'I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A LITTLE HILL' 'Places of nestling green, for poets made.' LEIGH HUNT, The Story of Rimini. Leigh Hunt, in Lord Byron and Some of His Contemporaries, says that 'this poem was suggested to Keats by a delightful summer's day as he stood beside the gate that leads from the Battery on Hampstead Heath into a field by Caen Wood;' but it is not needful for one to put himself into the same geographical position. It is more to the point to remember that when Keats wrote the lines which here follow he was living in the Vale of Health in Hampstead, happy in the association of Hunt and kindred spirits, and trembling with the consciousness of his own poetic power. He had not yet essayed a long flight, as in Endymion; but these lines indeed were written as a prelude to a poem which he was devising, which should narrate the loves of Diana, and it will be seen how, with circling flight, he draws nearer and nearer to his theme; but after all, his song ends with a half agitated and passionate speculation over his own poetic birth. The date of the poem, which is the first after the dedication, in the 1817 volume, was presumably in the summer of 1816, for Keats appears to have written promptly under the stimulus of momentary experience. I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly-leaved and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn, And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept On the blue fields of heaven, and then there Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye, To peer about upon variety; Of a fresh woodland alley, never-ending; 20 Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves, Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves. I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free As though the fanning wings of Mercury Had played upon my heels: was light hearted, Or by the moon lifting her silver rim Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams, 120 That smile us on to tell delightful stories. vases; O'erhead we see the jasmine and sweet briar, And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire; To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. So did he feel, who pull'd the boughs aside, That we might look into a forest wide, And garlands woven of flowers wild, and sweet, Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet: Telling us how fair, trembling Syrinx fled Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. Poor Nymph,-poor Pan, - how he did weep to find Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind 160 Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain, Full of sweet desolation - balmy pain. What first inspired a bard of old to sing While at our feet, the voice of crystal Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool, |