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Updated: April 30, 2025
Endymion: A Poetic Romance. By JOHN KEATS. 8vo. pp. 207. London, 1818. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems. By JOHN KEATS, Author of Endymion. 12mo. pp. 200. London, 1820. We had never happened to see either of these volumes till very lately and have been exceedingly struck with the genius they display, and the spirit of poetry which breathes through all their extravagance.
But masters of alliterative effects, like Keats, Tennyson and Verlaine, constantly employ alliteration in unaccented syllables so as to color the tone-quality of a line without a too obvious assault upon the ear. The unrhymed songs of The Princess are full of these delicate modulations of sound. "We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea."
And those moments, how they have passed into his poetry like the breath of the Spring! When "the grand obsession" was not upon him, who, like Keats, can make us feel the cool, sweet, wholesome touch of our great Mother, the Earth? That sleep, "full of sweet dreams and health and quiet breathing," which the breast that suckled Persephone alone can give may heal us also for a brief while.
We have no personal acquaintance with any of these men, and no personal feelings in regard to any one of them, good or bad. We never even saw any one of their faces. As for Mr. Keats, we are informed that he is in a very bad state of health, and that his friends attribute a great deal of it to the pain he has suffered from the critical castigation his Endymion drew down on him in this magazine.
While Mark was walking back to Wych and when on the brow of the first rise of the road he stood looking down at Wychford in the valley below, a chill lisping wind from the east made him shiver and he thought of the lines in Keats' Eve of St.
On the other hand, the illimitable is no less potent in mystery than the invisible, whence the dramatic effect of Keats' ``stout Cortez'' staring at the boundless Pacific while all his men look at each other with a wild surmise, ``silent upon a peak in Darien. It is with similar feelings that the astronomer regards certain places where from the peaks of the universe his vision seems to range out into endless empty space.
Moreover, a new generation had come to the front; Scott's series of verse-romances was closed; Byron was in mid-career; there were young men of extraordinary and somewhat disquieting talent Shelley, Keats, and Leigh Hunt all of whom were supposed to be, although characters of a very reprehensible and even alarming class, yet distinctly respectful in their attitude towards Mr. Wordsworth.
Thy congeners killed Keats and Chatterton, and when I am dead thou wilt be sorry for what thou hast not done." "But hast thou published anything?" I asked. "How could I publish?" he replied, indignantly. "Then how could I be aware of thee?" I inquired. "But my great-grandfather did publish," said another.
But the particular Narcissus of whom I write was a long way off that thirteenth maid in the days of his antiquarian rambles and his Pagan-Catholic ardours, and the above digression is at least out of date. A copy of Keats which I have by me as I write is a memorial of one of the pretty loves typical of that period.
Thus, Chaucer is perfumed with early spring; Homer resounds like the sea; in the Greek Anthology the sun always shines on the fisherman's cottage by the beach; we associate the Vishnu Purana with lakes and houses, Keats with nightingales in forest dim, while the long grass waving on the lonely heath is the last memorial of the fading fame of Ossian.
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