Endymion serves me as a 
 pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content — I 
 have great reason to be content, for thank 
 God I can read, and perhaps understand 
 Shakspeare to his depths; and I have I am 
 sure many friends, who, if I fail, will attri- 
 bute any change in my life and temper to 
 humbleness rather than pride — to a cower- 
 ing under the wings of great poets, rather 
 than to a bitterness that I am not appre- 
 ciated. I am anxious to get Endymion 
 printed that I may forget it and proceed. 
 1 have copied the 3rd Book and begun the 
 4th. On running my eye over the proofs, 
 I saw one mistake — I will notice it pre- 
 sently, and also any others, if there be any. 
 There should be no comma in ' the raft 
 branch down sweeping from a tall ash-top.' 
 I have besides made one or two alterations, 
 
290 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 and also altered the thirteenth line p. 32 to 
 make sense of it, as you will see. I will 
 take care the printer shall not trip up my 
 heels. There should be no dash after 
 Dryope, in the line ' Dryope's lone lulling 
 of her child.' 
 
 Remember me to Percy Street. 
 Your sincere and obliged friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 P. S. — You shall have a short preface 
 in good time. 
 
 39. TO MESSRS. TAYLOK AND HESSEY 
 
 Hampstead, March [1818 ?] 
 My dear Sirs — I am this morning 
 making a general clearance of all lent 
 Books — all — I am afraid I do not return 
 all — I must fog your memories about them 
 — however with many thanks here are the 
 remainder — which I am afraid are not 
 worth so much now as they were six months 
 ago — I mean the fashions may have 
 changed — 
 
 Yours truly John Keats. 
 
 40. TO benjamin bailey 
 
 Teignmouth, Friday [March 13, 1818]. 
 My dear Bailey — When a poor devil 
 is drowning, it is said he comes thrice to 
 the surface ere he makes his final sink — if 
 however even at the third rise he can man- 
 age to catch hold of a piece of weed or 
 rock he stands a fair chance, as I hope I do 
 now, of being saved. I have sunk twice in 
 our corresijoudence, have risen twice, and 
 have been too idle, or something worse, to 
 extricate myself. I have sunk the third 
 time, and just now risen again at this two 
 of the Clock p. m., and saved myself 
 from utter perdition by beginning this, all 
 drenched as I am, and fresh from the water. 
 And I would rather endure the present in- 
 convenience of a wet jacket than you should 
 keep a laced one in store for me. Why did 
 I not stop at Oxford in my way ? How 
 can you ask such a Question ? Why, did 
 
 I not promise to do so ? Did I not in a 
 letter to you make a promise to do so ? 
 Then how can you be so unreasonable as to 
 ask me why I did not ? This is the thing 
 
 — (for I have been rubbing up my Inven- 
 tion — trying several sleights — I first pol- 
 ished a cold, felt it in my fingers, tried it 
 on the table, but could not pocket it: — I 
 tried Chillblains, Rheumatism, Gout, tight 
 boots, — nothing of that sort would do, — 
 so this is, as I was going to say, the thing) 
 
 — I bad a letter from Tom, saying how 
 much better he had got, and thinking he 
 had better stop — I went down to prevent 
 his coming up. Will not this do ? turn 
 it which way you like — it is selvaged all 
 round. I have used it, these three last 
 days, to keep out the abominable Devon- 
 shire weather — by the by, you may say 
 what you will of Devonshire : the truth is, 
 it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy, 
 haily, floody, muddy, slipshod county. The 
 hills are very beautiful, when you get a 
 sight of 'em — the primroses are out, but 
 then you are in — the Cliffs are of a tine 
 deep colour, but then the Clouds are con- 
 tinually vieing with them — the Women 
 like your London people in a sort of neg- 
 ative way — because the native men are 
 the poorest creatures in England — because 
 Government never have thought it worth 
 while to send a recruiting party among 
 them. When I think of Wordsworth's 
 sonnet 'Vanguard of Liberty ! ye men of 
 Kent ! ' the degenerated race about me 
 are Pulvis ipecac, simplex — a strong dose. 
 Were I a corsair, I 'd make a descent 
 on the south coast of Devon; if I did 
 not run the chance of having Cowardice 
 imputed to me. As for the men, they'd 
 run away into the Methodist meeting- 
 houses, and the women would be glad of it. 
 Had England been a large Devonshire, we 
 should not have won the Battle of Waterloo. 
 There are knotted oaks — there are lusty 
 rivulets ? there are meadows such as are 
 not — there are valleys of feminine [ ?] 
 climate — but there are no thews and 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 291 
 
 sinews — Moor's Almanack is here a Curi- 
 osity — Arms, neck, and shoulders may at 
 least be seen there, and the ladies read it 
 as some out-of-the-way Romance. Such a 
 quelling Power have these thoughts over 
 me that I fancy the very air of a deterio- 
 rating quality. I fancy the flowers, all 
 precocious, have an Acrasian spell about 
 them — I feel able to beat off the Devon- 
 shire waves like soapfroth. I think it well 
 for the honour of Britain that Julius Csesar 
 did not first land in this County. A Devon- 
 shirer standing on his native hills is not a 
 distinct object — he does not show against 
 the light — a wolf or two would dispossess 
 him. I like, I love England. I like its 
 living men — give me a long brown plain 
 ' for my morning,' [money ?] so I may meet 
 with some of Edmund Ironside's descend- 
 ants. Give me a barren mould, so I may 
 meet with some shadowing of Alfred in the 
 shape of a Gipsy, a huntsman or a shep- 
 herd. Scenery is fine — but human nature 
 is finer — the sward is richer for the tread 
 of a real nervous English foot — the Eagle's 
 nest is finer, for the Mountaineer has looked 
 into it. Are these facts or prejudices ? 
 Whatever they be, for them I shall never 
 be able to relish entirely any Devonshire 
 scenery — Homer is fine, Achilles is fine, 
 Diomed is fine, Shakspeare is fine, Hamlet 
 is fine, Lear is fine, but dwindled English- 
 men are not fine. Where too the women 
 are so passable, and have such English 
 names, such as Ophelia, Cordelia etc. that 
 they should have such Paramours or rather 
 Imparamours — As for them, I cannot in 
 thought help wishing, as did the cruel 
 Emperor, that they had but one head, and 
 I might cut it off to deliver them from any 
 horrible Courtesy they may do their un- 
 deserving countrymen. I wonder I meet 
 with no born monsters — O Devonshire, last 
 night I thought the moon had dwindled in 
 
 heaven 
 
 I have never had your Sermon from 
 Wordsworth, but Mr. Dilke lent it me. 
 You know my ideas about Religion. I do 
 
 not think myself more in the right than 
 other people, and that nothing in this world 
 is proveable. I wish I could enter into all 
 your feelings on the subject, merely for one 
 short 10 minutes, and give you a page or 
 two to your liking. I am sometimes so 
 very sceptical as to think Poetry itself a 
 mere Jack o' Lantern to amuse whoever 
 may chance to be struck with its brilliance. 
 As tradesmen say everything is worth what 
 it will fetch, so probably every mental pur- 
 suit takes its reality and worth from the 
 ardour of the pursuer — being in itself a 
 Nothing. Ethereal things may at least be 
 thus real, divided under three heads — 
 Things real — things semireal — and no- 
 things. Things real, such as existences of 
 Sun moon and Stars — and passages of 
 Shakspeare. — Things semireal, such as 
 love, the clouds etc., which require a greet- 
 ing of the Spirit to make them wholly exist 
 — and Nothings, which are made great and 
 dignified by an ardent pursuit — which, by 
 the by, stamp the Burgundy mark on the 
 bottles of our minds, insomuch as they are 
 able to ' consecrate wliate'er they look upon.' 
 I have written a sonnet here of a somewhat 
 collateral nature — so don't imagine it an 
 'apropos des bottes ' — 
 
 [The sonnet is that entitled 'The Human 
 Seasons,' given on p. 44.] 
 
 Aye, this may be carried — but what am 
 I talking of ? — it is an old maxim of mine, 
 and of course must be well known, that 
 every point of thought is the Centre of an 
 intellectual world. The two uppermost 
 thoughts in a Man's mind are the two poles 
 of his world — he revolves on them, and 
 everything is Southward or Northward to 
 him through their means. — W^e take but 
 three steps from feathers to iron. — Now, 
 my dear fellow, I must once for all tell 
 you I have not one idea of the truth of any 
 of my speculations — I shall never be a 
 reasoner, because I care not to be in the 
 right, when retired from bickering and in 
 a proper philosophical temper. So you 
 
292 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 must not stare if in any future letter, I en- 
 deavour to prove that Apollo, as he had 
 catgut strings to his lyre, used a cat's paw 
 as a pecten — and further from said Pecten's 
 reiterated and continual teasing caine the 
 term hen-pecked. My Brother Tom desires 
 to be remembered to you; he has just this 
 moment had a spitting of blood, poor fellow 
 
 — Remember me to Gleig and Whitehead. 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 41. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Teignmouth, Saturday [March 14, 1818]. 
 Dear Reynolds — I escaped being 
 blown over and blown under and trees and 
 house being toppled on me. — I have since 
 hearing of Brown's accident had an aver- 
 sion to a dose of parapet, and being also a 
 lover of antiquities I would sooner have a 
 harmless piece of Herculaueum sent me 
 quietly as a present than ever so modern a 
 chimney-pot tumbled on to my head — 
 Being agog to see some Devonshire, I would 
 have taken a walk the first day, but the rain 
 would not let me; and the second, but the 
 rain would not let me; and the third, but 
 the rain forbade it. Ditto 4 — ditto 5 — 
 ditto — so I made up my Mind to stop in- 
 doors, and catch a sight flying between the 
 showers: and, behold I saw a pretty valley 
 
 — pretty cliffs, pretty Brooks, pretty Mead- 
 ows, pretty trees, both standing as they 
 were created, and blown down as they are 
 uncreated — The green is beautiful, as they 
 say, and pity it is that it is amphibious — 
 mais ! but alas ! the flowers here wait as 
 naturally for the rain twice a day as the 
 Mussels do for the Tide; so we look upon 
 a brook in these parts as you look upon a 
 splash in your Country. There must be 
 something to support this — aye, fog, hail, 
 snow, rain, Mist blanketing up three parts 
 of the year. This Devonshire is like Lydia 
 Languish, very entertaining when it smiles, 
 but cursedly subject to sympathetic mois- 
 ture. You have the sensation of walking 
 under one great Lamplighter: and you 
 
 can't go on the other side of the ladder to 
 keep your frock clean, and cosset your 
 superstition. Buy a girdle — put a pebble 
 in your mouth — loosen your braces — for I 
 am going among scenery whence I intend 
 to tip you the Damosel Radcliffe — I '11 
 cavern you, and grotto you, and waterfall 
 you, and wood you, and water you, and 
 immense-rock you, and tremendous-sound 
 you, and solitude you. I '11 make a lodg- 
 ment on your glacis by a row of Pines, and 
 storm your covered way with bramble 
 Bushes. I '11 have at you with hip and 
 haw small-shot, and cannonade you with 
 Shingles — I '11 be witty upon salt-fish, and 
 impede your cavalry with clotted cream. 
 But ah Coward ! to talk at this rate to a 
 sick man, or, I hope, to one that was sick 
 — for I hope by this you stand on your 
 right foot. If you are not — that 's all, — 
 I intend to cut all sick people if they do not 
 make up their minds to cut Sickness — a 
 fellow to whom I have a complete aversion, 
 and who strange to say is harboured and 
 countenanced in several houses where I 
 visit — he is sitting now quite impudent 
 between me and Tom — He insults me at 
 poor Jem Rice's — and you have seated him 
 before now between us at the Theatre, 
 when I thought he looked with a longing 
 eye at poor Kean. I shall say, once for all, 
 to my friends generally and severally, cut 
 that fellow, or I cut you — 
 
 I went to the Theatre here the other 
 night, which I forgot to tell George, and 
 got insulted, which I ought to remember 
 to forget to tell any Body; for I did not 
 fight, and as yet have had no redress — 
 ' Lie thou there, sweetheart ! ' I wrote to 
 Bailey yesterday, obliged to speak in a high 
 way, and a damme who 's afraid — for I 
 had owed him so long; however, he shall see 
 I will be better in future. Is he in town 
 yet ? I have directed to Oxford as the 
 better tjhance. I have copied my fourth 
 Book, and shall write the Preface soon. I 
 wish it was all done; for I want to forget 
 it and make my mind free for something 
 
TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY 
 
 293 
 
 new — Atkins the Coachman, Bartlett the 
 Surgeon, Simmons the Barber, and the Girls 
 over at the Bonuetshop, say we shall now 
 have a month of seasonable weather — 
 warm, witty, and full of invention — Write 
 to me and tell me that you are well or 
 thereabouts, or by the holy Beaucceur, 
 which I suppose is the Virgin Mary, or the 
 repented Magdalen (beautiful name, that 
 Magdalen), I '11 take to my Wings and fly 
 away to anywhere but old or Nova Scotia 
 
 — I wish I had a little innocent bit of 
 Metaphysic in my head, to criss-cross the 
 letter: but you know a favourite tune is 
 hardest to be remembered when one wants 
 it most and you, I know, have long ere this 
 taken it for granted that I never have any 
 speculations ^vithout associating you in 
 them, where they are of a pleasant nature, 
 and you know enough of me to tell the 
 places where I haunt most, so that if you 
 think for five minutes after having read 
 this, you will find it a long letter, and see 
 written in the Air above you. 
 
 Your most affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 Remember me to all. Tom's remem- 
 brances to you. 
 
 42. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. 
 
 My DEAR Haydon — In sooth, I hope 
 
 you are not too sanguine about that seal ^^ 
 
 — in sooth I hope it is not Brumidgeum — 
 in double sooth I hope it is his — and in 
 triple sooth I hope I shall have an impres- 
 sion. Such a piece of intelligence came 
 doubly welcome to me while in your own 
 County and in your own hand — not but I 
 have blown up the said County for its urinal 
 qualifications — the six first days I was 
 here it did nothing but rain; and at that 
 time having to write to a friend I gave 
 Devonshire a good blowing up — it has 
 been fine for almost three days, and I was 
 coming round a bit; but to-day it rains 
 again — with me the County is yet upon its 
 
 good behaviour. I have enjoyed the most 
 delightful Walks these three fine days 
 beautiful enough to make me content here 
 all the summer could I stay. 
 
 [Here follow the verses 'At Teignmouth,' 
 given above, p. 242.] 
 
 I know not if this rhyming fit has done 
 anything — it will be safe with you if 
 worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here 's 
 some doggrel for you — Perhaps you would 
 like a bit of b hrell — 
 
 [' The Devon Maid,' see above, p. 243.] 
 
 How does the work go on ? I should 
 like to bring out my ' Dentatus ' ^* at the 
 time your Epic makes its appearance. I 
 expect to have my Mind soon clear for 
 something new. Tom has been much worse: 
 but is now getting better — his remem- 
 brances to you. I think of seeing the Dart 
 and Plymouth — but I don't know. It has 
 as yet been a Mystery to me how and where 
 Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking 
 he has returned to his Shell — with his 
 beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. 
 It is a great Pity that People should by 
 associating themselves with the finest things, 
 spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead 
 and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. 
 Wordsworth has damned the lakes — Mil- 
 man has damned the old drama — West 
 
 has damned wholesale. Peacock has 
 
 damned satire — Oilier has damn'd Music 
 — Hazlitt has damned the bigoted and the 
 blue-stockinged; how durst the Man? he is 
 your only good damner, and if ever I am 
 damn'd — damn me if I should n't like him 
 to damn me. It will not be long ere I see 
 you, but I thought I would just give you a 
 line out of Devon. 
 
 Yours affectionately John Keats. 
 
 Remember me to all we know. 
 
 43. TO 5IESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY 
 
 Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Sirs — I had no idea of your 
 
 getting on so fast — I thought of bringing 
 
294 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 my 4th Book to Town all in good time for 
 you — especially after the late unfortunate 
 chance. 
 
 I did not however for my own sake delay 
 finishing the copy which was done a few 
 days after my arrival here. I send it off 
 to-day, and will tell you in a Postscript at 
 what time to send for it from the Bull and 
 Mouth or other Inn. You will find the 
 Preface and dedication and the title Page 
 as I should wish it to stand — for a Ro- 
 mance is a fine thing notwithstanding the 
 circulating Libraries. My respects to Mrs. 
 Hessey and to Percy Street. 
 
 Yours very sincerely John Keats. 
 
 P. S. — I have been advised to send it to 
 you — you may expect it on Monday — for 
 I sent it by the Postman to Exeter at the 
 same time with this Letter. Adieu ! 
 
 44. TO JAMBS RICE 
 
 Teignmouth, Tuesday [March 24, 1818]. 
 My dear Rice — Being in the midst of 
 your favourite Devon, I should not, by 
 rights, pen one word but it should contain 
 a vast portion of Wit, Wisdom and learn- 
 ing — for I have heard that Milton ere he 
 wrote his answer to Salmasius came into 
 these parts, and for one whole month, 
 rolled himself for three whole hours (per 
 day ?), in a certain meadow hard by us — 
 where the mark of his nose at equidistances 
 is still shown. The exhibitor of the said 
 meadow further saith, that, after these 
 rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the 
 seven acres for seven years, and that from 
 the said time, a new sort of plant was made 
 from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, 
 very much used by the bucks of the present 
 day to rap their boots withal. This account 
 made me very naturally suppose that the 
 nettles and thorns etherealised by the 
 scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in 
 his head, thence flew after a process of fer- 
 mentation against the Itickless Salmasius 
 and occasioned his well-known and unhappy 
 end. What a happy thing it would be if 
 
 we could settle our thoughts and make our 
 minds up on any matter in five minutes, 
 and remain content — that is, build a sort 
 of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and 
 pleasant — to have a sort of philosophical 
 back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping 
 front one — but alas! this never can be: 
 for as the material cottager knows there 
 are such places as France and Italy, and 
 the Andes and burning mountains, so the 
 spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the 
 terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and 
 cannot for his life keep in the check-rein — 
 or I should stop here quiet and comforta- 
 ble in my theory of nettles. You will see, 
 however, I am obliged to run wild being 
 attracted by the load-stone concatenation. 
 No sooner had I settled the knotty point 
 of Salmasius, than the Devil put this whim 
 into my head in the likeness of one of 
 Pythagoras's questionings — Did Milton do 
 more good or harm in the world ? He 
 wrote, let me inform you (for I have it 
 
 from a friend, who had it of ,) he 
 
 wrote Lycidas, Comus, Paradise Lost and 
 other Poems, with much delectable prose — 
 He was moreover an active friend to man 
 all his life, and has been since his death. — 
 Very good — but, my dear Fellow, I must 
 let you know that, as there is ever the same 
 quantity of matter constituting this habit- 
 able globe — as the ocean notwithstanding 
 the enormous changes and revolutions tak- 
 ing place in some or other of its demesnes 
 — notwithstanding Waterspouts whirlpools 
 and mighty rivers emptying themselves into 
 it — still is made up of the same bulk, nor 
 ever varies the number of its atoms — and 
 as a certain bulk of water was instituted at 
 the creation — so very likely a certain por- 
 tion of intellect was spun forth into the thin 
 air, for the brains of man to prey upon it. 
 Yoii will see my drift without any unneces- 
 sary parenthesis. That which is contained 
 in the Pacific could not lie in the hollow of 
 the Caspian — that which was in Milton's 
 head could not find room in Charles the 
 Second's — He like a moon attracted intel- 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 295 
 
 lect to its flow — it has not ebbed yet, but 
 has left the shore-pebbles all bare — I 
 mean all Bucks, Authors of Hengist, and 
 Castlereaghs of the present day; who with- 
 out Milton's gormandising might have been 
 all wise men — Now forasmuch as I was 
 very predisposed to a country I had heard 
 you speak so highly of, I took particular 
 notice of everything during my journey, 
 and have bought some folio asses' skins for 
 memorandums. I have seen everything 
 but the wind — and that, they say, becomes 
 visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleep- 
 ing one night in a hog-trough, with your 
 tail to the Sow-Sow- West. Some of the 
 little Bar-maids look'd at me as if I knew 
 Jem Rice, — but when I took (cherry ?) 
 Brandy they were quite convinced. One 
 asked whether you preserved (?) a secret 
 she gave you on the nail — Another, how 
 many buttons of your coat were buttoned 
 in general. — I told her it used to be four 
 — But since you had become acquainted 
 with one Martin you had reduced it to 
 three, and had been turning this third one 
 in your mind — and would do so with finger 
 and thumb only you had taken to snuff. I 
 have met with a brace or twain of little 
 Long-heads — not a bit o' the German. All 
 in the neatest little dresses, and avoiding 
 all the puddles, but very fond of pepper- 
 mint drops, laming ducks and . . . Well, I 
 can't tell ! I hope you are showing poor 
 Reynolds the way to get well. Send me a 
 good account of him, and if I can, I '11 send 
 you one of Tom — Oh ! for a day and all 
 well! 
 
 I went yesterday to Dawlish fair. 
 
 Over the Hill and over the Dale, 
 And over the Bourne to Dawlish, 
 
 Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale, 
 And ginger-bread nuts are smallish, etc. etc. 
 
 all. 
 
 Tom's remembrances and mine to you 
 
 Your sincere friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 45. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [Teignmouth, March 25, 1818.] 
 My dear Reynolds — In hopes of 
 cheering you through a Minute or two, I 
 was determined will he nill he to send you 
 some lines, so you will, excuse the uncon- 
 nected subject and careless verse. You 
 know, I am sure, Claude's Enchanted Cas- 
 tle,^^ and I wish you may be pleased with 
 my remembrance of it. The Rain is come 
 on again — I think with me Devonshire 
 stands a very poor chance. I shall damn 
 it up hill and down dale, if it keep up to 
 the average of six fine days in three weeks. 
 Let me have better news of you. 
 
 Tom's remembrances to you. Remember 
 us to all. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, John Keats. 
 
 [The letter concludes with the lines given on 
 p. 241.] 
 
 4G. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wednesday, [Teignmouth, Aprils, 1818]. 
 My dear Haydon — I am glad you 
 were pleased with my nonsense, and if it so 
 happen that the humour takes me when I 
 have set down to prose to you I will not 
 gainsay it. I should be (God forgive me) 
 ready to swear because I cannot make use 
 of your assistance in going through Devon 
 if I was not in my own Mind determined to 
 visit it thoroughly at some more favourable 
 time of the year. But now Tom (who is 
 getting greatly better) is anxious to be in 
 Town — therefore I put off my threading the 
 County. I purpose within a month to put 
 my knapsack at my back and make a pedes- 
 trian tour through the North of England, 
 and part of Scotland — to make a sort of 
 Prologue to the Life I intend to pursue 
 — that is to write, to study and to see 
 all Europe at the lowest expence. I will 
 clamber through the Clouds and exist. I 
 will get such an accumulation of stupendous 
 recollections that as I walk through the 
 suburbs of London I may not see them — I 
 
296 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 will stand upon Mount Blanc and remember 
 this coming Summer when I intend to 
 straddle Ben Lomond — with my soul ! — 
 galligaskins are out of the Question. I am 
 nearer myself to hear your ' Christ ' is 
 being tinted into immortality. Believe me 
 Haydon your picture is part of myself — I 
 have ever been too sensible of the laby- 
 rinthian path to eminence in Art (judging 
 from Poetry) ever to think I understood 
 the emphasis of painting. The innumerable 
 compositions and decompositions which take 
 place between the intellect and its thousand 
 materials before it ari'ives at that trem- 
 bling delicate and snail-horn perception of 
 beauty. I know not your many havens of 
 intenseness — nor ever can know them: 
 but for this I hope not [sic nought ?] you 
 achieve is lost upon me: for when a School- 
 boy the abstract Idea I had of an heroic 
 painting — was what I cannot describe. I 
 saw it somewhat sideways, large, promi- 
 nent, round, and colour'd with magnifi- 
 cence — somewhat like the feel I have of 
 Anthony and Cleopatra. Or of Alcibiades 
 leaning on his Crimson Couch in his Galley, 
 his broad shoulders imperceptibly heaving 
 with the Sea. That passage in Shakspeare 
 is finer than this — 
 
 ' See how the surly Warwick mans the Wall.' 
 
 I like your consignment of Corneille — 
 that's the humour of it — they shall be 
 called your Posthumous Works.^^ I don't 
 understand your bit of Italian. I hope she 
 will awake from her dream and flourish fair 
 — my respects to her. The Hedges by this 
 time are beginning to leaf — Cats are becom- 
 ing more vociferous — young Ladies who 
 wear Watches are always looking at them. 
 Women about forty-five think the Season 
 very backward — Ladies' Mares have but 
 half an allowance of food. It rains here 
 again, has been doing so for three days — 
 however as I told you I '11 take a trial in 
 June, July, or August next year. 
 
 I am afraid Wordsworth went rather 
 huffd out of Town — I am sorry for it — 
 
 he cannot expect his fireside Divan to be 
 infallible — he cannot expect but that every 
 man of worth is as proud as himself. O 
 that he had not fit with a Warrener — that 
 is dined at Kingston's. I shall be in town 
 in about a fortnight and then we will have 
 a day or so now and then before I set out 
 on my northern expedition — we will have 
 no more abominable Rows — for they leave 
 one in a fearful silence — having settled 
 the Methodists let us be rational — not 
 upon compulsion — no — if it will out let it 
 — but I will not play the Bassoon any more 
 deliberately. Remember me to Hazlitt, and 
 Bewick — 
 
 Your affectionate friend, John Keats. 
 
 47. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 
 
 Thy. morng., [Teignmouth, April 9, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Reynolds — Since you all 
 agree that the thing [the first preface to 
 Endymioii] is bad, it must be so — though I 
 am not aware there is anything like Hunt 
 in it (and if there is, it is my natural way, 
 and I have something in common with 
 Hunt). Look it over again, and examine 
 into the motives, the seeds, from which any 
 one sentence sprung — I have not the slight- 
 est feel of humility towards the public — or 
 to anything in existence, — but the eternal 
 Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the 
 Memory of great Men. When I am writ- 
 ing for myself for the mere sake of the 
 moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its 
 course with me — but a Preface is written 
 to the Public; a thing I cannot help look- 
 ing upon as an Enemy, and which I cannot 
 address without feelings of Hostility. If I 
 write a Preface in a supple or subdued 
 style, it will not be in character with me 
 as a public speaker — I would be subdued 
 before my friends, and thank them for sub- 
 duing me — but among Multitudes of Men 
 — I have no feel of stooping, I hate the 
 idea of humility to them. 
 
 I never wrote one single Line of Poetry 
 with the least Shadow of public thought. 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 297 
 
 Forgive me for vexing you and making a 
 Trojan horse of such a Trifle, both with 
 respect to the matter in Question, and my- 
 self — but it eases me to tell you — I could 
 no<; live without the love of my friends — I 
 would jump down iEtna for any great Public 
 good — but I hate a Mawkish Popularity. 
 I cannot be subdued before them — My 
 glory would be to daunt and dazzle the 
 thousand jabberers about Pictures and 
 Books — I see swarms of Porcupines with 
 their Quills erect 'like lime-twigs set to 
 catch my Winged Book,' and I would fright 
 them away with a torch. You will say my 
 Tr> iface is not much of a Torch. It would 
 ha iC been too insulting ' to begin from 
 Jove,' and I could not set a golden head 
 upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault 
 in the Preface it is not affectation, but an 
 undersong of disrespect to the Public — if 
 I write another Preface it must be done 
 without a thought of those people — I will 
 think about it. If it should not reach you 
 in four or five days, tell Taylor to publish 
 it without a Preface, and let the Dedica- 
 tion simply stand — * inscribed to the Mem- 
 ory of Thomas Chatterton.' 
 
 I had resolved last night to write to you 
 this morning — I wish it had been about 
 something else — something to greet you 
 towards the close of your long illness. I 
 have had one or two intimations of your 
 going to Hampstead for a space; and I 
 regret to see your confounded Rheumatism 
 keeps you in Little Britain where I am 
 sure the air is too confined. Devonshire 
 continues rainy. As the drops beat against 
 the window, they give me the same sensa- 
 tion as a quart of cold water offered to 
 revive a half-drowned devil — no feel of 
 the clouds dropping fatness; but as if the 
 roots of the earth were rotten, cold, and 
 drenched. I have not been able to go to 
 Kent's cave at Babbicombe — however on 
 one very beautiful day I had a fine Clamber 
 over the rocks all along as far as that place. 
 I shall be in Town in about Ten days — 
 We go by way of Bath on purpose to call 
 
 on Bailey. I hope soon to be writing to 
 you about the things of the north, pur- 
 posing to wayfare all over those parts. I 
 have settled my accoutrements in my own 
 mind, and will go to gorge wonders. How- 
 ever, we '11 have some days together before 
 I set out — 
 
 I have many reasons for going wonder- 
 ways: to make my winter chair free from 
 spleen — to enlarge my vision — to escape 
 disquisitions on Poetry and Kingston Criti- 
 cism; to promote digestion and economise 
 shoe-leather. I'll have leather buttons and 
 belt; and, if Brown holds his mind, over 
 the Hills we go. If my Books will help 
 me to it, then will I take all Europe in 
 turn, and see the Kingdoms of the Earth 
 and the glory of them. Tom is getting 
 better, he hopes you may meet him at the 
 top o' the hill. My Love to your nurses. I 
 am ever 
 
 Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 
 
 48. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Teignmouth,] Friday [April 10, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Reynolds — I am anxious 
 you shoiild find this Preface tolerable. If 
 there is an affectation in it 't is natural to 
 me. Do let the Printer's Devil cook it, and 
 let me be as ' the casing air.' 
 
 You are too good in this Matter — were I 
 in your state, I am certain I should have 
 no thought but of discontent and illness — 
 I might though be taught patience: I had 
 an idea of giving no Preface; however, 
 don't you think this had better go? O, let 
 it — one should not be too timid — of com- 
 mitting faults. 
 
 The climate here weighs us down com- 
 pletely; Tom is quite low-spirited. It is 
 impossible to live in a country which is con- 
 tinually under hatches. Who would live 
 in a region of Mists, Game Laws, indemnity 
 Bills, etc., when there is such a place as 
 Italy ? It is said this England from its 
 Clime produces a Spleen, able to engender 
 the finest Sentiments, and cover the whole 
 
298 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 face of the isle with Green — so it ought, 
 I'm sxire. — I should still like the Dedica- 
 tion simply, as I said in my last. 
 
 I wanted to send you a few songs written 
 in your favorite Devon — it cannot be — 
 Rain ! Rain ! Rain ! I am going this morn- 
 ing to take a facsimile of a Letter of 
 Nelson's, very much to his honour — you 
 will be greatly pleased when you see it — 
 in about a week. What a ^pite it is one 
 cannot get out — the little way I went yes- 
 terday, I found a lane banked on each side 
 with store of Primroses, while the earlier 
 bushes are beginning to leaf. 
 
 I shall hear a good account of you soon. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 
 
 My Love to all and remember me to 
 Taylor. 
 
 49. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Teignmouth, Friday [April 24, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — I think I did wrong 
 to leave to you all the trouble of Endy- 
 mion — But I could not help it then — 
 another time I shall be more bent to all 
 sorts of troubles and disagreeables. Young 
 men for some time have an idea that such 
 a thing as happiness is to be had, and 
 therefore are extremely impatient under 
 any unpleasant restraining. In time how- 
 ever, of such stuff is the world about them, 
 they know better, and instead of striving 
 from uneasiness, greet it as an habitual 
 sensation, a pannier which is to weigh upon 
 them through life — And in proportion to 
 my disgust at the task is my sense of your 
 kindness and anxiety. The book pleased 
 me much. It is very free from faults: and, 
 although there are one or two words I 
 should wish replaced, I see in many places 
 an improvement greatly to the purpose. 
 
 I think those speeches which are related 
 — those parts where the speaker repeats 
 a speech, such as Glaucus's repetition of 
 Circe's words, should have inverted com- 
 mas to every line. In this there is a little 
 confusion. — If we divide the speeches into 
 
 indentical and related; and to the forjoier 
 put merely one inverted Comma at i the 
 beginning and another at the end; and to 
 the latter inverted Commas before every 
 line, the book will be better understood' at 
 the 1st glance. Look at pages 126, 1'27, 
 you will find in the 3d line the beginning 
 of a related speech marked thus ' Ah ! art 
 awake — 'while, at the same time, in the 
 next page the continuation of the indenhcal 
 speech is marked in the same manaer, 
 'Young man of Latmos — ' You will find 
 on the other side all the parts which should 
 have inverted commas to every line. 
 
 I was proposing to travel over the Nc rth 
 this summer. There is but one thing -^ 
 prevent me. — I know nothing — I h; 
 read nothing — and I mean to foll^ 
 Solomon's directions, ' Get learning — get 
 understanding.' I find earlier days are 
 gone by — I find that I can have no enjoy- 
 ment in the world but continual drinking 
 of knowledge. I find there is no worthy 
 pursuit but the idea of doing some good for 
 the world — Some do it with their Society — 
 some with their wit — some with their 
 benevolence — some with a sort of power 
 of conferring pleasure and good-humour on 
 all they meet — and in a thousand ways, all 
 dutiful to the command of great Nature — 
 there is but one way for me. The road lies 
 through application, study, and thought. — 
 I will pursue it; and for that end, purpose 
 retiring for some years. I have been hover- 
 ing for some time between an exquisite 
 sense of the luxurious, and a love for philo- 
 sophy, — were I calculated for the former, 
 I should be glad. But as I am not, I shall 
 turn all my soul to the latter. — My brother 
 Tom is getting better, and I hope I shall 
 see both him and Reynolds better before I 
 retire from the world. I shall see you 
 soon, and have some talk about what Books 
 I shall take with me. 
 
 Your very sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 Pray remember me to Hessey Wood- 
 house and Percy Street. 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 299 
 
 50. TO JOHN HAMILTON KEYNOLDS 
 
 Teignmouth, April 27, 1818. 
 
 My dear Reynolds — It is au awful 
 while since you have heard from me — I 
 hope I may not be punished, when I see 
 you well, and so anxious as you always are 
 for me, with the remembrance of my so 
 seldom writing when you were so horribly 
 confined. The most unhappy hours in our 
 lives are those in whicli we recollect times 
 past to our own blushing — If we are im- 
 mortal that must be the Hell. If I must 
 be immortal, I hope it will be after having 
 taken a little of ' that watery labyrinth ' in 
 order to forget some of my school-boy days 
 and others since those. 
 
 I have heard from George at different 
 times how slowly you were recovering — It 
 is a tedious thing — but all Medical Men 
 will tell you how far a very gradual amend- 
 ment is preferable ; you will be strong after 
 this, never fear. We are here still envel- 
 oped in clouds — I lay awake last night 
 listening to the Rain with a sense of being 
 drowned and rotted like a grain of wheat. 
 There is a continual courtesy between the 
 Heavens and the Earth. The heavens rain 
 down their unwelcomeness, and the Earth 
 sends it up again to be returned to-morx-ow. 
 Tom has taken a fancy to a physician here, 
 Dr. Turton, and I think is getting better — 
 therefore I shall perhaps remain here some 
 Months. I have written to George for 
 some Books — shall learn Greek, and very 
 likely Italian — and in other ways prepare 
 myself to ask Hazlitt in about a year's 
 time the best metaphysical road I can take. 
 For although I take poetry to be Chief, yet 
 there is something else wanting to one who 
 passes his life among Books and thoughts 
 on Books — I long to feast upon old Homer 
 as we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have 
 lately upon Milton. If you understood 
 Greek, and would read me passages, now 
 and then, explaining their meaning, 't woidd 
 be, from its mistiness, perhaps, a greater 
 luxury than reading the thing one's self. I 
 
 shall be happy when I can do the same for 
 you. I have written for my folio Shak- 
 speare, in which there are the first few 
 stanzas of my ' Pot of Basil.' I have the 
 rest here finished, and will copy the whole 
 out fair shortly, and George will bring it 
 you — The compliment is paid by us to 
 Boccace, whether we publish or no: so 
 there is content in this world — mine is 
 short — you must be deliberate about 
 yours: you must not think of it till many 
 months after yon are quite well: — then 
 put your passion to it, and I shall be bound 
 up with you in the shadows of Mind, as we 
 are in our matters of human life. Perhaps 
 a Stanza or two will not be too foreign to 
 your Sickness. 
 
 [Here are inserted stanzas xii., xiii., and xxx.] 
 
 I heard from Rice this morning — very 
 witty — and have just written to Bailey. 
 Don't you think I am brushing up in the 
 letter way ? and being in for it, you shall 
 hear again from me very shortly: — if 
 you will promise not to put hand to paper 
 for me until you can do it with a tolerable 
 ease of health — except it be a line or two. 
 Give my Love to your Mother and Sisters. 
 Remember me to the Butlers — not forget- 
 ting Sarah. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 
 
 51. TO THE SAME 
 
 Teignmouth, May 3d [1818]. 
 My dear Reynolds — What I complain 
 of is that I have been in so uneasy a state 
 of Mind as not to be fit to write to an 
 invalid. I cannot write to any length 
 under a disguised feeling. I should have 
 loaded you with an addition of gloom, which 
 I am- sure you do not want. I am now 
 thank God in a humour to give you a good 
 groat's worth — for Tom, after a Night 
 without a Wink of sleep, and over-bur- 
 thened with fever, has got up after a 
 refreshing day-sleep and is better than he 
 has been for a long time; and you I trust 
 
300 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 have been again round the common without 
 any effect but refreshment. As to the 
 Matter I hope I can say with Sir Andrew 
 ' I have matter enough in my head ' in your 
 favour — And now, in the second place, for 
 I reckon that I have finished my Imprimis, 
 I am glad you blow up the weather — all 
 through your letter there is a leaning to- 
 wards a climate-curse, and you know what 
 a delicate satisfaction there is in having a 
 vexation anathematised: one would think 
 there has been growing up for these last 
 four thousand years, a grand-child Scion 
 of the old forbidden tree, and that some 
 modern Eve had just violated it; and that 
 there was come with double charge 
 
 ' Notus and Af er, black with thundrous clouds 
 From Serraliona — ' 
 
 I shall breathe worsted stockings ^"^ sooner 
 than I thought for — Tom wants to be in 
 Town — we will have some such days upon 
 the heath like that of last summer — and 
 why not with the same book ? or what say 
 you to a black Letter Chaucer, printed in 
 1596: aye I 've got one huzza ! I shall 
 have it bound en gothique — a nice sombre 
 binding — it will go a little way to un- 
 modernise. And also 1 see no reason, 
 because I have been away this last month, 
 why I should not have a peep at your 
 Spenserian — notwithstanding you speak of 
 your office, in my thought a little too early, 
 for I do not see why a Mind like yours is 
 not capable of hai'bouring and digesting 
 the whole Mystery of Law as easily as 
 Parson Hugh does pippins, which did not 
 hinder him from his poetic canary. Were I 
 to study physic or rather Medicine again, 
 I feel it would not make the least differ- 
 ence in my Poetry; when the mind is in its 
 infancy a Bias is in reality a Bias, but when 
 we have acquired more strength, a Bias 
 becomes no Bias. Every department of 
 Knowledge we see excellent and calculated 
 towards a great whole — I am so convinced 
 of this that I am glad at not having given 
 away my medical Books, which I shall 
 
 again look over to keep alive the little I 
 know thitherwards; and moreover intend 
 through you and Rice to become a sort 
 of pip-civilian. An extensive knowledge 
 is needful to thinking people — it takes 
 away the heat and fever; and helps, by 
 widening speculation, to ease the Burden 
 of the Mystery, a thing which I begin to 
 understand a little, and which weighed 
 upon you in the most gloomy and true 
 sentence in your Letter. The difference of 
 high Sensations with and without know- 
 ledge appears to me this: in the latter case 
 we are falling continually ten thousand 
 fathoms deep and being blown up again, 
 without wings, and with all horror of a 
 bare-shouldered Creature — in the former 
 case, our shoulders are fledged, and we go 
 through the same air and space without 
 fear. This is running one's rigs on the 
 score of abstracted benefit — when we come 
 to human Life and the affections, it is im- 
 possible to know how a parallel of breast 
 and head can be drawn (you will forgive 
 me for thus privately treading out of my 
 depth, and take it for treading as school- 
 boys tread the water) ; it is impossible to 
 know how far knowledge will console us 
 for the death of a friend, and the ill ' that 
 flesh is heir to.' With respect to the affec- 
 tions and Poetry you must know by a sym- 
 pathy my thoughts that way, and I daresay 
 these few lines will be but a ratification: 
 I wrote them on Mayday — and intend to 
 finish the ode all in good time — 
 
 ' Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia ! ' 
 [See p. 119.] 
 
 You may perhaps be anxious to know for 
 fact to what sentence in your Letter I 
 allude. You say, ' I fear there is little 
 chance of anything else in this life ' — you 
 seem by that to have been going through 
 with a more painful and acute zest the 
 same labyrinth that I have — I have come 
 to the same conclusion thus far. My 
 Branchings out therefrom have been nu- 
 merous: one of them is the consideration 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 301 
 
 of Wordsworth's genius and as a help, in 
 the manner of gold being the meridian 
 Line of worldlj' wealth, how he differs 
 from Milton. And here I have nothing 
 but surmises, from an uncertainty whether 
 Milton's apparently less anxiety for Hu- 
 manity proceeds from his seeing further or 
 not than Wordsworth: And whether Words- 
 worth has in truth epic passion, and mar- 
 tyrs himself to the human heart, the main 
 region of his song. In regard to his genius 
 alone — we find what he says true as far 
 as we have experienced, and we can judge 
 no further but by larger experience — for 
 axioms in philosophy are not axioms until 
 they are proved upon our pulses. We read 
 fine things, but never feel them to the full 
 until we have gone the same steps as the 
 author. — I know this is not plain; you will 
 know exactly my meaning when I say that 
 now I shall relish Hamlet more than I ever 
 have done — Or, better — you are sensi- 
 ble no man can set down Venery as a bes- 
 tial or joyless thing until he is sick of it, 
 and therefore all philosophising on it would 
 be mere wording. UntQ we are sick, we 
 understand not; in fine, as Byron says, 
 'Knowledge is sorrow '; and I go on to say 
 that ' Sorrow is wisdom ' — and further for 
 aught we can know for certainty ' Wisdom 
 is folly ' — So you see how I have run 
 away from Wordsworth and Milton, and 
 shall still run away from what was in my 
 head, to observe, that some kind of letters 
 are good squares, others handsome ovals, 
 and other some orbicular, others spheroid 
 — and why should not there be another 
 species with two rough edges like a Rat- 
 trap ? I hope you will find all my long 
 letters of that species, and all will be well; 
 for by merely touching the spring delicately 
 and ethereally, the rough-edged will fly 
 immediately into a proper compactness; 
 and thus you may make a good wholesome 
 loaf, with your own leaven in it, of my 
 fragments — If you cannot find this said 
 Rat-trap sufficiently tractable, alas for me, 
 it being an impossibility in grain for my ink 
 
 to stain otherwise : If I scribble long letters 
 I must play my vagaries — I must be too 
 heavy, or too light, for whole pages — I 
 must be quaint and free of Tropes and 
 figures — I must play my draughts as I 
 please, and for my advantage and your 
 erudition, crown a white with a black, or a 
 black with a white, and move into black or 
 white, far and near as I please — I must go 
 from Hazlitt to Patmore, and make Words- 
 worth and Coleman play at leap-frog, or 
 keep one of them down a whole half- 
 holiday at fly-the-garter — ' From Gray to 
 Gay, from Little to Shakspeare.' Also as 
 a long cause requires two or more sittings 
 of the Court, so a long letter will require 
 two or more sittings of the Breech, where- 
 fore I shall resume after dinner — 
 
 Have you not seen a Gull, an ore, a Sea- 
 Mew, or anything to bring this Line to a 
 proper length, and also fill up this clear 
 part ; that like the Gull I may dip * — 
 I hope, not out of sight — and also, like a 
 Gull, I hope to be lucky in a good-sized 
 fish — This crossing a letter is not without 
 its association — for chequer-work leads us 
 naturally to a Milkmaid, a Milkmaid to 
 Hogarth, Hogarth to Shakspeare — Shak- 
 speare to Hazlitt — Hazlitt to Shakspeare 
 
 — and thus by merely pulling an apron- 
 string we set a pretty peal of Chimes at 
 work — Let them chime on while, with 
 your patience, I will return to Wordsworth 
 
 — whether or no he has an extended vision 
 or a circumscribed grandeur — whether he 
 is an eagle in his nest or on the wing — 
 And to be more explicit and to show you 
 how tall I stand by the giant, I will put 
 down a simile of human life as far as I 
 now perceive it; that is, to the point to 
 which I say we both have arrived at — 
 Well — I compare human life to a large 
 Mansion of Many apartments, two of which 
 I can only describe, the doors of the rest 
 
 * The crossing of the letter, begun at the 
 words 'Have you not,' here dips into the ori- 
 ginal writing. 
 
302 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 being as yet shut upon me — The first we 
 step into we call the infant or thoughtless 
 Chamber, in which we remain as long as 
 we do not think — We remain there a long 
 while, and notwithstanding the doors of the 
 second Chamber remain wide open, showing 
 a bright appearance, we care not to hasten 
 to it; but are at length imperceptibly im- 
 pelled by the awakening of the thinking 
 principle within us — we no sooner get into 
 the second Chamber, which I shall call the 
 Chamber of Maiden-Thought, than we be- 
 come intoxicated with the light and the 
 atmosphere, we see nothing but pleasant 
 wonders, and think of delaying there for 
 ever in delight: However among the effects 
 this breathing is father of is that tre- 
 mendous one of sharpening one's vision 
 into the heart and nature of Man — of con- 
 vincing one's nerves that the world is full 
 of Misery and Heart-break, Pain, Sickness, 
 and oppression — whereby this Chamber 
 of Maiden - Thought becomes gradually 
 darkened, and at the same time, on all 
 sides of it, many doors are set open — but 
 all dark — all leading to dark passages — 
 We see not the balance of good and evil 
 — we are in a mist — we are now in that 
 state — We feel the ' burden of the Mys- 
 tery.' To this point was Wordsworth come, 
 as far as I can conceive, when he wrote 
 ' Tintern Abbey,' and it seems to me that 
 his Genius is explorative of those dark 
 Passages. Now if we live, and go on think- 
 ing, we too shall explore them — He is a 
 genius and superior to us, in so far as he 
 can, more than we, make discoveries and 
 shed a light in them — Here I must think 
 Wordsworth is deeper than Milton, though 
 I think it has depended more upon the gen- 
 eral and gregarious advance of intellect, 
 than individual greatness of Mind — From 
 the Paradise Lost and the other Works of 
 Milton, I hope it is not too presuming, even 
 between ourselves, to say, that his philoso- 
 phy, human and divine, may be tolerably 
 understood by one not much advanced in 
 years. In his time. Englishmen were just 
 
 emancipated from a great superstition, and 
 Men had got hold of certain points and 
 resting-places in reasoning which were too 
 newly born to be doubted, and too much 
 opposed by the Mass of Europe not to be 
 thought ethereal and authentically divine 
 — Who could gainsay his ideas on virtue, 
 vice, and Chastity in Comus, just at the 
 time of the dismissal of a hundred dis- 
 graces ? who would not rest satisfied with 
 his hintings at good and evil in the Paradise 
 Lost, when just free from the Inquisition 
 and burning in Smithfield ? The Reforma- 
 tion produced such immediate and great 
 benefits, that Protestantism was considered 
 under the immediate eye of heaven, and its 
 own remaining Dogmas and superstitions 
 then, as it were, regenerated, constituted 
 those resting-places and seeming sure points 
 of Reasoning — from that I have men- 
 tioned, Milton, whatever he may have 
 thought in the sequel, appears to have been 
 content with these by his writings — He 
 did not think into the human heart as 
 Wordsworth has done — Yet Milton as a 
 Philosopher had sure as great powers as 
 Wordsworth — What is then to be in- 
 ferred ? (J many things — It proves there 
 is really a grand march of intellect, — It 
 proves that a mighty providence subdues 
 the mightiest Minds to the service of the 
 time being, whether it be in human Know- 
 ledge or Religion. I have often pitied a 
 tutor who has to hear 'Nom. Musa' so 
 often dinn'd into his ears — I hope you 
 may not have the same pain in this scrib- 
 bling — I may have read these things 
 before, but I never had even a thus dim 
 perception of them; and moreover I like to 
 say my lesson to one who will endure my 
 tediousness for my own sake — After all 
 there is certainly something real in the 
 world — Moore's present to Hazlitt is real 
 
 — I like that Moore, and am glad I saw 
 him at the Theatre just before I left Town. 
 Tom has spit a leetle blood this afternoon, 
 and that is rather a damper — but I know 
 
 — the truth is there is something real in the 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 303 
 
 World. Your third Chamber of Life shall 
 be a lucky and a gentle one — stored with 
 the wine of love — and the Bread of Friend- 
 ship — When you see George if he should 
 not have received a letter from me tell him 
 he will find one at home most likely — tell 
 Bailey I hope soon to see him — Remember 
 me to all. The leaves have been out here 
 for mony a day — I have written to George 
 for the first stanzas of my Isabel — I shall 
 have them soon, and will copy the whole out 
 for you. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend John Keats. 
 
 52. TO MRS. JEFFREY 
 
 Honiton, [May, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Jeffrey — My Brother 
 has borne his Journey thus far remarkably 
 well. I am too sensible of your anxiety for 
 us not to send this by the chaise back 
 for you. Give our goodbyes to Marrian 
 and Fanny. Believe me we shall bear 
 you in Mind and that I shall write soon. 
 
 Yours very truly, John Keats. 
 
 53. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 Hampstead, Thursday [May 28, 1818]. 
 My dear Bailey — I should have an- 
 swered your Letter on the Moment, if I 
 could have said yes to your invitation. 
 What hinders me is insuperable: I will tell 
 it at a little length. You know my Brother 
 George has been out of employ for some 
 time: it has weighed very much upon him, 
 and driven him to scheme and turn over 
 things in his Mind. The result has been 
 his resolution to emigrate to the back 
 Settlements of America, become Farmer 
 and work with his own hands, after pur- 
 chasing 14 hundred acres of the American 
 Government. This for, many reasons has 
 met with my entire Consent — and the 
 chief one is this; he is of too independent 
 and liberal a Mind to get on in Trade in 
 this Country, in which a generous Man 
 with a scanty resource must be ruined. I 
 
 would sooner he should till the ground than 
 bow to a customer. There is no choica 
 with him : he could not bring himself to the 
 latter. I would not consent to his going 
 alone; — no — but that objection is done 
 away with: he will marry before he sets 
 sail a young lady he has known for several 
 years, of a nature liberal and highspirited 
 enough to follow him to the Banks of the 
 Mississippi. He will set off in a month or 
 six weeks, and you will see how I should 
 wish to pass that time with him. — And 
 then I must set out on a journey of my 
 own. Brown and I are going a pedestrian 
 tour through the north of England and 
 Scotland as far as John o' Grot's. I have 
 this morning such a lethargy that I cannot 
 write. The reason of my delaying is often- 
 times from this feeling, — I wait for a 
 proper temper. Now you ask for an im- 
 mediate answer, I do not like to wait even 
 till to-morrow. However, I am now so 
 depressed that I have not an idea to put to 
 paper — my hand feels like lead — and yet 
 it is an unpleasant numbness; it does not 
 take away the pain of Existence. I don't 
 know what to write. 
 
 Monday [June 1]. 
 You see how I have delayed; and even 
 now I have but a confused idea of what I 
 should be about. My intellect must be in 
 a degenerating state — it must be — for 
 when I should be writing about — God 
 knows what — I am troubling you with 
 moods of my own mind, or rather body, for 
 miud there is none. I am in that temper 
 that if I were under water I would scarcely 
 kick to come up to the top — I know very 
 well 't is all nonsense — In a short time I 
 hope I shall be in a temper to feel sensibly 
 your mention of my book. In vain have I 
 waited till Monday to have any Interest in 
 that or anything else. I feel no spur at 
 my Brother's going to America, and am 
 almost stony-hearted about his wedding. 
 All this will blow over — All I am sorry 
 for is having to write to you in such a time 
 — but I cannot force my letters in a hot- 
 
304 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 bed. I could not feel comfortable in mak- 
 ing sentences for you. I am your debtor 
 — I must ever remain so — nor do I wish 
 to be clear of any Rational debt: there is 
 a comfort in throwing oneself on the charity 
 of one's friends — 't is like the albatross 
 sleeping on its wings. 1 will be to you 
 wine in the cellar, and the more modestly, 
 or rather, indolently, I retire into the back- 
 ward bin, the more Falerne will I be at the 
 drinking. There is one thing I must men- 
 tion — my Brother talks of sailing in a 
 fortnight — if so I will most probably be 
 with you a week before I set out for Scot- 
 land. The middle of your first page should 
 be sufficient to rouse me. What I said is 
 true, and 1 have dreamt of your mention of 
 it, and my not answering it has weighed on 
 me since. If I come, I will bring your letter, 
 and hear more fully your sentiments on one 
 or two points. I will call about the Lec- 
 tures at Taylor's, and at Little Britain, to- 
 morrow. Yesterday I dined with Hazlitt, 
 Barnes, and Wilkie, at Haydon's. The 
 topic was the Duke of Wellington — very 
 amusingly pro-aud-con'd. Reynolds has 
 been getting much better; and Rice may 
 begin to crow, for he got a little so-so at a 
 party of his, and was none the worse for it 
 the next morning. I hope I shall soon see 
 you, for we must have many new thoughts 
 and feelings to analyse, and to discover 
 whether a little more knowledge has not 
 i made us more ignorant. 
 
 Yours affectionately John Keats. 
 
 54. TO MISSES M. AND S. JEFFREY 
 
 Hampstead, June 4th [1818.] 
 My dear Girls — I will not pretend to 
 string a list of excuses together for not 
 having written before — but must at once 
 confess, the indolence of my disposition, 
 which makes a letter more formidable to me 
 than a Pilgrimage. I am a fool in delay for 
 the idea of neglect is an everlasting Knap- 
 sack which even now I have scarce power to 
 hoist off. By the bye talking of everlast- 
 
 ing Knapsacks I intend to make my fortune 
 by them in case of a War (which you must 
 consequently pray for) by contracting with 
 Government for said material to the econ- 
 omy of one branch of the Revenue. At 
 all events a Tax which is taken from the 
 people and shoulder'd upon the Military 
 ought not to be snubb'd at. I promised 
 to send you all the news. Harkee ! The 
 whole city corporation, with a deputation 
 from the Fire Offices are now engaged at 
 the London Coffee house in secret conclave 
 concerning Saint Paul's Cathedral its being 
 washed clean. Many interesting speeches 
 have been demosthenized in said Coffee 
 house as to the Cause of the black appear- 
 ance of the said Cathedral. One of the 
 veal-thigh Aldermen actually brought up 
 three Witnesses to depose how they beheld 
 the ci-devant fair Marble turn black on the 
 tolling of the great Bell for the amiable 
 and tea-table-lamented Princess — adding 
 moreover that this sort of sympathy in in- 
 animate objects was by no means uncom- 
 mon for said the Gentleman ' As we were 
 once debating in the Common Hall Mr. 
 W^aithman in illustration of some case in 
 point quoted Peter Pindar, at which the 
 head of George the third although in hard 
 marble squinted over the Mayor's seat at 
 the honorable speaker so oddly that he was 
 obliged to sit down.' However I will not 
 tire you about these Affairs for they must 
 be in your Newspapers by this time. You 
 see how badly I have written these last 
 three lines so I will remain here and take 
 a pinch of snuff every five Minutes until 
 my head becomes fit and proper and legiti- 
 mately inclined to scribble — Oh ! there 's 
 nothing like a pinch of snuff except perhaps 
 a few trifles almost beneath a philosopher's 
 dignity, such as a ripe Peach or a Kiss that 
 one takes on a lease of 91 moments — on a 
 buildling lease. Talking of that is the Capt° 
 married yet, or rather married Miss Mitchel 
 — is she stony hearted enough to hold out 
 this season ? Has the Doctor given Miss 
 Perryman a little love powder ? — tell him 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 305 
 
 to do so. It really would not be unamusing 
 to see her languish a little — Oh she must 
 be quite melting this hot Weather. Are 
 the little Robins weaned yet ? Do they 
 walk alone ? You have had a christening 
 a top o' the tiles and a Hawk has stood 
 Godfather and taken the little brood under 
 the Shadows of its Wings much in the way 
 of Mother Church — a Cat too has very 
 tender bowels in such pathetic cases. They 
 say we are all (that is our set) mad at 
 Hampstead. There 's George took unto 
 himself a Wife a Week ago and will in a 
 little time sail for America — and I with a 
 friend am preparing for a four Months 
 Walk all over the North — and belike Tom 
 will not stop here — he has been getting 
 much better — Lord what a Journey I had 
 and what a relief at the end of it — I 'm 
 sure I could not have stood it many more 
 days. Hampstead is now in fine order. I 
 suppose Teignmouth and the contagious 
 country is now quite remarkable — you 
 might praise it I dare say in the manner of 
 a grammatical exercise — The trees are full 
 
 — the den is crowded — the boats are sail- 
 ing — the musick is playing. I wish you 
 were here a little while — but lank we 
 have n't got any female friend in the house. 
 Tom is taken for a Madman and I being 
 somewhat stunted am taken for nothing — 
 We lounge on the Walk opposite as you 
 might on the Den — I hope the fine season 
 will keep up your Mother's Spirits — she 
 was used to be too much down hearted. 
 No Women ought to be born into the world 
 for they may not toucli the bottle for shame 
 
 — now a Man may creep into a bung-hole 
 
 — However this is a tale of a tub — how- 
 ever I like to play upon a pipe sitting upon 
 a puncheon and intend to be so drawn in 
 the frontispiece to my next book of Pas- 
 torals — My Brothers' respects and mine to 
 your Mother and all our Loves to you. 
 
 Yours very sincerely, John Keats. 
 P. S. has many significations — here it 
 signifies Post Script — on the corner of a 
 
 Handkerchef Polly Saunders — Upon a 
 Garter Pretty Secret — Upon a Band Box 
 Pink Sattin — At the Theatre Princes Side 
 — on a Pulpit Parson's Snuffle — and at a 
 Country Ale House Pail Sider. 
 
 55. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 London [June 10, 1818]. 
 My DEAR Bailey — I have been very 
 much gratified and very much hurt by your 
 letters in the Oxford Paper: because in- 
 dependent of that unlawful and mortal feel- 
 ing of pleasure at praise, there is a glory in 
 enthusiasm ; and because the world is malig- 
 nant enough to chuckle at the most honour- 
 able Simplicity. Yes, on my soul, my dear 
 Bailey, you are too simple for the world — 
 and that Idea makes me sick of it. How 
 is it that by extreme opposites we have, 
 as it were, got discontented nerves ? You 
 have all your life (I think so) believed 
 everybody. I have suspected everybody. 
 And, although you have been so deceived, 
 you make a simple appeal — the world has 
 something else to do, and I am glad of it — 
 Were it in my choice, I would reject a 
 Petrarchal coronation — on account of my 
 dying day, and because women have cancers. 
 I should not by rights speak in this tone to 
 you for it is an incendiary spirit that would 
 do so. Yet I am not old enough or magnan- 
 imous enough to anniliilate self — and it 
 would perhaps be paying you an ill compli- 
 ment. I was in hopes some little time 
 back to be able to relieve your dulness by 
 my spirits — to point out things in the 
 world worth your enjoyment — and now I 
 am never alone without rejoicing that there 
 is such a thing as death — without placing 
 my ultimate in the glory of dying for a 
 great human purpose. Perhaps if my affairs 
 were in a different state, I should not have 
 written the above — you shall judge: I 
 have two brothers; one is driven, by the 
 'burden of Society,' to America; the other 
 with an exquisite love of life, is in a linger- 
 
3o6 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ing state — My love for my Brothers, from 
 the early loss of our Parents, and even 
 from earlier misfortunes, has grown into 
 an affection 'passing the love of women.' 
 I have been ill-tempered with them — I 
 have vexed them — but the thought of 
 them has always stifled the impression that 
 any woman might otherwise have made 
 upon me. I have a sister too, and may not 
 follow them either to America or to the 
 grave. Life must be undergone, and I 
 certainly derive some consolation from the 
 thought of writing one or two more poems 
 before it ceases. 
 
 I have heard some hints of your retiring 
 to Scotland — I shall like to know your 
 feeling on it — it seems rather remote. 
 Perhaps Gleig will have a duty near you. 
 I am not certain whether I shall be able to 
 go any journey, on account of my Brother 
 Tom, and a little indisposition of my own. 
 If I do not you shall see me soon, if no on 
 my return or I '11 quarter myself on you 
 next winter. I had known my sister-in-law 
 some time before she was my sister, and 
 was very fond of her. I like her better 
 and better. She is the most disinterested 
 woman I ever knew — that is to say, she 
 goes beyond degree in it. To see an en- 
 tirely disinterested girl quite happy is the 
 most pleasant and extraordinary thing in 
 the world — It depends upon a thousand 
 circumstances — On my word it is extra- 
 ordinary. Women must want Imagination, 
 and they may thank God for it; and so 
 may we, that a delicate being can feel 
 happy without any sense of crime. It puz- 
 zles me, and I have no sort of logic to 
 comfort me — I shall think it over. I am 
 not at home, and your letter being there I 
 camiot look it over to answer any particular 
 — only I must say I feel that passage of 
 Dante. If I take any book with me it 
 shall be those minute volumes of Carey, for 
 they will go into the aptest corner. 
 
 Reynolds is getting, I may say, robust, 
 his illness has been of service to him — like 
 every one just recovered, he is high-spirited 
 
 — I hear also good accounts of Rice. With 
 respect to domestic literature, the Edin- 
 burgh Magazine, in another blow-up against 
 Hunt, calls me ' the amiable Mister Keats ' 
 
 — and I have more than a laurel from 
 the Quarterly Reviewers for they have 
 smothered me in Foliage. I want to read 
 you my ' Pot of Basil ' — if you go to Scot- 
 land, I should much like to read it there to 
 you, among the snows of next winter. My 
 Brothers' remembrances to you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 56. TO JOHN TAYLOK 
 
 [Hampstead,] Sunday Evening 
 [June 21, 1818]. 
 My dear Taylor — I am sorry I have 
 not had time to call and wish you health 
 till my return — Really I have been hard 
 run these last three days — However, an 
 re voir, God keep us all well ! I start to- 
 morrow Morning. My brother Tom will I 
 am afraid be lonely. I can scarce ask a 
 loan of books for him, since I still keep 
 those you lent me a year ago. If I am 
 overweening, you will I know be indulgent. 
 Therefore when you shall write, do send 
 him some you think will be most amus- 
 ing — he will be careful in returning them. 
 Let him have one of my books bound. I 
 am ashamed to catalogue these messages. 
 There is but one more, which ought to go 
 for nothing as there is a lady concerned. 
 I promised Mrs. Reynolds one of my books 
 bound. As I cannot write in it let the 
 opposite ^^ be pasted in 'prythee. Remem- 
 ber me to Percy St. — Tell Hilton that one 
 gratification on my return will be to find 
 him engaged on a history piece to- his own 
 content — And tell Dewint I shall become 
 a disputant on the landscape — Bow for 
 me very genteelly to Mrs. D. or she will 
 not admit your diploma. Remember me 
 to Hessey, saying I hope he '11 Cary his 
 point. I would not forget Woodhouse. 
 Adieu ! 
 
 Your sincere friend John o' Grots. 
 
 __/ 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 307 
 
 57. TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Keswick, June 29th [1818]. 
 My dear Tom — I cannot make my 
 Journal as distinct and actual as I could 
 wish, from having been engaged in writing 
 to George, and therefore I must tell you 
 without circumstance that we proceeded 
 from Ambleside to Rydal, saw the Water- 
 falls there, and called on Wordsworth, who 
 was not at home, nor was any one of his 
 family. I wrote a note and left it on the 
 mantel-piece. Thence on we came to the 
 foot of Helvellyn, where we slept, but 
 could not ascend it for the mist. I must 
 mention that from Rydal we passed Thirls- 
 water, and a fine pass in the Mountains — 
 from Helvellyn we came to Keswick on 
 Derwent Water. The approach to Derwent 
 Water surpassed Windermere — it is richly 
 wooded, and shut in with rich-toned Moun- 
 tains. From Helvellyn to Keswick was 
 eight miles to Breakfast, after which we 
 took a complete circuit of the Lake, going 
 about ten miles, and seeing on our way the 
 Fall of Lowdore. I had an easy climb 
 among the streams, about the fragments of 
 Rocks and should have got I think to the 
 summit, but unfortunately I was damped 
 by slipping one leg into a squashy hole. 
 There is no great body of water, but the 
 accompaniment is delightful; for it oozes 
 out from a cleft in perpendicular Rocks, all 
 fledged with Ash and other beautiful trees. 
 It is a strange thing how they got there. 
 At the south end of the Lake, the Moun- 
 tains of Borrowdale are perhaps as fine as 
 anything we have seen. On our return 
 from this circuit, we ordered dinner, and 
 set forth about a mile and a half on the 
 Penrith road, to see the Druid temple. 
 We had a fag up hill, rather too near 
 dinner-time, which was rendered void by 
 the gratification of seeing those aged stones 
 on a gentle rise in the midst of the Moun- 
 tains, which at that time darkened all 
 around, except at the fresh opening of the 
 Vale of St. John. We went to bed rather 
 
 fatigued, but not so much so as to hinder 
 us getting up this morning to mount Skid- 
 daw. It promised all along to be fair, and 
 we had fagged and tugged nearly to the top, 
 when, at half-past six, there came a Mist 
 upon us and shut out the view. We did not, 
 however, lose anything by it : we were high 
 enough without mist to see the coast of 
 Scotland — the Irish Sea — the hills beyond 
 Lancaster — and nearly all the large ones 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland, parti- 
 cularly Helvellyn and Seawfell. It grew 
 colder and colder as we ascended, and we 
 were glad, at about three parts of the way, 
 to taste a little ^rum which the Guide 
 brought with him, mixed, mind ye, with 
 Mountain water. I took two glasses going 
 and one returning. It is about six miles 
 from where I am writing to the top — So 
 we have walked ten miles before Breakfast 
 to-day. We went up with two others, very 
 good sort of fellows — All felt, on arising 
 into the cold air, that same elevation which 
 a cold bath gives one — I felt as if I were 
 going to a Tournament. 
 
 Wordsworth's house is situated just on 
 the rise of the foot of Mount Rydal; his 
 parlour-window looks directly down Win- 
 andermere; I do not think I told you how 
 fine the Vale of Grasmere is, and how I 
 discovered ' the ancient woman seated on 
 Helm Crag ' — We shall proceed immedi- 
 ately to Carlisle, intending to enter Scot- 
 land on the 1st of July via — 
 
 [Carlisle,] July 1st. 
 We are this morning at Carlisle. After 
 Skiddaw, we walked to Treby the oldest 
 market town in Cumberland — where we 
 were greatly amused by a country dancing- 
 school holden at the Tun, it was indeed 'no 
 new cotillon fresh from France.' No, they 
 kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordi- 
 nary, and wliiskit, and friskit, and toed it, 
 and go'd it, and twirl'd it, and whirl'd it, 
 and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing 
 the floor like mad. The difference between 
 our country dances and these Scottish 
 
3o8 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 figures is about the same as leisurely stir- 
 ring a cup o' Tea and beating up a batter- 
 pudding. I was extremely gratified to 
 think that, if I had pleasures they knew 
 nothing of, they had also some into which 
 I could not possibly enter. I hope I shall 
 not return without having got the Highland 
 fling. There was as fine a row of boys and 
 girls as you ever saw; some beautiful faces, 
 and one exquisite mouth. I never felt so 
 near the glory of Patriotism, the glory 
 of making by any means a country hap- 
 pier. This is what I like better than 
 scenery, I fear our continued moving 
 from place to place will prevent our be- 
 coming learned in village affairs: we are 
 mere creatures of Rivers, Lakes, and Moun- 
 tains. Our yesterday's journey was from 
 Treby to Wigton, and from Wigton to 
 Carlisle. The Cathedral does not appear 
 very fine — the Castle is very ancient, and 
 of brick. The City is very various — old 
 white-washed narrow streets — broad red- 
 brick ones more modern — I will tell you 
 anon whether the inside of the Cathedral 
 is worth looking at. It is built of sandy 
 red stone or Brick. We have now walked 
 114 miles, and are merely a little tired in 
 the thighs, and a little blistered. We shall 
 ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall 
 linger awhile about Nithsdale and Gallo- 
 way. I have written two letters to Liver- 
 pool. I found a letter from sister George; 
 very delightful indeed: I shall preserve it 
 in the bottom of my knapsack for you. 
 
 [Dumfries, evening of same day, July 1.] 
 You will see by this sonnet [' On visiting 
 the tomb of Burns.' See p. 120] that I am 
 at Dumfries. We have dined in Scotland. 
 Burns's tomb is in the Churchyard corner, 
 not very much to my taste, though on a 
 scale large enough to show they wanted 
 to honour him. Mrs. Burns lives in this 
 place; most likely we shall see her to- 
 morrow — This Sonnet I have written in a 
 strange mood, half-asleep. I know not how 
 it is, the Clouds, the Sky, the Houses, all 
 
 seem anti-Grecian and anti-Charlemagnish. 
 I will endeavour to get rid of my preju- 
 dices and tell you fairly about the Scotch. 
 
 [Dumfries,] July 2nd. 
 In Devonshire they say, 'Well, where 
 be ye going ? ' Here it is, ' How is it 
 wi' yoursel ? ' A man on the Coach said 
 the horses took a Hellish heap o' drivin'; 
 the same fellow pointed out Burns's Tomb 
 with a deal of life — ' There de ye see it, 
 amang the trees — white, wi' a roond tap ? ' 
 The first well-dressed Scotchman we had 
 any conversation with, to our surprise con- 
 fessed himself a Deist. The careful man- 
 ner of delivering his opinions, not before 
 he had received several encouraging hints 
 from uSj was very amusing. Yesterday 
 was an immense Horse-fair at Dumfries, so 
 that we met numbers of men and women on 
 the road, the women nearly all barefoot, 
 with their shoes and clean stockings in 
 hand, ready to put on and look smart in the 
 Towns. There are plenty of wretched cot- 
 tages whose smoke has no outlet but by 
 the door. We have now begun upon 
 Whisky, called here Whuskey, — very 
 smart stuff it is. Mixed like our liquors, 
 with sugar and water, 'tis called toddy; 
 very pretty drink, and much praised by 
 Burns. 
 
 58. TO FANKY KEATS 
 
 Dumfries, July 2nd [1818]. 
 My dear Fanny — I intended to have 
 written to you from Kirkcudbright, the 
 town I shall be in to-morrow — but I will 
 write now because my Knapsack has worn 
 my coat in the Seams, my coat has gone to 
 the Tailor's and I have but one Coat to my 
 back in these parts. I must tell you how I 
 went to Liverpool with George and our 
 new Sister and the Gentleman my fellow 
 traveller through the Summer and autumn 
 — We had a tolerable journey to Liver- 
 pool — which I left the next morning before 
 George was up for Lancaster — Then we 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 309 
 
 set off from Lancaster on foot with our 
 Knapsacks on, and have walked a Little 
 zig-zag through the mountains and Lakes 
 of Cumberland and Westmoreland — We 
 came from Carlisle yesterday to this place 
 — We are employed in going up Moun- 
 tains, looking at strange towns, prying into 
 old ruins and eating very hearty breakfasts. 
 Here we are full in the Midst of broad 
 Scotch * How is it a' wi' yoursel ' — the 
 Girls are walking about bare-footed and in 
 the worst cottages the smoke finds its way 
 out of the door. I shall come home full of 
 news for you and for fear I should choak 
 you by too great a dose at once I must 
 make you used to it by a letter or two. 
 We have been taken for travelling Je ivel- 
 lers, Razor sellers and Spectacle vendors 
 because friend Brown wears a pair. The 
 first place we stopped at with our Knapsacks 
 contained one Richard Bradshaw, a noto- 
 rious tippler. He stood in the shape of a 5 
 and ballanced himself as well as he could 
 saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown's 
 face • Do — yo — u sell speec — ta — cles ? * 
 Mr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotes — 
 tell him we are more generally taken for 
 Pedlars. All I hope is that we may not be 
 taken for excisemen in this whisky coun- 
 try. We are generally up about 5 walking 
 before breakfast and we complete our 20 
 miles before dinner. — Yesterday we vis- 
 ited Burns's Tomb aad this morning the 
 fine Ruins of Lincluden. 
 
 [Aucheneairn, same day, July 2.] 
 I had done thus far when my coat came 
 back fortified at all points — so as we lose 
 no time we set forfch again through Gallo- 
 way — all very pleasant and pretty with 
 no fatigue when ou'e is used to it — We are 
 in the midst of Meg Merrilies's country of 
 whom I suppose you have heard. 
 [Here follow the lines, 'Meg Merrilies,' p. 243.] 
 If you like these soit of ballads I will 
 now and then scribble one for you — if I 
 send any to Tom I '11 tell him to send them 
 to you. 
 
 [Kirkcudbright, evening of same day, July 2,] 
 I have so many interruptions that I can- 
 not manage to fill a Letter in one day — 
 since I scribbled the song we have walked 
 through a beautiful Country to Kirkcud- 
 bright — at which place I will write you a 
 song about myself — 
 
 [Here Keats throws off the nonsense lines 
 'There was a Naughty Boy,' given in the Ap- 
 pendix, p, 244.] 
 
 [Newton Stewart, July 4.] 
 
 My dear Fanny, I am ashamed of writing 
 you such stuff, nor would I if it were not for 
 being tired after my day's walking, and 
 ready to tumble into bed so fatigued that 
 when I am asleep you might sew my nose 
 to my great toe and trundle me round the 
 town, like a Hoop, without waking me. 
 Then I get so hungry a Ham goes but a 
 very little way and fowls are like Larks to 
 me — A Batch of Bread I make no more 
 ado with than a sheet of parliament ; and I 
 can eat a Bull's head as easily as I used to 
 do Bull's eyes. I take a whole string of 
 Pork Sausages down as easily as a Pen'orth 
 of Lady's fingers. Ah dear I must soon be 
 contented with an acre or two of oaten cake 
 a hogshead of Milk and a Clothes-basket of 
 Eggs morning noon and night when I get 
 among the Highlanders. Before we see 
 them we shall pass into Ireland and have 
 a chat with the Paddies, and look at the 
 Giant's Causeway which you must have 
 heard of — I have not time to tell you 
 particularly for I have to send a Journal 
 to Tom of whom you shall hear all particu- 
 lars or from me when I return. Since I 
 began this we have walked sixty miles to 
 Newton Stewart at which place I put in this 
 Letter — to-night we sleep at Glenluce — 
 to-morrow at Portpatrick and the next day 
 we shall cross in the passage boat to Ireland. 
 I hope Miss Abbey has quite recovered. 
 Present my Respects to her and to Mr. 
 and Mrs. Abbey. God bless you. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother, John. 
 
 Do write me a Letter directed to Inver- 
 ness, Scotland. 
 
3IO 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 59. TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Auchtercairn [for Auchencairn,] 
 
 3rd [for 2d] July 1818. 
 
 My dear Tom — We are now in Meg 
 
 Merrilies's country, and have this morning 
 passed through some parts exactly suited 
 to her. Kirkcudbright County is very 
 beautiful, very wild, with craggy hills, 
 somewhat in the Westmoreland fashioii. 
 We have come down from Dumfries to the 
 sea-coast part of it. The following song 
 [the Meg Merrilies piece] you will have 
 from Dilke, but perhaps you would like it 
 here. 
 
 [Newton Stewart,] July 5th [for 4th]. 
 Yesterday was passed in Kirkcudbright, 
 the country is very rich, very fine, and with 
 a little of Devon. I am now writing at 
 Newton Stewart, six miles into Wigtown. 
 Our landlady of yesterday said very few 
 southerners passed hereaways. The chil- 
 dren jabber away, as if in a foreign lan- 
 guage ; the bare - footed girls look very 
 much in keeping, I mean with the scenery 
 about them. Brown praises their cleanli- 
 ness and appearance of comfort, the neat- 
 ness of their cottages, etc. — it may be — 
 they are very squat among trees and fern 
 and heath and broom, on levels slopes and 
 heights — but I wish they were as snug as 
 those up the Devonshire valleys. We are 
 lodged and entertained in great varieties. 
 We dined yesterday on dirty Bacon, dirtier 
 eggs, and dirtiest potatoes, with a slice of 
 salmon — we breakfast this morning in a 
 nice carpeted room, with sofa, hair-bot- 
 tomed Chairs, and green-baized Mahogany. 
 A spring by the road-side is always wel- 
 come : we drink water for dinner, diluted 
 with a Gill of whisky. 
 
 [Donaghadee] July 6. 
 
 Yesterday morning we set out from 
 
 Glenluce, going some distance round to see 
 
 some rivers : they were scarcely worth the 
 
 while. We went on to Stranraer, in a 
 
 burning sun, and had gone about six miles 
 when the Mail overtook us : we got up, 
 were at Port Patrick in a jiffey, and 1 am 
 writing now in little Ireland. The dialects 
 on the neighbouring shores of Scotland and 
 Ireland are much the same, yet I can per- 
 ceive a great difference in the nations, from 
 the chamber-maid at this nate toone kept by 
 Mr. Kelly. She is fair, kind, and ready to 
 laugh, because she is out of the horrible 
 dominion of the Scotch Kirk. A Scotch 
 girl stands in terrible awe of the Elders — 
 poor little Susannahs, they will scarcely 
 laugh, and their Kirk is greatly to be 
 damned. These Kirk-men have done Scot- 
 land good (Query ?). They have made 
 men , women ; old men, young men ; old 
 women, young women ; boys, girls ; and 
 all infants careful — so that they are 
 formed into regular Phalanges of savers 
 and gainers. Such a thrifty army cannot 
 fail to enrich their Country, and give it a 
 greater appviarance of Comfort, than that 
 of their pooi rash neighbourhood — these 
 Kirk-men hate done Scotland harm ; they 
 have banished p:uns, and laughing, and kiss- 
 ing, etc. (except in cases where the very 
 danger and crime must make it very gust- 
 ful). I shall make a' full stop at kissing, 
 for after that there should be a better 
 parenthesis, and go on to remind you of 
 the fate of Burns — poor unfortunate fel- 
 low, his disposition was Southern — how 
 sad it is when a luxurious imagination is 
 obliged, in self-defencje, to deaden its del- 
 icacy in vulgarity, ami rot (?) in things 
 attainable, that it may not have leisure to 
 go mad after things which are not. No 
 man, in such matters, will be content with 
 the experience of othei'S — It is true that 
 out of suffering there is no dignity, no 
 greatness, that in th^ most abstracted 
 pleasure there is no lasting happiness — 
 Yet who would not like to discover over 
 again that Cleopatra was a Gipsy, Helen a 
 rogue, and Ruth ft deep one ? I have not 
 sufficient reasoning faculty to settle the 
 doctrine of thrift, as it is consistent with 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 311 
 
 the dignity of human Society ; — with the 
 happiness of Cottagers. All I can do is by 
 X ^jlump contrasts ; were the fingers made to 
 squeeze a guinea or a white hand ? — were 
 the lips made to hold a pen or a kiss ? and 
 yet in Cities man is shut out from his fel- 
 lows if he is poor — the cottager must be 
 very dirty, and very wretched, if she be not 
 thrifty — the present state of society de- 
 mands this, and this convinces me that the 
 world is very young, and in a very ignorant 
 state — We live in a barbarous age — I 
 would sooner be a wild deer, than a girl 
 under the dominion of the Kirk ; and I 
 would sooner be a wild hog, than be the oc- 
 casion of a poor Creature's penance before 
 those execrable elders. 
 
 It is not so far to the Giant's Causeway 
 as we supposed — We thought it 70, and 
 hear it is only 48 miles — So we shall leave 
 one of our knapsacks here at Donaghadee, 
 take our immediate wants, and be back 
 in a week, when we shall proceed to the 
 County of Ayr. In the Packet yesterday 
 we heard some ballads from two old men 
 — One was a Romance which seemed very 
 poor — then there was ' The Battle of the 
 Boyne,' then ' Robin Huid,' as they call 
 him — ' Before the King you shall go, go, 
 go; before the King you shall go.' 
 
 [Stranraer,] July 9th. 
 We stopped very little in Ireland, and 
 that you may not have leisure to marvel at 
 our speedy return to Port Patrick, I will 
 tell you that it is as dear living in Ireland 
 as at the Hummums — thrice the expense 
 of Scotland — it would have cost us £ 15 
 before our return ; moreover we found 
 those 48 miles to be Irish ones, which reach 
 to 70 English — so having walked to Bel- 
 fast one day, and back to Donaghadee the 
 next, we left Ireland with a fair breeze. 
 We slept last night at Port Patrick, when 
 I was gratified by a letter from you. On 
 our walk in Ireland, we had too much op- 
 portunity to see the worse than nakedness, 
 the rags, the dirt and misery, of the poor 
 
 common Irish — A Scotch cottage, though 
 in that sometimes the smoke has no exit 
 but at the door, is a palace to an Irish one. 
 We could observe that impetuosity in Man 
 and Woman — We had the pleasure of find- 
 ing our way through a Peat-bog, three 
 miles long at least — dreary, flat, dank, 
 black, and spongy — here and there were 
 poor dirty Creatures, and a few strong men 
 cutting or carting Peat — We heard on 
 passing into Belfast through a most wretch- 
 ed suburb, that most disgusting of all 
 noises, worse than the Bagpipes — the 
 laugh of a Monkey — the chatter of women 
 — the scream of a Macaw — I mean the 
 sound of the Shuttle. What a tremendous 
 difficulty is the improvement of such people. 
 I cannot conceive how a mind " with child " 
 of philanthropy could grasp at its possi- 
 bility — with me it is absolute despair — 
 At a miserable house of entertainment, 
 half-way between Donaghadee and Belfast, 
 were two men sitting at Whisky — one a 
 labourer, and the other I took to be a 
 drunken weaver — the labourer took me to 
 be a Frenchman, and the other hinted at 
 bounty-money ; saying he was ready to 
 take it — On calling for the letters at Port 
 Patrick, the man snapped out " what Regi- 
 ment ? " On our return from Belfast we 
 met a sedan — the Duchess of Dunghill. 
 It is no laughing matter though. Imagine 
 the worst dog-kennel you ever saw, placed 
 upon two poles from a mouldy fencing — 
 In such a wretched thing sat a squalid old 
 woman, squat like an ape half - starved, 
 from a scarcity of biscuit in its passage 
 from Madagascar to the Cape, with a pipe 
 in her mouth, and looking out with a round- 
 eyed skinny-lidded inanity; with a sort of 
 horizontal idiotic movement of her head — 
 Squat and lean she sat, and puffed out 
 the smoke, while two ragged tattered girls 
 carried her along. What a thing would be 
 a history of her life and sensations ; I shall 
 endeavour when I have thought a little 
 more, to give you my idea of the difference 
 between the Scotch and Irish — The two 
 
312 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Irishmen I mentioned were speaking of 
 their treatment in England, when the 
 weaver said — " Ah you were a civil man, 
 but I was a drinker." 
 
 Till further notice you must direct to 
 Inverness. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother 
 
 John. 
 
 60. TO THE SAME 
 
 Belautree [for Ballantrae,] July 10. 
 My dear Tom — The reason for my 
 writing these lines [' Ah ! ken ye what I 
 met the day,' p. 145] was that Brown 
 wanted to impose a Galloway song upon 
 Dilke — but it won't do. The subject I got 
 from meeting a wedding just as we came 
 down into this place — where I am afraid 
 we shall be imprisoned a while by the 
 weather. Yesterday we came 27 Miles 
 from Stranraer — entered Ayrshire a little 
 beyond Cairn, and had our path through a 
 delightful Country. I shall endeavour that 
 you may follow our steps in this walk — it 
 would be uninteresting in a Book of Travels 
 
 — it can not be interesting but by my hav- 
 ing gone through it. When we left Cairn 
 our Road lay half way up the sides of a 
 green mountainous shore, full of clefts of 
 verdure and eternally varying — sometimes 
 up sometimes down, and over little Bridges 
 going across green chasms of moss, rock 
 and trees — winding about everywhere. 
 After two or three Miles of this we turned 
 suddenly into a magnificent glen finely 
 wooded in Parts — seven Miles long — with 
 a Mountain stream winding down the Midst 
 
 — full of cottages in the most happy situa- 
 tions — the sides of the Hills covered with 
 sheep — the effect of cattle lowing I never 
 had so finely. At the end we had a gradual 
 ascent and got among the tops of the Moun- 
 tains whence in a little time I descried in 
 the Sea Ailsa Rock 940 feet high — it was 
 15 Miles distant and seemed close upon us. 
 The effect of Ailsa with the peculiar per- 
 spective of the Sea in connection with the 
 ground we stood on, and the misty rain 
 
 then falling gave me a complete Idea of a 
 deluge. Ailsa struck me very suddenly — 
 really I was a little alarmed. 
 
 [Girvan, same day, July 10.] 
 Thus far had I written before we set out 
 this morning. Now we are at Girvan 13 
 Miles north of Belantree. Our Walk has 
 been along a more grand shore to-day than 
 yesterday — Ailsa beside us all the way. — 
 From the heights we could see quite at 
 home Cantire and the large Mountains of 
 Arran, one of the Hebrides. We are in 
 comfortable Quarters. The Rain we feared 
 held up bravely and it has been 'fu fine 
 this day.' — To-morrow we shall be at Ayr. 
 
 [Kirkoswald, July 11.] 
 'T is now the 11th of July and we have 
 come 8 Miles to Breakfast to Kirkoswald. 
 I hope the next Kirk will be Kirk Alloway. 
 I have nothing of consequence to say now 
 concerning our journey — so I will speak as 
 far as I can judge on the Irish and Scotch 
 — I know nothing of the higher Classes — 
 yet I have a persuasion that there the Irish 
 are victorious. As to the profanum vulgus 
 I must incline to the Scotch. They never 
 laugh — but they are always comparatively 
 neat and clean. Their constitutions are not 
 so remote and puzzling as the Irish. The 
 Scotchman will never give a decision on 
 any point — he will never commit himself 
 in a sentence which may be referred to as 
 a meridian in his notion of things — so that 
 you do not know him — and yet you may 
 come in uigher neighbourhood to him than 
 to the Irishman who commits himself in so 
 many places that it dazes your head. A 
 Scotchman's motive is more easily dis- 
 covered than an Irishman's. A Scotchman 
 will go wisely about to deceive you, an Irish- 
 man cunningly. An Irishman would bluster 
 out of any discovery to his disadvantage. A 
 Scotchman would retire perhaps without 
 much desire for revenge. An Irishman 
 likes to be thought a gallons fellow. A 
 Scotchman is contented with himself. It 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 313 
 
 seems to me they are both sensible of the 
 Character they hold in England and act 
 accordingly to Englishmen. Thus the 
 Scotchman will become over grave and 
 over decent and the Irishman over-impetu- 
 oiis. I like a Scotchman best because he 
 is less of a bore — I like the Irishman best 
 because he ought to be more comfortable. 
 
 — The Scotchman has made up his Mind 
 within himself in a sort of snail shell wis- 
 dom. The Irishman is full of strougheaded 
 instinct. The Scotchman is farther in Hu- 
 manity than the Irishman — there he will 
 stick perhaps when the Irishman will be 
 refined beyond him — for the former thinks 
 he cannot be improved — the latter would 
 grasp at it for ever, place but the good 
 plain before him. 
 
 Maybole [same day, July 11]. 
 
 Since breakfast we have come only four 
 
 Miles to dinner, not merely, for we have 
 
 examined in the way two Ruins, one of 
 
 them very fine, called Crossraguel Abbey 
 
 — there is a winding Staircase to the top 
 of a little Watch Tower. 
 
 Kingswells, July 13. 
 
 I have been writing to Reynolds — there- 
 fore any particulars since Kirkoswald 
 have escaped me — from said Kirk we went 
 to Maybole to dinner — then we set for- 
 ward to Burness' town Ayr — the approach 
 to it is extremely fine — quite outwent my 
 expectations — richly meadowed, wooded, 
 heathed and rivuleted — with a grand Sea 
 view terminated by the black Mountains of 
 the isle of Arran. As soon as I saw them 
 so nearly I said to myself ' How is it they 
 did not beckon Burns to some grand at- 
 tempt at Epic ? ' 
 
 The bonny Doon is the sweetest river I 
 ever saw — overhung with fine trees as far 
 as we could see — We stood some time 
 on the Brig across it, over which Tarn o' 
 Shanter fled — we took a pinch of snuff 
 on the Key stone — then we proceeded to 
 the 'auld Kirk Alio way.' As we were 
 
 looking at it a Farmer pointed the spots 
 where Mungo's Mither haug'd hersel' 
 and ' drunken Charlie brake 's neck's bane.' 
 Then we proceeded to the Cottage he was 
 born in — there was a board to that effect 
 by the door side — it had the same effect 
 as the same sort of memorial at Stratford 
 on Avon. We drank some Toddy to Burns's 
 Memory with an old Man who knew Burns 
 
 — damn him and damn his anecdotes — he 
 was a great bore — it was impossible for a 
 Southron to understand above 5 words in a 
 hundred. — There was something good in 
 his description of Burns's melancholy the 
 last time he saw him. I was determined 
 to write a sonnet in the Cottage — I did — 
 but it was so bad I cannot venture it here. 
 
 Next we walked into Ayr Town and be- 
 fore we went to Tea saw the new Brig and 
 the Auld Brig and Wallace tower. Yester- 
 day we dined with a Traveller. We were 
 talking about Keau. He said he had seen 
 him at Glasgow ' in Othello in the Jew, I 
 mean er, er, er, the Jew in Shylock.' He 
 got bother'd completely in vague ideas of 
 the Jew in Othello, Shylock in the Jew, 
 Shylock in Othello, Othello in Shylock, the 
 Jew in Othello, etc. etc. etc. — he left him- 
 self in a mess at last. — Still satisfied with 
 himself be went to the Window and gave 
 an abortive whistle of some tune or other 
 
 — it might have been Handel. There is no 
 end to these Mistakes — he '11 go and tell 
 people how he has seen ' Malvolio in the 
 Countess ' — ' Twelfth night in Midsum- 
 mer night's dream ' — Bottom in much 
 ado about Nothing — Viola in Barrymore 
 
 — Antony in Cleopatra — Falstaff in the 
 mouse Trap. — 
 
 [Glasgow,] July 14. 
 We enter'd Glasgow last Evening under 
 the most oppressive Stare a body could feel. 
 When we had crossed the Bridge Brown 
 look'd back and said its whole population 
 had turned out to wonder at us — we came 
 on till a drunken Man came up to me — I 
 put him off with my Arm — he returned all 
 up in Arms saying aloud that, ' he had 
 
314 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 seen all foreigners bu-u-ut he never saw 
 the like o' me.' I was obliged to mention 
 the word Officer and Police before he 
 would desist. — The City of Glasgow I take 
 to be a very fine one — I was astonished to 
 hear it was twice the size of Edinburgh. It 
 is built of Stone and has a much more solid 
 appearance than London. We shall see 
 the Cathedral this morning — they have 
 devilled it into ' High Kirk.' I want very 
 much to know the name of the ship George 
 is gone in — also what port he will land in 
 
 — I know nothing about it. I hope you 
 are leading a quiet Life and gradually im- 
 proving. Make a long lounge of the whole 
 Summer — by the time the Leaves fall I 
 shall be near you with plenty of confab — 
 there are a thousand things I cannot write. 
 Take care of yourself — I mean in not be- 
 ing vexed or bothered at anything. 
 
 God bless you ! John . 
 
 61. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Maybole, July 11 [1818]. 
 My dear Reynolds — I '11 not run over 
 the Ground we have passed ; that would be 
 merely as bad as telling a dream — unless 
 perhaps I do it in the manner of the Lapu- 
 tan printing press — that is I put down 
 Mountains, Rivers Lakes, dells, glens, 
 Rocks, and Clouds, with beautiful enchant- 
 ing, Gothic picturesque fine, delightful, en- 
 chanting. Grand, sublime — a few blisters, 
 etc. — and now you have our journey thus 
 far : where I begin a letter to you because 
 I am approaching Burns's Cottage very 
 fast. We have made continual inquiries 
 from the time we saw his Tomb at Dum- 
 fries — his name of course is known all 
 about — his great reputation among the 
 plodding people is, ' that he wrote a good 
 mony sensible things.' One of the plea- 
 santest means of annulling self is approach- 
 ing such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns 
 
 — we need not think of his misery — that 
 is all gone, bad luck to it — I shall look 
 upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, 
 
 as I do upon my Stratford-on-Avon day 
 with Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you 
 in the Bardie's country, going no further 
 than this till I get into the town of Ayr 
 which will be a 9 miles' walk to Tea. 
 
 [Kingswells, July 13.] 
 We were talking on different and indif- 
 ferent things, when on a sudden we turned 
 a corner upon the immediate Country of 
 Ayr — the Sight was as rich as possible. I 
 had no Conception that the native place of 
 Burns was so beautiful — the idea I had 
 was more desolate, his * rigs of Barley ' 
 seemed always to me but a few strips of 
 Green on a cold hill — O prejudice! it was 
 as rich as Devon — I endeavoured to drink 
 in the Prospect, that I might spin it out to 
 you as the Silkworm makes silk from 
 Mulberry leaves — I cannot recollect it — 
 Besides all the Beauty, there were the 
 Mountains of Arran Isle, black and huge 
 over the Sea. We came down upon every- 
 thing suddenly — there were in our way 
 the ' bonny Doon,' with the Brig that Tam 
 o' Shanter crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's 
 Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First 
 we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon; 
 surrounded by every Phantasy of green in 
 Tree, Meadow, and Hill, — the stream of 
 the Doon, as a Farmer told us, is covered 
 with trees from head to foot — you know 
 those beautiful heaths so fresh against the 
 weather of a summer's evening — there 
 was one stretching along behind the trees. 
 I wish I knew always the humour my 
 friends would be in at opening a letter of 
 mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possi- 
 ble. I could always find an egg shell for 
 Melancholy, and as for Merriment a Witty 
 humour will turn anything to Account — 
 My head is sometimes in such a whirl in 
 considering the million likings and anti- 
 pathies of our Moments — that I can get 
 into no settled strain in my Letters. My 
 Wig ! Burns and sentimentality coming 
 across you and Frank Fladgate in the of- 
 fice — O scenery that thou shouldst be 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 315 
 
 crushed between two Puns — As foi" tlieni 
 I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch Re- 
 gion — I hope Brown does not put them 
 punctually in his journal — If he does I 
 must sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. 
 We went to Kirk AUoway — ' a Prophet 
 is no Prophet in his own Country ' — We 
 went to the Cottage and took some Whisky. 
 I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of 
 writing some lines under the roof — they 
 are so bad I cannot transcribe them — The 
 Man at the Cottage was a great Bore with 
 his Anecdotes — I hate the rascal — his 
 Life consists in f uz, fuzzy, fuzziest — He 
 drinks glasses five for the Quarter and 
 twelve for the hour — he is a mahogany- 
 faced old Jackass who knew Burns — He 
 ought to have been kicked for haviug 
 spoken to him. He calls himself " a curi- 
 ous old Bitch " — but he is a flat old dog — 
 I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to 
 kick him. O the flummery of a birthplace! 
 Cant! Cant! Cant! It is enough to give a 
 spirit the guts-ache — Many a true word, 
 they say, is spoken in jest — tliis may be 
 because his gab hindered my sublimity: the 
 flat dog made me write a flat sonnet. My 
 dear Reynolds — I cannot write about 
 scenery and visitings — Fancy is indeed 
 less than a present palpable realitj', but it 
 is greater than remembrance — you would 
 lift your eyes from Homer only to see close 
 before you the real Isle of Tenedos — you 
 would rather read Homer afterwards than 
 remember yourself — One song of Burns's 
 is of more worth to you than all I could 
 think for a whole year in his native country. 
 His Misery is a dead weight upon the nim- 
 bleness of one's quill — I tried to forget it 
 — to drink Toddy without any Care — to 
 write a merry sonnet — it won't do — he 
 talked with Bitches — he drank with Black- 
 guards, he was miserable — We can see 
 horribly clear, in the works of such a Man 
 his whole life, as if we were God's spies. — 
 What were his addresses to Jean in the 
 latter part of his life ? I should not 
 speak so to you — yet why not — you are 
 
 not in the same case, you are in the right 
 path, and you shall not be deceived. I 
 have spoken to you against Marriage, but 
 it was general — the Prospect in those 
 matters has been to me so blank, that I 
 have not been unwilling to die — I would 
 not now, for I have inducements to Life — 
 I must see my little Nephews in America, 
 and I must see you marry your lovely Wife. 
 My sensations are sometimes deadened for 
 weeks together — but believe me I have 
 more than once yearned for the time of 
 your happiness to come, as much as I could 
 for myself after the lips of Juliet. — From 
 the tenor of my occasional rodomontade in 
 chit-chat, you might have been deceived 
 concerning me in these points — upon my 
 soul, I have been getting more and more 
 close to you, every day, ever since I knew 
 you, and now one of the first pleasures I 
 look to is your happy Marriage — the more, 
 since I have felt the pleasure of loving a 
 sister in Law. I did not think it possible 
 to become so much attached in so short a 
 time — Things like these, and they are 
 real, have made me resolve to have a care 
 of my health — you must be as careful. 
 
 The rain has stopped us to-day at the 
 end of a dozen Miles, yet we hope to see 
 Loch Lomond tlie day after to-morrow; — 
 I will piddle out my information, as Rice 
 says, next Winter, at any time when a sub- 
 stitute is wanted for Vingt-un. We bear 
 the fatigue very well — 20 Miles a day in 
 general — A Cloud came over us in getting 
 up Skiddaw — I hope to be more lucky in 
 Ben Lomond — and more lucky still in Ben 
 Nevis. What I think j'ou would enjoy is 
 poking about Ruins — sometimes Abbey, 
 sometimes Castle. The short stay we made 
 in Ireland has left few remembrances — 
 but an old woman in a dog-kennel Sedan 
 with a pipe in her Mouth, is what I can 
 never forget — I wish I may be able to 
 give you an idea of her — Remember me 
 to your Mother and Sisters, and tell your 
 Mother how I hope she will pardon me for 
 having a scrap of paper ^^ pasted in the 
 
3i6 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Book sent to her. I was driven on all sides 
 and had not time to call on Taylor — So 
 Bailey is coming to Cumberland — well, if 
 you '11 let me know where at Inverness, I 
 will call on my return and pass a little 
 time with him — I am glad 't is not Scot- 
 land — Tell my friends I do all I can for 
 them, that is, drink their healths in Toddy. 
 Perhaps 1 may have some lines by and by 
 to send you fresh, on your own Letter — 
 Tom has a few to show you. 
 
 Your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 62. to thomas keats 
 
 Cairn-something [Cairndow], July 17, [1818]. 
 
 My dear Tom — Here 's Brown going on 
 so that I cannot bring to mind how the two 
 last days have vanished — for example he 
 
 says The Lady of the Lake went to Rock 
 herself to sleep on Arthur's seat and the 
 Lord of the Isles coming to Press a Piece. 
 ... I told you last how we were stared at 
 in Glasgow — we are not out of the Crowd 
 yet. Steam Boats on Loch Lomond and 
 Barouches on its sides take a little from 
 the Pleasure of such romantic chaps as 
 Brown and I. The Banks of the Clyde are 
 extremely beautiful — the north end of 
 Loch Lomond grand in excess — the en- 
 trance at the lower end to the narrow part 
 from a little distance is precious good — 
 the Evening was beautiful nothing could 
 surpass our fortune in the weather — yet 
 was I worldly enough to wish for a fleet of 
 chivalry Barges with Trumpets and Ban- 
 ners just to die away before me into that 
 blue place among the mountains — I must 
 give you an outline as well as I can. 
 
 
 
 f^-i^^foL flu 
 
 No' B — the Water was a fine Blue sil- 
 vered and the Mountains a dark purple, the 
 Sun setting aslant behind them — mean- 
 time the head of ben Lomond was covered 
 with a rich Pink Cloud. We did not as- 
 cend Ben Lomond — the price being very 
 high and a half a day of rest being quite 
 acceptable. We were up at 4 this morning 
 and have walked to breakfast 15 Miles 
 through two Tremendous Glens — at the 
 end of the first there is a place called rest 
 and be thankful which we took for an Inn 
 — it was nothing but a Stone and so we 
 were cheated into 5 more Miles to Break- 
 fast — I have just been bathing in Loch 
 Fyne a salt water Lake opposite the Win- 
 dows, — quite pat and fresh but for the 
 
 cursed Gad flies — damn 'em they have 
 been at me ever since I left the Swan and 
 two necks.*" 
 
 [Keats here objurgates The Gadfly in the 
 lines printed on p. 245.] 
 
 [Inverary, July 18.] 
 
 Last Evening we came around the End 
 of Loch Fyne to Inverary — the Duke of 
 Argyle's Castle is very modern magnificent 
 and more so from the place it is in — the 
 woods seem old enough to remember two 
 or three changes in the Crags about them 
 
 — the Lake was beautiful and there was a 
 Band at a distance by the Castle. I must 
 say I enjoyed two or three common tunes 
 
 — but nothing could stifle the horrors of a 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 317 
 
 solo oil the Bag-pipe — I thought the Beast 
 would never have done. — Yet was I 
 doomed to hear auothei-. — On entering In- 
 verary we saw a Play Bill. Brown was 
 knocked up from new shoes — so I went 
 to the Barn alone where I saw the Stranger 
 accompanied by a Bag-pipe. There they 
 went on about interesting creaters and 
 human nater till the Curtain fell and then 
 came the Bag-pipe. When Mrs. Haller 
 fainted down went the Curtain and out 
 came the Bag-pipe — at the heartrending, 
 shoemending reconciliation the Piper blew 
 amain. I never read or saw this play be- 
 fore ; not the Bag-pipe nor the wretched 
 players themselves were little in comparison 
 with it — thank heaven it has been scoffed 
 at lately almost to a fashion — 
 
 [The sonnet printed above, p. 2i6, is here 
 copied.] 
 
 I think we are the luckiest fellows in 
 Christendom — Brown could not proceed 
 this morning on account of his feet and lo 
 there is thunder and rain. 
 
 [Kilmelford,] July 20th. 
 For these two days past we have been 
 so badly accommodated more particularly 
 in coarse food that I have not been at all 
 in cue to write. Last night poor Brown 
 with his feet blistered and scarcely able 
 to walk, after a trudge of 20 Miles down 
 the Side of Loch Awe had no supper but 
 Eggs and Oat Cake — we have lost the 
 sight of white bread entirely — Now we 
 have eaten nothing but Eggs all day — 
 about 10 a piece and they had become sick- 
 ening — To-day we have fared rather bet- 
 ter — but no oat Cake wanting — we had a 
 small Chicken and even a good bottle of 
 Port but all together the fare is too coarse 
 — I feel it a little. — Another week will 
 break us in. I forgot to tell you that when 
 we came through Glenside it was early in 
 the morning and we were pleased with the 
 noise of Shepherds, Sheep and dogs in the 
 misty heights close above us — we saw none 
 of them for some time, till two came in 
 
 sight creeping among the Crags like Em- 
 mets, yet their voices came quite plainly to 
 us — The approach to Loch Awe was very 
 solemn towards nightfall — the first glance 
 was a streak of water deep in the Bases of 
 large black Mountains. — We had come 
 along a complete mountain road, where if 
 one listened there was not a sound but that 
 of Mountain Streams. We walked 20 
 Miles by the side of Loch Awe — every ten 
 steps creating a new and beautiful picture 
 
 — sometimes through little wood — there 
 are two islands on the Lake each with a 
 beautiful ruin — one of them rich in ivy. — 
 We are detained this morning by the rain. 
 I will tell you exactly where we are. We 
 are between Loch Craignish and the sea just 
 opposite Long [Luing] Island. Yesterday 
 our walk was of this description — the near 
 Hills were not very lofty but many of them 
 steep, beautifully wooded — the distant 
 Mountains in the Hebrides very grand, the 
 Saltwater Lakes coming up between Crags 
 and Islands full tide and scarcely ruffled 
 
 — sometimes appearing as one large Lake, 
 sometimes as three distinct ones in differ- 
 ent directions. At one point we saw afar 
 off a rocky opening into the main sea. — 
 We have also seen an Eagle or two. They 
 move about without the least motion of 
 Wings when in an indolent fit. — I am for 
 the first time in a country where a foreign 
 Language is spoken — they gabble away 
 Gaelic at a vast rate — numbers of them 
 speak English. There are not many Kilts 
 in Argyleshire — at Fort William they say 
 a Man is not admitted into Society without 
 one — the Ladies there have a horror at 
 the indecency of Breeches. I cannot give 
 you a better idea of Highland Life than by 
 describing the place we are in. The Inn or 
 public is by far the best house in the im- 
 mediate neighbourhood. It has a white 
 front with tolerable windows — the table 
 I am writing on surprises me as being a 
 nice flapped Mahogany one. . . . You may 
 if you peep see through the floor chinks 
 into the ground rooms. The old Grand- 
 
3i8 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 mother of the house seems intelligent 
 though not over clean. N. B. No snuff 
 being to be had in the village she made us 
 some. The Guid Man is a rough-looking 
 hardy stout Man who I think does not 
 speak so much English as the Guid wife 
 who is very obliging and sensible and more- 
 over though stockingless has a pair of old 
 Shoes — Last night some Whisky Men sat 
 up clattering Gaelic till I am sure one 
 o'clock to our great annoyance. There is 
 a Gaelic testament on the Drawers in the 
 next room. White and blue China ware 
 has crept all about here — Yesterday there 
 passed a Donkey laden with tin-pots — 
 opposite the Window there are hills in a 
 Mist — a few Ash trees and a mountain 
 stream at a little distance. — They possess 
 a few head of Cattle. — If you had gone 
 round to the back of the House just now 
 — you would have seen more hills in a 
 Mist — some dozen wretched black Cot- 
 tages scented of peat smoke which finds its 
 way by the door or a hole in the roof — a 
 girl here and there barefoot. There was 
 one little thing driving Cows down a slope 
 like a mad thing. There was another 
 standing at the cowhouse door rather pretty 
 fac'd all up to the ankles in dirt. 
 
 [Oban, July 21.] 
 We have walk'd 15 Miles in a soaking 
 rain to Oban opposite the Isle of Mull 
 which is so near Staffa we had thought to 
 pass to it — but the expense is 7 Guineas 
 and those rather extorted. — Staffa you 
 see is a fashionable place and there- 
 fore every one concerned with it either in 
 this town or the Island are what you call 
 up. 'T is like paying sixpence for an apple 
 at the playhouse — this irritated me and 
 Brown was not best pleased — we have 
 therefore resolved to set northward for 
 fort William to-morrow morning. I fed 
 upon a bit of white Bread to-day like a 
 Sparrow — it was very fine — I cannot 
 manage the cursed Oat Cake. Remember 
 me to all and let me hear a good account of 
 
 you at Inverness — I am sorry Georgy had 
 not those lines. Good-bye. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 63. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 Inverary, July 18 [1818]. 
 My dear Bailey — The only day I 
 have had a chance of seeing you when you 
 were last in London I took every advan- 
 tage of — some devil led you out of the 
 way — Now I have written to Reynolds to 
 tell me where you will be in Cumberland 
 
 — so that I cannot miss you. And when I 
 see you, the first thing I shall do will be 
 to read that about Milton and Ceres, and 
 Proserpine — for though I am not going 
 after you to John o' Grot's, it will be but 
 poetical to say so. And here, Bailey, I 
 will say a few words written in a sane and 
 seber mind^ a very scarce thing with me, 
 for they may, hereafter, save j'ou a great 
 deal of trouble abovit me, which you do not 
 deserve, and for which I ought to be bas- 
 tinadoed. I carry all matters to an extreme 
 
 — so that when I have any little vexation, 
 it grows in five minutes into a theme for 
 Sophocles. Then, and in that temper, if I 
 write to any friend, I have so little self- 
 possession that I give him matter for griev- 
 ing at the very time perhaps when I am 
 laughing at a Pun. Your last letter made 
 me blush for the pain I had given you — 
 I know my own disposition so well that I 
 am certain of writing many times hereafter 
 in the same strain to you — now, you know 
 how far to believe in them. You must al- 
 low for Imagination. I know I shall not 
 be able to help it. 
 
 I am sorry you are grieved at my not 
 continuing my visits to Little Britain — 
 Yet I think I have as far as a Man can do 
 who lias Books to read and subjects to 
 think upon — for that reason I have been 
 nowhere else except to Wentworth Place 
 so nigh at hand — moreover I have been 
 too often in a state of health that made it 
 prudent not to hazard the night air. Yet, 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 319 
 
 further, I will confess to you that I cannot 
 enjoy Society small or numerous — I am 
 certain that our fair friends are glad I 
 should come for the mere sake of my com- 
 ing ; but I am certain I bring with me a 
 vexation they are better without — If I can 
 possibly at any time feel my temper coming 
 upon me I refrain even from a promised 
 visit. I am certain I have not a right feel- 
 ing towards women — at this moment, I 
 am striving to be just to them, but I cannot 
 
 — Is it because they fall so far beneath 
 my boyish Imagination ? When I was a 
 schoolboy I thought a fair woman a pure 
 Goddess ; my mind was a soft nest in which 
 some one of them slept, though she knew 
 it not. I have no right to expect more 
 than their reality — I thought them ethe- 
 real above men — I find them perhaps equal 
 
 — great by comparison is very small. In- 
 sult may be inflicted in more ways than by 
 word or action — One who is tender of 
 being insulted does not like to think an 
 insult against another. I do not like to 
 think insults in a lady's company — I com- 
 mit a crime with her which absence would 
 not have known. Is it not extraordi- 
 nary ? — when among men, I have no evil 
 thoughts, no malice, no spleen — I feel free 
 to speak or to be silent — I can listen, and 
 from every one I can learn — my hands 
 are in my pockets, I am free from all 
 suspicion and comfortable. When I am 
 among women, I have evil thoughts, malice, 
 spleen — I cannot speak, or be silent — 
 I am full of suspicions and therefore listen 
 to nothing — I am in a hurry to be gone. 
 You must be charitable and put all this 
 perversity to my being disappointed since 
 my boyhood. Yet with such feelings I am 
 happier alone among crowds of men, by 
 myself, or with a friend or two. With all 
 this, trust me, I have not the least idea 
 that men of different feelings and inclina- 
 tions are more short-sighted than myself. 
 I never rejoiced more than at my Brother's 
 marriage, and shall do so at that of any 
 of my friends. I must absolutely get oter 
 
 this — but how ? the only way is to find 
 the root of the evil, and so cure it ' with 
 backward mutters of dissevering power ' — 
 that is a difficult thing ; for an obstinate 
 Prejudice can seldom be produced but from 
 a gordian complication of feelings, which 
 must take time to unravel, and care to keep 
 unravelled. I could say a good deal about 
 this, but I will leave it, in hopes of better 
 and more worthy dispositions — and also 
 content that I am wronging no one, for 
 after all I do think better of womankind 
 than to suppose they care whether Mister 
 John Keats five feet high likes them or not. 
 You appeared to wish to know my moods 
 on this subject — don't think it a bore my 
 dear fellow, it shall be my Amen. I should 
 not have consented to myself these four 
 months tramping in the highlands, but that 
 I thought it would give me more experi- 
 ence, rub off more prejudice, use to more 
 hardship, identify finer scenes, load me 
 with grander mountains, and strengthen 
 more my reach in Poetry, than would stop- 
 ping at home among books, even though 
 I should reach Homer. By this time I 
 am comparatively a Mountaineer. I have 
 been among wilds and mountains too much 
 to break out much about their grandeur. 
 I have fed upon oat-cake — not long 
 enough to be very mnch attached to it. — 
 The first mountains I saw, though not so 
 large as some I have since seen, weighed 
 very solemnly upon me. The effect is 
 wearing away — yet I like them mainly. 
 
 [Island of Mull, July 22.] 
 We have come this Evening with a guide 
 — for without was impossible — into the 
 middle of the Isle of Mull, pursuing our 
 cheap journey to lona, and perhaps Staffa. 
 We would not follow the common and 
 fashionable mode, from the great Imposi- 
 tion of Expense. We have come over 
 heath and rock, and river and bog, to what 
 in England would be called a horrid place. 
 Yet it belongs to a Shepherd pretty well 
 off perhaps. The family speak not a word 
 
320 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 but Gaelic, and we have not yet seen their 
 faces for the smoke, which, after visiting 
 every cranny (not excepting my eyes very 
 much incommoded for writing), finds its 
 way out at the door. I am more comfort- 
 able than I could have imagined in such a 
 place, and so is Brown. The people are 
 all very kind — We lost our way a little 
 yesterday; and inquiring at a Cottage, a 
 young woman without a word threw on 
 her cloak and walked a mile in a mizzling 
 rain and splashy way to put us right again. 
 I could not have had a greater pleasure 
 in these parts than your mention of my 
 sister. She is very much prisoned from 
 me. I am afraid it will be some time be- 
 fore I can take her to many places I wish. 
 I trust we shall see you ere long in Cum- 
 berland — At least I hope I shall, before 
 my visit to America, more than once. I in- 
 tend to pass a whole year there, if I live to 
 the completion of the three next. My sis- 
 ter's welfare, and the hopes of such a stay 
 in America, will make me observe your 
 advice. I shall be prudent and more care- 
 ful of my health than I have been. I hope 
 you will be about paying your first visit to 
 Town after settling when we come into 
 Cumberland — Cumberland however will 
 be no distance to me after my present 
 journey. I shall spin to you in a Minute. 
 I begin to get rather a contempt of dis- 
 tances. I hope you will have a nice con- 
 venient room for a library. Now you are 
 so well in health, do keep it up by never 
 missing your dinner, by not reading hard, 
 and by taking proper exercise. You '11 
 have a horse, I suppose, so you must make 
 a point of sweating him. You say I must 
 study Dante — well, the only Books I have 
 with me are those 3 little volumes.^^ I read 
 that fine passage you mention a few days 
 ago. Your letter followed me from Hamp- 
 stead to Port-Patrick, and thence to Glas- 
 gow. You must think me by this time a 
 very pretty fellow. One of the pleasantest 
 bouts we have had was our walk to Burns's 
 Cottage, over the Doon, and past Kirk 
 
 AUoway. I had determined to write a 
 Sonnet in the Cottage. I did — but lawk! 
 it was so wretched I destroyed it — how- 
 ever in a few days afterwards I wrote some 
 lines cousin-german to the circumstance, 
 which I will transcribe, or rather cross- 
 scribe in the front of this. [Here follow 
 the lines printed on pp. 246, 247.] 
 
 Reynolds's illness has made him a new 
 man — he will be stronger than ever — be- 
 fore I left London he was really getting a 
 fat face. Brown keeps on writing volumes 
 of adventures to Dilke. When we get in 
 of an evening and I have perhaps taken my 
 rest on a couple of chairs, he affronts my 
 indolence and Luxury by pulling out of his 
 knapsack 1st his paper — 2ndly his pens 
 and last his ink. Now I would not care if 
 he would change a little. I say now why 
 not Bailej^, take out his pens first some- 
 times — But I might as well tell a hen to 
 hold up her head before she drinks instead 
 of afterwards. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend, John Keats. 
 
 64. TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 Dun an cullen, [Derrynaculan ?] 
 Island of Mull [July 23, 1818]. 
 My dear Tom — Just after my last had 
 gone to the Post, in came one of the Men 
 with whom we endeavoured to agree about 
 going to Staffa — he said what a pity it was 
 we should turn aside and not see the curi- 
 osities. So we had a little talk, and finally 
 agreed that he should be our guide across 
 the Isle of Mull. We set out, crossed two 
 ferries — one to the Isle of Kerrara, of 
 little distance ; the other from Kerrara to 
 Mull 9 Miles across — we did it in forty 
 minutes with a fine Breeze. The road 
 through the Island, or rather the track, is 
 the most dreary you can think of — be- 
 tween dreary Mountains, over bog and rock 
 and river with our Breeches tucked up and 
 our Stockings in hand. About 8 o'Clock 
 we arrived at a shepherd's Hut, into which 
 we could scarcely get for the Smoke through 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 321 
 
 a door lower than my Shoulders. We found 
 our way into a little compartment with the 
 rafters and turf-thatch blackened with 
 smoke, the earth floor full of Hills and 
 Dales. We had some white Bread with us, 
 made a good supper, and slept in our Clothes 
 in some Blankets; our Guide snored on an- 
 other little bed about an Arm's length off. 
 This morning we came about sax Miles to 
 Breakfast, by rather a better path, and we 
 are now in by comparison a Mansion. Our 
 Guide is I think a very obliging fellow — 
 in the way this morning he sang us two 
 Gaelic songs — one made by a Mrs. Brown 
 on her husband's being drowned, the other 
 a jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some 
 days Brown has been enquiring out his 
 Genealogy here — he thinks his Grand- 
 father came from long Island. He got a 
 parcel of people about him at a Cottage 
 door last Evening, chatted with ane who 
 had been a Miss Brown, and who I think 
 from a likeness, must have been a Relation 
 — he jawed with the old Woman — flattered 
 a young one — kissed a child who was afraid 
 of his Spectacles and finally drank a pint of 
 Milk. They handle his Spectacles as we 
 do a sensitive leaf. 
 
 [Oban,] July 26th. 
 Well — we had a most wretched walk of 
 37 Miles across the Island of Mull and 
 then we crossed to lona or Icolmkill — 
 from Icolmkill we took a boat at a bargain 
 to take us to Stafifa and land us at the head 
 of Loch Nakgal, [Loch na Keal] whence 
 we should only have to walk half the dis- 
 tance to Oban again and on a better road. 
 All this is well passed and done, \vith this 
 singular piece of Luck, that there was an 
 interruption in the bad Weather just as we 
 saw Staffa at which it is impossible to land 
 but in a tolerable Calm sea. But I will first 
 mention Icolmkill — I know not whether 
 you have heard much about this Island ; 
 I never did before I came nigh it. It is 
 rich in the most interesting Antiquities. 
 Who would expect to find the ruins of a 
 fine Cathedral Church, of Cloisters Col- 
 
 leges Monasteries and Nunneries in so re- 
 mote an Island ? The beginning of these 
 things was in the sixth Century, under the 
 superstition of a would - be - Bishop - saint, 
 who landed from Ireland, and chose the 
 spot from its Beauty — for at that time 
 the now treeless place was covered with 
 magnificent Woods. Columba in the Gaelic 
 is Colm, signifying Dove — Kill signifies 
 church, and I is as good as Island — so 
 I-colm-kill means the Island of Saint Co- 
 lumba's Church. Now this Saint Columba 
 became the Dominic of the barbarian Chris- 
 tians of the north and was famed also far 
 south — but more especially was reverenced 
 by the Scots the Picts the Norwegians the 
 Irish. In a course of years perhaps the 
 Island was considered the most holy ground 
 of the north, and the old Kings of the 
 aforementioned nations chose it for their 
 burial-place. We were shown a spot in the 
 Churchyard where they say 61 Kings are 
 buried 48 Scotch from Fergus II. to Mac- 
 beth 8 Irish 4 Norwegians and 1 French — 
 they lie in rows compact. Then we were 
 shown other matters of later date, but still 
 very ancient — many tombs of Highland 
 Chieftains — their effigies in complete ar- 
 mour, face upwards, black and moss-cov- 
 ered — Abbots and Bishops of the island 
 always of one of the chief Clans. There 
 were plenty Macleans and Macdonnels; 
 among these latter, the famous Macdonel 
 Lord of the Isles. There have been 300 
 Crosses in the Island but the Presbyterians 
 destroyed all but two, one of which is a 
 very fine one, and completely covered with 
 a shaggy coarse Moss. The old School- 
 master, an ignorant little man but reckoned 
 very clever, showed us these things. He 
 is a Maclean, and as much above 4 foot as 
 he is under 4 foot three inches. He stops 
 at one glass of whisky unless you press an- 
 other and at the second unless you press a 
 third — 
 
 I am puzzled how to give you an Idea of 
 Staffa. It can only be represented by a 
 first-rate drawing. One may compare the 
 
322 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 surface of the Island to a roof — this roof 
 is supported by grand pillars of basalt 
 standing together as thick as honeycombs. 
 The finest thing is Fingal's Cave — it is 
 entirely a hollowing out of Basalt Pillars. 
 Suppose now the Giants who rebelled 
 against Jove had taken a whole Mass of 
 black Columns and bound them together 
 like bunches of matches — and then with 
 immense axes had made a cavern in the 
 body of these columns — Of course the 
 roof and floor must be composed of the 
 broken ends of the Columns — such is Fin- 
 gal's Cave, except that the Sea has done 
 the work of excavations, and is continually 
 dashing there — so that we walk along the 
 sides of the cave on the pillars which are 
 left as if for convenient stairs. The roof 
 is arched somewhat gothic-wise, and the 
 length of some of the entire side-pillars is 
 fifty feet. About the island you might seat 
 an army of Men each on a pillar. The 
 length of the Cave is 120 feet, and from 
 its extremity the view into the sea, through 
 the large Arch at the entrance — the colour 
 of the columns is a sort of black with a 
 lurking gloom of purple therein. For so- 
 lemnity and grandeur it far surpasses the 
 finest Cathedral. At the extremity of the 
 Cave there is a small perforation into an- 
 other cave, at which the waters meeting 
 and buffeting each other there is sometimes 
 produced a report as of a cannon heard as 
 far as lona, which must be 12 Miles. As 
 we approached in the boat, there was such 
 a fine swell of the sea that the pillars ap- 
 peared rising immediately out of the crystal. 
 But it is impossible to describe it. [The 
 lines ' At Fingal's Cave,' p. 122, are here 
 given in a variant.] 
 
 I am sorry I am so indolent as to write 
 such stuff as this. It can't be helped. The 
 western coast of Scotland is a most strange 
 place — it is composed of rocks. Mountains, 
 mountainous and rocky Islands intersected 
 by lochs — you can go but a short distance 
 anywhere from salt water in the highlands. 
 
 I have a slight sore throat and think it 
 
 best to stay a day or two at Oban — then 
 we shall proceed to Fort William and 
 Inverness, where I am anxious to be on ac- 
 count of a Letter from you. Brown in his 
 Letters puts down every little circum- 
 stance. I should like to do the same, but 
 I confess myself too indolent, and besides 
 next winter everything will come up in 
 prime order as we verge on such and such 
 things. 
 
 Have you heard in any way of George ? 
 I should think by this time he must have 
 landed. I in my carelessness never thought 
 of knowing where a letter would find him 
 on the other side — I think Baltimore, but 
 I am afraid of directing it to the wrong 
 place. I shall begin some chequer work 
 for him directly, and it will be ripe for the 
 post by the time I hear from you next after 
 this. I assure you I often long for a seat 
 and a Cup o' tea at Well Walk, especially 
 now that mountains, castles, and Lakes are 
 becoming common to me. Yet I would 
 rather summer it out, for on the whole I 
 am happier than when I have time to be 
 glum — perhaps it may cure me. Immedi- 
 ately on my return I shall begin studying 
 hard, with a peep at the theatre now and 
 then — and depend upon it I shall be very 
 luxurious. With respect to Women I think 
 I shall be able to conquer my passions 
 hereafter better than I have yet done. You 
 will help me to talk of George next winter, 
 and we will go now and then to see Fanny. 
 Let me hear a good account of your health 
 and comfort, telling me truly how you do 
 alone. Remember me to all including Mr. 
 and Mrs. Bentley. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother 
 
 John. 
 
 65. TO THE SAME 
 
 Letter Findlay, August 3 [1818]. 
 
 Ah mio Ben. 
 
 My dear Tom — We have made but 
 
 poor progress lately, chiefly from bad 
 
 weather, for my throat is in a fair way of 
 
 getting quite well, so I have had nothing 
 
TO THOMAS KEATS 
 
 323 
 
 of consequence to tell you till yesterday 
 when we went np Ben Nevis, the highest 
 Mountain in Great Britain. On that ac- 
 count I will never ascend another in this 
 empire — Skiddaw is nothing to it either in 
 height or in difficulty. It is above 4300 
 feet from the Sea level, and Fortwilliam 
 stands at the head of a Salt water Lake, 
 consequently we took it completely from 
 that level. I am heartily glad it is done — 
 it is almost like a fly crawling up a wain- 
 seoat. Imagine the task of mounting ten 
 Saint Pauls without the convenience of 
 Staircases. We set out about five in the 
 morning with a Guide in the Tartan and 
 Cap, and soon arrived at the foot of the 
 first ascent which we immediately began 
 upon. After much fag and tug and a rest 
 and a glass of whisky apiece we gained the 
 top of the first rise and saw then a tre- 
 mendous chap above us, which the guide 
 said was still far from the top. After the 
 first Rise our way lay along a heath valley 
 in which there was a Loch — after about a 
 Mile in this Valley we began upon the next 
 ascent, more formidable by far than the 
 last, and kept mounting with short inter- 
 vals of rest until we got above all vegeta- 
 tion, among nothing but loose Stones which 
 lasted us to the very top. The Guide said 
 we had three Miles of a stony ascent — we 
 gained the first tolerable level after the 
 valley to the height of what in the Valley 
 we had thought the top and saw still above 
 us another huge crag which still the Guide 
 said was not the top — to that we made 
 with an obstinate fag, and having gained it 
 there came on a Mist, so that from that 
 part to the very top we walked in a Mist. 
 The whole immense head of the Mountain 
 is composed of large loose stones — thou- 
 sands of acres. Before we had got half- 
 way up we passed large patches of snow 
 and near the top there is a chasm some 
 hundred feet deep completely glutted with 
 it. — Talking of chasms they are the finest 
 wonder of the whole — they appear great 
 rents in the very heart of the mountain 
 
 though they are not, being at the side of it, 
 but other huge crags arising round it give 
 the appearance to Nevis of a shattered 
 heart or Core in itself. These Chasms are 
 1500 feet in depth and are the most tre- 
 mendous places I have ever seen — they 
 turn one giddy if you choose to give way 
 to it. We tumbled in large stones and set 
 the echoes at work in fine style. Some- 
 times these chasms are tolerably clear, 
 sometimes there is a misty cloud which 
 seems to steam up and sometimes they are 
 entirely smothered with clouds. 
 
 After a little time the Mist cleared away 
 but still there were large Clouds about at- 
 tracted by old Ben to a certain distance so 
 as to form as it appeared large dome cur- 
 tains which kept sailing about, opening and 
 shutting at intervals here and there and 
 everywhere: so that although we did not 
 see one vast wide extent of prospect all 
 round we saw something perhaps finer — 
 these cloud veils opening with a dissolving 
 motion and showing us the mountainous 
 region beneath as through a loophole — 
 these cloudy loopholes ever varying and 
 discovering fresh prospect east, west, north 
 and south. Then it was misty again, and 
 again it was fair — then pufE came a cold 
 breeze of wind and bared a craggy chap we 
 had not yet seen though in close neigh- 
 bourhood. Every now and then we had 
 overhead blue Sky clear and the sun pretty 
 warm. I do not know whether I can give 
 you an Idea of the prospect from a large 
 Mountain top. You are on a stony plain 
 which of course makes you forget you are 
 on any but low ground — the horizon or 
 rather edges of this plain being above 4000 
 feet above the Sea hide all the Country 
 immediately beneath you, so that the next 
 object you see all round next to the edges 
 of the flat top are the Summits of Moun- 
 tains of some distance off. As you move 
 about on all sides you see more or less of 
 the near neighbour country according as 
 the Mountain you stand upon is in different 
 parts steep or rounded — but the most new 
 
324 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 thing of all is the sudden leap of the eye 
 from the extremity of what appears a plain 
 into so vast a distance. On one part of the 
 top there is a handsome pile of Stones done 
 pointedly by some soldiers of artillery; I 
 clim[b]ed on to them and so got a little 
 higher than old Ben himself. It was not 
 so cold as I expected — yet cold enough for 
 a glass of Whisky now and then. There 
 is not a more fickle thing than the top of 
 a Mountain — what would a Lady give to 
 change her head-dress as often and with as 
 little trouble! — There are a good many 
 red deer upon Ben Nevis — we did not see 
 one — the dog we had with us kept a very 
 sharp look out and really languished for 
 a bit of a worry. I have said nothing yet 
 of our getting on among the loose stones 
 large and small sometimes on two, some- 
 times on three, sometimes four legs — 
 sometimes two and stick, 'sometimes three 
 and stick, then four again, then two, then 
 a jump, so that we kept on ringing changes 
 on foot, hand, stick, jump, boggle, stumble, 
 foot, hand, foot (very gingerly), stick again, 
 and then again a game at all fours. After 
 all there was one Mrs. Cameron of 50 years 
 of age and the fattest woman in all Inver- 
 ness-shire who got up this Mountain some 
 few years ago — true she had her servants 
 — but then she had her self. She ought 
 to have hired Sisyphus, — ' Up the high 
 bill he heaves a huge round — Mrs. Came- 
 ron.' 'T is said a little conversation took 
 place between the mountain and the Lady. 
 After taking a glass of Whisky as she was 
 tolerably seated at ease she thus began — 
 
 [Here follow the nonsense verses and inter- 
 calary sentences, given on pp. 247, 248.] 
 
 Over leaf you will find a Sonnet I wrote 
 on the top of Ben Nevis, [see p. 123]. We 
 have just entered Inverness. I have three 
 Letters from you and one from Fanny — 
 and one from Dilke. I would set about 
 crossing this all over for you but I will first 
 write to Fanny and Mrs. Wylie. Then I 
 will begin another to you and not before 
 because I think it better you should have 
 
 this as soon as possible. My Sore throat is 
 not quite well and I intend stopping here a 
 few days. 
 
 Good-bye till to morrow. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother 
 
 John . 
 
 66. TO MRS. WYLIE 
 
 Inverness, August 6 [1818]. 
 
 My dear Madam — It was a great regret 
 to me that I should leave all my friends, 
 just at the moment when I might have 
 helped to soften away the time for them. 
 I wanted not to leave my brother Tom, but 
 more especially, believe me, I should like 
 to have remained near you, were it but for 
 an atom of consolation after parting with 
 so dear a daughter. My brother George 
 has ever been more than a brother to me ; 
 he has been my greatest friend, and I can 
 never forget the sacrifice you have made 
 for his happiness. As I walk along the 
 Mountains here I am full of these things, 
 and lay in wait, as it were, for the pleasure 
 of seeing you immediately on my return to 
 town. I wish, above all things, to say a 
 word of Comfort to you, but I know not 
 how. It is impossible to prove that black 
 is white; it is impossible to make out that 
 sorrow is joy, or joy is sorrow. 
 
 Tom tells me that you called on Mr. 
 Haslam, with a newspaper giving an ac- 
 count of a gentleman in a Fur cap falling 
 over a precipice in Kirkcudbrightshire. If 
 it was me, I did it in a dream, or in some 
 magic interval between the first and second 
 cup of tea; which is nothing extraordinary 
 when we hear that Mahomet, in getting out 
 of Bed, upset a jug of water, and, whilst it 
 was falling, took a fortnight's trip, as it 
 seemed, to Heaven; yet was back in time 
 to save one drop of water being spilt. As 
 for Fur caps, I do not remember one beside 
 my own, except at Carlisle : this was a very 
 good Fur cap I met in High Street, and I 
 daresay was the unfortunate one. I daresay 
 that the fates, seeing but two Fur caps in 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 325 
 
 the north, thought it too extraordinary, and 
 so threw the dies which of them should be 
 drowned. The lot fell upon Jones: I dare- 
 say his name was Jones. All 1 hope is that 
 the gaunt Ladies said not a word about 
 hanging; if they did I shall repent that I 
 was not half-drowned in Kirkcudbright. 
 Stop! let me see! — being half-drowned 
 by falling from a precipice, is a very ro- 
 mantic affair: why should I not take it to 
 myself ? How glorious to be introduced 
 in a drawing-room to a Lady who reads 
 Novels, with ' Mr. So-and-so — Miss So- 
 and-so ; Miss So-and-so, this is Mr. So-and- 
 so, who fell off a precipice and was half- 
 drowned.' Now I refer to you, whether I 
 should lose so fine an opportunity of mak- 
 ing my fortune. No romance lady could 
 resist me — none. Being run under a 
 Waggon — sidelamed in a playhouse, Apo- 
 plectic through Brandy — and a thousand 
 other tolerably decent things for badness, 
 would be nothing, but being tumbled over 
 a precipice into the sea — oh ! it would 
 make my fortune — especially if you could 
 contrive to hint, from this bulletin's author- 
 ity, that I was not upset on my own account, 
 but that I dashed into the waves after Jessy 
 of Duuiblane, and pulled her out by the 
 hair. But that, alas ! she was dead, or she 
 would have made me happy with her hand 
 — however in this you may use your own 
 discretion. But I must leave joking, and 
 seriously aver, that I have been very ro- 
 mantic indeed among these Mountains and 
 Lakes. I have got wet through, day after 
 day — eaten oat-cake, and drank Whisky — 
 walked up to my knees in Bog — got a sore 
 throat — gone to see Icolmkill and Staffa; 
 met with wholesome food just here and 
 there as it happened — went up Ben Nevis, 
 and — N. B., came down again. Some- 
 times when I am rather tired I lean rather 
 languishingly on a rock, and long for some 
 famous Beauty to get down from her Pal- 
 frey in passing, approach me, with — her 
 saddle-bags, and give me — a dozen or two 
 capital roastbeef Sandwiches. 
 
 When I come into a large town, you 
 know there is no putting one's Knapsack 
 into one's fob, so the people stare. We 
 have been taken for Spectacle - vendors, 
 Razor-sellers, Jewellers, travelling linen- 
 drapers, Spies, Excisemen, and many things 
 I have no idea of. When I asked for 
 letters at Port Patrick, the man asked what 
 regiment ? I have had a peep also at little 
 Ireland. Tell Henry I have not camped 
 quite on the bare Earth yet, but nearly 
 as bad, in walking through Mull, for the 
 Shepherds' huts you can scarcely breathe 
 in, for the Smoke which they seem to en- 
 deavour to preserve for smoking on a large 
 scale. Besides riding about 400, we have 
 walked above 600 Miles, and may there- 
 fore reckon ourselves as set out. 
 
 I assure you, my dear Madam, that one 
 of the greatest pleasures I shall have on 
 my return, will be seeing you, and that I 
 shall ever be 
 
 Yours, with the greatest respect and 
 sincerity, John Keats. 
 
 67. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Hampstead, August 18 [1818]. 
 My dear Fanny — I am afraid you will 
 think me very negligent in not having 
 answered your Letter — I see it is dated 
 June 12. I did not arrive at Liverness till 
 the 8th of this Month so I am very much 
 concerned at your being disappointed so 
 long a time. I did not intend to have 
 returned to London so soon but have a bad 
 sore throat from a cold I caught in the 
 island of Mull: therefore I thought it best 
 to get home as soon as possible, and went 
 on board the Smack from Cromarty. We 
 had a nine days' passage and were landed 
 at London Bridge yesterday. I shall have 
 a good deal to tell you about Scotland — ^. 
 I would begin here but I have a confounded 
 toothache. Tom has not been getting better 
 since I left London and for the last fort- 
 night has been worse than ever — he has 
 been getting a little better for these two or 
 
326 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 three days. I shall ask Mr. Abbey to let 
 me bring you to Hampstead. If Mr. A. 
 should see this Letter tell him that he still 
 must if he pleases forward the Post Bill 
 to Perth as I have empowered my fellow 
 traveller to receive it. I have a few Scotch 
 pebbles for you from the Island of Icolm- 
 kill — I am afraid they are rather shabby 
 
 — I did not go near the Mountain of Cairn 
 Gorm. I do not know the Name of 
 George's ship — the Name of the Port he 
 has gone to is Philadelphia whence he will 
 travel to the Settlement across the Country 
 
 — I will tell you all about this when I see 
 you. The Title of my last Book is Endy- 
 mion — you shall have one soon. — I would 
 not advise you to play on the Flageolet — 
 however I will get you one if you please. 
 I will speak to Mr. Abbey on what you say 
 concerning school. I am sorry for your 
 poor Canary. You shall have another 
 volume of my first Book. ' My toothache 
 keeps on so that I cannot write with any 
 pleasure — all I can say now is that your 
 Letter is a very nice one without fault and 
 that you will hear from or see in a few 
 days if his throat will let him, 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 68. TO THE SAME 
 
 Hampstead, Tuesday [August 25, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I have just written 
 to Mr. Abbey to ask him to let you come 
 and see poor Tom who has lately been 
 much worse. He is better at present — 
 sends his Love to you and wishes much to 
 see you — I hope he will shortly — I have 
 not been able to come to Walthamstow on 
 his account as well as a little Indisposition 
 of my own. I have asked Mr. A. to write 
 me — if he does not mention anything of it 
 to you, I will tell you what reasons he 
 has though I do not think he will make any 
 objection. Write me what you want with 
 a Flageolet and I will get one ready for 
 you by the time you come. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 69. TO JANE REYNOLDS 
 
 Well Walk, September 1st [1818]. 
 
 My dear Jane — Certainly your kind 
 note would rather refresh than trouble me, 
 and so much the more would your coming 
 if as you say, it could be done without 
 agitating my Brother too much. Receive 
 on your Hearth our deepest thanks for your 
 Solicitude concerning us. 
 
 I am glad John is not hurt, but gone safe 
 into Devonshire — I shall be in great ex- 
 pectation of his Letter — but the promise 
 of it in so anxious and friendly a way I 
 prize more than a hundred. I shall be in 
 town to-day on some business with my 
 guardian ' as was ' with scarce a hope of 
 being able to call on you. For these two 
 last days Tom has been more cheerful : you 
 shall hear again soon how he will be. 
 
 Remember us particularly to your Mo- 
 ther. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 70. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 [Hampstead, September 21, 1818.] 
 My dear Dilke — According to the 
 Wentworth place Bulletin you have left 
 Brighton much improved : therefore now a 
 few lines will be more of a pleasure than 
 a bore. I have things to say to you, and 
 would fain begin upon them in this fourth 
 line : but I have a Mind too well regulated 
 to proceed upon anything without due pre- 
 liminary remarks. — You may perhaps have 
 observed that in the simple process of eat- 
 ing radishes I never begin at the root but 
 constantly dip the little green head in the 
 salt — that in the Game of Whist if I have 
 an ace I constantly play it first. So how 
 can I with any face begin without a disser- 
 tation on letter-writing ? Yet when I con- 
 sider that a sheet of paper contains room 
 only for three pages and a half, how can 
 I do justice to such a pregnant subject ? 
 However, as you have seen the history of 
 the world stamped as it were by a dimin- 
 
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 327 
 
 ishing glass iu the form of a chronological 
 Map, so will I ' with retractile claws ' 
 draw this into the form of a table — 
 whereby it will occupy merely the remain- 
 der of this first page — 
 
 Folio — Parsons, Lawyers, Statesmen, 
 Physicians out of place — ut — Eus- 
 tace — Thornton — out of practice or 
 on their travels. 
 
 Foolscap — 1. Superfine — Rich or no- 
 ble poets — ut Byron. 2. common ut 
 egomet. 
 
 Quarto — Projectors, Patentees, Presi- 
 dents, Potato growers. 
 
 Bath — Boarding schools, and suburbans 
 iu general. 
 
 Gilt edge — Dandies iu general, male, 
 female, and literary. 
 
 Octavo or tears — All who make use of 
 a lascivious seal. 
 
 Duodec. — May be found for the most 
 part on Milliners' and Dressmakers' 
 Parlour tables. 
 
 Strip — At the Playhouse-doors, or any- 
 where. 
 
 Slip — Being but a variation. 
 
 Snip — So called from its size being dis- 
 guised by a twist. 
 
 I suppose you will have heard that Haz- 
 litt has on foot a prosecution against Black- 
 wood. I dined with him a few days since 
 at Hessey's — there was not a word said 
 about it, though I understand be is exces- 
 sively vexed. Reynolds, by what I hear, 
 is almost over-happy, and Rice is in town. 
 I have not seen him, nor shall I for some 
 time, as my throat has become worse after 
 getting well, and I am determined to stop 
 at home till I am quite well. I was going 
 to Town to-morrow with Mrs. D. but I 
 thought it best to ask her excuse this morn- 
 ing. I wish I could say Tom was any 
 better. His identity presses upon me so 
 all day that I am obliged to go out — and 
 although I intended to have given some 
 time to study alone, I am obliged to write 
 
 and plunge into abstract images to ease 
 myself of his countenance, his voice, and 
 feebleness — so that I live now in a con- 
 tiimal fever. It must be poisonous to life, 
 although I feel well. Imagine ' the hate- 
 ful siege of contraries ' — if I think of 
 fame, of poetry, it seems a crime to me, 
 and yet I must do so or suffer. I am sorry 
 to give you pain — I am almost resolved 
 to burn this — but I really have not self- 
 possession and magnanimity enough to 
 manage the thing otherwise — after all it 
 may be a nervousness proceeding from the 
 Mercury. 
 
 Bailey I hear is gaining his spirits, and 
 he will yet be what I once thought impossi- 
 ble, a cheerful Man — I think he is not 
 quite so much spoken of in Little Britain. 
 I forgot to ask Mrs. Dilke if she had any- 
 thing she wanted to say immediately to you. 
 This morning look'd so unpromising that I 
 did not think she woiUd have gone — but I 
 find she has, on sending for some volumes 
 of Gibbon. I was in a little funk yes- 
 terday, for I sent in an unseal'd note of 
 sham abuse, until I recollected, from what 
 I heard Charles say, that the servant could 
 neither read nor write — not even to her 
 Mother as Charles observed. I have just 
 had a Letter from Reynolds — he is going 
 on gloriously. The following is a transla- 
 tion of a line of Ronsard — 
 
 ' Love pour'd her beaxity into my warm veins.' 
 
 You have passed your Romance, and I 
 never gave in to it, or else I think this line 
 a feast for one of your Lovers. How goes 
 it with Brown ? 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 71. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [Hampstead, about September 22, 1818.] 
 My dear Reynolds — Believe me I 
 have rather rejoiced at your happiness than 
 fretted at your silence. Indeed I am 
 grieved on your account that I am not at 
 the same time happy — But I conjure you 
 
328 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 to think at Present of nothing but plea- 
 sure — ' Gather the rose, etc' — gorge the 
 honey of life. I pity you as much that it 
 cannot last for ever, as I do myself now 
 drinking bitters. Give yourself up to it — 
 you cannot help it — and I have a Consola- 
 tion in thinking so. I never was in love — 
 Yet the voice and shape of a Woman ''^ has 
 haunted me these two days — at such a 
 time, when the relief, the feverous relief 
 of Poetry seems a much less crime — This 
 morning Poetry has conquered — I have 
 relapsed into those abstractions which are 
 my only life — I feel escaped from a new 
 strange and threatening sorrow — And I am 
 thankful for it — There is an awful warmth 
 about my heart like a load of Immortality. 
 
 Poor Tom — that woman — and Poetry 
 were ringing changes in my senses — Now 
 I am in comparison happy — I am sensible 
 this will distress you — you must forgive 
 me. Had I known you would have set out 
 so soon I could have sent you the * Pot of 
 Basil ' for I had copied it out ready. — Here 
 is a free translation of a Sonnet of Ron- 
 sard [see p. 123], which I think will 
 please you — I have the loan of his works 
 — they have great Beauties. 
 
 I had not the original by me when I wrote 
 it, and did not recollect the purport of the 
 last lines. 
 
 I should have seen Rice ere this — but I 
 am confined by Sawrey's mandate in the 
 house now, and have as yet only gone out 
 in fear of the damp night. — You know 
 what an undangerous matter it is. I shall 
 soon be quite recovered — Your offer I 
 shall remember as though it had even now 
 taken place in fact — I think it cannot be. 
 Tom is not up yet — I cannot say he is 
 better. I have not heard from George. 
 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 72. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead, October 9, 1818.] 
 My dear Fanny — Poor Tom is about 
 the same as when you saw him last ; per- 
 
 haps weaker — were it not for that I 
 should have been over to pay you a visit 
 these fine days. I got to the stage half an 
 hour before it set out and counted the buns 
 and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and 
 was just beginning with the Jellies. There 
 was no one in the Coach who had a Mind 
 to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be 
 punctual in enquiring about next Thurs- 
 day— 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 73. TO JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY 
 
 [Hampstead, October 9, 1818.] 
 My dear Hessey — You are very good 
 in sending me the letters from the Chroni- 
 cle — and I am very bad in not acknowledg- 
 ing such a kindness sooner — pray forgive 
 me. It has so chanced that I have had 
 that paper every day — I have seen to- 
 day's. I cannot but feel indebted to those 
 Gentlemen who have taken my part — As 
 for the rest, I begin to get a little ac- 
 quainted with my own strength and weak- 
 ness. — Praise or blame has but a momen- 
 tary effect on the man whose love of beauty 
 in the abstract makes him a severe critic 
 on his own Works. My own domestic 
 criticism has given me pain without com- 
 parison beyond what Blackwood or the 
 Quarterly could possibly inflict — and also 
 when I feel I am right, no external praise 
 can give me such a glow as my own solitary 
 reperception and ratification of what is 
 fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to 
 the slip-shod Endymion.*^ That it is so is no 
 fault of mine. No ! — though it may sound 
 a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had 
 power to make it — by myself — Had I 
 b^n nervous about its being a perfect piece, 
 and with that view asked advice, and trem- 
 bled over every page, it would not have 
 been written ; for it is not in my nature to 
 fumble — I will write independently. — I 
 have written independently without Judg- 
 ment. I may write independently, and 
 with Judgment, hereafter. The Genius of 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 329 
 
 Poetry must work out its owu salvation in 
 a man : It cannot be matured by law and 
 precept, but by sensation and watchfulness 
 in itself — That which is creative must 
 create itself — ^ In Endymion, I leaped head- 
 long into the sea, and thereby have become 
 better acquainted with the Soundings, the 
 quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had 
 stayed upon the green shore, and piped a 
 silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable 
 advice. I Avas never afraid of failure ; for 
 I would sooner fail than not be among the 
 greatest — But I am nigh getting into a 
 rant. So, with remembrances to Taylor 
 and Woodhouse etc. I am 
 
 Yours very sincerely John Keats. 
 
 74. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead, October 13 or 14, 1818.] 
 My dear George — There was a part 
 in your Letter which gave me a great deal 
 of pain, that where you lament not receiv- 
 ing Letters from England. I intended to 
 have written immediately on my return 
 from Scotland (which was two Months 
 earlier than I had intended on account of 
 my ovni as well as Tom's health) but then 
 I was told by Mrs. W. that you had said 
 you would not wish any one to write till 
 we had heard from you. This I thought 
 odd and now I see that it could not have 
 been so ; yet at the time I suffered my un- 
 reflecting head to be satisfied, and went on 
 in that sort of abstract careless and restless 
 Life with which you are well acquainted. 
 This sentence sliould it give you any un- 
 easiness do not let it last for before I finish 
 it will be explained away to your satisfac- 
 tion — 
 
 I am grieved to say I am not sorry you 
 had not Letters at Philadelphia ; you could 
 have had no good news of Tom and I have 
 been withheld on his account from begin- 
 ning these many days ; I could not bring 
 ! myself to say the truth, that he is no better 
 but much worse — However it must be 
 
 told ; and you must my dear Brother and 
 Sister take example from me and bear up 
 against any Calamity for my sake as I do 
 for yours. Our's are ties which independ- 
 ent of their own Sentiment are sent us by 
 providence to prevent the deleterious effects 
 of one great solitary grief. I have Fanny 
 and I have you — three people whose Hap- 
 piness to me is sacred — and it does annul 
 that selfish sorrow which I should other- 
 wise fall into, living as I do with poor Tom 
 who looks upon me as his only comfort — 
 the tears will come into your Eyes — let 
 them — and embrace each other — thank 
 heaven for what happiness you have, and 
 after thinking a moment or two that you 
 suffer in common with all Mankind hold it 
 not a sin to regain your cheerfulness — 
 
 I will relieve you of one uneasiness of 
 overleaf : I returned I said on account 
 of my health — I am now well from a bad 
 sore throat which came of bog trotting in 
 the Island of Mull — of which you shall 
 hear by the copies I shall make from my 
 Scotch Letters — 
 
 Your content in each other is a delight to 
 me which I cannot express — the Moon is 
 now shining full and brilliant — she is the 
 same to me in Matter, what you are to me 
 in Spirit. If you were here my dear Sister 
 I could not pronounce the words which I 
 can write to you from a distance : I have a 
 tenderness for you, and an admiration which 
 I feel to be as great and more chaste than 
 I can have for any woman in the world. 
 You will mention Fanny — her character is 
 not formed, her identity does not press 
 upon me as yours does. I hope from the 
 bottom of my heart that I may one day 
 feel as much for her as I do for you — I 
 know not how it is, but I have never made 
 any acquaintance of my own — nearly all 
 through your medium my dear Brother — 
 through you I know not only a Sister but 
 a glorious human being. And now I am 
 talking of those to whom you have made 
 me known I cannot forbear mentioning 
 
33° 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Haslam a& a most kind and obliging and 
 constant friend. His behaviour to Tom 
 during my absence and since my return has 
 endeared him to me for ever — besides 
 his anxiety about you. To-morrow I shall 
 call on your Mother and exchange informa- 
 tion with her. On Tom's account I have 
 not been able to pass so much time with 
 her as I would otherwise have done — I 
 have seen her but twice — once I dined 
 with her and Charles — She was well, in 
 good spirits, and I kept her laughing at my 
 bad jokes. We went to tea at Mrs. Mil- 
 lar's, and in going were particularly struck 
 with the light and shade through the Gate 
 way at the Horse Guards. I intend to 
 write you such Volumes that it will be 
 impossible for me to keep any order or 
 method in what I write : that will come 
 first wliich is uppermost in my Mind, not 
 that which is uppermost in my heart — be- 
 sides I should wish to give you a picture of 
 our Lives here whenever by a touch I can 
 do it; even as you must see by the last sen- 
 tence our walk past Whitehall all in good 
 health and spirits — this I am certain of, 
 because I felt so much pleasure from the 
 simple idea of your playing a game at 
 Cricket. At Mrs. Millar's 1 saw Henry 
 quite well — there was Miss Keasle — and 
 the good-natured Miss Waldegrave — Mrs. 
 Millar began a long story and you know it 
 is her Daughter's way to help her on as 
 though her tongue were ill of the gout. 
 Mrs. M. certainly tells a story as though 
 she had been taught her Alphabet in 
 Crutched Friars. Dilke has been very un- 
 well; I found him very ailing on my return 
 — he was under Medical care for some 
 time, and then went to the Sea Side whence 
 he has returned well. Poor little Mrs. D. 
 has had another gall-stone attack; she was 
 well ere I returned — she is now at Brigh- 
 ton. Dilke was greatly pleased to hear 
 from you, and will write a letter for me to 
 enclose — He seems greatly desirous of 
 hearing from you of the settlement itself — 
 
 [October 14 or 15.] 
 I came by ship from Inverness, and was 
 nine days at Sea without being sick — a 
 little Qualm now and then put me in mind 
 of you — however as soon as you touch the 
 shore all the horrors of Sickness are soon 
 forgotten, as was the case with a Lady on 
 board who could not hold her head up all 
 the way. We had not been in the Thames 
 an hour before her tongue began to some 
 tune; paying off as it was fit she should 
 all old scores. I was the only Englishman 
 on board. There was a downright Scotch- 
 man who hearing that there had been a bad 
 crop of Potatoes in England had brought 
 some triumphant specimens from Scotland 
 — these he exhibited with national pride to 
 all the Lightermen and Watermen from 
 the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon beef 
 all the way ; not being able to eat the thick 
 Porridge which the Ladies managed to 
 manage with large awkward horn spoons 
 into the bargain. Severn has had a narrow 
 escape of his Life from a Typhus fever: 
 he is now gaining strength — Reynolds has 
 returned from a six weeks' enjoyment in 
 Devonshire — he is well, and persuades me 
 to publish my pot of Basil as an answer to 
 the attacks made on me in Blackwood's 
 Magazine and the Quarterly Review. There 
 have been two Letters in my defence in 
 the Chronicle and one in the Examiner, 
 copied from the Alfred Exeter Paper, and 
 written by Reynolds. I do not know who 
 wrote those in the Chronicle. This is a 
 mere matter of the moment — I think I 
 shall be among the English Poets after my 
 death. Even as a Matter of present in- 
 terest the attempt to crush me in the Quar- 
 terly has only brought me more into notice, 
 and it is a common expression among book 
 men ' I wonder the Quarterly should cut its 
 own throat.' 
 
 It does me not the least harm in Society 
 to make me appear little and ridiculous: I 
 know when a man is superior to me and 
 give him all due respect — he will be the 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 33^ 
 
 last to laugh at me and as for the rest I feel 
 that I make an impression upon them which 
 insures me personal respect while I am in 
 sight whatever they may say when my 
 back is turned. Poor Haydon's eyes will 
 not suffer him to proceed with his picture 
 
 — he has been in the Country — I have 
 seen him but once since my return. I hurry 
 matters together here because I do not 
 know when the Mail sails — I shall enquire 
 to-morrow, and then shall know whether to 
 be particular or general in my letter — 
 You shall have at least two sheets a day 
 till it does sail whether it be three days or 
 a fortnight — and then I will begin a fresh 
 one for the next Month. The Miss Rey- 
 aoldses are very kind to me, but they have 
 lately displeased me much, and in this way 
 
 — Now I am coming the Richardson. On 
 my return the first day I called they were 
 in a sort of taking or bustle about a Cousin 
 of theirs who having fallen out with her 
 Grrandpapa in a serious manner was invited 
 by Mrs. R. to take Asylum in her house. 
 She is an east indian and ought to be her 
 jrrandfather's Heir. At the time I called 
 Mrs. R. was in conference with her up 
 itairs, and the young Ladies were warm in 
 ler praises down stairs, calling her genteel, 
 nteresting and a thousand other pretty 
 ;hings to which I gave no heed, not being 
 martial to 9 days' wonders — Now all is 
 ;ompletely changed — they hate her, and 
 [rom what I hear she is not without faults 
 
 — of a real kind: but she has others which 
 ire more apt to make women of inferior 
 iharms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, 
 3ut she is at least a Charmian. She has a 
 :ich Eastern look; she has fine eyes and 
 ine manners. When she comes into a 
 ^oom she makes an impression the same as 
 ;he Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine 
 md too conscious of herself to repulse any 
 Man who may address her — from habit 
 jhe thinks that nothing particular. I al- 
 ways find myself more at ease with such a 
 woman; the picture before me always gives 
 
 me a life and animation which I cannot 
 possibly feel with anything inferior. I am 
 at such times too much occupied in admir- 
 ing to be awkward or in a tremble. I for- 
 get myself entirely because I live in her. 
 You will by this time think I am in love 
 with her; so before I go any further I will 
 tell you I am not — she kept me awake one 
 Night as a tune of Mozart's might do, 
 I speak of the thing as a pastime and an 
 amusement, than which I can feel none 
 deeper than a conversation with an imperial 
 woman, the very ' yes ' and ' no ' of whose 
 Lips is to me a Banquet. I don't cry to 
 take the moon home with me in my Pocket 
 nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I 
 like her and her like because one has no 
 sensations — what we both are is taken for 
 granted. You will suppose I have by this 
 had much talk with her — no such thing — 
 there are the Miss Reynoldses on the look 
 out — They think I don't admire her be- 
 cause I did not stare at her. 
 
 They call her a flirt to me — What a 
 want of knowledge ! She walks across 
 a room in such a manner that a Man is 
 drawn towards her with a magnetic Power. 
 This they call flirting ! they do not know 
 things. They do not know what a Woman 
 is. I believe though she has faults — the 
 same as Charmian and Cleopatra might 
 have had. Yet she is a fine thing speaking 
 in a worldly way : for there are two distinct 
 tempers of mind in which we judge of 
 things — the worldly, theatrical and panto- 
 mimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and 
 ethereal — in the former Buonaparte, Lord 
 Byron and this Charmian hold the first 
 place in our Minds; in the latter, John 
 Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child's 
 cradle and you my dear Sister are the con- 
 quering feelings. As a Man in the world 
 I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an 
 eternal Being I love the thought of you. 
 I should like her to ruin me, and I should 
 like you to save me. Do not think, my 
 dear Brother, from this that my Passions 
 
332 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 are headlong, or likely to be ever of any 
 pain to you — 
 
 ' I am free from Men of Pleasure's cares, 
 By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs.' 
 
 This is Lord Byron, and is one of the finest 
 things he has said. I have no town talk 
 for you, as I have not been much among 
 people — as for Politics they are in my 
 opinion only sleepy because they will soon 
 be too wide awake. Perhaps not — for the 
 long and continued Peace of England itself 
 has given us notions of personal safety 
 which are likely to prevent the re-establish- 
 ment of our national Honesty. There is, 
 of a truth, nothing manly or sterling in any 
 part of the Government. There are many 
 Madmen in the Country I have no doubt, 
 who would like to be beheaded on tower 
 Hill merely for the sake of dclat, there are 
 many Men like Hunt who from a principle 
 of taste would like to see things go on 
 better, there are many like Sir F. Burdett 
 who like to sit at the head of political 
 dinners, — but there are none prepared to 
 suffer in obscurity for their Country — The 
 motives of our worst men are Interest and 
 of our best Vanity. We have no Milton, 
 no Algernon Sidney — Governors in these 
 days lose the title of Man in exchange for 
 that of Diplomat and Minister. We breathe 
 in a sort of Officinal Atmosphere — All the 
 departments of Government have strayed 
 far from Simplicity which is the greatest 
 of Strength there is as much difference in 
 this respect between the present Govern- 
 ment and Oliver Cromwell's as there is 
 between the 12 Tables of Rome and the 
 volumes of Civil Law which were digested 
 by Justinian. A Man now entitled Chan- 
 cellor has the same honour paid to him 
 whether he be a Hog or a Lord Bacon. No 
 sensation is created by Greatness but by the 
 number of Orders a Man has at his Button 
 holes. Notwithstanding the part which the 
 Liberals take in the Cause of Napoleon, I 
 cannot but think he has done more harm 
 to the life of Liberty than any one else 
 
 could have done : not that the divine right 
 Gentlemen have done or intend to do any 
 good — no they have taken a Lesson of 
 him, and will do all the further harm he 
 would have done without any of the good. 
 The worst thing he has done is, that he has 
 taught them how to organise their mon- 
 strous armies. The Emperor Alexander it 
 is said intends to divide his Empire as did 
 Diocletian — creating two Czars besides 
 himself, and continuing the supreme Mon- 
 arch of the whole. Should he do this and 
 they for a series of Years keep peaceable 
 among themselves Russia may spread her 
 conquest even to China — I think it a very 
 likely thing that China itself may fall, 
 Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European 
 north Russia will hold its horns against the 
 rest of Europe, intriguing constantly with 
 France. Dilke, whom you know to be a 
 Godwin perfectibility Man, pleases himself 
 with the idea that America will be the 
 country to take up the human intellect 
 where England leaves off — I differ there 
 with him greatly — A country like the 
 United States, whose greatest Men are 
 Franklins and Washingtons will never do 
 that. They are great Men doubtless, but 
 how are they to be compared to those our 
 countrymen Milton and the two Sidneys ? 
 The one is a philosophical Quaker full of 
 mean and thrifty maxims, the other sold 
 the very Charger who had taken him 
 through all his Battles. Those Americans 
 are great, but they are not sublime Man — 
 the humanity of the United States can 
 never reach the sublime. Birkbeck's mind 
 is too much in the American style — you 
 must endeavour to infuse a little Spirit of 
 another sort into the settlement, always 
 with great caution, for thereby you may 
 do your descendants more good than you 
 may imagine. If I had a prayer to make 
 for any great good, next to Tom's recov- 
 ery, it should be that one of your Chil- 
 dren should be the first American Poet. I 
 have a great mind to make a prophecy, and 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 333 
 
 they say prophecies work out their own 
 fulfilment — 
 
 [Here are inserted the lines printed above, p. 
 249.] 
 
 [October 16.] 
 
 This is Friday, I know not what day of 
 the Month — I will enquire to-morrow, for 
 it is fit you should know the time I am 
 writing. I went to Town yesterday, and 
 calling at Mrs. Millar's was told that your 
 Mother would uot be found at home — I 
 met Henry as I turned the corner — I had 
 DO leisure to return, so I left the letters 
 with him. He was looking very well. 
 Poor Tom is no better to-night — I am 
 afraid to ask him what Message I shall 
 send from him. And here I could go on 
 complaining of my Misery, but I will keep 
 myself cheerful for your Sakes. With a 
 ^reat deal of trouble I have succeeded in 
 getting Fanny to Hampstead. She has 
 been several times. Mr. Lewis has been 
 vevy kind to Tom all the summer, there 
 has scarce a day passed but he has visited 
 bim, and not one day without bringing or 
 sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He 
 lias been very assiduous in his enquiries after 
 you — It would give the old Gentleman a 
 great deal of pleasure if you would send 
 liim a Sheet enclosed in the next parcel to 
 me, after you receive this — how long it 
 will be first — Why did I not write to 
 Philadelphia ? Really I am sorry for that 
 neglect. I wish to go on writing ad infi- 
 nitum to you — I wish for interesting 
 matter and a pen as swift as the wind — 
 But the fact is I go so little into the Crowd 
 now that I have nothing fresh and fresh 
 Bvery day to speculate upon except my own 
 Whims and Theories. I have been but once 
 to Haydon's, once to Hunt's, once to Rice's, 
 once to Hessey's. I have not seen Taylor, I 
 have not been to the Theatre. Now if I had 
 been many times to all these and was still 
 in the habit of going I could on my return 
 at night have each day something new to 
 tell you of without any stop — But now I 
 have such a dearth that when I get to the 
 
 end of this sentence and to the bottom 
 of this page I must wait till I can find 
 something interesting to you before I begin 
 another. After all it is not much matter 
 what it may be about, for the very words 
 from such a distance penned by this hand 
 will be grateful to you — even though I 
 were to copy out the tale of Mother Hub- 
 bard or Little Red Riding Hood. 
 
 [Later.] 
 I have been over to Dilke's this evening 
 
 — there with Brown we have been talk- 
 ing of different and indifferent Matters — 
 of Euclid, of Metaphysics, of the Bible, 
 of Shakspeare, of the horrid System and 
 consequences of the fagging at great 
 schools. I know not yet how large a par- 
 cel I can send — I mean by way of Letters 
 
 — I hope there can be no objection to my 
 dowling up a quire made into a small com- 
 pass. That is the manner in which I shall 
 write. I shall send you more than Letters 
 
 — I mean a tale — which I must begin on 
 account of the activity of my Mind ; of its 
 inability to remain at rest. It must be 
 prose and not very exciting. I must do 
 this because in the way I am at present 
 situated I have too many interruptions to a 
 train of feeling to be able to write Poetry. 
 So I shall write this Tale, and if I think it 
 worth while get a duplicate made before I 
 send it off to you. 
 
 [October 21]. 
 This is a fresh beginning the 21st 
 October. Charles and Henry were with 
 us on Sunday, and they brought me your 
 Letter to your Mother — we agree to get a 
 Packet off to you as soon as possible. I 
 shall dine with your Mother to-morrow, 
 when they have promised to have their 
 Letters ready. I shall send as soon as 
 possible without thinking of the little you 
 may have from me in the first parcel, as I 
 intend ; as I said before, to begin another 
 Letter of more regular information. Here 
 I want to communicate so largely in a little 
 time that I am puzzled where to direct my 
 
334 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 attention. Haslam has promised to let me 
 know from Capper and Hazlewood. For 
 want of something better I shall proceed 
 to give you some extracts from my Scotch 
 Letters — Yet now I think on it why not 
 send you the letters themselves — I have 
 three of them at present — I believe Hay- 
 don has two which I will get in time. I 
 dined with your Mother and Henry at Mrs. 
 Millar's on Thursday, when they gave me 
 their Letters. Charles's I have not yet — 
 he has promised to send it. The thought 
 of sending my Scotch Letters has deter- 
 mined me to enclose a few more which I 
 have received and which will give you the 
 best cue to how I am going on, better than 
 you could otherwise know. Your Mother 
 was well, and I was sorry I could not stop 
 later. I called on Hunt yesterday — it has 
 been always my fate to meet Oilier there 
 — On Thursday I walked with Hazlitt as 
 far as Covent Garden: he was going to play 
 Racquets. I think Tom has been rather bet- 
 ter these few last days — he has been less 
 nervous. I expect Reynolds to-morrow. 
 
 [Later, about October 25.] 
 Since I wrote thus far I have met with 
 that same Lady again, whom I saw at 
 Hastings and whom I met when we were 
 going to the English Opera. It was in a 
 street which goes from Bedford Row to 
 Lamb's Conduit Street. — I passed her and 
 turned back : she seemed glad of it — glad 
 to see me, and not offended at my passing 
 her before. We walked on towards Isling- 
 ton, where we called on a friend of hers 
 who keeps a Boarding School. She has 
 always been an enigma to me — she has 
 been in a Room with you and Reynolds, 
 and wishes we should be acquainted with- 
 out any of our common acquaintance know- 
 ing it. As we went along, sometimes 
 through shabby, sometimes through decent 
 Streets, I had my guessing at work, not 
 knowing what it would be, and prepared to 
 meet any surprise. First it ended at this 
 House at Islington : on parting from which 
 
 I pressed to attend her home. She con- 
 sented, and then again my thoughts were 
 at work what it might lead to, though no^ 
 they had received a sort of genteel hini 
 from the Boarding School. Our walk end- 
 ed in 34 Gloucester Street, Queen Square 
 
 — not exactly so, for we went up-stairs 
 into her sitting-room, a very tasty sort oi 
 place with Books, Pictures, a bronze Statue 
 of Buonaparte, Music, seolian Harp, a Par- 
 rot, a Linnet, a Case of choice Liqueurs, etc, 
 etc. She behaved in the kindest manner — 
 made me take home a grouse for Tom's 
 dinner. Asked for my address for the pur- 
 pose of sending more game. ... I expect 
 to pass some pleasant hours with her no\^ 
 and then : in which I feel I shall be of ser- 
 vice to her in matters of knowledge and 
 taste : if I can I will. . . . She and youi 
 George are the only women k pen pr^s de 
 mon age whom I would be content to know 
 for their mind and friendship alone. — 
 I shall in a short time write you as fai 
 as I know how I intend to pass my Life 
 
 — I cannot think of those things now Tom 
 is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding 
 your Happiness and your recomraendatioE 
 I hope I shall never marry. Though the 
 most beautiful Creature were waiting foi 
 me at the end of a Journey or a Walk : 
 though the Carpet were of Silk, the Cur- 
 tains of the morning Clouds; the chairs 
 and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet's down ; the 
 food Manna, the Wine beyond Claret, the 
 Window opening on Winander mere, 1 
 should not feel — or rather my Happiness 
 would not be so fine, as my Solitude is 
 sublime. Then instead of what I have de- 
 scribed, there is a sublimity to welcome me 
 home — The roaring of the wind is mj 
 wife and the Stars through the window 
 pane are my Children. The mighty ab- 
 stract Idea I have of Beauty in all things 
 stifles the more divided and minute domes- 
 tie happiness — an amiable wife and sweet 
 Children I contemplate as a part of that 
 Beauty, but I must have a thousand ol 
 those beautiful particles to fill up my heart. 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 335 
 
 I feel more and more every day, as ray 
 imagination strengthens, that I do not live 
 in this world alone but in a thousand 
 worlds — No sooner am I alone than shapes 
 of epic greatness are stationed around me, 
 and serve my Spirit the office which is 
 equivalent to a King's bodyguard — then 
 * Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sweep- 
 ing by.' According to my state of mind I 
 am with Achilles shouting in the Trenches, 
 or with Theocritus in the Vales of Sicily. 
 Or I throw my Avhole being into Troilus, 
 and repeating those lines, ' I wander like 
 a lost Soul upon the stygian Banks staying 
 for waftage,' I melt into the air with a 
 voluptuousness so delicate that I am con- 
 tent to be alone. These things, combined 
 with the opinion I have of the generality of 
 women — who appear to me as children to 
 whom I would rather give a sugar Plum 
 than my time, form a barrier against Matri- 
 mony which I rejoice in. 
 
 I have written this that you might see I 
 have my share of the highest pleasures, 
 and that though I may choose to pass my 
 days alone I shall be no Solitary. You see 
 there is nothing spleenical in all this. The 
 only thing that can ever affect me per- 
 sonally for more than one short passing- 
 day, is any doubt about my powers for 
 poetry — I seldom have any, and I look 
 with hope to the nighing time when I shall 
 have none. I am as happy as a Man can 
 be — that is, in myself I should be happy 
 if Tom was well, and I knew you were 
 passing pleasant days. Then I should be 
 most enviable — with the yearning Passion 
 I have for the beautiful, connected and 
 made one with the ambition of my intellect. 
 Think of my Pleasure in Solitude in com- 
 parison of my commerce with the world — 
 there I am a child — there they do not 
 know me, not even my most intimate ac- 
 quaintance — I give in to their feelings as 
 though I were refraining from irritating a 
 little child. Some think me middling, others 
 silly, others foolish — every one thinks he 
 sees my weak side against my will, when 
 
 in truth it is with my will — I am content 
 to be thought all this because I have in 
 my own breast so great a resource. This 
 is one great reason why they like me so ; 
 because they can all show to advantage in 
 a room and eclipse from a certain tact one 
 who is reckoned to be a good Poet. I 
 hope I am not here playing tricks ' to make 
 the angels weep ' : I think not : for I have 
 not the least contempt for my species, 
 and though it may sound paradoxical, my 
 greatest elevations of soul leave me every 
 time more humbled — Enough of this — 
 though in your Love for me you will not 
 think it enough. 
 
 [Later, October 29 or 31.] 
 Haslam has been here this morning and 
 has taken all the Letters except this sheet, 
 which I shall send him by the Twopenny, 
 as he will put the Parcel in the Boston 
 post Bag by the advice of Capper and 
 Hazlewood, who assure him of the safety 
 and expedition that way — the Parcel will 
 be forwarded to Warder and thence to you 
 all the same. There will not be a Phila- 
 delphia ship for these six weeks — by that 
 time I shall have another Letter to you. 
 Mind you I mark this Letter A. By the 
 time you will receive this you will have I 
 trust passed through the greatest of your 
 fatigues. As it was with your Sea Sick- 
 ness I shall not hear of them till they are 
 past. Do not set to your occupation with 
 too great an anxiety — take it calmly — 
 and let your health be the prime considera- 
 tion. I hope you will have a Son, and it 
 is one of my first wishes to have him in my 
 Arms — which I will do please God before 
 he cuts one double tooth. Tom is rather 
 more easy than he has been : but is still so 
 nervous that I cannot speak to him of these 
 Matters — indeed it is the care I have had 
 to keep his Mind aloof from feelings too 
 acute that has made this Letter so short a 
 one — I did not like to write before him a 
 Letter he knew was to reach your hands — 
 I cannot even now ask him for any Message 
 
33^ 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 — his heart speaks to you. Be as happy 
 as you can. Think of me, and for my sake 
 be cheerful. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Brother and sister, 
 Your anxious and affectionate Brother 
 
 John. 
 
 This day is my Birth day. 
 
 All our friends have been anxious in 
 their enquiries, and all send their re- 
 membrances. 
 
 75. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Hampstead, Friday Morn [October 16, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — You must not con- 
 demn me for not being punctual to Thurs- 
 day, for I really did not know whether it 
 would not affect poor Tom too much to see 
 you. You know how it hurt him to part 
 with you the last time. At all events you 
 shall hear from me ; and if Tom keeps 
 pretty well to - morrow, I will see Mr. 
 Abbey the next day, and endeavour to set- 
 tle that you shall be with us on Tuesday 
 or Wednesday. I have good news from 
 George — He has landed safely with our 
 Sister — they are both in good health — 
 their prospects are good — and they are by 
 this time nighing to their journey's end — 
 you shall hear the particulars soon. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 Tom's love to you. 
 
 76. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Hampstead, October 26, 1818.] 
 My dear Fanny — I called on Mr. Ab- 
 bey in the beginning of last Week : when 
 he seemed averse to letting you come again 
 from having heard that you had been to 
 other places besides Well Walk. I do not 
 mean to say you did wrongly in speaking 
 of it, for there should rightly be no objec- 
 tion to such things: but you know with 
 what People we are obliged in the course 
 of Childhood to associate, whose conduct 
 forces us into duplicity and falsehood to 
 them. To the worst of People we should 
 
 be opeuhearted: but it is as well as things 
 are to be prudent in making any communi- 
 cation to any one, that may throw an im- 
 pediment in the way of any of the little 
 pleasures you may have. I do not recom- 
 mend duplicity but prudence with such 
 people. Perhaps I am talking too deeply 
 for you: if you do not now, you will under- 
 stand what I mean in the course of a few 
 years. I think poor Tom is a little Better: 
 he sends his love to you. I shall call on 
 Mr. Abbey to-morrow : when I hope to 
 settle when to see you again. Mrs. Dilke 
 has been for some time at Brighton — she 
 is expected home in a day or two. She 
 will be pleased I am sure with your pre- 
 sent. I will try for permission for you to 
 remain here all Night should Mrs. D. re- 
 turn in time. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 77. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE 
 
 [Hampstead, October 27, 1818.] 
 My dear Woodhouse — Your letter 
 gave me great satisfaction, more on ac- 
 count of its friendliness than any relish of 
 that matter in it which is accounted so 
 acceptable to the ' genus irritabile.' The 
 best answer I can give you is in a clerklike 
 manner to make some observations on two 
 principal points which seem to point like 
 indices into the midst of the whole pro and 
 con about genius, and views, and achieve- 
 ments, and ambition, et csetera. — 1st. As 
 to the poetical Character itself (I mean 
 that sort, of which, if I am anything, I am 
 a member ; that sort distinguished from 
 the Words worthian, or egotistical Sublime; 
 which is a thing per se, and stands alone,) 
 it is not itself — it has no self — It is every- 
 thing and nothing — It has no character — 
 it enjoys light and shade ; it lives in gusto, 
 be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, 
 mean or elevated — It has as much delight 
 in conceiving an lago as an Imogen. What 
 shocks the virtuous philosopher delights 
 the chameleon poet. It does no harm from 
 
TO JAMES RICE 
 
 337 
 
 its relish of the dark side of things, any 
 more than from its taste for the bright one, 
 because they both end in speculation. A 
 poet is the most unpoetical of anything in 
 existence, because he has no Identity — he 
 is continually in for and filling some other 
 body. The Sun, — the Moon, — the Sea, 
 and men and women, who are creatures of 
 impulse, are poetical, and have about them 
 an unchangeable attribute ; the poet has 
 none, no identity — he is certainly the most 
 unpoetical of all God's creatures. — If then 
 he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is 
 the wonder that I should say I would write 
 no more? Might I not at that very instant 
 have been cogitating on the Characters of 
 Saturn and Ops ? It is a wretched thing 
 to confess ; but it is a very fact, that not 
 one word I ever utter can be taken for 
 granted as an opinion growing out of my 
 identical Nature — how can it, when I 
 have no Nature ? When I am in a room 
 with people, if I ever am free from specu- 
 lating on creations of my own brain, then, 
 not myself goes home to myself, but the 
 identity of every one in the room begins to 
 press upon me, so that I am in a very little 
 time annihilated — not only among men; it 
 would be the same in a nursery of Children. 
 I know not whether I make myself wholly 
 understood : I hope enough so to let you 
 see that no dependence is to be placed on 
 what I said that day. 
 
 In the 2d place, I will speak of my 
 views, and of the life I purpose to myself. 
 I am ambitious of doing the world some 
 good: if I should be spared, that may be 
 the work of maturer years — in the interval 
 I will assay to reach to as high a summit 
 in poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me 
 will suffer. The faint conceptions I have 
 of poems to come bring the blood fre- 
 iquently into my forehead — All I hope is, 
 that I may not lose all interest in human 
 affairs — that the solitary Indifference I 
 feel for applause, even from the finest 
 spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of 
 vision I may have. I do not think it will. 
 
 I feel assured I should write from the 
 mere yearning and fondness I have for the 
 beautiful, even if my night's labours should 
 be burnt every Morning, and no eye ever 
 shine upon them. But even now I am 
 perhaps not speaking from myself, but 
 from some Character in whose soul I now 
 live. 
 
 I am sure however that this next sen- 
 tence is from myself — I feel your anxiety, 
 good opinion, and friendship, in the highest 
 degree, and am 
 
 Yours most smcerely John Keats. 
 
 78. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead, November 5, 1818.] 
 My DEAR Fanny — I have seen Mr. 
 Abbey three times about you, and have not 
 been able to get his consent. He says that 
 once more between this and the Holidays 
 will be sufficient. What can I do ? I 
 should have been at Walthamstow several 
 times, but I am not able to leave Tom for 
 so long a time as that would take me. 
 Poor Tom has been ratlier better these 4 
 last days in consequence of obtaining a lit- 
 tle rest a nights. Write to me as often as 
 you can, and believe that I would do any- 
 thing to give you any pleasure — we must 
 as yet wait patiently. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 79. TO JAMES RICE 
 
 WeU Walk [Hampstead,] Nov'. 24, [1818]. 
 
 My dear Rice — Your amende Honor- 
 able I must call ' un surcroit d'Amiti^,' 
 for I am not at all sensible of anything but 
 that you were unfortunately engaged and I 
 was unfortunately in a hurry. I completely 
 understand your feeling in this mistake, 
 and find in it that balance of comfort which 
 remains after regretting your uneasiness. 
 I have long made up my mind to take for 
 granted the genuine - heartedness of my 
 friends, notwithstanding any temporary 
 
338 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ambiguousness in their behaviour or their 
 tongues, nothing of which however I had 
 the least scent of this morning. I say 
 completely understand ; for I am everlast- 
 ingly getting my mind into such-like pain- 
 ful trammels — and am even at this moment 
 suffering under them in the case of a friend 
 of ours. — I will tell you two most unfor- 
 tunate and parallel slips — it seems down- 
 right pre-intention — A friend says to me, 
 'Keats, I shall go and see Severn this 
 week.' — ' Ah ! (says I) you want him to 
 take your Portrait.' — And again, ' Keats,' 
 says a friend, ' when will you come to 
 town again ? ' — 'I will,' says I, ' let you 
 have the MS. next week.' In both these 
 cases I appeared to attribute an interested 
 motive to each of my friends' questions — 
 the first made him flush, the second made 
 him look angry: — and yet I am innocent 
 in both cases ; my mind leapt over every 
 interval, to what I saw was per se a plea- 
 sant subject with him. You see I have no 
 allowances to make — you see how far I 
 am from supposing you could show me any 
 neglect. I very much regret the long time 
 I have been obliged to exile from you : for 
 I have one or two rather pleasant occasions 
 to confer upon with you. What I have 
 heard from George is favourable — I ex- 
 pect a letter from the Settlement itself. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 I cannot give any good news of Tom. 
 
 80. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead.] Tuesday Morn 
 [December 1, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — Poor Tom has been 
 so bad that I have delayed your visit hither 
 — as it would be so painful to you both. I 
 cannot say he is any better this morning — 
 he is in a very dangerous state — I have 
 scarce any hopes of him.''* Keep up your 
 spirits for me my dear Fanny — repose 
 entirely in 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 81. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 [Hampstead, about Dee"^- 18, 1818.] 
 My dear Brother and Sister — You 
 will have been prepared before this reaches 
 you for the worst news you could have, 
 nay, if Haslam's letter arrives in proper 
 time, I have a consolation in thinking that 
 the first shock will be past before you re- 
 ceive this. The last days of poor Tom 
 were of the most distressing nature ; but 
 his last moments were not so painful, and 
 his very last was without a pang. I will 
 not enter into any parsonic comments on 
 death — yet the common observations of 
 the commonest people on death are as true 
 as their proverbs. I have scarce a doubt 
 of immortality of some nature or other — 
 neither had Tom. My friends have been 
 exceedingly kind to me every one of them 
 
 — Brown detained me at his House. I 
 suppose no one could have had their time 
 made smoother than mine has been. Dur- 
 ing poor Tom's illness 1 was not able to 
 write and since his death the task of begin- 
 ning has been a hindrance to me. Within 
 this last Week I have been everywhere — 
 and I will tell you as nearly as possible 
 how all go on. With Dilke and Brown 1 
 am quite thick — with Brown indeed I am 
 going to domesticate — that is, we shall 
 keep house together. I shall have the 
 front parlour and he the back one, by 
 which I shall avoid the noise of Bentley's 
 Children — and be the better able to go on 
 with my Studies — which have been greatly 
 interrupted lately, so that I have not the 
 shadow of an idea of a book in my head, 
 and my pen seems to have grown too gouty 
 for sense. How are you going on now ? 
 The goings on of the world makes me dizzy 
 
 — There you are with Birkbeck — here I 
 am with Brown — sometimes I fancy an 
 immense separation, and sometimes as at 
 present, a direct communication of Spirit 
 with you. That will be one of the grandeurs 
 of immortality — There will be no space, 
 and consequently the only commerce be- 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 339 
 
 tween spirits will be by their intelligence 
 of each other — when they will completely 
 understand each other, while we in this 
 world merely comprehend each other in 
 different degrees — the higher the degree 
 of good so higher is our Love and friend- 
 ship. I have been so little used to writing 
 lately that I am afraid you will not smoke 
 my meaning so I will give an example — 
 Suppose Brown or Haslam or any one 
 whom I understand in the next degree to 
 what I do you, were in America, they would 
 be so much the farther from me in propoi'- 
 tion as their identity was less impressed 
 upon me. Now the reason why I do not 
 feel at the present moment so far from you 
 is that I remember your Ways and Man- 
 ners and actions ; I know your manner of 
 thinking, your manner of feeling : I know 
 what shape your joy or your sorrow would 
 take; I know the manner of your walking, 
 standing, sauntering, sitting down, laugh- 
 ing, punning, and every action so truly that 
 you seem near to me. You will remember 
 me in the same manner — and the more 
 when I tell you that I shall read a passage 
 of Shakspeare every Sunday at ten o'Clock 
 — you read one at the same time, and we 
 shall be as near each other as blind bodies 
 can be in the same room. 
 
 I saw your Mother the day before yes- 
 terday, and intend now frequently to pass 
 half a day with her — she seem'd toler- 
 ably well. I called in Henrietta Street and 
 so was speaking with your Mother about 
 Mis5 Millar — we had a chat about Heir- 
 esses — she told me I think of 7 or eight 
 dying Swains. Charles was not at home. 
 I think I have heard a little more talk 
 about Miss Keasle — all I know of her is 
 she had a new sort of shoe on of bright 
 leather like our Knapsacks. Miss Millar 
 gave me one of her confounded pinches. 
 N. B. did not like it. Mrs. Dilke went 
 with me to see Fanny last week, and Has- 
 lam went with me last Sunday. She was 
 well — she gets a little plumper and had a 
 little Colour. On Sunday I brought from 
 
 her a present of facescreens and a work- 
 bag for Mrs. D. — they were really very 
 pretty. From Walthamstow we walked to 
 Bethnal green — where I felt so tired from 
 my long walk that I was obliged to go to 
 Bed at ten. Mr. and Mrs. Keasle were 
 there. Haslam has been excessively kind, 
 and his anxiety about you is great ; I never 
 meet him but we have some chat thereon. 
 He is always doing me some good turn — 
 he gave me this thin paper ■* ' for the pur- 
 pose of writing to you. I have been pass- 
 ing an hour this morning with Mr. Lewis — 
 he wants news of you very much. Haydon 
 was here yesterday — he amused us much 
 by speaking of young Hoppner who went 
 with Captain Ross on a voyage of discovery 
 to the Poles. The Ship was sometimes en- 
 tirely surrounded with vast moimtains and 
 crags of ice, and in a few Minutes not a 
 particle was to be seen all round the Hori- 
 zon. Once they met with so vast a Mass 
 that they gave themselves over for lost ; 
 their last resource was in meeting it with 
 the Bowsprit, which they did, and split it 
 asunder and glided through it as it parted, 
 for a great distance — one Mile and more. 
 Their eyes were so fatigued with the eter- 
 nal dazzle and whiteness that they lay down 
 on their backs upon deck to relieve their 
 sight on the blue sky. Hoppner describes his 
 dreadful weariness at the continual day — 
 the sun ever moving in a circle round above 
 their heads — so pressing upon him that he 
 could not rid himself of the sensation even 
 in the dai-k Hold of the Ship. The Esqui- 
 maux are described as the most wretched 
 of Beings — they float from their summer 
 to their winter residences and back again 
 like white Bears on the ice floats. They 
 seem never to have washed, and so when 
 their features move the red skin shows be- 
 neath the cracking peel of dirt. They had 
 no notion of any inhabitants in the World 
 but themselves. The sailors who had not 
 seen a Star for some time, when they came 
 again southwards on the hailing of the first 
 revision of one, all ran upon deck with feel- 
 
340 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ings of the most joyful nature. Haydon's 
 eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his 
 Picture — his Physician tells him he must 
 remain two months more, inactive. Hunt 
 keeps on in his old way — I am completely 
 tired of it all. He has lately publish'd a 
 Pocket Book called the literary Pocket- 
 Book — full of the most sickening stuff you 
 can imagine. Reynolds is well; he has be- 
 come an Edinburgh Reviewer. I have not 
 heard from Bailey. Rice I have seen very 
 little of lately — and I am very sorry for it. 
 The Miss R's. are all as usual. Archer 
 above all people called on me one day — he 
 wanted some information by my means, 
 from Hunt and Haydon, concerning some 
 Man they knew. I got him what he wanted, 
 but know none of the whys and wherefores. 
 Poor Kirkman left Wentworth Place one 
 evening about half -past eight and was 
 stopped, beaten and robbed of his Watch in 
 Pond Street. I saw him a few days since; 
 he had not recovered from his bruises. I 
 called on Hazlitt the day I went to Rom- 
 ney Street. — I gave John Hunt extracts 
 from your letters — he has taken no notice. 
 I have seen Lamb lately — Brown and I 
 were taken by Hunt to Novello's — there 
 we were devastated and excruciated with 
 bad and repeated puns — Brown don't want 
 to go again. We went the other evening 
 to see Brutus a new Tragedy by Howard 
 Payne, an American — Kean was excellent 
 — the play was very bad. It is the first 
 time I have been since I went with you to 
 the Lyceum. 
 
 Mrs. Brawne who took Brown's house 
 for the Summer, still resides in Hampstead. 
 She is a very nice woman, and her daughter 
 senior '^^ is I think beautiful and elegant, 
 graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. 
 We have a little tiff now and then — and 
 she behaves a little better, or I must have 
 sheered off. I find by a sidelong report 
 from your Mother that I am to be invited 
 to Miss Millar's birthday dance. Shall I 
 dance with Miss Waldegrave ? Eh ! I shall 
 be obliged to shirk a good many there. I 
 
 shall be the only Dandy there — and indeed 
 I merely comply with the invitation that 
 the party may not be entirely destitute of 
 a specimen of that race. I shall appear in 
 a complete dress of purple, Hat and all — 
 with a list of the beauties I have conquered 
 embroidered round my Calves. 
 
 Thursday [December 24]. 
 This morning is so very fine, I should 
 have walked over to Walthamstow if I had 
 thought of it yesterday. What are you 
 doing this morning ? Have you a clear 
 hard frost as we have ? How do you come 
 on with the gun ? Have you shot a Buf- 
 falo ? Have you met with any Pheasants ? 
 My Thoughts are very frequently in a for- 
 eign Country — I live miore out of England 
 than in it. The Mountains of Tartary are 
 a favourite lounge, if I happen to miss the 
 Alleghany ridge, or have no whim for 
 Savoy. There must be great pleasure in 
 pursuing game — pointing your gun — no, 
 it won't do — now, no — rabbit it — now 
 bang — smoke and feathers — where is it ? 
 Shall you be able to get a good pointer or 
 so ? Have you seen Mr. Trimmer ? He 
 is an acquaintance of Peachey's. Now I 
 am not addressing myself to G. minor, and 
 yet I am — for you are one. Have you 
 some warm furs ? By your next Letters I 
 shall expect to hear exactly how you go on 
 — smother nothing — let us have all ; fair 
 and foul, all plain. Will the little bairn 
 have made his entrance before you have 
 this ? Kiss it for me, and when it can first 
 know a cheese from a Caterpillar show it 
 my picture twice a Week. You will be 
 glad to hear that Gifford's attack upon me 
 has done me service — it has got my Book 
 among several sets — Nor must I forget to 
 mention once more what I suppose Haslam 
 has told you, the present of a £25 note I 
 had anonymously sent me. I have many 
 things to tell you — the best way will be 
 to make copies of my correspondence; and 
 I must not forget the Sonnet I received 
 with the Note. Last Week I received the 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 34t 
 
 following from Woodhouse whom you must 
 recollect: — 
 
 ' My dear Keats — I send enclosed a Let- 
 ter, which when read take the trouble to return 
 to me. The History of its reaching me is this. 
 My Cousin, Miss Frogley of Hounslow, borrowed 
 my copy of Endymion for a specified time. Be- 
 fore she had time to look into it, she and my 
 friend Mr. Hy. Neville of Esher, who was house 
 Surgeon to the late Princess Charlotte, insisted 
 upon having it to read for a day or two, and un- 
 dertook to make my Cousin's peace with me on 
 account of the extra delay. Neville told me 
 that one of the Misses Porter (of romance Cele- 
 brity) had seen it on his table, dipped into it, 
 and expressed a wish to read it. I desired he 
 should keep it as long and lend it to as many as 
 he pleased, provided it was not allowed to slum- 
 ber on any one's shelf. I learned subsequently 
 from Miss Frogley that these Ladies had re- 
 quested of Mr. Neville, if he was acquainted 
 with the Author, the Pleasure of an introduc- 
 tion. About a week back the enclosed was 
 transmitted by Mr. Neville to my Cousin, as a 
 species of Apology for keeping her so long with- 
 out the Book, and she sent it to me, knowing 
 that it would give me Pleasure — I forward it 
 to you for somewhat the same reason, but prin- 
 cipally because it gives me the opportunity of 
 naming to you (which it would have been fruit- 
 less to do before) the opening there is for an in- 
 troduction to a class of society from which you 
 may possibly derive advantage, as well as quali- 
 fication, if you think proper to avail yourself of 
 it. In such a case I should be very happy to 
 further your Wishes. But do just as you please. 
 The whole is entirely entre nous. — 
 
 'Yours, etc., R. W.' 
 
 Well — now this is Miss Porter's Letter 
 to Neville — 
 
 ' Dear Sir — As my Mother is sending a 
 Messenger to Esher, I cannot but make the 
 same the bearer of my regrets for not having 
 had the pleasure of seeing you the morning you 
 called at the gate. I had given orders to be 
 denied, I was so very unwell with my still ad- 
 hesive cold ;■ but had I known it was you I 
 should have taken off the interdict for a few 
 minutes, to say how very much I am delighted 
 with Endymion. I had just finished the Poem 
 and have done as you permitted, lent it to Miss 
 Fitzgerald. I regret you are not personally 
 acquainted with the Author, for I should have 
 
 been happy to have acknowledged to him, 
 through the advantage of your communication, 
 the very rare dehght my sister and myself have 
 enjoyed from the first fruits of Genius. I hope 
 the ill-natured Review will not have damaged ' 
 (or damped) ' such true Parnassian fire — it 
 ought not, for when Life is granted, etc' 
 
 — and so she goes on. Now I feel more 
 obliged than flattered by this — so obliged 
 that I will not at present give you an ex- 
 travaganza of a Lady Romancer. I will be 
 introduced to them if it be merely for the 
 pleasure of writing to you about it — I 
 shall certainly see a new race of People. 
 I shall more certainly have no time for 
 them. 
 
 Hunt has asked me to meet Tom Moore 
 some day — so you shall hear of him. The 
 Night we went to Novello's there was a 
 complete set to of Mozart and punning. I 
 was so completely tired of it that if I were 
 to follow my own inclinations I should 
 never meet any one of that set again, not 
 even Hunt, who is certainly a pleasant fel- 
 low in the main when you are with him — 
 but in reality he is vain, egotistical, and 
 disgusting in matters of taste and in morals. 
 He understands many a beautiful thing; 
 but then, instead of giving other minds 
 credit for the same degree of perception as 
 he himself professes — he begins an expla- 
 nation in such a curious manner that our 
 taste and self-love is offended continually. 
 Hunt does one harm by making fine 
 things petty, and beautiful things hateful. 
 Through him I am indifferent to Mozart, 
 I care not for white Busts — and many a 
 glorious thing when associated with him 
 becomes a nothing. This distorts one's 
 mind — makes one's thoughts bizarre — 
 perplexes one in the standard of Beauty. 
 Martin is very much irritated against 
 Blackwood for printing some Letters in his 
 Magazine which were Martin's property — 
 he always found excuses for Blackwood till 
 he himself was injured, and now he is en- 
 raged. I have been several times thinking 
 whether or not I should send you the Ex- 
 
342 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 aminers, as Birkbeck no doubt has all the 
 good periodical Publications — I will save 
 them at all events. I must not forget to 
 mention how attentive and useful Mrs. 
 Bentley has been — I am very sorry to 
 leave her — but I must, and I hope she will 
 not be much a loser by it. Bentley is very 
 well — he has just brought me a clothes'- 
 basket of Books. Brown has gone to town 
 to-day to take his Nephews who are on a 
 visit here to see the Lions. I am passing 
 a Quiet day — which I have not done for a 
 long while — and if I do continue so, I feel 
 I must again begin with my poetry — for if 
 I am not in action mind or Body I am in 
 pain — and from that I suffer greatly by 
 going into parties where from the rules of 
 society and a natural pride I am obliged to 
 smother my Spirit and look like an Idiot — 
 because I feel my impulses given way to 
 would too much amaze them. I live under 
 an everlasting restraint — never relieved 
 except when I am composing — so I will 
 write away. 
 
 Friday [December 25]. 
 I think you knew before you left Eng- 
 land that my next subject would be * the 
 fall of Hyperion.' I went on a little with 
 it last night, but it will take some time to 
 get into the vein again. I will not give you 
 any extracts because I wish the whole to 
 make an impression. I have however a few 
 Poems which you will like, and I will copy 
 out on the next sheet. I shall dine with 
 Haydon on Sunday, and go over to Wal- 
 thamstow on Monday if the frost hold. I 
 think also of going into Hampshire this 
 Christmas to Mr. Snook's — they say I 
 shall be very much amused — But I don't 
 know — I think I am in too huge a Mind 
 for study — I must do it — I must wait at 
 home and let those who wish come to see 
 me. I cannot always be (how do you spell 
 it ?) trapsing. Here I must tell you that I 
 have not been able to keep the journal or 
 write the Tale I promised — now I shall be 
 able to do so. I will write to Haslam this 
 
 morning to know when the Packet sails, 
 and till it does I will write something every 
 day — After that my journal shall go on 
 like clockwork, and you must not complain 
 of its dulness — for what I wish is to write 
 a quantity to you — knowing well that dul- 
 ness itself will from me be interesting to 
 you — You may conceive how this not hav- 
 ing been done has weighed upon me. I 
 shall be able to judge from your next what 
 sort of information will be of most service 
 or amusement to you. Perhaps as you were i 
 fond of giving me sketches of character i 
 you may like a little picnic of scandal even 
 across the Atlantic. But now I must speak 
 particularly to you, my dear Sister — for I 
 know you love a little quizzing better than 
 a great bit of apple dumpling. Do you . 
 know Uncle Redhall ? He is a little Man 
 with an innocent powdered upright head, j 
 he lisps with a protruded under lip — he " 
 has two Nieces, each one would weigh three 
 of him — one for height and the other for 
 breadth — he knew Bartolozzi. He gave a 
 supper, and ranged his bottles of wine all 
 up the Kitchen and cellar stairs — quite 
 ignorant of what might be drunk — It 
 might have been a good joke to pour on 
 the sly bottle after bottle into a washing 
 tub, and roar for more — If you were to 
 trip him up it would discompose a Pigtail 
 and bring his under lip nearer to his nose. 
 He never had the good luck to lose a silk 
 Handkerchief in a Crowd, and therefore 
 lias only one topic of conversation — Bar- 
 tolozzi. Shall I give you Miss Brawne ? 
 She is about my height — with a fine style 
 of countenance of the lengthened sort — 
 she wants sentiment in every feature — 
 she manages to make her hair look well 
 — her nostrils are fine — though a little 
 painful — her mouth is bad and good — her 
 Profile is better than her full-face which 
 indeed is not full but pale and thin without 
 showing any bone. Her shape is very 
 graceful and so are her movements — her 
 Arms are good her hands baddish — her 
 feet tolerable. She is not seventeen — but i 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 343 
 
 she is ignorant — monstrous in her behav- 
 iour, flying out in all directions — calling 
 people such names that I was forced lately 
 to make use of the term Minx — this is I 
 think not from any innate vice, but from a 
 penchant she has for acting stylishly — I 
 am however tired of such style and shall 
 decline any more of it. She had a friend 
 to visit her lately — you have known plenty 
 such — her face is raw as if she was stand- 
 ing out in a frost ; her lips raw and seem 
 always ready for a Pullet — she plays the 
 Music without one sensation but the feel of 
 the ivory at her fingers. She is a down- 
 right Miss without one set off — We hated 
 her and smoked her and baited her and I 
 think drove her away. Miss B. thinks her 
 a Paragon of fashion, and says she is the 
 only woman she would change persons with. 
 Wbat a stupe — She is superior as a Rose 
 to a Dandelion. When we went to bed 
 Brown observed as he put out the Taper 
 what a very ugly old woman that Miss 
 Robinson would make — at which I must 
 have groaned aloud for I 'm sure ten min- 
 utes. I have not seen the thing Kingston 
 again — George will describe him to you — 
 I shall insinuate some of these Creatures 
 into a Comedy some day — and perhaps 
 have Hunt among them — 
 
 Scene, a little Parlour. Enter Hunt — 
 Gattie — Hazlitt — Mrs. Novello — Oilier. 
 Gattie. Ha ! Hunt, got into your new 
 house ? Ha ! Mrs. Novello : seen Altam 
 and his Wife ? — Mrs. N. Yes (with a 
 grin), it's Mr. Hunt's, isn't it? — Gattie. 
 Hunt's ? no, ha ! Mr. Oilier, I congratu- 
 late you upon the highest compliment I 
 ever heard paid to the Book. Mr. Hazlitt, 
 I hope you are well. — Hazlitt. Yes Sir, 
 no Sir. — Mr. Hunt (at the Music), ' La 
 Biondina,' etc. Hazlitt did you ever hear 
 this? — 'La Biondina,' etc. — Hazlitt. O 
 no Sir — I never. — Oilier. Do, Hunt, give 
 it us over again — divine. — Gattie. Divino 
 — Hunt, when does your Pocket-Book come 
 out? — Hunt. 'What is this absorbs me 
 quite ? ' O we are spinning on a little, we 
 
 shall floridise soon I hope. Such a thing 
 was very much wanting — people think of 
 nothing but money getting — now for me 
 I am rather inclined to the liberal side of 
 things. I am reckoned lax in my Christian 
 principles, etc. etc. etc. 
 
 [December 29.] 
 
 It is some days since I wrote the last 
 page — and what I have been about since 
 I have no Idea. I dined at Haslam's on 
 Sunday — with Haydon yesterday, and saw 
 Fanny in the morning ; she was well. Just 
 now I took out my poem to go on with it, 
 but the thought of my writing so little to 
 you came upon me and I could not get on — 
 so I have began at random and I have not 
 a word to say — and yet my thoughts are 
 so full of you that I can do nothing else. 
 I shall be confined at Hampstead a few 
 days on account of a sore throat — the 
 first thing I do will be to visit your Mo- 
 ther again. The last time I saw Henry 
 he show'd me his first engraving, which I 
 thought capital. Mr. Lewis called this 
 morning and brought some American Pa- 
 pers — I have not look'd into them — I 
 think we ought to have heard of you before 
 this — I am in daily expectation of Letters 
 — Nil desperandum. Mrs. Abbey wishes 
 to take Fanny from School — I shall strive 
 all I can against that. There has hap- 
 pened a great Misfortune in the Drewe 
 Family — old Drewe has been dead some 
 time ; and lately George Drewe expired 
 in a fit — on which account Reynolds has 
 gone into Devonshire. He dined a few 
 days since at Horace Twisse's with Listen 
 and Charles Kemble. I see very little of 
 him now, as I seldom go to Little Britain 
 because the Ennui always seizes me there, 
 and John Reynolds is very dull at home. 
 Nor have I seen Rice. How you are now 
 going on is a Mystery to me — I hope a few 
 days will clear it up. 
 
 [December 30.] 
 I never know the day of the Month. It 
 is very fine here to-day, though I expect a 
 
344 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Thundercloud, or rather a snow cloud, in 
 less than an hour. I am at present alone 
 at Wentworth Place — Brown being at 
 Chichester and Mr. and Mrs. Dilke making 
 a little stay in Town. I know not what I 
 should do without a sunshiny morning now 
 and then — it clears up one's spirits. Dilke 
 and I frequently have some chat about you. 
 I have now and then some doubt, but he 
 seems to have a great confidence. I think 
 there will soon be perceptible a change in 
 the fashionable slang literature of the day 
 — it seems to me that Reviews have had 
 their day — that the public have been sur- 
 feited — there will soon be some new folly 
 to keep the Parlours in talk — What it is I 
 care not. We have seen three literary 
 Kings in our Time — Scott, Byron, and 
 then the Scotch novels. All now appears 
 to be dead — or I may mistake, literary 
 Bodies may still keep up the Bustle which 
 I do not hear. Haydon show'd me a letter 
 he had received from Tripoli — Ritchie was 
 well and in good Spirits, among Camels, 
 Turbans, Palm Trees, and Sands. You may 
 remember I promised to send him an Endy- 
 mion which I did not — however he has 
 one — you have one. One is in the Wilds 
 of Annerica — the other is on a Camel's 
 back in the plains of Egypt. I am looking 
 into a Book of Dubois's — he has written 
 directions to the Players — one of them is 
 very good. 'In singing never mind the 
 music — observe what time you please. It 
 would be a pretty degradation indeed if 
 you were obliged to confine your genius to 
 the dull regularity of a fiddler — horse hair 
 and cat's guts — no, let him keep your 
 time and play your tune — dodge him.'' I 
 will now copy out the Letter and Sonnet I 
 have spoken of. The outside cover was 
 thus directed, 'Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, 
 (Booksellers), No. 93 Fleet Street, Lon- 
 don,' and it contained this : 
 
 ' Messrs. Taylor and Hessey are requested to 
 forward the enclosed letter by some safe mode 
 of conveyance to the Author of Endymion, who 
 is not known at Teignmouth : or if they have 
 
 not his address, they will return the letter 
 by post, directed as below, within a fortnight, 
 "Mr. P. Fenbank, P. 0., Teignmouth." 9th 
 Novr. 1818. 
 
 In this sheet was enclosed the following, 
 with a superscription — ' Mr. John Keats, 
 Teignmouth.' Then came Sonnet to John 
 Keats — which I would not copy for any in 
 the world but you — who know that I scout 
 'mild light and loveliness' or any such 
 nonsense in myself. 
 
 Star of high promise ! — not to this dark age 
 Do thy mild light and loveliness belong ; 
 For it is blind, intolerant, and wrong ; 
 Dead to empyreal soarings, and the rage 
 Of scoffing spirits bitter war doth wage 
 With all that bold integrity of song. 
 Yet thy clear beam shall shine through ages 
 strong 
 To ripest times a light and heritage. 
 And there breathe now who dote upon thy 
 fame, 
 Whom thy wild numbers wrap beyond their 
 being, 
 Who love the freedom of thy lays — their 
 aim 
 Above the scope of a dull tribe unseeing — 
 And there is one whose hand will never scant 
 From his poor store of fruits all thou canst 
 want. 
 November 1818. turn over 
 
 I turn'd over and found a £25 note. 
 Now this appears to me all very proper — 
 if I had refused it I should have behaved 
 in a very bragadochio dunderheaded man- 
 ner — and yet the present galls me a little, 
 and I do not know whether I shall not re- 
 turn it if I ever meet with the donor after, 
 whom to no purpose I have written. I 
 have your Miniature on the Table George 
 the great — it 's very like — though not 
 quite about the upper lip. I wish we had 
 a better of your little George. I must not 
 forget to tell you that a few days since I 
 went with Dilke a shooting on the heath 
 and shot a Tomtit. There were as many 
 guns abroad as Birds. I intended to have 
 been at Chichester this Wednesday — but 
 on account of this sore throat I wrote him 
 (Brown) my excuse yesterday. 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 345 
 
 Thursday [December 31]. 
 (I will date when I finish.) — I re- 
 ceived a Note from Haslam yesterday — 
 asking if my letter is ready — now this is 
 only the second sheet — notmthstanding all 
 my promises. But you must reflect what 
 hindrances I have had. However on seal- 
 ing this I shall have nothing to prevent my 
 proceeding in a gradual journal, which will 
 increase in a Month to a considerable size. 
 I will insert any little pieces I may write — 
 though I will not give any extracts from 
 my large poem which is scarce began. I 
 want to hear very much whether Poetry 
 and literature in general has gained or lost 
 interest with you — and what sort of writ- 
 ing is of the highest gust with you now. 
 With what sensation do you read Fielding ? 
 
 — and do not Hogarth's pictures seem an 
 old thing to you ? Yet you are very little 
 more removed from general association 
 than I am — recollect that no Man can live 
 but in one society at a time — his enjoy- 
 ment in the different states of human 
 society must depend upon the Powers of 
 his Mind — that is you can imagine a 
 Roman triumph or an Olympic game as 
 well as I can. We with our bodily eyes 
 see but the fashion and Manners of one 
 country for one age — and then we die. 
 Now to me manners and customs long 
 since passed whether among the Babylo- 
 nians or the Bactrians are as real, or even 
 more real than those among which I now 
 live — My thoughts have turned lately this 
 way — The more we know the more in- 
 adequacy we find in the world to satisfy us 
 
 — this is an old observation ; but I have 
 made up my Mind never to take anything 
 for granted — but even to examine the 
 truth of the commonest proverbs — This 
 however is true. Mrs. Tighe and Beattie 
 once delighted me — now I see through 
 them and can find nothing in them but 
 weakness, and yet how many they still de- 
 light ! Perhaps a superior being may look 
 upon Shakspeare in the same light — is it 
 possible? No — This same inadequacy is 
 
 discovered (forgive me, little George, you 
 know I don't mean to put you in the mess) 
 in Women with few exceptions — the Dress 
 Maker, the blue Stocking, and the most 
 charming sentimentalist differ but in a 
 slight degree and are equally smokeable. 
 But I will go no further — I may be speak- 
 ing sacrilegiously — and on my word I 
 have thought so little that I have not one 
 opinion upon anything except in matters 
 of taste — I never can feel certain of any 
 truth but from a clear perception of its 
 Beauty — and I find myself very young 
 minded even in that perceptive power — 
 which I hope will increase. A year ago I 
 could not understand in the slightest de- 
 gree Raphael's cartoons — now I begin to 
 read them a little — And how did I learn 
 to do so ? By seeing something done in 
 quite an opposite spirit — I mean a picture 
 of Guido's in which all the Saints, instead 
 of that heroic simplicity and unaffected 
 grandeur which they inherit from Raphael, 
 had each of them both in countenance and 
 gesture all the canting, solemn, melodra- 
 matic mawkishness of Mackenzie's father 
 Nicholas. When I was last at Haydou's I 
 looked over a Book of Prints taken from 
 the fresco of the Church at Milan, the 
 name of which I forget — in it are com- 
 prised Specimens of the first and second 
 age of art in Italy. I do not think I ever 
 had a greater treat out of Shakspeare. 
 Full of Romance and the most tender feel- 
 ing — magnificence of draperies beyond 
 any I ever saw, not excepting Raphael's. 
 But Grotesque to a curious pitch — yet 
 still making up a fine whole — even finer 
 to me than more accomplish'd works — as 
 there was left so much room for Imagina- 
 tion. I have not heard one of this last 
 course of Hazlitt's lectures. They were 
 upon ' Wit and Humour,' ' the English 
 comic writers.' 
 
 Saturday, Jan^- 2nd [1819]. 
 Yesterday Mr. and Mrs. D. and myself 
 dined at Mrs. Brawne's — nothing particu- 
 lar passed. I never intend hereafter to 
 
346 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 spend any time with Ladies unless they are 
 handsome — you lose time to no purpose. 
 For that reason I shall beg leave to decline 
 going again to Redall's or Butler's or any 
 Squad where a fine feature cannot be mus- 
 tered among them all — and where all the 
 evening's amusement consists in saying 
 'your good health, your good health, and 
 YOUR good health — and (O I beg your 
 
 pardon) yours, Miss ,' and such thing 
 
 not even dull enough to keep one awake — 
 With respect to amiable speaking I can 
 read — let my eyes be fed or I '11 never go 
 out to dinner anywhere. Perhaps you may 
 have heard of the dinner given to Thos. 
 Moore in Dublin, because I have the ac- 
 count here by me in the Philadelphia dem- 
 ocratic paper. The most pleasant thing 
 that occurred was the speech Mr. Tom made 
 on his Father's health being drank. I am 
 afraid a great part of my Letters are filled 
 up with promises and what I will do rather 
 than any great deal written — but here I 
 say once for all — that circumstances pre- 
 vented me from keeping my promise in my 
 last, but now I affirm that as there will be 
 nothing to hinder me I will keep a journal 
 for you. That I have not yet done so you 
 would forgive if you knew how many hours 
 I have been repenting of my neglect. For 
 I have no thought pervading me so con- 
 stantly and frequently as that of you — my 
 Poem cannot frequently drive it away — 
 you will retard it much more than you 
 could by taking up my time if you were in 
 England. 1 never forget you except after 
 seeing now and then some beautiful woman 
 — but that is a fever — the thought of you 
 both is a passion with me, but for the most 
 part a calm one. I asked Dilke for a few 
 lines for you — he has promised them — I 
 shall send what I have written to Haslam 
 on Monday Morning — what I can get into 
 another sheet to-morrow I will — There 
 are one or two little poems you might like. 
 I have given up snuff very nearly quite — 
 Dilke has promised to sit with me this 
 •evening, I wish he would come this minute 
 
 for I want a pinch of snuff very much just 
 now — I have none though in my own snuff 
 box. My sore throat is much better to-day 
 
 — I think I might venture on a pinch. 
 Here are the Poems — they will explain 
 themselves — as all poems should do with- 
 out any comment — 
 
 [The poem entitled 'Fancy,' pp. 124, 125, is 
 here inserted.] 
 
 I did not think this had been so long a 
 Poem. I have another not so long — but 
 as it will more conveniently be copied on 
 the other side I will just put down here 
 some observations on Caleb Williams by 
 Hazlitt — I meant to say St. Leon, for al- 
 though he has mentioned all the Novels of 
 Godwin very freely I do not quote them, 
 but this only on account of its being a 
 specimen of his usual abrupt manner, and 
 fiery laconicism. He says of St. Leon — 
 
 ' He is a limb torn off society. In possession 
 of eternal youth and beauty he can feel no love; 
 surrounded, tantalised, and tormented with 
 riches, lie can do no good. The faces of Men 
 pass before him as in a speculum ; but he is at- 
 tached to them by no common tie of sympathy 
 or suffering. He is thrown back into himself 
 and his own thoughts. He lives in the solitude 
 of his own breast — without wife or child or 
 friend or Enemy in the world. This is the soli- 
 tude of the soul, not of woods or trees or mountains 
 
 — but the desert of society — the waste and ob- 
 livion of the heart. He is himself alone. His 
 existence is purely intellectual, and is therefore 
 intolerable to one who has felt the rapture of 
 affection, or the anguish of woe.' 
 
 As I am about it I might as well give you . 
 his character of Godwin as a Romance,«r: — 
 
 ' Whoever else is, it is pretty clea^ .^r that the 
 author of Caleb Williams is not the author of 
 Waverley. Nothing can be more dist. 'met or ex- 
 cellent in their several ways than t ^hese two 
 writers. If the one owes almost ever 3 y thing to 
 external observations and traditional c 5 haracter, 
 the other owes everything to internal<-o concep- 
 tion and contemplation of the possible ^ vorkings 
 of the human Mind. There is little kn owledge 
 of the world, little variety, neither an eye for 
 the picturesque nor a talent for the hi imorous 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 347 
 
 in Caleb Williams, for instance, but you cannot 
 doubt for a moment of the originality of the 
 work and the force of the conception. The im- 
 pression made upon the reader is the exact 
 measure of the strength of the author's genius. 
 For the effect both in Caleb Wilhams and St. 
 Leon is entirely made out, not by facts nor 
 dates, by blackletter, or magazine learning, by 
 transcript nor record, but by intense and pa- 
 tient study of the human heart, and by an im- 
 agination projecting itself into certain situations, 
 and capable of working up its imaginary feel- 
 ings to the height of reality.' 
 
 This appears to me quite correct — Now I 
 will copy the other Poem — it is on the 
 double immortality of Poets — 
 
 [' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' p. 12.5]. 
 
 These are specimeus of a sort of rondeau 
 which I think I shall become partial to — 
 because you have one idea amplified with 
 greater ease and more delight and freedom 
 than in the sonnet. It is my intention to 
 wait a few years before I publish any 
 minor poems — and then I hope to have a 
 volume of some worth — and which those 
 people will relish who cannot bear the 
 burthen of a long poem. In my journal I 
 intend to copy the poems I write the days 
 they are written — There is just room, I 
 see, in this page to copy a little thing I 
 wrote off to some Music as it was playing — 
 
 ['I had a dove and the sweet dove died,' p. 
 125]. 
 
 Sunday [January 3]. 
 
 I have been dining with Dilke to-day — 
 He is up to his Ears in Walpole's letters. 
 Mr. IManker is there, and I have come 
 round to see if I can conjure up anything 
 for you. Kirkman came down to see me 
 this morning — his family has been very 
 badly off lately. He told me of a villain- 
 ous trick of his Uncle William in Newgate 
 Street, who became sole Creditor to his 
 father under pretence of serving him, and 
 put an execution on his own Sister's goods. 
 He went in to the family at Portsmouth ; 
 conversed with them, went out and sent in 
 the Sherriff's officer. He tells me too of 
 
 abominable behaviour of Archer to Caro- 
 line Mathew — Archer has lived nearly at 
 the Mathews these two years ; he has been 
 amusing Caroline — and now he has written 
 a Letter to Mrs. M. declining, on pretence 
 of inability to support a wife as he would 
 wish, all thoughts of marriage. What is 
 the worst is Caroline is 27 years old. It is 
 an abominable matter. He has called upon 
 me twice lately — I was out both times. 
 What can it be for ? — There is a letter 
 to-day in the Examiner to the Electors of 
 Westminster on Mr. Hobhouse's account. 
 In it there is a good character of Cobbett 
 
 — I have not the paper by me or I would 
 copy it. I do not think I have mentioned 
 the discovery of an African Kingdom — 
 the account is much the same as the first 
 accounts of Mexico — all magnificence — 
 There is a Book being written about it. I 
 will read it and give you the cream in my 
 next. The romance we have heard upon it 
 runs thus: They have window frames of 
 gold — 100,000 infantry — human sacrifices. 
 The Gentleman who is the Adventurer has 
 his wife with him — she, I am told, is a 
 beautiful little sylphid woman — her hus- 
 band was to have been sacrificed to their 
 Gods and was led through a Chamber filled 
 with different instruments of torture with 
 privilege to choose what death he woidd 
 die, without their having a thought of his 
 aversion to such a death, they considering 
 it a supreme distinction. However he was 
 let off, and became a favourite with the 
 King, who at last openly patronised him, 
 though at first on account of the Jealousy 
 of his Ministers he was wont to hold con- 
 versations with his Majesty in the dark 
 middle of the night. All this sounds a 
 little Bluebeardish — but I hope it is true. 
 There is another thing I must mention of 
 the momentqus kind ; — but I must mind 
 my periods in it — Mrs. Dilke has two Cats 
 
 — a Mother and a Daughter — now the 
 Mother is a tabby and the daughter a black 
 and white like the spotted child. Now it 
 appears to me, for the doors of both houses 
 
348 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 are opened frequently, so that there is a 
 complete thoroughfare for both Cats (there 
 being no board up to the contrary), they 
 may one and several of them come into my 
 room ad libitum. But no — the Tabby 
 only comes — whether from sympathy for 
 Ann the Maid or me I cannot tell — or 
 whether Brown has left behind him any 
 atmospheric spirit of Maidenhood I cannot 
 tell. The Cat is not an old Maid her- 
 self — her daughter is a proof of it — I 
 have questioned her — I have look'd at the 
 lines of her paw — I have felt her pulse — 
 to no purpose. Why should the old Cat 
 come to me ? I ask myself — and myself 
 has not a word to answer. It may come to 
 light some day ; if it does you shall hear 
 of it. 
 
 Kirkman this morning promised to write 
 a few lines to you and send them to Has- 
 1am. 1 do not think I have anything to 
 say in the Business way. You will let me 
 know what you would wish done with your 
 property in England — what things you 
 would wish sent out — But I am quite in 
 the dark about what you are doing — If I 
 do not hear soon I shall put on my wings 
 and be after you. I will in my next, and 
 after I have seen your next letter, tell you 
 my own particular idea of America. Your 
 next letter will be the key by which I shall 
 open your hearts and see what spaces want 
 filling with any particular information — 
 Whether the afPairs of Europe are more 
 or less interesting to you — whether you 
 would like to hear of the Theatres — of 
 the bear Garden — of the Boxers — the 
 Painters, the Lectures — the Dress — The 
 progress of Dandyism — The Progress of 
 Courtship — or the fate of Mary Millar — 
 being a fnll, true, and tr^s particular ac- 
 count of Miss M.'s ten Suitors — How the 
 first tried the effect of swearing; the second 
 of stammering; the third of whispering; — 
 the fourth of sonnets — the fifth of Spanish 
 leather boots, — the sixth of flattering her 
 body — the seventh of flattering her mind 
 — the eighth of flattering himself — the 
 
 ninth stuck to the Mother — the tenth 
 kissed the Chambermaid and told her to 
 tell her Mistress — But he was soon dis- 
 charged, his reading led him into an error; 
 he could not sport the Sir Lucius to any 
 advantage. And now for this time I bid 
 you good-bye — I have been thinking of 
 these sheets so long that I appear in closing 
 them to take my leave of you — but that is 
 not it — I shall immediately as I send this 
 off begin my journal — when some days I 
 shall write no more than 10 lines and 
 others 10 times as much. Mrs. Dilke is 
 knocking at the wall for Tea is ready — I 
 will tell you what sort of a tea it is and 
 then bid you Good-bye. 
 
 [January 4]. 
 
 This is Monday morning — nothing par- 
 ticular happened yesterday evening, except 
 that when the tray came up Mrs. Dilke and 
 I had a battle with celery stalks — she 
 sends her love to you. I shall close this 
 and send it immediately to Haslam — 
 remaining ever, My dearest brother and 
 sister. 
 
 Your most affectionate Brother John. 
 
 82. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE 
 
 Wentworth Place, Friday Morn 
 [December 18, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Woodhouse — I am greatly 
 obliged to you. I must needs feel flattered 
 by making an impression on a set of ladies. 
 I should be content to do so by mere- 
 tricious romance verse, if they alone, and 
 not men, were to judge. I should like 
 very much to know those ladies — though 
 look here, Woodhouse — I have a new leaf 
 to turn over: I must work; I must read; I 
 must write. I am unable to afford time 
 for new acquaintances. I am scarcely able 
 to do my duty to those I have. Leave the 
 matter to chance. But do not forget to 
 give my remembrances to your cousin. 
 
 Yours most sincerely John Keats. 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 349 
 
 83. 
 
 TO MRS, REYNOLDS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Tuesd. 
 [December 22, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Reynolds — When I 
 left you yesterday, 't was with the eonvic- 
 tioQ that you thought I had received no 
 previous invitation for Christmas day : the 
 truth is I had, and had accepted it under 
 the conviction that I should be in Hamp- 
 shire at the time: else believe me I should 
 not have done so, but kept in Mind my old 
 friends. I will not speak of the propor- 
 tion of pleasure I may receive at different 
 Houses — that never enters my head — 
 you may take for a truth that I would have 
 given up even what I did see to be a 
 greater pleasure, for the sake of old ac- 
 quaintanceship — time is nothing — two 
 years are as long as twenty. 
 
 Yours faithfully Jou^ Keats. 
 
 84. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wentworth Place, Tuesday 
 [December 22, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Haydon — Upon my Soul I 
 never felt your going out of the room at 
 all — and believe me I never rhodomon- 
 tade anywhere but in your Company — my 
 general Life in Society is silence. 1 feel 
 in myself all the vices of a Poet, irritabil- 
 ity, love of effect and admiration — and 
 influenced by such devils I may at times 
 say more ridiculous things than I am aware 
 of — but I will put a stop to that in a man- 
 ner I have long resolved upon — I will buy 
 a gold ring and put it on my finger — and 
 from that time a Man of superior head 
 shall never have occasion to pity me, or 
 one of inferior Nunskull to chuckle at me. 
 I am certainlj- more for greatness in a 
 shade than in the open day — I am speak- 
 ing as a mortal — I should say I value 
 more the privilege of seeing great things in 
 lonoliness than the fame of a Prophet. Yet 
 here I am sinning — so I will turn to a 
 vhing I have thought on more — I mean 
 jour means till your picture be finished: 
 
 not only now but for this year and half 
 have I thought of it. Believe me Haydon 
 I have that sort of fire in my heart that 
 would sacrifice everything I have to your 
 service — I speak without any reserve — I 
 know you would do so for me — I open my 
 heart to you in a few words. I will do this 
 sooner than you shall be distressed: but let 
 me be the last stay — Ask the rich lovers 
 of Art first — I '11 tell you why — I have a 
 little money which may enable me to study, 
 and to travel for three or four years. I 
 never expect to get anything by my Books: 
 and moreover I wish to avoid publishing — 
 I admire Human Nature but I do not like 
 Men. I should like to compose things 
 honourable to Man — but not fingerable over 
 by Meti. So I am anxious to exist without 
 troubling the printer's devil or drawing 
 upon Men's or Women's admiration — in 
 which great solitude I hope God will give 
 me strength to rejoice. Try the long 
 purses — but do not sell your drawings or 
 I shall consider it a breach of friendship. 
 I am sorry I was not at home when Salmon 
 [Haj'don's servant] called. Do write and 
 let me know all your present whys and 
 wherefores. 
 
 Yours most faithfully John Keats. 
 
 85. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Wentworth Place, [December 24, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — Can you lend me 
 £30 for a short time ? Ten I want for my- 
 self — and twenty for a friend — which will 
 be repaid me by the middle of next month. 
 I shall go to Chichester on Wednesday and 
 perhaps stay a fortnight — I am afraid I 
 shall not be able to dine with you before 
 I return. Remember me to Woodliouse. 
 
 Yours sincerely John Keats. 
 
 86. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wentworth Place, [December 27, 1818]. 
 My dear Haydon — I had an engage- 
 ment to-day — and it is so fine a morning 
 
35° 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 that I caunot put it off — I will be with 
 you to-morrow — when we mil thank the 
 Gods, though you have bad eyes and I am 
 idle. 
 
 I regret more than anything the not 
 being able to dine with you to-day. I have 
 had several movements that way — but 
 then I should disappoint one who has been 
 my true friend. I will be with you to- 
 morrow morning and stop all day — we 
 will hate the profane vulgar and make us 
 Wings. 
 
 God bless you. J. Keats. 
 
 87. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Wednesday 
 [December 30, 1818]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I am confined at 
 Hampstead with a sore throat; but I do 
 not expect it will keep me above two or 
 three days. I intended to have been in 
 Town yesterday but feel obliged to be 
 careful a little while. I am in general so 
 careless of these trifles, that they tease me 
 for Months, when a few days' care is all 
 that is necessary. I shall not neglect any 
 chance of an endeavour to let you return 
 to School — nor to procure you a Visit to 
 Mrs. Dilke's which T have great fears about. 
 Write me if you can find time — and also 
 get a few lines ready for George as the 
 Post sails next Wednesday. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 88. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. 
 [January 4, 1819]. 
 My dear Haydon — I have been out 
 this morning, and did not therefore see 
 your note till this minute, or I would have 
 gone to town directly — it is now too late 
 for to-day. I will be in town early to- 
 morrow, and trust I shall be able to lend 
 you assistance noon or night. I was struck 
 with the improvement in the architectural 
 part of your Pictui'e — and, now I think on 
 
 it, I cannot help wondering you should have 
 had it so poor, especially after the Solomon. 
 Excuse this dry bones of a note : for though 
 my pen may grow cold, I should be sorry 
 my Life should freeze — 
 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 89. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, 
 [between January 7 and 14, 1819], 
 
 My dear Haydon — We are very un- 
 lucky — I should have stopped to dine with 
 you, but I knew I should not have been 
 able to leave you in time for my plaguy 
 sore throat; which is getting well. 
 
 I shall have a little trouble in procuring 
 the Money and a great ordeal to go through 
 — no trouble indeed to any one else — or 
 ordeal either. I mean I shall have to go 
 to town some thrice, and stand in the Bank 
 an hour or two — ■ to me worse than any- 
 thing in Dante — I should have less chance 
 with the people around me than Orpheus 
 had with the Stones. I have been writing 
 a little now and then lately: but nothing 
 to speak of — being discontented and as 
 it were moulting. Yet I do not think I 
 shall ever come to the rope or the Pistol, 
 for after a day or two's melancholy, al- 
 though I smoke more and more my own 
 insufficiency — I see by little and little 
 more of what is to be done, and how it is to 
 be done, should I ever be able to do it. 
 On my soul, there should be some reward 
 for that continual agonie ennuyeuse. I was 
 thinking of going into Hampshire for a few 
 days. I have been delaying it longer than 
 I intended. You shall see me soon; and 
 do not be at all anxious, for this time I 
 really will do, what I never did before in 
 my life, business in good time, and pro- 
 perly. — With respect to the Bond — it 
 may be a satisfaction to you to let me have 
 it: but as you love me do not let there be 
 any mention of interest, although we are 
 mortal men — and bind ourselves for fear 
 of death. 
 
 Yours for ever John Keats. 
 
TO C. W. DILKE AND MRS. DILKE 
 
 351 
 
 90. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, [January 1819]. 
 
 My dear Haydon — My throat has not 
 suffered me yet to expose myself to the 
 night air : however I have been to town in 
 the day time — have had several interviews 
 with my guardian — have written him 
 rather a plain-spoken Letter — which has 
 had its effect; and he now seems inclined 
 to put no stumbling-block in my way: so 
 that I see a good prospect of performing 
 my promise. What I should have lent you 
 ere this if I could have got it, was belong- 
 ing to poor Tom — and the difficulty is 
 whether I am to inherit it before my Sister 
 is of age; a period of six years. Should it 
 be so I must incontinently take to Cordu- 
 roy Trousers. But I am nearly confident 
 't is all a Bam. I shall see you soon — but 
 do let me have a line to-day or to-morrow 
 concerning your health and spirits. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 91. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, [January 1819]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I send this to Wal- 
 thamstow for fear you should not be at 
 Paneras Lane when I call to-morrow — be- 
 fore going into Hampshire for a few days 
 — I will not be more I assure you — You 
 may think how disappointed I am in not 
 being able to see you more and spend more 
 time with you than I do — but how can 
 it be helped ? The thought is a contin- 
 ual vexation to me — and often hinders me 
 from reading and composing — Write to 
 me as often as you can — and believe me, 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 92. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE AND 
 MRS. DILKE, FROM CHARLES ARMITAGE 
 BROWN AND KEATS * 
 
 Bedhampton, 24 January 1819. 
 Dear Dilke, — This letter is for your 
 Wife, and if you are a Gentleman, you will 
 
 * Keats's portion of this letter is printed in 
 Italic, but this does not apply to the italicized 
 
 deliver it to her, without reading one word 
 further, ^read thou Squire. There is a 
 wager depending on this. 
 
 My charming dear mrs. Dilke, — It 
 was delightful to receive a letter from yoi^ 
 — but such a letter ! what presumption in 
 me to attempt to answer it ! Where shall 
 I find, in my poor brain, such jibes, such 
 jeers, such flashes of merriment ? Alas ! 
 you Avill say, as you read me, Alas ! poor 
 Browai ! quite chop fallen ! But that 's 
 not true; my chops have been beautifully 
 plumped out since 1 came here : my 
 dinners have been good & nourishing & 
 my inside never washed by a red herring 
 broth. Then my mind has been so happy ! 
 I have been smiled on by the fair ones, 
 the Lacy's, the Prices, & the MuUings's, 
 but not by the Richards's ; Old Dicky has 
 not called here during my visit, — I have 
 not seen him ; the whole of the family are 
 shuffling to carriage folks for acquaintances, 
 cutting their old friends, and dealing out 
 pride & folly, while we allow they have 
 got the odd trick, but dispute their honours. 
 I was determined to be beforehand with 
 them, & behaved cavalierly & neglectingly 
 to the family, & passed the girls in Havant 
 with a slight bow. — Keats is much better, 
 owing to a strict forbearance from a third 
 glass of wine. He & I walked from Chi- 
 cester yesterday, we were here at 3, but 
 the Dinner was finished ; a brace of 
 Muir fowl had been dressed; I ate a piece 
 of the breast cold, & it was not tainted ; I 
 dared not venture further. Mr. Snook was 
 nearly turned sick by being merely asked 
 to take a mouthful. The other brace was 
 so high, that the cook declined preparing 
 them for the spit, & they were thrown away. 
 I see your husband declared them to be in 
 excellent order ; I supposed he enjoyed 
 them in a disgusting manner, — sucking 
 the rotten flesh off the bones, & crunching 
 the putrid bones. Did you eat any ? I 
 hope not, for an ooman should be delicate 
 
 words in the second paragraph designed by 
 Brown to make his joke perfectly clear. 
 
352 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 in her food. — O you Jezabel ! to sit quietly 
 iu your room, while the thieves were ran- 
 sacking my house ! No doubt poor Ann's 
 throat was cut ; has the Coroner sat on her 
 yet ? — Mrs. Snook says she knows how to 
 hold a pen very well, & wants no lessons 
 from me; only think of the vanity of the 
 ooman ! She tells me to make honourable 
 mention of your letter which she received 
 at Breakfast time, but how can I do so ? 
 I have not read it ; & I '11 lay my life it is 
 not a tenth part so good as mine, — pshaw 
 on your letter to her ! — On Tuesday night 
 I think you '11 see me. In the mean time 
 I '11 not say a word about spasms in the 
 way of my profession, tho' as your friend 
 I must profess myself very sorry. Keats 
 & I are going to call on Mr. Butler & 
 Mr. Burton this morning, and tomorrow 
 we shall go to Sanstead to see Mr. Way's 
 Chapel consecrated by the two Big-wigs 
 of Gloucester & St. Davids. If that vile 
 Carver & Gilder does not do me justice, 
 I '11 annoy him all his life with legal 
 expenses at every quarter, if my rent is 
 not sent to the day, & that will not be 
 revenge enough for the trouble & con- 
 fusion he has put me to. — Mrs. Dilke is 
 remarkably well for Mrs. Dilke in winter. 
 
 — Have you heard anything of John Blag- 
 den; he is off ! want of business has made 
 him play the fool, — I am sorry — that 
 Brown and you are getting so very loitty — 
 my modest feathered Pen frizzles like baby 
 roast beef at making its entrance among such 
 tantrum sentences — or rather ten senses. 
 Brown super or supper sir named the Sleek 
 has been getting thinner a little by pining op- 
 posite Miss Muggins — (Broion says Mullins 
 but I beg to differ from him) — we sit it out 
 till ten 0* clock — Miss M. has persuaded, 
 Brown to shave his whiskers — he came down 
 to Breakfast like the sign of the full Moon — 
 his Profile is quite alter'd. He looks more like 
 an ooman than I ever could think it possible 
 
 — and on putting on Mrs. D.'s calash the de- 
 ception was complete especially as his voice is 
 
 trebled by making love in the draught of a 
 doorway. I too am metamorphosed — o young 
 ooman here in Bed — hampton has over per- 
 suaded me to wear my shirt collar up to my 
 eyes. Mrs. Snook I catch smoaking it every 
 now and then and I believe Brown does but I 
 cannot now look sideways. Brown wants to 
 scribble more so I will finish with a marginal 
 note — Viz. Remember me to Wentworth 
 Place and Elm Cottage — not forgetting 
 Millamant — 
 . Your^s if possible J. Keats. 
 
 This is abominable ! I did but go up- 1 
 stairs to put on a clean & starched hand- 
 kerchief, & that overweening rogue read 
 my letter & scrawled over one of my sheets, 
 and given him a counterpain, — I wish I i 
 could blank-it all over and beat him with a 
 
 \_certain rod, & have a fresh one bolstered 
 up. Ah ! he may dress me as he likes but he 
 
 rk be-\ 
 
 shan't tic\Jcle me piljlow the feathers, — 1 
 would not give a tester for such puns, let 
 us ope broivn (erratum — a large B — a 
 Bumble B.) toill go no further in the Bedroom 
 & not call Mat Snook a relation to Matt- 
 rass — This is grown to a conclusion — / had 
 excellent puns in my head but one bad one 
 from Brown has quite upset me but I am 
 quite set-up for more, but I 'm content to 
 be conqueror. 
 
 Your's in love. Chas. Brown. 
 
 N. B. / beg leaf (sic) to withdraw all my 
 puns — they are all wash, an base uns. 
 
 93. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Feby- [11,1819]. Thursday. 
 My DEAR Fanny — Your Letter to me 
 at Bedhampton hurt me very much, — 
 What objection can there be to your re- 
 ceiving a Letter from me ? At Bedhamp- 
 ton I was unwell and did not go out of the 
 Garden Gate but twice or thrice during 
 the fortnight I was there — Since I came 
 back I have been taking care of myself — 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 353 
 
 I have been obliged to do so, and am now 
 in hopes that by this care I shall get rid 
 of a sore throat which has haunted me at 
 intervals nearly a twelvemonth. I had al- 
 ways a presentiment of not being able to 
 succeed in persuading Mr. Abbey to let 
 you remain longer at School — I am very 
 sorry that he will not consent. I recom- 
 mend you to keep up all that you know and 
 to learn more by yourself however little. 
 The time will come when you will be more 
 pleased with Life — look forward to that 
 time and, though it may appear a trifle be 
 careful not to let the idle and retired Life 
 you lead fix any awkward habit or be- 
 haviour on you — whether you sit or walk 
 endeavour to let it be in a seemly and if 
 possible a graceful manner. We have been 
 very little together : but you have not the 
 less been with me in thought. You have 
 no one in the w^orld besides me who would 
 sacrifice anything for you — I feel myself 
 the only Protector you have. In all your 
 little troubles think of me with the thought 
 that there is at least one person in England 
 who if he could would help you out of 
 them — I live in hopes of being able to 
 make you happy. — I should not perhaps 
 write in this manner, if it were not for the 
 fear of not being able to see you often or 
 long together. I am in hopes Mr. Abbey 
 will not object any more to your receiving 
 a letter now and then from me. How un- 
 reasonable ! I want a few more lines from 
 you for George — there are some young 
 Men, acquaintances of a Schoolfellow of 
 mine, going out to Birkbeck's at the latter 
 end of this Month — I am in expectation 
 every day of hearing from George — I 
 begin to fear his last letters miscarried. I 
 shall be in town to-morrow — if you should 
 not be in town, I shall send this little parcel 
 by the Walthamstow Coach — I think you 
 will like Goldsmith — Write me soon — 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 ; Mrs. Dilke has not been very well — she 
 is gone a walk to town to-day for exer- 
 cise. 
 
 94. TO GEORGE AND GEOKGIANA KEATS 
 
 Sunday Morn= February 14, [1818]. 
 My dear Brother and Sister — How 
 is it that we have not heard from you from 
 the Settlement yet ? The letters must 
 surely have miscarried. 'I am in expecta- 
 tion every day. Peachey wrote me a few 
 days ago, saying some more acquaintances 
 of his were preparing to set out for Birk- 
 beck; therefore I shall take the opportunity 
 of sending you wliat I can muster in a 
 sheet or two. I am still at Wentworth 
 Place — indeed, I have kept indoors lately, 
 resolved if possible to rid myself of my 
 sore throat ; consequently I have not been 
 to see your Mother siuce my return from 
 Chichester ; but my absence from her has 
 been a great weight upon me. I say since 
 my return from Chichester — I believe I 
 told you I was going thither. I was near- 
 ly a fortnight at Mr. John Snook's and a 
 few days at old Mr. Dilke's. Notliiug 
 worth speaking of happened at either place. 
 I took down some thin paper and wrote on 
 it a little poem called St. Agnes's Eve, 
 which you shall have as it is when I have 
 finished the blank part of the rest for you. 
 I went out twice at Chichester to dowager 
 Card parties. I see very little now, and 
 very few persons, being almost tired of 
 men and things. Brown and Dilke are 
 very kind and considerate towards me. 
 The Miss R.'s have been stopping next door 
 lately, but are very dull. Miss Brawne 
 and I have every now and then a chat and 
 a tiff. Brown and Dilke are walking 
 round their garden, hands in pockets, mak- 
 ing observations. The literary world I 
 know nothing about. There is a poem 
 from Rogers dead born ; and another 
 satire is expected from Byron, called " Don 
 Giovanni." Yesterday I went to town for 
 the first time for these three weeks. I met 
 people from all parts and of all sets — Mr. 
 Towers, one of the Holts, Mr. Dominie 
 Williams, Mr. Woodhouse, Mrs. Hazlitt 
 and son, Mrs. Webb, and Mrs. Septimus 
 
354 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Brown. Mr. Woodhouse was looking up 
 at a book window in Newgate Street, and, 
 being short-sighted, twisted his muscles 
 into so queer a stage that I stood by in 
 doubt whether it was him or his brother, if 
 he has one, and turning round, saw Mrs. 
 Hazlitt, with that little Nero, her son. 
 Woodhouse, on his features subsiding, 
 proved to be Woodhouse, and not his 
 brother. I have had a little business with 
 Mr. Abbey from time to time ; he has 
 behaved to me with a little Brusquerie : 
 this hurt me a little, especially when I 
 knew him to be the only man in England 
 who dared to say a thing to me I did not 
 approve of without its being resented, or 
 at least noticed — so I wrote him about 
 it, and have made an alteration in my 
 favour — I expect from this to see more of 
 Fanny, who has been quite shut out from 
 me. I see Cobbett has been attacking the 
 Settlement, but I cannot tell what to be- 
 lieve, and shall be all out at elbows till I 
 hear from you. I am invited to Miss Mil- 
 ler's birthday dance on the 19th — I am 
 nearly sure I shall not be able to go. A 
 dance would injure my throat very much. 
 I see very little of Reynolds. Hunt, I 
 hear, is going on very badly — I mean in 
 money matters. I shall not be surprised 
 to hear of the worst. Haydon too, in con- 
 sequence of his eyes, is out at elbows. 
 I live as prudently as it is possible for me 
 to do. I have not seen Haslam lately. I 
 have not seen Richards for this half year. 
 Rice for three months, or Charles Cowden 
 Clarke for God knows when. 
 
 When I last called in Henrietta Street ^'' 
 Miss Millar was very unwell, and Miss 
 Waldegrave as staid and self-possessed as 
 usual. Henry was well. There are two 
 new tragedies — one by the apostate Maw, 
 and one by Miss Jane Porter. Next week 
 I am going to stop at Taylor's for a few 
 days, when I will see them both and tell 
 you what they are. Mr. and Mrs. Bentley 
 are well, and all the young carrots. I said 
 nothing of consequence passed at Snooks's 
 
 — no more than this — that I like the 
 family very much. Mr. and Mrs. Snooks 
 were very kind. We used to have a little 
 religion and politics together almost every 
 evening, — and sometimes about you. He 
 proposed writing out for me his experience 
 in farming, for me to send to you. If I 
 should have an opportunity of talking to 
 him about it, I will get all 1 can at all 
 events ; but you may say in your answer to 
 this what value you place upon such in- 
 formation. I have not seen Mr. Lewis 
 lately, for I have shrunk from going up 
 the hill. Mr. Lewis went a few mornings 
 ago to town with Mrs. Brawne. They 
 talked about me, and I heard that Mr. L. 
 said a thing I am not at all contented with. 
 Says he, ' O, he is quite the little poet.' 
 Now this is abominable — You might as 
 well say Buonaparte is quite the little 
 soldier. You see what it is to be under six 
 foot and not a lord. There is a long fuzz 
 to-day in the Examiner about a young man 
 who delighted a young woman with a 
 valentine — I think it must be Ollier's. 
 Brown and I are thinking of passing the 
 summer at Brussels — If we do, we shall 
 go about the first of May. We — i. e. 
 Brown and I — sit opposite one another 
 all day authorizing (N. B., an ' s ' instead 
 of a 'z' would give a different meaning). 
 He is at present writing a story of an old 
 woman who lived in a forest, and to whom 
 the Devil or one of his aides-de-feu came 
 one night very late and in disguise. The 
 old dame sets before him pudding after 
 pudding — mess after mess — which he de- 
 vours, and moreover casts his eyes up at 
 a side of Bacon hanging over his head, and 
 at the same time asks if her Cat is a^Rab- 
 bit. On going he leaves her three pips 
 of Eve's Apple, and somehow she, having 
 lived a virgin all her life, begins to repent 
 of it, and wished herself beautiful enough 
 to make all the world and even the other 
 world fall in love with her. So it hap- 
 pens, she sets out from her smoky cottage 
 in magnificent apparel. — The first City 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 355 
 
 she enters, every one falls in love with her, 
 from the Prince to the Blacksmith. A 
 young gentleman on his way to the Church 
 to be married leaves his unfortunate Bride 
 and follows this nonsuch — A whole regi- 
 ment of soldiers are smitten at once and 
 follow her — A whole convent of Monks in 
 Corpus Christi procession join the soldiers. 
 The mayor and corporation follow the 
 same road — Old and young, deaf and 
 dumb, — all but the blind, — are smitten, 
 and form an immense concourse of people, 
 
 who what Brown will do with them I 
 
 know not. The devil himself falls in love 
 with her, flies away with her to a desert 
 place, in consequence of which she lays an 
 infinite number of eggs — the eggs being- 
 hatched from time to time, fill the world 
 with many nuisances, such as John Knox, 
 George Fox, Johanna Southcote, and Gif- 
 ford. 
 
 There have been within a fortnight eight 
 failures of the highest consequence in Lon- 
 don. Brown went a few evenings since 
 to Davenport's, and on his coming in he 
 talked about bad news in the city with such 
 a face I began to think of a national bank- 
 ruptcy. I did not feel much surprised and 
 was rather disappointed. Carlisle, a book- 
 seller on the Hone principle, has been 
 issuing pamphlets from his shop in Fleet 
 Street called the Deist. He was conveyed 
 to Newgate last Thursday ; he intends 
 making his own defence. I was surprised 
 to hear from Taylor the amount of money 
 of the bookseller's last sale. What think 
 you of £25,000 ? He sold 4000 copies of 
 Lord Byron. I am sitting opposite the 
 Shakspeare I brought from the Isle of 
 Wight — and I never look at him but the 
 silk tassels ** on it give me as much plea- 
 sure as the face of the poet itself. 
 
 In my next packet, as this is one by the 
 way, I shall send you the Pot of Basil, St. 
 Agnes Eve, and if I should have finished 
 it, a little thing called the Eve of St. Mark. 
 You see what fine Mother Radcliff names 
 
 I have — it is not my fault — I do not 
 search for them. I have not gone on with 
 Hyperion — for to tell the truth I have not 
 been in great cue for writing lately — I must 
 wait for the spring to rouse me up a little. 
 The only time I went out from Bedhamp- 
 tou was to see a chapel consecrated — 
 Brown, I, and John Snook the boy, went 
 in a chaise behind a leaden horse. Brown 
 drove, but the horse did not mind him. 
 This chapel is built by a Mr. Way, a great 
 Jew converter, who in that line has spent 
 one hundred thousand pounds. He main- 
 tains a great number of poor Jews — Of 
 course his communion plate loas stolen. He 
 spoke to the clerk about it — The clerk 
 said he was very sorry, adding, '/ dare 
 shay, your honour, it 's among ush.' 
 
 The chapel is built in Mr. Way's park. 
 The consecration was not amusing. There 
 were numbers of carriages — and his house 
 crammed with clergy — They sanctified the 
 Chapel, and it being a wet day, consecrated 
 the burial-ground through the vestry win- 
 dow. I begin to hate parsons ; they did 
 not make me love them that day when I 
 saw them in their proper colours. A par- 
 son is a Lamb in a drawing-room, and a 
 Lion in a vestry. The notions of Society 
 will not permit a parson to give way to his 
 temper in any shape — So he festers in 
 himself — his features get a peculiar, dia- 
 bolical, self sufficient, iron stupid expres- 
 sion. He is continually acting — his mind 
 is against every man, and every man's 
 mind is against him — He is a hypocrite to 
 the Believer and a coward to the unbeliever 
 — He must be either a knave or an idiot — 
 and there is no man so much to be pit- 
 ied as an idiot parson. The soldier who 
 is cheated into an Esprit du Corps by a 
 red coat, a band, and colours, for the pur- 
 pose of nothing, is not half so pitiable as 
 the parson who is led by the nose by the 
 Bench of Bishops and is smothered in ab- 
 surdities — a poor necessary subaltern of 
 the Church. 
 
35^ 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Friday, Feb''- 18. 
 The day before yesterday I went to 
 Romney Street — your Mother was not at 
 home — but I have just written her that I 
 shall see her on Wednesday. I call'd on Mr. 
 Lewis this morning — he is very well — 
 and tells me not to be uneasy about Let- 
 ters, the chances being so arbitrary. He 
 is going on as usual among his favourite 
 democrat papers. We had a chat as usual 
 about Cobbett and the Westminster elec- 
 tors. Dilke has lately been very much 
 harrassed about the manner of educating 
 his son — he at length decided for a public 
 school — and then he did not know what 
 school — he at last has decided for West- 
 minster ; and as Charley is to be a day 
 boy, Dilke will remove to Westminster. 
 We lead very quiet lives here — Dilke is 
 at present in Greek histories and anti- 
 quities, and talks of nothing but the elec- 
 tors of Westminster and the retreat of 
 the ten - thousand. I never drink now 
 above three glasses of wine — and never 
 any spirits and water. Though by the 
 bye, the other day Woodhouse took me to 
 his coffee house and ordered a Bottle of 
 Claret — now I like Claret, whenever I 
 can have Claret I must drink it, — 't is the 
 only palate affair that I am at all sensual 
 in. Would it not be a good speck to send 
 you some vine roots — could it be done ? 
 I '11 enquire — If you could make some 
 wine like Claret to drink on summer even- 
 ings in an arbour ! For really 't is so fine — 
 it fills one's mouth with a gushing fresh- 
 ness — then goes down cool and feverless 
 — then you do not feel it quarrelling with 
 your liver — no, it is rather a Peacemaker, 
 and lies as quiet as it did in the grape ; 
 then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee, 
 and the more ethereal Part of it mounts 
 into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral 
 apartments like a bully in a bad-house 
 looking for his trull and hurrying from 
 door to door bouncing against the wainst- 
 coat, but rather walks like Aladdin about 
 his own enchanted palace so gently that 
 
 you do not feel his step. Other wines of 
 a heavy and spirituous nature transform 
 a Man to a Sileuus : this makes him a 
 Hermes — and gives a Woman the soul and 
 immortality of Ariadne, for whom Bacchus 
 always kept a good cellar of claret — and 
 even of that he could never persuade her to 
 take above two cups. I said this same 
 claret is tlie only palate-passion I have — 
 I forgot game — I must plead guilty to 
 the breast of a Partridge, the back of a 
 hare, the backbone of a grouse, the wing 
 and side of a Pheasant and a Woodcock 
 passim. Talking of game (I wish I could 
 make it), the Lady whom I met at Hast- 
 ings and of whom I said something in my 
 last I think has lately made me many pre- 
 sents of game, and enabled me to make as 
 many. She made me take home a Pheas- 
 ant the other day, which I gave to Mrs. 
 Dilke ; on which to-morrow Rice, Reynolds 
 and the Wentworthians will dine next door. 
 The next I intend for your Mother. These 
 moderate sheets of paper are much more 
 pleasant to write upon than those large thin 
 sheets which I hope you by this time have 
 received — though that can't be, now I 
 think of it. I have not said in any Letter 
 yet a word about my affairs — in a word I 
 am in no despair about them — my poem 
 has not at all succeeded ; in the course of 
 a year or so I think I shall try the public 
 again — in a selfish point of view I should 
 suffer my pride and my contempt of public 
 opinion to hold me silent — but for yours 
 and Fanny's sake I will pluck up a spirit 
 and try again. I have no doubt of success 
 in a course of years if I persevere — but 
 it must be patience, for the Reviews have 
 enervated and made indolent men's minds 
 — few think for themselves. These Re- 
 views too are getting more and more 
 powerful, especially the Quarterly — they 
 are like a superstition which the more 
 it prostrates the Crowd and the longer it 
 continues the more powerful it becomes 
 just in proportion to their increasing weak- 
 ness. I was in hopes that when people saw, 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 357 
 
 as they must do uow, all the trickery and 
 iniquity of these Plagues they would scout 
 them, but no, they are like the spectators 
 at the Westminster cock-pit — they like 
 the battle and do not care who wins or who 
 loses. Brown is going on this morning 
 with the story of his old woman and the 
 Devil — He makes but slow progress — 
 The fact is it is a Libel on the Devil, and 
 as that person is Brown's Muse, look ye, if 
 he libels his own Muse how can he expect 
 to write ? Either Brown or his Muse must 
 turn tail. Yesterday was Charley Dilke's 
 birthday. Brown and I were invited to 
 tea. During the evening nothing passed 
 worth notice but a little conversation be- 
 tween Mrs. Dilke and Mrs. Brawne. The 
 subject was the Watchman. It was ten 
 o'clock, and Mrs. Brawne, who lived during 
 the summer in Brown's house and now lives 
 in the Road, recognized her old Watch- 
 man's voice, and said that he came as far 
 as her now. ' Indeed,' said Mrs. D., 
 ' does he turn the Corner ? ' There have 
 been some letters passed between me and 
 \ Haslam but I have not seen him lately. 
 The day before yesterday — which I made 
 a day of Business — I called upon him — 
 he was out as usual. Brown has been 
 walking up and down the room a-breeding 
 — now at this moment he is being de- 
 livered of a couplet, and I daresay will be 
 as well as can be expected. Gracious — he 
 has twins ! 
 
 I have a long story to tell you about 
 
 Bailey — I will say first the circumstances 
 
 as plainly and as well as I can remember, 
 
 and then I will make my comment. You 
 
 know that Bailey was very much cut up 
 
 about a little Jilt in the country somewhere. 
 
 I thought he was in a dying state about it 
 
 i when at Oxford with him: little supposing, 
 
 i as I have since heard, that he was at that 
 
 i very time making impatient Love to Marian 
 
 il Reynolds — and guess my astonishment at 
 
 hearing after this that he had been trying 
 
 at Miss Martin. So Matters have been — 
 
 i So Matters stood — when he got ordained 
 
 and went to a Curacy near Carlisle, where 
 the family of the Gleigs reside. There his 
 susceptible heart was conquered by Miss 
 Gleig — and thereby all his connections in 
 town have been annulled — both male and 
 female. I do not now remember clearly 
 the facts — These however I know — He 
 showed his correspondence with Marian to 
 Gleig, returned all her Letters and asked 
 for his own — he also wrote very abrupt 
 Letters to Mrs. Reynolds. I do not know 
 any more of the Martin affair than I have 
 written above. No doubt his conduct has 
 been very bad. The great thing to be con- 
 sidered is — whether it is want of delicacy 
 and principle or want of knowledge and 
 polite experience. And again weakness — 
 yes, that is it ; and the want of a Wife — 
 yes, that is it; and then Marian made great 
 Bones of him although her Mother and 
 sister have teased her very much about it. 
 Her conduct has been very upright through- 
 out the whole affair — She liked Bailey as 
 a Brother but not as a Husband — espe- 
 cially as he used to woo her with the Bible 
 and Jeremy Taylor under his arm — they 
 walked iu no grove but Jeremy Taylor's. 
 Marian's obstinacy is some excuse, but his 
 so quickly taking to Miss Gleig can have 
 no excuse — except that of a Ploughman 
 who wants a wife. The thing which sways 
 me more against him than anything else is 
 Rice's conduct on the occasion; Rice would 
 not make an immature resolve : he was 
 ardent in his friendship for Bailey, he ex- 
 amined the whole for and against minutely; 
 and he has abandoned Bailey entirely. All 
 this I am not supposed by the Reynoldses 
 to have any hint of. It will be a good 
 lesson to the Mother and Daughters — 
 nothing would serve but Bailey. If you 
 mentioned the word Tea-pot some one of 
 them came out with an k propros about 
 Bailey — noble fellow — fine fellow ! was 
 always in their mouths — This may teach 
 them that the man who ridicules romance 
 is the most romantic of Men — that he who 
 abuses women and slights them loves them 
 
3S8 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 the most — that he who talks of roasting 
 a Man alive would not do it when it came 
 to the push — and above all, that they are 
 very shallow people who take everything 
 literally. A Man's life of any worth is a 
 continual allegory, and very few eyes can 
 see the Mystery of his life — a life like the 
 scriptures, figurative — which such people 
 can no more make out than they can the 
 Hebrew Bible. Lord Byron cuts a figure 
 but he is not figurative — Shakspeare led a 
 life of Allegory : his works are the com- 
 ments on it — 
 
 March 12, Friday. 
 I went to town yesterday chiefly for the 
 purpose of seeing some young Men who 
 were to take some Letters for us to you — 
 through the medium of Peachey. I was 
 surprised and disappointed at hearing they 
 had changed their minds, and did not pur- 
 pose going so far as Birkbeck's. I was 
 much disappointed, for I had counted upon 
 seeing some persons who were to see you 
 — and upon your seeing some who had 
 seen me. I have not only lost this oppor- 
 tunity, but the sail of the Post-Packet to 
 New York or Philadelphia, by which last 
 your Brothers have sent some Letters. The 
 weather in town yesterday was so stifling 
 that I could not remain there though I 
 wanted much to see Kean in Hotspur. I 
 have by me at present Hazlitt's Letter to 
 Gifford — perhaps you would like an ex- 
 tract or two from the high-seasoned parts. 
 It begins thus : 
 
 ' Sir, you have an ugly trick of saying what 
 is not true of any one you do not like ; and it 
 will be the object of this Letter to cure you of 
 it. You say what you please of others ; it is 
 time you were told what you .are. In doing 
 this give me leave to borrow the familiarity of 
 your style : — for the fidelity of the picture I 
 shall be answerable. You are a little person 
 but a considerable cat's paw; and so far worthy 
 of notice. Your clandestine connection with 
 persons high in office constantly influences your 
 opinions and alone gives importance to them. 
 You are the government critic, a character 
 
 nicely differing from that of a government spy 
 — the invisible Unk which connects literature 
 with the Police.' 
 
 Again : 
 
 ' Your employers, Mr. Gifford, do not pay 
 their hirelings for nothing — for condescending 
 to notice weak and wicked sophistry.; for point- 
 ing out to contempt what excites no admira- 
 tion ; for cautiously selecting a- few specimens 
 of bad taste and bad grammar where nothing 
 else is to be found. They Avant your invisible 
 pertness, your mercenary malice, your impene- 
 trable dulness, your bare-faced impudence, 
 your pragmatical self-sufficiency, your hypo- 
 critical zeal, your pious f raiids to stand in the 
 gap of their Prejudices and pretensions to fly- 
 blow and taint public opinion, to defeat inde- 
 pendent efforts, to apply not the touch of the 
 scorpion but the touch of the Torpedo to youth- 
 ful hopes, to crawl and leave the slimy track of 
 sophistry and lies over every work that does 
 not dedicate its sweet leaves to some Luminary 
 of the treasury bench, or is not fostered in the 
 hotbed of corruption. This is your office : " this 
 is what is look'd for at your hands, and this 
 you do not baulk " — to sacrifice what little 
 honesty and prostitute what little inteUect you 
 possess to any dirty job you are commission'd 
 to execute. " They keep you as an ape does an 
 apple in the corner of his jaw, first mouth'd to 
 be at last swaUow'd." You are by appoint- 
 ment literary toadeater to greatness and taster 
 to the court. You have a natural aversion to 
 whatever differs from your own pretensions, 
 and an acquired one for what gives offence to 
 your superiors. Your vanity panders to your 
 interest, and your maUce truckles only to your 
 love of Power. If your instructive or premedi- 
 tated abuse of your enviable trust were found 
 wanting in a single instance ; if you were to 
 make a single slip in getting up your select 
 committee of enquiry and green bag report of 
 the state of Letters, your occupation would be 
 gone. Yoii would never after obtain a squeeze 
 of the hand from acquaintance, or a smile from 
 a Punk of quality. The great and powerful 
 whom you call wise and good do not like to 
 have the privacy of their self-love startled by 
 the obtrusive and unmanageable claims of Lit- 
 erature and Philosophy, except through the 
 intervention of people like you, whom, if they 
 have common penetration, they soon find out to 
 be without any superiority o£ inteUect ; or if 
 they do not, whom they can despise for their 
 meanness of soul. You " have the office oppo- 
 site to Saint Peter." You keep a corner in the 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 359 
 
 public mind for foul prejudice and corrupt 
 power to knot and gender in ; you volunteer 
 your services to people of quality to ease scruples 
 of mind and qualms of conscience ; you lay the 
 flattering unction of venal prose and laureU'd 
 verse to their souLs. You persuade them that 
 there is neither purity of morals, nor depth of 
 understanding except in themselves and their 
 hangers-on ; and would prevent the unhallow'd 
 names of Liberty and humanity from ever be- 
 ing whispered in ears polite ! You, sir, do you 
 not all this ? I cry you mercy then : I took you 
 for the Editor of the Quarterly Review.' 
 
 This is the sort of feu de joie he keeps 
 up. There is another extract or two — 
 one especially which I will copy to-morrow 
 — for the caudles are burnt down and I 
 am using the wax taper — which has a long 
 snuff on it — the fire is at its last click — I 
 am sitting with my back to it with one foot 
 rather askew upon the rug and the other 
 with the heel a little elevated from the 
 carpet — I am writing this on the Maid's 
 Tragedy, which I have read since tea with 
 great pleasure — Besides this volume of 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, there are on the 
 table two volumes of Chaucer and a new 
 work of Tom Moore's, called Tom Cribb's 
 Memorial to Congress — nothing in it. 
 These are trifles — but I require nothing 
 so much of you but that you will give one 
 a like description of yourselves, however it 
 may be when you are writing to me. Could 
 I see the same thing done of any great 
 Man long since dead it would be a great 
 delight: as to know in what position Shak- 
 speare sat when he began ' To be or not to 
 be ' — such things become interesting from 
 distance of time or place. I hope you are 
 both now in that sweet sleep which no two 
 beings deserve more than you do — I must 
 fancy so — and please myself in the fancy 
 of speaking a prayer and a blessing over 
 you and your lives — God bless you — I 
 whisper good-night in your ears, and you 
 will dream of me. 
 
 March 13, Saturday. 
 
 I have written to Fanny this morning 
 and received a note from Haslam. I was 
 
 to have dined with him to-morrow : he 
 gives me a bad account of his Father, who 
 has not been in Town for five weeks, and 
 is not well enough for company. Haslam 
 is well — and from the prosperous state 
 of some love affair he does not mind the 
 double tides he has to work. I have been 
 a Walk past west end — and was going to 
 call at Mr. Monkhouse's — but I did not, 
 not being in the humour. I know not why 
 Poetry and I have been so distant lately ; 
 I must make some advances soon or she 
 will cut me entirely. Hazlitt has this fine 
 Passage in his Letter : Gifford in his Re- 
 view of Hazlitt's characters of Shakspeare's 
 plays attacks the Coriolanus critique. He 
 says that Hazlitt has slandered Shakspeare 
 in saying that he had a leaning to the arbi- 
 trary side of the question. Hazlitt thus 
 defends himself, 
 
 ' My words are, " Coriolanus is a storehouse of 
 political common-places. The Arguments for 
 and against aristocracy and democracy on the 
 Privileges of the few and the claims of the 
 many, on Liberty and slavery, power and the 
 abuse of it, peace and war, are here very ably 
 handled, with the spirit of a Poet and the 
 acuteness of a Philosopher. Shakspeare himself 
 seems to have had a leaning to the arbitrary 
 side of the question, perhaps from some feeling 
 of contempt for his own origin, and to have 
 spared no occasion of bating the rabble. What 
 he says of them is very true ; what he says of 
 their betters is also very true, though he dwells 
 less upon it." I then proceed to account for 
 this by showing how it is that " the cause of the 
 people is but little calculated for a subject for 
 poetry; or that the language of Poetry natu- 
 rally falls in with the language of power." I 
 affirm. Sir, that Poetry, that the imagination 
 generally speaking, delights in power, in strong 
 excitement, as well as in truth, in good, in right, 
 whereas pure reason and the moral sense ap- 
 prove only of the true and good. I proceed to 
 show that this general love or tendency to im- 
 mediate excitement or theatrical effect, no 
 matter how produced, gives a Bias to the im- 
 agination often consistent with the greatest 
 good, that in Poetry it triumphs over principle, 
 and bribes the passions to make a sacrifice of 
 common humanity. You say that it does not, 
 that there is no such original Sin in Poetry, 
 
360 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 that it makes no such sacrifice or unworthy 
 compromise between poetical effect and the 
 still small voice of reason. And how do you 
 prove that there is no such principle giving a 
 bias to the imagination and a false colouring 
 to poetry ? Why, by asking in reply to the 
 instances where this principle operates, and 
 where no other can with much modesty and 
 simplicity — " But are these the only topics that 
 afford delight in Poetry, etc. ? " No ; but these 
 objects do afford delight in poetry, and they 
 afford it in proportion to their strong and often 
 tragical effect, and not in proportion to the good 
 produced, or their desireableness in a moral 
 point of view. Do we read with more pleasure 
 of the ravages of a beast of prey than of the 
 Shepherd's pipe upon the Mountain ? No ; but 
 we do read with pleasuie of the ravages of a 
 beast of prey, and we do so on the principle I 
 have stated, namely, from the sense of power 
 abstracted from the sense of good ; and it is the 
 same principle that makes us read with admira- 
 tion and reconciles us in fact to the triumphant 
 progress of the conquerors and mighty Hunters 
 of mankind, who come to stop the Shepherd's 
 Pipe upon the Mountains and sweep away his 
 listening flock. Do you mean to deny that 
 there is anything imposing to the imagination 
 in power, in grandeur, in outward show, in the 
 accumulation of individual wealth and luxviry, 
 at the expense of equal justice and the common 
 weal ? Do you deny that there is anything in 
 the " Pride, Pomp, and Circumstances of glori- 
 ous war, that makes ambition virtue" in the 
 eyes of admiring multitudes? Is this a new 
 theory of the pleasures of the imagination, 
 which says that the pleasures of the imagina- 
 tion do not take rise solely in the calculation of 
 the understanding ? Is it a paradox of my 
 creating that " one murder makes a villain, mil- 
 lions a Hero " ? or is it not true that here, as in 
 other cases, the enormity of the evil overpowers 
 and makes a convert of the imagination by its 
 very magnitude ? You contradict my reason- 
 ing because you know nothing of the question, 
 and you think that no one has a right to under- 
 stand what you do not. My offence against 
 purity in the passage alluded to, "which con- 
 tains the concentrated venom of my malignity," 
 is that I have admitted that there are tyrants 
 and slaves abroad in the world ; and you would 
 hush the matter up and pretend that there is 
 no such thing in order that there may be no- 
 thing else. Further, I have explained the cause, 
 the subtle sophistry of the human mind, that 
 tolerates and pampers the evil in order to guard 
 against its approaches ; you would conceal the 
 
 cause in order to prevent the cure, and to leave 
 the proud flesh about the heart to harden and 
 ossify into one impenetrable mass of selfishness 
 and hypocrisy, that we may not " sympathise in 
 the distresses of suffering virtue " in any case in 
 which they come in competition with the ficti- 
 tious wants and ' ' imputed weaknesses of the 
 great." You ask, "Are we gratified by the 
 cruelties of Domitian or Nero ? ' ' No, not we — 
 they were too petty and cowardly to strike the 
 imagination at a distance ; but the Roman 
 senate tolerated them, addressed their perpe- 
 trators, exalted them into gods, the fathers of 
 the people, they had pimps and scribblers of all 
 sorts in their pay, their Senecas, etc., till a 
 turbulent rabble, thinking there were no in- 
 juries to Society greater than the endurance of 
 unlimited and wanton oppression, put an end to 
 the farce and abated the sin as well as they 
 could. Had you and I lived in those times we 
 should have been what we are now, I "a sour 
 malcontent," and you " a sweet courtier." ' 
 
 The manner in which this is managed : 
 the force and innate power with which it 
 yeasts and works up itself — the feeling for 
 the costume of society ; is in a style of 
 genius. He hath a demon, as he himself 
 says of Lord Byron. We are to have a 
 party this evening. The Davenports from 
 Church Row — I don't think you know 
 anything of them — they have paid me a 
 good deal of attention. I like Davenport 
 himself. The names of the rest are Miss 
 Barnes, Miss Winter with the Children. 
 
 [Later, March 17 or 18.] 
 On Monday we had to dinner Severn 
 and Cawthorn, the Bookseller and print- 
 virtuoso; in the evening Severn went home 
 to paint, and we other three went to the 
 play, to see Shell's new tragedy ycleped 
 Evadnd. In the morning Severn and I 
 took a turn round the Museum — There is 
 a Sphinx there of a giant size, and most 
 voluptuous Egyptian expression, I had not 
 seen it before. The play was bad even in 
 comparison with 1818, the Augustan age of 
 the Drama, 'comme on sait,' as Voltaire 
 says — the whole was made up of a virtu- 
 ous young woman, an indignant brother, a 
 suspecting lover, a libertine prince, a gra- 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 361 
 
 tiiitous villain, a street in Naples, a Cypress 
 grove, lilies and roses, virtue and vice, a 
 bloody sword, a S23augled jacket, one Lady 
 Olivia, one Miss O'Neil alias Evadnd, alias 
 Bellamira, alias — Alias — Yea, and I say 
 I unto you a greater than Elias — There was 
 j Abbot, and talking of Abbot his name puts 
 me in mind of a spelling-book lesson, de- 
 scriptive of the whole Dramatis persouse — 
 I Abbot — Abbess — Actor — Actress — The 
 ] play is a fine amusement, as a friend of 
 : mine once said to me — ' Do what you 
 will,' says he, ' a poor gentleman who 
 wants a guinea, cannot spend his two shil- 
 , lings better than at the playhouse.' The 
 pantomime was excellent, I had seen it be- 
 fore and I enjoyed it again. Your Mother 
 
 and I had some talk about Miss H. 
 
 j Says I, will Henry have that Miss , a 
 
 lath with a boddice, she who has been fine 
 drawn — fit for nothing but to cut up into 
 Cribbage pins, to the tune of B. 2 ; one who 
 ' is all muslin ; all feathers and bone ; once 
 in travelling she was made use of as a lynch 
 i pin; I hope he will not have her, though It 
 ' is no uncommon thing to be smitten with a 
 staff; though she might be very useful as 
 his walking-stick, his fishing-rod, his tooth- 
 , pik, his hat-stick (she runs so much in his 
 j head) — let him turn farmer, she would 
 cut into hurdles ; let him write poetry, she 
 would be his turn-style. Her gown is like 
 a flag on a pole ; she would do for him if 
 he turn freemason ; I hope she will prove 
 a flag of truce ; when she sits languishing 
 with her one foot on a stool, and one elbow 
 on the table, and her head inclined, she 
 looks like the sign of the crooked billet — 
 or the frontispiece to Cinderella, or a tea- 
 paper wood-cut of Mother Shipton at her 
 studies ; she is a make-believe — She is 
 bona side a thin young 'oman — But this is 
 mere talk of a fellow-creature ; yet pardie 
 I would not that Henry have her — Non 
 volo ut eam possideat, nam, for, it would 
 be a bam, for it would be a sham — 
 
 Don't think I am writing a petition to 
 the Governors of St. Luke — uo, that would 
 
 be in another style. May it please your 
 Worships ; forasmuch as the undersigned 
 has committed, transferred, given up, made 
 over, consigned, and aberrated himself, to 
 the art and mystery of poetry ; forasmuch 
 as he hath cut, rebuffed, affronted, huffed, 
 and shirked, and taken stint at, all other 
 employments, arts, mysteries, and occupa- 
 tions, honest, middling, and dishonest; for- 
 asmuch as he hath at sundry times and in 
 divers places, told truth unto the men of 
 this generation, and eke to the women ; 
 moreover, forasmuch as he hath kept a 
 pair of boots that did not fit, and doth 
 not admire Sheil's play, Leigh Hunt, Tom 
 Moore, Bob Southey, and Mr. Rogers; and 
 does admire Wm. Hazlitt ; moreoverer for 
 as more as he liketh half of Wordsworth, 
 and none of Crabbe ; moreover-est for as 
 most as he hath written this page of pen- 
 manship — he prayeth your Worships to 
 give him a lodging — Witnessed by Rd. 
 Abbey and Co., cum familiaribus et con- 
 sanguineis (signed) Count de Cockaigne. 
 
 The nothing of the day is a machine 
 called the velocipede. It is a wheel carriage 
 to ride cock-horse upon, sitting astride and 
 pushing it along with the toes, a rudder 
 wheel in hand — they will go seven miles 
 an hour — A handsome gelding will come 
 to eight guineas ; however they will soon 
 be cheaper, unless the army takes to them. 
 I look back upon the last month, I find 
 nothing to write about ; indeed I do not 
 recollect anything particular in it. It 's all 
 alike ; we keep on breathing. The only 
 amusement is a little scandal, of however 
 fine a shape, a laugh at a pun — and then 
 after all we wonder how we could enjoy 
 the scandal, or laugh at the pun. 
 
 I have been at different times turning it 
 in my head whether I should go to ^in- 
 burgh and study for a physician ; I am 
 afraid I should not take kindlj' to it ; I am 
 sure I could not take fees — and yet I 
 should like to do so ; it 's not worse than 
 writing poems, and hanging them up to be 
 fly-blown on the Review shambles. Ever}^- 
 
362 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 body is in his own mess. Here is the par- 
 son at Hampstead quarrelling with all the 
 world, he is in the wrong by this same 
 token ; when the black cloth was put up in 
 the Church for the Queen's mourning, he 
 asked the workmen to hang it the wrong 
 side outwards, that it might be better when 
 taken down, it being his perquisite — Par- 
 sons will always keep up their character, 
 but as it is said there are some animals the 
 ancients knew which we do not, let us hope 
 our posterity will miss the black badger 
 with tri-cornered hat; Who knows but some 
 Reviewer of Buff on or Pliny may put an 
 account of the parson in the Appendix ; 
 No one will then believe it any more than 
 we believe in the Phoenix. I think we may 
 class the lawyer in the same natvu-al history 
 of Monsters ; a green bag will hold as much 
 as a lawn sleeve. The only difference is 
 that one is fustian and the other flimsy ; I 
 am not unwilling to read Church history at 
 present and have Milner's in my eye ; his is 
 reckoned a very good one. 
 
 [18th September 1819.] 
 In looking over some of my papers I 
 found the above specimen of my careless- 
 ness. It is a sheet you ought to have had 
 long ago — my letter must have appeared 
 very unconnected, but as I number the 
 sheets you must have discovered how the 
 mistake happened. How many things have 
 happened since I wrote it — How have I 
 acted contrary to my resolves. The inter- 
 val between writing this sheet and the 
 day I put this supplement to it, has been 
 completely filled with generous and most 
 friendly actions of Brown towards me. 
 How frequently I forget to speak of things 
 which I think of and feel most. 'T is very 
 singular, the idea about Buffon above has 
 been taken up by Hunt in the Examiner, in 
 some papers which he calls ' A Preter- 
 natural History,' 
 
 Friday 19th March. 
 This morning I have been reading 'the 
 False One.' Shameful to say, I was in 
 
 bed at ten — I mean this morning. The 
 Blackwood Reviewers have committed 
 themselves in a scandalous heresy — they 
 have been putting up Hogg, the Ettrick 
 Shepherd, against Burns : the senseless vil- 
 lains ! The Scotch cannot manage them- 
 selves at all, they want imagination, and 
 that is why they are so fond of Hogg, who 
 has a little of it. This morning I am in a 
 sort of temper, indolent and supremely 
 careless — I long after a Stanza or two of 
 Thomson's Castle of Indolence — my pas- 
 sions are all asleep, from my having slum- 
 bered till nearly eleven, and weakened the 
 animal fibre all over me, to a delightful 
 sensation, about three degrees on this side 
 of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl and 
 the breath of lilies I should call it languor, 
 but as I am * I must call it laziness. In 
 this state of effeminacy the fibres of the 
 brain are relaxed in common with the rest 
 of the body, and to such a happy degree 
 that pleasure has no show of enticement 
 and pain no unbearable power. Neither 
 Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any 
 alertness of countenance as they pass by 
 me ; they seem rather like figures on a 
 Greek vase — a Man and two women whom 
 no one but myself could distinguish in their 
 disguisement. This is the only happiness, 
 and is a rare instance of the advantage of 
 the body overpowering the Mind. I have 
 this moment received a note from Haslam, 
 in which he expects the death of his Father, 
 who has been for some time in a state of 
 insensibility ; his mother bears up he says 
 very well — I shall go to town to-morrow 
 to see him. This is the world — thus we 
 cannot expect to give way many hours to 
 pleasure. Circumstances are like Clouds 
 continually gathering and bursting — While 
 we are laughing, the seed of some trouble 
 is put into the wide arable land of events 
 — while we are laughing it sprouts it grows 
 and suddenly bears a poison fruit which we 
 must pluck. Even so we have leisure to 
 reason on the misfortunes of our friends ; 
 * Especially as I have a black eye. 
 
 i 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 3^3 
 
 our own touch us too nearly for words. Very 
 few men have ever arrived at a complete 
 disinterestedness of Mind : very few have 
 been influenced by a pure desire of the 
 benefit of others, — in the greater part of 
 the Benefactors to Humanity some mere- 
 tricious motive has sullied their greatness 
 
 — some melodramatic scenery has fasci- 
 nated them. From the manner in which I 
 feel Haslam's misfortune I perceive how 
 far I am from any humble standard of dis- 
 interestedness. Yet this feeling ought to 
 be carried to its highest pitch, as there is 
 no fear of its ever injuring society — which 
 it would do, I fear, pushed to an extremity. 
 For in wild nature the Hawk would lose 
 his Breakfast of Robins and the Robin his 
 of Worms — The Lion must starve as well 
 as the swallow. The greater part of Men 
 make their way with the same instinctive- 
 ness, the same unwandering eye from their 
 purposes, the same animal eagerness as the 
 Hawk. The Hawk wants a Mate, so does 
 the Man — look at them both, they set 
 about it and procure one in the same man- 
 ner. They want both a nest and they both 
 set about one in the same manner — they 
 get their food in the same manner. The 
 noble animal Man for his amusement 
 smokes his pipe — the Hawk balances about 
 the Clouds — that is the only difference of 
 their leisures. This it is that makes the 
 Amusement of Life — to a speculative Mind 
 
 — I go among the Fields and catch a 
 glimpse of a Stoat or a fieldmouse peeping 
 out of the withered grass — the creature 
 hath a purpose, and its eyes are bright 
 with it. I go amongst the buildings of a 
 city and I see a Man hurrying along — to 
 what ? the Creature has a purpose and his 
 eyes are bright with it. But then, as 
 Wordsworth says, * we have all one hu- 
 man heart ' There is an electric fire 
 
 in human nature tending to purify — so 
 that among these human creatures there is 
 continually some birth of new heroism. The 
 pity is that we must wonder at it, as we 
 should at finding a pearl in rubbish. I have 
 
 no doubt that thousands of people never 
 heard of have had hearts completely disin- 
 terested : I can remember but two — So- 
 crates and Jesus — Their histories evince 
 it. What I heard a little time ago, Taylor 
 observe with respect to Socrates, may be 
 said of Jesus — That he was so great a 
 man that though he transmitted no writing 
 of his own to posterity, we have his Mind 
 and his sayings and his greatness handed 
 to us by others. It is to be lamented that 
 the history of the latter was written and 
 revised by Men interested in the pious 
 frauds of Religion. Yet through all this I 
 see his splendour. Even here, though I 
 myself am pursuing the same instinctive 
 course as the veriest human animal you can 
 think of, I am, however young, writing 
 at random, straining at particles of light 
 in the midst of a great darkness, without 
 knowing the bearing of any one assertion, 
 of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this 
 be free from sin ? May there not be su- 
 perior beings amused with any graceful, 
 though instinctive, attitude my mind may 
 fall into as I am entertained with the 
 alertness of a Stoat or the anxiety of a 
 Deer ? Though a quarrel in the Streets is 
 a thing to be hated, the energies displayed 
 in it are fine ; the commonest Man shows a 
 grace in his quarrel. By a superior Being 
 our reasonings may take the same tone — 
 though erroneous they may be fine. This 
 is the very thing in which consists Poetry, 
 and if so it is not so fine a thing as philoso- 
 phy — For the same reason that an eagle is 
 not so fine a thing as a truth. Give me 
 this credit — Do you not think I strive — 
 to know myself ? Give me this credit, and 
 you will not think that on my own account 
 I repeat Milton's lines — 
 
 ' How charming is divine Philosophy, 
 Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose. 
 But musical as is Apollo's lute.' 
 
 No — not for myself — feeling grateful as 
 I do to have got into a state of mind to 
 relish them properly. Nothing ever be- 
 
3^4 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 comes real till it is experienced — Even a 
 Proverb is no proverb to you till your Life 
 lias illustrated it. I am ever afraid that 
 your anxiety for me will lead you to fear 
 for the violence of my temperament con- 
 tinually smothered down : for that reason 
 I did not intend to have sent you the fol- 
 lowing sonnet — but look over the two last 
 pages and ask yourselves whether I have 
 not that in me which will bear the buffets 
 of the world. It will be the best comment 
 on my sonnet ; it will show you that it 
 was written with no Agony but that of 
 ignorance ; with no thirst of anything but 
 Knowledge when pushed to the point 
 though the first steps to it were through 
 my human passions — they went away and 
 I wrote with my Mind — and perhaps I 
 must confess a little bit of my heart — 
 
 [' Wliy did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
 teU,' p. 137.] 
 
 I went to bed and enjoyed an uninterrupted 
 sleep. Sane I went to bed and sane I 
 arose. 
 
 [April 15.] 
 
 This is the 15th of April — you see what a 
 time it is since I wrote ; all that time I have 
 been day by day expecting Letters from you. 
 I write quite in the dark. In the hopes of 
 a Letter daily I have deferred that I might 
 write in the light. I was in town yester- 
 day, and at Taylor's heard that young 
 Birkbeck had been in Town and was to set 
 forward in six or seven days — so I shall 
 dedicate that time to making up this parcel 
 ready for him. I wish I could hear from 
 you to make me * whole and general as the 
 casing air.' A few days after the 19th of 
 April, isic. accurately, March], I received 
 a note from Haslam containing the news of 
 his father's death. The Family has all 
 been well. Haslam has his father's situa- 
 tion. The Framptons have behaved well 
 to him. The day before yesterday I went 
 to a rout at Sawrey's — it was made plea- 
 sant by Reynolds being there and our get- 
 ting into conversation with one of the most 
 beautiful Girls I ever saw — She gave a 
 
 remarkable prettiness to all those common- 
 places which most women who talk must 
 utter — I liked Mrs. Sawrey very well. 
 The Sunday before last your Brothers were 
 to come by a long invitation — so long that 
 for the time I forgot it when I promised 
 Mrs. Brawne to dine with her on the same 
 day. On recollecting my engagement with 
 your Brotliers I immediately excused my- 
 self with Mrs Brawne, but she would not 
 hear of it, and insisted on my bringing my 
 friends with me. So we all dined at Mrs. 
 Brawne's. I have been to Mrs. Bentley's 
 this morning, and put all the letters to and 
 from you and poor Tom and me. I found 
 some of the correspondence between him 
 and that degraded Wells and Amena. It 
 is a wretched business ; I do not know the 
 rights of it, but what I do know would, 
 I am sure, affect you so much that I am 
 in two minds whether I will tell you any- 
 thing about it. And yet I do not see why 
 
 — for anything, though it be unpleasant, 
 that calls to mind those we still love has a 
 compensation in itself for the pain it oc- 
 casions — so very likely to-morrow I may 
 set about copying the whole of what I have 
 about it : with no sort of a Richardson 
 self-satisfaction — I hate it to a sickness 
 
 — and I am afraid more from indolence of 
 mind than anything else. I wonder how 
 people exist with all their worries. I have 
 not been to Westminster but once lately, 
 and that was to see Dilke in his new Lodg- 
 ings — I think of living somewhere in the 
 neighbourhood myself. Your mother was 
 well by your Brothers' account. I shall 
 see her perhaps to-morrow — yes I shall. 
 We have had the Boys herte lately — they 
 make a bit of a racket — I shall not be 
 sorry when they go. I found also this 
 morning, in a note from George to you and 
 my dear sister a lock of your hair which I 
 shall this moment put in the miniature case. 
 A few days ago Hunt dined here and 
 Brown invited Davenport to meet him, 
 Davenport from a sense of weakness 
 thought it incumbent on him to show off — 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 36i 
 
 and pursuant to that never ceased talking 
 and boring all day till I was completely 
 fagged out. Brown grew melancholy — 
 but Hunt perceiving what a complimentary 
 tendency all this had bore it remarkably 
 "U — Brown grumbled about it for two 
 three days. I went with Hunt to Sir 
 John Leicester's gallery ; there I saw 
 Northcote — Hilton — Bewick, and many 
 more of great and Little note. Haydon's 
 picture is of very little progress this year 
 
 — He talks about finishing it next year. 
 Wordsworth is going to publish a Poem 
 called Peter Bell — what a perverse fel- 
 low it is ! Why will he talk about Peter 
 Bells — I was told not to tell — but 
 to you it will not be telling — Rey- 
 nolds hearing that said Peter Bell was 
 coming out, took it into his head to write 
 a skit upon it called Peter Bell. He did it 
 as soon as thought on, it is to be published 
 this morning, and comes out before the 
 real Peter Bell, with this admirable motto 
 from the ' Bold Stroke for a Wife ' ' I am 
 the real Simon Pure.' It would be just 
 as well to trounce Lord Byron in the same 
 manner. I am still at a stand in versify- 
 ing — I cannot do it yet with any pleasure 
 
 — I mean, however, to look round on my 
 resources and means, and see what I can 
 do without poetry — To that end I shall 
 live in Westminster — I have no doubt of 
 making by some means a little to help on, or 
 I shall be left in the Lurch — with the bur- 
 den of a little Pride — However I look in 
 time. The Dilkes like their Lodgings at 
 Westminster tolerably well. I cannot help 
 thinking what a shame it is that poor Dilke 
 should give up his comfortable house and 
 garden for his Son, whom he will certainly 
 ruin with too much care. The boy has 
 nothing in his ears all day but himself and 
 the importance of his education. Dilke has 
 continually in his mouth ' My Boy.' This is 
 what spoils princes : it may have the same 
 effect with Commoners. Mrs. Dilke has 
 been very well latelj"^ — But what a shame- 
 ful thing it is that for that obstinate Boy 
 
 Dilke should stifle himself in TtVn Lodg- 
 ings and wear out his Life by his continual 
 apprehension of his Boy's fate in West- 
 minster school, with the re i, of the Boys 
 and the Masters. Every one has some 
 wear and tear. One would think Dilke 
 ought to be quiet and happy — but no — 
 this one Boy makes his face pale, his society 
 silent and his vigilance jealous — He would 
 I have no doubt quarrel with any one who 
 snubb'd his Boy — With all this he has no 
 notion how to manage him. O what a 
 farce is our greatest cares ! Yet one must 
 be in the pother for the sake of Clothes 
 food and Lodging. There has been a 
 squabble between Kean and Mr. Bucke — 
 There are faults on both sides — on Bucke's 
 the faults are positive to the Question : 
 Kean's fault is a want of genteel know- 
 ledge and high Policy. The former writes 
 knavishly foolish, and the other silly bom- 
 bast. It was about a Tragedy written by 
 said Mr. Bucke which, it appears, Mr. 
 Kean kick'd at — it was so bad — After 
 a little sti'uggle of Mr. Bucke's against 
 Kean, Drury Lane had the Policy to bring 
 it out and Kean the impolicy not to appear 
 in it. It was damn'd. The people in the 
 Pit had a favourite call on the night of 
 'Buck, Buck, rise up' and 'Buck, Buck, 
 how many horns do I hold up.' Kotzebue 
 the German Dramatist and traitor to his 
 country was murdered lately by a young 
 student whose name I forget — he stabbed 
 himself immediately after crying out Ger- 
 many ! Germany ! I was unfortunate to 
 miss Richai'ds the only time I have been 
 for many months to see him. 
 
 Shall I treat you with a little extem- 
 pore ? — 
 
 ['Wlien they were come into the Faery's 
 Court,' p. 249.] 
 
 Brown is gone to bed — and I am tired 
 of rhyming — there is a north wind blow- 
 ing playing young gooseberry with the 
 trees — I don't care so it helps even with a 
 side wind a Letter to me — for I cannot 
 put faith in any reports I hear of the Settle- 
 
366 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ment ; some are good and some bad. Last 
 Sunday I. took a Walk towards Highgate 
 and in the lane that winds by the side of 
 Lord MansfivM's park I met Mr. Green 
 our Demonstrator at Guy's in conversation 
 with Coleridge — I joined them, after en- 
 quiring by a look whether it would be 
 agreeable — I walked with him at his 
 alderman-after-dinner pace for near two 
 miles I suppose. In those two Miles 
 he broached a thousand things — let me 
 see if I can give you a list — Nightingales 
 
 — Poetry — on Poetical Sensation — Meta- 
 physics — Different genera and species of 
 Dreams — Nightmare — a dream accom- 
 panied by a sense of touch — single and 
 double touch — a dream related — First 
 and second consciousness — the difference 
 explained between will and Volition — so 
 say metaphysicians from a want of smoking 
 the second consciousness — Monsters — the 
 Kraken — Mermaids — Southey believes in 
 them — Southey's belief too much diluted 
 
 — a Ghost story — Good morning — I 
 heard his voice as he came towards me — I 
 heard it as he moved away — I had heard 
 it all the interval — if it may be called so. 
 He was civil enough to ask me to call on 
 him at Highgate. Good-night ! 
 
 [Later, April 16 or 17.] 
 It looks so much like rain I shall not go 
 to town to-day : but put it off till to-morrow. 
 Brown this morning is writing some Spen- 
 serian stanzas against Mrs., Miss Brawne 
 and me ; so I shall amuse myself with him 
 a little : in the manner of Spenser — 
 [' He is to weet a melancholy Carle,' p. 250.] 
 This character would ensure him a situa- 
 tion in the establishment of patient Gri- 
 selda. The servant has come for the little 
 Browns this morning — they have been a 
 toothache to me which I shall enjoy the 
 riddance of — Their little voices are like 
 wasps' stings — Sometimes am I all wound 
 with Browns.*^ We had a claret feast 
 some little while ago. There were Dilke, 
 Reynolds, Skinner, Mancur, John Brown, 
 
 Martin, Brown and I. We all got a little 
 tipsy — but pleasantly so — I enjoy Claret 
 to a degree. 
 
 [Later, April 18 or 19.] 
 I have been looking over the correspond- 
 ence of the pretended Amena and Wells 
 this evening — I now see the whole cruel 
 deception. I think Wells must have had 
 an accomplice in it — Amena's letters are 
 in a Man's language and in a Man's hand 
 imitating a woman's. The instigations to 
 this diabolical scheme were vanity, and 
 the love of intrigue. It was no thoughtless 
 hoax — but a cruel deception on a sanguine 
 Temperament, with every show of friend- 
 ship. I do not think death too bad for the 
 villain. The world would look upon it in 
 a different light should I expose it — they 
 would call it a frolic — so I must be wary 
 — but I consider it my duty to be prudently 
 revengeful. 1 will hang over his head like 
 a sword by a hair. I will be opium to his 
 vanity — if I cannot injure his interests — 
 He is a rat and he shall have ratsbane to 
 his vanity — I will harm him all I possibly 
 can — I have no doubt I shall be able to do 
 so — Let us leave him to his misery alone, 
 except when we can throw in a little more. 
 The fifth canto of Dante pleases me more 
 and more — it is that one in which he meets 
 with Paolo and Francesca. I had passed 
 many days in rather a low state of mind, 
 and in the midst of them I dreamt of being 
 in that region of Hell. The dream was 
 one of the most delightful enjoyments I 
 ever had in my life. I floated about the 
 whirling atmosphere, as it is described, with 
 a beautiful figure, to whose lips mine were 
 joined as it seemed for an age — and in 
 the midst of all this cold and darkness I 
 was warm — even flowery tree-tops spnmg 
 up, and we rested on them, sometimes 
 with the lightness of a cloud, till the wind 
 blew us away again. I tried a sonnet upon 
 it — there are fourteen lines, but nothing 
 of what I felt in it — O that I could dream 
 it every night — 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 367 
 
 [' As Hermes once took to his feathers light,' 
 p. 138.] 
 
 I want very very much a little of your 
 wit, my dear Sister — a Letter or two of 
 yours just to bandy back a pun or two 
 across the Atlantic, and send a quibble 
 over the Floridas. Now you have by this 
 time crumpled up your large Bonnet, what 
 do you wear — a cap ? do you put your 
 hair in papers of a night ? do you pay the 
 Miss Birkbecks a morning visit — have you 
 any tea ? or do you milk-and-water with 
 them — What place of Worship do you go 
 to — the Quakers, the Moravians, the Uni- 
 tarians, or the Methodists ? Are there any 
 ; flowers in bloom you like — any beautiful 
 heaths — any streets full of Corset Makers ? 
 What sort of shoes have you to fit those 
 pretty feet of yours ? Do you desire 
 Compliments to one another ? Do you ride 
 on Horseback ? What do you have for 
 breakfast, dinner, and supper ? without 
 mentioning lunch and bever [a bite be- 
 tween meals] and wet and snack — and a 
 bit to stay one's stomach ? Do you get 
 any Spirits — now you might easily distill 
 some whiskey — and going into the woods, 
 set up a whiskey shop for the Monkeys — 
 Do you and the Miss Birkbecks get groggy 
 on anything — a little so-soish so as to be 
 obliged to be seen home with a Lantern ? 
 You may perhaps have a game at puss in 
 the corner — Ladies are warranted to play 
 at this game though they have not whiskers. 
 Have you a fiddle in the Settlement — or 
 at any rate a Jew's harp — which will play 
 in spite of one's teeth — When you have 
 nothing else to do for a whole day I tell 
 you how you may employ it — First get up 
 and when you are dressed, as it would be 
 pretty early with a high wind in the woods, 
 give George a cold Pig with my Compli- 
 ments. Then you may saunter into the 
 nearest coffee-house, and after taking a 
 dram and a look at the Chronicle — go and 
 frighten the wild boars upon the strength 
 — you may as well bring one home for 
 breakfast, serving up the hoofs garnished 
 
 with bristles and a grunt or two to accom- 
 pany the singing of the kettle — then if 
 George is not up give him a colder Pig 
 always with my Compliments — When you 
 are both set down to breakfast I advise 
 you to eat your full share, but leave off 
 immediately on feeling yourself inclined to 
 anything on the other side of the puffy — 
 avoid that, for it does not become young 
 women — After you have eaten your break- 
 fast keep your eye upon dinner — it is the 
 safest way — You should keep a Hawk's 
 eye over your dinner and keep hovering 
 over it till due time then pounce taking 
 care not to break any plates. While you 
 are hovering with your dinner in pro- 
 spect you may do a thousand things — put a 
 hedgehog into George's hat — pour a little 
 water into his rifle — soak his boots in a pail 
 of water — cut his jacket round into shreds 
 like a Roman kilt or the back of my grand- 
 mother's stays — Sew off his buttons — 
 
 [Later, April 21 or 22.] 
 
 Yesterday I could not write a line I was 
 so fatigued, for the day before I went to 
 town in the morning, called on your Mother, 
 and returned in time for a few friends we 
 had to dinner. These were Taylor, Wood- 
 house, Reynolds : we began cards at about 
 9 o'clock, and the night coming on, and 
 continuing dark and rainy, they could not 
 think of returning to town — So we played 
 at Cards till very daylight — and yesterday 
 I was not worth a sixpence. Your Mother 
 was very well but auxious for a Letter. We 
 had half an hour's talk and no more, for I 
 was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss 
 Millar were well, and so was Miss Walde- 
 grave. I have asked your Brothers here 
 for next Sunday. When Reynolds was 
 here on Monday he asked me to give Hunt a 
 hint to take notice of his Peter Bell in the 
 Examiner — the best thing I can do is to 
 write a little notice of it myself, which I 
 will do here, and copy out if it should suit 
 my Purpose — 
 
 Peter Bell. There have been lately ad- 
 
368 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 vertised two Books both Peter Bell by 
 uame ; what stuff the one was made of 
 might be seen by the motto — ' I am the 
 real Simon Pure.' This false Florimel has 
 hurried from the press and obtruded herself 
 into public notice, while for aught we know 
 the real one may be still wandering about 
 the woods and mountains. Let us hope 
 she may soon appear and make good her 
 right to the magic girdle. The Pamphle- 
 teering Archimage, we can perceive, has 
 rather a splenetic love than a downright 
 hatred to real Florimels — if indeed they 
 had been so christened — or had even a 
 pretention to play at bob cherry with Bar- 
 bara Lewthvraite : but he has a fixed 
 aversion to those three rhyming Graces 
 Alice Fell, Susan Gale and Betty Foy ; and 
 now at length especially to Peter Bell — 
 fit Apollo. It may be seen from one or 
 two Passages in this little skit, that the 
 writer of it has felt the finer parts of Mr. 
 Wordsworth, and perhaps expatiated with 
 his more remote and sublimer muse. This 
 as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky. 
 The more he may love the sad embroidery 
 of the Excursion, the more he will hate the 
 coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice 
 Fell ; and as they come from the same hand, 
 the better will he be able to imitate that 
 which can be imitated, to wit Peter Bell — 
 as far as can be imagined from the obsti- 
 nate Name. We repeat, it is very unlucky 
 — this real Simon Pure is in parts the very 
 Man — there is a pernicious likeness in the 
 scenery, a ' pestilent humour ' in the 
 rhymes, and an inveterate cadence in some 
 of the Stanzas, that must be lamented. If 
 we are one part amused with this we are 
 three parts sorry that an appreciator of 
 Wordsworth should show so much temper 
 at this really provoking name of Peter 
 Bell — ! 
 
 This will do well enough — I have copied 
 it and enclosed it to Hunt. You will call 
 it a little politic — seeing I keep clear of 
 all parties. I say something for and against 
 both parties — and suit it to the tune of the 
 
 Examiner — I meant to say I do not unsuit 
 it — and I believe I think what I say, nay 
 I am sure I do — I and my conscience are 
 in luck to-day — which is an excellent 
 thing. The other night I went to the Play 
 with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin — we saw 
 a new dull and half-damn'd opera call'd 
 the ' Heart of Midlothian,' that was on 
 Saturday — I stopt at Taylor's on Sunday 
 with Woodhouse — and passed a quiet sort 
 of pleasant day. I have been very much 
 pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at 
 the North Pole — with the icebergs, the 
 Mountains, the Bears, the Wolves — the 
 seals, the Penguins — and a large whale 
 floating back above water — it is impossible 
 to describe the place — 
 
 Wednesday Evening [April 28]. 
 [Here follows the poem for which see p. 139. 
 The eighth stanza reads : 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot 
 
 And there she wept and sigh'd full sore. 
 And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
 With kisses four — ] 
 
 Why four kisses — you will say — why 
 four, because I wish to restrain the head- 
 long impetuosity of my Muse — she would 
 have fain said ' score ' without hurting the 
 rhyme — but we must temper the Imagina- 
 tion, as the Critics say, with Judgment. I 
 was obliged to choose an even number, that 
 both eyes might have fair play, and to 
 speak truly I think two a piece quite suf- 
 ficient. Suppose I had said seven there 
 would have been three and a half a piece 
 — a very awkward affaii", and well got out 
 of on my side — 
 
 [Later.] 
 Chorus of Faieies. 4 — Fire, Air, Earth, 
 AND Water — Salamanber, Zephyr, 
 
 DUSKETHA, BrEAMA. 
 
 [Keats here copies the verses given on pp. 
 140, 141.] 
 
 I have been reading lately two very 
 different books, Robertson's America and 
 Voltaire's Sifeele de Louis XIV. It is like 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 369 
 
 walking arm and arm between Pizarro and 
 the great-little Monarch. In how lament- 
 able a case do we see the great body of the 
 people in both instances; in the first, where 
 Men might seem to inherit quiet of Mind 
 from unsophisticated senses ; from uncon- 
 tamination of civilisation, and especiallj' 
 from their being, as it were, estranged 
 from the mutual helps of Society and its 
 mutual injuries — and thereby more im- 
 mediately under the Protection of Provi- 
 dence — even there they had mortal pains 
 to bear as bad, or even worse than Bailiffs, 
 Debts, and Poverties of civilised Life. 
 The whole appears to resolve into this — 
 that Man is originally a poor forked crea- 
 ture subject to the same mischances as the 
 beasts of the forest, destined to hardships 
 and disquietude of some kind or other. If 
 he improves by degrees his bodily accommo- 
 dations and comforts — at each stage, at 
 each ascent there are waiting for him a 
 fresh set of annoyances — he is mortal, and 
 there is still a heaven with its Stars above 
 his head. The most interesting question 
 that can come before us is, How far by 
 the persevering endeavours of a seldom 
 appearing Socrates Mankind may be made 
 happy — I can imagine such happiness 
 carried to an extreme, but what must it 
 end in ? — Death — and who could in such 
 a case bear with death ? The whole 
 troubles of life, which are now frittered 
 away in a series of years, would then be 
 accumulated for the last days of a being 
 who instead of hailing its approach would 
 leave this world as Eve left Paradise. But 
 in truth I do not at all believe in this sort 
 of perfectibility — the nature of the world 
 will not admit of it — the inhabitants of 
 the world will correspond to itself. Let the 
 fish Philosophise the ice away from the 
 Rivers in winter time, and they shall be at 
 continual play in the tepid delight of sum- 
 mer. Look at the Poles and at the Sands 
 of Africa, whirlpools and volcanoes — Let 
 men exterminate them and I will say that 
 fthey may arrive at earthly Happiness. The 
 
 point at which Man may arrive is as far as 
 the parallel state in inanimate nature, and 
 no further. For instance suppose a rose to 
 have sensation, it blooms on a beautiful 
 morning, it enjoys itself, but then comes a 
 cold wind, a hot sun — it cannot escape it, 
 it cannot destroy its annoyances — they are 
 as native to the world as itself : no more 
 can man be happy in spite, the worldly ele- 
 ments will prey upon his nature. The 
 common cognomen of this world among the 
 misguided and superstitious is ' a vale of 
 tears,' from which we are to be redeemed 
 by a certain arbitrary interposition of God 
 and taken to Heaven — What a little cir- 
 cumscribed straightened notion ! Call the 
 world if you please 'The vale of Soul- 
 making.' Then you will find out the use of 
 the world (I am speaking now in the highest 
 terms for human nature admitting it to be 
 immortal which I will here take for granted 
 for the purpose of showing a thought which 
 has struck me concerning it) I say ' Soul- 
 making ' — Soul as distinguished from an 
 Intelligence. There may be intelligences 
 or sparks of the divinity in millions — but 
 they are not Souls till they acquire identi- 
 ties, till each one is personally itself. Intel- 
 ligences are atoms of perception — they 
 know and they see and they are pure, in short 
 they are God — how then are Souls to be 
 made ? How then are these sparks which 
 are God to have identity given them — so 
 as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each 
 one's individual existence ? How, but by 
 the medium of a world like this ? This point 
 I sincerely wish to consider because I 
 think it a grander system of salvation than 
 the Christian religion — or rather it is a 
 system of Spirit-creation — This is effected 
 by three grand materials acting the one 
 upon the other for a series of years — 
 These three Materials are the Intelligence 
 — the human heart (as distinguished from 
 intelligence or Mind), and the World or 
 Elemental space suited for the proper action 
 of Mind and Heart on each other for the 
 purpose of forming the Soul or Intelligence 
 
37° 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 destined to possess the sense of Identity. I 
 can scarcely express what I but dimly per- 
 ceive — and yet I tbink I perceive it — 
 that you may judge the more clearly I will 
 put it in the most homely form possible. I 
 will call the loorld a School instituted for 
 the purpose of teaching little childreti to 
 read — I will call the human heart the horn 
 Booh used in that School — and I will call 
 the Child able to read, the Soul made frona 
 that School and its horn book. Do you not 
 see how necessary a World of Pains and 
 troubles is to school an Intelligence and 
 make it a soul ? A Place where the heart 
 must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse 
 ways. Not merely is the Heart a Horn- 
 book, It is the Mind's Bible, it is the Mind's 
 experience, it is the text from which the 
 Mind or Intelligence sucks its identity. 
 As various as the Lives of Men are — so 
 various become their souls, and thus does 
 God make individual beings, Souls, Identi- 
 cal Souls of the sparks of his own essence. 
 This appears to me a faint sketch of a sys- 
 tem of Salvation which does not offend our 
 reason and humanity — I am convinced that 
 many difficulties which Christians labour 
 under would vanish before it — there is one 
 which even now strikes me — the salvation 
 of Children. In them the spark or intel- 
 ligence x-eturns to God without any identity 
 — it having had no time to learn of and be 
 altered by the heart — or seat of the human 
 Passions. It is pretty generally suspected 
 that the Christian scheme has been copied 
 from the ancient Persian and Greek Philo- 
 sophers. Why may they not have made 
 this simple thing even more simple for 
 common apprehension by introducing Medi- 
 ators and Personages, in the same manner 
 as in the heathen mythology abstractions 
 are personified ? Seriously I think it prob- 
 able that this system of Soul-making may 
 have been the Parent of all the more pal- 
 pable and personal schemes of Redemption 
 among the Zoroastrians the Christians and 
 the Hindoos. For as one part of the human 
 species must have their carved Jupiter ; so 
 
 another part must have the palpable and 
 named Mediator and Saviour, their Christ, 
 their Oromanes, and their Vishnu. If what 
 I have said should not be plain enough, 
 as I fear it may not be, I will put you in 
 the place where I began in this series of 
 thoughts — I mean I began by seeing how 
 man was formed by circumstances — and 
 what are circumstances but touchstones 
 of his heart ? and what are touchstones 
 but provings of his heart, but fortifiers 
 or alterers of his nature ? and what is 
 his altered nature but his Soul ? — and 
 what was his Soul before it came into the 
 world and had these provings and altera- 
 tions and perf ectionings ? — An intelligence 
 without Identity — and how is this Identity 
 to be made ? Through the medium of the 
 Heart ? and how is the heart to become 
 this Medium but in a world of Circum- 
 stances ? 
 
 There now I think what with Poetry and 
 Theology, you may thank your stars that 
 my pen is not very long-winded. Yes- 
 terday I received two Letters from your 
 Mother and Henry, which I shall send by 
 young Birkbeck with this. 
 
 Friday, April 30. 
 
 Brown has been here rummaging up some 
 of my old sins — that is to say sonnets. I do 
 not think you remember them, so I will copy 
 them out, as well as two or three lately 
 written. I have just written one on Fame 
 — which Brown is transcribing and he has 
 his book and mine. I must employ myself 
 perhaps in a sonnet on the same subject. — 
 [Here are given the two sonnets on Fame, 
 and the one To Sleep, p. 142.] 
 
 The following Poem — the last I have 
 written — is the first and the only one with 
 which I have taken even moderate pains. 
 I have for the most part dash'd off my lines 
 in a hurry. This I have done leisurely — 
 I think it reads the more richly for it, and 
 Avill I hope epcourage me to write other 
 things in even a more peaceable and healthy 
 spirit. You must recollect that Psyche was 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 371 
 
 not embodied as a goddess before the time 
 of Apuleius the Platouist who lived after 
 the Augustan age, and consequently the 
 Goddess was never worshipped or sacrificed 
 to with any of the ancient fervour — and 
 perhaps never thought of in the old religion 
 — I am more orthodox than to let a hea- 
 then Goddess be so neglected — 
 
 ' [The Ode to Psyche, p. 142, here follows.] 
 
 Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche. 
 
 Incipit altera Sonneta 
 
 I have been endeavouring to discover a 
 better Sonnet Stanza than we have. The 
 legitimate does not suit the language over 
 well from the pouncing rhymes — the other 
 kind appears too elegiac — and the couplet 
 at the end of it has seldom a pleasing effect 
 — I do not pretend to have succeeded — it 
 will explain itself. [See p. 144.] 
 
 [May 3.] 
 This is the third of May, and everything 
 is in delightful forwardness ; the violets 
 are not withered before the peeping of the 
 first rose. You must let me know every- 
 thing — how parcels go and come, what 
 papers you have, and what newspapers you 
 want, and other things. God bless you, my 
 dear brother and sister. 
 
 Your ever affectionate Brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 95. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place. Saturday Morn. 
 
 [Postmark, February 27, 1819.] 
 
 My dear Fanny — I intended to have 
 
 not failed to do as you requested, and write 
 
 you as you say once a fortnight. On look- 
 
 ig to your letter I find there is no date; 
 
 md not knowing how long it is since I re- 
 
 ;eived it I do not precisely know how great 
 
 I sinner I am. I am getting quite well, 
 
 md Mrs. Dilke is getting on pretty well. 
 
 You must pay no attention to Mrs. Abbey's 
 unfeeling and ignorant gabble. You can't 
 stop an old woman's crying more than you 
 can a Child's. The old woman is the great- 
 est nuisance because she is too old for the 
 rod. Many people live opposite a Black- 
 smith's till they cannot hear the hammer. 
 I have been in Town for two or three days 
 and came back last night. I have been a 
 little concerned at not hearing from George 
 — I continue in daily expectation. Keep 
 on reading and play as much on the music 
 and the grassplot as you can. I should 
 like to take possession of those Grassplots 
 for a Month or so ; and send Mrs. A. to 
 Town to count coffee berries instead of 
 currant Bunches, for I want you to teach 
 me a few common dancing steps — and I 
 would buy a Watch box to practise them 
 in by myself. I think I had better always 
 pay the postage of these Letters. I shall 
 send you another book the first time I am 
 in Town early enough to book it with one 
 of the morning Walthamstow Coaches. 
 You did not say a word about your Chill- 
 blains. Write me directly and let me know 
 about them — Your Letter shall be an- 
 swered like an echo. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 96. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wentworth Place, 
 [Postmark, March 8, 1819.] 
 
 My dear Haydon, — You must be won- 
 dering where I am and what I am about ! 
 I am mostly at Hampstead, and about no- 
 thing; being in a sort of qui bono temper, 
 not exactly on the road to an epic poem. 
 Nor must you think I have forgotten you. 
 No, I have about every three days been 
 to Abbey's and to the Law[y]ers. Do let 
 me know how you have been getting on, 
 and in what spirits you are. 
 
 You got out gloriously in yesterday's 
 Examiner. What a set of little people we 
 live amongst! I went the other day into an 
 ironmonger's sliop — without any change 
 
372 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 iu iny sensations — men and tin kettles are 
 much the same in these days — they do not 
 study like children at five and thirty — but 
 they talk like men of twenty. Conversa- 
 tion is not a search after knowledge, but 
 an endeavour at effect. 
 
 In this respect two most opposite men, 
 Wordsworth and Hunt, are the same. A 
 friend of mine observed the other day that 
 if Lord Bacon were to make any remark 
 in a party of the present day, the conversa- 
 tion would stop on the sudden. I am con- 
 vinced of this, and from this I have come 
 to this resolution — never to write for the 
 sake of writing or making a poem, but 
 from running over with any little knowl- 
 edge or experience which many years of 
 reflection may perhaps give me ; otherwise 
 I will be dumb. What imagination I have 
 I shall enjoy, and greatl}^ for I have ex- 
 perienced the satisfaction of having great 
 conceptions without the trouble of sounet- 
 teering. I will not spoil my love of gloom 
 by writing an Ode to Darkness ! 
 
 With respect to my livelihood, I will not 
 write for it, — for I will not run with that 
 most vulgar of all crowds, the literary. 
 Such things I ratify by looking upon my- 
 self, and trying myself at lifting mental 
 weights, as it were. I am three and twenty 
 with little knowledge and middling intel- 
 lect. It is true that in the height of enthu- 
 siasm I have been cheated into some fine 
 passages ; but that is not the thing. 
 
 I have not been to see you because all 
 my going out has been to town, and that 
 has been a great deal. Write soon. 
 
 Yours constantly, John Keats. 
 
 97. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, March 13 [1819]. 
 My dear Fanny — I have been em- 
 ployed lately in writing to George — I do 
 not send him very short letters, but keep 
 on day after day. There were some young 
 Men I think I told you of who were going 
 to the Settlement : they have changed their 
 
 minds, and I am disappointed in my expec- 
 tation of sending Letters by them. — I went 
 lately to the only dance I have been to these 
 twelve months or shall go to for twelve 
 months again — it was to our Brother in 
 law's cousin's — She gave a dance for her 
 Birthday and I went for the sake of Mrs. 
 Wylie. I am waiting every day to hear 
 from George — I trust there is no harm in 
 the silence: other people are in the same 
 expectation as we are. On looking at your 
 seal I cannot tell whether it is done or not 
 with a Tassie — it seems to me to be paste. 
 As I went through Leicester Square lately 
 I was going to call and buy you some, but 
 not knowing but you might have some I 
 would not run the chance of buying dupli- 
 cates. Tell me if you have any or if you 
 would like any — and whether you would 
 rather have motto ones like that with which 
 I seal this letter ; or heads of great Men 
 such as Shakspeare, Milton, etc. — or fancy 
 pieces of Art; such as Fame, Adonis, etc. — 
 those gentry you read of at the end of the 
 English Dictionary. Tell me also if you 
 want any particular Book ; or Pencils, or 
 drawing paper — anything but live stock. 
 Though I will not now be very severe on 
 it, remembering how foud I used to be 
 of Goldfinches, Tomtits, Minnows, Mice, 
 Ticklebacks, Dace, Cock salmons and all the 
 whole tribe of the Bushes and the Brooks: 
 but verily they are better iu the Trees and 
 the water — though I must confess even 
 now a partiality for a handsome Globe of 
 gold-fish — then I would have it hold 10 
 pails of water and be fed continually fresh 
 through a cool pipe with another pipe to let 
 through the floor — well ventilated they 
 would preserve all their beautiful silver 
 and Crimson. Then I would put it before 
 a handsome painted window and shade it 
 all round with myrtles and Japonicas. 1 
 should like the window to open onto the 
 Lake of Geneva — and there I 'd sit and 
 read all day like the picture of somebod} 
 reading. The weather now and then beginf 
 to feel like spring; and therefore I hav« 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 373 
 
 begun my walks on the heath again. Mrs. 
 Dilke is getting better than she has been 
 as she has at length taken a Physician's ad- 
 vice. She ever and anon asks after you 
 and always bids me remember her in my 
 Letters to you. She is going to leave 
 Hampstead for the sake of educating their 
 son Charles at the Westminster School. 
 I We (Mr. Brown and I) shall leave in the 
 beginning of May; I do not know what I 
 shall do or where be all the next summer. 
 Mrs. Reynolds has had a sick house ; but 
 they are all well now. You see what news 
 I can send you I do — we all live one day 
 like the other as well as you do — the only 
 difference is being sick and well — with the 
 variations of single and double knocks, and 
 the story of a dreadful fire in the News- 
 papers. I mentioned Mr. Brown's name — 
 yet I do not think I ever said a word about 
 him to you. He is a friend of mine of 
 two years' standing, with whom I walked 
 through Scotland: who has been very kind 
 to me in many things when I most wanted 
 his assistance and with whom I keep house 
 till the first of May — you will know him 
 some day. The name of the young Man 
 who came with me is William Haslam. 
 Ever your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 98. 
 
 TO THE SAME 
 
 [Postmark, Hampstead, March 24, 1819.] 
 My dear Fanny — It is impossible for 
 me to call on you to-day — for I have par- 
 ticular Business at the other end of the 
 Town this morning, and must be back to 
 Hampstead with all speed to keep a long 
 agreed on appointment. To-morrow I shall 
 see you. Your affectionate Brother 
 John . 
 
 99, to joseph severn 
 
 Wentworth Place, Monday Aft. 
 [March 29? 1819J. 
 
 My dear Severn — Your note gave me 
 some pain, not on my own account, but on 
 
 yours. Of course I should never suffer 
 any petty vanity of mine to hinder you in 
 any wise; and therefore I should say 'put 
 the miniature in the exhibition ' if only 
 myself was to be hurt. But, will it not 
 hurt you? What good can it do to any 
 future picture. Even a large picture is 
 lost in that canting place — what a drop of 
 water in the ocean is a Miniature. Those 
 who might chance to see it for the most 
 part if they had ever heard of either of us 
 and know what we were and of what years 
 would laugh at the puff of the one and the 
 vanity of the other. I am however in these 
 matters a very bad judge — and would ad- 
 vise you to act in a way that appears to 
 yourself the best for your interest. As 
 your ' Hermia and Helena ' is finished 
 send that without the prologue of a Minia- 
 ture. I shall see you soon, if you do not 
 pay me a visit sooner — there 's a Bull for 
 you. Yours ever sincerely 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 100. to BBNJAMTN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Tuesday [April 13, 1819]. 
 My dear Haydon — When I offered 
 you assistance I thought I had it in my 
 hand ; I thought I had nothing to do 
 but to do. The difficulties I met with 
 arose from the alertness and suspicion of 
 Abbey : and especially from the affairs 
 being still in a Lawyer's hand — who has 
 been draining our Property for the last six 
 years of every charge he could make. I 
 cannot do two things at once, and thus this 
 affair has stopped my pursuits iu every 
 way — from the first prospect I had of 
 difficulty. I assure you I have harrassed 
 myself ten times more than if I alone had 
 been concerned in so much gain or loss. I 
 have also ever told you the exact particu- 
 lars as well as and as literally as any hopes 
 or fear could translate them : for it was 
 only by parcels that I found all those petty 
 obstacles which for my own sake should 
 not exist a moment — and yet why not — 
 
374 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 1 
 
 for from my own imprudence and neglect 
 all my accounts are entirely in my Guard- 
 ian's Power. This has taught me a Les- 
 son. Hereafter I will be more correct. 
 I find myself possessed of much less than 
 I thought for and now if I had all on the 
 table all I could do would be to take from 
 it a moderate two years' subsistence and 
 lend you the rest ; but I cannot say how 
 soon I could become jjossessed of it. This 
 would be no sacrifice nor any matter worth 
 thinking of — much less than parting as 1 
 have more than once done with little sums 
 which might have gradually formed a 
 library to my taste. These sums amount 
 together to nearly £200, which I have 
 but a chance of ever being repaid or paid 
 at a very distant period. I am humble 
 enough to put this in writing from the 
 sense I have of your struggling situation 
 and the great desire that you should do me 
 the justice to credit me the unostentatious 
 and willing state of my nerves on all such 
 occasions. It has not been my fault. I 
 am doubly hurt at the slightly reproachful 
 tone of your note and at the occasion of it, 
 — for it must be some other disappoint- 
 ment ; you seem'd so sure of some impor- 
 tant help when I last saw you — now you 
 have maimed me again ; I was whole, I 
 had began reading again — when your note 
 came I was engaged in a Book. I dread 
 as much as a Plague the idle fever of two 
 months more without any fruit. I will 
 walk over the first fine day : then see what 
 aspect your affairs have taken, and if they 
 should continue gloomy walk into the City 
 to Abbey and get his consent for I am per- 
 suaded that to me alone he will not concede 
 a jot. 
 
 101. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place [April 13, 1819]. 
 My dear Fanny — I have been expect- 
 ing a Letter from you about what the Par- 
 son said to your answers. I have thought 
 also of writing to you often, and I am sorry 
 
 to confess that my neglect of it has been 
 but a small instance of my idleness of late 
 — which has been growing upon me, so 
 that it will require a great shake to get rid 
 of it. I have written nothing and almost 
 read nothing — but I must turn over a new 
 leaf. One most discouraging thing hinders 
 me — we have no news yet from George — 
 so that I cannot with any confidence con- 
 tinue the Letter I have been preparing for 
 him. Many are in the same state with us 
 and many have heard from the Settlement. 
 They must be well however: and we must 
 consider this silence as good news. I or- 
 dered some bulbous roots for you at the 
 Gardener's, and they sent me some, but 
 they were all in bud — and could not be 
 sent — so I put them in our Garden. There 
 are some beautiful heaths now in bloom in 
 Pots — either heaths or some seasonable 
 plants I will send you instead — perhaps 
 some that are not yet in bloom that you 
 may see them come out. To-morrow night 
 I am going to a rout, a thing I am not at 
 all in love with. Mr. Dilke and his Family 
 have left Hampstead — I shall dine with 
 them to-day in Westminster where I think 
 I told you they were going to reside for 
 the sake of sending their son Charles to 
 the Westminster School. I think I men- 
 tioned the Death of Mr. Haslam's Father. 
 Yesterday week the two Mr. Wylies dined 
 with me. I hope you have good store 
 of double violets — I think they are the 
 Princesses of flowers, and in a shower of 
 rain, almost as fine as barley sugar drops 
 are to a schoolboy's tongue. I suppose 
 this fine weather the lambs' tails give a 
 frisk or two extraordinary — when a boy 
 would cry huzzah and a Girl O my ! a little 
 Lamb frisks its tail. I have not been lately 
 through Leicester Square — the first time I 
 do I will remember your Seals. I have 
 thought it best to live in Town this Sum- 
 mer, chiefly for the sake of books, which 
 cannot be had with any comfort in the 
 Country — besides my Scotch journey gave 
 me a dose of the Picturesque with which I 
 
TO WILLIAM HASLAM 
 
 375 
 
 ought to be contented for some time. West- 
 minster is the place I have pitched upon — 
 the City or any place very confined would 
 soon turn me pale and thin — which is to 
 be avoided. You must make up your mind 
 to get stout this summer — indeed I have 
 an idea we shall both be corpulent old folks 
 with tripple chins and stumpy thumbs. 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 102. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, Saturday. 
 [April 17, 1819?.] 
 
 My dear Fanny — If it were but six 
 o'clock in the morning I would set off to 
 see you to-day : if I should do so now I 
 could not stop long enough for a how d 'ye 
 do — it is so long a walk through Hornsey 
 and Tottenham — and as for Stage Coach- 
 ing it besides that it is very expensive it is 
 like going into the Boxes by way of the 
 pit. I cannot go out on Sunday — but if 
 on Monday it should promise as fair as 
 to-day I will put on a pair of loose easy 
 palatable boots and me rendre chez vous. 
 I continue increasing my letter [Letter 94] 
 to George to send it by one of Birkbeck's 
 sons who is going out soon — so if you will 
 let me have a few more lines, they will be 
 in time. I am glad you got on so well 
 with Mons'. le Curd. Is he a nice cler- 
 gyman ? — a great deal depends upon a 
 cock'd hat and powder — not gunpowder, 
 lord love us, but lady-meal, violet-smooth, 
 dainty - scented, lilly-white, feather - soft, 
 wigsby - dressing, coat - collar - spoiling, 
 whisker-reaching, pig-tail-loving, swans- 
 down-puffing, parson-sweetening powder. 
 I shall call in passing at the Tottenham 
 nursery and see if I can find some season- 
 able plants for you. That is the nearest 
 place — or by our la'kiu or lady kin, that 
 is by the virgin Mary's kindred, is there not 
 a twig-manufacturer in Walthamstow ? 
 Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine 
 with us to-day. They will enjoy the coun- 
 try after Westminster. O there is nothing 
 
 like fine weather, and health, and Books, 
 and a fine country, and a contented Mind, 
 and diligent habit of reading and thinking, 
 and an amulet against the ennui — and, 
 please heaven, a little claret wine cool out 
 of a cellar a mile deep — with a few or a 
 good many ratafia cakes — a rocky basin to 
 bathe in, a strawberry bed to say your 
 prayers to Flora in, a pad nag to go you 
 ten miles or so ; two or three sensible 
 people to chat with ; two or three spiteful 
 folks to spar with ; two or three odd fishes 
 to laugh at and two or three numskulls to 
 argue with* — instead of using dumb bells 
 on a rainy day — 
 
 [Keats goes on with the same play, dropping 
 into the rhymes ' Two or three Posies ' given 
 above, p. 251.] 
 
 Good-bye I 've an appointment — can't 
 stop pon word — good-bye — now 
 don't get up — open the door my- 
 self — good-bye — see ye Monday. 
 J. K. 
 
 103. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Hampstead, May 1.3, 1819.] 
 My dear Fanny — I have a letter from 
 George at last — and it contains, consider- 
 ing all things, good news — I have been 
 with it to-day to Mrs. Wylie's, with whom I 
 have left it. I shall have it again as soon 
 as possible and then I will walk over and 
 read it to you. They are quite well and 
 settled tolerably in comfort after a great 
 deal of fatigue and harass. They had the 
 good chance to meet at Louisville with a 
 Schoolfellow of ours. You may expect me 
 within three days. I am writing to-night 
 several notes concerning this to many of 
 my friends. Good night ; God bless you. 
 John Keats. 
 
 104. TO WILLIAM HASLAM 
 
 [Postmark, Hampstead, May 13, 1819.] 
 My dear Haslam — We have news at 
 last — and tolerably good — they have not 
 
376 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 gone to the Settlement — they are both in 
 good Health — I read the letter to Mrs. 
 Wylie today and requested her after her 
 Sons had read it — they would enclose it 
 to you immediately which was faithfully 
 promised. Send it me like Lightning that 
 I may take it to Walthamstow. 
 Yours ever and amen, 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 105. to fanny keats 
 
 [Hampstead, May 26, 1819.] 
 My dear Fanny — I have been looking 
 for a fine day to pass at Walthamstow : 
 there has not been one Morning (except 
 Sunday and then I was obliged to stay at 
 home) that I could depend upon. I have 
 I am sorry to say had an accident with the 
 Letter — I sent it to Haslam and he re- 
 turned it torn into a thousand pieces. So I 
 shall be obliged to tell you all I can remem- 
 ber from Memory. You would have heard 
 from me before this but that I was in con- 
 tinual expectation of a fine Morning — I 
 want also to speak to you concerning myself. 
 Mind I do not purpose to quit England, as 
 George has done ; but I am afraid I shall 
 be forced to take a voyage or two. How- 
 ever we will not think of that for some 
 Months. Should it be a fine morning to- 
 morrow you will see me. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 106. TO MISS JEFFREY 
 
 C. Brown, Esqre's Wentworth Place, 
 Hampstead [Postmark May 31, 1819]. 
 
 My dear Lady — I was making a day 
 or two ago a general conflagration of all 
 old Letters and Memorandums, which had 
 become of no interest to me — I made, 
 however, like the Barber-inquisitor in Don 
 Quixote some reservations — among the 
 rest your and your Sister's Letters. I as- 
 sure you you had not entirely vanished 
 from my Mind, or even become shadows in 
 my remembrance : it only needed such a 
 
 memento as your Letters to bring you back 
 to me. Why have I not written before ? 
 Why did I not answer your Honiton Let- 
 ter ? I had no good news for you — every 
 concern of ours, (ours I wish I could say) 
 and still I must say ours — though George 
 is in America and I have no Brother left. 
 Though in the midst of my troubles I had 
 no relation except my young sister — I 
 have had excellent friends. Mr. B. at 
 whose house I now am, invited me, — I 
 have been with him ever since. I could 
 not make up my mind to let you know 
 these things. Nor should I now — but see 
 what a little interest will do — I want you 
 to do me a Favor ; which I will first ask 
 and then tell you the reasons. Enquire in 
 the Villages round Teignmouth if there is 
 any Lodging commodious for its cheap- 
 ness ; and let me know where it is and 
 what price. I have the choice as it were 
 of two Poisons (yet I ought not to call this 
 a Poison) the one is voyaging to and from 
 India for a few years ; the other is leading 
 a fevrous life alone with Poetry — This 
 latter will suit me best ; for I cannot re- 
 solve to give up my Studies. 
 
 It strikes me it would not be quite so 
 proper for you to make such inquiries — so 
 give my love to your mother and ask her 
 to do it. Yes, I would rather conquer my 
 indolence and strain my nerves at some 
 grand Poem than to be in a dunder-headed 
 indiaman. Pray let no one in Teignmouth 
 know anything of this. Fanny must by 
 this time have altered her name — perhaps 
 you have also — are you all alive ? Give 
 
 my Compts to Mrs. your Sister. I 
 
 have had good news, (tho' 't is a queerish 
 world in which such things are call'd good) 
 from George — he and his wife are well. I 
 will tell you more soon. Especially don't 
 let the Newfoundland fishermen know it — 
 and especially no one else. I have been 
 always till now almost as careless of the 
 world as a fly — my troubles were all of 
 the Imagination — My Brother George al- 
 ways stood between me and any dealings 
 
TO MISS JEFFREY 
 
 377 
 
 with tbe world. Now I find I must buffet 
 it — I must take my stand upon some van- 
 tage ground and begin to fight — I must 
 choose between despair and Energy — I 
 choose the latter — though the world has 
 taken on a quakerish look with me, which 
 I once thought was impossible — 
 
 ' Nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass and glory in the 
 flower.' 
 
 thouoht this 
 
 Melancholist's 
 
 I once 
 dream — 
 
 But why do I speak to you in this man- 
 ner ? No believe me I do not write for a 
 mere selfish purpose — the manner in which 
 I have written of myself will convince you. 
 I do not do so to Strangers. I have not 
 quite made up my mind. Write me on 
 the receipt of this — and again at your 
 Leisure ; between whiles you shall hear 
 from me again — 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 107. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, [Postmark, June 9, 1819]. 
 
 My dear young Lady — I am exceed- 
 ingly obliged by your two letters — Why I 
 did not answer your first immediately was 
 that I have had a little aversion to the 
 South of Devon from the continual remem- 
 brance of my Brother Tom. On that ac- 
 count I do not return to my old Lodgings 
 in Hampstead though the people of the 
 house have become friends of mine — This, 
 however, I could think nothing of, it can 
 do no more than keep one's thoughts em- 
 ployed for a day or two. I like your de- 
 scription of Bradley very much and I dare 
 say shall be there in the course of the sum- 
 mer ; it would be immediately but that a 
 friend with ill health and to whom I am 
 greatly attached call'd on me yesterday 
 and proposed my spending a month with 
 him at the back of the Isle of Wight. This 
 is just the thing at present — the morrow 
 will take care of itself — I do not like the 
 
 name of Bishop's Teigntowu — I hope the 
 road from Teignmouth to Bradley does 
 not lie that way — Your advice about the 
 Indiamau is a very wise advice, because it 
 just suits me, though you are a little in the 
 wrong concerning its destroying the ener- 
 gies of Mind ; on the contrary it would be 
 the finest thing in the world to strengthen 
 them — To be thrown among people who 
 care not for you, with whom you have no 
 sympathies forces the Mind upon its own 
 resources, and leaves it free to make its 
 speculations of the difEerences of human 
 character and to class them with the calm- 
 ness of a Botanist. An Indiamau is a little 
 world. One of the great reasons that the 
 English have produced the finest writers 
 in the world is, that the English world has 
 ill treated them during their lives and 
 foster'd them after their deaths. They 
 have in general been trampled aside into 
 the bye paths of life and seen the fester- 
 ings of Society. They have not been 
 treated like the Raphaels of Italy. And 
 where is the Englishman and Poet who has 
 given a magnificent Entertainment at the 
 christening of one of his Hero's Horses as 
 Boyardo did ? He had a Castle in the 
 Apennine. He was a noble Poet of Ro- 
 mance ; not a miserable and mighty Poet 
 of the human Heart. The middle age of 
 Shakspeare was all c[l]ouded over ; his 
 days were not more happy than Hamlet's 
 who is perhaps more like Shakspeare him- 
 self in his common everyday Life tlian any 
 other of his Characters — Ben Johnson 
 (sic) was a common Soldier and in the Low 
 countries, in the face of two armies, fought 
 a single combat with a freneh Trooper and 
 slew him — For all this I will not go on 
 board an Indiamau, nor for example's sake 
 run my head into dark alleys : I dare say 
 my discipline is to come, and plenty of it 
 too. I have been very idle lately, very 
 averse to writing ; both from the over- 
 powering idea of our dead poets and from 
 abatement of my love of fame. I hope I 
 am a little more of a Philosopher than I 
 
378 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ■was, consequently a little less of a versify- 
 ing Pet-lamb. I have put no more in Print 
 or you should have had it. You will judge 
 of my 1819 temper when I tell you that 
 the thing I have most enjoyed this year 
 has been writing an ode to Indolence. Why 
 did you not make your long-haired sister 
 put her great brown hard fist to paper and 
 cross your Letter? Tell her when you 
 write again that I expect chequer work — 
 My friend Mr. Brown is sitting opposite 
 me employed in writing a Life of David. 
 He reads me passages as he writes them 
 stuffing my infidel mouth as though I were 
 a young rook — Infidel Rooks do not pro- 
 vender with Elisha's Ravens. If he goes 
 on as he has begun your new Church had 
 better not proceed, for parsons will be su- 
 perseeded (^sic) — and of course the Clerks 
 must follow. Give my love to your Mother 
 with the assurance that I can never forget 
 her anxiety for my Brother Tom. Believe 
 also that I shall ever remember our leave- 
 taking with you. 
 
 Ever sincerely yours, John Keats. 
 
 108, TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Went worth Place [June 9, 1819]. 
 My DEAR Fanny — I shall be with you 
 next Monday at the farthest. I could not 
 keep my promise of seeing you again in a 
 week because I am in so unsettled a state 
 of mind about what I am to do — I have 
 given up the Idea of the Indiaman ; I can- 
 not resolve to give up my favorite studies : 
 so I purpose to retire into the Country and 
 set my Mind at work once more. A Friend 
 of Mine [James Rice] who has an ill state 
 of health called on me yesterday and pro- 
 posed to spend a little time with him at the 
 back of the Isle of Wight where he said 
 we might live very cheaply. I agreed to 
 his proposal. I have taken a great dislike 
 to Town — I never go there — some one is 
 always calling on me and as we have spare 
 beds they often stop a couple of days. I 
 have written lately to some acquaintances 
 
 in Devonshire concerning a cheap Lodging 
 and they have been very kind in letting me 
 know all I wanted. They have described 
 a pleasant place which I think I shall even- 
 tually retire to. How came you on with 
 my young Master Yorkshire Man ? Did 
 not Mrs. A. sport her Carriage and one ? 
 They really surprised me with super civility 
 
 — how did Mrs. A. manage it ? How is 
 the old tadpole gardener and little Master 
 next door ? it is to be hop'd they will both 
 die some of these days. Not having been 
 to Town I have not heard whether Mr. A. 
 purposes to retire from business. Do let 
 me know if you have heard anything more 
 about it. If he should not I shall be very 
 disappointed. If any one deserves to be 
 put to his shifts it is that Hodgkinson — 
 as for the other he would live a long time 
 upon his fat and be none the worse for a 
 good long lent. How came miledi to give 
 one Lisbon wine — had she drained the 
 Gooseberry ? Truly I cannot delay mak- 
 ing another visit — asked to take Lunch, 
 whether I will have ale, wine, take sugar, 
 
 — objection to green — like cream — thin 
 bread and butter — another cup — agreeable 
 
 — enough sugar — little more cream — too 
 weak — 12 shillin etc. etc. etc. — Lord I 
 must come again. We are just going to 
 Dinner I must must \^slc2 with this to the 
 Post 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John — . 
 
 109. TO JAMES ELMES^l 
 
 Wentworth Place, Hampstead 
 [June 12, 1819]. 
 
 Sir — I did not see your Note till this 
 Saturday evening, or I should have an- 
 swered it sooner — However as it happens 
 I have but just received the Book which 
 contains the only copy of the verses in 
 question. I have asked for it repeatedly 
 ever since I promised Mr. Haydon and 
 could not help the delay ; which I regret. 
 The verses can be struck out in no time, 
 and will I hope be quite in time. If you 
 
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 379 
 
 think it at all necessary a proof may be for- 
 warded ; but as I shall transcribe it fairly 
 perhaps there may be no need. 
 I am, Sir, your obed' Serv' 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 110. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, [June 14, 18191. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I cannot be with 
 you to-day for two reasons — 1'^ I have my 
 sore-throat coming again to prevent my 
 walking. 2'^ I do not happen just at pre- 
 sent to be flush of silver so that 1 might 
 ride. To-morrow I am engaged — but the 
 day after you shall see me. Mr. Brown is 
 waiting for me as we are going to Town 
 together, so good-bye. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 111. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place [June 16, 1819]. 
 My dear Fanny — Still I cannot afford 
 to spend money by Coachhire and still my 
 throat is not well enough to warrant my 
 walking. I went yesterday to ask Mr. Ab- 
 bey for some money ; but I could not on 
 account of a Letter he showed me from my 
 Aunt's solicitor. You do not understand 
 the business. I trust it will not in the end 
 be detrimental to you. I am going to try 
 the Press once more, and to that end shall 
 retire to live cheaply in the country and 
 compose myself and verses as well as I can. 
 I have very good friends ready to help me 
 — and I am the more bound to be careful 
 of the money they lend me. It will all be 
 well in the course of a year I hope. I am 
 confident of it, so do not let it trouble you 
 at all. Mr. Abbey showed me a Letter he 
 had received from George containing the 
 news of the birth of a Niece for us — and 
 all doing well — he said he would take it 
 to you — so I suppose to-day you will see 
 it. 1 was preparing to enquire for a situa- 
 tion with an apothecary, but Mr. Brown 
 persuades me to try the press once more ; 
 
 so I will with all my industry and ability. 
 Mr. Rice a friend of mine in ill health has 
 proposed retiring to the back of the Isle of 
 Wight — which I hope will be cheap in the 
 summer — I am sure it will in the winter. 
 Thence you shall frequently hear from me 
 in the Letters I will copy those lines I may 
 write which will be most pleasing to you in 
 the confidence you will show them to no 
 one. I have not run quite aground yet I 
 hoi^e, having written this morning to several 
 people to whom I have lent money request- 
 ing repayment. I shall henceforth shake 
 off my indolent fits, and among other re- 
 formation be more diligent in writing to 
 you, and mind you always answer me. I 
 shall be obliged to go out of town on Satur- 
 day and shall have no money till to-morrow, 
 so I am very sorry to think I shall not be 
 able to come to Walthamstow. The Head 
 Mr. Severn did of me is now too dear, but 
 here inclosed is a very capital Profile done 
 by Mr. Brown. I will write again on Mon- 
 day or Tuesday — Mr. and Mrs. Dilke are 
 well. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 112. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Wentworth Place. 
 Thursday Morning [June 17, 1819]. 
 
 My dear Haydon — I know you will 
 not be prepared for this, because your 
 Pocket must needs be very low having been 
 at ebb tide so long : but what can I do ? 
 mine is lower. I was the day before yes- 
 terday much in want of Money : but some 
 news I had yesterday has driven me into 
 necessity. I went to Abbey's for some 
 Cash, and he put into my hand a letter 
 from my Aunt's Solicitor containing the 
 pleasant information that she was about to 
 file a Bill in Chancery against us. Now in 
 case of a defeat Abbey will be very unde- 
 servedly in the wrong box ; so I could not 
 ask him for any more money, nor can I till 
 the affair is decided; and if it goes against 
 him I must in conscience make over to him 
 
38o 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 what little he may have remaining. My 
 purpose is now to make one more attempt 
 in the Press — if that fail, ' ye hear no 
 more of me ' as Chaucer says. Brown has 
 lent me some money for the present. Do 
 borrow or beg somehow what you can for 
 me. Do not suppose I am at all uncom- 
 fortable about the matter in any other way 
 than as it forces me to apply to the needy. 
 I could not send you those lines, for I could 
 not get the only copy of them before last 
 Saturday evening. I sent them Mr. Elmes 
 on Monday. I saw Monkhouse on Sunday 
 — he told me you were getting on with the 
 Picture. I would have come over to you 
 to-day, but I am fully employed. 
 
 Yours ever sincerely John Keats. 
 
 113. TO FANNY BKAWNE 
 
 Shanklin, Isle of Wight, Thursday, 
 [Postmark, Newport, July 3, 1819]. 
 
 My dearest Lady — I am glad I had 
 not an opportunity of sending off a Letter 
 which I wrote for you on Tuesday night — 
 't was too much like one out of Rousseau's 
 Heloise. I am more reasonable this morn- 
 ing. The morning is the only proper time 
 for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I 
 love so much : for at night, when the lonely 
 day has closed, and the lonely, silent, un- 
 musical Chamber is waiting to receive me 
 as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my 
 passion gets entirely the sway, then I would 
 not have you see those Rhapsodies which I 
 once thought it impossible I should ever 
 give way to, and which I have often 
 laughed at in another, for fear you should 
 [think me] either too unhappy or perhaps 
 a little mad. I am now at a very pleasant 
 Cottage window, looking onto a beautiful 
 hilly country, with a glimpse of the sea ; 
 the morning is very fine. I do not know 
 how elastic my spirit might be, what plea- 
 sure I might have in living here and breath- 
 ing and wandering as free as a stag about 
 this beautiful Coast if the remembrance of 
 you did not weigh so upon me. I have 
 
 never known any unalloy'd Happiness for 
 many days together : the death or sickness 
 of some one has always spoilt my hours — 
 and now when none such troubles oppress 
 me, it is you must confess very hard that 
 another sort of pain should haunt me. Ask 
 yourself my love whether you are not very 
 cruel to have so entrammelled me, so de- 
 stroyed my freedom. Will you confess 
 this in the Letter you must write immedi- 
 ately and do all you can to console me in 
 it — make it rich as a draught of poppies i 
 to intoxicate me — write the softest words I 
 and kiss them that I may at least touch my 
 lips where yours have been. For myself I 
 know not how to express my devotion to so 
 fair a form : I want a brighter word than 
 bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost 
 wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three 
 summer days — three such days with you I 
 could fill with more delight than fifty com- 
 mon years could ever contain. But how- 
 ever selfish I may feel, I am sure I could 
 never act selfishly : as I told you a day or 
 two before I left Hampstead, I will never 
 return to London if my Fate does not turn 
 up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though 
 I could centre my Happiness in you, I can- 
 not expect to engross your heart so en- 
 tirely — indeed if I thought you felt as 
 much for me as I do for you at this mo- 
 ment I do not think I could restrain myself 
 from seeing you again tomorrow for the 
 delight of one embrace. But no — I must 
 live upon hope and Chance. In case of the 
 worst that can happen, I shall still love 
 you — but what hatred shall I have for 
 another ! Some lines I read the other day 
 are continually ringing a peal in my ears : 
 
 To see those eyes I prize above mine own 
 Dart favors on another — 
 
 And those sweet lips (yielding immortal nectar) 
 Be gently press'd by any but myself — 
 Think, think Francesca, what a cursed thing 
 It were beyond expression ! 
 
 t) . 
 
 Do write immediately. There is no Post 
 from this Place, so you must address Post 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 381 
 
 Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. I know 
 before night I shall curse myself for hav- 
 ing sent you so cold a Letter ; yet it is 
 better to do it as much in my senses as 
 possible. Be as kind as the distance will 
 permit to your 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 Present my Compliments to your mother, 
 my love to Margaret and best remem- 
 brances to your Brother — if you please so. 
 
 114. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
 Tuesday, July 6, [1819]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I have just received 
 another Letter from George — full of as 
 good news as we can expect. I cannot in- 
 close it to you as I could wish because it 
 I contains matters of Business to which I 
 must for a Week to come have an immedi- 
 ate reference. I think I told you the pur- 
 pose for which I retired to this place — to 
 try the fortune of my Pen once more, and 
 indeed I have some confidence in my suc- 
 cess: but in every event, believe me my 
 dear sister, I shall be sufficiently comfort- 
 able, as, if I cannot lead that life of com- 
 : petence and society I should wish, I have 
 I enough knowledge of my gallipots to ensure 
 me an employment and maintenance. The 
 Place I am in now I visited once before 
 and a very pretty place it is were it not for 
 the bad weather. Our window looks over 
 house-tops and Cliffs onto the Sea, so that 
 when the Ships sail past the Cottage chim- 
 neys you may take them for weathercocks. 
 We have Hill and Dale, forest and Mead, 
 and plenty of Lobsters. I was on the Ports- 
 mouth Coach the Sunday before last in 
 that heavy shower — and I may say I went 
 to Portsmouth by water — I got a little 
 cold, and as it always flies to my throat I 
 am a little out of sorts that way. There 
 were on the Coach with me some common 
 French people but very well behaved — 
 there was a woman amongst them to whom 
 the poor Men in ragged coats were more 
 
 gallant than ever I saw gentleman to Lady 
 at a Ball. When we got down to walk up 
 hill — one of them pick'd a rose, and on 
 remounting gave it to the woman with 
 ' Ma'mselle voila une belle rose ! ' I am so 
 bard at work that perhaps I should' not 
 have written to you for a day or two if 
 George's Letter had not diverted my atten- 
 tion to the interests and pleasure of those I 
 love — and ever believe that when I do not 
 behave punctually it is from a very neces- 
 sary occupation, and that my silence is no 
 proof of my not thinking of you, or that I 
 want more than a gentle fillip to bring your 
 image with every claim before me. You 
 have never seen mountains, or I might tell 
 you that the hill at Steephill is I think 
 almost of as much consequence as Mount 
 Rydal on Lake Winander. Bonchurch too 
 is a very delightful Place — as I can see 
 by the Cottages, all romantic — covered 
 with creepers and honeysuckles, with roses 
 and eglantines peeping in at the windows. 
 Fit abodes for the People I guess live in 
 them, romantic old maids fond of novels, 
 or soldiers' widows with a pretty jointure 
 — or any body's widows or aunts or any- 
 things given to Poetry and a Piano-forte — 
 as far as in 'em lies — as people say. If I 
 could play upon the Guitar I might make 
 my fortune with an old song — and get two 
 blessings at once — a Lady's heart and the 
 Rheumatism. But I am almost afraid to 
 peep at those little windows — for a pretty 
 window should show a pretty face, and as 
 the world goes chances are against me. I 
 am living with a very good fellow indeed, 
 a Mr. Rice. — He is unfortunately labour- 
 ing under a complaint which has for some 
 years been a burthen to him. This is a pain 
 to me. He has a greater tact in speaking 
 to people of the village than I have, and in 
 those matters is a great amusement as well 
 as good friend to me. He bought a ham 
 the other day for says he ' Keats, I don't 
 think a Ham is a wrong thing to have in a 
 liouse.' Write to me, Shanklin, Isle of 
 Wight, as soon as you can ; for a Letter is 
 
382 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 a great treat to me here — believing me 
 ever, 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 115. TO FANNY BRAWNB 
 
 July 8, [1819]. 
 My sweet Girl — Your Letter gave me 
 more delight than any thing in the world 
 but yourself could do; indeed I am almost 
 astonished that any absent one should have 
 that luxurious power over my senses which 
 I feel. Even when I am not thinking of 
 you I receive your influence and a tenderer 
 nature stealing upon me. All my thoughts, 
 my unhappiest days and nights, have I find 
 not at all cured me of my love of Beauty, 
 but made it so intense that I am miserable 
 that you are not with me : or rather breathe 
 in that dull sort of patience that cannot be 
 called Life. I never knew before, what 
 such a love as you have made me feel, was; 
 I did not believe in it; my Fancy was 
 afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. 
 But if you will fully love me, though there 
 may be some fire, 't will not be more than 
 we can bear when moistened and bedewed 
 with Pleasures. You mention ' horrid peo- 
 ple ' and ask me whether it depend upon 
 them whether I see you again. Do under- 
 stand me, my love, in this. I have so much 
 of you in my heart that I must turn Men- 
 tor when I see a chance of harm befalling 
 you. I would never see any thing but 
 Pleasure in your eyes, love on your lips, 
 and Happiness in your steps. I would wish 
 to see you among those amusements suit- 
 able to your inclinations and spirits; so 
 that our loves might be a delight in the 
 midst of Pleasures agreeable enough, rather 
 than a resource from vexations and cares. 
 But I doubt much, in case of the worst, 
 whether I shall be philosopher enough to 
 follow my own Lessons: if I saw my reso- 
 lution give you a pain I could not. Why 
 may I not speak of your Beauty, since 
 without that I could never have lov'd you ? 
 — I cannot conceive any beginning of such 
 
 love as I have for you but Beauty. There 
 may be a sort of love for which, without 
 the least sneer at it, I have the highest 
 respect and can admire it in others : but it 
 has not the richness, the bloom, the full 
 form, the enchantment of love after my 
 own heart. So let me speak of your Beauty, 
 though to my own endangering; if you could 
 be so cruel to me as to try elsewhere its 
 Power. You say you are afraid I shall 
 think you do not love me — in saying this 
 you make me ache the more to be near you. 
 I am at the diligent use of my faculties 
 here, I do not pass a day without sprawling 
 some blank verse or tagging some rhymes; 
 and here I must confess, that (since I am 
 on that subject) I love you the more in 
 that I believe you have liked me for my 
 own sake and for nothing else. I have met 
 with women whom I really think would 
 like to be married to a Poem and to be 
 given away by a Novel. I have seen your 
 Comet, and only wish it was a sign that 
 poor Rice would get well whose illness 
 makes him rather a melancholy companion: 
 and the more so as to conquer his feelings 
 and hide them from me, with a forc'd 
 Pun. I kiss'd your writing over in the 
 hope you had indulg'd me by leaving a 
 trace of honey. What was your dream ? 
 Tell it me and I will tell you the inter- 
 pretation thereof. 
 
 Ever yours, my love ! 
 
 John Keats. 
 Do not accuse me of delay — we have 
 not here an opportunity of sending letters 
 every day. Write speedily. 
 
 116. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Extract from a letter dated Shanklin, 
 n' Ryde, Isle of Wight, Sunday, 
 July 12 [for 11] 1819. 
 
 You will be glad to hear, under my own 
 hand (though Rice says we are like Saun- 
 tering Jack and Idle Joe), how diligent I 
 have been, and am biing. I have finished 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 383 
 
 the Act, lOtho the Great, i] and in the inter- 
 val of beginning the 2'' have proceeded 
 pretty well with Lamia, finishing the 1°' 
 part which consists of about 400 lines. I 
 have great hopes of success, because I make 
 use of my Judgment more deliberately than 
 I have yet done ; but in case of failure with 
 the world, I shall find my content. And 
 here (as I know you have my good at heart 
 as much as a Brother), I can only repeat to 
 you what I have said to George — that 
 however I should like to enjoy what the 
 competencies of life procure, I am in no 
 wise dashed at a different prospect. 1 
 have spent too many thoughtful days and 
 moralised through too many nights for 
 that, and fruitless would they be indeed, if 
 they did not by degrees make me look upon 
 the affairs of the world with a healthy de- 
 libration. I have of late been moulting : 
 not for fresh feathers and wings : they are 
 gone, and in their stead I hope to have a 
 pair of patient sublunary legs. I have al- 
 tered, not from a Chrysalis into a butterfly, 
 but the contrary ; having two little loop- 
 holes, whence I may look out into the stage 
 of the world : and that world on our coming 
 here I almost forgot. The first time I sat 
 down to write, I could scarcely believe in the 
 necessity for so doing. It struck me as a 
 great oddity — Yet the very corn which is 
 now so beautiful, as if it had only took to 
 ripening yesterday, is for the market ; so, 
 why should I be delicate ? 
 
 117. TO FA3SNY BRAWNE 
 
 Shanklin, Thursday Evening 
 [July 15, 1819?] 
 
 My love — I have been in so irritable 
 a state of health these two or three last 
 days, that I did not think I should be able 
 to write this week. Not that I was so ill, 
 but so much so as only to be capable of an 
 unhealthy teasing letter. To night I am 
 greatly recovered only to feel the languor 
 I have felt after you touched with ardency. 
 
 You say you perhaps might have made me 
 better: you would then have made me worse: 
 now you could quite effect a cure : What 
 fee my sweet Physician would I not give 
 you to do so. Do not call it folly, when I 
 tell you I took your letter last night to bed 
 with me. In the morning I found your 
 name on the sealing wax obliterated. I 
 was startled at the bad omen till I recol- 
 lected that it must have happened in my 
 dreams, and they you know fall out by con- 
 traries. You must have found out by this 
 time I am a little given to bode ill like the 
 raven; it is my misfortune not my fault; it 
 has proceeded from the general tenor of 
 the circumstances of my life, and rendered 
 every event suspicious. However I will no 
 more trouble either you or myself with sad 
 prophecies ; though so far I am pleased at 
 it as it has given me opportunity to love 
 your disinterestedness towards me. I can 
 be a raven no more ; you and pleasure 
 take possession of me at the same moment. 
 I am afraid you have been unwell. If 
 through me illness have touched j'ou (but 
 it must be with a very gentle hand) I must 
 be selfish enough to feel a little glad at it. 
 Will you forgive me this ? I have been 
 reading lately an oriental tale of a very 
 beautiful color ^^ — It is of a city of melan- 
 choly men, all made so by this circum- 
 stance. Through a series of adventures 
 each one of them by turns reach some gar- 
 dens of Paradise where they meet with 
 a most enchanting Lady; and just as they 
 are going to embrace her, she bids them 
 shut their eyes — they shut them — and on 
 opening their eyes again find themselves 
 descending to the earth in a magic basket. 
 The remembrance of this Lady and their 
 delights lost beyond all recovery render 
 them melancholy ever after. How I ap- 
 plied this to you, my dear ; how I palpi- 
 tated at it ; how the certainty that you 
 were in the same woi-ld with myself, and 
 though as beautiful, not so talismanic as 
 that Lady ; how I could not bear you should 
 be so you must believe because I swear it 
 
384 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 by yourself. I cannot say when I shall get 
 a volume ready. I have three or four 
 stories half done, but as I cannot write for 
 the mere sake of the press, I am obliged to 
 let them progress or lie still as my fancy 
 chooses. By Christmas perhaps they may 
 appear, but I am not yet sure they ever 
 will. 'T will be no matter, for Poems are 
 as common as newspapers and I do not see 
 why it is a greater crime in me than in an- 
 other to let the verses of an half-fledged 
 brain tumble into the reading-rooms and 
 drawing - room windows. Rice has been 
 better lately than usual: he is not suffering 
 from any neglect of his parents who have 
 for some years been able to appreciate him 
 better than they did in his first youth, and 
 are now devoted to his comfort. Tomorrow 
 I shall, if my health continues to improve 
 during the night, take a look fa[r]ther 
 about the country, and spy at the parties 
 about here who come hunting after the 
 picturesque like beagles. It is astonishing 
 how they raven down scenery like children 
 do sweetmeats. The wondrous Chine here 
 is a very great Lion: I wish I had as many 
 guineas as there have been spy-glasses in 
 it. I have been, I cannot tell why, in capi- 
 tal spirits this last hour. What reason ? 
 When I have to take my candle and retire 
 to a lonely room, without the thought as I 
 fall asleep, of seeing you tomorrow morn- 
 ing ? or the next day, or the next — it 
 takes on the appearance of impossibility 
 and eternity — I will say a month — I will 
 say I will see you in a monj;h at most, 
 though no one but yourself should see me ; 
 if it be but for an hour. I should not like 
 to be so near you as London without being 
 continually with you : after having once 
 more kissed you Sweet I would rather be 
 here alone at my task than in the bustle 
 and hateful literary chitchat. Meantime 
 you must write to me — as I will every 
 week — for your letters keep me alive. My 
 sweet Girl I cannot speak my love for you. 
 Good night ! and 
 
 Ever yours John Keats. 
 
 118. TO THE SAME 
 
 Sunday Night. [Postmark, July 27, 1819.] 
 My sweet Girl — I hope you did not 
 blame me much for not obeying your re- 
 quest of a Letter on Saturday : we have 
 had four in our small room playing at cards 
 night and morning leaving me no undis- 
 turb'd opportunity to write. Now Rice and 
 Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown to 
 my sorrow confirms the account you give of 
 your ill health. You cannot conceive how 
 I ache to be with you: how I would die for 
 
 one hour for what is in the world ? I 
 
 say you cannot conceive ; it is impossible 
 you should look with such eyes upon me as 
 I have upon you: it cannot be. Forgive me 
 if I wander a little this evening, for 1 have 
 been all day employ'd in a very abstract 
 Poem and I am in deep love with you — 
 two things which must excuse me. I have, 
 believe me, not been an age in letting you 
 take possession of me; the very first week 
 I knew you I wrote myself your vassal; 
 but burnt the Letter as the very next time 
 I saw you I thought you manifested some 
 dislike to me. If you should ever feel for 
 Man at the first sight what I did for you, 
 I am lost. Yet I should not quarrel with 
 you, but hate myself if such a thing were 
 to happen — only I should burst if the thing 
 were not as fine as a Man as you are as a 
 Woman. Perhaps I am too vehement, then 
 fancy me on my knees, especially when I 
 mention a part of your Letter which hurt 
 me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn 'but 
 you must be satisfied in knowing that I 
 admired you much more than your friend.' 
 My dear love, I cannot believe there ever 
 was or ever could be any thing to admire 
 in me especially as far as sight goes — I 
 cannot be admired, I am not a thing to be 
 admired. You are, I love you; all I can 
 bring you is a swooning admiration of your 
 Beauty. I hold that place among Men 
 which snub-nos'd brunettes with meeting 
 eyebrows do among women — they are 
 trash to me — unless I should find one 
 
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 385 
 
 among them with a fire in her heart like 
 the one that burns in mine. You absorb 
 me in spite of myself — you alone: for I 
 look not forward with anj- pleasure to what 
 is call'd being settled in the world; I trem- 
 ble at domestic cares — yet for you I would 
 meet them, though if it would leave you 
 the happier I would rather die than do so. 
 I have two luxuries to brood over in my 
 walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my 
 death. O that I could have possession of 
 them both in the same minute. I hate the 
 world: it batters too much the wings of my 
 self-will, and would I could take a sweet 
 poison from your lips to send me out of it. 
 From no others would I take it. I am in- 
 deed astonish'd to find myself so careless 
 of all charms but yours -^ remembering as 
 I do the time when even a bit of ribband 
 was a matter of interest with me. What 
 softer words can I find for you after this — 
 what it is I will not read. Nor will I say 
 more here, but in a Postscript answer any 
 thing else you may have mentioned in your 
 Letter in so many words — for I am dis- 
 tracted with a thousand thoughts. I will 
 imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, 
 pray to your star like a Heathen. 
 
 Your's ever, fair Star, John Keats. 
 
 My seal is mark'd like a family table 
 cloth with my Mother's initial F for Fanny: 
 put between my Father's initials. You will 
 soon hear from me again. My respectful 
 Compliments to your Mother. Tell Mar- 
 garet I '11 send her a reef of best rocks 
 and tell Sam I will give him my light bay 
 hunter if he will tie the Bishop hand and 
 foot and pack him in a hamper and send 
 him down for me to bathe him for his 
 health with a Necklace of good snubby 
 stones about his Neck. 
 
 110. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 Shanklin, Saturday Evening [July 31, 1819]. 
 My dear Dilke — I will not make my 
 diligence an excuse for not writing to you 
 
 sooner — because I consider idleness a 
 much better plea. A Man in the hurry of 
 business of any sort is expected and ought 
 to be expected to look to everything — 
 his mind is in a whirl, and what matters 
 it what whirl ? But to require a Letter 
 of a Man lost in idleness is the utmost 
 cruelty ; you cut the thread of his exist- 
 ence, you beat, you pummel him, you sell 
 liis goods and chattels, you put him in 
 prison ; you impale him ; you crucify him. 
 If I had not put pen to paper since I saw 
 you this would be to me a vi et arm is tak- 
 ing np before the Judge ; but having got 
 over my darling lounging habits a little, it 
 is with scarcely any pain I come to this 
 dating from Shanklin and Dear Dilke. 
 The Isle of Wight is but so so, etc. Rice 
 and I passed rather a dull time of it. I 
 hope he will not repent coming with me. 
 He was unwell, and I was not in very good 
 health : and I am afraid we made each 
 other worse by acting upon each other's 
 spirits. We would grow as melancholy as 
 need be. I confess I cannot bear a sick 
 person in a House, especially alone — it 
 weighs upon me day and night — and more 
 so when perhaps the Case is irretrievable. 
 Indeed I think Rice is in a dangerous 
 state. I have had a Letter from him which 
 speaks favourably of his health at present. 
 Brown and I are pretty well harnessed 
 again to our dog-cart. I mean the Tra- 
 gedy, which goes on sinkingly. We are 
 thinking of introducing an Elephant, but 
 have not historical reference within reach 
 to determine us as to Otho's Menagerie. 
 When Brown first mentioned this I took it 
 for a joke ; however he brings such plausible 
 reasons, and discourses so eloquently on the 
 dramatic effect that I am giving it a seri- 
 ous consideration. The Art of Poetry is 
 not sufficient for us, and if we get on in 
 that as well as we do in painting, we shall 
 by next winter crush the Reviews and 
 the Royal Academy. Indeed, if Brown 
 would take a little of my advice, he could 
 not fail to be first palette of his day. But 
 
386 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 odd as it may appear, he says plainly that he 
 cannot see any force in my plea of putting- 
 skies in the background, and leaving Indian 
 ink out of an ash tree. The other day he 
 was sketching Shanklin Church, and as I 
 saw how the business was going on, I chal- 
 lenged him to a trial of skill — he lent me 
 Pencil and Paper — we keep the Sketches 
 to contend for the Prize at the Gallery. I 
 will not say whose I think best — but really 
 I do not think Brown's done to the top of 
 the Art. 
 
 A word or two on the Isle of Wight. I 
 have been no further than Steephill. If I 
 may guess, I should say that there is no 
 finer part in the Island than from this 
 Place to Steephill. I do not hesitate to say 
 it is fine. Bonchurch is the best. But I 
 have been so many finer walks, with a back- 
 ground of lake and mountain instead of the 
 sea, that I am not much touch'd with it, 
 though I credit it for all the Surprise I 
 should have felt if it had taken my cockney 
 maidenhead. But I may call myself an old 
 Stager in the picturesque, and unless it be 
 something very large and overpowering, I 
 cannot receive any extraordinary relish. 
 
 I am sorry to hear that Charles is so 
 much oppress'd at Westminster, though I 
 am sure it will be the finest touchstone for 
 his Metal in the world. His troubles will 
 grow day by day less, as his age and 
 strength increase. The very first Battle 
 he wins will lift him from the Tribe of 
 Manasseh. I do not know how I should 
 feel were I a Father — but I hope I should 
 strive with all my Power not to let the 
 present trouble me. When your Boy shall 
 be twenty, ask him about his childish 
 troubles and he will have no more memory 
 of them than you have of yours. Brown 
 tells me Mrs. Dilke sets off to-day for 
 Chichester. I am glad — I was going to 
 say she had a fine day — but there has 
 been a great Thunder cloud muttering over 
 Hampshire all day — I hope she is now at 
 supper with a good appetite. 
 
 So Reynolds's Piece succeeded — that 
 
 is all well. Papers have with thanks been 
 duly received. We leave this place on the 
 13th, and will let you know where we may 
 be a few days after — Brown says he will 
 write when the fit comes on him. If you 
 will stand law expenses I '11 beat him into 
 one before his time. When I come to town 
 I shall have a little talk with you about _ 
 Brown and one Jenny Jacobs. Open day- 1. 
 light ! he don't care. I anti afraid there * 
 will be some more feet for little stockings 
 — [of Keats' s making. ([ mean the feet.*y] 
 Brown here tried at a piece of Wit but it 
 failed him, as you see, thongh long a brew- 
 ing — [this is a 2* lie.*^ Men should never 
 despair — you see he has tried again and 
 succeeded to a miracle. — He wants to try 
 again, but as I have a right to an inside 
 place in my own Letter — I take posses- 
 sion. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 120. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 Shanklin, Thursday Night. 
 [Postmark, Newport, August 9, 1819.] 
 
 My dear Girl — You say you must not 
 have any more such Letters as the last : 
 I '11 try that you shall not by running 
 obstinate the other way. Indeed I have 
 not fair play — I am not idle enough for 
 proper downright love-letters — I leave 
 this minute a scene in our Tragedy [Otho 
 the Great] and see you (think it not 
 blasphemy) through the mist of Plots, 
 speeches, counterplots and counterspeeches. 
 The Lover is madder than I am — I am 
 nothing to him — he has a figure like the 
 Statue of Meleager and double distilled 
 fire in his heart. Thank God for my dili- 
 gence ! were it not for that I should be 
 miserable. I encourage it, and strive not 
 to think of you — but when I have suc- 
 ceeded in doing so all day and as far as 
 midnight, you return, as soon as this arti- 
 ficial excitement goes off, more severely 
 from the fever I am left in. Upon my soul 
 * The bracketed portions are by Brown. 
 
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY 
 
 387 
 
 I cannofc say what you could like rae for. 
 I do not think myself a fright any more 
 than I do Mr. A., Mr. B., and Mr. C. — 
 yet if I were a woman I should not like A. 
 B. C. But enough of this. So you intend 
 to hold me to my promise of seeing you in 
 a short time. I shall keep it with as much 
 sorrow as gladness : for I am not one of the 
 Paladins of old who liv'd upon water grass 
 and smiles for years together. What 
 though would I not give tonight for the 
 gratification of my eyes alone ? This day 
 week we shall move to Winchester ; for I 
 feel the want of a Library. Brown will 
 leave me there to pay a visit to Mr. Snook 
 at Bedhampton : in his absence I will flit 
 to you and back. I will stay very little 
 while, for as I am in a train of writing now 
 I fear to disturb it — let it have its 
 course bad or good — in it I shall try my 
 own strength and the public pulse. At 
 Winchester I shall get your Letters more 
 readily ; and it being a cathedral City I 
 shall have a pleasure always a great one to 
 me when near a Cathedral, of reading them 
 during the service up and down the Aisle. 
 
 Friday Morning. — Just as I had written 
 thus far last night, Brown came down in 
 his morning coat and nightcap, saying 
 he had been refresh'd by a good sleep and 
 was very hungry. I left him eating and 
 went to bed, being too tired to enter into 
 any discussions. You would delight very 
 greatly in the walks about here ; the Cliffs, 
 woods, hills, sands, rocks &c. about here. 
 They are however not so fine but I shall 
 give tliem a hearty good bye to exchange 
 them for my Cathedral. — Yet again I am 
 not so tired of Scenery as to hate Switzer- 
 land. We might spend a pleasant year 
 at Berne or Zurich — if it should please 
 Venus to hear my 'Beseech thee to hear 
 us O Goddess.' And if she should hear, 
 God forbid we should what people call, 
 <iettle — turn into a pond, a stagnant Lethe 
 
 a vile crescent, row or buildings. Better 
 be imprudent moveables than prudent fix- 
 
 tures. Open my Mouth at the Street 
 door like the Lion's head at Venice to re- 
 ceive hateful cards, letters, messages. Go 
 out and wither at tea parties ; freeze at 
 dinners ; bake at dances ; simmer at routs. 
 No my love, trust yourself to me and I 
 will find you nobler amusements, fortune 
 favouring. I fear you will not receive this 
 till Sunday or Monday : as the Irishman 
 would write do not in the meanwhile hate 
 me. I long to be off for Winchester, for I 
 begin to dislike the very door-posts here — 
 the names, the pebbles. You ask after my 
 health, not telling me whether you are bet- 
 ter. I am quite well. Your going out is no 
 proof that you are : how is it ? Late hours 
 will do you great harm. What fairing is 
 it ? I was alone for a couple of days while 
 Brown went gadding over the country with 
 his ancient knapsack. Now I like his 
 society as well as any Man's, yet regretted 
 his return — it broke in upon me like a 
 Thunderbolt. I had got in a dream among 
 my Books — really luxuriating in a solitude 
 and silence you alone should have disturb'd. 
 Your ever affectionate John I^eats. 
 
 121. TO BENJAMIN BAII^Y 
 
 [Fragment (outside sheet) of a letter addressed 
 to Bailey at St, Andrews. 
 
 Winchester, August 15, 1819]. 
 
 We removed to Winchester for the con- 
 venience of a library, and find it an exceed- 
 ing pleasant town, enriched with a beautiful 
 Cathedral and surrounded by a fresh-look- 
 ing country. We are in tolerably good 
 and cheap lodgings — Within these two 
 months I have written loOO lines, most of 
 which, besides many more ot prior com- 
 position, you will probably see by next win- 
 ter. I have written 2 tales, one from 
 Boccaccio, called the Pot of Basil, and an- 
 other called St. Agnes's Eve, on a popular 
 Superstition, and a 3'* called Lamia (half 
 finished). I have also been writing parts of 
 my ' Hyperion,' and completed 4 Acts of a 
 
388 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 tragedy. It was the opinion of most of my 
 friends that I should never be able to write 
 a scans. I will endeavour to wipe away 
 the prejudice — I sincerely hope you will 
 be pleased when my labours, since we last 
 saw each other, shall reach you. One of 
 my Ambitious is to make as great a revolu- 
 tion in modern dramatic writing as Kean 
 has done in acting. Another to upset 
 the drawling of the blue-stocking literary 
 world — if in the Course of a few years I 
 do these two things, I ought to die content, 
 and my friends should drink a dozen of 
 claret on my tomb. I am convinced more 
 and more every day that (excepting the 
 human friend philosopher), a fine writer 
 is the most genuine being in the world. 
 Shakspeare and the Paradise lost every day 
 become greater wonders to me. I look 
 upon fine phrases like a lover. I was glad 
 to see by a passage of one of Brown's let- 
 ters, some time ago, from the North that 
 you were in such good spirits. Since that 
 you have been married, and in congratu- 
 lating you I wish you every continuance 
 of them. Present my respects to Mrs. 
 Bailey. This sounds oddly to me, and I 
 daresay I do it awkwardly enough : but I 
 suppose by this time it is nothing new to 
 you. Brown's remembrances to you. As 
 far as I know, we shall remain at Win- 
 chester for a goodish while. 
 Ever your sincere friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 122. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 Winchester, Au^st 17th. 
 [Postmark, August 16, 1819.] 
 
 My dear Girl — what shall I say for 
 myself ? I have been here four days and 
 not yet written you — 't is true I have had 
 many teasing letters of business to dismiss 
 — and I have been in the Claws, like a ser- 
 pent in an Eagle's, of the last act of our 
 Tragedy. This is no excuse ; I know it ; 
 I do not presume to offer it. I have no 
 
 right either to ask a speedy answer to let 
 me know how lenient you are — I must re- 
 main some days in a Mist — 1 see you 
 through a Mist : as I daresay you do me by 
 this time. Believe in the first Letters I 
 wrote you : I assure you I felt as I wrote — 
 I could not write so now. The thousand 
 images I have had pass through my brain 
 
 — my uneasy spirits — my unguess'd fate 
 
 — all spread as a veil between me and 
 you. Remember I have had no idle leisure 
 to brood over you — 't is well perhaps I 
 have not. I could not have endured the 
 throng of jealousies that used to haunt me 
 before I had plunged so deeply into imagi- 
 nary interests. I would fain, as my sails 
 are set, sail on without an interruption for 
 a Brace of Months longer — I am in com- 
 plete cue — in the fever ; and shall in these 
 four Months do an immense deal. This 
 Page as my eye skims over it I see is ex- 
 cessively unloverlike and ungallant — I 
 cannot help it — I am no officer in yawning 
 quarters ; no Parson-Roraeo. My Mind is 
 heap'd to the full ; stuff'd like a cricket 
 ball — if I strive to fill it more it would 
 burst. I know the generality of women 
 would hate me for this ; that I should have 
 so unsoften'd, so hard a Mind as to forget 
 them ; forget the brightest realities for the 
 dull imaginations of my own Brain. But 
 I conjure you to give it a fair thinking ; 
 and ask yourself whether 't is not better to 
 explain my feelings to you, than write ar- 
 tificial Passion. — Besides, you would see 
 through it. It would be vain to strive to 
 deceive you. 'T is harsh, harsh, I know it. 
 My heart seems now made of iron — I 
 could not write a proper answer to an invi- 
 tation to Idalia. You are my Judge : my 
 forehead is on the groimd. You seem 
 offended at a little simple innocent childish 
 playfulness in my last. I did not seriously 
 mean to say that you were endeavouring to 
 make me keep my promise. I beg your 
 pardon for it. 'Tis but juM your Pride 
 should take the alarm — seriously. You 
 say I may do as I please — I do not think 
 
TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 389 
 
 with auy conscience I cau ; my cash re- 
 sources are for the present stopp'd ; I fear 
 for some time. I spend no money, but it 
 increases my debts. I have all my life 
 thought very little of these matters — they 
 seem not to belong to me. It may be a 
 proud sentence ; but by Heaven I am as 
 entirely above all matters of interest as the 
 Sun is above the Earth — and though of 
 my o\v» money I should be careless ; of my 
 Friends' I must be spare. You see how I 
 go on — like so many strokes of a hammer. 
 I cannot help it — 1 am impell'd, driven 
 to it. I am not happy enough for silken 
 Phrases, and silver sentences. I can no 
 more use soothing words to you than if I 
 were at this moment engaged in a charge 
 of Cavalry. Then you will say I should 
 not write at all. — Should I not ? This 
 Winchester is a fine place : a beautiful 
 Cathedral and many other ancient build- 
 ings in the Environs. The little coffin of 
 a room at Shanklin is changed for a large 
 room, where I can promenade at my plea- 
 sure — looks out onto a beautiful — blank 
 side of a house. It is strange I should like 
 it better than the view of the sea from our 
 window at Shanklin. I began to hate the 
 very posts there — the voice of the old 
 Lady over the way was getting a great 
 Plague. The Fisherman's face never al- 
 tered any more than our black teapot — 
 the knob however was knock'd off to my 
 little relief. I am getting a great dislike 
 of the picturesque ; and can only relish it 
 over again by seeing you enjoy it. One of 
 the pleasantest things I have seen lately 
 was at Cowes. The Regent in his Yatcli 
 (I think they spell it) was anchored oppo- 
 site — a beautiful vessel — and all the 
 Yatchs and boats on the coast were passing 
 and repassing it ; and circuiting and tack- 
 ing about it in every direction — I never 
 beheld anything so silent, light, and grace- 
 ful. — As we pass'd over to Southampton, 
 there was nearly an accident. There came 
 by a Boat well mann'd, with two naval 
 officers at the stern. Our Bow-lines took 
 
 the top of their little mast and snapped it 
 ofi:' close by the board. Had the mast been 
 a little stouter they would have been up- 
 set. In so trifling an event I could not 
 help admiring our seamen — neither officer 
 nor man in the whole Boat moved a muscle 
 — they scarcely notic'd it even with words. 
 Forgive me for this flint-worded Letter, 
 and believe and see that I cannot think of 
 you without some sort of energy — though 
 mal k propos. Even as I leave off it seems 
 to me that a few more moments' thought 
 of you would uncrystallize and dissolve me. 
 I must not give way to it — but turn to my ' 
 writing again — if I fail I shall die hard. 
 O my love, your lips are growing sweet 
 again to my fancy — I must forget them. 
 Ever your aflfectionate Keats. 
 
 123. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Winchester, Monday morn 
 [August 23, 1819.] 
 My dear Taylor — ... Brown and 
 I have together been engaged (this I 
 should wish to remain secret) on a Tragedy 
 which I have just finished and from which 
 we hope to share moderate profits. ... I 
 feel every confidence that, if I choose, I 
 may be a popular writer. That I will 
 never be ; but for all that I will get a live- 
 lihood. I equally dislike the favour of the 
 public with the love of a woman. They 
 are both a cloying treacle to the wings of 
 Independence. I shall ever consider them 
 (People) as debtors to me for verses, not 
 myself to them for admiration — which I 
 can do without. I have of late been indul- 
 ging my spleen by composing a preface AT 
 them : after all resolving never to write a 
 preface at all. ' There are so many verses,' 
 would I have said to them, 'give so much 
 means for me to buy pleasure with, as a 
 relief to my hours of labour ' — You will 
 observe at the end of this if you put down 
 the letter, 'How a solitary life engenders 
 pride and egotism ! ' True — I know it 
 
39° 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 does : but this pride and egotism will en- 
 able me to write finer things than anything 
 else could — so I will indulge it. Just so 
 much as I am humbled by the genius above 
 my grasp am I exalted and look with hate 
 and contempt upon the literary world. — 
 A drummer-boy who holds out his hand 
 familiarly to a field Marshal, — that drum- 
 mer-boy with me is the good word and 
 favour of the public. Who could wish to 
 be among the common-place crowd of the 
 little famous — who are each individually 
 lost in a throng made up of themselves ? 
 Is this worth louting or playing the hypo- 
 crite for ? To beg suffrages for a seat on 
 the benches of a myriad-aristocracy iu let- 
 ters ? This is not wise. — I am not a wise 
 man — 'T is pride — I will give you a 
 definition of a proud man — He is a man 
 who has neither Vanity nor Wisdom — One 
 filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither 
 can he be wise. Pardon me for hammering 
 instead of writing. Remember me to 
 Woodhouse Hesseyand all iu Percy Street. 
 Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 
 
 124. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Winchester, August 25 [1819], 
 My dear Reynolds — By this post I 
 write to Rice, who will tell you why we 
 Lave left Shanklin ; and how we like this 
 place. I have indeed scarcely anything 
 else to say, leading so monotonous a life, 
 except I was to give you a history of sen- 
 sations, and day-nightmares. You would 
 not find me at all imhappy in it, as all my 
 thoughts and feelings which are of the 
 selfish nature, home speculations, every 
 day continue to make me more iron — I am 
 convinced more and more, every day, that 
 fine writing is, next to fine doing, the top 
 thing in the world ; the Paradise Lost be- 
 comes a greater wonder. The more I 
 know what my diligence may in time prob- 
 ably effect, the more does my heart distend 
 with Pride and Obstinacy — I feel it in my 
 power to become a popular writer — I feel 
 
 it in my power to refuse the poisonous suf- 
 frage of a public. My own being which I 
 know to be becomes of more consequence 
 to me than the crowds of Shadows in the 
 shape of men and women that inhabit a 
 kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, and 
 has enough to do in its own home. Those 
 whom I know already, and who have grown 
 as it were 9 part of myself, I could not do 
 without : but for the rest of mankind, they 
 are as much a dream to me as Milton's 
 Hierarchies. I think if I had a free and 
 healthy and lasting organisation of heart, 
 and lungs as strong as an ox's so as to be A 
 able to bear unhurt the shock of extreme Jl 
 thought and sensation without weariness, I 
 could pass my life very nearly alone though 
 it should last eighty years. But I feel my i 
 body too weak to support me to the height, l| 
 I am obliged continually to check myself, I 
 and be nothing. It would be vain for me 
 to endeavour after a more reasonable man- 
 ner of writing to you. I have nothing to 
 speak of but myself, and what can I say 
 but what I feel ? If you should have any 
 reason to regret this state of excitement in 
 me, I will turn the tide of your feelings in 
 the right Cliannel, by mentioning that it is 
 the only state for the best sort of Poetry — 
 that is all I care for, all I live for. Forgive 
 me for not filling up the whole sheet ; Let- 
 ters become so irksome to me, that the 
 next time I leave London I shall petition 
 them all to be spared me. To give me 
 credit for constancy, and at the same time 
 waive letter writing will be the highest 
 indulgence I can think of. 
 Ever your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 125. to fanny keats 
 
 Winchester, August 28 [1819]. 
 My dear Fanny — You must forgive 
 me for suffering so long a space to elapse 
 between the dates of my letters. It is more 
 than a fortnight since I left Shanklin chiefly 
 for the purpose of being near a tolerable 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 391 
 
 Library, which after all is not to be found 
 in this place. However we like it very 
 much: it is the pleasantest Town I ever 
 was in, and has the most recommendations 
 of any. There is a fine Cathedral which to 
 me is always a source of amusement, part 
 of it built 1400 years ago; and the more 
 modern by a magnificent Man, you may 
 have read of in our History, called William 
 of Wickham. The wliole town is beauti- 
 fully wooded. From the Hill at the east- 
 ern extremity you see a prospect of Streets, 
 and old Buildings mixed up with Trees. 
 Then there are the most beautiful streams 
 about I ever saw — full of Trout. There 
 is the Foundation of St. Croix about half a 
 mile in the fields — a charity greatly abused. 
 We have a Collegiate School, a Roman cath- 
 olic School; a chapel ditto and a Nunnery! 
 and what improves it all is, the fashionable 
 inhabitants are all gone to Southampton. 
 We are quiet — except a fiddle that now 
 and then goes like a gimlet through my 
 Ears — our Landlady's son not beiug quite 
 a Proficient. I have still been hard at 
 work, having completed a Tragedy I think 
 I spoke of to you. But there I fear all my 
 labour will be thrown away for the present, 
 as I hear Mr. Kean is goiug to America. 
 For all I can guess I shall remain here till 
 the middle of October — when Mr. Brown 
 will return to his house at Hampstead; 
 whither I shall return with him. I some 
 time since sent the Letter I told j'ou I had 
 received from George to Haslam with a 
 request to let you and Mrs. Wylie see it: 
 he sent it back to me for very insufficient 
 reasons witliout doing so; and I was so irri- 
 tated by it that I would not send it travel- 
 ling about by the post any more: besides 
 the postage is very expensive. I know 
 Mrs. Wylie will think this a great neglect. 
 I am sorry to say my temper gets the bet- 
 ter of mc — I will not send it again. Some 
 correspondence I have had with Mr. Abbey 
 about George's affairs — and I must con- 
 fess he lias behaved very kindly to me as 
 far as the wording of his Letter went. 
 
 Have you heard any further mention of his 
 retiring from Business ? I am anxious to 
 hear whether Hodgkinson, whose name I 
 cannot bear to write, will in any likelihoo.d 
 be thrown upon himself. The delightful 
 Weather we have had for two Months is 
 the highest gratification I could receive — 
 no chill'd red noses — no shivering — but 
 fair atmosphere to think in — a clean towel 
 mark'd with the mangle and a basin of clear 
 Water to drench one's face with ten times 
 a day: no need of much exercise — a Mile 
 a day being quite sufficient. My greatest 
 regret is that I have not been well enough 
 to bathe though I have been two Months 
 by the seaside and live now close to deli- 
 cious bathing — Still I enjoy the Weather 
 — I adore fine Weather as the greatest 
 blessing I can have. Give me Books, fruit, 
 French wine and fine weather and a little 
 music out of doors, played by somebody I 
 do not know — not pay the price of one's 
 time for a jig — but a little chance music: 
 and I can pass a summer very quietly with- 
 out caring much about Fat Louis, fat Re- 
 gent or the Duke of Wellington. Why 
 have you not written to me ? Because you 
 were in expectation of George's Letter and 
 so waited ? Mr. Brown is copying out our 
 Tragedy of Otho the Great in a superb 
 style — better than it deserves ^- there as 
 I said is labour in vain for the present. I 
 had hoped to give Kean another opportu- 
 nity to shine. What can we do now ? There 
 is not another actor of Tragedy in all Lon- 
 don or Europe. The Covent Garden com- 
 pany is execrable. Young is the best among 
 them and he is a ranting coxcombical taste- 
 less Actor — a Disgust, a Nausea — and yet 
 the very best after Kean. What a set of 
 barren asses are actors! I should like now 
 to promenade round your Gardens — apple- 
 tasting — pear - tasting — plum - judging — 
 apricot-nibbling — peach-scrunchiog — nec- 
 tarine-sucking and Melon-carving. I also 
 have a great feeling for antiquated cherries 
 full of sugar cracks — and a white currant 
 tree kept for company. I admire lolling 
 
392 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 on a lawn by a water lilied pond to eat 
 white cui'rants and see gold-fish: and go to 
 the Fair in the Evening if I'm good. There 
 is not hope for that — one is sure to get 
 into some mess before evening. Have 
 these hot days I brag of so much been well 
 or ill for your health ? Let me hear soon. 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 126. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Winchester, September 1, 1819. 
 
 My dear Taylor — Brown and I have 
 been employed for these 3 weeks past from 
 time to time in vpriting to our different 
 friends — a dead silence is our only answer 
 — we wait morning after morning. Tues- 
 day is the day for the Examiner to arrive, 
 this is the 2d Tuesday which has been bar- 
 ren even of a newspaper — Men should be 
 in imitation of spirits ' responsive to each 
 other's note.' Instead of that I pipe and 
 no one hath danced. We have been curs- 
 ing like Mandeville and Lisle — With this 
 I shall send by the same post a 3d letter to 
 a friend of mine, who though it is of conse- 
 quence has neither answered right or left. 
 We have been much in want of news from 
 the Theatres, having heard that Kean is 
 going to America — but no — not a word. 
 Why I should come on you with all these 
 complaints I cannot explain to myself, 
 especially as I suspect you must be in the 
 country. Do answer me soon for I really 
 must know something. I must steer my- 
 self by the rudder of Information. . . . 
 
 Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 
 
 127. TO THE SAME 
 
 Winchester, September 5 [1819] . 
 My dear Taylor — This morning I re- 
 ceived yours of the 2d, and with it a letter 
 from Hessey enclosing a Bank post Bill of 
 £30, an ample sum I assure you — more I 
 had no thought of. — You should not have 
 delayed so long in Fleet St. — leading an 
 inactive life as you did was breathing poi- 
 
 son: you will find the country air do more 
 for you than you expect. But it must be 
 proper country air. You must choose a 
 spot. What sort of a place is Retford ? 
 You should have a dry, gravelly, barren, 
 elevated country, open to the currents of 
 air, and such a place is generally furnished 
 with the finest springs — The neighbour- 
 hood of a rich enclosed fulsome manured 
 arable land, especially in a valley and al- 
 most as bad on a flat, would be almost as 
 bad as the smoke of Fleet Street. — Such a 
 place as this was Shanklin, only open to the 
 south-east, and surrounded by hills in every 
 other direction. From this south-east came 
 the damps of the sea; which, having no 
 egress, the air would for days together take 
 on an unhealthy idiosyncracy altogether 
 enervating and weakening as a city smoke 
 — I felt it very much. Since I have been 
 here at Winchester I have been improving 
 in health — it is not so confined — and there 
 is on one side of the City a dry chalky down, 
 where the air is worth Sixpence a pint. So 
 if you do not get better at Retford, do not 
 impute it to your own weakness before 
 you have well considered the Nature of 
 the air and soil — especially as Autumn is 
 encroaching — for the Autumn fog over a 
 rich land is like the steam from cabbage 
 water. What makes the great difference 
 between valesmen, flatlandmen and moun- 
 taineers ? The cultivation of the earth in 
 a great measure — Our health temperament 
 and disposition are taken more (notwith- 
 standing the contradiction of the history of 
 Cain and Abel) from the air we breathe, 
 than is generally imagined. See the differ- 
 ence between a Peasant and a Butcher. — 
 I am convinced a great cause of it is the 
 difference of the air they breathe: the one 
 takes his mingled with the fume of slaugh- 
 ter, the other from the dank exhalement 
 from the glebe; the teeming damp that 
 comes up from the plough-furrow is of 
 great effect in taming the fierceness of a 
 strong man — more than his labour — Let 
 him be mowing furz upon a mountain, and 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 393 
 
 at the day's end his thoughts will run upon 
 a . . . axe if he ever had handled one ; let 
 him leave the plough, and he will think 
 quietly of his supper. Agriculture is the 
 tamer of men — the steam from the earth 
 is like drinking their Mother's milk — it 
 enervates their nature — this appears a 
 great cause of the imbecility of the Chinese: 
 and if this sort of atmosphere is a mitiga- 
 tion to the energy of a strong man, how 
 much more must it injure a weak one un- 
 occupied unexercised — For what is the 
 cause of so many men maintainiug a good 
 state in Cities, but occupation — An idle 
 man, a man who is not sensitively alive to 
 self-interest in a city cannot continue long 
 in good health. This is easily explained — 
 If you were to walk leisurely through an 
 unwholesome path in the fens, with a little 
 liorror of them, you would be sure to have 
 your ague. But let Macbeth cross the 
 same path, with the dagger in the air lead- 
 ing him on, and he would never have an 
 ague or anything like it — You should give 
 these things a serious consideration. Notts, 
 I believe, is a flat county — You should be 
 on the slope of one of the dry barren hills 
 in Somersetshire. I am convinced there is 
 as harmful air to be breathed in the country 
 as in town. I am greatly obliged to you 
 for your letter. Perhaps, if you had had 
 strength and spirits enough, you would have 
 felt offended by my offering a note of hand, 
 or rather expressed it. However, I am 
 sure you will give me credit for not in any- 
 wise mistrusting you : or imagining that 
 70U would take advantage of any power I 
 might give you over me. No — It pro- 
 eeded from my serious resolve not to be a 
 gratuitous borrower, from a great desire to 
 be correct in money matters, to have in my 
 Jesk the Chronicles of them to refer to, 
 md know my worldly nonestate: besides 
 n case of my death such documents would 
 36 but just, if merely as memorials of the 
 "'riendly turns I had done to me — Had I 
 mown of your illness I should not have 
 ivritten in such fiery phrase in my first let- 
 
 ter. I hope that shortly you will be able 
 to bear six times as much. Brown likes 
 the tragedy very much: But he is not a fit 
 judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife 
 to his plot; and of course he will be fond 
 of his child. I do not think I can make 
 you any extracts without spoiling the effect 
 of the whole when you come to read it — 
 I hope you will then not think my labour 
 misspent. Since I finished it, I have fin- 
 ished Lamia, and am now occupied in revis- 
 ing St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Italian. 
 Ariosto I find as diffuse, in parts, as Spen- 
 ser — I understand completely the differ- 
 ence between them. I will cross the letter 
 with some lines from Lamia. [The lines 
 copied are 122-177.] Brown's kindest re- 
 membrances to you — and I am ever your 
 most sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 This is a good sample of the story. 
 Brown is gone to Chichester a- visiting — 
 I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expect- 
 ing accounts of your health. 
 
 128. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 Fleet Street, Monday Morn. 
 [Postmark, Lombard Street, 
 
 September 14, 1819.1 
 
 My dear Girl — I have been hurried 
 to town by a Letter from my brother 
 George ; it is not of the brightest intelli- 
 gence. Am I mad or not ? I came by the 
 Friday night coach and have not yet been 
 to Hampstead. Upon my soul it is not my 
 fault. I cannot resolve to mix any plea- 
 sure with my days : they go one like 
 another, undistinguishable. If I were to 
 see you to-day it would destroy the half 
 comfortable sullenness I enjoy at present 
 into downright perplexities. I love you 
 too much to venture to Hampstead, I feel 
 it is not paying a visit, but venturing into 
 a fire. Que feraije ? as the French novel 
 writers say in fun, and I in earnest : really 
 what can I do ? Knowing well that my 
 life must be passed in fatigue and trouble, 
 I have been endeavouring to wean myself 
 
394 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 from you: for to myself alone what can be 
 much of a misery ? As far as they regard 
 myself I can despise all events : but I can- 
 not cease to love you. This morning I 
 scarcely know what I am doing. I am 
 going to Walthamstow. I shall return to 
 Winchester to-morrow ; whence you shall 
 hear from me in a few days. I am a 
 Coward, I cannot bear the pain of being 
 happy : 't is out of the question : I must 
 admit no thought of it. 
 
 Yours ever affectionately John Keats. 
 
 129. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 Winchester, September [17, 1819], Friday. 
 
 My DEAR George — I was closely em- 
 ployed in reading and composition in this 
 place, whither I had come from Shanklin 
 for the convenience of a library, when I 
 received your last dated 24th July. You 
 will have seen by the short letter I wrote 
 from Shanklin how matters stand between 
 us and Mr. Jennings. They had not at all 
 moved, and I knew no way of overcoming 
 the inveterate obstinacy of our affairs. On 
 receiving your last, I immediately took a 
 place in the same night's coach for London. 
 Mr. Abbey behaved extremely well to me, 
 appointed Monday evening at seven to 
 meet me, and observed that he should 
 drink tea at that hour. I gave him the 
 enclosed note and showed him the last leaf 
 of yours to me. He really appeared anx- 
 ious about it, and promised he would for- 
 ward your money as quickly as possible. 
 I think I mentioned that Walton was dead. 
 ... He will apply to Mr. Gliddon the 
 partner, endeavour to get rid of Mr. Jen- 
 ning's claim, and be expeditious. He has 
 received an answer from my letter to Fry. 
 That is something. We are certainly in a 
 very low estate — I say we, for I am in 
 such a situation, that were it not for the 
 assistance of Brown and Taylor, I must be 
 as badly off as a man can be. I could not 
 raise any sum by the promise of any poem, 
 no, not by the mortgage of my intellect. 
 
 We must wait a little while. I reallj' have 
 hopes of success. I liave finished a tragedy, 
 which if it succeeds will enable me to sell 
 what I may have in manuscript to a good 
 advantage. I have passed my time in 
 reading, writing, and fretting — the last I 
 intend to give up, and stick to the other 
 two. They are the only chances of benefit 
 to us. Your wants will be a fresh spur to 
 me. I assure you you shall more than 
 share what I can get wliilst I am still young. 
 The time may come when age will make 
 me more selfish. I have not been well 
 treated by the world, and yet I have, capi- 
 tally well. I do not know a person to 
 whom so many purse-strings would fly open 
 as to me, if I could possibly take advantage 
 of them, which I cannot do, for none of 
 the owners of these purses are rich. Your 
 present situation I will not suffer myself to 
 dwell upon. When misfortunes are so real, 
 we are glad enough to escape them and 
 the thotight of them. I cannot help thinTc- 
 ing Mr. Audubon a dishonest man. Why 
 did he make you believe that he was a man 
 of property ? How is it that his circum- 
 stances have altered so suddenly ? In 
 truth, I do not believe you fit to deal with 
 the world, or at least the American world. 
 But, good God ! who can avoid these 
 chances ? You have done your best. Take 
 matters as coolly as you can ; and confi- 
 dently expecting help from England, act as 
 if no help were nigh. Mine, I am sure, is 
 a tolerable tragedy ; it would have been a 
 bank to me, if just as I had finished it, 
 I had not heard of Kean's resolution to go 
 to America. That was the worst news I 
 could have had. There is no actor can do 
 the principal character besides Kean. At 
 Covent Garden there is a great chance of 
 its being damm'd. Were it to succeed 
 even there it wonld lift me out of the mire; 
 I mean the mire of a bad reputation which 
 is continually rising against me. My name 
 with the literary fashionables is vulgar. I 
 am a weaver-boy to them. A tragedy would 
 lift me out of this mess, and mess it is as 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 395 
 
 far as regards our pockets. But be not 
 cast down any more tliaii I am; I feel that 
 I can bear real ills better than imaginary 
 ones. Whenever I find myself growing- 
 vapourish, I rouse myself, wash, and put 
 on a clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes, 
 tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact 
 adonise as I were going out. Then, all 
 clean and comfortable, I sit down to write. 
 jThis I find the greatest relief. Besides I 
 jam becoming accustomed to the privations 
 lof the pleasures of sense. In the midst of 
 khe world I live like a hermit. I have for- 
 igot how to lay plans for the enjoyment of 
 lany pleasure. 1 feel I can bear anything, 
 any misery, even imprisonment, so long 
 s I have neither wife nor child. Perhaps 
 ou will say yours are j-our only comfort ; 
 hey must be. I returned to Winchester 
 the day before yesterday, and am now here 
 filone, for Brown, some days before I left, 
 iweut to Bedliampton, and there he will be 
 for the next fortnight. The term of his 
 house will be up in the middle of next 
 month when we shall return to Hampstead. 
 On Sunday, I dined with your mother and 
 Hen and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs. 
 and Miss Millar were in the country. 
 Cliailes had been but a few days returned 
 From Paris. I daresay you will have let- 
 ters expressing the motives of his journey. 
 Mrs. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as 
 quiet as two mice there alone. I did not 
 show your last. I thought it better not, 
 for better times will certainly come, and 
 why should they be unhappy in the mean- 
 Lime ? On Monday morning I went to 
 VValthamstow. Fanny looked better than 
 [ had seen her for some time. She com- 
 alaius of not hearing from yon, appealing 
 o me as if it were half my fault. I had 
 3een so long in retirement that London ap- 
 peared a very odd place. I could not make 
 )ut I had so many acquaintances, and it 
 ivas a whole day before I could feel among 
 lien. I had another strange sensation. 
 There was not one house I felt any plea- 
 sure to call at. Reynolds was in the coun- 
 
 try, and, saving himself, I am prejudiced 
 against all that family. Dilke and his wife 
 and child were in the country. Taylor was 
 at Nottingham. I was out, and everybody 
 was out. I walked about the streets as in 
 a strange land. Rice was the only one at 
 home. I passed some time with him. I 
 know him better since we have lived a 
 mouth together in the Isle of Wight. He 
 is the most sensible and even wise man I 
 know. He has a few John Bull prejudices, 
 but they improve him. His illness is at 
 times alarming. We are great friends, and 
 there is no one I like to pass a day with 
 better. Martin called in to bid him good- 
 bye before he set out for Dublin. If you 
 would like to hear one of his jokes, here is 
 one which, at the time, we laughed at a 
 
 good deal: A Miss , with three young 
 
 ladies, one of them Martin's sister, had 
 come a-gadding in the Isle of Wight and 
 took for a few days a cottage opposite ours. 
 We dined with them one day, and as I was 
 
 saying they had fish. Miss said she 
 
 thought they tasted of the boat. ' No ' says 
 Martin, very seriously, 'they haven't been 
 kept long enough.' I saw Haslam. He is 
 very much occupied with love and business, 
 being one of Mr. Saunders' executors and 
 lover to a young woman. He showed me 
 her picture by Severn. I think she is, 
 though not very cunning, too cunning for 
 him. Nothing strikes me so forcibly with 
 a sense of the ridiculous as love. A man 
 in love I do think cuts the sorriest figure 
 in the world ; queer, when I know a poor 
 fool to be really in pain about it, I could 
 burst out laughing in his face. His pa- 
 thetic visage becomes irresistible. Not that 
 I take Haslam as a pattern for lovers; he is 
 a very worthy man and a good friend. His 
 love is very amusing. Somewhere in the 
 Spectator is related an account of a man 
 inviting a party of stutterers and squinters 
 to his table. It would please me more to 
 scrape together a party of lovers — not to 
 dinner, but to tea. There would be no 
 fighting as among knights of old. 
 
396 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 [Here follow the lines given on p. 251.] 
 You see, I cannot get on without writing, 
 as boys do at school, a few nonsense verses. 
 I begin them and before I have written six 
 the whim has passed — if there is anything 
 deserving so respectable a name in them. 
 I shall put in a bit of information any- 
 where, just as it strikes me. Mr. Abbey is 
 to write to me as soon as he can bring 
 matters to bear, and then I am to go to 
 town and tell him the means of forwarding 
 to you through Capper and Hazlewood. I 
 wonder I did not put this before. I shall 
 go on to-morrow ; it is so fine now I must 
 take a bit of a walk. 
 
 Saturday [September 18], 
 With my inconstant disposition it is no 
 wonder that this morning, amid all our bad 
 times and misfortunes, I should feel so 
 alert and well-spirited. At this moment 
 you are perhaps in a very different state of 
 mind. It is because my hopes are ever 
 paramount to my despair. I have been 
 reading over a part of a short poem I have 
 composed lately, called Lamia, and I am 
 certain there is that sort of fire in it that 
 must take hold of people some way. Give 
 them either pleasant or unpleasant sensa- 
 tion — what they want is a sensation of 
 some sort. I wish I could pitch the key of 
 your spirits as high as mine is ; but your 
 organ-loft is beyond the reach of my voice. 
 I admire the exact admeasurement of 
 my niece in your mother's letter — O ! the 
 little span-long elf. I am not in the least 
 a judge of the proper weight and size of an 
 infant. Never trouble yourselves about 
 that. She is sure to be a fine woman. Let 
 her have only delicate nails both on hands 
 and feet, and both as small as a May-fly's, 
 who will live you his life on a 3 square inch 
 of oak-leaf ; and nails she must have, quite 
 different from the market-women here, who 
 plough into butter and make a quarter 
 pound taste of it. I intend to write a let- 
 ter to your wife, and there I may say more 
 on this little plump subject — I hope she 's 
 
 plump. Still harping on my daughter. 
 This Winchester is a place tolerably well 
 suited to me. There is a fine cathedral, a 
 college, a Roman Catholic chapel, a Metho- 
 dist do., and Independent do. ; and there 
 is not one loom, or anything like manufac- 
 turing beyond bread and butter, in the 
 whole city. There are a number of rich 
 Catholics in the place. It is a respectable, 
 ancient, and aristocratic place, and more- 
 over it contains a nunnery. Our set are by 
 no means so hail fellow well met on lit- 
 erary subjects as we were wont to be. 
 Reynolds has turn'd to the law. By the bye, 
 he brought out a little piece at the Lyceum 
 call'd One, Two, Three, Four : by Adver- 
 tisement. It met with complete success. 
 The meaning of this odd title is explained 
 when I tell you the principal actor is aj 
 mimic, who takes off four of our best per- 1 
 formers in the course of the farce. Our 
 stage is loaded with mimics. I did not see 
 the piece, being out of town the whole time 
 it was in progress. Dilke is entirely swal- 
 lowed up in his boy. It is really lament- 
 able to what a pitch he carries a sort of 
 parental mania. I had a letter from him 
 at Shanklin. He went on, a word or two 
 about the Isle of Wight, which is a bit of 
 hobby horse of his, but he soon deviated to 
 his boy. ' I am sitting,' says he, ' at the 
 
 window expecting my boy from .' I 
 
 suppose I told you somewhere that he lives 
 in AVestminster, and his boy goes to school 
 there, where he gets beaten, and every 
 bruise he has, and I daresay deserves, is 
 very bitter to Dilke. The place I am 
 speaking of puts me in mind of a circum- 
 stance which occurred lately at Dilke's. I 
 think it very rich and dramatic and quite 
 illustrative of the little quiet fun that he 
 will enjoy sometimes. First I must tell 
 you that their house is at the corner of 
 Great Smith Street, so that some of the 
 windows look into one street, and the back 
 windows look into another around the 
 corner. Dilke had some old people to din- 
 ner — I know not who, but there were two 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 397 
 
 old ladies among tlieui. Brown was there 
 — they had kuowii him from a child. 
 Brown is very pleasant with old women, 
 and on that day it seems behaved himself 
 so winningly that they became hand and 
 glove together, and a little complimentarj-. 
 Brown was obliged to depart early. He 
 bid them good-bye and passed into the 
 passage. No sooner was his back tnrned 
 than the old women began lauding him. 
 When Brown had reached the street door, 
 and was just going, Dilke threw up the win- 
 dow and called : ' Brown ! Brown ! They 
 say you look younger than ever you did ! ' 
 Brown went on, and had just turned the 
 corner into the other street when Dilke 
 appeared at the back window, crying : 
 ' Brown ! Brown ! By God, they say you're 
 handsome ! ' You see what a many words 
 it requires to give any identity to a thing I 
 could have told you in half a minute. 
 
 I have been reading lately Burton's 
 Anatomy of Melancholy, and I think you 
 will be very much amused with a page I 
 here copy for you. I call it a Feu de Joie 
 round the batteries of Fort St. Hyphen-de- 
 Phrase on the birthday of the Digamma. 
 The whole alphabet was drawn up in a 
 phalanx on the corner of an old dictionary, 
 band playing, * Amo, Amas,' etc. 
 
 Every lover admires his mistress, though 
 she be very deformed of herself, ill-favoured, 
 •wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd, 
 tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face, 
 or a thin, lean, ehitty face, have clouds in her 
 face, be crooked, dry, bald, goggle-ey'd, blear- 
 ey'd or with staring eys, she looks likeasquis'd 
 cat, holds her head still awry, heavy, dull, 
 hollow-mouthed, Persean hook-nosed, have a 
 sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great 
 nose, nare simo patuloque, a nose like a promon- 
 tory, gubber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, im- 
 even, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches 
 beard, her breath stink all over the room, her 
 nose drop winter and summer with a Bavarian 
 (poke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared, 
 [with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too, 
 /pendulis niammis, her dugs like two double jugs, 
 ior else no dugs in the other extream, bloody 
 fain fingers, she have filthy long unpaired 
 ' nails, scabbed hands or wrists, a tan'd skin, a 
 
 rotten carkass, crooked back, she stoops, is 
 lame, splea-footed, as slender in the middle as a 
 cotv in the waste, gowty legs, her ankles hang 
 over her shooes, her feet stink, she breed lice, 
 a mere chaugehng, a very monster, an auf e im- 
 perfect, her whole complexion savours, an 
 harsh voyce, incondite gesture, vile gait, a vast 
 virago, or au ugly tit, a slug, a fat fustilugs, a 
 truss, a long lean rawbone, a skeleton, a sneaker 
 (si qua latent meliora puta), and to thy judgment 
 looks like a Mard in a lanthorn, whom thou 
 couldst not fancy for a world, but hatest, 
 loathest, and woiddst have spit in her face, or 
 l)low thj^ nose in her bosome, remedium amo- 
 ris to another man. a dowdj', a shit, a scold, 
 a nastj', rank, rammy, filthy, beastly quean, 
 dishonest peradventure, obscene, base, beg- 
 gerly, rude, foolish, untaught, peevish, Irus' 
 daughter, Thersite's sister, Grobian's schollar ; 
 if he love her once, he admii-es her for aU this, 
 he takes no notice of any such errors, or im- 
 perfections of body or minde.' 
 
 There's a dose for you. Fire ! ! I 
 would give ray favourite leg to have writ- 
 ten this as a speech in a play. With what 
 effect could Matthews pop-gun it at the 
 pit ! This I think will amuse you more 
 than so much poetry. Of that I do not 
 like to copy any, as I am afraid it is too 
 mal a propos for you at present ; and j'et 
 I will send you some, for by the time you 
 receive it, things in England may have 
 taken a different turn. When I left Mr. 
 Abbey on Monday evening, I walked up 
 Cheapside, but returned to put some letters 
 in the post, and met him again in Buckles- 
 bury. We walked together through the 
 Poultry as far as the baker's shop he has 
 some concern in — He spoke of it in such 
 a way to me, I thought he wanted me to 
 make an offer to assist him in it. I do 
 believe if I could be a hatter I might be 
 one. He seems anxious about me. He 
 began blowing up Lord Byron while I was 
 sitting with him : ' However, may be the 
 fellow says true now and then,' at which 
 he picked up a magazine, and read some 
 extracts from Don Juan (Lord Byron's last 
 flash poem), and particularly one against 
 literary ambition. I do think I must be 
 well spoken of among sets, for Hodgkin- 
 
398 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 son is more than polite, and the coffee 
 German endeavoured to be very close to 
 me the other night at Covent Garden, 
 where I went at half price before I tumbled 
 into bed. Every one, however distant an 
 acquaintance, behaves in the most conciliat- 
 ing manner to me. You will see I speak 
 of this as a matter of interest. On the 
 next sheet I will give you a little poli- 
 tics. 
 
 In every age there has been in England, 
 for two or three centuries, subjects of 
 great popular interest ou the carpet, go 
 that however great the uproar, one can 
 scarcely prophecy any material change in 
 the Government, for as loud disturbances 
 have agitated the country many times. 
 All civilized countries become gradually 
 more enlightened, and there should be a 
 continual change for the better. Look at 
 this country at present, and remember it 
 when it was even thought impious to doubt 
 the justice of a trial by combat. From 
 that time there has been a gradual change. 
 Three great changes have been in progress: 
 first for the better, next for the worse, and 
 a third for the better once more. The first 
 was the gradual annihilation of the tyranny 
 of the nobles, when kings found it their 
 interest to conciliate the common people, 
 elevate tliem, and be just to them. Just 
 when baronial power ceased, and before 
 standing armies were so dangerous, taxes 
 were few, kings were lifted by the peo- 
 ple over the heads of their nobles, and 
 those people held a rod over kings. The 
 change for the worse in Europe was again 
 this: the obligation of kings to the multi- 
 tude began to be forgotten. Custom had 
 made noblemen the humble servants of 
 kings. Then kings turned to the nobles 
 as the adorners of their power, the slaves 
 of it, and from the people as creatures 
 continually endeavouring to check them. 
 Then in every kingdom there was a 
 long struggle of kings to destroy all 
 popular privileges. The English were 
 the only people in Europe who made a 
 
 grand kick at this. They were slaves 
 to Henry VIII, but were freemen under 
 William III at the time the French were 
 abject slaves under Louis XIV. The ex- 
 ample of England, and the liberal writers 
 of France and England, sowed the seed of 
 opposition to this tyranny, and it was swell- 
 ing in the ground till it burst out in the 
 French Revolution. That has had an un- 
 lucky termination. It put a stop to the 
 rapid progress of free sentiments in Eng- 
 land, and gave our Court hopes of turning 
 back to the despotism of the eighteenth 
 century. They have made a handle of 
 this event in every way to undermine our 
 * freedom. They spread a horrid supersti- 
 tion against all innovation and improve- 
 ment. The present struggle in England of 
 the people is to destroy this superstition. 
 What has roused them to do it is their 
 distresses. Perhaps, on this account, the 
 present distresses of this nation are a 
 fortunate thing though so horrid in their 
 experience. You will see I mean that the 
 French Revolution put a temporary stop 
 to this third change — the change for the 
 better — Now it is in progress again, and 
 I think it is an effectual one. This is no 
 contest between Whig and Tory, but be- 
 tween right and wrong. There is scarcely 
 a grain of party spirit now in England. 
 Right and wrong considered by each man 
 abstractedly, is the fashion. I know very 
 little of these things. I am convinced, 
 however, that apparently small causes 
 make great alterations. There are little 
 signs whereby we may know how matters 
 are going on This makes the business of 
 Carlisle the bookseller of great amount in 
 my mind. He has been selling deistical 
 pamphlets, republished Tom Paine, and 
 manj' other works held in superstitious 
 horror. He even has been selling, for 
 some time, immense numbers of a work 
 called The Deist, which comes out in 
 weekly numbers. For this conduct he, I 
 think, has had about a dozen indictments 
 issued against him, for which he has found 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 399 
 
 bail to the amount of many thousand 
 pounds. After all, they are afraid to pro- 
 secute. They are afraid of his defence ; it 
 would be published in all the papers all 
 over the empire. They shudder at this. 
 The trials would light a flame they could 
 ttot extinguish. Do you not think this of 
 ^reat import ? You will hear by the 
 papers of the proceedings at Manchester, 
 md Hunt's triumphal entry into Lon- 
 don. ^^ It would take me a whole day 
 md a quire of paper to give you any- 
 thing like detail. I will merely mention 
 phat it is calculated that 30,000 people 
 vere in the streets waiting for hftn. The 
 ivhole distance from the Angel at Islington 
 io the Crown and Anchor was lined with 
 nultitudes. 
 
 As 1 passed Colnaghi's window I saw a 
 profile portrait of Sandt, the destroyer of 
 iotzebue. His very look must interest 
 jvery one in his favour. I suppose they 
 lave represented him in his college dress. 
 Je seems to me like a young Abelard — a 
 ine mouth, cheek bones (and this is no 
 oke) full of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar 
 lose, and plump temples. 
 
 On looking over some letters I found the 
 me I wrote, intended for you, from the 
 oot of Helvell3'n to Liverpool ; but you 
 lad sailed, and therefore it was returned to 
 ne. It contained, among other nonsense, 
 m acrostic of my sister's name — and a 
 )retty long name it is. I wrote it in a 
 jreat hurry which you will see. Indeed I 
 vould not copy it if I thought it would 
 !ver be seen by any but yourselves. [See 
 ). 243.] 
 
 I sent you in my first packet some of 
 ny Scotch letters. I find I have one kept 
 )ack, which was written in the most iuter- 
 ssting part of our tour, and will copy part 
 )f it in the hope you will not find it unanius- 
 ng. I would give now anything for Rich- 
 irdson's power of making mountains of 
 nolehills. 
 
 Incipit epistola caledoniensa — 
 
 ' Dunancullen,' 
 (I did not know the day of the month, for 
 I find I have not added it. Brown must 
 have been asleep). 'Just after my last 
 had gone to the post ' (before I go any 
 further, I must premise that I would send 
 the identical letter, instead of taking the 
 trouble to copy it ; I do not do so, for it 
 would spoil my notion of the neat manner 
 in which I intend to fold these three gen- 
 teel sheets. The original is written on 
 coarse paper, and the soft one would ride 
 in the post bag very uneasy. Perhaps 
 there might be a quarrel * . . . 
 
 I ought to make a large ' ? ' here, but I 
 had better take the opportunity of telling 
 j'ou I have got rid of my haunting sore 
 throat, and conduct myself in a manner not 
 to catch another. 
 
 You speak of Lord Byron and me. There 
 is this great difference between us : he de- 
 scribes what he sees — I describe what I 
 imagine. Mine is the hardest task ; now 
 see the immense difference. The Edin- 
 burgh Reviewers are afraid to touch upon 
 my poem. They do not know what to 
 make of it ; they do not like to condemn it, 
 and they will not praise it for fear. They 
 are as shy of it as I should be of wearing a 
 Quaker's hat. The fact is, they have no 
 real taste. They dare not compromise their 
 judgments on so puzzling a question. If 
 on my next publication they should praise 
 me, and so lug in Endymion, I will address 
 them in a manner they will not at all relish. 
 The cowardliness of the Edinburgh is more 
 than the abuse of the Quarterly. 
 
 * Keats here copies, with slight changes and 
 abridgments, his letter to Tom of July 2.3, 1818 
 (see above, p. 320) ending with the lines written 
 after visiting Staffa : as to which he adds, ' I 
 find I must keep niemorandums of the verses 
 I send you, for I do not remember whether I 
 have sent the following lines upon Staffa. I 
 hope not ; 't would be a horrid bore to you, 
 especially after reading this dull specimen of 
 description. For myself I hate descriptions. 
 I woidd not send it if it were not mine.' 
 
400 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Monday [September 20]. 
 This day is a grand day for Winchester. 
 They elect the mayor. It was indeed high 
 time the place should have some sort of 
 excitement. There was nothing going ou 
 — all asleep. Not an old maid's sedan re- 
 turning from a card party ; and if any old 
 women have got tipsy at christenings, they 
 have not exposed themselves in the street. 
 The first night, though, of our arrival here 
 there was a slight uproar took place at 
 about ten of the clock. We heard dis- 
 tinctly a noise patting down the street, as 
 of a walking-cane of the good old dowager 
 breed ; and a little minute after we heard 
 a less voice observe, ' What a noise the 
 ferril made — it must be loose.' Brown 
 wanted to call the constables, but I ob- 
 served it was only a little breeze, and 
 would soon pass over. The side streets 
 here are excessively maiden-lady-like ; the 
 doorsteps always fresh from the flannel. 
 The knockers have a very staid, serious, 
 nay almost awful quietness about them. I 
 never saw so quiet a collection of lions' 
 and rams' heads. The doors most part 
 black, with a little brass handle just above 
 the keyhole, so that you may easily shut 
 yourself out of your own house. He ! He ! 
 There is none of your Lady Bellaston ring- 
 ing and rapping here ; no thundering 
 Jupiter-footmen, no opera-treble tattoos, 
 but a modest lifting up of the knocker by 
 a set of little wee old fingers that peep 
 through the gray mittens, and a dying fall 
 thereof. The great beauty of poetry is 
 that it makes everything in every place in- 
 teresting. The palatine Venice and the 
 abbotine Winchester are equally interest- 
 ing. Some time since I began a poem 
 called ' The Eve of St. Mark,' quite in the 
 spirit of town quietude. I think I will 
 give you the sensation of walking about an 
 old country town in a coolish evening. I 
 know not whether I shall ever finish it ; I 
 will give it as far as I have gone. Ut 
 tibi placeat — 
 
 [The Eve of St. Mark. See p. 196.] 
 
 I hope you will like this for all its care- 
 lessness. I must take an opportunity here 
 to observe that though I am writing to you, 
 I am all the while writing at your wife. 
 This explanation will account for my speak- 
 ing sometimes hoity-toity-ishly, whereas if 
 you were alone, I should sport a little more 
 sober sadness. I am like a squinty gentle- 
 man, who, saying soft things to one lady 
 ogles another, or what is as bad, in arguing 
 with a person on his left hand, appeals 
 with his eyes to one on the right. His 
 vision is elastic ; he bends it to a certain 
 object, but having a patent spring it flies off. 
 Writing has this disadvantage of speaking 
 — one cannot write a wink, or a nod, or a 
 grin, or a purse of the lips, or a smile — 
 law! One cannot put one's finger to one's 
 nose, or yerk ye in the ribs, or lay hold of 
 your button in writing ; but in all the most 
 lively and titterly parts of my letter you 
 must not fail to imagine me, as the epic 
 poets say, now here, now there ; now with 
 one foot pointed at the ceiling, now with 
 another ; now with my pen on my ear, now 
 with my elbow in my mouth. O, my friends, 
 you lose the action, and attitude is every- 
 thing, as Fuseli said when he took up his leg 
 like a musket to shoot a swallow just dart-' 
 ing behind his shoulder. And yet does 
 not the word ' mum ' go for one's finger 
 beside the nose ? I hope it does. I have 
 to make use of the word ' mum ' before I 
 tell you that Severn has got a little baby — 
 all his own, let us hope. He told Brown 
 he had given up painting, and had turned 
 modeller. I hope sincerely 't is not a party 
 
 concern — that no Mr. or is the 
 
 real Pinxit and Severn the poor Sculpsit to 
 this work of art. You know he has long- 
 studied in the life Academy. 'Haydon — 
 yes,' your wife will say, * Here is a sura 
 total account of Haydon again. I wonder 
 your brother don't put a monthly bulletin 
 in the Philadelphia papers about him. I 
 won't hear — no. Skip down to the bottom, 
 and there are some more of his verses ■ 
 skip (luUaby-by) them too.' — ' No, let 's 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 401 
 
 go regularly through.' — * I won't hear a 
 word about Haydon — bless the child, how 
 rioty she is — there, go on there.' 
 
 Now, pray go on here, for I have a few 
 words to say about Haydon. Before this 
 chancery threat had cut off every legiti- 
 mate supply of cash from me, I had a little 
 at ray disposal. Haydon being very much 
 fn want, I lent him £30 of it. Now in this 
 see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the 
 aground, and this chancery business riveted 
 pae there, so that I was sitting in that un- 
 3asy position where the seat slants so 
 abominably. I applied to him for pay- 
 jnent. He could not. That was no won- 
 der ; but Goodman Delver, where was the 
 vonder then ? Why marry in this : he 
 lid not seem to care much about it, and let 
 ne go without my money with almost non- 
 balance, when he ought to have sold his 
 (rawings to supply me. I shall perhaps 
 till be acquainted with him, but for friend- 
 hip, that is at an end. Brown has been 
 ly friend in this. He got him to sign a 
 lond, payable at three months. Haslam 
 as assisted me with the return of part of 
 le money you lent him. 
 Hunt — ' there,' says your wife, * there 's 
 [lother of those dull folk ! Not a syllable 
 bout my friends ? Well, Hunt — What 
 bout Hunt ? You little thing, see how she 
 ites my finger ! My ! is not this a tooth ? ' 
 V^ell when you have done with the tooth, 
 jad on. Not a syllable about your friends ! 
 [ere are some syllables. As far as I could 
 noke things on the Sunday before last, 
 lus matters stood in Henrietta Street. 
 [enry was. a greater blade then ever I re- 
 member to have seen him. He had on a 
 ery nice coat, a becoming waistcoat, and 
 uff trousers. I think his face has lost a 
 ttle of the Spanish-brown, but no flesh. 
 [e carved some beef exactly to suit my 
 apetite, as if I had been measured for it. 
 s I stood looking out of the window with 
 harles, after dinner, quizzing the passen- 
 irs, — at which I am sorry to say he is too 
 >t, — I observed that this young son of a 
 
 gun's whiskers had begun to curl and curl, 
 little twists and twists, all down the sides 
 of his face, getting properly thickest on the 
 angles of the visage. He certainly will 
 have a notable pair of whiskers. ' How 
 shiny your gown is in front,' says Charles. 
 ' Why don't you see ? 't is an apron,' says 
 Henry; whereat I scrutinised, and behold 
 your mother had a purple stuff gown on, 
 and over it an apron of the same colour, 
 being the same cloth that was used for the 
 lining. And furthermore to account for 
 the shining, it was the first day of wearing. 
 I guessed as much of the gown — but that 
 is eutre nous. Charles likes England better 
 than France. They've got a fat, smiling, 
 fair cook as ever you saw ; she is a little 
 lame, but that improves her ; it makes her 
 go more swimmingly. When I asked ' Is 
 Mrs. Wylie within ? ' she gave me such 
 a large five-and-thirty-year-old smile, it 
 made me look round upon the fourth stair — 
 it might have been the fifth ; but that 's a 
 puzzle. I shall never be able, if I were to 
 set myself a recollecting for a year, to re- 
 collect. I think I remember two or three 
 specks in her teeth, but I really can't say 
 exactly. Your mother said something about 
 Miss Keasle — what that was is quite a 
 riddle to me now, whether she had got 
 fatter or thinner, or broader or longer, 
 straiter, or had taken to the zigzags — 
 whether she had taken to or had left off 
 asses' milk. That, by the bye, she ought 
 never to touch. How much better it would 
 be to put her out to nurse with the wise 
 woman of Brentford. I can say no more 
 on so spare a subject. Miss Millar now is 
 a different morsel, if one knew how to 
 divide and subdivide, theme her out into 
 sections and subsections, lay a little on 
 every part of her body as it is divided, in 
 common with all her fellow - creatures, 
 in Moor's Almanack. But, alas, I have not 
 heard a word about her, no cue to begin 
 upon : there was indeed a buzz about her 
 and her mother's being at old Mrs. So and 
 So's, who was like to die, as the Jews say. 
 
402 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 But I dare say, keeping up their dialect, 
 she was not like to die. I must tell you a 
 good thing Rej'uolds did. 'T was the best 
 thing he ever said. You know at taking 
 leave of a party at a doorway, sometimes a 
 man dallies and foolishes aud gets awkward, 
 and does not know how to make off to ad- 
 vantage. Good-bye — well, good-bye — 
 and yet he does not go; good-bye, and so 
 on, — well, good bless you — you know 
 what I mean. Now Reynolds was in this 
 predicament, and got out of it in a very 
 witty way. He was leaving us at Hamp- 
 stead. He delayed, and we were pressing 
 at him, and even said ' be off,' at which he 
 put the tails of his coat between his legs 
 and sneak'd off as nigh like a spaniel as 
 could be. He went with flying colours. 
 This is very clever. I must, being upon 
 the subject, tell you another good thing of 
 him. He began, for the service it might 
 be of to him in the law, to learn French ; 
 he had lessons at the cheap rate of 2s. 6d. 
 per fag, and observed to Brown, ' Gad,' 
 says he, 'the man sells his lessons so cheap 
 he must have stolen 'era.' You have heard 
 of Hook, the farce writer. Horace Smith 
 said to one who asked him if he knew 
 Hook, ' Oh yes. Hook and I are very in- 
 timate.' There 's a page of wit for you, to 
 put John Bunyan's emblems out of coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Tuesday [September 21]. 
 You see I keep adding a sheet daily till 
 I send the packet off, which I sliall not do 
 for a few days, as I am inclined to write a 
 good deal ; for there can be nothing so re- 
 membrancing and enchaining as a good 
 long letter, be it composed of what it may. 
 From the time you left me our friends say 
 I have altered completely — am not the 
 same person. Perhaps in this letter I am, 
 for in a letter one takes np one's existence 
 from the time we last met. I daresay you 
 have altered also — every man does — our 
 bodies every seven years are completely 
 material'd. Seven years ago it was not this 
 
 hand that clinched itself against Hammond. 
 We are like the relict garments of a saint 
 — the same and not the same, for the care- 
 ful monks patch it and patch it till there 's 
 not a thread of the original garment left, 
 aud still they show it for St. Anthony's 
 shirt. This is the reason why men who 
 have been bosom friends, on being separated 
 for any number of years meet coldly, neither 
 of them knowing why. The fact is they are 
 both altered. 
 
