Google
This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at|http: //books .google .com/I
HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
FROM THE LIBRARY OF
JEAN SANCHEZ ABREU
C^e CambrtDge ^BDition of ti)e ^mt0
EDITED BY
HORACE E. SCUDDER
KEATS
BY THE EDITOR
^^^^^^^^^J^^^H
PC
1
THE COMPLETE
ETICAL WORKS AND LETTERS (
JOHN KEATS
CambriBgr miiion
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON. MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
^M
vi 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 Complete Poetical Works, 1 have been
aware that I was including some things which neither Keats nor any one else
would call poetical. Tet besides the contribution which verse makes to beauty,
there is also the light which it throws on the poetical mind and character. And
since the volume of Keats's production is not large, and much of his posthamons-
poetry is rightly classed with his own acknowledged work, it seemed best to giT^
everything, but to make the natural discrimination between the poetry in the bodjr'
of the volume and that which follows in the division. Supplementary Verse. Th^
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 throw
direct light on his poetry, there yet remains an undefined scholia in the whole body
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 volams
with Keats's poems, a collection also of his letters. This collection is completei
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 which
he derived from the papers of his grandfather, Greorge Keats.
Oambiudoe, August, 1899.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
TAOM
POEMS
EARLY POEMS.
ImTATiox OF Spbnsbr
On Death
To Chattebton
To Btbon
*' WOMAK ! WHEir I BEHOLD THEE FIJP-
PAWT, VAIN '
To SoiCB Ladies
On BECEiyiNO A Curious Shell and a
Copt of Vebses from the Same La-
DIS8
Wrttten on the Day that Mr. Leigh
Hunt left Prison . . . .
To Hope
Ode to Apollo
Htxn to Apollo
To A TouNQ Ladt who sent me a
Laurel Crown ....
Sonnet : ^ How many bards qild the
LAPSES OF time '
Sonnet: 'Keen, fitful ousts are
whisp'rinq here and there *
Spenserian Stanza, written at the
Close of Canto II., Book V., of
* The Faerie Queene * . . .
On leayino Some Friends at an
Early Hour
^ On first looking into Chapman^s
Homer
Epistle to George Felton Mathew
To : * Hadst thou liv'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 .
1
1
2
2
2
3
6
5
6
7
7
8
8
8
9
9
9
11
12
12
13
13
13
14
18
24
26
33
33
To 'Had I a man's fair form,
then might my sighs ' ... 26
Specimen of an Induction to a
Poem 27
CauDORE: a f^GMENT ... 28
Epistle to Charles Cowden Clarke 30
To My Brothers . , . . 33
Addressed to Benjamin Robert
Haydon.
I. 'Great spirits now ok earth
ARE sojourning' ....
n. ' HlOHMINDEDNESS, A JEALOUSY
FOR GOOD '
To Kosciusko 34
To G. A. W 34
Stanzas: 'In a drear-niohted De-
cember' 34
Written in Disgust of Vulgar Su-
perstition 35
Sonnet : ' Happy is England 1 1 could
BE content' 36
On the Grasshopper and Cricket 35
Sonnet : * After dark vapours have
oppress'd our plains ' . . .36
Written on the Blank Space at the
END of Chaucer's Tale of 'The
Floure and the Lefe' . . . 36
On Seeing the Elgin Marbles . , 36
To Haydon (with the preceding
sonnet) 36
To Leigh Hunt, Esq 37
On the Sea 37
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 Rimini ' 38
Sonnet : ' When I have fears that
I may cease to be' . . . 39
On seeing a Lock of Milton's Hair 39
On sitting down to read ' King
Lear' once again .... 40
Lines on the Mermaid Tavern . 40
Vlll
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Robin Hood .41
To THE Nile 41
To Spemseb 42
SONO WBITTBN ON A BlANK PaoE IN
Beaumont and Flbtcheb^s Works
BETWEEN ^Cupid's Reyenge' 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 eyea are dearer far
Than thoM that mock the hyacinthine belL* . 43
To John Hamilton Reynolds . . 44
The Human Seasons ... 44
ENDYMION 45
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819.
f Isabella, or the Pot of Basil . 110
To Homer 119
Fragment of an Ode to Maia . 119
Song: ^Hush, hitshI 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
m. Written in the Cottage
WHERE Burns was born . 121
IV. 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
I 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 of Paolo and Francesca 138
La Belle Dame sans Merci . . 139
Chorus of Fairies .... 140
Faery Songs:
I. Shed no tear I O shed no
tear! 141
J
II. Ah ! woe is me I poor silver-
wing! 141
On Fame 142
Another on Fame .... 142
To Sleep 142
Ode to Psyche . . , .142
Sonnet : * If by dull rhymes oub
English biust be chain'd' . . 144
Ode to a Nightingale . . . 144
Lamia 146
DRAMAS.
Otho the Great : a tragedy in five
ACTS 158
King Stephen: a dramatic frag-
ment 192
THE EVE OF ST. MARK . . 196
HYPERION: A FRAGMENT . . 198
TO AUTUMN 213
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 ! ' . . 216
THE CAP AND BEU^; OR, THE
JEALOUSIES 216
THE LAST SONNET . . . .232
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE.
I. Hyperion: a Vision , . . 233
II. Fragments:
I. * Where's the Poet? show
him! show him' . . . 2;{8
n. Modern Love . . . 238
ni. Fragment of 'The Castle
Builder' 239
rV. Extracts from an Opera :
*0! were i one of the
Olympian twelve' . 239
Daisy's Song .... 239
Folly's Song . . . 240
*0h, I AM FRIGHTEN'd WITH
most hateful THOUGHTS ! ' 240
Song : * The stranger
lighted from his steed ' 240
* Asleep ! O sleep a little
WHILE, WHITE PEARL ! ' . 240
ni. Familiar Verses :
Stanzas to Miss Wylie . . . 240
Epistle to John Hamilton Rey-
nolds 240
A Draught of Sunshine . . . 242
At Teignmouth 242
TABLE OF CONTENTS
IX
To DiTOX Maid .... 243
AcBO0nc:GBOBoiANAAaou8TA Keats 243
Meo MnouiJES 243
A 2)0X0 ABOUT JCrSSLF . 244
To TwnfAfl Kkats 245
ThiOadflt 245
(hr HBABiyo thk Bagpipe Aim sseino
*ThB StKAHOER ' PLATED AT InYEB-
AMT ....... 246
Lms writtek in the Highlands
AiTEB A Visit to Burns^s Country 24(5
Mis. Cameron and Ben Nevis . 247
Sharing Eve^s Apple .... 248
A Prophecy: to George Keats in
America ...... 249
A Little Extempore .... 249
Spenserian Stavzab on Charles Ar-
MiTAOE 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. Chielbs Cowden Clarke October 31, 1816 .
' Tie Same December 17, 1816
3> JoHK Hasulton Reynolds March 2, 1817 . .
i The Same March 17, 1817 .
^ GioEOB and Thomas Keats April 15, 1817 . .
& John Hamilton Reynolds April 17, 1817 . .
:. Lewh Hunt May 10, 1817 . .
0^ Bduamin Robert Haydon May 10, 1817 . .
9. MzMBs. Taylor and Hf.ssey May 1(>, 1817 . .
K The Sa3ce July 8, 1817 . .
11- Mariane and Jane Reynolds September 5, 1817 .
li Fanny Kfj^ts September 10, 1817
I^ Jane Reynolds September 14, 1817
li John Hamilton Reynolds September 21, 1817
1^ The Same September, 1817 .
K Benjamin Robert Haydon September 28, 1817
17- Benjamin Bailey October 8, 1817 . .
K The Same November 1, 1817
to. The Same November 5, 1817 .
a>. Charles Wentworth Dilke November, 1817 .
il Benjamin Bailey November 22, 1817
~ John Hamilton Reynolds ....... November 22, 181*
iX Georue and Thomas Keats December 22, 1817
?i The Same January 5, 1818
25. Benjamin Robert Haydon January 10, 1818 .
3i. John Taylor January 10, 1818 .
27. George and Thomas Keats January 13, 1818 .
2S. John Taylor J;muary 23, 1818 .
9. George and Thomas Keats January 23, 1S18 .
3>. Benjamin Bailey January 23, 1818 .
3]. John Taylor January 30, 1818
Jl Jobs Hamilton Reynolds January 31, 1S18 .
SI The Same . . February 3, 1818 .
U John Taylor February 5, 1 sis .
^ George and Thomas Keats February 14, Isis .
ifi. John Hamilton Reynolds February 11», 1818
•T. IfEORGE AND Thomas Keats Febniarj' 21, 1818 .
K John Taylor Februarj- 27, ISIS
'P. Mewrs. Taylor and Hessey March. ISlS . . .
¥i Bf.njamin Bailey March 13, ISIS .
(1 John Uamiltov Reynolds March 14, 1818 . .
. 255
255
. 255
255
. 250
257
. 258
260
. 2G2
203
. 263
264
. 265
267
. 269
269
. 270
271
. 273
273
. 273
275
. 276
277
. 279
280
. 2S0
281
. 281
283
. 284
285
. 285
286
. 2S<5
287
. 2S8
2Si)
. 2«»0
2*»0
. 2'.»2
TABLE OF CONTENTS
42. BsNJAMiii RoBEKT Hatdon Maroh 21, 1818 .
43. Messrs. Tatlob Ain> Hessbt March 21, 1818 .
44. Jaices Rice Maroh 24, 1818
40. John Hamilton Retnoldb Maroh 25, 1818 .
46. Benjamin Robebt Hatdon April 8, 1818 . .
47. John Hamilton Reynolds April 9, 1818 . .
48. The Same April 10, 1818 . ,
49. John Tatlob April 24, 1818 .
5a John Hamilton Reynolds April 27, 1818 . ,
51. The Same May 3, 1818 . .
52. Mbs. Jeffret May, 1818 . . .
53. Benjamin Bailet May 28, 1818 . .
54. Misses M. and S. Jeffbet June 4, 1818 . .
55. Benjamin Bailet Jnne 10, 1818 .
56. John Tatlob Juno 21, 1818 .
57. Thomas Keats Jnne 29, 1818 .
58. Fannt Keats Jnly 2, 1818 . . .
50. Thomas Keats Jnly 2, 1818 . .
ea The Same Jnly 10, 1818 .
61. John Hamilton Retnolds Jnly 11, 1818 . .
62. Thomas Keats Jnly 17, 1818 . .
63. Benjamin Bailet Jnly 18, 1818 . .
64. Thomas Keats Jnly 23, 1818 . .
65. The Same Angrnst 3, 1818 .
66. Mbs. Wtue • . Angrnst 6, 1818 . .
67. Fannt Keats An«rnst 18, 1818
68. The Same Angnat 25, 1818 .
69. Jane Retnolds September 1, 1818
70. Chables Wentworth Dilke September 21, 1818
71. John Hamilton Retnolds September 22, 1818
72. Fannt Keats October 9, 1818 .
73. James Auoustus Hesset October 9, 1818 .
74. Geoboe and Geoboiana Keats October 13-31, 1818
75. Fannt Keats October 16, 1818
76. The Same October 26, 1818
77. RiCHABD WooDHOUSE October 27, 1818
78. Fannt Keats Noyember 5, 1818
79. James Rice November 24, 1818
80. Fannt Keats December 1, 1818 .
81. Geobge and Geoboiana Keats December 18, 1818
82. Richard Woodhouse December 18, 1818
83. Mrs. Retnolds December 22, 1818
84. Benjamin Robert Hatdon December 22, 1818
85. John Tatlor December 24, 1818 .
86. Benjamin Robert Hatdon December 27, 1818
87. Fannt Keats December 30, 1818
88. Benjamin Robert Hatdon Jannary 4, 1819 .
89. The Same Jannary 7, 1819
9a The Same January, 1819 . .
91. Fannt Keats Jannary, 1819 . .
92. Charles Wentworth Dilke and Mrs. Dilke . . Jannary 24, 1819 .
93. Fannt Keats Febmary 11, 1819 .
94. Geobge and Geoboiana Keats Febmary 14, 1819
95. Fannt Keats Febmary 27, 1819
96. Benjamin Robebt Hatdon Maroh 8, 1819 . .
97. Fannt Keats March 13, 1819 . .
98. The Same March 24, 1819 .
. 298
. 207
308
803
804
806
806
807
aoB
310
812
314
316
318
320
322
324
328
326
326
326
327
328
328
320
336
336
336
337
337
338
338
348
340
340
348
349
350
350
350
351
351
351
352
353
371
371
372
373
I
TABLE OF CONTENTS xi
99. J08KPH Sevbrn Maioh 29 (?), 1819 . . .373
100. Bknjajon Robkbt Hatdon April 13, 1819 .... 373
101. Fakkt KsATS Aprill3, 1819 . . . . 374
102. Thb Saxb April 17, 1819 .... 375
103. Ths Sahb May 13, 1819 .... 375
104. William HAgLAM May 13, 1819 .... 375
106. Fankt Kbats May 26, 1819 .... 376
106. M188 Jeffkst May 31, 1819 .... 376
107. The Sajob June 9, 1819 377
108. Faknt Keats Jnne 9, 1819 .... 378
109. James Elmbs June 12, 1819 .... 378
110. FAKirr Keats June 14, 1819 .... 379
lU. The Same June 16, 1819 .... 379
112. Benjamin Robert Hatdon June 17, 1819 .... 379
113. Fanny Bbawne July 3, 1819 380
114. Fanny Keats July 6, 1819 .... 381
115. Fanny Bbawne July 8, 1819 382
116. John Hamilton Reynolds July 11, 1819 .... 382
U7. Fanny Bbawne July 15,1819 383
11». The Same July 27, 1819 .... 384
119. Charles Wentworth Dilke July 31, 1819 .... 385
120. Fanny Bbawne August 9, 1819 ... 386
121. Benjamin Bailey August 15, 1819 . . . 387
122. Fanny Bbawne August 16, 1819 ... 388
123. John Taylor August 23, 1819 ... 389
134. John Hamilton Reynolds August 25, 1819 . . . 390
125. Fanny Keats August 28, 1819 ... 390
12s. John Taylor September 1, 1819 . . 392
137. The Same September 5, 1819 . . 392
128. Fanny Brawne September 14, 1819 . . 393
129. George and Geoboiana Keats September 17, 1819 . . 394
130. 407
131. John Hamilton Reynolds September 22, 1819 . . 407
132. Charles Wentworth Dilke September 22, 1819 . . 409
133. Charles Armitaoe Brown September 23, 1819 . . 410
134. The Same September 23, 1819 . . 411
135. Charles Wentworth Dilke October 1, 1819 . . .412
136. Benjamin Robert Haydon October 3, 1819 ... 412
137. Fanny Bbawne October 11, 1810 ... 413
138. The Same October 13, 1819 ... 413
139. Fanny Keats October 16, 1819 . . .414
140. Fanny Bbawne October 19, 1819 ... 414
141. Joseph Severn October 27, 1819 . . .415
142. John Taylor Noyember 17, 1819 . . 415
143^ Fanny Keats November 17, 1819 . . 416
144. Joseph Severn December 6, 1819 . . 416
145. James Rice December, 1819 . . .416
146. Fanny Keats December 20, 1819 . . 417
147. The Same December 22, 1819 . . 418
14& Georoiana Augusta Exeats January 13, 1820 ... 418
149L Fanny Brawne . . . . ', 423
150. Fanny Keats February 6, 1820 ... 423
151. The Same February 8, 1820 ... 424
152. Fanny Brawne 424
163. The Same 424
154. Fanny Keats February 11, 1820 . . 425
155. The Same February 14, 1820 ... 425
xii TABLE OF CONTENTS
136- Famnt Brawke
167. Thb Samm ' _
158. The Sa^e '
109. JAKES Rice Pebnur; 16, 1820 .
lea Famnt Keats Febniar; 19. 1830
161- Paknt Bbawme
162. The Same
163. The Same ' .
IW. JoHB Hamiltom Rktmoum FebrnarrSS, 1820
IfiO. Fasby Bkawnb
166. Fanny Kkats Febnury 24, 1820
167. Fannt Bkawne
168. The Samb
160. Thb Same
170. The Same
171. The Same
172. The Same
173. CnABLEa Wektwobth Diucb March 4, 1820 . .
174. Fanjjt Bbawnk
175. The Same
176. Thb Same
177. The Samk
17H, Fannt Keats Uuvli 20, 1820
179, FANur Brawnb
180. The Sahk
181. The Sake
182. Famby Keatb April 1, lti20 . .
183, Thb Same April, 1820 . . .
184, Thb Same April 12, 1820 . .
180. Tbb Same April 21, 1820 . .
186. The Same May 4, 1820 . .
187. Cbableh Wkktworth D:lkb May, iR2i) . , .
188. Panns Bkawne
189. The Same
190. The Same
191. John TaVIJJB June 11, 1820 , .
192. {.'hablbw Aiimjtac.e Beown June, 1820 . , ,
193. Fanny Kbats Jnne 20, 1820 , ,
194. Fanny Bkawne
195. Fanny Keats Jnly 5, 1820 . . .
196. Benjamin Robert Haydoh Jnly, 1820 . . .
197. Fanny Keats Jnly 22, 1820 . .
198. Fanst Bkawne ....
109. Tui >\\(i
SCO. l•'^^^v Kh.iT.-n Augnst 14, 1820 ,
201. J'y.RisY iiy-mi: SHELi,Er AuKust, 1820 , .
302. Joan Tay[J)R Angmt 14. 1820
303. Bexjajun Robeut Hatdon Angiut, 1820 . ,
304. JoBK Taylor Angiut m, isso
son. Charlen AuMiTAiii: Brovn Au^uit. I82(j . .
206. F.4»v K].A^,^ August 33. ISSO ,
207. Charles AmnTAaE Bhown AuEiut. 1820
we. Seplpn)bM,1820 .
309, Charles Abmitaoe Brown .Septeniher 28, 1830
210, Mrs. Brawne Oploher 24, 1630 ,
211, Charles Armitaoe Brown NoreinbtT 1, 1820
812, The Sane November .10, 1820
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Xlll
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
I. Poems 451
n. Lettsbs 459
BIBUOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS 463
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 465
INDEX OF TITLES 467
INDEX TO LETTERS 471
NoTB. The frontispiece is a photogravure by John Andrew and Son from a painting made by
JoMph Seyem in his old age after the picture painted by him in his youth. The painting was in
the possession of the hite John W. Field, Esq., and is now the property of Williams College, by
vlioie courtesy this copy was made.
The vignette is from a portrait by the same artist in the National Portrait Grallery, London.
I
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
John Keats was bom in Finsbiuy, London, on either the 29th or the Slst of
October, 1795. He died in an apartment overlooking the Piazza di Spagna,
Borne, 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
pMticaljcs^er jwiusjie^en years. lojigf Within that time he composed the verses r
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. I!dr 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 bom 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, npt 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. v
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. Greorge, 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 : —
'\
xvi JOHN KEATS
* I loved him [John] from hoyhood, even when he wronged me, for the good-
ness of his heart and the nobleness of his spirit. Before we left school we quar-
relled often, and fought fiercely, and I can safely say and my schoolfellows will
bear witness, that John's temper was the cause of all, still we were more attached
than brothers ever are. From the time we were boys at school, where we loved,
jangled and fought alternately, until we separated in 1818, I in a great measure
relieved him by continual sympathy, explanation and inexhaustible spirits and
good humor, from many a bitter fit of hypochondriasm. He avoided teasing any
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 the
senior of John Keats, but became his intimate friend and remained such through
his life. Clarke's own reminiscence of his friend seems to fill out Greorge Keats's
sketch : —
' He was a favorite with all. Not the less beloved was he for having a highly
pugnacious spirit, which when roused was one of the most picturesque exhibitions
— off the stage — I ever saw. . . . His passion at times was almost ungovemap
ble ; and his brother Greorge, being considerably the taller and stronger, used fre-
quently to hold him down by main force, laughing when John was in one of his
moods, and was endeavoring to beat him. It was all, however, a wisp-of-straw
conflagration ; for he had an intensely tender affection for his brothers, and proved
it upon the most trying occasions. He was not merely the favorite of all, like a
pet prize-fighter, for his terrier courage ; but his highmindedness, his utter uncon-
sciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his generosity, wrought so general a
feeling in his behalf that I never heard a word of disapproval from any one, supe-
rior or equal, who had known him.'
'^^J^^^iL^.U.Joo^ .^RT^}^..^P^ 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 that
beginning;-^
* Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will tell,'
and of the ungovernable passion there is evidence enough in his later life, though
it took then another form. Tet the boyish impulsiveness which had its rude ex-
pression in animal spirits turned in youth into a headlong eagerness for books
before, during, and after school hours. According to Charles Cowden Clarke he
won all the literature prizes of the school, and took upon himself for fun the trans-
lation 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 from
the table, holding the folio volume of Burnet's History of his Own Time between
himself and the table, eating his meal from behind it. This work, and Leigh
Hunt's Examiner^ which my father took in, and I used to lend to Keats — no
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii
doubt laid the foundation of his love of civil and religious liberty.* Still more
definite in its relation to his art was the intimate acquaintance he then formed with
Tooke's JPantheon and Lempri^re'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-
dren, and committed its care to two guardians, one of whom, Mr. Richard Abbey,
was 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. Mr.
Abhey 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 Edmon-
ton, not far from Enfield, and Keats was wont to walk over to the Clarkes' once a
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,
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
up to London to continue his studies at St. Thomas's and Guy's hospitals.
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
troth, 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-
TomSly outside the walls of the hospital. Once when his friend Charles Cowden
C3arke asked him about his attitude toward his profession, he expressed his grave
doubt if be should go on with it. ^ The other day,' he said to him, *• during
the lecture, there came a sunbeam into the room, and with it a whole troop of
ereatares floating in the ray ; and I was off with them to Oberon and fairy land.'
* My hut operation,' he told another man, * was the opening of a man's temporal
artery. I did it with the utmost nicety, but reflecting on what passed through my
mind at the time, my dexterity seemed a miracle, and I never took up the lancet
I
I
It may be assumed that not later than the summer of 1816, when Keats was
i^proacbing his majority, he laid aside his instruments, never to resume them. It.
is not easy to reckon the contribution which these years of study and of brief
practice in the medical art made to his intellectual, much less to his poetical
derelopment. With his active mind he no doubt appropriated some facts — per-
haps we owe to his studies some lines in his verse, as that in ' Isabella,' where in
dsseribing the Ceylon diver contributing to the brothers' wealUi, he says : —
' For them his ears gnsh'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
tion which is the oiily real * learning by heart.' It is more to the purpose that
during the years in which he was forming his mental habits, he was steadied by
intellectual exercise while he was obeying instinctively the voice which was calling
him more and more loudly.
The actual record of his poetry up to this date of the summer of 1816 is not
extensive, but it is indicative of his growing power, of his taste in reading and
observation, of his companionship, and most notably of his consciousness of the
poetic spirit. Along with a few pieces like the lines *• To Some Ladies,' which,
show how little skill he had in making poetry a mere parlor maid, there are poemak
which show how he was struggling to do what other poets have done, as the line^
* To Hope ' and the * Ode ' and ' Hymn to Apollo.' The lines * To Hope,' with alB.
their formal use of poetic conventions, have an interest from the attempt he make^
at using the instrument he most highly valued in expressing his own moods and thalb
youthful fervor which found a suburban Hampden in Leigh Hunt. His f riendshif^
with Hunt was in part founded on an admiration for the political hissing whiclv.
Hunt and his friends kept up, and which was translated by his own independence
•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 Reynolds 9
James Rice, Mathew, or any other of Keats's chosen companions, but the basis of
Keats's friendship, apart from his brothers, was a community of literary taste
more even than of literary production. It is a pleasure to get such glimpses as
we do of this coterie exchanging books, revelling in their discovery of great authors
who had been wrapped in thet lerecloth of an antique speech, and celebrating their
own admiration of these bards that 'gild the lapses of time.' It was not the
Examiner that filled Keats's mind, it was Spenser and Milton, Chapman and
C!haucer, and when he came away from Hunt's cottage, * brimful of the friendli- '
ness ' he there had found, it was of Lycidas and Petrarch and Laura that he sang \
as he fared on foot in the cool bleak air. In his 'Epistle to George Felton
Mathew,' it is poetry and the brotherhood which springs from poetry that prompt
the expression of friendship, and there is no prettier tale in literary friendship
than that which shows Keats and Clarke sitting up through the night reading
Chapman's Homer, and Keats in the morning sending his friend the well-turned
sonnet which has been the key that unlocks Chapman to many readers.
These early verses thus are full of Keats's personal history, for he was living jp ,
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 the
flinging of himself on the grass, after being pent up in the city, is to read some
*' debonair and gentle tale of love and languishment,' and a fair summer's eve
suggests thoughts of Milton's fate and Sydney's bier ; nevertheless, these expres* '.
sions occur in the constricted sonnet. When Keats allows himself freedom and
the rush of spontaneous emotion, as in the lines ' I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,'
the reflection of nature in mythology and poetry is merely incidental to the joyous
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix
n nature itself, a delight so genuine that it almost covers from sight the
mal, half negligent beadroll of poetic subjects. Keats was born_ almost
oand of Bowbells, but his school days and early youth were spent in the y > /
riions of Enfield and Kdmonton, and he escaped often from the city to ■ s^
ead, not merely for companionship, but because there the nightingale sang, ^^
■e the walk in the woods or the stroU on the heath brought him face to\T/
h the solitude which yielded indeed in his mind to pleasant converse, yet
he knew well, the direct road to converse with nature. Perhaps, in the
stood tiptoe,' it is the close and loving observation of nature which first
»ne*8 attention, but a nearer scrutiny quickly reveals that imaginative ren- '
rhich lifts these lines far above the level of descriptive poetry. If in some '
Isworth's sketches from nature written when he was of the same age one
a profounder consciousness of human personality and a deeper sense of /
d relations, one is aware also of longer stretches of purely descriptive
rith Keats there is an instant alchemy by which all sights and sounds are
ted into the elements of a poetic world,
ia poem goes on it trembles into a half dreamy rapture of the poet away
scenes into the world of visions, but it is in ^ Sleep and Poetry,' written
tly at_about the same time, that we discover a more precise witness to the
lads now well formed in Keats's mind. The poet placed this piece last in
printed volume, as if he intended to make it his personal apology. It is in
impassioned plea for die freedom of imagination as against the artifices of
ioTof Pope^^but even when thus half formally reciting his creed, Keats
ow litde of the dogmatist there was in I nature, how litUe even of the
the careless wandering of his own poem, and the unconscious expression
m delight in everything that is beautiful in nature or art ; so that as he
is eye takes in the walls of the room where he lies, and he falls to versify-
contents. He thrills with the consciousness of being a poet, and flashes
} prospect of what he may do, yet at present what he does is rather the
' of a poedc nature than the studied product of an artist.
loems which precede ^ Endymion ' are many of them chiefly interesting for
I they give thus of a nature which was gathering itself for a large leap,
-e, aa the reader will see, tentative excursions into the airy region, and they
besides litde witnesses to some of the important compelling influences which
ming Keats*s mind. Thus the sonnets to Haydon illustrate Keats*s recog-
f Wordsworth, and also the great impression made upon him by the intro-
which Haydon gave him to Greek art. They bear evidence, too, of his
]g study of Shakespeare and of his admiration for Milton, whose minor
sem at this time to have exercised much influence over his style. Hunt's
) can be seen in the poems, but more indirecdy than directly, for Hunt
fine taste had done much to open the way to a return of lovers of poetry
MieiooB days of Elizabeth. The poems are somedmes exercises, sometimes
tions of a poedc mind, and they have a rare value to the student of poetry.
XX JOHN KEATS
-^
as they disclose the mingling of great poetic traditions with the bursts of a poetic
nature which was itself to add to the stock of great English verse.
TbiP^/H^f^J^^^.J^yP^*^. spAce between Keats's abandonment of his profession
and his occupation upon a long and serious poem. The group in this volume enti-
f tied * Early Poems ' gives the product of that period. That is, the pieces from *• I
stood tiptoe upon a little hill ' to the end of the section may be referred to this
time, and the first one may fairly be taken as a sort of prologue to his adoption of
a_poetical life. When he was writing these poems he was living much with his
brothers, to whom he was warmly attached, and was in a circle of ardent friends,
tmen and women. He was an animated talker, with bursts of indignation, and a
Pr^. somewhat to moods of depression. His appearance has been described by
many, and is thus summed up by Mr. Colvin : ^ ' A small, handsome, ardent-looking
youth — the stature little over five feet ; the figure compact and well turned, with
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 poem he wrote but few verses. His
letters, however, show him' inmiersed 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
g^ed 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
I nearly consented with myself to drop Into a Phaethon. Yet 't is a disg^race to
fail, even in a huge attempt ; and at this moment I drive the thought from me.'
These lines were written when Keats was deep in ' Endymion,' and with others
1 Keats [Men of Letters Series]. By Sidney Colvin.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi
lUejjDdmate with some clearness how seriously Keats took himself, as. Xh^.Ji^yiug
IB. 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-
elnsiTely as his original verse how incapable he was of merely reproducing out of J
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 medieval romance for his themes, and
hgrejreated both in a spirit of romance, was due to a large artistic endowment,^- ^
wbidbbadehim see both nature and humanity as subjects for composition, furnish- ^
mg images to be delighted in. He was conscious of poetic genius, and never more
10 than when 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
harries 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
itrong 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
yaved a wreath before him, yet it was not Fame but Poetry that really urged him
forwud. It is not unfair to translate even a confession of desire for fame into
Majtoowledgment of conscious power.
* Endymion * was published in the spring of 1818, and Keats's own attitude to-
vudhiswork at this time is well expressed in the sonnet ^ When I have fears that
Ijtty cease to ^e,^and in that written on sitting down to read King Lear once
•gun. The very completion of his task set free new fancies, and there is a spon-
taneity in his occasional verse and in his letters which witnesses to a rapid matur- y
ingof power and a firmness of tread. The interesting letter to Reynolds of Feb- ^f -'
3, 1818, which contains a spirited criticism of Wordsworth and holds the ^^
SobbHoodverses, 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
coold 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.
Critieism in those days was far from impersonal. A poet was condemned or
praised, not for his work, but for his politics, the friends 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 criticism, 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,
xxii JOHN KEATS
George Keatej with his wife, went to America to try fortune in the new world, i
Keats immediately afterward took a long walking toar in the north with his M<
Brown. His letters and the few poems of travel he wrote show how ardently
threw himself into this acquaintance with a new phase of nature. But he.waa
, pass through experiences which entered more profoundly into life. In Decern]
; \i of the same year, 1818, his brother Tom died. He had been his constant cc
^ / panion and nurse, and was with him at his death. Then, when his whole n^
y ' was deeply stirred, he came to know and ardently to love a g^irl who by turns f
^ >■ cinated and repelled him, until he was completely enthralled, without apparen
finding in her the repose which his restless nature needed.
Keats's first mention of Fanny Brawne scarcely prepares one for the inroi
made upon him by this personage during the rest of his short life. He went
live with his friend Brown after Tom's death, and Mrs. Brawne became his ne
door neighbor. ^ She is a very nice woman/ he writes, ^ and her daughter seni
is I think beautiful and elegant, graceful, silly, fashionable and strange. ^
have a little tiff now and then — and she behaves a little better, or I must hi
sheered off.' The passion which he conceived for Miss Brawne rapidly mount
into a dominant place, and it is one of the marks of Keats's deeper nature, i
disclosed to his friends, intimate as he was with them, that for the two years wU
intervened before he left England a dying man, he carried this passion as a sort
vulture gnawing at his vitals, concealed for the most part, though not whol
Some overt expression it found, as in the 'Ode to Fanny,' the 'Lines to Fuin
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 moo
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 pi
lished letters to the lady herself.
But with this overmastering passion to reckon with, the student of Keats i
scarcely avoid regarding it as strongly influencing the poet's career during
remaining days. The turbulent experience of death and love acted upon a phyd
organism predisposed to decay, and soon it was apparent that Keats was himf
invaded by the disease of consumption, which had wasted his brother Tom. ]
before this ravaging of his powers set in, that is, during the first half of 1819, wl
he was at once deepened by sorrow and excited by love, he wrote that great grc
of poems which begins with * The Eve of St. Agnes ' and closes with ' Lam
If one takes as in some respects the high-water mark of his genius the mystic '
Belle Dame sans merci,' it is not perhaps too speculative a judgment which 8
the keenest anguish of a passionate soul transmuted into terms of imperso
I
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii
poesy. There is no hectic flush about the poetry of this half year, but an increas-
'mg firmness of touch and rich, yet reserved imagination.
Bat great as his products were^ he had not found his public, and the littie
prop^ty he had. was slipping away, so that he was confronted by the fear of pov-
erl^y as his weakness grew upon him. Nothing seemed to go well with him ; his
loTejiffair brought him littie else than exquisite pain. It is probable that on
^^'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
Titali^ from seeking refuge in marriage with a girl who was in happier circum-
ifauice jhan he. He tried to turn his gifts into money by aiming at fortune ¥dth
apby for the popular stage. He tried his hand at work for the periodicals. He
eren considered the possibility of returning to his profession of surgery for a liveli-
bood. But all these projects failed him, and he turned with an almost savage and
Mrtainly sardonic humor to a scheme for flinging at the head of the public a popular
poem. ^The Cap and Bells' is a melancholy example of what a great poet can
prodace who is consumed by a hopeless passion and wasted by disease.
Keats clung to his friends and wrote affectionate letters to his family. His
iiioUier 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,
eontauing ^ Hyperion, Isabella, The Eve of St Agnes, Lamia,' and the ^ Odes,' per-
baps 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
Knt him an invitation to visit him in Pisa : ' There is no doubt that an English
wbter 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, vdth
itg veiled homage to Fanny Brawne, and in Naples Harbor he wrote to Mrs.
Browne 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.
It was in November, 1820, that the travellers reached Rome, and for a littie
while Keats could take short strolls on the Pincian Hill ; but the fatal disease was
making rapid progress, and on the 22d of February, 1821, he died, and three days
XXIV
JOHN KEATS
later he was buried in the Protestant cemetery, where apon his gravestone nui
be read the words which Keats had said of himself : —
* Here lies one whose name was writ in water.'
In hb first sonnet on Fame, Keats, in a saner mood, pats by the temptatic
which would ¥dthdraw him from the high serenity of conscious worth. In tl
second, wherein he seems almost to be seeing Fanny Brawne mocking behind tl
figure of Fame, he shows a more scornful attitude. There is little doubt that no
withstanding his close companionship with poets living and dead Keats never coo]
long escape from the allurements of this ' wayward g^rl,' yet it may surely be sai
that his escape was most complete when he was fulfilling the highest law of fa:
nature and creating those images of beauty which have given him Fame while I
sleeps.
£1. £• S«
POEMS
I
EARLY POEMS
In this gronp are included the contents
of the volame 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 Honghton states, on the aathority of
the notes of Charles Azmitage Brown, given
to him in Florence in 1832, that this was the
earliest known composition of Keats, and that
It was written dnring his residence in Edmon-
ton at the end of his eighteenth year, which
woold make the date in the aatnmn 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. — Smreis.
Now Morning from her orient chamber
came.
And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant
hiU;
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 Af ric's ebony,
And on his back a fay reclined 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 th&
ccsrulean 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 alone
His future doom, which is but to awake.
TO CHATTERTON
First printed in Xt/e, Letters^ and Literary
Bemairu, but undated. Keats' s admiration of
Chatterton was early and constant.
O Chatterton I how very sad thy fate I
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 I Oh I 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 hynming
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 Honghton in LifSf Letters, and
Literary Remains, where it was first published.
Btron I how sweetly sad thy melody f
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch'd her plaintive lute, and thooiH
being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffered thei^B
to die.
Overshadowing sorrow doth not malcK
thee less
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily.
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veLl^
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 I still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing
woe.
•WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD
THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN'
In the 1817 volume, where this poem
first published, with no title, it is placed at
the end of a gronp 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 docomen-
tary evidence, it seems reasonable to place it
near the 'Imitation of Spenser' rather than
near * Calidore.'
WoBCAN ! 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 danoes
For that to love, so long, I've dormant
lain:
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and
tender.
TO SOME LADIES
Ewnm ! how desperately do I adore
1W wimiiiig graces; — to be thy defender
I body bam — to be a Calidore —
1 nrj Bed Cross Sought — a stout Le-
snder —
IGgiit I be lored by thee like these of
joie*
Lght feet, dark yiolet eyes, and parted
Soft dimpled hands, white neck, and
ereamy breast,
Alt things on which the dazzled senses
rest
IjO the food, fixed eyes, forget they stare.
fkoB flneh fine pictures, heavens f I cannot
dare
To torn my admiration, though unpos-
sessed
They be of what is worthy, — though not
drest
Is knrdy modesty, and yirtnes rare.
Tet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark;
^ These lores I straight forget, — e'en ere
I dine.
Or thriee my palate moisten: but when I
8mA charms with mild intelligences
My ear is €fpen like a greedy shark.
To ealeh the tunings of a voice divine.
Ak I 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
Fir man's protection. Surely the All-see-
. ing.
Wko joys to see us with his gifts agree-
WiU never give him pinions, whointreats
8mA innocenoe to ruin, — who vilely
Aivfe4ike bosom. In truth there is no
Cbe's tlioa^ts from such a beauty; when
I hear
A lay that onoe I saw her hand awake,
Her form seems floating palpable, 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 volnme. George Keats says fur-
ther that it was ' writtei| on receiving a copy
of Tom Moore's ** Gk>lden Chain " and a most
beantif ul 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 <^
Moore's verse in general. The poems are not
dated, bnt they are the first in a group stated
by Keats to have been ' written at an earlier
period than the rest of the Poems ;' 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 indaded in the volume a
few years later on personal grounds.
What though while the wonders of natoie
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 labyrinth
strolling ?
Why breathless, unable your bliss to de-
clare?
Ah! you list to the nightingale's tender
condoling.
Responsive to sylphs, in the moon-beamy
air.
4 EARLY
POEMS
'Tib mom, and the flowers with dew are
And splendidly mark'd with the st4
yet droopmg,
vine
I see yoQ are treading the verge of the
Of Armida the fair, and Rinalc
sea:
bold?
And pow f ah, I see it — you just now are
stooping
Hast thou a steed with a mane richl^
•
To pick up the keepsake intended for me.
ing?
Hast thou a sword that thine ei
If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,
smart is ?
Had brought me a g^m from the fret-
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies bio
work of heaven;
And wear'st thou the shield of the
And smiles, with <liis star-cheering voice
Britomartis ?
sweetly blending.
The blessings of Tighe had melodiously
What is it that hangs from thy she
given;
so brave,
Embroidered with many a spring p
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
Than the shell, from the bright golden
bower?
sands of the ocean,
Which the emerald waves at your feet
Ah I courteous Sir Knight, with lax
gladly threw.
thou art crown'd;
Full many the glories that bright
For, indeed, 't is a sweet and peculiar plea-
youth I
sure.
I will tell thee my blisses, which
(And blissful is he who such happiness
abound
finds,)
In magical powers to bless, and to (
To possess but a span of the hour of leisure.
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds.
On this scroll thou seest written in c
ters fair
A sun-beamy tale of a wreath.
ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS
chain:
SHELL AND A COPY OF
And, warrior, it nurtures the properl
VERSES FROM THE SAME
Of charming my mind from the t'ra
LADIES
of pain.
Hart thou from the caves of Golconda, a
This canopy mark: 't is the work of
gem
Beneath its rich shade did King (
Pure as ^e ice-drop that froze on the
languish.
mountain?
When lovely Titania was far, far aw
Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem,
And cruelly left him to sorrow, a
When it flutters in sunbeams that shine
guish.
through a fountain ?
There, oft would he bring from hi
Hast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ?
sighing lute
That goblet right heavy, and massy, and
Wild strains to which, spell-boui
gold?
nightingales listened ;
I
TO HOPE
The wondermg spirits of heaven were
mute,
And tears 'mong the dewdrops of mom-
uig oh glistened.
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 mj 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 I with joy thou art
crown'd ;
Fall 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
fither the 2d or 3d of February, 1815.
^^larles Gowden Clarke, to whom Keats
<lMwad the aomiet, writes in his recollections:
'This I feel to be the first proof I had re-
eved of his having conmiitted himself in
T«ne ; and how dearly do I recollect the con-
icioos look and hesitation with which he of-
fered it I There are some momentary glances
by beloved friends that fade only with life.'
Hie 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 nnturn'dst the
key?
Ah, no I far happier, nobler was his fate f
In Spenser's haUs he strayed, 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.
EARLY POEMS
Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son 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 I
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-bom 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 I
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me
shed.
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my
head.
Li 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 onusnal bright-
ness shed —
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head I
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 wing^
That fill the skies with silver glitter-
ingsl
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 Xt/e, Letters
and Literary Bemains ; 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 deligfhted on each accent
dwells, —
Euraptur'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 tnnef al thunders
cease,
And leave once more the ravish'd heavens
in peace.
Thon 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.
rr is still I 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
God 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 stiffen'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 I
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 I
TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT
ME A LAUREL CROWN
First printed by Lord Houghton in the Life^
Letters and Literary Remains, bat 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 I 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 1 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 Caesars — not the stoutest
band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown :
Yet would I kneel and kiss jbhy gentle
hand I
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 ; 't is a pleasing chime.
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening
store;
The songs of birds — the whisp'ring 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, thia
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 bum 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 g^entle 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 Itift, Letters and
Literary Remains, who comments as follows:
* His sympathies were very much on the ade
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-^tw," while he g^dged the le-
gitinuite victory, as he rejected the oonserva^
tive philosophy, of the ** righteous Artegall**
and his comrade, the fierce defender of privi-
lege and order. And he expressed in thia
ex post facto prophecy, his conviction of the
EPISTLE TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW
triampli of freedom and equality by
of transmitted knowledge.' No
u —ignfd, aod the yene may as well be
ia the eariy period of Keata's acqnaint-
witk Spenser and friendship with Leigh
Isr after-tiine, a sage of mickle lore
Tdep'd Typographus, the Giant took,
And did refit his limbs as heretofore,
And made him read in many a learned
book,
Aad into many a lively legend look;
Iheieby in goodly themes so training
him,
Dmi all his bmtishness he quite for-
Wka, meeting Artegall and Talus grim,
1W Qse be struck stone-blind, the other's
eyes woz dim.
ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS
AT AN EARLY HOUR
Writtea, as Clarke intimates, in connection
lUk KmIb's vints to Leigh Hant in the Vale
«KHiiHk Pnbliahed in the 1817 Tolume.
€nn me a gdden pen, and let me lean
Oi heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear
tod far;
Biisg me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or bad of hymning angel, when 't is seen
u6 aher strings of heavenly harp at ween:
^ let there glide by many a pearly
Kik robes, and wayy hair, and diamond
mi Islf -disooyer'd wings, and glances
Ivvkile let music wander round my ears,
M ss it reaches each delicious ending.
Let me write down a line of glorious
Mfall of many wcmders of the spheres:
hr what a height my spirit is contend-
ingl
Tia not content so soon to 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 Eliza-
bethan poet. The two young men had sat up
nearly all one night in the summer of 1815 in
Clarke's lodging, reading from a folio volume
of the book which they had borrowed. Keati
left for his own lodg^ings 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; r
Round many western islands have I been '
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told cv
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 t
When a new planet swims into his ken; i
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes <
He star'd 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 imaginaUon 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-
lO
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 g^reat
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 deg^e.' llie epistle is dated
November, 1815, in the volimie of 1817, where
it is the first of a group of three epistles with
the motto from Browne^s Britannia^s Pas-
ter (ds :
Among the rest a ahepberd (though but young
Yet haitned to hi« pipe) with all the aklU
HJa few yeeres could, began to fit hii qaUL
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse
belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song;
Nor can remembrance, Mathew I 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 I fain would I follow
thee
Past each horizon of fine poesy;
Fain would I echo back each pleasant note
As o'er Sicib'an seas, clear anthems float
'Mong the light skimming gondolas far
parted.
Just when the sun his farewell beam has
darted:
But 'tis 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 Phcebus in the morning:
Or flnsh'd Aurora in the roseate dawning I
Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;
Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;
Or again witness what with thee I We 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 cui^^ 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. 50
There must be too a ruin dark and gloomy.
To say 'Joy not too much in all that's
bloomy.'
I
TO
Yet this is yain — O Mathew, lend thy
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
Foot kurell'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 thou shonldst 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 ev'ry heart 's a
8olaee»
High-minded and unbending William
Wallace.
While to the rugged north our musing
turns, 70
We well might drop a tear for him, and
Bums.
Felton f 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 flowret blooming
wild,
Cloee 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;
II
And, as for him some giH she was devising,
Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the
stream sa
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 volome. 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
12
EARLY POEMS
ao
Peeps the richness of a pearl.
Downward too flows many a tress
With a glossy waviness;
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 tum'd:
With those beauties scarce discem'd,
Kept with such sweet 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, born
In the coolness of the mom.
O, if thou hadst breathM 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
Covering half thine ivory breast:
Which, O heavens f I should see.
But that cruel destiny
Has plac'd a golden cuirass there;
Keeping secret what is fair. so
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 unsheath !
Sign of the enchanter's death;
Bane of eyery wicked spell;
Silencer of dragon's yell.
Alas f 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.
Ab from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
On pinions that nought moves but pore
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, deav'st the
air
On holy message sent — What pleasure 's
higher ?
Wherefore does any grief our joy impair ?
SONNET TO SOLITUDE
Published m 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,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell.
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, ^ere the
deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fo^loTe
bell.
i
SONNET
13
But thoagh 1 11 gladly trace these scenes
with thee,
Yet the sweet conyerse of an innocent
mindy
Whose words are images of thoughts re-
fin'd,
Is my sours pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
SONNET
Geovge Keati has a memorandum on this
•onnety '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
Fnll in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with hearts
content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment ?
Betaming 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 dear ether si-
lently.
TO A FRIEND WHO SENT ME
SOME ROSES
Tlie friend was Charles J. WeUs, author of
the diamatio 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
been reprinted for the curious. In Tom
I's copy book the sonnet is dated 29 June,
I8I61. It 18 included in the volume of 1817.
Ab 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 fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far ezcell'd:
But when, O Wells I 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 Bemains, with the date
1816.
Oh ! how I love, on a fsir sunmier'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 stem forms before my mind
arise:
Perhaps on wings of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a delicious tear.
When some melodious sorrow spells
mine eyes.
14
EARLY POEMS
«I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A
LITTLE HILL'
* PlAcea of nestling green, for poete made.*
Lkioh Huvt, 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 geographical position.
It is more to the point to remember that when
Keats wrote the lines which here follow he was
liTing in the Vale of Health in Hampstead,
happy in the association of Hunt and kindred
spirits, and trembling with the consciousness of
his oi|n 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
«half ai^tated 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 droopiiigly, in slanting curve aside.
Their scanily-leaved and finely tapering
stems.
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught (torn, the early sobbing of the mom.
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 zo
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Bom 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 wand'ring for the g^reedi-
est eye
To peer about upon variety;
Far Toond the horizon's crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint and ourions
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 Meroury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-
hearted.
And many pleasures to my vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
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 g^reen; and shade the vio-
lets.
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert hedge with wild briar over-
twined.
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
Am tbeb fresh beds, and scattered
tlioiiglitlessly
Bj iaiut hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh yoor roond of starry f olds,
Ts anient marigolds I
Jkj np the moistare from yoor golden lids.
For great Apollo bids 50
Ikit in these days yoor praises shoold be
song
Oi Bsny harps, which he has lately strung;
Asd when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tcil Ima, I haTO you in my world of blisses:
Sskaply when I rove in some far vale,
Hh migfat]r Toioe may come upon the gale.
Hers are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a
flight:
^^ wings of gentle flush o'er delicate
white,
iii tsper fingers catching at all things.
To bind them all abont with tiny rings. 60
lii^ awhile upon some bending planks
1^ lesn against a streamlet's rushy banks,
U witeh intently Nature's gentle doings:
TWj will be found softer than ring-dove's
Htvdent comes the water round that bend ;
fcthe minutest whisper does it send
Mtke o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass
■■vly across the chequer'd shadows pass.
^) jon might read two sonnets, ere they
reach
^ vfaere the hurrying freshnesses aye
pceech 70
asteil sermon o'er their pebbly beds;
*^ twanns of minnows show their little
^yttj their wavy bodies 'gainst the
'o^Hte the luxury of sunny beams
''■^d with coolness. How they ever
wrestle
^ their own sweet delight, and ei^er
nestle
Qeir alfer bellies on the pebbly sand.
« joa bat 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 goldfinchei^ 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 caU 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-
bume.
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 no
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 clond, 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, lao
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering f
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 g^en
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 curPd. 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 feazfbl
thunder;
Their woes gone by, and both to heaven np-
flown, i4f
To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
So did he feel, who pulled the benght
aside,
That we might look into a forest wide,
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
Along the reedy stream ; a half-heard
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 roond^
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool.
The blue sky here, and there, serenely
ing
Through tendril wreaths fantastically
ing.
And on the bank a lonely flower he 8|nedy
A meek and forlorn flower, with nangfat of
pride.
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery dear*
ness.
To woo its own sad image into nearness:
Deaf to light Zephjrrus it would not move;
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to
love.
So while the Poet stood in this sweet tpcit,
Some fainter gloamings o'er his fuMf
shot;
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. ■•»
I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL
17
When htd he been, from whose warm
heidoiitflew
Tkti iieetosi of all songs, that ever new,
Hit tje isfreshing, pore delicionsness,
CMBig ever to bless
Ik vtnderer by moonlight? to him
from the inTisible world, unearthly
Bnging
Fnoi out the middle axt, from flowery
iii from the pillowy silkiness that rests
lUl io the speculation of the stars. 189
' Ah ! auely he had burst our mortal bars;
btonne wond'rous region he had gone,
ToMieh for thee, divine Endymion f
He WIS a Poet, sure a loyer too,
Wh» ilood on Latmus' top, what time
there blew
Mhneses from the myrtle vale below;
Aid hrooght in faintness solemn, sweet,
lad slow
A hymn from Dian's temple; while up-
fwelling,
ui neeose went to her own starry dwell-
Ait theegfa her face was clear as infant's
eyes, 199
ung^ she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice,
& Poet wept at her so piteous fate,
Vift that such beauty should be deso-
late:
& ■ fiae wrath some golden sounds he won,
Aai fvre meek Cynthia her £ndymion.
of the wide air; thou most lovely
OfsUthe brightness that mine eyes have
aeenl
Ai lho« exeeedest all things in thy shine,
Seevciy tale, does this sweet tale of thine.
0 ht thiee words of honey, that I might
U bat mm wonder of thy bridal night f 2 10
distant ships do seem to show
their keels,
awhile delayed hb mighty wheels.
And tnm'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. »ao
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. 330
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, fill'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: 340
Was there a Poet bom ? — But now no
more.
My wand'ring spirit must no further soar.
i8
EARLY POEMS
SLEEP AND POETRY
The last poem in the 1817 yolnme. Charles
Oowden Clarke relates that *it was in the
lihrary of Hunt'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 Uy in my bed alepe full tinmete
Wm unto me, bat why that I ne might
Rest I ne wiit, for there n* m erthly wight
(Aa I suppose) had more of hertis ese
Than I, for I n* ad dcknesee nor disese.
Cbauosb.
What is more gentle than a wind in sum-
mer?
What is more soothing than the pretty
hammer
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 g^en 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! n
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, ai
Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-
seen eagle ?
What is it ? And to what shall I compare
it?
It has a glory, and nought else can shaxe 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 99
Of all the secrets of some wond'rons thin^
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 I
rejoice !
Soimds which will reach the Framer of all
things,
And die away in ardent mutterings. 40
No one who once the glorious son has
seen,
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean
For his great Maker's presence, but most
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 denizen
Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel
Upon some mountain-top until I feel $0
A growing splendour round about me hong.
And echo back the voice of thine own
tongue ?
O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen.
That am not yet a glorious denizen
I
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 loznry, and my yonng spirit follow
The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo
Like a fresh sacrifice; or, if I can bear 61
The overwhelming 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 eame. 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
Thzoagh its lone vales; and where I found
a spot
Of awfuller 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 g^ant, 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 poo^ Indian's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous
^ steep
r I
/
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
Hie light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
9»
100
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
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.
131
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 winds with glorious fear:
And now the numerous tramplings quiver
lighUy
20
EARLY POEMS
Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with
sprighdj 130
Wheel downward come they into fresher
skieSy
lipt 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 breeasy 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 f how they murmur, laugh, and smile,
and weep:
Some with upholden hand and month 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 g^rls
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?
Prom 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 convoluting sound,
Huge as a planet, and like that roll rounds
Eternally around a dizzy void ?
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh
cloy'd
liVith 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 and barbarism,
Made great Apollo blush for this his land.
Men were thought wise who conld 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-sool'd f
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean
roU'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 I
Why were ye not awake ? But ye were
dead
To things ye knew not of, — were closely
wed
SLEEP AND POETRY
21
To wnatj laws lined oat with wretched
nJe
Aid eoaipua vile: so that ye taught a
•ehool
0! dolts to smooth, iiday, and clip, and
fit,
Tin, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
Tkir ?erM8 tallied. Easy was the task:
Athotsand handicraftsmen wore the mask
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! soi
Hit Ua^hem'd the bright Lyrist to his
face.
Aid did not know it, — no, they went about,
HaldiDg a poor, decrepid standard out,
Xnk'dwith most flimsy mottoes, and in
large
Tk Mine of one Boileau !
O ye whose charge
It ii to borer round our pleasant hills !
^Wm congregated majesty so fills
Vt bosadly reverence, that I cannot trace
Tnr biDowed names, in this unholy place,
StMir those coomion folk; did not their
ihames an
^infjtA yoa? Did our old lamenting
Thames
Mgkt 700 ? did ye never cluster round
MfiflMs Avon, with a mournful sound,
Aid weep ? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
To NgioBs where no more the laurel grew ?
^did yo stay to give a welcoming
1* MBS lone spirits who could proudly
ang
nar yoath away, and die ? T was even
to: 219
Bit let me think away those times of woe:
lov 'tig a fiurer season; ye have breathed
Kek beaedietions o'er us; ye have wreathed
f^ fttlands: for sweet music has been
heard
Ii muj places; — some has been upstirr'd
fna oat its crystal dwelling in a lake,
%aswaa's ebon bill; from a thick brake,
and qoiet in a valley mild,
a pipe; fine sounds are floating
wild
ihtmt 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'ringon 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 uptom.
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.
Tet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than 148
E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds
Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting g^reen.
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 yoang
fawns,
YeanM 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; 36a
Nought more untranquil than the grassy
slopes
22
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
'T were better far to hide my foolish face ?
That whining boyhood should with rever-
ence bow
Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach?
Howl
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 g^rass shall be smooth
shaven ;
And there shall be a kind memorial
graven. 280
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 dear conceiving : yet there ever
rolls 390
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. Therefoftt
should I
Be but the essence of deformity,
A coward, did my very eyelids wink
At speaking out what I have dared t^
think.
Ah ! rather let me like a madman run
Over some precipice ; let the hot sun
Melt my Dsedalian wings, and drive
down
Convuls'd and headlong! Stay! an
ward frown
Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile.
An ocean dim, sprinkled with many mi
isle.
Spreads awfully before me. How mneii
toil!
How many days ! what desperate turmoil I
Ere I can have explored its widenesaea.
Ah, what a task ! upon my bends!
knees, j»
I could unsay those — no, impossible I
Impossible !
For sweet relief 1 11 dwell
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange
assay
Begun in gentleness die so away.
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fisdes t
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids
That smooth the path of honour ; brothel^
hood.
And friendliness the nurse of mutual
The hearty grasp that sends a pl<
sonnet
Into the brain ere one can think upon it;
The silence when some rhymes are
out ;
And when they 're come, the very pl<
rout:
The message certain to be done to-moriow*
'T is perhaps as well that it should bs
borrow
Some precious book from out its
retreat,
To cluster round it when we next uli*""
meet.
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely wa*
I
SLEEP AND POETRY
23
Are flattering 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
Partmg luxuriant curls ; — and the swift
bound
0! Bacchus from his chariot, when hie eye
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly.
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 oyer 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
Ib other ages — cold and sacred busts
Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts
To clear Faturity his darling fame I
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. 380
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 I
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 things 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 ; 400
And up I rose refreshed, and glad, and gay,
Resolving to begin that very day
These lines ; and howsoever they be done,
1 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
volume.
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 10
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 low
the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; »
A sudden glow comes on them, nougiit
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 appaxe!.
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel;
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightnuig
call.
Is the swift opening of their wide portal, )•
When the bright warder blows his trompei
clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth bvl
Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swifify
glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden haO^.
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimm'd goblets, that u
run
Like the bright spots that move about
Sim;
And, when upheld, the wine from
bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off are dimly seen their
Of which no mortal eye can reach the flov^
ers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo know»-
'T would make the Poet quarrel with tii^
rose.
All that 's reveal'd from that far seat ov
blisses,
Is, the clear fountains' interchanging
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
EPISTLE TO MY BROTHER GEORGE
2S
1
like ulver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 50
When he apswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail ahove 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 nan in holiday attire ?
Ah, yes ! much more would start into his
sight —
The levelries, and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Soeh 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,
Tet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
^th 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,
"nie sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will
teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire
him.
And then 1 11 stoop from heaven to inspire
him. 80
Uys have I left of such a dear delight
Ihat maids will sing them on their bridal
night.
Gay villagers, upon a mom of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs
with play,
And form'd a snowy circle on the g^rass.
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 luU'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 I ' 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 loVd 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 pilloVd 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; 128
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 g^en;
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-g^ull 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 I
T was but to kiss my hand, dear George,
to you I
TO MY BROTHER GEORGE
The first in the gropp of sonnetB in the 1817
volume. A tnuisoript by Geoige Keats bean
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 mom; — the lau-
rell'd peers
Who from the feathery gold of evening
lean; —
The ocean with its vastness, its blue g^reen,
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 yon 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 u no due to the identity of the per*
son addressed, and no date is affixed. It was
published in the 1817 volame, and there follows
the one addressed to his brother Gteorge.
Had I a man's fair form, then might my
sighs
Be echoed swiftly through that ivoiy
shell
Thine ear, and find thy gentle heart; so
well
Would passion arm me for the enterprise:
But ah ! I am no knight whose f oeman 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 most I dote upon thee, — call thee
sweety
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,
1 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 CcUidore, Leigh
Hunt, when reviewing the volmue on its ap-
peamiee, speaks of the two poems as conneoted,
and in Tom Keats's copybook they are written
eootinuonsly. The same copy contains a memo-
nadnm 'marked by Leigh Hnnt — 1816.'
I/>l I mnst tell a tale of chivalry;
For hurge white plnmes are dancing in mine
eye.
Not like the formal crest of latter days:
But bending in a thousand graceful ways;
Y So pacefnl, that it seems no mortal hand.
Or e'en the tonch of Archimago's wand,
I Coold charm them into snch an attitude.
We most think rather, that in playful mood.
Some mountain breeze had turned its chief
delight,
To show this wonder of its gentle might. 10
Lo 1 1 mnst tell a tale of chivalry;
I 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,
^ Wnps nmnd her ample robe with happy
trembling,
^^ifitimftfi, when the good Knight his rest
would 'take.
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake, 30
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 I 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?
Wherefore more proudly does the gentle
knight.
Rein in the swelling of hb ample might ?
Spenser ! thy brows are arched, 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 pur» freshness of thy laurels
g^en.
Therefore, g^reat 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 mom, the eve, the light, the shade, the
flowers;
Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlook-
ing towers.
CALIDORE
A FRAGMENT
TouNO 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 thb 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 zo
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 tum'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 awelling 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
g^und.
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 iBlands casting their soft
shades
Across the lake; seqnester'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 5 1
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 poshes 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,
Whence 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
Of 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
elang
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, 80
What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's
hand I
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 90
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, ^e 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
so
EARLY POEMS
A hand Heaven made to succoar 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 no
Of his proad 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 wing^ 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 Grondi-
bert,
Said the good man to Calidore alert;
While the young warrior with a step of
g^race
Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face.
And mailM 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 grracefuUy 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 Grondibert has doff'd his shining steel.
Gladdening in the free, and aiiy feel
Of a light mantle ; and while Clerimond 141
Is looking round about him with a fond
And placid eye, young Calidore is boming
To hear of knightly deeds, and gaUanl
spurning
Of all unworthiness; and how the strong oi
arm
Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm
From lovely woman: while brimful of thii)
He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiaa^
And had such manly ardour in his eye,
That each at other look'd half-staringly;
And then their features started inta
smiles, 15c
Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted ialef.
Softly the breezes from the forest oame.
Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;
Clear was the song from Philomel's £u
bower;
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree
flower;
Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpefi
tone;
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone:
Sweet too the converse of these happy mop-
tals.
As that of busy spirits when the portals
Are closing in the west; or that soft hum-
ming rfc
We hear around when Hesperus is oomii^
Sweet be their sleep. . . .
EPISTLE TO CHARLES
COWDEN CLARKE
This epistle printed in the 1817 volume &
there dated September, 1816, when Clarke ynm
in his twenty-ninth year. He was by rngb
years Keats^s senior, uid he lived till his ninetf
eth year.
Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowv
ing,
And with proud breast his own wbiti<
shadow crowning;
EPISTLE TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE
31
He ilmntft hia neck beneath the waters
bright
So alentlj, it seems a beam of light
Cooie from the galaxy: anon he sports, —
With ootspiead wings the Naiad Zephyr
eoorts.
Or mffles all the surface of the lake
In striTing from its crystal face to take
Some diamond water-drops, and them to
treasure
!■ milky nest, and sip them off at lei-
10
Bat 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 ^top like hours into eternity.
Jist Uke that bird am I in loss of time,
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme ;
With shattered boat, oar snapt, and canvas
rent,
Idowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
SliD scooping up the water with my fingers,
la which a trembling diamond never
lingers.
20
By this, friend Charles, you may full
pUinly see
Wkj I have never penn'd a line to thee:
Becuse my thoughts were never free, and
clear,
Aid little fit to please a classic ear;
Beetose my wine was of too poor a savour
Fcr one whose palate gladdens in the fla-
vour
^sparkling Helicon: — small good it were
To ttke him to a desert rude, and bare,
Who had on Bais's shore reclin'd at ease,
Wkile Tasso's page was floating in a
biooxe 30
Ait gave soft music from Armida's
bowerSy
Xiigled with fragrance from her rarest
flowers:
fadl good to one who had by MuUa's
Foodled the maidens with the breasts of
Who had beheld Belphoebe 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 silVry 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 flrst taught me all the sweets of
song:
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free,
the flne:
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 faif
slendemess.
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.
33
EARLY POEMS
Round, yast, and spanning all, like Saturn's
ling?
Yon too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
And pointed out the patriot's stem 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 I 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 mbspent;
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 com 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 I thou wilt never have a better
day.' too
And so I did. When many lines I'd
written.
Though with their grace I was not over-
smitten.
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I '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 neve?
wean;
But many days have past since last my
heart 109
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart;
By Arne delighted, or by Handel nuMU
den^d;
Or by the song of Erin pierc'd and sad-
den'd:
What time you were before the mnsie
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 ceasM 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; no
No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
Mid-way between our homes: — your ae>
cents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
Could hear your footsteps touch the gravly
floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then foond
again;
You changed the foot-path for the grassy
plain.
In those still moments I have wish'd yon
joys
That well you know to honour: — ' life's
very toys
t
ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON
33
With him/ said I, * will take a pleasant
charm;
It camiot be that ought will work him
harm. 130
These thoughts now come o'er me with all
their might: —
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles,
good night.
TO MY BROTHERS
Though the poem is thus headed in the 1817
Tolume, where it is dated November 18, 1810,
it might as properly have the heading given it
in Tom Keats's copybook : * Written to his
Brother Tom on his Birthday,' with the same
date.
Small, 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
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls.
And while, for rhymes, I search around the
poles.
Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep.
Upon the lore so voluble and deep,
That aye at fall of night our care condoles.
This is your birth-day, Tom, and I rejoice
That thus it passes smoothly, quietly:
Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise
May we together pass, and calmly fry
What are this world's true joys, — ere the
g^reat Voice,
From its fair face, shall bid our spirits fly.
ADDRESSED TO BENJAMIN
ROBERT HAYDON
The first of these two sonnets was sent by
Keats with this brief note: 'November 20,
1816. My dear Sir — Last evening wrought
me up, and I cannot forbear sending yon the
following.' In his prompt acknowledgment
Haydon suggested the omission of the last four
words in the penultimate line, and proposed
sending 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 beg^n 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
would 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.
II
H1GHMINDEDNE88, 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 inclnded in the
1817 Yolume.
Good Kosciusko, thy great name alone
Is a full harvest whence to reap high
feeling;
It comes npon 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 Grod lives for ever-
more.
TO G. A. W.
Georgiana Augnsta Wylie, who afterward
married George Keats. For other veises 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 morning
»*ay, \
Thou spar'st the flowers in thy mazy dance ?
Haply 't is when thy ruby lips part sweetly.
And so remain, because Uiou 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 1 would 't were so with many
A gentle girl and boy !
But were there ever any
Writh'd not at pass^ joy ?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET
3S
Nor nambM sense to steal it.
Was nerer said in rhyme.
WRJTTEN IN DISGUST OF
VULGAR SUPERSTITION
Ib Tom Keftts's eopybook this sonnet is
^ifeid 'SncUiy eTening, Deo. 24, 1816/ Lord
Hoil^ton gireB it in the Aldine edition, and
keads it ' Written on a Snmmer Evening.' Poe-
■klj the aoTenth line may be adduced as evi-
ines of the wintry season.
Tn ehnrch bells toll a melanoholy round,
Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid
sound.
Sardy the mind of man is closely bound
la tome black speU; seeing that each one
tears
Hbnself &om fireside joys, and Lydian
airs,
And ooorerse high of those with glory
crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a
damp, —
A chin as from a tomb, did I not know
XW they are dying like an ontbumt lamp;
Tbit 'tis their sighing, waiUng ere they
t ^
into oblinon; — that fresh flowers will
grow,
Aad many glories of immortal stamp.
SONNET
PkUidied in the 1817 Tolnme, but there is
so evideaee aa to its exact date. It is the
latest in otder of the sonnets, inmiediately pre-
ecdiog Sleqt amd Poetry,
Happt is England! I could be content
To see no other verdnre than its own;
To feel no other breexes than are blown
Diroagh 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 bum 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
Eeats's sonnets in his paper, TTte Examiner.
Keats included the sonnet in his 1817 Tolnme.
Leigh Hunt^s sonnet will be found in the
Notes akd Illustkatioks.
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, Febmary 23, 1817,
and dated by Lord Houghton, when reprinting
it, * January, 1817.'
After dark vapours have oppress'd oar
plains ^
For a long dreary season, conies a day 4
Bom of the gentle South, and clears
away ^
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.^
The anxious month, relieved its pains, c
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of
May; U
The eyelids with the passing coolness
play, >i
Like rose leaves with the drip of summer
rains. K.
And calmest thoughts come round us; as,
of leaves c
Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, —
Autumn suns dL
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — c
Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping infant's
breath, — ^
The gradual sand that through an hour-
glass runs, — dL
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 in
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 I what a power has white simplidty I
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.
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-conceivM glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable
feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain.
That mingles Grecian grandenr 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 ! forgave me that I cannot speak
Definitively of these mighty things;
Forgive me, that I have not Eagle's
wings —
That what I want I know not where to
seek:
LINES
37
Aid tliiiik tiiftt I woold not be over meek,
Ib roQiBg out npfbUow'd thnnderings,
£vea to tbe steep of Heliconian springs,
Wert I of ample strength for such a
too^ that all those numbers should
be thine;
MThoie else? In this who touch thy
Tcstore's hem ?
For when men star'd at what was most
dirine
With browless idiotism — o'erwise
phlegm —
TVm ladst beheld the Hesperean shine
Of their star in the East, and gone to
worship them.
TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.
TUiitood as dedication to the 1817 yolome,
vU^ w» pabliahed in the month of March.
CWrbi Cowden Clarke makes the statement :
*Ofttke tfening when the last proof sheet was
Woa|kt from the printer, it was accompanied
by the iaf ormation that if a '^ dedication to the
Wik was tBtended, it most be sent forthwith.*'
^^Wrwpuu he withdrew to a side table, and in
<W boB of a mixed conversation (for there
«we mttal friends in the room) he composed
^ hneffat to Charles Oilier, the publisher,
<Wdwticstion sonnet to Leigh Hunt.*
GUNtT sod loTeliness haye pass'd away;
Fcr if we wander out in early mom.
No wveathM incense do we see upborne
lito the easty to meet the smiling day:
Ko crowd of nymphs soft-voic'd and young,
•wigay,
Ii woren baskets bringing ears of com.
Holes, and pinks, and violets, to adorn
1W shrine of Flora in her early May.
B«t there are left delights as high as these.
And I shall ever bless my destiny.
Tint in a time, when under pleasant trees
FsB is DO longer sought, I feel a free,
A leafy loznry, seeing I could please
VTith 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 hsTc been rather nanms, and the pas-
sage in Lear — ** Do yon not hear the sea ? " —
has haunted me intensely.' He then copies the
sonnet, which was published in Hie Champum^
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
Tolnme of Poems^ and his letters show the
nenrons, restless condition into which he had
been driven by that yenture.
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
refeis 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
haye the same idea of all our passions as of
Lore : they are all, in their snblime, creatiye
of essential Beanty. In a word, yon may know
my faTOurite speculation by my first Book, and
the little Song I sent in my last, which u a
representation from the fancy of the probable
mode of operating in these matters.'
Umfelt, unheard, unseen,
I 've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah I through their nestling touch,
Who — who could tell how much
There le for madness — cruel, or comply-
ing?
Those faery lids how sleek !
Those lips how moist I — they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into mj fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How ' Love doth know no fulness, and no
bounds.'
True I — tender monitors !
I bend unto your laws:
Tbii sweetest day for dalliance was bom !
80, without more ado,
I '11 feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty mom.
ON
l^ubllshed with the date 1817 by Lord
iliiUghUm in Li/Bf Letters and Literary Re-
muin»t but slightly varied in form when re-
fiHiiMtd in thtt AliUne edition.
TuiNK not of it, sweet one, so; —
(iive it not a tear;
High thou roayst, and bid it go
Any — ftny where.
1 1(1 nut l(N»k fto sod, sweet one, —
HimI Hud fadingly;
H\m\ Miie drop, then it is gone,
(Ihl 'iwiuiborn to die I
Still so pale ? then dearest weep;
Weep, 1 11 count the tears.
For each will I invent 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 GewL,
a Literary Annual, edited by Thomas Hood.
It is not dated, but may fldrly 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,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty brig^t^
Sinking away to his young spirit's nighty
Sinking bewUder'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 I
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
Who loTes to peer ap at the morning sun,
With hmll-ehot ejes and comfortable
eheeky
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often
For meadows where the little rivers run;
Who loves to linger with that brightest one
Of Heaven — Hesperos — let him lowly
speak
Thtm numbers to the night, and star-
light meek.
Or moon, if that her hnnting be begun.
He who knows these delights, and too is
prone
To moralize upon a smile or tear,
Win find at once a region of his own,
A bower for his spirit, and will steer
To tllejt, where the fir-tree drops its cone,
Whoe robins hop, and fallen leaves are
SONNET
Tmi pohHshed in Life, Letters and Literary
Bimiuj but dated 1817 in a maniucript copy
«*Bed by Sir Charles Dilke. Keats sends it
•i \m *lait sonnet' in a letter to Reynolds
VBtta OB the last day of January, 1818.
Wnsi I have fears that I may cease to
be
Bdore my pen has glean'd my teeming
Befoe high pilM books, in charactry.
Bold like rich gameta the full-ripen'd
Wkea I behold, upon the night's starr'd
&ee,
Hvge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
iid think that I may never live to trace
That shadows, with the mag^c hand of
ehanoe;
isd when I feel, fair creature of an hour I
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Jeier have relish in the faery power
Of imreflecting love ; — then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
IiD Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
ON SEEING A LOCK OF
MILTON'S HAIR
*I was at Hnnt^s the other day,' writse
Keats to Bailey, January 23, 1818, *and he
surprised me with a real authenticated lock of
MUtorCs Hair. I know you would like what I
wrote thereon, so here it is — cu they say of a
sheep 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 Li/e, Letters
and Literary Remains,
Chief of organic numbers I
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 soundesti
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, g^y-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 I
40
EARLY POEMS
For many years my offering must be hush'd ;
When I do speak, I'll think upon this
hour,
Because I feel my forehead hot andflush'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 thought 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 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 pas-
aiyeness. 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 Lear 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 streng^,
though verily I do not feel it at this moment.*
The sonnet was printed in Xt/e, Letters and
Literary Remains.
O OOLDEN-TONGUED Romance, with se-
rene lute !
Fair plumed Syren, Queen of far away !
Leave melodizing on this wintry day.
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu ! for once ag^n 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 I 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 consnmM in the Fire,
Give me new Phcsnix-wings to fly at my
desire.
LINES ON THE MERMAID
TAVERN
Li sending his Mobin Hood verses to Rey-
nolds (see next poem), Keats added the follow-
ing, but from the tenor of his letter, it would
appear 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 tlien in full tide of sympathy
with the Elizabethans, and would have been
very much at home with Shakespeare, Joiison,
and Marlowe at the Mermaid.
Souls of Poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern.
Choicer than the Mennaid 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 I
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.
to
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.
And pledg^g 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 ?
ao
I
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, 1818, is full of eneigetio 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 ChUde 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
tiie poem in his Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St,
Agnes and other Poems, 1820, with some trifling
ehangesof text.
No ! those days are gone away,
And their hoars 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
Fast 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 Jane
Ton may go, with sun or moon.
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
Bat 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
ao
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent; 30
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.
Grone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamely n;
Grone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the 'gren^ shawe;'
All are gone away and past I
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave.
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days.
She would weep, and he would craze:
^e 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 I that honey
Can't be got without hard money I
40
So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string ! 50
Honour to the bugle horn !
Honour to the woods unshorn I
Honour to the Lincoln green !
Honour to the archer keen I
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon !
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood I
Honour to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan I 60
Though their days have hurried by.
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 Bemains,
Son of the old moon-mountains African !
Chief of the Pyramid and Crocodile I
We call thee fruitful, and that very while
42
EARLY POEMS
A desert fills oar seeing's inward span;
Nurse of swart nations since the world
began,
Art thou so froitful? 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 laft^ Letters and Literary Be-
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. Longpnore, 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
For an inhabitant of wintry earth
To rise like Phoebus with a golden quill
Fire-wiug'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 suouner 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
JRemains, and undated.
Spirit here that reignest !
Spirit here that painest I
Spirit here that bnmest I
Spirit here that moumest !
Spirit, I bow
My forehead low,
Enshaded with thy pinions.
Spirit, I look
All passion-struck
Into thy pale dominions.
Spirit here that laughest I
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 Mb faction, they to battle bring
Their embryo atoma.
Mn/tox.
Published in Life, Letters and Literary Be-
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 tad fool I lore together.
Xeadowi sweet wliere flrnmes are under,
Aid a gigi^ at a wonder;
ViMge Mge at pantomime;
Fnenly and steeple-chime;
Iifuit plajing with a sknll;
Mflnittg hdtf and shipwreck'd hull;
Kgihtihade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Claopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast;
Dudng music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Mises bright, and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momns hale; —
Liogh and sigh, and laugh again;
Ob, the sweetness of the pain !
MiiiBs bright and muses pale,
Bin jour faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night —
Both together : — let me slake
AO mj thirst for sweet heart-ache I
Let mj bower be of yew,
litenrieath'd with myrtles new;
Ram and lime-trees full in bloom,
Aid mj eonoh a low grass-tomb.
WHAT THE THRUSH SAID
a tloBg letter to Re3riH>ldi, dated February
'^ ISIS, Keata writes earnestly of the sonrcee
" hiyintioii to a poet, and especially of the
^9i% leeeptiTe attitude : ' Let ns open our
*«i like a flcnrer, and be paasiye and re-
^'fAn; bedding patiently under the eye of
^|do and taking hints from every noble
ana dbat favours us with a visit — Sap will
*|i*iB ua for meat, and dew for drink. I
^ ltd iato these thoughts, my dear Reynolds,
Vtki beauty of the morning operating on a
■m ef TdlimesB. I have not read any Book
^tki llonnng said I was right — I had no
iAa hit eC the Homing, and the Thrush said
I Sit right, sssming to say,' and then follows
It was first printed in Life, Letters
Memaifu.
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 Phoebus was away.
To thee the Spring shall be a triple mom.
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: —
T^
' Dark eyes are dearer far
thoae that mock the hyacinthine bell *
Bt J. H. Rbtholm.
Dated by Lord Houghton ' February, 1818,'
in Lijey Letters and Literary RemainSf 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 Tiolet: what strange
powers
Hast thou, as a mere shadow ! Bat how
great,
When in an Eye thou art, alive with fate I
TO JOHN HAMILTON
REYNOLDS
Undated, but placed by Lord Honghton di-
rectly after the preceding in Liftj Letters and
Litercary JRemairu.
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 mom 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 I
This mom, my friend, and yester-evening
taught
Me how to harbor such a happy thought.
THE HUMAN SEASONS
This sonnet was sent by Keati in a letter to
Benjamin Bailey, &om Teignmouth, Maieh 13,
1818, and was printed the next year in ILtagh
Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book, but Keata 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 Sunmner, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought
he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
EEis 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 bis Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal na-
ture.
^^^^B
I
ENDYMION
Kkats began this poem in the spring of
1817 and finished it and saw it through the
press in jost about a year. It is interesting
to follow in his correspondence the growth
of the poem. The subject in general had
been in his mind at least since the sum-
mer of 1816, when he wrote / stood tiptoe
i^pofi a little hiUf and the poem Sleq) and
Poetry hints also at the occupation of his
mind, though through all the earlier and
partly imitatiye period of his poetical growth
he was drawn almost equally by the ro-
mance to which Spenser and Leigh Hunt in-
troduced him, and the classic themes which
his early studies, Chapman and the Elgin
marUeSy all conspired to make real. In
April, 1817, he writes as one absorbed in
the delights of poetry and stimulated by it
to production. ' I find/ he writes to Rey-
nolds from Carisbrooke, April 18, ' I can-
not exist without Poetry — half the day
will not do — the whole of it — I began
with a little, but habit has made me a Le-
Tiathan. I had become all in a Tremble
from not having written anything of late
— the Sonnet overleaf [^On the Sea] 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 —
*^Th» noble heart that harbours virtuous
thought.
And is with child of glorious great intent.
Can never rest until it forth have brought
Tb* eternal brood of glory excellent."
... I shall forthwith begin my Endytmon^
which I hope I shall have got some way
with by the time yon come, when we wiU
read oar verses in a delightful place I have
set my heart upon, near the Castle.'
He reported progress to his friends from
time 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 medievalism. But the
main significance of 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: Grod 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
they 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
EndymUm'
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 * Bur-
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.*
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-
yidaal 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 how 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
dooen 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
disadyantages. Before I began I had no
in¥rard 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 afiPection 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 g^t 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 case 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-
bindering 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 foUow-
eth: 'Were I dead, sir, I should like a
book dedicated to me.'
TmONMOUTHf
March 19(A, 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 bis 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 my 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 'tis 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 in
which this Poem has been produced, it is
not without a feeling of regret that I make
it public.
What manner I mean, will be quite dear
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 boc^ESy
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 presumpta-
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 beautiful mythology of Greeoey
and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try
once more, before I bid it fareweL
Teionmouth,
April 10, 1818.
BOOK FIRST
49
i BOOK I
[
I AnDBecfbaanlj 11 a joy forever:
j Til fcif iliiiM innrrinrf: it will never
' FhMiBlo BodiiiigiMfls; bnt still will keep
A bwtr qnet for oi, mnd a sleep
M el sii<ot dreMDS, mnd health, and quiet
1kKfbce» on ererj morrow, are we wreath-
AisBMj hand to bind as to the earth,
fipilsof dflspoodence, of the inhnman dearth
OfioUe aatmos, of the gloomy days,
Of til the nnhealthy and o'er -darkened
ways lo
lUkt for our searelung : yes, in spite of
ham shape of beauty moves away the pall
hm our darik spirits. Such the sun, the
hv old and young, sprouting a shady
boon
fwrnple sheep; and such are daffodils
Vkk the green world they live in ; and clear
liOs
Ast for themselves a cooling covert make
^GttMt the hot season ; the mid-forest brake,
liih with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose
blooms : 19
Aii neh too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imaginfid for the mighty dead;
AH lovaiy tales that we have heard or read:
fountain of immortal drink,
mto OS from the heaven's brink.
Saa do we merely feel these essences
Fer ene short hour; no, even as the trees
■hispuii' round a temple become soon
as the temple's self, so does the moon,
Ths pMsioo poesy, glories infinite, 39
Bmtat as till they become a cheering light
UMo oar souls, and bound to us so fast,
Ihst, whether there be shine, or gloom o'er-
They ahray must be with us, or we die.
Therefbre 't is jirith full happiness that I
W3I taee 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 bndders 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 rinmi'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.
so
ENDYMION
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Amdng the shepherds, 'twas believed ever*
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did
sever
From the white flock, but passed unworriM
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unf ooted 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, 80
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 children g^landed; no
Who gathering round the altar seem'd to pry
Earnestly round as wishing to espy
Some folk of holiday: nor had they ¥raited
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
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.
1 30
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 ! lot not my weak tongue
faulter
In telling of this goodly company.
