XX MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS.
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pirit of a man; they make o\ir prime objects arefuge as well as a passion ; the trumpet of Fame isas a tower of strength, the ambitious bloweth it, andis safe." ♦ « ♦ « There is no greater sin, afterthe seven deadly, than to flatter oneself into the ideaof being a great poet, or one of those beings who areprivileged to wear out their lives in the pursuit ofhonour. How comfortable a thing it is to feel thatsuch a crime must bring its heavy penalty, that ifone be a self-deluder, accounts must be balanced.**Again to Hunt : '' I have asked myself so often why Ishould be a Poet more than other men, seeinghow great a thing it is, how great things are to begained by it, that at last the idea has grown somonstrously beyond my seeming power of attainment,that the other day I nearly consented with myself todrop into a Phaethon. Yet 'tis a disgrace to faileven in a huge attempt, and at this moment I drivethe thought from me. I began my poem about afortnight since, and have done some every day,except travelling ones.** In September he visited his friend Bailey, atOxford, and wrote thence as follows : — "Believe me, my dear , it is a great happiness to me that you are, in this finest part of the year, winning a littleenjoyment from the hard world. In truth, the greatElements we know of, are no mean comforters : theopen sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire-crown ;the air is our robe of state ; the earth is our throne ;and the sea a mighty minstrel playing before it — able,like David's harp, to make such a one as you forgetalmost the tempest-cares of life. • • ♦ * *
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