For more adornment, a full thousand years;
She took their cream of Beauty's fairest dyes,
And shap'd and tinted her above all Peers:
Meanwhile Love kept her dearly with his wings,
And underneath their shadow fill'd her eyes
With such a richness that the cloudy Kings
Of high Olympus utter'd slavish sighs.
When from the Heavens I saw her first descend,
My heart took fire, and only burning pains,
They were my pleasures--they my Life's sad end;
Love pour'd her beauty into my warm veins.
* * * * *
* * * * *
I had not the original by me when I wrote it, and did not recollect the
purport of the last lines.
I should have seen Rice ere this--but I am confined by Sawrey's mandate in
the house now, and have as yet only gone out in fear of the damp
night.--You know what an undangerous matter it is. I shall soon be quite
recovered--Your offer I shall remember as though it had even now taken
place in fact--I think it cannot be. Tom is not up yet--I cannot say he is
better. I have not heard from George.
Your affectionate friend
JOHN KEATS.
LXXI.--TO FANNY KEATS.
[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.]
My dear Fanny--Poor Tom is about the same as when you saw him last;
perhaps weaker--were it not for that I should have been over to pay you a
visit these fine days. I got to the stage half an hour before it set out
and counted the buns and tarts in a Pastry-cook's window and was just
beginning with the Jellies. There was no one in the Coach who had a Mind
to eat me like Mr. Sham-deaf. I shall be punctual in enquiring about next
Thursday--
Your affectionate Brother
JOHN.
LXXII.--TO JAMES AUGUSTUS HESSEY.
[Hampstead, October 9, 1818.]
My dear Hessey--You are very good in sending me the letters from the
Chronicle--and I am very bad in not acknowledging such a kindness
sooner--pray forgive me. It has so chanced that I have had that paper
every day--I have seen to-day's. I cannot but feel indebted to those
Gentlemen who have taken my part--As for the rest, I begin to get a little
acquainted with my own strength and weakness.--Praise or blame has but a
momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him
a severe critic on his own Works. My own domestic criticism has given me
pain without comparison beyond what Blackwood or the Quarterly could
possibly inflict--and also when I feel I am right, no external praise can
give me such a glow as my own solitary reperception and ratification of
what is fine. J. S. is perfectly right in regard to the slip-shod
Endymion.[81] That it is so is no fault of mine. No!--though it may sound
a little paradoxical. It is as good as I had power to make it--by
myself--Had I been nervous about its being a perfect piece, and with that
view asked advice, and trembled over every page, it would not have been
written; for it is not in my nature to fumble--I will write
independently.--I have written independently _without Judgment_. I may
write independently, and _with Judgment_, hereafter. The Genius of Poetry
must work out its own salvation in a man: It cannot be matured by law and
precept, but by sensation and watchfulness in itself--That which is
creative must create itself--In Endymion, I leaped headlong into the sea,
and thereby have become better acquainted with the Soundings, the
quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and
piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice. I was never
afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the
greatest--But I am nigh getting into a rant. So, with remembrances to
Taylor and Woodhouse etc. I am
Yours very sincerely
JOHN KEATS.
LXXIII.--TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS.
[Hampstead, October 13 or 14, 1818.]
