13270 penetration of the verse with Shelley's spirit in its eloquent passion. Of that elegy the poetry is so direct, and the charm so immediate and constant, that it needs no other mention; further than to say that like the 'Sensitive Plant,' it has more affinity with Shelley's lyrics than with his longer works. Some of the characteristics of Shelley have been mentioned above with such fullness as our limits allow, and the relations between his more important works have been roughly indicated. There is much more to say; but I will add only that in what seems to me a cardinal point in the criticism of poetry,-the poet's conception of womanhood, of all the poets of the century in England, Shelley is approached only by Burns in tenderness, and excels Burns in nobleness. of feeling. The reputation of Shelley in his lifetime was but slight in the world; and it emerged only by slow stages from the neglect and obloquy which were his portion while he lived and when he died. In the brief recital of the events of his life which heads this sketch, it is obvious at a glance that there is much which needs explanation and defense. The best defense was to throw all possible light upon his career, and that was done by all who knew him; so that his life is more minutely exposed from boyhood to his death than that of any other English poet. As a consequence of this, opinion regarding him has been much modified; and though it may still be stern, it is now seldom harsh. The opinions which were regarded as of evil influence, and the acts which were condemned as wrong acts, are open to all to understand and pass judgment upon, as they are related in many books; and in respect to these, each will have his own mind. Whatever be the judgment, it must be agreed that the century has brought fame to Shelley, as a poet of the highest class and of a rare kind; and that as a man he has been an inspiration and almost a creed in many lives, and has won respect and affection from many hearts, and a singular devotion from some akin to that which his friends felt toward him. He has been loved as it is given to few strangers to be loved,- but that is apart from his poetry. F FROM PROMETHEUS UNBOUND' CHORUS OF FURIES ROM the ends of the earth, from the ends of the earth, Where the night has its grave and the morning its birth, Come, come, come! O ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth, Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, Fire is left for future burning: It will burst in bloodier flashes When ye stir it, soon returning: Come, come, come! We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate, L VOICE IN THE AIR IFE of Life! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire: then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; 13272 As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others: none beholds thee, But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendor; Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing! ASIA My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. Upon that many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses! Till, like one in slumber bound, Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music's most serene dominions; Without a course, without a star, But by the instinct of sweet music driven; |