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There he arriving round about doth flie,
And takes survey with busie curious eye:
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly.
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Ah, dear friend, as valued a one as thou art a
poet,—John Keats,—we cannot, after all,
find it in our hearts to be glad, now thou art gone away with the swallows to seek a kindlier
clime. The rains began to fall heavily, the moment thou wast to go;—we do not say,
poet-like, for thy departure. One tear in an honest eye is more precious to thy sight, than all
the metaphorical weepings in the universe; and thou didst leave many starting to think how many
months it would be till they saw thee again. And yet thou didst love metaphorical tears too, in
their way; and couldst always liken every thing in nature to something great or small; and the
rains that beat against thy cabin-window will set, we fear, thy over-working wits upon many
comparisons that ought to be much more painful to others than thyself;—Heaven mend their
envious and ignorant numskulls. But thou hast “a mighty soul in a little
body;” and the kind cares of the former for all about thee shall no longer subject
the latter to the chance of impressions which it scorns; and the soft skies of Italy shall
breathe balm upon it; and thou shalt return with thy friend the nightingale,
| 400 | THE INDICATOR. |