PREFACE. Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, τοτὶ σὸν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες· MOSCHUS, Epitaph. Bion. It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem, a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions 5 were modelled prove[s] at least that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years. John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twentyfourth year, on the of ——— 1821; and was buried in the 10 romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins covered in winter with violets and daisies. It 15 might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place. The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses, was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and, where cankerworms abound, 20 what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage criticism on his Endymion, which appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption 25 ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgments from more candid critics, of the true greatness of his powers, were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted. It may be well said that these wretched men know not 30 what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows, or one like Keats's, composed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to 35 Endymion, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, Paris, and Woman, and A Syrian Tale, and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the illustrious 40 obscure? Are these the men who, in their venal good nature, presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman and Lord Byron? What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery, dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast 45 his opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none. The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's 50 life were not made known to me until the Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of Endymion was exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the stage of life, 55 no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness, by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, "almost risked his own life, and 60 sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend." Had I known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own 65 motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from "such stuff as dreams are made of." His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name! O, weep for Adonais ! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be II. Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, 15 With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed 20 5 Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep, oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV. Most musical of mourners, weep again! 25 Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathèd rite Into the gulph of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. 30 35 V. Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And some yet live, treading the thorny road, 40 Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. 45 VI. But now, thy youngest, dearest one has perished, Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals, nipped before they blew, VII. To that high Capital, where kingly Death He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day 50 55 60 VIII. He will awake no more, oh, never more! Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. O, weep for Adonais ! IX. The quick Dreams, The passion-wingèd Ministers of thought, 65 70 Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams 75 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught |