The _Poems_ of 1817.
The note of Keats's early volume is accurately struck in the motto from
Spenser which he prefixed to it:--
"What more felicity can fall to creature
Than to enjoy delight with liberty?"
The element in which his poetry moves is liberty, the consciousness of
release from those conventions and restraints, not inherent in its true
nature, by which the art had for the last hundred years been hampered. And
the spirit which animates him is essentially the spirit of delight:
delight in the beauty of nature and the vividness of sensation, delight in
the charm of fable and romance, in the thoughts of friendship and
affection, in anticipations of the future, and in the exercise of the art
itself which expresses and communicates all these joys.
We have already glanced, in connection with the occasions which gave rise
to them, at a few of the miscellaneous boyish pieces in various metres
which are included in the volume, as well as at some of the sonnets. The
remaining and much the chief portion of the book consists of half a dozen
poems in the rhymed decasyllabic couplet. These had all been written
during the period between November 1815 and April 1817, under the combined
influence of the older English poets and of Leigh Hunt. The former
influence shows itself everywhere in the substance and spirit of the
poems, but less, for the present, in their form and style. Keats had by
this time thrown off the eighteenth-century stiffness which clung to his
earliest efforts, but he had not yet adopted, as he was about to do, a
vocabulary and diction of his own full of licences caught from the
Elizabethans and from Milton. The chief verbal echoes of Spenser to be
found in his first volume are a line quoted from him entire in the epistle
to G. F. Mathew, and the use of the archaic 'teen' in the stanzas
professedly Spenserian. We can indeed trace Keats's familiarity with
Chapman, and especially with one poem of Chapman's, his translation of the
Homeric _Hymn to Pan_, in a predilection for a particular form of abstract
descriptive substantive:--
"the pillowy silkiness that rests
Full in the speculation of the stars:"--
"Or the quaint mossiness of aged roots:"--
"Ere I can have explored its widenesses."[23]
The only other distinguishing marks of Keats's diction in this first
volume consist, I think, in the use of the Miltonic 'sphery,' and of an
unmeaning coinage of his own, 'boundly,' with a habit--for which Milton,
Spenser, and among the moderns Leigh Hunt all alike furnished him the
example--of turning nouns into verbs and verbs into nouns at his
convenience. For the rest, Keats writes in the ordinary English of his
day, with much more feeling for beauty of language than for correctness,
and as yet without any formed or assured poetic style. Single lines and
passages declare, indeed, abundantly his vital poetic faculty and
instinct. But they are mixed up with much that only illustrates his
crudity of taste, and the tendency he at this time shared with Leigh Hunt
to mistake the air of chatty, trivial gusto for an air of poetic ease and
grace.
In the matter of metre, we can see Keats in these poems making a
succession of experiments for varying the regularity of the heroic
couplet. In the colloquial _Epistles_, addressed severally to G. F.
Mathew, to his brother George, and to Cowden Clarke, he contents himself
with the use of frequent disyllabic rhymes, and an occasional
_enjambement_ or 'overflow.' In the _Specimen of an Induction to a Poem_,
and in the fragment of the poem itself, entitled _Calidore_ (a name
borrowed from the hero of Spenser's sixth book,) as well as in the unnamed
piece beginning 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,' which opens the
volume, he further modifies the measure by shortening now and then the
second line of the couplet, with a lyric beat that may have been caught
either from Spenser's nuptial odes or Milton's _Lycidas_,--
"Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds."
In _Sleep and Poetry_, which is the most personal and interesting, as well
as probably the last-written, poem in the volume, Keats drops this
practice, but in other respects varies the rhythm far more boldly, making
free use of the overflow, placing his full pauses at any point in a line
rather than at the end, and adopting as a principle rather than an
exception the Chaucerian and Elizabethan fashion of breaking the couplet
by closing a sentence or paragraph with its first line.
