ultimate triumph of freedom and equality by the power of transmitted knowledge.' No date is assigned, and the verse may as well be placed in the early period of Keats's acquaintance with Spenser and friendship with Leigh Hunt.

IN after-time, a sage of mickle lore Yelep'd Typographus, the Giant took, And did refit his limbs as heretofore, And made him read in many a learned book,

And into many a lively legend look; Thereby in goodly themes so training him,

That all his brutishness he quite forsook,

When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim, The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER

It was Charles Cowden Clarke who was with Keats when the friends made the acquaintance of this translation of Homer by the Elizabethan poet. The two young men had sat up nearly all one night in the summer of 1815 in Clarke's lodging, reading from a folio volume of the book which they had borrowed. Keats left for his own lodgings at dawn, and when Clarke came down to breakfast the next morning, he found this sonnet which Keats had sent him.

MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms

self with Keats: 'Keats and I, though about
the same age, and both inclined to literature,
were in many respects as different as two in-
dividuals could be. He enjoyed good health-
a fine flow of animal spirits
was fond of
company - could amuse himself admirably
with the frivolities of life and had great
confidence in himself. I, on the other hand,
was languid and melancholy-fond of repose
thoughtful beyond my years and diffi-
dent to the last degree.' The epistle is dated
November, 1815, in the volume of 1817, where
it is the first of a group of three epistles with
the motto from Browne's Britannia's Pas-
torals:

Among the rest a shephe: 1 (though but young
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.

SWEET are the pleasures that to verse belong,

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; Nor can remembrance, Mathew! bring to view

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true Than that in which the brother Poets joy'd, Who, with combinèd powers, their wit employ'd

To raise a trophy to the drama's muses. The thought of this great partnership diffuses

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing.

Too partial friend! fain would I follow thee

Past each horizon of fine poesy; Fain would I echo back each pleasant note As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 'Mong the light skimming gondolas far parted,

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted

But 't is impossible; far different cares
Beckon me sternly from soft Lydian airs,'
And hold my faculties so long in thrall,
That I am oft in doubt whether at all
I shall again see Phoebus in the morning:
Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning!

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To find a place where I may greet the maid

Where we may soft humanity put on,

And sit, and rhyme and think on Chatterton;

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To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam.

HADST thou liv'd in days of old,
O what wonders had been told

Of thy lively countenance,

And thy humid eyes that dance
In the midst of their own brightness;
In the very fane of lightness.
Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,
Picture out each lovely meaning:
In a dainty bend they lie,
Like to streaks across the sky,
Or the feathers from a crow,
Fallen on a bed of snow.
Of thy dark hair, that extends
Into many graceful bends:
As the leaves of Hellebore
Turn to whence they sprung before.
And behind each ample curl

Of thy honied voice; the neatness

Of thine ankle lightly turn'd:

With those beauties scarce discern'd,
Kept with such sweet privacy,

That they seldom meet the eye
Of the little loves that fly

Round about with eager pry.

Saving when, with freshening lave,

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave;
Like twin water-lilies, born

In the coolness of the morn.
O, if thou hadst breathèd then,
Now the Muses had been ten.

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
Than twin-sister of Thalia?
At least for ever, evermore
Will I call the Graces four.

Hadst thou liv'd when chivalry
Lifted up her lance on high,

Tell me what thou wouldst have been?
Ah! I see the silver sheen

Of thy broider'd, floating vest
Cov'ring half thine ivory breast:
Which, O heavens! I should see,
But that cruel destiny

Has plac'd a golden cuirass there;
Keeping secret what is fair.

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested:
O'er which bend four milky plumes
Like the gentle lily's blooms
Springing from a costly vase.
See with what a stately pace
Comes thine alabaster steed;
Servant of heroic deed!

O'er his loins his trappings glow

Like the northern lights on snow.

Mount his back! thy sword unsheath!

Sign of the enchanter's death;

Bane of every wicked spell;

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Silencer of dragon's yell.
Alas! thou this wilt never do:

Thou art an enchantress too,
And wilt surely never spill

Blood of those whose eyes can kill.

SONNET