 Men who live together have a silent 
 moulding and influencing power over each 
 other. They interassimilate. 'T is an un- 
 easy thought, that in seven years the same 
 hands cannot greet each other again. All 
 this may be obviated by a wilful and dra- 
 matic exercise of our minds towards each 
 other. Some think I have lost that poetic 
 ardour and fire 't is said I once had — the 
 fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, 
 I hope I shall substitute a more thoughtful 
 and quiet power. I am more frequently 
 now contented to read and think, but now 
 and then haunted with ambitious thoughts. 
 Quieter in my pulse, improved in my diges- 
 tion, exerting myself against vexing specu- 
 lations, scarcely content to write the best 
 verses for the fever they leave behind. I 
 want to compose without tliis fever. I hope 
 I one day shall. You would scarcely ima- 
 gine I could live alone so comfortably. 
 ' Kepen in solitarinesse.' I told Anne, the 
 servant here, the other day, to say I was 
 not at home if any one should call. I am 
 not certain how I should endure loneliness 
 and bad weather together. Now the time is 
 beautiful. I take a walk every day for an 
 hour before diimer, and this is generally my 
 walk : I go out the back gate, across one 
 street into the cathedral yard, which is al- 
 ways interesting ; there I pass under the 
 trees along a paved path, pass the beautiful 
 front of the cathedral, turn to the left 
 under a stone doorway, — then I am on the 
 other side of the building, — which leaving 
 behind me, I pass on through two college- 
 like squares, seemingly built for the dwel- 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 403 
 
 ling-place of deans and prebendaries, gar- 
 nished with grass and shaded with trees; 
 then I pass through one of the old city 
 gates, and then you are in one college 
 street, through which I pass and at the 
 end thereof crossing some meadows, and 
 at last a country alley of gardens, I ar- 
 rive, that is my worship arrives, at the 
 foundation of St. Cross, which is a very 
 interesting old place, both for its gothic 
 tower and alms square and for the ap- 
 propriation of its rich rents to a relation 
 of the Bishop of Winchester. Then I pass 
 across St. Cross meadows till you come to 
 the most beautifully clear river — now this 
 is only one mile of my walk. I will spare 
 you the other two till after supper, when 
 they would do you more good. You 
 must avoid going the first mile best after 
 dinner — 
 
 [Wednesday, September 22.] 
 I could almost advise you to put by this 
 nonsense until you are lifted out of your 
 difficulties; but when you come to this part, 
 feel with confidence what I now feel, that 
 though there can be no stop put to trou- 
 bles we are inheritors of, there can be, 
 and must be, an end to immediate diffi- 
 culties. Rest in the confidence that I will 
 not omit any exertion to benefit you by 
 some means or other — If I cannot remit 
 you hundreds, I will tens, and if not that, 
 ones. Let the next year be managed by 
 you as well as possible — the next month, 
 I mean, for I trust you will soon re- 
 ceive Abbey's remittance. What he can 
 send you will not be a sufficient capital 
 to ensure you any command in America. 
 What he has of mine I have nearly antici- 
 pated by debts, so I would advise you not 
 to sink it, but to live upon it, in hopes of 
 my being able to increase it. To this end 
 I will devote whatever I may gain for a 
 few years to come, at which period I must 
 begin to think of a security of my own 
 comforts, when quiet will become more 
 pleasant to me than the world. Still I 
 would have you doubt my success. 'T is at 
 
 present the cast of a die with me. You say, 
 ' These things will be a great torment to 
 me.' I shall not suffer them to be so, I 
 sliall only exert myself the more, while the 
 seriousness of their nature will prevent me 
 from nursing up imaginary griefs. I have 
 not had the blue devils once since I received 
 your last. I am advised not to publish 
 till it is seen whether the tragedy will or 
 not succeed. Should it, a few months may 
 see me in the way of acquiring property. 
 Should it not, it will be a drawback, and 
 I shall have to perform a longer literai'y 
 pilgrimage. You will perceive that it is 
 (juite out of my interest to come to Amer- 
 ica. What could I do there ? How could 
 I employ myself out of reach of libraries ? 
 You do not mention the name of the gentle- 
 man who assists you. 'T is an extraordinary 
 thing. How could you do without that 
 assistance ? I will not trust myself with 
 brooding over this. The following is an 
 extract from a letter of Reynolds to me: — 
 
 ' I am glad to hear you are getting on so 
 well with your writings. I hope you are not 
 neglecting the revision of your poems for 
 the press, from which I expect more than 
 you do.' 
 
 Tlie first thought that struck me on 
 reading your last was to mortgage a poem 
 to Murray, but on more consideration, I 
 made my mind not to do so; my reputation 
 is very low; he would not have negotiated 
 my bill of intellect, or given me a very 
 small sum. I should have bound myself 
 down for some time. 'Tis best to meet 
 present misfortunes; not for a momentary 
 good to sacrifice great benefits which one's 
 own untrammell'd and free industry may 
 bring one in the end. In all this do never 
 tiiink of me as in any way unhappy: I shall 
 not be so. I have a great pleasure in think- 
 ing of my responsibility to you, and shall 
 do myself the greatest luxury if I can suc- 
 ceed in any way so as to be of assistance to 
 you. We shall look back upon these times, 
 even before our eyes are at all dim — I am 
 convinced of it. But be careful of those 
 
404 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 Americans. I could almost advise you to 
 come, whenever you have the sum of £500, 
 to England. Those Americans will, I am 
 afraid, still fleece you. If ever you think 
 of such a thing, you must bear in mind the 
 very different state of society here, — the 
 immense difficulties of the times, the great 
 sum required per annum to maintain your- 
 self in any decency. In fact the whole is 
 with Providence. I know not how to advise 
 you but by advising you to advise with 
 yourself. In your next tell me at large 
 your thoughts about America — what 
 chance there is of succeeding there, for it 
 appears to me you have as yet been some- 
 how deceived. I cannot help thinking Mr. 
 Audubon has deceived you. I shall not 
 like the sight of him. I shall endeavour to 
 avoid seeing him. You see how puzzled I 
 am. I have no meridian to fix you to, 
 being the slave of what is to happen. I 
 think I may bid you finally remain in good 
 hopes, and not tease yourself with my 
 changes and variations of mind. If I say 
 nothing decisive in any one particular part 
 of my letter, you may glean the truth 
 from the whole pretty correctly. You may 
 wonder why I had not put your affairs 
 with Abbey in train on receiving your 
 letter before last, to which there will reach 
 you a short answer dated from Shanklin. 
 I did write and speak to Abbey, but to no 
 purpose. Your last, with the enclosed note, 
 has appealed home to him. He will not 
 see the necessity of a thing till he is hit in 
 the mouth. 'T will be effectual. 
 
 I am sorry to mix up foolish and serious 
 things together, but in writing so much I 
 am obliged to do so, and I hope sincerely 
 the tenor of your mind will maintain itself 
 better. In the course of a few months I 
 shall be as good an Italian scholar as I am 
 a French one. I am reading Ariosto at 
 present, not managing more than six or 
 eight stanzas at a time. When I have 
 done this language, so as to be able to read 
 it tolerably well, I shall set myself to get 
 complete in Latin, and there my learning 
 
 must stop. I do not think of returning 
 upon Greek. I would not go even so far 
 if I were not persuaded of the power the 
 knowledge of any language gives one. The 
 fact is I like to be acquainted with foreign 
 languages. It is, besides, a nice way of 
 filling up intervals, etc. Also the reading 
 of Dante is well worth the while; and in 
 Latin there is a fund of curious literature 
 of the Middle Ages, the works of many 
 great men — Aretino and Sannazaro and 
 Machiavelli. I shall never become at- 
 tached to a foreign idiom, so as to put it 
 into my writings. The Paradise Lost, 
 though so fine in itself, is a corruption of 
 our language. It should be kept as it is — 
 unique, a curiosity, a beautiful and grand 
 curiosity, the most remarkable production 
 of the world ; a northern dialect accommo- 
 dating itself to Greek and Latin inversions 
 and intonations. The purest English, I 
 think — or what ought to be purest — is 
 Chatterton's. The language had existed 
 long enough to be entirely uncorrupted of 
 Chaucer's Gallicisms, and still the old 
 words are used. Chatterton's language 
 is entirely northern. I prefer the native 
 music of it to Milton's, cut by feet. I have 
 but lately stood on my guard against Mil- 
 ton. Life to him would be death to me. 
 Miltonic verse cannot be written, but is the 
 verse of art. I wish to devote myself to 
 another verse alone. 
 
 Friday [September 24]. 
 I have been obliged to intermit your let- 
 ter for two days (this being Friday morn- 
 ing), from having had to attend to other 
 correspondence. Brown, who was at Bed- 
 hampton, went thence to Chichester, and I 
 am still directing my letters Bedhamp- 
 ton. There arose a misunderstanding about 
 them. I began to suspect my letters had 
 been stopped from curiosity. However, 
 yesterday Brown had four letters from me 
 all in a lump, and the matter is cleared up. 
 Brown complained very much in his letter 
 to me of yesterday of the great alteration 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 405 
 
 the dispositiou of Dilke has undergone. 
 He thinks of nothing but political justice 
 i and his boy. Now, the first political duty 
 j a man ought to have a mind to is the hap- 
 piness of his friends. I wrote Brown a 
 comment on the subject, wherein I ex- 
 plained what I thought of Dilke's charac- 
 ter, which resolved itself into this conclu- 
 sion, that Dilke was a man who cannot feel 
 he has a personal identity unless he has 
 made up his mind about everything. The 
 only means of strengthening one's intellect 
 is to make up one's mind about nothing — 
 to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all 
 thoughts, not a select party. The genus is 
 not scarce in population ; all the stubborn 
 arguers you meet with are of the same 
 brood. They never begin upon a subject 
 they have not pre-resolved on. They want 
 to hammer their nail into you, and if you 
 have the point, still they think you wrong. 
 Dilke will never come at a truth as long as 
 he lives, because he is always trying at it. 
 He is a Godwin Methodist. 
 
 I must not forget to mention that your 
 mother show'd me the lock of hair — 't is 
 of a very dark colour for so young a crea- 
 ture. Then it is two feet in length. I 
 shall not stand a barley corn higher. That 's 
 not fair; one ought to go on growing as 
 well as others. At the end of this sheet I 
 shall stop for the present and send it off. 
 You may expect auother letter immediately 
 after it. As I never know the day of the 
 month but by chance, I put here that this 
 is the 24th September. 
 
 I would wish you here to stop your ears, 
 for I have a word or two to say to your 
 wife. 
 
 My dear Sister — In the first place I 
 must quarrel with you for sending me such 
 a shabby piece of paper, though that is in 
 some degree made up for by the beautiful 
 impression of the seal. You should like to 
 know what I was doing the first of May. 
 Let me see — I cannot recollect. I have 
 all the Examiners ready to send — they 
 
 will be a great treat to you when they reach 
 you. I shall pack them up when my busi- 
 ness with Abbey has come to a good con- 
 clusion, and the remittance is on the road 
 to you. I have dealt round your best 
 wishes like a pack of cards, but being al- 
 ways given to cheat myself, I have turned 
 up ace. You see I am making game of 
 you. I see you are not all happy in that 
 America. England, however, would not be 
 over happy for you if you were hei-e. Per- 
 haps 't would be better to be teased here 
 than there. I must preach patience to you 
 both. No step hasty or injurious to you 
 must be taken. You say let one large 
 sheet be all to me. You will find more 
 than that in different parts of this packet 
 for you. Certainly, I have been caught in 
 rains. A catch in the rain occasioned my 
 last sore throat ; but as for red-haired girls, 
 upon my word, I do not recollect ever hav- 
 ing seen one. Are you quizzing me or Miss 
 Waldegrave when you talk of promenad- 
 ing ? As for pun-making, I wish it was as 
 good a trade as pin-making. There is very 
 little business of that sort going on now. 
 We struck for wages, like the Manchester 
 weavers, but to no purpose. So we are all 
 out of employ. I am more lucky than 
 some, you see, by having an opportunity of 
 exporting a few — getting into a little for- 
 eign trade, which is a comfortable thing. I 
 wish one could get change for a pun in 
 silver currency. I would give three and a 
 half any night to get into Drury pit, but 
 thej^ won't ring at all. No more will notes 
 you will say; but notes are different things, 
 though they make together a pun-note as 
 the term goes. If I were your son, I 
 should n't mind you, though you rapt me 
 with the scissors. But, Lord ! I should be 
 out of favour when the little un be comm'd. 
 You have made an uncle of me, you have, 
 and I don't know what to make of myself. 
 I suppose next there will be a nevey. You 
 say in my last, write directly. I have not 
 received your letter above ten days. The 
 thought of your little girl puts me in mind 
 
4o6 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 of a thing I heard a Mr. Lamb say. A 
 child in arms was passing by towards its 
 mother, in the nurse's arms. Lamb took 
 hold of the long clothes, saying : ' Where, 
 God bless me, where does it leave off ? ' 
 
 Saturday [September 25] . 
 If yon would prefer a joke or two to 
 anything else, I have two for you, fresh 
 hatched, just ris, as the bakers' wives say 
 by the rolls. The first I played off on 
 Brown ; the second I played on myself. 
 Brown, when he left me, ' Keats,' says he, 
 ' my good fellow ' (staggering upon his left 
 heel and fetching an irregular pirouette 
 with his right) ; ' Keats,' says he (depress- 
 ing his left eyebrow and elevating his right 
 one), though by the way at the moment I 
 did not know which was the right one ; 
 ' Keats,' says he (still in the same posture, 
 but furthermore both his hands in his waist- 
 coat pockets and putting out his stomach), 
 ' Keats — my — go-o-ood fell-o-o-ooh,' says 
 he (interlarding his exclamation with cer- 
 tain ventriloquial parentheses), — no, this 
 is all a lie — He was as sober as a judge, 
 when a judge happens to be sober, and 
 said: 'Keats, if any letters come for me, 
 do not forward them, but open them and 
 give me the marrow of them in a few 
 words.' At the time I wrote my first to 
 him no letter had arrived. I thought I 
 would invent one, and as I had not time to 
 manufacture a long one, I dabbed off a 
 short one, and that was the reason of the 
 joke succeeding beyond my expectations. 
 Brown let his house to a Mr. Benjamin — a 
 Jew. Now, the water which furnishes the 
 house is in a tank, sided witii a composition 
 of lime, and the lime impregnates the water 
 unpleasantly. Taking advantage of this 
 circumstance, I pretended that Mr. Benja- 
 min had written the following short note — 
 
 Sir — By drinking your damn'd tank 
 water I have got the gravel. What repa- 
 ration can you make to me and my family ? 
 Nathan Benjamin. 
 
 By a fortunate hit, I hit upon his right 
 — heathen name — his right pronomen. 
 Brown in consequence, it appears, wrote to 
 the surprised Mr. Benjamin the foUow- 
 
 SiR — I cannot offer you any remunera- 
 tion until your gravel shall have formed 
 itself into a stone — when I will cut you 
 with pleasure. C. Brown. 
 
 This of Brown's Mr. Benjamin has an- 
 swered, insisting on an explanation of this 
 singular circumstance. B. says : ' When I 
 read your letter and his following, I roared; 
 and in came Mr. Snook, who on reading 
 them seem'd likely to burst the hoops of 
 his fat sides.' So the joke has told well. 
 
 Now for the one I played on myself. I 
 must first give you the scene and the dra- 
 matis personjB. There are an old major 
 and his youngish wife here in the next ap- 
 partments to me. His bedroom door opens 
 at an angle with my sitting-room door. 
 Yesterday I was reading as demurely as a 
 parish clerk, when I heard a rap at the 
 door. I got up and opened it; no one was 
 to be seen. I listened, and heard some one 
 in the major's room. Not content with 
 this, I went upstairs and down, looked in 
 the cupboards and watch'd. At last I set 
 myself to read again, not qiiite so demurely, 
 when there came a louder rap. I was de- 
 termined to find out who it was. I looked 
 out; the staircases were all silent. 'This 
 must be the major's wife,' said I. * At all 
 events I will see the truth.' So I rapt me 
 at the major's door and went in, to the utter 
 surprise and confusion of the lady, who was 
 in reality there. After a little explanation, 
 which I can no more describe than fly, I 
 made my retreat from lier, convinced of my 
 mistake. She is to all appearance a silly 
 body, and is really surprised about it. She 
 must have been, for 1 have discovered that 
 a little girl in the house was the rapper. I 
 assure yoti she has nearly made me sneeze. 
 If the lady tells tits, I shall put a very 
 
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS 
 
 407 
 
 j-rave and moral face on the matter with 
 ;he old gentleman, and make his little boy 
 present of a humming top. 
 
 [Monday, September 27.] 
 My DEAR George — This Monday morn- 
 ng, the 27th, I have received your last, 
 lated 12th July. You say you have not 
 
 eard from England for three months. 
 Then my letter from Shanklin, written, I 
 ;hink, at the end of June, has not reach'd 
 
 ou. You shall not have cause to think I 
 leglect you. I have kept this back a little 
 ;ime in expectation of hearing from Mr. 
 (Ibbey. You will say I might have re- 
 nained in town to be Abbey's messenger 
 n these affairs. That I offered him, but 
 le in his answer convinced me that he was 
 mxious to bring the business to an issue. 
 He observed, that by being himself the 
 
 ,gent in the whole, people might be more 
 
 ixpeditious. You say you have not heard 
 for three months, and yet your letters have 
 ;he tone of knowing how our affairs are 
 situated, by which I conjecture I acquainted 
 you with them in a letter previous to the 
 Shanklin one. That I may not have done. 
 To be certain, I will here state that it is in 
 consequence of Mrs. Jennings threatening a 
 chancery suit that you have been kept from 
 the receipt of monies, and myself deprived 
 of any help from Abbey. I am glad you say 
 you keep up yoisr spirits. I hope you make 
 a true statement on that score. Still keep 
 them up, for we are all young. I can only 
 repeat here that you shall hear from me 
 again immediately. Notwithstanding this 
 bad intelligence, I have experienced some 
 pleasure in receiving so correctly two let- 
 ters from you, as it gives me, if I may so 
 say, a distant idea of proximity. This last 
 improves upon my little niece — kiss her 
 for me. Do not fret yourself about the 
 delay of money on account of my imme- 
 diate opportunity being lost, for in a new 
 country whoever has money must have an 
 opportunity of emjdojing it in many ways. 
 The report runs now more in favour of 
 
 Kean stopping in England. If he should, 
 I have confident hopes of our tragedy. If 
 he invokes the hot-blooded character of 
 Ludolph, — and he is the only actor that 
 can do it, — he will add to his own fame 
 and improve my fortune. I will give you 
 a half-dozen lines of it before I part as a 
 specimen — 
 
 Not as a swordsman would I pardon crave, 
 But as a son : the bronz'd Centurion, 
 Long-toil'd in foreign wars, and whose high 
 
 deeds 
 Are shaded in a forest of tall spears, 
 Known only to his troop, hath greater plea 
 Of favour with ray sire than I can have. 
 
 Believe me, my dear brother and sister, 
 your affectionate and anxious Brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 130. TO 
 
 If George succeeds it will be better, 
 certainly, that they should stop in America; 
 if not, why not return ? It is better in ill 
 luck to have at least the comfort of one's 
 friends than to be shipwrecked among 
 Americans. But I have good hopes as far 
 as I can judge from what I have heard of 
 George. He should by this time be taught 
 alertness and carefulness. If they should 
 stop in America for five or six years let us 
 hope they may have about three children. 
 Then the eldest will be getting old enough 
 to be society. The very crying will keep 
 their ears employed and their spirits from 
 being melancholy. 
 
 131. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 Winchester, September 22, 1819. 
 My dear Reynolds — I was very glad 
 to hear from Woodhouse that you would 
 meet in the country. I hope you will pass 
 some pleasant time together. Which I wish 
 to make pleasanter by a brace of letters, 
 very highly to be estimated, as really I 
 
4o8 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 have had very bad luck with this sort of 
 game this season. I ' kepen in solitaii- 
 iiesse,' for Brown has gone a-visiting. I 
 am surprised myself at the pleasure I live 
 alone in, I can give you no news of the 
 place here, or any other idea of it but what 
 I have to this effect written to George. 
 Yesterday I say to him was a grand day 
 for Winchester. They elected a Mayor. 
 It was indeed high time the place should 
 receive some sort of excitement. There 
 was nothing going on : all asleep : not an 
 old maid's sedan returning from a card 
 party: and if any old woman got tipsy at 
 Christenings they did not expose it in the 
 streets. The first night though of our ar- 
 rival here, there was a slight uproar took 
 place at about 10 o' the Clock. We heard 
 distinctly a noise pattering down the High 
 Street as of a walking cane of the good old 
 Dowager breed ; and a little minute after 
 we heard a less voice observe ' What a 
 noise the ferril made — it must be loose.' 
 Brown wanted to call the constables, but I 
 observed 't was only a little breeze and 
 would soon pass over. — The side streets 
 here are excessively maiden-lady-like : the 
 door-steps always fresh from the flannel. 
 The knockers have a staid serious, nay al- 
 most awful quietness about them. I never 
 saw so quiet a collection of Lions' and 
 Rams' heads. The doors are most part 
 black, with a little brass handle just above 
 the keyhole, so that in Winchester a man 
 may very quietly shut himself out of his 
 own house. How beautiful the season is 
 now — How fine the air. A temperate 
 sharpness about it. Really, without joking, 
 chaste weather — Dian skies — I never 
 liked stubble-fields so much as now — Aye 
 better than the chilly green of the Spring. 
 Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm — in 
 the same way that some pictures look 
 warm. This struck me so much in my 
 Sunday's walk that I composed upon it. 
 [The Ode to Autumn, p. 213.] 
 
 I hope you are better employed than in 
 gaping after weather. I have been at dif- 
 
 ferent times so happy as not to know what 
 weather it was — No I will not copy a 
 parcel of verses. I always somehow assO' 
 ciate Chatterton with autumn. He is the 
 purest writer in the English Language 
 He has no French idiom or particles, like 
 Chaucer — 't is genuine English Idiom in 
 English words. I have given up Hyperion 
 
 — there were too many Miltonic inversions 
 in it — Miltonic verse cannot be written 
 but in an artful, or, rather, artist's humour. 
 I wish to give myself up to other sensa- 
 tions. English ought to be kept up. It 
 may be interesting to you to pick out some 
 lines from Hyperion, and put a mark X to 
 the false beauty proceeding from art, and 
 one II to the true voice of feeling. Upon 
 my soul 't was imagination — I cannot make 
 the distinction — Every now and then there 
 is a Miltonic intonation — But I cannot 
 make the division properly. The fact is, I 
 must take a walk : for I am writing a long 
 letter to George: and have been employed 
 at it all the morning. You will ask, have 
 I heard from George. I am sorry to say 
 not the best news — I hope for better. 
 This is the reason, among others, that if I 
 write to you it must be in such a scrap-like 
 way. I have no meridian to date interests 
 from, or measure circumstances — To-night 
 I am all in a mist ; I scarcely know what 's 
 what — But you knowing my unsteady and 
 vagarish disposition, will guess that all this 
 turmoil will be settled by to-morrow morn- 
 ing. It strikes me to-night that I have led 
 a very odd sort of life for the two or three 
 last years — Here and there — no anchor — 
 I am glad of it. — If you can get a peep at 
 Babbicombe before you leave the country, 
 do. — I think it the finest place I have 
 seen, or is to be seen, in the South. There 
 is a Cottage there I took warm water at, 
 that made up for the tea. I have lately 
 shirk'd some friends of ours, and I advise 
 you to do the same, I mean the blue-devils 
 
 — I am never at home to them. You need 
 not fear them while you remain in Devon- 
 shire — there will be some of the family 
 
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 409 
 
 waiting for you at the Coach office — but 
 go by another Coach. 
 
 I shall beg leave to have a third opinion 
 in the first discussion you have with Wood- 
 house — just half-way, between both. You 
 know I will not give up my argument — 
 In my walk to-day I stoop'd under a rail- 
 ing that lay across my path, and asked 
 myself ' Why I did not get over.' ' Be- 
 cause,' answered I, ' no one wanted to force 
 you under.' I would give a guinea to be a 
 reasonable man — good sound sense — a 
 saj's what he thinks and does what he says 
 man — and did not take snuff. They say 
 men near death, however mad they may 
 have been, come to their senses — I hope I 
 shall here in this letter — there is a decent 
 space to be very sensible in — many a good 
 proverb has been in less — nay, I have 
 heard of the statutes at large being changed 
 into the Statutes at Small and printed for 
 a watch paper. 
 
 Your sisters, by this time, must have got 
 the Devonshire ' ees ' — short ees — you 
 know 'em — they are the prettiest ees in 
 the language. O how I admire the middle- 
 sized delicate Devonshire girls of about 
 fifteen. There was one at an Inn door 
 holding a quartern of brandy — the very 
 thought of her kept me warm a whole 
 stage — and a 16 miler too — ' You '11 
 pardon me for being jocular.' 
 
 Ever your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 132. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 Winchester, Wednesday Eve. 
 [September 22, 1819.] 
 
 My dear Dilke — Whatever I take 
 to for the time I cannot leave off in a 
 hurry ; letter writing is the go now ; I 
 have consumed a quire at least. You must 
 give me credit, now, for a fi"ee Letter when 
 it is in reality an interested one, on two 
 points, the one requestive, the other verg- 
 ing to the pros and cons. As I expect they 
 will lead me to seeing and conferring; with 
 
 you in a short time, I shall not enter at all 
 upon a letter I have lately received from 
 George, of not the most comfortable in- 
 telligence: but proceed to these two points, 
 which if you can theme out into sections 
 and subsections, for my edification, you will 
 oblige me. This first I shall begin upon, 
 the other will follow like a tail to a Comet. 
 I have written to Brown on the subject, 
 and can but go over the same ground with 
 you in a very short time, it not being more 
 in length than the ordinary paces between 
 the Wickets. It concerns a resolution I 
 have taken to endeavour to acquire some- 
 thing by temporary writing in periddical 
 works. You must agree with me how un- 
 wise it is to keep feeding upon hopes, 
 which depending so much on the state of 
 temper and imagination, appear gloomy or 
 bright, near or afar off, just as it happens. 
 Now an act has three parts — to act, to do, 
 and to perform — I mean I should do some- 
 thing for my immediate welfare. Even if 
 I am swept away like a spider from a 
 drawing-i"oom, I am determined to spin — 
 homespun anything for sale. Yea, I will 
 traffic. Anything but Mortgage my Brain 
 to Blackwood. I am determined not to lie 
 like a dead lump. If Reynolds had not 
 taken to the law, would he not be earning 
 something ? Why cannot I. You may say 
 I want tact — that is easily acquired. You 
 may be up to the slang of a cock pit in 
 three battles. It is fortunate I have not 
 before this been tempted to venture on the 
 common. I should a year or two ago have 
 spoken my mind on every subject with the 
 utmost simplicity. I hope I have learned 
 a little better and am confident I shall be 
 able to cheat as well as any literary Jew of 
 the Market and shine up an article on an}-- 
 thing without much knowledge of the sub- 
 ject, aye like an orange. I would willingly 
 have recourse to other means. I cannot ; 
 I am fit for nothing but literature. Wait 
 for the issue of this Tragedy ? No — 
 there cannot be greater uncertainties east, 
 west, north, and south than concerning 
 
4IO 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 dramatic composition. How many months 
 must I wait ! Had I not better begin to 
 look about me now ? If better events 
 supersede this necessity what harm will be 
 done ? I have no trust whatever on Poetry 
 I don't wonder at it — the marvel is to me 
 how people read so much of it. I think 
 yon will see the reasonableness of my plan. 
 To forward it I purpose living in cheap 
 Lodging in Town, that I may be in the 
 reach of books and information, of which 
 there is here a plentiful lack. If I can 
 find any place tolerably' comfortable I will 
 settle myself and fag till I can afford to 
 buy Pleasure — which if I never can afford 
 I must go without. Talking of Pleasure, 
 this moment I was writing with one hand, 
 and with the other holding to my Mouth a 
 Nectarine — Good God how fine. It went 
 down soft, pnlpy, slushy, oozy — all its de- 
 licious embonpoint melted down my throat 
 like a large beatified Strawberry. I shall 
 certainly breed. Now I come to my re- 
 quest. Should you like me for a neighbour 
 again ? Come, plump it out, I won't blush. 
 I should also be in the neighbourhood of 
 Mrs. Wylie, which I should be glad of, 
 though that of course does not influence 
 me. Therefore will you look about Mar- 
 sham, or Rodney [Romney ?] Street for a 
 couple of rooms for me. Rooms like the 
 gallant's legs in Massinger's time, 'as good 
 as the times allow. Sir.' I have written 
 to-day to Reynolds, and to Woodhouse. 
 Do you know him ? He is a Friend of 
 Taylor's at whom Brown has taken one of 
 his funny odd dislikes. I 'm sure he 's 
 wrong, because Woodhouse likes my Poetry 
 — conclusive. I ask your opinion and yet 
 I must say to you as to him. Brown, that if 
 you have anything to say against it I shall 
 be as obstinate and heady as a Radical. 
 By the Examiner coming in your hand- 
 writing you must be in Town. They have 
 put me into spirits. Notwithstanding my 
 aristocratic temper I cannot help being very 
 much pleased with the present public pro- 
 ceedings. I hope sincerely I shall be able 
 
 to put a Mite of help to the Liberal side of 
 the Question before I die. If you should 
 have left Town again (for your Holidays 
 cannot be up yet) let me know when this is 
 forwarded to you. A most extraordinary 
 mischance has befallen two letters I wrote 
 Brown — one from London whither I was 
 obliged to go on business for George ; the 
 other from this place since my return. I 
 can't make it out. I am excessively sorry ; 
 for it. I shall hear from Brown and from 
 you almost together, for I have sent him a 
 Letter to-day : you must positively agree 
 with me or by the delicate toe nails of the 
 virgin I will not open your Letters. If 
 they are as David says ' suspicious looking 
 letters ' I won't open them. If St. John had 
 been half as cunning he might have seen 
 the revelations comfortably in his own room, 
 without giving angels the trouble of break- 
 ing open seals. Remember me to Mrs. D. 
 and the Westmonasteranian and believe me 
 Ever your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 133. TO CHARLES AKMITAGE BROWN 
 
 Winchester, September 23, 1819. 
 
 Now I am going to enter on the subject 
 of self. It is quite time I should set my- 
 self doing something, and live no longer 
 upon hopes. I have never yet exerted ray- 
 self. I am getting into an idle-minded, 
 vicious way of life, almost content to live 
 upon others. In no period of my life have 
 I acted with any self-will but in throw- 
 ing ujj the apothecary profession. That I 
 do not repent of. Look at Reynolds, if he 
 was not in the law, he would be acquiring, 
 by his abilities, something towards his sup- 
 port. My occupation is entirely literary : 
 I will do so, too. I will write, on the lib- 
 eral side of the question, for whoever will 
 pay me. I have not known yet what it is 
 to be diligent. I purpose living in town in 
 a cheap lodging, and endeavouring, for a 
 beginning, to get the theatricals of some 
 paper. When I can afford to compose de- 
 
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 411 
 
 jerate poems, I will. I shall be in ex- 
 ;ct;ition of an answer to this. Look on 
 ly side of the question. I am convinced 
 am right. Suppose the tragedy should 
 cceed, — there will be no harm done, 
 ud here I will take an opportunity of 
 aking a remark or two on our friendship, 
 id on all your good offices to me. I have 
 natural timidity of mind in these niat- 
 rs ; liking better to take the feeling be- 
 men us for granted, than to speak of it. 
 it, good God ! wliat a short while you 
 ive known me ! 1 feel it a sort of duty 
 us to recapitulate, however unpleasant it 
 ay be to you. You have been living for 
 hers more than any man I know. This 
 a vexation to me, because it has been de- 
 iving yon, in the very prime of your life, 
 pleasures which it was your duty to pro- 
 re. As I am speaking in general terms, 
 is may appear nonsense ; you perhaps 
 11 not understand it ; but if you can go 
 er, day by day, any month of the last 
 !ar, you will know what I mean. On the 
 hole however this is a subject that I can- 
 >t express myself upon — I speculate upon 
 frequently ; and believe me tlie end of 
 y speculations is always an anxiety for 
 )ur happiness. This anxiety will not be 
 le of the least incitements to the plan I 
 irpose pursuing. I had got into a habit 
 ' mind of looking towards you as a help in 
 1 difficulties — This very habit would be 
 e parent of idleness and difficulties. You 
 ill see it is a duty I owe myself to break 
 |e neck of it. I do nothing for my sub- 
 stence — make no exertion — At the end 
 • another year you shall applaud me, not 
 >r verses, but for conduct. While I have 
 ime immediate cash, I had better settle 
 yself quietly, and fag on as others do. I 
 lall apply to Hazlitt, who knows the mar- 
 3t as well as any one, for something to 
 ring me in a few pounds as soon as possi- 
 Le. I shall not suffer my pride to hinder 
 le. The whisper may go round ; I shall 
 )t hear it. If I can get an article in the 
 dinburgh, I will. One must not be deli- 
 
 cate — Nor let this disturb you longer than 
 a moment. I look forward with a good 
 hope that we shall one day be passing free, 
 untrammelled, unanxious time together. 
 That can never be if I continue a dead 
 lump. I shall be expecting anxiously an 
 answer from you. If it does not arrive in 
 a few d.ays this will have miscarried, and I 
 
 shall come straight to before I go to 
 
 town, which you I am sure will agree had 
 better be done while I still have some ready 
 cash. By the middle of October I shall 
 expect you in London. We will then set 
 at the theatres. If you have anything to 
 gainsay, I shall be even as the deaf adder 
 which stoppeth her ears. 
 
 151. TO THE SAME 
 
 Winchester, September 23, 1819. 
 
 Do not suffer me to disturb you unplea- 
 santly : I do not mean that you should not 
 suffer me to occupy your thoughts, but to 
 occupy them pleasantly; for I as-!ure you I 
 am as far from being unhappy as possible. 
 Imaginary grievances have always been 
 more my torment tlian real ones — You 
 know this well — Real ones will never have 
 any other effect upon me than to stimulate 
 me to get out of or avoid them. This is 
 easily accounted for — Our imaginary woes 
 are conjured up by our passions, and are 
 fostered by passionate feeling : our real 
 ones come of themselves, and are opposed 
 by an abstract exertion of mind. Real 
 grievances are displacers of passion. The 
 imaginary nail a man down for a sufferer, 
 as on a cross; the real spur him up into an 
 agent. I wisli, at one view, you would see 
 my heart towards you 'Tis only from a 
 high tone of feeling that I can put that 
 word upon paper — out of poetry. I ought 
 to have waited for your answer to my last 
 before I wrote this. I felt however com- 
 pelled to make a joinder to yours. I 
 had written to Dilke on the subject of my 
 
412 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 last, I scarcely know whether I shall send 
 my letter now. I think be would approve 
 of my plan ; it is so evident. Nay, I am 
 convinced, out and out, that by prosing for 
 a while in periodical works I may maintain 
 myself decently. 
 
 135. TO CHARLES WEKTWORTH DILKB 
 
 Winchester, Friday, October 1 [1819]. 
 
 My dear Dilke — For sundry reasons, 
 which I will explain to you when I come to 
 Town, I have to request you will do me a 
 great favour as I must call it knowing how 
 great a Bore it is. That your imagination 
 may not have time to take too great an 
 alarm I state immediately that I want you 
 to hire me a couple of rooms (a Sitting 
 Room and bed room for myself alone) in 
 Westminster. Quietness and cheapness 
 are the essentials : but as I shall with Brown 
 be returned by next Friday you cannot in 
 that space have sufficient time to make any 
 choice selection, and need not be very par- 
 ticular as I can when on the spot suit my- 
 self at leisure. Brown bids me remind you 
 not to send the Examiners after the third. 
 Tell Mrs. D. I am obliged to her for the 
 late ones which I see are directed in her 
 hand. Excuse this mere business letter for 
 I assure you I have not a syllable at hand 
 on any subject in the world. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 ISfi. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Winchester, Sunday Morn [October 3, 1819]. 
 My dear Haydon — Certainly I might: 
 but a few Months pass away before we are 
 aware. I have a great aversion to letter 
 vrriting, which grows more and more upon 
 me ; and a greater to summon up circum- 
 stances before me of an unpleasant nature. 
 I was not willing to trouble you with them. 
 Conld I have dated from my Palace of 
 Milan you would have heard from me. 
 Not even now will I mention a word of my 
 
 affairs — only that ' I Rab am here ' bt 
 shall not be here more than a Week mon 
 as I purpose to settle in Town and wor 
 my way with the rest. I hope I shall nev( 
 be so silly as to injure my health and ii 
 dustry for the future by speaking, writir 
 or fretting about my nou- estate. I ha^ 
 no quarrel, I assure you, of so weighty 
 nature, with the woi*ld, on my own accoiu 
 as I have on youi's. I have done nothiii 
 — except for the amusement of a few pei 
 pie who refine upon their feelings till an^ 
 thing in the understandable way will g 
 down with them — people predisposed f( 
 sentiment. I have no cause to complai 
 because I am certain anything really fli 
 will in these days be felt. I have no doul 
 that if I had written Othello I should lm\ 
 been cheered by as good a mob as Hun 
 So would you be now if the operation < 
 painting was as universal as that of Wri 
 ing. It is not : and therefore it did beho^ 
 men I could mention among whom I mu 
 place Sir George Beaumont to have lift( 
 you up above sordid cares. That this hi 
 not been done is a disgrace to the countr 
 I know very little of Painting, yet yoi 
 pictures follow me into the Country. Wh( 
 I am tired of reading I often think the 
 over and as often condemn the spirit < 
 modern Connoisseurs. Upon the whol 
 indeed, you have no complaint to make, b 
 ing able to say what so few Men can, ' 
 have succeeded.' On sitting down to wri 
 a few lines to you these are the uppermo 
 in my mind, and, however I may be beatii 
 about the arctic while your spirit has pass( 
 the line, you may lay to a minute and co 
 sider I am earnest as far as I can se 
 Though at this present ' I have great di 
 positions to write ' I feel every day more ai 
 more content to read. Books are beeomii 
 more interesting and valuable to me. I nu 
 say I could not live without them. If in tl 
 course of a fortnight you can procure me 
 ticket to the British Museum I will make 
 better use of it than I did in the first i 
 stance. I shall go on with patience in tl 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 413 
 
 )nfidence that if I ever do anything worth 
 
 •niemberiug the Reviewers will no more 
 
 3 able to stumble-block me than the 
 
 oyal Academy could you. They have the 
 
 me quarrel with you that the Scotch 
 
 bbles had with Wallace. The fame they 
 
 •vve lost through you is no joke to them. 
 
 ad it not been for you Fuseli would have 
 
 en not as he is major but maximus domo. 
 
 I^hat Reviewers can put a hindrance to 
 
 iust be — a nothing — or mediocre which 
 
 I worse. I am sorry to say that since I 
 
 w you I have been guilty of a practical 
 
 ke upon Brown which has had all the 
 
 tccess of an innocent Wildfire among 
 ople. Some day in the next week you 
 all hear it from me by word of Mouth. 
 i have not seen the portentous Book which 
 ^as skuramer'd at you just as I left town, 
 t may be light enough to serve yon as a 
 'ork Jacket and save you for a while the 
 I'ouble of swimming. I heard the Man 
 "^ent raking and rummaging about like any 
 bichardson. That and the Memoirs of 
 lenage are the first I shall be at. From 
 r. G. B.'s, Lord Ms ^* and particularly Sr. 
 ohn Leicesters good lord deliver us. I 
 hall expect to see your Picture plumped 
 ut like a ripe Peach — you would not be 
 ery willing to give me a slice of it. I 
 ame to this place in the hopes of meeting 
 nth a Library but was disappointed. The 
 ligh Street is as quiet as a Lamb. The 
 nockers are dieted to three raps per diem. 
 ?he walks about are interesting from the 
 aany old Buildings and archways. The 
 iew of the High Street through the Gate 
 f the City in the beautiful September 
 vening light has amused me frequently, 
 ["he bad singing of the Cathedral I do not 
 are to smoke — being by myself I am not 
 ery coy in my taste. At St. Cross there 
 3 an interesting picture of Albert Diirer's 
 — who living in such warlike times perhaps 
 sras forced to paint in his Gauntlets — so 
 ve must make all allowances. 
 I am, my dear Haydou, Yours ever 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 Brown has a few words to say to you and 
 will cross this. 
 
 137. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 College Street. 
 [Postmark, October 11, 1819.] 
 
 My sweet Girl — I am living today in 
 yesterday : I was in a complete fascination 
 all day. I feel myself at your mercy. 
 Write me ever so few lines and tell me you 
 will never for ever be less kind to me than 
 yesterday. — You dazzled me. There is no- 
 thing in the world so bright and delicate. 
 When Brown came out with that seem- 
 ingly true story against me last night, I 
 felt it would be death to me if you had 
 ever believed it — though against any one 
 else I could muster up my obstinacy. 
 Before I knew Brown could disprove it I 
 was for the moment miserable. When 
 shall we pass a day alone ? I have had a 
 thousand kisses, for which with my whole 
 soul I thank love — but if you should deny 
 me the thousand and first — 't would put 
 me to the proof how great a misery I could 
 live through. If you should ever carry 
 your threat yesterday into execution — 
 believe me 't is not my jjride, my vanity or 
 any petty passion would torment me — 
 really 't would hurt my heart — I could not 
 bear it. I have seen Mrs. Dilke this morn- 
 ing ; she says she will come with me any 
 fine day. Ever yours John Keats. 
 
 Ah hert^ mine ! 
 
 138. TO THE SAME 
 
 25 College Street. 
 [Postmark, October 13, 1819.] 
 
 My DEAREST Girl — This moment I 
 have set myself to copy some verses out 
 fair. I cannot proceed with any degree of 
 content. I must write you a line or two 
 and see if that will assist in dismissing you 
 from my Mind for ever so short a time. 
 Upon my Soul I can think of nothing else. 
 The time is passed when I had power to 
 
414 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 advise and warn you against the unpromis- 
 ing morning of my Life. My love has 
 made me selfish. I cannot exist without 
 you. I am forgetful of everything but 
 seeing you again — my Life seems to stop 
 there — I see no further. You have ab- 
 sorb'd me. I have a sensation at the pre- 
 sent moment as though I was dissolving — 
 I should be exquisitely miserable without 
 the hope of soon seeing you. I should be 
 afraid to separate myself far from you. 
 My sweet Fanny, will your heart never 
 change ? My love, will it ? I have no 
 limit now to my love. . . . Your note came 
 in just here. I cannot be happier away 
 from you. 'T is richer than any Argosy of 
 Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest. 
 I have been astonished that Men could die 
 Martyrs for religion — I have shudder'd 
 at it. I shudder no more — I could be 
 martyr'd for my Religion — Love is my 
 religion — I could die for that. I could 
 die for you. My Creed is Love and you 
 are its only tenet. You have ravish'd me 
 away by a Power I cannot resist ; and yet 
 I could resist till I saw you ; and even 
 since I have seen you I have endeavoured 
 often ' to reason against the reasons of my 
 Love.' I can do that no more — the pain 
 would be too great. My love is selfish. 
 I cannot breatlie without you. 
 
 Yours for ever John Keats. 
 
 139. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place [October 16, 1819]. 
 My DEAR Fanny — My Conscience is 
 always reproaching me for neglecting you 
 for so long a time. I have been returned 
 from Winchester this fortnight, and as yet 
 I have not seen you. I have no excuse to 
 offer — I should have no excuse. I shall 
 expect to see you the next time I call on 
 Mr. A. about George's affairs which per- 
 plex me a great deal — I should have to- 
 day gone to see if you were in town — but 
 as I am in an industrious humour (which 
 is so necessary to my livelihood for the 
 
 future) I am loath to break through 
 though it be n«erely for one day, for whei 
 I am inclined I can do a great deal in 
 day — I am more fond of pleasure thai 
 study (many men have preferr'd the la 
 ter) but I have become resolved to kno 
 something which you will credit when 
 tell you I have left off animal food that m 
 brains may never henceforth be in a great- ■ 
 er mist than is theirs by nature — I took 
 lodgings in Westminster for the purpose of 
 being in the reach of Books, but am now 
 returned to Hampstead being induced to it 
 by the habit I have acquired in this room I 
 am now in and also from the pleasure of 
 being free from paying any petty atten- 
 tions to a diminutive house-keeping. Mr. 
 Brown has been my great friend for some 
 time — without him I should have been in^ 
 perhaps, personal distress — as I know you 
 love me though I do not deserve it, I am 
 sure you will take pleasure in being a 
 friend to Mr. Brown even before you know 
 him. — My lodgings for two or three days 
 were close in the neighbourhood of Mrs 
 Dilke who never sees me but she enquires 
 after you — I have had letters from 
 George lately which do not contain, as I 
 think I told you in my last, the best news 
 — I have hopes for the best — I trust in a 
 good termination to his affairs which you 
 please God will soon hear of — It is better 
 you should not be teased with the particu- 
 lars. The whole amount of the ill news is 
 that his mercantile speculations have not 
 had success in consequence of the general 
 depression of trade in the whole province 
 of Kentucky and indeed all America. — 
 I have a couple of shells for you you will 
 call pretty. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 140. TO fanny brawne 
 
 Great Smith Street, 
 
 Tuesday Morn. 
 [Postmark, College Street, October 19, 1819]. 
 My swert Fanny — On awakening 
 from my three days dream ('I cry to 
 
TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 415 
 
 dream again') I find one and another 
 astonish'd at uiy idleness and thoughtless- 
 ness. I was miserable last night — the 
 morning is always restorative. I must be 
 busy, or try to be so. I have several 
 things to speak to you of tomorrow morn- 
 ing. Mrs. Dilke I should think will tell 
 you that I purpose living at Hampstead. 
 I must impose chains upon myself. I 
 shall be able to do nothing. I should like 
 to cast the die for Love or death. I have 
 no Patience with anytliing else — if you 
 ever intend to be cruel to me as you say 
 in jest now but perhaps may sometimes 
 be in earnest, be so now — and I will — 
 my mind is in a tremble, I cannot tell what 
 I am writing. 
 
 Ever ray love yours John Keats. 
 
 141. TO JOSEPH SEVERN 
 
 Wentworth Place, Wednesday 
 [October 27 ? 1819]. 
 
 Dear Severn — Either your joke about 
 staying at home is a very old one or I really 
 call'd. I don't remember doing so. I am 
 glad to hear you have fluish'd the Picture 
 and am more anxious to see it than I have 
 time to spare : for I have been so very lax, 
 unemployed, unmeridian'd, and objectless 
 these two months that I even grudge in- 
 dulging (and that is no great indulgence 
 considering the Lecture is not over till 9 
 and the lecture room seven miles from 
 Wentsvorth Place) myself by going to 
 Hazlitt's Lecture. If you have hours to 
 the amount of a brace of dozens to throw 
 away you may sleep nine of them here in 
 your little Crib and chat the rest. When 
 your Picture is up and in a good light I 
 shall make a point of meeting you at the 
 Academy if you will let me know when. 
 If you should be at the Lecture to-morrow 
 evening I shall see you — and congratulate 
 yon heartily — Haslam I know ' is very 
 Beadle to an amorous sigh.' 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 112, TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 
 November 17 [1S19]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — I have come to a 
 determination not to publish anything I 
 have now ready written : but, for all that, 
 to publish a poem before long, and that I 
 hope to make a fine one. As the marvel- 
 lous is the most enticing, and the surest 
 guarantee of harmonious numbers, I have 
 been endeavouring to persuade myself to 
 untether Fancy, and to let her manage for 
 herself. I and myself cannot agree about 
 this at all. Wonders are no wonders to me. 
 I am more at home amongst men and 
 women. I would rather read Chaucer than 
 Ariosto. The little dramatic skill I may as 
 yet have, however badly it might show iu a 
 drama, would, I think, be sufficient for a 
 poem. I wish to diffuse the colouring of St. 
 Agnes's Eve throughout a poem in which 
 character and sentiment would be the 
 figures to such drapery. Two or three such 
 poems, if God should spare me, written in 
 the course of the next six years, would be a 
 famous Gradus ad Parnassum altissimum 
 — I mean they would nerve me up to the 
 writing of a few fine plays — my greatest 
 ambition, when I do feel ambitious. I am 
 sorry to say that is very seldom. The 
 subject we have once or twice talked of 
 appears a promising one — The Earl of 
 Leicester's history. I am this morning 
 reading Holinshed's 'Elizabeth.' You had 
 some books a while ago you promised to 
 send me, illustrative of my subject. If 
 you can lay hold of them, or any others 
 which may be serviceable to me, I know you 
 will encourage my low-spirited muse by 
 sending them, or rather by letting me know 
 where o>ir errand-cart man shall call with 
 my little box. I wdl endeavour to set my- 
 self selfishly at work on this poem that is 
 to be. 
 
 Your sincere friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
4i6 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 143. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wednesday Morn — 
 
 [November 17, 1819]. 
 
 M.Y DEAR Fanny — I received your let- 
 ter yesterday Evening and will obey it to- 
 morrow. I would come to - day — but I 
 have been to Town so frequently on 
 George's Business it makes me wish to 
 employ to-day at Hampstead. So I say 
 Thursday without fail. I have no news at 
 all entertaining — and if I had I should 
 not have time to tell them as I wish to 
 send this by the morning Post. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother 
 
 John. 
 
 144. TO JOSEPH SEVERN 
 
 Went worth Place, Monday Morn — 
 [December 6 ? 1819]. 
 
 My dear Severn — I am very sorry 
 that on Tuesday I have an appointment in 
 the City of an undeferable nature ; and 
 Brown on the same day has some business 
 at Guildhall. I have not been able to 
 figure your manner of executing the Cave 
 of despair,^^ therefore it will be at any 
 rate a novelty and surprise to me — I trust 
 on the right side. I shall call upon you 
 some morning shortly, early enough to 
 catch you before you can get out — when 
 we will proceed to the Academy. I think 
 you must be suited with a good painting 
 light in your Bay window. I wish you to 
 return the Compliment by going with me 
 to see a Poem I have hung up for the 
 Prize in the Lecture Boom of the Surry 
 Institution. I have many Rivals, the most 
 threatening are An Ode to Lord Castle- 
 reagh, and a new series of Hymns for the 
 New, new Jerusalem Chapel. (You had 
 best put me into your Cave of despair.) 
 Ever yours sincerely 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 145. TO JAMES rice 
 
 Wentworth Place [December 1819]. 
 My dear Rice — As I want the coat on 
 my back mended, I would be obliged if 
 you would send me the one Brown left at 
 your house by the Bearer — During your 
 late contest I had regular reports of you, 
 how that your time was completely taken 
 up and your health improving — I shall 
 call in the course of a few days, and see 
 whether your promotion has made any dif- 
 ference in your Behaviour to us. I sup- 
 pose Reynolds has given you an account of 
 Brown and EUiston. As he has not rejected 
 our Tragedy, I shall not venture to call 
 him directly a fool ; but as he wishes to 
 put it off till next season, I cannot help 
 thinking him little better than a knave. — 
 That it will not be acted this season is yet 
 uncertain. Perhaps we may give it another 
 furbish and try it at Covent Garden. 
 'T would do one's heart good to see Ma- 
 cready m Ludolph. If you do not see me 
 soon it will be from the humour of writing, 
 which I have had for three days continuing. 
 I must say to the Muses what the maid 
 says to the Man — ' Take me while the 
 fit is on me.' Would you like a true 
 story ? ' There was a man and his wife 
 who being to go a long Journey on foot, in 
 the course of their travels came to a river 
 which rolled knee-deep over the pebbles — 
 In these cases the man generally pulls off 
 his shoes and stockings, and carries the 
 woman over on his back. This man did so. 
 And his wife being pregnant and troubled, 
 as in such case is very common, with 
 strange longings, took the strangest that 
 ever was heard of. Seeing her husband's 
 foot, a handsome one enough, looked very 
 clean and tempting in the clear water, on 
 their arrival at the other bank, she ear- 
 nestly demanded a bit of it. He being an 
 affectionate fellow, and fearing for the 
 comeliness of his child, gave her a bit 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 417 
 
 which he cut off with his clasp knife — 
 Not satisfied, she asked for another morsel. 
 Supposing there might be twins, he gave 
 her a slice more. Not yet contented she 
 craved another piece. " You wretch," cries 
 the man, " would you wish me to kill my- 
 self ? Take that " — upon which he stabbed 
 her with the knife, cut her open, and found 
 three children in her Belly : two of them 
 very comfortable with their mouths shut, 
 the third with its eyes and mouth stark 
 1 staring wide open. " Who would have 
 j thought it ? " cried the widower, and pur- 
 sued his journey.' Brown has a little 
 rumbling in his stomach this morning. 
 Ever yours sincerely John KjiATS. 
 
 146. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Monday Morn — 
 [December 20, 1819]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — When I saw you 
 last, you ask'd me whether you should see 
 me again before Christmas. You would 
 have seen me if I had been quite well. I 
 have not, though not unwell enough to have 
 prevented me — not indeed at all — but 
 fearful lest the weather should affect my 
 throat which on exertion or cold continually 
 threatens me. — By the advice of my Doctor 
 I have had a warm great Coat made and 
 have ordered some thick shoes — so f ur- 
 nish'd I shall be with you if it holds a little 
 fine before Christmas day. — I have been 
 very busy since I saw you, especially the 
 last Week, and shall be for some time, in 
 preparing some Poems to come out in the 
 Spring, and also in brightening the inter- 
 est of our Tragedy. — Of the Tragedy I 
 can give you but news semigood. It is 
 accepted at Drury Lane with a promise of 
 coming out next season : as that will be too 
 long a delay we have determined to get 
 EUiston to bring it out this Season or to 
 transfer it to Covent Garden. This Ellis- 
 ton will not like, as we have every motive 
 to believe that Kean has perceived how 
 suitable the principal Character will be for 
 
 him. My hopes of success in the literary 
 world are now better than ever. Mr. Ab- 
 bey, on my calling on him lately, appeared 
 anxious that I should apply myself to 
 something else — He mentioned Tea Brok- 
 erage. I supposed he might perhaps mean 
 to give me the Brokerage of his concern 
 which might be executed with little trouble 
 and a good profit ; and therefore sai^ I 
 should have no objection to it, especially as 
 at the same time it occurred to me that I 
 might make over the business to George — 
 I questioned him about it a few days after. 
 His mind takes odd turns. When I be- 
 came a Suitor he became coy. He did not 
 seem so much inclined to serve me. He 
 described what I should have to do in the 
 progress of business. It will not suit me. I 
 have given it up. I have not heard again 
 from George, which rather disappoints me, 
 as I wish to hear before I make any fresh 
 remittance of his property. I received a 
 note from Mrs. Dilke a few days ago in- 
 viting me to dine with her on Xmas day 
 which I shall do. Mr. Brown and I go on 
 in our old dog trot of Breakfast, dinner 
 (not tea, for we have left that off), supper. 
 Sleep, Confab, stirring the fire and read- 
 ing. Whilst I was in the Country last 
 Summer, Mrs. Bentley tells me, a woman 
 in mourning call'd on me, — and talk'd 
 something of an aunt of ours — I am so 
 careless a fellow I did not enquire, but will 
 particularly : On Tuesday I am going to 
 hear some Schoolboys Speechify on break- 
 ing up day — I '11 lay you a pocket piece 
 we shall have 'My name is Norval.' I 
 have not yet look'd for the Letter you 
 mention'd as it is mix'd up in a box full of 
 papers — you must tell me, if you can 
 recollect, the subject of it. This moment 
 Bentley brought a Letter from George for 
 me to deliver to Mrs. Wylie — I shall see 
 her and it before I see you. The Direction 
 was in his best hand written with a good 
 Pen and sealed with a Tassie's Shakspeare 
 such as I gave you — We judge of people's 
 hearts by their Countenances ; may we not 
 
4i8 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 judge of Letters in the same way ? — if so, 
 the Letter does not contain unpleasant news 
 — Good or bad spirits have an effect on 
 the handwriting. This direction is at least 
 unnervous and healthy. Our Sister is also 
 well, or George would have made strange 
 work with Ks and Ws. The little Baby is 
 well or he would have formed precious 
 vowels and Consonants — He sent off the 
 Letter in a hurry, or the mail bag was 
 rather a warm berth, or he has worn out 
 his Seal, for the Shakspeare's head is flat- 
 tened a little. This is close muggy weather 
 as they say at the Ale houses. 
 
 I am ever, my dear Sister, yours affec- 
 tionately John Keats. 
 
 147. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, Wednesday. 
 [December 22, 1819.] 
 
 My DEAR Fanny — I wrote to you a 
 Letter directed Walthamstow the day be- 
 fore yesterday wherein I promised to see 
 you before Christmas day. I am sorry to 
 say I have been and continue rather unwell, 
 and therefore shall not be able to promise 
 certainly. I have not seen Mrs. Wylie's 
 Letter. Excuse my dear Fanny this very 
 shabby note. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 148. TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 
 
 Thursday, January 13, 1820. 
 My DEAR Sis. : By the time you receive 
 this your trouble will be over. I wish you 
 knew they were half over. I mean that 
 George is safe in England and in good 
 health. To write to you by him is almost 
 like following one's own letter in the mail. 
 That it may not be quite so, I will leave 
 common intelligence out of the question, 
 and write wide of him as I can. I fear I 
 must be dull, having had no good-natured 
 flip from Fortune's finger since I saw you, 
 and no sideway comfort in the success of 
 my friends. I could almost promise that 
 
 if I had the means I would accompany 
 George back to America, and pay you a 
 visit of a few months. I should not think 
 much of the time, or my absence from my 
 books ; or I have no right to think, for I 
 am very idle. But then I ought to be 
 diligent, and at least keep myself within 
 the reach of materials for diligence. Dili- 
 gence, that I do not mean to say ; I should 
 say dreaming over my books, or rather 
 other people's books. George has promised 
 to bring you to England when the five 
 years have elapsed. I regret very much 
 that I shall not be able to see you before 
 that time, and even then I must hope that 
 your affairs will be in so prosperous a way 
 as to induce you to stop longer. Yours 
 is a hardish fate, to be so divided among 
 your friends and settled among a people 
 you hate. You will find it improve. You 
 have a heart that will take hold of your 
 cliildren ; even George's absence will make 
 things better. His return will banish what 
 must be your greatest sorrow, and at the 
 same time minor ones with it. Robinson 
 Crusoe, when he saw himself in danger of 
 perishing on the waters, looked back to his 
 island as to the haven of his happiness, and 
 on gaining it once more was more content 
 with his solitude. We smoke George about 
 his little girl. He runs the common-beaten 
 road of every father, as I dare say you do 
 of every mother : there is no child like 
 his child, so original, — original forsooth ! 
 However, I take you at your words. I 
 have a lively faith that yours is the very 
 gem of all children. Ain't I its uncle ? 
 
 On Henry's marriage there was a piece of 
 bride cake sent me. It missed its way. I 
 suppose the carrier or coachman was a con- 
 juror, and wanted it for his own private 
 use. Last Sunday George and I dined at 
 Millar's. There were your mother and 
 Charles with Fool Lacon, Esq., who sent 
 the sly, disinterested shawl to Miss Millar, 
 with his own heathen name engraved in the 
 middle. Charles had a silk handkerchief 
 belonging to a Miss Grover, with whom he 
 
TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 
 
 419 
 
 pretended to be smitten, and for her sake 
 kept exhibiting and adoring the handker- 
 chief all the evening. Fool Lacou, Esq., 
 treated it with a little venturesome, trem- 
 bling contumely, whereupon Charles set him 
 quietly down on the floor, from where he 
 as quietly got up. This process was re- 
 peated at supper time, when your mother 
 said, ' If I were you Mr. Lacon I would 
 not let him do so.' Fool Lacon, Esq., did 
 not offer any remark. He will imdoubtedly 
 die in his bed. Your mother did not look 
 quite so well on Sunday. Mrs. Henry 
 Wylie is excessively quiet before people. 
 I hope she is always so. Yesterday we 
 dined at Taylor's, in Fleet Street. George 
 left early after dinner to go to Deptford ; 
 he will make all square there for me. I 
 could not go with him — I did not like the 
 amusement. Haslam is a very good fellow 
 indeed; he has been excessively anxious 
 and kind to us. But is this fair ? He has 
 an innamorata at Deptford, and be has been 
 wanting me for some time past to see her. 
 This is a thing whicb it is impossible not to 
 shirk. A man is like a magnet — he must 
 have a repelling end. So how am I to see 
 Haslam's lady and family, if I even went ? 
 for by the time I got to Greenwich I should 
 have repell'd them to Blackheath, and by 
 the time I got to Deptford they would be 
 on Shooter's Hill ; when I came to Shooter 
 Hill they would alight at Chatham, and so 
 on till I drove them into the sea, which 1 
 think might be indictable. The evening 
 before yesterday we had a pianoforte hop at 
 Dilke's. There was very little amusement 
 in the room, but a Scotchman to hate. 
 Some people, you must have observed, have 
 a most ini pleasant effect upon you when 
 you see them speaking in profile. This 
 Scotchman is the most accomplished fellow 
 in this way I ever met with. The effect 
 was complete. It went down like a dose 
 of bitter, and I hope will improve my 
 digestion. At Taylor's too, there was a 
 Scotchman, — not quite so bad, for he was 
 as clean as he could get himself. Not hav- 
 
 ing succeeded in Drury Lane with our 
 tragedy, we have been making some altera- 
 tions, and are about to try Covent Garden. 
 Brown has just done patching up the copy 
 — as it is altered. The reliance I had on 
 it was in Kean's acting. I am not afraid 
 it will be damn'd in the Garden. You said 
 in one of your letters that there was no- 
 thing but Haydon and Co. in mine. There 
 can be nothing of him in tliis, for I never 
 see him or Co. George has introduced to 
 us an American of the name of Hart. I 
 like him in a moderate way. He was at 
 Mrs. Dilke's party — and sitting by me ; 
 we began talking about English and 
 
 American ladies. The Miss and some 
 
 of their friends made not a very enticing 
 row opposite us. I bade him mark them 
 and form his judgment of them. I told 
 him I hated Englishmen because they were 
 the only men I knew. He does not under- 
 stand this. Who would be Braggadochio 
 to Johnny Bull ? Johnny's house is his 
 castle — and a precious dull castle it is ; 
 what a many Bull castles there are in so- 
 and-so crescent ! I never wish myself an 
 unversed writer and newsmonger but when 
 I write to you. I should like for a day or 
 two to have somebody's knowledge — Mr. 
 Lacon's for instance — of all the different 
 folks of a wide acquaintance, to tell you 
 about. Only let me have his knowledge of 
 family minutiae and I would set them in a 
 proper light ; but, bless me, I never go any- 
 where. My pen is no more garrulous than 
 my tongue. Any third person would think 
 I was addressing myself to a lover of 
 scandal. But we know we do not love 
 scandal, but fun ; and if scandal happens 
 to be fun, that is no fault of ours. There 
 were very good pickings for me in George's 
 letters about the prairie settlement, if I had 
 any taste to turn them to account in Eng- 
 land. I knew a friend of Miss Andrews, yet 
 I never mentioned her to him ; for after I 
 had read the letter I really did not recol- 
 lect her story. Now I have been sitting 
 here half an hour with my invention at 
 
420 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 work, to say something about your mother 
 or Charles or Henry, but it is in vain. I 
 know not what to say. Three nights since, 
 George went with your mother to the play. 
 I hope she will soon see mine acted. I do 
 not remember ever to have thanked you for 
 your tassels to my Shakspeare — there he 
 hangs so ably supported opposite me. I 
 thank you now. It is a continual memento 
 of you. If you should have a boy, do not 
 christen him John, and persuade George 
 not to let his partiality for me come across. 
 'T is a bad name, and goes against a man. 
 If my name had been Edmund I should 
 have been more fortunate. 
 
 I was surprised to hear of the state of 
 society at Louisville ; it seems to me you 
 are just as ridiculous there as we are here 
 — threepenny parties, halfpenny dances. 
 The best thing I have heard of is your 
 shooting ; for it seems you follow the gun. 
 Give my compliments to Mrs. Audubon, 
 and tell her I cannot think her either good- 
 looking or honest. Tell Mr. Audubon he 's 
 a fool, and Briggs that 't is well I was not 
 Mr. A. 
 
 Saturday, January 15. 
 
 It is strange that George having to stop 
 so short a time in England, I should not 
 have seen him for nearly two days. He 
 has been to Haslam's and does not encour- 
 age me to follow his example. He had 
 given promise to dine with the same party 
 to-morrow, but has sent an excuse which I 
 am glad of, as we shall have a pleasant 
 party with us to-morrow. We expect 
 Charles here to-day. This is a beautiful 
 day. I hope you will not quarrel with it 
 if I call it an American one. The sun 
 comes upon the snow and makes a prettier 
 candy than we have on twelfth-night cakes. 
 George is busy this morning in making 
 copies of my verses. He is making one 
 now of an ' Ode to the Nightingale,' which 
 is like reading an account of the Black 
 Hole at Calcutta on an iceberg. 
 
 You will say this is a matter of course. I 
 am glad it is — I mean that I should like 
 
 your brothers more the more I know them. 
 I should spend much more time with them 
 if our lives were more run in parallel; but 
 we can talk but on one subject — that is 
 you. 
 
 The more I know of men the more I 
 know how to value entire liberality in any 
 of them. Thank God, there are a great 
 many who will sacrifice their worldly in- 
 terest for a friend. I wish there were 
 more who would sacrifice their passions. 
 The worst of men are those whose self- 
 interests are their passion; the next, those 
 whose passions are their self - interest. 
 Upon the whole I dislike mankind. "What- 
 ever people on the other side of the ques- 
 tion may advance, they cannot deny that 
 they are always surprised at hearing of a 
 good action, and never of a bad one. I am 
 glad you have something to like in America 
 — doves. Gertrude of Wyoming and Birk- 
 beck's book should be bound up together 
 like a brace of decoy ducks — one is almost 
 as poetical as the other. Precious miser- 
 able people at the prairie. I have been 
 sitting in the sun whilst I wrote this till it 's 
 become quite oppressive — this is very odd 
 for January. The vulcan fire is the true 
 natural heat for winter. The sun has 
 nothing to do in winter but to give a little 
 glooming light much like a shade. Our 
 Irish servant has piqued me this morning 
 by saying that her father in Ireland was 
 very much like my Shakspeare, only he 
 had more colour than the engraving. You 
 will find on George's return that I have 
 not been neglecting your affairs. The de- 
 lay was unfortunate, not faulty. Perhaps 
 by this time you have received my three 
 last letters, not one of which had reached 
 before George sailed. I would give two- 
 pence to have been over the world as much 
 as he has. I wish I had money enough 
 to do nothing but travel about for years. 
 Were you now in England I dare sa)' you 
 would be able (setting aside the pleasure 
 you would have in seeing your mother) to 
 suck out more amusement for society than 
 
TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS 
 
 421 
 
 I am able to do. To me it is all as dull 
 here as Louisville could be. I am tired of 
 the theatres. Almost all the parties I may 
 chance to fall into I know by heart. I 
 know the different styles of talk in differ- 
 ent places, — what subjects will be started, 
 bow it will proceed like an acted play, 
 from the first to the last act. If I go to 
 Hunt's I run my head into many tunes 
 lieard before, old puns, and old music ; to 
 I laydon's worn-out discourses of poetry and 
 
 I);iinting. The Miss I am afraid to 
 
 speak to, for fear of some sickly reiteration 
 of phrase or sentiment. When they were 
 at the dance the other night I tried man- 
 fully to sit near and talk to them, but to 
 no purpose ; and if I had it would have 
 been to no purpose still. My question or 
 observation must have been an old one, and 
 the rejoinder very antique indeed. At 
 Dilke's I fall foul of politics. 'T is best to 
 remain aloof from people and like their 
 good parts without being eternally troubled 
 with the dull process of their every-day 
 lives. When once a person has smoked 
 the vapidness of the routine of society he 
 must either have self-interest or the love 
 of some sort of distinction to keep him in 
 good humour with it. All I can say is 
 that, standing at Charing Cross and look- 
 ing east, west, north, and south, I can see 
 nothing but dulness. I hope while I am 
 young to live retired in the country. 
 When I grow in years and have a right to 
 be idle, I shall enjoy cities more. If the 
 American ladies are worse than the English 
 they must be very bad. You say you 
 should like your Emily brought up here. 
 You had better bring her up yourself. 
 You know a good number of English ladies; 
 what encomium could you give of half a 
 dozen of them? The greater part seems to 
 me downright American. I have known 
 more than one Mrs. Audubon. Her affec- 
 tation of fashion and politeness cannot 
 transcend ours. Look at our Cheapside 
 tradesmen's sons and daughters — only fit 
 to be taken off by a plague. I hope now 
 
 soon to come to the time when I shall never 
 be forced to walk through the city and hate 
 as I walk. 
 
 Monday, January 17. 
 
 George had a quick rejoinder to his let- 
 ter of excuse to Haslam, so we had not his 
 company yesterday, which I was sorry for 
 as there was our old set. I know three 
 witty people all distinct in their excellence 
 — Rice, Reynolds, and Richards. Rice is 
 the wisest, Reynolds the playfulest, Rich- 
 ards the out-o'-the-wayest. The first makes 
 you laugh and think, the second makes you 
 laugh and not think, the third puzzles your 
 head. I admire the first, I enjoy the sec- 
 ond, I stare at the third. The first is 
 claret, the second ginger-beer, the third 
 creme de Byrapymdrag. The first is in- 
 spired by Minerva, the second by Mercury, 
 the third by Harlequin Epigram, Esq. The 
 first is neat in his dress, the second slovenly, 
 the third uncomfortable. The first speaks 
 adagio, the second allegretto, the third both 
 together. The first is Swiftean, the second 
 Tom-Crib-ean, the third Shandean. And 
 yet these three eans are not three cans but 
 one ean. 
 
 Charles came on Saturday but went 
 early; he seems to have schemes and plans 
 and wants to get off. He is quite right ; 
 I am glad to see him employed at business. 
 You remember I wrote you a story about 
 a woman named Alice being made young 
 again, or some such stuff. In your next 
 letter tell me whether I gave it as my own, 
 or whether I gave it as a matter Brown 
 was employed upon at the time. He read 
 it over to George the other day, and George 
 said he had heard it all before. So Brown 
 suspects I have been giving you his story as 
 my own. I should like to set him right in 
 it by your evidence. George has not re- 
 turned from town ; when he does I shall 
 tax his memory. We had a young, long, 
 raw, lean Scotchman with us yesterday, 
 called Thornton. Rice, for fun or for mis- 
 take, would persist in calling him Steven- 
 son. I know three people of no wit at all. 
 
422 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 each distinct in his excellence — A, B, and 
 C. A is the foolishest, B the sulkiest, C is 
 a negative. A makes you yawn, B makes 
 you hate, as for C you never see him at all 
 though he were six feet high — I bear the 
 first, I forbear the second, I am not certain 
 that the third is. The first is gruel, the 
 second ditch-water, the third is spilt — he 
 ought to be wip'd up. A is inspired by 
 Jack-o'-the-clock, B has been drilled by a 
 Russian Serjeant, C, they say, is not his 
 mother's true child, but she bought him of 
 the man who cries, Young lambs to sell. 
 
 Twang-dillo-dee — This you must know 
 is the amen to nonsense. I know a good 
 many places where Amen should be 
 scratched out, rubbed over with ponce 
 made of Momus's little finger bones, and 
 in its place Twang-dillo-dee written. This 
 is the word I shall be tempted to write at 
 the end of most modern poems. Every 
 American book ought to have it. It would 
 be a good distinction in society. My Lords 
 Wellington and Castlereagh, and Canning, 
 and many more, would do well to wear 
 Twang-dillo-dee on their backs instead of 
 Ribbons at their button-holes; how many 
 people would go sideways along walls and 
 quickset hedges to keep their ' Twang- 
 dillo-dee ' out of sight, or wear large pig- 
 tails to hide it. However there would be 
 so many that the Twang-dillo-dees would 
 keep one another in countenance — which 
 Brown cannot do for me — I have fallen 
 away lately. Thieves and murderers would 
 gain rank in the world, for would any of 
 them have the poorness of spirit to conde- 
 scend to be a Twang-dillo-dee ? ' I have 
 robbed many a dwelling house ; I have 
 killed many a fowl, many a goose, and 
 many a Man (would such a gentleman say) 
 but, thank Heaven, I was never yet a 
 Twang-dillo-dee.' Some philosophers in 
 the moon, who spy at our globe as we do 
 at theirs, say that Twang-dillo-dee is writ- 
 ten in large letters on our globe of earth ; 
 they say the beginning of the ' T ' is just 
 on the spot where London stands, London 
 
 being built within the flourish ; ' wan ' 
 reaches downward and slants as far as 
 Timbuctoo in Africa ; the tail of the ' g ' 
 goes slap across the Atlantic into the Rio 
 della Plata ; the remainder of the letters 
 wrap around New Holland, and the last ' e ' 
 terminates in land we have not yet dis- 
 covered. However, I must be silent; these 
 are dangerous times to libel a man in — 
 much more a world. 
 
 Friday, 27 [for 28th January, 1820]. 
 
 I wish you would call me names: I de- 
 serve them so much. I have only written 
 two sheets for you, to carry by George, and 
 those I forgot to bring to town and have 
 therefore to forward them to Liverpool. 
 George went this morning at 6 o'clock by 
 the Liverpool coach. His being on his 
 journey to you prevents my regretting his 
 short stay. I have no news of any sort to 
 tell you. Henry is wife bound in Camden 
 Town; there is no getting him out. I am 
 sorry he has not a prettier wife : indeed 't is 
 a shame: she is not hali a wife. I think I 
 could find some of her relations in Buff on, 
 or Capt" Cook's voyages or the hiej'O^we- 
 glyphics in Moor's Almanack, or upon a 
 Chinese clock door, the shepherdesses on 
 her own mantelpiece, or in a cruel sampler 
 in which she may find herself worsted, or 
 in a Dutch toyshop window, or one of the 
 daughters in the ark, or any picture shop 
 window. As I intend to retire into the 
 country where there will be no sort of news, 
 I shall not be able to write you very long 
 letters. Besides I am afraid the postage 
 comes to too much; which till now I have 
 not been aware of. • 
 
 People in military bands are generally 
 seriovisly occupied. None may or can laugh 
 at their work but the Kettle Drum, Loug 
 Drum, Do. Triangle and Cymbals. Think- 
 ing you might want a rat-catcher I put 
 your mother's old quaker-colour'd cat into 
 the top of your bonnet. She 's with kitten, 
 so you may expect to find a whole family. 
 I hope the family will not grow too large 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 423 
 
 for its lodging. I shall send you a close 
 written sheet on the first of next month, 
 but for fear of missing the Liverpool Post 
 I must finish here. God bless you and 
 your little girl. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 149. TO FANNY BBAWNE 
 
 Dearest Fanny, I shall send this the 
 moment you return. They say I must re- 
 main confined to this room for some time. 
 The consciousness that you love me will 
 make a pleasant prison of the house next 
 to yours. You must come and see me fre- 
 I quently : this evening, without fail — when 
 you must not mind about my speaking in a 
 low tone for I am ordered to do so though 
 I can speak out. 
 
 Yours ever, sweetest love. — 
 
 J. Keats. 
 turn over 
 
 Perhaps your Mother is not at home and 
 so you must wait till she comes. You must 
 see me tonight and let me hear you pro- 
 mise to come tomorrow. 
 
 Brown told me you were all out. I have 
 been looking for the stage the whole after- 
 noon. Had I known this I could not have 
 remain'd so silent all day. 
 
 150. to fanny keats 
 
 Wentworth Place, Sunday Morning. 
 [February 6, 1820.] 
 
 My dear Sister — I should not have 
 sent those Letters without some notice if 
 Mr. Brown had not persuaded me against 
 it on account of an illness with which I was 
 attack'd on Thursday. After that I was 
 resolved not to write till I should be on the 
 mending hand; thank God, I am now so. 
 From imprudently leaving off my great 
 coat in the thaw I caught cold which flew 
 to my Lungs. Every remedy that has been 
 applied has taken the desired effect, and I 
 have nothing now to do but stay within 
 
 doors for some time. If I should be con- 
 fined long I shall write to Mr. Abbey to 
 ask permission for you to visit me. George 
 has been running great chance of a similar 
 attack, but I hope the sea air will be his 
 Physician in case of illness — the air out at 
 sea is always more temperate than on land 
 — George mentioned, in his Letters to us, 
 something of Mr. Abbey's regret concern- 
 ing the silence kept up in his house. It 
 is entirely the fault of his Manner. You 
 must be careful always to wear warm cloth- 
 ing not only in frost but in a Thaw. — I 
 have no news to tell you. The half-built 
 houses opposite us stand just as they were 
 and seem dying of old age before they are 
 brought up. The grass looks very dingy, 
 the Celery is all gone, and there is nothing 
 to enliven one but a few Cabbage Stalks 
 that seem fix'd on the superannuated List. 
 Mrs. Dilke has been ill but is better. 
 Several of my fi-iends have been to see me. 
 Mrs. Reynolds was here this morning and 
 the two Mr. Wylie's. Brown has been very 
 alert about me, though a little wheezy him- 
 self this weather. Everybody is ill. Yester- 
 day evening Mr. Davenport, a gentleman 
 of Hampstead, sent me an invitation to sup- 
 per, instead of his coming to see us, having 
 so bad a cold he could not stir out — so you 
 see 'tis the weather and I am among a 
 thousand. Whenever you have an inflam- 
 matory fever never mind about eating. 
 The day on which I was getting ill I felt 
 this fever to a great height, and therefore 
 almost entirely abstained from food the 
 whole day. I have no doubt experienced 
 a benefit from so doing — The Papers I see 
 are full of anecdotes of the late King : how 
 he nodded to a Coalheaver and laugli'd with 
 a Quaker and lik'd boiled Leg of Mutton. 
 Old Peter Pindar is just dead: what will 
 the old King and he say to each other ? 
 Perhaps the King may confess that Peter 
 was in the right, and Peter maintain him- 
 self to have been wrong. You shall hear 
 from me again on Tuesday. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
424 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 151. TO THE SAME 
 
 Weutworth Place, Tuesday Morn. 
 [February 8, 1820.] 
 
 My dear Fanny — I had a slight re- 
 turn of fever last night, which terminated 
 favourably, and I am now tolerably well, 
 though weak from the small quantity of food 
 to which I am obliged to confine myself: 
 I am sure a mouse would starve upon it. 
 Mrs. Wylie came yesterday. I have a very 
 pleasant room for a sick person. A Sofa 
 bed is made up for me in the front Parlour 
 which looks on to the grass plot as you re- 
 member Mrs. Dilke's does. How much 
 more comfortable than a dull room up 
 stairs, where one gets tired of the pattern 
 of the bed curtains. Besides I see all that 
 passes — for instance now, this morning — 
 if I had been in my own room I should not 
 have seen the coals brought in. On Sun- 
 day between the hours of twelve and one I 
 descried a Pot boy. I conjectured it might 
 be the one o'Clock beer — Old women with 
 bobbins and red cloaks and impresuming 
 bonnets I see creeping about the heath. 
 Gipsies after hare skins and silver spoons. 
 Then goes by a fellow with a wooden clock 
 under his arm that strikes a hundred and 
 more. Then comes the old French emi- 
 grant (who has been very well to do in 
 France) with his hands joined behind on 
 his hips, and his face full of political 
 schemes. Then passes Mr. David Lewis, 
 a very good-natured, good - looking old 
 gentleman who has been very kind to Tom 
 and George and me. As for those fellows 
 the Brickmakers they are always passing 
 to and fro. I mus'n't forget the two old 
 maiden Ladies in Well Walk who have a 
 Lap dog between them that they are very 
 anxious about. It is a corpulent Little beast 
 whom it is necessary to coax along with 
 an ivory-tipp'd cane. Carlo our Neighbour 
 Mrs. Brawne's dog and it meet sometimes. 
 Lappy thinks Carlo a devil of a fellow and 
 so do his Mistresses. Well they may — he 
 would sweep 'em all down at a run; all for 
 
 the Joke of it. I shall desire him to pe- 
 ruse the fable of the Boys and the frogs: 
 though he prefers the tongues and the 
 Bones. You shall hear from me again the 
 day after to-morrow. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 152. to fanny brawne i 
 
 My DEAREST Girl, — If illness makes 
 such an agreeable variety in the manner 
 of your eyes I should wish you sometimes to 
 be ill. I wish I had read your note before 
 you went last night that I might have 
 assured you how far I was from suspect- 
 ing any coldness. You had a just right 
 to be a little silent to one who speaks so 
 plainly to you. You must believe — you 
 shall, you will — that I can do nothing, 
 say nothing, think nothing of you but what 
 has its spring in the Love which has so 
 long been my pleasure and torment. On 
 the night I was taken ill — when so vio- 
 lent a rush of blood came to my Lungs 
 that I felt nearly suffocated — I assure 
 you I felt it possible I might not survive, 
 and at that moment thought of nothing 
 but you. When I said to Brown 'this 
 is unfortunate ' I thought of you. 'Tis 
 true that since the first two or three days 
 other subjects have entered my head. I 
 shall be looking forward to Health and the 
 Spring and a regular routine of our old 
 Walks. 
 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 153. TO THE SAME 
 
 My sweet love, I shall wait patiently till 
 tomorrow before I see you, and in the 
 mean time, if there is any need of such a 
 thing, assure you by your Beauty, that 
 whenever I have at any time written on a 
 certain unpleasant subject, it has been with 
 your welfare impress'd upon my mind. 
 How hurt I should have been had you ever 
 acceded to what is, notwithstanding, very 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 425 
 
 reasonable ! How much the more do I 
 tove you from the general result ! In my 
 present state of Health I feel too much 
 separated from you and could almost speak 
 to you in the words of Lorenzo's Ghost to 
 Isabella 
 
 ' Your Beauty grows upon me and I feel 
 A greater love through all my essence steal.' 
 
 My greatest torment since I have known 
 you has been the fear of you being a little 
 inclined to the Cressid ; but that suspicion 
 I dismiss utterly and remain happy in the 
 surety of your Love, which I assure you is 
 IS much a wonder to me as a delight. Send 
 me the words * Good night ' to put under 
 oiy pillow. 
 
 Dearest Fanny, 
 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 154. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place [February 11, 1820]. 
 I My dear Fanny — I am much the 
 jsame as when I last wrote. I hope a little 
 |more verging towards improvement. Yes- 
 terday morning being very fine, I took a 
 walk for a quarter of an hour in the gar- 
 den and was very much refresh'd by it. 
 You must consider no news, good news — 
 if you do not hear from me the day after 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 155. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, Monday Morn. 
 [February 14, 1820.] 
 My dear Fanny — I am improving but 
 very gradually and suspect it will be a long 
 while before I shall be able to walk six 
 miles — The Sun appears half inclined to 
 shine ; if he obliges us I shall take a turn 
 in the garden this morning. No one from 
 Town has visited me since my last. I have 
 had so many presents of jam and jellies 
 that they would reach side by side the 
 length of the sideboard. I hope I shall be 
 
 well before it is all consumed. I am vexed 
 that Mr. Abbey will not allow you pocket 
 money sufficient. He has not behaved well 
 — By detaining money from me and George 
 when we most wanted it he has increased 
 our expenses. In consequence of such de- 
 lay George was obliged to take his voyage 
 to England which will be £150 out of his 
 pocket. I enclose you a note — Y'^ou shall 
 hear from me again the day after to-morrow. 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 156. TO fanny BRAWNE 
 
 My dearest Girl — According to all 
 appearances I am to be separated from you 
 as much as possible. How I shall be able 
 to bear it, or whether it will not be worse 
 than your presence now and then, I cannot 
 tell. I must be patient, and in the mean 
 time you must think of it as little as possi- 
 ble. Let me not longer detain you from 
 going to Town — there may be no end to 
 this imprisoning of you. Perhaps you had 
 better not come before tomorrow even- 
 ing: send me however without fail a good 
 night. 
 
 You know our situation what hope 
 
 is there if I should be recovered ever so 
 soon — my very health will not suffer me 
 to make any great exertion. I am recom- 
 mended not even to read poetry, much less 
 write it. I wish I had even a little hope. 
 I cannot say forget me — but I would men- 
 tion that there are impossibilities in the 
 world. No more of this. I am not strong 
 enough to be weaned — take no notice of it 
 in your good night. 
 
