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98. TO HIS BROTHER.

KEATS.

[JOHN KEATS was born in London in 1796. He died at Rome at the early age of twenty-four. Every one knows Byron's allusion to the supposed cause of his death:

""Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuffed out by an article."

Keats was a young enthusiast-one who had dedicated himself with his whole heart to his poetical aspirations. He "was killed off by one critique," says Byron. Had Keats been of a less sensitive nature—had he mixed more with the world-had he been much behind the scenes where the parrots of criticism are taught to call, "fool" and "knave," he would have felt how utterly to be despised was such dirt as "The Quarterly" then thought it grand and dignified to cast at an apothecary's poor apprentice. He would have known that persecution from such a quarter was his necessary fate, because he had found friends amongst men of political opinions differing from those of the Review; and was not one of the coterie who arrogated to themselves (as they still arrogate) a supremacy of literary judgment. It would be hard to say that the same journal had redeemed the disgrace of its cruelty to Keats, by any generous encouragement of merit beyond its own pale, during its subsequent career of a quarter of a century. Fortunately such influences upon public opinion are rapidly waning, and the world asks for some better guide than flippant dogmatism and anonymous insolence.

Keats published, in 1818, "Endymion, a Poetic Romance;" in 1820," Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems." These may now be obtained in a cheap form. The unhappy poet, whose agonies under the contempt with which he had been treated, are stated by his friend Shelley "to have resembled insanity," could not have anticipated that he should so soon have taken his rank amongst the most enduring names of our literature.]

Full

many a dreary hour have I past,

My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along

The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey-bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:

That the bright glance from beauty's eyelid slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;

A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.

It has been said, Dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertus told it,)
That when a poet is in such a trance,

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel;
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but poet's ear;
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals;
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silvering of a seraph's dream;
Their rich-brimmed goblets, that incessant run,
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
"Twould make the poet quarrel with the rose.

All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses,
Is, the clear fountains, interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore:
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark silent blue,
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,

Like a sweet nun in holiday attire?

Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight-
The revelries and mysteries of night:

And should I ever see them, I will tell you

Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. These are the living pleasures of the bard:

But richer far posterity's award.

What does he murmur with his latest breath,

While his proud eye looks through the film of death ?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times. The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or in the senate thunder out my numbers,
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious: he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight,

That maids will sing them on their bridal-night.

Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,

When they have tired their gentle limbs with play,
And form'd a snowy circle on the grass,

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily and the musk-rose sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:-she from a casket takes
A little book,-and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep,
Gush ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled by songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales and hills are fading from my view:
Swifty I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,

That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,

And warm thy sons !" Ah, my dear friend and brother,

Could I at once my mad ambition smother,

For lasting joys like these, sure I should be

Happier, and dearer to society.

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain

When some bright thought has darted through my brain. Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure

Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.

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 grass, 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
Checker 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 canvas'd ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.

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.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,

Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest;
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu !
"Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!

99.-CHRISTIAN CHARITY.

J. B. SUMNER, Bishop of Chester.

[THE present excellent Bishop of Chester, Dr. John Bird Sumner, is the son of Dr. Sumner, who was a contemporary with Dr. Parr at Harrow, and became Head Master of that celebrated school. He died young. His two sons have each had the rare distinction of being promoted to the highest offices of the Church by the force of their own merits. The Bishop of Winchester is the younger brother of the Bishop of Chester. John Bird Sumner in 1815 published his first work, entitled " Apostolical Preaching." In 1816 appeared his "Records of Creation." To this remarkable work was awarded the second prize of £400, under the will of a Scotch gentleman named Burnett. In 1821 Dr. Sumner published the Sermons from which we extract the passage below, All his works are distinguished by their earnest piety, their depth of thought

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