There is Wild wood, A Mild hood To the sheep on the lea o' the down, With its green, thin spurs, There is Newton marsh With its spear grass harsh A pleasant summer level Where the maidens sweet Of the Market Street, Do meet in the dusk to revel. There's the Barton rich And hedge for the thrush to live in For the buzzing bee And a bank for the wasp to hive in. And O, and O The daisies blow And the primroses are waken'd, And the violets white Sit in silver plight, And the green bud's as long as the spike end. Then who would go Into dark Soho, And chatter with dack'd hair'd critics, When he can stay For the new-mown hay, And startle the dappled Prickets? I know not if this rhyming fit has done anythingit will be safe with you if worthy to put among my Lyrics. Here's some doggrel for you-Perhaps you would like a bit of b——hrell— Where be ye going, you Devon Maid? And what have you there in the Basket? new. I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, But 'hind the door I love kissing more, I love your hills, and I love your dales, I'll put your Basket all safe in a nook, How does the work go on? I should like to bring out my "Dentatus "1 at the time your Epic makes its appearance. I expect to have my Mind soon clear for something Tom has been much worse: but is now getting better his remembrances to you. I think of seeing the Dart and Plymouth-but I don't know. It has as yet been a Mystery to me how and where Wordsworth went. I can't help thinking he has returned to his Shell-with his beautiful Wife and his enchanting Sister. It is a great Pity that People should by associating themselves with the finest things, spoil them. Hunt has damned Hampstead and masks and sonnets and Italian tales. Wordsworth has damned the lakes-Milman has damned the old drama-West has damned- wholesale. Peacock has damned satire-Ollier has damn'd Music-Hazlitt has damned the bigoted and the blue-stockinged; how durst the Man?! he is your only good damner, and if ever I am damn'd-damn me if I shouldn't like him to damn me. It will not be long ere I see you, but I thought I would just give you a line out of Devon. Yours affectionately JOHN KEATS. Remember me to all we know. 1 Dentatus was the subject of Haydon's new picture. XLIV. TO MESSRS. TAYLOR AND HESSEY. Teignmouth, Saturday Morn [March 21, 1818]. My dear Sirs-I had no idea of your getting on so fast-I thought of bringing my 4th Book to Town all in good time for you-especially after the late unfortunate chance. I did not however for my own sake delay finishing the copy which was done a few days after my arrival here. I send it off to-day, and will tell you in a Postscript at what time to send for it from the Bull and Mouth or other Inn. You will find the Preface and dedication and the title Page as I should wish it to stand-for a Romance is a fine thing notwithstanding the circulating Libraries. My respects to Mrs. Hessey and to Percy Street. Yours very sincerely JOHN KEATS. P.S.-I have been advised to send it to you—you may expect it on Monday-for I sent it by the Postman to Exeter at the same time with this Letter. Adieu! XLV. TO JAMES RICE. Teignmouth, Tuesday [March 24, 1818]. My dear Rice-Being in the midst of your favourite Devon, I should not, by rights, pen one word but it should contain a vast portion of Wit, Wisdom and learning-for I have heard that Milton ere he wrote his answer to Salmasius came into these parts, and for one whole month, rolled himself for three whole hours (per day ?), in a certain meadow hard by us-where the mark of his nose at equidistances is still shown. The exhibitor of the said meadow further saith, that, after these rollings, not a nettle sprang up in all the seven acres for seven years, and that from the said time, a new sort of plant was made from the whitethorn, of a thornless nature, very much used by the bucks of the present day to rap their boots withal. This account made me very naturally suppose that the nettles and thorns etherealised by the scholar's rotatory motion, and garnered in his head, thence flew after a process of fermentation against the luckless Salmasius and occasioned his well-known and unhappy end. What a happy thing it would be if we could settle our thoughts and make our minds up on any matter in five minutes, and remain content-that is, build a sort of mental cottage of feelings, quiet and pleasantto have a sort of Philosophical back-garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one-but alas! this never can be: for as the material cottager knows there are such places as France and Italy, and the Andes and burning mountains, so the spiritual Cottager has knowledge of the terra semi-incognita of things unearthly, and cannot for his life keep in the check-rein—or I should stop here quiet and comfortable in my theory of nettles. You will see, however, I am obliged to run wild being attracted by the load-stone concatenation. No sooner had I settled the knotty point of Salmasius, than the Devil put this whim into my head in the likeness of one of Pythagoras's questionings-Did Milton do more good or harm in the world? He wrote, let me inform you (for I have it from a friend, who had it of ——,) he wrote Lycidas, Comus, Paradise Lost and other Poems, with much delectable prose-He was moreover an active friend to man all his life, and has been since his death.-Very/ good-but, my dear Fellow, I must let you know that, as there is ever the same quantity of matter constituting this habitable globe-as the ocean notwithstanding the enormous changes and revolutions taking place in some or other of its demesnes-notwithstanding Waterspouts whirlpools and mighty rivers emptying themselves into it—still is made up of the same bulk, nor ever varies the number of its atoms-and as a certain bulk of water was instituted at the creation—so very likely a certain portion of intellect was spun forth into the thin air, for You will see my the brains of man to prey upon it. drift without any unnecessary parenthesis. That which is contained in the Pacific could not lie in the hollow of the Caspian-that which was in Milton's head could not find room in Charles the Second's-He like a Moon attracted intellect to its flow-it has not ebbed yet, but has left the shore-pebbles all bare-I mean all Bucks, Authors of Hengist, and Castlereaghs of the present day; who without Milton's gormandising might have been all wise men-Now forasmuch as I was very predisposed to a country I had heard you speak so highly of, I took particular notice of everything during my journey, and have bought some folio asses' skins for memorandums. I have seen everything but the wind-and that, they say, becomes visible by taking a dose of acorns, or sleeping one night in a hog-trough, with your tail to the SowSow-West. Some of the little Bar-maids look'd at me as if I knew Jem Rice. Well, I can't tell! I hope you are showing poor Reynolds the way to get well. Send me a good account of him, and if I can, I'll send you one of Tom-Oh! for a day and all well! I went yesterday to Dawlish fair. Over the Hill and over the Dale, And over the Bourne to Dawlish, Where ginger-bread wives have a scanty sale, Tom's remembrances and mine to you all. JOHN KEATS. XLVI. TO JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. [Teignmouth, March 25, 1818.] My dear Reynolds-In hopes of cheering you through a Minute or two, I was determined will he nill he to send you some lines, so you will excuse the unconnected subject and careless verse. You know, I am sure, |