Of thy wide heaven; yet, to my ardent prayer,
Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, &c. 1.

Mr. Keats takes an opportunity, though with very different feelings towards the school than he has exhibited towards the one above-mentioned, to object to the morbidity that taints the productions of the Lake Poets. They might answer perhaps, generally, that they chuse to grapple with what is unavoidable, rather than pretend to be blind to it; but the more smiling Muse may reply, that half of the evils alluded to are produced by brooding over them; and that it is much better to strike at as many causes of the rest as possible, than to pretend to be satisfied with them in the midst of the most evident dissatisfaction.

1

Happy Poetry Preferred.

These things are doubtless: yet in truth we've had
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 cubs, the Poets Polyphemes
Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower
Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power;
'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own right arm.
The very archings of her eye-lids charm

A thousand willing agents to obey.

And still she governs with the mildest sway:

But strength alone though of the Muses born

Is like a fallen angel; trees uptorn,

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs

And thorns of life; forgetting the great end

Of poesy, that it should be a friend

To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts of man.

Hunt, it will be seen, took the liberty of compressing his quotation by silently omitting seven lines and piecing two fragments of lines. He continued the quotation for twenty-eight lines more: see pages 90 and 91.

We conclude with the beginning of the paragraph which follows this passage, and which contains an idea of as lovely and powerful a nature in embodying an abstraction, as we ever remember to have seen put into words :Yet I rejoice: a myrtle fairer than

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds

Lift's it's sweet head into the air, and feeds
A silent space with ever sprouting green.

Upon the whole, Mr. Keats's book cannot be better described than in a couplet written by Milton when he too was young, and in which he evidently alludes to himself. It is a little luxuriant heap of

Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.

II.

FOUR SONNETS FROM LEIGH
HUNT'S FOLIAGE.

To JOHN KEATS.

'Tis well you think me truly one of those,
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things;
For surely as I feel the bird that sings
Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows,
Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes,
Or the glad issue of emerging springs,
Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings,
Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose.
And surely as I feel things lovelier still,
The human look, and the harmonious form
Containing woman, and the smile in ill,
And such a heart as Charles's,' wise and warm,-
As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now,

Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.

Although it may not be strictly relevant, it will interest some readers to know that these sonnets are transcribed for the present appendix from Keats's own copy of Foliage; or Poems Original and Translated, by Leigh Hunt (1818), bearing upon the title-page, in Hunt's beautiful writing, the words "John Keats from his affectionate friend the Author." Keats gave the book to Miss Brawne ; and it is now in my possession.

1 Hunt notes "Charles C. C. [Cowden Clarke], a mutual friend.”

ON RECEIVING A CROWN OF IVY FROM THE SAME.

A crown of ivy! I submit my head

To the young hand that gives it,-young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.

How pleasant the leaves feel! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness,-Fancy's rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes
Come dancing by, and downward piping cheeks,
And up-thrown cymbals, and Silenus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,—
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus, whose bride has of his hand fast hold.

ON THE SAME.

It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,

Thus to be topped with leaves;-to have a sense
Of honour-shaded thought,-an influence
As from great Nature's fingers, and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind.
'Tis what's within us crowned. And kind and great
Are all the conquering wishes it inspires,—
Love of things lasting, love of the tall woods,
Love of love's self, and ardour for a state

Of natural good befitting such desires,
Towns without gain, and haunted solitudes.

346 FOUR SONNETS FROM LEIGH HUNT'S FOLIAGE.

TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE
CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass ;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both though small are strong
At
your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,-
In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

30th December, 1816.