Passing from the form of the poems to their substance, we find that they
are experiments or poetic preludes merely, with no pretension to be
organic or complete works of art. To rehearse ramblingly the pleasures and
aspirations of the poetic life, letting one train of images follow another
with no particular plan or sequence, is all that Keats as yet attempts:
except in the _Calidore_ fragment. And that is on the whole feeble and
confused: from the outset the poet loses himself in a maze of young
luxuriant imagery: once and again, however, he gets clear, and we have
some good lines in an approach to the Dryden manner:--
"Softly the breezes from the forest came,
Softly they blew aside the taper's flame;
Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower;
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower;
Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet's tone;
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone."
To set against this are occasionally expressions in the complete taste of
Leigh Hunt, as for instance--
"The lamps that from the high-roof'd wall were pendent,
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent."
The _Epistles_ are full of cordial tributes to the conjoint pleasures of
literature and friendship. In that to Cowden Clarke, Keats acknowledges to
his friend that he had been shy at first of addressing verses to him:--
"Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine,
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 tenderness;
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly?
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
Growing, like Atlas, stronger for 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,
Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?"
This is characteristic enough of the quieter and lighter manner of Keats
in his early work. Blots like the ungrammatical fourth line are not
infrequent with him. The preference for Miltonian tenderness over
Miltonian storms may remind the reader of a later poet's more masterly
expression of the same sentiment:--'Me rather all that bowery
loneliness--'. The two lines on Spenser are of interest as conveying one
of those incidental criticisms on poetry by a poet, of which no one has
left us more or better than Keats. The habit of Spenser to which he here
alludes is that of coupling or repeating the same vowels, both in their
open and their closed sounds, in the same or successive lines, for
example,--
"Eftsoones her shallow ship away did slide,
More swift than swallow sheres the liquid skye;
Withouten oare or pilot it to guide,
Or winged canvas with the wind to fly."
The run here is on _a_ and _i_; principally on _i_, which occurs five
times in its open, and ten times in its closed, sound in the four
lines,--if we are indeed to reckon as one vowel these two unlike sounds
denoted by the same sign. Keats was a close and conscious student of the
musical effects of verse, and the practice of Spenser is said to have
suggested to him a special theory as to the use and value of the iteration
of vowel sounds in poetry. What his theory was we are not clearly told,
neither do I think it can easily be discovered from his practice; though
every one must feel a great beauty of his verse to be in the richness of
the vowel and diphthong sequences. He often spoke of the subject, and once
maintained his view against Wordsworth when the latter seemed to be
advocating a mechanical principle of vowel variation.
Hear, next how the joys of brotherly affection, of poetry, and of nature,
come naively jostling one another in the _Epistle_ addressed from the
sea-side to his brother George:--
"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 enjoyment,
Stretch'd on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I am pillow'd 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;
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 green.
Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her brow;
I see the lark down-dropping to his nest,
And the broad wing'd sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea."