My dear George--There was a part in your Letter which gave me a great deal
of pain, that where you lament not receiving Letters from England. I
intended to have written immediately on my return from Scotland (which was
two Months earlier than I had intended on account of my own as well as
Tom's health) but then I was told by Mrs. W. that you had said you would
not wish any one to write till we had heard from you. This I thought odd
and now I see that it could not have been so; yet at the time I suffered
my unreflecting head to be satisfied, and went on in that sort of abstract
careless and restless Life with which you are well acquainted. This
sentence should it give you any uneasiness do not let it last for before I
finish it will be explained away to your satisfaction--
I am grieved to say I am not sorry you had not Letters at Philadelphia;
you could have had no good news of Tom and I have been withheld on his
account from beginning these many days; I could not bring myself to say
the truth, that he is no better but much worse--However it must be told;
and you must my dear Brother and Sister take example from me and bear up
against any Calamity for my sake as I do for yours. Our's are ties which
independent of their own Sentiment are sent us by providence to prevent
the deleterious effects of one great solitary grief. I have Fanny and I
have you--three people whose Happiness to me is sacred--and it does annul
that selfish sorrow which I should otherwise fall into, living as I do
with poor Tom who looks upon me as his only comfort--the tears will come
into your Eyes--let them--and embrace each other--thank heaven for what
happiness you have, and after thinking a moment or two that you suffer in
common with all Mankind hold it not a sin to regain your cheerfulness--
I will relieve you of one uneasiness of overleaf: I returned I said on
account of my health--I am now well from a bad sore throat which came of
bog trotting in the Island of Mull--of which you shall hear by the copies
I shall make from my Scotch Letters--
Your content in each other is a delight to me which I cannot express--the
Moon is now shining full and brilliant--she is the same to me in Matter,
what you are to me in Spirit. If you were here my dear Sister I could not
pronounce the words which I can write to you from a distance: I have a
tenderness for you, and an admiration which I feel to be as great and more
chaste than I can have for any woman in the world. You will mention
Fanny--her character is not formed, her identity does not press upon me as
yours does. I hope from the bottom of my heart that I may one day feel as
much for her as I do for you--I know not how it is, but I have never made
any acquaintance of my own--nearly all through your medium my dear
Brother--through you I know not only a Sister but a glorious human being.
And now I am talking of those to whom you have made me known I cannot
forbear mentioning Haslam as a most kind and obliging and constant friend.
His behaviour to Tom during my absence and since my return has endeared
him to me for ever--besides his anxiety about you. To-morrow I shall call
on your Mother and exchange information with her. On Tom's account I have
not been able to pass so much time with her as I would otherwise have
done--I have seen her but twice--once I dined with her and Charles--She
was well, in good spirits, and I kept her laughing at my bad jokes. We
went to tea at Mrs. Millar's, and in going were particularly struck with
the light and shade through the Gate way at the Horse Guards. I intend to
write you such Volumes that it will be impossible for me to keep any order
or method in what I write: that will come first which is uppermost in my
Mind, not that which is uppermost in my heart--besides I should wish to
give you a picture of our Lives here whenever by a touch I can do it; even
as you must see by the last sentence our walk past Whitehall all in good
health and spirits--this I am certain of, because I felt so much pleasure
from the simple idea of your playing a game at Cricket. At Mrs. Millar's I
saw Henry quite well--there was Miss Keasle--and the good-natured Miss
Waldegrave--Mrs. Millar began a long story and you know it is her
Daughter's way to help her on as though her tongue were ill of the gout.
Mrs. M. certainly tells a story as though she had been taught her Alphabet
in Crutched Friars. Dilke has been very unwell; I found him very ailing on
my return--he was under Medical care for some time, and then went to the
Sea Side whence he has returned well. Poor little Mrs. D. has had another
gall-stone attack; she was well ere I returned--she is now at Brighton.
Dilke was greatly pleased to hear from you, and will write a letter for me
to enclose--He seems greatly desirous of hearing from you of the
settlement itself--
[October 14 or 15.]
I came by ship from Inverness, and was nine days at Sea without being
sick--a little Qualm now and then put me in mind of you--however as soon
as you touch the shore all the horrors of Sickness are soon forgotten, as
was the case with a Lady on board who could not hold her head up all the
way. We had not been in the Thames an hour before her tongue began to some
tune; paying off as it was fit she should all old scores. I was the only
Englishman on board. There was a downright Scotchman who hearing that
there had been a bad crop of Potatoes in England had brought some
triumphant specimens from Scotland--these he exhibited with national pride
to all the Lightermen and Watermen from the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon
beef all the way; not being able to eat the thick Porridge which the
Ladies managed to manage with large awkward horn spoons into the bargain.
