XIII. Addressed to Haydon - Keats

Highmindedness, a jealousy for good,
A loving-kindness for the great man's fame,
Dwells here and there with people of no name,
In noisome alley, and in pathless wood:
And where we think the truth least understood,
Oft may be found a "singleness of aim,"
That ought to frighten into hooded shame
A money mong'ring, pitiable brood.
How glorious this affection for the cause
Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly!
What when a stout unbending champion awes
Envy, and Malice to their native sty?
Unnumber'd souls breathe out a still applause,
Proud to behold him in his country's eye.

I. To My Brother George
II. To * * * * * *
III. Written on the day that Mr. Leigh Hunt left Prison
IV.
V. To a Friend who sent me some Roses
VI. To G. A. W
VII.
VIII. To My Brothers
IX.
X.
XI. On first looking into Chapman's Homer
XII. On leaving some Friends at an early Hour
XIII. Addressed to Haydon
XIV. Addressed to the Same
XV. On the Grasshopper and Cricket
XVI. To Kosciusko
XVII. - Keats