Of their old piety, and of their glee: 13*
But let a portion of ethereal dew
Fall on my head, and presently unmew
My soul; that I may dare, 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 listemng round ApolJo's pipe.
BOOK FIRST
SI
WksB the gieai deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his drrimty.o'erflowing die
Ii maac^ throngli the yales of Thessaly:
&Be idly trmil'd their sheep-hooks on the
ground,
iid some kept ap a shrilly mellow soand
With eboD-tipped flates: close after these,
Soveoming from beneath the forest trees,
AfenemUe priest full soberly,
Begirt with minist'ring looks: alway his
eye 150
Steidlist apon the matted turf he kept,
Aid after him his sacred vestments swept.
Ftom his right hand there swung a vase,
milk-white.
Of nuB^ed wine, out-sparkling generoas
Hght;
Aid ia his left he held a basket full
(HtQ iweet herbs that searching eye could
eaU:
^ thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
^ Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
Hii iged head, crowned with beechen
wreath,
SiM^d like a poll of ivy in the teeth 160
Of winter hoar. Then came another
crowd
Of ihspberds, lifting in due time aloud
laeir share of the ditty. After them ap-
peared,
rp-CoUow'd by a multitude that rear'd
to the clonds, a fair-wrought
Esoly rolling so as scarce to mar
Tim freedom of three steeds of dapple
otown:
Who stood therein did seem of great re-
the throng. His youth was fully
blown.
Shoving like Ganymede to manhood g^wn ;
Aaiy lor those simple times, his garments
were 171
1 chieftain king's ; beneath his breast, half
Was hmg a sflver bugle, and between
Bis nervy knees there lay a boaiHipear
A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd
To common lookers-on, like one who
dream'd
Of idleness in g^ves Elysian:
But there were some who feelingly could
scan
A lurking trouble in his nether lip.
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
Through his forgotten hands: then would
they sigh, 181
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry,
Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day,
Why should our young Endymion pine
away !
Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged.
Stood silent round the shrine: each look
was changed
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sous to silence; while each
cheek
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear.
Endymion too, without a forest peer,. 190
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed
face.
Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the
least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands.
Thus spake he: ' Men of Latmos ! shepherd
bands !
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether
come
From valleys where the pipe is never
dumb; 200
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet
air stirs
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly
furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious
charge
Nibble their fill at ocean's very maige.
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with
sounds forlorn
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
s«
ENDYMION
Mothers and wives I 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 aio
Will put choice honey for a favoured 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 had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has
pour'd zao
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.
And gummy frankincense was sparkling
bright
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy
light 330
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 iit^
and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds —
In desolate places, where dank moiston
breeds 140
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do tfaos
now.
By thy love's milky brow !
By all the trembling mazes that she ran.
Hear us, great Fan !
' O thou, for whose soul-soothing ^pdeti
turtles
Fassion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outakirt the
side ajo
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredooai
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village lets
Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied
com;
The chuckling linnet its five young xaaX
To sing for thee; low-creeping s(
Their summer coolness; pent-up battel flies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-bod*
ding year
All its completions — be quickly near, s6o
By every wind that nods the mountain pinsi
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 mysterious enticement draw
Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy
main, sto
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' oelb,
BOOK FIRST
53
Aid, beiii^ hidden^ langh at their oat-peep-
Or to del%lit thee with fimtastio leaping,
Tb while they pelt each other on the
Witk nheij oak-apples, and fir-cones
% ill the eehoes that about thee ring,
Bmi m, O satyr king I
*0 Hearkener to the load -clapping
WloleeYer and anon to his shorn peers aSo
A nm goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
WWs snouted wild-boars routing tender
Aspr our huntsman: Breather round our
fsrmsy
To keep off mildews, and all weather
harms:
Sbenge ministrant of undescribed sounds,
Hit come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
iid wittier drearily on barren moors:
l^iid opener of the mysterious doors
fariiBg to nniversal knowledge — see,
Gnst soo of Diyope, 390
Us many that are come to pay their vo¥r8
With leares about their bro¥r8 !
'Be still the unimaginable lodge
Fsr aoliftaiy thinkings; such as dodge
CwBSptiOP to the very bourne of hearen,
Iheo leaTe the naked brain: be still the
leaTen,
That sfneading in this dull and clodded
earth
Givee it a touch ethereal — a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea; soo
Aa element filling the space between;
Aa mknown — but no more: we humbly
Wttk uplift hands our foreheads, lowly
bencBngy
Aad giving out a shout most heaven-rend-
Ceajore thee to reoeiTe our humble Fean,
Upoa thy Mount Lyoean ! '
Even while they brought the burden to a
close,
A shout from the whole multitude arose.
That lingered in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 310
Of dolphins bob their noses through the
brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine.
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming
string.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten — out of memory:
Fair creatures I whose young children's
children bred
Thermopylffi its heroes — not yet dead.
But in old marbles ever beautif uL
High genitors, unconscious did they cull 330
Time's sweet first-fruits — they danced to
weariness.
And then in quiet circles did they press
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
Of some strange history, potent to send
A young mind from its bodily tenement.
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers,
intent
On either side; pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent.
Who now, ere Phcsbus mounts the firma-
ment, 330
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
The archers too, upon a wider plain.
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft.
And the dull twanging bovrstring, and the
raft
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the
trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe I when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing
tongue 340
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Aroused from this
sad mood
54
ENDYMION
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, 350
Spangling those million poutings of the
brine
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful
shine
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
Might turn their steps towards the sober
ring
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks
increased
The silvery setting of their mortal star.
There they discoursed upon the fragile
bar 360
That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
And what our duties there: to nightly call
Vesper, the beauty-crest of sununer wea-
ther;
To summon all the downiest clouds together
For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
In minist'ring the potent rule of fate
With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations;
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who
cons
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
A world of other unguess'd offices. 370
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse
Each one his own anticipated bliss.
One felt heart-certain that he could not
miss
His quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd
boughs.
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring.
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails.
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond
vales: 380
Who, suddenly, should stoop thzoiig^ 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 dumw
paign
In times long past; to sit with them, and
talk
Of all the chances in their earthly walk;
Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stofee
Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 39^
Benighted, close they huddled from the
cold.
And shared their famish'd scrips. Thnt-
all out-told
Their fond imaginations, — saving him
Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jeweb-
dim,
Endymion: yet hourly had he striven
To hide the cankering venom, that htA
riven
His fainting recollections. Now indeed
His senses had swoon'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 mgOB
she made.
And breathed a sister's sorrow to per*
suade 4*^
A yielding up, a cradling on her care.
Her eloquence did breathe away the onite:
She led him, like some midnight spirit none
Of happy changes in emphatic dreams,
Along a path between two little streams,-*
BOOK FIRST
55
Gvidng his forehead, with her round
elbow,
fnm low-growo brmaches, and his foot-
steps slow
fWitombling over stamps and hillocks
nDall;
Uitfl tbej eame to where these streamlets
With mingled bubblings and a gentle
mshy 420
Iito t riTer, clear, brimfal, and flush
Wkk aystal mocking of the trees and
Afittle shallop, floating there hard by,
BsBted its beak over the fringed bank;
Aid 1000 it lightl J dipt, and rose, and sank,
Aid dipt again, with the young couple's
weight,—
Btott guiding, through the water straight,
Ttfftrds a bowery island opposite;
WUefa gaining presently, she steered light
Iit0 s ahady, fresh, and ripply cove, 430
^hat nested was an arbour, overwove
Bf Btny a summer's silent fingering;
Towkose cool bosom she was used to bring
Hb playmates, with their needle broid-
ery.
Aid minstrel memories of times gone by.
So ahe was gently glad to see him laid
Tider her favourite bower's quiet shade,
0^ her own oooch, new made of flower
Bried carefully <m the cooler side of sheaves
Whtn last the sun his autunm tresses
shook, 440
lad the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls
todc
Sotm was he quieted to slumbrous rest:
Bit, ese it crept upon him, he had prest
I's busy hand against his lips,
slill, apsleeping, held her finger-tips
pressure. And as a willow keeps
wateh over the stream that creeps
by it, so the quiet maid
Brii hu in peace: so that a whispering
hkida
A vailfiil gnat, a bee bustling 450
Down in the bluebells, or a wren light
rustling
Among sere leaves and twig^, 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 I 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 url'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 loll 480
Around the breathed boar: again 111 poll
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a chosen bow:
And^ when the pleasant sun is getting low,
56
ENDYMION
Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed
Our idle sheep. So he thou cheered, sweet I
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
JSo 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, 't is vain to
hide
'That thou dost know of things mysterious.
Immortal, starry; such alone could thus
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou 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 I 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 bo
bland
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ?
Tell me thine ailment: tell me all amiss I —
Ah I thou hast been unhappy at the change
Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed
more strange ? 531
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ?
Ambition is no sluggard: 't is no prize,
That toiling years would put within my
graspi
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 hoar,
When he doth tighten up the golden reins.
And paces leisurely down amber plains 55 c
His snorting four. Now when his chariot
last
Its beams against the zodiao-lion cast.
There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed
Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red:
At which I wondered greatly, knowing well
BOOK FIRST
57
Th&t bat 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
Kght;
The which became more strange, and
strange, and dim, S7o
And then were gulFd in a tumultuous swim :
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell
I'he enchantment that afterwards befell ?
Yet it was but a dream: yet such a dream
That never tongue, although it overteem
^th mellow utterance, like a cavern
spring,
^Wd figure out and to conception bring
^ I beheld and felt. Methought I lay
Witehing the zenith, where the milky way
Among the stars in virgin splendour pours;
'^ travelling my eye, until the doors 581
^ heaven appeared to open for my flight,
I became loth and fearful to alight
'vom such high soaring by a downward
glance :
^ kept me steadfast in that airy trance,
^P'cading imaginary pinions wide.
^^Q, 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;
A&d lo f from opening clouds, I saw
emerge 591
■"*« loveliest moon, that ever silver'd o'er
A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did
soar
°o 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 !
Whence 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 f oUying 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 I see her hover-
ing feet,
More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely
sweet
58
ENDYMION
Than those of sea-bom 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.' — *Endjmion, how
strange I
Dream within dream 1 ' — * 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 I '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 redeemed
And plunder'd of its load of blessed-
ness. 660
Ah, desperate mortal I 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 shadows 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 1 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
i
BOOK FIRST
59
Were deepest dungeons; heaths and sunny
glades
Weie full of pestilent light; our taintless
riUs
Seem'd sooty, and o'erspread with uptum'd
gills
Of dying fish; the yermeil 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 followed, and did curse
The disappointment. Time, that ag^d
nurse,
Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle
heaven I
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 712
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 ?
This all ? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas f
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 'twas love: and yet 'twas
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 I — Endymion I
Be rather in the trumpet's mouthy — anon
Among the winds at large — that all may
hearken f
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 fount
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
Mast dreams themselves be; seeing they 're
more slight
Than the mere nothing that engenders
them 1
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 his plaited brow : yet hb 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.
* 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 tapemess,
And soothe thy lips: hist, when the airy
stress
Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds.
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds
jSiolian magic from their lucid wombs:
Then old songs waken from endouded
tombs;
Old ditties sigh above their father's grave;
Ghosts of melodious prophesyings rave
Round every spot where trod Apollo's
foot; 790
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 aita
high 8of
Upon the forehead of humanity.
All its more ponderous and bulky wortM
Is friendship, whence there ever issues forfli
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 interknil
So wingedly: 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 8m
Left by men-slugs and human serpontiy.
Have been content to let occasion die.
Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium.
And, truly, I would rather be struck domb^
Than speak against this ardent listless-^
ness:
For I have ever thought that it might Uess
The world with benefits unknowingly;
As does the nightingale, up-perched high.
And doister'd among cool and bonohed
leaves — 839
She sings but to her love, nor e'er oooodTM
BOOK FIRST
6x
How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-
graj 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
teU
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 ?
* 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.
LfOok not so wilder'd; for these things are
true 850
And never can be bom 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 860
Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet
Peona!
Beyond the matron-temple of Latona,
Which we should see but for these dark<f
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.
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 I
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 I refreshf ally,
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, I f
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.
I Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain
I 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 faigbt !
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still,
Thau when I wander'd from the poppy
hill:
And a whole ag^ 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 930
With 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 }*ap, 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 I impious mortal, whither do I roam I "
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
Sond every Ieaf» that all those gentle
liipen
Mmj iigh mj love unto her pitying !
0 charitable Eeho ! hear, and sing
lUsdtttytoher! — tell her"— Solstay'd
Uj foolish tongoe, and listening, half
afraidy 960
Stood stupefied with my own empty folly,
Aad bloshing for the freaks of melancholy.
Sth tears were coming, whe^I heard my
Moit fondly lipp'd, and then these accents
« Eadymion f the cave is secreter
Than the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall
stir
No sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light
Of thy combing hand, the while it travel-
ling cloys
And trembles through my labyrinthine
hair."
At that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah !
where 970
Ave those swift moments? Whither are
thevfled?
I H smile no more, Peona; nor will wed
Sorrow, the way to death; but patiently
op against it: so farewell, sad sigh;
eome instead demurest meditation.
To occupy me whoUy, and to fashion
My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink.
So aioie will I count over, link by link,
My chain of grief: no longer strive to find
A half-forgetf ulness in mountain wind 9S0
about my ears: aye, thou shalt
of sisters, what my life shall be;
What a calm round of hours shall make
my days.
Ihere is a paly flame of hope that plays
WWm'er I look: but yet, 111 say 'tis
naught —
Aai here I bid it die. Have not I caught,
Abcady, a more healthy countenance ?
% this the sun is setting; we may chance
Meet some of our near-dwellers with my
This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a
star 990
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's
hand:
They stept into the boat, and launoh'd from
land.
BOOK II
O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! O
balm 1
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 comer of the brain;
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.
Hence, pageant history 1 hence, gilded
cheat !
Swart planet in the universe of deeds !
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur
breeds
Along the pebbled shore of memory I
Many old rotten - timber'd boats there
be
Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified
To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride, ao
And golden-keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and
dry.
But wherefore this? AMiat 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 nnmbers ?
Thoagh 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 1 but now
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water:
how!
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath hit
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,
Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped
hands:
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen
bands
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hiee
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;
And like a new-bom spirit did he pass 70
Through the green evening quiet in the son.
O'er many a heath, through many a wood*
land dun.
Through buried paths, where sleepy twH
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 moctal
men.
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadeneee
Melting to silence, when upon the breexe 80
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 soared.
And, downward, suddenly began to dip,
As if, athirst with so much toU, 'twould
sip
The crystal spout-head: so it did, with
touch
Most delicate, as though afraid to smnteh, 90
Even with mealy gold, the waters clear.
But, at that very touch, to disappear
BOOK SECOND
6S
So fiuuy-quek, was strange ! Bewildered,
Sadjinioii sought aroand, and shook each
bed
Of eorert flowers in Tain; and then he flung
ifintftlf along the grass. What gentle
tongue.
What whisperer, disturb'd his gloomy rest ?
It was a njmph uprisen to the breast
In tlie fountain's pebbly margin, and she
stood
'Mang lilies, like the youngest of the
brood. loo
To him her dripping hand she softly kist,
Aad anzionsly began to plait and twist
Her ringlets round her fingers, saying:
« Youth !
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the
ruth.
The bitterness of Ioto: too long indeed,
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed
Thy aonl of care, by heavens, I would offer
AH tbe bright riches of my crystal coffer
To Amphitrite; all my dear-eyed fish,
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, no
Tcrmilion - tail'd, or finn'd with silvery
gauze;
Tea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws
A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands,
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far
lands
By my diligent springs: my level lilies,
shells.
My eharming rod, my potent river spells;
TcB, every thing, even to the pearly cup
¥sander gave me, — for I bubbled up
To fainting creatures in a desert wild.
Bit woe is me, I am but as a child 120
To gladden thee; and all I dare to say.
Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
1 've been thy goide ; that thou must wander
far
1m other regions, past the scanty bar
To sBortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en
ftma every wasting sigh, from every pain,
lito the gentle bosom of thy love.
Wby it is thus, one knows in heaven above:
Bat, a poor Naiad, I guess not Farewell I
I have a ditty for my hollow cell.' 130
Hereat she vanished 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 g^ats 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,
0 what a wretch is he 1 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 refreshment 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 laud —
Alone ? No, no; and by tbe 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 tempered
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
Larg^ 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 I
How beautiful thou art ! The world how
deep!
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep
Around their axle 1 Then these gleaming
reins, 190
How lithe 1 When this thy chariot attains
Its airy goal, haply some bower veils
Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my
spirit fails —
Dear goddess, helpl or the wide gaping
air
WUl gulf 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 cavem there
borne
A voice, he had been froze to senaelen
stone; aoo
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor pasaion'd
moan
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it
forth: 'Descend,
Young mountaineer I descend where alleyi
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 bast
been
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 pn^
found
As those are high, descend I He ne'er is
crown'd an
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 reflectiou: for he fled
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and com-
ing madness.
'Twas far too strange, and wonderful
for sadness;
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite lao
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 woo^
BOOK SECOND
67
Like Yvkan't nunbow, with some mon-
stroiu roof 231
Curw9B hngelj: now, far in the deep abyss,
It teems an angry lightning, and doth hiss
Faaey into belief: anon it leads
Tlnoagh winding passages, where sameness
breeds
Vexing conceptions of some sadden change;
Whether to silver grots, or giant range
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge
Athwart a flood of crystaL On a ridge
Xow ^reth he, that o'er the vast beneath
Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whcDce he
seeth 241
A hondred waterfalls, whose voices come
Bat as the mormuring sorge. Chilly and
namb
Hb bosom grew, when first he, far away,
Deseried an orbed diamond, set to fray
Old Darimess from his throne: 't was like
the son
Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it.
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the
wit
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 250
Who, when this planet's sphering time doth
close
Will be its high remembrancers: who they ?
Ihe mighty ones who have made eternal
day
For Greece and £ngland. While astonish-
ment
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he
went
Iito a marUe gallery, passing through
A Bumie temple, so complete and true
la saeied cnstom, that he well nigh f ear'd
To maieh it inwards; whence far off ap-
peared,
ThRmgfa a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,
Aad, jast beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 261
A qoiTer'd Dian. Stepping awfully,
Ibt yoeth approach'd; oft turning his
▼eil'd eye
Ikmm ndekmg aisles, and into niches old:
Aai when, more near against the marble
eold
He had touch'd his forehead, he began to
thread
All courts and passages, where silence dead.
Roused by his whispering footsteps, mor-
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 g^im.
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-bom elf.
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-
brier,
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
Into the bosom of a hated thing. aSo
What misery most drowningly doth sing
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has raught
The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the
thought,
The deadly feel of solitude: for lo f
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 I ' 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 how 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 310
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 I
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 me '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 thiuk 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 I — 330
Young goddess ! let roe see my native
bowers I
Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! '
Thus ending loudly, as he would o'ez^
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
thriU.
But 't was not long; for, sweeter than the
riU
To its old channel, or a swollen tide 34Q
To margin sallows, were the leaves he apied^
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtlft
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, be 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 bom. This still
alarm.
This sleepy music, forced him walk tip*
toe:
For it came more softly than the east coold
blow
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles; 36^
Or than the west, made jealous by tbs
smiles
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the
lyre
To seas Ionian and Tyrian.
BOOK SECOND
69
O did be oyer live, that lonelj man,
VTbo lored — and music slew not? Tis
the pest
Of knrey tliat fairest joys give most unrest;
That things of delicate and tenderest worth
Are •wallow'd all, and made a seared
dearth,
Bj ODe eoosnming flame: it doth immerse
And suffocate true blessings in a curse. 370
Half-happjy by comparison of bliss,
Is miserable. T was even so with this
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten
clear,
Tanish'd in elemental passion.
And down some swart abysm he had
gone,
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst
his head
firashingy awakened: then the sounds again
Went noiseless as a passing noontide
rain 380
Over a bower, where little space he stood;
For as the sunset peeps into a wood,
So saw he panting light, and towards it
went
ThRNigh winding alleys; and lo, wonder-
ment !
Upoo soft verdure saw, one here, one there,
Cspids a-slnmbering on their pinions fair.
After a thousand mazes overgone.
At Isst, with sudden step, he came upon
A Camber, myrtle-wall'd, embower'd high,
Fin of light, incense, tender minstrelsy, 390
And BMie of beautiful and strange beside:
F« OB a silken couch of rosy pride,
la midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth
Of feadest beauty; fonder, in fair sooth,
TIsB sighs could fathom, or contentment
reach:
Aai eovtrlids gold-tinted like the peach,
^ ripe October's faded marigolds,
Fdl sleek abcNit him in a thousand folds —
Xot hidiag 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 fill'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 trammelled 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 the
strings, 430
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 Liatmian wonder'd o'er and
o*er;
Until impatient in embarrassment, 430
He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading
went
To that same f eather'd lyrist, who straight-
way.
70
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 pnrple: 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 skimm'd
For the boy Jupiter: and here, undimm'd
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums
Ready to melt between an infant's g^ms:
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-bom 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 bom
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
Hnshl 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 thnndexer's
beard;
Whereon, it was decreed he should be
rear'd
Each summer-time to life. Lo I 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 qneen
did weep
Over his waned corse, the tremoloiis
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 young immortals, without any let,
To watch his slimiber through. 'T is well
nigh pass'd.
Even to a moment's filling up, and fast
She scuds with summer breezes, to paai
through 49*
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 cl»>
mant word
Broke through the careful silence; fot
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 hie
thigh
BOOK SECOND
7*
Laj doniuuity moved oonTulaed and gradu-
Up to his forehead. Then there was a
hmn 500
Off sadden Toioes, echoing, ' Come I come !
Arise I awake I Clear sommer has forth
walk'd
Unto the cbTer^ward, and she has talk'd
Foil soothingly to every nested finch:
Rise, Copids I or we 11 give the bluebell
pinch
To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet
life begin ! '
At this, from every side they hurried in,
Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists,
And doubling overhead their little fists
In bttckward yawns. But all were soon
alive: 510
For, as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive
Ib neetar'd clouds and curls through water
So from the arbour roof down swell'd an air
Odocoos and enlivening; making all
To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call
For their sweet queen: when lo ! the
wreathed green
Disparted, and far upward could be seen
Bine heaven, and a silver car, air-borne,
Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds
of mom.
Span off a drizzling dew, — which falling
dull 520
Ob soft Adcmis' shoulders, made him still
KoUe and tnm uneasily about.
Soon were the white doves plain, with necks
stretch'd out,
Aad niken traces lighten'd in descent;
lad ioon, returning from love's banish-
ment,
Qhsb Venus leaning downward open-
arm'd:
&» shadow fell upon his breast, and
dbarm d
A tannili to his heart, and a new life
hto his eyes. Ah, miserable strife,
lot for hn eomf orting I unhappy sight, 530
lot meeting her blue orbs f Who, who
esa 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 I 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-bom Aden',
This stranger ay I pitied. For upon
A dreary morning once 1 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 withered leaves, even as though
72
ENDYMION
Death had come sadden; for no jot he
moved,
Yet mattered 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 seoretest.
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 1
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;
Andy when all were clear vanished, still he
caught
A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow.
When all was darkened, 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,
Grold 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 loopholes, and
thence
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and
roar, 601
Streams subterranean tease their grmnite
beds;
Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads
Of a thousand fountains, so that he ooold
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 6ie
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long ho
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,
Poured into shapes of curtain'd canopies.
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads
fair. 6ao
Swifter than lightning went these wonden
rare;
And then the water, into stubborn streams
Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken
beams.
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roo^
Of those dusk places in times far aloof
Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth fare-
well
To these founts Protean, passing g^nlf, 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
The solitary felt a harried change
Working within him into something
dreary, —
Vex'd like a morning eagle, lost, and weary.
And purblind amid foggy, midnight wolds.
Bat be reyiyes at once: for who beholds
New sadden things, nor casts his mental
sloQgh?
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk be-
low, 639
Came mother Cvbcle ! alone — alone —
la sombre chariot; dark foldings thrown
About her majesty, and front death-pale,
With torrets crown'd. Four maned 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
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints
away
In SBother gloomy arch.
Wherefore delay,
Toang traveller, in such a mournful place ?
Art thoa wayworn, or canst not further
trace 651
The diamond path? And does it indeed
end
Afarapt in middle air? Yet earthward
bend
1^ forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne
Call ardently ! He was indeed wayworn;
AhrapC, in middle air, his way was lost ;
To ekmd-bome Jove he bowed, and there
Tmrards him a large eagle, 'twizt whose
wings,
without one impious word, himself he
ffingi,
Ciamitted to the darkness and the gloom :
Wb, down, uncertain to what pleasant
doom, 661
wift M a fathoming plummet down he
fen
Through unknown things; till exhaled as-
phodel.
And rose, with spicy fannings inter breathed.
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 bestrown 670
With golden moss. His every sense had
grown
Etliereal for pleasure; 'bove his head
Flew a delight half-graspable; his tread
Was Ilespcrean; 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
lie wandered 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 bert'ft !
Yet still I feel immortal I 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, (xyo
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 ? Where'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. 700
Noy nOy 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 1 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 710
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 Helicou !
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 b^
ing sips 7w
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, 7S0
Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me.
StiU
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now
How can we part ? Elysium ! Who ait
thou?
Who, that thou caust not be for ever here,
Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere f
Enchantress ! tell me by this soft embraoe.
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 I 761
Endymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me !
His soul will 'scape us — O felicity I
How he does love me ! His poor templet
beat
To the very tune of love — how sweety
sweet, sweet.
Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and
die;
Revive, or these soft hours will hurry l^
BOOK SECOND
75
Ib timneed doIlneM; speak, and let that
speU
Affrigbt tliii lethargy I I cannot quell
Its hmtLTj pmsnrey and will pzese at least
My fips to thine, that they may richly
77 «
Until we taste the life of love again.
Whatl dost thoa more? dost kiss? O
hlias I O pun !
I love thee, yonth, more than I can con-
eeive;
And so long absence from thee doth be-
reave
My soul of any rest: yet must I hence:
Tct, can I not to starry eminence
Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own
Mjself to thee. Ah, dearest, do not groan
Or thon wilt f oroe me from this secrecy, 780
And I most blush in heaven. O that I
Bad done it already ; that the dreadful
smiles
At my lost brightness, my impassion'd
wiles,
Hsd waned from Olympus' solemn height,
Aad from all serious Grods; that our de-
light
Was quite forgotten, save of us alone !
iad wherefore so ashamed ? 'T is but to
Fv endless pleasure, by some coward
hinshes:
Tft Bost I be a coward ! — Honour rushes
IW palpable before me — the sad look 790
Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom
shook
With awe of pority — no Cupid pinion
la lemeiiee veiled — my crystalline do-
Uf lost, and all old hymns made nul-
Ktyl
Wt what is this to love? O I could fly
Vidi thee into the ken of heavenly pew-
it tton wooldst thus, for many sequent
houji,
^ BM so sweetly. Now I swear at
^ I am wise» that Pallas is a dunce —
Perhaps her love like mine is but un-
known — 800
0 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 doye,
Nor knew that nests were built. Now a
soft kiss —
•^ye» 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 overwing 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 . 830
To have thee understand, now while I
clasp
Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am
paiu'd,
Endymiou: woe ! woe ! is g^ef contain'd
In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole
lif e ? ' —
Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife
Melted into a languor. He retum'd
Entranced vows and tears.
Ye who have yeam'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 Phoebus' shrine; and in it he did fling
76
ENDYMION
His weary limbs, bathiug 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
Moanings had burst from him; but now
that rag^
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 .^k)lian tuned
Forgot all violence, and but communed
With melancholy thought : O he had
swoon'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 faoe
hid
In muffling hands. So tempered, out he
stray'd
Half seeing visions that might have dis-
mayed
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, 88a
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 ga^>
lands gay.
He stept upon his shepherd throne : the look
Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 891
And all the revels he had lorded there:
Each tender maiden whom he once thongliL
fair.
With every friend and fellow-woodlander—
Pass'd like a dream before him. Then thm
spur
Of the old bards to mighty deeds: his j^safli
To nurse the gulden age 'mong shephenS
clans:
That wondrous night: the great Pan-fest&e
val:
His sister's sorrow; and his wanderings aJT^
Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'i^
Then all its buried magic, till it flush'd
BOOK SECOND
77
Uisrh with ezoessiye love. 'And now,'
thoaglit he,
* Hofw long must I remain in jeopardy
Of blank amaxements that amaze no more ?
I have tasted her sweet soul to the
core.
All other depths are shallow: essences,
Once spiritual, are like muddy lees,
Meant hot to fertilize my earthly root,
And make my branches lift a golden fruit
latothe bloom of heaven: other light,
Thoogh it be quick and sharp enough to
Might - 910
The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark,
Jhrk as the parentage of chaos. Hark !
My nlent thoaghts are echoing from these
shells;
Or they are bat the ghosts, the dying swells
Of noises far away ? — list I ' — Hereupon
He kept an anxious ear. The humming
tone
Came loader, and behold, there as he lay,
Ob other side outgush'd, with misty spray,
A eopioas spring; and both together dash'd
Svift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and
lash'd 920
AMMg the concha and shells of the lofty
grot,
Lcsring a trickling dew. At last they
shot
DovB from the oeiling's height, pouring a
noise
At of some breathless racers whose hopes
poise
Upon the last few steps, and with spent
foree
Akig the ground they took a winding
Uymion foUow'd — for it seem'd that
^ panned, the other strove to shun —
'lOow'd their languid mazes, till well nigh
^ W left thinking of the mystery, — 930
U WIS now rapt in tender hoverings
^^ the vaniah'd bliss. Ah ! what is it
Bi dmm away ? What melodies are
these?
They sound as through the whispering of
trees.
Not native in such barren vaults. Give
ear I
* O Arethusa, peerless nymph I 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.
939
Circling about her waist, and striving how
To entice her to a dive I then stealing in
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin.
0 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 I 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 I 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 I 't was cruelty.
Not once more did I close my happy eye
Amid the thrush's song. Away ! avaunt !
0 '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
maidl
Stifle thine heart no more; — nor be afraid
Of angry powers: there are deities 980
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
Thau 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 deliciousuess.
And let us be thus comforted; unless looi
Thou conldst 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 ? Diau stands
Severe beforcme: persecuting fate !
Unhappy Arethusa I thou wast late
A huntress free in' — At this, sadden
feU
Those two sad streams adown a fearful
deU.
The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no
more, . 1010
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 tum'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 1 aoao
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 III
There are who lord it o'er their fellow^
men
With most prevailing tinsel: who nnpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures; or, O tortarin^
fact!
Who, through an idiot blink, will see on*
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
Able to face an owl's, tbej still are dight
Bj tlie bleavi^yed nations in empurpled
II
and tnrbans. With unladen
And
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly
mount
To tbeir spirit's perch, their being's high
aoeonnt,
Tbeir tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their
thrones —
Amid tbe fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd
drums.
And sadden cannon. Ahl how all this
bums,
la wakeful ears, like uproar past and
gone —
like tbnnder-elouds that spake to Baby-
1cm, ao
Aid set those old Chaldeans to their
tasks.—
An then regalities all gilded masks ?
K«^ there are throned seats unscalable
Bat by a patient wing, a constant spell.
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined,
CsB nmke a ladder of the eternal wind,
Aad poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
To wateh the abysm-birth of elements.
Aje, IwYe the withering of old-lipp'd Fate
A thousand Powers keep religious state, 30
Ib water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;
Aad, silent as a consecrated um,
HoU spberey sessions for a season due.
Tci few of these far majesties, ah, few !
Hate bared their operations to this globe —
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
Oar pieee of hearen — whose benevolence
Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every
FSfiag with spiritual sweets to plenitude,
Ai bees gorge full their cells. And, by
the feud 40
Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear,
bme Apollo f that thy Sister fair
kof aU these the gentlier-mightiest.
V^ thy gold breath is misting in the
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 I 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,
Conch'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 bouse. — The mighty
deeps,
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad
sea !
O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to
thee, 70
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 I 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 I 80
She dies at the thinnest cloud; her loveli-
ness
Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there 's a
stress
Of loTe-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
Overwhelming water-courses; scaring out
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and
frightening
Their savage eyes with unaccustomed 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 g^lf 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 I 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, 1 10
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 tao
Above, around, and at his feet; save things
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings:
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates
large
Of gone sea- warriors ; brazen beaks and
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 thoM
souls tjo
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 (40
About the labyrinth in his soul of love.
BOOK THIRD
8i
* What is there in thee, Moon ! that
then shonldst move
M7 heart so potently ? When yet a child
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast
smiled.
Thou aeem'dst my sister: hand in hand we
went
From ere to mom across the firmament.
No apples would I gather from the tree,
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks de-
licioosly :
Ko tnmbling water ever spake romance,
But when my eyes with thine thereon could
danoe: 150
No woods were green enough, no bower
divine.
Until thon lif tedst up thine eyelids fine :
Is sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take.
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ;
Andy in the summer tide of blossoming,
No one hot thee hath heard me blithely sing
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Tes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160
Bv thee were fashioned to the self-same end ;
Asd ss I grew in years, still didst thou
blend
With all my ardours; thou wast the deep
glen;
IhoQ wast the mountain-top — the sage's
pen —
Tke poet's harp — the voice of friends —
the sun;
IhoQ wast the river — thou wast glory
Thoa wast my clarion's blast — thon wast
my steed —
Hj goblet fall of wine — my topmost
deed: —
Ihoa wist the charm of women, lovely
liooo!
0 whst a wild and harmonized tune 170
^ spirit ttroek from all the beautiful !
^ tone bright essence oould I lean, and
hdl
XjieH to immortality: I prest
latue's toft 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 beg^n 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 ambitious magic: every ocean-form
Was woven in with black distinctness;
storm, 300
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 'twould size and
swell
To its hug^ 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
a 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 conn'd
So steadfastly, that the new denizen
Had time to keep him in amazed ken,
To mark these shadowings, and stand in
awe.
The old man raised his hoary head and
saw
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to
see,
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly aao
He woke as from a trance; his snow-white
brows
Went arching up, and like two magic
ploughs
FurroVd deep wrinkles in his forehead
large.
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge,
Till round his withered 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, 330
With convulsed clenches waving it abroad.
And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed
Echo into oblivion, he said: —
* Thou art the man I Now shall I lay
my head
In peace upon my watery pillow: now
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary
brow.
O Jove 1 I shall be young again, be young I
O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and
stung
With new-bom life ! What shall I do ?
Where go,
When I have cast this serpent-skin of
woe ? — X40
1 11 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 1 11 in a twinkling sail.
And mount upon the snortings of a whale
To some black cloud; thence down 111
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 I aso
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.
Thou art the man 1 ' Endymion started
back
Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom
the rack
Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
Mutter'd : < What lonely death am I to die
In this cold region ? Will he let me freese.
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, a^
And keep me as a chosen food to draw
His magian fish through hated fire and
flame?
O misery of hell I resistless, tame.
Am I to be burnt up ? No, I will shoat.
Until the gods through heaven's blue look
out I —
O Tartarus ! but some few days agone
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
Her voice I hung like fruit among green
leaves: 271
Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe
sheaves
Of happiness ! ye on the stubble droop,
But never may be gamer'd. I must stoop
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love !
love, farewell !
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid
spell
BOOK THIRD
83
Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By
Dian'a hind
Feeding from her white fingers, on the
I tee thy ttreaming hair I and now, by
I care sot for thie old mysterioos man 1 ' aSo
He spake, and walking to that aged form,
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan
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
BWwni to kind eyes, a sting to human
thooght,
CoBTnlsion to a month of many years ?
He had in truth; and he was ripe for tears.
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt
Btfore that care-worn sage, who trembling
felt 390
Aboat his large dark looks, and faltering
spake:
'Arise, good youth, for sacred Phoebus'
sake!
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel
A foy brother's yearning for thee steal
lato mine own: for why ? thou openest
TW prison gates that have so long opprest
Mj weary watching. Though thou know'st
it not,
Thoa art oommission'd to this fated spot
For great enfranchisement. O weep no
more I
1 «a a friend to lore, to loves of yore: 300
A|e, hadst thou neyer loved an unknown
power,
Ikkl been grieving at this joyous hour.
Bsk efea now most miserable old,
Imv thse,and my blood no longer cold
Gate nighty pulses: in this tottering case
^lew a new heart, which at this moment
pUys
ii dsaeia^y 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 310
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, — 3ao
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 I — Is it then possible
To look so plainly through them ? to dispel
A thousand years with backward glance
sublime ?
To breathe away as 't were all scummy
slime 330
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep.
And one's own imag^ 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-
sures:
* 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
Woald let me feel their scales of gold and
green,
Nor be my desolation ; and, f nil oft,
When a dread waterspout had rear'd aloft
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe
To burst with hoarsest thundering^, 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 bleating^ 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 iEthon 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 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 extremest 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 tbee 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 comers of that mouth.
So I will in my story straightway pass
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas !
That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scyllit
fair !
Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 409
To sue thee to his heart ? Kind strangei^
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 woimd 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
lief —
BOOK THIRD
8S
Cmel enchaiitress I So above the water
I reared my head, and look'd for PhoBbus'
daughter.
.£ca*a iale 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, 'twas 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 I for I heard a
lyre,
And over it a sighing voice expire.
It eeased — I caught light footsteps ; and
anon
IVe fairest face that mom e'er look'd upon
Posh'd through a screen of roses. Starry
Jove I
With tears, and smiles, and honey-words
she wove
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than
all
TW range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did
faU
The dew of her rich speech: "Ah ! art
awake?
0 let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's
sake! 430
1 am so oppress'd with joy I Why, I have
shed
Aa on of tears, as though thou wert cold
dead;
Aai now I find thee living, I will pour
From these devoted eyes their silver store,
Uitil exhausted of the latest drop,
So it will pleasure thee, and force thee
stop
Hoe, that I too may live: but if beyond
Sidi eool and sorrowful offerings, thou art
fond
Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme;
If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream;
If noiles, if dimples, tongues for ardour
mate, 441
Hug ia thy vision like a tempting fruit.
0 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 bad 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 Aniphion'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-bom delights !
* Now let me borrow.
For moments few, a temperament as stern
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not bum
86
ENDYMION
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech
teU
How specious heaven was changed to real
helL
*One mom she left me sleeping: half
awake
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to
slake
My greedy thirst with nectarous 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 ag^ny 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 impelPd.
I came to a dark valley. — Groanings
swell'd 490
Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew.
The nearer I approached 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 uptom 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 I old Charon's self.
Should he g^ve up awhile his penny pelf.
And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian,
It could not be so f antasied. 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* $10
Clusters of gprapes, the which they raven'd
quick
And roar'd for more; with many a hungiy
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 g^roans
From their poor breasts went sueing to her
ear
In vain; remorseless as an infant's bier sao
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
writheu.
Went through the dismal air like one huge
Python S30
Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish'd.
Tet there was not a breath of wind: she
banish'd
These phantoms with a nod. Lo I 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 boVd
Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aload
In human accent: ** Potent goddess I chief
BOOK THIRD
87
Of ptins TesistleM 1 make my being brief,
Or lei me from this heavy prison fly: S4>
Or gire me to the air, or let me die !
I me not for mj happy erown again;
I me not for my phalanx on the plain;
I me not fat mj lone, my widow'd wife:
I me not for my roddy drops of life.
My ehildren fair, my lovely girls and boys I
1 will forget them; I will pass these joys;
Ask nought so heavenward, so too — too
high:
Only I i»ay, as fairest boon, to die, 550
Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh,
From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh.
Aid merely given to the cold bleak air.
Have mercy. Goddess I Circe, feel my
iwayer ! "
^Tbateorst magician's name fell icy numb
Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had
Kiked and sabre-like against my heart.
I mw a fnry whetting a death^iart;
Aad my slain spirit, overwrought with
fright,
Faisted away in that dark lair of night. 560
TViiky my deliverer, how desolate
Mj waking mnst have been I disgust, and
hate,
Aid terrors manifold divided me
A ipoQ amongst them. I prepared to flee
Iito the dnngeon core of that wild wood:
I U three days — when lo I before me
stood
GiuiBg the angry witch. O IHs, even now,
A elaiuuj dew is beading on my brow,
At aere remembering her pale laugh, and
'Hal ha! Sir Dainty! there must be a
570
MaJe of rose-leaves and thistle-down, ex-
Is cmdle thee my sweet, and lull thee:
yw»
I an too flin^-hard for thy nice touch:
4 ttadeiest sqoeexe is but a giant's clutch.
^fuiy-thittg, it shall have lullabies
* 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 I 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.
Tet 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 ag^d men ;
But live and wither, cripple and still breathe
Ten hundred years: which g^ne, 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
guise
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 I 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
remained
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 — 'twas Scylla ! Cursed, cursed
Circe I
0 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
Gained 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 babble
Of coloured 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 coarse
Had been resumed in spite of hindering
force — 650
So vanished: and not long, before arose
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds mo-
rose.
Old ^olus would stifle his mad spleen.
But could not; therefore, all the billows
g^en
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 soals;
I heard their cries amid loud thunder-
rolls. 660
0 they had all been saved but crazed eld
Annull'd my vigorous cravings; and thus
quell'd
And curb'd, thiuk on 't, O Latmian I 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
BOOK THIRD
89
t— touch'd the knuckles —
thej nnelasp'd —
I cangbt a finger: bat the downward weight
Overpowered me — it sank. Then 'gan
abate
The storm, and through chill aguish gloom
CKitbarst
Tbe eomfbrtable sun. I was athirst
To search tbe book, and in the warming
air
Pkzted its dripping leaves with eager care.
SCzinge matters did it treat of, and drew
on
Mj soul page after page, till well nigh
won 680
loto forgetfalness; when, stupefied,
I read these words, and read again, and
tried
Hj ejes against the heavens, and read
again.
0 whet a load of misery and pain
Eich Atlas-line bore off ! — a shine of hope
Cime gold around me, cheering me to
cope
Stiemioas with hellish tyranny. Attend I
For thoQ hast brought their promise to an
end.'
h tie wide tea there lives a forlorn wretch,
Bmm^d witk enfeMed caraue to outstretch 690
Bit loathed existence through ten centuries,
Aad then to die alone. Who can devise
i Uo/ oppceition f No one. So
tW nZZiofi times ocean must ebb and flow,
^^ he oppressed. Yet he shall not die,
Tim things aeeompUsh'd : — If he utterly
Sums all (he depths of magic, and expounds
He meamngs cf all motions, shapes, and
sounds ;
^it explores aU forms and substances
^N^ homeward to their symbol-essences ;
^fkaUnot die. Moreover, and in chief , 701
"Bawl pvmie this task of joy and grief
\^fimidy ; — aU lovers tempest-tost,
^mthe savage overwhelming lost,
^'haU deposit side by side, wUil
^9 creeping shall the dreary space fulfil :
^ dme, 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, cr both will be de^
stroy*d. —
< Then,' cried the young Endymion, over-
' We are twin brothers in this destiny I
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved.
What I 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 enter'd
straight.
Sure never since king Neptune held his
state
Was seen such wonder uDdemeath 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, iu silent rows.
Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and
woes. —
The stranger from the mountains, breath-
less, traced
90
ENDYMION
Saoh thousandB of shut eyes in order
placed;
Saoh ranges of white feet, and patient lips
All ruddy, — for here death no hlossom
nips. 740
He mark'd their hrows and foreheads; saw
their hair
Pot 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 g^ide, 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-
ems 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 1 't is as weak as spider's skein;
And shouldst thou break it — What, is it
done so clean ?
A power overshadows thee I Oh, brave I
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave.
Here is a shell; 't is pearly blank to me, 761
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery —
Canst thou read aught ? O read for pity's
sake I
Olympus I we are safe I Now, Carian,
break
This wand against yon lyre on the pedes-
tal.'
Twas done: and straight with sadden
swell and fall
Sweet music breathed her sool awaj,
sigh'd
A lullaby to silence. — ' Youth I 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 Glaucas stood apart,
And scatter'd in his face some tegmenta
light.
How lightning-swift the change I a yoatk-
ful wight
Smiling beneath a coral diadem,
Out-sparkling sudden like an uptum'd gem,
Appear'd, and, stepping to a beaateoos
corse,
Eneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest
force
Fress'd its cold hand, and wept, — and
Scylla sigh'd ! 780
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 chamel-hoose.
The Latmian persevered along, and thus
All were reanimated. There arose 799
A noise of harmony, pulses and throes
Of gladness in the air — while many, who
Had died in mutual arms devout and tme^
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
and bent.
Delicious symphonies, like airy flowers,
Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown,
full showers
BOOK THIRD
91
Of hf^at, softy onteeii leaves of sounds
diTine. 800
Thm two delivexeis tasted a pore wine
Of happmesi, from fiury press oozed oat.
Speeehless they eyed each other, and about
TW fair assembly wandered to and fro,
Diitraeted with the riehest overflow
Of joy thai ever pour'd from heaven.
* Away ! '
ShoQted the new bom god; * Follow, and
Ow piety to Neptunus supreme I ' —
Then Seylla, blushing sweetly from her
dream.
They led on first, bent to her meek sur-
prise, 810
Thioagh portal columns of a giant size
Iito the vaolted, boundless emerald.
Joyoos all follow'd, as the leader call'd,
Dmni marble steps; pouring as easily
Ai hour-glass sand — and fast, as you
might see
SemDows obeying the south summer's call.
Or fwsns upon a gentle waterfall.
Thus went that beautiful multitude, nor
ft,
£ie from among some rocks of glittering
819
^■at within ken, they saw descending thick
Aaother moltitade. Whereat more quick
Kefcd either host. On a wide sand they
met,
Aid of those numbers every eye was wet;
IW cadi their old love found. A mur-
ine what was never heard in all the
throes
Of wiod and waters: 'tis past human wit
TtteD; *t is dissiness to Uiink of it.
Ihii mighty eonsummation made, the
host
«*ved on for many a league; and gain'd
sad lost
tea-marks; vanward swelling in
tnay, 830
And from the rear diminishing away, —
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus
cried,
< Behold I behold, the palace of his pride I
Grod 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
sweird. 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 Papbian 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 I 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, 870
Awed from the throne aloof; — and "^iv^hen
storm rent
Disclosed the thunder-gloomingps 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 880
Of feather'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 bis horn. The palace rang;
The Nereids danced; the Sirens faintly
sang;
And the great Sea-Eing 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 I ' Venus
said,
< Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid:
Behold I ' — Two copious tear-drops instant
fell 900
From the God's large eyes; he smiled de-
lectable,
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. —
' Fndymion I Ah I still wandering in the
bands
Of love ? Now thi^ 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 I 't will not be long.
Or I am skilless quite: an idle tongue,
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 910
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
g^ven
To utter secrets, haply I might say
Some pleasant words: — but Love will have
his day.
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee sood.
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, 910
All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son I ' —
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 oaV-
reach'd;
And plunder'd vines, teeming exhaostleniy
pleach'd
BOOK THIRD
93
New growth aboat each shell and pendent
lyre;
The whiohy in disentangling for their fire,
hdl'd down fresh foliage and coverture 930
For dainty toying. Capid, empire-sure,
Ffaitter'd and laugh'dj^and oft-times through
the throng
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and
song,
And garianding, grew wild; and pleasure
reign'd.
Ib harmless tendril they each other chained,
And strore who should be smother' d deep-
est in
Fresh erash 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 Moses I let him hurry to the ending.
AU 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 I Eternally before
Thee the waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn
rock,
Atthy fear'd trident shrinking, doth unlock
ht deep foundations, hissing into foam.
All noantain-rivers, lost in the wide home
Of thy eapacions bosom, ever flow. 950
Thou frownest, and old .£olus thy foe
Skilks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff com-
plaint
Of ill his rebel tempests. Dark clouds
faint
When, from thy diadem, a silver gleam
Sutft over blue dominion. Thy bright
team
Glib in the morning light, and scuds along
To bring thee nearer to that golden song
AyoHo singeth, while his chariot
^uts at the doors of heaven. Thou art
not
For scenes like this: an empire stem hast
thou; 960
And it hath furrow'd that large front: yet
now.
As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit
To blend and interknit
Subdued majesty with this glad time.
O shell-borne King sublime !
We lay our hearts before thee evermore —
We sing, and 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 .^lolian twang of Liove's own
bow.
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear
Of goddess Cytherea !
Tet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair
eyes
On our soul's sacrifice.
* Bright-winged Child I
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 iu darkness I eclipser
Of light in light ! delicious poisoner !
Thy venom'd goblet will we quaff until
We fill — we till ! 989
And by thy Mother's lips '
Was heard no more
For clamour, when the gulden palace door
Open'd ag^in, and from without, in shone
94
ENDYMION
A new magnificence. 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 mnse 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 iBgean 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 I sweet Venus, be my stay !
Where is my lovely mistress? Well-
away ! 10 1 1
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, aud purposed to con-
vey
Towards a crystal bower far away.
LfO I while slow carried through the pity-
ing crowd.
To his inward senses these words spake
aloud; loao
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 *U kissing snatch
Thee into endless heaven. Awake ! awake !'
The youth at once arose: a placid lake
Came quiet to his eyes; and forest green.
Cooler than all the wonders he had seen,
Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering
breast. ao3i
How happy onoe agam in grassy nest !
BOOK IV
Muse of my native land I loftiest Mnse I
O first-bom on the mountains I 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
Tet 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 I ' Flam
Spake fair Ausonia; and once more she
spake
A higher summons: — still didst thou be-
take
Thee to thy native hopes. O thou haai
won
A full accomplishment I The thing ia
done.
Which undone, these onr latter days had
risen
On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know^
what prison m
Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and
frets
Our spirits' wings: despondency besets
Our pillows; and the fresh to-morrow mona
Seems to give forth its light in very soom
Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives.
Long have I said, how happy he wh9
shrives
BOOK FOURTH
95
To thee! But then I thought on poets
And eoold not piay: — nor can I now — so
I more to the end in lowliness of heart. —
'Ah, woe 18 me! that I should fondly
part 30
From my dear native land! Ah, foolish
maid!
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myri-
ads hade
Adieu to Gauges and their pleasant fields !
To one so friendless the clear freshet
yields
A bitter coolness; the ripe grape is sour:
Tet I would have, great gods I hut one
short hour
Of mtiTe air — let me but die at home.*
Eadymion to heaven's airy dome
Wu offering up a hecatomb of vows,
When these words reach'd him. Where-
upon he bows 40
Hii head through thorny-green entangle-
ment
Of mderwcMd, and to the sound is bent,
AuioQS 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 let my dull and sadden'd spirit playing ?
Ho lumd to toy with mine ? No lips so
sweet
IWt I may worship them? No eyelids
meet
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies
Beloie me, till irom these enslaving eyes 50
^emptwn sparkles! — I am sad and
Ihoa, Carian lord, hadst better have been
tost
hi a whiripool. Vanish into air,
Mwrm mouitauieer ! for canst thou only
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ?
See not her charms! Is PhoBbe passion-
less?
PhoBbe 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 vrarm 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 I
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 !
Te 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 ! ' —
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 heen 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 ehh 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 I
0 pardon me, for I am full of grief —
Grief bom 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 band. —
Dost weep for me ? Then should I be con-
tent.
Scowl on, ye fates ! until the firmament 120
Outblackens Erebus, and the full-cavem'd
earth
Crumbles into itself. By the cloud-g^h
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
g^en 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 'twould be a guilt — a very
guilt —
Not to companion thee, and sigh away
The light — the dusk — the dark — till
break of day ! '
' Dear lady,' said Endymion, * 't is 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 ? 159
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 7
BOOK FOURTH
97
mourning
i6o
«0 Sorrow,
Why do6t borrow
be mellow ditties from a
tongae? —
To give at evening pale
Unto the nightingale,
bat thoa mayst listen the cold dews
among?
• O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
lesrt's lightness from the merriment of
May? —
A lover would not tread
A cowslip on the head,
rkoagh he should dance from eve till peep
of day —
Nor any drooping flower 170
Held sacred for thy bower,
Whererer he may sport himself and play.
* To Sorrow,
1 bade good morrow,
Aad thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly;
^ is 80 constant to me, and so kind:
I would deceive her.
And so leave her, 180
Bat ah ! she is so constant and so kind.
'Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
Isat a.weeping: in the whole world wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept, —
And so I kept
Bfimmiog the water-lily cups with tears
Cold as my fears.
'Beaeath my palm-trees, by the river side,
I ut ft-weepiog: what enamour'd bride,
(Wted bj shadowy wooer from the clouds,
Bat hides and shrouds 191
Be&eath dark palm-trees by a river side ?
*Aad is 1 sat, over the light blue hills
IWre came a noise of revellers: the rills
iM» 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 I
Like to a moving vintage down they came,
Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all
on flame;
aox
All madly dancing through the pleasant
valley,
To scare thee. Melancholy !
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name t
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 I
< Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood.
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, a 10
With sidelong laughing;
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued
His plump white arms, and shoulders^
enough white
For Venus* pearly bite;
And near bim rode Silenus on his ass,
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass
Tipsily quafiBng.
* Whence came ye, merry Damsels I whence
came ye !
So many, and so many, and such glee ?
Why have ye left your bowers desolate, aao
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 a30
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 ! "
*OTer wide streams and mountains great
we went,
And, save when Bacchus kept his iyj tent,
Onward the tiger and the leopard piints, 24 1
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. 350
'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 the 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
I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing
To the silver cymbals' ring f a6o
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 taming
pale. —
Into these regions came I following hiniy
Sick-hearted, weary — - so I took a whim
To stray away into these forests drear 170
Alone, without a peer:
And I have told thee all thou mayest hear.
* Toung Stranger I
I 've been a ranger
In search of pleasure throughout eveiy
clime:
Alas, 't is not for me !
Bewitch'd I sure must be.
To lose in grieving all my maiden prinM.
' Come then, Sorrow I
Sweetest Sorrow I aSo
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.' 390
O what a sigh she gave in finishing.
And look, quite dead to every worldly
thing!
Endymion could not speak, but gaied oa
her:
And listened to the wind that now did stir
About the crisped oaks full drearily,
Tet with as sweet a softness as might be
Remember'd from its velvet summer song*
At last he said: < Poor lady, how thoa loii|p
Have I been able to endure that ycnoe ? 399
Fair Melody I kind Siren 1 1 've no choioe;
I most be thy sad servant evermore:
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore.
Alas, I must not think — by Phcsbe, no 1
BOOK FOURTH
99
Lei me not think, soft Angel I shall it he
eo?
Sftjy hemntifiillefty ihall I never think ?
0 thoa eouicUt foster me hejond the brink
Of reeoHeeiion ! make my watchful care
Gose op its bloodshot ejes, nor see de-
spair !
Do gently morder half my soul, and I
Shall feel the other half so utterly I — 310
1 'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ;
0 let it blosh so ever ! let it soothe
Mj madness I let it mantle rosy-warm
With the tinge of love, panting in safe
alarm. —
This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is;
Aad this is sure thine other softling — this
TUne own fair bosom, and I am so near !
Wilt fall asleep ? O let me sip that tear I
Aid whisper one sweet word that I may
know
TUs is this world — sweet dewy blossom I '
— Woe ! Z20
Wot ! woe to that EndymUm I Where is
hef —
Efea these words went echoing dismally
IWongh the wide forest — a most fearful
tone.
Like one repenting in his latest moan;
lad while it died away a shade pass'd by,
At of a thundercloud. When arrows fly
Tkraa^ the thick branches, poor ring-
doves sleek forth
Tknr timid necks and tremble; so these
both 328
htui to each other trembling, and sat so
Waiting for some destruction — when lo I
iWi-feather^d Mercury appeared sublime
Bijoad the tall tree tops; and in less time
IWa shoots the slanted hail-storm, down
1m dropt
Ttvuds the groond; but rested not, nor
stopt
Om mooicnt from his home: only the
sward
Bi with his wand light touoh'd, and hea-
Willer than sight was gone — even be-
fOM
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear
Above the crystal cirdings white and
clear; 340
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 their 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 I
There curl*d a purple mist around them;
soon.
It seem'd as when around the pale new
moon
lOO
ENDYMION
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping
willow:
T was Sleep slow joameying with head on
pillow 370
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 slumberiug 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 scarch'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 foater'd
are
Of earth's splenetic fire, dolly drop
Their, full-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide,
and stop; 400
Upon the spiritless mist have thej oat-
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 t
he walks
On heaven's pavement; brotherly he talks
To divine powers: from his hand full fain
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearlj
grain: 410
He tries the nerve of PhcBbus' 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 f uU-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 ^
'ODisI
Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou nofc
know
Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'T i«
Dian's: lo f 499
She rises crescented ! ' He looks, 't is sliey
His very g^dess: good-bye earth, and
BOOK FOURTH
lOI
And mir, and paiiUyand care, and suffering;
Good-bje to all but love I Then doth he
spring
Towards her, and awakes — and, strange,
o*erliead.
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred,
Beheld awake his very dream: the gods
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and
nods;
And PhoBbo bends towards him crescented.
0 state perplexing I 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
nm.
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion.
Hit heart leapt up as to its rightful throne,
To that frdr-shadow'd passion pulsed its
way —
Ah, what perplerity I Ah, well a day I
So food, so beauteous was his bed-fellow.
He eonld not help but kiss her: then he
grew
Awhile forgetful of all beauty save 450
TosBg Phcsbe's, golden-hair*d; and so 'gau
erare
FfligiTeness: yet he tum'd once more to look
it the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was
shook, —
Ske press'd his hand in slumber; so once
He eoold not help but kiss her and adore.
At this the shadow wept, melting away.
The latmian started up: 'Bright goddess,
stay!
Scneh my most hidden breast I By truth's
own tongue,
I hn nodiedale heart; why is it wrung 459
To desperation ? Is there nought for me,
^pen the bourne of bliss, but misery ? '
Tliete words awoke the stranger of dark
k dawning love -look rapt Endymion
_ blesses
*& Hiarioiir soft. Sleep yawn'd from
'Thou swan of Ganges, let us no more
breathe
This murky phantasm I 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
lu 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 — Forgave 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 g^eved
or toy'd —
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow
doy'd.
Full facing their swift flight, from ebon
streak.
The moon put forth a little diamond peak.
I02
ENDYMION
No bigger than an onobseryed star,
Or tiny point of fairy scimetar;
Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 500
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously
She bow'd into the heavens her timid head.
Slowly she rose, as thoagh she would have
fled,
While to his lady meek the Carian tom'd.
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discem'd .
This beanty in its birth — Despair I despair I
He saw her body fading gaont and spare
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized
her wrist;
It melted from his grasp; her hand he
kiss'd,
And, horror 1 kiss*d his own — he was
alone. 510
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-bom woe it feels more inly smart:
And in these regions many a venom'd
dart 520
At Aindom 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 g^sts, 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 sodden it is
won.
Just when the sufferer begins to bum.
Then it is free to him; and from an um.
Still fed by melting ioe, he takes a
draught —
Young Semele such richness never quaff'd
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom t
Dark Paradise I 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 I O wondrous soul I
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian I
For, never since thy griefs and woes begmn.
Hast thou felt so content: a grievous fead
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude.
Aye, his luird soul was there, although up-
borne
With dangerous speed: and so he did ncyt
mourn 550
Because he knew not whither he was going.
So happy was he, not the aerial blovring
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high
feast.
They stung the feather'd horse; with fteree
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, sfis
While past the vision went in bright amy*
< Who, who from Dian's feast would h»
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 I upon his sHver winga
He leans away for highest heaven and mngBp
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily I —
BOOK FOURTH
103
Ah, Z^lijmis 1 art Itere^ and Flora too I 570
Te tander bilibers of the rain and dew,
Tong playmatea of the roee and daffodil,
Bt caiefoly ere ye enter in, to fill
Tour haskets high
Willi fennel green, and balm, and golden
pines,
Sanny, latter-mint, and oolnmbines,
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ;
Yea, erery flower and leaf of every clime,
All gafther'd in the dewy morning: hie
Away I fly, fly I — 580
Ciyslalline brother of the belt of heaven,
Aqaarios 1 to whom king Jove has given
Two liqnid poise streams 'stead of feath-
ered wingB,
Two fianlite fountains, — thine illominings
For Dian play:
DiMolre the frozen parity of air;
Let thy white shoulders silvery and bare
Show eold through watery pinions; make
more bright
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage
Haste, haste away I — 590
Cailor has tamed the planet Lion, see I
Aai of the Bear has Pollux mastery:
A third is in the race I who is the third,
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ?
The ramping Centaur 1
Tkfb Lion's mane 's on end: the Bear how
fiercel
IW CeDtaor^s arrow ready seems to pierce
Sane enemy: far forth his bow b bent
lile the bine of heaven. He 11 be shent,
Fiide nnrelentor, 600
When he shall hear the wedding lutes
allaying. —
AsdroBieda ! sweet woman I why delaying
titiandly among the stars: come hither I
te this bright throng, and nimbly follow
frikither
They all are going.
l^Mi's Son, before Jove newly bow'd,
k wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud.
IW, gntle lady, did he disenthrall:
tiiUl lor ever live and love, for all
Thy tears are flowing. — 610
% DHyhne's fright, behold ApoUo I '—
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, 630
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 1 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 1 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 doudy phantasms. Caverns lone,
farewell I
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 1 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 1
My river-lily bud 1 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 I
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 untom 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 FLoebus, 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 f 710
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be
'Fore which I '11 bend, bending, dear \ore»
to thee:
BOOK FOURTH
105
Tliote lips thftll be my Delphos, and shall
Laws to my footsteps, coloar to my cheek,
TVembling or stead&stness to this same
▼oioe.
And ci three sweetest pleasurings the
ehoiee:
Aad that affectionate light, those diamond
things,
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme
pearl springs,
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to plea-
sure.
Stj, is not bliss within our perfect seiz-
ure ? 720
Othat I could not doubt I'
The mountaineer
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to
dear
His hrier'd path to some tranquillity.
It gare bright gladness to his lady's eye,
Aad yet the tears she wept were tears of
sorrow;
Aaiwering thus, just as the golden mor-
row
upward from the valleys of the
*0 that the flutter of his heart had ceased,
Or te sweet name of love had pass'd
away,
lou^ feather'd tyrant I by a swift de-
«y 730
Wot thoo devote this body to the earth:
Aid I do think that at my very birth
Ifiip'd thy blooming titles inwardly;
Far at the first, first dawn and thought of
thee.
With vplift hands I Uest the stars of hea-
Ait thou not eruel ? Ever have I striven
T« thbk thee kind, but ah, it will not do 1
Wkea yet a child, I heard that kisses drew
hwnr hmn thee, aad so I gave and gave
'U te void air, bidding them find out
love: 740
^ when I came to feel how far above
^ Cnsyt pride, and fiekle 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 f 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 f
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 retum'd: both lovelorn, silent,
wan,
Into the valleys g^reen 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 f unhappy ! it nigh grieves 770
Me to behold thee thus iu 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,
Moum*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
'Bjs 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 I
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye
WiUi all his sorrowing ? He sees her not.
But who so stares on him ? His sister
sure I 800
Peona of the woods ! — Can she endure —
Impossible — how dearly they embrace !
£[is lady smiles; delight is in her face;
It is no treachery.
* Dear brother mine !
Endymion, weep not so I 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. 810
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 pnll
The flowers of autumn for your coronals.
Pan's holy priest for young 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 y^ are too happy to be glad:
O feel as if it were a common day; Sm
Free- voiced as one who never was awaj.
No tongue shall ask. Whence come ye ? bat
ye shall
Be gods of your own rest imperial.
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry
Into the hours that have passed us by.
Since in my arbour I did sing to thee.
O Hermes I on this very night will be
A hynming up to Cynthia, queen of light;
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight
Good visions in the air, — whence will be-
fall, 83«
As say these sages, health perpetual
To shepherds and their flocks; and fnrthei^
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 numy, 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. S40
Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse
This wayward brother to his rightful joyil
His eyes are on thee bent, as thon didil
poise
BOOK FOURTH
107
Hit ftte moat goddess-like. Help me, I
To hue — Endymion, dear brother, say
What ails thee ? ' He could bear no more,
and so
Beat his soal fiercely like a spiritual bow,
Aad twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said:
*I would haye thee my only friend, sweet
umid I
M J only Tisitor I not ignorant though, 850
Tbat 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 impioiisly an earthly realm I take.
Sinee I saw thee, I have been wide awake
Kight after night, and day by day, until
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill.
Let it content thee. Sister, seeing me
Mora h^py than betides mortality.
Abermit young, 1 11 live in mossy cave, 860
When thou alone shalt come to me, and
lave
Tkj spirit in the wonders I shall tell.
Tboo^ me the shepherd realm shall pro-
sier well;
Far to thy tongue will I all health confide.
Aid, for my sake, let this young maid abide
With thee as a dear sister. Thou alone,
BHna, mayst return to me. I own
TUs may sound strangely: but when, dear-
est girl,
TWm seeat it for my happiness, no pearl
Win trespass down those cheeks. Compan-
100 fair I 870
W3t he content to dwell with her, to share
His sister's love with me ? ' Like one re-
signed
iai beat by circumstance, and thereby
blind
li sdf-eommitment, thus that meek un-
'Aye, bat a buzzing by my ears has flown,
Of jrtOea to Dian: —truth I heard 1
WiB Oea, I see there is no little bird,
ladar soavery but is Jove's own care.
iMg hava I ioogfat for rest, and, unaware.
Behold I find it I so exalted too ! 880
So after my own heart 1 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 under-ground, a sleeper meets his
friends
Who know him not. £ach 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 900
£ndymion said: * Are not our fates all
cast?
Why stand we here? Adieu, ye tender
pair 1
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 1
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 re^aix^
io8
ENDYMION
Into those holy groves that silent are
Behind great Dian's temple. 1 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 remained 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 reach'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 deathful glee;
Laughing at the dear stream and setting
sun.
As though they jests had been: nor had he
done
HiB 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 Satumus' forelock, by his head
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed
Myself to things of light from infancy;
And thus to be cast out, 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 I ' 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: ' Sbter, 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 I and by the lily truth
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved
youth 1 ' 981
BOOK FOURTH
109
And as slie spake, into her face there
Light, aa reflected from a silyer flame:
Her hmg Uaek hair swelTd ampler, in dis-
l3ay
Foil golden; in her eyes a brighter day
Ikwn'd Uoe, and full of love. Aye, he
beheld
jphcebe, his passicm I joyons she upheld
Her hicid bow, oontinoing thus: '* Drear,
drear
Has our delaying been; but foolish fear
IHthheld me first; and then decrees of
fate; 990
And then 't was fit that from this mortal
state
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-
for change
Be spiritoalized. Peona, we shall range
These forests, and to thee they safe shaU 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 bad told.
They vanish'd far away I — Peona went
Home through the gloomy wood in won^
dermeut.
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 g^ven, beginning with IsabeUa
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF
BASIL
A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO
Keats and Reynolds projected a volume of
metrical tales translated from or based on Boo-
caooio. Apparently, Keats began IsabeUa,
which was to be one of his contributions, some
thne 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 : * I 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
f urly shortly, and G^rge 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 you 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.* Keats
did not wait for Reynolds, but published his
IsabeUa in the Yolome entitled JLamta, Isabdla,
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 I
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 7^ Eve of St. Agnes, 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 meab 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.
II
With every mom their love grew tenderer,
With every eve deeper and tenderer still;
He might not in house, field, or garden
stir,
Bat 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.
Ill
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 tum'd to the same
skies;
And with sick longing all the ni^t out*
wear.
To hear her morning^tep upon the stair.
110
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL
HI
IV
A whole hmg month of May in this sad
pli^t
Made their cheeks paler by the break of
Jane:
* To-morrow will I bow to my delight,
To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon.' —
* 0 may I never see another night,
Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's
tone.' —
So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,
Honeylees days and days did he let pass;
Until sweet Isabella's nntouch'd cheek
Fell sick within the rose's just domain,
Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth
' Lorenzo I ' — here she ceased her tindd
quest,
But in her tone and look he read the rest.
By every loll to cool her infant's pain:
'How ill she is I' 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
VI
So Slid he one fair morning, and all day
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,
Tet brought him to the meekness of a
ehild:
Alas! when passion is both meek and wild !
VII
So onee more he had waked and anguished
A dreaxy night of love and misery,
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed
To every symbol on his forehead high:
She saw it waxing very pale and dead,
And straight all flush'd; so, lisped ten-
derly,
VIII
* 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.
IX
* Love ! thou art leading me from wintry
cold,
Lady I thou leadest me to summer dime.
And I must taste the blossoms that unfold
In its ripe vrarmth this gracious morning
time.'
So said, his erewhile timid lips g^w 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 frag^rance 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
mi.
XI
All 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 'pleasaat
veil,
112
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,
Unknown of any, free from whispering
tale.
Ah I better had it been for ever so,
Than idle ears should pleasure in their
woe.
XII
Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot
be —
Too many tears for lovers have been
shed,
Too many sighs give we to them in fee.
Too much of pity after they are dead,
Too many doleful stories do we see,
Whose matter in bright gold were best
be read;
Except in such a page where Theseus*
spouse
Over the pathless waves towards him bows.
XIII
But, for the general award of love.
The little sweet doth kill much bitter-
ness;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove.
And Isabella's was a great distress,
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian
clove
Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the
less —
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-
bowers.
Know there is richest juice in poison-
flowers.
XIV
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt.
Enriched from ancestral merchandise.
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,
And many once proud-quiver'd loins did
melt
In blood from stinging whip; — with
hollow eyes
Many all day in dazzling river stood.
To take the rich-ored drif tings of the flood.
XV
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath.
And went all naked to the hungry shark;
For them his ears gush'd blood; for them
in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteoos
bark
Lay full of darts; for them alone did
seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and
dark:
Half-ignorant, they tum*d an easy wheel.
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and
peel.
XVI
Why were they proud? Because their
marble founts
Gush'd with more pride than do a
wretch's tears ? —
Why were they proud ? Because fair
orange-mounts
Were of more soft ascent than laxar
stairs? —
Why were they proud ? Because red-
lined accounts
Were richer than the songs of Grecian
years ? —
Why were they proud? again we ask
aloud.
Why in the name of Glory were they
proud?
XVII
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice.
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-
spies;
The hawks of sl^p-mast forests — the un-
tired
And pannier'd mules for ducats and old
lies —
Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-
away, —
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL
"3
xvm
How wms it these same ledgeivmen ooold
Fair Tihena in her downy nest ?
How ooold they find out in Lorenzo's eye
A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's
pest
Into their Tision covetous and sly I
How coold these money-bags see east
and west? —
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair
Host see behind, as doth the hunted hare.
XIX
0 eloquent and famed Boccaccio I
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 ghittem's
tone.
For ventoring syllables that ill beseem
quiet glooms of sueh a piteous theme.
XX
thoo a pardon here, and then the tale
Shall naove on soberly, as it is meet;
There is no other crime, no mad assail
To make old prose in modem rhyme
more sweet:
But it isdoaie — succeed the verse or fail —
To honour thee, and thy gone spirit
greet;
To sisad thee as a verse in English tongue,
of thee in the north-wind sung.
XXI
brethren having found by many
What love Lorenzo for their sister had,
bow she loved him too, each nnconfines
His hitter thoughts to other, well-nigh
Ihit be, the servmnt of their trade designs,
Aoald m their sister's love be blithe and
glad.
When 't was their plan to coax her by de-
grees
To some high noble and his olive-trees.
XXII
And many a jealous conference had they.
And many times they bit their lips alone.
Before they fix'd upon a surest way
To make the youngster for his crime
atoue;
And at the last, these men of cruel clay
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bon^
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,
' Tou seem there in the quiet of content,
Lorenzo, and we are most loth to 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-
uine;
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.
XXV
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 8oft\
114
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
And as he thus over his passion hung,
He heard a laugh full musical aloft;
When, looking up, he saw her features
bright
Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.
xxyi
' Love, Isabel! * said he, * I was in pain
Lest I should miss to bid thee a good
morrow:
Ah ! 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 1 1 11 soon be back.' — ' Good
bye !' said she: —
And as he went she chanted merrily.
XXVII
So the two brothers and their murder'd
man
Rode past fair Florence, to where Amo's
stream
Gurgles through straightened banks, and
still doth fan
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the
bream
Keeps head against the 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 I 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.
XXIX
They told their sister how, with sadden
speed,
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands.
Because of some great urgency and need
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.
Poor Girl 1 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 1
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?'
XXXI
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.
XXXII
In the mid days of autunm, on their eves
The breath of Winter comes from tu
away.
And the sick west continually bereaves
Of some gold tinge, and plays a rounde-
lay
Of death among the bushes and the leav«|
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
"S
XXXIII
Becaiae Lomuo came not. Oftentimes
She ftflk'd her brothers, with an eye all
Dale.
8trhrin|^ to be itself, what dungeon climes
Could keep him off so long ? They spake
atale
Time after time, to quiet her. Their
crimes
Came on them, like a smoke from Hin-
nom*s Tale;
And erexy night in dreams they groan'd
alond.
To see their sister in her snowy shroud.
XXXIV
And she had died in drowsy ignorance,
Bui for a thing more deadly dark than
•II;
It eame like a fierce potion, drunk by
chance.
Which sares a sick man from the feath-
ered pall
For some few gasping moments; like a
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall
Witk emel pierce, and bringing him again
ScBM el the gnawing fire at heart and
brain.
XXXV
It was a Tision. — In the drowsy gloom,
The dnll of midnight, at her couch's foot
Lmmmo stood, and wept: the forest tomb
Had marr'd his glossy hair which once
eonld shoot
ImUij into the sun, and put cold doom
Upon hb lips, and taken the soft lute
Fumb hb lorn Toice, and past his loamed
Bad Bade a miry channel for his tears.
XXXVI
tooad it was, when the pale shadow
Far there was striving, in its piteous
To speak as when on earth it was awake.
And Isabella on its music hung:
Languor there was in it, and tremulous
shake,
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung;
And through it moan'd a ghostly under-
song,
Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars
among.
XXXVII
Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy
bright
With love, and kept all phantom fear
aloof
From the poor girl by magic of their light.
The while it did unthread the horrid
woof
Of the late darkened time, — the murder-
ous spite
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine
roof
In the forest, — and the sodden turfed
dell,
Where, without any word, from stabs he
feU.
XXXVIII
Saying moreover, * Isabel, my sweet !
Red whortleberries droop above my
head,
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my
feet;
Around me beeches and high chestnuts
shed
Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheepfold
bleat
Comes from beyond the river to my bed:
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom.
And it shall comfort me within the tomb.
XXXIX
' I am a shadow now, alas ! alas !
Upon the skirts of human nature dwell*
ing
Alone: I chant alone the holy mass,
While little sounds of life are round me
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.
XL
' 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 bibs.
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 moum'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 staxted up awake
XLII
* Ha I ha I ' said she, * I knew not this hard
life,
I thought the worst was simple misery;
I 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 mom and even in the skies.'
XLIII
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.
XLIV
Sfl^, ^ tbfty ftreftp itlong the rivef tf\df^
How she doth whisper to that aged
Same,
And, after looking round the champaign
wide.
Shows her a knife. — 'What feverous
hectic flame
Bums in thee, child? — what good can
thee betide.
That thou shouldst smile again?' —
The evening came, .
^gdJfl^gy. .^ftd found Lorenzo's earthy bed;
JThe ^tjiASLth^re, the berries at his head.
XLV
Who hath not loiter'd in a green ohnreh-
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.
XLVI
She gazed into the fresh-thro^m ^"^"^'^i —
_jthough
One glance did f uUy^Ujj
ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL
117
Clearlj she saw, as other eyes would know
Fde limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
Upon the muzderoos spot she seem'd to
grow.
Like to a natiTe lily of the dell:
Then with her knife, all sadden, she began
t^o dig more I enrentlj than misers can.
XLVII
Soon she tnm'd up a soiled glove, whereon
Her silk had play'd in purple phanta-
She kias'd it with a lip more chill than
stone.
And pat it in her bosom, where it dries
And freezes utterly unto the bone
Tbose dainties made to still an infant's
cries;
Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her
Bat to throw back at times her veiling hair.
XLVIII
That old nurse stood beside her wonder-
ing>
Untfl her heart felt pity to the core
At s^ht of such a dismal labouring,
And so she kneeled, with her locks all
hoar.
And pot her lean hands to the horrid
thing:
Thrae hoars they labour'd at this travail
sore:
At last they felt the kernel of the g^ve,
And Isab»Ma di'^ n^t nUswf and rave.
XLIX
Ahf wherefore all this wormy circum-
stanee?
Why linger at the yawning tomb so
Umg?
0 for the gentleness of old Romance,
The simple plaining of a minstrel's song I
fair reader, at the old tale take a glance,
For here, in truth, it doth not well be-
Xi speak: — O torn thee to the very tale,
the nmaic of that vision pale.
With duller steel than the Persian sword
They 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, inmiortal 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.
LI
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 chiUy 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.
LII
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.
LIII
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 chiUy autumn bieeia\
if6
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
She had no knowledge when the day was
done,
And the new mom she saw not: but in
peace
Hong 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.
LV
«
O Melancholy, linger here awhile I
v) Music, Music, breathe despondingly !
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.
LVI
Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe.
From 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.
LVII
O leave the palm to wither by itself;
Let not quick Winter chill its dying
hour ! —
It may not be — those Baftlites of pelf.
Her brethren, noted the continual shower
From her dead eyes; and many a carious
elf.
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 flourished, as by magic touch;
GreaUy they wonder'd what the thing
might mean:
They could not surely gfive belief, that such
A very nothing would have power to
wean
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasnrea
gayt
And even remembrance of her love*s delay»
LIX
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 ben-bird, sat her there
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair»
LX
Yet they_contrived to ete^ihfiJBasil-pot, .
^ And to examine it in ^eczet ^lace :
The thing was vile with |^en and livi4
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 spaoe^ ^
Never to turn again. — Away they went.
With blood upon their heads, to banishment.
LXI
O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away I
O Music, Music, breathe despondinglj t
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO MAIA
119
0 Eeho^ Eeho^ on loiiie other day,
f^om klM Letheaiiy sigh to as — O
sigh!
Spiiits of gtitif sing not yoor 'Well-a-
wmyf
For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die;
Will die a death too lone and incomplete,
Now tbej have ta'en away her Basil sweet.
Lxn
KteoQS she look'd on dead and senseless
things,
Askii^ for her lost Basil amorously:
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
Of her lorn roice, she oftentimes would
cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings.
To ask him where her Basil was ; and why
Twae hid from her: 'For cruel *<
*To steal my Basil-pot away from me/
And
Xo
Lxni
she pined, and so she died forlorn,
for her Basil to the last.
was there in Florence but did
la pity of her love, so overcast.
Aad a sad ditty of this story bom
From mouth to mouth through all the
eoontry pass'd :
Still ia the biuthen sung — ' O cruelty,
Te steal my Basil-pot away from me ! '
TO HOMER
1818 was affixed to this by Lord
in Life, Letters and Litermy Re-
it was first published, and is found
it oeeurs in the IMlke manuscripts.
to Reynolds, dated April 27, 1818,
ei^^erly of his desire to study
Of
ksM
aloof in giant ignorance,
I bear and of the Cyclades,
who nts ashore and longs perchance
dolphiii-ooral 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 tbou, as it once befell
To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven^
and Hell.
FRAGMENT OF AN ODE TO
MAIA
Ck>pied 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
sympathy 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.
I20
THE POEMS OF i8 18-18 19
SONG
First pablished in X(f«, Letters and Literary
RemainSf 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' youVe padded his night-cap — O
sweet Isabel I
Tho' your feet are more light than a
Faery's feet,
Who dances on bubbles where brook-
lets meet, —
Hush, hush I soft tiptoe ! hush, hush, my
dear I
For less than a nothing the jealous can
hear.
II
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 I ah gently ! ah tenderly —
sweet !
We are dead if that latchet gfiyes one
little clink I
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 loTes
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 C^orge and wife set
sul 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 ia
letters, chiefly to his brother Tom. He did not
indude any in the volume which he published
in 1820, and they first saw the light when Lofd
Houghton included them in the Xt/is, Letters
and Literary Remains, The more ofiP-hand and
familiar verses written at this time are given in
the Appendix.
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS
Written at Dumfries on the evening of July
Ij 1818. * Bums's tomb,* writes Keats, ' is ia
the Churchyard comer, not very much to my
taste, though on a scale laige 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.'
Ths 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
From Winter's ague, for one hoards
gleam;
Though sapphire-¥rarm, their Staxs do
never beam:
VERSES WRITTEN DURING A TOUR IN SCOTLAND 121
AH it oold Beauty; pain is never done:
For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise,
The Bcal oi Beaotj, free from that dead
hue
8ieklj imagination and sick pride
Csst wan upon it I Bums ! with honour
doe
I oft hare hononr'd thee. Great
shadow, hide
Thj fsee; I sin against thy native skies.
u
TO AILSA ROCK
Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made
thee steep,
Another cannot wake thy giant size.
croaed to Ireland for a short
after retuming to Scotland, nuuie
way into Aynhire, entering it a little
Caim. "Dieir walk led them into
wooded gl«i. 'At the end,' writes
July 10, 1818, ' we had a gradual ascent
got among the tops of the mountains
in a little time I descried in the Sea
Book, 940 feet high— it was 15 Bfiles
and seemed close upon us. The effect
the peculiar perspectiye of the
ia eoaneetion with the ground we stood on,
the misty rain then falling gave me a corn-
Idea of a deluge. Ailsa struck me very
— really I was a little alarmed.'
of Aiiaa
Hbamsev, thoa craggy ocean pyramid !
GiTe answer from thy voice, the sea-
foids' screams!
were thy shoulders mantled in
knge streams?
from the sun, was thy hroad fore-
hid?
is 't since the mighty power hid
heave to airy sleep from fathom
dreams?
