tastic dream at
the full of the moon. Costume, were it worth while to notice such a
trifle, is violated in every page of this goodly octavo. From his
prototype Hunt, John Keats has acquired a sort of vague idea, that the
Greeks were a most tasteful people, and that no mythology can be so
finely adapted for the purposes of poetry as theirs. It is amusing to
see what a hand the two Cockneys make of this mythology; the one
confesses that he never read the Greek Tragedians, and the other knows
Homer only from Chapman; and both of them write about Apollo, Pan,
Nymphs, Muses, and Mysteries, as might be expected from persons of their
education. We shall not, however, enlarge at present upon this subject,
as we mean to dedicate an entire paper to the classical attainments and
attempts of the Cockney poets. As for Mr Keats' "Endymion," it has just
as much to do with Greece as it has with "old Tartary the fierce;" no
man, whose mind has ever been imbued with the smallest knowledge or
feeling of classical poetry or classical history, could have stooped to
profane and vulgarise every association in the manner which has been
adopted by this "son of promise." Before giving any extracts, we must
inform our readers, that this romance is meant to be written in English
heroic rhyme. To those who have read any of Hunt's poems, this hint
might indeed be needless. Mr Keats has adopted the loose, nerveless
versification, and the Cockney rhymes of the poet of Rimini; but in
fairness to that gentleman, we must add, that the defects of the system
are tenfold more conspicuous in his disciple's work than in his own. Mr
Hunt is a small poet, but he is a clever man. Mr Keats is a still
smaller poet, and he is only a boy of pretty abilities, which he has
done everything in his power to spoil.

[Quotes almost two hundred lines of _Endymion_ with brief interpolated
comment.]

And now, good-morrow to "the Muses' son of Promise;" as for "the feats
he yet may do," as we do not pretend to say, like himself, "Muse of my
native land am I inspired," we shall adhere to the safe old rule of
_pauca verba_. We venture to make one small prophecy, that his
bookseller will not a second time venture L50 upon any thing he can
write. It is a better and a wiser thing to be a starved apothecary than
a starved poet; so back to the shop Mr John, back to "plasters, pills,
and ointment boxes," &c. But, for Heaven's sake, young Sangrado, be a
little more sparing of extenua