In a great nation, the work of an individual is of so little importance; his pleadings and excuses are so uninteresting; his way of life' such a nothing, that a Preface seems a sort of impertinent bow to strangers who care nothing about it. A Preface, however, should be down in so many words; and such a one that by an eyeglance over the type the Reader may catch an idea of an Author's modesty, and non-opinion of himself which I sincerely hope may be seen in the few lines I have to write, notwithstanding many proverbs of many ages old which men find a great pleasure in receiving as gospel. About a twelvemonth since, I published a little book of verses; it was read by some dozen of my friends who lik'd it; and some dozen whom I was unacquainted with, who did not. Now, when a dozen human beings are at words with another dozen, it becomes a matter of anxiety to side with one's friends- - more especially when excited thereto by a great love of Poetry. I fought under disadvantages. Before I began I had no inward feel of being able to finish; and as I proceeded my steps were all uncertain. So this Poem must rather be considered as an endeavour than as a thing accomplished; a poor prologue to what, if I live, I humbly hope to do. In duty to the Public I should have kept it back for a year or two, knowing it to be so faulty; but I really cannot do so, by repetition my favourite passages sound vapid in my ears, and I would rather redeem myself with a new Poem should this one be found of any interest. I have to apologize to the lovers of simplicity for touching the spell of loneliness that hung about Endymion; if any of my lines plead for me with such people I shall be proud. It has been too much the fashion of late to consider men bigoted and addicted to every word that may chance to escape their lips; now I here declare that I have not any particular affection for any particular phrase, word, or letter in the whole affair. I have written to please myself, and in hopes to please others, and for a love of fame; if I neither please myself, nor others, nor get fame, of what consequence is Phraseology. I would fain escape the bickerings that all works not exactly in chime bring upon their begetters - but this is not fair to expect, there must be conversation of some sort and to object shows a man's consequence. In case of a London drizzle or a Scotch mist, the following quotation from Marston may perhaps 'stead me as an umbrella for an hour or so: let it be the curtesy of my peruser rather to pity my self-hindering labours than to malice me." One word more - for we cannot help seeing our own affairs in every point of view-should any one call my dedication to Chatterton affected I answer as followeth: 'Were I dead, sir, I should like a book dedicated to me.' TEIGNMOUTH, March 19th, 1818. This Preface was shown either before or after it was in type to Reynolds and other friends, and Reynolds objected to it in terms which may be inferred from the following letter which Keats wrote him April 9, 1818, and which is so striking a reflection of his mind, when contemplating his finished work, that it should be read in connection with the poem : 'Since you all agree that the thing is bad, it must be so-though I am not aware there is anything like Hunt in it (and if there is, it is my nat. ural way, and I have something in common with Hunt). Look it over again, and examine into the motives, the seeds, from which any one sentence sprung I have not the slightest feel of humility toward the public- or to anything in existence, but the eternal Being, the Principle of Beauty, and the Memory of Great Men. When I am writing for myself for the mere sake of the moment's enjoyment, perhaps nature has its course with me- but a Preface is written to the Public; a thing I cannot help looking upon as an Enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of Hostility. If I write a Preface in a supple or subdued style, it will not be in character with me as a public speaker - I would be subdued before my friends, and thank them for subduing me- - but among Multitudes of Men I have no feel of stooping; I hate the idea of humility to them. 'I never wrote one single line of Poetry with the least Shadow of public thought. 'Forgive me for vexing you and making a Trojan horse of such a Trifle, both with respect to the matter in question, and myself- but it eases me to tell you- I could not live without the love of my friends -I would jump down Etna for any great Public good- but I hate a mawkish Popularity. I cannot be subdued before them; my Glory would be to daunt and dazzle the thousand jabberers about pictures and books. I see swarms of Porcupines with their quills erect like lime-twigs set to catch my winged book," and I would fright them away with a torch. You will say my Preface is not much of a Torch. It would have been too insulting" to begin from Jove," and I could not set a golden head upon a thing of clay. If there is any fault in the Preface it is not affectation, but an undersong of disrespect to the Public. If I write another Preface, it must be without a thought of those people - I will think about it. If it should not reach you in four or five days, tell Taylor to publish it without a Preface, and let the Dedication simply stand “Inscribed to the Memory of Thomas Chatterton." -were The next day he wrote to his friend, inclosing a new draft: I am anxious you should find this Preface tolerable. If there is an affectation in it 't is natural to me. Do let the Printer's Devil cook it, and let me be as "the casing air." You are too good in this matter I in your state, I am certain I should have no thought but of discontent and illness - I might though be taught Patience: I had an idea of giving no Preface; however, don't you think this had better go? O, let it -one should not be too timid of committing faults.' The Dedication stood as Keats proposed, and the new Preface, which is as follows: PREFACE KNOWING within myself the manner in which this Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling of regret that I make it public. What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish attempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible are not of such completion as to warrant their passing the press; nor should they if I thought a year's castigation would do them any good; it will not: the foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster should die away: a sad thought for me, if I had not some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plotting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. This may be speaking too presumptuously, and may deserve a punishment: but no feeling man will be forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with the conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. This is not written with the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms, of course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men who are competent to look, and who do look with a zealous eye, to the honour of English literature. The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thicksighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and all the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages. I hope I have not in too late a day touched the beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its brightness: for I wish to try once more, before I bid farewell. Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast, That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast, They alway must be with us, or we die. Therefore 't is with full happiness that I Will trace the story of Endymion. The very music of the name has gone Into my being, and each pleasant scene Is growing fresh before me as the green Of our own valleys: so I will begin Now while I cannot hear the city's din; 40 Now while the early budders are just new, And run in mazes of the youngest hue About old forests; while the willow trails Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell The freshness of the space of heaven above, Edged round with dark tree-tops? through which a dove Would often beat its wings, and often too A little cloud would move across the blue. 90 Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve, And so the dawned light in pomp receive. For 't was the morn: Apollo's upward fire Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre Of brightness so unsullied, that therein A melancholy spirit well might win Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun; 100 The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass; Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed ten fold, To feel this sun-rise and its glories old. Now while the silent workings of the dawn Were busiest, into that self-same lawn Fair faces and a rush of garments white, 130 In telling of this goodly company, Leading the way, young damsels danced Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; 140 Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with minist'ring looks: alway his crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them pear'd, ар Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought And think of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry, Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away! Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged, Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed To sudden veneration: women meek 210 And all ye gentle girls who foster up Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.' 220 Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire; |