Severn has had a narrow escape of his Life from a Typhus fever: he is now
gaining strength--Reynolds has returned from a six weeks' enjoyment in
Devonshire--he is well, and persuades me to publish my pot of Basil as an
answer to the attacks made on me in Blackwood's Magazine and the Quarterly
Review. There have been two Letters in my defence in the Chronicle and one
in the Examiner, copied from the Alfred Exeter Paper, and written by
Reynolds. I do not know who wrote those in the Chronicle. This is a mere
matter of the moment--I think I shall be among the English Poets after my
death. Even as a Matter of present interest the attempt to crush me in the
Quarterly has only brought me more into notice, and it is a common
expression among book men "I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own
throat."
It does me not the least harm in Society to make me appear little and
ridiculous: I know when a man is superior to me and give him all due
respect--he will be the last to laugh at me and as for the rest I feel
that I make an impression upon them which insures me personal respect
while I am in sight whatever they may say when my back is turned. Poor
Haydon's eyes will not suffer him to proceed with his picture--he has been
in the Country--I have seen him but once since my return. I hurry matters
together here because I do not know when the Mail sails--I shall enquire
to-morrow, and then shall know whether to be particular or general in my
letter--You shall have at least two sheets a day till it does sail whether
it be three days or a fortnight--and then I will begin a fresh one for the
next Month. The Miss Reynoldses are very kind to me, but they have lately
displeased me much, and in this way--Now I am coming the Richardson. On my
return the first day I called they were in a sort of taking or bustle
about a Cousin of theirs who having fallen out with her Grandpapa in a
serious manner was invited by Mrs. R. to take Asylum in her house. She is
an east indian and ought to be her Grandfather's Heir.[82] At the time I
called Mrs. R. was in conference with her up stairs, and the young Ladies
were warm in her praises down stairs, calling her genteel, interesting and
a thousand other pretty things to which I gave no heed, not being partial
to 9 days' wonders--Now all is completely changed--they hate her, and from
what I hear she is not without faults--of a real kind: but she has others
which are more apt to make women of inferior charms hate her. She is not a
Cleopatra, but she is at least a Charmian. She has a rich Eastern look;
she has fine eyes and fine manners. When she comes into a room she makes
an impression the same as the Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine and
too conscious of herself to repulse any Man who may address her--from
habit she thinks that nothing _particular_. I always find myself more at
ease with such a woman; the picture before me always gives me a life and
animation which I cannot possibly feel with anything inferior. I am at
such times too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble. I
forget myself entirely because I live in her. You will by this time think
I am in love with her; so before I go any further I will tell you I am
not--she kept me awake one Night as a tune of Mozart's might do. I speak
of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which I can feel none
deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very "yes" and
"no" of whose Lips is to me a Banquet. I don't cry to take the moon home
with me in my Pocket nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her and
her like because one has no _sensations_--what we both are is taken for
granted. You will suppose I have by this had much talk with her--no such
thing--there are the Miss Reynoldses on the look out--They think I don't
admire her because I did not stare at her.
They call her a flirt to me--What a want of knowledge! She walks across a
room in such a manner that a Man is drawn towards her with a magnetic
Power. This they call flirting! they do not know things. They do not know
what a Woman is. I believe though she has faults--the same as Charmian and
Cleopatra might have had. Yet she is a fine thing speaking in a worldly
way: for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of
things--the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly,
spiritual and ethereal--in the former Buonaparte, Lord Byron and this
Charmian hold the first place in our Minds; in the latter, John Howard,
Bishop Hooker rocking his child's cradle and you my dear Sister are the
conquering feelings. As a Man in the world I love the rich talk of a
Charmian; as an eternal Being I love the thought of you. I should like her
to ruin me, and I should like you to save me. Do not think, my dear
Brother, from this that my Passions are headlong, or likely to be ever of
any pain to you--
"I am free from Men of Pleasure's cares,
By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs."