It is interesting to watch the newly-awakened literary faculty in Keats
thus exercising itself in the narrow circle of personal sensation, and on
the description of the objects immediately before his eyes. The effect of
rhythmical movement attempted in the last lines, to correspond with the
buoyancy and variety of the motions described, has a certain felicity, and
the whole passage is touched already with Keats's exquisite perception and
enjoyment of external nature. His character as a poet of nature begins,
indeed, distinctly to declare itself in this first volume. He differs by
it alike from Wordsworth and from Shelley. The instinct of Wordsworth was
to interpret all the operations of nature by those of his own strenuous
soul; and the imaginative impressions he had received in youth from the
scenery of his home, deepened and enriched by continual after meditation,
and mingling with all the currents of his adult thought and feeling,
constituted for him throughout his life the most vital part alike of
patriotism, of philosophy, and of religion. For Shelley on his part
natural beauty was in a twofold sense symbolical. In the visible glories
of the world his philosophy saw the veil of the unseen, while his
philanthropy found in them types and auguries of a better life on earth;
and all that imagery of nature's more remote and skyey phenomena, of which
no other poet has had an equal mastery, and which comes borne to us along
the music of the verse--
"With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen"--
was inseparable in his soul from visions of a radiant future and a
renovated--alas! not a human--humanity. In Keats the sentiment of nature
was simpler than in either of these two other masters; more direct, and so
to speak more disinterested. It was his instinct to love and interpret
nature more for her own sake, and less for the sake of sympathy which the
human mind can read into her with its own workings and aspirations. He had
grown up neither like Wordsworth under the spell of lake and mountain, nor
in the glow of millennial dreams like Shelley, but London-born and
Middlesex-bred, was gifted, we know not whence, as if by some mysterious
birthright, with a delighted insight into all the beauties, and sympathy
with all the life, of the woods and fields. Evidences of the gift appear,
as every reader knows, in the longer poems of his first volume, with their
lingering trains of peaceful summer imagery, and loving inventories of
'Nature's gentle doings;' and pleasant touches of the same kind are
scattered also among the sonnets; as in that _To Charles Wells_,--
"As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert,"--
or again in that _To Solitude_,--
--"let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell."[24]
Such intuitive familiarity with the blithe activities, unnoted by common
eyes, which make up the life and magic of nature, is a gift we attribute
to men of primitive race and forest nurture; and Mr Matthew Arnold would
have us recognize it as peculiarly characteristic of the Celtic element in
the English genius and English poetry. It was allied in Keats to another
instinct of the early world which we associate especially with the Greeks,
the instinct for personifying the powers of nature in clearly-defined
imaginary shapes endowed with human beauty and half-human faculties. The
classical teaching of the Enfield school had not gone beyond Latin, and
neither in boyhood nor afterwards did Keats acquire any Greek: but towards
the creations of the Greek mythology he was attracted by an overmastering
delight in their beauty, and a natural sympathy with the phase of
imagination that engendered them. Especially he shows himself possessed
and fancy-bound by the mythology, as well as by the physical enchantment,
of the moon. Never was bard in youth so literally moonstruck. He had
planned a poem on the ancient story of the loves of Diana, with whom the
Greek moon-goddess Selene is identified in the Latin mythology, and the
shepherd-prince Endymion; and had begun a sort of prelude to it in the
piece that opens 'I stood tiptoe upon a little hill.' Afterwards, without
abandoning the subject, Keats laid aside this particular exordium, and
printed it, as we have seen, as an independent piece at the head of his
first volume. It is at the climax of a passage rehearsing the delights of
evening that he first bethinks himself of the moon--
"lifting her silver rim
Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim
Coming into the blue with all her light."
The thought of the mythic passion of the moon-goddess for Endymion, and
the praises of the poet who first sang it, follow at considerable length.
The passage conjuring up the wonders and beneficences of their bridal
night is written in part with such a sympathetic touch for the collective
feelings and predicaments of men, in the ordinary conditions of human pain
and pleasure, health and sickness, as rarely occurs again in Keats's
poetry, though his correspondence shows it to have been most natural to
his mind:--
"The evening weather was so bright, and clear,
That men of health were of unusual cheer.
* * * * *
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 sooth'd them into slumbers full and deep.
Soon they awoke clear-ey'd: 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."[25]
Finally, Keats abandons and breaks off this tentative exordium of his
unwritten poem with the cry:--
"Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses
That followed thine and thy dear shepherd's kisses:
Was there a poet born? But now no more
My wandering spirit must no farther soar."
Was there a poet born? Is the labour and the reward of poetry really and
truly destined to be his? The question is one which recurs in this early
volume importunately and in many tones; sometimes with words and cadences
closely recalling those of Milton in his boyish _Vacation Exercise_;
sometimes with a cry like this, which occurs twice over in the piece
called _Sleep and Poetry_,--
"O Poesy! for thee I hold my pen,
That am not yet a glorious denizen
Of thy wide heaven:"--
and anon, with a less wavering, more confident and daring tone of young
ambition,--
"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 ministering reason sorts
Out the dark mysteries of human souls
To clear conceiving: yet there ever rolls
A vast idea before me"--.
