Pensive tones are heard to issue from a dusky brake full near him. They come from a vermillion-spotted serpent, who lies there, "a gordian shape of dazzling hue; so rainbow-sided, touched with miseries." If he will grant whatever boon she shall demand, she will tell him where the maiden haunts he seeks for.

And so the serpent, by degrees, becomes a fair lady; glides away to the shores of Corinth; waits on the water-side the return from sacrifice, in Ægina's neighbouring isle, of the young Lycias, of whom it would appear she had, in Corinth, aforetime been enamoured. The celestial coquetry of the scene that follows is admirably depicted. But at length they understand each other, and journey on towards Corinth; and here the description of Corinth's summer-thronged night is true and beautiful in the extreme:

"As men talk in a dream, so Corinth all,
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 festivals
And threw their moving shadows on the walls,
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced shade

Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade."

Whoever, accustomed to a climate in which, with small exception, the year permits the walk, the ride, the exercise throughout the hours of light, enters some fair city of another region, where, in the mid-day sun, silence and death seem almost to reign-where the hum of business is hushed, the sounds of toil unheard, the inanimate houses present the uniform aspect of shaded door and window, and a few hours after sees this death converted into life, the long streets crowded with the throngs that seek in the cool of evening the air, and exercise, and society, which the sultry day had forbidden, will feel the peculiar truth and charm of this description. In Corinth they pass their life secluded for a while, till the feeling of inactivity, and the ambition of wonted publicity rising in the youth's breast, come to disturb their peace. Lamia's penetration at once detects the moving-spring of the restlessness, which, however, promises indeed to be contented with the display and bustle of a bridal Fête. We suppose the moral of the Tale is, that Sloth and Pleasure cannot satisfy a right ambition. Lamia personifying these, feels

that her reign is over when Lycias courts, though even on so gay an occasion as a fete, the society of the good and wise. She knows that in the sage's gaze is a fascination that will ultimately subdue her own, and change her back into her own serpent form. Viewed in this light their colloquy is a noble piece of moral truth.

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But to proceed: she assents, and moves melancholy through the preparations for the fête," She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress her misery in fit magnificence." A description, into which we need not go, of an Arabian-Night-Entertainment Palace follows, but more exquisite, and refined, and delicate; not all gold and jewels, and slaves, and lamps, and finery, but palms and plantains aisled the whole, and a haunting music, sole, perhaps, and lone supportress of the fairy roof." The day comes, and among the guests appears, uninvited and undesired, the fatal gravity of Apollonius. He penetrates the disguise of the Lady Bride: the evil she feared had come upon her: his gaze stiffens and numbs her: "no azure vein wanders on the fairspaced temples"-" no soft bloom mists the cheek." The Sage cries out the dreaded secret-"Serpent"-and as with a frightful scream she vanished,

"On the high couch he lay !—his friends came round-
Supported him-no pulse, or breath they found,

And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound."

The machinery of this little Poem is so graceful, though, indeed, like the Endymion, somewhat mythical, the passion so refined, and the sentiment so truthful, and the moral so good, that it is sure to rank some time or other among the favourite subjects of young imagination. Perhaps in the concealed meaning it may be vaguely and roughly said to correspond to the old fable of the Judgment of Hercules.

Isabella is a tender and most touching story. There is a vast deal of passionate feeling in it, and a good deal of the poetry of real life. It is a tale of young affections sacrificed at the shrine of Lucre; of a soul, awake to the glories of Intelligence, of Beauty, of Creation, blasted in its happiness, and trampled down in its nobility by a one absorbing love and appreciation of hard gold in the bosoms of those who influence her destiny.

The Eve of St. Agnes is certainly imaginative and strikingly descriptive, but a kind of Romeo and Juliet story-it goes no further, and cannot be particularly commended as developing any very important principle, or any very uncommon feeling in our Nature. It partakes exclusively of Keats's younger and more passionate vein, which, however natural to the age of twenty-four, is not

what constitutes Keats's best poetical reputation. We would only say, in reference to this topic, that there is a tone of mental regard, of real affection, aided by the rather raising influence of a light and graceful fancy, in the Poetry of Keats, which perpetually contrasts in refinement and sentiment with the somewhat lower and less worthy strains to be met with in Moore and Byron, when dwelling upon similar themes. Keats redeems himself by his infusion of elements of the imagination and the heart; Moore and Byron are perpetually content to leave themselves unredeemed; while Pope and the highly-lauded and debasing Chaucer remain unredeemable. We are only speaking of them in reference to one class of subjects.