This is Lord Byron, and is one of the finest things he has said. I have no
town talk for you, as I have not been much among people--as for Politics
they are in my opinion only sleepy because they will soon be too wide
awake. Perhaps not--for the long and continued Peace of England itself has
given us notions of personal safety which are likely to prevent the
re-establishment of our national Honesty. There is, of a truth, nothing
manly or sterling in any part of the Government. There are many Madmen in
the Country I have no doubt, who would like to be beheaded on tower Hill
merely for the sake of eclat, there are many Men like Hunt who from a
principle of taste would like to see things go on better, there are many
like Sir F. Burdett who like to sit at the head of political dinners,--but
there are none prepared to suffer in obscurity for their Country--The
motives of our worst men are Interest and of our best Vanity. We have no
Milton, no Algernon Sidney--Governors in these days lose the title of Man
in exchange for that of Diplomat and Minister. We breathe in a sort of
Officinal Atmosphere--All the departments of Government have strayed far
from Simplicity which is the greatest of Strength there is as much
difference in this respect between the present Government and Oliver
Cromwell's as there is between the 12 Tables of Rome and the volumes of
Civil Law which were digested by Justinian. A Man now entitled Chancellor
has the same honour paid to him whether he be a Hog or a Lord Bacon. No
sensation is created by Greatness but by the number of Orders a Man has at
his Button holes. Notwithstanding the part which the Liberals take in the
Cause of Napoleon, I cannot but think he has done more harm to the life of
Liberty than any one else could have done: not that the divine right
Gentlemen have done or intend to do any good--no they have taken a Lesson
of him, and will do all the further harm he would have done without any of
the good. The worst thing he has done is, that he has taught them how to
organise their monstrous armies. The Emperor Alexander it is said intends
to divide his Empire as did Diocletian--creating two Czars besides
himself, and continuing the supreme Monarch of the whole. Should he do
this and they for a series of Years keep peaceable among themselves Russia
may spread her conquest even to China--I think it a very likely thing that
China itself may fall, Turkey certainly will. Meanwhile European north
Russia will hold its horns against the rest of Europe, intriguing
constantly with France. Dilke, whom you know to be a Godwin perfectibility
Man, pleases himself with the idea that America will be the country to
take up the human intellect where England leaves off--I differ there with
him greatly--A country like the United States, whose greatest Men are
Franklins and Washingtons will never do that. They are great Men
doubtless, but how are they to be compared to those our countrymen Milton
and the two Sidneys? The one is a philosophical Quaker full of mean and
thrifty maxims, the other sold the very Charger who had taken him through
all his Battles. Those Americans are great, but they are not sublime
Man--the humanity of the United States can never reach the sublime.
Birkbeck's mind is too much in the American style--you must endeavour to
infuse a little Spirit of another sort into the settlement, always with
great caution, for thereby you may do your descendants more good than you
may imagine. If I had a prayer to make for any great good, next to Tom's
recovery, it should be that one of your Children should be the first
American Poet. I have a great mind to make a prophecy, and they say
prophecies work out their own fulfilment--
'Tis the witching time of night,
Orbed is the moon and bright,
And the Stars they glisten, glisten,
Seeming with bright eyes to listen.
For what listen they?
For a song and for a charm,
See they glisten in alarm
And the Moon is waxing warm
To hear what I shall say.
Moon keep wide thy golden ears
Hearken Stars and hearken Spheres
Hearken thou eternal Sky
I sing an infant's Lullaby,
O pretty Lullaby!
Listen, Listen, listen, listen
Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten
And hear my Lullaby!
Though the Rushes that will make
Its cradle still are in the lake,
Though the linen that will be
Its swathe, is on the cotton tree,
Though the woollen that will keep
It warm, is on the silly sheep;
Listen Starlight, listen, listen
Glisten, Glisten, glisten, glisten
And hear my Lullaby!
Child! I see thee! Child, I've found thee
Midst of the quiet all around thee!
Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee
And thy mother sweet is nigh thee!--
Child, I know thee! Child no more
But a Poet _ever_more
See, See the Lyre, The Lyre
In a flame of fire
Upon the little cradle's top
Flaring, flaring, flaring
Past the eyesight's bearing--
Awake it from its sleep,
And see if it can keep
Its eyes upon the blaze--
Amaze, Amaze!
It stares, it stares, it stares
It dares what no one dares
It lifts its little hand into the flame
Unharm'd, and on the strings
Paddles a little tune and sings
With dumb endeavour sweetly!
Bard art thou completely!