Seep in the lap of thunder or snnheams.
Or when gray clouds are thy cold coverlid.
Tk« aaswer'st not; for thou art dead
asleep;
Thy life is but two dead eternities —
Hi last in air, the former in the deep;
rmt with the whales, Uwt with the eagle-
ni
WRITTEN IN THE COTTAGE WHERE
BURNS WAS BORN
From Kingswell's, July 13, 1818, Keats
wrote of his experience in visiting Bums's
hirthplace : * 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
hy the hlack Mountains of the isle of Annan.
As soon as I saw them so nearhy I said to my-
self, ** How is it they did not heckon Bums
to some grand attempt at Epic ? " The honny
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 Alio way." As
we were looking at it a Farmer pointed the
spots where Mungo's Mither hang'd hersel'
and " drunken Charlie hrake 's neck's hane."
Then we proceeded to the Ck>ttage he was horn
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 Bums's memory with an
old Man who knew Bums — 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 Bnms*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.' He wrote in the same strain to Rey-
nolds, sayinfir, * 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 visi tings —
Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable
reality, but it is greater than remembrance.
. . . One song of Bums's is of more worth to
you than all I could think for a whole year in
his native country.'
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
Tkib mortal body of it tbousaod daya
Now fills, 0 Burns, a spiLce in thine own
"Where tbou didst dream alone on budded
Happy and thonghtleBs of thy day of
doom I
M; pulae is warm with thine old Barlej-
My head ia light with pledging & great
My ejea are wandering, and I cannot see,
Fancy is dead and diuukcu at its goAl;
Tet can I stamp my foot upon thy fioor.
Yet can I ope thy window-ansh to find
The meadow thou hast tramped o'er ttnd
Yet oan I think of theo till thought is
blind, —
Yet can I gulp a bumpec to thy natne, —
O Knile among the abades, for this is fame 1
AT fingal's cave
The TeraeB which follow were first printed
in Life, Letters and Liitrari/ Remains. They
occur in a letter to Tom KeaU from Obao,
Jidy 26, 181S, and were preceded by this dc-
acriptTion r ' I am puiiled how to give yon nn
Idea of !jt.iffa. It caa ool; be represented by
s fltst-rate drawing. One may compare the
■urfncB of the Island to a roof — this n>af is
■nppat^d by grand pillars of tiasBlt standing
toother aa thick as haneyeoiabB. The finest
thing is Fingal's cave — it is entirely a hoUow-
ing out of Basalt Pillars. Suppose nov the
Giants who rebelled gainst Jove had taken a
whole Moss of blnuk Columns und bound them
together like bunthes of matches — and then
with inmieoae aies hod made a cavern in Ui«
body of these columns — Of course the roof
and door most be composed of the broken ends
■ of the Colnmns — such is Fingal's caye, eicept
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 ptUan
which ore left as if for
roof is aiehed somewhat gothio-wise, and the
length of some of the entire side-pdlara is fifty
feet. About the island you might seat an
army of men each an a piliar. The length of
the Cave is 120 feet, and from ia extremity
the view into the sea, through the lar^ arch
at the entrance — the colour of the colnnm is
a sort of black with a lurking gloom of purple
therein. For solenmity and graudeur it far
surpasses the finest Cathedriij. At the ex-
tremity of the Cave tliare is a smaU perfora-
tion into another Cave, at which the waters
meeting und buffeting each other there is some-
Ijtuos produced a report as of a uanaun heard as
far as lona, which must bo 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 crysCni. But it is im-
possible to describe iL'
Not Aladdin magian
Ever such a work began;
Not the wizard of the Dee
Ever such a dream could see;
Not St. John, in Patmoa' 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 ita roofing under.
Lo I I saw one sleeping there,
On the marble cold an<l bare;
While the aiirgcs wash'd his feet,
And his garments white did beat
Drench'd about the sombre rocks;
Ou his neck his well-grown loekg,
Lifted dry ubovo the main,
Were npon the curl again.
' What is this ? and what art thou ? '
Whisper'd I, and toucb'd his brow;
' What art thou ? and what is this ? '
Whisper'd I, and strove to kiss
The spirit's hand, to wake hia eyes;
Up he started in a trice:
' I am Ljcidos,' said be,
' Famod in funeral minatrelsy )
This was architcctured thus
By the great Oceanus ! —
Here hia mighty waters play
TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL 123
HoDow orgmos mil tlie day;
Here, hj tuniSy his dolphiiis all,
Ffamj palmeny great and smaU,
Come to paj deTotion dae, —
Eadi a moath of pearls most strew I
Mao J a mortal of these days
Dares to pass our saored ways;
Dares to touch, audaciously,
This cathedral of the sea I
I haye heen the pontiff-priest.
Where the waters never rest,
Where a fledgy sea-bird choir
Soars for ever ! Holy fire
I hare hid from mortal man;
Phitens is my Sacristan !
But the dulled eye of mortal
Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal;
So for ever wiU I leave
Such a taint, and soon unweave
All the magic of the place/
So saying, with a Spirit's glance
He dived I
WRITTEN UPON THE TOP OF BEN NEVIS
in a letter to Tom Keats from
Letter Findlay, August 3, 18ia
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
Msnkiwd do know of hell; I look o'erhead.
And there is sullen mist, — even so much
Msnkind can tell of heaven; mist is spread
Before the earth, beneath me, — even
sneh.
Even so vague is man's sight of himself !
Hers are the eraggy stones beneath my
feet,—
IWs much I know that, a poor witless elf,
I tread on them, — that all my eye doth
Ii mist and erag, not only on this height,
hx in the world of thought and mental
might!
TRANSLATION FROM A SONNET
OF RONSARD
Published in Life, Letters and Literary Be^
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 : * Yon have passed your Romance, and
I never g^ve 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 filPd 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 ber beauty into my warm
veins.
TO A LADY SEEN FOR A FEW
MOMENTS AT VAUXHALL
First published in Uood^s Magazine for April
1844, and afterward indnded in Li/«, Letters
and Literary Remains. No date is g^ven, and
the poem is pUused here from a fancied a8M>-
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,
181&
124
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
TiMs's sea hath been five years at its slow
ebb,
Long hours have to and fro let creep the
sandy
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web.
And snared by the ungloving 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: — Thou
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 Qeorge and Qeoigiana KeatE^
January 2, 1819. He included the poem in the
1820 Tolnme. Mr. John Knowles Paine has
published a cantata for soprano solo, choros,
and orchestra, entitled The Realm of Fancy,
usmg these lines for his book.
EvEB 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, 10
And the enjoying of the Spring '
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autunm'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 ao
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 I
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 Autunm's vrealth.
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup.
And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear
Dbtant harvest-carols clear; 40
Rustle of the reaped com;
Sweet birds antheming the mom:
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
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 60
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
SONG
"S
llieii the hony and alarm
When the bee-hire easts its swarm ;
Aeome ripe down-pattering
While the antnmn breezes sing.
Oh, sweet Fancy I let her loose;
Efery thing is spoilt by use;
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade.
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 70
Whose lip mature is ever new ?
Where 's the eye, howcTer 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
Ddeet-eyed as Ceres' daughter
Ere 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
Sfipt its golden clasp, and down
FeD her kirtle to her feet.
While she held the goblet sweet,
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash; 90
Quickly break her prison-string,
And sneh joys as these she 11 bring. —
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Fkasnre never is at home.
ODE
WrittSB on the blank page before Beaumont
tad Fletdier's tngi-oomedy, The Fair Maid of
lie Jmm, and addreweii thus to these bards in
pBtiealar. Sent in a letter to George and Geor-
paaa Keats, January 2, 1819. It is included
ii the 1820 volume.
Babd8 oi Fsssion and of Mirth,
Te have left your souls on earth !
Have je seals in heaven too,
Do«ble-lived in regions new ?
Tesy and those of heaven commune
With the spheres of sun and moon;
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 10
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; so
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-bom souls still speak
To mortals, of their little week; 30
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,
Te have left your souls on earth I
Ye have souls in heaven too,
Double-lived in regions new I 40
SONG
' There is just room, I see, in this page to
copy a little thing I wrote off to some Muaie
as it was playing.* Keats to George and
G^igiana Keats, January 2, 1810.
I HAD a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
;i26
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet
were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's
weaving;
Sweet little red feet ! why shoald you
die —
Why should you leave me, sweet bird 1
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 Lamiaj 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*8 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 8a3rB : * 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 nngnlar 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 —
** glat thy sorrow on ft morning row
Or on tha rftinbow of the salt Mmd^ware,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; *'
and which essentially
** Ures In Beftuty — Besnty that most die.
And Joy, whose hand is erer st his lips
Bidding ftdieo.**
The first stanza, therefore, was the following :
as grim a passage as Blake or Foseli could
have dreamed and painted : —
** Though yon should build ft bark of dead men's bones,
And rear a platform gibbet for a mast,
Stitch shrouds togrther for a sail, with groans
Tb fill it out, blood-stahied and aghast ;
Although your rudder be a drag(m*s tail
Long severed, yet still hard with agony.
Your cordage large uprootings from the sknU
Of bald Medusa, oertes you would fail
To find the Melancholy — whether she
Dreameth in any ide 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
luxurious tenderness which it was the object
of the poem to produce, and he confined the
g^ross notion of Melancholy to less violent im-
ages, and let the ode at once begin, — '
I
No, no ! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poison-
ous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries.
Nor let the beetle, or 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.
u
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping
cloud.
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the g^en hills in an April
shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a momiujg 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 ravs,
And feed deep, deep upon lier peerless
eyes.
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
127
III
Sie dwells with Beanty — Beaaty that
most die;
And Jojf whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adiea; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Taming to poison while the hee-mouth
sips:
Aje, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose
strenuous tongue
Can hurst Joy's grape against his palate
fine;
Hit soul shall taste the sadness of her
might.
And be among her cloudy trophies
hong.
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
Begun early in 1819. In a letter to George
ad Georgiana Keats, dated Febmary 14, 1810,
Keati says : ' I was nearly a fortnight at Mr.
JohnSoook's and a few days at old Mr. Dilke*s
(Chirbestcr in Hampshire). Nothing worth
of happened at either place. I took
some thin paper and wrote on it a little
called St Agnes's Eve.' The poem
a great deal of revision, and was not
■ final form before September ; it was pub-
the 1820 volume.
St. Agnes' Eve— Ah, bitter chill it
wasi
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The bare limp'd trembling through the
frosen grass.
And silent was the flock in woolly fold :
Nnmb wens the Beadsman's fingers, while
he told
Hb RMazy, and while his frosted breath.
Like pSoas incense from a censer old,
fietm'd taking flight for heaven, without
a death,
Bat Ike sweet Virgin's picture, while his
pcayer ke saith.
II
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy
man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his
knees.
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot,
wan.
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptured dead, on each side, seem
to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and hb weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods
and mails.
Ill
Northward he tumeth through a little
door,
And scarce three steps, ere Music's
golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and
poor;
But no — already had his death-bell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and
sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes'
Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for hb soul's re-
prieve.
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake
to grieve.
IV
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 thoosand
guests:
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed.
128
THE POEMS OF 1818-18x9
Stared, where upon their heads the cor-
And back retired; not cool'd by high dis-
nice rests,
dain,
With hair blown back, and wings pat cross-
But she saw not: her heart was other-
wise on their breasts.
where;
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest
V
of the year.
At length burst in the argent revelry,
With plume, tiara, and all rich array,
VIII
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily
She danced along with vague, regardless
The brain, new-stuff'd, in youth, with
eyes,
triumphs gay
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and
Of old romance. These let us wish
short:
away,
The haUow'd hour was near at hand: she
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one L«ady
sighs
there,
Amid the timbrels, and the throog'd
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry
resort
day.
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport;
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and
care.
scorn.
As she had heard old dames full many
Hoodwink'd with ^ry fancy; all amort.
times declare.
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs nn^
shorn.
VI
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow
They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve,
mom.
Young virgins might have visions of
delight.
IX
And soft adorings from their loves re-
So, purposing each moment to retire.
ceive
She lingered still. Meantime, across the
Upon the honey'd middle of the night,
moors.
If ceremonies due they did aright;
Had come young Porphyro, with heart
As, supperless to bed they must retire,
on fire
And couch supine their beauties, lily
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors,
white;
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he^
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re-
and implores
quire
All saints to give him sight of Madeline,
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that
But for one moment in the tedious hours,
they desire.
That he might gaze and worship all un-
flAAn .
VII
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in
Full of this whim was thoughtful Made-
line:
The music, yearning like a God in pain.
sooth such things have been.
X
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes
He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell:
divine.
All eyes be mufified, or a hundred swords
Fiz'd on the J9oor, saw many a sweeping
Will storm his heart. Love's fev'roat
train
citadel:
Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain
For him, those chambers held barbarian
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier.
hordes,
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
129
HjBBa foemeiiy and hot4>looded lords.
And as she mutter'd * Well-a — well-a-
WlMMe reiydogi would ezeoratioiis howl
day!'
Agaiaat hia lineage: not one hreast af-
He found him in a little moonlight room,
fords
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb.
Him anj merey, in that mansion foul,
'Now tell me where is Madeline,' said
St?e one old beldame, weak in body and in
he.
sooL
' 0 tell me, Angela, by the holy loom
XI
Which none but secret sisterhood may
Ah, happ J chance 1 the' aged creature
see,
came,
When they St Agnes' wool are weaying
Shoffling along with iyory-headed wand,
piously.'
To where he stood, hid from the torch's
XIV
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond
' St. Agnes 1 Ah 1 it is St. Agnes' Eye —
The soond 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 EWes and
&ce.
Fays,
To venture so: it fills me with amaze
hand.
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes'
Saying, * Merey, Porphyro ! hie thee
Eve!
from this place;
Grod's help ! my lady fair the conjuror
They are all here to-night, the whole
plays
bloodthirsty race 1
This very night: good angels her de-
XII
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time
Get henee ! get hence 1 there 's dwarf-
to grieve.'
ish Hildebrand;
He had a ferer late, and in the fit
XV
He enrsed thee and thine, both house and
Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon.
land:
While Porphyro upon her face doth look.
Tkn there 's that old Lord Maurice, not
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone
a whit
Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-
Mote tame for his gray hairs — Alas me !
book.
ffiti
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook.
Fill like a ghost away.' — 'Ah, Gossip
But soon hb eyes grew brilliant, when she
dear.
told
We're safe enough; here in thin arm-
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could
ehair sit.
brook
Aad ten me bow' — 'Good SainU 1 not
Tears, at the thought of those enchant-
here, not here;
ments cold.
FtDow me, ehild, or else these stones will
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old.
be thy bier.'
XVI
xin
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown
He foQow'd through a lowly arehed way,
rose.
Bnshing tlie eobwebs with his lof^
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 praj, and sleep, and
dream
Alone with her good angels, far apart
From wicked men like thee. Gro, go I I
deem
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou
didst seem.'
XVII
*1 will not harm her, by all saints I
swear,'
Quoth Porphyro: *0 may I ne'er find
grace
When my weak voice shall whisper its
last prayer,
If one of her soft ringlets I displace.
Or look with rufBan passion in her face:
Good Angela, believe me by these tears;
Or 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 I 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 mom 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.
XX
<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 I thou must needs the
lady wed.
Or may I never leave my grave among
the dead.'
XXI
So saying she hobbled off with busy fear.
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd;
The Dame retum'd, and whisper'd in
his ear
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast
From fright of dim espial. Safe at but,
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain
The maiden's chamber, silken, hosh'd
and chaste;
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased
amain.
His poor guide hurried back with agues in
her brain.
xxn
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustradei
I Old Angela was feeling for the stair.
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
131
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed
maidt
Boie, like a miasion'd spirit, anaware:
With tilTer taper's light, and pious care,
She tam'd, and down the aged gossip led
To a safe lerel matting. Now prepare,
TonngPorphjro, for gazing on that hed;
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove
Iraj'd and fled.
xxin
Out went the taper as she harried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine,
died:
She closed the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No ottered syllahle, or, woe hetide I
Bot to her heart, her heart was voluhle,
Pkining with eloquence her halmjr side;
As though a tongueless nightingale
should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in
her dell.
XXIV
A easement high and triple arch'd there
An garlanded with carven imageries
Of £niii% and flowers, and hunches of
knot-grass,
Aid diamonded with panes of quaint de-
vice,
TawimeraMe of stains and splendid
djes.
Am are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd
irings;
Aid m the midst, 'mong thousand herald-
Aad twilight saints, and dim emhlazon-
AiUelded scntcheoo hlush'd with hlood of
queens and kings.
XXV
Fofl on thb casement shone the wintry
lad threw warm gales on Madeline's
As down she knelt for heaven's grace
and hoon;
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together
prest.
And on her silver cross soft amethyst.
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro grew
faint;
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from
mortal taint
XXVI
Anon his heart revives: her vespers
done.
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she
frees; ,
Unclasps her warmed > jewels one by
one; "^
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her
knees:
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed,
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and
sees,
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed.
But dares not look behind, or all the charm
is fled.
XXVII
Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly
nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she
lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep op-
press'd
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued
away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-
day;
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and
pain;
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Pay-
nims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from
rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud
again.
132
THE POEMS OF 1818-18x9
XXVIII
Stol'ii to this paradise, and so entranced,
Forphyro gazed npon her empty dress.
And listen'd to her breathing, if it
chanced
To wake into a slumberoos tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did
he bless,
And breathed himself: then from the
closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness.
And over the hush'd carpet, silent,
stept,
And 'tween the cnrtuns peep'd, where, lo !
— how ftist she slept
XXIX
Then by the bed-side, where the faded
moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half angoish'd, threw
thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and
jet: —
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet I
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion.
The ketde-drum, and far-heard clarionet.
Affray his ears, though but in dying
tone: —
The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise
is gone.
XXX
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanchg^ linen, smooth, and laven-
der'd,
While he from forth the closet brought
a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and
gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy
curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferred
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every
one.
From silken Samarcand to cedar^d Leba-
non.
XXXI
These delicates he heap'd with glowing
hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they
stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume
Ught. —
'And now, my love, my seraph £air»
awake !
Thou art my heaven, and I thine ere-
mite:
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes^
sake,
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul
doth ache.'
XXXII
Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved
arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her
dream
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a mid-
night charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight
gleam ;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet
lies:
It seem'd he never, never oould redeem
From such a steadfast spell his lady'a
eyes;
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phaii*
tasies.
XXXIII
Awakening up, he took her hollow
lute, —
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that ten-
derest be,
He play'd an ancient ditty, long siiioe
mute.
In Provence call'd ' La beUe dame sans
mercy: *
Close to her ear touching the melody;—
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soil
moan:
\
\
THE EVE OF ST. AGNES
133
Hft eeued — she panted qoick — and
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind
raddmlj
blows
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
like Love's alarum pattering the sharp
Upon bit knees be sank, pale a^^jmooth-..
sleet
msigtaaiiMsS$:
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 painfnl change, that nigh
blown sleet:
expeU'd
* This is no dream, my bride, my Made-
Tlie blisses of her dream so pure and
line!'
deep
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave andL
At iriiieb 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
Wbo 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 ?<nee was at sweet tremble in mine
XXXVIII
•»,
' 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 ?
dear:
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and
How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill.
vermeil dyed ?
and drear !
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my
Gife me that voice again, my Porphyro,
rest
Those looks immortal, those complain-
After so many hours of toQ 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
f«r if thoa diest, my Love, I know not
nest
where to go.'
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st
' well "
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.
XXXVI
Btyond a mortal man impassioned far
it these voluptuous accents, he arose.
XXXIX
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing
* Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery
star
land.
8nB mid the sapphire heaven's deep re-
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
pose;
Arise — arise I the morning is at hand : —
liiifc kar> ^*«ff«w K*> m^l^, ipf ^ i¥w>
The bloated wassailers will never heed : —
Ih^eth its odoor with the viohtL —
Let us away, my love, with happy s^jeedx
134
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to
see, —
Drown'd all in Bhenish and the sleepy
mead:
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be.
For o'er the southern moors I have a home
for thcfe.'
XL
She harried 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,
FLattep'd. in the beaieeng^md?8,-a£3^
roar;
And the long carpets rosejJongthe 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
stoues; —
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-nightmared. Angela the
old
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face
deform ;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told.
For aye unsonght-for slept among his ashes
cold.
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN
Lempri^*8 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 which scholars some-
times fail to possess, and when he strolled into
the British Museum and saw the Elg^in marbles,
the g^atest remains in continnons 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 modem, 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 1810 and first published in Janu-
ary, 1820, in Anncdt of the Fine Arts. There are
then about four years in time between the stm*
net, * On first looking into Chapman's Homer,'
and this ode ; if the former sug^sts a BalboSi
this suggests a Magellan who has traversed the
Pacific. It is not needful to find any sin|^
piece of ancient sculpture as a model for ih^
poem, although there is at Holland Hoqm,
where Keats might have seen it, an nm wilk
just such a scene of pastoral sacrifice as is de»
scribed in the fourth stanza. The ode was
included by Keats in Lamia, IsaheUcL, Ike £bt
of St, Agnes and other Poemg, >
ODE ON INDOLENCE
I3S
Thou still unraTiah'd bride of qaietness,
ThoQ foster-child of Silence and slow
Hmey
Sjlvmn historiany 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 Tempo 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
Heaid melodies are sweet, but those un-
heard
Axe sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
{day on;
5ot to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair yooth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave
Thy song, nor CTcr can those trees be
hare;
Bold LoTcr, never, never canst thou
Mm,
Thoagh winning near the goal — yet, do
not grieve;
SbB cannot fade, though thou hast not
thy bliss, 19
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair I
III
iftb ^pP7f happy boughs! that cannot
died
Tear leaves, nor ever bid the Spring
adieu;
iad, htuppj melodist, unwearied.
For ever piping songs for ever new;
Khv bappy love! more happy, happy
lovel
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
doy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching
tongue.
30
IV
Who are these coming to the sacrifice ?
To what g^en 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 teU
Why thou art desolate, can e'er re-
turn. 40
O Attic shape I Fair attitude I with brede^
Of marble men and maidens overwrought, ia
With forest branches and the trodden weed; *^
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of .
thought
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! f
When old age shall this generation waste, c
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other x
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 Lifej Letters and Literary i?e-
mains. In a letter to Geor^ and Gkorgiana
Keats, dated March 19, 18 10, Keats uses lan-
g^uage which shows this poem to have been
just then in his mind : * This morning I am in a
sort of temper, indolent and snpremel^ cax«V
136
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
— I long after a stanza or two of Thomaon's
CSastle of Indolence — my pauions are all
asleepf from my haying elnmbered till nearly
eleren, and weaJcened the animal fibre all orer
me, to a delightful sensation, abont 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 conmion 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 Loto hare any alertness of
countenance as they pass by me ; they teem
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 oTerpowering the Mind.'
One mom 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 um,
When shifted round to see the other
side;
They came again; as when the um
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.
II
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 8ummer4ndolenoe
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
Unhannted quite of all but — nothing-
ness?
Ill
A third time pass'd they by, and, passing,
tum'd
Each one the face a moment whiles to
me;
Then faded, and to follow them I bnm'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 an-
meek, —
I knew to be my demon Poesy.
IV
They faded, and, forsooth I I wanted
wings:
O folly I What is Love ? and where is
it?
And for that poor Ambition I 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 <^wBy
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 I
ODE TO FANNY
137
And onee more eame thej by; — alas!
wherefore?
Mj sleep bad been embroidered with dim
dreams;
My soal bad been a lawn besprinkled
o'er
^Vith flowers, and stirring shades, and
bafBed beams:
The mom was clouded, but no shower fell,
Tho* in ber lids bung the sweet tears of
May;
The open casement press'd a new-
leaTed vine.
Let in the badding warmth and throstle's
Uy;
0 Shadows ! 't was a time to bid farewell !
Upon yoor skirts had fidlen no tears
of mine.
VI
So, je three Ghosts, adieu I Ye cannot
Mt bead cool -bedded in the flowery
For I would not be dieted with praise,
' A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce !
Fide softly from my eyes and be once
more
In masque-like figures on the dreamy
nm;
Farewell ! I yet have visions for the
night,
Aad for the day faint visions there is store;
Vanish, ye Phantoms ! from my idle
sprig^t,
Isto the clouds, and nevermore return !
SONNET
PsUiihed in Idfej Letters and Literary Re-
^nju. In a letter to his brother George and
vift, Keats writes March 19, 1810: 'I am
**v afraid that your anxiety for me will lead
?n to fear for the violence of my tempera-
■■t eootiBaally snutthered down: for that
*MM I did aot intend to have sent yon the
Wbviig aooDet — bat 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 vrill be the best comment
on my sonnet ; it vrill show you that it was
written with no Agony but that of ignorance ;
with no thirst of an3rthing but Knowledge
when pushed to the point, though the fiist
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 Grod, 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 I 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 Li/ej Letters and Literary
RemainSy 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 I
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 1818-1819
Ah I dearest love, sweet home of all mj
fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting mis-
eries, —
To-night, if I may g^ess, 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 g^edy looks, eats up my
feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon !
Ah I 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 — 'tb
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
Annf /
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 Georgfiana Keats, April IS 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 Fnui-
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 ag^ — and in the
midst of all this cold and darlmess I was warm
— even flowery tree-tops sprung 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.' Keats after-
wards printed the sonnet in The Indicator for
June 28, 1820.
As Hermes once took to his feathers light.
When lulled Argus, baffled, swoon'd and
slept
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spHght
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
139
So play'dy ao charm'd, so conquer'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 seeond 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 storm.
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
Seat in a letter to Qeorge and Georg^iana
Keiita, April 28, 1819, and printed by Leigh
Hnt in The Indicator, Bfay 10, 1820. Hnnt
»yi the poem was snggested by that title at
tke head of a translation from Alan Chartier
at the end of Qiancer's works.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight.
Alone and palely loitering ?
Iks sedge is wither'd from the lake.
And no birds sing.
II
Ak, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone ?
Ike sqairrel's granary is full,
Aad the harvest 's done.
Ill
I ne a lily on thy brow.
With anguish moist and fever dew;
Aid on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV
I aet a lady in the meads.
Fan beantaful — a faery's child ;
Her katr was long, her foot was light,
Aad her eyes were 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.
VII
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 g^t.
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 I
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 Merd
Hath thee in thrall I '
XI
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.
XII
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the
lake.
And no birds sing.
I40
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
CHORUS OF FAIRIES
Inclosed in a letter to George and Gkoigiana
Keats, April 28, 1810, and printed in Life,
Letters and Literary Remains.
FIRE, AIR, EARTH, AND WATER
SALAMANDER, ZEPHYR, DUSKETHA, AND
BREAMA
SALAMANDER
Hafpt, happy glowing fire !
ZEPHYR
Fragrant air 1 delicious light !
DUSKETHA
Let me to my glooms retire !
BREAMA
I to green-weed rivers bright I
SALAMANDER
Happy, happy glowing fire I
Dazzling bowers of soft retire.
Ever let my nourished wing.
Like a bat's, still wandering,
Faintly fan your fiery spaces,
Spirit sole in deadly places. 10
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 ang^r their live tapestries; 20
Free from cold, and every care.
Of chilly rain, and shivering air.
ZEPHYR
Spright of Fire I 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 I away I
BREAMA
Spright of Fire — away ! away !
Zephyr, blue-eyed Faery, turn.
And see my oool 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 I true,
Soothly I am sick for you.
30
4C
ZEPHYR
Gentle Breama ! by the first
Violet young nature uurst,
I will bathe myself with thee.
So you sometime follow me
To my home, far, far, in west.
Far beyond the search and quest
Of the golden-browed sun.
Come with me, o'er tops of trees.
To my fragrant palaces.
Where they ever floating are
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.
And too unlucent for thee make.
I love thee, crystal Faery, true !
Sooth I am as sick for you I
SALAMANDER
Out, ye aguish Faeries, out !
Chilly lovers, what a rout
Keep ye with your frozen breath.
Colder than the mortal death.
Adder-eyed Dusketha, speak.
Shall we leave them, and go seek
In the earth's wide entrails old
Couches warm as theirs is cold ?
O for a fiery gloom and thee.
*«
60
70
FAERY SONGS
141
Dnikffthm, lo eDchaniingly
FieeUe-wiog'd and lizard-sided !
DUSKETHA
By thee, Spright, will I be gaided I
I eare not for cold or heat;
Frost and flame, or sparks, or sleet,
To my essence are the same; —
Bat I bonoor 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 nnlidded eyes.
SALAMANDER
Sweet Dnsketha ! paradise !
Off, ye icy Spirits, fly I
Frosty creatures of the sky !
DUSKETHA
Breathe npon them, fiery Spright ! 90
ZEPHYR, BREAMA (fo ioch oiker)
Away f away to our delight I
SALAMANDER
Go, feed on icicles, while we
Bedded in tongued flames will be.
DUSKETHA
Lad me to these fev'rous glooms,
Spright of fire!
BREAMA
Me to the blooms,
Bbe 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, ,
Aie shed thro' the rain and the milder
misty
Aad twilight your floating bowers.
100
FAERY SONGS
T^^M two iongt are given in JJft^ Letters
^ Xitarorf Remams, but without date. It
seems not inapt to place them near the Song of
Four Fairies.
I
Shed no tear ! O shed no tear I
The flower wiU bloom another year.
Weep no more I O weep no more !
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes ! O dry your eyes.
For I 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 mau*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 !
II
Ah ! woe is me I poor silver-wing I
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 I ah ! woe is me !
That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall 1
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 pag^ I 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 I poor Queen !
1-:
142
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
ON FAME
* Yoo cannot eat your cake and have it too.' ~ Proverb.
Sent with the next two to G^rge and G^igi-
mna Keats, April 80, 1810, and printed in Xi/e,
Letter$ and LiUrary Remains,
HoW feyer'd is thai man, who cannot look
Upon his mortal days with temperate
blood,
Who yezes all the leares 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 g^t with muddy
gloom.
But the rose leayes 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
FAifE, like a wayward g^rl, 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-bom,
Sister-in-law to jealous Potiphar;
Ye lovesick Bards ! repay her scorn for
scorn :
Ye Artists lovelorn! madmen that je
are I
Make your best bow to her and bid adiea.
Then, if she likes it, she will follow 700.
TO SLEEP
O SOFT embalmer of the still midni^^it.
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from
the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
0 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
1 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 g^dess 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, 1810. He afterward included
the poem in his volume. Lamia, Itabella, The
Eve of St, Agnes and other Poemsj 1820.
/
ODE TO PSYCHE
H3
0 GoiDi^ns 1 bear these tuneless nambers,
wnmg |iu
By tweet enforoement and remembranee
dear, 4
And pardon that thy seerets should be sungH^
Even into thine own soft-conohed ear: fc
Sorely I dreamt to-day, or did I see ^
The winged Psyohe with awaken'd eyes ?P(
1 wandered in a forest tboaghtlessly, U
And, on the sudden, fainting with sur-
pri». OL
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side J
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring
roof toi
Of leares and trembled blossoms, where
there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied: <
II
Ifid hosh'd, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-
eyed, K.
Bloe, silyer-white, and budded Tynan, i
Tbey lay calm-breathing on the bedded
Their arms embraced, and their pinions
too;
Tlieir lips touch'd not, but had not bade
idieu.
As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : ao
The winged boy I knew;
But who wast thou,0 happy, happy dove ?
His Psyche true I
III
0 litest4N>ni and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympns' faded hierarchy I
Fairsr than Phcsbe's sapphire-region'd star,
Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the
'tter than these, though temple thou hast
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.
IV
O brightest I though too late for antique
Nor ahar heap'd with flowers;
"^ vbgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
31
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,
I 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, s*
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 flonrish * Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche,'
and went on * Indpit altera soneta.' * I haye
been endeayouring,' he writes, *to discoyer a
? ^ better Sonnet Stanza than we haye. The legiti-
mate does not snit the language oyer 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 haye succeeded — it will explain itself/
The sonnet was printed in Life^ Letters and Lit-
erary Remains,
If by dull rhymes our English must be
chained,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrained.
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
own.
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
ibailt her nest next Mr. Bevan'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 trom. 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 Kilbum 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.
Mt 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: ^ e^j^ V^ ^-p* >^
'T is not through envy of thy happy lot.
But being too happy in thine happiness, —
That thou, light-wingej^ Dryad of the
trees, *a'*^*\ ^V^r,^ >/ . f,/f /-^v!
In some melodious plot f ^w«
Of beechen green, and shadows number-
less,
Singest of summer in full-throated
ease.
10
n
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 Proven^ song, and sun-
burnt mirth I
O for a beaker full_of the warm South, ^
Full of the true, the bluahfol Hippo-
orene, ' i*
With beaded bQ]ibl48.jRniiking at the ^
brim, ^
And purple-stained moath ;
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE
I4S
That I might drink, and leave the world
And with thee &de away into the for-
est dim: . 6 Or »o
Fade far away, dissolve, ana quite forget
What thoa 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 hut to think is to he full of
sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
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-
mer eves.
50
VI
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful
I Death,
i Call'd him soft names in many a mused
rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Or ie'w Love pine at them beyond to- I ^ow more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upou the midmght with no
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous
eyes.
morrow.
30
IV
Aviy ! away I for I wiU fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
Bat cm. the viewless wings of Poesy,
Thoogh the dull brain perplexes and re-
tards:
Already with thee ! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her
throne,
J Cinster'd around by all her starry
J|b^_ But here there is no light,
^ Save what from heaven is with the breezes
blown
5^5
^^W^^iroagh vexdnrons glooms and wind
*^ ing mossy ways. 4
I cumot see what flowers are at my feet,
X<»r what soft inoense hangs upon the
boo|^
Bat. in embalmed darkness, guess each
pam,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul .
(abroa^N . *'"•*'
In such an ecstasy I
Still would st thou sing, and I have ears
. k > in vain —
i .'^-iTo thy high rec^uiem become a sod. 60 ,
' ' ^-*; . - .jshir^ r <i^ •• '■ ■ * p: C rJ .,^^ . V A « vt.i(, • v ■-'
V •' »' VII jfi- ifuat
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. ( 10
«»^* Vf
^ ^•••*
htx
\
.Ji^
. \
^
..^\
^v»*
'.>
146
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
VIII
Forlorn I the yery word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole
self I
Adien ! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu I adieu I 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:
j» 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 Greai]y and in the
interval of beg^ning 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 Aug^ust at
Winchester. It formed the leading poem in the
volume Lamia^ Isabdla^ the Eve of St. Agnes
and other PoemSy 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 J 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 woodSy
Before King Oberon's bright diadem.
Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem,
Frighted away the Dryads and the Fanns
From rushes green, and brakes, and eow*
slipp'd lawns.
The ever-smitten Hermes empty left
His golden throne, bent warm on amoioai
theft;
From high Olympus had he stolen light,
On this side of Jove's clouds, to eseape the
sight M
Of his great sommoner, and made retreat
Into a forest on the shores of Crete.
For somewhere in that sacred island dwdl
A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs kndlj
At whose white feet the languid Tritooi
poured
Pearls, while on land they withered and
adored.
Fast by the springs where she to bathe wai
wont.
And in those meads where sometimes sb
might haunt,
Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to anj
Muse,
Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd U
choose. M
Ah, what a world of love was at her feet t
So Hermes thought, and a celestial beat
Burnt from his winged heels to either eai^
That from a whiteness, as the lily clear,
Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair.
Fallen in jealous curls about his shoolden
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 head,
To find where this sweet nymph prepared
her secret bed: y
In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhen
be found.
And so he rested, on the lonely ground,
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees
There as he stood, he heard a moumfu
voice.
L^MIA
147
Sueh as anee heard, in gentle heart, de-
fltrojB
All pain but pitjr: thus the lone voice spake:
^ When from this wreathed tomb shall I
awake 1
When more in a sweet body fit for life,
And loYe, and pleasure, and the ruddy
strife 40
Of hearts and lips I Ah, miserable me ! '
The God, doye-footed, glided silently
Round bush and tree, soft-brushing, in his
speed.
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed,
Uatil he found a palpitating snake,
Bright* and oirque-couchant in a dusky
brake.
She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Termilion - spotted, golden, green, and
blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
£jed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd ;
And fnll of silver moons, that, as she
breathed, 5z
Disaolved, or brighter shone, or inter-
wreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapes-
80 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 terpent, 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
Bat weep, and weep, that they were bom
ao&ir?
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 I 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 Phoebean 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 I ' ' Bright planet,
thou hast said/
Retum'd the snake, * but seal with oaths,
fair God!'
' I 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, invbibly, she strays
About these thomless wilds; her pleasant
days
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble
feet
Leave traces in the grass and flowers aweet%
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 too
To keep it unaffronted, 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!' xii
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 I
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 ou 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 Grods, 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
bum'd ; 130
Then, lighting on the printless verdure,
^i2j*n'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 Grod 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 g^rass, 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, atreaks
and bars,
Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her
stars: i6»
So that, in moments few, she was nndrest
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst^
And rubious-argent: of all these bereft,
LAMIA
149
Nothing bot pftin and ngliness were left.
Still ahooe Imbt erown; that yanish'd, also
she
Melted and diaappear'd as suddenly;
And in the air, her new voioe luting soft,
Cried, 'LyciusI gentle LycinsI' — 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 fnll-bom beauty new and exquisite ?
She fled into that yalley they pass o'er
Who go to Corinth from Cenchreas' shore:
Aad rested at the foot of those wild hills,
Tbe nigged founts of the Penean rills,
Aod of that other ridge whose barren back
jkretehes, with all its mist and cloudy
rack.
South-westward to Cleone. There she
stood 179
About a yonng bird's flutter from a wood,
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread,
Bj a dear pool, wherein she passioned
To see herself escaped from so sore ills.
While her robes flaunted with the da£Fo-
dila.
Ah, happy Lycins I — for she was a maid
3f ore besntifnl than oyer twisted braid.
Or aigh'd, or blnsh'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
eore:
190
Xot one hour old, yet of sciential brain
To onperplex bliss from its neighbour
pain;
Deflse their pettish limits, and estrange
TUr points of contact, and swift counter-
change;
latrigae with the specious chaos, and dis-
part
Its naoat ambiguous atoms with sure art;
Am thoo^ in Cupid's college she had speut
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 Grod Bacchus drains his cups
divine,
Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous
pine; a 10
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;
ISO
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
For by some f reakf ol 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 340
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 bis 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! Lookback! 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 I
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 thoa
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 I poor
youth.
What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe
My essence ? What serener palaces.
Where I may all my niany senses please,
And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts
appease?
It cannot be — Adieu ! ' So said, she roee
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 the whisper'd in such trembling
tone.
As tlioae who^ safe together met alone
For the first time through many anguish'd
dayg.
Use other speech than looks; bidding him
Hit drooping head, and dear his soul of
donht.
For that she was a woman, and without
Xaj more subtle fluid in her veins
Than throbbing blood, and that the self-
same pains
lahftbited her frail-strung heart as his.
And next she wonder'd how his eyes could
mist 310
Her ftee so long in Corinth, where, she
Sbe dwelt but half retired, and there had
led
IkjM happy as the gold coin could invent
Withoat the aid of love; yet in content
Tin she saw him, as once she pass'd him by,
Where 'gainst a column he leant thought-
fully
At Venos' 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
B«t wept alone those days, for why should
ahe adore?
Lycns 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 weU;
And every word she spake enticed him on
To unperplez'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
•U, 330
Bammten of eavem, lake, and waterfall,
JU a veal woman, lineal indeed
Frsai PfRha's pebbles or old Adam's seed.
gentle Lamia judged, and judged
right,
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-bom 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
waUs,
Or found them duster'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, ami
smooth bald crown.
152
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophio
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
JEolian
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 390
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 n
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 lintel 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 siring,
Floated into the room, and let appear ao
Unveil'd the sununer 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 ^btef
almost slept;
When from the slope side of a saboill
hill.
LAMIA
153
Deafening tba •wallow'i twitter, came a
thriU
Of tmmpett — Lyeiiia started — the sounds
fled.
Bat left a thoaght, a buzzing in his head.
For the first time, since first he harbour'd
in 30
That porple-lined pahice of sweet sin,
His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn
Into the noisy world almost forsworn.
The lady, ever watchful, penetrant,
^w this with pain, so arguing a want
Of something more, more than her empery
Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh
Beeaose he mused beyond her, knowing well
Thst but a moment's thought is passion's
passing bell.
'Why do yoo sigh, fair creature ? ' whis-
pered he: 40
'Why do yon think?' retum'd she ten-
derly:
'Tou haye deserted me; — where am I
now?
Xot in your heart while care weighs on
your brow:
5a, ao^ you haye dismiss'd me; and I go
FfOBi your breast houseless: aye, it must be
Hs aaswer'd, bending to her open eyes.
Where he was mirror'd smaU in paradise,
*Mj sQyer planet, both of eye and mom I
Why will you plead yourself so sad forlorn.
While I am striying how to fill my heart 50
With deeper crimson, and a double smart ?
How to entamrle, trammel up and snare
Tir M.1 hf ^ne. and Ubyrinth jon
Ubb the hid scent in an unbudded rose ?
Aye, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty
My thoughts I shall I unyeil them ? Lis-
ten then I
What mortal hath a prize, that other men
Msy be eonfooiided and abash'd withal,
III kta it aooietimes pace abroad majes-
in thee I should rejoice 60
alarm of Corinth's yoice.
M IWHiph,
the
I
Let my foes choke, aud 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,
Peryerse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 70
Her wild and timid nature to his aim;
Besides, for all his loye, in self despite.
Against his better self, he took delight
Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new.
His passion, cruel g^wn, took on a hue
Fierce and sanguineous as 't was possible
In one whose brow had no dark yeins to
swell.
Fine was the mitigated fury, like
Apollo's presence when in act to strike
The serpent — Ha ! the serpent ! certes,
she 80
Was none. She burnt, she loyed the
tyranny.
And, all subdued, consented to the hour
When to the bridal be should lead his par-
amour.
Whispering in midnight silence, said the
youth,
' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though,
by my truth,
I haye not ask'd it, eyer thinking thee
Not mortal, but of heayenly 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 aud nuptial
mirth ? ' 91
' I haye no friends,' said Lamia, ' no, not
one;
My presence in wide Corinth hardly known:
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns
154
THE POEMS OF 1818-1819
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense
bornsi
Seeing all their Inokless 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 ApoUonius — 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 betrayed.
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 no
Had not a friend. So being left alone,
(Lycius was g^ne 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 'tis 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:
TiF£>/>alms 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 stn^ght on
from waU 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 bust
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, hnsh'd
and still.
Complete and ready for the revels rude.
When dreadful guests would come to spofl
her solitude.
The day appear'd, and aU the gossip
rout.
O senseless Lycius I Madman I wherefoiv
flout
The silent-blessing fate, warm cloistered
hours.
And show to common eyes these seeni
bowers?
The herd approach'd; each guest, withboiy
brain, ijt
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 iait de»
mesne;
So in they hurried all, mazed, ourtous aai
keen:
Save one, who looked thereon with eye M»
vere.
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in
tere:
LAMIA
^55
Twas ApoUonius: something too he
laagh'd.
At tboagh some knotty problem, that had
daft i6o
Hit patient thooght, had now begun to
thaw.
And stAre and melt: — 'twas just as he
He met within the murmurous vestibule
His yoong disciple. * T is no common rule,
Ljeios,' said he, ' for uninvited guest
To force himself upon you, and infest
With an unbidden presence the bright
throng
Of yoonger friends; yet must I do this
And yon forgive me.' Lycius blush'd, and
led
The old man through the inner doors broad-
spread; 170
With reconciling words and courteous mien
Tming into sweet milk the sophist's
spleen.
Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,
FiU'd with pervading brilliance and per-
fame:
Before each lucid panel fuming stood
A ccBser fed with myrrh and spiced wood.
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,
Whoae slender feet wide-swerved upon the
soft
Wool- woof ed carpets: fifty wreaths of
smdce
From fifty censers their light voyage took
To tke Ugh roof, still mimick'd as they
rose 181
Mkmg the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds
odorous.
Twahre sphered tables, by silk seats in-
spher'd,
Higk as the level of a man's breast rear'd
Oa fibbaid's paws, upheld the heavy gold
Of espa and goUets, and the store thrice told
Of Ceres* horn, and, in huge vessels, wine
frain the gloomy tun with merry
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 under-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 himian trammels
freed, 310
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:
Grarlands of every green, and every scent
From vales deflower'd, or forest - trees
branch-rent.
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were
brought
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.
aao
What wreath for Lamia ? What for Ly-
cius?
What for the sage, old Apollonius ?
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 tlustle
wage
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? ajo
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, 340
Till, checking his love trance, a cup he
took
Full brirom'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 fiz'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. a6Q
* Lamia I ' 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 I' he shriek'd; and nothing* but
the shriek
With its sad echo did the silence break. 170
* Begone, foul dream I ' 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 I
Turn them aside, wretch ! or the righteous
ban
Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images
Here represent their shadowy presences,
LAMIA
157
May pieree them <m the sadden with the
thorn a8i
Of painfnl Mindness ; leaving thee for-
lOflly
In tremUiog dotage to the feeblest fright
Of eonscienee, for their long -offended
mi^t,
For all thine impious prond-heart sophis-
tries,
Uolawfol magic, and enticing lies.
Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard
wretch !
3Xa^ how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids
stretch
Arowid his demon eyes I Corinthians, see !
My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290
* Fool ! ' said the sophist, in an under-tone
Graff with contempt; which a death-nigh-
iog moan
From Lycins answer'd, as heart-struck and
lost.
He sink supine beside the aching ghost.
*Foq1 ! Fool I' repeated he, while his eyes
stiU
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 I
' 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 I — his friends
came round —
Supported him — no pulse or breath they
found, 310
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body
wound.
DRAMAS
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-
ibent, for an immediate return. There was,
indeed, something of a literary reyiyal of the
drama at this time, and EeatB 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 KeatB^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 prog^ress 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 eventB,
and everything connected with it. Thus he
went on, scene after scene, never knowing nor
enquiring into the scene which was to follow,
until 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 pubHsher, '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 I am in such a
situation, that were it not for the assistance of
Brown and Taylor, I mu8t.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 g^ to America. That
was the worst news I could have had. There
is no actor can do the principal character be-
sides Kean. At Govent Gku^en 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 mefls, mad mess it is as far
u regards our pockets.'
Keats eontiniied 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 England. If he should I have confi-
dent hopes of oar tragedy. If he invokes the
hot-Uooded character of Ludolph, — and he ia
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,' KeatB writes in December,
* we may give it another furbish, and try it at
Covent Gktrden. '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 PERSONA
OsaAT, Emperor 0/ Oermcmy.
Lntouni, kit Son.
CoBBAi), Duke of Fnmeonia.
r, a Knight^ favoured by Otho.
Officer^ friend of Ludolph.
Offlcert.
Abbot.
tattA, Prince of Hunffory.
AnHtmgarian Captain.
Pkgeteian.
Fage,
NMee^ Knighte, AttendanU, and Soldier*.
*■— "^t Sieee of Otho.
ivtAann, Conrad's Sister.
Luitea and Attendants.
m.^Tke Castle of Friedbwrg^ iU vicinity, and
the Hunifarian Camp,
TtMM. — One Day.
ACT 1
ScESCE I. — Ah Apartment in the Castle
Enter Conrad.
Cmrad. So, I am safe emerged from
these broils!
^ind Uie wreck of thousands I am whole;
^w every crime I have a laurel- wreath,
«Wcverj lie a lordship. Nor yet has
^7*^ of fortune farl'd her silken sails, —
^ Wff glide on I This danger'd neck is
saved,
^dsiteroas policy, from the rebel's axe;
^of my ducal palace not one stone
■Wiisud by the Hungarian petards.
I«l bird, ye slayes, and from the miser-
ssrth 10
*^C forth once more my bullion, trea-
■iieddeep,
With all my jewel'd salvers, silver and
gold.
And precious goblets that make rich the
wine.
Bat why do I stand babbling to myself ?
Where is Auranthe? I have news for
her
Shall —
Enter Auranthe.
Auranthe. Conrad I 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, ai
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
DRAMAS
ACT I
Reyolire these facts in your acatest mood,
In such a mood as now you listen to me: —
A few days since, I was an open rebel, —
Against the Emperor, had subom'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 I 40
Now I am Otho's favourite, his dear friend,
His right hand, his brave Conrad.
Aiaranthe. 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 comers,
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 so
His blood-stain'd ensigns to the victory
In yesterday's hard fight, that it has tum'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 I
Make me this vow —
Auranthe, Concerning whom or what ?
Conrad, Albert I
Auranthe, I would inquire somewhat of
him:
You had a letter from me touching him ? 60
No 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 I
Conrad, At one pernicious charge of the
enemy,
I, for a moment-whiles, was prisoner ta'en
And rifled, — stuff 1 the horses' hoofs have
minced it !
Auranthe, He is alive ?
Conrad, He is I 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 agidn 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 march.
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
Ludolpb !
Auranthe, Can it be, brother? For a
golden crown
With a queen's awful lips I doubly thank
you I
This is to wake in Paradise I Farewell
Thou clod of yesterday — 't was not my-
self I
Not till this moment did I ever feel 90
My spirit's faculties I 1 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
( ftpriog complete Minerva ! but the
prince —
His highness Ladolph — where is he ?
Conrad. I know not:
When, Imckying mj 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.
Auranike, That I heard
Among the midnight rumours from the
camp.
Conrad. Ton give up Albert to me ?
AuraiUke. Harm him not !
£*en for his highness Lndolph's sceptry
hand,
I woold not Albert suffer any wrong.
Conrad, Have I not laboured, plotted — ?
Auranihe. See you spare him :
Xor be pathetic, my kind benefactor I no
Ob all the many bounties of your liand, —
'T was for yourself you laboured — not for
me !
Do joo not count, when I am queen, to
take
Advmntage 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 canse of fend between us. See f he
comes!
Look, woman, look, your Albert is quite
safe!
In haste it seems. Now shall I be in the
And wish*d with silent curses in my grave,
nde with' whelmed mariners. lai
Enter Albert.
AtberU Fair on yonr graces fall this
early morrow I
Sa it is lika to do without my prayers.
For jFoar right noble names, like favourite
tanes.
Have fallen full frequent from our Em-
peror's lips,
High commented with smiles.
Auranihe. Noble Albert \
Conrad (aside). Noble I
AurarUhe. Such salutation arg^ues a glad
heart
In our prosperity. We thank you, sir.
Albert. Lady t
O, would to Heaven your poor servant
Could do you better service than mere
words I 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;
'T is 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 I What of me, ha ?
Albert. What pleased your grace to say ?
Conrad. Your message, sir I
Albert. You mean not this to me ?
Conrad. Sister, this way;
For there shall be no ' gentle Alberts ' now,
[Aside.
No ' sweet Auranthes I ' 141
[Exeunt Conrad and Auranths.
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
fairl —
Is in the heady, proud, ambitions vein;
I bicker not with her, — bid her farewell I
She has taken flight from me, then let her
soar, —
He is a fool who stands at pining gaze I
But for poor Ludolph, he is food for sor-
row: ISO
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 I
lExit.
l62
DRAMAS
ACT I
Scene II. — The Court-^yard of the
Castle
Martial Music. Enter, from the outer gate,
Otho, Nobles, Knights, and Attendants,
The Soldiers halt at the gate, toith 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 oar rent banners, too o' the sudden
shown,
Should fright her silken casements, and
dismay
Her household to our lack of entertain-
ment.
A victory I
Conrad. Grod save illustrious Otho I
Otho. Aye, Conrad, it will pluck out all
gray hairs;
It is the best physician for the spleen;
The courtliest inviter 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 I do thank the
stars,
Or my good soldiers, or their ladies' eyes.
That, after such a merry battle fought,
I can, all safe in body and in soul.
Kiss your fair hand and lady fortune's too.
My ring I now, on my life, it doth rejoice
These lips to feel 't on this soft ivory I
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 winds the simple snow is safe,
But fadeth at the g^reeting 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 I Sigif red I
Albert. He has not yet returned, my
g^cious liege.
Otho. What then I No tidings of my
friendly Arab ?
Conrad. None, mighty Otho.
[7V> 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, 4%
A f ull-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. B/
the saints.
This coming night of banquets must
light
Her dazzling torches; nor the
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, 90
In my first cup, that Arab !
Albert. Mighty Monareh,
I wonder not this stranger's victor-deeds
So hang upon your spirit. Twice in tho
fight
SCENE II
OTHO THE GREAT
163
It wms mj chanoe to meet his olive brow,
Triumpliant in the enemy's shutter'd
riiomb;
And, to saj trath, in any Christian arm
I never saw such prowess.
Oiko. IHd yon ever ?
O, 'tis a noble boy I — tut I — 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 I '
Conrad. Pity he 's not here.
Otko. And my son too, pity he is not
here.
Lady Anranthe, I would not make you
blnshy
Bat can you give a guess where Ludolph
b?
Know yon not of him ?
A uranike. Indeed, my liege, no secret —
OkIo. Nay, nay, without more words,
dost know of him ?
Aunmike, I would I were so over-fortu-
nate.
Both lor his sake and mine, and to make
glad
A iatiwr's ears with tidings of his son. 70
Otto. I see *t is like to be a tedious day.
Wflve Theodore and Gonf red and the rest
Scat fotih with my commands ?
it Acrf. Aye, my lord.
Otto. And no news I No news I 'Faith !
t is very strange
He thns avoids us. Lady, is 't not strange ?
WiD he be tmant to you too ? It is a
C^lomrad. Will "t please yonr highness en-
ter, and accept,
lui worthy welcome of your servant's
honse?
jour cares to one whose diligence
May hi few hoan make pleasures of them
alL 80
Hot to tedious, Conrad. No, no,
I must see Ludolph or the — What 's that
shout ?
Voices without. Huzza I huzza I Long live
the Emperor I
Other voices. Fall back I Away there I
Otho. Say what noise is that ?
Albert advancing from the hack of the
Stage, whither he had hastened on hearing
the cheers of the soldiery.
Albert. It is young Grersa, 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. WeU said. Sir Albert.
Gersa. Not a word of g^eting.
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 I
Otho. What mood is this ? Hath fortune
touched 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 I
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 I
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, lo^
164
DRAMAS
Acrr
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 t
Oiho. Do not mistake me, Grersa. That
yon may not,
Come, fair Anranthe, try if your soft hands
Can manage those hard riyets to set free
So brave a prince and soldier.
Auranthe (sets him free). Welcome task !
Gersa. I am wound up in deep astonish-
ment!
Thank you, fair lady. Otho I emperor 1
Tou rob me of myself; my dig^ty
Is now your infant; I am a weak child, lao
Otho, Give me your hand, and let this
kindly grasp
Live in our memories.
Gersa. In mine it will.
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 yon will g^nt, that, at this
hour,
The bruised remnants of our stricken camp
Are huddling undisting^uish'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 yonr 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.
Oiho. 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 ^our selFs 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 Grersa'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.
Grersa, farewell I
Gersa. All happiness attend you I
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 pedesiaL
For, without thee, this day I might haT»
been
A show-monster about the streets of Prag^oe,
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 onoe dun-
g^eon 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
SdNBIII
OTHO THE GREAT
165
Ii (nnknttm, and a true tongue to the
world;
Aid how intrignmg secrecy is proof
Of fear and weakness, and a hollow state.
Conrad, I owe thee much.
Conrad. To kiss that hand,
Mj emperor, is ample recompense, 180
For a mere act of dnty.
(Mo, Thou art wrong;
For what can any man on earth do more ?
We will make trial of your house's wel-
come,
Mj hri^t Anranthe I
Conrad, How is Friedbnrg honoured 1
Enter Ethklbsbt and six Monks.
Eihdbert. The benison of heaven on your
bead.
Imperial Otho I
(kho. Who stays me ? Speak I Quick I
Eikdbert. Pause but one moment, mighty
eonqueror I
Upon the threshold of this house of joy.
(kho. Pray, do not prose, good £thelbert,
but speak
What is your purpose.
Etkdbert. The restoration of some cap-
tire maids, 190
Beroted to Heaven's pious ministries,
Who^ driven forth from their religious
cells.
And kepi in thraldom by our enemy.
When late this province was a lawless spoil,
Sdn weep amid the wild Hungarian camp,
Tboogh hemm'd around by thy victorious
Oika, Demand the holy sisterhood in our
Fiom Gersa's tents. Farewell, old Ethel-
bert.
Eikdbert. The saints will bless yon for
tins pious care.
Otko. Daog^ter, your hand; Lndolph*s
wottld fit it best. 200
Conrad, Ho ! let the music sound I
[if MfMr. Ethklbert roxst^ his hands, as in
hemedietion of Otho. Exeunt severally.
The Meene doees on them.
Scene III. — Tke Country, with the
Castle in the distance
Enter Ludolph and Sioifred.
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 Grerman
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; to
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-
tum'd —
Ludolph, that blast of the Hungarians,
That Saracenic meteor of the fight, ao
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 toird in foreign wars, and whose high
deeds
Are shaded in a forest of tall spears.
i66
DRAMAS
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
Tott vext with bad revolt ? Was 't opium.
Or the mad-fumed wine? Nay, do not
frown,
I rather would g^eve with you than up-
braid.
Ludolph. I do believe you. No, 'twas not
to make
A father his 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,
miough now upon my head he heaps dis-
g^race.
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
Ponr'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, Tes, 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 wronged me, and I have done him
wrong;
He hath loved me, and I have shown him
kindness;
We should be almost equal.
Sigifred, Tet, for all this,
I would you had appear'd among those
lords, 6k
And ta'en his favour.
Ludolph, Ha I till now I thought
My friend had held poor Ludolph's honour
dear.
What I 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;
Tou know his temper, hot, proud, obstinate;
Endanger not yourself so uselessly. 90
I will encounter his thwart spleen myself,
SCENE I
OTHO THE GREAT
167
To-daj, at the Duke Conrad's, where he
keeps
Hk crowded state after the Tictorj,
There will I be, a most unwelcome g^est,
And parley with him, as a son should do,
Who doohlj 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 tng adverse, if love grow not
From interchanged love through many
years. 10 1
Aye, and those tnrreted Franconian walls,
Like to a jealous casket, hold my pearl —
My fair Anranthe I Tes, I will be there.
Sigifirtd, Be not so rash; wait till his
wrath shall pass,
Uatfl his royal spirit softly ebbs
Self-inflnenced; then, in his morning dreams
He will forgive thee, and awake in grief
To have not thy good morrow.
Ludolfk. Yes, to-day
I most be there, while her young pulses
beat no
AflKNig the new -plumed minions of the
Have yon seen her of late ? No ? An-
ranthe,
Frtaeoiiia's fair sister, 't is I mean.
She should be paler for my troublous
days-
Aid there it is — my father's iron lips
Have sworn divorcement 'twixt me and my
rig^t
^g^red (aside). Anranthe f I had hoped
this whim had pass'd.
iMdoipiL And, Sigifred, with all his love
of jostiee.
When will he take that grandchild in his
arms,
T^tif by my love I swear, shall soon be
nis 7 120
IVs reeooeilement is impossible,
Foriee — bat who are these ?
Sig^red, They are messengers
fnm oor great emperor; to yon, I doubt
■ot,
F« eowiers are abroad to seek you out.
Enter Theodore and GtONFRed.
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.
lExeunt Theodore and GtONFRed.
I play the prude: it is but venturing —
Why should he be so earnest ? Come, my
friend, 131
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
I cannot square my conduct to time, place^
Or circumstance; to me 'tis all a mist I
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 I
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
DRAMAS
ACT II
Gonfred, Great honour to the Prince I
The Emperor,
Hearing that his brave son had reappeared,
Instant dismissed the Coonoil from his
sight, ao
As Jove fans o£F 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. Cqjs-
TLAi> foUotos. 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 fine palate.
Conrad, Princely Ludolph, hail I
Welcome, thou younger sceptre to the
realm I
Strength to thy virgin orownet'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 I
Yet be that hour far o£F; 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 I 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
tum'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 yon will haste to him ?
Ludolph, Your Dukedom's privilege will
grant so much.
[^xt^ Conrad.
He 's very close to Otho, a tight leech !
Your hand — I go I Ha I here the thunder
comes
Sullen against the wind I 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 yea
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 oar-
self.
Is rudely slighted ? Who am I to wait ?
By Peter's chair I I have upon my tongue
A word to fright the proudest spirit
here ! —
Death I — and slow tortures to the haidj
fool.
Who dares take such large charter from
our smiles I 70
Conrad, we would be private I Sigifred !
SCHKBI
OTHO THE GREAT
169
Off I And none pass this way on pain of
dealh!
lExeunt Conrad and Sigifred.
Ltidclpk, Thia was bnt half expected, my
good airey
Tet I am grieTed at it, to the full height,
As thoogh my hopes of favour had been
whole.
Oiko, How yon indulge yourself ! What
ean you hope for ?
Ludo^l^h. Nothing, my liege, I have to
hope for nothing.
I eome to greet you as a loving son,
And then depart, if I may be so free,
Seeing that blood of yours in my warm
TeiDS 80
Hss not yet mitigated into milk.
Otko. What would you, sir ?
Lndoipk, A lenient banishment;
So please you let me unmolested pass
Tkii Conrad's gates, to the wide air again.
I vant no more. A rebel wants no more.
Otko, And shall I let a rebel loose again
To muster kites and eagles 'gainst my
head?
Ko^ obstinate boy, you shall be kept caged
up,
Sened with harsh food, with scum for
Sunday-drink.
LutU^. Indeed I
Otko. And chains too heavy for your life:
I H choose a jailer, whose swart monstrous
fMOt 90
Shall be a hell to look upon, and she —
LiMpL Ha!
OAo. Shall be your fair Anranthe.
ItMpk, Amaze ! Amaze 1
Oiko. To-day you marry her.
iMdo^ This is a sharp jest !
OAa. No. None at all. When have I
nidalie?
l^ielpL If I sleep not, I am a waking
wretch.
Otko. Not a word more. Let me em-
biaee my child.
Uidfk. I dare not T would pollute
so good a &ther I
0 hsavy 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.
Otko. Are yon sure,
Ludolph, you have no saving plea in store ?
Ludolph. My father, none !
Otko, 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,
Grood 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 wiU !
Bnt, Ludolph, ere yon go, I would inquire
If you, in all your wandering, ever met
A certain Arab haunting in these 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 'U make it so.
Ludolph, 'Stead of one fatted calf
Ten hecatombs shall bellow out their last.
Smote 'twixt the horns by the death-stun-
ning mace iv^
lyo
DRAMAS
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 clouds !
Otho. Large as a Grod 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 you, whose wings so shadow over me
In tender victory, but for myself
I still must mourn. The fair Auranthe
mine ! 139
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 ! iS'
This marriage be the bond of endless peace I
[Exeunt,
Scene \\,— The entrance of Gersa's
Tent in the Hungarian Camp
Enter Erminia.
Erminia. Where I where ! where shall I
find a messenger ?
A trusty soul ? A g^ood man in the camp ?
Shall I go myself? Monstrous wicked-
ness !
O cursed Conrad I devilish Auranthe I
Here is proof palpable as the bright sun I
O for a voice to reach the Emperor's ears !
[Shouts in the camp.
Enter an Hungarian Captain.
Captain, Fair prisoner, you hear those
joyous shouts ?
The king — aye, now our king, — but still
your slave.
Young Grersa, from a short captivity
Has just returu'd. He bids me say, bright
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, ao
Will you send yonder knight to me ?
Captain. I will. [Exit,
Erminia. Yes, he was ever known to be
a man
Frank, open, generous; Albert I may trust.
O proof I proof ! proof ! Albert 's an
honest man;
Not Ethelbert the monk, if he were here,
Would I hold more trustworthy. Now I
Enter Albert.
Albert. Good Gods !
Lady Erminia 1 are you prisoner
In this beleaguer'd camp? Or are yoa
here
Of your own will ? You pleased to send
for me.
By Venus, 't is a pity I knew not 30
Your plight before, and, by her Son, I
swear
To do you every service you can ask.
What would the fairest— ?
Erminia. Albert, will yoa swear?
Albert. 1 h&ve. Well?
SCENE II
OTHO THE GREAT
171
Ermdma* Albert, yoa have fame to lose.
If men, in court and camp, lie not oatright,
Yon should he, from a thousand, chosen
forth
To do an honest deed. ShaU I confide — ?
AlberL Aye, any thing to me, fair crea-
tore. Do ;
Dictate my task. Sweet woman, —
Erminia. Truce with that.
Tan 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,
8dfezing a daily death from evil tongues;
Any compassion for that Emperor's niece,
Who, for your bright sword and clear hon-
es^,
lifted you from the crowd of common men
laio the lap of honour; — save me, knight !
Albert. How? Make it clear; if it be
possible, 50
I bj the banner of Saint Maurice swear
To right you.
Erminia. Possible I — Easy. O my
heart!
Iliii letter's not so soil'd but you may
read it; —
PotBhle ! There — that letter ! Read ~
read it. [^Gives him a letter.
Albert (reading),
*To the Duke Conrad. — Forget the
tknst yon made at parting, and I will f or-
tjd to send the Emperor letters and papers
if yooiB I have become possessed of. His
fife is no trifle to me; his death you shall
hd Bone to yourself.' (Speaks to himself.)
Til me — my life that's pleaded for!
(Beads.) * He, for his own sake, will be
imb as the grave. Erminia has my shame
ii'd apoo her, sure as a wen. We are
■lb.
< AURAinVE.'
A she-devil ! A dragon ! I her imp !
Fire of Hell ! Auranthe — lewd demon !
Where got you this ? Where ? When ?
Erminia. 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. VUlainy! ViUainy !
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 g^ne.
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 1
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 you condescend to ribald-phrase.
172
DRAMAS
ACT 11
Gersa, This is too much ! Hearken, my
ladj pore I
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 1 Indeed ! I Ve heard
of her.
Fr'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 !
'T is 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
much
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.
Gersa. Poor lady !
1x9
Enter Ethelbert.
Erminia. Gentle Prince, 't is false indeed.
Good morrow, holy father ! I have had
Your prayers, though I look'd for yon in
vam.
Etheibert. Blessings upon you, daughter !
Sure you look
Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days.
Young man, you heard this virgin say 't was
false, —
'Tis false, I say. What! can you not
employ
Your temper elsewhere, 'mong those burly
tente,
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 I
Gersa. Peace I 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,
Wateh'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 green,
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 yon 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 teU yoo,
Ethelbert.
Gersa. Ho I 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, isr
Ethelbert. Dear daughter, you shall gnid»
me.
Erminia. To no ilL
SCSNSI
OTHO THE GREAT
173
Qtna, Commaiid an escort to the Fried-
bozg lines. \Exwani Chief$.
Pimj let me lead. Fair lady, forget not
Gena, bow he belieTed yon innocent.
I foQow yon to Friedbnrg with all speed.
[Exeunt,
ACT III
Scene I. — The Country
Enter Albert.
AJBberi, O that the earth were empty, as
when Cain
Had no perplexity to hide his head !
Or tint the sword of some brave enemy
Had pat a sadden stop to my hot breath,
And hnrl'd me down the illimitable golf
Of times past, onremember'd ! Better so
Tkaa thus fast-limed in a cnrsed snare,
Tkt white limbs of a wanton. This the end
Of aa aspiring life I My boyhood past
la fend with wolves and bears, when no
eye saw 10
IW solkary war&re, fought for love
Of hoooar *mid the growling wilderness.
Ify sturdier yonth, maturing to the sword.
Won by the syren-trumpets, and the ring
Of lUdds upon the pavement, when bright
mail'd
Beny the Fowler pass'd the streets of
Phigoe.
Wai t to this end I louted and became
He menial of Mars, and held a spear
Sei^d by eommand, as com is by the
wind?
^ it for tbisy I now am lifted up 20
% £0090*8 throned Emperor, to see
^ honoor be my executioner, —
^Wve of fame, my prided honesty
hi to the tortore for confessional ?
iWa the damned crime of blurting to the
werid
^ Mmhi*8 seeret I — Though a fiend she
bidder of my ignominious life;
^^•a to wroBg the generous Emperor
*Kih a seaiehing point, were to give up
My soul for foot-ball at Hell's holiday I 30
I must confess, — and cut my throat, — to-
day ?
To-morrow ? Ho 1 some wine I
Enter Siqifrbd.
Sigifred, A fine humour —
Albert. Who goes there? Count Sigi-
fred ? Ha ! ha !
Sigifred. What, man, do yon mistake the
hollow sky
For a throng'd tavern, — and 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 I
You shall know all anon.
Sigifred. Some tavern brawl ?
Albert. 'Twas 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, and answer'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
DRAMAS
ACT III
Albert. The marriage. What else can I
mean ?
Sigi/red, To-day. O, I forgot, you could
not know;
The news is scarce a minute old with me.
Albert, Married to-day ! To-day ! Yon
did not say so ?
Sigifred, 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 I
We '11 meet upon our subject. Farewell,
count ! [^Exit.
Sigifred, Is this clear-headed Albert ?
He brain-tum'd I
'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, NobUs,
Knights, Ladies, etc. Music.
Otho. Now Ludolph ! Now, Auranthe !
Daughter fair I
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 I 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 I
1st Knight. Ask you for her recipe for
love philtres.
2d 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, ai
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 !
AurarUhe. Nay, my Lord, I do not know.
Ludolph. Let me not famish.
Otho (to Conrad). Good Franoonia,
You heard what oath I sware, as the sun
rose.
That unless Heaven would send me back
my son.
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 knights, found war-proof in the bloody
field,
Speed to the game.
Otho. Well, Ludolph, what say you ?
Ludolph. My lord I
Otho. A tourney ?
Conrad. Or, if 't please you best —
Ludolph. I want no more !
1st Lady. He soars !
2d Lady. Past all
Ludolph. Though heaven's choir
Should in a vast circumference descend
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 n
OTHO THE GREAT
'75
Otko» Thii is a little painful; jast too
maeh.
Coorad, if he flames longer in this wise,
I shall believe in wizard- woven loves
And old romaiioes; bat 1 11 break the spell.
Lodolph!
Conrad, He 11 be calm, anon.
Litdaipk. You call'd I
Yes, jes, jes, I offend. Yon must forgive
me: 50
Not being quite recover'd ttom the stun
Of joor large bounties. A tourney, is it
not?
[A senet heard faintly,
Conrad. The trumpets reach us.
Etkelbert (without). On your peril, sirs,
Detain osl
ht Voice (withouty Let not the abbot
id Voice (without). No,
Os yon lives I
ht Voice (without). Holy father, you
must not.
EOdbert (without), Otho !
(kh. Who calls on Otho ?
Ethdbert (without), Ethelbert !
(kko. Let him come in.
Enter Ethelbert leading in Erminia.
Thou cursed abbot, why
Halt brought pollution to our holy rites ?
Hatt thou no fear of hangman, or the fag-
got?
iMiolph, What portent — what strange
prodigy is this ? 60
Cntrad, Away 1
Efkdbert. You, Duke ?
Erwonia. Albert has surely fail'd me I
I^ at the Emperor's brow upon me
bent!
SAdbert, A sad delay !
Coanicf. Away, thou guilty thing I
SAdbert, Yon again, Duke? Justice,
■KMt noble Otho !
m— go to your sister there and plot
•giin,
A foA plot, swift as thought to save your
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 !
[Attendants bear ojf Auranthe.
Erminia, Alas !
Ethelbert. Your wife !
Ludolph. Ay, Satan I does that yerk ye ?
Ethelbert. Wife I so soon !
Ludolph. Ay, wife ! Oh, impudence !
Thou bitter mischief I Venomous bad
priest I
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 sharpened 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 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
DRAMAS
ACT III
That I might give it to my hoands to tear I
Thy girdle some fine zealous-pained nerve
To g^h my saddle I And those devil's
beads
Each one a life, that I might, every day,
Crush one with Vnlcan's hammer I
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.
Lttdolph, I am silent, sire.
Otho, Conrad, see all depart not wanted
here. loa
lEzeunt Knights^ Ladies^ etc.
Lndolph, 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. 1 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 cause 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 lao
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 I
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 I hold those base weeds, with tight
hand.
Which now disfigure her fair growing stem.
Waiting but for your sign to puU 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 I
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. Grood.
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 namea
u
OTHO THE GREAT
177
EtkdberL A minate fint. It cannot be
— Imtnuij
laak, great judge, if joa to-daj have put
A ktter by nniead ?
OAa, Does 't end in this ?
Conrad. Oat with their names !
Etkdbert Bold sinner, saj jon so ?
iMdolpk, Onty hideous monk !
Oiko. Confess, or by the wheel —
Elkdbert My eyidence cannot be far
away; x6i
Aad, thoogh it never come, be on my head
Ike crime of passing an attaint upon
The sbnderers of this virgin.
Lmiolfk. Speak aloud !
BUMerL Auranthe, and her brother
there.
CoHrad. Amaze 1
liMpk. Throw them from the win-
dows I
(kka. Bo what you wiU I
Isdo^ What shall I do with them ?
8«Mithing of quick dispatch, for should she
Mj loft Anranthe, her sweet mercy would
hvnSl against my f ory. Damned priest I
Wkt swift death wUt thou die? As to the
l«dy, 171
Ilooehber not
BAdbert. Dlnstrious Otho, stay I
Ai aaq»le store of misery thou hast,
CWke not the granary of thy noble mind
Wilh more bad bitter grain, too difficult
Aead for the repentance of a man
6ttj-growing. To thee only I appeal,
Vol to thy noble son, whose yeasting youth
WiQ elear itself, and crystal turn again.
A jong man's heart, by Heaven's bless-
ing, is 180
A vide world, where a thousand new-bom
hopes
Ittpnple fresh the melancholy blood :
ait aa old man's is. narrow, tenantless
^ kspsa, and staff 'd with many memories,
^U, being pleasant, ease the heavy
poise —
AaifBl, elog op and stagnate. Weigh this
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 summon'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 I
Now, when my foot is almost on thy neck,
WUt thou infuriate me? Proof I Thou fool 1
Why wilt thou tease impossibility 199
With such a thick-sknll'd persevering suit ?
Fanatic obstinacy I Prodigy !
Monster of folly ! Ghost of a tum'd
brain I
You puzzle me, — you haunt me, — when I
dream
Of you my brain will split ! Bold sor-
cerer I
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; a 10
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
DRAMAS
ACT III
M J liege, what proof should I have 'gainst
a fame
Impossible of slur ?
[Otho rises,
Erminia, O wickedness I
Ethelbert. Deluded monarch, 'tis a cruel
lie. 218
Otho, Peace, rebel-priest I
Conrad. Insult beyond credence !
Erminia. Almost a dream I
Ludolph. We have awaked from I
A foolish dream that from my brow hath
wrung
A wrathful dew. O folly ! why did I
So act the lion with this silly g^t ?
Let them depart. Lady Erminia I
I ever grieved for you, as who did not ?
But now you have, with such a brazen
front,
So most maliciously, so n;iadly 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 I take no personal revenge
More than against a nightmare, which a
man
Forgets in the new dawn. \_Exit Ludolph.
Otho. 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 the physicians.
lExeunt Otho and Nobles, Albert
following.
Conrad. My guards, ho I
Erminia. Albert, wilt thou follow there ?
Wilt thou creep dastardly behind his back,
And shrink away from a weak woman's
eye?
Turn, thou court - Janus I thou f orgett'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 I to me I
Conrad (aside). He is the sole one in this
mystery.
Erminia. Well, I give up, and save my
prayers for Heaven I
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 I
Ethelbert. I know it — it must be — I
see it all ! 259
Albert, thou art the minion I
Erminia. Ah ! too plain —
Conrad. Silence ! Gag up their mouths I
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 remember' d after death,
Than any drummer's in the muster-roll;
Tet 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 I
OTHO THE GREAT
179
Enter Gkrsa and Siqifred.
Cfena. What disoord is at ferment in
this boose?
Sigifired, We are without conjeotore; not
aaoiil
We met could answer any certainty.
Gtnci. Young Ludolph, like a fiery ar-
row, shot
Bjns.
Sigifrtd. The Emperor, with cross'd
arms, in thought.
Gena. In one room music, in another
sadness.
Perplexity every where I
AJhert, A trifle more !
FoUow ; your presences will much avail 280
To tone our jarred spirits. I '11 explain.
[Exeunt,
ACT IV
ScEXE I. — Avranthe's Apartmen/
AuEAKTHE and Conrad discovered.
Ommd, Well, well, I know what ugly
jeopardy
^t ire caged in; you need not pester that
lito my ears. Pr'y thee, let me be spared
A foolish tongue, that I may bethink me
Of remedies with some deliberation.
Tott cannot doubt but 'tis in Albert's
power
To enish or save us ?
Awantke. No, I cannot doubt,
fie kM, assure yourself, by some strange
Mt leeret; which I ever hid from him, 9
^Mwing his mawkish honesty.
CWotf. Cursed slave !
Aunmtke. Ay, I could almost curse him
now myself,
^idehed impediment ! Evil genius I
A sine upon my wings, that cannot spread,
^hm they should span the provinces I A
A Motpion, sprawling on the first gold
step,
rtwdiMiling 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 I 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
DRAMAS
ACTir
Conrad. Sister, you have grown sensible
and wise,
Seconding, ere I speak it, what is now, 49
I hope, resolyed between us.
Auranthe, Say, what 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
Ton 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 g^roan
Frighten the wolves !
Auranthe. Alas ! he must not die 1
Conrad. Would you were both hearsed
up in stifling lead !
Detested —
Auranthe. Conrad, hold I 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,
Tou 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.
Auranthe (sola), Down, down, proud
temper I down, Auranthe's pride !
Whj do I anger him when I should kneel ?
Conrad ! Albert ! help ! help I What cai
I do?
0 wretched woman I lost, wreck'd, 8wal<
low'd up.
Accursed, blasted ! O, thou golden Crown
Orbing along the serene firmament 7<
Of a wide empire, like a glowing moon;
And thou, bright sceptre I lustrous in m^
eyes, —
There — as the fabled fair Hesperian tree,
Bearing a fruit more precious ! gracefu
thing, •
Delicate, godlike, magic ! must I leave
Thee to melt in the visionary air,
Ere, by one grasp, this common hand u
made
Imperial ? I do not know the time
When I have wept for sorrow; but me-
thinks 8f
1 could now sit upon the ground, and shed
Tears, tears of misery I O, the heavy day !
How shall I bear my life till Albert comes 'i
Ludolph ! Erminia ! Proofs ! O heav^
day I
Bring me some mourning weeds, that 1
may 'tire
Myself, as fits one wailing her own death:
Cut off these curls, and brand this lilj
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 ! 9^
What is this ? Auranthe I thou fool, dolt,
Whimpering idiot ! up ! up I and quell !
I am safe ! Coward ! why am I in fear?
Albert I he cannot stickle, chew the cud
In such a fine extreme, — impossible I
Who knocks ?
[^Goes to the door, listens, and opens it
Enter Albert.
Albert, I have been waiting for yon 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 olaim your pity ! Art not
well? 109
Aiberi. Yet, lady» welL
Auranike, You look not so, alas !
But pale, as if yon brought some heavy
Albeit, YoQ know fall well what makes
me look so pale.
Awanihe. Ko I Do I ? Surely I am
still to learn
Some horror; all I know, this present, is
I un near hustled to a dangerous gulf,
Whieh you ean save me from, — and there-
fore safe.
So tmsting in thy love; that should not
make
Tliee pale, my Albert.
Albert It doth make me freeze.
Awantke. Why should it, love ?
Albert. You should not ask me that,
Bttnake your own heart monitor, and save
^the great pain of telling. You must
know. 12 z
AwmUke. Something has vext you, Al-
bert. There are times
^^ben simplest things put on a sombre
east;
Aaefauieholy mood will haunt a man,
Uitil most easy matters take the shape
Of oflaohievable tasks; small rivulets
TVea seem impassable.
AlberL Do not cheat yourself
^itk hope that gloss of words, or suppliant
action.
Or toan, or ravings, or self-threaten'd
death.
^ alter my resolve.
Awmiike. Yon make me tremble;
Aflt ao moeh at your threats, as at your
wje,
^**BMd, and harsh, and barren of all love.
AJkert Yon suffocate me I Stop this
devil's parley,
^ litUm to me; know me onoe for all.
AwmUke. I tlioaght I did. Alas I I
smdeemved.
AlberL Ko^ yon are not deceived. You
took me for
129
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, 140
Thy fate. Your safety I have bought to-
day
By blazoning a lie, which in the dawn
1 11 expiate with truth.
Auranike. O cruel traitor 1
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 !
Auranike. Albert, you jest; I'm sure
you must.
You, an ambitious Soldier ! I, a Queen,
One who could say, — here, rule these Pro-
vinces I
Take tribute from those cities for thyself !
Empty these armouries, these treasuries,
Muster thy warlike thousands at a nod !
60 ! Conquer Italy !
Albert. Auranthe, you have made
The whole world chaff to me. Your doom
bfix'd.
Auranike. Out, villain ! dastard I
Albert. Look there to the door I
Who is it?
Auranike. Conrad, traitor I
Albert. Let him in.
Enier 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
DRAMAS
ACT IV
A brace of toads, than league with them
t' oppress
An innocent lady, gull an Emperor,
More generous to me than autumn sun
To ripeniug harvests.
Auranthe, No more insult, sir !
Albert. Ay, clutch your scabbard; but,
for prudence sake,
Draw not the sword; 't would make an up-
roar, Duke,
Tou would not hear the end of. At night-
fall 170
Your lady sister, if I g^ess 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.
Grood even !
Auranthe. You '11 be seen I
Albert. See the coast clear then.
Auranthe (as he goes}. Remorseless Al-
bert ! Cruel, cruel wretch I
[5Ae 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 I 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 I
And all men ! Vanish !
[Retires to an inner apartment.
Scene II. — An Apartment 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 throngs
Stood in the passage whispering; if any
Moved, 't was with careful steps, and hnsh'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 — lo
If with thy mother's milk thoa bast 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 t
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 t
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, suffer'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 dogg'd in some thick cloud ? O,
changeful Love,
SCENE II
OTHO THE GREAT
183
Let not ber steeds with drowsy-footed pace
?us the high stars, before sweet embas-
Comes from the pillow'd beauty of that
fair
Completion of all delicate Nature's wit I
Poat 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 Mom
Peers with disrelish, gray, barren, and
cdd!
Enter Gebsa and Courtiers,
Otho ealls me his Lion — should I blush
To be 10 tamed ? so —
Gerta. Do me the courtesy,
Gentlemen, to pass on.
Ut Knight. We are your servants.
[^Exeunt Courtiers,
Lndolph, It seems then. Sir, you have
found out the man
Too would confer with; — me ?
Gersa. If I break not
Teo moeh upon your thoughtful mood, I
will
C^uoi a brief while your patience.
IfMpk, For what cause
^*er, I shall be honour'd.
Gtm, I not less.
Iftdolpk. What may it be ? No trifle
can take place 51
^ neh delibento prologue, serious 'hav-
ionr.
^ be it what it may, I cannot fail
^brten with no common interest;
fit though so new your presence is to
me,
^«ve a sddier's friendship for your fame.
'W yoQ explain.
Goto, As thos: — for, pardon me,
^*»>ot in plain terms grossly assault
^Mblo oatore; and would faintly sketch
^^ your qoiek apprehension will fill up;
^My I esteem yon.
Ludolph. I attend. 61
Gersa. Your generous father, most illus-
trious Otho,
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 g^ess
the cause ?
Ludolph, Stay there I 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 'tis con-
ceard.
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, you 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 I but fresh and
young.
And hopeful featured. Ha I 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
DRAMAS
ACT V
Oersa. Lie I — but begone all oeremo-
nioas points 90
Of honour battailous I I could not turn
My wrath against thee for the orbed world.
Ludolph. Your wrath, weak boy ? Trem-
ble at mine, unless
detraction follow close upon the heeb
Of that late stounding insult I Why has
my sword
Not done already a sheer judgment on
thee?
Despair, or eat thy words I Why, thou
wast nigh
Whimpering away my reason ! Hark ye,
Sir,
It is no secret, that Erminia,
Erminia, Sir, was hidden in your tent; 100
O blessed asylum I Comfortable home !
Begone I I pity thee; thou art a gull,
Erminia's last new puppet I
Gersa. Furious fire I
Thou mak'st me boil as hot as thou canst
flame I
And in thy teeth I give thee back the lie I
Thou liest I Thou, Auranthe's fool I A
wittol —
Ludolph, Look I look at this bright
sword:
There is no part of it, to the very hilt.
But shall indulge itself about thine heart I
Draw I but remember thou must cower thy
plumes, no
As yesterday the Arab made thee stoop —
Gersa. Patience I Not here; I would
not spill thy blood
Here, underneath this roof where Otho
breathes, —
Thy father, — almost mine.
Ludolph. O faltering coward I
Re-enter Page.
Stay, stay ; here is one I have half a word
with.
Well — What ails thee, chUd ?
Page. My lord !
Ludolph. Good fellow I
Page. They are fled I
Ludolph. They I Who ?
Page. When anxiously
I hasten'd back, your grieving messenger,
I found the stairs all dark, the lamps ex-
tinct.
And not a foot or whisper to be heard, xso
I thought her dead, and on the lowest step
Sat listening; when presently came by
Two mufiQed up, — one sighing heayily.
The other cursing low, whose voice I knew
For the Duke Conrad's. Close I followed
them
Thro' the dark ways they chose to the open
air;
And, as I followed, heard my lady speak.
Ludolph, Thy life answers the truth I
Page. The chamber 's empty !
Ludolph. As I will be of mercy I So, at
last, 139
This nail is in my temples !
Oersa. Be calm in this.
Ludolph. I am.
Gersa. And Albert too has disappear'd;
Ere I met you, I sought him every where;
Tou would not hearken.
Ludolph. Which way went they, boy ?
Gersa. 1 11 hunt with you.
Ludolph. No, no, no. My senses are
Still whole. I have survived. My arm b
strong —
My appetite sharp — for revenge I 1 11 no
sharer
In my feast; my injury is all my own.
And so b my revenge, my lawful chat-
tels!
Terrier, ferret them out I Bum — bum
the witch I
Trace me their footsteps I Away I 140
[Exeunt.
ACT V
Scene I. — A part of the Forest
Enter Conrad and Auranthe.
Auranthe. €ro no further; not a step
more. Thou art
A master-plague in the midst of miseries.
Gro, — I fear thee I I tremble every limb,
SCEVBII
OTHO THE GREAT
185
Wbo ie?er ahook before. There 's moody
death
Ii tkj molved looks I Yes, I could kneel
To fOLj thee fur away I Conrad, go I
gol-
Then I jonder underneath the boughs I see
Onrknaeil
Cmrad. A j, and the man.
AwrofUke* Tes, he is there.
60, go,— no blood I no blood ! — go, gen-
tle Conrad !
Conrad. Farewell I
Awramke. Farewell I For this Heaven
pardon you I 10
lExU AURANTHE.
Cmmd, If he surriye one hour, then
may I die
Ii unnagined tortures, or breathe through
A long life in the foulest sink o' the world I
He diet I T is well she do not advertise
lU Mitiff of the oold steel at his back.
lExit Conrad.
Enter Ludolph and Page,
LMpL Miss'd the way, boy ? Say not
tliat on your peril I
P^e. Indeed, indeed I cannot trace
them further.
^•Mpi. Must I stop here ? Here soli-
tary die?
^tifcd beneath the thick oppressive shade
^tkie dull boughs, — this oven of dark
thiekets, — so
fct, — without reyenge ? — pshaw ! —
bitter end, —
Alitker death, — a suffocating death, —
AgMwing — silent — deadly, quiet death I
^Kiped? — fled ?— vanished ? melted into
air?
^'igmie I I cannot clutch her I no re-
venge I
^**flkd death, ensnared in horrid silence I
jj^dto my graye amid a dreamy calm !
^vheie is that illustrious noise of war,
^ ttiother up this sound of labouring
bteath, 39
^nstleof thetreesi
[AuRAHTHX ihrieki eU a distance.
Page. My lord, a noise I
This way — hark I
Ludolph. Tes, yes I A hope I A music I
A glorious clamour I How I live again !
[^Exeunt.
Scene II. — Another part of the Forest
Enter Albert (wounded).
Albert. O I for enough life to support me
on
To Otho's feet I
Enter Ludolph.
Ludclpk. Thrice villanous, stay there I
Tell me where that detested woman is,
Or this is through thee I
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 I
Ludolph. Ha I There I there I — He is
the paramour ! —
There — hug him — dying I O, thou inno-
cence.
Shrine him and comfort him at his last
gasPi
10
Kiss down his eyelids I 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
' Of personal beauty and untainted soul ? '
A blushing fair-eyed purity ? A sylph.
at
z86
DRAMAS
ACT V
Whose snowy timid hand has never sinn'd
Beyond a flower pluck'd, white as itself ?
Alhert, you do insult my bride — your mis-
tress—
To talk of horrors on our wedding-night I
Albert. Alas I poor Prince, I would yon
knew my heart !
T is not so guUty —
LxtdoLph. Hear, he pleads not guilty I
Tou are not ? or, if so, what matters it ?
You have escaped me, free as the dusk
air, 31
Hid in the forest, safe from my revenge;
I cannot catch you I You should laugh at
me.
Poor cheated Ludolph I Make the forest
hiss
With jeers at me I You tremble; faint at
once,
You will come to again. O cockatrice,
I have you I 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 breatli is
gone:
Disjoin those hands — part — part — do
not destroy
Each other — forget her I — 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 I
[Albert groans and dies.
I There goes a spotted soul
(Howling in vain along the hollow night I
Hear him ! He calls you — sweet Auran-
the, come I 50
Auranthe. Kill me t
Ludolph. No ! What, upon our mar-
riag^night I
The earth would shudder at so foul a deed I
A fair bride I A sweet bride I An inno-
cent bride I
No I we must revel it, as 't is in use
In times of delicate brilliant ceremony:
Come, let me lead you to our halls again I
Nay, linger not ; make no resistance,
sweet; —
Will yon ? Ah, wretch, thou canst not, for
I have
The strength of twenty lions 'gainst a
lamb I
Now — one adieu for Albert ! — Come
away I 60
[ETseunt.
Scene III. — An inner Court oftJu
Castle
Enter Sigifred, GtONFred, and Thxodore,
meeting.
Ist Knight. Was ever such a night ?
Sigifred, What horrors more ?
Things nnbelieved one hour, so strange
they are,
The next hour stamps with credit.
1st 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 £thelbert,
And the sweet lady, fair Erminia,
From prison.
1st 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?
1st 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. 1 do fear his brain.
SCINE IV
OTHO THE GREAT
187
Gmfred, I will lee more. Bear yoa so
stootabeart?
[ExewfU into the Castle,
Scene IV. — A Cabinet^ opening towards
a terrace
Otbo, Erminia, Ethelbbrt, and a Phy^
sieiarif discovered.
(Xka. O, my poor boy I My son I My
•00 1 My Ludolph I
Hate ye no eomfort for me, ye physioiaxiB
Of the weak body and soal ?
Etkdbert. *T is not in medicine,
Gtker of bearen or eartb, to cure, unless
Fit time be cbosen to administer.
Olio. A kind forbearance, boly Abbot.
Come,
Enaiiiia; bere, sit by me, gentle girl;
Gife me tby hand; bast thou forgiven me ?
fnumta. Would I were with the saints
to pray for you !
(kko. Why will ye keep me from my
darling child ? 10
i*i|iici(ifi. Forgive me, but he must not
•eetiij face.
Otio. Is then a Other's countenance a
Gorgon?
^ it not eomfort in it ? Would it not
^*Hle my poor boy, cheer him, help his
qnrits?
*^ me embraee him; let me speak to him;
^*3I! Who hinders me? Who's Em-
peror?
fyfriekm, Yoa may not, Sire; 'twould
orerwbelm him quite,
l^aw fall of grief and passionate wrath;
«^ heavy a sigh would kUl him, or do
wone.
^ mit be saved by fine contrivances ; ao
^ Moti especially, we must keep clear
^rf bis tight a father whom he loves;
'v Wrt is foil, it can contain no more,
Mdo its roddy office.
AU&ert Sage advice;
Vtaart endeavour bow to ease and slacken
1W tifhfc-woaiid energies of his despair,
^■■kethem tenser.
Otho. Enough I I hear, I hear;
Tet 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.
Ermmia. Do, do.
Otho. I command !
Open it straight; — hush I — quiet I — my
lost boy I
My miserable child I
Ludolph (indisHnctly without). Fill, fill
my goblet, — here 's a health I
ErTninia. O, close the door I
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 I This can-
not last !
O let me catch hb voice — for lo I I hear
This silence whisper me that he is dead I
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 I
Tis good, — 'tis good; let him but fall
asleep.
That saves him.
Otho. Grersa, watch him like a child;
Ward him from harm, — and bring me
better news I
Physician. Humour him to the height.
I fear to go; v^
z88
DRAMAS
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 inyent what soothing means
I can.
lExU 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 magnificence^ with supper-
tables laden with services of gold and
silver, A door in the back scene, guarded
by two Soldiers, Lords, Ladies, Knights,
Gentlemen, etc, whispering sadly, and
ranging themselves j pari 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 ?
Ist Knight. There, sir,
In the next room; have you remarked those
two 9
Stout soldiers posted at the door ?
Gonfred, For what?
[They whisper.
1st Lady. How ghast a train I
2d Lady, Sure this should be some splen-
did burial.
Ist Lady. What fearful whispering! See,
see, — Grersa there I
Enter Gebsa.
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, Ins questions, howe*er
strange.
Do this to the utmost — though, alas ! with
me
The remedy grows hopeless I 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
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 I — 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 mag^nificence !
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 np with oords of twisted wreathed
ligbt,
.And Ussel'd roond with weeping meteors I
Tliese pendent lamps and chandeliers are
bright 40
A$ earthly fires from doll dross can be
Tet could my eyes drink up intenser beams
Undazzled — this is darkness — when I
close
These lids, I see far fiercer brilliances, —
Skies foil of splendid moons, and shooting
stars.
And tpoating exhalations, diamond fires.
And panting fountains quivering with deep
glows I
let— this is dark — is it not dark ?
Si^fred. My Lord,
Til late; the lights of festival are ever 49
Qiench'd in the mom.
Udolph, T is not to-morrow then ?
Si^ed, Tis early dawn.
Gena. Indeed fall time we slept;
Sly jon so, Prince ?
JMclpk, I say I quarrel'd with you;
We did not tilt each other — that 's a
blessing, —
M gods ! no innocent blood upon my
head!
Sigifred. Retire, Gersa !
IfMpL There should be three more
here:
'or two of them, they stay away perhaps,
^Qsg gloomy-minded, haters of fair rev-
els,-
IWy know their own thoughts best.
As for the third,
^ blue eyes, semi-shaded in white lids,
^nidi'd with lashes fine for more soft
shade, 60
^^oi^leted by her twin-arch'd ebon-brows;
Wkite temples, of ezactest elegance,
Of even mould, felicitous and smooth;
Ckeeks fuhion'd tenderly on either side,
^ perfect, so divine, that our poor eyes
•Abb dassled with the sweet proportioning,
M wonder that 'tis so — the magic
!
Her nostrils, small, fragrant, fairy-delicate;
Her lips — I swear no human bones e'er
wore
So taking a disguise; — you shall behold
her ! ?«
We 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 I — she is
mine I
Patience, good people, in fit time I send
A sunmioner, — 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
[i4 soft strain of Music.
Ludolph, Te 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 you 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 89
By Duchesses and pearled Margravines I
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 engendered guilt !
2d Lady, Ah I what a moan I
Ist Knight, Most piteous indeed I
Ludolph, She shall be brought before this
company.
And then — then —
1st Lady, He muses.
Gersa, O, Fortune, where will this
end?
Sigifred, 1 guess his purpose ! Indeed
he must not have
Z90
DRAMAS
ACTV
That pestilence brought in, — that cannot
be, xoo
There we must stop him.
Gersa, I am lost I Hush, hush I
He is about to rave again.
Ludolph. A barrier of guilt ! I was the
fool,
She was the cheater I Who *s the cheater
now.
And who the fool? The entrapp'd, the
caged fool,
The bird-limed rayen ? She shall croak to
death
Secure I Methinks I have her in my fist,
To crush her with my heel ! Wait, wait I
I marvel
My father keeps away. Grood friend — ah I
Signed I
Do bring him to me, — and Erminia no
I fain would see before I sleep — and £th-
elbert.
That he may bless me, as I know he will.
Though I have cursed him.
Sigifred, Bather suffer me
To lead you to them.
Ludolph, No, excuse me, — no !
The day is not quite done. Go, bring them
hither. [^Exit Sigifrrd.
Certes, a father's smile should, like sun
light,
Slant on my sheafed harvest of npe 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 g^pe ?
Or of old iBtna's pulpy wine-presses, laa
Black stain'd with the fat vintage, as it
were
The purple slaughter-house, where Bac-
chus' self
Frick'd his own swollen veins ? Where is
my page?
Page. Here, here f
Ludolph. Be ready to obey me; anon
thou shalt
Bear a soft message for me; for the hour
Draws near when I most make a winding
up
Of bridal mysteries — a fine-epun ven-
geance I
Carve it on my tomb, that, when I rest
beneath, 130
Men shall confess this Prince was gull'd
and cheated,
But from the ashes of disgrace he rose
More than a fiery phcenix, and did bum
His ignominy up in purging fires I
Did I not send. Sir, but a moment past.
For my Father ?
Oersa. Ton did.
Ludolph. Ferhaps 't would be
Much better he came not.
Gersa, He enters now I
Enter Otho, Erbonia, 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 I
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-stem by habit I Thou shalt see
A deed to be applauded, 'scribed in gold I
Join a loud voice to mine, and so denounce
What I alone will execute
OUio. Dear son.
What is it ? By your father's love, I sue
That it be nothing merciless !
Ludolph. To that demon ?
Not so I No ! She is in temple-stall 152
Being gamish'd for the sacrifice, and I,
The Priest of Justice, will immolate her
Upon the altar of wrath ! She stings me
through I —
Even as the worm doth feed upon the nut,
So she, a scorpion, preys upon my brain I
I feel her gnawing here I 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 natioDS drows'd in peaee I
Otko. To-morrow, son,
fie joor word law; forget to-day —
Lwiolpk. Iwni
VThen I have finisli'd, it! Now, — now,
I'mpight, y /"'*i^^
ITighUf ooted for the deed I
Ermmia, Alas I Alas I
Ludolpk. What angel's Toice is that?
Erminia I
Ah. I gentlest creature, whose sweet inno-
eenee
Wis ilmost murder'd; I am penitent;
Wilt thou forgive me ? And thou, holy
man,
G«od Ethelbert, shall I die in peace with
you ? 170
Erminia, Die, my lord !
Ludo^l^ I feel it possible.
Otko. Physician ?
Phfridcat, I fear me he is past my skill.
Otko, Not so I
litio^ I see it — I see it — I have
been wandering !
Hilf mad — not right here — I forget my
purpose.
Botb-bestir — Auranthe! Halhalhal
^tttgiter ! Page I go bid them drag her
tome !
^\ ThU shaU finish it I
[Draios a dagger.
^ Oh, my son ! my son ! I
Sigifred. This must not be — stop there !
LudoLph. Am I obey'd ?
A little talk with her — no harm — haste I
haste ! [Exit Page.
Set her before me — never fear I can strike.
Several Voices, Mj Lord ! My Lord !
Gersa. Good Prince !
Ludolph. Why do ye trouble me? out
— out — away ! iSa
There she is I take that ! and that I no, no —
That 's not well done. — Where is she ?
The doors open. Enter Page. Several too-
men are seen grouped about Auranthe in
the inner-room.
Page. Alas I My Lord, my Lord ! they
cannot move her I
Her arms are stiff, — her fingers denoh'd
and cold I
Ludolph. She 's dead !
[Staggers and falls into their arms.
Ethelbert. Take away the dagger.
Gersa. Softly; sol
Otho. Thank God for that I
Sigifred. It could not harm him now.
Gersa. No ! — brief be his anguish I
Ludolph. She 's gone I 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 faUs.
KING STEPHEN
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT
Lord Houghton, when reprinting this jneee
in the Aldine edition of 1876, appends the f ol-
lo¥ring note from the MSS. of Charles Armi-
tage Brown: 'As soon as Keats had finished
Otho the Great I pointed out to him a sahject
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 Eostace. He was struck with the vari-
ety of eyents and characters which must
sarily be introduced, and I offered to giye, as
before, their dramatic conduct. '* The 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 loaiiing
strings ; I will do all tlus 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-
swoll'n front
Spread deeper crimson than the battle's
toil,
Blush in your casing helmets I for see, see I
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 I
Fly, cowards, fly ! Glocester is at your
backs I
Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried
manes.
Ply well the rowell with faint trembling
heels, lo
Scampering to death at last !
Ist Knight, The enemy
Bears his flaunt standard close upon their
rear.
2d Knight, Sure of a bloody prey, seeing
the fens
Will swamp them girth-deep.
Stephen, Over head and ears,
No matter I 'T is 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 I
Enter Earl Baldwin and Soldiers^ as
defeated,
Stephen, De Redvers !
What is the monstrous bugbear that can
fright ao
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
Cm bant the meahes. Not the eagle more
LoTes to beat ap against a tyrannous blast,
Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. 31
Thii is a brag, — be 't so, — but if I fall,
Carre it upon my 'scntcheon'd sepulchre.
On, fellow soldders ! Earl of Redvers,
back!
Xot twenty £arb of Chester shall brow-
beat
Tbe diadem. [Exeunt. Alarum.
SCEXE II. — Another part of the Field
InMipeft sounding a Victory. Enter
Glocester, Knights, and Forces.
Gloeester. Now may we lift our bruised
Tisors up.
And take the flattering freshness of the
air,
Wbile the wide din of battle dies away
Iito times past, yet to be echoed sure
la tbe silent pages of our chroniclers.
ht Kmgkt. Will Stephen's death be
mark'd there, my good Lord,
Ortlat we gave him lodg^g in yon towers ?
Olxxegter. Fain would I know the great
Qsorper's &te.
Enter two Captains severally.
h< Ctqflain. My Lord I
2tf Captain, Most noble Earl I
IK Captom. The King —
2rf Coftain. The Empress greets —
(^!ioctster. What of the King ?
^ Captain. He sole and lone maintains
•A^)elets bustle 'mid our swarming arms,
^ with a nimble savageness attacks, 13
£iapefl, makes fiercer onset, then anew
£Mei death, giving death to most that
dare
Tjcfpaai within the circuit of his sword !
He most by thb have fallen. Baldwin is
taken;
^■d for tbe Duke of Bretagne, like a stag
fle ffiei^ for the Welsh beagles to hunt
God iftTe the Empress !
Glocester. Now our dreaded Queen:
What message from her Highness ?
2d Captain, Royal Maud
From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath
look'd down, 2a
Like Pallas from the walls of Uion,
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 I Stephen I 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 I — Does he
still hold out ?
2d 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 then
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
DRAMAS
ACT I
He stung away again, and stood to breathe,
Smiling. Anon upon him rash'd once more
A throng of foes, and in this renew'd strife.
My sword met his and snapp'd off at the
hilt. 51
Olocester. 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 I And what if
I could seize
One from Bellona's gleaming armoury.
Or choose the fairest of her sheafed spears I
Where are my enemies? Here, close at
hand,
Here come the testy brood. O, for a
sword I
I 'm faint — a biting sword I A noble
sword I
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, 10
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 thoa
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 40
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,
Vf
T
SCENE IV
KING STEPHEN
195
For I will never bj mean hands be led
Prom this so famous field. Do you hear I
Be quick I
Trumpets. Enter the Earl o/* Chester and
Knights.
Scene IV. — A Presence Chamber. Queen
Maud in a Chair of State ^ the Earls
of Glocester and 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. The 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 10
A meek attentive ear, so that they treat
Of the wide kingdom's rule and govern-
ment.
Not trenching on our actions persoqfd.
Advised, not schooled, 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 paidon, 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 ao
A sentence something worthy of his g^t.
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 peer
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 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
comes.
THE EVE OF ST. MARK
A FRAGMENT
In a letter to Qeorge and Gkorgiana Keats,
dated February 14, 1819, Keats says that he
means to send them in the next packet * The
Pot of BasU,' * St. Agnes' Eve,' and * if I
should have finished it a little thing called " The
Eye 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 eyerything 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. Forman gives an interesting extract from
a letter written him by Mr. Bonetti, irUok
throws a possible light on the origin of thi
poem. He had been reading Keats's letten t»
Fanny Brawne, and writes : ^ I should think it
very conceivable — nay, I will say to mpif
highly probable and almost certain, — that till
** Poem which I have in my head " refezredtfr
by Keats at page 106 was none other thaa till
fragmentary ''Eve of St. Mark." Bytheligbt
of tiie extract, . . . I judge that the heroinf
remorseful after trifling with a siok and aoiv
absent lover — might make her way to till
minster-porch to learn his fate by the speU»
and perhaps see his figure enter but noi K*
turn.' The extract from Keats's letter ii tf
follows : ' If my health would bear it, I coalfi
write a Poem which I have in my head, whidi
would be a consolation for people in sodi i
situation as mine. I would show some one fli
Love |is I am, with a person living in nflh
Liberty as you do.'
Upon a Sabbath-day it fell;
Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell,
That cnll'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 g^en valleys cold,
Of the green thorny bloomless hedge.
Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, i
Of primroses by sheltered 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.
Each arched porch, and entry low»
Was filPd with patient folk and slow, »
W^ith whispers hush, and shuffling feet,
While play'd the organ loud and sweet.
The bells had ceased, the prayers began.
And Bertha had not yet half done
A curious volume, patch'd and torn,
That all day long, from earliest mom.
Had taken captive her two eyes.
Among its gfolden broideries;
Perplex'd her with a thousand things, —
The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings, so
Martyrs in a fiery blaze.
Azure saints and silver rays,
Moses' breastplate, and the seven
Candlesticks John saw in Heaven,.
The winged Lion of Saint Mark»
196
THE EVE OF ST. MARK
197
renantal Ark,
And the warm angled winter-screen,
ny mysteries,
On which were many monsters seen,
id golden mice.
Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice,
And legless birds of Paradise, 80
A maiden fair,
Macaw, and tender Avadavat,
th' old Minster-square; 40
And silken-furr'd Angora cat.
■eside she could see,
Untired she read, her shadow still
rich antiquity,
Glower'd about, as it would fill
(ishop's garden-wall;
The room with wildest forms and shades,
mores and elm-trees tall.
As though some ghostly queen of spades
the forest had outstript,
Had come to mock behind her back.
north-wind ever nipt,
And dance, and rufifie her garments black.
by the mighty pile.
Untired she read the legend page,
i, and read awhile,
Of holy Mark, from youth to age, 90
ad 'gainst the window-pane.
On land, on sea, in pagan chains,
ried, and then again, 50
Rejoicing for his many pains.
isk eve left her dark
Sometimes the learned eremite,
^nd of St. Mark.
With golden star, or dagger bright.
i lawn-frill, fine and thin.
Referred to pious poesies
p her soft warm chin,
Written in smallest crow-quill size
^ neck and swimming eyes,
Beneath the text; and thus the rhyme
^th saintly imageries.
Was parcell'd out from time to time:
* Als writith he of swevenis.
>m, and silent all,
Men ban befome they wake in bliss, 100
id then the still foot-fall
Whanne that hir f riendes thinke him bound
ming homewards late,
In crimped shroude farre under grounde;
oing minster-gate. 60
And how a litling child mote be
>us daws, that all the day
A saint er its nativitie.
tops and towers play,
Gif that the modre (Gt)d her blesse I)
had gone to rest,
Kepen in solitarinesse.
incient belfry-nest,
And kissen devoute the holy croce.
p they fall betimes,
Of Groddes love, and Sathan's force, —
d the drowsy chimes.
He wntith; and thinges many mo
Of swiche thinges I may not show. no
it, all was gloom,
Bot I must tellen verilie
in the homely room:
Somdel of Saints Cicilie,
i, poor cheated soul !
And chieflie what he auctorethe
I lamp from the dismal coal; 70
Of Saints Markis Ufe and dethe: '
ard, with bright drooping hair
>ok, full against the glare.
At length her constant eyelids oome
, in uneasy gube,
Upon the fervent martyrdom;
ut, a giant size,
Then lastly to his holy shrine,
earn and old oak chair,
Exalt amid the tapers' shine
cage, and panel-square;
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 yon knew before yon
left England that my next subject would be
"the fall of Hyperion.*' I went on a little
with it last night, but it wiU take some time to
get into the vein again. I will not g^ve you
any extracts because I wish the whole to make
an impression.' He speaks of it a week later
as ' scarce beg^un.' Agfiun, 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 Aug^ust he told Bailey that he had
been writing parts of Hyperion, but it is quite
plun 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 xi^ Hyperion
— there were too many Miltonio inyersions 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 Miltonio 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 fragfment, 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
198
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
g^ven to that work discourage the author
from proceeding.'
Keats's friend Woodhouae, 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 Ck>d of the Sun, by Apollo, — and inci-
dentally of those of Oc<»anus by Neptune, of
Saturn by Jupiter, etc., and of the war of the
Giants for Saturn's reSstablishment, 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 should 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 fn^-
ment is printed.
/t
HYPERION
199
BOOK I
Dkep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of
mom.
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
gTovmd
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 Rarth, 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 Groddess 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 hb ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she
spake
In solemn tenour 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 bums our once serene domain.
200
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 gpradual 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 the 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, xoi
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 seem'd strangled in my nervous
grasp?
But it is so; and I am smother'd up,
And buried from all godlike exercise
Of influence benign on planets pale,
Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 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 eteme, 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, Thea, search I 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 prog^ss — Saturn must be King.
Tes, 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
/t
HYPERION
20I
Of the skj-ohildren; I will give oommand:
Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? '
This passion lifted him apon his feet,
And made his hands to straggle in the air.
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with
sweaty
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
awe.
'This cheers our fallen house: come to
our friends, 150
0 Saturn ! come away, and g^ve 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 followed, and she tum'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 alleg^iance once more,
And listened in sharp pain for Saturn's
voice.
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still
kept
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty;
BUizing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sat, still snufPd 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 the 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,
202
HYPERION
Amazed and fall of fear; like awiiona men
Who on wide plains gather in panting
troopsy
When earthgnakfiH jar their battlementi
and towers. aoo
Even now» while Satozny roused from iej
trance,
Went step for step with Thea throogh the
woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Came slope apon the threshold of the west;
Then, as was wont, his palaoe-door flew ope
In smoothest silence, save what solemn
tabes.
Blown by the serioas 2^phyrs, gave of
sweet
And wandering soands, slow-breathed melo-
dies;
And like a rose in yermeil tint and shape.
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 210
That inlet to severe magnificence
Stood fall blown, for the Grod to enter in.
He enter'd, bat he enter'd fall of wrath;
His flaming robes stream'd oat 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 vaolt to
vaalt.
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed
light,
And diamond -paved lustrous long ar-
cades, 230
Until he reach'd the great main cupola;
There standing fierce beneath, 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: ^0 dreams of day and
night!
O moDstroos forms ! O eC^ies of jm^ f
O spectres busy in a eold, ooid ^oom !
0 lank-ear'd Fhantoma of Uaek-weeded
Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye?
why
Is my eternal essenee thos distiaa^t
To see and to behold these horrors new ?
Satazn is fdlen, am I too to &U ?
Am I to leave this haven of my rest.
This eradle of my glory, this soft elime.
This calm laxnrianee of Uissfol light.
These crystalline pavilions, and pore ibmes.
Of all my Ineent emjnre ? It is left
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 240
The blaze, the splendour, and the symme-
1 cannot see — hot darkness, death and
Even here, into my centre of repose.
The shady visions come to domineer.
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp. —
Fall I — No, by TeUus 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 ,51
Held struggle with his throat, bat 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, 360
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
Making slow way, with head and neck con-
vulsed
From over-strained might Released, he
fled
HYPERION
203
To the eattem gates, and full six dewy
boon
Before the dawn in season due should
Unshy
He breathed fieree breath against the sleepy
portals,
(Wd them of heavy Taponrs, burst them
wide
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams.
Hm planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
Eaeh day from east to west the heavens
throQghy 270
Span Rmnd in sable curtaining of clouds;
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and
hid,
But efcr and anon the glancing spheres,
Ciidei, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
GWd throng and wrought upon the
muffling dark
Sveet-shaped lightnings from the nadir
deep
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old,
WUdi sages and keen-eyed astrologers
IW living on the earth, with labouring
thoogfat
Won from the gaze of many centuries: 280
^ov lost, save what we find on remnants
huge
OftUme, or marble swart; their import
gone,
TWir wisdom long since fled. — Two wings
this orb
feiniB'd for glory, two fair argent wings,
£fer exalted at the Grod's approach:
Aid DOW, from forth the gloom their
plumes immense
KoMiOiie by one, tiU all ontspreaded were;
^^bile still the dazzling globe maintain'd
AviitiBg for Hyperion's command.
ftia would he have commanded, fain took
torOOe ago
^ bid the day begin, if but for change.
Ht might not: — No, though a primeval
God:
^ atered seasons might not be disturb'd.
^Wrefoie the operations of the dawn
^^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-bom
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, Coelus, 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 beiwid ni yon fear, hope, and
wntk;
Aotioos of nif» tmd passion; even as
I ••• thsiBy 6m tlie mortal world beneath,
uk mmt wko die. — This is the grief, 0
Son!
8ad mgn of min, sudden dismay, and fall 1
Tot do thon strive; as thou art capable.
As thou canst move about, an evident
God;
And canst oppose to each malignant hour
£thereal presence: — I am but a voice; 340
My life b 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.' —
£re 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
moum'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
£ver 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 woe.
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon.
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubbom'd with iron. All were not assem-
bled:
Some chain'd in torture, and some wander-
ing.
CoBus, and Gyg^s, and Briaretts,
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 convubed
With sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of
pulse.
Mnemosyne was straying in the world;
Far from her moon had Phoebe 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
night.
HYPERION
205
Eaeh one kepi shroad, nor to his neighbour
g»?e
Or wordy or look» or action of despair. 40
Creiii was one; his ponderous iron maoe
Ujr bj him, and a shatter'd rib of rock
Told of his rage» ere he thos sank and
pined.
lapetos another; in his grasp,
A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue
Sqoeesed from the gorge, and all its uo-
corl'd length
Deid; and beaanse the creature could not
spit
Iti poisoa in the eyes of conquering Jove.
Neit Cottos: prone he lay, chin uppermost,
Aithongh in pain: for still upon the flint 50
He gmuid severe his skull, with open
month
Aid eyes at horrid working. Nearest him
An, bora of most enormous Caf,
Wk cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
IVngh feminine, than any of her sons:
Hon thoaght than woe was in her dusky
F«r ihe was prophesying of her glory;
Aid in her wide ims^g^ination stood
BUm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes,
Bf OzDs or in Granges' sacred isles. 60
£vai as Hope upon her anchor leans.
So laaat she, not so fair, upon a tusk
&ed from the broadest of her elephants.
Abofve her, on a crag's uneasy shelve,
Cpoa his elbow raised, all prostrate else,
SUow'd Enoeladns; once tame and mild
As gruing ox nnworried in the meads;
Xow tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth.
He meditated, plotted, and even now
Wis horling mountains in that second
war, 70
Voi long delay'd, that scared the younger
Gods
To Ude themselves in forms of beast and
^oi tar henoe Atlas; and beside him prone
the sire of Gorgons. Neighboured
dose
and Tethys, in whose lap
Sobl»'d Clymene among her tangled hair.
In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from
flight;
No shape distinguishable, more than when
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with
the clouds: 80
And 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 fonnd
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, too
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 he walk'd into the midst.
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the
rest,
But that he met £nceladus's eye.
2o6
HYPERION
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at
once
Came like an inspiration; and he shoated,
' Titans, behold your God 1 ' at which some
groan'd; no
Some started on their feet; some also
shoated;
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 hashing finger, how he means to
load
His tongue with the full weight of utter-
less thought, I30
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 g^at judge and searcher
out, 130
Can 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 inteivquarrelling 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-bom of all shaped and palpable
Gods,
Should cower beneath what, in comparison,
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here,
O'erwhelm'd, and spum'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 ?
0 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 !
0 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 bis watery shades.
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 170
HYPERION
207
In ffloniiiin, whieh his fint-endeavouring
^ tongue
Caaght in&iit-like from the far-foamed
'Ojeywhom wrath consumes! who, pas-
sioii-stiing,
Writhe at defeat, and muse your agonies !
Sbot op joor senses, stifle up your ears,
^j Toiee is not a bellows unto ire.
I'et listen, ye who will, whilst I bring
proof
flow ye, perforce, must be content to stoop ;
•Aid in the proof much comfort will I give,
If je will take that comfort in its truth. j8o
We hU by course of Nature's law, not
force
Of thunder, or of Jotc. Great Saturn, thou
Bait sifted well the atom-universe;
fiit for this reason, that thou art the King,
Aad only Uind from sheer supremacy,
Ose sveane was shaded from thine eyes,
^Vraogh which I wander'd to eternal truth.
<Aid first, as thou wast not the first of pow-
ers,
^irt thou not the last; it cannot be;
"Am art not the beginning nor the end. 190
FiQoi ehaoa and parental darkness came
I'iglit, the first fruits of that intestine
broil,
iWt sullen ferment, which for wondrous
ends
Wtt ripening in itself. The ripe hour
eame,
^ with it light, and light engendering
^pan its own producer, forthwith touch'd
•^ whole enormous matter into life.
"?Mi that very hour, our parentage,
^Heavens and the Earth, were manifest:
^ thou first-bom, and we the giant-
nee, 200
'^ ourselves ruling new and beauteous
leslms.
^^ eomes the pain of truth, to whom 't is
ptin;
^% i for to btar all naked truths,
f^ to eavisage circumstance, all calm,
^ V the top of sovereignty. Mark
WiUI
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, aio
And thousand other signs of purer Ufe;
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
A power more strong in beauty, bom 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 f
And feedeth still, more comely than itself ?
Can it deny the chief dom of green gproves ?
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 221
Because it cooeth, and hath 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 golden-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 beautju^ould 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 cons61ation 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 Oceanos
Left mormaring, what deepest thought can
tell?
But so it was, none answer'd for a space,
Save one whom none regarded, Cljmene:
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 for ever, as I fear:
I would not bode of evil, if I thought
So weak a creature could turn off the help
Which by just right should come of mighty
Gods;
\ Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell
I Of what I heard, and how it made me
weep, 260
And know that we had parted from all
rhope.
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore.
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a
land
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 370
And murmur'd into it, and made melody —
0 melody no more I for while 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
I 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, 390
When, past all hindrance of my trembling
hands,
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all
tune.
And still it cried, ** Apollo I young Apollo !
The morning-bright Apollo ! young Apol-
lo!"
I fled, it f ollow'd me, and cried, ** Apollo ! "
O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt
Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thon
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 reef-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
Spetk 1 rottr ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy Ti-
tsosalL
Do Ts forget the blows, the buffets vile ?
Are je not smitten by a youngling arm ?
Dott tboo forget, sham Monarch of the
Wares,
Thy Maiding in the seas ? What ! have I
roused ^ 320
Tour spleens with so few simple words as
these?
0 jqjr ! for now I see ye are not lost:
0 py I for now I see a thousand eyes
Wide -glaring for revenge.' — As this he
He Uffced up his stature vast, and stood,
StiD without intermission speaking thus:
*Koir ye are flames, 1 11 tell you how to
hum.
Aid purge the ether of our enemies;
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire.
Aid singe away the swollen clouds of
Jove, 330
Stiffing that puny essence in its tent.
0 let him feel the evil he hath done;
far thoB^ I scorn Oceanus's lore.
Kadi pain have I for more than loss of
Tht days of peace and slumberous calm
are fled;
Tkoee days, all innocent of scathing war.
When an the fair Existences of heaven
Cime open-eyed to guess what we would
speak: —
That was before our brows were taught to
frown,
Befoiw our lips knew else but solemn
sounds; 340
That was before we knew the winged
thing,
Vietoty, might be lost, or might be won.
And be ye mindful that Hyperion,
Oar brightest brother, still is undis-
Hyperioo, lo ! his radiance is here I '
AD eyes were on Enceladus's face.
Aid they beheld, while still Hyperion's
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocksy
A pallid gleam across his features stem:
Not savage, for he saw full many a Grod
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them
aU, 35,
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 remained,
Till suddenly a splendour, like the mom.
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. ^70
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl.
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the
bulk
Of Menmon'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 I&petus, and CreUs too,
And Phorcus, sea-bom, and together strode
2IO
HYPERION
To where he towered on his eminenee.
There those four shouted forth old Satom's
name;
Hjperion fitnn the peak load answered
'Saturn!'
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,
In whose face was no joy, though all the
GrOds 390
GaTe from thdrholiow throats the name
of « Saturn I'
BOOR lU
Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace.
Amazed were those Titans utterly.
O leare them, Muse ! O leave them to
their woes;
For thou art weak to sing sueh tumults
dire:
A solitary sorrow best befits
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.
LeaTO them, O Muse ! for thou anon wOt
find
Many a fallen old Divinity
/Wandering in vain abont bewildered shores.
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
And not a wind of heaven but will
breathe 1 1
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 mom
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 g^eat deeps, vermilion turn
Through all their labyrinths; and let the
maid ai
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 haseb thi^ da^-stenun'd beneath
the shade:
i^Ilo is onee more the golden theme^ !
Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun
Stood bri^^ amid the sorrow of his peers ?
Together had he left his moUier hdT 31
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
And in the momine twilight wandered
forth
Beside the osiers of a rivulet.
Fun anUe-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had oeased, and a few
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 unf ooted sea ?
Or hath that antique mien and robed
form 51
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. Surelv I have traced
The rustle of those ample skirts about
These gprassy solitudes, and seen the flow-
ers
Lift up their heads, and still the whisper
pass'd.
Groddess ! I have beheld those eyes before.
/t
HYPERION
211
And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dream'd.' — * Yes,' said the su-
preme shape, 6i
^Thon hast dream'd of me; and awaking
up
Didst find a lyre all golden bj thy side,
Whose strings touched by thy fiugers, all
the vast
Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listened in pain and pleasure at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not
strange
That thou shouldst weep, so g^ifted ? Tell
me, youth,
What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad
When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy
g^efs 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
Pluck'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-bom.' — Apollo then.
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes.
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious
throat 81
Throbbed with the syllables: — 'Mnemo-
syue !
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,
Uutil a melancholy numbs my limbs;
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan, 90
Like one who once had wing^. — O why
should I
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the lieg^
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 th&n this isle ?
What are the stars ? There is the sun, the
sun 1
And the most patient brilliance of the
moon!
And stars by thousands ! Point me out
the way
To any one particular beauteous star, xoo
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 mom and eventide.
Tell me why thus I rave, about these
groves ! no
Mute thou remainest — Mute I 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, 1x9
And so become immortal.' — Thus the Grod,
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples,' steadfast
kept
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyue.
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made
flush
All the immortal fairness of his limbs:
Most like the struggle at the gate of death;
212
HYPERION
Or liker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
As hot as death's is ohill, with fierce con-
Tolse
Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd : 130
His Tery hair, his golden tresses famed
Kept undulation round his eager neok.
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied. — A
length
Apollo shriek'd; — and lo 1 from all hi
limbs
Celestial
TO AUTUMN
Ii I letter to Raynoldsy written from Win-
dMter, September 22, 1810, Keats jots down
tWn wDtenoes : ' How beaatif nl the seaeon u
■ov— How fine the air. A temperate ehaip-
■Mi ibout it. Really, without joking, chaste
vMther » Dian sides — I neyer liked stabble-
fddi 10 mneh as now — Aye, better than the
chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stub-
ble-field looks wann 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 die last
of happy health for Keats. The poem was in-
cluded in the 1820 yolume.
Skasok of mists and mellow fmitfolness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the
thatch-eaves run;
^beod with apples the moss'd cottage-
tieeSy
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the
core;
/Ic sw^^ the gourd, and plump the
iOm shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding
inorey
•And itill morey later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their
dimmy cells.
II
^^Whnot seen thee oft amid thj store ?
Sometinies whoever seeks abrcMsd may
find
Ike fitting careless oo a granary floor,
1^ luur soft-lifted by the winnowing
Or OB a hall-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
^^'('wied with the fume of poppies, while
thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its
twined flowers: //<4P *^'* ■*''%-
And sometimes like %j;^leanfs^ thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
/OTITf a cider={^ss, with patient look,
! Thou watchest the last oozings, hours
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay,
where are tiiey ?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music
too,—
While barred clouds bloom the «ofi-dyii^
day, - ^~-
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy
hue;
Then in a wailful choir the snudl 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.
/,
ji.
■) . . '.-
W <j* r
-*\
M \
VERSES TO FANNY BRAWNE
Although these are not the only poems
irhioh owe their origin to Keats's consuming
passion, they are grouped here because, ap-
SONNET
The date 1810 is appended to this sonnet in
JAft^ 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 ite sweete are
gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and
softer breast.
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-
tone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and
lang^rous waist !
Faded the flower and all its badded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes.
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms.
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness,
paradise !
Vanished 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
Remainsy 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
my mind for ever so short a time/
parently written in the same period, they staad
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 Qaeen !
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 &ir,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare.
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or partioolonr'd things.
My muse had wings,
And ever ready was to take her coarse
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, 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 wmter
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 thoughte of that most hateful
land,
214
TO FANNY
"S
Dongeoner of my friends, that wicked
strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a
wrecked life;
TIat monstroos region, whote dull riyers
pour,
£fer from their sordid ams unto the shore,
Uoown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scour-
ging rods,
loed in the great lakes, to afiQict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black,
and blind,
Woold fright a Dryad; 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,
Aad great unerring Nature once seems
wrong.
0, for some snnny spell
To dissipate the shadows of thb hell !
Sty they are gone, — with the new dawn-
ing light
Steps forth my lady bright !
0, let me onee more rest
Xj soul upon that dazzling breast !
iH oQce 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 LiU
erary Remains,
I CRY your mercy — pity — love — aye^
love !
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless
love,
Unmasked, 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 I
THE CAP AND BELLS
OR, THE JEALOUSIES
A F(ury Tale. Unfinished
In a letter to John Taylor, his publisher,
written from Hampstead, November 17, 1819,
Keats, who was then in his most restless mood,
writes impolsiyely : * 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 g^uarantee 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. Agues'
Eve " throughout a poem in which character
and sentiment would be the figures to such
drapery. Two or three such poems, if Gkxl
should spare me, written in the course of the
next six years, would be a famous Gradus ad
Pamassum altisBimnm — 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,
Charies 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 Uie 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 Tht Indicator
August 23, 1820, as written by *a very good
poetess Lucy V L— ' and Lord Hough-
ton included the whole in Lifey Letters and
Literary Remains,
Is midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,
There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the
air,
A faery city, 'neath the potent rule
Of Emperor Elftnan; famed ev'rywhere
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.
3l6
II
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;
Li vain the pulpit thnnder'd at the
throne.
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lam-
poon. .
THE CAP AND BELLS
217
III
Wl&ich seeing, his high court of parlia-
ment
lAid a remooatrance at his Highness'
feet,
Frajring his royal senses to content
Themselres with what in faery land was
iweot,
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, e?en on the first of the new moon,
Ai bmiateTial wife to espouse as heaven's
boon.
IV
Metatime he sent a fluttering embassy
To Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign.
To half beg, and half demand, respect-
faUy,
The hand of his fair daughter Bella-
oaine;
Ai tndienoe had, and speeching done,
they gain
^beir point, and bring the weeping bride
Whom, with bnt one attendant, safely
bin
Upon their wings, they bore in bright
in. ^^'
Wiile tittle harps were touch'd by many a
lyriefay.
At m old pictures tender cherubim
A child's soul thro' the sapphired canvas
bear,
So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim
^^ the sweet princess on her plumaged
^P^ giving to the winds her lustrous
Aad 10 the joamey'd, sleeping or awake,
^^ when, for healthful exercise and
She chose to ' promener k I'aile,' or take
A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's
sake.
VI
'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 Elflnan's great state-spy militant.
He 's running, lying, flying footman,
too —
Dear mistress, let him have no handle
against you !
VII
< 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'll 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 !'
Retum'd the princess, ' my tongue shall
not cease
Till from this hated match I get a free
release.
VIII
' 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
flinch,
But of its threat she took the utmost
heed;
Not liking \n her heart an hour-long
pinch,
Or a sharp needle run into her back an
inch.
IX
So she was silenced, and fair Bellanaine,
Writhing her little body with ennui,
Continued to lament and to complain,
That Fate, cross-purposing, should let
her be
BAvish'd away far from her dear coun-
tree;
That all her feelings should be set at
nought,
In trumping up this match so hastily.
With lowland blood; and lowland blood
she thought
Poison, as every stanch true-bom Imaian
ought.
Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or
four
White Provence rose-leaves with her
faery tears,
But not for this cause; — alas ! she had
more
Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears
In the famed memoirs of a thousand
years,
Written by Crafticant, and published
By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly copi-
peers
Who raked up ev'ry fact against the
dead,)
In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's
Head.
XI
Where, after a long hypercritic howl
Against the vicious manners of the
age»
He goes on to expose, with heart and
soul.
What vice in this or that year was the
Backbiting all the world in every page;
With special strictures on the horrid
crime,
(Sectioned and subsection'd with learn-
ing sage,)
Of faeries stooping on their wings sub-
lime
To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in
their prime.
XII
Turn to the copious index, yon will find
Somewhere in the column, headed let-
ter B,
The name of Bellanaine, if you 'xe not
blind;
Then pray refer to the text, and yon
will see
An article made up of calumny
Against this highland princess, rating
her
For giving way, so over fashionably.
To this new-fangled vice, which seems a
burr
Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er
could stir.
XIII
There he says plainly that she loved a
man !
That she around him flutter'd, flirted,.
toy'd.
Before her marriage with great £lfi^—
nan;
That after marriage too, she never joy*
In husband's company, but still employ'c
Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land;
Where lived the youth, who worried
annoy'd
Her tender heart, and its warm ardonc"^
fann'd
To such a dreadful blaze, her side woiiE«
scorch her hand.
THE CAP AND BELLS
219
XIV
Bot let us leare this idle tittle-tattle
To wiitiog- maids, and bed -room co-
teries,
Nor till fit time against her fame wage
battle.
Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease,
Let us resome his subject if you please:
For it may comfort and console him
much,
To rhyme and syllable his miseries;
Poor Elfinan I whose cruel fate was
such.
He at and cursed a bride he knew he
could not touch.
XV
Soon as (according to his promises)
1^ bridal embassy had taken wing,
And Tanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb
trees,
^ emperor, empierced with the sharp
Of lore, retired, vex'd and murmuring
I^ any drone shut from the fair bee-
qoeen.
Into his cabinet, and there did fling
Hisfimbs upon the sofa, full of spleen,
Aid t&nui'd his House of Commons, in
complete chagrin.
XVI
'111 trounce some of the members,' cried
the Prince,
'111 pat a mark against some rebel
names,
in mt^ the Opposition-benches wince,
I •! show them very soon, to all their
duunes,
^^ 'tis to smother up a Prince's
flames;
^w ministers should join in it, I own,
^^'priies me ! — they too at these high
games !
^^ I an Emperor ? Do I wear a crown ?
^f^*^ Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown !
XVII
* I 'U trounce 'em ! — there 's the square-
cut chancellor^
His son shall nerer touch that bishopric;
And for the nephew of old Palfior,
I '11 show him that his speeches made me
sick,
And give the colonelcy to Phalaric;
The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant,
Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick;
And {pr the Speaker's second cousin's
aunt.
She sha'n't be maid of honour, — by hearen
that she sha'n't I
XVIII
a'U shirk the Duke of A.; 1 11 cut his
brother;
1 11 give no garter to his eldest son;
I won't speak to his sister or his mother !
The Viscount B. shall lire at cutnuid-
run;
But how in the world can I contrive to
stun
That feUow'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 ?
XIX
< Monstrous affair ! Pshaw ! pah I what
ugly minx
Will they fetch from Imaus for my
bride ?
Alas I 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 I
Sweet Bertha ! what crime can it be to
glide
About the fragrant plaitings of thy dress.
Or kiss thine eve, or count thy locks, tress
after tress ? '
220
THE CAP AND BELLS
XX
So said, one minate's while his eyes re-
mained
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
bis 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
go
To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I
see
Among the fresh arrivals in our empery.
XXII
* 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 Hnm 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.
XXV
Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks,
(Of pastry he got store within the pal-
ace,)
With hasty steps, wrapp'd doak, and
solemn looks.
Incognito upon his errand sallies.
His smelling-bottle ready for the allies;
THE CAP AND BELLS
221
He pass'd the hurdy-gurdies with dis-
dain,
Vowing he 'd have them sent on board
the galleys;
Jost as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain,
Tlierefore he call'd a coach, and bade it
drive amain.
XXVI
'111 poll the string,' said he, and further
said,
'PoUated Jarvey ! Ah, thou filthy hack !
^V)io«e springs of life are all dried up
and dead.
Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all
slack,
Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is
acrack ;
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,
Tkit 'tis of modem use to travel in a
litter.
XXVII
'TWq inoonvenience ! thou hungry crop
For all com I thou snail-creeper to and
fro,
Who while thou goest ever seem'st to
stop,
Aad fiddle-faddle standest while you go;
r the morning, freighted with a weight
of woe,
^Bto some lazar-house thou joumeyest,
And in the evening tak'st a double row
^ dowdies, for some dance or party
^'^lidcs the goods meanwhile thou movest
east and west.
XXVIII
'^thy angallant bearing and sad mien,
As iaeh appears the utmost thou couldst
budge:
^^ it the slightest nod, or hint, or sign,
Round to the curb-stone patient dost
thou trudge,
Schooled 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 puU'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.'
XXX
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;
222
THE CAP AND BELLS
Lifted his eyebrows, spurn'd the path be-
neath,
Show'd teeth again, and smiled as hereto-
fore,
Until he knock'd at the magician's door;
Where, till the porter answer'd, might
be seen,
In the clear panel more he ooald adore, —
His turban wreathed of gold, and white,
and green,
Mustaohios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sa-
bre keen.
XXXII
' Does not your master give a ront to-
night ? '
Quoth the dark page; < Oh, no ! ' retum'd
the Swiss,
' Next door but one to us, upon the right.
The Magazin des Modes now open is
Against the Emperor's wedding; — and,
sir, this
My master finds a monstrous horrid bore;
As he retired, an hour ago iwis,
With his best beard and brimstone, to
explore
And cast a quiet figure in his second floor.
XXXIII
< Gad ! he 's obliged to stick to business !
For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty
price;
And as for aqua vitse — there 's a mess !
The dentes sapiential of mice
Our barber tells me too are on the rise, —
Tinder 's a lighter article, — nitre pure
Goes off like lightning, — g^ns of Para-
dise
At an enormous figure ! — stars not
sure ! —
Zodiac will not move without a slight dou-
ceur I
XXXIV
' Venus won't stir a peg without a fee.
And master is too partial erUre nous
To — * *Hush — hushi' cried Eban,
< sure that is he
Coming down stairs, — by St. Bartholo-
mew I
As backwards as he can, — is 't some-
thing new ?
Or is 't his custom, in the name of fun ? '
' He always comes down backward, with
one shoe ' —
Retum'd the porter — ' off, and one shoe
on.
Like, saying shoe for sook or stocking, my
man John ! '
XXXV
It was indeed the great Magician,
Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair.
And retrograding careful as he can,
Backwards and downwards from his own
two pair:
* Salpietro I ' exclaimed Hum, * is the dog
there?
He 'b always in my way upon the mat ! '
' He 's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows
where,* —
Replied the Swiss, — < the nasty, yelping
brat!*
' Don't beat him ! ' retum'd Hum, and on
the floor came pat.
XXXVI
Then facing right about, he saw the
Page,
And said: ' Don't tell me what you want,
Eban;
The Emperor is now in a huge rage, —
'T is nine to one he *11 give you the rattani
Let us away I ' Away together ran
The plain-dress'd sage and spangled
blackamoor.
Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan,
And breathe themselves at th' Emperor's
chamber door.
When Eban thought he heard a soft impe-
rial snore.
XXXVII
* 1 thought you guess'd, foretold, or pro-
phesied.
That 's Majesty was in a raving fit ? '
THE CAP AND BELLS
223
'He dreamSy' said Ham, * or I have ever
lied,
That he is tearing yon, sir, bit by bit.'
'He's not asleep, and you have little
wit,'
Beplied the Page, 'that Uttle bozzing
noise,
Whate'er your palmistry may make of
it.
Comes from a plaything of the Em-
peror's choice.
From a Man-'Hger-Organ, prettiest of his
tovs.*
«
XXXVIII
£btii then nsher'd in the learned Seer:
Bifinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'erthe-
leas,
Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by
Crept silently, and waited in distress.
Knowing the Emperor's moody bitter-
ness;
Chan especially, who on the floor 'gan
Tremble and quake to death, — he feared
less
A doee of senna-tea, or nightmare Gror-
^^ the Emperor when he play'd on his
Man-Tiger-Organ.
XXXIX
They kiss'd nine times the carpet's vel-
vet face
Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-
green,
^Hiere the close eye in deep rich fur
might trace
A tilTer tissue, scantly to be seen,
As daisies Inrk'd in June-grass, buds in
green;
S^en the music ceased, sudden the
hand
Of majesty, by dint of passion keen,
'Wiled into a common fist, went grand,
Aad knoek'd down three cut glasses, and
his best ink-stand.
XL
Then turning round, he saw those trem-
bling two:
' Eban,' said he, ' as slaves should taste
the fruits
Of diUgence, I shall remember you
To-morrow, or next day, as time suits.
In a finger conversation with my mutes, —
Begone ! — for you, Chaldean I here re-
main !
Fear not, quake not, and as good wine
recruits
A conjurer's spirits, what cup will yon
drain ?
Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd
champagne ? '
XLI
< Commander of the Faithful ! ' answer'd
Hum,
In preference to these, I 'U merely taste
A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.'
' A simple boon I ' said Elfinan, ' thou
may'st
Have Nautz, with which my morning-
coffee 's laced.' *
< I '11 have a glass of Nantz, then,' — said
the Seer, —
' Made racy — (sure my boldness is mis-
placed I) —
With the third part — (yet that is drink-
ing dear ! ) —
Of the least drop of crane de citron crystal
clear.'
XLII
< I pledge you, Hum ! and pledge my
dearest love,
My Bertha!' < Bertha ! Bertha !' cried
the sage,
' I know a many Berthas ! ' ' Mine 's
above
All Berthas ! ' sighed the Emperor. * I
engage,'
Said Hum, ' in duty, and in vassalage,
1 * Mr. Niaby is of opinion that lAoed coHm is bad for
the hMML' —Spectator.
224
THE CAP AND BELLS
To mention all the Berthas in the
earth; —
There's Bertha Watson, — and Miss
Bertha 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,
< Tour 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 I at Canterbury, with her old
grand dame.'
XLIV
* Good ! good ! ' cried Hum, * I *ve known
her from a child I
She is a changeling of my management;
She was bom 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 I
Drink up your brandy, and sit down by
me.
Feel, feel my pulse, bow much in love I
am;
And if your science is not all a ihaiii.
Tell me some means to get the lady
here.*
* Upon my honour ! ' said the son of
Cham,>
* She is my dainty changeling, near and
dear,
Although her story sounds at first a little
queer.'
XLVl
*Conyey her to me, Hnm, or by my
crown,
My sceptre, and my cross-snrmoiinted
globe,
I '11 knock you — ' < Does your majesty
mean — doum f
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 little
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 tum'd it quickly, nimbly upside
down.
His mouth being held conveniently fit
To catch the treasure: 'Best in all the
town I '
He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a-
pleasant frown.
1 Cham is said to hare been the inventor of
Lacy learnt this from Bayle*8 Dictiooarj, and
copied a long Latin note from that work.
THE CAP AND BELLS
225
XLVIU
* ^ ! good my Prinoe, weep not ! ' And
thenmgain
He fill'd a bumper. * Great Sire, do not
weep I
Tour pulse is shocking, bnt I'll ease
your pain.'
'Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee
keep
Tour Toiee low,' siud the Emperor, * and
steep
Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine;
And prithee, Hom, behind the screen do
peep
For the rose-water vase, magician mine I
iid iponge my forehead — so my love doth
make me pine.'
xux
'Ah, enrsed BeUanaine ! ' * Don't think
of her,*
Sejoin'd the Mago, ' bnt on Bertha muse ;
For, by my choicest best barometer,
Toa shall not throttled be in marriage
noose;
I 've Slid it, sire ; you only have to choose
Berths or BeUanaine.' So saying, he
drew
From the left pocket of his threadbare
hose,
AauDpler hoarded slyly, good as new;
^^^Uiog it by his thumb and finger full in
new.
'Sin, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-
work,
^ flosie, see here. Midsummer^ ninety-
one'—
^3^ snatch'd it with a sudden jerk,
^ wept as if he never wonld have
done,
HoBOQring with royal tears the poor
homespun;
'^WoD were broider'd tigers with black
Aid long-tailed pheasants, and a rising
ma.
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 th»
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 I ' exclaim'd Hum, < now
don't despair:
She does not mean it really. Cheer up,
hearty — there I
LII
> ' And listen to my words. You say yon
won't.
On any terms, marry Miss BeUanaine;
It goes against your conscience — good !
weU, don't.
You say, you love a mortal. I would
fain
Persuade your honour's highness to re-
frain
From peccadiUoes. 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 off 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
Tour Majesty there is no crime at all
In loving pretty little Bertha, since
She 's very delicate — not over tall, —
A fairy's hand, and in the waist why —
very small.'
LIV
'Ring the repeater, gentle Hum ! ' "Tis
five,'
Said gentle Hum; 'the nights draw in
apace;
The little birds I hear are all alive;
I see the dawning tonch'd upon your face ;
Shall I put out the candles, please your
Grace?'
'Do put them out, and, without more
ado,
Tell me how I may that sweet girl em-
brace, —
How you can bring her to me.' ' That 's
for you.
Great Emperor ! to adventure, like a lover
true.'
LV
' I fetch her ! ' — * Yes, an 't like your
Majesty;
And as she would be frighten'd wide
awake.
To travel such a distance through the
sky.
Use of some soft manoeuvre you must
make,
For your convenience, and her dear
nerves' sake;
Nice way would be to bring her in a
swoon,
Anon, I 'U tell what course were best to
take;
Tou must away this morning.' ' Hum !
so soon ? '
'Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve
o'clock at noon.'
LVI
At this great Csesar started on his feet,
Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-
wise.
'Those wings to Canterbury you must
beat,
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize,
Look in the Almanack — Moore never
lies —
April the twenty-fourth — this coming
day.
Now breathing its new bloom upon the
skies,
Will end in St. Mark's Eve; — yoa must
away,
For on that eve alone can you the maid
convey.
LVII
Then the magician solemnly 'gan to
frown.
So that his frost-white eye-brows, beet-
ling low.
Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles
brown
Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
Forth from his hood that hung his neck
below
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool
or snow,
Charm'd into ever freezing, lay an old
And legend-leaved book, mysterious to
behold.
LVIII
' Take this same book — it will not bite
you. Sire;
There, put it underneath your royal
arm;
Though it 's a pretty weight, it will not
tire,
But rather on your journey keep you
warm:
This is the magic, this the potent charm,
That shall drive Bertha to a hunting
fit!
When the time comes, don't feel the least
alarm,
But lift her from the ground, and swiftly
flit
Back to your palace
THE CAP AND BELLS
227
LIX
' What ihall I do with that same book ? '
* Why merely
Iaj it on Bertha's table, close beside
Her work-box, and 't will help yoor pur-
pose dearly;
I uj no more.* * Or good or ill betide,
Tboagh the wide air to Kent this mom
IgUdel*
Exdiim'd the Emperor, * When I return,
Aik what you will, — I *11 give you my,
new bride I
And take some more wine, Hum; — O,
Heavens I I bum
To be upon the wing I Now, now, that
minx I spurn I *
LX
'Leave her to me,' rejoin'd the magian:
'Bat how shall I account, illustrious fay I
For thine imperial absence ? Pho I I
can
Saj jou are very sick, and bar the way
To jour so loving courtiers for one day;
If either of their two Archbishops' graces
Sioold talk of extreme unction, I shall
Too do not like cold pig with Latin
phrases,
WUeh never should be used but in alarm-
ing cases.'
LXI
'Open the window. Hum; I 'm ready
now!'
'Zooks ! ' exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash
lie drew,
'Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow
Of jonder hill, what crowds of people ! '
*Whew!
The monster 's always after something
new,'
^Hnni'd his Highness, * they are piping
hot
To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum I
do
Tighten my belt a little, — so, so, — not
^^tight, — the book! — my wand I — so,
nothing is forgot.'
LXII
* Wounds I how they shout ! ' said Hum,
* and there, — see, see,
Th' ambassador 's retum'd from Pigmio I
The morning 's very fine, — uncommonly!
See, past the skirts of yon white cloud
they go.
Tinging it with soft crimsons I Now
below
The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines
They dip, move on, and with them moves
a glow
Along the forest side ! Now amber lines
Reach the hill top, and now throughout the
valley shines.'
LXIII
* Why, Hum, you 're getting quite poeti-
cal!
Those nows you managed in a special
style.'
< If ever you have leisure. Sire, you shall
See scraps of mine will make it worth
your while.
Tit-bits for Phoebus ! — yes, you well
may smile.
Hark! hark! the bells!' <A UtUe
further yet,
Good Hum, and let me view this mighty
coil.'
Then the great Emperor full graceful set
His elbow for a prop, and snufTd his
mignonette.
LXIV
The mom is full of holiday: loud bells
With rival clamors ring from every spire;
Cunningly-etation'd music dies and swells
In echoing places; when the winds re-
spire.
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues
of fire;
A metropolitan murmur, lifef ul, warm.
Comes from the northern suburbs; rich
attire
Freckles with red and gold the moving
swarm;
While here and there clear trumpets blow
a keen aAaxia.
228
THE CAP AND BELLS
LXV
And now the fairy escort was seen dear,
Like the old pageant of Aurora's train,
Above a pearl-built minster, hovering
near;
First wily Craf ticant, 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.
LXVI
Grentlemen 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
gprand !*
Cried Elfinan, and closed the window-
blind;
'And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally
stand, —
Adieu ! adieu I 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 Bel] !
Farewell ! farewell ! and if for ever ! still
For ever fare thee well ! ' — and then he
feU
A laughing I — snapp'd his fingers ! —
shame it is to tell I
LXIX
< By 'r Lady I he is gone I ' cries Hmn,
' 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 AND BELLS
229
LXXI
1la» 10 a fidflahoody Craftioanto treats;
And 18 hit style is of strange elegance,
Gentle sad tender, full of soft oonceits,
(Mneh like oar Boswell's,) we will take a
glMioe
At his sweet proee, and, if we can, make
dance
Hif wcnren periods into careless rhyme;
0, little ^rj Pegasas ! rear — pranoe —
Trot round the quarto — ordinary time !
^Ciieh, little Pegasas, with pawing hoof
lablime !
LXXII
' Well, let us see, — tenth book and chapter
nine,* —
Tbi Crafticant pursues his diary: —
'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the wea-
ther fine,
Lttitade thirty-six; our scouts descry
A flight of .torlings making rapidly
Towards Thihet Mem.: — birds fly in
the night;
From twelve to half-past — wings not fit
to fly
For a thick fog — the Princess sulky
qaite:
^d for an extra shawl, and gave her
Dorse a bite.
Lxxin
^FiTe minutes before one — brought
down a moth
With my new double-barrel — stew'd
the thighs,
^ made a very tolerable broth —
^^iocess tom'd dainty, to our great sur-
prise,
^^d her mind, and thought it very
nice:
^^^ her pleasant, tried her with a
l»n.
^bown'd; a monstrous owl across us
flies
Abmt this time, — a sad old figure of
hm;
«ii csMi — this new match can't be a
LXXIV
* From two to half-past, dusky way we
made.
Above the plains of Grobi, — desert,
bleak;
Beheld afar o£F, in the hooded shade
Of darkness, a great mountain (strange
to speak),
Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken
peak,
A fan-shaped burst of blood-red, arrowy
fire,
Turban'd with smoke, which still away
did reek.
Solid and black from that eternal pyre.
Upon the laden winds that scantly could
respire.
LXXV
' Just upon three o'clock, a falling star
Created an alarm among our troop,
Elill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a
jar,
A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop.
Then passing by the Priuoess, singed her
hoop:
Could not conceive what Coralline was at.
She clapp'd her hands three times, and
cried out " Whoop I "
Some strange Imaian custom. A large
bat
Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd
against my hat.
LXXVI
'Five minutes thirteen seconds after
three.
Far in the west a mighty fire broke out.
Conjectured, on the instant, it might be
The city of Balk — 't was Balk beyond
all doubt:
A griffin, wheeling here and there about
Kept reconnoitering us — doubled our
guard —
Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout.
Till he sheer'd o£F — the Princess very
scared —
And many on their marrow-bones for death
prepared.
23©
THE CAP AND BELLS
LXXVII
'At half-past three arose the cheerful
moon —
Biyouack'd for f oar minutes on a cloud —
Where from the earth we heard a lively
tune
Of tambourines and pipes, severe and
loud.
While on a flowery lawn a brilliant
crowd
Cinque-parted danced, some half asleep
reposed
Beneath the green-faned cedars, some
did shroud
In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance
dozed,
Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids
closed.
LXXVIII
* Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill*d a
kettle-drum —
It went for apoplexy — foolish folks ! —
Left it to pay the piper — a good sum —
(I 've got a conscience, maugre people's
jokes,)
To scrape a little favour; 'gan to coax
Her Highness' pug-dog — got a sharp
rebuff —
She wish'd a game at whist — made
three revokes —
Tum'd from myself, her partner, in a
huff;
His Majesty will know her temper time
enough.
LXXIX
* She cried for chess — I play'd a game
with her —
Castled her king with such a vixen
look,
It bodes ill to his Majesty — (refer
To the second chapter of my fortieth
book.
And see what hoity-toity airs she took).
At half-past four the mom essay'd to
beam —
Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook, —
The Princess fell asleep, and, in her
dream,
Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her
esteem.
LXXX
* About this time — making delightful
way —
Shed a quill-feather from my larboard
wing —
Wish'd, trusted, hoped 't was no sign of
decay —
Thank Heaven, I 'm hearty yet ! — 't was
no such thing: —
At five the golden light began to spring.
With fiery shudder through the bloomed
east;
At six we heard Panthea's churches
ring —
The city all his unhived swarms had cast.
To watch our grand approach, and hail us
as we pass'd.
LXXXI
' As flowers turn their faces to the sun.
So on our flight with hung^ eyes they
gaze.
And, as we shaped our course, this, that
way run,
With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd
amaze:
Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays.
And progresses through its own laby-
rinth;
Buds gather'd from the green spring's
middle-days.
They scatter'd — daisy, primrose, hya-
cinth —
Or round white columns wreathed from
capital to plinth.
LXXXII
' Onward we floated o'er the panting
streets,
That seem'd throughout with upheld
faces paved;
Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision
meets
THE CAP AND BELLS
231
Legions of holiday; bright standards
wsfedy
And fluttering ensigns emnlously craved
Ovminate's glance; a busy thunderoas
roar,
Fiom square to square, among the bnild-
ings rayed,
As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once
more
The craggy hoUowness of a wild-reefed
shore.
LXXXIII
'And "Bellanaine for ever!" shouted
they I
While that fair Princess, from her
winged chair,
Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to
That new-blown loyalty with guerdon
fair,
Sdn emptied, at meet distance, here and
there,
A plenty horn of jewels. And here I
(Wbo wish to give the devil her due)
deelare
Agiinst that ngly piece of calumny,
^^ ealls them Highland pebble-stones
not worth a fly.
LXXXIV
'Stfll « Bellanaine I " they shouted, while
we glide
"^t to a light Ionic portico,
^ city's delicacy, and the pride
Of our Imperial Basilic; a row
Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make
show
^Vmissive of knee-bent obeisance,
^ down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo I
Tht strangest sight — the most unlook'd-
for chance —
^ tilings tnm'd topsy-turvy in a devil's
danee.
LXXXV
' otcad of his anxious Majesty and court
^ tbe open doors, with wide saluting
Congees and scrape-graces of every sort,
And all the smooth routine of gallan-
tries,
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
A motley crowd thick gather'd in the
hall.
Lords, scullions, deputy-sonUions, with
wild cries
Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall.
Where the Chief Justice on his knees and
hands doth crawl.
LXXXVI
* Counts of the palace, and the state pur-
veyor
Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal
beds.
The Common Council and my fool Lord
Mayor
Marching a-row, each other slipshod
treads;
Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tu£Fy heads
Of cinder wenches meet and soil each
other;
Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting
breeds,
FriU-rumpling elbows brew up many a
bother,
And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell
and pother.
LXXXVII
* A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's
back,
Rode to the Princess swift with spurring
heels.
And close into her face, with rhyming
clack.
Began a Prothalamion; — she reels.
She falls, she faints I — while laughter
peals
Over her woman's weakness. " Where !"
cried I,
" Where is his Majesty ? " No person
feels
Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly
I plunged into the crowd to find him or
to die.
232
THE LAST SONNET
LXXXVIII
' Jostling my way I gain'd the stain, 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 Craftioanto'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 I
THE LAST SONNET
On his way to Italy as his last ohaooe of life,
the yeaael 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^B biographer, * and the scene revived
the poet*8 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 I |u
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the
night, i
And watching, with eternal lids apartylt
like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, ^
The moving waters at their priestlike task c
Of pure ablution round earth's human
shores ^
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask c
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 Keat8*s genins ; there are verses in the plu-
vious groups which might be placed here, if the
intention was to make a marked division be-
tween his well-defined poetiy and his experi-
ments and mere scintillations; donbUess, too,
on any snch 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 frag-
mentary 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, 1866-
1857. Lord Houghton afterward included it
iq a new edition of The Life and Letters of
John Keat^f 1867. He also printed it in the
Aldine edition of 1876, where he recorded 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 sejMurate 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 Cdvin.
CANTO I
Fakatics have their dreams, wherewith they
weave
A paradise for a sect ; the savage, too.
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Ouesses 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 to
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 dod
Hath visions and would speak, if he had loved,
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now pnrpos'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 dime.
Palm, myrtie, oak, and sycamore, and beeeh, io
With plantane and spice-blossoms, mads 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 retnm'd to her own fields.
Where the white (leifers low. And api>etite.
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 Ups,
Drank. That fall draught is parent of my
theme.
234
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
No Asian poppy nor elixir fine
Of the 80on-&ding, jealons Caliphat,
No poiion gendered in dose monkish cell.
To thin the scarlet conclave of old men, 50
Could so haye rapt unwilling life away.
Among the fragrant hnsks and berries omsh'd
Upon the grass, I straggled hard against
The domineering potion, but in vain.
The dondy swoon came on, and down I sank.
Like a Silenns on an antique vase.
How long I slumbered 't is a chance to gaess.
When sense of life retom'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,
fiuilded 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 remembered none
The like upon the earth : what I had seen
Of grey cathedrals, buttressed 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 confused 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 looked, and saw far off
An image, huge of feature as a cloud.
At level of whose feet an altar slept.
To be approached on either side by steiw 90
And marble balustrade, and patient travul
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 mid-day the sickening east-wind
Shifts sudden to the south, the amall warn
rain
Melts out the frozen incense from aUrflowett,
And fills the air with so much pleasant healtfitoB
That even the dying man foxgets his shiond ;—
Even so that lofty sacrifidal fire.
Sending forth Maian inoenae, spmd aiomid
Forgetfulness of everything but bliss.
And douded all the altar with soft smoke;
From whose white fragrant onrtains thn I
heard
Language prononnc'd : * If thoa canst not •§•
oend
These steps, die on that marble where thos
art.
Thy flesh, near cousin to the oonamon dost.
Will parch for lack of nutriment ; thy bones 110
Will wither in few years, and vanish so
That not the quickest eye oould flnd a grsia
Of what thou now art on that pavement eold.
The sands of thy short life are spent tfaii
hour.
And no hand in the universe can torn.
Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be bant
Ere thou canst mount up these immortal stepi.*
I heard, I looked : two senses both at ones.
So fine, so subtle, fdlt the tyranny
Of that fierce threat and the hard task pro-
posed. t30
Prodigious seemed the toil ; the leaves were yM
Burning, when suddenly a palsied diill
Struck from the paved level up my limbs.
And was ascending quick to put cold gnap
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throst
I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shiitk
Stung my own ears ; I strove hard to escape
The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step.
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace : the eold
Ghrew stifling, suffocating at the heart ; tje
And when I clasped my hands I felt them not
One minute before death my io'd foot toodi'd
The lowest stair ; and, as it touched, life seemed
To pour in at the toes ; I mounted up
As once fair angels on a ladder flew
From the green turf to heaven. * Holy Pow«,*
Cried I, approaching near the homed shrine,
'What am I that should so be saved £raoi
death?
What am I that another death come not
To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here f * iip
Then said the veiled shadow : * Thou hast felt
What et is to die and live again before
Thy fated hour ; that thou hadst power to dfi
so
Is thine own safety ; thou hast dated on
Thy doom.e ' High Prophetess,' said I, * pnr^
off.
46^
HYPERION: A VISION
235
benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.'
*None can usurp this height,* retiim*d that
shade,
* Bat 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.
If by a chance into this fane they come,
I^t on the pavement where thou rottedst half.'
' Are there not thousands in the world,' said I,
Enoourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
* Who love their fellows even to the death,
Who feel the giant agony of the world,
And more, like slaves to poor humanity.
Labour for mortal good ? I sure should see
Other men here, but I am here alone.' 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 f avour'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
Ko 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 an
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 is 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 aao
Still swooning vivid through my globed brain.
With an electnd 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 Gk>ddess, and with sacred hand
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,
Kot pin'd by human sorrovrs, but bright-
blanch'd
Bj 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-dos'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 oast. As I had foond
A grain of gold upon a monntain's side,
And, twing'd with ayarioe, strain'd ont my
eyes
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore, aso
So, at the Tiew of sad Moneta's brow,
I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow
Behind enTiron'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 ? ' Shade of Memory I *
Cried I, with act adorant at her feet,
*By all the gloom hung round thy fallen
house, ate
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 withered race,
Let me behold, according as thou saidst.
What in thy brain so ferments to and fro I *
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 >7o
Far sunken from the healthy breath of mom.
Far from the fiery noon and eve^s one star.
Onward I looked beneath the gloomy boughs.
And saw what first I thought an image huge.
Like to the image pedestall^d so high
Li Satum*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 aSo
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-unravellM 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 feathered 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 »9»
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 kmg a deepi
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden gmmd
His old right hand lay nervelen, Uatless, dssd,
Unsoeptred, and his realmless eyes were dosed:
While his bowed head seem*d listening to the
Earth, jn
ancient mother, for some oomf ort yet.
It seem'd no force oould wake him from Ui
place;
But there came one who, with a kindred haad,
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bendiog lov
With reverence, though to one. who knew it net
Then came the griev'd voice Mnemosyne,
And griev'd I hearken'd. * That divinity
Whom thou saw'st step from ycm forioiaeit
wood, J09
And with slow pace approach oor fallen Idag*
Is Thea, softest-natured of our brood.*
I mark'd the Gknldess, in fair statuary
Surpassing wan Moneta by the head,
And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears.
There was a listening 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 siUlen rear
Wss with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot V^
Where beats the human heart, as if just then^
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 w<irds she ^okt
In solemn tenour and deep organ-tone ;
Some mourning words, which in our fsehb
tongue
Would come in this like accenting ; how fiail
To that large utterance of the early godst
* Saturn, look up I and for what, poor ki^
king? »•
I have no comfort for thee ; no, not one ;
I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou?
For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Etf^
Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a god.
The Ocean, too, with all its solenm noise.
Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all the air
Is emptied of thy hoary majesty.
Thy thunder, captious at the new oommsad.
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ;
And thy sharp lightning, in unpraotis'd hssfc
Scourges and bums our once serene domais. S**
* With such remorseless speed still come t0^
woes.
That unbelief has not a space to breaths.
Saturn I sleep on : me thoughtless, why shostf ^
Vf
'i>
HYPERION: A VISION
237
Thus yiolate thy alnmbroiu solitude ?
Why should I ope thy melaneholy eyes ?
Satom ! 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,
Saye from one gradual solitary gust 3S>
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 graye
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, 370
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 curs'd myself.
Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes.
And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone.
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place.
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet.
As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and
leaves 380
Pills forest-dells with a pervading air,
E[nown 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 meanings to the solitary Pan.
* Moan, brethren, moan, for we are swallow'd
up
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 m<Msture haunt the
earth.
Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon ;
Still 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 I Oh I 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 hjrmns of festival.
From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled
douds ; 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 4^0
With large limb'd visions. More I scrutinized.
Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees.
Whose arms spread straggling in wUd 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 tho 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
:V/^
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 440
Onward from the antechamber of this dream,
Where, even at the open doors, awhile
I most delay, and glean my memory
Of her high phrase — perhaps no forther dare*
CANTO II
* 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 team 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, 10
Groan for the old aUegiance 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
PVom 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 ai
Upon the first toll of lus passing bell,
Or prophesyiugs of the midnight lamp ;
But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve,
Make grreat Hyi>erion ache. His palace bright,
Bastion'd with pyramids of shining gold,
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks.
Glares a blood-red thro' aU the thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ;
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 30
Flash angerly ; when he would taste the wreaths
Of incense breath'd aloft from sacred hiUs,
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 haU, 40
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,
Qoea step for step with Thea from yon woods,
^%Fp$rion, leaving twilight in th^rear,
^Isjlg]^^ to the threshold of the
Thitherwe tend.' ' Ifowfanslearlight I stood,
Reliev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne 51
Was sitting on a square-edg'd polish'd stone.
That in its lucid depths refiected pure
Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on
From stately nave to nave, irom. 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 f oUow are pub-
lished in Life, Letters and Literary Semains,
without date.
Where 's the Poet ? Show him I show him.
Muses nine I that I may know him I
'T is the man who with a 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 homy throat expresseth.
And to him the Tiger's yell
Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.
II
MODERN LOVE
And what is love ? It is a doll dress'd up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle ;
A thing of soft nusnomers, 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 Miu's comb is made a peari tiara,
>♦
FRAGMENTS
239
And common Wellingtons tarn Romeo boots ;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven.
And Antony resides in Bmnswick Square.
Fools I if some passions high have warmed the
world,
If Queens and Soldiers have played deep for
hearts.
It is no reason why such agonies
Should be more conunon than the growth of
weeGS*
Fools I make me whole again that weighty
pearl
The Queen of i^rypt melted, and I *11 say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.
