ABSTRACT
A small volume of poems, by Mr Keats, has appeared; and it well deserves the notice it has attracted, by the sweetness and beauty of the composition. For the model of his style, the author has had recourse to the age of Elizabeth; and, if he has not wholly avoided the quaintness that characterizes the writings of that period, it must be allowed by every candid reader that the fertile fancy and beautiful diction of our old poets, is not unfrequently rivalled by Mr Keats. There is in his poems a rapturous glow and intoxication of the fancy—an air of careless and profuse magnificence in his diction—a revelry of the imagination and tenderness of feeling, that forcibly impress themselves on the reader.
