Peter's published works contain an American tragedy.Peter says he got it from a friend,who was sending him an American copy of "Guy Mannering""to present to a young lady who,strange to say,"read books and wore pockets,"virtues unusual in the sex.One of the songs (on the delights of bull-baiting)contains the most vigorous lines I have ever met,but they are too vigorous for our lax age.
The tragedy ends most tragically,and the moral comes in "better late,"says the author,"than never."The other poems are all very lively,and very much out of date.Poor Peter!
Reynolds was married by 1818,and it is impossible to guess whether the poems of Peter Corcoran did or did not contain allusions to his own more lucky love affair."Upon my soul,"writes Keats,"I have been getting more and more close to you every day,ever since I knew you,and now one of the first pleasures I look to is your happy marriage."Reynolds was urging Keats to publish the "Pot of Basil""as an answer to the attack made on me in Blackwood's Magazine and the Quarterly Review."Next Keats writes that he himself "never was in love,yet the voice and shape of a woman has haunted me these two days."On September 22,1819,Keats sent Reynolds the "Ode to Autumn,"than which there is no more perfect poem in the language of Shakespeare.This was the last of his published letters to Reynolds.He was dying,haunted eternally by that woman's shape and voice.
Reynolds's best-known book,if any of them can be said to be known at all,was published under the name of John Hamilton.It is "The Garden of Florence,and Other Poems "(Warren,London,1821).There is a dedication--to his young wife.
"Thou hast entreated me to 'write no more,'"and he,as an elderly "man of twenty-four,"promises to obey."The lily and myself henceforth are two,"he says,implying that he and the lily have previously been "one,"a quaint confession from the poet of Peter Corcoran.There is something very pleasant in the graceful regret and obedience of this farewell to the Muse.He says to Mrs.
Reynolds:
"I will not tell the world that thou hast chid My heart for worshipping the idol Muse;That thy dark eye has given its gentle lid Tears for my wanderings;I may not choose When thou dost speak but do as I am bid,-And therefore to the roses and the dews,Very respectfully I make my bow;-And turn my back upon the tulips now."
"The chief poems in the collection,taken from Boccaccio,were to have been associated with tales from the same source,intended to have been written by a friend;but illness on his part and distracting engagements on mine,prevented us from accomplishing our plan at the time;and Death now,to my deep sorrow,has frustrated it for ever!"I cannot but quote what follows,the tribute to Keats's kindness,to the most endearing quality our nature possesses;the quality that was Scott's in such a winning degree,that was so marked in Moliere,"He,who is gone,was one of the very kindest friends I ever possessed,and yet he was not kinder,perhaps,to me than to others.
His intense mind and powerful feeling would,I truly believe,have done the world some service had his life been spared--but he was of too sensitive a nature--and thus he was destroyed!One story he completed,and that is to me now the most pathetic poem in existence."It was "Isabella,or the Pot of Basil."
The "Garden of Florence"is written in the couplets of "Endymion,"and is a beautiful version of the tale once more retold by Alfred de Musset in "Simone."From "The Romance of Youth"let me quote one stanza,which applies to Keats:
"He read and dreamt of young Endymion,Till his romantic fancy drank its fill;He saw that lovely shepherd sitting lone,Watching his white flocks upon Ida's hill;The Moon adored him--and when all was still,And stars were wakeful--she would earthward stray,And linger with her shepherd love,until The hooves of the steeds that bear the car of day,Struck silver light in the east,and then she waned away!"It was on Latmos,not Ida,that Endymion shepherded his flocks;but that is of no moment,except to schoolmasters.There are other stanzas of Reynolds worthy of Keats;for example,this on the Fairy Queen:
"Her bodice was a pretty sight to see;
Ye who would know its colour,--be a thief Of the rose's muffled bud from off the tree;And for your knowledge,strip it leaf by leaf Spite of your own remorse or Flora's grief,Till ye have come unto its heart's pale hue;The last,last leaf,which is the queen,--the chief Of beautiful dim blooms:ye shall not rue,At sight of that sweet leaf the mischief which ye do."One does not know when to leave off gathering buds in the "Garden of Florence."Even after Shakespeare,and after Keats,this passage on wild flowers has its own charm:
"We gathered wood flowers,--some blue as the vein O'er Hero's eyelid stealing,and some as white,In the clustering grass,as rich Europa's hand Nested amid the curls on Jupiter's forehead,What time he snatched her through the startled waves;-Some poppies,too,such as in Enna's meadows Forsook their own green homes and parent stalks,To kiss the fingers of Proserpina:
And some were small as fairies'eyes,and bright As lovers'tears!"I wish I had room for three or four sonnets,the Robin Hood sonnets to Keats,and another on a picture of a lady.Excuse the length of this letter,and read this:
"Sorrow hath made thine eyes more dark and keen,And set a whiter hue upon thy cheeks,-And round thy pressed lips drawn anguish-streaks,And made thy forehead fearfully serene.
Even in thy steady hair her work is seen,For its still parted darkness--till it breaks In heavy curls upon thy shoulders--speaks Like the stern wave,how hard the storm hath been!
"So looked that hapless lady of the South,Sweet Isabella!at that dreary part Of all the passion'd hours of her youth;When her green Basil pot by brother's art Was stolen away;so look'd her pained mouth In the mute patience of a breaking heart!"There let us leave him,the gay rhymer of prize-fighters and eminent persons--let us leave him in a serious hour,and with a memory of Keats.{5}