Ill
FRAGMENT OF * THE CASTLE BUILDER'
To-KIOHT I *11 have my friar — let me think
About my room — I ^U 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-frarae, with Venus sleeping there,
All finished 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 Ijdng,
InkM purple with a song concerning dying ;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the tnuls
Of passion-flower ; — just m time there sails
A cloud across the moon, — 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^heet ;
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 Uphandn.'
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 €k>thic waste
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potterV day,
Than on the marble fairness of old Oreeoe.
My table-ooverlits of Jason's fleece
And black Numidian sheep -wool should be
wrought.
Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.
My ebon sofas should delicious be
With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.
My pictures all Salvator's, save a few
Of Utian's portraiture, and one, though new.
Of E[aydon's in its fresh magnificence.
My wine — O good ! 't is here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.
IV
EXTRACTS FROM AN OPERA
first given in JAft^ Letterg and Literary JSe-
mainSf and there dated 1818. In that case, it is
most likely that the verses farmed a portion of
some experiment going on to the autunm after
Keats's return from his northern journey.
O ! WERB I one of the Olympian twelve.
Their godships should pass this into a law, —
That when a nuin 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 fur 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
Thb sun, with his great eye.
Sees not so much as I ;
And the moon, all silver-proud.
Might as well be in a doud.
And O the spring — the spring I
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 Ueat my lullaby.
240
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
folly's song
Whbn wedding fiddles are arplajring.
Huzza for folly O I
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 harrel 's set ahroaoh.
Huzza, etc.
When Kate Eyehrow keeps a coach.
Huzza, etc.
When the pig is ovei^roasted,
Huzza, etc.
And the cheese is oyei^toasted.
Huzza, etc.
When Sir Snap is with his lawyer,
Huzza, etc.
And Miss Chip has kiss'd the sawyer ;
Huzza, etc.
Oh, I am frightened with most hateful thoughts 1
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 ihe little thing to walk,
May have crumpt up a pair of Dian's legs.
And warpt the ivory of a Juno's neck.
SONG
Ths 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
on his palfrey.
AsiiBBP 1 O sleep a little while, white pearl I
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven's blessing on tf»i"^
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 I
III. FAMILIAR VERSES
STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE
These verses belong to 1810. It is not im-
possible that like the valentine on p. 11, thsj
were written for the use of George Keats.
O COMB, Georgiana I 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.
O come ! let us haste to the freshening shades,
The quaintly carv'd seats, and the <^ieniiiir
glades;
Where the faeries are chanting their evenisf
hymns,
And the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swim.
And when thou art weary, I 'U 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 1 11 sigh«
Thou wilt think that some amorous zephyr i
nigh;
Tet no —as I breathe I will press thy fair kn»<
And then thou wilt know that the sigh eom^
from me.
Ah I whv, dearest girl, should we lose all thetf
blisses?
That mortal 's a fool who such happiness missed
So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand.
With love-looking eyes, and with voioe sweet^
bland.
EPISTLE TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
*My dear Reynolds,' writes Keats fif
Teignmouth, March 25, 1818, *In hopes ^
cheering yon through a minute or two, I w^
ft
FAMILIAR VERSES
241
determined, will he, nill he, to send yoa aome
lines, so you will excuse the unconnected sub-
ject and careless veise. Ton know, I am sure,
Claude's Enchanted Castle, and I wish yon may
be pleased with my remembrance of it.'
Deab 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
oat ; >o
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
wings,
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 .^lolian harps personif y'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 I that I had thy sacred word 30
To show this Castle, in fair dreaming wise.
Unto my friend, while sick and ill he lies !
Ton 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 built by Cuthbert de Saint Aldebrim ;
Then there 's a little wing, far from the Sun,
Built by a Lapland V^tch tum'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 latch'd by Fays and £lves,5o
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 I
A golden Galley all in silken trim I
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 sounds, 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 unfurl'd
On the Admiral-staff, — and so philosophise
I dare not yet I O, never will the prize.
High reason, and the love of good and ill.
Be my award 1 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 oonfin'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 fringing of the Nightingale.
Dear Reynolds I I have a mysterious tale.
And cannot speak it: the first page I read
Upon a Lampit rock of green se»-weed
Among the breakers ; 't was a quiet eve.
The rooks were silent, the wide sea did weave
An untnmnltuous fringe of silver foam 9>
Along the flat brown sand ; I was at home
242
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
And should have been most happy, — bat I saw
As doth a mother wild,
Too far ioto the sea, where every maw
When her young infant child
The greater on the less feeds eyermore. —
Is in an eagle's claws —
Bat I saw too distinct into the oore
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^y,
Through sights I scarce can bear :
I 'ye gathered young spring-leayes, and flowers
0 let me, let me share
gay too
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 sayage prey, — the Hawk at
And let me see thy bowers
pounce, —
More unalarm'd I
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,
Rayening a worm, — Away, ye homd moods I
AT TEIGNMOUTH
Moods of one's mind I You know I hate them
well.
Sent as part of a letter to Haydon, written
You know I 'd sooner be a cli4>ping 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
HsBE aU the summer could I stay.
For there 's Bishop's teign
And King's teign
81, 1818. ' I cannot write in prose,' says Keats ;
And Coomb at the dear teign head —
'it is a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here
W here close by the stream
goes.'
You may have your cream
*^
All spread upon barley bread.
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,
Away with old Hook and Madeira,
There 's arch Brook
Too earthly ye are for my sport ;
And there 's larch Brook
There 's a beyerage brighter and clearer.
Both turning many a mill ;
Instead of a pitiful rummer,
And cooling the drouth
My wine overbrims a whole smnmer ;
Of the salmon's mouth
My bowl is the sky,
And fattening his silver gill.
And I drink at my eye,
Till I feel in the brain
There is Wild wood,
A Delphian pain —
AMUdhood
Then follow, my Caius I 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 ApoUo I
There is Newton marsh
Qod 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 hire in.
FAMILIAR VERSES
243
And O, and O
The daisies blow
And the primroses are waken'd.
And the yiolets white
Sit in silver plig^ht.
And the g^een bad *s as long as the spike end.
Then who would go
Into dark Soho,
And chatter with dack'd hair'd crildos,
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 yon if worthy
to put among i|iy Lyrics. Here 's some dog-
grel for yon/ and these four stanzas follow.
Whebe 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 midnly.
But 'hind the door I love kissing more,
O 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
I Ul put your Basket all safe in a nook.
Tour shawl I hang up on the willow.
And we will sigh in the daisy^s eye
And Idss on a grass green pillow.
ACROSTIC :
GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS
This is dated * Foot of Helvellyn, June 27,'
I8I8, 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.'
Give 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 Reahns of verse,
Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we
nurse
And surety give to love and Brotherhood.
Anthropophagi in Othello's mood ;
Uljrsses 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 ! 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
Auchencaim, July 2, 1818. 'We are in the
midst of Meg Merrilies country of whom I sup*
pose you have heard.' Fanny Keats was a
g^l of fifteen at this time.
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors :
Her bed it was the brown heath turf.
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries.
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 mom.
No dinner many a noon.
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every mom 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,
s^rPi.B2*!5l^
VEB-SB
I
There '««»»^^J*»'
He too* ,
B«j,,^e.,
be^
rjo a»e n"**"
Get up •»*^''
Of a g^o^®'
FAMILIAR VERSES
245
Of Fish, a px«tty Kettle,
AKetdel
There was a naughty Boy,
And a naughty Boy was he,
He laa away to SeotUnd
The people for to see —
Then he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
Thatayard
Was as long.
That a song
Was as merry.
That a cherry
Was as red —
That lead
Was as weighty.
That f onrsoore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England —
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonderM,
He wondered,
He stood in his shoes
And he wondered.
TO THOMAS KEATS
(for BAllantiaa) Jtdy 10 [1818.]
^ I ken ye what I met the day
Out oore the Bfonntains
A eoBing down by craggies gray
An moane fountains —
Ak good-hair'd Marie yeve I pray
Aae mimite's guessing —
For that I met upon the way
^ part expressing.
^ I rtood where a rocky brig
A tonent erosaes
1 *pied upon a misty rig
Atioupo' Horaes—
^ •• they trotted down the glen
^ "pad to meet them
^^•««if I might know the Men
To stop and greet them.
'^ WnHe on his sleek mare came
At oanting gallop
^!*iQg hair rustled like a flame
j^ hoard a ahallop,
'^«tae his brother Rab and then
A^P««y'aMither
^j* ^•tty too — adown the glen
^vwttogithar—
I saw her wrappit in her hood
Frae wind and raining —
Her cheek was flush wi' timid blood
Twixt growth and waning —
She turned her daxed eyes full oft
For there her Brithers
Came riding with her Bridegroom soft
And mony ithers.
Young Tam came up and eyed me quick
With reddened cheek —
Braw Tom was dafPed like a chick —
He conldna speak —
Ah, Marie, they are all gane hame
Through blustering weather
An* every heart is full on flame
An* light as feather.
Ah ! Marie, they are all gone hame
Frae happy wadding,
Whilst I — Ah is it not a shame f
Sad team am shedding.
THE GADFLY
Inclosed in a letter to Tom Keats, July IT,
1818.
All gentle folks who owe a grudge
To any living thing
Open your ears and stay your t(r)udge
Whilst I in dudgeon sing.
The Gadfly he hath stung me sore —
O may he ne*er sting you I
Bat we have many a horrid bore, —
He may sting black and blue.
Has any here an old gray Mare
With three legs all her store,
O put it to her Buttocks bare
And straight she '11 run on four.
Has any here a Lawyer suit
Of 1743,
Take Lawyer's nose and put it to *t
And you the end will see.
Is there a Man in Parliament
I>um(b)founder*d in his speech,
O let his neighbour make a rent
And put one in his breech.
O Lowther how much better thou
Hadst figured t' other day
When to the folks thou mad'st a bow
And hadst no more to say.
If lucky Gadfly had but ta'att
aea* • • •
i
246
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
And put thee to a little pain
To sare thee from a wone.
Better than Southey it had heen,
Better than Mr. D
Better than Wordsworth, too, I ween,
Better than Mr. V .
Forgive me, pray, good people all.
For deviating ao —
In spirit snre 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,
0 pat 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 —
0 let a Gadfly's little sting
Persuade her sacred tongue
That noises are a conunon 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 HEARING THE BAG-PIPE AND SEEING
*THE STRANGER' PLAYED AT INVERARY
*0n 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 Bam 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 bees
scoffed at lately almost to a faahion.'
Of late two dainties were before me plao'd
Sweet, holy, pure, sacred and innooent.
From the ninth sphere to me benignly sent
That Qods might know my own paitieiilar
taste:
First the soft Bagpipe momm'd with lealooa^
haste.
The Stranger next with head on bosom bent
Sigh'd; rueful again the jnteons Bag^pip^
went.
Again the Stranger sighings fresh did waste.
O Bag-pipe, thon didst steal my heart away —
O Stranger, thou my nerves from Pipe didsfc
charm —
O Bag-pipe thou didst re-ossert thy sway —
Again thou. Stranger, gav'st me fresh alaxm —
Alas I I could not choose. Ah ! my poor hesii
Mum chance art thoa with both obUg*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 aoroas asilent
plain.
Where patriot battle has been fooght, where
glory had the gain ;
There is a pleasure on the heath where Dndds
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 ■^l^www in
the heart.
More parching to the tongue than all, of mora
divine a smart.
When weary steps forget themselvea upon a
pleasant turf.
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shos« iron
scurf.
Toward the Castle or the Cot, where long ago
was bom
One who was great through mortal daya, and
died of fame unshorn.
Light heather-beUs may tremble then, bvt they
are far away ;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern, — the
Sun may hear his Lay ;
FAMILIAR VERSES
247
^Qntb may kin die gnw on shelves and Bhal-
lowselear,
Bm thflir low Toiees sre not heard, though
eome on trsrels drear ;
Blood-ied the son may set hehind black monn-
Bias tides may shnee and dxeneh their time in
Cayes and weedy oreeki ;
oay seem to sleep wing-wide npon the
Air;
^ardores may fly eooTnls'd across to some
Betthefoigotteneyeissdll fast lidded to the
gnmad.
As Fifaner's, that with weariness, mid-desert
shnie hath foond.
At laeli a time the sool *8 a child, in child-
hood is the brain ;
'vfsttan is the worldly heart— alone, it beats
iji, if a Madman ooold haye leave to pass a
hsalthfolday
To tall his forehead*s swoon and faint when
first began dfceay,
Bs Bi(ht make tremble many a one whose spirit
had gone forth
To find a Bard's low oradleiibMie abont the
silent North.
Scanty the hoar and few the steps beyond the
bomns o£ Care,
Beyead the sweet and bitter world, — beyond
it vmwarel
Seaaty the hoar and few the steps, becanse a
kmgerstay
WWd bar retnm, and make a man forget his
Mortal way:
O kssTihle ! to lose the sight of well remem-
bor'dfaee.
Of BrotlMr's eyes, of Sister's brow — constant
to every plaee ;
the Air, as on we move, with Portrai-
thaa those heroic tints that pain a
of old eome striding by, and vis-
ofold,
blaek, hair seanty gray, and pas-
maaifbld.
Xet, ao), that horror cannot be, for at the cable's
ieels the gentle siichor poll and gladdens
is its strength : -
Msr, halKidiot, he stands by mossy water-
fiJl,
Bat in the very muA 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 fibod
And keep his vision clear from speck, his in-
ward sight unbliud.
MRS. CAMERON AND BEN NEVIS
In his letter to Tom Keats, August 8, 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 Birs. 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 bad herself. She ought to have
hired Sisyphus, — " Up the high hill he heaves
a hug^ round — Birs. 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 began —
MRS. c.
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 I
Yon 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 f
'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 !
243
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
Here the Lady took some more whisky and
was puttini^ even more to her lips when she
dashed it to the Ground, for the Mountain be-
gan to gramble — which continued for a few
minntes 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 awakM I '11 not endure.
Oh pain — for since the Eagle's earliest scream
I 'ye had a damn'd confounded ugly dream,
A Nightmare sure. Whatl Madam, was it
you?
It cannot be ! My old eyes are not true !
Red-Crag, my Spectacles I Now let roe see !
Good Heavens I Lady, how the gemini
Did you get here ? O, 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 Miud
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 1
Red Crag ! — What I 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 ! O I must have them close I
Red Crag, there lies beneath my farthest toe
A vein of Sulphur — go, dear Red Crag, go —
And rub your flinty back agunst it — budge I
Dear Madam, I must kiss you, faith I must I
I must embrace you with my dearest gust I
Block-head, d' ye hear I — Block-head, I 'U
make her feel.
There lies beneath my east leg's northern heel
A cave of young earth dragons; — well my
boy
Qo 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 —
WiU each one swell to twioe 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 snub
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 rons'd
By her affrighted servants — next day, hons'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.
'Twas the most vile descent — shook me all
to pieces.
SHARING eve's •APPLE
Printed by Mr. Forman and assigned to 1818.
Mr. Forman does not give his authority, save
to say that the verses have been handed about
in manuscript.
O BLUSH not so ! O blush not so I
Or I shall think you knowing ;
Aiid 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 blnah for
nought.
And a blush for just begun it.
O sigh not so I O sigh not so !
For it sounds of Eve's sweet pippin ;
By these loosen* d lips you have tasted the pipa
And fought in an amorous nipping.
Will you play once more at nioe-out-core.
For it cndy will last our youth out.
And we have the prime of the kissing time.
We have not one sweet, tooth out.
There 's a sigh for yes, ai d a sigh for no.
And a sigh for I can't bear it I
O what can be done, shall we stay or nm ?
O cut the sweet apple and shaze it I
FAMILIAR VERSES
249
A prophecy:
TO GEORGE KEATS IN AMERICA
Ii • letter to his brother and his wife, Octo-
W 31, 1818, Keats says : ' If I had a prayer
towks for any great good, next to Tom*8 re-
wvuy, it should be that one of your children
iiMld be the first American Poet. I have a
gmt Bund to make a prophecy, and they say
ywplwcies work on their own fulfilment.'
Tis the witching time of night.
Orbed is the moon and bright.
And the Stars they glisten, glisten,
SiemiBg with bright eyes to listen.
For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm,
See they glisten in ahum.
And the Moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall say.
Mooo I keep wide thy golden ears —
Hesrken, Stars I and hearken. Spheres I —
Hearken, thon eternal Sky !
I lini; an infant's Lullaby,
0 pretty luUaby I
listen, listen, listen, listen.
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten.
And hear my Lullaby I
Tboogh the Rushes, that will make
Its eradle, stiD are in the lake —
Tboogh the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree —
Tlioagh the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep —
ListsB, Starlight, listen, listen.
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten.
And hear my lullaby !
Child, I see thee I Child, I 've found thee
IGdst of the quiet all around thee !
Chad. I see thee I Child, I spy thee !
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee I
Child, I know thee I Child no more.
But a Poet evermore I
S««, see, the Lyre, the Lyre,
Ib a flame of fire,
Upoa the Httle cradle's top
FbviBg, flaring, flaring.
Past the eyesight*s bearing.
Awake it from I*b sleep.
And see if it eaa keep
Ita eyes npoa the Uaxe —
It at area, it itansa, it stares.
It dai<aa what no one dares I
Jfc fifia Its little hand into the flame
Unharm'd, and on the strings
Paddles a IttUe tune, and sings.
With dumb endeayour sweetly —
Bard art thou oompletely I
Little child
O* th' western wild.
Bard art thou oompletely I
Sweetly with dumb endeavour,
A Poet now or never,
Little child
Cth' western wUd,
A Poet now or never I
A LITTLE EXTEMPORE
Inclosed in a letter to Qeotge and Georgl-
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 exiled.
And where the very brooks, as if afraid,
Hurry along to some lees magic shade.
* No one at home I * the fretful Princess cry'd ;
* And all for nothing «uch a dreary ride,
And all for nothing my new diamond croes ;
No one to see my Persian feathers toss.
No one to see my Ape, my Dwarf, my Fool,
Or how I pace my (Haheitan mule.
Ape, Dwarf, and Fool, why stand yon 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 grasped 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-up Prince,
Bnt he has never been a King's son since
He fell a snoring at a faery BalL
250
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
Yon poor Ape was a Prince, and he poor itdng
Hoklook'd a faery's boadoir — now no kingr
Bnt 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.
Clenched her small teeth, and held her lips
apart,
TVy'd to look nnconoem'd with beating heart.
They saw her highness had made np her mind,
A-qnavering like the reeds before the wind —
And they had had it, bnt O happy chance I
The Ape for very fear began to dance
And grinn'd as all his ugliness did ache —
She staid her yizen 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 beanteons face again.
Yet for all this — for aU 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 Hcklock from the Pocket in his Jaw.
The Princess took it, and dismounting straight
Tripped in blue silvered slippers to the gate
And touched the wards, the Door full courteous
Opened — she entered with her servants three.
Again it closed and there was nothing seen
But the Mule grazing on the herbage green.
End of Canto X 11,
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.
0 King of Otaheite — tho' a Mule,
** Aye, every inch a King " — tho' " Fortune's
Fool,"
Well done — for by what Mr. Dwarf y 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 mbb'd his sides against the mossed bark
TiU his Girths burst and left him naked stark
Except his Bridle — how get rid of that
Buckled and tied with many 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 trammels quite away.
No sooner thought of than adown he lay,
Sluunm'd a good snore — the Monkey<^nen 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 G^rge and Georgi-
ana Keats, April 16 or 17, 1819: * Brown this
morning is writing some Spenserian stanzas
against Birs., 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 hiur.
As hath the seeded thistle when in parle
It holds the Zephyr, ere it sendeth fur
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 be 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 scomer'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
raro.
The slang of cities in no wise he knew ;
Tipping the wink to him was heathen Qreek ;
He sipp'd no * olden Tom,' or * ruin blue,'
Or Nantz, or cherry-brandy, drunk full meek
FAMILIAR VERSES
251
Hj mamj a Daimel hoane, and rouge of
ebeek;
N«r did ha know eaeh aged Watchman^s
Kor IB obeemed pariieaa would he seek
V«r enled Jaauaw, with ankles neat,
WW, M thej walk abroad, make tinkling with
thebfeet.
• TWO OR THREE POSIES *
At the doee of a letter, April 17, 1810, to
ha Mter Fanny, Keats writes : ' Mr. and Mrs.
DQb are eoming to dine with us to-day [at
Weatworth Place]. They will enjoy the
tontry after Westminster. O there is nothing
fib fine weather, and health, and Books, and a
Sm eonatry, and a contented Mind, and dili-
psl habit of reading and thinking, and an
assist against the ennui — and, please hea-
KM, a littla claret wine cool out of a cellar a
nik deep — with a few or a g^ood many ratafia
Mkts — a rocky basin to bathe in, a strawberry
Wd to say your prayers to Flora in, a pad nag
to go you ten miles or so ; two or three sensi-
Ue people to chat with ; two or three spiteful
bOa to spar with ; two or three odd fishes to
hsgb at and two or three numskulls to arg^e
vitk — instead of using dumb bells on a rainy
Two or three Pones
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 rape
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 Tory great price —
Two or three sandies
And two or three tabbies —
Two or three dandies
And two Mrs. mum I
Two or three Smiles
And two or three frowns —
Two or three Bfiles
' To two or three towns —
Two or three pegs
For two or three bonnets —
Two or three dore eggs
To hatch into sonnets —
A PARTY OF LOVERS
* Somewhere in the Spectator is related an
account of a man inviting a party of stntterexs
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
flighting as among knights of old.' Keats to
Qeorge and G^rgiana Keats, September 17,
1S19. The play on names seems to indicate
some trifling reference to Keats's pubUshers of
Taylor and Hessey.
Pensiye 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 I 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 I soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark.
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Arise I take snuffers by the handle.
There 's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding-sheet, ah me I I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
* Alas, my friend I your coat sits very well ;
Where may your Taylor live ? ' * I may not
tell.
0 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
pleased.*
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, if indeed we are anthoiw
252
SUPPLEMENTARY VERSE
ised to refer this poem to John Keatt. It is
not impoBflible that it was written by Tom
KeatB in 1818.
Brothisb belov'd if health shall smile ai^ain.
Upon this wasted form and fevered cheek:
If eW returning Yigonr bid these weak
And langrnid limbs their grhulsome strength re-
gain.
Well may thy brow the placid glow retain
Of sweet content and thy pleased eye may
speak
The conscious self applause, but should I seek
To utter what this heart can feel, — Ah I vain
Were the attempt t 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 odd grasp of Death, say can yon
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 Hampetead 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 verses were also copied by Keats in a
letter to Reynolds, given below on p. 269, as a
satirical criticism of Wordsworth.
Thb Gothic looks solemn.
The plain Doric column
Supports an old Bishop and Crorier ;
The mouldering arch,
Shaded o'er by a larch.
Stands next door to Wilson the Hosier.
Vice, — that is, by turns, —
O'er pale faooB mourns
The black tassell'd trencher and common hat ;
The charity boy sings.
The Steeple-bell rings
And as for the Chancellor — dominate
There are plenty of trees.
And plenty of ease.
And plenty of fat deer for Parsons ;
And when it is yenison.
Short IS the benison, —
Then each on a leg or thigh fastens.
TO A CAT
These Terses were addressed by Keats to a
cat belonging to Mrs. Re3rnolds oi Little Bri-
tain, the mother of his friend John Hamilton
Reynolds. Birs. Reynolds g^ve 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]*
terio.
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy'd? — How many tit-bits stolen?
Ghue
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 la 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 youtii thou enter'dst on glass-bottled wall.
LETTERS
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
1. TO CHARTiKS COWDKN CLABJLB
[London, October 31, 1816.]
Mr DAnrrnc Davib — I will be as panc-
t«ul u the Bee to the Cloyer. Very glad
^10 1 at the thoughts of seeing so soon this
glorious Hajdon and all his creation. I
pfij thee lei me know when jou go to
OUur's and where he resides — this I f or-
K^ to ask you — and tell me also when
T^ will help me waste a sullen day — God
leldyotti— J. K.
2. TO THE SAIUB
[Londoo,] Tuesday [December 17, 1816].
Mr DKAK Charles — You may now look
^ Minerva's iEgis with impunity, seeing
^ my awful Visage ' did not turn you
'^ a Jdka Doree. You have accordingly
^ legitimate title to a Copy — I will use
^7 interest to procure it for you. I '11 tell
you what — I met Reynolds at Haydon's a
^w momiiigs since — he promised to be
^ me this Eyening and Yesterday I had
tie itme promise from Seyern and I must
pvt yon in mind thai on last All hallow-
iBu' day yon gave me your word that you
^^^ spend this Evening with me — so no
P^ittbg off. I have done little to Endy-
QBoo Utely* — I hope to finish it in one
^n attack. I believe you I went to
^icltttds's — it was so whoreson a Night
^ I stopped there all the next day. His
^^ttembranees to you. (Ext. from the
^^■■UBoii place Book of my lliind — Mem.
^Wednesday — Hampstead — call in
*»"»« Street— -a sketch of Mr. Hunt.)
"^1 will ever eonsider you my sincere and
""'c^ioiiate friend — you will not doubt
*•* Ism yours.
^Messyoa^ John Keats.
3. TO JOHN HAMIIiTOK RBTNOLDS
[London,] Sunday Evening
[March 2, 1817?].
Mt 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, Grod 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 SAME
[London, March 17, 1817.]
^ Mt 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.
•s.
«S6
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
lofos — Banish Wine — Banish Music ; bat
right Jack Health, honest Jack Health,
tme Jack Health — Banish health and
banish all the world. I must . . . myself
... if I come this eyening, 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 OEOBOB AND THOMAS KEATS
[Southampton,] Tuesday Mom
[April 15, 1817].
My deab 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 Bams — then came hedge trees
aforesaid again. As the I^ampligbt crept
along the following things were dbcovered
— ' 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
Lanthom 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 Mom saw the Sim 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. Tou,
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 Eass 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 Titmouse Remember me particularly to
all my Friends — give my Love to the Miss
Reynoldses and to Fanny who I hope you
will soon see. Write to me soon about them
all — and you George particularly how you
get on with Wilkinson's plan. What could
I have done without my Plaid ? I don't
feel inclined to write any more at present
for I feel rather muzzy — you must be con-
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
257
tent with this fao simile of the rough plan
of Aunt Diuah's Counterpane.^
Tour most affectionate Brother
John Keatb.
Reynolds shall hear from me soon.
6. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
Carisbrooke, April 17th [1817].
My dear Reynolda — Ever since I
wrote to my Brothers from Southampton
I have been in a taking — and at this
moment I am about to become settled —
for I have unpacked my books, put them
into a snug comer, 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 Krench 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 com.' Then, why are you at
Carisbrooke ? say you. 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 wood-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. I 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
Newp>ort I saw some extensive Barracks^
which disgusted me extremely with the
Grovemment 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 be^n spoiled. In the
room where I slept at Newport, I found
this on the Window — « O Isle spoilt by the
milotary I . . .'
The wind is in a sulky fit, and I feel that
it would be no bad thing to be the favoorite
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 3f you and Tom and George in ink
which Haydon will do if you tell him how
I want them. From want of regular rest I
have been rather narvus — and the passage
in Lear — ' Do you not hear the sea ? ' ^-
has haunted me intensely.
[Here f oIIowb the sonnet ' On the Sea,' p. 37.)
25«
LETTERS OF JOHX KEATS
Afrilliidb.
Will jcm haYe the foodaeat to do tUs ?
Bofiow * BoCaninl Dietionaiy — tmnt to
tbe words LmbcI mmd Fnuniy show the ex-
pIsMriofis to j<Nir nflen aad Jin. DQke
•ad wilbont moffe ado let them send me the
Cops Basket smI Books tkej trifled smI
pot off aad off while I was in town. Ask
them what thej ean say for themselTes —
ask Mrs. DiJke wherefore she does so dis-
tress me — let me know how Jane has her
health— the Weather is nnfaToorahle for
her. Tell George and Tom to write. Ill
^tell joo what — on the 23d was Shakspeare
bom. Now if I should receiye n letter from
joa aad another from m j Brothers on that
daj 't would benparioosgood thing. When-
ever jott write w/lj a woid or two on some
Passage in Shakspeare that ma j hsTe eome
.jrather new to you, which must be oon-
tinnallj hi^ipening, notwithstanding that
we read the same Plaj forty times— for
instance, the following from the Tempest
never struck me so forcibly as at present^
'Urchins
Hhall^ for the vast of night thai they may work.
All exercise on thee — '
How can I help bringing to your mind the
line —
In the dark backward and ahytm 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 yirtuous
thouifht,
And is with child of (glorious great intent.
Can never rest until it forth have broufcht
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent — *
I^et me know particularly about Haydon,
ask him to write to me about Hunt, if it be
onlytealiaes— Ihopeaniswcn — I aUl
forthwith b^;ia mj EmtjmMm. wioek I
hope I shall have got soae W17 witk bj the
time yon cone, whea we wfll read oar
verses in a deli^itfal place I have set niy
heart upoD, near the Castle. Gtven^Lofe
to yoor Sisters seveially — to Geotp aad
Tom. Remember me to Bioeb Mr.
Mrs. Dilke and an
Direct J. Keats, Mb. Cook's, Kew YU-
lage, Carishrooke.
7. TO IXIOH HTUT
Haisate, May 10, 1817.
Mt dkab Huxt — The little gentlemaa
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
Greorge 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 subject — what a
horrid one you were upon last Sunday, and
well you handled it. The last Examiner
was a battering-ram against Christianify,
blasphemy, Tertullian, Erasmus, Sir Philip
v
TO LEIGH HUNT
ZS9
&iaej; uid then the dreadful Petzeliuns
nai their expiation b<r blood; and do Cliris-
tiuM ibadder at the same tiling iu a iicw»-
p^ier irbich thej attribute to their God iu
it* nott aggravated form? What is to be
tht end of this? I maat mention Uazlitt's
Sgolhej.^ O that be had left out the grey
bain; or that thej bad been in any other
EMptr not coDcladiag with such a. thunder-
^Uip ! That sentence about uiakiug a page
"f tin feeling of a whole life, iippears to me
'iic k whale's liaok iu the sea of prose.
I nu^ht to have Haid a nord on Shak-
*|wue'» Christinnit;. There are two which
I Uie not looked OTer with yoa, toucbiug
%Ik thing: the one for, the other against:
t*U ID favour is in Meaaure for Measure,
-4t( II. Scene ii.—
^^T. all the aoulu that weie, were forfeit once;
Ati Be ihat raig-ht the 'vantage beat have took,
ttai one the tcmedf.
Maria. Fnr there U no Christiiia that means
*" be iBTed hj believing rightlj. can evar ba-
Bna neb impunible piusagea of grussness.
Before I come to the Njmpbs,* I mast
KM through all disagreeables. I went to
the lale of Wight, thought so much about
^Ifj, ao long together, that I conld not
(M to sleep at night; and, moreover, I know
It was, I could not get wholesome
. Bj tfaii means, in a week or so, I be-
lt over capable in my upper (tories,
ri wt off pell-mell for Margate, at least
pkmdred and fifty milos, becanse, forsooth,
d that I nhonld like my old lodging
A cuald contrive to do without trees.
r thing, 1 was too much in soli-
i*>>»d oousequently was obliged to be iu
1 tniruing of thought, aa an only
However, Tom b with me at
ad we are very comfortable. We
I, though, to get among some trees,
a you got on among them? How
pfteNjinpha? I anppose thcj have led
you a fine dance. Where are you now ? —
ill Judea, Cappadocia, or the parts of Libya
about Cjrene ? 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 bope you have made a
horseshoe business of ' unsuperfluons life,'
'faint bowers,' and fibrous roots. I vow
that 1 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 mure than other men, seeing how
great B 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 beyoud my seem-
ing power of attainment, that the other day
I nearly consented with myself to drop into
a PhaotfaoD. Yet 't is a disgrace to fail,
even in a huge attempt; and at this mo-
ment I drive the thought from me. I began
my poem about a fortnight since, and have
done soma every day, eicopt travelling
ones. Perhaps I may have done a good
deal for the time, but it appears such n
pin's point to me, that I will not copy any
out. When I consider that so many of
these pin-points go to form a bodkin-pMDt
(God send I end not my life with a liam
bodkin, in its modem sense!), and that it
requires a thoiieand bodkins to make a spear
bright enough to throw any light to pos-
terity, I soe nothing but continnal uphill
journeying. Now is there anytluDg more
unpleasant (it may come among the thou-
sand and one) than to be so jonmeying and
to mi&s the goal at last ? But I inteud to
whistle all these cogitatious into the sea,
where I hope they will breed storms violent
enough to block up all exit from Bossia.
Does Shelley go on telling strange stories
of the deaths of kings ? ' Tell him, there
are atfange stories of the deatha of poeta,
26o
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
Some have died before they were con-
ceiyed. 'How do you make that out,
Master Vellum ? ' Does Mrs. S. cut bread
and butter as neatly as eyer ? 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 eyer? 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.
Tour sincere Friend
John Keats alias Jukkets.
Ton shall hear where we move.
8. TO BENJAMIN BOBEBT HATDON
Biargate, Saturday Eve [May 10, 1817].
Mt Deab Haydon,
* Let Fame, that all iMuat after in their lives.
Live r^^ster^d upon oar brazen tombs.
And so grace us in the disgrace of death :
When spite of cormorant deyonring Time
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That Honour which shall bate his Scythe's keen
edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.*
Jjovt's Labour '5 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 pray Grod 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. I sup-
pose, by your telling me not to g^ve way to
foreboding^, Greorge has mentioned to you
what I have lately said in my Letters to
him — truth is I 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 Cliff of Poesy
towers above me — yet when Tom who
meets with 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 till half done; ' so according to
that I haye not begun my Poem and conse-
quently (k priori) can say nothing about it.
Thank God I 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 my Years of more
momentous Labour. I remember your say- I
ing that you had notions of a good Genius
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 b 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
Greorge 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 g^at hindrance to one — they
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 I ean
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON
261
not write while my spirit is fevered in a
contrary direction and I am now sure of
having 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 should 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 gpreater things — that is
to say ethereal things — but 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 — they 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 say 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 grater
Sin after the seven deadly than to flatter
oneself into an idea of being a great Poet
— or one of those beings who are privilege
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 Tear — 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 *gTej 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 —
Where's Antony?
Eros, — He 's walking^ in the firarden, and
spvrru
The rusk that lies before him ; cries, Fool, Le-
pidusl
In the same scene we find —
Let detennined things
To destiny hold nnbewailed their way.
262
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
Dolabella says of Anthony's Messenger,
An argnmeDt that he is plnok'd when hither
He sends so poor a pinion of his wing.
Then again —
Sno. — I see Men's Jads:ment8 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 * —
Tet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen Lord,
Does conquer him that did his Master conquer.
And earns a place i' the story.
Bat how differently does Buonaparte bear
his fate from Anthony f
Hi is good, too, that the Doke of Welling-
ton has a good Word or so in the Examiner.
A man ought to have the Fame be 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 mo 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 !
Tour everlasting Friend John Keats.
9. TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HE8SET
Margate, May 16, 1817.
My dear 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, Coisses Herbadgeoa Spetr
Casque Greaves Paldrona spurs Chevron or
any other scaly commodity, but he seed
only take the Bank-note of Faith and Caak
of Salvation, and set oat against the moB-
ster, invoking the aid of no Arehtmago or
Urganda, but finger me the paper, light as
the Sibyl's leaves in Virgil^ whereat the
fiend skulks o£F with his tul between hit
legs. Touch him with this enchanted pspe^f
and he whips you his head away as fait
as a snail's horn — but then the horrid
propensity he has to put it up again hai
discouraged many very valiant Knights. He
is such a never-ending still-beginning iort
of a body — like my landlady of the BeQ.
I should conjecture that the very spright
that < the green sour ringlets makes Wheie*
of the ewe not bites ' had mannfaetnred ii
of the dew fallen on said soar ringlets. I
think I could make a nice little allegorieal
poem, called * The Bun/ where we would
have the Castle of Carelessness, the ditv-
bridge of credit. Sir Novelty Fasbiot^
expedition against the City of Tailors, ola
etc. I went day by day at my poem ftf>
Month — at the end of which time the otiief
day I found my Brain so over-wrought tbst
I had neither rhyme nor reason in it— so
was oblig^ to give up for a few dajs. I
hope soon to be able to resume my work—
I have endeavoured to do so once or twiet;
but to no purpose. Instead of Poetry,!
have a swimming in my head and feel sD
the effects of a Mental debauch, lowne* sf
Spirits, anxiety to go on without the povtf
to do so, which does not at all tend to BQf
ultimate prog^ression. However tomorrof
I will begin my next month. This etenny
I go to Canterbury, having got tired of
Margate. I was not right in my head whes
I came — At Canterbury I hope the rtvaao'
brance of Chaucer will set me forward ^^
a Billiard Ball. I am glad to hear of Mr*
T.'s health, and of the welfare of the 'In-
to wn-stayers.' And think Reynolds wiH
like his Trip — I have some idea of seeio^
the Continent some time this summer. I^
7t
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 happj to hear any little intelli-
gence in the literary or friendly way when
yoa have time to scribble.
10. TO THE SAME '
[London] Tuesday Mom [July 8, 1817].
I^iY DEAR Sots — I mast endeavour to
lose my maidenhead with respect to money
Matters as soon as possible — And I will
too — So, here goes I 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 im-' 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 g^b 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 Keatb.
11. TO MARIANE AITD JANE REYNOLDS ^<)
Oxf [ord, September 6, 1817].
IMEy 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 gjbod. 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 louses — Plenty of Snuff, thank
Sir Walter Kaleigh — 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 danciug-masters — fireshovels
and telescopes — Dolphins and IViadonas —
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 I^a-don-a, my
dear Ladies — or — the word Idad — Ona —
so I say ! I am not mad — Howsumever
when that aged Tamer Eewthon 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 Tennstory-up-in-air ! this
here Beast, though I say it as shouldn'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 Signer Nico-
lini of the King's Theatre; a Certificate to
this effect ' I have had dinner since I
left that effect upon yon, 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 benign a disposition that he never
would leave Syracuse in Ifis life — So kept
himself out of all Knight-Errantry. — This
I know to be a faqt; 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 g^at 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 Mariano 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 scribblings to your
Pleasure. You must tell me about all you
read if it be only six Pag^s in a Week and
this transmitted to me every now and thea
will procure you full sheets of Writing from
me pretty frequently. — ThiB I feel u t
necessity for we ought to become intimately
acquainted, in order that I may not 011I7,
as you grow up love you as my cmly Sister,
but confide in you as my dearest frieid.
When I saw you last I told you of my in-
tention of going to Oxford and *tis now a
Week since I disembark'd from his Whip-
ship's Coach the Defiance in this place. I
am living in Magdalen Hall on a visit to a
young Man with whom I have not bees
long acquainted, but whom I like veiy
much — we lead very industrious lives—
he in general Studies and I in proceediB|f
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 Yeait
ago there was a young handsome Shepherd
who fed his flocks on a Mountain's Side
called Latmus — he was a very contempU-
tive sort of Person and liyed solitary among
the trees and Plains little thinking that
such a beautiful Creature as the Moon wai
growing mad in Love with him. — HoweTer
so it was; and when he was asleep 00 the
Grass she used to come down from heaves
and admire him excessively for a long time;
and at last could not refrain from carrring
him away in her arms to the top of that
high Mountain Latmus while he was a
dreaming — but I daresay yon have read
this and all the other beautiful Tales whieh
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 lai]K*
of others quite as delightful. This Oxford
I have no doubt is the finest City is the
world — it is full of old Gothic buildings —
Spires — towers — Quadrangles — Cloii'
ters — Groves, etc., and b surrounded with
more clear streams than ever I saw to-
gether. I take a Walk by the Side of oae
of them every Evening and, thank God, we
have not had a drop of rain these many
days. I had a long and interesting I^ttef
1
TO JANE REYNOLDS
265
from George, cross lines by a short one from
Tom yesterday dated Paris. They both
send tiieir 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-
though 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 Greorge 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 accomplished 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 inferior it is to our native
Speech. — I wish the Italian would super-
sede French in every 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-
plbhment 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 d|eal of your writing —
Ton 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 ivill 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 Moun-
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 01
you would never have thought that I 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 seuti-
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 — Tet
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 comforters: 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 you, 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 bleased beams,
Toms into yellow gold his salt sea streams,'
and superb when
* The sun from *w"^litn height
Illnmines the depth of the aea,
And the fishes, begianing to ewMit,
Cry d it I how hot we shall W
and gorgeous, when the ftur planet hMteni
*To his home
Within the Western foam.'
But don't you think there is sometluDf
extremely fine after sunset, when there aie
a few white clouds about and a few stiit
blinking — when the waters are ebbing, and
the horizon a mystery ? This state of tbingi
has been so fulfilling to me that I im
anxious to hear whether it is a favourite
with you. So when you and Marianne elnb
your letter to me put in a word or tvo
about it. TeU Dilke ^ that it would be
perhaps as well if he left a Pheasant or
Partridge alive here and there to keep np s
supply of game for next season — tell him
to rein in if Possible all the Nimrod of hit ,
disposition, he being a mighty hunter befoie
the Lord — of the Manor. Tell him to shoot
fair, and not to have at the Poor derils ia \
a furrow — when they are flying, he insy
fire, and nobody will be the wiser.
Give my sincerest respects to Mrs. DilkSf
saying that I have not forgiven myself fv
not having got her the little box of modi- .
cine I promised, and that, had I remsined [
at Hampstead I would have made predoM '
havoc with her house and furniture — dnvB ;
a great harrow over her garden — poisooed
Boxer — eaten her clothes-pegs — fried htf '
cabbages — fricaseed (how is it spelt?)
her radishes — ragout'd her Onions —
belaboured her 6«a/-root — outstripped her
scarlet-runners — parlez-vous'd with htf
french-beans — devoured her mignoo C
mignionette — metamorphosed her beH*
handles — splintered her looking-glasses"
buUocked at her cups and saucers — sg(^
nised her decanters — put old Phillips 0
pickle in the brine-tub — disorpaitfiaed bflf
piano — dislocated her eandlesticks ^ en^
tied her wine-bins in a fit 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 Grod) 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 in 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 you not the less — for
instance, I am deep in his favour, and yet
he has been hauling me through the ei^h
and sea with unrelenting perseverance. I
know for all this that he is mighty 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 yon
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,
Tour affectionate Brother John Keats.
14. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
Oxford, Sunday Mom [September 21, 1817].
Mt dear Rrynoldb — So you are deter-
mined to be my mortal foe — draw a Sword
at me, and I will f org;ive — Put a Bullet in
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 1 to come upon
me in the shape of a Dun 1 Send me bills!
as I say to my Tailor, send me Bills and
I'll never employ you more. However,
needs must, when the devil drives: and for
fear of 'before and behind Mr. Honey-
comb' 111 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 case 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, bat
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 Greometry, 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 — ' Tou 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 — Tou
will not reg^t reading them once more.
The following, to her friend Mrs. M. A. at
parting, you will judg^ of.
I have examined 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 separate thee and I.
But neither Chance nor Complement
Did element onr Love ;
'T was sacred sympathy was lent
Us from the Quire above.
That Friendship Fortune did create,
Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.
Onr changed and mingled Souls are grown
To such aoqnaintanoe now.
That if each would resume their own,
Alas t we know not how.
We have each other so engrost.
That each is in the Union lost.
And thos we can no Absence know,
Nor shall we be eonfin'd ;
Onr active Souls will daily go
To learn each others mind.
Nay, should we never meet to Sense,
Onr Souls would hold Litelligenoe.
Lispired 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 happinem
Because it pleaseth thee.
Onr hearts at any time will tell
If thou, or I, be sick, or well.
All Honour sure I must pretend,
^ A complete All that is good or great ;
friend. Thji She that would be iJosanta's Friend
IX SS^ Must be at least compleat.i
me at fint. If I have any bravery,
'Tis cause I have so much of thee.
Thy Leiger Soul in me shall lie.
And all thy thoughts reveal ;
Then back agun with mine shall fiie,
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 onr 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 oTer together. So Haydon is
lA Town. I had a letter from him jester^
day. We wOl eontriye as the winter comes
CO —hat thai is neither here nor there.
HiTe joQ heard from Rice ? Has Martin
net with the Cnmherland Beggar, or been
wondering at the old Leech-gatherer ? Has
h t torn for fossils ? that is, is he capable
«f linking up to his Middle in a Morass ?
How is Hazlitt? We were reading his
Tible ^ last night. I know he thinks him-
•df not estimated by ten people in the
vorid — I wish he knew he is. I am get-
tiig on faoioiis with my third Book — have
vritten 800 lines thereof, and hope to finish
it next Week. Bailey likes what I have
^one rery moch. Believe me, my dear Rey-
•oUb, one of my chief layings-np is the
pleasore I shall have in showing it to you,
I may now say, in a few days. I have
Wud twice from my Brothers, they are
foingon very well, and send their Remem-
to yon. We expected to have had
from little-Hampton this morning
*-we most wait till Tuesday. I am glad of
Mr Days with the Dilkes. Tou are, I
kww, very much teased in that precious
Uedonyaod want all the rest possible; so I
Ml be oontented with as brief a scrawl —
t Woid or two, till there comes a pat hour.
Send as a few of your stanzas to read in
'Beynolds's Cove.' Give my Love and
icipeetB to yoor Mother, and remember me
Mly to all at home.
Toon faithfully John Keats.
I lave left the doublings for Bailey, who
■ ping to say that he will write to you to-
15. TO THB SAME
[Oxford, SeptembeFf 1817.]
Wordsworth sometimes, though in a fine
^1 gives us sentences in the style of
*M eiercises. — For instance.
The lake doth glitter,
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.]
16. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HATDOK
Oxford, SSeptember 28 [1817].
My dear Haydon — I read your letter
to the young Man, whose Name is Cripps.
He seemed more than ever anxious to avail
himself of your offer. I think I told yon
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 Idnd of contrivance whereby
be will be enabled to do himself the benefits
you will lay in his Path. I have a great
Idea that be will be a tolerable neat bmsh.
'T is perhaps the finest thing that will befal
him this many a year: for he b 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 thing^. 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. Tou will be glad to hear that
within these last three weeks I have written
1000 lines — which are the third Book of
my Poem. My Ideas with respect to it I
assure you are very low — and I would
write the subject thoroughly 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
r
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 tow of being
Tears eternally John Keats.
17. TO BSNJAJON BAILET
Hampstead, Wednesday [October 8, 1817].
My deab Bailey — After a tolerable
joamey, 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 deliyered 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 was extremely sorry to hear that poor
Rice, after having had capital health during
his tour, was very ill. I daresay yon have
beard from him. From No. 19 I went to
Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neigh-
bours. — Shelley was there — I 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 bead most unmercifully.
There 's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. * The
web of our life is of mingled yam.' 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 reg^t 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
b 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 yon — 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 I
says Hunt, had it not been for me they
would have been 70001 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 ? Ton
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 1 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.
I
Vf
?
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
271
* Besides, a long poem is a test of inyen-
tioiiy 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 ' —
Tou 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 ^l^ve. 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 I 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 Keatb.
18. TO THE BAMB
[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 comer oaken pews, for fear of
b^ing 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 retry pUasante daye. In thb 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 1 11 keep as tight a rein as possible
till then, nor suffer myself to sleep. I will
copy for you the opening of the Fourth
Book, in which yon 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
272
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 I 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. This 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 uncomfortable 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 light, and yet I think Hazlitt
is right, and yet I think Wordsworth is
rightest. 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 evening^. 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 hare not
been well enough to stand the chanee of a
wet night, and so have not seen him, nor
been 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
b nothing, my dear Bailey, 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 pag^s in your
way; when in a tolerable hungry mood yon
have no mercy. Your teeth are the Rock
Tarpeian down which you capsixe epic
poems like mad. I would not for forty
shillings be Coleridge's Lays in your way.
I hope you will soon get through tUs abo-
minable writing in the schools, and be>aUe
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
\
\
Vf
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
273
have said above. Health and spirits can
only belong unalloyed to the selfish man —
the man who thinks much of his fellows
can never be in spirits. You must 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. St. Jane looked
very flush when I first looked in, but was
much better before I left.
19. TO THE SAME
[Fragment Jrom 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 I
Pride 1 I have received no more subscrip-
tion — but shall soon have a full health,
Liberty and leisure to give a good part of
my time to him. I will certainly be in time
for him. We have promised 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, dbturb yourself about
others.'
There has been a flaming attack upon
Hunt in the Endinburgh Magazine. I never
read anything so virulent — accusing him
of the greatest Crimes, depreciating his
Wife, his Poetry, his Habits, his Company,
his Conversation. These 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 prefixed a motto from one
Cornelius Webb Poetaster — who unfortu-
nately was of our party occasionally at
Hampstead and took it into his head to
write the following, — something about
* we 11 talk on Wordsworth, Byron, a theme
we never tire on;' and so forth till he
comes to Hunt and Keats. 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. — Tlie 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 WBNTWORTH 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 BAILET
[Bnrford Bridge, November 22, 1817.]
My dear Bailey — I will get over the
first part of this (unpaid) 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 KEATS
(
such a Letter as he has hurt yoa with.
Nor, when I knew it, was it a principle
with me to drop his acquaintance; although
with jou it would have been an imperious
feeling. I wish you knew all that I think
about Genius and the Heart — and yet I
think that you are thoroughly acquainted
with my innermost breast in that respect, or
yon 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 Uhemicals operating on "the Mass
^ /^ , .j^jlfiiUa^nnWUeer^^^Im hot any
individuality, any determined unafiEcter —
I wouISTcail the top and head of those who
have a proper self Men oFTower.
But I am runmng 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 g^ing^on from time to time by Letter
wherever I may be. It will go on well —
so don't because you have suddenly dis-
covered a Coldness in Hay don suffer your-
self to be teased — Do not my dear fellow
— Oil 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 aw<dra
and found it truth: — I am more zealous in
this affair, because I have never yet been
able to perceive how anything can be known
for truth by consecutive reasonings and
yet it must be. Can it be that evenJhe
greatest Philosopher* ever arrived at his
GoaTwithout putting Bsi^ nw*"**^^"B fthjf***
tXbua? However it may be, O for a life of
Sensations rather than of Thoughts 1 It is
* a Vision in the form of Youth,' a shadow
of reality to come — And this consideratifm
has further convinced me, — for it has oome
as auxiliary to another favourite speeda-
tion of mine, — that we shall enjoy our-
selves hereafter by having what we called
happiness on Earth repeated in a finer tooe
— And yet such a fate can only befiJI
those who delight in Sensation, rather
than hunger as you do after Truth. Adan'i
dream will do here, and seems to be a Cca-
viction that Imagination and its empyreal
reflection, is the same as human life and iti
spiritual repetition. But, as I was sayiogi
the Simple imaginative Mind may have iti
rewards in the repetition of its own aM
Working coming continually on the SpM
with a fine Suddenness — to compare greit
things with small, have you never by bebf
surprised with an old Melody, in a delieiotf
place by a delicious voice, fdi over agaii
your very speculations and surmises at thi
time it first operated on youraool? — do
you not remember forming to yourself ike
Singer's face — more beautiful than it «ai
possible, and yet with the elevation of ih*
Moment you did not think so ? Even tbtf
you were mounted on the Wings of Imagi*
nation, so high that the prototype most be
hereafter — that delicious face yon will
see. What a time I I am continually na*
ning away from the subject. Sure tbv
cannot be exactly the Case with a comples
mind — one that is imaginative, and at tki
same time careful of its fruits, — who would
exist partly on Sensation, partly on thoagb^
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
275
— to whom it 18 necessary that years should
bring the philosophic Mind ? Sach a one I
consider yours, and therefore it is neces-
sary to your eternal happiness that you not
only drink this old Wine of Heaven, which
I shall call the redigestion of our most
ethereal Musings upon Earth, but abo in-
crease in knowledge and know all things.
I am glad to hear that you are in a fair
way for Easter. You will soon get through
your unpleasant reading, and then I — but
the world is full of troubles, and I have
not much reason to think myself pestered
with many.
I think Jane or Marianne has a better
opinion of me than I deserve: for, really
and truly, I do not think my Brother's ill-
ness connected with mine — 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^gfit^ mft t/^-^xigbfesy or if -A-SpiJBLrrow
come before my Window, I take part..ia.its
existence and pick iLhg^t f.hA graYP^- The
first thmg tbat 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 observe 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 b 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 yon know, — when please God I
come do¥m 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 Ejbats.
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
[Borford 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 1 11 try what I can do for my
neighbour — now, is not this virtuous ? On
returning to Town I 'II 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, t. 6. 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 ag^nst 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 corporea], — bod-
ily pain was not used to keep him silent.
Ill tell you what; he was hurt at what
your Sisters said about hid 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 I 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-veza-
tions ? They never surprise me — lord !
a man should have the fine point of hb
soul taken oS 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 I
* When lofty trees I see barren of leaves.
Which erst from heat did canopy the head,
And Sammer^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 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 np 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-
bom flowers ' — and « Death's eternal cold.*
— By the Whim-King ! 1 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 581-090, Book IV. of
Endymion,]
... I see there is an advertisement in the
Chronicle to Poets — he is so over-loaded
with poems on the ' late Princess.' I suppose
yon 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 Tour 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 ^J
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
his A^Df Guilty is a thing,
whieb not to have been, would have dulled
itlll more Liberty's Emblazouing — Lurd
EUeaborough bu been (laid in his own t
-~ Wooler and Hone have dune us
twatial ser»ioe. I have bad two very
jVninl eroningB with Dilke yesterday and
Ifr4«y, anil am Ht this luomeDt just con
fniD him, and feel in the humour tu go t
tilli tbii, begun in the morniug, and from
tiidx be eaine to fetch me. I spent Friday
t^og with Wells" aud went next raon
b; u lee Death on the Pate horse. It is
■uodcrfnl picture, wh«n West's age is coi
■idired; but there is nothing tu be inteni
i^oD, no women one feeU innd tu kiss, i
Cut iwelliiig into reality. The excellence
vl every art is its iatensity, capable of
Diking all disflgieeables evaporate from
^i-jrlieing iu close relationship with Beauty
' I Tnitli — Examine King Lear, and you
'■ tiiid this eiempliScd throughout; but
Hoi picture we have unpleasantness
vtUioiit any momentous depth of specula-
tin aeited, in which to bury its repulsive-
ten — The picture ia larger than Christ
njeeted.
I diD«4 with Haydon the Sunday ufter
.ran l«tt, and bad a very pleasant day. I
4ivd too (for I have been out too much
'''1I7) with Horace Smith aud met his two
■hera with Hill and Kingston and or
- Boia, tbej- only served to convince m
■' f uperior humour is to wit, in respect t
KJctjment — These men say things which
■ub Due start, without making one feel,
<^ ire all alike ; their manners are alike ;
■^ ^1 know fashionables ; they have all
1 muioerism in their very enting nnd
iiakiag, in their mere handliug a De-
Muler. They talked of Kcan and bis lo'
"tjany — would I were with that con
I r inatead of yours said I to myself I
hiiownoh like acquaintance will never
I ' <ift ine aud yet I am going to Reynolds,
n \fi'diie»da7. Brown and Dilke walked
*itk nie and liack from the Christmas pan-
■vHinr. I bad not a dispute, but a dis-
quisition, with Dilke upon various subjects;
several things dove-tailed in my mind, and
at once it struck me what quality went to
form a Man of Acliievemeut, especially iu
Literature, and whieb Sbakspeare possessed
BO 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 Peuetralium of mystery, from
being iucapable of remainiug 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 couaidcra-
tiou, or rather obliterates all consideration.
Shelley's poem'' is out and ther« art
words about its being objected to, as much
as Qiiei^n Mab was. Poor Shelley L think
he has his Quota of good qualifies, in sooth
Ib t ^Vrite soon to your most sincere frisiid_
aud affectionate Brother
Juuitt
M^i
M
Feathenlone Buildings,
Mondaj [Janoarf 0, ISIH].
My I>KAR Brothkrs — 1 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.
I wrote two articles, one on the Drury Lane
Pantomime, the other ou the Covent Garden
new Tragedy," which thoy have not put
iu; the one they have inserted is m> badly
punctuated that you perceive I am deter-
mined never to write more, without wime
care in that particular. Wells tells me
that you are licking your chops, Tom, in
expectation of my book coming ouL I am
sorry to say 1 have not begun my c«lT«o-
tions yet ; to-morrow I set out. I called
on Sawrey this monung. He did not *m>m
to be at all put out at anything I said and
the inquiries 1 made with regard to your
278
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
■pitting of blood, and moreover desired me
to ask you to send 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 g^reat pleasure, for I think the
inyalid 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 referr^ 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 Ist 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 King^
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* boildhigiy m Mr.
Wells has invited nie. On Satadij, I
called on Woxdaworth before he woAti
Kingston's, and was sorpiiaed to find )m
with a stiff collar. I saw his 8pGn8e,aal I
think his daughter. I forget whether I tal
written my last before my Snndaj evoim
at Haydon's — no, I did not, or I ihoril
have told yon« Tom, of a young maa ym
met at Paris, at Scott's, . . . Ritehie. I
think he is going to Fezan, in Africa; tha
to proceed if possible like Mungo PnL
He was very polite to me, and inqpnl
very particularly after you. Then tlierevH
Wordsworth, Ldunb, Monkhouee, Landiev,
Kingston, and your humble servant. Lidb
got tipsy and blew up Kingston — prowrf
ing so far as to take the candle aeroa ttl
room, hold it to his face, and show m «W
a soft fellow he was.^ I astonished Kiif^
ton at supper with a pertinacity in faiev
of drinking, keeping my two glassei it
work in a knowing way.
I have seen Fanny twice lately — abeiih
quired particularly after yon aind waafci t
co-partnership letter from yon. She h$
been unwell, but is improving. I think tkt
will be quick. Mrs. Abbey was saying tkft
the Keatses were ever indolent, that tkj
would ever be so, and that it is bom ii
them. Well, whispered Fanny to me, if it
is bom with us, how can we help it? Shi
seems very anxious for a letter. As I aiksi
her what I should get for her, she sail A
< Medal of the Princess.' *^ I ealled «
Haslam — we dined very snugly togelte
He sent me a Hare last week, which I tud
to Mrs. Dilke. Brown is not ecnne htdb
I and Dilke are getting capital friends. Hi
is going to take the Champion. He htf
sent his farce to Covent Grarden. I bm^
Bob Harris^ on the steps at Covaft
Garden; we had a g^ood deal of enrioas chiL
He came out with his old humble opinioe.
The Covent Garden pantomime is a ntf
nice one, but they have a middling Hirifr*
quin, a bad Pantaloon, a worse Clown, aad
a shocking Columbine, who is one of tbe
>f
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON
279
i Miss Dennets. I suppose you will see my
Xj 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 £.
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
miuds 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 Antiquary. 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. You must
writie. 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
feel whole and gonial as the winter air.
Give me as many letters as you like, and
write to Sawrey soon. I received a short
letter from Bailey about Cripps, and one
from Haydon, ditto. Haydon thinks he
improved very much. Mrs. Wells desires
particularly ... to Tom and her respects
to Greorge, and I desire no better than to
be ever your most affectionate Brother
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 g^neas. . . .
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 g^ve 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 yon, and desires
their remembrances to you.
Your Brother John.
25. TO BENJAMIK SOBBBT HATDON
[Hampstead J Saturday Mom
[January 10, 1818].
Mt dear Haydon — I should have
seen you ere this, but on account of my
sister being in Tovm: 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 yon 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. Alsa
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.
Tours affectionately John Keats.
26. TO JOHN TATLOB
[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, I 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
yon see any from Percy Street, give my
kindest regards to them.
Tour sincere friend John Keats.
27. TO GEOKOE 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 tkzee
things superior in the modem world, thej
were ' the Excursion,' * Haydon's pietiirei)'
and *Hazlitfs depth of Taste' — soldo
believe — Not thus speaking with any poor |
vanity that works of genius were the fint I
things in this world. No 1 for that sort {
of probity and disinterestedness which saeb ,
men as Bailey possess, does hold and gmp j
the tiptop of any spiritual honours that eu \
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 ts
write to you with a grateful heart, in tbt
I had not a Brother who did not feel and
credit me for a deeper feeling and devotion
for his uprightness, than for any marics of
genius however splendid. I was spealdaf \
about doubts and fancies ^ I mean than ]
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 giev
from the Sunday on which Haydon iniM
some friends to meet Wordsworth. Bef-
nolds never went, and never sent any Nolke
about it, this offended Haydon more tksii ik
ought to have done — he wrote a xffj
sharp and high note to Reynolds and tkit
another in palliation — but which ReynoUi
feels as an aggravation of the first — 00*" '
sidering all things, Haydon's frequent b0^ j
lect of his Appointments, etc. his doIm f
were bad enough to put Reynolds oo iki .
right side of the question — but then Be|^ '
nolds has no power of sufferance; no idtt ^
of having the thing against him; so heai-
swered Haydon in one of the most euttiiV
letters I ever read; exposing to himself nB
his own weaknesses and going on to si
excess, which whether it is just or n0| ii
what I would fain have unsaid, the M
is, they are both in the right and both ■
the wrong.
The quarrel with Hunt I understand tta
far. Mrs. H. was in the habit of borrowii|
silver of Haydon — the last time she dil
so, Haydon asked her to return it at t
TO GEORGE AND THOMAS KEATS
Ertaia Cime — ibo did not — Haydon sent
V it — Hnnt went to expostulate on the
xUieaojr, etc. — they gut to worda and
uted for erer. All I hope ia at Home
me to bring them together n^in. — Lawkl
lolly there's been such doings — Yester-
kj evening I made an appaintmeiit witii
VclU to go to a private theatre, and it
cing in the neigbboorbood of Drury Lane,
od thinking ire might be fatigued with
■tting the whole oveniDg in one dirty hole,
[got the Dniry Lane ticket, and therewith
n diiided the evening with a. spice of
Bidiudlll
[Later, JanaaiT 19 oc 30.]
Good Lord I 1 began this letter nearly n
•ok ago, what have I been doing since —
1 tat* been — 1 mean not been — sending
h Sunday's paper to yon, I believe be-
■BK it was not near me — for 1 cannot
U it, and my conscience presses heavy on
H for not sending it. You would have
U MM lut Thnnday, but I wu called
mqr, and have been abont somewhcrs ever
bee. Wbeie ? What I Well I rejoice
ilnMt that I have not heard from you be-
am DO news is good news. I csnnot for
Ife world recollect why I was called away,
lO I know is that there has been a dnncc at
Kike's, and another at the London Coffee
BsM(; to both of which I went. But I
Mrt (ell you in another letter the oircnm-
tuees thereof — for though b, week nliaiild
kMc passed since I wrote on the other side
t fute appals me. I can only write in
H^a and patches. Brown is returned
kiH Hampstead. Haydon has returned nn
■nwr in the same style — they are all
III silfiillj irritated against eiah other. On
inday I saw Hnut and dined with Ilny-
bs, met Hazlitt and B«wiek there, mul
•nk Haslam wiA me — forgot to speak
toat Crippe thongh I broke my eogHge-
■■t to Haalam's on purpose. Mem. ^
Esslan came to meet me, found me at
t, bad the goodness to go with me
I have just finished the
of my Hrst 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.
[Hsmpslead,] Friday 23d [Janaary 1818].
My D£AH Tavlos — 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
mc ; but I must tell you, flnt, be 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 burry up a sketch for the
season won't do. I think an engraving from
your bead, from a Chalk drawing of mine,
done with nil 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 OS I have not done it for any
other human being, it wilt have an effect.'
What think you of this 7 Let me hear.
I shall have my second Book in readiness
forthwith.
Yours most sincerely John Keats.
If Reynolds t^lts tell him three lines
will be acceptable, for I am squat at Hamp-
[nampsEeiul.] Friday 'J-Id January [IHIS].
My hear BnoTHEiia— 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 yoo, 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 woald do
anything I liked, but said he would rather
paint a finished picture, from it, which he
seems eager to do; this in a year or two
will be a glorious thing for us; and it will
be, for Haydon is struck with the Ist 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 — This 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 I 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 ktelj.
Dilke having taken the Champion lliettrip
cals was obliged to be in town — Fanny bii
returned to Walthamstow. ^ Mr. Abbqr
appeared very glum, the last time I vast
to see her, and said in an indirect way^ikt
I had no business there — Rice hai beeniU,
but has been mending much lately —
I think a little change has taken phoe m
my intellect lately — I cannot bear to be
uninterested or unemployed, I, who lor lo
long a time have been addicted to panTe-
ness. Nothing is finer for the pnxposei d
great productions than a very gradnal ripen-
ing of the intellectual powers. As an in-
stance of this — observe — I sat down yei-
terday to read King Lear once again: the
thing appeared to demand the prologue d
a sonnet, I wrote it, and began to retd—
(I know you would like to see it)
[Here follows the Sonnet, for which tee p>
40.]
So you see I am getting at it, withs
sort of determination and strength, ihoi^
verily I do not feel it at this moment —
this is my fourth letter this morning, tod
I feel rather tired, and my head rsther
swimming — so I will leave it open till t(h
morrow's post. —
I am in the habit of taking myptpen
to DUke's and copying there ; so I dot
and proceed at the same time. I have beei
there at my work this evening, and tke
walk over the Heath takes off all sleep, i>
I will even proceed with yon. I left of
short in my last just as I began an aeeouit
of a private theatrical — Well it was of tbe
lowest order, all greasy and oily, insomuch
that if they had lived in olden times, whes
signs were hung over the doors, the only
appropriate one for that oily place would
have been — a guttered Candle. Tbej
played John Bull, The Review, and it «•*
to conclude with Bombastes Fnrioso— I
saw from a Box the first Act of John BnBf
then went to Drury and did not retom tiD
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
283
it was oyer — 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 moYe in
— for 'Nota Bene' the Green Room was
under the stage, and there was I threatened
oyer 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 had failed in Mary, with a * danin'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. —
There 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 yon 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 filling
up of the dash in my last. Constable the
bookseller has offered Reynolds ten gpiineas
a sheet to write for his Magazine — it is an
Edinburgh one, which Blackwood's started
up in opposition to. Hunt said be 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 BENJAMIV BAILEY
[HampsteadJ Friday Jan'- 23 [1818].
Mt dear Bailet — 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 f 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 tiie future — or the deeps of good
and evil — you were at that moment
estranged from speculation, and I think
you have argpiments 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 woman suffer f ' 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
sore 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
Uaydon, I was well read in their faults;
yet, knowing them, I have been cementing
grradaally 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 sufiBcient sum
18 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 puraes as I can meet with. — Cripps is
improving very fast: I have the grater
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 MiUon*8 Hair. I know you would
like what I wrote thereon, so here it is —
€L8 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 beg^n 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 yon — 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 I
is lecturing on Poetry at the Surrey Insti- (
tntion — 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
«8S
like a kind of pleasure thermometer, and is
my fint step towards the chief attempt in
Uie drama. The playing of different natures
with joy and Sorrow —
Do me this favoiir, and believe me
Tour sineere friend J. Keats.
I hope yoor next work will be of a more
general Interest. I suppose you cogitate a
little aboat it, now and then.
32. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
Hampstead, Sstniday [January 31, 1818].
Mr DEAR Reynolds — I have parcelled
oot Uus day for Letter Writing — more
RiolTed thereon because your Letter will
come as a refreshment and will baye (sic
ptnii etc) the same effect as a Kiss in
ttittin situations where people become
oveNgenerous. I have read this first sen-
tenee over, and think it savours rather;
kovever an inward innocence is like a
vtitod dove, as the old song says. . . . ^
Now I purposed to write to you a serious
poeCieal letter, but I find that a maxim I
^ with the other day is a just one : ' On
Cttie mieux quand on ne dit pas causons,*
I vas hindered, however, from my first in-
ttttion by a mere muslin Handkerchief
^ neatly pinned — but ' Hence, vain de-
Uing,' etc. Yet I cannot write in prose ;
i^ a a sunshiny day and I cannot, so here
pws,—
['HeiMe Burgundy, CHaret, and Port/ printed
•Wrt in the Appendix, p. 242.]
My dear Reynolds, you must forgive all
^ ranting — but the fact is, I cannot
*iite sense this Morning — however you
>U have some — I will copy out my last
[*WheB I have fears that I may cease to be,'
livM above, p. 30.]
I iBost take a turn, and then write to
Tiiguoouth. Remember me to all, not
t^Mpting yourself.
Tsar sineere friend John Keats.
33. TO THE SAIH^
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.*^ Would we
were a sort of ethereal Figs, 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 the
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 ! '
Modem poets differ from the Elizabethans
in this: each of the modems like an Elector
of HanoYer 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 uneontaminated and unobtrusive. Let
us have the old Poets and Robin Hood.
Tour 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 tomoROw» and we
will trudge together, for it is not tiie thing
to be a stranger in the Land of Haipsieds.
I hope also to bring yon my 2nd Book. In
the hope that these Scribblings will be some
amusement for you this Evening, I remain,
copying on the Hill,
Tour sincere friend and Co-acribbler
John Kkats.
34. TO JOHN TATIX>B
Fleet Street, Thonday Mora
[Febmaiy 5, 1818].
Mt 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 advanti^ 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 Kxats.
35. TO OBOBOB and THOXAS KEATS
Hampstead, Saturday Night
[February 14, 1818].
My dear Brothers — When onee t
man delays a letter beyond the proper tinei
he delays it longer, for one or two ressoiii
— first, because he must begin in a veij
common-place style, that is to say, with ts
excuse; and secondly things and ciicniB*
stances become so jumbled in his miiA
that he knows not what, or what not, he btf
said in his last — I shall visit you as soon
as I have copied my poem all out, I sid
now much beforehand with the printer,
they have done none yet, and I am bti^
afraid they will let half the season by be-
fore the printing. I am determined tbej
shall not trouble me when I have copied H
all. — Horace Smith has lent me his manii'
script called 'Nehemiah Mnggs, an ex-
posure of the Methodists * — perhaps I may
send you a few extracts — Haditfs bi^
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
UcUire ma on Tbomson, Cowper, and
rnbbe, he pruaed Thomion and Cotrper
>iut be gave Crabbe an unmerciful licking
— I thiiilc Hunt's article of FaEio — no it
wu Dot, bat I saw Fazio the first night,
tl liiiDg rather be&vilj on me *— I am in the
til^ vaj of being intrcxluced to a squad
III people, Peter Pindar, Mrs. Opie. Mrs.
N:iitt — Mr. Rolnnson a great friend uf
Coltridge's called on me.'" Richanls tells
n that iDj puems axe known in the west
noDUir, and tliat he saw a verj clever copy
. headed with a Motto from my
Smwlta George — Honours rosh so thickly
. ipm me that I shall not be able to bear up
' em. What think tou — am I to
i in the Capitol, am I to be made
in — Not I am to be invited,
I. Bant tells me, to a party at Oltier'a,
ft luMp ShfJupeare's birthday — Shak-
« would stare to see me there. The
J before last Shelley, Hunt and
Pnote each a Sonnet on the Kiver Nile,
M day you shall read them all. I saw a
I iWtat Endymion, and have all reason to
B thej will soon get it done, tiiere
LiUl be nothing wanting on my part. I
■ beau writing at intervals many songs
i Somiets, and I long to be at Tcign-
' , to rend them over to you: however
t I had better wait till this Book is
Hij miod : it will not be long first.
leynolds has been writing two very
il articles, in the Yellow Dwarf, on
r Preachers — All the talk here is
U Dr. Croft the Dnke of Devon etc.
P«*r nioct affectionale Brother JoiIN.
[HaiDiHtaBd. Febnuu7 ID, 1818.]
Ilr DKAR Rktxolds — I had an idea
Bb Man might pasi a very pleasant life
ner — Let hito on a certain day
I k certun page of full Poesy or dis-
' i PruMi. and let him wander with it,
e upon it, and reflect from it, and
■me to it, and prophesy upon it.
and dreara 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 spiritool pas-
sage serves him as a starting-post towurds
all ' the two-and-thirty Palaces.' How happy
is such a voyage of conception, what deli-
cioua diligent indolence I A doze upon a
sofa does not hiuder it, and a nap upon
Clover engenders ethereal tinge r-pujntinga
— the prattle of a child gives it wings, and
the converse of :aiddla-nge a strength to
beat thera — a strain of oiusic couduots
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 — tor perhaps the honors paid by
Man to Man are trifles in comparison to tha
benefit done by greot works to the 'spirit
and pulse of good ' by their mere passive f
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 paints of leaves and twigs on whieh
the spider begins her work are few, and
she fills the air with a beautiful dreniting.
Man should be content with as few points
to tip with the fine Web of his Sonl, and
weave a Upestry empyrean — full of sym-
bols for his spiritual eye, of softness for his
spiritual touch, of space for his wandering,
uf distinctness for his Inmry. But the
minds of mortals are so different and bent
on such diverse jonmeys that it may at fint
appear impossible for any common taste
and fellowship to eiist between two or
three under these suppositions. It is how-
ever quite the oontisry. Minds would leave
each other in oontinry directions, traverse
each other in numberless points, and at
last greet each other at the joumey't 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 dispoW
288
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
or assert, but whisper results to his Neigh-
bour, and thus by every germ of spirit
suckiug 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 urg^g 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 uoble
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 Kkats.
37. TO OEOBOE AND THOXAS KKAIV
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 Tersft. I do not
like to write a short letter to you, or yoa
would have had one long before. Tbe
weather although boisterous to-day has bees
very much milder; and I think Devonshire
is not the last place to receive a tempextte
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. tbe
enclosed letter — by Postmark from Miss
W[ylie]. Does she expect you in town
Greorge ? I received a letter the other dsy
from Haydon, in which he says, his Eeatys
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 hj
Stark, and Bathsheba by Wilkie, wbieh is
condemned. I could not bear Alston's
Uriel.
Reynolds has been very ill for some tiiiio»
confined to the house, and had leeches i^
plied to his chest; when I saw him ^
Wednesday he was much the same, and bo
is in the worst place for amendment, aroos^
the strife of women's tongpies, in a hot so^
parch'd room: I wish he would move to
Butler's for a short time. The Throsbes
and Blackbirds have been singing me ioto
an idea that it was Spring, and almost tbst
leaves were on the trees. So that bUek
clouds and boisterous winds seem to have
mustered and collected in full Divan, for
the purpose of convincing me to the ooft-
trary. Taylor says my poem shall be oat
^f
TO JOHN TAYLOR
289
in a month, I think he will be out before
Iv* • • •
The thrushes are singipg now as if they
would speak to the winds, because their big
brother Jack, the Spring, was not far off.
I am readiug 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. I generally
meet with many I know there. LfOrd 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 out 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, Febmary 27 [1818].
My dear Taylor — Your alteration
strikes me as being a g^at 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 hypercrit-
icism on any particular passage — In £n-
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,
had better not come at all. — However
may be with me, I cannot help looking into
new countries with * O for a Muse of Fire to
ascend ! ' If £ndymion serves me as a
pioneer, perhaps I ought to be content — I y
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.
I 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 ndPt
branch down sweeping from a tall ash-top.'
I have besides made one or two alterations^
es \
290
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
and also altered the thirteenth line p. 92 to
make sense of it, as jou 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 BfBSSBS. TATLOB AKD HSS8BY
Hampstead, March [1818?]
Mt deab 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 bailet
Teignmouth, Friday [March 13, 1818].
IiIt 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 correspondence, 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 had 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, yon may say
what you will of Devonshire: the truth is,
it is a splashy, rainy, misty, snowy, foggy,
haily, fioody, 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 fine
deep colour, but then the Clouds are con-
tinually vicing 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 I ' 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 Illethodist 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
7f
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
291
sinews — Moor's Almanack is here a Cari-
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, hare an Acrasian spell about
them — I feel able to beat off the Devon-
shire waves like soapf roth. I think it well
for the honour of Britain that Julius Ctesar
did not first land in this County. A Doyou-
shirer standing on his natiye 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 reUsh 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 bom 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 Burgpindy mark on the
bottles of our minds, insomuch as they are
able to * consecrate whatever 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. — We 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, beoause 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-
deaYour 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 came 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 REYNOIiDS
Teignmouth, Saturday [March 14, 1818].
DsAR 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 Herculaneum 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 g^en is beautiful, as they
say, and pity it is that it is amphibious —
mais I 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 tide of the ladder to
keep your frock clean, and cosset your
superstition. Buy a girdle — pat a pebble
in your mouth — loosen your braces — for I
am going among scenery whence I intend
to tip you the Damosel Raddiffe— 111
cavern you, and grotto you, and walerfdl
you, and wood you, and water you, asd
immense-rock you, and tremendons-Mmod
you, and solitude you. I 'II make a lod^
ment on your glacis by a row of Pinei, and
storm your covered way with brunUe
Bushes. I'll have at you with hip and
haw small-shot, and cannonade you witk
Shingles — I '11 be witty upon salt^fish, asd
impede your cavalry with clotted cretm.
But ah Coward ! to talk at this rate to t
sick man, or, I hope, to one that was nek
— for I hope by this yon stand on yonr
right foot. If you are not — that 's all, —
I intend to cut all sick people if they do noi
make up their minds to cut Sickness— a
fellow to whom I have a complete avenks^
and who strange to say is harboured tod
countenanced in several houses wheie I
visit — he is sitting now quite impudeoi
between me and Tom — He insults me tt
poor Jem Rice's — and you have seated bia>
before now between us at the Theatiei
when I thought he looked with a longi^
eye at poor Kean. I shall say, once for A
to my friends generally and severally, est
that fellow, or I cut you —
I went to the Theatre here the otbtf
night, which I forgot to tell George, tf^
g^t insulted, which I ought to remember
to forget to tell any Body; for I did BO^
fight, and as yet have had no redress -*
* Lie thou there, sweetheart I ' I wrote to
Bailey yesterday, obliged to speak in a bigb
way, and a damme who's afraid — fori
had owed him so long; however, he shall we
I will be better in future. Is he in tova
yet ? I have directed to Oxford as tbe
better chance. I have copied my fooitk
Book, and shall write the IVeface sooo. I
wish it was all done; for I want to forget
it and make my mind free for sometbisg
TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY
293
new — Atkiiis tbe Coachman, Bartlett the
Sorgeoiip Simmons the Barber, and the Girls
orer at the Bonnetshop, say we shall now
kre a month of seasoiuible weather —
wirm, witty, and full of invention — Write
to me and tell me that yon are well or
tkereaboats, or by the holy Beauccear,
wUeh I sappose is the Virgin Mary, or the
lepeoted Magdalen (beautiful name, that
Msgdalen), I 'U take to my Wings and fly
my to anywhere but old or Nova Scotia
—I wish I had a little innocent bit of
Mctaphysie in my head, to criss-cross the
fetter: bat you know a favourite tune is
hndett to be remembered when one wants
it Bost and yoo, I know, have long ere this
tiken it for granted that I never have any
yrnlations without associating you in
ten, where they are of a pleasant nature,
tti yon know enough of me to tell the
ffeees where I haunt most, so that if you
tkak for five minutes after having read
tyi, yon will find it a long letter, and see
vnttea in the Air above you.
Tour most affectionate friend
John Keats.
Ronember me to all. Tom's remcm-
feiwesto you.
12. TO BKNJAMIK BOBERT HATOOK
TiiiBBiHith, Saturday Mom [March 21, 1818].
I Ht j>ejl& Hatdon — In sooth, I hope
' 7>i are not too sanguine about that seal ^
^k tooth I hope it is not Brumidgeum —
> doable sooth I hope it is his — and in
li^ sooth I hope I shall have an impres-
*^ Such a piece of intelligence came
^^y welcome to me while in your own
^Wty and in your own hand — not but I
^ Uown op the said County for its urinal
^Kileations — the six first days I was
km it did nothing but rain; and at that
tiae hftTiog to write to a friend I gave
Onnoiiahire a good blowing up — it has
fine for almost three days, and I was
roond a bit; but to-day it rains
m -~ 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 Teig:nmonth,'
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 tbe 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.
Tours affectionately John Keats.
Remember me to all we know.
43. TO MES8B8. TATLOB AND HESSKT
Teignmouth, Satniday Mom [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
mj 4Ui fi<K^ to Town mil id good time for
yoa — especially after the late onf ortmiate
chance.
I did not lioweYer for my own sake delay
finishing the copy which was done a few
days after my arrival here. I send it oif
to-day, and will tell yoo in a Postscript at
what time to send for it from the Bull and
Month or other Inn. Yoa will find the
Preface and dedication and the title Page
as I should wish it to stand — for a Bo-
mance is a fine thing notwithstanding the
circnlating Libraries. My respects to Mrs.
Hessey and to Percy Street.
Yours very sincerely JoHX Kkats.
P. S. — I haye been advised to send it to
yon — 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 BICB
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 Miltou 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 saitb, 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 thomless 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 luckless Salmasius
and occasioned bis well-known and unhappy
end. What a happy thing it would be if
we could settle our thoogfats and make our
minds up on any matter in five minutes,
and remain content — that is, Iraild a sort
of mental eotta§D of feelings, quiet and
pleasant — to have a sort of philosophical
back-garden, and eheerfnl holiday-keeping
front one — hut alas I this never can be:
for as the material eottager knows there
are such places as France and Italy, and
the Andes and burning moontains, so the
spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the
terra semi-incognita of things nnearthly, and
cannot for his life keep in the eheek-rein —
or I should st(^ here quiet and oomf orta-
ble in my theozy of nettles. Yon will see,'
however, I am obliged to run wild being
attracted by the load-stone eoncatenation.
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, Comns, 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 whirlpoob
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.
