And diamonded with panes of quaint device,
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings;
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast,
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint:
She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.
_Eve of St. Agnes._

But the inspiration does not well up to-day: its flow is frustrated,
in view of the mountainous difficulties which hedge him in. Ill-health,
stinted means, hopeless love, and continual lack of success--these are
calculated to give the bravest pause. And presently Keats, snatching a
few hurried mouthfuls of lunch, is off to the studio of his friend, the
painter Haydon--the one man among all his acquaintance who is capable of
really understanding him. He sits down morbid and silent in the painting
room: for a while nothing will evoke a word from him, good or bad. But
his keen interest in matters of art, and the entry of various friends one
by one--Wentworth Dilke, Hamilton Reynolds, Bailey and Leigh Hunt--soon
arouse him to animated conversation. Keats is shy and ill at ease in
women's society: but a "delightful combination of earnestness and
pleasantry distinguishes his intercourse with men." He says fine things
finely, jokes with ready humour, and at the mention of any oppression or
wrong rises "into grave manliness at once, seeming like a tall man."
No wonder that his society is much sought after, and himself greatly
beloved by these congenial spirits; no wonder that here, at least, he
meets with that appreciation of which elsewhere his genius has been
starved. In this young fellow of twenty-three, who unites winning,
affectionate ways, and habitual gentleness of manner, with the loftiest
and most nobly-worded ideals, few would discover that imaginary "Johnny
Keats, the apothecary's assistant," upon whom the _Blackwood_ reviewer
had lavished such vials of vituperation. He is here openly acknowledged
as one of the "bards of passio