As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.

SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,

Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,Nature's observatory-whence the dell,

In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,

May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.

But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee, Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, Whose words are images of thoughts refined,

Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,

When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.'

O

H! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, When streams of light pour down the golden west,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest

I believe this to be Keats's first published verse. It appeared in the "Examiner," 1816.

The silver clouds, far- far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,

Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bierTill their stern forms before my mind arise: Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN.

RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear

From my glad bosom,—now from gloominess I mount for ever-not an atom less Than the proud laurel shall content my bier. No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.
Lo! who dares say, "Do this"? Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say, "Stand,"
Or "Go"? This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR.

LEIGH HUNT LEFT PRISON.

.

HAT 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 stray'd, 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?

TO KOSCIUSKO.

OOD Kosciusko! thy great name alone Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling; It comes upon us like the glorious pealing Of the wide spheres-an everlasting tone. And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown, The names of heroes, burst from clouds con

cealing,

Are changed to harmonies, for ever stealing

Through cloudless blue, and round each silver throne, It tells me too, that on a happy day,

When some good spirit walks upon the earth, Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore, Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away To where the great God lives for evermore.

H

OW many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy,-I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 'tis a pleasing chime.
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds- the whispering of the
leaves

The voice of waters. the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound,-and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.'

This sonnet was the means of introducing Keats to Mr. Leigh Hunt's society. Mr. Cowden Clarke had brought some of his young friend's verses and read them aloud. Mr. Horace Smith, who hap

pened to be there, was struck with the last six lines, especially the penultimate, saying, "What a well condensed expression! " and Keats was shortly after introduced to the literary circle.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

HOMER.

The fine folio edition of Chapman's translation of "Homer" had been lent to Mr. Clarke by Mr. Alsager, a friend of Mr. Leigh Hunt's, who at that time conducted the money-market department of the "Times." The friends sat up till daylight over their new acquisition; Keats shouting with delight as some passage of especial energy struck his imagination. At ten o'clock the next morning, Mr. Clarke found this sonnet on his breakfasttable.

UCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told,
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

K

EEN, fitful gusts are whispering here and there

Among the bushes, half leafless and dry; The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare;