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maintained ‘Invention and Imagination’ to be the chief qualities of a poet; illustrating his views by what he called odes, to us sadly uninspired, of his own composition. His younger brother Thomas, with his passion for Gothic architecture, his masterly editing of Spenser, and his profound labours on the origin and history of our native English poetry, carried within him, for all his grotesque personality, many of the germs of the spirit that was to animate the coming age. As the century advanced, other signs and portents of what was to come were Chatterton’s audaciously brilliant blunder of the Rowley forgeries, with the interest which it excited, the profound impression created by the pseudo-Ossian of Macpherson, and the enthusiastic reception of Percy’s Reliques. But current critical taste did not recognize the meaning of these signs, and tacitly treated the breach between our older and newer literatures as complete. Admitting the older as a worthy and interesting subject of study and welcoming the labour of scholars — even those of pretended scholars — in collecting and publishing its remains or what purported to be such, criticism none the less expected and demanded of contemporary production that it should conform as a matter of course to the standards established since language and style had been ‘polished’ and reduced to ‘correctness’ by Dryden and Pope. Thomas Warton, wishing to celebrate in verse the glories of the Gothic architecture of Oxford, finds himself constrained to do so strictly in the dominant style and measure. His brother, the protesting Joseph, actually has to enrol himself among Pope’s editors, and when for once he uses the heroic couplet and lets his fancy play upon the sight of a butterfly in Hackwood Park, must do so, he too, in this thoroughly Popeian wise: —

      Fair child of Sun and Summer, we behold

       With eager eyes thy wings bedropp’d with gold;

       The purple spots that o’er thy mantle spread,

       The sapphire’s lively blue, the ruby’s red,

       Ten thousand various blended tints surprise,

       Beyond the rainbow’s hues or peacock’s eyes:

       Not Judah’s king in eastern pomp array’d,

       Whose charms allur’d from far the Sheban maid,

       High on his glitt’ring throne, like you could shine

       (Nature’s completest miniature divine):

       For thee the rose her balmy buds renews,

       And silver lillies fill their cups with dews;

       Flora for thee the laughing fields perfumes,

       For thee Pomona sheds her choicest blooms.

      William Blake, in his Poetical Sketches of 1784, poured scorn on the still reigning fashion for ‘tinkling rhymes and elegances terse’, and himself struck wonderful lyric notes in the vein of our older poetry: but nobody read or marked Blake: he was not for his own age but for posterity. Even those of the eighteenth century poets who in the main avoided the heroic couplet, and took refuge, like Thomson, in the Spenserian stanza or Miltonic blank verse, or confined themselves to lyric or elegiac work like Gray, — even they continued to be hampered by a strict conventional and artificial code of poetic style and diction. The first full and effective note of emancipation, of poetical revolution and expansion, in England was that struck by Coleridge and Wordsworth with the publication and defence of their Lyrical Ballads (1798, 1800). Both these young masters had written in the established mould in their quite earliest work, but afterwards disused it almost entirely (The Happy Warrior is of course a conspicuous exception); while their contemporary Walter Scott avoided it from the first.

      The new poetry, whether cast in forms derived from or coloured by the old ballad literature of the country, or helping itself from the simplicities and directnesses of common everyday speech, or going back to Miltonic and pre-Miltonic tradition, fought its way to recognition now slowly, as in the case of Wordsworth, in whose style all these three elements play their part, now rapidly in the face of all opposition, as in the case of Scott with his dashing Border lays. But the heroic couplet on the Queen Anne model still held the field as the reigning and official form of verse; and among the most admired poets of Keats’ day, Rogers, Campbell, and Crabbe in the older generation, each in his own manner, still kept sounding the old instrument essentially to the old tune, with Byron in the younger following, in The Corsair and Lara, at a pace more rapid and helter-skelter but with a beat even more monotonous and hammering than any of theirs. We have seen how Leigh Hunt declared his intention to try a reform of the measure, and how he carried out his promise in Rimini. He did little more than revive Dryden’s expedients of the occasional triplet and Alexandrine, with a sprinkling of Elizabethan double-endings; failing withal completely to catch any touch either of the imaginative passion of the Elizabethans or of Dryden’s fine virile energy and worldly good-breeding.

      Rimini was not yet published, nor had Keats yet met its author, when Keats wrote his Epistle to Felton Mathew in November 1815. If, as is the case, his strain of social ease and sprightliness jars on us a little in the same manner as Hunt’s, it is that there was really as he himself said on another occasion, something in common between them. At the same time it should be remembered that some of Keats’ most Huntian-seeming rimes and phrases contain really an echo of the older masters. That William Browne was his earliest model in the handling of the metre will, I think, be apparent to any reader who will put the passage from Britannia’s Pastorals above quoted (p. 98), with its easily flowing couplets varied at intervals by whole clusters or bunches of double endings, alongside of the following from Keats’ first Epistle: —

      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 ’tis 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!

       Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream;

       Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam;

       Or again witness what with thee I’ve seen,

       The dew by fairy feet swept from the green,

       After a night of some quaint jubilee

       Which every elf and fay had come to see:

       When bright processions took their airy march

       Beneath the curved moon’s triumphal arch.

       But might I now each passing moment give

       To the coy muse, with me she would not live

       In this dark city, nor would condescend

       ‘Mid contradictions her delights to lend.

       Should e’er the fine-ey’d maid to me be kind,

       Ah! surely it must be whene’er I find

       Some flowery spot, sequester’d, wild, romantic,

       That often must have seen a poet frantic;

       Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing,

       And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing;

       Where the dark-leav’d laburnum’s drooping clusters

       Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres,

       And intertwin’d the cassia’s arms unite,

       With its own drooping buds, but very white.

      This is artless enough as writing, but obviously sincere, and interesting as showing how early and instinctively both Greek and mediæval mythology had become to Keats symbols and incarnations, as living as in the days of their first creation, of the charm and power of nature. The piece ends with a

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