You 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
leet to iU flow — it has not ebbed yet, bat
bs left tlie shore-pebbles all bare — I
Bcan all Bneks, Aothors of Hengist, and
CasUereagfas of the present day; who with-
oit liiltoo*s gormandising might have been
aU wtM men — Now f orasmach as I was
ffiy piedispoaed to a country I had heard
jot speak so highly of, I took particular
iotiee of OTerything during my journey,
ad have bonght some folio asses' skins for
■emorandnms. I have seen eyerythiug
bit the wind — and that, they say, becomes
liable by taking a dose of acorns, or sleep-
iig one night in a hog-trough, with your
tafl to the Sow-Sow- West. Some of the
Btde Bar-maids look'd at me as if I knew
Jean Rioe, — bat when I took (cherry?)
Bfeindy they were quite convinced. One
aiked whether yoa preserved (?) a secret
ihe gave you on the nail — Another, how
■soy buttons of your coat were buttoned
■ geneiaL — I told her it used to be four
—Bat sinee you had become acquainted
vitk one Mifftin you had reduced it to
tkne, and had been turning this third one
■year mind — and would do so with finger
lid thomb only you had taken to snuff. I
Wie met with a brace or twain of little
Liig-heads — not a bit o' the Grerman. All
k the neatest little dresses, and avoiding
ifl the paddles, but very fond of pepper-
■■t drops, laming ducks and . . . Well, I
*it tell I I hope you are showing poor
tiyaolds the way to get well. Send me a
|Nd seeoont of him, and if I can, I '11 send
7>i one of Tom — Oh t for a day and all
I vest yesterday to Dawlish fair.
(W the Hm and over the Dale,
Aad over the Bonnie to Dawlish,
Whaet tingei-bread wives have a scanty sale,
nuts are smallish, etc. etc.
Ifl.
Tool's iWDembranees and mine to you
Toor nneere friend
John Keats.
45. TO JOHN HAMILTON BBTNOLDS
[Teigrnmonth, liarch 25, 1818.]
Mt dear Reynolds — In hopes of
cheering you through a Minute or two, I
was determined will he niU 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 bill 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.]
46. TO BENJAMIN KOBEBT HATDON
Wednesday, [Teignmonth, April 8, 1818].
Mt 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 ]tf ind determined to
visit it thoroughly at some more favourable
time of the year. But now Tom (who is
getting gready 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 accnmulation 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 mjr soul ! —
galligaskins are out of the Question. I am
nearer mjself 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 arrives 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 [tic 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 coloured 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 W^atches 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
hu£fd 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 ont
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 ont let it
— but I will not play the Bassoon any more
deliberately. Remember me to Hazlitt, and
Bewick —
Your affectionate f riend, John Kkats.
47. TO JOHN HAMILTON BETNOLI>S
Thy. momg., [Teignmouth, April 9, 1818].
My dear Reynolds — Since you all
agree that the thing [the first preface to
Endymion] 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 g^eat 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
ForgiTe me for veziDg yon and making a
Trojan hone of sneh a Trifle, both with
respect to the matter in Question, and mj-
lelf — hot it eases me to tell you — I could
■ot live withoat the love of my friends — I
vonld jump down iBtna for any great Public
|ood — but I hate a Mawkish Popularity.
I cannot be subdued before them — My
glory would be to daunt and dazzle the
thoiisand jabberers about Pictures and
Books — I see iwarms of Porcupines with
tbeir Quills erect 'like lime-twigs set to
tttchmy Wing^ Book,' and I would fright
tbem away with a torch. You will say my
Frebce is not much of a Torch. It would
bive been too insulting *to begin from
JoTe,' and I could not set a golden head
vpon a thing of clay. If there is any fault
in the Preface it is not affectation, but an
vodersong of disrespect to the Public — if
I vrifte another Preface it must be done
vithout a thought of those people — I will
tUik about it. If it should not reach you
k four or five days, tell Taylor to publish
it without a Preface, and let the Dedica-
tioe limply stand — ' inscribed to the Mem-
«T of Thomas Chatterton.'
I had resolved last night to write to you
tkk morning — I wish it had been about
*— ffthing else — something to greet you
tivirds the dose of your long illness. I
We had one or two intimations of your
fobg to Hampstead for a space; and I
icgret to see your confounded Rheumatism
htps you in Little Britain where I am
•n the air is too confined. DcYonshire
•Mtinoes rainy. As the drops beat against
% window, they give me the same sensa^
tioa as a quart of cold water offered to
ttntt a half-drowned devil — no feel of
tte ehmda dropping fatness; but as if the
nwts of the earth were rotten, cold, and
tfaaoebed. I have not been able to go to
Kelt's cave at Babbicombe — however on
«oe very beautiful day I had a fine Clamber
ofer the rocks all along as far as that place.
I shall be in Town in about Ten days —
We go hj 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 '11 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
vou 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 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 sure. — 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 I Rain ! I am going this morn-
ing to tak^ a facsimile of a Letter of
Nelson's, very much to his honour — you
yrill be greatly pleased when you see it —
in about a week. What a spite 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.
Tour affectionate Friend John ELeats.
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
inderUical and related; and to the formeT
put merely one inverted Comma at the
beginning and another at the end; and to
the latter inverted Commas before every
line, the book will be better onderstood at
the 1st glance. Look at pages 126, 127,
you will find in the 3d line the begimung
of a related speech mariced thus < Ah I art
awake — ' while, at the same time, in tbe
next page the continuation of the indentied
speech is marked in the same manner,
* Toung man of Latmos — ' Ton will find
on the other side all the parts which should
have inverted commas to every line.
I was proposing to travel over the Norlli
this sunmier. There is but one thing to
prevent me. — I know nothing — I hate
read nothing — and I mean to follow
Solomon's directions, 'Gret learning — gel
understanding.' I find earlier days an
gone by — I find that I can have no enjoj-
ment in the world but continual drinkinf
of knowledge. I find there is no wortliy
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 poirer
of conferring pleasure and good-humour ot
all they meet — and in a thousand way>,tU
dutiful to the command of great Natnre-*
there is but one way for me. The road litf
through application, study, and thought-*
I will pursue it; and for that end, pnrpoM
retiring for some years. I have been boTe^ ,
ing for some time between an exquiflte
sense of the luxurious, and a love for phno*
sophy, — were I calculated for the fonneit
I should be glad. But as I am not, I ihil^
turn all my soul to the latter. — My brothff
Tom is getting better, and I hope I shall
see both him and Reynolds better before I
retire from the world. I shall see yea
soon, and have some talk about what Books
I shall take with me.
Your very sincere friend John Ksats.
Pray remember me to Hessey Wood-
house and Percy Street.
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
299
so, TO JOHK BAMU/EQH BETliOLDS
Tdgnmoath, April 27, 1818.
Mr DEAR Rbtnolds — It is an awful
while nnce joa have heard from me — I
kpe I may not be punished, when I see
pa wen, and so anxious as you always are
fir me, with the remembrance of my so
iddom writing when you were so horribly
eoofined. The most unhappy hours in our
Kfet are those in which we recollect times
put to our own blushing — If we are im-
Mrtai 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
iider to forget some of my school-boy days
tnd others since those.
I have heard from Greorge at different
tbst how slowly you were recovering — It
■% tedious thing — but all Medical Men
win teU you how far a very gradual amend-
■at b preferable; you will be strong after
tKi, never fear. We are here still envel-
^tA bk clonds — I lay awake last night
fiteittg to the Rain with a sense of being
'mied and rotted like a grain of wheat.
Aeie is a continual courtesy between the
Buvois and the Earth. The heavens rain
^ivii their nnwelcomeness, and the Earth
*idi it up again to be returned to-morrow.
w has taken a fancy to a physician here,
^ Tarton, and I think is getting better —
IknCore I shall perhaps remain here some
Mwthi. I have written to George for
*IM Books — shall learn Greek, and very
■riy Italian — and in other ways prepare
^idf to aak Hazlitt in about a year's
ht the best metaphysical road I can take.
Aralthoog^ I take poetry to be Chief, yet
fae is something else wanting to one who
|MMt his life among Books and thoughts
• Books — I long to feast upon old Homer
is we have upon Shakspeare, and as I have
hkfy npoD Milton. If you understood
Gfeeky and would read me passages, now
tbeiiy explaining their meaning, 't would
li^ bom its mistiness, perhaps, a greater
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 BasO.' 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: yon must not think of it till many
months after you 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.
Tour affectionate Friend John Keats.
51. TO THE SAME
Teiirnmouth, May 3d [181S].
^ 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
g^roat'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
fM
L2TT2aS OF pOH3r
I dwMi^^iit 2ar — Tdm waoa ai be in.
TiMFB — we will have
Cbe heatk like diac «f laac
wii7 iiaC ^tk die Mae book ? or wbrnt
70a e^ 2L hiaek Lesser Cbaaeer, princeti in
150^: aye I Ve ]^ one hnxa, I I iiuH
luKve it Homwi ea. gnchignip — a. niee aumhge
htTuiiufi^ — it will go a. little waj to nn-
m«yleratiie. And alan I see no Raaon.
h^!ft9patm I have been awaT iiaa last numth.
why I thcnUi not haTe a. p€ep as joor
5ipeaAenan — aoewfthnraiiiiini^ jna speak of
7«Mir oAee, in my tluMigjit a little coo eariy,
f/vr I tU> n<vt «ee whT a. Miad like toots is
ikX «kpaKie ^f barbooria^ and digesting
the wh^le My^eery of Law aa easly a^
f'^ninn fln^ does pcpptna, whiek did not
hinder him f m«n h» poetie eaaazy. Were I
t/> ttndy pfcy^i^ or rather Kedieine again,
I feel it woaid not make the least differ-
^iw^ in my Poetry; when the mind is in its
mIzMj a Bian ia in reality a Bias, hot when
we hare ae/fiired more strength, a Bias
Keeomen no Bias, Erery department of
Knowledge we see ezeellent and ealeabted
towards a great whole — lam soeoorineed
«f this that I am glad at not baring givca
•way my sedieal Books, wliieh I sball
T^ iBffJptlPMiiif q£
(uawn. an a6!>un»
wick aiL bHrtjr a£ a
Ljsbhciiex — in the fiii' iim^**
pasnfhfat 00 know how a p»i^n>J ^ brenst
and bend ^suL be drrtwn 1 joa wiH fuc!r^^g
me &r dms pciTacseLy aeadinicr one ^f mx
depth, and cake ic Sor sesuiin^ i;^ sebAioi-
\itxj3 tread die wacer: : ic is impoisELbie to
know haw tsar knowledge will ctinauAe ns
for dsB <ieack at a fngnii. ami the iH "^ that
desk is heir ok' Widi lespeet to the al&e^
tmna and Poetrr Toa nmsc know hr a srm-
pathy my thongba that way. and I daxetsay
these few lines will be hue a raci^*ac»ia:
I wrote diem on Majday — and incend to
finxsk ^e ode all in good time —
; [5«ep.llS>.I
Toa may perhaps be anjioos to know for
faet to what sentence in toot Letter I
allnde. Ton
I fear thee^ i» little
ehanee oi anything else in tki9 Cf e ' — yoa
seem by that to L^Te been going throagh
witk a more painful and aente zest the
same labrrinth that I hare — I hare come
to the same conelasiao thns far. Mr
Branehings oot tberefrom have been ns-
of tbem is the coosideratioo
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
of WtrrdiiTorth'e genius and aa a, help, in
llie tnaimer of gold being tbe meridian
Line of worldly wealth, how be differs
bum Milton. And here I have nothiDg
WBnrmiBes, from an uDcerUioty wbetlier
I miton't appareutlf less anxiety for Uii-
\ Haitj proceeds from his seeing further or
11 Word«worth: And whether Words-
li has in truth epio passion, and inBr-
p faimseU to tbe hnniBn heart, the nia,ia
n of bis song. In regard to bis genius
e find what be says true aa far
t btiTe eiperienced, and we can judge
■ funher but by larger experience — fur
n philosophy are not aiioms until
tjFU* proved npon oar pulses. We read
• tilings, bat never feel them to the full
"i we bare gone tbe same steps as tlm
— I know tbia ia not plaiti; jiou will
« exactly my meaning when I say that
|r I shall relish Hamlet more than I ever
• done — Or, better — yon are seiisi-
it down Venery as a bes-
''W or joyless thing until ho is sick o£ it,
nd therefore all philosophising ou it would
: wording. Until we are sick, we
in fine, as Byron says,
nrledge is sorrow '; and I go on to say
's wisdom ' — and furtlier for
il we can know for certainty ' Wisdom
hHy' — So you see how I hove run
J ftmu Wordsworth snil Milton, and
1 idU run away from what was in my
a obwrve, that some kind of letters
k pxid Bqiuires, others handsome ovals,
1 ath»t some orbicular, others spheroid
1 why should not there be another
« with two rongh edges like a Rat-
I hope yon will find all my long
of that species, and all will be well;
ff SMfely touching tbe spring delicately
lllj, the rongb-edged will fly
I* into a {iroper conipactaos.i;
B nay make « good wholesome
(I'joiir own leaven in it, of ray
— If you cannot iind this said
np uilHcientl)' tractable, alas for me,
e 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 draugbta 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 — 1 must go
from Hazlitt tu Patmore, and make Wordft-
worth and Coleman play at leap-frog, or
keep one of them down a whole half-
holiday at fly-the-garter— ' Frotn Gray U>
Gay, from Little to Shokspeore.' Also aa
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 resnme after dinner —
Have you not seen a Gull, an ore. a Sea-
Mew, or anything to bring tliis Lino to a
proper length, and also fill up this clear
]iart; that like tbe Gull I may dip* —
I hope, not out of sight — and also, like a
Gull, I hope to be lucky in a good-siied
fish — This crossing a letter is not without
its association — for chequer-work leads us
naturally to a Milkmaid, a Milkmaid to
Hogarth, Hogatlh to Shakspcare — Shak-
speare to Hazlitt — Hazlitt to Shakspeore
— and tbns by merely pulling sn 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 be has an extended vision
or a circumscribed grandeur — whether he
ia an eagle in his nest or on tbe wing —
And to be more explicit and to show yoa
bow 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 Urge
Mansion of Many apartments, two of which
I can only describe, the doors of the rest
* The croning of the 1etti*r, bOKun at (he
words ' Have jaa not,' here dipt into th« ori-
llinal writing.
$02
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
being ms jet sfant npoo me — The ^at we
ftep into we call the iidaat or thouglilleM
CluuDber, in wlndi we lemain as long as
we do Dot think — We remain there a long
while, and notwithstanding the doon of the
seeond Chamber remain wide open, showii^
a bright appearance, we care not to hasten
to it; but are at length imperceptibly im-
pelled by the awakening of the thinking
prinetple within as — we no sooner get into
the second Chamber, which I shall call the
Chamber of Maiden-Tlioa^t, than we b^
come intoxicated with the li^it and the
atmosphere, we see nothing hot pleasant
wonders, and think of delaying there for
erer in delight: Howerer among the effects
this breathing is father of is that tre-
mendous one of sharpening one's rision
into the heart and nature of Man — of con-
rincing one's nenres that the world is fall
of Misery and Heart-break, Pain, Sickness,
and oppression — whereby this Chamber
of Maiden -Thoaght 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 eyil
— we are in a mist — loe 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
* Tintem Abbey,' and it seems to me that
his Grenius 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
Men had got bold of certain points and
resting-piaees in iruwtmmg which were too
newly bora to be doabted, and too modi
opposed bj the Mam of Europe not to be
thoaght ethereal and anthentically divine
— Who eoold gainsay his ideas on virtoe,
vice, and Chastity in Comns, just at the
time of the drwniiil of a hundred dis-
graces ? who would not rest satisfied with
his hintings at good and evil in the Paradise
Lost, when jost free &om the Inquisition
and horning in Smithfield ? The Ref ormik-
tion produced soch immediate and great
benefits, that Protestantism was considered
under the inunediate eye of heaven, and its
own remaining Dogmas and soperstitioos
then, as it were, regenerated, coostitoted
those resting-pbces and seeming sure points
of Beasmiing — from that I have men-
tioaed, Milton, whatever be may have
thoaght 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 l^
Philosopher had sure as great powers as
Wordsworth — What is then to be in-
ferred ? O many things — It proves there
is really a g^rand 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
3<^3
Vurtd. Your third Cbauber of Life shall
l« * Incky sud n gentle doc — stored witli
tb« •ine of lore *- und the Bread of rriend-
iHj — Vhen you see George it he should
PM hire receiTed a letter from me tell him
bi will flu) one at home most likely — tell
Biil*]r I hope toon to see him — Kemember
M tu all. The leaves have beeu out here
WiwDri>d»y — I hare written to George
Jwlbe first stanzna of my Isabel — J shall
Ittatheni iood, and will copy the whole out
fitniu.
TowftSeotionate Friend John Keats.
Huuitun, [Ma;, IB18|.
HrDCAR Mrs. Jeffebt— My Brother
htbonid his Jooraey tbus for remarkably
nil I un too sensible of your anxiety for
V not to send this by the chaise back
k yon. Give our goodbyes to Marrian
Ud Fanuy- Believe Die we shall bear
joain Uind and that I shall write soon.
Tonra T«i7 truly, John Keats.
Thursday [May 2«, 1819].
Ut I>K*tt Bailf.v — I should have an-
'*Md jour Letter oti the Momeut, if I
•■•W bare said yes to your invitation.
"W hinders me is insuperable: I will tell
r ilUtUttlf length. You know my Brother
•'fotye bos been out of employ for some
'"w: it has weighed very much upon him,
-''■•■I driven bim to scheme and turn over
Uiag* in his Mind. The result has been
iii* resolution to emigrate to the bauk
$«ltlenienti of Anierica, become Farmer
srnl work with his own hands, after pur-
' Uiiog 1 1 hundred acres of the American
' rLiiMBiinint. This for many reasons bas
i!!t with my entire Consent — and the
'I'i'l on« is tbis; he is of too independent
■id lilieral a Mind to get on iii Trade in
')"> Country, in which a generous Man
*'A ■ tcuity resource must be ruined. 1
would sooner he should till the ground than
bow to a customer. There is no choice
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 be sets
sail a young lady he has known fur several
years, of a nature liberal and higbspirited
enough to follow him to the Bajiks of the
Mississippi. Uc will set off in a month or
sii weeks, and yon will see how I should
wish to pass that time with him. — And
then I must set out ou a jonmey 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 n lethargy that I cannot
write. The reason of my delaying u 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 tu-murrow. 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.
Mondar [Jnne I].
You see bow I have delayed; and even
now I have but n confused idea of what I
should he about. My intellect ranit be in
a degenerating state — it must be — for
when I should be writing about — God
knows what — I am troubling yon with
moods of my own mind, or rather body, for
mind there is none. I am in that temper
that if 1 were under water I would scarcely
kick to come up to the top — I know rery
weU 'tis all nonsense — In a short time I
hope I shall be in a temper to feel ien«ibly
jour mention of my huok. In vain have I
wiuted till Monday to have any Interest in
that or anything else. I feel no cpnr at
my Brother's going to Americn, and un
almost stony-hearted about his wedding.
All this will blow over — All I nm sorry
for is having to write to yon in sueh a time
— but I cannot force my letters i
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 — 'tis like the albatross
sleeping on its wings. I will be to you
wine in the cellar, and the more modestly,
or rather, indolently, I retire into the back-
ward bin, the more Faleme 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 I 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-and-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
made us more ignorant.
Yours affectionately John Keats.
54. TO snssEs 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 f ortmie
by them in case of a War (which you most
consequently pray for) by contracting with
Government for said material to the eeoiH
omy of one branch of the Revenue. At
all events a Tax which b taken from the
people and shoulder'd upon the Militaiy
ought not to be snubb'd at. I promised
to send you all the news. Harkee ! The
whole city corporation, with a depntatkm
from the Fire Offices are now engaged it
the London Coffee house in secret conelftve
concerning Saint Paul's Cathedral its ban;
washed clean. Many interesting speedwi
have been demosthenized in said Coffee
house as to the Cause of the black appetr*
ance of the said Cathedral. One of tbe
veal-thigh Aldermen actually brought up
three Witnesses to depose how they beheld
the ci-devant fair Marble tarn bla^ on the
tolling of the gpreat Bell for the amiaUe 1
and tea-table-lamented Princess — adding \
moreover that this sort of sympathy in is-
animate objects was by no means nnoom-
mon for said the Gentleman ' As we ireie ^,
once debating in the Common Hall Mf' ^ |
Waithman in ilhistration of some esse is ^
point quoted Peter Pindar, at which the i
head of George the third although in hsrd
marble squinted over the Mayor's seat ftt :
the honorable speaker so oddly that be wti
obliged to sit down.* However I wiU ^
tire you about these Affairs for they la^
be in your Newspapers by this time. Yo*
see how badly I have written these 1*^
three lines so I will remain here and tak^
a pinch of snuff every five Minutes a0^
my head becomes fit and proper and legi^^
mately inclined to scribble — Oh ! ther« *
nothing like a pinch of snuff except perh^f^
a few trifles almost beneath a philosoph^^'
dignity, such as a ripe Peach or a Kiss t)*^
one takes on a lease of 91 moments — ot> *
buildling lease. Talking of that is the Cap^
married yet, or rather married Miss Mite)*^
— is she stony hearted enongh to hold ^
this season ? Has the Doctor given If *^
Perryman a little love powder ? — tell bi^
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
30s
to do 80. 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
£[ampstead. 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 'ra
sure I could not have stood it many more
days. Hampstead is now in fine order. I
suppose Teig^mouth 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
V — the den is crowded — the boats are sail-
ing— the mnsick is playing. I wish you
were here a little while — but lauk 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 yon
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 bom into the world
for they may not touch 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 comer of a
Handkerchef Polly Saunders — Upon a
Grarter 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.
65. TO BENJAMIN BAILET
London [June 10, 1818].
Mt 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, yon 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 annihilate 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 sbter 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 thauk 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
cannot 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 comer.
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. Witl
respect to domestic literature, the £db
burgh Magazine, in another blow-up againsl
Hunt, calls me ' the'amiable Mister Keats
— and I have more than a laurel iron
the Quarterly Reviewers for they hsTi
smothered me in Foliage. I want to teti
you my ' Pot of Basil ' — if you go to Seot
land, I should much like to read it there t(
you, among the snows of next winter. M}
Brothers' remembrances to yon.
Your affectionate friend John Keatb.
56. TO JOHN TATIX>B
[Hampstead,] Sunday Evemoi
[June 21, 1818].
My dear Tatlor — I am sorry I hsn
not had time to call and wish you hesUli
till my return — Really I have been bard
run these last three days — However, an
revoir, 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 indalgeat.
Therefore when you shall write, do send
him some you think will be most anm**
ing — he will be careful in returning them.
Let him have one of my books bound. 1
am ashamed to catalogue these message*
There is but one more, which ought to p
for nothing as there is a lady concerned
I promised Mrs. Reynolds one of my book
bound. As I cannot write in it let thi
opposite '^ be pasted in 'prythee. Remeffi
ber me to Percy St. — Tell Hilton that on
gfratification on my return will be to fin
him engaged on a history piece to- his o^
content — And tell Dewint I shall beoon
a disputant on the landscape — Bow f
me very genteelly to Mrs. D. or she w
not admit your diploma. Remember i
to Hessey, saying I hope he 11 Cary 1
point. I would not forget Woodhoo
Adieu !
Tour sincere friend John o' Grots
«]
TO THOMAS KEATS
307
57. TO THOMAS KEATS
Keswick, Jnne 29th [1818].
My deab Tom — I cannot make my
Jonznal as distinct and actual as I coold
wish, from haying been engaged in writing
to Greorge, and therefore I must tell you
without circumstance that we proceeded
from Ambleside to Rydal, saw the Water-
&lls 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
sommit, but unfortunately I was damped
by slipping one leg into a squashy hole.
^ere is no great body of water, but the
aooompaniment 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-
tuns 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 Scawfell. 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 Yale 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 viS —
[Carlisle,] July 1st.
We are this morning at Carlisle. After
Skiddaw, we walked to Treby the oldest
market town in Ctmiberland — where we
were greatly amused by a country dancings
school holden at the Tun, it was indeed ' no
new cotillon fresh from France.' No, they
kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordi-
nary, and whiskit, and f riskit, and toed it,
and go'd it, and twirl'd it, and whirl 'd it,
and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing
the fioor 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 g^tified 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 modem — 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 Gralla-
way. I have written two letters to Liver-
pool. I found a letter from sister Greorge;
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 comer,
not very much to my taste, though on a
scale large enough to show they wanted
to honour him. Mrs. Bums 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 oon-
fessed himself a Deist. The careful man-
ner of delivering his opinions, not before
he had received several encouraging hints
from us, 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 sug^ and water, 'tis called toddy;
very pretty drink, and much praised by
Bums.
58. TO FANNY 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 Greorge 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
Greorge was up for Lancaster — Then we
TO FANNY KEATS
309
set off from Lancaster on foot with our
KiuipsackB 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 hare been taken for travelling Jewel-
leis, Razor sellers and Spectacle vendors
heeanae friend Brown wears a pair. The
Bzst place we stopped at with our Knapsacks
eontained one Richard Bradshaw, a noto-
tiotts tippler. He stood in the shape of a 3
mad ballanoed himself as well as he could
saying with his nose right in Mr. Brown's
l^e * Do — yo— u sell spect — ta — cles ? *
Hr. Abbey says we are Don Quixotes —
tsQ him we are more generally taken for
Bedlars. All I hope is that we may not be
tiken for excisemen in this whisky coun-
tsj. We are generally up about 5 walking
before breakfast and we complete our 20
miles before dinner. — Yesterday we vis-
ited Bums's Tomb and this morning the
fine Ruins of Lincluden.
[Auohencaim, same day, July 2.]
I had done thus far when my coat came
Wk fortified at all points — so as we lose
to time we set forth again through Gallo-
way— all very pleasant and pretty with
10 fiuigne when one is used to it — We are
IB the midst of Meg Merrilies's country of
vliom I suppose you have heard.
[Hsra follow the lines, * Meg Merrilies,' p. 243.]
If yon like these sort of ballads I will
low and then scribble one for you — if I
md any to Tom I '11 tell him to send them
to yon.
[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. Ab 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 Invert
nesSf Scotland.
3IO
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
59. TO THOMAS KEATS
Aaohteroairn [for Aachencaim,]
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 fashion.
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 mim
when the Mail overtook us : we got i^
were at Port Patrick in a jiffey, and I aa
writing now in little Ireland. The dialMli
on the neighbouring shores of Sootlandiai
Ireland are much the same, yet I can per-
ceive a greAt difference in the nations, inm
the chamber-maid at this note toane kept hf
Mr. Kelly. She is fair, kind, and ready t»
laugh, because she is out of the honiUl
dominion of the Scotch Kirk. A Seotek
girl stands in terrible awe of the JBlden—
poor little Susannahs, they will scared^
laugh, and their Kirk is greatly to bl
damned. These Kirk-men have done Seol*
land good (Query ?). They have mdb
men, women ; old men, young men ; dd
women, young women ; boys, girls ; and
all infants careful — so that they sit
formed into regular Phalanges of saTHt
and gainers. Such a thrifty army euad
fail to enrich their Country, and give it s
greater appearance of Comfort, than tint
of their poor rash neighbourhood — tbeM
Kirk-men have done Scotland harm ; they
have banished puns, and laughing, and kin*
ing, etc. (except in cases where the TCiy
danger and crime must make it very goi^
ful). I shall make a full stop at kiwiogir
for after that there should be a better
parenthesis, and g^ on to remind yon of
the fate of Burns — poor unfortunate fel-
low, his disposition was Southern — liov
sad it is when a luxurious imagination i> „
obliged, in self-defence, to deaden itsd^
icacy in vulgarity, and rot (?) in thii^
attainable, that it may not have leisure to
go mad after things which are not. No
man, in such matters, will be content witk
the experience of others — It is true that
out of suffering there is no dignity, no
greatness, that in the most abstracted
pleasure there is no lasting happineas —
Yet who would not like to discover orer
again that Cleopatra was a Gipsy, Helen a
rogue, and Ruth a deep one ? I have not
sufficient reasoning faculty to settle the
doctrine of thrift, as it is consistent with
7t
TO THOMAS KEATS
3"
the dignity of human Society — with the
happiness of Cottagers. All I can do is by
plump contrasts ; were the fingers made to
squeeae 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 4d 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
conmion 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
nobes, 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 ** unth 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 bo
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,
bat I was a drinker."
Till further notice you must direct to
Inverness.
Your most affectionate Brother
JOHK.
60. TO TBB SAME
Belantree [for Ballantrae,] July 10.
My deab 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 g^ne 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 g^radual
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 oat
this morning. Now we are at Girvan 13
Miles north of Belantree. Our Walk has
been along a more grand shore to-daj 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.
[Eirkoswald, 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 profauum 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 nigher neighbourhood to him than
to the Irishman who conmiits 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 g^lous fellow. A
Scotchman is contented with himself. It
Vf
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-
ous. 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 strongheaded
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.
KingBwells, 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 Bums to some g^rand 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 Tam o'
Shanter fled — we took a pinch of buuS
on the Key stone — 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
bom 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
— danm 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 Kean. 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, OtheUo in Shylock, the
Jew in Othello, etc. etc. etc. — he left him-
self in a mess at last. — Still satisfied with
himself he 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. —
[Glas^w,] 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-a-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 Greorge
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.
Grod bless you I 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 Bums'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 Bums
— 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 yoo
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 comer 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 Tarn
o' Shanter crossed. Kirk Alloway, Bnms'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 <^
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 ! Bums and sentimentality coming
across you and Frank Fladgate in the of-
fice — O scenery that thou shonldst be
Vf
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
3^5
crushed between two Pons — As for them
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 Alloway — * 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 fuz, fuzzy, fuzziest — He
drinks glasses five for the Quarter and
twelve for the hour — he is a mahogany-
faced old Jackass who knew Bums — He
ought to have been kicked for having
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 — this 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 reality, 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 Bums'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 Grod'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 the 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 you 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 I may have some lines by and by
to send you fresh, on your own Letter —
Tom has a few to show you.
Tour affectionate friend
John Keats.
62. TO THOHAS KEATS
Caim-something [Caimdow], 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 g^nd 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
g^ve you an outline as well as I can.
f^^^^ ?fc
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 objnrgates 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 times
— but nothing could stifle the horrors of a
TO THOMAS KEATS
317
solo on the Bag-pipe — I thought the Beast
would never have done. — Yet was I
doomed to hear another. — On entering In-
verary we saw a Play Bill. Brown was
knocked up from new shoes — so I went
to the Bam 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. 246, 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.
[Kibnelford,] 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
solenm 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 bat 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 g^and, 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'
3x8
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
mother of the house seems intelligent
though not over clean. N, B. No snulE
heing 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
g^l 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
yon at Inverness — I am sorry (xeorgy 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 you a great
deal of trouble about 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 has 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
-, I will confess to jou tiiat I cannot
y Society small or naineroua — 1 am
' I ttuit our fair friends are glad I
e (or the mere aake of my com-
ing ; but I am certain I bring witb me a
TtiBtioD tbej are better nithout — If lean
pMiiblj at any time feet my temper coming
apon me I refrain even from a, promised
fi«t. I am certain I have not a rigLt fepj-
ing tawardi women — at this momeut, I
lu ttriving to be juat to them, but 1 cotiuot
— Is it because tliey fall so fur beneath
EDj boyiib'Iinagination? When I was a
uboolboy I tbougbt a fair woman a pure
Goddess; my mind was a soft nestin which
*ame one of them slept, though she knew
il not. I bnve no right to expect more
than their reality — I thought them ctbe-
nal above men — 1 And them perhaps equal
— great liy comparison is very small. In-
)ul[ may be inflicted in more ways tbiii by
wcml or action — One who is tender of
tting iasulled does not like to think an
inmlt against another. I do not like to
tHuk insults in a lady's company — 1 eom-
njt a cHme with her which absence would
M liave known. Is it not cxtraordi-
nuT ? — when among men, I have no evil
UoDghis, no malice, no spleen — I feel free
>a (peak or to bo silent — I can listen, and
hom every one I can learn — my hands
(ft in my packets, I am free from all
W^cion and comfortable. Wheu I am
tBong women, 1 have evil thoughts, malice,
•fleen — 1 camiot speak, or be silent —
luo fall uf mapicioDS and therefore listen
to nothing — I am in a hurry to be gone.
Tou must be charitable and put all this
perteraity to my being disapprantcd since
■oy boyhood. Yet with such feelings I am
^pter alone among crowds of men, by
■y<i»lf, or with a friend or two. With all
iHi, trust me, I have not the least idea
thu mea of different Feelings and inclina-
'-'■n* are more Bbort-aighted than myself.
I never rejoiced more thanat my Brother's
carriage, and shall do so at that of any
tt mj biemls. I must absolutely get over
this — but bow? 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 he produced but from
a gordion complication of feelings, whieh
must take time to unravel, and care to keep
unravelled. I could say a good deal about
this, hut I will leave it, in hopes of better
and more worthy dispositions — and also
content that I am wronging no odo, for
after all I do think better of womankind
than to suppose they care whether Mister
John Geats Ave feet high likes thorn 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
mouths tramping in the highlands, but that
1 thought it would give me more e^iiwri-
ence, rub off more prejudice, use to more
hardship, identify finer scenes, load me
with grander mouutaina, 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
aiu comparatively a Uoontaincer. 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 much attached to it. —
The first moimtains 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 munly.
[Island of Man, Julr 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 loua, and perhaps Stafta.
^Vo would not follow the oommon and
fashionable mode, from the great Imposi-
tion of Expense. We Imvc coma over
heath and ropk, 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 g^t 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 Bums's
Cottage, over the Doon, and past Kirk
Alloway. I had determined to write t
Sonnet in the Cottage. I did — but lawkl
it was so wretched I destroyed it — how-
ever in a few days afterwards I wrote some
lines cousin-german to the circnmstanee,
which I will transcribe, or rather em^
scribe in the front of this. [Here foUov
the lines printed on pp. 246, 247.]
Reynolds's illness has made him a neir
man — he will be stronger than ever — be-
fore I left London he was really getting a
fat face. Brown keeps on writing volnmei
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 mj
indolence and Luxury by pulling out of luf
knapsack 1st his paper — 2ndly his peai
and last his ink. Now I would not care if i
he would change a little. I say now whf
not Bailey, take out his pens first some-
times — But I might as well tell a ben to
hold up her head before she drinks inBteid
of afterwards.
Your affectionate Friend, John Ksats.
64. TO THOMAS KKATS
Dun an cullen, [Denynaoulan ?]
Island of MoU [July 23, 1818].
My dear Tom — Just after my last hd
gone to the Post, in came one of the Men
with whom we endeavoured to ag^ree aboot
going to Staffa — he said what a pity itwii
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 ten)*
the Isle of Mull. We set out, crossed t^
ferries — one to the Isle of Kerrait, ef
little distance ; the other from Kerraia to
Mull 9 Miles across — we did it in forty
minutes with a fine Breeze. The roid
through the Island, or rather the track, is
the most dreary you can think of— he-
tween dreary Mountains, over bog and rock
and river with our Breeches tacked up vA
our Stockings in hand. About 8 o'Cloek
we arrived at a shepherd's Hut, into which
we could scarcely get for the Smoke thzoogh
TO THOMAS KEATS
3;'
*t€6or lower than mj Shoulders. We found
not wAj into iv little com part me nt with the
nfUn and turf-Clistch Ulackencd with
■moke, tbe esrtb floor full of HilU and
Oftln. We bul some white Bread with as,
Bade ■ good supper, imd slept in our Clothes
ia ume Blankets; our Guide uiored on hd-
otbcr tittle bed kbout an Arm's length off.
"Km norning we came about sax utiles to
Bteakfut, b; rnther a better path, and wo
annowin by compaciaou a Mnusiun. Out
Gwde it I think a very obliging fellow —
in tbe wRiv this niomiug he sang us two
UuJic songs — one made b; a Mrs. ISrown
on her husband's being drowned, tlie other
■ jacobin one on Charles Stuart. For some
lUri Browu lias beeu enquiriug out his
GeacalogjT here — bu thinks his Grand-
UUwr cuDe from long Island. He got a
fnttl of people about him at a Cottage
dna last Eveuing, chatted with ane who
lad been a Miss Brown, and who I think
ftma 1 likeness, must have been a lielntiun
— iMJawed with tbe old Woman — flatterod
ijiiungooB — kissed a child who was afraid
»f liis Spec tat les nntl finally drank a pint of
ililk. They handle bis Speotaules na wo
duiiemitive leaf.
(Oban,] July L'fith.
Well — we bad a most wretehed walk of
^' Ulles across the Island of Mull and
'II ve crossed to lona or Icolmkill —
I" [eolaikill we took a boat at a bargain
i-ike us to StaSa and laud us at tbe head
' Lcioh Nnkgal, [Loch na Keal] whence
■liuuld only have to walk half the dis-
"•■ la Uban again and on a better road.
I tliii ii well passed and done, with this
;:iiUr piece of Luck, that there was an
' Tuption in the bad Weather just as wo
> ' StaAa at which it is impossible to land
'. in a tolerable Calm sea. But I will first
:iiiun Icolmkill — I know not wbetlier
I iia.v« heard much about this Island ;
■ ler did before I came nigh it. It is
I 111 tlio most interesting Anti'juities.
" wotikl eipeet to find tbe ruins of a
Catbednl Cburcb, of Cloisters Col-
leges Monasteries and Nun
mote an Island ? The beginning of these
things was in tbe sixth Century, under the
superstition of a would-be'Biahop-saint,
who landed from Ireland, and cbose tbe
spot from its Beauty — for at that time
the DOW treeless place was covered with
magnificent Woods. Columba iu tbe Gaelio
is Colm, signifying Dove — Kill signifies
cburcb, aud I is as good as Island — so
I-colm-kill means tbe Island of Saint Co-
luuiba's Cburcb. Now this Saint Columba
became the Dominic of the barbarian Chris-
tians of the north and was fanied also far
south — but more especially was reverenced
by tbe Scots the Picts tbe Norwegians tbe
Irish. In a course of years perhaps tbe
Island was considered tbe most holy ground
of tbe north, and the old Kings of tbe
aforementioned nations cbose it for their
buruil-place. We were shown a spot in tbe
Churchyaid where they sa; 61 Kings are
buried 48 Scotch from Fergus II. to Mao-
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 mow-cor-
ered — Abbots and Bishops of tbe island
always of one of the chief Glaus. Tber«
wero plenty Macleans and Macdonnels;
among these latter, the famous Macdonel
Lord of the Isles. There liave been 300
Crosses in the Island but the Presbyterian*
destroyed all but two, one of which is a
very fine one, and completely covered with
a sha^y 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
be is under 4 foot three inches. He stops
at one glass of whisky unless you preu an-
other and nt tbe second unless yoa press a
third —
I am puzited how to give you an Idea of
Staffa. It con only be represented by a
first-rate drawing. One may compare tbe
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 thei% — 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 — thei
we shall proceed to Fort William and
Inverness, where I am anzions to be on ao-
count of a Letter from you. Brown in hii
Letters puts down eyery little oironn-
stance. I should like to do the same, bit
I confess myself too indolent, and besidM
next winter everything will come np ii
prime order as we verge on such and sodi
things.
Have you heard in any way of Geoiige?
I should think by this time he must hate
landed. I in my carelessness never thouglit
of knowing where a letter would find him
on the other side — I think Baltimore, but
I am afraid of directing it to the wroifl[
place. I shall begin some chequer mA
for him directly, and it will be ripe for tin
post by the time I hear from yon next after
this. I assure you I often long for a seit
and a Cup o' tea at Well Walk, espeeiall/
now that mountains, castles, and Lakes an
becoming common to me. Yet I mM ■.
rather summer it out, for on the whole I
am happier than when I have time to te
glnm — perhaps it may cure me. Immedi-
ately on my return I shall begin stodjiit
hard, with a peep at the theatre now aid
then — and depend upon it I shall be veiy
luxurious. With respect to Women I thiik
I shall be able to conquer my paaneal
hereafter better than I have yet done. To*
will help me to talk of George next wiute'i
and we will go now and then to see Faai^*
Let me hear a good account of your heaW
and comfort, telling me truly how you ^
alone. Remember me to all indnding tf'*
and Mrs. Bentley.
Your most affectionate Brother
JoHX.
65. TO THE SAMS
Letter findlay, August 3 [1818].
Ah mio Ben.
My dear Tom — We have made bif^
poor progress lately, chiefly from \m^
weather, for my throat is in a fair way ol
getting quite well, so I have had noting
i
>f
TO THOMAS KEATS
3^3
of consequence to tell jou till yesterday
when we went up 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-
scoat. 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
grained 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 g^at
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 puff 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 g^ve
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 gpx)und — 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
3^4
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 enongh 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 I — 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
hill he heaves a huge round — Mrs. Came-
ron.' 'Tis 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.
Tour most affectionate Brother
John .
66. TO MRS. WYLIB
Inverness, August 6 [1818].
Mt dear Madam — It was a great reg^t
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 especiaUy, 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 g^atest 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 ta
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
/f
TO FANNY KEATS
325
the north, thought it too extraordinary, and
80 threw the dies which of them should be
drowned. The lot fell upon Jones: I dare-
say his name was Jones. All I 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 f 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 I 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 Dumblane, 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
thei'e as it happened — went up Ben Nevis,
and — N. B., came down again. Some-
times when I am rather tired I lean rather
languish! ngly 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
Hampetead, 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 Inverness 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
ZDe 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
Greorge'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. Tou 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,
Tour 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 yon want with
a Flageolet and I will get one ready for
you by the time yon come.
Your affectionate Brother John .
69. TO JANB REYNOLDS
Well Walk, September Ist [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: yoa
shall hear ag^ain soon how he will be.
Remember us particularly to your Mo-
ther.
Tour sincere friend John Keats.
70. TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE
[Hampetead, September 21, 1818.]
Mt 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 g^en 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 beg^n 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-
rf
TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
327
ishing glass in 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 remiain-
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
in general.
Gilt edge — Dandies in 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 he 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 som^
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-
tinual 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 bum 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 would 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 ponr'd her beauty 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 Exeats.
71. TO JOHIC 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 g^ne 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 baiu
and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and
was just beginning with the Jellies. Then
was PC one in the Coach who had a Mind
to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be
punctual in enquiring about next Thais-
day —
Your affectionate Brother John.
73. TO JAMES AUGUSTUS HE8SET
[Hampstead, October 9, 18ia]
My dear Hessey — You are very good
in sending me the letters from the Chroni-
cle — and I am very bad in not acknowled^
ing such a kindness sooner — pray forgive
me. It has so chanced that I have bad
that paper every day — I have seen to-
day's. I cannot but feel indebted to tbose
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 beantj %
in the abstract makes him a severe critic
ou his own Works. My own domestb
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 f
the slip-shod Endymion.^ That it is so is no
fault of mine. No ! — though it may aonnd
a little paradoxical. It is as good as I bad
power to make it — by myself — Had I
been 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
tvith Judgment, hereafter. The Geiiius of
/•f
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
329
Poetry must work out its own 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 was 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 GEOBOE AND OEOROIANA KEATS
[Hampstead, October 13 or 14, 1818.]
Mt dear George — There was a part
in your Letter which gave me a g^reat 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 own 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 ray un-
reflecting head to be satisfied, and went on
in that sort of abstract careless and restless
Life with which yon are well acquainted.
This sentence should 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 ; yon 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 mtist 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. Out'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
330
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
Haslam as a most kind and obliging and
constant friend. His behaviour to Tom
daring 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 informal
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 which 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 I saw Henry
quite well — there was Miss Keasle — and
the good-natured Miss Waldegrave — Mrs.
Millar began a long story and yon 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 —
[Ootober 14 or 1&.]
I came by ship from Invemeas, and was
nine days at Sea without being siek^a.
little Qualm now and then put me in mind
of you — however as soon as yoa toaeh tba
shore all the horrors of Sickness are sooia
forgotten, as was the case with a Lady oat
board who could not hold her bead up alX
the way. We had not been in the Thameoi
an hour before her tongue began to som^
tune; paying off as it was fit she shoold
all old scores. I was the only Englishman
on board. There was a downright Seotekm-
man who hearing that there had been a hm^
crop of Potatoes in England had broogbl
some triumphant specimens from ScotlaimcJ
— these he exhibited with national pride '^o
all the Lightermen and Watermen fnmi
the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon boef
all the way; not being able to eat the thick
Porridge which the Ladies managed to
manage with large awkward horn spooBf
into the bargain. Severn has had a narrow
escape of his Life from a Typhus ferer: j
he is now gaining strength — Reynolds hif j
returned from a six weeks' enjoyment is
Devonshire — he is well, and persuades dm
to publish my pot of Basil as an answer to
the attacks made on me in Blackwood'i
Magazine and the Quarterly Review. Tliere
have been two Letters in my defence is
the Chronicle and one in the Examioerf
copied from the Alfred Exeter Paper, snd
written by Reynolds. I do not know wbo
wrote those in the Chronicle. This is *
mere matter of the moment — I think I
shall be among the English Poets after nj
death. Even as a Matter of present in-
terest the attempt to crush me in the Qutf-
terly has only brought me more into notieef
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 ridieolons: 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
hack 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-
noldses 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
Grandpapa 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
Grandfather's Heir. At the time I called
Mrs. R. was in conference with her up
stairs, and the young Ladies were warm in
her praises down stairs, calling her genteel,
interesting and a thousand other pretty
things to which I gave no heed, not being
partial to 9 days' wonders — Now all is
completely changed — they hate her, and
from what I hear she is not without faults
— of a real kind: but she has others which
are more apt to make women of inferior
charms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra,
but she is at least a Charmian. She has a
rich Eastern look; she has fine eyes and
fine manners. When she comes into a
room she makes an impression the same as
the Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine
and too conscious of herself to repulse any
Man who may address her — from habit
she 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 Pleasnie*B 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 yon, 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 Grovernment. 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 ^clat, 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 OfiBcinal 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 continning 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 g^atest Men are
Franklins and Washing^ns 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 g^od, 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
>t
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
333
they say prophecies work oat 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 not be found at home — I
met Henry as I turned the comer — I had
no 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
great deal of trouble I have succeeded in
getting Fanny to Hampstead. She has
been several times. Mr. Lewis has been
very kind to Tom all the summer, there
has scarce a day passed but he has visited
him, and not one day without bringing or
sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He
has been very assiduous in his enquiries after
you — It would give the old Gentleman a
great deal of pleasure if you would send
him 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
every 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 Shalcspeare, 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 actirity 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
134
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
to let
•f wamMtmg better I tkaH proceed
I tkmkoB it wl^
AemedTcs — I hare
tfaceof dMB at ptceent — Ibeliev«Haj-
dea hae tvo wlneii I wfll get in thiie. I
diaed vitk joar Motber aad Hearj at Mn.
MSha^B OB Tbandajy vbea tbej gave me
tbeir Lettefs. Cbarics'* I baTe aoi jet —
be baa pfonifcd to aead it. Tbe thoogfat
of aeadiag mj Seoteb Letteta bae deter-
niaed me to eadoee a few DKife wUeb I
baTe reeeired aad wfaieb wiD gire 70a tbe
beet cue to bow I am goiag on, better tbaa
JOB eoold otberwise koow. Toor Motber
waa wen, aad I waa iorj I eoold aot itop
brter. I eaUed od Hoot TesterdaT — it baa
beeo alwajB mj fate to meet Oilier tbere
— Oo Tbondaj I walked witb Hazlitt as
imrMB Coreat Gardea: be waa goiog to plaj
Raeqaeta. I tbink Tom bas beeo nUber bet-
ter tbeae few last dars — be bas been less
I eiq>eet Rejoolds to-morrow.
[Later, aboat October 23.]
Sinee I wrote tbos far I hare met with
tbat lame Ladr again, wbom I saw at
Hastings and wbom I met when we were
going to tbe English Opera. It was in a
street which goes from Bedford Row to
Lamb's Condoit Street. — I passed her and
tamed back : she seemed glad of it — glad
to see me, and not offended at mj passing
ber before. We walked on towards Isling-
ton, where we called on a friend of hers
who keeps a Boarding Sch|>oL She bas
always been an enigma to me — she has
been in a Room with joa and Reynolds,
and wishes we should be acquainted with-
out an J of oar 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 anj surprise. First it ended at this
House at Islington : on parting from which
to
it migbt lead to, tboBgb
a aaet ctf giateel biat
from tbe Boaidia^ SckooL Oorwalk
ed IB 34 Gkneeatei
— Bot exaetH^ ao. Cor
into ber sittia^-fooo^ a ycxj tastj aoit of
l^aee witb Books, Fictarea, a beooae Statoe
of Boowaparte, llssie, sofiaa Harp, a Fsi^
rot, a LiBiiet, a Case ctf cboiee Liqaeua, ete.
ete. Sbe bebayed ia tbe kiadnt manner —
made me take bome a gioaae for Tom's
dianer. Asked for mj addreas for tbe por-
poae of aeadiag more game. . . . I expect
to paas some p***^*^ boors witb ber now
aadtben: in wbii^ I feell diaU be <^ aei^
to ber in matters oi knowledge and
: if I can I wilL . . . Sbe aad joor
George are tbe only women b pen prte de
moo age adiom I wonld be content to know
for tbeir mind and fiiendsbip alone. —
I shall in a sbort time write jon as far
as I know bow I intend to pass my Life
— I cannot tbink of those tbings now Tom
is so unwell and weak. Notwithstanding
your Happiness and your recommendation
I hope I shall neyer marry. Though tbe
most beautiful Creature were waiting for
me at the end of a Joomey or a Walk ;
though the Carpet were of Silk, tbe Cur-
tains of the morning Clouds; the chairs
and Sofa stuffed with Cygnet's down ; the
food Mann*^ the Wiuc bevond Claret, the
Window opening on Winander mere, I
should not feel — or rather mj Happiness
wonld not be so fine, as my Solitude is
sublime. Then instead of what I haye de-
scribed, there b a sublimity to welcome me
home — The roaring of the wind is my
wife and tbe Stars through the window
pane are my Children. The mighty ab-
stract Idea I hare of Beauty in all tbings
stifles tbe more dirided and minute domes-
tic happiness — an amiable wife and sweet
Children I contemplate as a part of that
Beauty, but I must haye a thousand of
those beautiful particles to fill up m j heart.
I feel more and more every day, as mj
iaugioation ttrengtheus, that I du not live
■a this worid alone but in a tboiisand
mnlds — No soooer am I alone than shapes
of epic greatnest ore stationed around me,
and Berve my Spirit the office which it
efjniTKlent to » King's bodyguard — then
* Tragedy with sceptred pall comes sneep-
izig by.' Aeeordiug to my stat« of mind I
kju iritb Achilles shouting in the Trenches,
or witli TbcocritQB in the Vales of Sicily.
C)r I throw my whole being into Tioilus,
1 repeating those lines, ' I wander like
It Sool upon the stygiaii Banks staying
t ynJUigt,' I melt into the air with a
so delic^ate that I nm con-
t t« be alooe. These things, combined
k the opinion I bnve of the generality of
- who appear to me ns children to
I I would rather give a aiignr Plnm
my time, form a barrier against Matri-
y which I rejoice in.
1 hare written this that yon might see I
fciM my share of the highest pleasures,
»ed that though I may choose to pass my
d*ji »lono I shall be no Solitary. You see
tbcn it nothing spleenicnl in all this. The
«wly thing that can ever affect me per-
*«Bally for more than one short pnssing
iaj, ia uiy doubt about my powers for
ry — I seldom have any, and I look
kbope to tbe nighiag time when I shall
' km 09 happy as a Man can
■-thttt is, in myself I should be happy
rell, and I knew you were
bg pleaiaut days. Then I shonid be
laDviable — with the yearning Passion
I for the beautiful, connected and
potM with the ambition of my intellect,
^ of my Pleasure in Solitnde in com-
«) of my commerce with the world —
ft cJiild — there they do not
i me, not CTen my most intimate ne-
« — t give in to their feelings as
refraining from irritating a
ncliilil. Some think me middling, others
''^^ oUien foolish — every one thinks ha
"^ 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 ;
beeausB tbey 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 1 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 mo every
time more humbled — Enough of this —
though in your Love fur me you will not
think it enough.
[Later. October 39 or 31.)
Haslam has been here this morning and
has taken all the Letters except thU sheet,
which I shall send him by the Twopenny,
as be will put thu Parcel in tbe 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
alt tbe 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 rour health l>e the prime considera-
tion. I hope yoo 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 eare I have had
to keep bis Mind aloof from feelings too
acute that has made this Letter so short a
one — I did not like to write before bim a
Letter he knew wa* to reach your hands —
I cannot even now ask him for any MiuaagB
336
LETTERS OF JOHN K£ATS
—his heart speaks to joa. Be as happy
as you can. Think of me, and for my sake
be cheerful.
Believe me, my dear Brother and sister,
Your amdous 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 Mom [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 g^ood news from
Georgte — 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 thingps: 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 openhearted: but it is as well as
are to be prudent in making any commniii-
oatioQ to any one, that may throw an im*
pediment in the way of any of the little
pleasures you may have. I do not reoooi-
mend duplicity but prudence with soeb
people. Perhaps I am talking too deeply
for you: if you do not now, yon will under*
stand what I mean in the course of a fev
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. Dilks
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. n-
turn in time.
Your affectionate Brother John ^— •
77. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSB
[Hampstead, October 27, 1818.]
My DEAR WooDHOusE — Your letter
gave me great satisfaction, more on to-
count of its friendliness than any relish of
that matter in it which is accounted to
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 aohiefO-
ments, and ambition, et csstera. — > Ist. As i/
to the poetical CV»ftw»i^t<>r Jtfl?^^ (J W^
ifuLt sort, of which, if I am anything, I im
a member: that sort distinguished froai
the Words worthian. or egotistical Sph1ipi#!
^rEichisa thing per se, and stands alone,)
ItJajifitltself — if ban no nftlf -— TtJauacry-
it ^"j'T^lJgt^ M>d fl^**^*i ; it iJTftP *** gUrtTi
be lit ^'l^« ^ii*, ^^^ij^ifiy Iftw^ y[gh or poor. *
mean or elevated^ _ — ^__— _^-^-
in conceivinjg^ nn Tftyrn ^ a^ tpng^n. What
the (chameleon poetJ^ It does no harm irom
TO JAMES RICE
its relish of the dark side of things, any
/ iiiora tban from Its taste for the bright one,
because thej both end in specalation. A
jiuet is the most unpoetical of anything in
, existence, because he has no Identity — he
is contiuLiaUy in for and fllliug some other
body. The Sun, — the Moon, — the Sea,
atid men and women, who are creatures of
impulse, are poetical, and have about tlietn
uu unchangeable attribute ; the poet has
lionc, DO identity — he is cerbunly tbe most
unpo«ticikl of all God's creatures. — If then
he lias 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 uogitating on tbe Cbantctera of
Saturn and Opa? It is a wretched thing
to confess ; but it Is a, very fact, that not
one word I ever utter can be taken fur
grajited aa an opinion growing out of my
identical Nature — how can it, when I
Lave no Nature? When I am in a room
with people, if I ever am free from specu-
lating Du creations of my own brain, then,
not myself goes home to myself, but tbe
l^ identity of every one in the room begins to
jiress upoo me, so that I am in n 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
nuderstood : I hope enough so to let you
see that no dependence is ta 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 maybe
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-
quently Into my forehead — All I hope is,
that I may not lose all interest in human
afl^nirs — that the solitary Indifference I
f'cel for applause, even from the finest
spirits, win not blunt any acuteness of
rision I may have. I do not think It will.
337
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 ev^
shine upon them. But even now I am
perhaps not speakiug from myself, but
from some Character in whose soul I now
live.
I am sure however that this next sen-
tence is from myself — 1 feel your anxiety,
good opinion, and friendship, in the highest
degree, and am
Yours most sincerely John Kkatb.
78. TO ri,S!.-Y KEATS
[Hampetead, NoTemher 5, 181K.]
My dear Fahsv — 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 bo sufficient. What can I do? I
should have been at Walthamatow several
times, but I am not able to leave Tom for
so long a time as that would take me.
Poor Tom has been rather better these 4
last days In consequence of obtaining a lit-
tle rest a nights. Write to mo as often as
you can, and believe that 1 would do any-
thing to give you any pleasure — wo must
as yet wait patiently.
Your affectionate Brother JoiIN .
Well Walt [HampBtead,] Nov'. 34, [181H].
My dear Bice — Your amende Honor-
able I must call * un surcroit d'Amltl^,'
for I am not at all sensible of anything but
that you were unfortunately engaged and I
was unfortunately in a hurry. 1 completely
understand your feeling io this mistake,
and find in it that balance of comfort whioh
remains after regretting yonr uneasiness.
I have long luade up my mind to take for
granted the genuine - heartedness of my
friends, notwithstanding any temporary
338
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
ambiguoasness in their behaviour or their
tongues, nothing of which however I had
the least scent of this morning. I saj
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 I (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 Ejeats.
I cannot g^ve any good news of Tom.
80. TO FAKSY KEATS
[Hampetead,] Tuesday Mom
[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 OBOBOB AlTD OBOBOIAKA KSATS
[Hampetead, about DeC* 18, 1818.]
My DEAR Brother and Sister — Tou
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 I 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 I
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 g^wn 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 conunerce be-
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
339
ita will be by tbeir iutelligence
bw — when they will eompletelj
I Moh other, while we Id this
t flOMlj' comprehend each other in
nt degreed — the higher the degree
1 so higher \i our Love and friead-
I have been bo little used to writing
Hjr that I am afraid you will not smoke
J I will give an cKanniIe —
I Brown or tiaslam or uiiy one
n I undentajid in the next degree tu
It I do jou, were in America, tliey would
n mocb the farther from me in propor-
I their identity waa less impressed
ue. Now the reason why 1 do uot
^ at the present moment so far from you
■ ibat I remember yonr Waya and Man-
, I know your manner of
lUnking, yooT maimer of feeling : I know
■Wl ibape your joy or your sorrow would
Uf : I know the manner of your walkiug,
Kuding, jaantering, sitting down, laugh-
LJ^. punning, and every action so truly that
'. Vou will remember
pin the same manner ^ — nnd the more
ou that I shall read a passage
* every Sunday nt ten o'Clock
ID lead one nt the same time, and we
D be as near each other as blind bodies
■ b* in the same room.
IT the day liefore yoa-
^rday, and intend now frequently to pass
'" a day with her — she seeui'd toler^
•Hy well. I called in Henrietta Street and
H wax speaking with your Mother about
V» Millar — we had a chiit about Heir'
wn — tht! tuld me I think of T or eight
vTSg Swnins. Charles was not at home.
' lUnk 1 have heard a little more tnlk
■Imu Uiu Keasle — all I know of her i«
Bw lort of shoe on of lirigbt
oar Kuapaaeks. Miss Millar
! of her eontonuded pinches.
L did not like it. Mrs. Dilkc went
o see Fanny last week, and Hns-
iun went with me Inat Sunday. Sbe was
■'il — afae get* a little plumper and had a
< :<!• Coloar. On Sunday I brought from
pM ma D
jr.fi. did
her a present of faceacreena and a ¥rork-
bag for Mrs. D. — they were really very
pretty. From Walthamstow wc walked to
BethnnI 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 ; 1 never
meet him but we have some chat thereon.
He is always doing me some good turn —
be gave me this tbiu paper **' for the piil^
pose of writing to you. I have been pass-
ing an hour this morning with Mr. Lewis —
he wants news of you very much. Uaydon
was here yesterday — he auiuaed us mndi
by speaking of young Hoppncr who went
with Captain Ross on a voyage of discovery
to the Poles. The Ship was sometimes en-
tirely surrounded with vast mountiuus 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 naa in meeting it with
the Bowsprit, which they did, and ^plit it
asunder and glided through it as it parted,
for a great distance — one Mile and more.
Their eyes were so fatigued with the etei^
iial dazzle and whiteness that they lay down
on their hacks upon deck to relieve their
sight on the blue sky. Hoppner describes his
dreadful weariness at the continual day —
the sun ever moving in ncirclo round above
their hend.4 ~ so pressing upon him that he
could not rid himself of the sensation even
in the dark Hold of the Ship. The Esqui-
maUK 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 bad
no notion of any inhHbitants in the World
but themselves. The sailors who had not
seen a Star for some time, when tbey came
again southwards on the hailing of the Gr«t
revision of one, all ran upon deck with feel-
340
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
ingB of the most joyfal natnro. Haydon's
eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his
Picture — his Physician tells him he must
remain two months more, inactive. Hnnt
keeps on in his old way — I am completely
tired of it alL He has lately published a
Pocket Book called the literary Pocket-
Book — fall of the most sickening staff you
can imag^e. Reynolds is well; he has be-
come an Edinborgh 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 1 1 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 destitate of
a specimen of that race. I shall appear in
a complete dress of porple, Hat and all —
with a list of the beauties I have conquered
embroidered roand my Calves.
Thuzaday [December 24].
This morning is so very fine, I should
have walked over to Walthamstow if I had
thought of it yesterday. What axe yon
doing this morning? Have yon a clear
hard frost as we have ? How do yon come
on with the gnn ? Have you shot a Buf-
falo ? Have yon met with any Pheasants ?
My Thoughts are very frequently in a for-
eign Country — I live more 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'a 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
Vt
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
341
follovmig from Woodhoase whom you must
recollect: —
^ Mt dear Ksats — 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 haying 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 opportimity of
naming to yon (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 Sib — 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 pernutted, 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 delight my sister and myself have
enjoyed firom the first bruits of Genius. I hope
the ill-natured Review will not have damaged '
(or damped) *such true Parnassian fire — it
ought not, for when Life \b 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 panning. 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 £x-
34«
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
aminerSy 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 dothes'-
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 Hhe
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 FMsket nili^
and till it does I will write 8oiiiethiiig«fHy
day — After that my joomal alydl go m
like clockwork, and you must not oon^lim
of its dulness — for what I wish is to wnll
a quantity to you — knowing well that dil*
ness itself will from me be intetestiag to
you — Ton may conceive how this not kif*
ing been done has weighed upon me. I
shall be able to judge from yonr next wbit
sort of information will be of most sernat
or amusement to you. Perhaps as jon mn
fond of giving me sketches of *»*»fli-*t">
you may like a little picnic of scandal eiea
across the Atlantic. Bnt now I most ipeik
particularly to you, my dear Sister — fori
know you love a little quizzing better tbi
a g^reat bit of apple dumpling. Do job
know Uncle Redhall ? He is a little Kia
with an innocent powdered upright htti,
he lisps with a protruded under lip ~ lis
has two Nieces, each one would weigh threi
of him — one for height and the other for
breadth — he knew BartolozzL He gave t
supper, and ranged his bottles of wine iD
up the Kitchen and cellar stairs — qiiiti
ignorant of what might be drunk — R
might have been a good joke to poor os
the sly bottle after bottle into a washiig
tub, and roar for more — If you were to
trip him up it would discompose a PifftSi
and bring his under lip nearer to his doib.
He never had the good luck to lose s nft
Handkerchief in a Crowd, and therefon
has only one topic of conversation — B•^
tolozzi. Shall I give you Miss Biawne?
She is about my height — with a fine stjk
of countenance of the lengthened sort—
she wants sentiment in every featiuo"
she manages to make her hair look vd^
— her nostrils are fine — though a littk
painful — her mouth is bad and good — ber
Profile is better than her full-face wbiek
indeed is not full but pale and thin witboo^
showing any bone. Her shape is tei7
graceful and so are her movements —1^
Arms are good her hands baddisb—1^
feet tolerable. She is not seventeen—^
rf
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 nse of the term Minx — this is I
think not from any innate vice, bnt 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.
What 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 wonuin 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 I Hunt, got into your new
house ? Ha I Mrs. Novello : seen Altam
and his Wife ? — Mrs. N, Yes (with a
grin), it 's Mr. Hunt's, is n'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 — L
think we ought to have heard of you bef ore^
this — I am in daily expectation of Lettera
— Nil desperandum. Mrs. Abbey wishea
to take Fanny from School — I shall strive
all I can against that. There has hap-
pened a g^at Misfortune in the Drewe
Family — old Drewe has been dead some
time ; and lately G«orge 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 sbow'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 America — the other is on a CamePs
back in the plains of Egypt. I am looking
into a Book of Dubois's — he has written
dilations 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 fortniffkt,
'' Mr. P. Fenbank, P. O., Teignmouth." 9tk
Novr. 1818.
Li 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 ia 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.
Tet 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 tum'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.
7«
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
345
ThuifMlay [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 — notwithstanding 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 g^ve 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 Seattle
once delighted me — now I see through
them and can find nothing in them but
weakness, and yet how many they still de-
light I Perhaps a superior being may look
upon Shakspeare in the same light — is it
possible ? No — This same inadequacy is
discovered (forgive me, little Greorge, 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 Haydon'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, Jai^' 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 Liadies unless they are
handsome — yon lose time to no purpose.
For that reason I^ shall beg leave to decline
going again to Bedall'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 afiOrm 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. I 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 — 1
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 mneh jnrt
now — I have none though in my own nnff
box. My sore throat is much better to-diy
— I thhik I might ventnie on a pio^
Here are the Poems — thej will explaia
themselves — as all poems should do vitlH
out any conmient —
[The poem entitled 'Fancy,' pp. 124,12S,ii
here inserted.]
I did not think this had been so long t
Poem. I have another not so long — bnt
as it will more conveniently be copied oi
the other side I will just put down lien
some observations on Caleb Williami bf
Hazlitt — I meant to say St. Leon, for al-
though he has mentioned all the Novels of
Grodwin very freely I do not quote thenit
but this only on account of its bein^ ft
specimen of his usual abrupt manner, tod
fiery laconicism. He says of St. Leoo—
* He 18 a limb torn off eooiety. In
of eternal youth and beaaty he can feel no low;
Burronnded, tantalised, and tormented iriA
riches, he can do no good. The faces of Mn
pass before him as in a speculum ; bnt heiis^
tached to them by no common tie of sympatkj
or suffering. He is thrown back into \aat^
and his own thoughts. He lives in the solitsdi
of his own breast — without wife or cfaiU ^
friend or Enemy in the world. This ittkeitf*'
tude of the soul, not qf woods or trees or moiuiiuM
— bnt the desert of society — the waste asd ob*
livion of the heart. He is himself alone. Hit
existence is purely intelleotnal, and ib theiefbn
intolerable to one who has felt the rapture (n
affection, or the anguish of woe.*
As I am about it I might as well give yoQ
his character of Godwin as a Romancer:^
* Whoever else is, it is pretty clear that tin
author of Caleb Williams is not the antbor w
Waverley. Nothing can be more distinct or ex-
cellent in their several wajrs than these two
writers. If the one owes almost everythinf^
external observations and traditional character*
the other owes everything to internal ooooep'
tion and contemplation of the possible wo^otfi
of the human Mmd. There is little knowle^
of the world, little variety, neither an eye i^
the picturesque nor a talent for the hoinoioo*
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
347
in Caleb Williams, for instance, but yon cannot
donbt for a moment of the originality of the
work and the force of the conception. The im-
preasion made upon the reader is the exact
measure of the strength of the author's genius.
For the effect both in Caleb Williams 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 par
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
doable immortality of Poets —
[' Bards of Passion and of Mirth,' p. 125].
These are specimens of a sort of rondeau
which I think I shall become partial to —
becaose 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 doye and the sweet doye 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. Manker is there, and I have come
round to see if I can conjnre 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 Grentleman 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 would
die, without their having a thought of his
aversion to such a death, they considering
it a supreme distinction. However be 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 hb Majesty in the dark
middle of the night. All this sounds a
little Blnebeardish — but I hope it is true.
There is another thing I must mention of
the momentous 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. I 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 affairs 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 full, 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-
chargedy 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 dosing
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 yon what sort of a tea it is and
then bid you €rood-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 yon. I shall close this
and send it inmiediately to Haslam —
remaining ever. My dearest brother and
sister.
Your most affectionate Brother John.
82. TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE
Wentworth Place, Friday Mom
[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.
Vt
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON
349
83. TO MBS. BBTNOLDB
Wentworth Place, Taesd.
[December 22, 1818].
Mr DEAR Mrs. Reynolds — When I
left you yesterday, 't was with the conyio-
tion 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 faithfi^ly John Keats.
84. TO BENJAMIN BOBBBT HATDON
Wentworth Place, Tuesday
[December 22, 1818].
Mt dear Hatdon — 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. I 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 certainly 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
loneliness than the fame of a Prophet. Yet
here I am sinning — so I will turn to a
thing I have thought on more — I mean
your 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 — 1 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 Men. 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
[Haydon's servant] called. Do write and
let me know all your present whys and
wherefores.
Yours most faithf idly John Keats.
85. TO JOHN TATLOB
Wentworth PUce, [December 24, 1818].
Mt 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 Woodhouse.
Yours sincerely John Keats.
86. TO BENJAMIN BOBEBT HATDON
Wentworth PUce, [December 27, 1818].
Mt dear Hatdon — I had an engage-
ment to-day — and it is so fine a morning
3SO
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
that I cannot put it off — I will be with
yon to-morrow — when we will 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.
Grod bless yon. J. Keats.
87. TO FANNT KEATS
Wentworth Place, Wednesday
[December 30, 1818].
Mt deab 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 I 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 HATDON
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 Picture — 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 —
Tour affectionate friend John Keats.
89. TO THE SAMS
Wentworth Plaoe,
[between Januaiy 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 throiit; which is getting welL
X 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. Ton 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.
7f
TO C. W. DILKE AND MRS. DILKE
351
90. TO THE SAME
Wentwoith Place, [January 1819].
My dear Hayix)N — Mj throat has not
suffered me jet 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 difiBculty 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 yon 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 FANinr KEATS
Wentworth Place, [January 1819].
My dear Faksy — I send this to Wal-
thamstow for fear you should not be at
Pancras 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 AlTD
MRS. DILKE, FROM CHARLES ARMITAaB
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.
Mt charming dear MRS. DiLKB, — It
was delightful to receive a letter from you,
— but such a letter I what presumption in
me to attempt to answer it I Where shall
I find, in my poor brain, such jibes, such
jeers, such flashes of merriment ? Alas !
you will say, as you read me, Alas I poor
Brown I quite chop fallen I But that 's
not true; my chops have been beautifully
plumped out since I 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
I have been smiled on by the fair ones,
the Liacy's, the Prices, & the Mullings's,
but not by the Bichards'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 yoa Jezabel ! to sit quietly
in your room, while the thieves were ran-
sacking my house 1 No douht 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 1 — On Tuesday night
I think you 'U see me. In the mean time
111 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
oi Gloucester & St. Davids. If that vile
Ilarver & Gilder does not do me justice,
I'll annoy him all his life with leg^
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 witty —
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 — (Broum says Mullins
but I beg to differ from him) — we sit it out
till ten o'clock — Miss M, has persuaded
Brown to shave his whiskers — he came down
to Breakfast like the sign ofthefuU Moon —
his Profile is quite alier'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 tn the draugki ff a
doorway, I tooammetamorpktmed — ayowi^
ooman here in Bed — hampion has over per'
suaded me to wear my shirt collar iip lo ay
eyes, Mrs. Snook Icatek smoaking it emf
now and then and I bdieve Brown does hd I
cannot now look sidewayt* Broum wand to
scribble more so I wiU fitmk with a marymd i
note — Viz, Remember me to WentioarA
Place and Elm Cottage — not forg^
Millamant —
Youths if possible J. Keats,
This is abominable I I did but go up
stairs to put on a clean & starched basd-
kerchief , & that overweening rogue rad
my letter & scrawled over one of my iheeti^
and given him a counterpainy — I wkli I
could blank-it all over and beat him witk s
[jcertain rod, & have a fresh one bolitered
up. Ah I he may dress me as he likes bA he
shan*t tic\jde mepiljlow the feathers, — ^
would not g^ve a tester for such puni) l^
us ope brown (erratum — a large B— a
Bumble B.) will go no further th (he Bedrocm
& not call Mat Snook a relation to Mitt-
rass — This is grown to a conclusion — I had
excellent puns in my head but one bad (ute
from Brown has quite upset me bat I am
quite set-up for more, but I 'm content to
be conqueror.
Your's in love. Chas. Bbowv.
KB. I beg leaf (ac) to withdraw all 99
puns — they are all wash^ an base tms.
93. TO FANNT KSATB
Wentwopth Place, FeV- [11,1819]. Tlum^'
My dear Fanny — Your Letter to nw
at Bedbampton hurt me very macb,-'
What objection can there be to your v^
ceiving a Letter from me ? At BedbaffP*
ton I was unwell and did not go out of tli^
Grarden Gate but twice or thrice donn^
the fortnight I was there — Since leam*
back I have been taking care of myself ^
7f
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 anf 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 io 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 world besides me who would
sacrifice anything for you — I feel myself
the only Protector you have. Li 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 Greorge — I
begin to fear his last letters miscarried. I
shall be in town to-morrow — if yon 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 OEOBOB AKD GJEOBOIAITA KEATS
Sunday Mom« February 14, [1818].
Mt 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 what 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 since 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. Nothing
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 g^arden, hands in pockets, mak-
ing observations. The literary world I
know nothing about. There is a poem
from Rogers dead bom ; 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 ap
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 Grod 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 tibe
family very much. Mr. and Mrs. Snoob
were very kind. We used to have a UtUe
religion and politics together almost entf
evening, — and sometimes about you. Hi
proposed writing out for me bis ezperienoe
in flaming, for me to send to yoo. If I
should have an opportunity of taUdng to i
him about it, I will get all I can at all
events ; but you may say in youranswerto
this what value you place upon such in-
formation. I have not seen Mr. Lewii
lately, for I have shrunk from going op
the hill. Mr. Lewis went a few momingi
ago to town with Mrs. Brawne. Tlwjr
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 pott'
Now this is abominable — Yon might u
well say Buonaparte is quite the little
soldier. You see what it is to be under siz
foot and not a lord. There is a long fun
to-day in the Examiner about a young mm
who delighted a young woman with t
valentine — I think it must be OUierV
Brown and I are thinking of passing the
summer at Brussels — If we do, we sbiU
g^ about the first of May. We — u e*
Brown and I — sit opposite one another
all day authorizing (iV. B., an ' s ' instead
of a < z ' would g^ve 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-fen eiine
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* Bab-
bit. On going he leaves her three pip*
of Eve's Apple, and somehow she, having
lived a virgin all her life, begins to repent
of it, and wished herself beautiful enoogh
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 Citv
>♦
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
3SS
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 beg^ 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 ^ve 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
v^t for the spring to rouse me up a little.
The only time I went out from Bedhamp-
ton 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 was stolen. He
spoke to the clerk about it — The clerk
said he was very sorry, adding, *I dare
fhay, 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 I 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 fragprant 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 spirituooB nature transform
a Man to a Silenus : 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 the 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
ag^in — 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,
>t
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
357
as they must do now, all the trickery and
iniquity of these Plagaes 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 Comer?' 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 1
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 countrv somewhere.
I thought he was in a dying state about it
when at Oxford with him: little supposing,
as I have since heard, that he was at that
very time making impatient Love to Marian
Reynolds — and guess my astonishment at
hearing after this that he had been trying
at Miss Martin. So Matters have been —
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 g^at
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 in 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 I 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
358
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
the most — that he who talks of roastiiig
a Man alive would not do it when it came
to the posh — and above all, that thej are
very shallow people who take everything
literally. A Man's life of any worth is a
continoal 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, Fridaj.
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 chang^ 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^Facket 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, yon 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. Ton 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. Ton are a little person
but a considerable cat's paw; and so far worthy
of notice. Tour clandestine connection with
persons high in office constantly influences your
opinions and alone gives importance to them.
Ton are the government critic, a character
VJ
nieely differing from that of a
— the invisihle fink iHkich
with the Poliee.*
Again :
*Tonr empkiyeis, Mr. Gifford, do
their hirelings fornothing — for
to notioe weak and wicked sophistry; for point-
ing out to ocmtempt what e»eitca no admiia-
tion ; for cautiously sftlecting a> few apecinwi
of bad taste and bad grammar where nothiag
else is to be found. They want your invisible
peitness, your mercenary mslice, your impene-
trable dulness, yonr hare-&eed impndenee,
your pragmatical self-snfficieney, your hypch
critical zeal, yonr pious frauds to stand in tibe
ga^» of their Prejudices and pretensiona to fly-
blow and taint pnUie ofumon, to defeat inde-
pendent efforts, to apply not the toa<^ of tibe
soorpion but the touch of the Toipedo to yondi-
fnl hopes, to crawl and leave the slimy track of
sophistry and lies over every wock that doei
not dedicate its sweet leaves to some Luminsiy
of the treasury bench, or is not fostered in the
hotbed of corruption. This is yonr office ; '* this
is what \b look'd for at your hands, and thk
you do not baulk'* — to sacrifice what fitUe
honesty and prostitute what little intellect yon
possess to any dirty job you are commiwsioa'd
to execute. ** They keep you as an ape does sb
apple in the comer of his jaw, first mouthed to
be at last swallowM." Ton are by appoint-
ment literary toadeater to greatness and taster
to the court. Yon have a natural aversion to
whatever differs from your own pretensions,
and an acquired one for what gives offence to
yonr superiors. Tour vanity panders to yonr
interest, and your malice truckles only to yonr
love of Power. If your instructive or premedi-
tated abuse of yonr enviable trust were found
wanting in a single instance ; if yon were to
make a single slip in getting up your select
committee of enquiry and green bag report of
the state of Letters, yonr occupation would be
gone. Ton would never after obtain a squeexe
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 of intellect ; or if
they do not, whom they can despise for their
meanness of soul. Ton ** have the office c^ipo-
site to iSaint Peter. ^' Ton keep a comer in the
At
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
359
public mind for fotil prejudice and corrupt
power to knot and gender in ; you volunteer
your serrices to people of quality to ease scruples
of mind and qualms of conscience ; you lay the
flattering unction of venal prose and laurelled
verse to their souls. Tou persuade ihem that
there is neither purity of morals, nor depth of
understanding except in themselves and their
hangers-on ; and would prevent the unhallowed
names of Liberty and humanity from ever be-
ing whispered in ears polite I 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 candles 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 yon 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 g^at
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
g^ves 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
aouteness 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
genendly 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. Tou 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 yoice of reason. And how do yon
prove that there is no snch 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 pleasure 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 luxury,
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 imi^^ina-
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 ? Ton 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 agunst
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 wofld ; 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 aelfishnesi
and hypocrisy, that we may not ** sympathise in
the distresses of suffering virtue " in any case id
which they come in competition with the ficti-
tious wants and "imputed weaknesses of the
great." Ton ask, **Are we gratified by the
cruelties of Domitisn or Nero ? " No, not we—
they were too petty and cowardly to strike the
imagination at a distance ; but the Bomsa
senate tolerated them, addressed their peipe-
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 enduranoe 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 *Va sweet oonrtier." '
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 Cawthom, the Bookseller and print-
virtuoso; in the evening Severn went home
to paint, and we other three went to the
play, to see Sheil's new tragedy ycleped
Evadn^. In the morning Severn and I
took a turn round the Museum — There b
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 np of a virtu-
ous young woman, an indignant brother, a
suspecting lover, a libertine prince, a gxa-
7t
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
361
tuitous villain, a street in Naples, a Cypress
grove, lilies and roses, virtue and vice, a
bloody sword, a spangled jacket, one Lady
Olivia, one Miss O'Neil alias Evadn^, alias
Bellamira, alias — Alias — Yea, and I say
unto you a greater than Elias — There was
Abbot, and talking of Abbot his name puts
me in mind of a spelling-book lesson, de-
scriptive of the whole Dramatis persons —
Abbot — Abbess — Actor — Actress — The
play is A fine amusement, as a friend of
mine once said to me — ' Do what you
will,' says lie, '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.
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
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
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 «ide 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 cam possideat, nam, for, it would
be a bam, for it would be a sham —
Don't think I am writing a petition to
the Grovernors of St. Luke — no, 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 Shell's play, Leigh Hunt, Tom
Moore, Bob Sou they, 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 Edin-
burgh and study for a physician ; I am
afraid I should not take kindly 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. Every-
3^2
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
bodj is in his own mess. Here is the par-
ion at Hampstead qnanelling with all the
woridy he is in the wrong bj this same
token ; when the bhick doth was pat np in
the Chnzch for the Queen's mooming, he
asked the workmen to hang it the wrong
side oatwazdsy that it might be better when
taken down, it being his perquisite — Par-
sons will always keep op their character,
bat as it is said there are some animals the
ancients knew which we do not, let as hope
oar posterity will miss the bhusk badger
with tri-comered hat; Who knows bat some
Reviewer of Baffon or Fliny may pat an
accoont of the parson in the Appendix ;
No one will then believe it any more than
we beUeve in the Phoenix. I think we may
dass the lawyer in the same natural history
of Monsters; a green bag will hold as much
as a lawn sleeve. The only diiference is
that one is fustian and the other flimsy ; I
am not unwilling to read Chnrch history at
present and have Milner's in my eye; his is
reckoned a very good one.
[ISth 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 moning. Hie
Blackwood RevieweiB have eoounitted
themselves in a sfandalnos heresy — thej
have been putting up Hogg, the Ettzick
Shepherd, against Bams: the aenaeleM vil-
lains! The Seoteh eannot mmnage them-
selves at all, they want imagination, and
that is why they are so fond of Hogg, iriio
has a little of it. This moming I am in s
sort of temper, indolent and sopremelv
careless — I long after a Stanza or two d
Thomson's Castle of Indolence — my pss-
sions are all asleep, from my having slum-
bered till nearly eleven, and weakened the
animal fibre all over me, to a delightful
sensation, aboat three degrees on this side
of faintness. If I had teeth of pearl and
the breath of lilies I shoold eall it languor,
but as I am *I must call it laziness. Is
this state of effeminacy the fibres of the
brain are relaxed in common with the rest
of the body, and to soch a happy degree
that pleasure has no show of entieement
and pain no unbearable power. Neither
Poetry, nor Ambition, nor Love have any
alertness of countenance as they pass bv
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 Haslsm,
in which he expects the death of his Father,
who has been for some time in a state of
insensibility ; his mother bears np 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 e je.
