proud of my memory—but I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember'd." Thoughts like these came very feebly whilst I was in health and every pulse beat for you-now you divide with this (may I say it?) "last infirmity of noble minds" all my reflection. 1 XIX. God bless you, Love. J. Keats. My dearest Girl, You spoke of having been unwell in your last note: have you recover'd? That note has been a great delight to me. I am stronger than I was: the Doctors say there is very little the matter with me, but I cannot believe them till the weight and tightness of my Chest is mitigated. I will not indulge or pain myself by complaining of my long separation from you. God alone knows whether I am destined to taste of happiness with you at all events I myself know thus much, that I consider it no mean Happiness to have lov'd you thus far -if it is to be no further I shall not be unthankful-if I am to recover, the day of my recovery shall see me by your side from which nothing shall separate me. If well you are the only medicine that can keep me so. 1 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise To scorn delights and live laborious days; And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears, Lycidas, 70-6. Perhaps, aye surely, I am writing in too depress'd a state of mind-ask your Mother to come and see me—she will bring you a better account than mine. Ever your affectionate XX. John Keats. My dearest Girl, Indeed I will not deceive you with respect to my Health. This is the fact as far as I know. I have been confined three weeks and am not yet well-this proves that there is something wrong about me which my constitution will either conquer or give way to. Let us hope for the best. Do you hear the Thrush singing over the field? I think it is a sign of mild weather-so much the better for me. Like all Sinners now I am ill I philosophize, aye out of my attachment to every thing, Trees, flowers, Thrushes, Spring, Summer, Claret, &c. &c.—aye every thing but you. My sister would be glad of my company a little longer. That Thrush is a fine fellow. I hope he was fortunate in his choice this year. Do not send any more of my Books home. I have a great pleasure in the thought of you looking on them. Ever yours my sweet Fanny J. K. 1 If we are to take these words literally, this letter brings us to the 24th of February 1820. My dearest Girl, XXI. I continue much the same as usual, I think a little better. My spirits are better also, and consequently I am more resign'd to my confinement. I dare not think of you much or write much to you. Remember me to all. Ever your affectionate John Keats. My dear Fanny, XXII. I think you had better not make any long stay with me when Mr. Brown is at home. Whenever he goes out you may bring your work. You will have a pleasant walk today. I shall see you pass. I shall follow you with my eyes over the Heath. Will you come towards evening instead of before dinner? When you are gone, 'tis past-if you do not come till the evening I have something to look forward to all day. Come round to my window for a moment when you have read this. Thank your Mother, for the preserves, for me. The raspberry will be too sweet not having any acid; therefore as you are so good a girl I shall make you a present of it. Good bye VOL. IV. M My sweet Love! J. Keats. My dearest Fanny, XXIII. The power of your benediction is of not so weak a nature as to pass from the ring in four and twenty hours-it is like a sacred Chalice once consecrated and ever consecrate. I shall kiss your name and mine where your Lips have been- Lips! why should a poor prisoner as I am talk about such things? Thank God, though I hold them the dearest pleasures in the universe, I have a consolation independent of them in the certainty of your affection. I could write a song in the style of Tom Moore's Pathetic about Memory if that would be any relief to me. No 'twould not. I will be as obstinate as a Robin, I will not sing in a cage. Health is my expected heaven and you are the Houri-this word I It can scarcely be doubtful that the particular poem of Moore's to which allusion is here made is the charming song without a title, headed with the words from Aristotle's Rhetoric (Book III, Chapter 4), λιβανοτῳ εικασεν, ότι απολλυμενον ευφραίνει. It belonged originally to the collection of Epistles, Odes &c., and was placed among the Odes to Nea, written at Bermuda. No doubt the poem was much more generally known in Keats's days than it is now; and I shall be pardoned for placing it here :— There's not a look, a word of thine My soul hath e'er forgot ; Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, Nor given thy locks one graceful twine, Which I remember not! There never yet a murmur fell From that beguiling tongue, Which did not, with a lingering spell, Upon my charmed senses dwell, Like something Heaven had sung! believe is both singular and plural-if only plural, never mind-you are a thousand of them. Ever yours affectionately my dearest, J. K. You had better not come to day. XXIV. My dearest Love, You must not stop so long in the cold-I have been suspecting that window to be open.-You[r] note half-cured me. When I want some more oranges I will tell you these are just à propos. I am kept from food so feel rather weak-otherwise very well. Pray do not stop so long upstairs—it makes me uneasy-come every now and then and stop a half minute. Remember me to your Mother. Your ever affectionate Ah! that I could, at once, forget All, all that haunts me so And yet, thou witching girl!—and yet, No, if this slighted heart must see Consumed in sweets away! J. Keats. |