The feeling expressed in these last lines, the sense of the overmastering
pressure and amplitude of an inspiration as yet unrealized and indistinct,
gives way in other passages to confident anticipations of fame, and of the
place which he will hold in the affections of posterity.
There is obviously a great immaturity and uncertainty in all these
outpourings, an intensity and effervescence of emotion out of proportion
as yet both to the intellectual and the voluntary powers, much confusion
of idea, and not a little of expression. Yet even in this first book of
Keats there is much that the lover of poetry will always cherish.
Literature, indeed, hardly affords another example of work at once so
crude and so attractive. Passages that go to pieces under criticism
nevertheless have about them a spirit of beauty and of morning, an
abounding young vitality and freshness, that exhilarate and charm us
whether with the sanction of our judgment or without it. And alike at its
best and worst, the work proceeds manifestly from a spontaneous and
intense poetic impulse. The matter of these early poems of Keats is as
fresh and unconventional as their form, springing directly from the native
poignancy of his sensations and abundance of his fancy. That his
inexperience should always make the most discreet use of its freedom could
not be expected; but with all its immaturity his work has strokes already
which suggest comparison with the great names of literature. Who much
exceeds him, even from the first, but Shakspere in momentary felicity of
touch for nature, and in that charm of morning freshness who but Chaucer?
Already, too, we find him showing signs of that capacity for clear and
sane self-knowledge which becomes by-and-by so admirable in him. And he
has already begun to meditate to good purpose on the aims and methods of
his art. He has grasped and vehemently asserts the principle that poetry
should not strive to enforce particular doctrines, that it should not
contend in the field of reason, but that its proper organ is the
imagination, and its aim the creation of beauty. With reference to the
theory and practice of the poetic art the piece called _Sleep and Poetry_
contains one passage which has become classically familiar to all readers.
Often as it has been quoted elsewhere, it must be quoted again here, as
indispensable to the understanding of the literary atmosphere in which
Keats lived:--
"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 shown us all?
From 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
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 round,
Eternally around a dizzy void?
Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd
With honours; nor had any other care
Than to sing out and soothe their wavy hair.
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 could not understand
His glories; with a puling infant's force
They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse,
And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd!
The winds of heaven blew, the ocean roll'd
Its gathering waves--ye felt it not. The blue
Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew
Of summer night collected still to make
The morning precious: Beauty was awake!
Why were ye not awake? But ye were dead
To things ye knew not of,--were closely wed
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule
And compass vile; so that ye taught a school
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit,
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit,
Their verses tallied. Easy was the task:
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask
Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race!
That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face,
And did not know it,--no, they went about,
Holding a poor, decrepit standard out,
Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large
The name of one Boileau!
O ye whose charge
It is to hover round our pleasant hills!
Whose congregated majesty so fills
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace
Your hallow'd names, in this unholy place,
So near those common folk; did not their shames
Affright you? Did our old lamenting Thames
Delight you? did ye never cluster round
Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound,
And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu
To regions where no more the laurel grew?
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming
To some lone spirits who could proudly sing
Their youth away, and die? 'Twas even so.
But let me think away those times of woe:
Now 'tis a fairer season; ye have breathed
Rich benedictions o'er us; ye have wreathed
Fresh garlands: for sweet music has been heard
In many places; some has been upstirr'd
From out its crystal dwelling in a lake,
By a swan's ebon bill; from a thick brake,
Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
About the earth: happy are ye and glad."
