From some verses addressed to various individuals of the other sex, it appears, notwithstanding all this gossamer-work, that Johnny’s affectations are not entirely confined to objects purely etherial.  Take, by way of specimen, the following prurient and vulgar lines, evidently meant for some young lady east of Temple-bar.

              Add too, the sweetness
  Of thy honied voice; the neatness
  Of thine ankle lightly turn’d: 
  With those beauties, scarce discerned,
  Kept with such sweet privacy,
  That they seldom meet the eye
  Of the little loves that fly
  Round about with eager pry. 
  Saving when, with freshening lave,
  Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;
  Like twin water lilies, born
  In the coolness of the morn. 
  O, if thou hadst breathed then,
  Now the Muses had been ten. 
  Couldst thou wish for lineage higher
  Than twin sister of Thalia? 
  At last for ever, evermore,
  Will I call the Graces four.

Who will dispute that our poet, to use his own phrase (and rhyme),

  Can mingle music fit for the soft ear
  Of Lady Cytherea.

So much for the opening bud; now for the expanded flower.  It is time to pass from the juvenile “Poems,” to the mature and elaborate “Endymion, a Poetic Romance.”  The old story of the moon falling in love with a shepherd, so prettily told by a Roman Classic, and so exquisitely enlarged and adorned by one of the most elegant of German poets, has been seized upon by Mr. John Keats, to be done with as might seem good unto the sickly fancy of one who never read a single line either of Ovid or of Wieland.  If the quantity, not the quality, of the verses dedicated to the story is to be taken into account, there can be no doubt that Mr. Keats may now claim Endymion entirely to himself.  To say the truth, we do not suppose either the Latin or the German poet would be very anxious to dispute about the property of the hero of the “Poetic Romance.”  Mr. Keats has thoroughly appropriated the character, if not the name.  His Endymion is not a Greek shepherd, love of a Grecian goddess; he is merely a young Cockney rhymster, dreaming a phantastic 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