that he insensibly draws you towards him then you have no power to break the link. Before I felt interested in either Reynolds or Haydon, I was well read in their faults; yet, knowing them, I have been cementing gradually with both. I have an affection for them both, for reasons almost opposite--and to both must I of necessity cling, supported always by the hope that, when a little time, a few years, shall have tried me more fully in their esteem, I may be able to bring them together. The time must come, because they have both hearts: and they will recollect the best parts of each other, when this gust is overblown.--I had a message from you through a letter to Jane--I think, about Cripps--there can be no idea of binding until a sufficient sum is sure for him--and even then the thing should be maturely considered by all his helpers--I shall try my luck upon as many fat purses as I can meet with.--Cripps is improving very fast: I have the greater hopes of him because he is so slow in development. A Man of great executing powers at 20, with a look and a speech almost stupid, is sure to do something. I have just looked through the Second Side of your Letter--I feel a great content at it.--I was at Hunt's the other day, and he surprised me with a real authenticated lock of _Milton's Hair_. I know you would like what I wrote thereon, so here it is--_as they say of a Sheep in a Nursery Book_:-- ON SEEING A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. Chief of Organic Numbers! Old Scholar of the Spheres! Thy spirit never slumbers, But rolls about our ears For ever, and for ever! O what a mad endeavour Worketh he, Who to thy sacred and ennobled hearse Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse And melody. How heavenward thou soundest, Live Temple of sweet noise, And Discord unconfoundest, Giving Delight new joys, And Pleasure nobler pinions! O, where are thy dominions? Lend thine ear To a young Delian oath,--aye, by thy soul, By all that from thy mortal lips did roll, And by the kernel of thine earthly love, Beauty, in things on earth, and things above, I swear! When every childish fashion Has vanish'd from my rhyme, Will I, gray-gone in passion, Leave to an after-time, Hymning and harmony Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life; But vain is now the burning and the strife, Pangs are in vain, until I grow high-rife With old Philosophy, And mad with glimpses of futurity! For many years my offering must be hush'd; When I do speak, I'll think upon this hour, Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd, Even at the simplest vassal of thy power,-- A lock of thy bright hair,-- Sudden it came, And I was startled, when I caught thy name Coupled so unaware; Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood. I thought I had beheld it from the flood.