Little Child
O' the western wild,
Bard art thou completely!--
Sweetly, with dumb endeavour--
A Poet now or never!
Little Child
O' the western wild
A Poet now or never!
[October 16.]
This is Friday, I know not what day of the Month--I will enquire
to-morrow, for it is fit you should know the time I am writing. I went to
Town yesterday, and calling at Mrs. Millar's was told that your Mother
would not be found at home--I met Henry as I turned the corner--I had no
leisure to return, so I left the letters with him. He was looking very
well. Poor Tom is no better to-night--I am afraid to ask him what Message
I shall send from him. And here I could go on complaining of my Misery,
but I will keep myself cheerful for your Sakes. With a great deal of
trouble I have succeeded in getting Fanny to Hampstead. She has been
several times. Mr. Lewis has been very kind to Tom all the summer, there
has scarce a day passed but he has visited him, and not one day without
bringing or sending some fruit of the nicest kind. He has been very
assiduous in his enquiries after you--It would give the old Gentleman a
great deal of pleasure if you would send him a Sheet enclosed in the next
parcel to me, after you receive this--how long it will be first--Why did I
not write to Philadelphia? Really I am sorry for that neglect. I wish to
go on writing ad infinitum to you--I wish for interesting matter and a pen
as swift as the wind--But the fact is I go so little into the Crowd now
that I have nothing fresh and fresh every day to speculate upon except my
own Whims and Theories. I have been but once to Haydon's, once to Hunt's,
once to Rice's, once to Hessey's. I have not seen Taylor, I have not been
to the Theatre. Now if I had been many times to all these and was still in
the habit of going I could on my return at night have each day something
new to tell you of without any stop--But now I have such a dearth that
when I get to the end of this sentence and to the bottom of this page I
must wait till I can find something interesting to you before I begin
another. After all it is not much matter what it may be about, for the
very words from such a distance penned by this hand will be grateful to
you--even though I were to copy out the tale of Mother Hubbard or Little
Red Riding Hood.
[Later.]
I have been over to Dilke's this evening--there with Brown we have been
talking of different and indifferent Matters--of Euclid, of Metaphysics,
of the Bible, of Shakspeare, of the horrid System and consequences of the
fagging at great schools. I know not yet how large a parcel I can send--I
mean by way of Letters--I hope there can be no objection to my dowling up
a quire made into a small compass. That is the manner in which I shall
write. I shall send you more than Letters--I mean a tale--which I must
begin on account of the activity of my Mind; of its inability to remain at
rest. It must be prose and not very exciting. I must do this because in
the way I am at present situated I have too many interruptions to a train
of feeling to be able to write Poetry. So I shall write this Tale, and if
I think it worth while get a duplicate made before I send it off to you.
[October 21.]
This is a fresh beginning the 21st October. Charles and Henry were with us
on Sunday, and they brought me your Letter to your Mother--we agreed to
get a Packet off to you as soon as possible. I shall dine with your Mother
to-morrow, when they have promised to have their Letters ready. I shall
send as soon as possible without thinking of the little you may have from
me in the first parcel, as I intend, as I said before, to begin another
Letter of more regular information. Here I want to communicate so largely
in a little time that I am puzzled where to direct my attention. Haslam
has promised to let me know from Capper and Hazlewood. For want of
something better I shall proceed to give you some extracts from my Scotch
Letters--Yet now I think on it why not send you the letters themselves--I
have three of them at present--I believe Haydon has two which I will get
in time. I dined with your Mother and Henry at Mrs. Millar's on Thursday,
when they gave me their Letters. Charles's I have not yet--he has promised
to send it. The thought of sending my Scotch Letters has determined me to
enclose a few more which I have received and which will give you the best
cue to how I am going on, better than you could otherwise know. Your
Mother was well, and I was sorry I could not stop later. I called on Hunt
yesterday--it has been always my fate to meet Ollier there--On Thursday I
walked with Hazlitt as far as Covent Garden: he was going to play
Racquets. I think Tom has been rather better these few last days--he has
been less nervous. I expect Reynolds to-morrow.
[Later, about October 25.]