A meaner sound than Raphael’s whispering. 
  And other spirits there are standing apart
    Upon the forehead of the age to come;
  These, these will give the world another heart,
    And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
  Of mighty workings?—­
    Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.

The nations are to listen and be dumb! and why, good Johnny Keats? because Leigh Hunt is editor of the Examiner, and Haydon has painted the judgment of Solomon, and you and Cornelius Webb, and a few more city sparks, are pleased to look upon yourselves as so many future Shakespeares and Miltons!  The world has really some reason to look to its foundations!  Here is a tempestas in matula with a vengeance.  At the period when these sonnets were published, Mr. Keats had no hesitation in saying, that he looked on himself as “not yet a glorious denizen of the wide heaven of poetry,” but he had many fine soothing visions of coming greatness, and many rare plans of study to prepare him for it....

Having cooled a little from this “fine passion,” our youthful poet passes very naturally into a long strain of foaming abuse against a certain class of English Poets, whom, with Pope at their head, it is much the fashion with the ignorant unsettled pretenders of the present time to undervalue.  Begging these gentlemen’s pardon, although Pope was not a poet of the same high order with some who are now living, yet, to deny his genius, it is just about as absurd as to dispute that of Wordsworth, or to believe in that of Hunt.  Above all things, it is most pitiably ridiculous to hear men, of whom their country will always have reason to be proud, reviled by uneducated and flimsy striplings, who are not capable of understanding either their merits, or those of any other men of power—­fanciful dreaming tea-drinkers, who, without logic enough to analyse a single idea, or imagination enough to form one original image, or learning enough to distinguish between the written language of Englishmen and the spoken jargon of Cockneys, presume to talk with contempt of some of the most exquisite spirits the world ever produced, merely because they did not happen to exert their faculties in laborious affected descriptions of flowers seen in window-pots, or cascades heard at Vauxhall; in short, because they chose to be wits, philosophers, patriots, and poets, rather than to found the Cockney school of versification, morality, and politics, a century before its time.  After blaspheming himself into a fury against Boileau, &c., Mr. Keats comforts himself and his readers with a view of the present more promising aspect of affairs; above all, with the ripened glories of the poet of Rimini.  Addressing the names of the departed chiefs of English poetry, he informs them, in the following clear and touching manner, of the existence of “him of the Rose,” &c.

            From a thick brake,
  Nested and quiet in a valley mild,
  Bubbles a pipe; fine sounds are floating wild
  About the earth.  Happy are ye and glad....