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.

Pa.s.sing 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 rehea.r.s.e 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_; princ.i.p.ally 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 gra.s.s 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 canva.s.s'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 pa.s.sage 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 Sh.e.l.ley. 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, const.i.tuted for him throughout his life the most vital part alike of patriotism, of philosophy, and of religion. For Sh.e.l.ley 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 aeolian 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 Sh.e.l.ley, but London-born and Middles.e.x-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 a.s.sociate 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 cla.s.sical 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-G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sage 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 pa.s.sion of the moon-G.o.ddess for Endymion, and the praises of the poet who first sang it, follow at considerable length.

The pa.s.sage 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sages to confident antic.i.p.ations 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. Pa.s.sages 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 a.s.serts 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 pa.s.sage which has become cla.s.sically 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 s.p.a.ce 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 compa.s.s 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 pa.s.sage is likely to remain for posterity the central expression of the spirit of literary emanc.i.p.ation 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 a.s.sume that att.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sage 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."