Both the strength and the weakness of this are typically characteristic of
the time and of the man. The passage is likely to remain for posterity the
central expression of the spirit of literary emancipation then militant
and about to triumph in England. The two great elder captains of
revolution, Coleridge and Wordsworth, have both expounded their cause, in
prose, with much more maturity of thought and language; Coleridge in the
luminous retrospect of the _Biographia Literaria_, Wordsworth in the
austere contentions of his famous prefaces. But neither has left any
enunciation of theory having power to thrill the ear and haunt the memory
like the rhymes of this young untrained recruit in the cause of poetic
liberty and the return to nature. It is easy, indeed, to pick these verses
of Keats to shreds, if we choose to fix a prosaic and rational attention
on their faults. What is it, for instance, that imagination is asked to
do? fly, or drive? Is it she, or her steeds, that are to paw up against
the light? and why paw? Deeds to be done upon clouds by pawing can hardly
be other than strange. What sort of a verb is 'I green, thou greenest?'
Delight with liberty is very well, but liberty in a poet ought not to
include liberties with the parts of speech. Why should the hair of the
muses require 'soothing'?--if it were their tempers it would be more
intelligible. And surely 'foppery' belongs to civilization and not to
'barbarism': and a standard-bearer may be decrepit, but not a standard,
and a standard flimsy, but not a motto. 'Boundly reverence': what is
boundly? And so on without end, if we choose to let the mind assume that
attitude. Many minds not indifferent to literature were at that time, and
some will at all times be, incapable of any other. Such must naturally
turn to the work of the eighteenth century school, the school of tact and
urbane brilliancy and sedulous execution, and think the only 'blasphemy'
was on the side of the youth who could call, or seem to call, the poet of
Belinda and the _Epistle to Dr Arbuthnot_ fool and dolt. Byron, in his
controversy with Bowles a year or two later, adopted this mode of attack
effectively enough: his spleen against a contemporary finding as usual its
most convenient weapon in an enthusiasm, partly real and partly affected,
for the genius and the methods of Pope. But controversy apart, if we have
in us a touch of instinct for the poetry of imagination and beauty, as
distinct from that of taste and reason, however clearly we may see the
weak points of a passage like this, however much we may wish that taste
and reason had had more to do with it, yet we cannot but feel that Keats
touches truly the root of the matter; we cannot but admire the elastic
life and variety of his verse, his fine spontaneous and effective turns of
rhetoric, the ring and power of his appeal to the elements, and the glow
of his delight in the achievements and promise of the new age.
His volume on its appearance by no means made the impression which his
friends had hoped for it. Hunt published a thoroughly judicious as well as
cordial criticism in the _Examiner_, and several of the provincial papers
noticed the book. Haydon wrote in his ranting vein: "I have read your
_Sleep and Poetry_--it is a flash of lightning that will rouse men from
their occupations, and keep them trembling for the crash of thunder that
_will_ follow." But people were in fact as far from being disturbed in
their occupations as possible. The attention of the reading public was for
the moment almost entirely absorbed by men of talent or of genius who
played with a more careless, and some of them with a more masterly touch
than Keats as yet, on commoner chords of the human spirit; as Moore,
Scott, and Byron. In Keats's volume every one could see the faults, while
the beauties appealed only to the poetically minded. It seems to have had
a moderate sale at first, but after the first few weeks none at all. The
poet, or at all events his brothers for him, were inclined, apparently
with little reason, to blame their friends the publishers for the failure.
On the 29th of April we find the brothers Ollier replying to a letter of
George Keats in dudgeon:--"we regret that your brother ever requested us
to publish his book, or that our opinion of its talent should have led us
to acquiesce in undertaking it. We are, however, much obliged to you for
relieving us from the unpleasant necessity of declining any further
connexion with it, which we must have done, as we think the curiosity is
satisfied, and the sale has dropped." One of their customers, they go on
to say, had a few days ago hurt their feelings as men of business and of
taste by calling it "no better than a take in."
A fortnight before the date of this letter Keats had left London. Haydon
had been urging on him, not injudiciously, the importance of seclusion and
concentration of mind. We find him writing to Reynolds soon after the
publication of his volume:--"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." And on the 14th of April he in fact started for the Isle of
Wight, intending to devote himself entirely to study, and to make
immediately a fresh start upon _Endymion_.