John Keats

Anonymous, in "Satirical Notices" Newcastle Magazine 1 (July 1821) 667-68.

Look now on these two forms — the first, poor Keates—
The son of all imagination's sweets,
His soul the essence of all heavenly scenes,
Of Flowers and moonlight, calms and blissful sighing,
Such as the mind knows when it overweens,
And when we think 'tis by consumption dying.
Brief — brief — poor Keates, though bright was thy career,
Bright and unhappy like full many a tear
That for thy fate shed beauty's eye sincere.
Look on him, Lord of Harold's glories — look—
And think when thou the angry weapon took
To the corrupt, when once they dared to rise
Against thy first faint effort for the skies—
Think thou wert Keates — ah! how had shrunk thy soul,
How rose again the wretches thou hadst galled,
(Still more inveterate, still unappalled,)
Without thy title's glittering control.
He had no title — he had no defence—
But God, his honor, and his innocence—
Poor bucklers in this day, when authors seek
Not God but Longman, favor to bespeak—
When honor less delights the multitude
Than to be told that "you are well reviewed"—
When innocence and talent both may rue
If — chuse to say "it will not do."
When the world looks to Magazines for sense,
And Magazines say any thing for pence....