The expression of my indignation and sympathy. I will allow myself a
first and last word on the subject of calumny as it relates to me. As an
author I have dared and invited censure. If I understand myself, I have
written neither for profit nor for fame: I have employed my poetical
compositions and publications simply as the instruments of that sympathy
between myself and others which the ardent and unbounded love I
cherished for my kind incited me to acquire. I expected all sorts of
stupidity and insolent contempt from those.... These compositions
(excepting the tragedy of _The Cenci_, which was written rather to try
my powers than to unburden my full heart) are insufficiently....
Commendation then perhaps they deserve, even from their bitterest
enemies; but they have not obtained any corresponding popularity. As a
man, I shrink from notice and regard: the ebb and flow of the world
vexes me: I desire to be left in peace. Persecution, contumely, and
calumny, have been heaped upon me in profuse measure; and domestic
conspiracy and legal oppression have violated in my person the most
sacred rights of nature and humanity. The bigot will say it was the
recompense of my errors--the man of the world will call it the result of
my imprudence: but never upon one head....
Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant
race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an
unsuccessful author turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame,
doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations, is
ill-qualified to assign its true value to the sneer of this world. He
knows not that such stuff as this is of the abortive and monstrous
births which time consumes as fast as it produces. He sees the truth and
falsehood, the merits and demerits, of his case, inextricably
entangled.... No personal offence should have drawn from me this public
comment upon such stuff.
The offence of this poor victim seems to have consisted solely in his
intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, and some other enemies of
despotism and superstition. My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to
crack, and will take a deal of killing. I do not know much of Mr.
Hazlitt, but....
I knew personally but little of Keats; but, on the news of his
situation, I wrote to him, suggesting the propriety of trying the
Italian climate, and inviting him to join me. Unfortunately he did not
allow me.
* * * * *
1.
And the green paradise which western waves
Embosom in their ever-wailing sweep,--
Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves,
Or to the spirits which within them keep
A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep, 5
Die not, but dream of retribution,--heard
His hymns, and echoing them from steep to steep,
Kept--
* * * * *
2.
And ever as he went he swept a lyre
Of unaccustomed shape, and ... strings
Now like the ... of impetuous fire
Which shakes the forest with its murmurings,
Now like the rush of the aërial wings 5
Of the enamoured wind among the treen,
Whispering unimaginable things,
And dying on the streams of dew serene
Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during green.
3.
And then came one of sweet and earnest looks,
Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes
Were as the clear and ever-living brooks
Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise,
Showing how pure they are: a paradise 5
Of happy truth upon his forehead low
Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise
Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow
Of star-deserted heaven while ocean gleams below.
4.
His song, though very sweet, was low and faint,
A simple strain.
* * * * *
5.
A mighty Phantasm, half concealed
In darkness of his own exceeding light,
Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed,
Charioted on the ... night
Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite. 5
6.
And like a sudden meteor which outstrips
The splendour-wingèd chariot of the sun,
... eclipse
The armies of the golden stars, each one
Pavilioned in its tent of light--all strewn 5
Over the chasms of blue night--