THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. John Keats

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       With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees

       The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?

       Now too, while the season, — half summer, half spring, —

       Brown elms and green oaks — makes one loiter and sing;

       And the bee’s weighty murmur comes by us at noon,

       And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,

       And little white clouds lie about in the sun,

       And the wind’s in the west, and hay-making begun? —

      and here an autumn night-sketch, from a letter expressing surprise that the wet weather has not brought a visit from Charles Lamb, that inveterate lover of walking in the rain: —

      We hadn’t much thunder and lightning, I own;

       But the rains might have led you to walk out of town;

       And what made us think your desertion still stranger,

       The roads were so bad, there was really no danger;

       At least where I live; for the nights were so groping,

       The rains made such wet, and the paths are so sloping,

       That few, unemboldened by youth or by drinking,

       Came down without lanthorns, — nor then without shrinking.

       And really, to see the bright spots come and go,

       As the path rose or fell, was a fanciful shew.

       Like fairies they seemed, pitching up from their nooks,

       And twinkling upon us their bright little looks.

      Such were Leigh Hunt’s antecedents, and such his literary performances and reputation, when Keats at the age of twenty-one became his intimate. So far as opinions and public sympathies were concerned, those of Keats had already, as we have seen, been largely formed in boyhood by familiarity, under the lead of Cowden Clarke, with Leigh Hunt’s writings in the Examiner. Hunt was a confirmed Voltairian and sceptic as to revealed religion, and supplied its place with a private gospel of cheerfulness, or system of sentimental optimism, inspired partly by his own invincibly sunny temperament and partly by the hopeful doctrines of eighteenth-century philosophy in France. Keats shared the natural sympathy of generous youth for Hunt’s liberal and kind-hearted view of things, and he had a mind naturally unapt for dogma: ready to entertain and appreciate any set of ideas according as his imagination recognized their beauty or power, he could never wed himself to any as representing ultimate truth. In matters of poetic feeling and fancy the two men had up to a certain point not a little in common. Like Hunt, Keats at this time was given to ‘luxuriating’ too effusively and fondly over the ‘deliciousness’ of whatever he liked in art, books, or nature. To the everyday pleasures of summer and the English fields Hunt brought in a lower degree the same alertness of perception and acuteness of enjoyment which in Keats were intense beyond parallel. In his lighter and shallower way Hunt also truly felt with Keats the perennial charm and vitality of classic fable, and was scholar enough to produce about this time some agreeable translations of the Sicilian pastorals, and some, less adequate, of Homer. But behind such pleasant faculties in Hunt nothing deeper or more potent lay hidden. Whereas with Keats, as time went on, delighted sensation became more and more surely and instantaneously transmuted and spiritualized into imaginative emotion; his words and cadences came every day from deeper sources within him and more fully charged with the power of far-reaching and symbolic suggestion. Hence, as this profound and passionate young genius grew, he could not but be aware of what was shallow in the talent of his senior and cloying and distasteful in his ever-voluble geniality. But for many months the harmony of their relations was complete.

      The ‘little cottage’ in the Vale of Health must have been fairly overcrowded, one would suppose, with Hunt’s fast-growing family of young children, but a bed was made up for Keats on a sofa, ‘in a parlour no bigger than an old mansion’s closet,’ says Hunt, which nevertheless served him for a library and had prints after Stothard hung on the walls and casts of the heads of poets and heroes crowning the bookshelves. Here the young poet was made always welcome. The sonnet beginning ‘Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here and there’ records a night of October or November 1816, when, instead of staying to sleep, he preferred to walk home under the stars, his head full of talk about Petrarch and the youth of Milton, to the city lodgings where he lived with his brothers the life affectionately described in that other pleasant sonnet written on Tom’s birthday, November 18, beginning ‘Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals.’ The well-known fifty lines at the end of Sleep and Poetry, a poem on which Keats put forth the best of his half-fledged strength this winter, give the fullest and most engaging account of the pleasure and inspiration he drew from Hunt’s hospitality: —

      The chimes

       Of friendly voices had just given place

       To as sweet a silence, when I ‘gan retrace

       The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease.

       It was a poet’s house who keeps the keys

       Of pleasure’s temple. Round about were hung

       The glorious features of the bards who sung

       In other ages — cold and sacred busts

       Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts

       To clear Futurity his darling fame!

       Then there were fauns and satyrs taking aim

       At swelling apples with a frisky leap

       And reaching fingers, ‘mid a luscious heap

       Of vine-leaves. Then there rose to view a fane

       Of liny marble, and thereto a train

       Of nymphs approaching fairly o’er the sward:

       One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward

       The dazzling sunrise: two sisters sweet

       Bending their graceful figures till they meet

       Over the trippings of a little child:

       And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild

       Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping.

       See, in another picture, nymphs are wiping

       Cherishingly Diana’s timorous limbs; —

       A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims

       At the bath’s edge, and keeps a gentle motion

       With the subsiding crystal: as when ocean

       Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o’er

       Its rocky marge, and balances once more

       The patient weeds; that now unshent by foam

       Feel all about their undulating home…

       Petrarch, outstepping from the shady green,

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