written one summer day as he stood by a gate leading from Hampstead Heath-then, of course, far more rural than it is now-into some open fields:

I STOOD TIP-TOE UPON A LITTLE
HILL

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their scantly-leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost their starry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves,
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety ;

Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ;
To picture out the quaint and curious bending
Of the fresh woodland alley never-ending ;
Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves,
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had play'd upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to my vision started ;
So I straightway began to pluck a posey
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy.

And here is a sonnet, dating from the same period, in which he records, for Leigh Hunt's perusal, the thoughts which passed through his mind as he walked back from the Vale of Health to London one night in winter :

KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISP'RING
HERE AND THERE

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes, half leafless and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare;
Yet feel I little of the cold bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair :
For I am brimful of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found ;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd,
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

Cowden Clarke has left us a very pleasant record of one curious feature in the intercourse between the two friends. From time to time they would challenge one another to poetic effort in the composition of verses written in amicable rivalry on some given theme. On one occasion, when the talk had run on the character, habits, and pleasant associations with that reverent denizen of the hearth, the cheerful little grasshopper of the fireside," Hunt proposed to Keats that they should compose, “then and there

and to time," a sonnet each on the grasshopper and the cricket. 60 No one but myself was present," says Clarke," and they accordingly set to," Keats being the first to complete his task. Then came "the after-scrutiny," which, says Clarke, "was one of many such occurrences which have riveted the memory of Leigh Hunt in my affectionate regard and admiration for unaffected generosity and perfectly unpretentious encouragement." And he goes on to speak of Hunt's "sincere look of pleasure reading out the first line of Keats's poem: poetry of earth is never dead."

on

The

"Such a pros

perous opening," he exclaimed. And when he came to the tenth and eleventh lines—

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence

Ah, that's perfect! Bravo, Keats! And then, Clarke continues," he went on in a dilatation on the dumbness of Nature during the season's suspension and torpidity."

The sonnet which, with his quick perception of poetic beauty, Leigh Hunt thus praised so warmly, and which is indeed worthy of such praise, runs as follows:

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET The poetry of earth is never dead :

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

That is the Grasshopper's-he takes the lead
In summer luxury,-he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed,
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drówsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

For the sake of the interesting comparison which it affords, I here append Leigh Hunt's own sonnet. In reading it we shall doubtless feel that the writer was perfectly right when he modestly yielded the palm of superiority to the performance of his friend. Yet this is a very charming poem too-particularly so, because it is pervaded by the geniality of Hunt's nature, and his love of all bright, warm things-in the summer of the sunshine, in the winter of the glowing fire. Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts; both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song :

Indoors and out, summer and winter,—Mirth.

Among the many men of literary and artistic interests who belonged to Leigh Hunt's large and varied circle of acquaintances, and whom Keats first met at the Vale of Health, there are several whose names afterwards became almost as closely linked as Hunt's with his own. One of these was John Hamilton Reynolds, a man of sterling character who, though a year younger that Keats, had already made his appearance as an author with a slight volume of verse. Little by little Reynolds gave himself up entirely to the practice of his profession as a solicitor, and though his miscellaneous writings were praised by good judges for a time, he has no independent place in literary history. But he will always be held in kindly remembrance for his affectionate relationship with Tom Hood, who married one of his sisters, and with Keats, for whose genius he had the sincerest admiration. To the latter he was indeed a true friend, overflowing with sympathy, encouragement, and wise advice; and, as our poet's letters show, it was to him more than to any other of his numerous correspondents that Keats opened his heart. Hardly second in importance to Reynolds amongst these Hampstead associates was the painter Benjamin Robert Haydon. A man of ardent temper, indomitable energy, immense self-confidence, and gigantic ambitions, which unfortunately he lacked the power to realise, poor Haydon afterwards made shipwreck of his life; and the story of his latter years-a story of long struggle against adverse circumstances,