but begin again where you left off--without hesitation or fear--Trust in God with all your might my dear Keats--This dependance with your own energy will give you strength, & hope & comfort--In all my troubles, & wants, & distresses, here I found a refuge--from my soul I declare to you, I never applied for help or consolation, or strength-- but I found it. I always arose with a refreshed fury--an iron clenched firmness, and chrystal piety of feeling, that sent me streaming on with a repulsive power against the troubles of life that attempted to stop me, as if I was a cannon shot, darting through feathers--never despair while there is this path open to you--by habitual exercise, you will have habitual intercourse, and constant companionship; and in every want, turn to the great Star of your hopes with a delightful confidence which will never be disappointed--I love you like my own Brother, beware for God's sake of the delusions and sophistications that is ripping up the talent and respectability of our Friend 〈Leigh Hunt〉--he will go out of the World the victim of his own weakness & the dupe of his own self delusions--with the contempt of his enemies and sorrow of his Friends--the cause he undertook to support injured by his own neglect of character--his family disordered, his children neglected, himself, petted & his prospects ruined!--of this I am sure and keep this letter and you will find this is so--I speak this in confidence & pain--I write this at breakfast--for I am able to work like a hero--and wish to God you would come up to Town for a day or two when you are inclined--that I may put your head in with glory & honor-- I have rubbed in Wordsworth's & advanced the whole--God bless you My dear Keats go on, dont despair, collect incident, study characters, read Shakespeare and trust in Providence--and you will do--you must, you shall--1
10-11 May 1817.
Address: Benjamin Robert Haydon ∣ 41 Great Marlborough Street ∣ London--
Postmarks: MARGATE, and 13 MY 1817.
Margate Saturday Eve
My dear Haydon,
Let Fame, which all hunt after in their Lives,
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs,
And so grace us in the disgrace of death:
When spite of cormorant devouring time
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That Honor which shall bate his Scythe's keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.2