'WOMAN! WHEN I BEHOLD THEE FLIPPANT, VAIN'

In the 1817 volume, where this poem was first published, with no title, it is placed at the end of a group of poems which are thus advertised on the leaf containing the dedication: 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 documentary evidence, it seems reasonable to place it near the 'Imitation of Spenser' rather than near Calidore.'

WOMAN! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies;

Without that modest softening that enhances

The downcast eye, repentant of the pain That its mild light creates to heal again: E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps, and

prances,

E'en then my soul with exultation dances For that to love, so long, I've dormant

lain:

But when I see thee meek, and kind, and

tender,

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 volume. George Keats says further that it was 'written on receiving a copy of Tom Moore's "Golden Chain" and a most beautiful Dome shaped shell from a Lady.' The exact title of Moore's poem is 'The Wreath and the Chain,' and it will be readily seen how expressly imitative these lines are of Moore's verse in general. The poems are not dated, but they are the first in a group stated by Keats to have been written at an earlier period than the rest of the 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 included in the volume a few years later on personal grounds.

WHAT though while the wonders of nature exploring,

I cannot your light, mazy footsteps attend;

Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring, Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's friend:

Yet over the steep, whence the mountainstream rushes,

With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove; Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate 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.

ON RECEIVING A

CURIOUS

VERSES FROM THE SAME LADIES

The wondering spirits of heaven were mute,

And tears 'mong the dewdrops of morning oft 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 tenderness change;

Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die.

So, when I am in a voluptuous vein,

I pillow my head on the sweets of the

rose,

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,

Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.

Adieu, valiant Eric! with joy thou art

crown'd;

Full many the glories that brighten thy youth,

I too have my blisses, which richly abound In magical powers, to bless and to soothe.

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON

Either the 2d or 3d of February, 1815. Charles Cowden Clarke, to whom Keats showed the sonnet, writes in his recollections:

This I feel to be the first proof I had received of his having committed himself in verse; and how clearly do I recollect the conscious look and hesitation with which he offered it! There are some momentary glances by beloved friends that fade only with life.' The sonnet was printed in the 1817 volume.

WHAT though, for showing truth to flatter'd state,

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he,

In his immortal spirit, been as free

As the sky-searching lark, and as elate. Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait?

Think you he nought but prison-walls did see,

Till, so unwilling, thou unturn'dst the key?

Ah, no! far happier, nobler was his fate! In Spenser's halls he 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?