 Happen what may I shall ever be ray 
 dearest Love 
 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 157. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Girl — how could it ever 
 have been my wish to forget you ? how 
 could I have said such a thing ? The ut- 
 most stretch my mind has been capable of 
 
426 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 was to endeavour to forget you for your 
 own sake seeing what a chance there was 
 of my remaining in a precarious state of 
 health. I would have borne it as I would 
 bear death if fate was in that humour : but 
 I should as soon think of choosing to die as 
 to part from you. Believe too my Love 
 that our friends think and speak for the 
 best, and if their best is not our best it is 
 not their fault. When I am better I will 
 speak with you at large on these subjects, 
 if there is any occasion — I think there is 
 none. I am rather nervous today jjerhaps 
 from being a little recovered and suffering 
 my mind to take little excursions beyond 
 the doors and windows. I take it for a 
 good sign, but as it must not be encouraged 
 you had better delay seeing me till to- 
 morrow. Do not take the trouble of writ- 
 ing much : merely send me my good night. 
 Remember me to your Mother and Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 158. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Fanny — Then all we 
 have to do is to be patient. Whatever 
 violence I may sometimes do myself by 
 hinting at what would appear to any one 
 but ourselves a matter of necessity, I do 
 not think I could bear any approach of a 
 thought of losing you. I slept well last 
 night, but cannot say that I improve very 
 fast. I shall expect you tomorrow, for it 
 is certainly better that I should see you 
 seldom. Let me have your good night. 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 159. TO jambs rice 
 
 Wentworth Place, February 16, 1820. 
 My dear Rice — I have not been well 
 enough to make any tolerable rejoinder to 
 your kind letter. I will, as you advise, be 
 very chary of my health and spirits. I am 
 sorry to hear of your relapse and hypo- 
 chondriac symptoms attending it. Let us 
 
 
 hope for the best, as you say. I shall foU 
 low your example in looking to the future 
 good rather than brooding upon the presenW 
 ill. I have not been so worn with length-S 
 ened illnesses as you have, therefore can- 
 not answer you on your own ground with 
 respect to those haunting and deformed 
 thoughts and feelings you speak of. When 
 I have been, or supposed myself in health, 
 I have had my share of them, especially 
 within the last year. I may say, that for 
 six mouths before I was taken ill I had 
 not passed a tranquil day. Either thalf 
 gloom overspread me, or I was suffering 
 imder some passionate feeling, or if IM 
 turned to versify, that acerbated the poison 
 of either sensation. The beauties of nature 
 had lost their power over me. How aston- 
 ishingly (here I must premise that illness, 
 as far as I can judge in so short a time, has 
 relieved my mind of a load of deceptive 
 thoughts and images, and makes me per^^ 
 ceive things in a truer light), — how aston-* 
 ishingly does the chance of leaving the 
 world impress a sense of its natural beau- 
 ties upon us ! Like poor Falstaff, though I 
 do not ' babble,' I think of green fields ; I, 
 muse with the greatest affection on everw 
 flower I have known from my infancy — 
 their shapes and colours are as new to me 
 as if I had just created them with a super- 
 human fancy. It is because they are con- 
 nected with the most thoughtless and the 
 happiest moments of our lives. I have 
 seen foreign flowers in hothouses, of the 
 most beautiful nature, but I do not care a 
 straw for them. The simple flowers of our 
 Spring are what I want to see again. 
 
 Brown has left the inventive and taken 
 to the imitative art. He is doing his forte, 
 which is copying Hogarth's heads. He has 
 just made a purchase of the Methodist 
 Meeting picture, which gave me a horrid 
 dream a few nights ago. I hope I shall sit 
 under the trees with you again in some 
 such place as the Isle of Wight. I do not 
 mind a game of cards in a saw-pit or wag- 
 gon, but if ever you catch me on a stage- 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 427 
 
 •oach in the winter full against the wind, 
 pring me down with a brace of bullets, and 
 I promise not to 'peach. Remember me to 
 (Reynolds, and say how much I should like 
 to hear from him ; that Brown returned 
 mmediately after he went on Sunday, and 
 hat I was vexed at forgetting to ask him 
 lunch ; for as he went towards the gate, 
 L saw he was fatigued and hungry. 
 
 1 am, my dear Rice, ever most sincerely 
 t ours 
 
 John Keats. 
 1 have broken this open to let you know 
 [ was surprised at seeing it on the table 
 his morning, thinking it had gone long 
 
 igd. 
 
 1(50. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 [February 19, 1820.] 
 My dear Fanny — Being confined al- 
 most entirely to vegetable food and the 
 weather being at the same time so much 
 against me, I cannot say I have much im- 
 proved since I wrote last. The Doctor 
 tells me there are no dangerous Symptoms 
 about me, and quietness of mind and fine 
 weather will restore me. Mind my advice 
 to be very careful to wear warm cloathing 
 in a thaw. I will write again on Tuesday 
 when I hope to send you good news. 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 1()1. TO fanny brawn-e 
 
 My dearest Fanny — I read your 
 note in bed last night, and that might be 
 the reason of my sleeping so much better. 
 I think Mr. Brown is right in supposing 
 you may stop too long with me, so very 
 nervous as I am. Send me every evening 
 a written Good night. If you come for a 
 few minutes about six it may be the best 
 time. Should you ever fancy me too low- 
 spirited I must warn you to ascribe it to 
 the medicine I am at present taking which 
 is of a nerve-shaking nature. I shall im- 
 
 pute any depression I may experience to 
 this cause. I have been writing with a 
 vile old pen the whole week, which is ex- 
 cessively uugallant. The fault is in the 
 Quill : I have mended it and still it is very 
 much inelin'd to make blind es. However 
 these last lines are in a much better style 
 of penmanship, tho' a little disfigured by 
 the smear of black currant jelly ; which has 
 made a little mark on one of the pages of 
 Brown's Ben Jonson, the very best book he 
 has. I have lick'd it but it remains very 
 purple. I did not know whether to say 
 purple or blue so in the mixture of the 
 thought wrote purplue which may be an 
 excellent name for a colour made up of 
 those two, and would suit well to start next 
 spring. Be very careful of open doors and 
 windows and going without your duffle 
 grey. God bless you Love ! 
 
 J. Keats. 
 P. S. I am sitting in the back room. 
 Remember me to your Mother. 
 
 162. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dear Fanny, — Do not let your 
 mother suppose that you hurt me by writ- 
 ing at night. For some" reason or other 
 your last night's note was not so treasure- 
 able as former ones. I would fain that you 
 call me Love still. To see you happy and 
 in high spirits is a great consolation to me 
 — still let me believe that you are not half 
 so happy as my restoration would make 
 you. I am nervous, I own, and may think 
 myself worse than I really am ; if so you 
 must indulge me, and pamper with that 
 sort of tenderness you have manifested to- 
 wards me in different Letters. My sweet 
 creature when I look back upon the pains 
 and torments I have suffer'd for you from 
 the day I left you to go to the Isle of 
 Wight ; the ecstasies in which I have pass'd 
 some days and the miseries in their turn, I 
 wonder the more at the Beauty which has 
 kept up the spell so fervently. When I 
 send this round I shall be in the front par- 
 
428 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 lour watching to see you show yourself for 
 a minute in the garden. How illness 
 stands as a barrier betwixt me and you ! 
 Even if I was well 1 must make my- 
 self as good a Philosopher as possible. 
 Now I have had opportunities of passing 
 nights anxious and awake I have found 
 other thoughts intrude upon me. 'If I 
 should die,' said I to myself, ' I have left 
 no immortal work behind me — nothing to 
 make my friends proud of my memory — 
 but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in 
 all things, and if I had had time I would 
 have made myself remember'd.' Thoughts 
 like these came very feebly whilst I was in 
 health and every pulse beat for you — now 
 you divide with this (may / say it ?) * last 
 infirmity of noble minds ' all my reflection. 
 God bless you. Love. J. ICeats. 
 
 163. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Girl, — You spoke of 
 having been unwell in your last note : have 
 you recover'd ? That note has been a 
 great delight to me. I am stronger than 
 I was : the Doctors say there is very little 
 the matter with me, but I cannot believe 
 them till the weight and tightness of my 
 Chest is mitigated. I will not indulge or 
 pain myself by complaining of my long 
 separation from you. God alone knows 
 whether I am destined to taste of happi- 
 ness with you : at all events I myself know 
 thus much, that I consider it no mean Hap- 
 piness to have lov'd you thus far — if it is 
 to be no further I shall not be unthankful 
 — if I am to recover, the day of my re- 
 covery shall see me by your side from 
 which nothing shall separate me. If well 
 you are the only medicine that can keep 
 me so. Perhaps, aye surely, I am writing 
 in too depress'd a state of mind. — ask your 
 Mother to come and see me — she will 
 bring you a better account than mine. 
 
 Ever your affectionate John Keats. 
 
 164. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS 
 
 [February 23 or 25, 1820,] 
 My DEAR Reynolds — I have been im. 
 proving since you saw me : my nights ar( 
 better which I think is a very encour- 
 aging thing. You mention your cold i: 
 rather too slighting a manner — if you 
 travel outside have som-e flannel against 
 the wind — which I hope will not keep on 
 at this rate when you are in the Packet 
 boat. Should it rain do not stop upon 
 deck though the Passengers should vomit 
 themselves inside out. Keep under Hatches 
 from all sort of wet. 
 
 I am pretty well provided with Books at 
 present, when you return I may give you a* 
 commission or two. Mr. B[arry] C [orn wall] 
 has sent me not only his Sicilian Story but; 
 yesterday his Dramatic Scenes — this is 
 very polite, and I shall do what I can to 
 make him sensible I think so. I confess 
 they teaze me — they are composed of 
 amiability, the Seasons, the Leaves, the 
 Moons, etc., upon which he rings (accord- 
 ing to Hunt's expression), triple bob ma^^ 
 jors. However that is nothing — I think 
 he likes poetry for its own sake, not his. 
 hope I shall soon be well enough to proceed 
 with my faeries and set you about the notes 
 on Sundays and Stray-days. If I had been 
 well enough I should have liked to cross 
 the water with you. Brown wishes you a 
 pleasant voyage — Have fish for dinner at 
 the sea ports, and don't forget a bottle of 
 Claret. You will not meet with so much to 
 hate at Brussels as at Paris. Remember me 
 to all my friends. If I were well enough I 
 would paraphrase an ode of Horace's for 
 you, on your embarking in the seventy 
 years ago style. The Packet will bear a 
 comparison with a Roman galley at any 
 rate. 
 
 Ever yours affectionately 
 
 J, Keats. 
 
 ? 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 429 
 
 165. TO FANNY BBAWNE 
 
 My dearest Girl — Indeed I will not 
 eceive you with respect to my Health, 
 'his is the fact as far as I know. I have 
 een confined three weeks and am not yet 
 ell — this proves that there is something 
 rong about me which my constitution will 
 ither conquer or give way to. Let us 
 ope for the best. Do you hear the Thrush 
 inging over the field ? I think it is a 
 gn of mild weather — so much the bet- 
 jr for me. Like all Sinners now I am ill 
 
 philosophize, aye out of my attachment 
 ) every thing, Trees, flowers, Thrushes, 
 pring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c. — aye 
 very thing but you. — My sister would be 
 lad of my company a little longer. That 
 'brush is a fine fellow. I hope he was 
 artunate in his choice this year. Do not 
 end any more of my Books home. I have 
 
 great pleasure in the thought of you look- 
 ig on them. 
 
 Ever yours my sweet Fanny J. K. 
 
 166. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Thursday. 
 [February 24, 1820.] 
 
 I My dear Fanny — I am sorry to hear 
 fou have been so unwell : now you are bet- 
 er, keep so. Remember to be very care- 
 ul of your clothing — this climate requires 
 he utmost care. There has been very 
 ittle alteration in me lately. I am much 
 ;he same as when I wrote last. When I 
 im well enough to return to my old diet I 
 shall get stronger. If my recovery should 
 36 delay'd long I will ask Mr. Abbey to let 
 you visit me — keep up your Spirits as well 
 IS you can. You shall hear soon again 
 from me. 
 Your affectionate Brother John 
 
 167. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 My dearest Fanny — I had a better 
 night last night than I have had since my 
 
 attack, and this morning I am the same as 
 when you saw me. I have been turning 
 over two volumes of Letters written be- 
 tween Rousseau and two Ladies in the 
 perplexed strain of mingled finesse and 
 sentiment in which the Ladies and gentle- 
 men of those days were so clever, and 
 which is still prevalent among Ladies 
 of this Country who live in a state of rea- 
 soning romance. The likeness however 
 only extends to the mannerism, not to the 
 dexterity. What would Rousseau have 
 said at seeing our little correspondence ! 
 What would his Ladies have said ! I 
 don't care much — I would sooner have 
 Shakspeare's opinion about the matter. 
 The common gossiping of washerwomen 
 must be less disgusting than the continual 
 and eternal fence and attack of Rousseau 
 and these sublime Petticoats. One calls 
 herself Clara and her friend Julia, two of 
 Rosseau's heroines — they all the same 
 time christen poor Jean Jacques St. Preux 
 — who is the pure cavalier of his famous 
 novel. Thank God I am born in England 
 with our own great Men before my eyes. 
 Thank God that you are fair and can love 
 me without being Letter-written and senti- 
 mentaliz'd into it. — Mr. Barry Cornwall 
 has sent me another Book, his first, with a 
 polite note. I must do what I can to make 
 him sensible of the esteem I have for his 
 kindness. If this north east would take a 
 turn it would be so much the better for 
 me. Good bye, my love, my dear love, 
 my beauty — 
 
 love me for ever J. K. 
 
 168. TO THE same 
 
 My dearest Girl — I continue much 
 the same as usual, I think a little better. 
 My spirits are better also, and consequently 
 I am more resign'd to my confinement, I 
 dare not think of you much or write much 
 to you. Remember me to all. 
 
 Ever your affectionate 
 
 John Keats. 
 
43° 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 169. TO THK SAME 
 
 My dear Fanny — I think you had bet- 
 ter not make any long stay with me when 
 Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes 
 out you may bring your work. You will 
 have a pleasant walk today. I shall see you 
 pass. I shall follow you with my eyes over 
 the Heath. Will you come towards even- 
 ing instead of before dinner ? When you 
 are gone, 't is past — if you do not come 
 till the evening I have something to look 
 forward to all day. Come round to my 
 window for a moment when you have read 
 this. Thank your Mother, for the pre- 
 serves, for me. The raspberry will be too 
 sweet not having any acid ; therefore as 
 you are so good a girl I shall make you a 
 present of it. Good bye 
 
 My sweet Love ! J. Keats. 
 
 170. TO THE SAME 
 
 My deabest Fanny — The power of 
 your benediction is of not so weak a nature 
 as to pass from the ring in four and twenty 
 hours — it is like a sacred Chalice once con- 
 secrated and ever consecrate. I shall kiss 
 your name and mine where your Lips have 
 been — Lips ! why should a poor prisoner 
 as I am talk about such things ? Thank 
 God, though I hold them the dearest plea- 
 sures in the universe, I have a consolation 
 independent of them in the certainty of 
 your affection. I could write a song in 
 the style of Tom Moore's Pathetic about 
 Memory if that would be any relief to me. 
 No — 'twould not. I will be as obstinate 
 as a Robin, I will not sing in a cage. 
 Health is my expected heaven and you are 
 
 the Houri this word I believe is both 
 
 singular and plural — if only plural, never 
 mind — you are a thousand of them. 
 
 Ever yours affectionately my dearest, 
 
 J. K. 
 
 You had better not come to day. 
 
 171. TO THE SAME 
 
 My deakest Love — You must not stop 
 so long in the cold — I have been suspect- 
 ing that window to be open. — Your note 
 half-cured me. When I want some more 
 oranges I will tell you — these are just 
 h propos. I am kept from food so feel 
 rather weak — otherwise very well. Pray 
 do not stop so long upstairs — it makes me 
 uneasy — come every now and then and 
 stop a half minute. Remember me to 
 Your Mother. 
 
 Your ever affectionate J. Keats. 
 
 172. TO THE SAME 
 
 Sweetest Fanny — You fear, some 
 times, I do not love you so much as yoi 
 wish ? My dear Girl I love you ever am 
 ever and without reserve. The more 
 have known the more have I lov'd. Ii 
 every way — even my jealousies have been' 
 agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever 
 had I would have died for you. I have 
 vex'd you too much. But for Love ! Can 
 I help it ? You are always new. The last 
 of your kisses was ever the sweetest ; the 
 last smile the brightest ; the last move- 
 ment the gracefullest. When you pass'd 
 my window home yesterday, I was fiU'd 
 with as much admiration as if I had then 
 seen you for the first time. You uttered a 
 half complaint once that I only lov'd your 
 beauty. Have I nothing else then to love 
 in you but that ? Do not I see a heart 
 naturally furnish'd with wings imprison it- 
 self with me ? No ill prospect has been able 
 to turn your thoughts a moment from me. 
 This perhaps should be as much a subject 
 of sorrow as joy — but I will not talk of 
 that. Even if you did not love me I could 
 not help an entire devotion to you : how 
 much more deeply then must I feel for 
 you knowing yon love me. My Mind has 
 been the most discontented and restless one 
 
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 431 
 
 hat ever was put into a body too small for 
 t. I never felt my Mind repose upon any- 
 thing with complete and undistracted en- 
 joyment — upon no person but you. When 
 fon are in the room my thoughts never fly 
 jut of window: you always concentrate 
 fiiy whole senses. The anxiety shown about 
 )ur Loves in your last note is an immense 
 j)leasure to me : however you must not 
 suffer such speculations to molest you any 
 nore : nor will I any more believe you can 
 lave the least pique against me. Brown is 
 jone out — but here is Mrs. Wiley — when 
 ihe is gone I shall be awake for you. — 
 [Remembrances to your Mother. 
 Your affectionate J. Keats. 
 
 173. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE 
 
 [Hampstead, March 4, 1820,] 
 
 My dear Dilke — Since I saw you I 
 lave been gradually, too gradually perhaps, 
 mproving ; and though under an interdict 
 ivith respect to animal food, living upon 
 c»seudo victuals, Brown says I have pick'd 
 ip a little flesh lately. If I can keep off 
 nflammation for the next six weeks I 
 trust I shall do very well. You certainly 
 hould have been at Martin's dinner, for 
 making an index is surely as dull work 
 as engraving. Have you heard that the 
 Bookseller is going to tie himself to the 
 manger eat or not as he pleases. He 
 says Rice shall have his foot on the 
 fender notwithstanding. Reynolds is go- 
 ing to sail on the salt seas. Brown has 
 been mightily progressing with his Ho- 
 jgarth. A damn'd melancholy picture it 
 ;is, and during the first week of my illness 
 it gave me a psalm-singing nightmare, that 
 made me almost faint away in my sleep. I 
 know I am better, for I can bear the Pic- 
 ture. I have experienced a specimen of 
 great politeness from Mr. Barry Cornwall. 
 He has sent me his books. Some time ago 
 he had given his first publish'd book to 
 
 Hunt for me ; Hunt forgot to give it and 
 Barry Cornwall thinking I had received it 
 must have thought me a very neglectful 
 fellow. Notwithstanding he sent me his 
 second book and on my explaining that I 
 had not received his first he sent me that 
 also. I am sorry to see by Mrs. D.'s note 
 that she has been so unwell with the spasms. 
 Does she continue the Medicines that bene- 
 fited her so much ? I am afraid not. 
 Remember me to her, and say I shall not 
 expect her at Hampstead next week unless 
 the Weather changes for the warmer. It 
 is better to run no chance of a supernumer- 
 ary cold in March. As for you, you must 
 come. You must improve in your penman- 
 ship ; your writing is like the speaking 
 of a child of three years old, very under- 
 standable to its father but to no one else. 
 The worst is it looks well — no, that is not 
 the worst — the worst is, it is worse than 
 Bailey's. Bailey's looks illegible and may 
 perchance be read ; yours looks very legi- 
 ble and may perchance not be read. I 
 would endeavour to give you a facsim- 
 ile of your word Thistlewood if I were 
 not minded on the instant that Lord Ches- 
 terfield has done some such thing to his son. 
 Now I would not bathe in the same River 
 with Lord C. though I had the upper hand 
 of the stream. I am grieved that in writ- 
 ing and speaking it is necessary to make 
 use of the same particles as he did. Cob- 
 bett is expected to come in. O that I had 
 two double plumpers for him. The minis- 
 try are not so inimical to him but it would 
 like to put him out of Coventry. Casting 
 my eye on the other side I see a long word 
 written in a most vile manner, unbecoming 
 a Critic. You must recollect I have served 
 no apprenticeship to old plays. If the only 
 copies of the Greek and Latin authors had 
 been made by you, Bailey and Haydon they 
 were as good as lost. It has been said that 
 the Character of a Man may be known by 
 his handwTiting — if the Character of the 
 age may be known by the average good- 
 
432 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 ness of said, what a slovenly age we live in. 
 Look at Queen Elizabeth's Latin exercises 
 and blush. Look at Milton's hand. I 
 can't say a word for Shakspeare's. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 174. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 My dear Fanny — I am much better 
 this morning than I was a week ago : in- 
 deed I improve a little every day. I rely 
 upon taking a walk with you upon the first 
 of May : in the mean time undergoing a 
 babylonish captivity I shall not be jew 
 enough to hang up my harp upon a willow, 
 but rather endeavour to clear up my ar- 
 rears in versifying, and with returning 
 health begin upon something new: pursu- 
 ant to which resolution it will be necessary 
 to have my or rather Taylor's manuscript, 
 which you, if you please, will send by my 
 Messenger either today or tomorrow. Is 
 Mr. D. with you today? You appeared 
 very much fatigued last night : you must 
 look a little brighter this morning. I shall 
 not suffer my little girl ever to be obscured 
 like glass breath'd upon, but always bright 
 as it is her nature to. Feeding upon sham 
 victuals and sitting by the fire will com- 
 pletely annul me. I have no need of an 
 enchanted wax figure to duplicate me, for 
 I am melting in my proper person before 
 the fire. If you meet with anything better 
 (worse) than common in your Magazines 
 let me see it. 
 
 Good bye my sweetest Girl. J. K. 
 
 175. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Fanny — Whenever you 
 know me to be alone, come, no matter what 
 day. Why will you go out this weather ? 
 I shall not fatigue myself with writing too 
 much I promise you. Brown says I am 
 getting stouter. I rest well and from last 
 night do not remember any thing horrid in 
 my dream, which is a capital symptom, for 
 
 any organic derangement always occasions 
 a Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idlaA. 
 amusement to hunt after a motto for my^ 
 Book which I will have if lucky enough to 
 hit upon a fit one — not intending to write 
 a preface. I fear I am too late with my 
 note — you are gone out — you will be as 
 cold as a topsail in a north latitude — I ad- 
 vise you to furl yourself and come in a 
 doors. 
 
 Good bye Love. J. K. 
 
 176. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Fanny — I slept well last 
 night and am no worse tl^is morning for it. 
 Day by day if I am not deceived I get a 
 more unrestrain'd use of my Chest. The 
 nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more his 
 anxiety becomes; so I lingering upon the 
 borders of health feel my impatience in- 
 crease. Perhaps on your account I have 
 imagined my illness more serious than it is: 
 how horrid was the chance of slipping into 
 the ground instead of into your arms — the 
 difference is amazing Love. Death must 
 come at last; Man must die, as Shallow 
 says; but before that is my fate I fain 
 would try what more pleasures than you 
 have given, so sweet a creature as you can 
 give. Let me have another opportunity of 
 years before me and I will not die without 
 being remember'd. Take care of yourself 
 dear that we may both be well in the Sum- 
 mer. I do not at all fatigue myself with 
 writing, having merely to put a line or two i 
 here and there, a Task which would worry! 
 a stout state of the body and mind, but 
 which just suits me as I can do no more. 
 Your affectionate J. K. 
 
 177. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Fanny — Though I shall 
 see you in so short a time I cannot forbear 
 sending you a few lines. You say I did 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 433 
 
 ' not give you yesterday a minute account of 
 my health. Today I have left off the 
 Medicine which I took to keep the pulse 
 down and I find I can do very well without 
 it, which is a very favourable sign, as it 
 shows there is no inflammation remaining. 
 You think I may be wearied at night you 
 say: it is my best time; I am at my best 
 about eight o'Clock. I received a Note 
 from Mr. Procter today. He says he can- 
 not pay me a visit this weather as he is 
 fearful of an inflammation in the Chest. 
 What a horrid climate this is? or what 
 careless inhabitants it has ? You are one 
 of them. My dear girl do not make a joke 
 of it: do not expose yourself to the cold. 
 There's the Thrush again — I can't afford 
 it — he '11 run me up a pretty Bill for 
 Music — besides he ought to know I deal 
 at dementi's. How can you bear so long 
 an imprisonment at Hampstead ? I shall 
 always remember it with all the gusto that 
 a monopolizing carle should. I could build 
 an Altar to you for it. 
 
 Your affectionate 
 
 J. K. 
 
 178. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 [March 20, 1820.] 
 My dear Fanny — According to your 
 desire I write to-day. It must be but a 
 few lines, for I have been attack'd several 
 times with a palpitation at the heart and 
 the Doctor says I must not make the 
 slightest exertion. I am much the same 
 to-day as I have been for a week past. They 
 say 't is nothing but debility and will entirely 
 cease on my recovery of my strength which 
 is the object of my present diet. As the 
 Doctor will not suffer me to write I shall 
 ask Mr. Brown to let you hear news of me 
 for the future if I should not get stronger 
 soon. I hope I shall be well enough to 
 come and see your flowers in bloom. 
 Ever your most affectionate Brother 
 John . 
 
 179. TO fanny BRAWNE 
 
 My dearest Girl — As, from the last 
 part of my note you must see how gratified 
 I have been by your remaining at home, 
 you might perhaps conceive that I was 
 equally bias'd the other way by your going 
 to Town, I cannot be easy to-night without 
 telling you you would be wrong to suppose 
 so. Though I am pleased with the one, I 
 am not displeased with the other. How 
 do I dare to write in this manner about my 
 pleasures and displeasures ? I will tho' 
 whilst I am an invalid, in spite of you. 
 Good night, Love ! J. K. 
 
 180. TO THE SAME 
 
 My dearest Girl — In consequence of 
 our company I suppose I shall not see you 
 before tomorrow. I am much better to- 
 day — indeed all I have to complain of is 
 want of strength and a little tightness in 
 the Chest. I envied Sara's walk with you 
 today; which I will not do again as I may 
 get very tired of envying. I imagine you 
 now sitting in your new black dress which 
 I like so much and if I were a little less 
 selfish and more enthusiastic I should run 
 round and surprise you with a knock at 
 the door. I fear I am too prudent for a 
 dying kind of Lover. Yet, there is a great 
 difference between going off in warm blood 
 like Romeo, and making one's exit like a 
 frog in a frost. I had nothing particular 
 to say today, but not intending that there 
 shall be any interruption to our correspond- 
 ence (which at some future time I propose 
 offering to Murray) I write something. 
 God bless you my sweet Love ! Illness is 
 a long lane, but I see you at the end of it, 
 and shall mend my pace as well as pos- 
 sible. J. K. 
 
 181. TO THE SAME 
 
 Dear Girl — Yesterday you must have 
 thought me worse than I really was. I 
 
434 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 assure you there was nothing but regret at 
 being obliged to forego an embrace which 
 has so many times been the highest gust of 
 my Life. I would not care for health with- 
 out it. Sam would not come in — I wanted 
 merely to ask him how you were this morn- 
 ing. When one is not quite well we turn 
 for relief to those we love : this is no weak- 
 ness of spirit in me: you know when in 
 health I thought of nothing but you; when 
 I shall again be so it will be the same. 
 Brown has been mentioning to me that 
 some hint from Sam, last night, occasions 
 him some uneasiness. He whispered some- 
 thing to you concerning Brown and old 
 Mr. Dilke which had the complexion of 
 being something derogatory, to the former. 
 It was connected with an anxiety about 
 Mr. D. Sr's death and an anxiety to set out 
 for Chichester. These sort of hints point 
 out their own solution: one cannot pretend 
 to a delicate ignorance on the subject: you 
 understand the whole matter. If any one, 
 my sweet Love, has misrepresented, to you, 
 to your Mother or Sam, any circumstances 
 which are at all likely, at a tenth remove, to 
 create suspicions among people who from 
 their own interested notions slander others, 
 pray tell me : for I feel the least attaint on 
 the disinterested character of Brown verj' 
 deeply. Perhaps Keynolds or some other 
 of my friends may come towards evening, 
 therefore you may choose whether you will 
 come to see me early today before or after 
 dinner as you may think fit. Remember 
 me to your Mother and tell her to drag 
 you to me if you show the least reluc- 
 tance — 
 
 182. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, April 1 [1820]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — I am getting better 
 
 every day and should think myself quite 
 
 well were I not reminded every now and 
 
 then by faintness and a tightness in the 
 
 Chest. Send your Spaniel over to Hamp- 
 stead, for I think I know where to find a 
 Master or Mistress for him. You may de- 
 pend upon it if you were even to turn it 
 loose in the common road it would soon 
 find an owner. If I keep improving as I 
 have done I shall be able to come over to 
 you in the course of a few weeks. I should 
 take the advantage of your being in Town 
 but I cannot bear the City though I have 
 already ventured as far as the west end for 
 the purpose of seeing Mr. Haydon's Pic- 
 ture, which is just finished and has made 
 its appearance. I have not heard from 
 George yet since he left Liverpool. Mr. 
 Brown wrote to him as from me the other 
 day — Mr. B. wrote two Letters to Mr. 
 Abbey concerning me — Mr. A. took no 
 notice and of course Mr. B. must give up 
 such a correspondence when as the man 
 said all the Letters are on one side. I 
 write with greater ease than I had thought, 
 therefore you shall soon hear from me 
 again. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 183. TO THE SAME ' 
 
 [April 1820.] 
 My DEAR Fanny — Mr. Brown is wait- 
 ing for me to take a walk. Mrs. Dilke is 
 on a visit next door and desires her love to 
 you. The Dog shall be taken care of and 
 for his name I shall go and look in the 
 parish register where he was born — I still 
 continue on the mending hand. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 184. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, April 12, [1820]. 
 My DEAR Fanny — Excuse these shabby 
 scraps of paper I send you — and also from i 
 endeavouring to give you any consolation: 
 just at present, for though my health ist 
 tolerably well I am too nervous to enten 
 into any discussion in which my heart is 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 43 S 
 
 concerned. Wait patiently and take care 
 of your health, being especially careful to 
 keep yourself from low spirits which are 
 great enemies to health. You are young 
 and have only need of a little patience. 
 I am not yet able to bear the fatigue of 
 coming to Walthamstow, though I have 
 been to Town once or twice. I have 
 thought of taking a change of air. You 
 shall hear from me immediately on my 
 moving anywhere. I will ask Mrs. Dilke 
 to pay you a visit if the weather holds fine, 
 the first time I see her. The Dog is being 
 attended to like a Prince. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 185. TO THE SAME 
 
 [Hampstead, April 21, 1820.] 
 My dear Fanny — I have been slowly 
 improving since I wrote last. The Doctor 
 assures me that there is nothing the matter 
 with me except nervous irritability and a 
 general weakness of the whole system, 
 which has proceeded from my anxiety of 
 mind of late years and the too great excite- 
 ment of poetry. Mr. Brown is going to 
 Scotland by the Smack, and I am advised 
 for change of exercise and air to accompany 
 him and give myself the chance of benefit 
 from a Voyage. Mr. H. Wylie call'd on 
 me yesterday with a letter from George to 
 his mother : George is safe at the other 
 side of the water, perhaps by this time ar- 
 rived at his home. I vnsh you were com- 
 ing to town that I might see you ; if you 
 should be coming write to me, as it is quite 
 a trouble to get by the coaches to Waltham- 
 stow. Should you not come to Town I 
 must see you before I sail, at Walthamstow. 
 They tell me I must study lines and tan- 
 gents and squares and angles to put a little 
 Ballast into my mind. We shall be going 
 in a fortnight and therefore you will see 
 me vrithin that space. I expected sooner, 
 but I have not been able to venture to walk 
 across the country. Now the fine Weather 
 
 is come you will not find your time so irk- 
 some. You must be sensible how much I 
 regret not being able to alleviate the un- 
 pleasantness of your situation, but trust my 
 dear Fanny that better times are in wait 
 for you. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 186. TO THE SAME 
 
 Wentworth Place, Thursday [May 4, 1820]. 
 My dear Fanny — I went for the first 
 time into the City the day before yesterday, 
 for before I was very disinclined to en- 
 counter the scuffle, more from nervousness 
 than real illness ; which notwithstanding I 
 should not have suffered to conquer me if 
 I had not made up my mind not to go to 
 Scotland, but to remove to Kentish Town 
 till Mr. Brown returns. Kentish Town is 
 a mile nearer to you than Hampstead — 
 I have been getting gradually better, but 
 am not so well as to trust myself to the 
 casualties of rain and sleeping out which I 
 am liable to in visiting you. Mr. Bro%vn 
 goes on Saturday, and by that time I shall 
 have settled in my new lodging, when I 
 will certainly venture to you. You will 
 forgive me I hope when I confess that I en- 
 deavour to think of you as little as possible 
 and to let George dwell upon my mind but 
 slightly. The reason being that I am 
 afraid to ruminate on anything which has 
 the shade of difficulty or melancholy in it, 
 as that sort of cogitation is so pernicious to 
 health, and it is only by health that I can be 
 enabled to alleviate your situation in future. 
 For some time you must do what you can 
 of yourself for relief ; and bear your mind 
 up with the consciousness that your situa- 
 tion cannot last for ever, and that for the 
 present you may console yourself against 
 the reproaches of Mrs. Abbey. Whatever 
 obligations you may have had to her you 
 have none now, as she has reproached you. 
 I do not know what property you have, but 
 I will enquire into it : be sure however that 
 
436 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 beyond the obligation that a lodger may 
 have to a landlord you have none to Mrs. 
 Abbey. Let the surety of this make you 
 laugh at Mrs. A.'s foolish tattle. Mrs. 
 Dilke's Brother has got your Dog. She is 
 now very well — still liable to Illness. I 
 will get her to come and see you if I can 
 make up my mind on the propriety of in- 
 troducing a stranger into Abbey's house. 
 Be careful to let no fretting injure your 
 health as I have suffered it — health is the 
 greatest of blessings — with health and 
 hope we should be content to live, and so 
 you will find as you grow older. 
 
 I am, my dear Fanny, your affectionate 
 Brother, John . 
 
 187. TO CHARLES WENTWOBTH DILKE 
 
 [Hampstead, May 1820.] 
 My dear Dilke — As Brown is not to 
 be a fixture at Hampstead, I have at last 
 made up my mind to send home all lent 
 books. I should have seen you before this, 
 but my mind has been at work all over the 
 world to find out what to do. I have my 
 choice of three things, or at least two, — 
 South America, or Surgeon to an India- 
 man ; which last, I think, will be my fate. 
 I shall resolve in a few days. Remember 
 me to Mrs. D. and Charles, and your father 
 and mother. 
 
 Ever truly yours John Keats. 
 
 188. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 My dearest Girl — I endeavour to 
 make myself as patient as possible. Hunt 
 amuses me very kindly — besides I have 
 your ring on my finger and your flowers 
 on the table. I shall not expect to see you 
 yet because it would be so much pain to 
 part with you again. When the Books you 
 want come you shall have them. I am 
 very well this afternoon. My dearest. . . . 
 [Signature cut off.] 
 
 189. TO THE SAME 
 
 Tuesday Afternoon. 
 
 My dearest Fanny — For this Week 
 past I have been employed in marking the 
 most beautiful passages in Spenser, intend- 
 ing it for you, and comforting myself in 
 being somehow occupied to give you how- 
 ever small a pleasure. It has lightened 
 my time very much. I am much better. 
 God bless you. 
 
 Your affectionate J. Keats. 
 
 190. TO THE SAME 
 
 Tuesday Morn. 
 My dearest Girl — I wrote a letter for 
 you yesterday expecting to have seen your 
 mother. I shall be selfish enough to send 
 it though I know it may give you a little 
 pain, because I wish you to see hov^ un- 
 happy I am for love of you, and endeavour 
 as much as I can to entice you to give 'up 
 your whole heart to me whose whole exist- 
 ence hangs upon you. You could not step 
 or move an eyelid but it would shoot to 
 my heart — I am greedy of you. Do not 
 think of anything but me. Do not live as 
 if I was not existing. Do not forget me — 
 But have I any right to say you forget 
 me ? Perhaps you think of me all day. 
 Have I any right to wish you to be un- 
 happy for me ? You would forgive me for 
 wishing it if you knew the extreme passion 
 I have that you should love me — and for 
 you to love me as I do you, you must think 
 of no one but me, much less write that 
 sentence. Yesterday and this morning I 
 have been haunted with a sweet vision — I 
 have seen you the whole time in your 
 shepherdess dress. How my senses have 
 ached at it ! How my heart has been 
 devoted to it ! How my eyes have been 
 full of tears at it ! I[n]deed I think a real 
 love is enough to occupy the widest heart. 
 Your going to town alone when I heard of 
 it was a shock to me — yet I expected it -^ ; 
 
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 437 
 
 promise me you will not for some time till I get 
 better. Promise me this and fill the paper 
 full of the most endeariug names. If you 
 cannot do so with good will, do my love tell 
 me — say what you think — confess if your 
 heart is too much fasten'd on the world. 
 Perhaps then I may see you at a greater 
 distance, I may not be able to appropriate 
 you so closely to myself. Were you to 
 loose a favourite bird from the cage, how 
 would your eyes ache after it as long as it 
 was in sight ; when out of sight you would 
 recover a little. Perhaps if you would, if 
 so it is, confess to me how many things are 
 necessary to you besides me, I might be 
 happier ; by being less tantaliz'd. Well 
 may you exclaim, how selfish, how cruel 
 not to let me enjoy my youth ! to wish me 
 to be unhappy. You must be so if you 
 love me. Upon my soul I can be contented 
 with nothing else. If you would really 
 what is call'd enjoy yourself at a Party — 
 if you can smile in people's faces, and wish 
 them to admire you noio — you never have 
 nor ever will love me. I see life in no- 
 thing but the certainty of your Love — con- 
 vince me of it my sweetest. If I am not 
 somehow convinced I shall die of agony. 
 If we love we must not live as other men 
 and women do — I cannot brook the wolfs- 
 bane of fashion and foppery and tattle — 
 you must be mine to die upon the rack if 
 I want you. I do not pretend to say that I 
 have more feeling than my fellows, but I 
 wish you seriously to look over my letters 
 kind and unkind and consider whether the 
 person who wrote them can be able to en- 
 dure much longer the agonies and uncer- 
 tainties which you are so peculiarly made 
 to create. My recovery of bodily health 
 will be of no benefit to me if you are not 
 mine when I am well. For God's sake 
 save me — or tell me my passion is of too 
 awful a nature for you. Again God bless 
 you. 
 
 J. K. 
 No — my sweet Fanny — I am wrong — I 
 do not wish you to be unhappy — and yet I 
 
 do, I must while there is so sweet a Beauty 
 — my loveliest, my darling ! good bye ! I 
 kiss you — O the torments ! 
 
 191. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 [Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town] 
 June 11, [1820.] 
 My dear Taylor — In reading over 
 the proof of St. Aguess Eve since I left 
 Fleet Street, I was struck with what ap- 
 pears to me an alteration in the seventh 
 stanza very much for the worse. The pas- 
 sage I mean stands thus — 
 
 her maiden eyes incline 
 Still on the floor, while many a sweeping train 
 Pass by 
 
 'T was originally written — 
 
 her maiden eyes divine 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by. 
 
 My meaning is quite destroyed in the alter- 
 ation. I do not use train for concourse of 
 passers by, but for skirts sweeping along 
 the floor. 
 
 In the first stanza my copy reads, second 
 line — 
 
 bitter chill it was, 
 
 to avoid the echo cold in the second line. 
 Ever yours sincerely John Keats. 
 
 192. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 [Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town, June, 1820.] 
 My dear Brown — I have only been to 
 
 's once since you left, when could 
 
 not find your letters. Now this is bad of 
 me. I should, in this instance, conquer the. 
 great aversion to breaking up my regular 
 habits, which grows upon me more and 
 more. True, I have an excuse in the 
 weather, which drives one from shelter to 
 shelter in any little excursion. I have 
 not heard from George. My book is com- 
 ing out with very low hopes, though not 
 spirits, on my part. This shall be my last 
 
438 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 trial ; not succeeding, I shall try what I can 
 do in the apothecary line. When you hear 
 
 from or see it is probable you will 
 
 hear some complaints against me, which 
 this notice is not intended to forestall. 
 The fact is, I did behave badly ; but it is 
 to be attributed to my health, spirits, and 
 the disadvantageous ground I stand on in 
 society. I could go and accommodate mat- 
 ters if I were not too weary of the world. 
 I know that they are more happy and com- 
 fortable than I am ; therefore why should 
 I trouble myself about it? I foresee I 
 shall know very few people in the course 
 of a year or two. Men get such different 
 habits that they become as oil and vinegar 
 to one another. Thus far I have a con- 
 sciousness of having been pretty dull and 
 heavy, both in subject and phrase; I might 
 add, enigmatical. I am in the wrong, and 
 the world is in the right, I have no doubt. 
 Fact is, I have had so many kindnesses 
 done me by so many people, that I am 
 cheveaux-de-frised with benefits, which I 
 must jump over or break down. I met 
 
 in town, a few days ago, who invited 
 
 me to supper to meet Wordsworth, Southey, 
 Lamb, Haydon, and some more ; I was too 
 careful of my health to risk being out at 
 night. Talking of that, I continue to im- 
 prove slowly, but I think surely. There is 
 a famous exhibition in Pail-Mall of the old 
 English portraits by Vandyck and Holbein, 
 Sir Peter Lely, and the great Sir Godfrey. 
 Pleasant countenances predominate ; so I 
 will mention two or three unpleasant ones. 
 There is James the First, whose appearance 
 would disgrace a ' Society for the Sup- 
 pression of Women ; ' so very squalid and 
 subdued to nothing he looks. Then, there 
 is old Lord Burleigh, the high-priest of 
 economy, the political save-all, who has the 
 appearance of a Pharisee just rebuffed by 
 a Gospel bon-mot. Then, there is George 
 the Second, very like an uuintellectual 
 Voltaire, troubled with the gout and a bad 
 temper. Then, there is young Devereux, 
 the favourite, with every appearance of as 
 
 slang a boxer as any in the Court ; his 
 face is cast in the mould of blackguardism 
 with jockey-plaster. I shall soon begin 
 upon ' Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.' ^^ I do not 
 begin composition yet, being willing, in 
 case of a relapse, to have nothing to re- 
 proach myself with. I hope the weather 
 will give you the slip ; let it show itself and 
 steal out of your company. When I have 
 sent off this, I shall write another to some 
 place about fifty miles in advance of you. 
 Good morning to you. Yours ever sin- 
 cerely. John Keats. 
 
 193. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Friday Morn [Wesleyan Place, 
 Kentish Town, June 26, 1820.] 
 
 My dear Fanny — I had intended to 
 delay seeing you till a Book which I am 
 now publishing was out, expecting that to 
 be the end of this week when I would have 
 brought it to Walthamstow : on receiving 
 your Letter of course I set myself to come 
 to town, but was not able, for just as I was 
 setting out yesterday morning a slight 
 spitting of blood came on which returned « 
 rather more copiously at night. I have i 
 slept well and they tell me there is nothing 
 material to fear. I will send my Book 
 soon with a Letter which I have had from 
 George who is with his family quite well 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 194. TO FANNY BRAWNB 
 
 I 
 
 Wednesday Morning. 
 My dearest Fanny — I have been a 
 walk this morning with a book in my hand, 
 but as usual I have been occupied with 
 nothing but you : I wish I could say in an 
 agreeable manner. I am tormented day 
 and night. They talk of my going to Italy- 
 'T is certain I shall never recover if I am 
 to be so long separate from you : yet with 
 all this devotion to you I cannot persuade 
 myself into any confidence of you. Past 
 
TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 439 
 
 experience connected with the fact of my 
 long separation from you gives me agonies 
 which are scarcely to be talked of. When 
 your mother comes I shall be very sudden 
 and expert in asking her whether you have 
 been to Mrs. Dilke's, for she might say no 
 to make me easy. I am literally worn to 
 death, which seems my only recourse. I 
 cannot forget what has pass'd. What ? 
 nothing with a man of the world, but to 
 me deathful. I will get rid of this as much 
 as possible. When you were in the habit 
 of flirting with Brown you would have left 
 off, could your own heart have felt one 
 half of one pang mine did. Brown is a 
 good sort of Man — he did not know he 
 was doing me to death by inches. I feel 
 the effect of every one of those hours in 
 my side now ; and for that cause, though 
 he has done me many services, though I 
 know his love and friendship for me, though 
 at this moment I should be without pence 
 were it not for his assistance, I will never 
 see or speak to him until we are both old 
 men, if we are to be. I will resent my 
 heart having been made a football. You 
 will call this madness. I have heard you 
 say that it was not unpleasant to wait a 
 few years — you have amusements — your 
 mind is away — you have not brooded over 
 one idea as I have, and how should you ? 
 You are to me an object intensely desira- 
 ble — the air I breathe in a room empty of 
 you is unhealthy. I am not the same to 
 you — no — you can wait — you have a 
 thousand activities — you can be happy 
 without me. Any party, any thing to fill 
 up the day has been enough. How have 
 you pass'd this month ? Who have you 
 smil'd with ? All this may seem savage 
 in me. You do not feel as I do — you do 
 not know what it is to love — one day you 
 may — your time is not come. Ask your- 
 self how many unhappy hours Keats has 
 caused you in Loneliness. For myself I 
 have been a Martyr the whole time, and 
 for this reason I speak ; the confession is 
 forc'd from me by the torture. I appeal 
 
 to you by the blood of that Christ you be- 
 lieve in : Do not write to me if you have 
 done anything this month which it would 
 have pained me to have seen. You may 
 have altered — if you have not — if you 
 still behave in dancing rooms and other 
 societies as I have seen you — I do not 
 want to live — if you have done so I wish 
 this coming night may be my last. I can- 
 not live without you, and not only you but 
 chaste you; virtuous you. The Sun rises 
 and sets, the day passes, and you follow 
 the bent of your inclination to a certain 
 extent — you have no conception of the 
 quantity of miserable feeling that passes 
 through me in a day. — Be serious i Love 
 is not a plaything — and again do not 
 write unless you can do it with a crystal 
 conscience. I would sooner die for want 
 of you than — 
 
 Yours for ever 
 
 J. Keats. 
 
 105. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Mortimer Terrace, Wednesday [July 5, 1820]. 
 My DEAR Fanny — I have had no re- 
 turn of the spitting of blood, and for two 
 or three days have been getting a little 
 stronger. I have no hopes of an entire 
 reestablishment of my health under some 
 months of patience. My Physician tells 
 me I must contrive to jjass the Winter in 
 Italy. This is all very unfortunate for us 
 — we have no recourse but patience, which 
 I am now practising better than ever I 
 thought it possible for me. I have this 
 moment received a Letter from Mr. Brown, 
 dated Dunvegan Castle, Island of Skye. 
 lie is very well in health and spirits. My 
 new publication has been out for some days 
 and I have directed a Copy to be bound 
 for you, which you will receive shortly. 
 No one can regret Mr. Hodgkinson's ill 
 fortune : I must own illness has not made 
 such a Saint of me as to prevent my re- 
 joicing at his reverse. Keep yourself in as 
 good hopes as possible ; in case my illness 
 
440 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 « 
 
 should contiuue an unreasonable time many 
 of my friends would I trust for my sake do 
 all in their power to console and amuse 
 you, at the least word from me — You may 
 depend upon it that in case my strength 
 returns I will do all in my power to extri- 
 cate you from the Abbeys. Be above all 
 things careful of your health which is the 
 corner stone of ail pleasure. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 196, TO BENJAMIN ROBEKT HAYDON 
 
 [Mortimer Terrace, July, 1820,] 
 My dear Haydon — I am sorry to be 
 obliged to try your patience a few more 
 days when you will have the Book [Chap- 
 man's Horner^ sent from Town, I am glad 
 to hear you are in progress with another 
 Picture. Go on. I am afraid I shall pop 
 off just when my mind is able to run alone. 
 Your sincere friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 197. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Mortuner Terrace [July 22, 1820.] 
 My dear Fanny — I have been gain- 
 ing strength for some days : it would be 
 well if I could at the same time say I am 
 gaining hopes of a speedy recovery. My 
 constitution has suffered very much for two 
 or three years past, so as to be scarcely 
 able to make head against illness, which 
 the natural activity and impatience of my 
 Mind renders more dangerous. It will at 
 all events be a very tedious affair, and you 
 must expect to hear very little alteration of 
 any sort in me for some time. You ought 
 to have received a copy of my Book ten 
 days ago. I shall send another message to 
 the Booksellers. One of the Mr. Wylie's 
 will be here to-day or to-morrow when I 
 will ask him to send you George's Letter. 
 Writing the smallest note is so annoying 
 to me that I have waited till I shall see 
 him. Mr. Hunt does everything in his 
 
 power to make the time pass as agreeably 
 with me as possible. I read the greatest 
 part of the day, and generally take two 
 half-hour walks a-day up and down the 
 terrace which is very much pester'd with 
 cries, ballad singers, and street music. We 
 have been so unfortunate for so long a time, 
 every event has been of so depressing a 
 nature that I must persuade myself to 
 think some change will take place in the 
 aspect of our affairs. I shall be upon the 
 look out for a trump card. 
 
 Your affectionate Brother 
 
 John . 
 
 198. TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 My dearest Fanny — My head is puz- 
 zled this morning, and I scarce know what 
 I shall say though I am full of a hundred 
 things. 'Tis certain I would rather be 
 writing to you this morning, notwithstand- 
 ing the alloy of grief in such an occupation, 
 than enjoy any other pleasure, with health 
 to boot, unconnected with you. Upon my 
 soul I have loved you to the extreme. I 
 wish you could know the Tenderness with 
 which I continually brood over your differ- 
 ent aspects of countenance, action and dress. 
 I see you come down in the morning : I see 
 you meet me at the Window — I see every 
 thing over again eternally that I ever have 
 seen. If I get on the pleasant clue I live 
 in a sort of happy misery, if on the un- 
 pleasant 't is miserable misery. You com- 
 plain of my illtreating you in word, thought 
 and deed — I am sorry, — at times I feel 
 bitterly sorry that I ever made you un- 
 happy — my excuse is that those words 
 have been wrung from me by the sharp- 
 ness of my feelings. At all events and 
 in any case I have been wrong ; could I 
 believe that I did it without any cause, I 
 should be the most sincere of Penitents. 
 I could give way to my repentant feelings 
 now, I could recant all my suspicions, I 
 could mingle with you heart and Soul 
 
TO FANNY BRAWNE 
 
 441 
 
 hough absent, were it not for some parts 
 it your Letters. Do you suppose it possi- 
 ble I could ever leave you ? You know 
 What I think of myself and what of you. 
 You know that I should feel how much it 
 was my loss and how little yours. My 
 triends laugh at you ! I know some of 
 ;hem — when I know them all I shall never 
 :hink of them again as friends or even 
 vcquaintance. My friends have behaved 
 well to me in every instance but one, and 
 here they have become tattlers, and in- 
 uisitors into my conduct : spying upon a 
 ecret I would rather die than share it with 
 ny body's confidence. For this I cannot 
 ish them well, I care not to see any of 
 ;hem again. If I am the Theme, I will 
 lot be the Friend of idle Gossips. Good 
 ^ods what a shame it is our Loves should 
 e so put into the microscope of a Coterie. 
 !'heir laughs should not affect you (I may 
 erhaps give you reasons some day for 
 these laughs, for I suspect a few people to 
 hate me well enough, for reasons I know of, 
 .Who have pretended a great friendship for 
 ime) when in competition with one, who if 
 he never should see you again would make 
 you the Saint of his memory. These 
 [Laughers, who do, not like you, who envy 
 lyou for your Beautj'^, who would have God- 
 Wess'd me from you for ever : who were 
 plying me with disencouragements with 
 respect to you eternally. People are re- 
 vengeful — do not mind them — do nothing 
 but love me — if I knew that for certain 
 life and health will in such event be a hea- 
 jven, and death itself will be less painful. 
 Il long to believe in immortality. I shall 
 never be able to bid you an entire farewell. 
 If I am destined to be happy with you here 
 — how short is the longest Life. I wish 
 to believe in immortality — I wish to live 
 with you for ever. Do not let my name 
 ever pass between you and those laughers ; 
 if I have no other merit than the great 
 Love for you, that were sufficient to keep 
 me sacred and unmentioned in such society. 
 
 If I have been cruel and unjust I swear 
 my love has ever been greater than my 
 cruelty which last [^sic^ but a minute whereas 
 my Love come what will shall last for ever. 
 If concession to me has hurt your Pride 
 God knows I have had little pride in my 
 heart when thinking of you. Your name 
 never passes my Lips — do not let mine 
 pass yours. Those People do not like me. 
 After reading my Letter you even then 
 wish to see me. I am strong enough to 
 walk over — but I dare not. I shall feel 
 so much pain in parting with you again. 
 My dearest love, I am afraid to see you ; 
 I am strong, but not strong enough to see 
 you. Will my arm be ever round you 
 again, and if so shall I be obliged to leave 
 you again ? My sweet Love ! I am happy 
 whilst I believe your first Letter. Let 
 me be but certain that you are mine heart 
 and soul, and I could die more happily than 
 I could otherwise live. If you think me 
 cruel — if you think I have sleighted you 
 — do muse it over again and see into my 
 heart. My love to you is ' true as truth's 
 simplicity and simpler than the infancy of 
 truth ' as I think I once said before. How 
 could I sleight you ? How threaten to 
 leave you ? not in the spirit of a Threat to 
 you — no — but in the spirit of Wretched- 
 ness in myself. My fairest, my delicious, 
 my angel Fanny ! do not believe me such 
 a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in 
 illness and as believing in Love as I am 
 able. 
 
 Yours for ever my dearest 
 John Keats. 
 
 199. to the same 
 
 I do not write this till the last, 
 that no eye may catch it. 
 
 My dearest Girl — I wish you could 
 invent some means to make me at all happy 
 without you. Every hour I am more and 
 more concentrated in you ; every thing else 
 tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it 
 
442 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 1 
 
 almost impossible to go to Italy — the fact 
 is I cannot leave you, and shall never taste 
 one minute's content until it pleases chance 
 to let me live with you for good. But I 
 will not go on at this rate. A person in 
 health as you are can have no conception of 
 the horrors that nerves and a temper like 
 mine go through. What Island do your 
 friends propose retiring to ? I should be 
 happy to go with you there alone, but in 
 company I should object to it ; the back- 
 bitings and jealousies of new colonists who 
 have nothing else to amuse themselves, is 
 unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me 
 yesterday, and gave me a very great deal 
 more pain than pleasure. I shall never be 
 able any more to endure the society of any 
 of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage 
 and Wentworth Place. The last two years 
 taste like brass upon my Palate. If I can- 
 not live with you I will live alone. I do 
 not think my health will improve much 
 while I am separated from you. For all 
 this I am averse to seeing you — I cannot 
 bear flashes of light and return into my 
 gloom again. I am not so unhappy now as 
 I should be if I had seen you yesterday. 
 To be happy with you seems such an im- 
 possibility ! it requires a luckier Star than 
 mine ! it will never be. I enclose a pas- 
 sage from one of your letters which I want 
 you to alter a little — I want (if you will 
 have it so) the matter express'd less coldly 
 to me. If my health would bear it, I could 
 write a Poem which I have in my head, 
 which would be a consolation for people in 
 such a situation as mine. I would show 
 some one in Love as I am, with a person 
 living in such Liberty as you do. Shake- 
 speare always sums up matters in the most 
 sovereign manner. Hamlet's heart was full 
 of such Misery as mine is when he said to 
 Ophelia ' Go to a Nunnery, go, go ! ' In- 
 deed I should like to give up the matter at 
 once — I should like to die. I am sickened 
 at the brute world which you are smiling 
 with. I hate men, and women more. I see 
 
 nothing but thorns for the future — wher- 
 ever I may be next winter, in Italy or no- 
 where, Brown will be living near you with 
 his indecencies. I see no prospect of any 
 rest. Suppose me in Rome — well, I should 
 there see you as in a magic glass going to i 
 
 and from town at all hours, I wish ' 
 
 you could infuse a little confidence of hu- 
 man nature into my heart. I cannot mus- 
 ter any — the world is too brutal for me — 
 I am glad there is such a thing as the 
 grave — I am sure I shall never have any 
 rest till I get there. At any rate I will 
 indulge myself by never seeing any more 
 Dilke or Brown or any of their Friends. 
 I wish I was either in your arms full of 
 faith or that a Thunder bolt would strike 
 
 God bless you. 
 
 209. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 J.K. 
 
 Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820]. 
 My dear Fanny — 'Tis a long time 
 since I received your last. An accident of 
 an unpleasant nature occurred at Mr. Hunt's 
 and prevented me from answering you, 
 that is to say made me nervous. That you 
 may not suppose it worse I will mention 
 that some one of Mr. Hunt's household 
 opened a Letter of mine — upon which I 
 immediately left Mortimer Terrace, with 
 the intention of taking to Mrs. Bentley's 
 again ; fortunately I am not in so lone a 
 situation, but am staying a short time with 
 Mrs. Brawne who lives in the house which 
 was Mrs. Dilke's. I am excessively ner- 
 vous : a person I am not quite used to en- 
 tering the room half chokes me. 'T is not 
 yet Consumption I believe, but it would 
 be were I to remain in this climate all the 
 Winter : so I am thinking of either voya- 
 ging or travelling to Italy. Yesterday I 
 received an invitation from Mr. Shelley, a 
 Gentleman residing at Pisa, to spend the 
 Winter with him : if I go I must be away 
 in a month or even less. I am glad you 
 
TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 443 
 
 ke the Poems, you must hope with me 
 aat time and health will produce you some 
 aore. This is the first morning I have 
 
 een able to sit to the paper and have many 
 iistters to write if I can manage them. 
 Ijrod bless you my dear Sister. 
 t Your affectionate Brother John . 
 
 • 201. TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 i 
 
 jWentworth Place, Hampstead, August, 1820.] 
 
 I My dear Shelley — I am very much 
 ratified that you, in a foreign country, 
 ind with a mind almost over-occupied, 
 hould write to me in the strain of the let- 
 er beside me. If I do not take advan- 
 age of your invitation, it will be prevented 
 »y a circumstance I have very much at 
 leart to prophesy. There is no doubt that 
 in English winter would put an end to 
 ne, and do so in a lingering hateful mau- 
 ler. Therefore, I must either voyage or 
 fourney to Italy, as a soldier marches 
 p to a battery. My nerves at present 
 re the worst part of me, yet they feel 
 jsoothed that, come what extreme may, 
 [ shall not be destined to remain in one 
 ^pot long enough to take a hatred of 
 lany four particular bedposts. I am glad 
 ^'ou take any pleasure in my poor poem, 
 which I would willingly take the trou- 
 ble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so 
 much as I have done about reputation. I 
 received a copy of the Cenci, as from your- 
 self, from Hunt. There is only one part 
 of it I am judge of — the poetry and 
 dramatic effect, which by many spirits 
 nowadays is considered the Mammon. A 
 modern work, it is said, must have a pur- 
 pose, which may be the God. An artist 
 must serve Mammon ; he must have " self- 
 concentration " — selfishness, perhaps. You, 
 I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely 
 remarking that you might curb your mag- 
 nanimity, and be more of an artist, and 
 load every rift of your subject with ore. 
 
 The thought of such discipline must fall 
 like cold chains upon you, who perhaps 
 never sat with your wings furled for six 
 months together. And is this not extraor- 
 dinary talk for the writer of Endymion, 
 whose mind was like a pack of scattered 
 cards ? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. 
 My imagination is a monastery, and I am 
 its monk. I am iu expectation of Prome- 
 theus every day. Could I have my own 
 wish effected, you would have it still in 
 manuscript, or be but now putting an end 
 to the second act. I remember you advis- 
 ing me not to publish my first blights, on 
 Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice 
 upon your hands. Most of the poems in 
 the volume I send you have been written 
 above two years, and would never have 
 been published but for hope of gain ; so 
 you see I am inclined enough to take your 
 advice now. I must express once more 
 my deep sense of your kindness, adding 
 my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. 
 Shelley. 
 
 In the hope of soon seeing you, I remain 
 most sincerely yours John Keats. 
 
 202. TO JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820]. 
 My dear Taylor — My chest is in such 
 a nervous state, that anything extra, such 
 as speaking to an unaccustomed person, or 
 writing a note, half suffocates me. This 
 journey to Italy wakes me at daylight 
 every morning, and hauifts me horribly. I 
 shall endeavour to go, though it be with the 
 sensation of marching up against a battery. 
 The first step towards it is to know the ex- 
 pense of a journey and a year's residence, 
 which if you will ascertain for me, and let 
 me know early, you will greatly serve me. 
 I have more to saj^ but must desist, for 
 every line I write increases the tightness of 
 my chest, and I have manj- more to do. I 
 am convinced that this sort of thing does 
 
444 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 not continue for nothing. If you can come, 
 with any of our friends, do. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 203. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON 
 
 Mrs. Brawne's Next door to Brown's, 
 Wentworth Place, Hampstead, 
 
 [August] 1820. 
 
 My dear Haydon — I am much better 
 this morning than I was when I wrote the 
 note: that is my hopes and spirits are bet- 
 ter which are generally at a very low ebb 
 from such a protracted illness. I shall be 
 here for a little time and at home all and 
 every day. A journey to Italy is recom- 
 mended me, which I have resolved upon 
 and am beginning to prepare for. Hoping 
 to see you shortly 
 
 I remain your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 204. to JOHN TAYLOR 
 
 Wentworth Place [August 15, 1820]. 
 
 My dear Taylor — I do not think I 
 mentioned anything of a. Passage to Leg- 
 horn by Sea. Will you join that to your 
 enquiries, and, if you can, give a peep at 
 the Berth if the Vessel is [in] our river. 
 
 Your sincere friend John Keats. 
 
 P. S. — Somehow a copy of Chapman's 
 Homer, lent to me by Haydon, has disap- 
 peared from my Lodgings — it has quite 
 flown I am "afraid, and Haydon urges the 
 return of it so that I must get one at Long- 
 man's and send it to Lisson Grove — or 
 you must — or as I have given you a job on 
 the River — ask Mistessey [Mr. Hessey]. 
 I had written a Note to this effect to Hes- 
 sey some time since but crumpled it up in 
 hopes that the Book might come to light. 
 This morning Haydon has sent another 
 messenger. The copy was in good condition 
 with the head. Damn all thieves ! Tell 
 Woodhouse I have not lost his Blackwood. 
 
 Testamentary paper enclosed in the foregoing. 
 
 My chest of Books divide among my 
 friends. 
 
 In case of my death this scrap of paper i 
 may be serviceable in your possession. 
 
 All my Estate real and personal consists : 
 in the hopes of the sale of books publish'd 1 
 or unpublish'd. Now I wish Brown and 1 
 you to be the first paid Creditors — the rest ; 
 is in nubibus — but in case it should shower 
 pay my Taylor the few pounds I owe him. 
 
 205. to CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 [Wentworth Place, August 1820.] , 
 My dear Brown — You may not have 
 
 heard from , or , or in any way, ' 
 
 that an attack of spitting of blood, and all 
 its weakening consequences, has prevented 
 me from writing for so long a time. I 
 have matter now for a very long letter, but 
 not news : so I must cut everything short. 
 I shall make some confession, which you 
 will be the only person, for many reasons, 
 I shall trust with. A winter in England 
 would, I have not a doubt, kill me ; so I have 
 resolved to go to Italy, either by sea or 
 land. Not that I have any great hopes of 
 that, for, I think, there is a core of disease 
 in me not easy to pull out. I shall be 
 obliged to set off in less than a month. Do 
 not, my dear Brown, tease yourself about 
 me. You must fill up your time as well 
 as you can, and as happily. You must 
 think of my faults as lightly as you can. 
 When I have health 1 will bring up the . 
 long arrear of letters I owe you. My book 
 has had good success among the literary 
 people, and I believe has a moderate sale. 
 I have seen very few people we know. 
 
 has visited me more than any one. I 
 
 would go to and make some inquiries 
 
 after you, if I could with any bearable 
 sensation ; but a person I am not quite 
 used to causes an oppression on my chest. 
 Last week I received a letter from Shelley, 
 at Pisa, of a very kind nature, asking me 
 
TO 
 
 445 
 
 to pass the winter with him. Hunt has be- 
 haved very kindly to me. You shall hear 
 from me again shortly. 
 
 Your affectionate friend John Keats. 
 
 206. TO FANNY KEATS 
 
 Wentworth Place, Wednesday morning 
 
 [August 23, 1820]. 
 
 My dear Fanny — It will give me 
 ' great Pleasure to see you here, if you can 
 contrive it ; though I confess I should have 
 written instead of calling upon you before 
 I set out on my journey, from the wish of 
 avoiding unpleasant partings. Meantime I 
 will just notice some parts of your Letter. 
 The seal-breaking business is over blown. 
 I think no more of it. A few days ago I 
 wrote to Mr. Brown, asking him to be- 
 friend me with his company to Rome. His 
 answer is not yet come, and I do not know 
 when it will, not being certain how far he 
 may be from the Post Office to which my 
 communication is addressed. Let us hope 
 he will go with me. George certainly 
 ought to have written to you : his troubles, 
 anxieties and fatigues are not quite a suf- 
 ficient excuse. In the course of time you 
 will be sure to find that this neglect is 
 not forgetfulness. I am sorry to hear you 
 have been so ill and in such low spirits. 
 Now you are better, keep so. Do not suf- 
 fer your Mind to dwell on unpleasant re- 
 flections — that sort of thing has been the 
 destruction of my health. Nothing is so 
 bad as want of health — it makes one envy 
 scavengers and cinder-sifters. There are 
 enough real distresses and evils in wait for 
 every one to try the most vigorous health. 
 Not that I would say yours are not real — 
 but they are such as to tempt you to em- 
 ploy your imagination on them, rather than 
 endeavour to dismiss them entirely. Do 
 not diet your mind with grief, it destroys 
 the constitution ; but'J^t your chief care be 
 of your health, and with that you will meet 
 your share of Pleasure in the world — do 
 
 not doubt it. If I return well from Italy 
 I will turn over a new leaf for you. I have 
 been improving lately, and have very good 
 hopes of * turning a Neuk ' and cheating 
 the consumption. I am not well enough to 
 write to George myself — Mr. Haslam will 
 do it for me, to whom I shall write to- 
 day, desiring him to mention as gently as 
 possible your complaint. I am, my dear 
 Fanny, 
 Your affectionate Brother John. 
 
 207. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 [Wentworth Place, August 1820.] 
 My DEAR Brown — I ought to be off 
 at the end of this week, as the cold winds 
 begin to blow towards evening ; — but I 
 will wait till I have your answer to this. 
 I am to be introduced, before I set out, to 
 a Dr. Clark, a physician settled at Rome, 
 who promises to befriend me in every way 
 there. The sale of my book is very slow, 
 though it has been very highly rated. One 
 of the causes, I understand from different 
 quarters, of the unpopularity of this new 
 book, is the offence the ladies take at me. 
 On thinking that matter over, I am certain 
 that I have said nothing in a spirit to dis- 
 please any woman I would care to ple.ise ; 
 but still there is a tendency to class women 
 in my books with roses and sweetmeats, — 
 they never see themselves dominant. I 
 will say no more, but, waiting in anxiety 
 for your answer, doff my hat, and make a 
 purse as long as I can. 
 Your affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 208. TO 
 
 [September, 1820.] " 
 The passport arrived before we started. 
 I don't think I shall be long ill. God bless 
 you — farewell. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
446 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 209. TO CHARLES ABMITAGE BROWN 
 
 Saturday, September 28 [1820], Maria Crowtker, 
 Off Yarmouth, Isle of Wight. 
 
 My dear Brown — The time has not 
 yet come for a pleasant letter from me. I 
 have delayed writing to you from time to 
 time, because I felt how impossible it was 
 to enliven you with one heartening hope 
 of my recovery ; this morning in bed the 
 matter struck me in a different manner ; I 
 thought I would write ' while I was in some 
 liking,' or I might become too ill to write 
 at all ; and then if the desire to have writ- 
 ten should become strong it would be a 
 great affliction to me. I have many more 
 letters to write, and I bless my stars that I 
 have begun, for time seems to press, — this 
 may be my best opportunity. We are in a 
 calm, and I am easy enough this morning. 
 If my spirits seem too low you may in some 
 degree impute it to our having been at sea 
 a fortnight without making any way.*' I 
 was very disappointed at not meeting you 
 at Bedhampton, and am very provoked at 
 the thought of you being at Chichester to- 
 day. I should have delighted in setting off 
 for London for the sensation merely, — for 
 what should I do there ? I could not leave 
 my lungs or stomach or other worse things 
 behind me. I wish to write on subjects 
 that will not agitate me much — there is 
 one I must mention and have done with it. 
 Even if my body would recover of itself, 
 this would prevent it. The very thing 
 which I want to live most for will be a 
 great occasion of my death. I cannot help 
 it. Who can help it ? Were I in health 
 it would make me ill, and how can I bear it 
 in my state ! I daresay you will be able to 
 guess on what subject I am harping — you 
 know what was my greatest pain during 
 the first part of my illness at your house. 
 I wish for death every day and night to de- 
 liver me from these pains, and then I wish 
 death away, for death would destroy even 
 those pains which are better than nothing. 
 
 Land and sea, weakness and decline, are 
 great separators, but death is the great 
 divorcer for ever. When the pang of this 
 thought has passed through my mind, I 
 may say the bitterness of death is passed. 
 I often wish for you that you might flatter 
 me with the best. 1 think without my 
 mentioning it for my sake you would be a 
 friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead. 
 You think she has many faults — but for 
 my sake think she has not one. If there is 
 anything you can do for her by word or 
 deed I know you will do it. I am in a 
 state at present in which woman merely as 
 woman can have no more powe^i over me 
 than stocks and stones, and yet the differ- 
 ence of my sensations with respect to Miss 
 Brawne and my sister is amazing. The 
 one seems to absorb the other to a degree 
 incredible. I seldom think of my brother 
 and sister in America. The thought of 
 leaving Miss Brawne is beyond everything 
 horrible — the sense of darkness coming 
 over me — I eternally see her figure eter- I 
 nally vanishing. Some of the phrases she j 
 was in the habit of using during my last ^ 
 nursing at Weutworth Place ring in my ' 
 ears. Is there another life ? Shall I awake 
 and find all this a dream ? There must be, 
 we cannot be created for this sort of suffer- 
 ing. The receiving this letter is to be one 
 of yours. I will say nothing about our 
 friendship, or rather yours to me, more 
 than that, as you deserve to escape, you 
 will never be so unhappy as I am. I should 
 think of — you in my last moments. I 
 shall endeavour to write to Miss Brawne if 
 possible to-day. A sudden stop to my life 
 in the middle of one of these letters "would 
 be no bad thing, for it keeps one in a sort 
 of fever awhile. Though fatigued with a 
 letter longer than any I have written for a 
 long while, it would be better to go on for 
 ever than awake to a sense of contrary 
 winds. We expect to put into Portland 
 Roads to-night. The captain, the crew, 
 and the passengers, are all ill-tempered and 
 
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 447 
 
 weary. I shall write to Dilke. I feel as 
 if I was closing my last letter to you. 
 My dear Brown, your affectionate friend 
 John Keats. 
 
 210. TO MRS. BBAWNB 
 
 October 24 [1820], Naples Harbour. 
 My dear Mrs. Brawne — A few words 
 will tell you what sort of a Passage we had, 
 and what situation we are in, and few they 
 must be on account of the Quarantine, our 
 Letters being liable to be opened for the 
 purpose of fumigation at the Health Office. 
 We have to remain in the vessel ten days 
 and are at present shut iu a tier of ships. 
 The sea air has been beneficial to me about 
 to as great an extent as squally weather 
 and bad accommodations and provisions has 
 done harm. So I am about as I was. Give 
 my Love to Fanny and tell her, if I were 
 well there is enough in this Port of Naples 
 to fill a quire of Paper — but it looks like a 
 dream — every man who can row his boat 
 and walk and talk seems a different being 
 from myself. I do not feel in the world. 
 It has been unfortunate for me that one of 
 the Passengers is a young Lady in a Con- 
 sumption — her imprudence has vexed me 
 very much — the knowledge of her com- 
 plaints — the flushings in her face, all her 
 bad symptoms have preyed upon me — 
 they woidd have done so had I been in 
 good health. Severn now is a very good 
 fellow but his nerves are too strong to be 
 hurt by other people's illnesses — I remem- 
 ber poor Rice wore me in the same way in 
 the Isle of Wight — I shall feel a load off 
 me when the Lady vanishes out of my sight. 
 It is impossible to describe exactly in what 
 state of health I am — at this moment I am 
 suffering from indigestion very much, which 
 makes such stuff of this Letter. I would 
 always wish you to think me a little worse 
 than I really am ; not being of a sanguine 
 disposition I am likely to succeed. If I do 
 not recover your regret will be softened — 
 if I do your pleasure will be doubled. I 
 
 dare not fix my Mind upon Fanny, I have 
 not dared to think of her. The only com- 
 fort I have had that way has been in think- 
 ing for hours together of having the knife 
 she gave me put in a silver-case — the hair 
 in a Locket — and the Pocket Book in a 
 gold net. Show her this. I dare say no 
 more. Yet you must not believe I am so ill 
 as this Letter may look, for if ever there was 
 a person born without the faculty of hoping 
 I am he. Severn is writing to Haslam, and 
 I have just asked him to request Haslam 
 to send you his account of my health. O 
 what an account I could give you of the 
 Bay of Naples if I could once more feel 
 myself a Citizen of this world — I feel a 
 spirit in my Brain would lay it forth plea- 
 santly — O what a misery it is to have an 
 intellect in splints ! My Love again to 
 Fanny — tell Tootts I wish I could pitch her 
 a basket of grapes — and tell Sam the fel- 
 lows catch here with a line a little fish 
 much like an anchovy, pull them up fast. 
 Remember me to Mr. and Mrs. Dilke — 
 mention to Brown that I wrote him a letter 
 at Portsmouth which I did not send and am 
 in doubt if he ever will see it. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Brawne, yours sincerely 
 and affectionate John Keats. 
 
 Good bye Fanny ! God bless you. 
 
 211. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 Naples, November 1 [1820]. 
 My dear Brown — Yesterday we were 
 let out of quarantine, during which my 
 health suffered more from bad air and the 
 stifled cabin than it had done the whole 
 voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, 
 and I hope I am well enough this morning 
 to write to you a short calm letter ; — if 
 that can be called one, in which I am afraid 
 to speak of what I would f ainest dwell upon. 
 As I have gone thus far into it, I must go 
 on a little ; — perhaps it may relieve the 
 load of WRETCHEDNESS which presses upon 
 me. The persuasion that I shall see her 
 no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I 
 
448 
 
 LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS 
 
 should have had her when I was in health, 
 and I should have remained well. I can 
 bear to die — I cannot bear to leave her. 
 Oh, God ! God ! God ! Every thing I have 
 in my trunks that reminds me of her goes 
 through me like a spear. The silk lining 
 she put in my travelling cap scalds my 
 head. My imagination is horribly vivid 
 about her — I see her — I hear her. There 
 is nothing in the world of sufficient interest 
 to divert me from her a moment. This 
 was the case when I was in England ; I 
 cannot recollect, without shuddering, the 
 time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and 
 used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead 
 all day. Then there was a good hope of 
 seeing her again — Now ! — O that I could 
 be buried near where she lives ! I am 
 afraid to write to her — to receive a letter 
 from her — to see her hand-writing would 
 break my heart — even to hear of her 
 anyhow, to see her name written, would 
 be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, 
 what am I to do? Where can I look 
 for consolation or ease ? If I had any 
 chance of recovery, this passion would kill 
 me. Indeed, through the whole of my 
 illness, both at your house and at Kentish 
 Town, this fever has never ceased wearing 
 me out. When you write to me, which you 
 will do immediately, write to Rome (poste 
 restante) — if she is well and happy, put a 
 
 mark thus -}- ; if 
 
 Remember me to all. I will endeavour 
 to bear my miseries patiently. A person 
 in my state of health should not have such 
 miseries to bear. Write a short note to my 
 sister, saying you have heard from me. 
 Severn is very well. If I were in better 
 health I would urge your coming to Rome. 
 I fear there is no one can give me any com- 
 fort. Is there any news of George ? O 
 that something fortunate had ever happened 
 to me or my brothers ! — then I might hope, 
 — but despair is forced upon me as a habit. 
 My dear Brown, for my sake be her advo- 
 cate for ever. I cannot say a word about 
 Naples ; I do not feel at all concerned in 
 
 the thousand novelties around me. I am 
 afraid to write to her — I should like her to 
 know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown 
 I have coals of fire in my breast — It sur- 
 prises me that the human heart is capable 
 of containing and bearing so much misery. 
 Was I born for this end ? God bless her, 
 and her mother, and my sister, and George, 
 and his wife, and you, and all ! 
 Your ever affectionate friend 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 [Thursday, November 2.] 
 I was a day too early for the Courier. 
 He sets out now. I have been more calm 
 to-day, though in a half dread of not con- 
 tinuing so. I said nothing of my health ; 
 I know nothing of it ; you will hear Severn's 
 account from Haslam. I must leave off. 
 You bring my thoughts too near to Fanny. 
 God bless you ! 
 
 212. TO THE SAMB 
 
 Rome, November 30, 1820. 
 My dear Brown — 'T is the most diffi- 
 cult thing in the world to me to write a 
 letter. My stomach continues so bad, that 
 I feel it worse on opening any book, — yet 
 I am much better than I was in quarantine. 
 Then I am afraid to encounter the pro-ing 
 and con-ing of anything interesting to me 
 in England. I have an habitual feeling 
 of my real life having passed, and that I 
 am leading a posthumous existence. God 
 knows how it would have been — but it 
 appears to me — however, I will not speak 
 of that subject. I must have been at Bed- 
 hampton nearly at the time you were writ- 
 ing to me from Chichester — how unfortu- 
 nate — and to pass on the river too !' There 
 was my star predominant ! I cannot an- 
 swer anything in your letter, which fol- 
 lowed me from Naples to Rome, because 
 I am afraid to look it over again. I am 
 so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the 
 sight of any handwriting of a friend I love 
 so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little 
 
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN 
 
 449 
 
 horse, and at my worst even in quarantine, 
 summoned up more puns, in a sort of de- 
 speration, in one week than in any year of 
 my life. There is one thought enough to 
 kill me ; I have been well, healthy, alert, 
 etc., walking with her, and now — the 
 knowledge of contrast, feeling for light and 
 shade, all that information (primitive sense) 
 necessary for a poem, are great enemies to 
 the recovery of the stomach. There, you 
 rogue, I put you to the torture ; but you 
 must bring your philosophy to bear, as I do 
 mine, really, or how should I be able to 
 live ? Dr. Clark is very attentive to me ; he 
 says there is very little the matter with my 
 I lungs, but my stomach, he says, is very bad. 
 I am well disappointed in hearing good news 
 from George, for it runs in my head we 
 shall all die young. I have not written to 
 Reynolds yet, which he must think very 
 
 neglectful ; being anxious to send him a 
 good account of my health, I have delayed 
 it from week to week. If I recover, I will 
 do all in my power to correct the mistakes 
 made during sickness ; and if I should not, 
 all my faults will be forgiven. Severn is 
 very well, though he leads so dull a life 
 with me. Remember me to all friends, 
 and tell Haslam I should not have left 
 London without taking leave of him, but 
 from being so low in body and mind. 
 Write to George as soon as you receive 
 this, and tell him how I am, as far as you 
 can guess ; and also a note to my sister — 
 who walks about my imagination like a 
 ghost — she is so like Tom. I can scarcely 
 bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I al- 
 ways made an awkward bow. 
 God bless you ! 
 
 John Keats. 
 
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 I. POEMS 
 
 Page 1. IivnTATiON of Spenser. 
 
 A transcript of this poem in a copy-book of 
 Tom Keats contains two variations from the 
 text of 1817. Line 12 reads, 
 
 ' Whose silken fins, and golden scales light ' 
 
 and in line 29 glassy for glossy. The first read- 
 ing is required by the rhythm ; but the absence 
 of the mark of the possessive case leads one to 
 think that the accent mark may have been a 
 hasty reading of the proper mark as printed. 
 
 Page 9. On First Looking into Chap- 
 man's Homer. 
 
 That it was Balboa and not Cortez who first 
 saw the Pacific Ocean, an American school-boy 
 could have told Keats ; but it is not such slips 
 as these that unmake poetry. 
 
 Page 9. Epistle to George Felton Ma- 
 
 THEW. 
 
 Line 75. The quotation is from The Faerie 
 Queene, I. iii. 4. 
 
 Page 11. To 
 
 The original valentine of which these lines 
 are an enlargement was as follows : — 
 
 ~ * Hadst thou lived in days of old, 
 
 Oh, what wonders had been told 
 Of thy lively dimpled face, 
 And tliy footsteps full of grace : 
 Of thy hair's luxurious darkling. 
 Of thine eye's expressive sparkling, 
 And thy voice's swelling rapture, 
 Taking hearts a ready capture. 
 Oh ! if thou hadst breathed then, 
 Thou hadst made the Muses ten. 
 Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 
 Than twin sister of Thalia ? 
 At least for ever, ever more 
 Will I call the Graces four.' 
 
 Then follow lines 41-68, and the valentme 
 closes, — 
 
 ' Ah me ! whither shall I flee ? 
 Thou hast metamorphosed me. 
 Do not let me sigh and pine, 
 Prythee be my valentine.' 
 
 Page 13. Sonnet : To one who has been 
 
 LONG IN CITY PENT. 
 
 Mr. Forman points out Keats's echo in the 
 first line of Milton's line. 
 
 ' As one who long in populous city pent ' 
 
 Paradise Lost, ix. 445. 
 
 Page 14. ' I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE 
 HILL.' 
 
 Line 115. Lord Houghton gives this varied 
 reading for this and the next line : — 
 
 ' Floating through space with ever-living eye, 
 The crowned queen of ocean and the sky.' 
 
 Page 18. Sleep and Poetry. 
 Line 274. Rhythm seems to require the emen- 
 dation proposed by Mr. Forman : — 
 
 ' Ere the dread thimderbolt could reach me ? How ' 
 
 Page 27. Specimen of an Induction to 
 A Poem. 
 
 Line 61. Libertas is the name which his 
 friends gave to Leigh Hunt. See later the 
 Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke, line 
 44. Mrs. Clarke confirms the application. 
 
 Page 28. Calidore. 
 
 Line 40. In a transcript in Tom Keats's copy- 
 book, this and the next line read : — 
 
 ' Its long lost grandeur. Laburnums grow around 
 And bow their golden honours to the ground.' 
 
 Page 33. Addressed to Benjamin Robert 
 Haydon. 
 
 The references in the first sonnet are to 
 Wordsworth and Hunt. 
 
 Page 35. On the Grasshopper and 
 Cricket. 
 
 Leigh Hunt's competing sonnet is as follows : 
 
 ' Green Uttle vaulter in the sunny grass 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, 
 Sole voice that 's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
 
 When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass ; 
 
 And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
 With those who think the candles come too soon, 
 Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ; 
 
 Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong. 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 
 
 Botl^have your sunshine ; both though small are strong 
 At your clear hearts ; and both were sent on earth 
 
 To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, — 
 In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.' 
 
 Page 40. Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 
 Sir Charles DUke has a manuscript copy of 
 which the four closing lines are : — 
 
452 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 ' Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 Are the winds a sweeter home, 
 Richer is uncellar'd cavern 
 Than the merry Mermaid Tavern ? ' 
 
 Page 41. Robin Hood. 
 
 Line 36. Grene skaw = green wood, Shaw 
 frequently appears in the termination of English 
 local names. 
 
 Page 49. Endymion. 
 
 The variations here noted in Book I. are from 
 the manuscript copy supplied to the printer, and 
 are furnished by Mr. Forman in liis edition of 
 Keats. They were discarded by the poet either 
 before he gave his copy in, or in his proofs. 
 
