Reynolds's illness has made him a new man--he will be stronger than ever--before I left London he was really getting a fat face. Brown keeps on writing volumes of adventures to Dilke. When we get in of an evening and I have perhaps taken my rest on a couple of chairs, he affronts my indolence and Luxury by pulling out of his knapsack 1st his paper--2ndly his pens and last his ink. Now I would not care if he would change a little. I say now why not Bailey, take out his pens first sometimes--But I might as well tell a hen to hold up her head before she drinks instead of afterwards. Your affectionate Friend, JOHN KEATS. LINES WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS AFTER A VISIT TO BURNS'S COUNTRY There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain, Where patriot Battle has been fought, where glory had the gain; There is a pleasure on the heath where Druids old have been, Where Mantles gray have rustled by and swept the nettles green; There is a Joy in every spot made known by times of old, New to the feet, although each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper Joy than all, more solemn in the heart, More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart, When weary steps forget themselves, upon a pleasant turf, Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron scurf, Toward the Castle, or the Cot, where long ago was born One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn. Light heather-bells may tremble then, but they are far away; Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,--the sun may hear his Lay; Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear, But their low voices are not heard, though come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks; Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in Caves and weedy creeks; Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the Air; Ring-doves may fly convuls'd across to some high-cedar'd lair; But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground, As Palmer's, that, with weariness, mid-desert shrine hath found. At such a time the Soul's a child, in childhood is the brain; Forgotten is the worldly heart--alone, it beats in vain.-- Aye, if a Madman could have leave to pass a healthful day To tell his forehead's swoon and faint when first began decay, He might make tremble many a one whose spirit had gone forth To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent North. Scanty the hour and few the steps beyond the bourn of Care, Beyond the sweet and bitter world,--beyond it unaware! Scanty the hour and few the steps, because a longer stay Would bar return, and make a man forget his mortal way: O horrible! to lose the sight of well remember'd face, Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow--constant to every place; Filling the Air, as on we move, with Portraiture intense; More warm than those heroic tints that pain a Painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old,