/f
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
363
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
g^t 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
g^race 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 dnU fools snppoee.
But musical as is ApoUo^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
eomes real till it is experienced — Even a
FroTerb is no proverb to yon till your Life
has illostrated it. I am erer afraid that
your anxiety for me will lead yon 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 — bat 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 —
[* Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will
tell,' p. 137.]
I went to bed and enjoyed an uninterrupted
sleep. Sane I went to bed and sane I
arose.
[April 15.1
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. Ilaslam 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 g^ve a
remarkable prettiness to all those conunoD-
places which most women who talk must
utter — I liked Mrs. Sawrey Tery 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 Brothers I immediately excnsed my-
self with Mrs Brawne, but she would not
hear of it, and insisted <m my bringing mj
friends with me. So we all dined at Mrs.
Brawne's. I have been to Mrs. Bentley's
this morning, and put all the letteis to and
horn 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 here 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 —
7t
m
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
365
and pursoant 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
well — Brown grumbled about it for two
or 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 i*eal 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 lately — But what a shame-
ful thing it is that for that obstinate Boy
Dilke should stifle himself in Town Lodg-
ings and wear out his Life by his continual
apprehension of his Boy's fate in West-
minster school, with the rest 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 1^ 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 \y
said Mr. Bucke which, it appears, Mr.
Kean kick'd at — it was so bad — After
a little struggle 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 v/
the Grerman 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 1 I was unfortunate to
miss Richards the only time I have been
for many months to see him.
Shall I treat yon with a little extem-
pore?—
I* When they were come into the Faery's
Coupt,' 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 Mansfield's park I met Mr. Green
our Demonstrator at Gruy'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. Li 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. Grood-night !
[Later, April 16 op 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 L 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 most have had
an accomplice in it — Amena's letters are
in a Irian's language and in a Man's hand
imitating a woman's. The instigatioiis to
this diabolical scheme were Tanity, and
the love of intrigue. It was no thoi^^tless
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 lig^t should I expose it — they
would call it a frolic — so I most be warj
— but I consider it my duty to be prudently
revengeful. I will hang over his head like
a sword by a hair. I will be opiom 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
Greorge 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 — Tou 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 Greorge'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 anxious for a Letter. We
had half an hour's talk and no more, for I
was obliged to be home. Mrs. and Miss
Idillar were weU, 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 BeU. There have been lately ad«
368
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
■»eMJg»d two Books both Peter Bell by
name ; what stufE the one vras made of
might be seen by the motto — '1 am the
real Siinoa Pure.' This false Florimel baa
harried from the press and obtruded herself
into public notice, while for aught we know
the real one may be still waiiUeriug ahont
the woods and monntaios. Let ug hope
she may soon appear and make good her
right to the magic girdle. The Pamphle-
teering Archininge, wo can perceive, has
rather a spleuetio love than a downright
hatred to real Florimela — if indeed they
had been so christened — or bod even a
pretention to play at bob cherry with Bar-
bara Lontbwaite : but be 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 eiibtimer muse. Tiib
as far as it relates to Peter Bell is unlucky.
The more he may love the sail embroidery
of the Ercursiou, the more be will bate the
coarse Samplers of Betty Foy and Alice
Fell ; and as they come from the same hand,
the better will be 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 nppreciator 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 httle 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 luunit
it — and I believe I think what I say, mj
I am sure I do — 1 and my conscienee an
in luck to-day — which is an excellent
thing. The other night I went to the PUj
with Rice, Reynolds, and Martin ~~ we saw
a new dull and half-damn'd opera cali'd
the ' Heart of Midlothian,' tba.t was on
Saturday — I stopt at Taylor's on SundlT
with Woodhouse — and passe<I a quiet tort
of pleasant day. I have been very mneh
pleased with the Panorama of the Ship at
the North Pole — with the icebergs, the
Mountains, the Bears, tho Wolves — the
seals, the Penguins — and a large whale
floating hack above water — it is injpouibl«
to describe the place —
Wedueaday Evening [April 38].
[Her« tollowB the poem tor which see p. 139.
The eighth alAnia reads ;
She took me to her elBu grot
And there ehe wept and sigh'd full sore.
And there I nhut her wild, wild eyes
Withkisseafoor— ]
Why four kisses — you will say — whj
four, because I wish to restrain the head-
long impetuosity of my Muse — she would
have fain said 'score' without hurting tbe
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 affair, and well got out
of on my aidf! —
[Later.]
Chobch of Faikies. 4 — Fire. Aib, Kabtb.
AND Wateb — Salamander, Zethte.
DVHKETHA, BrEAJUA.
[Seats here copies the versea ^ven on pp.
I have been reading lately two very
different hooks. Robertson's America and
Voltaire's SiScle de Loois 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 imsophisticated senses ; from nncon-
tamination of civilisation, and especially
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
they 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 Grod to have identity given them — so
as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each
one's individual existence ? How, butf 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 Soxd or Intelligence
370
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
destined to possess the sense of Identity. I
can scarcely express what I but dimly per-
oeive — and yet I think I perceive it —
that yoa may judge the more clearly I will
put it in the most homely form possible. I
will call the world a School instituted for
the purpose of teaching little children to
read — I will call the human heart the horn
Book used in that School — and I will call
the Child able to read, the Soul made from
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 returns 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
tha^ 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 yon 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 toiiehstones
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 proving^ and altera-
tions and perfectionings ? — 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 ray 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
/f
1
TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON
371
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 hea-
then Groddess be so neglected —
[The Ode to Psychef p. 142, here follows.]
Here endethe ye Ode to Psyche.
Inoipit 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. Grod bless you, my
dear brother and sister.
Tour ever affectionate Brother
John Keats.
95. TO FANNY KEATS
Wentworth Place. Saturday Mom.
[Postmark, February 27, 1819.]
Mt dear Fannt — I intended to have
not failed to do as you requested, and write
you as you say once a fortnight. On look-
ing to your letter I find there is no date;
and not knowing how long it is since I re-
ceived it I do not precisely know how great
a sinner I am. I am getting quite well,
and 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 moming Walthamstow Coach^
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,
[Poetmark, 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 shop — without any change
372
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
in my 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 greatly, for I have ex-
perienced the satisfaction of having great
conceptions without the trouble of sonnet-
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 Greorg^ — 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 yoor
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 yoo
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 yoii
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 fond 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 in 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. I
should like the window to open onto the
Lake of Geneva — and there I'd sit and
read all day like the picture of somebody
reading. The weather now and then begins
to feel like spring; and therefore I have
>♦
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.
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. Tou 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 BAHB
[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 benjamin 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 in every
way — from Uie 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
for from my own impmdence and neglect
all mj accomits 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 possessed 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 ag^ain — 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 KSATS
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 beeo
but a small instance of my idleness of lati
— which has been growing upon me, to
that it wiU require a great shake to get rid
of it. I have written nothing and ahnoit
read nothing — but I must torn over a new
leaf. One most discouraging thing hinden
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 most
consider this silence as good news. I o^
dered some bulbous roots for you at the
Grardener's, and they sent me some, Imt
they were all in bud — and could not be
sent — so I put them in our Grarden. There
are some beautiful heaths now in bloom in
Pots — either heaths or some seasomihle
plants I will send you instead — perhaps
some that are not yet in bloom that yoa
may see them come out.* To-morrow n^t
I am going to a rout, a thing I am not at
all in love with. Mr. Dilke and his Familj
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 ol
rain, almost as fine as barley sugar drop!
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 httelj
through Leicester Square — the first time I
do I will remember your Seals. I hare
thought it best to live in Town this Som-
mer, chiefly for the sake of books, which
cannot be had with any comfort in the
Country — besides my Scotch journey gar*
me a dose of the Picturesque with which a.
TO WILLIAM HASLAM
375
oo{;lit to be oontented for some time. West-
BUBiter is the pUce I have pitched upon —
the City or any place very confined would
Moi torn me pale and thin — which is to
beaToided. Yon must make up your mind
to get atoat this sunmier — indeed I have
a idea we shall both be corpiilent old folks
with tripple chins and stumpy thumbs.
Tour affectionate Brother John.
102. TO THE SAME
Wentworth Place, Saturday.
[April 17, 1819?.]
If T »BAK Fanny — If it were but six
•X^loek in the morning I would set off to
iee joa to-day : if I should do so now I
eoild not stop long enough for a how d 'ye
^— it is so long a walk through Homsey
ttid Tottenham — and as for Stage Coach-
^ it besides that it is very expensive it is
hlu going into the Boxes by way of the
|it I cannot go out on Sunday — but if
«■ Monday it should promise as fair as
t»4sy I will put on a pair of loose easy
idttaUe boots and me rendre chez vous.
I eootinae increasing my letter [Letter 94]
to George to send it by one of Birkbeok's
•oh who is going out soon — so if you will
lit me have a few more lines, they will be
M time. I am glad you got on so well
vitt llmis'. le Cnrtf. Is he a nice cler-
fjBSB? — a great deal depends upon a
tsdk'd hat and powder — not gunpowder,
M love nSy bnt lady-meal, violet-smooth,
^Hity- scented, lilly-white, f eather - sof t,
^ifiby • dressing, coat - collar - spoiling,
^vlUur-reaehing, pig-tail-loving, swaus-
dovfti^Hiffing, parson-sweetening powder.
I ihiU call in passing at the Tottenham
*VMry and see if I can find some season-
•Ue ^ants for yon. That is the nearest
lliM— or by our lalcin or lady kin, that
*^ the virgin Mary's kindred, is there not
t twig^nanofactnrer in Walthamstow ?
w. tad Mrs. Dilke are coming to dine
'•kHto^y. They will enjoy the coun-
^ iHer 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 bella
on a rainy day —
[Keats f^oes on with the same plaj, dropping
into the rhymes * Two or three Pones * 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
[Hampetead, May 13, 1810.]
My dear Fanny — I have a letter f rom-
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.
Tours ever and amen,
John Keats.
105. TO FAKNT 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 Mortfing (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 Uaslam 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
Greorge 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 yoa bidi
to me. Why have I not written befonf
Why did I not answer your Honifton Let-
ter ? I had no good news for yoa — ererf
concern of ours, (ours I wish I oonld mj)
and still I must say ours — thongh Geoqji
is in America and I have no Brother left
Though in the midst of my troubles I hid
no relation except my young sister — I
have had excellent &iends. Mr. B. at
whose house I now am, invited me, — I
have been with him tfver since. I coaki
not make up my mind to let you knov
these things. Nor should I now — but see
what a little interest will do — I want jroa
to do me a Favor ; which I will first aik
and then tell you the reasons. Enquire in
the Villages round Teignmouth if tbeie ii
any Lodging commodious for its ebetp*
ness ; and let me know where it is aid
what price. I have the choice as it wen
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 leadiog
a fevrous life alone with Poetry — Thii
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 ssk ber
to do it. Yes, I would rather conquer mj
indolence and strain my nerves at some
grand Poem than to be in a dunder-hetded
indiaman. Pray let no one in Teignmontk
know anything of this. Fanny most by
this time have altered her name — perhi^ii
you have also — are you all alive ? Git*
my Compts to Mrs. your Sister. I
have had good news, (tho' 't is a queerish
world in which such things are calPd good)
from George — he and his wife are well. I
will tell you more soon. Especially doo t
let the Newfoundland fishermen know it"
and especially no one else. I have beeo
always till now almost as careless of tbo
world as a fly — my troubles were all of
the Imagination — My Brother George al-
ways stood between me and any dealing
/f
TO MISS JEFFREY
377
with the world. Now I find I mast 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.'
I once thought this a Melancholist's
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 Lodg^gs
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 called 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 Teigntown — I hope the
road from Teignmouth to Bradley does
not lie that way — Your advice about the
Indiaman 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 differences of human
character and to class them with the calm-
ness of a Botanist. An Indiaman 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
g^ven a magnificent Entertainment at the
christening of one of hi.s 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 than any
other of his Characters — Ben Johnson
(5tc) was a common Soldier and in the Low
countries, in the face of two armies, fought
a single combat with a french Trooper and
slew him — For all this I will not go on
board an Indiaman, 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
stuf&ng 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. Thej 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
Grooseberry ? Truly I cannot delay mak-
ing another visit — asked to take Lunch,
whether I will have ale, wine, take sugar,
— objection to g^en — like cream — thin
bread and butter — another cup — ag^reeable
— enough sugar — little more cream — too
weak — 12 shillin etc. etc. etc. — Lord I
must come again. We are just g^ing to
Dinner I must must [^sic'] with this to the
Post
Your affectionate Brother John — .
109. TO JAMES ELMES^l
Wentworth Place, Hampetead
[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. Hay don 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 yon
7t
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 FANmr KEATS
Wentworth Place, [June 14, 1819].
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 I 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. I 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
hope, 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 JVirs. 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 Ihies, 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 FAmnr bbawnb
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 ray
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 nnalloy'd Happiness far
many days togeUier : the death or sickness
of some one has always spoilt my hours —
and now when none such troubles oppieai
me, it is you must confess very hard that
another sort of pain should hannt me. Ask
yourself my love whether you are not very
cruel to have so entrammelled me, so de-
stroyed my freedom. Will you confeai
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
to intoxicate me — write the softest words
and kiss them that I may at least touch mj
lips where yours have been. For myself 1
know not how to express my devotion to so
fair a form : I want a brighter word thai
bright, a fairer word than fair. I almoit
wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three
summer days — three such days with yoa I
could fill with more delight than fifty com-
mon years could ever contain. But bov-
ever selfish I may feel, I am sure I eoold
never act selfishly : as I told you a day or
two before I left Hampstead, I will oerer
return to London if my Fate does not toni
up Pam or at least a Court-card. Though
I could centre my Happiness in you, I an-
not expect to engross your heart so en-
tirely — indeed if I thought yon felt ts
much for me as I do for you at this ido>
ment I do not think I could restrain myself
from seeing you again tomorrow for the
delight of one embrace. But no — I most
live upou hope and Chance. In case of the
worst that can happen, I shall still lov*
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 (yieldingr immortal neettf '
Be grently pressM by any but myself —
Think, think Francesca, what a cnised thing
It were beyond expression !
Do write immediately. There is no ?o^
from this Place, so you must address ?os^
/•f
TO FANNY KEATS
381
Office, Newport, Isle of Wight. 1 know
before night I shall carse 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 FANNT KEATS
Shanklin, Isle of Wig:ht,
Tuesday, July 6, [1819].
Mt 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
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 sufiBciently comfort-
able, as, if I cannot lead that life of com-
petence and society I should wish, I have
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
hard at work that perhaps I should not
have written to you for a day or two if
George's Letter had not divertcKi 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 g^ess 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
house.' 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 TASVY BRAWNE
July 8, [1819].
Mt 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 onr 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 il
has not the richness, the bloom, the full
form, the enchantment of love after my
own heart. So let me speak of your Beaoty,
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 Bice 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 indulged 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 hare
not here an opportunity of sending letters
every day. Write speedily.
116. TO JOHN HAMILTON RETN0IJ>S
Extract from a letter dated Shanklin,
n' Ryde, Isle of Wigrht, Sunday.
July 12 [fop 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 being. I have finished
TO FANNY BRAWNE
383
the Act, lOtho the Great, 7] 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. I
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 FANNY BRAWNS
Shanklin, Thursday Eveningr
[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 you (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 world with myself, and
though as beautiful, not so taUsmanic 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 month 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 I and
Ever yours John Keats.
118. TO THB BAMB
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 ha?e
had four in our small room playing at eudi
night and morning leaving me no nndi^
turb'd opportunity to write. Now Rice sod
Martin are gone I am at liberty. Brown to
my sorrow confirms the account you giyeof
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 11
I have upon you: it cannot be. ForgiTe me
if I wander a little this evening, for I hare
been all day employ'd in a very abstnei
Poem and I am in deep love with yoa—
two things which must excuse me. I haTe,
believe me, not been an age in lettbg joa
take possession of me; the very first week
I knew you I wrote myself your vanal;
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 700,
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 s
Woman. Perhaps I am too vehement, thei
fancy me on my knees, especially when I
mention a part of your Letter which hart
me; you say speaking of Mr. Severn 'hot
you must be satisfied in knowing that I
admired you much more than your friend.'
My dear love, I cannot believe there erer
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 ctn
bring you is a swooning admiration of joor
Beauty. I hold that place among Men
which snub-nos'd brunettes with meeting
eyebrows do among women — they *^
trash to me — unless I should find one
7t
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE
38s
among them with a fire in her heart like
the one that barns in mine. You absorb
me in spite of myself — you alone: for I
look not forward with any 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.
1 have two luxuries to brood over in my
walks, your Lfoveliness 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 g^ve 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.
119. TO CHARLES WENTWOBTH DILKJB
Shanklin, Saturday Evenmg [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
tm 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
his 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 armis tak-
ing up 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
ag^n 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 Grallery. 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 SteephiU. 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
«ea, that I am not much touched 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 oppressed 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 bis 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 inU
write when the fit comes on him. If yot
will stand law expenses I H beat him into
one before his time. When I oome to ton
I shall have a little talk with yoa aboot
Brown and one Jenny Jacobs. Open dsj-
light ! he don't care. I am afraid thoe
will be some more feet for little stoddogi
— [pfKeatt^s making. (I mean tkefeeL^]
Brown here tried at a piece of Wit but it
failed him, as you see, though long a biev>
ing — [thi$ is a 2^ lUy] Men should nefer
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 iuids
place in my own Letter — I take posset*
sion.
Tour sincere friend John Keats.
120. TO FANinr BRAWKB
Shanklin, Thoniday Nigbt
[Postmark, Newport, August 9, 1S19.]
My dear Girl — You say you must not
have any more such Letters as the list:
I'll try that you shall not by rannini;
obstinate the other way. Indeed I bave
not fair play — I am not idle enough 6v
proper downright love-letters — I lean
this minute a scene in our Tragedy [Otiio
the Great] and see you (think it sol
blasphemy) through the mist of Floti,
speeches, counterplots and ooonterspeediei.
The Lover is madder than I am — I an
nothing to him -» he has a figure like tbe
Statue of Meleager and double distilled
fire in his heart. Thank God for my dili-
gence I were it not for that I should ba
miserable. I encourage it, and strive noi
to think of you — but when I have suc-
ceeded in doing so all day and as far >*
midnight, you return, as soon as this arti-'
ficial excitement goes off, more severely
from the fever I am left in. Upon my •o'*
* The bracketed portions are by Brows*
v#
TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
387
I cannot say what you could like me 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 yisit 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 refreshed 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 them 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,
Grod forbid we should what people call,
settle — 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-i
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 yon alone should have disturb'd.
Your ever affectionate John Keats.
121. TO BENJAMIN BAILEY
[Fragment {outside sheet) qf 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 1500 lines, most of
which, besides many more of 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
J friends that I should never be able to write
\a scene. I will endeavour to wipe away
Ithe prejudice — I sincerely hope you will
oe pleased when my labours, since we last
saw each other, shall reach you. One of
\ my Ambitions is to make as great a revolu-
tion in modem 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 cong^tu-
latiug 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 BRAWNB
Winchester, August 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 r^
main some days in a Mist — I see yoa
through a Mist : as I daresay you do me bjr
this time. Believe in the first Letters I
wrote yon : I assure you I felt as I wrote^ i
I could not write so now. The thoosud
images I have had pass through my bitia
— my uneasy spirits — my nnguess'd £ii»
— all spread as a veil between me and
you. Remember I have had no idle letBois
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 imsgi-
nary interests. I would fain, as my si^
are set, sail on without an interruptbn for
a Brace of Months longer — I am in eoaip
plete cue — in the fever ; and shall in tbeis
four Months do an immense deal. Thii
Page as my eye skims over it I see is ex-
cessively unloverlike and ungallant— >I
cannot help it — I am no officer in ya?mii^
quarters ; no Parson-Romeo. My Mind is
heap'd to the full ; stuff'd like a cricket
ball — if I strive to fill it more it wovU
burst. I know the generality of womei
would hate me for this ; that I should hare
so unsoften'd, so hard a Mind as to forget
them ; forget the brightest realities for the
dull imaginations of my own Brain. Bat
I conjure you to give it a fair thinking ;
and ask yourself whether 't is not better fte
explain my feelings to you, than write i^
tificial Passion. — Besides, yon would tee
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 isTi-
tation to Idalia. You are my Judge : my
forehead is on the ground. You aeem
offended at a little simple innocent childish
playfulness in my last. I did not seriooslj
mean to say that you were endeavouring to
make me keep my promise. I beg your «
pardon for it. 'Tis but just your Pnda
should take the alarm — serioualtf. Yoa
say I may do as I please — I do not think
TO JOHN TAYLOR
389
with any conscience I can ; my cash re-
sources are for the present stopp'd ; I fear
for some time. I spend no money, bat it
increases my debts. I have all my life
thought very little of these matters — they
4Beem 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
Snn is above the Earth — and though of
my own 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 — I am impelled, 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 Yatch
(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 stem. Our Bow-lines took
the top of their little mast and snapped it
off close by the board. Had the mast been
a little stouter they would have been up-
set. In 80 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 nncrystallize 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 \o my fancy — I must forget them.
Ever your affectionate Keats.
123. TO JOHN TAYLOR
Winchester, Monday mom
[August 23, 1819.]
Mt 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. Th^y
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
\
390
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 in 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 Hessey and all in Percy Street.
Ever yours sincerely John Keats.
124. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS
Winchester, Ang^ist 25 [1819].
My dear Reynolds — By this post I
write to Rice, who will tell you why we
have 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. Tou would
not find me at all unhappy 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 oonseqaenee
to me than the crowds of Shadows in the
shape of men and women that inhabit s
kingdom. The soul is a world of itself, aad
has enough to do in its own home. Than
whom I know already, and who have grows
as it were a part of myself, I could not do
without : but for the rest of mankind, thtf
are as much a dream to me as Miltos'f
Hierarchies. I think if I had a free and
healthy and lasting organisation of hetHi
and lungs as strong as an ox's so as to bs
able to bear unhurt the shock of extieiis
thought and sensation without wearineai) I
could pass my life very nearly alone thoagh
it should last eighty years. Bnt I feel mf
body too weak to support me to the height
I am obliged continually to check mjMll*
and be nothing. It would be vain for as
to endeavour after a more reasonable mis*
ner of writing to you. I have nothing to
speak of but myself, and what can 1 117
but what 1 feel ? If you should have say
reason to regret this stato of excitement is
me, I will turn the tide of your feelings is
the right Channel, by mentioning that it ii
the only state for the best sort of Poetry—
that is all I care for, all I live for. Foigift
me for not filling up the whole sheet ; Le^
ters become so irksome to me, that tke
next time I leave London I shall petitioi
them all to be spared me. To give bm
credit for constancv, and at the same tins
waive letter writing will be the higbMt
indulgence I can think of.
Ever your affectionate friend
John Keats.
125. TO fanny kbats
Winchester, Angnst 28 [1819].
My dear Fanny — You must forgi'*
me for suffering so long a space to elapM
between the dates of my letters. It is mM*
than a fortoight since I left Shanklin chiefly
for the purpose of being near a tolersM^
TO FANNY KEATS
391
Jbnujr, which after all is Dot to be found
m ttk pUee. However we like it very
guidt: it ia the pleasatitest Town I ever
m b, Hid hfts the most reconimendatiunB
et uj. There is a fine Catbedtal which ta
Be a always a Bource of amusetneDt, part
of it built 1400 jears ago; and tbt^ mure
Boilem bj a magDiflcent Man, yuu may
kiie read of Id out History, called Williniii
ol Wickham. The whole town ia beauti-
faily wooded. From the Hill at the eaat-
o» extremity you see a prospect of Streets,
mi old Buildings mixed up with Trees.
Then there are the most beautiful streams
limit I BTer saw — full of Trout. There
it the Fonndation of St. Croix about half a
mile in the fields — a charity greatly abused.
Wf hare a Collegiate School, a Roman cath-
alk School; a chapel ditto and a Nunneryl
nd what improves it all is, the fashionable
■■habitants are all gone to Southampton.
V« are quiet — except a fiddle that now
W"! then goes like a gimlet through my
Ean — «mr Landlady's son not being quite
t rroficient. 1 have still been bard at
■ntk, having completed n Tragedy I think
I •Doke of to you. But there I fear all my
i' ' 't will be thrown away for the preseot,
' hoir iUr. Kean is going to America,
■ill I cnn guess I shall remain here till
-.■- uiiddle of October— when Mr. Brown
•lU return to his house at Hampstead;
vUthcr 1 shall return with him. I some
Imt unce sent the Letter I told you I had
nnind from George to Hnslam with a
n^Mst to let you and Mrs. Wylie see it:
Im wut it bock to me for very insufficient
nuoiM withont doing so; and I was so irri-
IU«j by it that I would not send it traveU
iag abont by the post any more: besides
Sw postage is very expensive. I know
Hn. Wylie will think this a great neglect.
luB lorry to say my temper gets the bet-
^tui mm — I will not send it again. Some
Hrmpandenco I have had with Mr. Abbey
>^t G<H>rge's affairs — anil I must con-
•w he has liehnveil very kindly to me ns
tw K the wording of his Letter went.
Have you heard any further mention of his
retiring from Business ? I am anxious to
hear whether Uodgkinson, whose name I
cannot bear to write, will in any likelihood
bo thrown upon himself. The delightful
Weather we have had for two Months is
the highest gratification I could receive —
no cbiU'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
aday: no need of much exercise — a Mi]«
a day being quite sufficient. Mj greatest
regret is that I hare not been well euough
to bathe though 1 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 cau have. Give me Boolu, fruit,
French nine 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 tor 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 yon
were in expectatiou 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 tbId for the present. I
had hoped to give Keon another opportu-
nitytoshine. What can we do now? There
13 not another actor of Tragedy in all Lon-
don or Enrope. The Corent Garden com-
pany is execrable. Young is the best among
them and be is a ranting coxcombical taste-
less Actor — a Disgust, a Nausea — and yet
the very best after Keon. M^at a set of
barren asses are actors! I should like now
to promenade round your Gardens — apple-
tasting — pear ■ tasting — plum - judging —
apricot-nibbling — peoch-soruncbing — neo-
tarine-suckiog and Melon-carving. I also
have a great feeling for antiquated cherries
full of sugar cracks^ and a white currant
tree kept for company. 1 admire lolling
392
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
on a lawn by a water lilied pond to eat
white currants 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 TATIX)R
Winchester, September 1, 1819.
Mt dear Taylor — Brown and I have
been employed for these 3 weeks past from
time to time in writing 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. Bat it must be
proper country air. You must choose s
spot. What sort of a place is Retfofd?
You should have a dry, graYelly, baneii,
elevated country, open to the curreots of
air, and such a place is generally f nnushed
with the finest springs — The neighbonN J
hood of a rich enclosed fulsome nuumred J
arable land, especially in a vailey and al- 1
most as bad on a flat, would be almost is I
bad as the smoke of Fleet Street. — Sueh a I
place as this was Shanklin, only open to the I
south-east, and surrounded by hills in every
other direction. From this south-east came
the damps of the sea; which, having do
egress, the air would for days together take
on an unhealthy idiosyncraoy 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 Retfoi^, 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 tbe
difference of tbe air they breathe: the one
takes his mingled with the fume of slaugh-
ter, the other from the dank exhaleroent
from the glebe; the teeming damp that
comes up from the plough-furrow is of
g^at 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
itANOghU will ran upon
• ... u» if he «vet had bandied one; let
him leave the plough, and lie will think
qoietl; ot hu supper. Agriculture is the
■imer vt noD — the steam from the earth
' like drinking their Mother's milk — it
ucmte* their nature — this appeaj^ a
:'.rti oanse of the imbecility of the Chinese :
mi if tbia sort of atmosphere is a luitiga-
m to tbe euergy of a Btroug man, bow
r.iiob more axuit it iujuro a weak one im-
i.-cupied unexercised — For vihat ia tlie
ciiue of go man; men maintaining a, good
Mte in Cities, but occupation — An idle
uu, a man who is uot sensitively alive to
Klf-iiit«rest in a city cannot continue long
ia ^ochI health. This is easily explained —
It vou were to walk leisurely through on
mwholesome path in the fens, with a little
kinor of them, you would be sure to have
Tour ague. But let Macbeth cross the
nme path, vritb the dagger in the air lead-
ing him on, and he would nevor have on
igoeor anything like it — Yon should give
Uieae things a serious consideration. Notts,
1 believe, ia a flat county — jYou should be
n the slope of one of the dry barren hills
is Somersetshire, I am convinced there is
uharmfoJ air to be breathed in the oouutry
■ ia town. I am greatly obliged to you
bi Tuor letter. Perhaps, if you had bad
■tiength and spirits enough, you would have
(lit aflvtidcd by my offering a note of band,
t nthcr expressed it. However, I am
i9n you will give me credit for not in any-
*u« mistrusting you : or imagining that
*oa wonld luke advantage of any power I
iiight give you over me. No — It pro.-
'tded from my serious resolve not to be a
.'tiiuitous borrower, from a great desire to
' lorrccl in money nuitters,to have in my
' )k the Chronicles of them to refer to,
-aU know my worldly nonestate: besides
-' cue of my death such documents would
'e but just, if merely as memorials of the
'itodly turns I had done to me — Had I
b««ii of your illness I should not have
■nitta in inch 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 h
judge of it, as I have only acted as midwife
to his plot; and of course he will be foud
of his child. I do uot think I can make
you any extracts without spoiling the eSect
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 1/amia, and am now occupied in Tevi»-
ing St. Agnes's Eve, and studying Italian.
Arioato I find as diffuse, in parts, aa 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 1 am ever your
most sincere friend JoBit Keats.
This is a good sample of the story-
Brown ia gone to Chichester a-visiting —
I shall be alone here for 3 weeks, expect*
iiig accounts of your health.
Lea
fit /
if e /
Fleet Street, Monday Mom. *
[PoMmark, Lombard Sirest,
Septomber 14, IMIS.I
Mt iwab Girl — I have been hurried
to town by a Letter from my brother
George ; it is uot of the brightest intelli-
geuce. Am I mad or not 7 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, nndistinguiafaable. If I were to
see you to-day it would destroy the halt
comfortable sultemiess I enjoy at present
into downright perplexities. I love you
too much to venture to Hampslead, I feel
it is not paying a visit, but reuturing into
a fire. Que feraije t as the French novel
writers say in fun, and I in enmeM : really
what can I do ? Knowing Mrell that my
life must he passed in fntigue 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 : bat I can-
not cease to love you. This morning I
scarcely know what I am doing. I am
going to Walthamstow. I shall retom 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 OEOBOB AKD GEOBGIANA KBAT8
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. Tou
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 abovit 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 most wait a little while. I really have
hopes of suocess. I have finished a tngedyi
which if it succeeds will enable me to fell j
what I may have in manuscript to a good ^
advantage. I have passed my time ta
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 thaa
share what I can get whilst I am still young.
The time may come when age will make
me more selfish. I have not been veil
treated by the world, and yet I have, otpi-
tally well. I do not know a person to
whom so many purse-strings would flyopea
as to me, if I could possibly take advanUgo
of them, which I cannot do, for none of
the owners of these purses are rich. Yoor
present situation I will not suffer myself to
dwell upon. When misfortunes are so reel,
we are glad enough to escape them sod
the thought of them. I cannot help think-
ing Mr. Audubon a dishonest man. Whf
did he make you believe that he wasamin
of property ? ^ How is it that his oirenn-
stances have altered so suddenly ? Li
truth, I do not believe you fit to dud with
the world, or at least the American world.
But, good Grod I who can avoid tbeee
chances ? Tou have done your best. Ttko
matters as coolly as you can ; and eonft*
dently expecting help from England, aet u
if no help were nigh. Mine, I am. sure, tf
a tolerable tragedy ; it would have beea i^
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 would lift me out of the mire;
I mean the mire of a bad reputation wluob
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 mesa it is at
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
395
itf ms regards our pockets. But be not
cut down any more than I am; I feel that
I can bear rnd ills better than imaginary
OMs. Whenever I find myself growing
mpoorishy I ronse myself, wash, and put
«t 1 clean shirt, brush my hair and clothes,
tie my shoestrings neatly, and in fact
itause as I were going out. Then, all
dnn and comfortable, I sit down to write.
TUi I find the greatest relief. Besides I
M becoming accustomed to the privations
if the pleasures of sense. In the midst of
, the world I live like a hermit. I have for-
: |ot bow to lay plans for the enjoyment of
Uf pleasure. I feel I can bear anything,
^lay misery, even imprisonment, so long
M I have neither wife nor child. Perhaps
joi will say yours are your only comfort ;
* thay must be. I returned to Winchester
the day before yesterday, and am now here
line, for Brown, some days before I left,
iHt to Bedhampton, and there he will be
ki the next fortnight. The term of his
will be up in the middle of next
when we shall return to Hampstead.
(k Sunday, I dined with your mother and
&a and Charles in Henrietta Street. Mrs.
■d Miss Millar were in the country.
Chtiles had been but a few days returned
fan Fsris. I daresay you will have let-
fan sxpressing the motives of his journey.
lb. Wylie and Miss Waldegrave seem as
• faet as two mice there alone. I did not
. Aow yoor last. I thought it better not,
far better times will certainly come, and
■hj should they be unhappy in the mean-
fiae? On Monday morning I went to
Walthamstow. Fanny looked better than
IhA seen her for some time. She com-
PUm of not hearing from yon, appealing
Is Be as if it were half my fault. I had
hm so long in retirement that London ap-
a very odd place. I could not make
I had so many acquaintances, and it
a whole day before I could feel among
. I had another strange sensation.
fas not one house I felt any plea-
mn to call at. Reynolds was in the coun-
ts
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
month 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 greot 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 yon
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 have n'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 fig^ire
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 giyen on p. 251.]
Tou see, I cannot get on without writing,
as boys do at school, a few nonsense veises.
I beg^n 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.
Satuiday [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 hare 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 thev 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
mv niece in vour mother's letter — O ! the
little span-long elf. I am not in the least
a judge of the proper vreight and size of an
infant. Never trouble vourselves about
m
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 yon 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 vour wife, and there I mav sav more
on this little plump subject — I hope she 's
plump. Still harping on my dan^ter.
This Winchester is a place tcderablj wdl
suited to me. There is a fine cathedral, a
college, a Roman Catholic chapel, a Metho-
dist do., and Ladependent do. ; and tbeie
is not one loom, or anything like mann&e-
turing beyond bread and batter, in the
whole city. There are a number of ridi
Catholics in the place. It ia a respectable,
ancient, and aristocratic place, and more-
over it contains a nunnery. Oar set are br
no means so hail fellow well met on lit-
erary subjects as we were wont to be.
Reynolds has tum'd to the law. By the bye,
he brought out a little piece at the LyeeiuB
call'd One, Two, Three, Foot : bj Adver-
tisement. It met with complete saeoeM.
The meaning of this odd title is explained
when I tell you the principal actor is a
mimic, who takes off four of oar best per-
formers in the course of the fiarce. Our
stage is loaded with mimics. I did notsee
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 frcmi hin
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 yon somewhere that he lives
in Westminster, and hb 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 an
speaking of puts me in mind of a circum-
stance which occurred lately at Dilke'a I
think it very rich and dramatic and quite
illustrative of the little quiet fan that be
will enjoy sometimes, first I most teD
you that their house is at the comer of
Great Smith Street, so that some of ^
windows look into one street, and the back
windows look into another aroond the
comer. Dilke had some old people to din-
ner — I know not who, bat there were two
Vt
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
397
old ladies among them. Brown was there
— they had known 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 complimentary.
Brown was obliged to depart early. He
bid them good-bye and passed into the
passage. No sooner was his back turned
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 Grod, they say you're
handsome ! ' You see what a many words
it requires to g^ve 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 lus nustrefls, though
she be very deformed of herself, Ul-favoured,
wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan'd,
tallow-faced, have a swoln juglers platter face,
or a thin, lean, cbitty face, have clouds in her
face, be crooked, dry, bald, goggle-eyM, blear-
ey^d or with staring eys, she looks like asqnis'd
cat, holds her head still awry, heavy, dull,
hoUow-monthed, Peraean hook-nosed, have a
sharp Jose nose, a red nose, China flat, great
nose, nare simo patuioque^ a nose like a promon-
tory, g^bber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, un-
even, brown teeth, beetle browed, a witches
beard, her breath stink all over the room, her
nose drop winter and summer with a Bavarian
I>oke under her chin, a sharp chin, lave eared,
with a long cranes neck, which stands awry too,
pendulis mammis, her dugs like two double jugs,
or else no dngs in the other eztream, 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 cu a
cow in the waste, gowty legs, her ankles hang
over her shooes, her feet stink, she breed lice,
a mere changeling, a very monster, an anfe im-
perfect, her whole complexion savours, an
harsh voyce, incondite gesture, vile gait, a vast
virago, or an ugly tit, a sing, a fat f ustilugs, 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 lanthom, whom thou
conldst not fancy for a world, but hatest,
loathest, and wouldst have spit in her face, or
blow thy nose in her bosome, remedium amo-
ris to another man, a dowdy, a slut, a scold,
a nasty, 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 admires her for all 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 my 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 k propos for you at present ; and yet
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
Grerman 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 on the carpet, so
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 them, 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 beads 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 adomers 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 VIU, but were freemen imder
William III at the time the French wen
abject slaves under Louis XIV. The ex«
aniple of England, and the liberal writea
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 turmog
back to the despotism of tiie eighteenth
century. They have made a handle of
this event in every way to undermine oni
freedom. They spread a horrid supersti-
tion against all innovation and improve-
ment. The present struggle in £nglandof
the people is to destroy this superstitioiL
What has roused them to do it is their
distresses. Perhaps, on this acoount, the
present distresses of this nation aie 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 g^in 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
many other works held in superstitions
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
ImuI to tlie amount of many thoosand
poopcU. After all, they are afraid to pro-
iMate. Thej are afraid of his defence ; it
vould be published in all the papers all
ofer the empire. They shadder at this.
The triab would light a flame they could
■ol eztingiiish. Do you not think this of
great import? Yon will hear by the
fspers of the proceedings at Manchester,
ud Hnnt's triumphal entry into Lon-
don." It would take me a whole day
tad a quire of paper to g^ve you any-
tUng like detail. I will jnerely mention
that it is calculated that 30,000 people
mm in the streets waiting for him. The
whole distance from the Angel at Islington
ts the Crown and Anchor was lined with
ultitiides.
As I passed Colnaghi'^ window I saw a
frafile portrait of Sandt, the destroyer of
Kot»bue. His very look must interest
eieij one in his favour. I suppose they
hte represented him in his college dress.
fie seems to me like a young Abelard — a
tmb monthy cheek bones (and this is no
joke) foil of sentiment, a fine, unvulgar
lose, and plump temples.
Od looking over some letters I found the
«e I wrote, intended for you, from the
loot of Helvellyn to Liverpool ; but you
had sailed, and therefore it was returned to
■a. It contained, among other nonsense,
•■ aerostio of my sister's name — and a
ftotty long name it is. I wrote it in a
gveat huRj which you will see. Indeed I
would not copy it if I thought it would
tv»r be seen by any but yourselves. [See
^a43.]
I aent yon in my first packet some of
my Seotch letters. I find I have one kept
back, which was written in the most inter-
esting part of our tour, and will copy part
of it in the hope you will not find it unamus-
iag. I would give now anything for Rich-
ivAHm's power of making mountains of
nwlehills.
Iidpit epistola oaledonieDsa —
*■ 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 origpinal 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
you 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 slij^ht chancres and
abridg:ment8, hU letter to Tom of July 23, 181H
(see above, p. 320) ending with the lines written
after visiting: Staffa : as to which he adds, * I
find I must keep memorandums of the verses
I send yon, for I do not remember whether I
have sent the foUowinj^ lines upon Staffa. I
hope not ; H would be a horrid bore to yon,
especially after readinfr this dull specimen of
description. For myself I hate descriptions.
I would not send it if it were not mine.*
LETTERS OF JOHX KEATS
a I
maj alxBMt awful qoieUieM aboat tfaem. I
rer wolw so qibet a eoUecdon of lions'
rams' beads. The doors most part
Maek, with a little bnus handle just abore
tbe kerfaole, so that too mar easilr shot
jonrself CMtt of roar own hoose. He ! He !
There is none of joar Ladj BeDaston ring-
ing and rapping here ; no thundering
Jopiter-foc^men, no opera-treble tattoos,
but a modest lifting np of the knocker by
a set of little wee old fingers that peep
throogh the grar mittens, and a d jing fall
thereof. The great beaatj <»f poetry is
that it makes ererrthing in ererj place in-
teresting. The palatine Venice and the
abbotine Winchester are equally interest-
ing. Some time since I began a poem
called ' The Ere of St. ^fark,' quite in the
spirit <»f town quietude. I think I will
gire you the sensation of walking about an
old country town in a coolish erening. I
know not whether I shall erer finish it ; I
will give it as far as I hare gone. Ut
tibi placeat —
[The Ere of St. Mark. Seep. 196.]
f exit pointed at the ceiling:, now with
now wi^i my pen on my
mr elbow in bit mooth. O. mi
yoa lose the action, and attitude i
thing, as Fnseli said when he took op his leg
like a musket to shoot a swallow just dart-
ing behind his shoulder. And yet does
not the word <mnm' go for one's finger
beside the nose ? I hope it does. I hate
to make use of the word ' mum ' before I
tell you that Serem has got a litUe babj —
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 partj
concern — that no Mr. or is the
real Pinxit and Sevem the poor Seolpsit to
this work of art. You know he has kmg
studied in the life Academy. * Haydon—
yes,' your wife will say, 'Here is a som
total account of Haydon again. I wonder
your brother don't put a monthly boUetis
in the Philadelphia papers about him. I
won't hear — no. Skip down to the bottom^
and there are some more of his Teraes —
skip (lullaby-by) them too.' — « Ko» kt *9
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 my disposal. Haydon being very much
in want, I lent him £30 of it. Now in this
see-saw game of life, I got nearest to the
ground, and this chancery business riveted
me there, so that I was sitting in that un-
easy position where the seat slants so
abominably. I applied to him for pay-
ment. He could not. That was no won-
der ; but Goodman Delver, where was the
wonder then ? Why marry in this : he
did not seem to care much about it, and let
me go without my money with almost non-
chalance, when he ought to have sold his
drawings to supply me. I shall perhaps
still be acquainted with him, but for friend-
ship, that is at an end. Brown has been
my friend in this. He got him to sig^ a
bond, payable at three months. Haslam
has assisted me with the return of part of
the money you lent him.
Hunt — • there,' says your wife, * there 's
another of those dull folk ! Not a syllable
about my friends ? Well, Hunt — What
about Hunt ? Tou little thing, see how she
bites my finger ! My ! is not this a tooth ? '
Well when you have done with the tooth,
read on. Not a syllable about your friends !
Here are some syllables. As far as I could
smoke things on the Sunday before last,
thus matters stood in Henrietta Street.
Henry was a greater blade then ever I re-
member to have seen him. He had on a
very nice coat, a becoming waistcoat, and
buff trousers. I think his face has lost a
little of the Spanish-brown, but no flesh.
He carved some beef exactly to suit my
appetite, as if I had been measured for it.
As I stood looking out of the window with
Charles, after dinner, quizzing the passen-
gers, — at which I am sorry to say he is too
apt, — 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 entre nous. Charles likes England better
than France. Thejr'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 stairs-
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. Tour 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 tMU like to die^ as the Jews say.
402
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
But I dare say, keeping up their dialect,
she teas not like to die, I must tell you a
good thing Reynolds 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 f oolishes and gets awkward,
and does not know how to ouike 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 Hamin
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 'em.' 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 Banyan'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 shall 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 up 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 mgainst Hmmmoid.
We are like the relict gmrmeiits of a luat
— the same and not the same, for the etie-
ful monks patch it and patch it till then'i
not a thread of the original garment left,
and still they show it for St. Anthonj'i
shirt This is the reason why men vk
have been bosom friends, on being sepazmted
for any number of years meet coldly, neitlier
of them knowing why. The fact is they are
both altered.
Men who live together have a sileDt
moulding and influencing power oyer eseh
other. They interassimilate. 'T is an on-
easy thought, that in seven years the same
hands cannot greet each other again. All
this may be obviated bj a wilful and dra-
matic exercise of our minds towards esek
other. Some think I have lost that poetie
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 diget-
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 this 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 dinner, and this is generaUy 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-
>t
i
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 yon 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. Tou
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
difBculties ; 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
shall 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 literary
pilgrimage. You will perceive that it is
quite 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.'
The 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 g^ven 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 nntrammell'd and free industry may
bring one in the end. In all this do never
think 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 g^ood 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 retomiiig
upon Greek. I would not go oTen so £v
if I were not persuaded of the power the
knowledge of any language g^ves one. Hie
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 literatore
of the Middle Ages, the works of many
g^reat 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 inverrions
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 unoorrupted 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 alteratioii
Vt
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
405
the disposition of Dilke has undergone.
He thix^ of nothing but political justice
and his boy. Now, the first political duty
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 com 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 another letter immediately
after it. As I never know the day of the
month but by chance, I pat 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 g^ven 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 here. 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
they 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
shouldn'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 nmke 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 oft ? '
Saturday [September 25].
If yon woold 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 bis bouse to a Mr. Benjamin — a
Jew. Now, the water which furnishes the
house is in a tank, sided with a composition
of lime, and the lime impregnates the water
unpleasantly. Taking advantage of this
circumstance, I pretended that Mr. Benja-
min bad written the following short note —
Sir — By drinking your damn'd tank
water I have got the g^vel. What repa-
ration can you make to me and my family ?
Nathan Benjamix.
By a fortunate hit, I hit upon his riglit
— heathen name — his right pronomea.
Brown in consequence, it appears, wrote to
the surprised Mr. Benjamin the follow-
ing—
Sir — I cannot offer you any remmienk
tion until your gravel shall have formed
itself into a stone — when I will cut yoa
with pleasure. C. Browk.
This of Brown's Mr. Benjamin has an-
swered, insisting on an expbmation of this
singular circumstance. B. says : * When I
read your letter and his following, I roared;
and in came Mr. Snook, who on readinf^
them seem'd likely to burst the ho<^ of
his fat sides.' So the joke has told well
Now for the one I played on myseli I
must first give you the scene and the dxa-
matis personse. There are an old major
and his youngish wife here in the next ap-
partments to me. His bedroom door opeoa
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
thb, I went upstairs and down, looked in
the cupboards and watch'd. At last I set
myself to read again, not quite so demnielyi
when there came a louder rap. I was d^
termined to find out who it was. I looked
out; the staircases were all silent. *Tia»
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 otter
surprise and confusion of the lady, who was
in reality there. After a little explanation,
which I can no more describe than fijt I
made my retreat from her, convinced of mr
mistake. She is to all appearance a silly
body, and is really surprised about it She
must have been, for I have discovered that
a little girl in the house was the rapper. I
assure you she has nearly made me sneese.
If the lady tells tits, I shall pnt a yerj
7t
TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS
407
grave and moral face on the matter with
the old gentleman, and make his little boy
a present of a hunmiing top.
[Monday, September 27.]
My dear George — This Monday morn-
ing, the 27th, I have received your last,
dated 12th July. You say you have not
heard from England for three months.
Then my letter from Shanklin, written, I
think, at the end of June, has not reach'd
you. You shall not have cause to think I
neglect you. I have kept this back a little
time in expectation of hearing from Mr.
Abbey. You will say I might have re-
mained in town to be Abbey's messenger
in these affairs. That I offered him, but
he in his answer convinced me that he was
anxious to bring the business to an issue.
He observed, that by being himself the
agent in the whole, people might be more
expeditious. You say you have not heard
for three months, and yet your letters have
the 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 your 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 employing it in many ways.
The report nms now more in favour of
Kean stopping in England. If he should,
I have confident hopes of our tragedy. If \y^
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 swordnnan 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 fovour with my sire than I can have.
Believe me, my dear brother and sister,
your affectionate and anxious Brother
John Keats.
130. TO
If Greorge 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 HAMII/rON RSTNOLDB
Winchester, September 22, 1819.
Mt 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 solitari-
nesse,' for Brown has gone a-visiting. I
am surprised myself at the pleasure I live
alone in. I can gpye 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' beads. 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 ivalk that I composed upon it.
[The Ode to Autunm, 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 whit
weather it was — No I will not copy i
parcel of verses. I always somehow asso-
ciate Chatterton with aatanin. He is the*
purest vrriter in the English Laagnsge.!
He has no French idiom or particles, IQa
Chaucer — 't is genuine English Idiom in
English words. I have g^yen up Hypeiioo
— there were too many Miltonio inTersioBi|
in it — Miltonic verse cannot be wxittea'
but in an artful, or, rather, artist's homonr.
I wish to give myself up to other senn-
tions. English ought to be kept up. It
may be interesting to you to pick oat some
lines from Hyperion, and pat a marie X to
the false beauty proceeding from art, sod
one II to the true voice of feeling. Upon
my soul 't was imagination — I cannot naikt
the distinction — Every now and then theie
is a Miltonio intonation — Bat I cannot
make the division properly. The fauBt is, I
must take a walk : for I am writing a Umg
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 aU 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 coontzj,
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 bloe-devib
— I am never at home to them. Yon need
not fear them while you remain in Devon-
shire — there will be some of the family
>t
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. Yon
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
says 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 gprls 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 CHABLES WBNTWOBTH DILKB
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 free Letter when
it is in reality an interested one, on two
points, the one requestive, the other verg-
ing to the pros and 00ns. 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
Greorg^, 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 periodical \
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-room, 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 any-
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 ooneeming
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, pulpy) 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 wliom 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 jou should
have left Town again (for your Holidajs
cannot be up yet) let me know when this is
forwarded to you. A most extraordiiMij
mischance has befallen two letters I wrote
Brown — one from London whither I wss
obliged to go on business for George ; the
other from this place since my return. I
can't make it out. I am excessively sony
for it. I shall hear from Brown and bam
you almost together, for I have sent him s
Letter to-day : you must positively agree
with me or by the delicate toe nails of tlie
virgin I will not open your Letters. If
they are as David says ' suspicious looking
letters ' I won't open them. If St. John hsd
been half as cunning he might have seen
the revelations comfortably in his own room,
without giving angels the trouble of bzeak-
ing open seals. Remember me to Mrs. D.
and the Westmonasteranian and believe me
Ever your sincere friend John Keats.
133. TO CHABLES ARMITAQK BROWX
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 my-
self. I am getting into an idle-minded,
vicious way of life, almost content to live
upon others. In no period of my life ban
I acted with any self-will but in throv-
ing up the apothecary profession. That I
do not repent of. Look at Reynolds, if be
was not in the law, he would be acquiring,
by his abilities, something towards his sap-
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 is
a cheap lodging, and endeavouring, for » .
beginning, to get the theatricals of some^l
paper. When I can afford to compose de- '
/f
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN
411
liberate poems, I will. I shall be in ex-
pectation of an answer to this. Look on
;iny side of the question. I am convinced
/'I am right. Suppose the tragedy should
sl/ succeed, — there will be no harm done.
And here I will take an opportunity of
making a remark or two on our friendship,
and on all your good offices to me. I have
a natural timidity of mind in these mat-
ters ; liking better to take the feeling be-
tween us for granted, than to speak of it.
But, good God ! what a short while you
have known me ! I feel it a sort of duty
thus to recapitulate, however unpleasant it
may be to you. You have been living for
others more than any man I know. This
is a vexation to me, because it has been de-
priving you, in the very prime of your life,
of pleasures which it was your duty to pro-
cure. As I am speaking in general terms,
this may appear nonsense ; you perhaps
will not understand it ; but if you can go
over, day by day, any month of the last
year, you will know what I mean. On the
whole however this is a subject that I can-
not express myself upon — I speculate upon
it frequently ; and believe me th^ end of
my speculations is always an anxiety for
your happiness. This anxiety will not be
one of the least incitements to the plan I
purpose pursuing. I had got into a habit
of mind of looking towards you as a help in
all difficulties — This very habit would be
the parent of idleness and difficulties. You
will see it is a duty I owe myself to break
the neck of it. I do nothing for my sub-
sistence — make no exertion — At the end
of another year you shall applaud me, not
for verses, but for conduct. While I have
some immediate cash, I had better settle
myself quietly, and fag on as others do. I
shall apply to Hazlitt, who knows the mar-
ket as well as any one, for something to
bring me in a few pounds as soon as possi-
ble. I shall not suffer my pride to hinder
me. The whisper may go round ; I shall
not hear it. If I can get an article in the
Edinburgh, 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 days 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.
134. 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 assure you I
am as far from being unhappy as possible.
Imaginary grievances have always been I
more my torment than 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 wish, at one view, you would see
my heart towards you. 'T is 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 he woold approve
of my plan ; it is so evident. Nay, I am
convincedy out and out, that by prosing for
a while in periodical works I may maintain
myself decently.
135. TO CHABLES WKNTWOBTH DIUCS
Winchester, Friday, October 1 [1819].
/ Mt deab Dilke — For sundry reasons,
which I will explain to yon when I come to
Town, I have to request you will do me a
great favour as I must cadi 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.
Tour sincere friend Johx Keats.
136. TO BENJAMIN ROBKRT HATDON
Winchester, Sunday Mom [October 3, 1819].
/ My deab Haydon — Certainly I might:
but a few Months pass away before we are
aware. I have a great aversion to letter
writing, 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.
Could I have dated from my Palace of
Milan you would have heard frpm me.
Not even now will I mention a word of my
afbdrs — only that 'I Bab am here' bat
shall not be here more than a Week mote,
as I purpose to settle in Town and wofl
my way with the rest. I hope I shall never
be so silly as to injure my health and ia-
dustry for the future by speaking, wrttii^
or fretting about my non-estate. I have
no quarrel, I assure you, of so weighty i
nature, with the world, on my own aecoimt
as I have on yoors. I have done nothing
— except for the amusement of a few peo-
ple who refine upon their feelings till anj-
thing in the understandable way will go
down with them — people predisposed for
sentiment. I have no cause to oomplsin
because I am certain anything really fine
will in these days be felt. I have no doubt
that if I had written Othello I »lio^ld ha^
been cheered by as good a mob as Hont
So would you be now if the operation of
painting was as universal as that of Writ-
ing. It is not : and therefore it did behofe
men I could mention among whom I must
place Sir George Beaumont to have lifted
you up above sordid cares. That this hss
not been done is a disgrace to the conntij.
I know very little of Painting, yet your
pictures follow me into the Country. When
I am tired of reading I often think them
over and as often condemn the spirit of
modem Connoisseurs. Upon the whole,
indeed, you have no complaint to make, be-
ing able to say what so few Men can, ' I
have succeeded.' On sitting down to write
a few lines to you these are the uppermost
in my mind, and, however I may be beating
about the arctic while your spirit has passed
the line, you may lay to a minute and con-
sider I am earnest as far as I can see.
Though at this present 'I have great dis-
positions to write ' I feel every day more snd
more content to read. Books are becoming
more interesting and valuable to me. I maj
say I could not live without them. If in tbe
course of a fortnight you can procure me a
ticket to tbe British Museum I will make a
better use of it than I did in the first in-
stance. I shall go on with patience in the
TO FANNV BRAWNE
! I ever do auything worth
! Reviewers will no mure
I to stumble'block ine tbau the
i Aoademy could you. They have the
I ijuutel with you that the Scotch
fl hiid with Wiillaee. The fame they
; lost thruugb you is uo joke to them,
it not been for you Fuseli would hare
D not &s he is major but inaximas douio.
C RevieweM can put a bindranee to
Im — a nothing — or mediocre which
me. I nm tony to any that since I
'OD I have been guilty of a practical
I upon Brown which has hod oil the
tucicess of an iunocent Wildfire among
people. Some day io the next week you
thall hear it from me by word of Mouth.
I have not seen the portentous Book which
was skummer'd at yon just as I left town-
It nay be light enough to serve you as a
Cork Jacket and save you for a while the
(mnble of swimming. I heard the Man
«iat rmldng and rummaging about like any
Bkhftrdson. That and the Memoirs of
Uetugi-- are the first I shall be at. From
Sr, G. B.'s. Lord Ms " and particularly Sr.
John Leicesters good lord deliver us. I
>1b1I expect to see your Picture plumped
oat like a ripe Peach — you would not be
fery willing to give me a slice of it. I
came Xa this place in the hopes of meeting
with a Library but was disappointed. The
High Street is aa quiet as a Lanib. The
knocken are dieted to three raps per diem.
The walks about are interesting from the
ttaay old Buildings and archways. The
ritw of the High Street through the Gate
t-t the City in the beautiful September
•veiuiig light has amuged me frequently,
""e bad ain^ng of the Cathedral I do not
« to smoke — being by myself I am not
' 1 my t&ste. At St. Cross there
m wteresting picture of Albert Ddrer's
~I0 living in such warlike times perhaps
forced to paint in his Gauntlets — so
wM make all allowances.
1 IB, my dear Haydon, Yours ever
John Keats.
CoUeKe Street.
[PoBtninrk, October 11, 1819.]
Mt swoit Girl — I am living today in
yesterday : I was in a complete fasciuation
oU day. I feel myself at your mercy.
Write me ever bo few Unas and tell me you
will never for ever he less kind to me than
yeaterdaj.— Yon daniled 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 bad
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 puss a day alone ? I have bod a
thousand kisses, for which with my whole
soul I thank love — but if you should deny
me the thousand and first — 'twould put
me to the proof bow great a misery 1 coold
live tbrungh. If you should ever carry
jour threat yesterday into execution —
believe me 't is not my pride, my vanity or
any petty passion would torment me —
really 't would hurt my heart — I coidd not
bear it. I have seen Mrs. Dilke this merit-
ing ; she says she will come with me any
fine day. Ever yours JoHX Keats.
Ah bert^ mine t
138. TO TBS SJkMK
113 Collatra Street.
[Postmark, Ootobrr IS, 1«19.]
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 yon 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 [lolhing else.
The time is passed when I had power to
414
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
advise and warn yon 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. . . . Tour 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
maityr'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 g^at. My love is selfish.
I cannot breathe without you.
Yours for ever John Keats.
139. TO FANinr 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 Greorge's affairs which per-
plex me a g^at 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 it
though it be merely for one day, for when
I am inclined I can do a great deal in a
day — I am more fond of pleasure tkn
study (many men have preferred the lat-
ter) but I have become resolved to knov
something which you will credit when I
tell you I have left off animal food that mr
brains may never henceforth be in a great-
er mist than is theirs by nature — I took
lodgings in Westminster for the pnrpose of
being in the reach of Books, but am no«<
returned to Hampstead bein^ indnced to itl
by the habit I have acquired in this room I '
am now in and also from the pleasure ol
being free from paying any petty atten-
tions to a diminutive house-keeping. Mi.
Brown has been my grest friend for some
time — without him 1 should have been in,
perhaps, personal dbtress — as I know yoa
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 Mn.
Dilke who never sees me but she eiiquires
after you — I have had letters from
Greorge 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 yoo
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.
Tour affectionate Brother John .
140. TO FAKKY BRAWNB
Great Smith Street,
Tuesday Mom.
[Postmark, College Street, October 19, 1819].
My sweet Fanny — On awakening
from my three days dream (<I cry to
f
TO JOHN TAYLOR
415
dream again') I find one and another
astonish'd at my idleness and thoaghtless-
ness. I was miserable last night — the
morning is always restorative. I must be
bosy, or try to be so. I have several
things to speak to yon of tomorrow morn-
ing. Mrs. Dilke I should think will tell
you that I purpose living at Uampstead.
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 anything 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 —
xny mind is in a tremble, I cannot tell what
I am writing.
Ever my love yours John Keats.
141. TO JOSEPH SEVSBK
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 finish'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
Wentworth 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
you heartily — Haslam I know * is very
Beadle to an amorous sigh.'
Your sincere friend John Keats.
142. TO JOHN TAYLOR
Wentworth Place, Hampstead,
November 17 [1819].
Mt 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- 1
lous is the most enticing, and the surest I
guarantee of harmonious numbers, I have I
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 in a
drama, would, I think, be sufficient for a
poem. I wish to diffuse th^ 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 g^atest
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 Barl of
Leicester's history. I am this morning
reading Holinshed's ' Elizabeth.' Ton 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 our errand-cart man shall call with
my little box. I will endeavour to set my-
self selfishly at work on this poem that is
to be.
Tour sincere friend
John Keats.
/
4i6
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
143. TO FAKirr ksats
Wednesday Mom —
[November 17, 1819].
"^ Mr 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
Greorge'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
N
Went worth Placet Monday Mom —
[December 6 ? 1819].
X IMy 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
fig^ire 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. (Tou had
best put me into your Cave of despair.)
Ever yours sincerely
John ELeats.
145. TO JA1CE8 BICB
Wentworth Place [Deoember 1819].
Mt dear Rice — As I want the coat on
my back mended, I would be obliged if
you would send me the one Brown left it
your house by the Bearer — Daring your
late contest I had regular reports of yon,
how that your time was completely taken
up and your health improving — I shill
call in the course of a few days, and see
whether your promotion has made any dif-
ference in your Behaviour to us. I si^,
pose Reynolds has given you an aeconnt of
Brown and Elliston. As he has not rejected
our Tragedy, I shall not venture to all
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 jet
uncertain. Perhaps we may g^ve it another
furbish and try it at Covent Garden.
'T would do one's heart good to see H«-
i cready in Ludolph. If you do not see me
soon it will be from the himiour of writing,
which I have had for three days continning.
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 tme
story ? * There was a man and his wife
who being to go a long Journey on foot, is
the course of their travels came to a rifer
which rolled knee-deep over the pebbles—
In these cases the man generally polls 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 thst
ever was heard of. Seeing her husbsnd's
foot, a handsome one enough, looked fei7 '
clean and tempting in the clear water, oo
their arrival at the other bank, she etf*
nestly demanded a bit of it. He being ^
affectionate fellow, and fearing for the
comeliness of his child, gave her a hit
>♦
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
staring wide open. ''Who would have
thought it ? " cried the widower, and pur-
sued his journey.' Brown has a little
rumbling in his stomach this morning.
Ever yours sincerely John Keats.
146. TO FANNY KEATS
Wentworth Place, Monday Mom —
[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 yon 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
Elliston to bring it out this Season or to
transfer it to Covent Grarden. 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 tiiat 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 said 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 qn
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'll lay you a pocket piece
we shall have 'My name is Nerval.' I
have not yet look'd for the Letter yon
mentioned as it is mix'd up in a box full of
papers — yon 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 yon — 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
— Grood or bad spirits have an effect on
the handwriting. This direction is at least
unnervons and healthy. Our Sister is also
well, or Creorge 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 OEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS
Thursday, January 13, 1820.
>CMy dear Si9. : By the time you receive
this your trouble will be over. I wish you
knew they were half over. I mean that
Creorge 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 g^ood-natured
flip from Fortune's finger since I saw you,
and no sideway comfort in the success of
my friends. I could almost prombe that
if I had the means I would aocompany
Greorge back to America, and pay yoo i
visit of a few months. I should not think
much of the time, or my absenoe from ray
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 wttliiii
the reach of materials for diligence. Dili-
gence, that I do not mean to say ; I should
say dreaming over my books, or ratlier
other people's books. Creorge has promised
to bring you to England when the fi?e
years have elapsed. I regpret very moeh
that I shall not be able to see you beto
that time, and even then I most hope tint
your affairs will be in so prosperous a wty
as to induce you to stop longer. Toon
is a hardish fate, to be so divided amoog
your friends and settled among a people\
you hate. You will find it improve. Too ^
have a heart that will take hold of your
children ; even George's absence will make
things better. His return will banish wbat
must be your greatest sorrow, and at the
same time minor ones with it. RobiosoQ
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 aboat
his little g^rl. He runs the common-beaten
road of every father, as I dare say yon 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 Tery
gem of all children. Ain't I its nnde ?
On Henry's marriage there was a piece of
bride cake sent me. It missed its way. ^
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 handkercluef
belonging to a Miss Grover, with whom be
TO GEORGIANA AUGUSTA KEATS
^Reoded to be miitten, and for her Bnke
kept eihibitiajr iwd adoring the baodk^r-
(bief aJl the eveniug. Fuol Lacon, Esq.,
treated it with a little ventureaooie, trem-
bling coatuioeljr, where upou Charles set him
ijuietl; down on the floor, from where he
u qnictlj got up. Tbia process was re-
pealed at supper time, when ;our mother
nid. * It I were you Mr. Lacon I woald
Dot let him do so,' Pool Locoo, Esq., did
not offer any remark. He will uadoiibtedly
die in bis bud. Your mother did not look
^nilD so well 00 Sunday. Mrs. Hi-ury
Wylie is escMsively qniet before people.
1 hope she is always ao. Teaterday we
^wd at Taylor's, in FleetStieet. George
■ftaftrly after dinner to go to Deptford ;
^briU make all square there for me. I
PiU not go with bim — I did not like the
•BDMrnent. Haslam b a very good fellow
Indeed; he bas been eioessiTelj anxious
Ud kind to ua. But ia this fair ? He has
>A itUDtmorata at Deptford, and he bas been
WVBting me for some time past to see her.
•CUi ii a thing which it is impossible not to
■Atrk. A man is like a magnet — be must
hats a repelling end. So bow am I to see
Rubuu's lady and family, if I even went ?
Ua by the time I gut to Greenwich I should
kaTB repell'd them to Blackheatb, and by
Um time I got to Deptford they would be
•n Shooter's Hill ; when I came to Shooter
Bill they would alight at Chatham, and so
on id] t drove tbeui into the sea, which 1
'- .:iik might be indictable. The evening
"M! yesterday we had a pianoforte bop at
». V There was very Uttle Bmnsement
': liie room, but a Scotchman to hate.
^Xiiua people, you must have observed, hare
* moat unpleasant effect upon you when
tmi (ee them speaking in profile. This
^Mtcfanuui u the most accomplished fellow
>a this way I ever met with. The effect
•■i complete. It went down like a dose
Vl bitter, and I hope nill improve my
<jfHtioti. At Taylor's too, there was a
BtBtt^bman, — not quite so bod, for he was
■ oIami aa be could get himself. Not hav-
419
ing succeeded in Drury Lane with our
tragedj-, we have been making some altera-
tions, and are about to try Coveat Garden.
Brown bas just done patching np the copy
— as it is altered. The reliance I bad on
it was in Kean's acting. I am not afraid
it will be damn'd in the Garden. Tou aaid
in one of your letters that there was no-
thing hut Haydon and Co. in mine. There
can be nothing of him in this, for I never
see him or Co. George bas introduced to
UB an American of the name of Hart. I
like him in a moderate way. He was at
Mrs. Dilke's party — and aittiug by me ;
we began talking about English and
American ladies. The Aliss and some
of their friends made not a very enticing
row opposite us. I bade him mark them
and form his judgment of tbcm. I told
him I bated Englishmen becaasc they were
the only men I know. Ho does not under-
stand this. Who would be Braggadocbio
to Johnny Boll 7 Johnny's boose is Ub
castle — and a precioua dull oaatle it is ;
what a many Bull castles there are in so-
and-ao crescent I I never wish myself an
unversed writer nod 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 yo4i
about. Only let me have his Icnowlodgn of
family minutie and 1 would set them in a
proper light ; bat, bless me, 1 never go any-
where. My pen is nn more garruloun than
my tongue. Any third person would think
I was addressing myself to a loror of
scandal. But we know we do not love
scandal, but fun ; and if scandal happens
to be fnn, that is no fault of oars. Than
were very good pickings for me in George's
letters about the prurie settlement, if I bud
any taste to turn theui to account in Eng-
land. I knew B friend of Miss Andrews, yet
I never mentioned her to him ; for after I
luid read the letter I really diil not recol-
li^ct her story. Now I have lieen sitting
here half an Iionr with my invention at
420
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
1
work, to say sometluDg about your mother
or Charles or Henry, but it is in Tain. I
know not what to say. Three nights since,
George went with yoor mother to the phiy.
I hope she will soon see mine acted. I do
not remember ever to have thanked yon for
yonr 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 Greorge
not to let his partiality for me come across,
rr 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 Lonisville ; 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.
•y^ 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.
Greorge 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.
Ton 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 tone with then
if our lives were more ran in parallel; bit
we can talk but on one sobject — that ii
yon.
The more I know of men the more I
know how to value entire liberality in tij
of them. Thank God, there are a grat
many who will saerifioe their worldly ii-
terest for a friend. I wish there weis
more who would sacrifice their r»wn^^
The worst of men are those whose sdf-
interests are their passicm; the next, thoM
whose pas8k>ns are their self - intemtl
Upon the whole I dislike mankind. Whit>
ever people on the other side of the qnes*
tion may advance, they cannot deny tint
they are always surprised at hearing of i
good action, and never of a bad one. I an
glad you have something to like in Amezies
— doves. Gertrude of Wyoming and Biik-
beck's book should be bound up together
like a brace of decoy ducks — one is almoat
as poetical as the other. Precious mise^
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 hts
nothing to do in winter bat to give a littk
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 hs
had more colour than the engraving. Toa
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 thiee
last letters, not one of which had reached
before George sailed. I would give two-
pence to have been over the world as mudi
as he has. I wish I had money enough
to do nothing but travel about for yeazSi
Were you now in England I dare say yoa
would be able (setting aside the pleanire
you would have in seeing your mother) to
suck out more amusement for society tiian
f
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
«hance to fall into I know by heart. I
E^ow the different styles of talk in differ-
ent places, — what subjects will be started,
how 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
heard before, old puns, and old music ; to
Haydon's worn-out discourses of poetry and
painting. 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.
Wlien I g^w 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. Tou 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 grater 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, Jannarj 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. Tlie first makes
you laugh and think, the second makes yon
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 eans 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 yon his story as
my own. I should like to set him right in
it by your evidence. Greorg^ 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 yon 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 b 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, Toung 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 modem poems. Every
American book ought to have it. It would
be a g^ood distinction in society. My Lords
Welling^n and Castlereagh, and Canning,
and many more, would do well to wear
Twang-dillo-dee on their backs instead of
Ribbons at their buttonholes; 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 ; *wiii'
reaches downward and slants as for »
Timbuctoo in Africa ; the tail of the ';'
goes slap across the Atlantic into the Bk>
della Plata ; the remainder of the letteis
wrap around New Holland, and the last 'e'
terminates in land we have not yet dis-
covered. However, I must be silent; tbeie
are dangerous times to libel a man in-
much more a world.
>< Friday, 27 [for 28th Jaauazy, 1820].
I wish you would call me names: I de-
serve them so much. I have only wiitta
two sheets for you, to carry by Cseorge, and
those I forgot to bring to town and have
therefore to forward them to Liverpool
Greorge went this morning at 6 o'clock by
the Liverpool coach. His bein^^ on bift
journey to you prevents my regretting ba
short stay. I have no news of any sut to
tell you. Henry is wife bound in Camda
Town; there is no getting him ovrt. lam
sorry he has not a prettier wife: indeed 'tis
a shame: she is not half a wife. I think I
could find some of her relations in BufFoo,
or Capt" Cook's voyages or the hiero^itf-
glyphics in Moor's Almanack, or upon i
Chinese clock door, the shepherdesses oo
her own mantelpiece, or in a cr%UL 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 tbe
country where there will be no sort of news,
I shall not be able to write you very lonf
letters. Besides I am afraid the postage
comes to too much ; which till now I hsTe
not been aware of.
People in military bands are genenllj
seriously occupied. None may or can laugh
at their work but the Kettle Drum, Long
Drum, Do. Triangle and Cymbals. Think-
ing you might want a rat-catcher I pat
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 Aunilj.
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.
Tour affectionate Brother
John Exeats.
/ 149. TO PANirr bAawnb
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-
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. EkEATS.
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
remained so silent all day.
150. TO PANirV KEATS
Wentworth Place, Sunday Morning^.
[February 6, 1820.]
A^ 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 friends 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 laugh'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
Wentworth Place, Tuesday Mom.
[February 8, 1820.]
X 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 g^rass 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 unpresuming
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 mustn'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 ih.
Bones. Tou shall hear from me again tin
day after to-morrow.
Your affectionate Brother
John Keats.
^ ; 162. TO PANNY BRAWKE
My DEAREST Girl, — If illness maket
such an agreeable variety in the maimei
of your eyes I should wish you sometimes to
be ill. I wish I had read your note befoie
you went last night that I might hare
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— joa
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 Longs
that I felt nearly suffocated — I assure
you I felt it possible I might not surriTe,
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.
y
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 »
certain unpleasant subject, it has been with
your welfare impressed upon my mind.
How hurt I should have been had you evei
acceded to what is, notwithstanding, vert
>t
TO FANNY BRAWNE
425
reasonable ! How much the more do I
love 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 Liorenzo's Ghost to
Isabella
* Your Beauty grows upon me and I feel
A grreater love through all my essence steal.'
My g^atest torment since I have known
^u 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
as much a wonder to me as a delight. Send
me the words ' Good night ' to put under
my pillow.
Dearest Fanny,
Your affectionate J. K.
X
154. TO FAKNY KJSATS
Wentworth Place [February 11, 1820].
My dear Fanny — I am much the
same 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
t
Wentworth Place, Monday Mom.
[February 14, 1820.]
My dear Fanny — I am improving but
very gradually and suspect it will be along
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
bad 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 Greorg^
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 — You shall
hear from me again the day after to-morrow.
Your affectionate Brother John.
156. TO PANNY 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 my
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 perhaps
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 JAMES 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 saj. I shall fol-
low your example in looking to the fotaie
good rather than broodin|^ upon the preseit
ill. I have not been so worn with length*
ened illnesses as you have, therefore cut-
not answer you on your own groimd witk
respect to those haunting and deformed
thoughts and feelings you speak of. Whes
I have been, or supposed myself in healtb,
I have had my share of them, espeeiallj
within the last year. I may say, tiiat f(f
six months before I was ta^n Ul I had\
not passed a tranquil day. Cither tkt
gloom overspread me, or I was sufferii^
under some passionate feeling, or if I
turned to versify, that acerbated the poison
of either sensation. The beanties 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 deoeptin
thoughts and images, and makes me pe^
ceive things in a truer light), — how artos-
ishingly does the chance of leaving the
world impress a sense of its natoral beau-
ties upon us I Like poor Falstaff, though I
do not * babble,' I think of green fields ; 1
muse with the greatest affection on eveir
flower I have known from my infancy —
their shapes and colours are as new to me
as i| I had just created them with a supe^
human fancy. It is because they aie con-
nected with the most thoughtless ^^ the
happiest moments of our lives. I hare
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 ag^ain.
Brown has left the inventive and takes
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 g^ve 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 sot
mind a game of cards in a saw-pit or wag-
gon, but if ever you catch me on a stage-
TO FANNY BRAWNE
4»7
coach in the winter full agaiuit the wind,
bring me down with a brace of bullets, and
I promiBe uot to 'peach. Reroemlier me to
- ReynoldB, and uj how mnch I Bhould like
to hear from him ; that BrowD returued
iwmediatelj attar he went on Sunday, and
that I was vexed at forgetting to ask him
to lunch ; for bs he went towsrde the gate,
I saw he was fatigued and hungry.
I am, mj deftz Rice, ever moat sincerely
John Keats.
I have broken this open to let yon know
I was Burprised at seeing it on the table
this moming, thinking it bad gone long
ago.
[FebrnuT 19, IHSt.]
Mt dbar Fakkt — Being ooufined al-
most entiielj 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 dongeroiii Symptoms
about me, and quietness of mind and fine
weather will restore me. Mind uiy advice
to be very oorefnl to wear warm cloathing
in a thaw. I will write again on Tuesday
when I hope to send jou gaod news.
Your affectionate Brother John .
lei. TO fa:
My dearest Famny — I read your
note in bed last night, and that might l:e
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 sii it may be the best
time. Should yon ever fancy me too low-
spirited I mnst warn you to ascribe it to
tbe medicine I am at present takinjr which
ia of a nerve-shaking nature. I shall im-
pute Buy depression I may experience to
this oHuse. 1 have been writing with a
vile old pen the whole week, which ia ei-
cesaivcly uugallant. The fault is iu the
Quill ; I have mended it and still it is very
much incLin'd to make blind es. However
these last lioes oie in a much better style
of penmanship, tho' a little disfigured by
the smear of black currant jelly ; which bos
mode 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 remaiaa very
purple. I did Dot know whether to say
purple or blue so ia the mixture of the
thought wrote purplue which may be on
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.
My dear Famny, — 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 thatyon
call me LoBr. still. To see you happy and
in high spirits in 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 ; it so you
most indulge me, and pamper with that
aiirt of tenderness you have manifested to-
wards me ia different Letters. My sweet
creature when I look back upon the pains
and torments I have suffor'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 tbe miseries in their turn, I
wonder the more at the Beauty which has
kept up the spell so furvently. When I
send this round I shall be in the front par-
428
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
lonr watching to see you show yourself for
a minute in the garden. How illness
stands as a barrier betwixt me and you I
Even if I was well 1 must make my-
self «s 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 loy'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.
Grod bless you, Love. J. ELeats.
163. TO THB SAME
Mt dearest Girl, — You spoke of
having been unwell in your last note : have
you recovered? That note has been a
g^at 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. €rod 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 depressed a state of mind — ask your
Mother to come and see me — she will
bring yon a better account than mine.
Ever your affectionate John Keats.
164. TO JOHN HAMILTOK BETK0LD8
[FebniAiy 23 or ^, 1820.]
Mt dear Reynolds — I have been im-
proving since you saw me : my nights in
better which I think is a very eneoii>
aging thing. You mention your edd is
rather too slighting a manner — if yos
travel outside have some flannel agaiut
the wind — which I hope will not keep od
at this rate when you are in the PiiBket
boat. Should it rain do not stop apoo
deck though the Passengers should fomit
themselves inside out. Keep nnder Hatefaes
from all sort of wet.
I am pretty well provided with Boob at
present, when you return I may give job a
commission or two. Mr. B[arry] C[omiiaIl]
has sent me not only his Sicilian Stozy bot
yesterday his Dramatic Scenes — thii is
very polite, and I shall do what I can to
make him sensible I think so. I confea
they teaze me — they are composed of
amiability, the Seasons, the Leaves, tlie
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 hia. I
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 cfotf
the water with you. JBrown wishes yon a
pleasant voyage — Have fish for dinner at
the sea ports, and don't forget a bottle of
Claret. Tou will not meet with so much to
hate at Brussels as at Paris. Remember me
to all my friends. If J were well enongb I
would paraphrase an ode of Horace's for
you, on your embarking in the seTcnty
years ago style. The Packet will bears
comparison with a Roman galley at any
rate.
Ever yours affectionately
J. Keats.
At
TO FANNY BRAWNE
429
165. TO TAKSY BRAWNE
Mt dearest Girl — Indeed I will not
deceive yon with respect to my Health.
This is the fact as far as I know. I have
been confined three weeks and am not yet
well — this proves that there is something
wrong about me which my constitution will
either conquer or give way to. Let us
hope for the best. Do yon hear the Thrush
singing over the field ? I think it is a
sign of' mild weather — so much the bet-
ter for me. Like ail Sinners now I am ill
I philosophize, aye out of my attachment
to every thing, Trees, flowers, Thrushes,
Spring, Summer, Claret, &c. &o. — aye
every thing but you. — My sister would be
glad of my company a little longer. That
Thrush is a fine fellow. I hope he was
fortunate in his choice this year. Do not
send any more of my Books home. I have
a grreat pleasure in the thought of yon look-
ing on them.
Ever yours my sweet Fanny J. K.
166. TO FAITKT KEATS
Wentworth Place, Thursday.
[Febmapy 24, 182a]
My dear Fanny — I am sorry to hear
you have been so unwell : now you are bet-
ter, keep so. Remember to be very care-
ful of your clothing — this climate requires
the utmost care. There has been very
little alteration in me lately. I am much
the same as when I wrote last. When I
am well enough to return to my old diet I
shall g^t stronger. If my recovery should
be delay'd long I will ask Mr. Abbey to let
you visit me — keep up your Spirits as well
as you can. Tou shall hear soon again
from me.
Your affectionate Brother John
167. TO FANNY BRAWNE
My deai^est 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 I
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 bom in England
with our own great Men before my eyes.
Thank €rod 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 resigned to my confinement. I
dare not think of you much or write much
to you. Remember me to all.
Ever your affectionate
John Keats.
430
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
169. TO THE SAME
Mt dear Fanny — I think you had het^
ter not make any long stay with me when
Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes
out you may bring your work. Ton 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, 'tis past — if yon 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-
servesy 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. Grood bye
My sweet Love ! J. Keats.
170. TO THE SAME
My dearest 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 dearest Love — Tou must
so long in the cold — I have been
ing that window to be open. — Y
half-cured me. When I want soe
oranges I will tell yon — these
k propos. I am kept from food
rather weak — otherwise very well
do not stop so long upstairs — it m
uneasy — come every now and t1
stop a half minute. Remember
Your Mother.