 Line 13. 
 From our dark Spirits, and before us dances 
 Like glitter on the points of Arthur's Lances. 
 
 Of these bright powers are the Sun, and Moon. 
 
 Line 24. Telling us we are on the heaven's 
 brink. 
 
 Line 94. And so the coming light in pomp 
 receive. 
 
 Line 153. 
 From his right hand there swung a milk white 
 
 vase 
 Of mingled wines, outsparkling like the stars. 
 
 Apparently Keats gave the broad sound to a 
 in vase, but rejected the false rhyme. See the 
 
 lines To , p. 12, where vase rhymes with 
 
 pace. 
 
 Line 208. Needments. See the Faery Queene, 
 Book I. canto vi., stanza 35, lines 55, 56, 
 
 ' and eke behind, 
 His scrip did hang, in which his needments he did 
 bind.' 
 
 Line 232. It is interesting to note that the 
 Hymn to Pan beginning here was recited by 
 Keats to Wordsworth when lie met the elder 
 poet at Haydon's house, December 28, 1817. 
 
 Lines 407-412. 
 
 Now happily, there sitting on the grass 
 Was fair Peona, a most tender Lass, 
 And his sweet sister ; who, uprising, went 
 With stifled sobs, and o'er his shoulder leant. 
 Putting her trembling hand against his cheek 
 She said : ' My dear Endymion, let us seek 
 A pleasant bower where thou may'st rest 
 
 apart. 
 And ease in slumber thine afflicted heart : 
 Come, my own dearest brother: these our 
 
 friends 
 Will joy in thinking thou dost sleep whore 
 bends 
 
 Our freshening River through yon birchen 
 
 grove : 
 Do come now ! ' Could he gainsay her who 
 
 strove. 
 So soothingly, to breathe away a Curse ? 
 
 Lines 440-442. 
 When last the Harvesters rich armf uls took. 
 She tied a little bucket to a Crook, 
 Ran some swift paces to a dark well's side. 
 And in a sighing-time return'd, supplied 
 With spar-cold water ; in which she did squeeze 
 A snowy napkin, and upon her knees 
 Began to cherish her poor Brother's face ; 
 Damping refreshfully his forehead's space, 
 ffis eyes, his Lips : then in a cupped shell 
 She brought him ruby wine ; then let him 
 
 smell, 
 Time after time, a precious amulet, 
 Which seldom took she from its cabinet. 
 Thus was he quieted to slumbrous rest : 
 
 Line 466. 
 A cheerf uller resignment, and a smile 
 For his fair Sister flowing like the Nile 
 Through all the channels of her piety. 
 He said : ' Dear Maid, may I this moment die. 
 If I feel not this thine endearing Love. 
 
 Lines 470-472, 
 From woodbine hedges such a morning feel, 
 As do those brighter drops, that twinkling steal 
 Through those pressed lashes, from the blos' 
 som'd plant 
 
 Lines 494, 495. 
 More forest-wild, more subtle-cadenced 
 Than can be told by mortal ; even wed 
 The fainting tenors of a thousand shells 
 To a million whisperings of lily bells ; 
 And mingle too the nightingale's complain 
 Caught in its hundredth echo ; 't would be 
 vain: 
 
 Lines 539, 540. 
 And come to such a Ghost as I am now I 
 But listen. Sister, I will tell thee how. 
 
 Lines 545, 556. 
 And in this spot the most endowing boon 
 Of balmy air, sweet blooms, and coverts fresh 
 Has been outshed ; yes, all that could enmesh 
 Our human senses — make us fealty swear 
 To gadding Flora. In this grateful lair 
 Have I been used to pass my weary eves. 
 
 Line 555. Ditamy. So Keats unmistakably in 
 manuscript and print. The prevailing form is 
 dittany. 
 
POEMS 
 
 453 
 
 Line 573. Mr. Forman says that in the manu- 
 script something was written over this line in 
 pencil, but then rubbed out. He suggests that 
 after all Keats decided to leave the reader to 
 accent the first syllable of enchantment, and so 
 correct the otherwise faulty rhythm. 
 
 Lines GOO, 601. 
 And to commune with them once more I rais'd 
 My eyes right upward : but they were quite 
 dazed. 
 
 An example of the freedom of accent which 
 Keats uses in common with other poets who 
 have a mastery of line. 
 
 Line 632. Handfuls of bud-stars. 
 
 Line 646. 
 But lapp'd and lull'd in safe deliriousness ; 
 Sleepy with deep foretasting, that did bless 
 My Soul from Madness, 't was such certainty. 
 
 Line 651. 
 
 There hollow sounds arous'd me, and I died. 
 
 Line 665. 
 Our feet were soft in flowers. Hurry o'er 
 O sacrilegious tongue the — best be dumb ; 
 For should one little accent from thee come 
 On such a daring theme, all other sounds 
 Would sicken at it, as would beaten hounds 
 Scare the elysian Nightingales. 
 
 Line 722. 
 This all ? Yet it is wonderful — exceeding — 
 And yet a shallow dream, for ever breeding 
 Tempestuous Weather in that very Soul 
 That should be twice content, twice smooth, 
 
 twice whole. 
 As is a double Peach. 'T is sad Alas ! 
 
 Lines 896, 897. 
 Li the green opening smiling. Gods that keep. 
 Mercifully, a little strength of heart 
 Unkill'd in us by raving, pang and smart ; 
 And do preserve it like a lily root, 
 That, in another spring, it may outshoot 
 From its wintry prison ; let this hour go 
 Drawling along its heavy weight of woe 
 And leave me living 1 'T is not more than 
 
 need — 
 Your veriest help. Ah ! how long did I feed 
 On that crystalline life of Portraiture ! 
 How hover' d breathless at the tender lure ! 
 How many times dimpled the watery glass 
 With maddest kisses ; and, till they did pass 
 And leave the liquid smooth again, how mad ! 
 O 't was as if the absolute sisters had 
 My Life into the compass of a Nut 
 Or aU my breathing and shut 
 
 To a scanty straw. To look above I fear'd 
 
 Lest my hot eyeballs might be burnt and 
 
 sear'd 
 By a blank naught. It moved as if to flee — 
 
 Line 9<i4. 
 Most fondly lipp'd. I kept me still — it came 
 Again in passionatest syllables. 
 And thus again that voice's tender swells : 
 
 Not quite content with passionatest, Keats 
 tried again : 
 
 ' Again in passionate syllables : saying ' 
 
 Book II. The variations in this and the suc- 
 ceeding books are recorded by Mr. Forman and 
 are derived from two sources, — the first draft 
 made by Keats, and the manuscript afterward 
 sent by him to the printer. Those here noted 
 are from the first draft, unless otherwise noted. 
 
 Line 13. Close, i. e., embrace. 
 
 Lines 27-30. Juliet leans 
 
 Amid her window flowers, sighs, — and as she 
 
 weans 
 Her maiden thoughts from their young firstling 
 
 snow, 
 What sorrows from the melting whiteness grow. 
 
 Line 31. The Hero is that of Shakespeare's 
 Much Ado about Nothing, the Imogen the hero- 
 ine in his Cymbeline. 
 
 Line 32. Pastorella. See Faerie Queene, VI. 
 ii. 
 
 Line 38. Rest in the sense of remaining inac- 
 tive, not the rest of restoration. 
 
 Line 49. 
 Through vdldemess, and brittle mossed oaks. 
 
 Line 56. 
 Bends lightly over him, and he doth see. 
 
 Line 83. 
 Went swift beneath the flutter-loving guide. 
 
 Lines 93, 94. 
 Endymion all around the welkin sped 
 His anxious sight. 
 
 Lines 96, 97. 
 His sullen limbs upon the grass — what tongue, 
 What airy whisperer spoilt his angry rest ? 
 
 Line 102, 
 And carelessly began to twine and twist. 
 
 Lines 143, 144. 
 His soul to take a city of delight 
 O what a wretch is he : 't is in his sight. 
 
 Line 227. 
 Whose track the venturous Latmian follows 
 bold. 
 
454 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Lines 253, 254. 
 The mighty ones who 've shone athwart the day 
 Of Greece and England. 
 
 Lines 270-272. 
 Himself with every mystery, until 
 His weary legs he rested on the sill 
 Of some remotest chamber, outlet dim. 
 
 Lines 278-280. 
 Whose flitting Lantern, through rude nettle- 
 beds, 
 Cheats us into a bog, — cuttings and shreds 
 Of old Vexations plaited to a rope 
 Wherewith to haul us from the sight of hope. 
 And bind us to our earthly baiting-ring. 
 
 Line 285. The reading raught is derived from 
 the manuscript, though the first edition has 
 caught. 
 
 Line 363. Originally this imperfect line 
 read, — 
 
 ' To seas Ionian and Tyrian. Dire 
 
 and then followed a weak passage, which was 
 afterward thrown out and the better lines that 
 follow substituted ; but in making the change 
 Keats apparently overlooked this defect. 
 
 Line 376 et seq. Compare this passage with 
 Spenser's account of the garden of Adonis in 
 Faerie Queene, Book IH. canto vi. 
 
 Lines 396, 397. 
 And draperies mellow-tinted like the peach. 
 Or lady peas entwined with marigolds. 
 
 Line 400. Tenting swerve, as Keats informed a 
 friend who did not at once perceive the meaning, 
 is a swerve in the form of the top of a tent. 
 
 Line 416. 
 The creeper, blushing deep at Autumn's blush. 
 
 Line 436. 
 For 't is the highest reach of human honour. 
 
 Lines 461-464. 
 Who would not be so bound, but, foolish elf, 
 He was content to let Divinity 
 Slip through his careless arms — content to see 
 An unseized heaven sighing at his feet. 
 
 It is not easy to see why Keats should substi- 
 tute ' amorous plea faint through ' for ' Divin- 
 ity slip through.' 
 
 Line 482. 
 Over this paly corse, the crystal shower. 
 
 Lines 505, 506. 
 Cupids awake ! or black and blue we '11 pinch 
 Your dimpled arms. 
 
 Lines 526-533. 
 Queen Venus bending downward, so o'ertaken, 
 So suffering sweet, so blushing mad, so shaken 
 
 That the wild warmth prob'd the young sleep- 
 er's heart 
 Enchantingly ; and with a sudden start 
 His trembling arms were out in instant time 
 To catch his fainting love. — O foolish rhyme, 
 What mighty power is in thee that so often 
 Thou strivest rugged syllables to soften 
 Even to the telling of a sweet like this. 
 Away ! let them embrace alone ! that kiss 
 Was far too rich for thee to talk upon. 
 Poor wretch I mind not those sobs and sighs ! 
 
 begone ! 
 Speak not one atom of thy paltry stuff, 
 That they are met is poetry enough. 
 
 Line 541. The finished manuscript reads dies ; 
 the first edition has dyes. The former seems the 
 more poetic reading, and yet the construction 
 would introduce a new image rather abruptly. 
 
 Line 578. The text reads, — 
 ' Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu ! ' 
 But the word ' to ' so destroys both rhythm and 
 sense, that I have ventured to throw it out as 
 an overlooked error. 
 
 Line 589. By throwing the emphasis strongly 
 on all, the meaning of the line is made evident. 
 
 Line 628. Keats tried massy, blackening, and 
 bulging, before he settled on jutting. 
 
 Lines 642-657. 
 About her majesty, and her pale brow 
 With turrets crown 'd, which forward heavily 
 
 bow 
 Weighing her chin to the breast. Four lions 
 
 draw 
 The wheels in sluggish time — each toothed 
 
 maw 
 Shut patiently — eyes hid in tawny veils — 
 Drooping about their paws, and nervy tails 
 Cowering their tufted brushes to the dust. 
 
 Lines 657-660. 
 To cloudborne Jove he bent: and there was 
 
 tost 
 Into his grasping hands a silken cord 
 At which vrithout a single impious word 
 He swung upon it off into the gloom. 
 
 Lines 668-671. 
 With airs delicious. Long he hung about 
 Before his nice enjoyment coidd pick out 
 The resting place : but at the last he swung 
 Into the greenest cell of all — among 
 Dark leaved jasmine : star flower'd and be- 
 
 strown 
 With golden moss. 
 
 Lines 756, 757. 
 Enchantress ! tell me by this mad embrace, 
 By the moist languor of thy breathing face. 
 
POEMS 
 
 455 
 
 Lines 760, 761. 
 These tenderest — and by the breath — the 
 
 love 
 The passion — nectar — Heaven ! — ' Jove above ! 
 
 Line 800. 
 Does Pallas self not love? she must — she 
 must ! 
 
 Lines &49, 850. 
 But after the strange voice is on the wane — 
 And 't is but guess'd from the departing soimd. 
 
 Mr. Forman makes a very plausible surmise 
 that Keats had a half purpose to go on with a 
 fine description of this voice and he prints the 
 verses that follow. They are not in the draft, 
 nor in any of the annotated copies to which he 
 refers, but appear in Leigh Hunt's The Indica- 
 tor for 19 January, 1820. They are well worth 
 preserving, since if they are not by Keats they 
 must surely have been penned by some one in 
 Keats's and Hunt's circle who had an extraor- 
 dinary knack at imitation of Keats. 
 
 ' Oh ! what a voice is silent. It was soft 
 
 As mountain-echoes, when the winds aloft 
 
 (The gentle winds of summer) meet in caves ; 
 
 Or when in sheltered places the white waves 
 
 Are 'waken'd into music, as the breeze 
 
 Dimples and stems the current : or as trees 
 
 Shaking their green locks in the days of June : 
 
 Or Delphic girls when to the maiden moon 
 
 They sang harmonious pray'rs : or sounds that come 
 
 (However near) like a faint distant hum 
 
 Out of the grass, from which mysterious birth 
 
 We guess the busy secrets of the earth. 
 
 — Like the low voice of Syrinx, when she ran 
 
 Into the forest from Arcadian Pan ; 
 
 Or sad (Enone's, when she pined away 
 
 For Paris, or (and yet 't was not so gay) 
 
 As Helen's whisper when she came to Troy, 
 
 Half sham'd to wander with that blooming boy. 
 
 Like air-touch'd harps in flowery casements hung ; 
 
 Like imto lovers' ears the wild woods sung 
 
 In garden bowers at twilight ; like the sound 
 
 Of Zephyr when he takes his nightly round 
 
 In May, to see the roses all asleep : 
 
 Or like the dim strain which along the deep 
 
 The sea-maid utters to the sailors' ear, 
 
 Telling of tempests, or of dangers near. 
 
 Like Desdemona, who (when fear was strong 
 
 Upon her soul) chaunted the willow song, 
 
 Swan-like before she perish'd : or the tone 
 
 Of flutes upon the waters heard alone : 
 
 Like words that come upon the memory 
 
 Spoken by friends departed ; or the sigh 
 
 A gentle girl breathes when she tries to hide 
 
 The love her eyes betray to all beside.' 
 
 Line 880. 
 And shells outswelling their faint tinged curls. 
 
 Book III. 'Keats said with much simpli- 
 city,' reports Woodhouse, ' " It will be easily 
 seen what I think of the present ministers, by 
 the beginning of the third Book." ' Keats may 
 have had Milton and Lycidas in mind when he 
 thus covertly made a poem serve as a scourge. 
 
 Lines 31, 32. 
 In the several vastnesses of air and fire '• 
 And silent as a corpse upon a pyre. 
 
 Lines 41. Keats was wont to record the date 
 when he finished a book, but he wrote against 
 this line, ' Oxford, Septr. 5, [1817] as if to reg- 
 ister his oath and connect the opening of the 
 book with the immediate time. 
 
 Lines 56, 57. 
 Thou dost bless all things — even dead thii^^s 
 
 sip 
 A midnight life from thee. 
 
 Lines 89, 90. 
 Enormous sharks from hiding-holes and fright- 
 
 'ning 
 The whale's large eyes with unaccustomed 
 lightning. 
 
 Lines 445-447. 
 Their music came to my o'ersweeten'd sense 
 And then I felt a hovering influence 
 A breathing on my forehead. 
 
 Lines 581-583. Great Jove, 
 
 What fury of the three could harm this dove ? 
 Dear youth ! see how I weep, hear how I sigh. 
 
 Line 752. 
 And bound it round Endymion : then stroke. 
 
 Lines 864, 865. 
 At his right hand stood winged Love, elate. 
 And on his left Love's fairest mother sate. 
 
 Lines 954-956. 
 When thy bright diadem a silver gleam 
 O'er blue dominion starts. Thy finny team 
 Snorts in the morning light, and sends along. 
 
 Line 979. 
 Who is not full of heaven when thou hast 
 smil'd? 
 
 Book IV. 
 
 Lines 48-54. No eyelids meet 
 
 To twinkle on my bosom ! false ! 't was false. 
 They said how beautiful I was ! Who calls 
 Me now divine? Who now kneels down and 
 
 dies 
 Before me till from these enslaving eyes 
 Redemption sparkles. Ah me, how sad I am ! 
 Of all the poisons sent to make us mad — 
 Of all death's overwhelmings.' —Stay, beware. 
 Young Mountaineer ! 
 
456 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Lines 76, 77. 
 Sweet shadow, be distinct awhile and stay 
 While I speak to thee — trust me it is true. 
 
 Lines 85-87. 
 Of passion from the heart — where love is not 
 Only is solitude — poor shadow ! what 
 I say thou hearest not ! away, begone 
 And leave me, prythee, with my grief alone ! ' 
 The Latmian lean'd his arm upon a bough, 
 A wretched mortal : what can he do now ? 
 Must he another Love ? O impious. 
 
 Line 94. 
 While the fair moon gives light, or rivers flow 
 My adoration of thee is yet pure 
 As infants prattling. How is this — why sure 
 I have a triple soul. 
 
 Line 104. 
 Shut softly up alive — ye harmonies 
 Ye tranced visions — ye flights ideal : 
 Nothing are ye to life so dainty real. 
 
 Lady, pity me ! 
 
 Lines 136-138. 
 Canst thou do so ? Is there no balm, no cure ? 
 Could not a beckoning Hebe soon allure 
 Thee into Paradise ? What sorrowing 
 So weighs thee down ? what utmost woe coidd 
 
 bring 
 This madness ? — Sit thee down by me, and 
 
 ease 
 Thine heart in whispers — haply by degrees 
 
 1 may find out some soothing medicine.' — 
 ' Dear Lady,' said Endyraion, ' I pine — 
 
 I die — the tender accents thou hast spoken 
 Have finish' d all — my heart is lost and broken. 
 
 Line 154. 
 The lustrous passion from a lover's eye 
 
 Line 157. An instance of spry for spray is 
 cited by Mr. Forman from Sandys's Ovid, Book 
 XL, verses 498, 499. 
 
 Line 247. 
 Arch infant crews in mimic of the coil. 
 
 Line 341. For wild the expressive wide occurs 
 in the draft and printer's copy. 
 
 Line 539. The rightful tinge of health. 
 
 Line 700. After this line, and before the next 
 these two lines appear in the finished manu- 
 script, — 
 
 ' And by it shalt thou sit and sing, hey nonny ! 
 While doves coo to thee for a little honey.' 
 
 Lines 749-741. 
 Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
 My own imaginations to sweet life 
 Thoii would'st o'ertop them all. 
 
 Line 769. 
 Por'd on its hazel carpet of shed leaves. 
 
 Line 774. Hyperion apparently had already 
 occurred to Keats as subject for a poem. 
 
 Lines 811-813. 
 Were this sweet damsel like a long neck'd 
 
 crane. 
 Or an old rocking barn owl half asleep, 
 Some reason would there be for thee to keep 
 So dull-eyed — but thou know'st she 's beauti- 
 ful: 
 Yes, yes ! and thou dost love her well — I '11 
 pull. 
 
 Page 110. Isabella, or the Pot op Basil. 
 Stanza xxx., line 5. A manuscript variation 
 is: — 
 
 ' What might have been too plainly did she see,' 
 
 Stanza xxxv., lines 4-7, another reading : — 
 
 ' Had marr'd his glossy hair, that once could shoot 
 Bright gold into the Sun, and stamp'd his doom 
 
 Upon his soiled lips, and took the mellow Lute 
 Prom his deep voice, and down past his loamed ears.' 
 
 Stanza xxxviii., the last two lines in the man- 
 uscript read : — 
 
 * Go, shed a tear upon my heather bloom 
 And I shall turn a diamond in my tomb.' 
 
 Stanza liv., last line. Leafits seems to be a 
 word of Keats's coinage. 
 
 Stanza Ixiii. Mr. Forman in the Appendix to 
 the second volume of his edition of Keats has a 
 long note on the ' sad ditty ' born of the story of 
 Isabella, in which he shows that the air of the 
 Basil Pot song, though not now current, was 
 common enough in mediaeval manuscripts and 
 printed collections of popular poetry. 
 
 Page 123. Translation from a Sonnet 
 
 BY RONSARD. 
 
 The following is the original : — 
 
 ' Nature, ornant Cassandre, qui deuoit 
 De sa douceur forcer les plus rebelles. 
 La composa de cent beautez nouuelles, 
 Que des mille ans en espargne elle anoit : — 
 De tous les biens qu' Amour au ciel connoit 
 Comme un tresor cherement sous ses ailes, 
 Elle enrichit les graces immortelles 
 De son bel oeil qui les Dieux esmouuoit. — 
 Du Ciel a peine elle estoit descendue 
 Quand ie la vey, quand mon asme esperdue 
 En dueint folle, et d'un si poignant trait, 
 Amour coula ses beautez en mes veines, 
 Qu'autres plaisirs ie ne sens que mes peinea 
 Ny autre bien qu'adorer son portrait. 
 
 Page 123. Sonnet : To a Lady seen for 
 A Few Moments at Vauxhall. 
 
POEMS 
 
 457 
 
 The form given to this sonnet in Hood's Mag- 
 azine, where it was published, AprU, 1844, va- 
 ries slightly from that in Lord Houghton's pub- 
 lication. The first line reads : — 
 
 ' Life's sea hath been five times at its slow ebb ' 
 and the closing lines are : — 
 
 ' Other delights with thy remembering 
 And sorrow to my darling joys doth bring.' 
 
 Page 124. Fancy. 
 
 The poem as sent by Keats to his brother and 
 sister was revised when he came to include it 
 in his volume, and the following are the more 
 interesting variations : — 
 
 Line 5. 
 Towards heaven still spread beyond her — 
 
 Line 10. Cloys with kissing. What do then ? 
 
 Line 24. To banish vesper from the sky. 
 
 Line 33. 
 All the faery buds of May, 
 On spring turf or scented spray ; , 
 
 Line 57. 
 And the snake all winter shrank 
 Cast its skin on sunny bank ; 
 
 Line 66. This line was followed by two after- 
 ward omitted : — 
 
 ' For the same sleek-throated mouse 
 To store up in its winter house.' 
 
 Line 68. 
 Every joy is spoilt by use ; 
 Every pleasure, every joy 
 Not a mistress but doth cloy. 
 Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 
 Line 89. The following lines were dropped 
 out, the two drafts agreeing again at line 90 : — 
 
 ' And Jove grew languid. Mistress fair 1 
 Thou shalt have that tressed hair 
 Adonis tangled all for spite ; 
 And the mouth he would not kiss, 
 And the treasure he would miss ; 
 And the hand he would not press 
 And the warmth he would distress. 
 
 O the Ravishment — the Bliss f 
 Fancy has her where she is — 
 Never fulsome, never new, 
 There she steps ! and tell me who 
 Has a mistress so divine ? 
 Be the palate ne'er so fine 
 She cannot sicken. Break the mesh.' 
 
 Page 125. Ode : Bards of Passion and of 
 Mirth. 
 
 In the copy made for George and Georgiana 
 Keats are the following variations : — 
 
 Line 19. 
 But melodious truth divine, 
 Philosophic numbers fine ; 
 
 Line 23. Thus ye live on Earth, and then 
 
 Line 30. 
 To mortals of the little week 
 They must sojourn with their cares 
 
 Page 127. The Eve of St. Agnes. 
 The following letter from Keats to his pub- 
 lisher, John Taylor, written June 11, 1820, is 
 interestmg for its textual criticism : ' In reading 
 over the proof of St. Agnes's Eve since I left 
 Fleet Street, I was struck with what appears to 
 me an alteration in the seventh stanza very 
 much for the worse. The passage I mean 
 stands thus — 
 
 " her maiden eyes incline 
 Still on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by." 
 
 'T was originally written : — 
 
 " her maiden eyes divine 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
 Pass by." 
 
 My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration. 
 1 do not use train for concourse of passers by, 
 but for skirts sweeping along the floor. 
 
 ' In the first stanza my copy reads, second 
 (sic) line : — 
 
 " bitter chUl it was," 
 
 to avoid the echo cold in the second line.' 
 In a manuscript version, Lionel was the name 
 
 given to the hero instead of Porphyro. 
 Page 134. Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
 Line 9. Both in the original manuscript and 
 
 in the Annals the line reads : — 
 
 ' What love ? what dance ? what struggle to escape ? ' 
 
 Line 16. The Annals reading is : — 
 
 *Thy song, nor ever bid the spring adieu.' 
 
 a line which had no rhyme and very likely was 
 transferred by mistake from the next stanza. 
 
 Line 34. The manuscript reads sides for 
 flanks. 
 
 Page 139. La Belle Dame sans Merci. 
 
 The text given is that of The Indicator, but 
 Lord Houghton, when reprinting the poem in 
 Life, Letters and Literary Remains used another 
 form apparently. The variations below are 
 from Lord Houghton's copy. 
 
 Line 1. what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 
 
 Line 3. 
 The sedge has wither'd from the lake. 
 
458 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Line 5. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms. 
 
 Line 19. 
 
 ' For sidelong would she bend, and aing.' 
 
 stanzas v. and vi. are transposed. 
 
 Line 30. 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore. 
 
 Line 32. With kisses four. 
 
 Line 33. And there she lulled me asleep 
 
 The version sent to George and Georgiana 
 Keats agrees, with but triiiing variation, with 
 that given by Lord Houghton. 
 
 Page 140. Chorus of Faeries. 
 
 In Lord Houghton's version this is called 
 Song of Four Fairies. There is one variation 
 to be noted in line 46, where he reads, 
 ' Beyond the nimble-wheeled quest.' 
 
 Page 142. On Fame. 
 
 The copy sent by Keats to his brother and 
 sister shows these variations. 
 
 Line?. 
 As if a clear Lake meddling with itself 
 Should cloud its clearness with a muddy gloom. 
 
 Line 14. 
 Spoil his salvation by a fierce miscreed. 
 
 Page 142. To Sleep. 
 
 In line 8, Lord Houghton's copy reads lulling 
 for dewy which is found in a manuscript of Sir 
 Charles Dilke. In another draft of twelve lines 
 by Keats which was copied in The Athenceum, 
 October 26, 1872, the first three lines are the 
 same as printed ; the next nine are as follows : 
 
 ' As wearisome as darkness is divine 
 O soothest sleep, if so it please thee close 
 
 My willing eyes in midst of this thine hymn 
 Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
 
 Its sweet death dews o'er every pulse and limb — 
 Then shut the hushed Casket of my soul 
 
 And turn the key round in the oiled wards 
 ' And let it rest until the morn has stole. 
 
 Bright tressed from the grey east's shuddering 
 bourn.' 
 
 Page 142. Ode to Psyche. 
 
 The copy sent by Keats to his brother and 
 sister varies from that printed in the 1820 vol- 
 ume in at least one important particular, and it 
 is not quite clear why Keats, when he substi- 
 tuted roof for fan in line 10, did not mend the 
 rhyme also. In line 14 the copy in the letter 
 reads Syrian. 
 
 Page 146. Lamia. 
 
 The manuscript copy, presumably the one 
 given to the printer, is in existence, and Mr. For- 
 man notes amongst others the following read- 
 ings, changed apparently in the proof. 
 
 Part I. line 48. 
 Cerulean spotted, golden-green, and blue. 
 
 Line 69. 
 I had a silver dream of thee last night. 
 
 Line 78. 
 And, swiftly as a mission'd phoebean dart. 
 
 Line 104. Pale wox her immortality for woe 
 
 Line 114. 
 Warm, tremulous, devout, bright-ton'd, psalte- 
 
 rian. 
 Ravish'd, she lifted up her Circean head. 
 
 Line 132. 
 To the swoon'd serpent, and with langrous arm. 
 
 Line 155, 
 A deep volcanian yellow took the place. 
 
 Line 167. 
 And her new voice, softluting in the air 
 Cried ' Lycius ! gentle Lycius, where, ah where ! 
 
 Line 185. 
 Ah ! never heard of, delight never known 
 Save of one happy mortal ! only one, — 
 Lycius the happy : for she was a Maid. 
 
 Line 260. A line was added to this, — 
 
 ' Thou to Elysium gone, here for the vultures I.' 
 
 Line 378, A royal-squared lofty portal door. 
 
 Part II., line 45. Two lines were here 
 added : — 
 
 ' Too fond was I believing, fancy fed 
 In high deliriums, and bloBsoma never shed ! ' 
 
 Lines 82-84. 
 Became herself a flame — 't was worth an age 
 Of minor joys to revel in such rage. 
 She was persuaded, and she fixt the hour 
 When he should make a Bride of his fair Para- 
 mour. 
 After the hottest day comes languidest 
 The colour'd Eve, half-hidden in the west ; 
 So they both look'd, so spake, if breathed 
 
 sound. 
 That almost silence is, hath ever found 
 Compare with nature's quiet. Which lov'd 
 
 most. 
 Which had the weakest, strongest heart so lost, 
 So ruin'd, wreek'd, destroy'd : for certes they 
 Scarcely could tell they could not guess 
 Whether 't was misery or happiness. 
 Spells are but made to break. Whisper'd the 
 Youth. 
 
 Line 174. 
 Fill'd with light, music, jewels, gold, perfume. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 459 
 
 Line 231. In Tom Taylor's Autobiography of 
 Haydon, vol. i. p. 354, is a passage which is a 
 slight comment on these lines, ' He then, in a 
 strain of humor beyond description, abused me 
 for putting Newton's head into my picture. " A 
 fellow," said he, " who believed nothing unless 
 it was as clear as three sides of a triangle." 
 And then he and Keats agreed he had destroyed 
 all the beauty of the rainbow, by reducing it to 
 the prismatic colors. It was impossible to re- 
 sist him, and we aU drank Newton's health and 
 confusion to mathematics.' 
 
 Line 293. 
 From Lycius answer'd, as he sunk supine 
 Upon the couch where Lamia's beauties pine. 
 
 Line 296. ' from every iU 
 
 That youth might suffer have I shielded thee 
 Up to this very hour, and shall I see 
 Thee married to a Serpent ? Pray you mark, 
 Corinthians ! A Serpent, plain and stark ! ' 
 
 At the close of the poem, Keats appended 
 the passage from Burton which had given him 
 his theme : — 
 
 ' Philostratos, in his fourth book, de Vita 
 Apollonii, hath a memorable instance in this 
 kind, which I may not omit, of one Menippus 
 Lycius, a young man twenty-five years of age 
 that, going betwixt Cenclireas and Corinth, met 
 such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentle- 
 woman, which, taking him by the hand, carried 
 him home to her house, in the suburbs of Cor- 
 inth, and told him she was a Phoenician by 
 birth, and if he woidd tarry with her, he should 
 hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as 
 never any drank, and no man should molest 
 him ; but she, being fair and lovely, woidd die 
 with him, that was fair and lovely to behold. 
 The young man, a philosopher, otherwise staid 
 and discreet, able to moderate his passions, 
 though not this of love, tarried with her awhile 
 to his great content, and at last married her, to 
 whose wedding, amongst other guests, came 
 ApoUonius ; who, by some probable conjec- 
 tures, found her out to be a serpent, a lamia ; 
 and that all her furniture was, like Tantalus' 
 gold, described by Homer, no substance, but 
 mere illusions. When she saw herself descried, 
 she wept, and desired Apollouius to be sUent, 
 but he would not be moved, and thereupon she, 
 plate, house, and all that was in it, vanished in 
 an instant ; many thousands took notice of this 
 fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece.' — 
 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, Part III., Sect. 
 2, Memb. I. Subs. I. 
 
 Page 199. Hyperion. 
 
 Since the introductory note to this poem was 
 printed, a letter from Canon Ainger has ap- 
 peared in The Athenceum (26 August, 1899), in 
 which he states that he has seen a copy of the 
 1820 volimie, given by Keats to a Hampstead 
 friend and neighbor, and bearing on the title 
 page 'with J, Keats's compliments.' He adds, 
 ' Keats has with his own hand scored out, in 
 strong ink lines, the publisher's preface. . . . At 
 the head of this preface Keats has written, " I 
 had no part in this; I was ill at the time." 
 And after the concluding sentence about Endy- 
 mion, which he has carefully bracketed off, he 
 has written, " This is a lie ! " ' This is inter- 
 esting testimony, especially if Canon Ainger's 
 opinion as to this being in Keats's handwriting 
 is correct. 
 
 Page 232. The Last Sonnet. 
 
 A manuscript reading of the last line is : — 
 
 ' Half -passionless, and so swoon on to death.' 
 
 II. LETTERS 
 
 1. Page 235. ' God 'ield you.' Mr. Colvin 
 calls attention to the frequency with which 
 Keats, in his early letters, falls into Shake- 
 spearian phrases. 
 
 2. Page 255. ' Endymion.' The reference 
 is not to the poem of that name, but to the 
 verses beginning ' I stood tiptoe upon a little 
 hill.' Seep. 14. 
 
 3. Page 235. ' Your kindness.' Reynolds 
 had addressed Keats in a sonnet as follows : — 
 
 'Thy thoughts, dear Keats, are like fresh gathered 
 leaves, 
 
 Or white flowers pluck'd from some sweet lily bed ; 
 
 They set the heart a-breathing, and they shed 
 The glow of meadows, mornings, and spring eves 
 O'er the excited soul. — Thy genius weaves 
 
 Songs that shall make the age be nature-led, 
 
 And win that coronal for thy young head 
 Which time's strange hand of freshness ne'er bereaves. 
 Go on ! and keep thee to thine own green way, 
 
 Singing in that same key which Chaucer sung ; 
 Be thou companion of the summer day, 
 
 Roaming the fields and older woods among : 
 So shall thy Muse be ever in her May, 
 
 And thy luxuriant spirit ever young.' 
 
 4. Page 257. 'Aunt Dinah's counterpane.' 
 The letter was crossed, after a fashion more 
 common in days of heavy postage than now. 
 
 5. Page 259. Hazlitt had reviewed in The 
 Examiner for May 4, 1817, Southey's Letter to 
 William Smith Esq., M. P., and had been ex- 
 cessively severe. 
 
460 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 6. Page 259, ' The Nymplis.' A mythologi- 
 cal poem, on which Hunt was at this time en- 
 gaged. 
 
 7. Page 259. ' Does Shelley go on telling 
 strange stories of the death of kings ? ' Gilfil- 
 lan, in his Gallery of Literary Portraits, tells the 
 story of Shelley amusing himself and Hunt, 
 when they were travelling in a stage coach, and 
 startling an old lady travelling with them, by 
 suddenly crying out to Hunt, ' For God's sake, 
 let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories 
 of the death of kings.' King Richard II., iii. 2. 
 
 8. Page 261. ' I long to see Wordsworth's as 
 well as to have mine in.' Haydon was painting 
 his Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, and was in- 
 troducing likenesses of his friends into the pic- 
 ture. 
 
 9. Page 262. ' Bertrand,' i. e.. General Ber- 
 trand, who was one of Bonaparte's petty court 
 at St. Helena. 
 
 10. Page 263. Jane Reynolds afterward 
 married Thomas Hood. The Reynolds family 
 lived in Little Britain, so quaintly sketched by 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 11. Page 263. 'Hampton,' i. e.. Little Hamp- 
 ton, a quiet watering place at the mouth of the 
 Arun, on the south coast of Sussex, a little 
 more than halfway between London and Ports- 
 mouth. 
 
 12. Page 265. 'Miss Taylor's essays in 
 Rhyme.' Fanny Keats was fourteen years old 
 at this time, and the Norwich ladies, Ann and 
 Jane Taylor, were in the height of their popu- 
 larity with young readers. 
 
 13. Page 266. 'Tell DUke.' The Dilkes 
 were friends living in Hampstead whom Rey- 
 nolds had introduced to Keats. Charles Went- 
 worth DUke was at the time a clerk in the 
 Navy Pay-Offiee, and a disciple of Godwin and 
 warm friend of Hunt. Later he became a 
 man of great consequence in the literary world 
 as editor and chief owner of The Athceneum. 
 The W. D. mentioned below is William Dilke, 
 a younger brother, who had served in the Com- 
 missariat department. He was at this time 
 about forty-two years old. 
 
 14. Page 268. ' Northern Poet.' See Words- 
 worth's Personal Talk, beginning — 
 
 ' I am not one who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk.' 
 
 15. Page 269. Hazlitt had just collected and 
 published his The Round Table, which he first 
 printed in The Examiner. 
 
 16. Page 271. ' You and Gleig.' Mr. Col- 
 vin makes this note : ' G. R. Gleig, son of the 
 Bishop of Stirling : bom 1796, died 1888 : served 
 
 in the Peninsular War and afterwards took 
 ders. Chaplain-General to the Forces fro 
 1846 to 1875 : author of the Subaltern and man; 
 military tales and histories.' 
 
 17. Page 271. 'The two R's.' Reynolds 
 and Rice. 
 
 18. Page 274. ' The little Song.' See head- 
 note to ' Lines,' p. 37. The allusion just below 
 in Adam's waking is to Paradise Lost, Book 
 VIIL, lines 478-484. 
 
 19. Page 275. 'Christie.' Jonathan H. 
 Christie, a college friend of Lockhart, who took 
 up Lockhart's quarrel with John Scott, fougl 
 the latter in a duel and killed him. 
 
 20. Page 277. ' Wells.' Charles J, Wells, ? 
 schoolmate of Tom Keats. See the Sonne* 
 p. 13, ' To a Friend who sent me some Roses 
 The family of Wells lived in Featherstoi 
 Buildings, from which Letter 24 was written 
 
 21. Page 277. ' Shelley's poem.' Laon an 
 Cynthia, renamed The Revolt of Islam. 
 
 22. Page 277. The tragedy was Retributiou 
 or the Chieftain's Daughter; the pantomimf 
 was Don Giovanni. The articles, as the post 
 script to this letter shows, did appear in Thi 
 Champion. 
 
 23. Page 278. ' We played a concert.' A ' 
 burlesque affair. Keats, his brothers and 
 friends, were wont to entertain themselves with 
 imitating musical instruments, vocally. 
 
 24. Page 278. Haydon's Autobiography, I. 
 384, gives a more detailed account of this sup- 
 per party. Ritchie, here referred to, Mr. Col- 
 vin tells us, was Joseph Ritchie, who ' started 
 on a Government mission to Fezzan in Septem- 
 ber, 1818, and died at Morzouk the following 
 November, An account of the expedition wf-yS 
 piiblished by his travelling companion. Captain 
 G. F. Lyon, R. N.' Ritchie wrote a poetical 
 Farewell to England, which was printed by A, 
 A. Watts in his Poetical Album. 
 
 25. Page 278. ' Medal of the Princess,' i. c. 
 Princess Charlotte, who died November 6, 1817. 
 
 26. Page 278, ' Bob Harris,' the manager of 
 Covent Garden Theatre. 
 
 27. Page 279. ' Miss Kent's.' Mr. Forma 
 notes that the article was not by Miss Bess ' 
 Kent, Hunt's sister-in-law, but by Shelley, wl ^ 
 used the initials E. K. for ' Elfin Knight.' « 
 
 28. Page 279. 'Mr. Abbey.' Mr. Richai R 
 Abbey, a tea-merchant, one of the guardians c 
 the Keats family. See above, p. xv. } 
 
 29. Page 283. See a lively refutation of th J 
 conjecture of Hunt's, and a general statemei i 
 of the relations of the ' Cockney school ' wit 
 the Edinburgh critics in Lang's The Life an 
 Letters of John Gibson Lockhart, 1. 150-155. 
 
LETTERS 
 
 l6: 
 
 30. Page 285. ' As the old song says.' Mr. 
 irinan here quotes the ' old song,' which is 
 
 Sharing Eve's Apple,' given in the Appendix, 
 p. 248, on Mr. Forman's authority as by Keats. 
 Mr. Colvin merely indicates a break. It is 
 quite possible that Keats in the jesting mood 
 with which his letter opens, wrote these non- 
 sense lines and, in Scott's fashion, palmed them 
 off as an ' old song.' 
 
 31. Page 285. 'For the sum of twopence.' 
 See the head-note to ' Robin Hood,' p. 41. 
 
 32. Page 287. ' Mr. Robinson.' Henry Crabbe 
 '^.obinson. This delightful diarist does not re- 
 
 )rd this visit, nor in the two or three refer- 
 iEces to Keats speak as if he knew him. In an 
 
 ntry for December 8, 1820, he records reading 
 me of Keats's poems, and adds : ' There are a 
 rce, wildness, and originality in the works of 
 is young poet which, if his perilous journey 
 Italy does not destroy him, promise to place 
 
 '.m at the head of the next generation of poets.' 
 
 33. Page 293. Haydon had written with en- 
 ^iiusiasm about a seal with a true lover's knot 
 
 nd the initials W. S., found in a field at Strat- 
 ord-on-Avon. 
 
 34. Page 293. ' Dentatus ' was the subject 
 )f a picture by Haydon. 
 
 35. Page 295. ' Claude's Enchanted Castle.' 
 Vir. Colvin has this interesting note : ' The fa- 
 nous picture now belonging to Lady Wantage, 
 ind exhibited at Burlington House in 1888. 
 Whether Keats ever saw the original is doubt- 
 ful (it was not shown at the British Institution 
 in his time), but he must have been familiar 
 with the subject as engraved by Vivar^s and 
 Woollett, and its suggestive power worked in 
 his mind until it yielded at last the distilled 
 poetic essence of the " magic casement " pas- 
 sage in the "Ode to a Nightingale." It is in- 
 teresting to note the theme of the Grecian Urn 
 ode coming in also amidst the " unconnected 
 lubject and careless verse" of this rhymed 
 epistle.' 
 
 36. Page 296. ' Posthumous works.' Hay- 
 'on had written Keats : ' Wlien I die I '11 have 
 
 'lakespeare placed on my heart, with Homer 
 
 my right hand and Ariosto in the other, 
 
 inte at my head, Tasso at my feet, and Cor- 
 
 • ille under my — .' 
 
 ' 37. Page .300. ' Worsted stockings.' Keats 
 
 ■ nts at the neighborhood of the. tliiliren of the 
 ostman Bentley, at whose house in Wellwalk 
 
 ' lodged. 
 
 ' 38. Page 306. ' Th.> opnosite,' i. e., a leaf 
 th the name and ' from tlie Aut}ior.' 
 39. Page 315. 'A scrap of paper.' The book 
 as a copy of ' Enciymion,' and Kea. had left 
 
 in London a scrap of paper bearing 'f \,il. da 
 Author,' to be pasted in. 
 
 40. Page 316. ' The Swan and two necks ' 
 was the name of the coach office in Lad Lane, 
 London. 
 
 41. Page 320. ' 3 little volumes.' The sev- 
 eral references to these books indicate Gary's 
 Translation of Dante, which was so publishec 
 by Taylor and Hessey and advertised on th( 
 fly-leaf of ' Endymion.' 
 
 42. Page 328. 'A Woman.' Mr. Colvia 
 notes : ' Miss Charlotte Cox, an East Indian 
 cousin of the Reynoldses — the "Charmian" 
 described more fully ' in Letter 74. 
 
 43. Page 328. 'Slip-shod Endymion.' John 
 Scott wrote of the poem in The Morriitg 
 Chronicle, October 3, 1818: 'That tliere are 
 also many, very many passages indicating both 
 haste and carelessness I will not deny ; nay, I 
 wUl go further, and assert that a real f ieud of 
 the author would have dissuaded hira froia 
 immediate publication.' 
 
 44. Page 338. ' I have scarce any tapes of 
 him.' Thomas Keats died a few hom^ later, 
 on the same day this letter was writt in. As 
 noted in the biographical sketch, Keats now re- 
 moved to Went worth Place. 
 
 45. Page 339. 'This thin paper.' Mr. Oolvii 
 notes : ' A paper of the largest folio size, u.se( 
 by Keats in this letter only, and coilainin; 
 some eight hundred words a page of his v. i iting. 
 
 46. Page 340. ' Her daughter senior.' Faun 
 Brawne, of whom this is the first mention j 
 
 the letters. ^ 
 
 47. Page 354. 'Henrietta Street,' tlie res 
 dence of Mrs. Wylie. 
 
 48. Page .^55. ' The silk tassels,' Mr. ' ^olv' 
 explains, were the gift of Georgiana Ke; '?. \': 
 
 49. Page 366. ' Am I all wound \vith B >> 
 Mr. Colvin reminds the reader of the o i 
 the phrase in Caliban's mouth : 
 
 ' Sometimes am I 
 All wound with adders, who with cloven toi rcuc;, 
 Do hiss me into madness.' 
 
 The Httle Brown boys, brothers of Tharll 
 Armitage Brown, are the 'Boys' refeired | 
 above, p- 364. | 
 
 50. Page 368. This discreet notice ot Re- 
 nolds's parody appeared with some aiv-i.-^ti \ 
 in The Examiner, April 26, 1819. 
 
 51. Page 378. James Elmes was the edit^ 
 of Annals of the Fine Arts, in which fi-st ak 
 peared the ' Ode to a Nightingale.' See p. 145 
 
 52. Page 383. ' An oriental tale of a veir 
 beautiful color.' Mr. Forman, on the aut 'lorii 
 of Dr. Reinhold Kiihler, Librarian of the ( r iui' 
 
,6'. 
 
 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 uoal ,T ibrary of Weimar, identifies the story, 
 ,-Ii? 't ; a variant of the Third Calender's story 
 ; f irabian Nights, as the ' Histoire de la 
 
 1 i ,= i ,' in the Nouveaux Contes Orientaux 
 ' ti ' 'mte de Caylus. 
 
 3;!. i ge399. ' Hunt's triumphal entry into 
 jQuJon. Mr. Forman makes the following 
 ote or. dhis passage : ' Henry Hunt, of Man- 
 hest' I vlassacre fame, ended an imprisonment 
 i two ears and a half on the 30th of October, 
 . , made an ' ' entry into London ' ' on the 
 
 *„h vi i^ovember, 1822 ; but the trial of which 
 is iiDpriyonment was the issue had not taken 
 lace iiU the spring of 1820; and the entry 
 lluded io by Keats was one which took place 
 btweea the massacre and the trial.' 
 
 54. Page 413. ' From Sr. G. B,'s, Lord Ms.' 
 Sir George Beaumonts and Lord Musgraves. 
 
 55. Page 416. ' The Cave of despair.' Spen- 
 ser's Cave of Despair was the subject of the 
 picture (see Letter 141) with which Severn won 
 the Royal Academy premium. 
 
 56. Page 438. ' Lucy Vaughan Lloyd.» The 
 name under which Keats proposed to publish 
 ' The Cap and Bells.' See p. 216. 
 
 57. Page 446. ' Without making any way.' 
 Mr. Colvin appends this note : ' The Maria 
 Crowther had in fact sailed from London, Sep- 
 tember 18 : contrary winds holding her in 
 the Channel, Keats had landed at Portsmouth 
 for a night's visit to the Snooks of Bedhamp- 
 ton.' 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS 
 
 In this list the contents are given in their 
 order of the three volumes published by Keats. 
 Then follow the poems gathered by Lord 
 Houghton, and those printed for the first time 
 in the Letters, collected by Mr. Forman, Mr. 
 Colvin, and Mr. Speed. The few instances of 
 independent periodical publication of poems, 
 and of those gathered by Mr. Forman, are 
 noted in the head-notes to those poems. 
 
 I. Poems, | by | John Keats. | ' What more 
 
 FELICITY CAN FALL TO CREATURE, | THAN 
 TO ENJOY DELIGHT WITH LIBERTY ' | 
 
 Fate of the Butterfly. — Spenser. | Lon- 
 don: I printed for C. & J. Ollier, 
 3 Welbeck Street, | Cavendish Square. 
 I 1817. 
 Dedication. To Leigh Hunt, esq. 
 ' I stood tip-toe upon a little hill.' 
 Specimen of an Induction to a Poem. 
 Calidore. A Fragment. 
 To Some Ladies. 
 
 Cii reoeiving a curious shell, and a Copy of 
 Verses from the same Ladies. 
 
 To . [Hadst thou liv'd in days of old] . 
 
 To Hope. 
 
 Imitation of Spenser. 
 
 ' Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain„' 
 Epistles : 
 To George Felton Mathew. 
 To my Brother George. 
 To Charles Cowden Clarke. 
 Sonnets : 
 
 I. To my Brother Geoi^e. 
 
 II. To [' Had I a man's fair form, then 
 
 might my sighs.'] 
 III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh 
 
 Hunt left prison. 
 rV. 'How many bards gild the lapses of 
 time.' 
 V. To a Friend who sent me some roses. 
 VI. ToG. A. W. 
 
 VII. ' O Solitude, if I must with thee dwell.' 
 VIII. To my Brothers. 
 IX. * Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here 
 
 and there.' 
 X. ' To one who has been long in city 
 pent.' 
 
 XI. On first Looking into Chapman's 
 Homer. 
 XII. On leaving some friends at an early 
 hour. 
 
 XIII. Addressed to Haydon. 
 
 XIV. Addressed to the same. 
 
 XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket. 
 XVI. To Kosciusko. 
 XVII. ' Happy is England.' 
 Sleep and Poetry. 
 
 II. Endymion: I A poetic Romance. | By 
 John Keats. | ' The stretched metre 
 
 of AN ANTIQUE SONG.' | LONDON : | PRINTED 
 
 FOR Taylor and Hessey, | 93, Fleet 
 Street, | 1818. 
 
 III. Lamia | Isabella, | The Eve of St. 
 Agnes, | and other Poems. | By John 
 Keats, | author of Endymion. | London: 
 
 I Printed for Taylor and Hessey, | 
 Fleet Street | 1820. 
 Lamia. 
 
 Isabella ; or the Pot of Basil. 
 The Eve of St. Agnes. 
 Ode to a Nightingale. 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn. 
 Ode to Psyche. 
 Fancy. 
 
 Ode [' Bards of Passion and of Mirth']. 
 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 
 Robin Hood. To a Friend. 
 To Autumn. 
 Ode on Melancholy. 
 Hyperion : a Fragment. 
 
 IV. Life, Letters and Literary Re- 
 mains of John Keats. Edited by Rich- 
 ard MONCKTON MiLNES [AFTERWARD 
 
 Lord Houghton]. 
 
 [The following were incorporated in the bio- 
 graphical portion.] 
 To Spenser. 
 To Chatterton. 
 To Byron. 
 
 On seeing the Elgin Marbles. 
 To Haydon, with the above. 
 On seeing a lock of Milton's Hair. 
 A Draught of Sunshine. 
 What the Thrush said. 
 
464 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS 
 
 On sitting down to read King Lear once again. 
 
 To the Nile. 
 
 Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds. 
 
 Fragment of an Ode to Maia. 
 
 On visiting the Tomb of Burns. 
 
 Written in the Cottage where Burns was bom. 
 
 Meg Merrilies. 
 
 On Ailsa Rock. 
 
 Lines written in the Highlands after a visit to 
 
 Burns's cottage. 
 At Fingal's Cave. 
 Written upon the top of Ben Nevis. 
 A Prophecy : To George Keats in America. 
 Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard. 
 Spenserian stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown. 
 Spenserian stanza written at the end of Canto 
 
 II. Book V. of The Faerie Queene. 
 Fragments : 
 
 ' Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! ' 
 
 Modern Love. 
 
 The Castle Builder. 
 
 * Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow.' 
 
 Ode to Fanny. 
 
 [The following were grouped in the section 
 Literary Remains] : — 
 
 Otho the Great. 
 
 King Stephen. 
 
 The Cap and Bells. 
 
 Ode to Apollo. 
 
 Hymn to Apollo. 
 
 On : ' Think not of it, sweet one, so.' 
 
 Lines : ' Unfelt, unheard, unseen.' 
 
 Song : ' Hush, hush ! tread softly.' 
 
 Song : ' I had a dove and the sweet dove 
 died.' 
 
 Faery song : ' Shed no tear ! O, shed no 
 tear.' 
 
 Song : ' Spirit here that reignest.' 
 
 Faery song: ' Ah ! woe is me.' 
 
 Extracts from an Opera. 
 
 La Belle Dame sans Merci. 
 
 Song of Four Faeries. 
 
 Ode on Indolence. 
 
 The Eve of St. Mark. 
 
 To Fanny : ' Physician Nature ! let my spirit 
 
 blood.' 
 Stanzas : ' In a drear-nighted December.' 
 Sonnets : 
 
 ' Oh, how I love on a fair summer's eve-' 
 
 ' To a Young Lady who sent me a laurel 
 
 crown.' 
 ' After dark vapours have oppress'd our 
 
 plains.' 
 Written on the Blank space at the end of 
 
 Chaucer's Tale of The Floure and the Lefe. 
 On the Sea. 
 
 On Leigh Hunt's poem The Story of Rimini. 
 ' When I have fears that I may cease to be-' 
 To Homer. 
 
 Written in answer to a sonnet. 
 To J. H. Reynolds. 
 To : ' Time's sea hath been five years 
 
 at its slow ebb.' 
 To Sleep. 
 On Fame. 
 Another on Fame. 
 ' Why did I laugh to-night ? ' 
 A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of 
 
 Paolo and Francesca. 
 ' If by dull rhymes our English miust be 
 
 chain' d.' 
 ' The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone.' 
 ' I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love.' 
 The Last Sonnet. 
 V. The Letters of John Keats : 
 Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Wylie. 
 At Teignmouth. 
 Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis. 
 The Devon Maid. 
 A Little Extempore. 
 The Gadfly. 
 The Human Seasons. 
 To Thomas Keats. 
 A Party of Lovers. 
 A Song about Myself. 
 Two or Three Posies. 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 After dark vapours have oppress'd our plains, 
 
 36. 
 Ah ! ken ye what I met the day, 245. 
 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 139. 
 Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver wing ! 141. 
 All gentle folks who owe a grudge, 245. 
 And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up, 238. 
 As from the darkening gloom a silver dove, 12. 
 As Hermes once took to his feathers light, 138. 
 As late I rambled in the happy fields, 13. 
 Asleep ! sleep a little while, white pearl ! 
 
 240. 
 A thing of beauty is a joy forever, 49. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 125. 
 
 Blue ! 'T is the life of heaven, — the domain, 43. 
 
 Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art, 
 
 232. 
 Brother belov'd, if health shall smile again, 252. 
 Byron ! how sweetly sad thy melody ! 2. 
 
 Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 1. 
 Cat ! who has[t] pass'd thy grand climacteric, 
 
 252. 
 Chief of organic numbers, 39. 
 Come hither aU sweet maidens soberly, 38. 
 
 Dear Reynolds ! as last night I lay in bed, 241. 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, 199, 
 
 Ever let th6 Fancy roam, 124. 
 
 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel, 110. 
 
 Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy, 
 
 142. 
 Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they 
 
 > ,. e, 233. 
 F'li, jasons fill the measure of the year, 44. 
 Fre morning gusts have blown away all 
 7. 
 . any a dreary hour have I past, 24. 
 
 le a golden pen and let me lean, 9. 
 
 ne your patience, sister, while I frame, 
 
 : '1 . and loveliness have pass'd away, 37. 
 : i ( f the golden-bow, 7. 
 i"i Kosciuszko, thy great name alone, 34. 
 t<^at spirits now on earth are sojourning, 33. 
 
 Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs, 
 
 26. 
 Hadst thou liv'd in days of old, 11. 
 
 Happy, happy glowing fire ! 140. 
 Happy is England ! I could be content, 35. 
 Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem, 4. 
 Haydon ! forgive me that I cannot speak, 36. 
 Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid, 121. 
 He is to weet a melancholy Carle, 250. 
 Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 242. 
 Here all the summer could I stay, 242. 
 Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, 33. 
 How fever'd is the man, who cannot look, 142. 
 How many bards gUd the lapses of time ! 8. 
 Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 
 dear! 120. 
 
 I cry your mercy — pity — love ! — aye, love, 215. 
 If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd, 
 
 144. 
 If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front, 
 
 192. 
 I had a dove and the sweet dove died, 125. 
 In a drear-nighted December, 34. 
 In after-time, a sage of mickle lore, 9. 
 In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool, 216. 
 In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 89. 
 In thy western halls of gold, 6. 
 I stood tiptoe upon a little hUl, 14. 
 It keeps eternal whisperings around, 37. 
 
 Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there, 
 
 8. 
 King of the stormy sea, 93. 
 
 Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry, 27. 
 
 Many the wonders I this day have seen, 26. 
 Mother of Hermes ! and still youthful Maia, 
 
 119. 
 Much have I traveU'd in the realms of gold, 9. 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 
 
 144. 
 My spirit is too weak — mortality, 36. 
 
 Nature withlield Cassandra in the skies, 123. 
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist, 126. 
 Not Aladdin magian, 122. 
 No ! those days are gone away, 41. 
 
466 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Now morning from her orient chamber came, 1. 
 Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong 
 glance, 34. 
 
 O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear, 77. 
 
 O blush not so 1 blush not so, 248. 
 
 O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate, 2. 
 
 O come Georgiana ! the rose is full blown, 240. 
 
 Of late two dainties were before me plac'd, 246. 
 
 Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 30. 
 
 O Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung, 
 
 143. 
 O golden-tongued Komance, with serene lute ! 
 
 40. 
 Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, 13. 
 Oh, I am f righten'd with most hateful thoughts, 
 
 240. 
 Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 243. 
 One morn before me were three figures seen, 
 
 136. 
 O soft embalmer of the still midnight, 142. 
 O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwell, 12. 
 O Sorrow, 96. 
 
 O that a week could be an age, and we, 44. 
 O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, 
 
 43. 
 O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang, 
 
 52. 
 O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve, 239. 
 
 Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, 
 
 251. 
 Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 137. 
 
 Bead me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud, 
 123. 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 127. 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 213. 
 Shed no tear — O shed no tear, 141. 
 Small, busy flames play through the fresh laid 
 
 coals, 33. 
 So, I am safe emerged from these broils ! 159. 
 Sou of the old moon-mountains African ! 41 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 40. 
 Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 42. 
 Spirit here that reignest ! 42. 
 Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 119. 
 Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 
 
 10. 
 
 The church bells toll a melancholy round, 35. 
 
 The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone, 214. 
 
 The Gothic looks solemn, 252. 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead, 35. 
 
 There is a charm in footing slow across a silent 
 
 plain, 246. 
 There was a naughty Boy, 244. 
 The stranger lighted from his steed, 240. 
 The sun, with his great eye, 239. 
 The Town, the churchyard, and the setting sun, 
 
 120. 
 Think not of it, sweet one, so, 38. 
 This mortal body of a thousand days, 122. 
 This pleasant tale is like a little copse, 36. 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 135. 
 Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb, 
 
 124. 
 'Tis the witching time of night, 249. 
 To-night I'll have my friar — let me think, 
 
 239. 
 To one who has been long in city pent, 13. 
 Two or three Posies, 251. 
 
 Unfelt, unheard, unseen, 38. 
 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell, 196. 
 
 Upon a time, before the faery broods, 146. 
 
 Upon my Life, Sir Nevis, I am piqued, 247. 
 
 Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 42. 
 
 What can I do to drive away, 214. 
 
 What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 18. 
 
 What though, for showing truth to fiatter'd 
 state, 5. 
 
 What though, while the wonders of nature ex- 
 ploring, 3. 
 
 When by my solitary hearth I sit, 5. 
 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be, 39. 
 
 When they were come into the Faery's Court, 
 249. 
 
 When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 240. 
 
 Where be ye going, you Devon maid ? 243. 
 
 Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him, 238. 
 
 Who loves to peer up at the morning sun, 39. 
 
 Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 
 102. 
 
 Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell, 
 137. 
 
 Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain, 2. 
 
 Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake, 28. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 [The titles of major works and general divisions are set in small capitals.] 
 
 Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Wylie, 243. 
 Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 33. 
 ' Ah ! woe is me ! poor silver-wing ! ' 141. 
 Ailsa Rock, To, 121. 
 Apollo, Hymn to, 7. 
 
 " Ode to, 6. 
 ' Asleep ! O sleep a little while, white pearl ! ' 
 
 240. 
 At Fingal's Cave, 122. 
 At Teignmouth, 242. 
 Autumn, To, 213. 
 
 Bagpipe, on hearing the, and seeing The 
 
 Stranger, 246. 
 ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 125. 
 Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, Song written 
 
 on a blank page in, 42. 
 Belle Dame Sans Merci, La, 139. 
 Ben Nevis, Mrs. Cameron and, 247. 
 
 " Written upon the top of, 123. 
 
 Brawne, Fanny, Verses to, 214. 
 Brother George, To my, 26. 
 Brothers, To my, 33. 
 Brown, Charles Armitage, Spenserian Stanzas 
 
 on, 250. 
 Burns, On visiting the tomb of, 120. 
 Byron, To, 2. 
 
 Calidore : a Fragment, 28. 
 
 Cameron, Mrs., and Ben Nevis, 247. 
 
 Cap and Bells, The, 216. 
 
 ' Castle Builder, The,' Fragment of, 239. 
 
 Cat, To a, 252. 
 
 Chapman's Homer, On first looking into, 9. 
 
 Chatterton, To, 2. 
 
 Chaucer's Tale of The Floure and the Lefe, 
 
 Written on the blank space at the end of, 36. 
 Chorus of Faeries, 140. 
 Clarke, Charles Cowden, Epistle to, 30. 
 Cottage where Bums was bom, written in the, 
 
 121. 
 Curious Shell and a copy of verses from the 
 
 same ladies. On receiving a, 4. 
 
 Daisy's Song, 239. 
 Death, On, 1. 
 Devon Maid, The, 243. 
 Dramas, 138. 
 
 Draught of Sunshine, A, 242. 
 Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of 
 Paolo and Francesea, 138. 
 
 Early Poems, 1. 
 
 Elgin Marbles, on seeing the, 36. 
 
 Endymion, 45. 
 
 Epistles : 
 
 To Charles Cowden Clarke, 30. 
 
 To George Felton Mathew, 9. 
 
 To John Hamilton Reynolds, 240. 
 
 To my Brother George, 24. 
 Eve of St. Agnes, The, 127. 
 Eve of St. Mark, The, 196. 
 Eve's Apple, Sharing, 248. 
 Extempore, A Little, 249. 
 Extracts from an Opera, 239. 
 
 Faery Songs, 141. 
 Fairies, Chorus of, 140. 
 Fame, On, 142. 
 Fame, Another On, 142. 
 Familiar Verses, 240. 
 Fancy, 124. 
 Fanny, Lines to, 214. 
 " Ode to, 137. 
 " To, 215. 
 Fingal's Cave, At, 122. 
 FoUy's Song, 240. 
 Fragments : 
 
 Extracts from an Opera, 239. 
 
 Modem Love, 238. 
 
 Of an Ode to Maia, 119. 
 
 The Castle Builder, 239. 
 
 'Welcome joy and welcome sorrow,' 42. 
 
 ' Where 's the Poet ? show him ! show him ! ' 
 238. 
 Friend, To a, who sent me some roses, 13. 
 
 Gadfly, The, 245. 
 
 G, A. W., To, 34. 
 
 George, Epistle to my brother, 24. 
 
 Geoi^e, To my brother, 26. 
 
 Grasshopper and the Cricket, On the, 35. 
 
 Grecian Urn, Ode on a, 134. 
 
 Haydon, Benjamin Robert, Addressed to, 33. 
 Haydon, To, 36. . 
 
468 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Highlands, Lines written in the, after a visit to 
 
 Burns's country, 246. 
 Homer, To, 119. 
 Hope, To, 5. 
 
 Human Seasons, The, 44. 
 Hunt, Leigh, To, 37. 
 Hunt, Mr. Leigh, left prison, written on the day 
 
 that, 5. 
 Hunt's, Leigh, Poem, The Story of Bimini, On, 
 
 38. 
 Hymn to Apollo, 7. 
 Hypekion : A Fragment, 198. 
 Hyperion : A Vision, 233. 
 
 Imitation of Spenser, 1. 
 
 Tn Answer to a Sonnet by J. H, Reynolds, 43, 
 
 Indolence, Ode on, 135. 
 
 Induction to a Poem, specimen of an, 27. 
 
 Isabella, or the Pot of Basil, 110. 
 
 ' I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,' 14. 
 
 Keats, George, To : written in sickness, 251. 
 
 Keats, To Thomas, 245. 
 
 King Lear once again, on sitting down to read, 
 
 40. 
 King Stephen : A Dramatic Fragment, 192. 
 Kosciusko, To, 34. 
 
 La Belle Dame sans merci, 139. 
 
 Ladies, To some, 3. 
 
 Lady seen for a few moments at Vauxhall, To 
 
 a, 123. 
 Lamla, 146. 
 Last Sonnet, The, 232. 
 
 Laurel crown, to a young Lady who sent me a, 7. 
 Leander, On a Picture of, 38. 
 Leaving some friends at an early hour, On, 9. 
 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, 40. 
 Lines to Fanny, 214. 
 Lines : ' Unfelt, unseen, unheard,' 37. 
 Lines written in the Highlands, after a visit to 
 
 Burns's country, 246, 
 Little Extempore, A, 249, 
 Lock of Milton's Hair, On seeing a, 39. 
 Lovers, A Party of, 251. 
 
 Maia, Fragment of an Ode to, 119. 
 Mathew, George Felton, Epistle to, 9. 
 Meg Merrilies, 243. 
 Melancholy, Ode on, 12G. 
 Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, 40. 
 Milton's Hair, On seeing a lock of, 39. 
 Modern Love, 238. 
 
 Nightingale, Ode to a, 144. 
 NUe, To the, 41, 
 
 O, I am frighten'd with most hateful thoughts ! 
 
 240, 
 O ! were I one of the Olympian twelve, 239. 
 Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' 125. 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn, 134. 
 Ode on Indolence, 135. 
 Ode on Melancholy, 126. 
 Ode to a Nightingale, 144. 
 Ode to Apollo, 6. 
 Ode to Fanny, 137. 
 Ode to Maia, Fragment of an. 119. 
 Ode to Psyche, 142. 
 On a Picture of Leander, 38. 
 On Death, 1, 
 On Fame, 142, 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 9. 
 On hearing the Bagpipe, and seeing The 
 
 Stranger played at Inverary, 246, 
 On leaving some friends at an early hour, 9. 
 On Leigh Hunt's Poem The Story of Rimini, 
 
 38, 
 On Oxford, 252. 
 On receiving a Curious Shell and a Copy of 
 
 Verses, 4. 
 On seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair, 39. 
 On seeing the Elgin Marbles, 36. 
 On sitting down to read King Lear once again, 
 
 40, 
 On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35. 
 On the Sea, 37. 
 
 On . ' Think not of it, sweet one, so,' 38. 
 
 On visiting the Tomb of Bums, 120. 
 Otho the Great, 158. 
 
 Party of Lovers, A, 251. 
 
 Picture of Leander, On a, 38. 
 
 Poems of 1818-1819, The, 110. 
 
 Prophecy, A : To George Keats in America, 249. 
 
 Psyche, Ode to, 142. 
 
 RejTiolds, John Hamilton, Epistle to, 240. 
 Reynolds, John Hamilton, To, 44. 
 Robin Hood, 41. 
 Ronsard, Translation from a Sonnet of, 12". 
 
 Sea, on the, 37. 
 Sharing Eve's Apple, 248. < 
 Sleep, To, 142, 
 Sleep and Poetry, 18, 
 Solitude, Sonnet to, 12, 
 Some Ladies, To, 3, 
 Song about Myself, A, 244. 
 Songs : 
 
 Daisy's Song, 239, 
 
 Faery Songs, 141. 
 
 FoUy's Song, 240. 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 469 
 
 ' Hush, hush ! tread softly ! hush, hush, my 
 
 To Homer, 119. 
 
 dear,' 120. 
 
 To Hope, 5. 
 
 ' I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,' 125. 
 
 To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44. 
 
 ' The stranger lighted from his steed,' 240. 
 
 To Kosciusko, 34. 
 
 Written on a blank page in Beaimiont and 
 
 To Leigh Hunt, esq., 37. 
 
 Fletcher's Works, 42. 
 
 To my brother George, 26. 
 
 Sonnets : 
 
 To my Brothers, 33. 
 
 Addressed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 33. 
 
 ' To one who has been long in city pent,' 13. 
 
 ' After dark vapours have oppress'd our 
 
 To Sleep, 142. 
 
 plains,' 36. 
 
 To Solitude, 12. 
 
 ' As from the darkening gloom a silver dove,' 
 
 To Some Ladies, 3. 
 
 12. 
 
 To Spenser, 42. 
 
 ' Blue ! 't is the life of heaven, — the domain,' 
 
 To the NUe, 41. 
 
 43. 
 
 To , ' Think not of it, sweet one, so,' 38. 
 
 Dream, A, after reading Dante's Episode of 
 
 What the Thrush said, 43. 
 
 Paolo and Francesca, 138. 
 
 ' When I have fears that I may cease to be,' 
 
 ' Happy is England ! I could be content,' 35. 
 
 39. 
 
 ' How many bards gild the lapses of time,' 8. 
 
 ' Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will 
 
 • Human Seasons, The, 44. 
 
 teU, 137. 
 
 'If by duU rhymes our English must be 
 
 Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 43. 
 
 chain'd,' 144. 
 
 Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 
 
 ' Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and 
 
 35. 
 
 there,' 8. 
 
 Written in the Cottage where Burns was 
 
 Last Sonnet, The, 232. 
 
 born, 121. 
 
 ' Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,' 13. 
 
 Written on the blank space at the end of 
 
 On a Picture of Leander, 38. 
 
 Chaucer's Tale of TJie Floure and the Left, 
 
 On Fame, 142. 
 
 36. 
 
 On Fame, Another, 142. 
 
 Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left 
 
 On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, 9. 
 
 prison, 5. 
 
 On Hearing the Bagpipe and Seeing Tl\e 
 
 Written upon the top of Ben Nevis, 123. 
 
 Stranger played at Inverary, 24G. 
 
 Specimen of an Liduction to a Poem, 27. 
 
 On Leaving Some Friends at an Early Hour, 
 
 Spenser, Imitation of, 1. 
 
 9. 
 
 Spenserian stanza, written at the close of Canto 
 
 On Leigh Hunt's Poem Hie Story of Rimini, 
 
 11., Book v., of The Faerie Queene, 8. 
 
 38. 
 
 Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown, 
 
 On Seeing the Elgin Marbles, 36. 
 
 250. 
 
 On Sitting down to read King Lear once 
 
 Spenser, To, 42. 
 
 a^ain, 40. 
 
 Stanzas: ' In a drear-nighted December,' 34. 
 
 On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35. 
 
 Stanzas to Miss Wylie, 240. 
 
 On the Sea, 37. 
 
 Supplementary Vekse, 233. 
 
 On Visiting the Tomb of Burns, 120. 
 
 
 ' The day is gone and all its sweets are gone ! ' 
 
 To , ' Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,' 11. 
 
 214. 
 
 To a Cat, 252. 
 
 To a Friend who sent me some Roses, 13. 
 
 To Autumn, 213. 
 
 To Ailsa Rock, 121. 
 
 To Fanny, 215. 
 
 To a Lady seen for a few Moments at Vanx- 
 
 To Homer, 119. 
 
 hall, 123. 
 
 To Hope, 5. 
 
 To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel 
 
 To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44. 
 
 Crown, 7. 
 
 To Leigh Hunt, esq., 37. 
 
 To Byron, 2. 
 
 To Sleep, 142. 
 
 To Chatterton, 2. 
 
 To Some Ladies, 3. 
 
 To Fanny, 215. 
 
 To Spenser, 42. 
 
 To G. A. W., 34. 
 
 To the Nile, 41. 
 
 To George Keats, 251. 
 
 To Thomas Keats, 245. 
 
 To , ' Had I a man's fair form,' 26. 
 
 Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard, 123. 
 
 To Haydon, 36. 
 
 Two or Three Posies, 251. 
 
470 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Verses to Fanny Brawnb, 214. 
 
 Verses written during a Tour in Scotland, 120. 
 
 What the Thrush said, 43, 
 
 Where 's the Poet ? Show him ! show him, 
 
 238. 
 Woman ! when I behold thee, flippant, vain, 2. 
 Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 43. 
 
 Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 35. 
 Written in the Cottage where Bums was born, 
 
 121. 
 Written on the blank space at the end of 
 
 Chaucer's tale of The Floure and the Lefe, 
 
 36. 
 Written upon the top of Ben Neris, 123. 
 Wylie, Miss, Stanzas to, 240. 
 
 ....... 
 
INDEX TO LETTERS 
 
 Agriculture, the effect of, on character, 392, 
 
 393. 
 Ailsa Rock, 312. 
 
 Amena's letters to Tom Keats, 364, 366. 
 America, in its relation to England, 332. 
 
 Bailey, Benjamin, entertains Keats at Oxford, 
 264 ; has a curacy, 271 ; his love affairs, 357 ; 
 letters to, 270, 271, 273, 283, 290, 303, 305, 318, 
 387. 
 
 Ben Nevis, ascent of, 323, 324. 
 
 Brawne, Fanny, first met by Keats, 340 ; de- 
 scribed by Keats, 342 ; tiffs with, 353 ; ar- 
 dently loved by Keats, 380, and in subse- 
 quent letters commended to Brown, 448 ; 
 letters to, 380, 382, 383, 384, 386, 388, 393, 413, 
 414, 423, 424, 425, 426, 427, 428, 429, 430, 432, 
 433, 436, 438, 440, 441. 
 
 Brawne, Mrs., takes Brown's house, 340 ; Keats 
 dines with her, 345 ; letter to, 446. 
 
 Brown, Charles Armitage, Letters to, 410, 411, 
 4S7, 444, 445, 447, 448. 
 
 Burford Bridge, 275. 
 
 Burns, Robert, visit to the country of, 308, 310, 
 313, 315. 
 
 Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, quoted, 397, 
 
 Carisbrooke, Isle of Wight, 257. 
 
 Charmian, 331. 
 
 Chatterton, Thomas, Keats inscribes Endymion 
 
 to his memory, 297 ; thinks' his the purest 
 
 EngUsh, 404. 
 Christ, Keats's thoughts on, 363. 
 Claret, the charms of, 356. 
 Clarke, Charles Cowden, Letters to, 255. 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 272, 277. 
 Cornwall, Barry, 431. 
 Cripps, Mr., 269, 272, 275, 279, 281. 
 
 Dante, Keats proposes to take him on a jour- 
 ney, 306. 
 
 Devonshire, Keats's opinion of, 290, 292, 294. 
 
 Dilke, Charles Wentworth, interest of in his 
 boy's education, 356 ; his absorption in his 
 boy, 365, 386, 396 ; his character, 405 ; letters 
 to, 273, 326, 351, 385, 409, 412, 431, 436. 
 
 Elmes, James, letter to, 378. 
 
 Endymion, begun by Keats, 260 ; the story of. 
 
 told to Fanny Keats, 264 ; draws near a close, 
 269 ; a test of his power of imagination, 270 ; 
 completed, 281 ; to serve as a pioneer, 289 ; 
 preface to, 296. 
 Examiner, The, a battering ram against Chris- 
 tianity, 258 ; has a good word on Wellington, 
 262 ; Keats's notice in it of Reynolds's Peter 
 Bell, 367. 
 
 Fingal's Cave, 322. 
 
 French Revolution, Keats on the, 398. 
 
 Godwin, William, 346. 
 
 Goldfish, Keats's fancy of a globe of, 372. 
 
 Greek, Keats wishes to learn, 299. 
 
 Haslam, William, letter to, 375. 
 
 Haydon, Benjamin Roberts, Keats's first ac- 
 quaintance with, 255 ; advises Keats to go 
 into the country, 255 ; his quarrel with Hunt, 
 270 ; proposes to make a frontispiece for En- 
 dymion, 281 ; his effect on Keats, 296 ; money 
 affairs with, 350 ; letters to, 260, 269, 279, 293, 
 295, 349, 350, 351, 371, 373, 379, 412, 440, 443. 
 
 HazUtt, William, on Southey, 259 ; thinks 
 Shakespeare enough for us, 261 ; his Round 
 Table, 269 ; his essay on commonplace peo- 
 ple, 272; his lecture on poetry, 287, 289; 
 prosecutes Blackwood, 327 ; his letter to Gif- 
 ford, 358 ; his retort, 359. 
 
 Hessey, James Augustus, letter to, 328. 
 
 Hunt, Leigh, self-delusions of, 261 ; his quarrel 
 with Haydon, 270 ; attack on, in Edinburgh 
 Magazine, 273 ; his own name coupled with, 
 273 ; his criticism of Endymion, 282 ; shows 
 Keats a lock of Milton's hair, 284 ; his char- 
 acter, 341 ; his conversation quoted, 343 ; let- 
 ter to, 258. 
 
 Hyperion, has too many Miltonic inversions, 408. 
 
 Indiaman, Keats's prospect of service on an, 
 377. 
 
 Jeffrey, Misses M. and S., letter to, 304. 
 Jeffrey, Mrs., letters to, 303, 376, 377. 
 
 Kean, Edmund, in Richard III., 276; dis- 
 cussed, 277. 
 Keats, Fanny, letters to, 264, 308, 325, 326, 328, 
 
472 
 
 INDEX TO LETTERS 
 
 336, 337, 338, 350, 351, 352, 371, 372, 373, 374, 
 375, 376, 378, 379, 381, 390, 414, 416, 417, 418, 
 423, 424, 425, 427, 429, 433, 434, 435, 438, 439, 
 440, 442, 444. 
 Keats, George, his resolution to go to America, 
 303 ; his marriage, 305 ; arrival in America, 
 336 ; return to England on a brief visit, 418. 
 Keats, George and Thomas, Letters to, 256, 276, 
 
 277, 280, 281, 286, 288. 
 Keats, George and Georgiana, letters to, 329, 
 
 338, 353, 394, 418. 
 Keats, John, goes to Southampton, 256 ; visits 
 Carishrooke, 257 ; cannot exist without po- 
 etry, 258 ; begins Endymion, 258 ; habits of 
 reading and writing, 260 ; is painted in a pic- 
 ture by Haydon, 261 ; borrows money of Tay- 
 lor and Hessey, 262 ; leaves Margate for Can- 
 terbury, 262 ; asks for more money, 263 ; goes 
 to Oxford, 263 ; rows on the Isis, 267 ; makes 
 good progress with Endymion, 269 ; goes to 
 Hampstead, 270 ; regards his long poem as 
 a test of power of imagination, 270 ; is at 
 Dorking, 275 ; reads Shakespeare's sonnets, 
 276; criticises West's painting of Death on 
 the Pale Horse, 277 ; writes articles for 
 The Champion, 277 ; calls on Wordsworth, 
 278 ; passes in the first book of Endymion, 
 281; goes to hear Hazlitt lecture on poetry, 
 282 ; his recipe for a pleasant life, 286 ; is 
 reading Voltaire and Gibbon, 289 ; goes to 
 Devonshire, 290; goes to Honiton, 303; re- 
 turns to Hampstead, 303 ; goes to Keswick 
 by way of Ambleside, 307 ; climbs Skiddaw 
 and goes to Carlisle, 307 ; visits the haunts of 
 Bums, 308 ; visits the Meg Merrilies country, 
 309 ; crosses to Ireland, 311 ; sees Ailsa crag, 
 312 ; goes to Glasgow, 313 ; rehearses his 
 route, 314 ; traverses Loch Lomond, 316 ; in 
 view of the Hebrides, 317 ; reaches Inverary, 
 318 ; comes to the Isle of Mull, 319 ; crosses 
 the isle, 321; visits Fingal's Cave, 322; 
 climbs Ben Nevis, 323; returns to Hamp- 
 stead, 325 ; recounts his passage from Inver- 
 ness, 330 ; has an encounter with an unnamed 
 Lady, 334; notifies his brother George of 
 their brother Tom's death, 338 ; meets Fanny 
 Brawne for the first time, 340 ; describes her, 
 342; borrows money of Taylor, 349; lends 
 money to Haydon, 350 ; goes to Chichester, 
 353; goes to the consecration of a chapel, 
 .355 ; considers the question of going to Edin- 
 burgh and studying medicine, 361 ; considers 
 also the plan of going as surgeon on an India- 
 man, 377 ; is obliged to refuse money to Hay- 
 don, 379 ; goes to Shanklin, Isle of Wight, 
 380 ; describes his life there, 381 ; goes to 
 Winc> ?ster, 387 ; engaged on Hyperion, 387 ; 
 
 works with Brown on a tragedy, 389 ; de- 
 scribes Winchester, 391 ; goes up to London, 
 393; returns to Winchester, 394; describes 
 an election there, 400 ; plays a joke on Brown, 
 406 ; gives up Hyperion, 408 ; returns to town, 
 413 ; is attacked with illness, 423 ; is ordered 
 to Italy, 439 ; reaches Rome, 448. 
 Keats, Thomas, sickness of, 275, 335, 337 ; his 
 death, 338 ; his affair with Wells, 364 ; letters 
 to, 307, 310, 312, 316, 320, 322. 
 
 Milton, John, influence of, on the world, 294 ; 
 compared with Wordsworth, 301. 
 
 Orinda, the Matchless, referred to and quoted, 
 
 268. 
 Oxford, visited by Keats, 264; described by 
 
 him, 264. 
 
 Philips, Mrs., author of The Matchless Orinda, 
 268. 
 
 Poetry, Keats cannot exist without, 258 ; unable 
 to talk of it, 261 ; the quality of length m, 
 270, 271 ; a few axioms concerning, 289 ; the 
 relief brought by, 328; its effect on charac- 
 ter, 336. i 
 
 Psyche, on Ode to, 371. I 
 
 Quarterly, The, attempt of, to crush Keats, 330. 
 
 Religion, Keats's ideas abont, 291. 
 Reynolds, Jane, letters to, 265, 326. 
 Reynolds, John Hamilton, letters to, 255, 257, 
 
 267, 269, 275, 285, 287, 292, 299, 314, 327, 390, 
 
 428. 
 Reynolds, Mariane and Jane, letter to, 263. 
 Reynolds, Mrs., letter to, 349. 
 Rice, James, letters to, 294, 337, 416, 426. 
 
 Scott, Walter, Keats's opinion of, 279. 
 
 Severn, Joseph, a friend of Keats, 255 ; letters 
 to, 373, 415, 416. 
 
 Shakespeare, Keats finds a head of, 257; ob- 
 serving his birthday, 258, 287 ; his Christian- 
 ity, 259 ; a presiding genius, 260 ; enough for 
 us, 261 ; his sonnets, 276 ; supposed seal of, ^j 
 
 293. m 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 'telling strange stones 
 of the deaths of kings,' 259 ; his Queen Mab, 
 277 ; letter to, 442. 
 
 Snook, Mr., 267, 353, 354. 
 
 Soul-making, 369. 
 
 Southampton, journey to, 256. 
 
 Staffer, 318, 320, 321. 
 
 Taylor, Anne and Jane, poems by, 265. 
 Taylor and Hessey, letters to, 262, 263, 290,293. 
 
INDEX TO LETTERS 
 
 473 
 
 'T'aylor, John, letters to, 281, 284, 286, 289, 298, 
 .'^Oe, 349, 389, 392, 415, 437, 443, 444. 
 
 /'elocipede, The, 361. 
 
 '' Way's, Mr., chapel and its consecration, 355. 
 / Welling:ton, the Duke of, discussed in The Ex- 
 aminer, 262. 
 Wells, Charles J., 278; his relations to Tom 
 
 Keats, 364, 366. 
 West, Benjamin, 277. 
 
 Winchester, description of, 387, 389, .S91. 
 
 Woodhouse, Richard, letters to, 336, 348. 
 
 Wordsworth, William, not to be detracted 
 from, 262 ; read by Keats on the Isis, 267 ; 
 criticism of his ' Gipsy,' 272 ; rank of The Ex- 
 cursion, 280 ; criticised for his theories, 285, 
 286 ; his effect on the lakes, 293 ; compared 
 with Milton, 301 ; his place in the Mansion 
 of Many apartments, 302 ; his home at Rydal, 
 307. 
 
 WyUe, Mrs., letter to, 324. 
 
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