The last Poem of Keats that we have to bring before our readers, is the famed fragment of Hyperion, to ourselves, unquestionably the noblest of his efforts, and the one giving the most glorious promise of those powers, which we will never say have been destroyed without development, but which have gone to be matured in some other clime.

The argument of the Poem, so far as it extends, is the overthrow of the old dynasty of Gods, and the establishment of the new; and this shows, by the way, how deeply imbued Keats was with his educational bias, which prevailed-in spite of his declaration that Endymion was his adieu to mythology-more or less to the end of his career. We are scarcely at all introduced to Jupiter's Dynasty, the speeches of Coelus and the dethroned deities occupying the part of the Poem which is composed.

The opening lament of old Cœlus, that "his strong identity is gone," that when on the throne he could not be the same as the prostrate being sitting there, while sitting there he could not be the same as the God in power on high, that somewhere or other "his identity is lost between the throne and that sad place" the admonitory reproof that follows, that confidence is always half of power, that the betrayal of a consciousness of decrease, is the proof of an actual decrease-to show a symptom of your own fear that power is going, is to precipitate your fallare both instances of the undercurrent of philosophical meaning that pervades the Poem. The description of Coelus appearing among the dispossessed deities-" some groaned, some joyed, while all were moved," is very fine. The speeches that follow are for the most part what might have been expected, some courageous, some melancholy. It is impossible to make gods anything but large men.

There is an exception however in the speech of Oceanus, and and in the speech or rather plaint of Clymene. This plaint resembles the speech of Oceanus, in its generosity, and the

absence of exclusive sympathy with her own party, the old dynasty-but it has a peculiarly womanly character of its own; it comes in without apparent connexion with the other speeches, though the train of thought is evidently taken from them. She does not advocate either side of the question, whether they (the Titan dynasty) shall or shall not try to redeem themselves. She simply tells of her hearing and seeing Apollo, and as Oceanus had generously remarked how gloriously Neptune, though his rival, swayed the waves, so she says that Apollo's music surpasses all Titan music-she cannot but acknowledge it—she could not shut her ears to it-it was melancholy, and she says that she did not like to feel that it was superior-she was pained, but she could not deceive herself.

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She merely describes her feelings. Oceanus saw in Neptune's superiority the doctrine of Progression-but poor Clymene has no philosophy-she hears of the Upstart and Usurping Gods— she understands music-it is very sad, she says, they may usurping, but she never heard such harmony among themselves, i.e. the Titans. It will be said by a glancer at the Poem, why this is all Milton over again—and though it is indeed a bold step to venture on ground where that giant has waved his stalwart arms, these are vigorous, though young, pulsations of the later Poet, and would no more offend she spirit of the old Bard himself, than would the efforts of the infant Hercules in the cradle offend the majesty of the smiling Jove above.

But, in truth, it is not all Milton over again. For though, where there is a triumphant and a defeated Party of Spirits, there must be a certain and strong analogy in sentiment, yet there are these two points of difference, in which, at least as regards conception, Keats partaking of the more enlightened spirit of a more advanced age, has decidedly the advantage.

Milton gives you, Absolute Good victorious-Absolute Evil subdued. The Hyperion figures forth a younger, brighter, nobler, and better dynasty succeeding to one that had these elements within itself, though in a less degree. Milton gives the doctrine of defined and opposite extremes-the Hyperion shadows out the newer doctrine of Progression-a Series of changes.

But what is a nobler conception still, Keats makes some of the old dynasty feel this, acknowledge this, and while perceiving the humiliation, rejoice in the fact. The under-current of meaning in its social and political references we need not point out-it must be obvious to all readers of the Poem. Thus is this fragment the last and the noblest of our Poet's productions. While in others he plays with mythology, or roams among the

passions and affections, he here grapples with great principles of social interest, and shows their Beauty and their Poetry.

We believe that Keats published no more. His health declined rapidly. The journey to Italy, which was undertaken with a view to amending it, failed of its effect. He was, in not many weeks, lying near the Pyramid of Caius Cestius, in the Protestant Burial-place at Rome, with those hopeless, though untrue-omened words written above him, "Here lies one whose name is writ in water."*

The consciousness of superior power, allied with the fact of but partial success, embittered his, as it embitters many a man's spirit. He had not that love of fame which can wait for its reward, and he died unknowing how many bosoms had beat to the voice of his melody, and how many voices would after death be uplifted in his praise.

* The epitaph fixed upon by himself.

C. W.