Your ever affectionate J. K
172. TO THE SABnS
Sweetest Fanny — You fear
times, I do not love you so much
wish ? My dear Girl I love you e
ever and without reserve. The
have known the more have I lo
every way — even my jealousies ht
agonies of Love, in the hottest fit
had I would have died for you.
vez'd you too much. But for Loi
I help it ? You are always new.
of your kisses was ever the sweet
last smile the brightest ; the las
ment the gracefullest. When yoi
my window home yesterday, I i«
with as much admiration as if I b
seen you for the first time. You a
half complaint once that I only \o^
beauty. Have I nothing else then
in you but that ? Do not I see
naturally furnish'd with wings imp
self with me ? No ill prospect has b
to turn your thoughts a moment fi
This perhaps should be as much a
of sorrow as joy — but I will not
that. Even if you did not love me
not help an entire devotion to y(
much more deeply then must I
you knowing you love me. y.[y l^J
been the most discontented and res
TO CHARLES WENTWORTH DILKE
431
^er was pat into a body too small for
oever felt my Mind repose upon any-
with complete and undistraoted en-
it — upon no person but you. When
e in the room my thoughts never fly
; window: you always concentrate
ole senses. The anxiety shown about
>Te8 in your last note is an immense
re to me : however you must not
such speculations to molest you any
nor win I any more believe you can
lie least pique against me. Brown is
at — but here is Mrs. Wiley — when
gone I shall be awake for you. —
obrances to your Mother,
r affectionate J. Keats.
TO CHARLBS WBNTWOBTH DUICB
[Hampstead, Maroh 4, 1820.]
DEAR DiLKE — Since I saw you I
sen gradually, too gradually perhaps,
ing ; and though under an interdict
espect to animal food, living upon
victuals, Brown says I have pick'd
ittle flesh lately. If I can keep off
nation for the next six weeks I
shall do very well. Ton certainly
have been at Martin's dinner, for
I an index is surely as dull work
praving. Have you heard that the
»ller is going to tie himself to the
r eat or not as he pleases. He
lice shall have his foot on the
notwithstanding. Reynolds is go-
sail on the salt seas. Brown has
nightily progressing with his Ho-
A damn'd melancholy picture it
during the first week of my illness
me a psalm-singiug nightmare, that
ne almost faint away in my sleep. I
[ am better, for I can bear the Pic-
I have experienced a specimen of
politeness from Mr. Barry Cornwall,
sent me his books. Some time ago
I given his first published 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 supemomer-
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 handwriting — 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
Mt dear Fannt — 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? Yon 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 occasuml
a Phantasmagoria. It will be a nice idle
amusement to hunt tifter 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 beai
cold as a topsail in a north latitude — lad-
vise you to furl yourself and come in %
doors.
Good bye Love. J. K.
176. TO THE SAMS
Mt dearest Fannt — I slept well lut
night and am no worse this morning for it
Day by day if I am not deceived I gets
more unrestrain'd use of my Chest. Ike
nearer a racer gets to the Goal the more hii
anxiety becomes; so I lingering upon the
borders of health feel my impatience in-
crease. Perhaps on your account I hare
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 mnst
come at last; Man must die, as Shallow
says; but before that is my fate I fain
would try what more pleasures than yon
have given, so sweet a creature as yon can
give. Let me have another opportunity of
years before me and I will not die withoot
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 witb
writing, having merely to put a line or two
here and there, a Task which would worry
a stout state of the body and mind, bot
which just suits me as I can do no more.
Tour affectionate J. K.
177. TO THE SAME
My dearest Fannt — Though I shall
see you in so short a time I cannot forbear
sending you a few lines. You say I ^^^
TO FANNY BRAWNE
not give jou jesterda; a minute aceonnt of
my health. Today I hava left off the
Medicine vbich 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
shonB there is uo inflammation remaining.
You think I may be wearied at night you
say; it ia 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 juke
of it: do not expose yourself to the cold.
There's the Thrush again — I can't afford
it — he'll run me up a pretty Bill for
Music — beBides he ought to know I deal
at dementi's. How can yon 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 fur it.
Your affectionate
J. K.
[Marsh 20, 1820.]
My dear Fanny — According to your
desire I write to..dBy. 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
atightest exertion. I am much the same
to.Jay as I have been for a week past. They
say 'tis nothingbutdebility 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 yon bear 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 yonr most Affectionate Brother
Jons .
L — 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 wag
equally biaa'd the other way by your going
to Town, I cannot be easy to-night without
telling you you would he wrong to suppose
BO. 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 7 I will tho'
whilst I am an invalid, in spite of you.
Good night, Love I J. K.
180. TO TBX BAUR
My dearebt 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 cuniplatn of ia
want of strength and a little tightnesa in
the Chest. I envied Sam's walk with you
today; which I will not do agaiu as I may
get very tired of envying. 1 imagine yon
now sitting in your new black dress which
I like ao much anil it I were a little less
selBsh 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 ft
frog in a frost. I bad 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 I Illness is
a long lane, but I see you at the end of it,
and shall mend my pace aa well as poo-
sible. J. E.
Dear Girl-
thought me wi
Yesterday you must bava
rse than I really was. I
434
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
assure you there was nothing bat 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 very
deeply. Perhaps Reynolds 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 Ham^
stead, for I think I know where to find a
Master or Mistress for him. Yoa may d^
pend upon it if you were even to ton it
loose in the common road it would sooi
find an owner. If I keep improTiiig as I
have done I shall be able to eome over to
you in the course of a few weeks. I shoidd
take the advantage of your beings in Towi
but I cannot bear the City though I ban
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 froo
Greorge yet since he left LiyerpooL 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. most give up
such a correspondence when as the bib
said all the Letters are on one side. I
write with greater ease than I had tiioogkt,
therefore you shall soon hear from ne
again.
Your affectionate Brother Johk
183. TO THB SAME
[AprU 1820.]
My dear Fanny — Mr. Brown is wiit*
ing for me to take a walk. Mrs. Dilke s
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 reg^ter where he was bom — I stiQ
continue on the mending hand.
Tour affectionate Brother John
184. TO THB SAME
Wentworth Place, April 12, [1830].
My dear Fanny — Excuse these shabbj
scraps of paper I send you — and also froo
endeavouring to give you any consolatks
just at present, for though my health 0
tolerably well I am too nervous to enter
into any discussion in which my heart is
TO FANNY KEATS
43S
concerned. Wait patiently and take care
of yoor health, being especially careful to
keep yourself from low spirits which are
.^[reat enemies to health. You are young
and have only need of a little patience.
I am not yet able to bear the fatigue of
ooming to Walthamstow, though I have
])een to Town once or twice. I have
thought of taking a change of air. You
fihall 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 THB SAMS
[HampBtead, April 21, 1820.]
Mt dear Fannt — I have been slowly
improving since I wrote last. The Doctor
lusnres 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 wish 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 g^ing
in a fortnight and therefore you will see
me within 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
reg^t not being able to alleviate the un-
pleasantness of your situation, but trust my
dear Fanny that better times are in ¥rait
for you.
Your affectionate Brother John .
186. TO THE SAME
Wentworth Place, Thozsday [May 4, 1820].
Mt dear Fannt — I went for the first
time into the City the day before yesterday,
for before I was very disinclined to en-
counter the souffie, 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. Brown
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 IVirs. 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 g^t 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,
fie 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 Uve, and so
you will find as you grow older.
I am, my dear Fanny, your affectionate
firother, John .
187. TO CHABLES WEKTWOBTH DILKB
[Hampstead, May 1820.]
Mt dear Dilke — As firown 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 Lidia-
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 fiooks you
want come you shall have them. I am
very well this afternoon. My dearest. . . .
[Signature cut off.]
189. TO THE aAXB
Tuesday Aftemooa.
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 is
being somehow occupied to give you bow-
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 SAMB
Tnesday Mom.
My dearest Girl — I wrote aletterfoc
you yesterday expecting to have seen your
mother. I shall be selfish enough to send
it though I know it may give yoo a little
pain, because I wish you to see how m-
happy I am for love of you, and endeavow
as much as I can to entice you to give op
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 yon forget
me? Perhaps you think of me all dtj.
Have I any right to wish you to be iu-
happy for me ? You would forgive me far
wishing it if you knew the extreme passios
I have that you should love me — and for
you to love me as I do you, yon 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
Lave seen you the whole time in your
shepherdess dress. How my senses have
ached at it ! How my heart has been
devoted to it I 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--
f^
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN
437
promise me you wiU not for some lime till I get
better. Promise me this and fill the paper
full of the most endearing names. If you
cannot do so with g^d will, do my love tell
2ne — say what you think — confess if your
heart is too much fastened 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
liappier ; by being less tantalized. 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
^th 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 now — 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
bave 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
1 Isave me — or tell me my passion is of too
J lawful a nature for you. Again God bless
Vyou.
J. K.
No — my sweet Fanny — I am wrong — I
^o 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 U, [1820.]
Mt dear Taylor — In reading over
the proof of St. Agnes's 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 fry, 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 Keat8.
192. TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWK
[Wesleyan Place, Kentish Town, Jane, 1820.]
My dear Brown — I have only been to
*s once since you left, when could
not find your letters. Now this b 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 Greorge. 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
triaJ ; not nicoeeding, I sh&ll try what I can
do in the apothecary line. Wben joa hear
from or see it is probable jou will
Lear some compLiinta against me, which
this notice is not intended to foruatatl.
The fact is, I did behave badly j but it is
to be attributed to my health, spirits, and
the disadvantageous ground I stand oii in
society. I could go and accommodate mat-
ters if I were aot 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
•hall know verj few people in the course
of a year or two. Men get such different
habits that thej become as oil and vinegar
to one another. Thus far I have a con-
sciouauess 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.
Pact is, I have had so many kindnesses
done me by so many people, that I am
{hcTcaux-de-friscd with bcuefits, which I
must jump over or break down. I met
in town, a few days ago, who invited
me to supper to meet Wordsworth, Southej,
Lamb, Haydon, and some more ; I was too
careful of my health to risk beiug out at
night. Talking of that, I continut to im-
prove slowlj-, but I think surely. There is
a famous eihibitiun in FalUMatl 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 tor the Sup-
pression of Women ; ' so very squalid and
subdued to notliing he IdoIcb. Then, there
is old Lord Burleigh, the high-priest of
economy, the political save-all, who lias the
appeanmce of a Pharisee just rebuffed by
a Gospel bon-mot. Then, there is Georgu
the Second, very like an unintellectual
Voltaire, troubled with the gout and a bad
temper. Then, there is young Devereux,
the favourite, with every appearance of as
al&Dg a boxer as any iu the Court ; Us
face is cast in the mould of blackguudina
with jockey-plaster. I sball soon begin
upon 'Lney Vanghan Lloyd.* *• I do not
begin composition yet, being willii^, ia
case of a relapse, to have nothing to ic
proach myself with. I hope the weitbet
will give yon the slip ; letitshowitielfud .
steal out of your company. When I hais
sent oS this, I shall write another to tome
place about Bfty miles in advance of you.
Good morning to you. Yours ever do>
corely. Jonx KsAn.
lJi3. TO FANItT XKAT8 1
Prida; Mora [WadeTui Place '
Kentish Town, June 36, IfW.]
My dear Fannv — I had intended ta ,
delay seeing yon till a Book which I an
now publishing was out, expecting tlul to
be the end of this week when I would hive
brought it to Watthamstow : on reeeiviif
your Letter of course I set myself to com
to town, but was not able, for just ai I ml
setting out yesterday morning a slight
spitting of blood came on which retuned
rather more copiously at night. I biie
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 troB
George who is with his family quite welL
Your affectionate Brother JoUN •
l&t. Til rAt
Wednesday Monui«.
My dearest Fajj.vy — I have been t
walk this morning with a book in my hui3f
but as usual I have been occupied with
nothing but you : I wish I could say in id
agreeable manner. I am tormented dij
and night. They talk of my going to Itilj-
'Tis certain 1 shall never recover it 1 am
to be 90 loflg separate from yon : yet witk
all this devotion to yon I cannot persuade
myself into any confidence of you. I'»»t
7f
TO FANNY KEATS
439
experience connected with the fact of my
long separation from yon giyes 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 iu
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 unU 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 — yon 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
^ Ain me. You do not feel as I do — you do
( not know what it is to love — one day you
'^ yp&j — your time is not come. Ask your-
Mlf how many unhappy hours Keats has
* caused you in Loneliness. For myself I
- have been a Martyr the whole time, and
P for this reason I speak ; the confession is
' forc'd fi*om 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 otiier
societies as I have seen you — I do not
want to live — if yon 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 yon foUow
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 ! 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.
195. TO TAKSY KEATS
Mortimer Terraoe, Wednesday [July 5, 1820J..
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;
reSstablishment of my health under some
months of patience. My Physician tellSv
me I must contrive to pass 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.
He 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
shoald continue 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
comer stone of all pleasure.
Your affectionate Brother John .
196. TO BENJAMIN ROBERT HATDON
[Mortimer Tezraoe, July, 1820.]
Mt dear Hatdon — I am sorry to be
•obliged to try your patience a few more
days when you will have the Book [Chap-
man's Homer] 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 Kjlatb.
197. TO fanny KEATS
Mortimer Terrace [July 22, 1820.]
liiY 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. I^y
constitution has suffered very much for two
or three years past, so as to be scarcely
able to make head ag^nst 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 Greorge'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 tame pass as agreeaU;
with me as possible. I read the groates
part of the day, and generally take tw
half-hour walks arday up and down th
terrace which is very much pestered irit
cries, ballad singers, and street music W
have been so unfortunate for so long a ttmi
every event has been of so depressing
nature that I must persuade myself t
think some change ¥rill take place in th
aspect of our affairs. I shall be upon th
look out for a trump card.
Your affectionate Brother
JoHK-^— .
198. TO FANNT BRAWNX
My DEAREST Fanny — My head is pu^
zled this morning, and I scarce know whi
I shall say though I am full of a hondre
things. Tis certain I would rather b
writing to you this morning, notwithstand
ing the alloy of g^ef in such an occnpttioD
than enjoy any other pleasure, with besiti
to boot, unconnected with you. Upon bit
soul I have loved you to the extreme. I
wish you could know the Tenderness with
which I continually brood over your diffe^
ent aspects of countenance, action and dntf'
I see you come down in the morning : I >m
you meet me at the Window — I see every
thing over again eternally that I ever baffi
seen. If I get on the pleasant clue I U^
in a sort of happy misery, if on the on-
pleasant 't is miserable misery. Yoa eom-
plain of my illtreatingyou in word, thought
and deed — I am sorry, — at times I f«l
bitterly sorry that I ever made you un-
happy— my excuse is that those woidf
have been wrung from me by the shtfi^
ness of my feelings. At all events an(
in any case I have been wrong ; coold
believe that I did it without any caose,
should be the most sincere of Penitent
I could give way to my repentant feelbf
now, I could recant all my suspicions,
could mingle with you heart and So
TO FANNY BRAWNE
441
thoagh abtenty were it not for some parts
of TOUT Letters. Do you suppose it possi-
ble I eould ever leave you? You know
wbt I tliink of myself and what of you.
Ton know that I should feel how much it
wu my loss and how little yours. My
frinids lao^ at you I I know some of
them— when I know them all I shall never
tUak of them again as friends or even
leqoaitttance. My friends have hehaved
vdl to me in every instance but one, and
there they have become tattlers, and in-
^niiitors into my conduct : spying upon a
leefet I would rather die than share it with
tnj body's confidence. For this I cannot
vish them well, I care not to see any of
them again. If I am the Theme, I will
•ot be the Friend of idle Gossips. Good
fodi what a shame it is our Loves should
W 10 pat into the microscope of a Coterie.
Their langfas should not affect you (I may
feibaps give you reasons some day for
thaee laughs, for I suspect a few people to
hils me well enough, for retuons I know of,
who have pretended a great friendship for
m) when in competition with one, who if
he never should see you again would make
jw the Saint of his memory. These
LugfaerSy who do not like you, who envy
you for your Beauty, who would have God-
hiess'd me from you for ever: who were
|ljing me with disencouragements with
•eqpeet to you eternally. People are re-
nagefnl -* do not mind them — do nothing
Wt love me — if I knew that for certain
fife and health wiU in such event be a hea-
i«B,and death itself will be less painful.
I long to believe in immortality. I shall
asTer 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
eveir pass between you and those laughers ;
if I have no other merit than the great
harm for yon, that were sufficient to keep
UMB aaered 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 forever.
If concession to me has hurt your Pride
Grod 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 enon^ 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 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 I 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 8ASIE
I do not writ* thU tUl the lut,
that no eye nuy catch it.
Mt siearest Girl — I wish you could
invent some means to make me at all happy
without you. Every hour I am more and
more concentrated iu you ; every thing else
tastes like chaff in my Mouth. I feel it
442
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
almost impossible to go to Italy — the fact
is I cannot leave you, and shall never taste
one minute's content mitil it pleases chance
to let me live with yon for good. But I
wiU 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 Cottjige
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 yon — 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 I 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 wliich you are smiling
with. I hate men, and women more. I see
nothing but thorns for the future — mho-
ever I may be next winter, in Italy or no-
where. Brown will be living near you with ^
his indecencies. I see no prospeet oi vxjr
rest. Suppose me in Rome — well, I should •
there see you as in a magic glass going to |
and from town at all hours, 1 wish
you could infuse a little confidence ol 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 tlie
grave — I am sure I shall never have loj .
rest till I get there. At any rate I will
indulge myself by never seeing any more "v '
Dilke or Brown or any of their Fnendv '
I wish I was either in your arms fnll of
faith or that a Thunder bolt would strike
me.
Grod bless yon.
J.K.
209. TO FANmr kkats
Wentworth Phice [August 14, 1820].
My dear Fanny — 'T is a long time
since I received your last. An accident d
an unpleasant nature occurred at Mr. Hnnf s
and prevented me from answering yooi
that is to say made me nervous. That joa
may not suppose it worse I will mentioa
that some one of Mr. Hunt's hoa8ebold|
opened a Letter of mine — upon which 11
immediately left Mortimer Terrace, witkl
the intention of taking to Mrs. Bentley'r
again ; fortunately I am not in so lone ft
situation, but am staying a short time witb
Mrs. Brawne who lives in the hoose whicb
was Mrs. Dilke's. I am excessively ne^
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 woold
be were I to remain in this climate all the
Winter : so I am thinking of either voyft-
ging or travelling to Italy. Yesterday I
received an invitation from Mr. Shelley, ft
Grentleman residing at Pisa, to spend the
Winter with him : if I g^ I must be away
in a month or even less. I am glad yon
TO JOHN TAYLOR
443
ike tbe Poems, joa must hope with me
iut time and health will produce you some
Dore. This is the first morning I have
MB able to sit to the paper and have many
setters to write if I can manage them,
lod bless you my dear Sister.
Your affectionate Brother John .
201. TO PEROT BYSSHB SHELLET
VTentwcnth Place, Hampstead, Angrnst, 1820.]
Mr DEAR Shellet — I am very much
Tttified that you, in a foreign country,
sd with a mind almost over-occupied,
kould write to me in the strain of the let-
sr beside me. If I do not take advan-
ige of your invitation, it wiU be prevented
J a circumstance I have very much at
etrt to prophesy. There is no doubt that
B English winter would put an end to\
ie,aDd do so in a lingering hateful man-'
er. Therefore, I must either voyage or
Nuney to Italy, as a soldier marches
p to a battery. My nerves at present
le the worst part of me, yet they feel
lotbed that, come what extreme may,
shall not be destined to remain in one
mi long enough to take a hatred of
Vf four particular bedposts. I am glad
Ml take any pleasure in my poor poem,
lush I would willingly take the trou-
b to unwrite, if possible, did I care so
■di as I have done about reputation. I
tenved a eopy of the Cenci, as from yourA
tf, from Hunt. There is only one parti
f it I am judge of — the poetry and
umatie effect, which by many spirits
madays is considered the Mammon. A
odem work, it is said, must have a pur-
Me, whieh may be the God. An artist
■st serve Mammon ; he must have ** self-
neentration ** — selfishness, perhaps. You,
sm sore, will forgive me for sincerely
narking that you might curb your mag-/
dimity, and be more of an artist, a»d\
d 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 eztraor--
dinary talk for the writer of £ndymion,(
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 in 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. Mid 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 TATLOB
Wentworth Place [August 14, 1820].
My dear Taylor — My chest is in such
a nervous state, that anyUiing 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 haunts 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 say, but must desist, for
every line I write increases the tightness of
my chest, and I have many more to do, I
am convinced that this sort of thing does
AAA
III
LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS
not continne for nothing. If you can come,
with any of oar friends, do.
Your sincere friend John Keats.
203. TO BENJAMIN BOBKRT HAYDON
Mrs. Bnfwne's Next door to Brown's,
Wentworth PLioe, Hampstead,
[Augrnst] 1820.
Mt dear Hatdon — I am mnch 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 tame 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 TATLOB
Wentworth Place [August 15, 1820].
Mt 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 bead. Damn all thieves I Tell
Woodhouse I have not lost his Blackwood.
Testamentary paper enclosed in the/oregoiii^
My chest of Books divide among mj
friends.
In case of my death this scrap of papcf
may be serviceable in your possession.
All my Estate real and personal consists
in the hopes of the sale of books publiili'd
or unpublished. Now I wish Brown and
you to be the first paid Creditors — the reft
is in nubibus — but in case it shoald shover
pay my Taylor the few pouods I owe hioL
205. TO CHARLES ABaOTAQB BROWN
[Wentworth Place, August 1820.]
My dear Brown — Tou may not have
heard from , or ^ or in any way,
that an attack of spitting of blood, and dl
its weakening consequences, has prevented
me from writing for so long a time. I
have matter now for a very Jong letter, but
not news : so I must cut everything short
I shall make some confession, which yoo
will be the only person, for nuwy reasons,
I shall trust with. A winter in £nglaiid
would, I have not a doubt, kill me; so I haTe\
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. Tou must fill up your time as well
as you can, and as happily. Tou most
think of my faults as lightly as yon can.
When I have health I 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 g^ 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 Shellev,
at Fisa, of a very kind nature, asking me
/•t
TO
to pass the winter with him. Hunt has be-
haved very kindly to me. Yon shall hear
from me again shortly.
Your affectionate friend John Keats.
206. TO FANNY K£AT8
Wentworth Place, Wednesday momingr
[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 OfiBce to which my
communication is addressed. Let us hope
he will go with me. Greorge 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 let your chief care be
of your health, and with that you will meet
your share of Pleasure in the world — do
445
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 consimaption. 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 ARMITAOB BROWN
[Wentworth Phioe, Augfust 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 please ;
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 CHABLBS ABMITAGE BBOWST
Saturday, September 28 [1820], Maria Crowther,
Off Tarmoath, Isle of Wi^t.
Mt dear Bbowm — The time has not
yet come for a pleasant letter from me. I
have delayed writing to you from time to
time, becaose I felt how impossible it was
to enliven yon with one heartening hope
of my recovery ; this morning in bed the
matter stmck 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 yon
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
ihsLt 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 — yon
know what was my g^atest 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, aic
great separators, but death is the great
divorcer for ever. When the pang of this
thought has passed through mj mind, I
may say the bitterness of death is passed
I often wish for you that yon might flatter
me with the best. I think without mr
mentioning it for my sake yoa would be a
friend to Miss Brawne when I am dead.
You think she has many fiiolts — but for
my sake think she has not one. If there ii
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 power over me
than stocks and stones, and yet the differ-
ence of my sensations with respect to Miss
Brawne and my sister is amaring. Ute
one seems to absorb the other to a degree
incredible. I seldom think of my hrodier
and sister in America. The thoagfat of
leaving Miss Brawne is beyond eTerythinf
horrible — the sense of darkness eomiog
over me — I eternally see her figure eter-
nally vanishing. Some of the phrases she
was in the habit of using during my last
nursing at Wentworth 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, yoa
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 t
letter longer than any I have written for a
long while, it would be better to go on fw
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
wtuj, 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 MBS. BRAWNS
October 24 [1820], Naples Harbour.
Mr DKAR Mbs. Bra wins — A few words
will tell you what sort of a Passage we had,
lad wluMt situation we are in, and few they
most be on account of the Quarantine, our
Letters being liable to be opened for the
porpose of fumigation at the Health OfiBce.
We hawe to remain in the vessel ten days
ttd are at present shut in a tier of ships.
Hie tea air has been beneficial to me about
ta as great an extent as squally weather
aid bad accommodations and provisions has
4oM harm. So I am about as I was. Give
nj Love to Fanny and tell her, if I were
idl there is enough in this Port of Naples
to fill a quire of Paper — but it looks like a
dnam — every man who can row his boat
ttd 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
tha Passengers is a young Liady in a Con-
Mmpiioii — her imprudence has vexed me
very much — the knowledge of her com-
plainta — the flushings in her face, all her
bad symptoms have preyed upon me —
they would have done so had I been in
good health. Severn now is a very good
^ow but his nerves are too strong to be
hart by other people's illnesses — I remem-
W poor Rice wore me in the same way in
the Isle of Wight — I shall feel a load off
iia when the Liady vanishes out of my sight.
It is impossible to describe exactly in what
*tate of health I am — at this moment I am
nfteiingfrom indigestion very much, which
ittkes such stuff of this Letter. I would
^ways wish you to think me a little worse
than I really am ; not being of a sanguine
^^kosition I am likely to succeed. If I do
J^'^t recover your regret will be softened —
^ 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. Tet you must not believe I am so ill
as this Letter may look, for if ever there was
a person bom 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 yon 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 ! Grod bless you.
211. TO CHABLBS ABMITAOB BBOWV
Naples, November 1 [1830].
Mt 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— •! cannot bear to leave her.
Oh, God I God I 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
bo 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
lestante) — if she is well and happy, put a
mark thus -f" ; 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 Greorge ? O
that something fortunate had ever happened
to me or my brothers I — 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 noveltiet around me. I am
afraid to write to her— I should like her to
know that I do not forget her. Ohy Brown
I have coals of fire in my breast^^It sur-
prises me that the human heart is oapsUe
of containing and bearing so much miieiy.
Was I bom for this end ? God Mess her,
and her mother, and my sister, and Gecnge,
and his wife, and you, and all I
Your ever affectionate friend
John Kxats.
[Thursday, November 2.]
I was a day too early for the Courier.
He sets out now. I have been nuxre eahn
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 Seven's
account from Haslam. I must leave oft
Ton bring my thoughts too near to Eumy.
Grod bless you !
212. TO THB SAMS
/
Rome, November 30, 1820.
Mt dear Brown — T is the most diffi-
cult thing in the world to me to write i
letter. My stomach continues so bad, that
I feel it worse on opening any book, —jet
I am much better than I was in quartntine.
Then I am afraid to encounter the pro-ing
and con-ing of anything interesting to ua
in England. I have an habitual feeling
of my real life having passed, and thst I
am leading a posthumous existence. God
knows how it would have been — hot 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 unfortQ-
nate — and to pass on the river too ! There
was my star predominant I 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 ain
so weak (in mind) that I cannot bear the
sight of any handwriting of a friend I lore
so much as I do you. Yet I ride the little
f^
TO CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN
449
horse, and at my worst even in qoarantinei
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 i-ecovery of the stomach. There, yon
; rog^e, I put yon 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
Inngs, 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 yoang. I have not written to
fieynolds 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 Greorge as soon as yon 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 b so like Tom. I can scarcely
bid yon good-bye, even in a letter. I al-
ways made an awkward bow.
God bless yon I
John Keats^
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
I. POEMS
Page 1. Imitation of Spenbeb.
A transoript of this poem in a copy-book of
Tom Keats contains two yariations from the
text of 1817. Line 12 reads,
* WhoM dlken flna, and golden soalte 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 possessiye case leads one to
think that the accent mark may have been a
hasty reading of the proper mark as printed.
Page 9. On Fibst Looking into Chap-
man ^s HOHEB.
That it was Balboa and not Gortez 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 Geoboe 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 : —
* Hadat thou lired in daya of old,
Oh, what wondera had b«en told
Of thy lirely dimpled face,
And thy f ootatepa full of grace :
Of thy hair^s luxarlooa darkling.
Of thine eye*a ezpreaaiTe aparkling,
And thy Toice'a awelling rapture,
Taking hearta a ready capture.
Oh I if thoQ hadat breathed then,
Thoa hadat made the Mnaea ten.
Couldat thou wiah for lineage higher
Than twin slater of Thalia ?
At least for erer, erer more
Will I call the Oracea four.'
Then follow lines 41-68, and the yalentme
closes, —
* Ah me I whither shall I flee?
Thou haat metamorphoaed me.
Do not let me aigh and pine,
Prythee be my ralentine.*
Page 13. Sonnet : To one who has been
IX>NO IN city pent.
Mr. Forman points but Keats's echo in the
first line of Milton's line,
* Aa one who long in populous dty pent *
Paradise Lost^ ix. 445.
Page 14. *' I STOOD tip-toe upon a little
HILL.'
Line 115. Lord Houghton gives this yaried
reading for this and the next line : —
* Floating through apace with erer-liTing eye.
The crowned queen of ocean and the aky.*
Page 18. Sleep and Pobtbt.
Line 274. Rhythm seems to require the emen-
dation proposed by Mr. Forman : —
* Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach me ? How *
Page 27. Specimen of an Induction to
A Poem.
Line 61. Lihertas is £he name which his
friends gave to Leigh Hunt. See later the
Epistle to Chakles Cowden Clabke, line
44. Mrs. Clarke confirms the application.
Page 28. Caudobe.
Line 40. In a transcript in Tom Keats's copy-
book, this and the next line read : —
* Ita long lost grandeur. Laburnums grow around
And bow their golden honours to the ground.*
Page 33. Addbessed TO Benjamin Robert
Hatdon.
The references in the first sonnet are to
Wordsworth and Hunt.
Page 35. On the Gbasshoppeb and
Cbioket.
Leigh Hunt's competing sonnet is as follows :
* Oreen little Tanlter in the annny graaa
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Bole Toice that *s heard amidst the lasy noon.
When eT*n the beea lag at the aummoning brass ;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the oandlea come too aoon,
LoTing the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Kick the ^ad aUent momenta aa they pass ;
Oh sweet and tiny ooasins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both hare your sunshine ; both though snudl are strong
At your dear hearta ; and both were aent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural aong, —
In doora and out, summer and winter, Ifirth.*
Page 40. Lines on the Mermaid Tavebn.
Sir Charles Dilke has a manuscript copy of
which the four dosing lines are : —
45*
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
'Sools of Poets dMd
AretiM windaa
Bidwr fa UMCcllarM
Tbanthe
Page41« RoBiir Hood.
line 36. Greni shaw=gnen wood. Shaw
freqnend J ^ipeus in die termination of English
local namea.
Page 49. EsumDOU,
The Tajriadona here noted in Book I. are from
the mannaeript eopy sopfdied to the printer, and
are furnished by Mr. Fonnan in his edition of
Keats. They were discarded by the poet either
before he gave his eopy in, or in his proofk
Lone 13.
From oar dark Spirita, and before ns daneea
Like glitter on the points of Arthur's T^mewi.
Of these bright powers are the Sun, and Moon.
24. Telling ns we are on the heaTen's
brink.
94. And so the eoming Ug^t in pomp
line 153.
From his right hand there swung a milk white
Of mingled wines, ontsparkling 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 206. Needments. See the Faery Queene^
Book I. canto yi., stanza 35, lines 55, 56,
'and eke behind.
His ecrip did hsng, in wliich hi« needmenU be did
bind.*
Line 232. It is interesting to note that the
Hjrmn to Pan beginning here was recited by
Keats to Wordsworth when he met the elder
poet at Haydun*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 Endjrmion, let us seek
A pleasant bower where thou may^st rest
apart.
And ease in slumber thine a£Bicted heart :
Come, ray own dearest brother: these our
friends
Will joy in thinking thou dost sleep whore
bends
Onr fiuhening Rirer tkitim^
grore:
Doeomenowl* Coold he
strore.
So soothingly, to broatlie awnj n Cnme?
lines 440-442.
When last the Harresten lidi annfiik took.
She tied a little bneket to a Crook,
Ran some swift paces to a dark weD'a aide.
And in a sighing^ime retnm^d, supplied
With qpar^old water ; in wkidi alie '
A snowy napkin, and upon ker knees
Began to cheriah her poor Brother *8 faee ;
Damping refreshfnily his foteheed^a spaee,
His eyes, his Lips : then in n capped Adl
She brought him ruby wine; then lei
smell.
Time after time, a ptedons amnlet.
Which seldom took she from its
Urns was he quieted to shanhrous
466.
A cheerf uller resignment, and a smile
For his fair Sister flowing Hke the Nile
Tlirongh all the channels of her piety.
He said : * Dear Maid, may I this moment dis,
If I feel not this thine endearing Lore.
Lines 470-472.
From woodbine hedges such a morning feel.
As do those brighter drops, that twinkling stasl
Through those pressed lashea, from the Uo-
somM plant
Lines 494, 495.
More forest-wild, more subtle-eadeneed
Than can be told by mortal ; eren wed
The fjunting 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 1»
yain:
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 ur, sweet blooms, and ooTerts freik
Has been outshed ; yes, all that oonld enmesk
Our human senses — make us fealty swear
To gadding Flora. In this grstefid lair
Have I been used to pass my weary eres.
Line 555. Ditamy, So Keats nnmistakabljxB
manuscript and print. The prevailing fona ii
dittany.
POEMS
453
Line 573. Mr. Formah says that in the manu-
script something was written over this Une in
pencil, bnt 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 600, 601.
f 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 conmion with other poets who
Lave 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 Lb a double Peach. 'T is sad Alas I
Lines 896, 897.
In 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 I Tis not more than
need —
Tour veriest help. Ah I how long did I feed
On that crystalline life of Portraiture I
How hoverM breathless at the tender lure I
How many times dimpled the watery glass
With maddest kisses ; and, till they did pass
And leave the liquid smootii again, how mad I
O H was as if the absolute sisters had
My Life into the compass of a Nut
Or all 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 964.
Most fondly lipp'd. I kept me still — it came
Again in xwasionatest syllables.
And thus again that voice's tender swells:
Not quite content with pauioncUest^ Keats
tried again:
* Again in pswlonate qrUables : ssying *
Book 11. 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. Hiose here noted
are from the first draft, unless otherwise noted.
Line 13. Cloae^ i. e., embrace.
Lines 27-30. Juliet leans
Amid her window flowers, sighs, — and as she
weans
Her nmiden 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.
u.
Line 38. Rest in the sense of remaining inac-
tive, not the rest of restoration.
Line 49.
Through wilderness, and brittle mossed oaks.
Line 56.
Bends lightly over him, and he doth see.
Line 83.
Went swift beneath the flutter-loving grnide.
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 ia in his sight.
Line 227.
Whose track the venturous Latmian follows
bold.
45 4
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
Lines 253, 254.
The mighty ones who Ve shone athwart the day
Of Greece and Enghind.
Lines 270-272.
Himself with every mystery, nntil
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 ns 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 rou^At is derived from
the manuscript, though the first edition has
caught.
line 363. Originally this imperfect line
read, —
* To teas 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 EH. 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 cieeper, blushing deep at Autumn's blush.
Line 4d(>.
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 deep-
er's heart
Enchantingly ; and with a sadden start
His trembling arms were out in instant time
To catch his fainting love. — O f ooliah 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 I let them embrace alone I that kun
Was far too rich for thee to talk npon.
Poor wretch I mind not those sobs and sigiiil
begone!
Speak not one atom of thy paltry stuff,
"niat they are met is poetry enougrh.
Line 541. The finished manuscript reads dies;
the first edition has dyes. The former seems tbe
more poetic reading, and 3ret the oonstmetidi
would introduce a new image rather whmpdj.
Line 578. Hie text reads, —
* Thou ahonldst mooot up to with me. Now adieo I*
But the word *to ' so destroys both rfaythmisd
sense, that I have ventured to throw it out n
an overlooked error.
Line 589. By throwing the emphasis strong
on all, the meaning of the line is made evidasL
Line 628. Keats tried massy, bUtdbeming, sai
bulging, before he settled on Jutting,
Lines 642-657.
About her majesty, and her pale brow
With turrets crown'd, which forward beanlT
bow
Weighing her chin to the breast. Four Bon
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 cloudbome Jove he bent: and there wm
tost
Into his grasping hands a silken cord
At which without 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 could pick out
The resting place : but at the last he swung
Into the greenest cell of all — amoni^
Dark leaved jasmine: star flower M and be-
strown
With golden moss.
Lines 756, 757.
Enchantress I tell me by this mad embrace.
By the moist languor of thy breathing ^•^^
POEMS
455
60,761.
nderest — and by the breath — the
OB — nectar — Heaven I — * Jove aboye I
0.
las self not love? she most — she
Btl
49,860.
the strange voice is on the wane —
but guessed from the departing sonnd.
rman makes a very plausible surmise
ts had a half purpose to go on with a
iption of this voice and he prints the
it follow. They are not in the draft,
r of the annotated copies to which he
it appear in Leigh Hunt's The Indica"
I January, 1820. They are well worth
;, since if they are not by Keats they
sly have been penned by some one in
nd Hunt's circle who had an extraor-
lack at imitation of Keats.
; % voice is silent. It waa aoft
in-ecboet, when the winds aloft
I winds of summer) meet in caves ;
sheltered places Uie white wares
I'd into music, as the breese
d stems the current : or as trees
eir green locks in the days of June :
girls when to the m^den moon
harmonious pray'rs : or sounds that come
lear) like a faint distant hum
grass, from which mysterious birtii
be busy secrets of the earth,
low voice of Syrinx, when she ran
rest from Arcadian Pan ;
roe's, when she pined away
>r (and yet *t was not so gay)
whisper when she came to Troy,
d to wander with that blooming boy.
ich*d harpe in flowery casements hung ;
overs* ears the wild woods sung
K>wers at twilight ; like the sound
when he takes his nightly round
see the roses all asleep :
dim strain which along the deep
id utters to the sailors* ear,
empests, or of dangers near,
fmona, who (when fear was strong
oul) chaunted the willow song,
Mfore she perishM : or the tone
xm the waters heard alone :
that come upon the memory^
friends departed; or the sigh
rl breathes when she tries to hide
)r eyes betray to all beside.*
0.
Is outswelling their faint tinged curls.
Book III. * Keats said with much simpli-
dty,' 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 Lyddas in mind when he
thus covertly made a poem serve as a scourge.
Lines 31, 32.
In the several vastneesoo 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 06, 57.
Thou dost bless all things — even dead things
sip
A midnight life feom thee.
lines 89, 90.
Enormous sharks from hiding^holes and f right-
'ning
The whalers 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 I 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
smU'd?
Book IV.
Lines 48-54. No eyelids meet
To twinkle on my bosom ! false ! 't was false.
They said how beautiful I was I 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 t
Of all the poisons sent to make us mad —
Of all death's overwhelmings.' — Stay, beware,
Young Mountaineer I
4S6
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
LiiiM 76, 77.
Sweet shadow, be distinot awhile and stay
While I speak to thoe — trust me it ia true.
Lines 85-87.
Of passion from the heart — where lore is not
Only is solitude — poor shadow ! what
I say thou hearest not I away, becrone
And leave me, prythee, with my grief alone I '
The Latmian leanM 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
Te tranced visions — ye flights ideal :
Nothing are ye to life so dainty reaL
0 Lady, pity me I
Lines 136-138.
Caust 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 could
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 finishM 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 mid the expressive wide occurs
in the draft and printer's copy.
Line 5.'^). 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 ahalt thou ait and sing, hey nonny I
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
Thou would'st o'ertop them all.
Line 769.
Por'd on its hasel oaipet of shed l«ftTW.
Line 774. Hyperion apparently had alretdj
occurred to Keats as subject for a poem.
Lines 811-^13.
Were this sweet damsel like a hmg iie^'4
crane.
Or an old rocking bam owl half aaleeii.
Some reason would there be for thee to keep
So dull-eyed — but thou know'st she ^s beauti-
ful:
Yes, yes! and thou doet love her well—I'D
pull.
Page 110. Isabella, or thb Pot of Basil.
Stanza xxz., line 5. A manuscript variatioa
is: —
* What might have been too plainly did she aee,*
Stanza zzxy., lines 4-7, another reading: —
* Had marr'd hia gloaqr bsir, Uiat onoe ooold iboot
Bright gold into the Bon, and atan^M bis doon
Upon hia aoiled llpa, and took Um mallow Lute
From hia deep rtrfoe, and down past hia loaned
Stanza xxxriii., the last two lines in the man-
uscript read : —
* Oo, shed a tear upon my heather Uoom
And I shall torn a diamond in my tomb.*
Stanza liv., last line. Leq/its seems to be s
word of Keats's coinage.
Stanza bdii. Mr. Forman in the Appendix to
the second volume of his edition of Keats has s
long note on the * sad ditty ' bom of the story of
Isabella, in which he shows that the air of tke
Basil Pot song, though not now current, waa
common enough in medimval manoaoripts and
printed collections of popular poetry.
Page 123. Tbakslation from a SoyyR
BT RONSABD.
The following is the original : —
* Nature, omant Caaaandre, qui deooit
De sa douceur forcer lea plua rebttUea,
La compoaa de cent beaotes nooueUea,
Que d^s mille ana en eapargne eUe anoit : —
De toua lea biena qu* Amour an del connoit
Comme un tresor cherement aous aea ailaa-
EUe enrichit lea gracea immortellea
De aon bel cell qui lea Dieux eamouuoit. —
Du Ciel & peine elle eatoit deaoendue
Quond ie la rey, quand mon aame eaperdue
En duelnt folle, et d*un ai poignant trait.
Amour coula aea beantes en mea yeinea,
Qu^autrea plaialra ie ne aena que mea peinea
Ny autre bien qu*adorer aon portrait.
Page 123. Sonnet : To a Lady seen fob
A Few Moments at Vauxrall.
POEMS
457
The form giTen to this sonnet in Hood' 8 Mag-
azine^ where it was published, April, 1844, va-
ries slightly from that in Lord Houghton's pub-
lication. The first line reads: —
* Life's Ma hath been flve times at iU alow ebb*
and the dosing lines are : —
* Other delights with thy remembering
And sorrow to my darling Joys doth bring.'
Page 124. FAifcr.
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 kiuing. What do then?
Line 24. To banish vesper from the sky.
Line 33.
All the faery bads 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 moose
To store ilp in its winter house.'
lane 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,
Ldue 89. The following lines were dropped
oat, the two drafts agreeing again at line 90 : —
* And Jots grew languid. Mistress fair I
Thou Shalt haTe that tressed hair
Adonis tangled all for spite ;
And the month he would not Uss,
And the treasure he would miss ;
And the hand he would not press
And the warmth he would distress.
O the Ravishment — the Bliss t
Fancy has her where she is —
Never fulsome, never new,
There she steps I and tell me who
Has a mistress so divine ?
Be the palate ne*er so fine
She cannot sicken. Break the meah.'
Page 125. Odb : Bards of Passion and of
Mirth.
In the copy made for (Seorge and (Seorgiana
Keats are the f oDowing variations : —
Line 19.
But melodious truth divine,
Philosophic numbers fine ;
Line 23. Thus ye live on Earth, and then
Line 90.
To mortab of the little week
They must sojourn with their cares
Page 127. The Eve of St. Aones.
The following letter from Keats to his pub-
lisher, John Taylor, ^Titten June 11, 1820, is
interesting for its textual criticism : * In reading
over the proof of St, Agnes' $ 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, while many a sweeping train
Pass by.**
*T was originaUy written : —
** her maiden eyes divine
FixM on the floor, saw many a sweeping train
tt
Pass by.
My meaning is quite destroyed in the alteration.
1 do not use train for concourse <^ passers by^
but for skirts sweeping along the floor.
* In the first stanza my copy reads, second
(sic) line : —
" bitter rAW 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 0. Both in the original manuscript and
in the Annals the line reads : —
* What love ? what dance T what struggle to %KKp9 1 '
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 lite Indicator^ bat
Lord Houghton, when reprinting the poem in
Life^ LetttTS and Literary Bemains used another
form apparently. The variations below are
from Loixl Houghton's copy.
Line 1. O what can ail thee, knight-at-armt
Line 3.
The sedge has withered from the lake-
45«
NOTES AND ELLUSTRATIOXS
Pace l¥>. Chobts oi
Li Lord Huughui**
SoBf tff ^•«r JFacries.
tobeMiudmliw«;
Pace 1^ Ox Fj
TW eopjaent bj Keats
to
and
Page 142. To Svexf.
In tine r*. Lord Hoag|iton*s eopj leafds Imliimg
fat denty wbiefa ia f omid in a manoacnpc o£ Sir
Charles DOke. la aaocfaer draft of tirelre fines
bj Keats wfaidi vas eopied in Tke AtkemxMWL,
October 36, 1^72, the &st thr«« fines are the
same at printed ; the next nine are as f oDows :
OaooChMt ileep. if to it
X J wmxaf ej«B in miilit of tbm thine hTsa
Or wait the ^mm, ere th j poppj throw*
Its — att death <iew« o*er every polae and fiab
Then ihnt the boahed Ca«keC of mj aoal
And ton the key nxmd in the oiled
And let it reat until the som hne atofe.
Briffat treaaed fron the grey east's
bonna.*
Pai^e 142. Ode to Pstche,
The Cf^fj Bent br Keats to his brother and
Rster Tsries from that printed in the 1820 toI-
nme in at least one important partieolar, and it
is not quite elear wh j Ke^ts, when he snbsti-
tnted roof for fan in fine 10, did not mend the
fhjme also. In fine 14 the eopj in the letter
reailii Syrian,
Pair% 14^». Laxia.
The manoscript eopy. presomably the one
fsiren to the printer, is in existenoe. and Mr. For-
man notes am<wigst others the following read-
ing;^ changed apparently in the proof.
LineSTS. A royal-aqnaied lofty
Part IL, Em 43. Two
added: —
•ToofoBdwnal
In high delxrin
Lines 82-^
Became herself a flame — 't
Of minor joys to rerel in sadt
Slie was persuaded, and she fixt tike
When he shonld make a Bride of In
the
if
After the hottest day
The coloor'd Ere. half-hidd«i
So they both looked, so
sound.
That ahnost silenee is, hath erer
Cooipare with nature's q[uiet. Wldch loff'i
Which had the weakest, stroi^cst bent so loat.
So rained, wreck 'd« destroyed : for ceiUs they
Scarcely eonld tdl they coold not £■»•■■
Whether H was miseTy or happineas.
Spells are but made to break. Wbisper^d ths
Youth.
Line 174.
Filled with light, music,
je^irels, gold.
^f
I
LETTERS
459
Line 231. In Tom Taylor^s Autobioffraphy of
Haydon^ vol. i. p. 364, is a passage which is a
slight comment on these lines. * He then, in a
strain of hnmor 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 all drank Newton's health and
confusion to mathematics.'
Line 293.
From Lycins answer'd, as he sunk supine
Upon the couch where Lamia's beauties pine.
Line 296. * from every ill
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 I A Serpent, plain and stark I '
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
Apolloniii 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 Cenchreas and Corinth, met
such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentle-
woman, which, taking him by the baud, carried
him home to her house, in the suburbs of Cor-
inth, and told him she was a Phoenician by
birth, and if he would 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, would 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 tins of love, tarried with her awhile
to his great content, and at last married her, to
whose wedding, amongst other guests, came
Apollonius; who, by some probable conjec-
tures, found her out to be a serpent, a landa ;
and that all her furniture was, Uke Tantalus'
gold, described by Homer, no substance, but
mere illusions. When she saw herself descried,
she wept, and desired Apollonius to be silent,
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. Htpbbion.
Since the introductory note to this poem was
printed, a letter from Canon Ainger has ap-
peared in The Athenaum. (26 August, 1899), in
which he states that he has seen a copy of the
1820 volume, given by Keats to a Hampetead
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 I " ' This is inter-
esting testimony, especially if Canon Ainger's
opinion as to this being in Keats's handwriting
is correct.
Page 232. T^ Last Sonnet.
A manuscript reading of the last line is : —
* Half-pMsionleM, and bo swoon on to de«th.*
II. LETTERS
1. Page 255. * 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.' See p. 14.
3. Page 265. *Your kindness.' Reynolds
had addressed Keats in a sonnet as follows : —
* Thy thou^jhta, dear Keata, are like fresh gathered
leaves.
Or white flowers pluckM from some sweet lily bed ;
They set the heart a-breathing, and they shed
Tho glow of meadowa, 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 timers strange hand of freshness ne*er bereaves.
Oo on t and keep thee to thine own green way,
Singing in that same key which Chancer 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 Etg.^ M, P., and had been ex-
cessively severe.
1
460
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
6. Pag© 259. * The Nymphs.' A mythologi-
cal poem, on which Hnnt was at this time en-
gaged.
I 7. Page 259. *' Does Shelley go on telling
strange stories of the death of kings ? ' Gilfil-
lan, in his Gallery qf Literary Portraits^ tells the
story of Shelley amusing himself and Hnnt,
when they were travelling in a stage coach, and
startling an old lady travelling with them, by
suddenly crying out to Hunt, *' For Gk>d's sake,
let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories
of the death of kings.' King Richard Il.y iii. 2.
8. Page 261. *" I long to see Wordsworth^s as
well as to have mine in.' Haydon was painting
his Christ's £ntry into Jerusalem, and was in-
troducing likenesses of his friends into the pic-
ture.
9. Page 262. * Bertrand,' t. 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,' 1. e.. Little Hamp-
ton, a quiet watering place at the luouth of the
Anm, on the south coast of Sussex, a little
more than halfway between London and Ports-
mouth.
12. Pago 265. ^Miss Taylor's essays in
Rhyme.' Fanny Keats was fourteen yeai-s 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 mi *Tell LHlke.' The Dilkes
were friends living in Hampstead whom Rey-
nolds had introduced to Keats. Charles Went-
worth Dilko was at the time a clerk in the
Navy Pay-Office, and a disciple of Godwin and
warm friend of Hnnt. Later he became a
man of great consequence in the literary world
as edit^)r and chief owner of The Athcene.um.
The W. D. mentioned below is William I>ilke,
a younger brother, who had served in the Com-
missariat department. He was at this time
about forty-two years old.
14. Page 2(^5. * * Northern Poet.' See Words-
worth's Personal Tiilk\ beginning —
* I am not one who much or oft delight
To Heason my ftreside with persoual talk/
15. Page 269. Hazlitt had just collected and
published his The Hound Table^ which he first
printed in The. Examiner.
16. Piige 271. 'Yon and Gleig.' Mr. Col-
vin makes this note : * G. R. Gleig, son of the
Bishop of Stirling : bom 17tX), died 1888 : served
in the Peninsular War and afterwards took or-
ders. Chaplain-General to the Forces from
1846 to 1875 : author of the Subaltern and maiqr
military tales 4md histories.'
17. Page 271. 'The two R'a.' Reynolds
and Rice.
18. Page 274, * The little Song.' See head-
note to * Lines,'' p. 37. The allusion jnat beknr
in Adam's waking is to Paradt$e Zioti, Book
VIII., lines 478-484.
19. Page 275. 'Christie.' Jonathan E
Christie, a college friend of Lockhart, who took
up Lockhart's quarrel with John Scott, foaght
the latter in a duel and killed him.
20. Page 277. 'Wells.' Charles J. Welli. «
schoolmate of Tom Keats. See the Sonnet,
p. 13, ' To a Friend who sent me some Roiefl.'
The family of Wells lived in Feathentooe
Buildings, from which Letter 24 was written.
21. Page 277. 'Shelley's poem.' Laonani
Cynthia^ renamed The Revolt qf Islam,
22. Page 277. The tragedy was Retrilnitio»y
or the Chi^ainU Daughter; the pantomime
was Don Giovanni. The articles, as the post-
script to this letter shows, did appear in The
Champion.
23. Page 278. ' We phiyed a concert.' A
burlesque affair. Keats, his brothers and
friends, were wont to entertain themselves vitii
imitating musical instruments, vocally.
24. Page 278. Haydon's AutobiograjJiii, 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 Fezsan in Septem-
bor, 1818, and died at Morzonk the foUovin?
November. An account of the expedition «b
published by his travelling companion, C^)taiii
G. F. Lyon, R. N.' Ritchie wrote a pueticsl
Farewell to England^ which was printed by A-
A. Watts in his Poetical Album.
25. Page 278. ' Medal of the Princess,' i.e«
Princess Charlotte, who died November 6, I8IT.
2<). Page 278. ' Bob Harris,' the manager of
Co vent Garden Theatre.
27. Page 27i». ' Miss Kent's.' Mr. Fonnsn
notes that the article was not by Miss Bessy
Kent, Hunt's sister-in-law, but by Shelley, wlw
used the initials £. K. for ' Klfin Knight.'
28. Page 27l». ' Mr. Abbey.' Mr. Richird
Abbey, a tea-merchant , one of the guardians ol
the Keats family. See above, p. xv.
21). Page 283. See a lively refutation of this
conjecture of Hunt's, and a general statemt-nt
of the relations of the ' Cockney school ' vith
the Edinburgh critics in Lang's The Life a^
Letters of John Gibson Lockhart^ 1. 150-155.
LETTERS
461
30. Page 285. * As the old song says.* Mr.
Forman 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 facdiion, 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
Robinson. This delightful diarist does not re-
cord this visit, nor in the two or three refer-
ences to Keats speak as if he knew him. In an
entry for December 8, 1820, he records reading
some of Keats's poems, and adds : * There are a
force, wildneas, and originality in the works of
this young poet which, if his perilous journey
to Italy does not destroy him, promise to place
him at the head of the next generation of poets.'
33. Page 293. Haydon had written with en-
thusiasm about a seal with a true lover's knot
and the initials W. S., found in a field at Strat-
ford-on-Avon.
34. Page 293. *I>entatus' was the subject
of a picture by Haydon.
35. Page 295. ' Claude's Enchanted Castle.'
Mr. Colvin has this interesting note : *' The fa-
mous picture now belonging to Lady Wantage,
and 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 ei^^raved by Vivarte 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
subject and careless verse" of^this rhymed
epistle.'
36. Page 296. * Posthumous works.' Hay-
don had written Keats : ^ When I die I '11 have
Shakespeare placed on my heart, with Homer
in my right hand and Arioeto in the other,
Dante at my head, Tasso at my feet, and Gor-
neille under my — .'
37. Page 300. ' Worsted stockings.' Keats
hints at the neighborhood of the children of the
Postman Bentley, at whose house in Wellwadk
he lodged.
38. Page 306. 'The opposite,' t. «., a leaf
with the name and * from Uie Author.'
39. Page 315. ' A scrap of paper.' The book
was a copy of * Endymion,' and Keats had left
in London a scrap of paper bearing * from the
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 Cary's
Translation of Dante, which was so published
by Taylor and Hessey fmd advertised on the
fly-leaf of ' Endymion.'
42. Page 328. * A Woman.' Mr. Colvin
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 Morning
CftrontcUj October 3, 1818: 'That there are
also many, very many passages indicating both
haste and carelessness I will not deny ; nay, I
will go further, and assert that a real friend of
the author would have dissuaded him from
immediate publication.'
44. Page 338. ' I have scarce any hopes of
him.' Thomas Keats died a few hours later,
on the same day this letter was written. As
noted in the biographical sketch, Keats now re-
moved to Wentworth Place.
45. Page 339. ' This thin paper.' Mr.Colvm
notes : * A paper of the largest folio size, used
by Keats in this letter only, and containing
some eight hundred words a page of his writing.'
46. Page 340. 'Her daughter senior.' Fanny
Brawne, of whom this is the first mention in
the letters.
47. Page 354. 'Henrietta Street,' the resi-
dence of Mrs. Wylie.
48. Page 355. ' The silk tassels,' Mr. Colvin
explains, were the gift of Georgiaiia Keats.
49. Page 366. * Am I all wound with Browns.'
Mr. Colvin reminds the reader of the origin of
the phrase in Caliban's mouth :
' Sometimes %m I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into msdneas.*
The little Brown boys, brothers of Charles
Armitage Brown, are the ' Boys ' referred to
above, p< 364.
50. Page 368. This discreet notice of Rey-
nolds's parody appeared with some alteration
in The Examiner, April 26, 1819.
51. Page 378. James Elmes was the editor
of Annals of the Fine Arts, in which first ap-
peared the ' Ode to a Nightingale.' See p. 144.
52. Page 383. ' An oriental tale of a very
beautiful color.' Mr. Forman, on the authority
of Dr. Reinhold Kohler, Librarian of the Grand-
462
NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS
ducal Library of Weimar, identifies the story,
which is a variant of the Third Calender's story
in The Arabian Nights^ as the * ^stoire de la
Gorbeille,' in the Nauveaux Contes Orientaux
of the Comte de Caylus.
53. Page 399. * Hunt's triumphal entry into
London.' Mr. Forman makes the following
note on this passage : *' Henry Hunt, of Man-
chester Massacre fame, ended an imprisonment
of two years and a half on the 30th of October,
1822, and made an ^* entry into London " on the
nth of November, 1822 ; but the trial of which
his imprisonment was the issue had not taken
place till the spring of 1820; and the entry
alluded to by Keats was one which took place
between the massacre and the tiiaL'
54. Page 413. ' From Sr. O. B's, Lend Bis.'
Sir George Beanmonts and Lord Muagrsres.
55. Page 416. 'The Care of despair.' Spen-
ser's Cave of Despair was the sal^jeofc of the
picture (see Letter 141) with which Scrrem woo
the Royal Academy premium.
56. Page438. ' Lucy Vangban Lloyd.' TIm
name under which Keats propooad to pnbliA
'The Cap and Bells.' Seep.216.
57. Page 446. 'Without msJdng any way.'
Mr. Golvin appends this note: 'The Maria
Crowther had in fact sailed from London, Ssp-
tember 18 : contrary winds holding her is
the Channel, Keats had landed at Portsmootb
for a night's visit to the Snooks of Bedhamp'
ton.'
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATSS 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
Honghton, and those printed for the first time
in the Letters, collected by Mr. Forman, Mr.
Colrin, 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.
L Poems, | bt | John Kbats. I ' What mobb
FKUCITT CAN FALL TO CBBATUBE, | THAN
TO KNJOT DBLIOHT WITH LIBERTY * |
Fate qf the ButUrfly, — Spenseb. | Lon-
don: I PRINTED for C. a J. OlLIEB,
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.
Galidore. A Fragment.
To Some Ladies.
On receiving 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 I when I behold thee flippant, vain.'
Epistles:
To George Felton Mathew.
To my Brother George.
To Charles Cowden Clarke.
Sonnets:
I. To my Brother George.
n. To [* Had laman'sfair form, then
might my sighs.']
III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh
Hunt left prison.
IV. * How many bards gild the lapses of
time.'
V. To a Friend who sent me some roses.
VI. ToQ. A. W.
VII. ' O Solitude, if I must with thee dweU.'
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 eaiiy
hour.
Xni. AddresMd to Haydon.
XIV. Addressed to the same.
XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket.
XVI. To Kosciusko.
XVIL ' Happy is England.'
Sleep and Poetiy.
n. Endtmion : I A POETIC Romance. | Bt
John Keats. | * The stretched metre
of an antique song.' | london: | printed
FOR Taylor and Hesset, | 93, Fleet
Street, | 1818.
in. Lamia | Isabella, | The Eye of St.
Agnes, | and other Poems. | Bt John
Keats, | author of Endtmion. | London:
I Printed for Tatlor and Hessbt, |
Fleet Street | 1820.
Lamia.
IsabeUa ; or the Pot of BasiL
The Eve of St. Agnes.
Ode to a Nightingale.
Ode on a Grecian Urn.
Ode to Pftyche.
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 Literart Re-
mains OF John Keats. Edited bt Rich-
ard MONCKTON MiLNES [aFTBRWABD
Lord Houghton].
[The following were incorporated in the bio-
graphical portion.]
To Spenser.
To Chatterton.
To Byron.
On seeing the Elgin Marbles.
To Haydoo, with the above.
On seeing a lock of Milton's Hair.
A Dranght of Sunshine.
What the Thrush said.
464
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF KEATS'S POEMS
On sitting down to read King Lear once again.
The Eve of St. Mark.
To the Nile.
To Fanny : * Physician Nature I let my spirit
Epistle to John Hamilton Reynolds.
blood.'
Fragment of an Ode to Maia.
Stanzas : * In a drear-nighted December.'
On visiting the Tomb of Bums.
Sonnets:
Written in the Cottage where Bums was bom.
*' Oh, how I love on a fair summer's eve.'
Meg Merrilies.
*To a Toung Lady who sent me a laurel
On Ailsa Kock.
crown.'
Lines written in the Highlands after a visit to
* After dark vapours have opprese'd our
Bums^s cottage.
plains.'
At l^ingaFs Cave.
Written on the Blank space at the pfid ol
Written upon the top of Ben Nevis.
Chaucer's Tale of The Floure and the Ltfe.
A Prophecy : To George Keats in America.
On the Sea.
Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard.
On Leigh Hunt's poem The Story of Rimini,
Spenserian stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown.
* When I have fears that I may cease to be-'
Spenserian stanza written at the end of Canto
To Homer.
II. Book V. of The Faerie Queene,
Written in answer to a sonnet.
Fragments :
To J. H. Reynolds.
* Where 's the Poet ? show him I show him I '
To : • Time's sea hath been five yean
Modem Love.
at its slow ebb.'
The Castle Builder.
To Sleep.
* Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow.'
On Fame.
Ode to Fanny.
Another on Fame.
[The following were grouped in the section
* Why did I laugh to-night ? '
Literary Remains] : —
A Dream, after reading Dante's Episode of
Otho the Great.
Paolo and Francesca.
King Stephen.
*If by dull rhymes our English must be
The Cap and Bells.
chain'd.'
Ode to Apollo.
* The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone."
Hymn to Apollo.
* I cry your mercy — pity — love I — aye, love.'
On : ' Think not of it, sweet one, so.'
The Last Sonnet.
Lines: * Unfelt, unheard, unseen.'
V. The Letters of JoH^ Keats :
Song : * Hush, hush ! tread softly.'
Acrostic : G^rgiana Augusta Wylie.
Song: *I had a dove and the sweet dove
At Teignmouth.
died.'
Mrs. Cameron and Ben Nevis.
Faery song : * Shed no tear I 0, shed no
The Devon Maid.
tear.'
A Little Extempore.
Song : * Spirit here that reignest.'
The Gadfly.
Faery song : * Ah I woe is me.'
The Human Seasons.
Extracts from an Opera.
To Thomas Keats.
La Belle Dame sans Merci.
A Party of Lovers.
Song of Four Faeries.
A Song about Myself.
Ode on Indolence.
Two or Three Posies.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
aponn have oppreas'd our plains,
'hat I met the day, 24ii,
ail thee, wretched wight, 139.
e I poor silver wing I 141.
za who owe a grudge, 245.
)Ye ? It is a doll dress'd op, 238.
arkening gloom a silver dove, 12.
ce took to his feathers light, l«i8.
)led in the happy fields, 13.
eep a little while, white pearl I
luty is a joy forever, 49.
on and of Mirth, 125.
3 life of heaven, — the domain, 43.
oUld I were stedfast as thon art,
d, if health shall smile again, 252.
weetly sad thy melody I 2.
deep, when life is bnt a dream, 1.
[t] {lass'd thy grand climacteric,
ic numbers, 39.
11 sweet maidens soberly, 38.
( ! as last night I lay in bed, 241.
ady sadness of a vale, 199.
incy roam, 124.
•or simple Isabel, 110.
wayward girl, will still be coy,
their dreams, wherewith they
Ul the measure of the year, 44.
K gusts have blown away all
reary hour have I past, 24.
len pen and let me lean, 9.
patience, sister, while I frame,
liness have passM away, .'^.
len-bow, 7.
u, thy great name alone, 'M,
)w on earth are sojourning, 33.
Had I a man^s fair form, then might my sigbi,
26.
Hadst thon liv'd in days of old, 11.
Happy, happy glowing fire I 140.
Happy is England 1 I could be content, 35.
Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem, 4.
Haydon I forgive me that I cannot speak, 30.
Hearken, thon craggy ocean pjrramid, 121.
He is to weet a melancholy Carle, 250.
Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port, 242.
Here all the sunmier could I stay, 242.
Highmindedness, a jealousy for good, 33.
How feverM is the man, who cannot look, 142.
How many bards gild the lapses of time I 8.
Hush, hush I tread softly I hush, hush, my
dear I 120.
I cry j'our mercy— pity — love I — aye, love, 215.
If by dull rhymes our Knglish must be chained,
144.
If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoirn front,
li»2.
I had a dove and the sweet dove died, 125.
In a drear-nighted December. 'M,
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. (i.
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill, 14.
It keeps eternal whisperings around, 37.
Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there,
8.
King of the stormy sea, 9:).
Lo I I must tell a tale of chivalry, 27.
Many the wonders I this day have seen, 26.
Mother of Hermes! and stiU youthful Maim,
119.
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 9.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains,
144.
My spirit is too weak — mortality, 36.
Nature withheld Cassandra in the skies, 123.
No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist, 126.
Not Aladdin magian, 122.
No I those days are gone away, 41.
466
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
Now mominsr from her orient chamber came, 1.
Nymph of the downward smile and sidelong
glance, 34.
O Arethnsa, peerless nymph ! why fear, 77.
O blush not so I O blus^ not so, 248.
O Chatterton ! how very sad thy fate, 2.
O come Georgiana I the rose is fall blown, 240.
Of late two dainties were before me placed, 246.
Oft haye you seen a swan superbly frowning, 90.
O Goddess ! hear these toneless numbers, wrung,
143.
O golden-tongued Ronumce, with serene lute !
40.
Oh ! how I loYe, on a fair sununer's eve, 13.
O, I am f rightenM with most hateful thonf^ts 1
240.
Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 243.
One mom before me were three figures seen,
136.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, 142.
O Solitude ! if I must with thee dwdl, 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 roU their langruid eyes,
2.51.
Physician Nature ! let my spirit blood ! 137.
Read me a lesson. Muse, and speak it loud,
123.
St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 127.
Season of mists and raeUow fmitfnlness, 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 I 159.
Sou of the old moon-mountains African ! 41
SouU of Poets dead and gone, 40.
Spenser ! a jealous honourer of thine, 42.
Spirit here that reignest I 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 ita sweets are gone, 211
The Gothic looks solemn, 252.
The poetry of earth a never dead, 35.
There is a charm in footing slow across a aika
plain, 246.
There was a naughty Boy, 244.
The stranger lighted from his ateed, 240.
The sun, with his great eye, 239.
The Town, the churchyard, and the settiiig wm,
120.
Think not of it, sweet one, so, 38w
This mortal body of a thonsaod days, 1^
This pleasant tale is like a little oopee, 36w
Thou still unravtsh^d bride of quietness, 13Sl
Time's sea hath been five years at ita slow stt^
124.
*Tii the witching time of night, 249.
To-night I'll have my friar — let me tkisk;
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 hroods, 146.
Upon my Life, Sir Nevis, I am piqued, 247.
Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, 42.
What can I do to drive away, 2J^4.
What is more gentle than a wind insummer?U
What though, for showing tmth to flatter i
state, 5.
What though, while the wonders of natme c^
ploring, 3.
When by my solitary hearth I sit, 5.
When I have fears that I may cease to be, 99.
When they were come into the Faery's Coat
249.
When wedding fiddles are a-playing, 240.
Where be ye going, you Devon maid ? 2iX
Where 's the Poet ? show him I show bim, 2&
Who loves to peer up at the morning ■m*, 9Bl
Wlio, who from Dian's feast would be amwfi-
102.
Why did I Uugfa to-night? No Toiee will tdL
137.
Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vais, i
Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake, 2&
INDEX OF TITLES
[The titles of major works and general divisions are set in small capitals.]
t : Georgiana Angnsta Wylie, 243.
ed to Benjamin Robert Haydon, 33.
oe is me 1 poor silver-wing I ' 141.
>ck. To, 121.
Hymn to, 7.
Ode to, 6.
I O sleep a little while, white pearl ! *
sl*8 Cave, 122.
Dmonth, 242.
I, To, 213.
, On hearing the, and seeing T%e
l«r, 246.
»f Passion and of Mirth,' 125.
nt and Fletcher's Works, Song written
tlank Page in, 42.
une sans M erci, La, 139.
ris, Mrs. Cameron and, 247.
ris. Written upon the Top of, 123.
B, Fanitt, Vxbsbs to, 214.
George, To my, 26.
I, To my, 33.
Charles Armitage, Spenserian Stanzas
3.
>n visiting the Tomb of, 120.
To, 2.
: a Fragment, 28.
I, Mrs., and Ben Nevis, 247.
> Bells, The, 216.
Builder, The,' Fragment of, 239.
a, 252.
a's Homer, On first looking into, 9.
on. To, 2.
's Tale of The Flown and the L^e,
in on the Blank Space at the End of, 36.
>f Fairies, 140.
Charles Cowden, Epistle to, 30.
where Boms was bom. Written in the,
Shell and a Copy of Verses, On receiv-
4.
x>ng, 239.
>n, 1.
[aid. The, 243.
, 158.
Draught of Sunshine, A, 243.
Dream after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo
and Francesca, A, 138.
Early Poems, 1.
Elgin Marbles, On seeing the, 36.
Ekdtmion, 45.
Epistles :
To Charles Cowden Clarke, 30.
To George Felton Mathew, 9.
To John HamUton 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, On, Another, 142.
Familiar Verses, 240.
Fancy, 124.
Fanny, Lines to, 214.
Fanny, Ode to, 137.
Fanny, To, 215.
Fmgal's Cave, At, 122.
Folly'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 I 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.
George, To my Brother, 2(>.
Grasshopper and Cricket, On the, 35.
Grecian Urn, Ode on a, 134.
Haydon, Benjamin Robert, Addressed to, 33.
Hi^oo,To, 36.
468
INDEX OF TITLES
Highlands, Lines written in the, after a Visit to
Burns^s Country, 246.
Homer, To, 119.
Hope, To, 6.
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 Rimini^ On,
38.
Hymn to ApoUo, 7.
Hyperion : A Fkagmbnt, 198.
Hyperion : A Vision, 233.
Imitation of Spenser, 1.
In Answer to a Sonnet by J. H. Reynolds, 43.
Indolence, Ode on, 135.
Induction to a Poem, Specimen of an, 27.
Isabella, ob the Pot of Basil, 110.
^ I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,* 14.
Keats, G^rge, To : written in Sickness, 251.
Keats, Thomas, To, 245.
King Lear once i^ain, 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.
Lamia, 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
Bums^s Country, 246.
Little Extempore, A, 249.
Lock of Milton's Hair, On seeing a, 39,
Lovers, A Party of, 2r>l .
Maia, Fragment of an Ode to, 119.
Mathew, (Jeorge Felton, Epistle to, 9.
Meg Merrilies, 243.
Melancholy, Ode on, 12r).
Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, 40.
Milton's Hair, On seeing a Lock of, 39,
Modern Love, 2iW.
Nightingale, Ode to a, 144.
Nile, To the, 41.
'O, I am frightened with most hitafil
thoughts I ' 240.
* O I were I one of the Olympian twelve,' 839.
Ode : ' Bards of Passion and of BCrth,* 125.
Ode on a Orecian 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 Lexwder, 38.
On Death, 1.
On Fame, 142.
On Fame, Another, 142.
On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 9.
On hearing the Bagpipe, and seeing Thi Stnagv
played at Inverary, 246.
On leaving Some Friends at an Early Honr, 9.
On Leigh Hunt's Poem The Story qf Riuini^^i,
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 onoe again.
40.
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35.
On the Sea, 37.
I On . * Tliink not of it, sweet one, so,' 38.
I On visiting the Tomb of Bums, 120.
Otho the Gbeat, 158.
Party of Lovers, A, 251.
Picture of Leander, On a, 38.
Poems of 1818-1819, The, 110.
Prophecy, A : To George Keats in Ameiica,
249.
Psyche, Ode to, 142.
Reynolds, John Hamilton, Epistle to, 240.
Reynolds, John Hamilton, To, 44.
Robin Hood, 41 .
Ronsard, Translation from a Sonnet of, 123.
Sea, On the, 37.
Sharing Eve's Apple, 248.
' Shed no tear ! O shed no tear I ' 141.
Sleep, To, 142.
Sleep and Poetry, 18.
Solitude, Sonnet to, 12.
Some Ladies, To, 3.
Song about M3rself , A, 244.
Songs:
Daisy's Song, 239.
Faery Songs, 141,
INDEX OF TITLES
469
FoUy's Song, 240.
* Hush, hush I tread softly I hush, hush, my
dear,' 120.
* I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,' 125.
* The stranger lighted from his steed,' 240.
Written on a Blank Page in Beaumont and
Fletcher's Works, 42.
Sonnets :
Addressed to Benjamin Rohert Haydon, 33.
* After dark vai>ours have oppress'd our
plains,' 3(3.
* As from the darkening gloom a silver dove,'
* Blue ! 't is the life of heaven, — the do-
main,' 43.
Dream after reading Dante's Episode of Paolo
and Francesca, A, I'SH,
* Happy is England ! I could be content,' 35.
* How many bards g^ld the lapses of time,' 8.
Human Seasons, The, 44.
^If by duU rhymes our English must be
chain'd,' 144.
^Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and
there,' 8.
Last Sonnet, The, 232.
* Oh ! how I love, on a fair summer's ere,' 13.
On a Picture of Leander, 38.
On Fame, 142.
On Fame, Another, 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 Riminit
:w.
On seeing the Elgin Marbles, IM\.
On sitting down to read King Lear once
again, 40.
On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 35.
On the Sea, 37.
On visiting the Tomb of Burns, 120.
* The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone I '
214.
To a Cat, 252.
To a Friend who sent me some Roses, 13.
ToAilsaRock, 121.
To a Lady seen for a Few Moments at Vaux-
hall, 123.
To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel
Crown, 7.
To Byron, 2.
To Chatterton, 2.
To Fanny, 216.
To G. A. W., M.
To George Keats, 251.
To . * Had I a man's fair form,* 26.
To Haydon, 36,
To Homer, 119.
To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44.
To Kosciusko, 34.
To Leigh Hunt, Esq., 37.
To my Brother George, 26.
To my Brothers, 33.
* To one who has been long in city pent,' 13.
To Sleep, 142.
To Solitude, 12.
To Spenser, 42.
To the NUe, 41.
Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard, 123.
* When I have fears that I may cease to be,'
* Why did I laugh to-night ? No voice will
tell,' 137.
Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 4.'^.
Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition, 35.
Written in the Cottage where Bums was
bom, 121.
Written on the Blank Space at the End of
Chaucer's Tale of The Fioure and the Lefe, 36.
Written on the Day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left
Prison, 6.
Written upon the Top of Ben Nevis, 123.
Specimen of an Induction to a Poem, 27.
Spenser, Imitation of, 1.
Spenserian Stanza, written at the dbse of Canto
H., Book v., of The Faerie Queene, 8.
Spenserian Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown,
250.
Spenser, To, 42.
Stanzas : * In a drear-nigh ted December,* 34.
Stanzas to Miss Wylie, 240.
Supplementary Verse, 233.
* Hadst thou liv'd in days of old,' 11.
To
To a Cat, 252.
To Autunm, 213.
To Fanny, 215.
To Homer, 119.
To Hope, 5.
To John Hamilton Reynolds, 44.
To Leigh Hunt, Esq., 37.
To Sleep, 142.
To Some Ladies, 3.
To Spenser, 42.
To the Nile, 41.
To Thomas Keats, 245.
Translation from a Sonnet of Ronsard, 123.
Two or Three Posies, 251.
Verses to Fanny Brawne, 214.
Verses written during a Tour in Scotland, 120.
* Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,' 42.
What the Thrush said, 43.
47 o
INDEX OF TITLES
* Where *b the Poet ? Show him I show him/
238.
^ Woman I when I behold thee, flippant, vain,' 2.
Written in Answer to a Sonnet, 43.
Written in Disgust of Volgar Superstition, 35.
Written in the Cottage where Boms was bom,
121.
Written on the Blank Space at the End rf
Chaaoer*s Tale of The Flowre cmd the Ufu
36.
Written on the Day that Mr. JLeigh Hnat left
Prison, 5.
Written upon the Top of Ben NeTis, 123.
Wylie, Miss, Stanzas to, 240.
INDEX TO LETTERS
effect of, on character, 392,
Tom Keats, 364, 366.
ttion to England, 332.
entertains Keats at Oxford,
Yy 271 ; his love affairs, 357 ;
1, 273, 283, 290, 303, 305, 318,
jf , 323, 324.
rst met by Keats, 340 ; de-
8, 'M2; tiffs with, 353; ar-
Keats, .'{80, and in snbse-
tmmended to Brown, 448 ;
2, 383, 384, ;«6, 388, 393, 413,
, 426, 427, 428, 429, 430, 432,
,441.
s Brown^s house, 340 ; Keats
45 ; letter to, 446.
mitage. Letters to, 410, 411,
,448.
.>.
X to the country of, 308, 310,
yf Melancholy^ quoted, 397.
f Wight, 257.
B, Keats inscribes Endymion
i^)l ; thinks his the purest
ughts on, 363.
of, ;«6.
wden, Letters to, 255.
Taylor, 272, 277.
11.
•2, 275, 279, 281.
OSes to take him on a jour-
8 opinion of, 290, 292, 294.
mt worth, interest of in his
356 ; his absorption in his
; his character, 405 ; letters
385, 40'J, 412, 431, 436.
>r to, 378.
>y 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 serre 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.
Flngal's Caye, 322.
French Revolution, Keats on the, 396.
Godwin, William, 346.
Goldfish, Keats's fancy of a globe of, 372.
Gbeek, Keats wishes to learn, 299.
Haslam, William, letter to, 375.
Haydon, Benjamin Roberts, Keats's first ac-
quaintance with, 255 ; advisee 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, :«1, 371, 373, 379, 412, 440, 443.
Hazlitt, William, on Southey, 259; thinks
Shakespeare enough for us, 261 ; his Round
Table, 269; his essay on commonplace peo-
ple, 2?2; his lecture on poetry, 287, 289;
prosecutes Blackwood, 327 ; his letter to Gif-
ford, a')8 ; 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 ; hb 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 inversionB, 406.
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, 306, 325, 326, 328,
472
INDEX TO LETTERS
336, 337, 338, 350, 351, 352, 3n, 372, 373, 374,
375, 376, 378, 379, 381, 390, 414, 416, 417, 418,
423, 424, 425, 427, 429, 433, 434, 436. 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, G^rge and Georgiana, letters to, 329,
338, 353, 394, 418.
Keats, John, goes to Southampton, 256 ; visits
Carisbrooke, 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 Endymiorij 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 JSndy miotic
281; goes to hear Hazlitt lecture on poetry.
282 ; his recipe for a pleasant life, 28(5 ; 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 Inverarj',
318 ; comes to the Lsle 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,
'M2 ; borrows money of Taylor, .'U9 ; lends
money to Haydon, 350 ; goes to Chichester,
«i5.S; 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 2Shanklin, Isle of Wight,
3S() ; describes his life there, .'Wl ; goes to
Winchester, 387 ; engaged on Hyperion^ 387 ;
works with Brown on a tragedy, 380; di>
scribes Winchester, 291 ; gocas up to Loadon,
393; returns to Winchester, 394; deHrib*
an election there, 400 ; playa a joke onBivn,
406 ; gives up Hyperion^ 408 ; retnraB to tdwi^
413; is attacked with illnesB, 423; uocdml
to Italy, 439 ; reaches Rome, 448.
Keats, lliomas, mckness of, 275, 335, 3S7; Ui
death, 338; his affair with Wells, 364 ; leOn
to, 307, 310, 312, 316, 320, 322.
Milton, John, influence of, on the woild, 291:
compared with Wordsworth, 301.
OriWa, the Matchless^ referred to and qnoted,
268.
Oxford, visited by Keats, 264; described bj
him, 264.
Philips, Mrs., author of The Matchless OriWa,
268.
Poetry, Keats cannot exist without, 258 ; muiUe
to talk of it, 261 ; the quality of length is,
270, 271 ; a few axioms concerning, 281^ ; the
relief brought by, 328; its effect on chsne*
ter, 336.
Psyche, on Ode to, 371.
Quarterly^ The^ attempt of, to crush Keats, 3o0.
Religion, Keats^s ideas about, 2^)1.
Reynolds, Jane, letters to, 265, It26.
Reynolds, John Hamilton, letters to. 2nrK 257«
267, 269, 275, 285, 287, 292, 299, 314, 327, 34*\
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 Chrisdsn-
ity, 259 ; a presiding genius, 260 ; enough fur
us, 261 ; his sonnets, 276 ; supposed seal of.
293.
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, ^.elling strange storirt
of the deaths of kings,* 259 ; his Queen Mai,
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, 26:^, 2iK».2*l
INDEX TO LETTERS
473
, John, letten to, 281, 284, 286, 289, 2<J8,
$49, 389, 392, 415, 437, 443, 444.
lede. The, 361.
Mr., chapel and its oonseoration, 355.
gixm, the Dnke ol, diwmfised in T%e JB!r-
er,2G2.
Charles J., 278; his zehitions to Tom
s, 364, 366.
Senjamin, 277.
Winohester, description of, 387, 389, ^191.
Woodhonae, Richard, letters to, 336, 348.
Wordsworth, William, not to be detracted
from, 262 ; read by Keate on the Isis, 267 ;
criticism of his *' Gipsy,' 272 ; rank of The Ex-
cursion^ 280 ; eritidaed for his theories, 285,
286 ; his effect on the lakes, 293 ; compared
with liilton, 301 ; his place in the Mansion
of Biany iqtartments, 302 ; his home at Rydal,
307.
Wylie, Mrs., letter to, 324.
BLRCTROTYPBD AND PRINTED
BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.
— r
CAMBRIDGP, MASS., U. S. A.
i
This
the Libi
stamp I
A Fine
beyond th*
Please rev
:8'7J
Q_^o|5:/
p-
^
I Keats •EC8.K2e62.C899p
THE HOUGHTON LIBRARY
\.h Sepftenibqr I918
Jeaji SanclibZ AUreu