ing them, by no means to the advantage of his verse By all the happy see in children's growth, with which it drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama.' No change of scene, however, could permanently affect the nature of Shelley's speculations, and his 'Prometheus' is as mystical and metaphysical, and as daringly sceptical, as any of his previous works. The cardinal point of his system is described by Mrs Shelley as a belief that man could be so perfectionised as to be able to expel evil from his own nature, and from the greater part of the creation; and the subject he Source of the sweetest hopes and saddest fears! loved best to dwell on, was the image of one warring Shelley contracted a second marriage with the with the evil principle, oppressed not only by it, but daughter of Mr Godwin, author of Caleb Williams, by all, even the good, who were deluded into conand established himself at Marlow, in Buckingham-sidering evil a necessary portion of humanity. His shire. Here he composed the Revolt of Islam,' a poem more energetic than 'Alastor,' yet containing the same allegorical features and peculiarities of thought and style, and rendered more tedious by the want of human interest. It is honourable to Shelley that, during his residence at Marlow, he was indefatigable in his attentions to the poor; his widow relates that, in the winter, while bringing out his poem, he had a severe attack of ophthalmia, caught while visiting the poor cottages. This certainly stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race, though the nature of his philosophy and opinions would have deprived them of the highest of earthly consolations. The poet now prepared to go abroad. A strong sense of injury, and a burning desire to redress what he termed the wrongs of society, rendered him miserable in England, and he hoped also that his health would be improved by a milder climate. Accordingly, on the 12th of March 1818, he quitted this country, never to return. He went direct to Italy, and whilst residing at Rome, composed his classic drama of Prometheus Unbound. This poem,' he says, was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowery glades and thickets of odoriferous blos next work was The Cenci, a tragedy, published in 1819, and dedicated to Mr Leigh Hunt. Those writings,' he remarks in the dedication, which I have hitherto published, have been little else than visions which impersonate my own apprehensions of the beautiful and the just. I can also perceive in them the literary defects incidental to youth and impatience; they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be. The drama which I now present to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an instructor, and am content to paint, with such colours as my own heart furnishes, that which has been.' The painting is dark and gloomy; but, in spite of a revolting plot, and the insane unnatural character of the Cenci, Shelley's tragedy is one of the best of modern times. As an effort of intellectual strength, and an embodiment of human passion, it may challenge a comparison with any dramatic work since Otway; and it is incomparably the best of the poet's productions. His remaining works are Hellas; The Witch of Atlas; Adonais; Rosalind and Helen; and a variety of shorter productions, with scenes translated from Calderon and the Faust of Goëthe. In Italy Shelley renewed his acquaintance with Lord Byron, who thought his philosophy 'too spiritual and romantic.' He was temperate in his habits, gentle, affectionate, and generous; so that even those who most deeply deplored or detested his opinions, were charmed with the intellectual purity and benevolence of his life. His favourite amusement was boating and sailing; and whilst returning one day, the 8th of July 1822, from Leghorn (whither he had gone to welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy), the boat in which he sailed, accompanied by Mr Williams, formerly of the 8th dragoons, and a single seaman, went down in the bay of Spezia, and all perished. A volume of Keats's poetry was found open in Shelley's coat pocket when his body was washed ashore. The remains of the poet were reduced to ashes by fire, and being taken to Rome, were deposited in the Protestant burial ground, near those of a child he had lost in that city. A complete edition of Shelley's Poetical Works, with notes by his widow, has been published in four volumes; and the same accomplished lady has given to the world two volumes of his prose Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments. Shelley's life was a dream of romance-a tale of mystery and grief. That he was sincere in his opinions, and benevolent in his intentions, is now undoubted. He looked upon the world with the eyes of a visionary, bent on unattainable schemes of intellectual excellence and supremacy. His delusion led to misery, and made him, for a time, unjust to others. It alienated him from his family and friends, blasted his prospects in life, and distempered all his views and opinions. It is probable that, had he lived to a riper age, he might have modified some of those extreme speculative and pernicious tenets, and we have no doubt that he would have risen into a purer atmosphere of poetical imagination. The troubled and stormy dawn was fast yielding to the calm noonday brightness. He had worn out some of his fierce antipathies and morbid affections; a happy domestic circle was gathered around him; and the refined simplicity of his tastes and habits, joined to wider and juster views of human life, would imperceptibly have given a new tone to his thoughts and studies. He had a high idea of the art to which he devoted his faculties. 'Poetry,' he says in one of his essays, is the record of the best and happiest moments of the hap: piest and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and feeling, sometimes associated with place or person, 'sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression; so that, even in the desire and the regret they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility and the most enlarged imagination; and the state of mind produced by them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined organisation, but they can colour all that they combine with the evanescent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a trait in the representation of a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide-abide, because there is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man.' The remote abstract character of Shelley's poetry, and its general want of anything real or tangible, by which the sympathies of the heart are awakened, must always prevent its becoming popular. His mystic idealism renders him obscure, and his imagery is sometimes accumulated, till both precision and effect are lost, and the poet becomes harsh and involved in expression. He sought to reason high in verse-not like Dryden, Pope, or Johnson, but in cold and glittering metaphysics, where the idealism of Berkeley stood in the place of the moral truths and passions of actual life. There is no melancholy grandeur in his pictures, or simple unity in his designs. Another fault is his partiality for painting ghastly and repulsive scenes. He had, however, many great and shining qualities-a rich and fertile imagination, a passionate love of nature, and a diction singularly classical and imposing in sound and structure. The descriptive passages in 'Alastor,' and the river-voyage at the conclusion of the Revolt of Islam,' are among the most finished of his productions. His morbid ghastliness is there laid aside, and his better genius leads him to the pure waters and the depth of forest shades, which none of his contemporaries knew better how to describe. Some of the minor poems are also imbued with a true poetical spirit, and speak the genuine feelings of nature. One striking peculiarity of his style is his constant personification of inanimate objects. In the 'Cenci' we have a strong and almost terrible illustration of this original feature of his poetry : I remember, Two miles on this side of the fort, the road Behold! The rocks are cioven, and through the purple night [Opening of Queen Mab.] How wonderful is Death, When, throned on ocean's wave, Hath then the gloomy Power, Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Which steal like streams along a field of snow, As breathing marble, perish? Leave nothing of this heavenly sight On which the lightest heart might moralise? Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Will Ianthe wake again, Her dewy eyes are closed, Curling like tendrils of the parasite Hark! whence that rushing sound? The enthusiast hears at evening: Those lines of rainbow light Are like the moonbeams when they fall Behold the chariot of the fairy queen! These the queen of spells drew in; The Cloud.* I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, *The odes to the Skylark and the Cloud, in the opinion of many critics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his productions. They were written as his mind prompted, listening to the carolling of the bird aloft in the azure sky of Italy; or marking the cloud as it sped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. His extreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectual pursuits, and rendered his mind keenly alive to every perception of outward objects, as well as to his internal sensations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of human life, the disappointments we meet, and the galling sense of our own mistakes and errors, fraught with pain; to escape from such he delivered up his soul to poetry, and felt happy when he sheltered himself from the influence of human sympathies in the wildest regions of fancy.'-Mrs Shelley, Pref. to Poet. Works. Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, I And the nursling of the sky; pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex And out of the caverns of rain, Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. 6 [From The Sensitive Plant.'] A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, But none ever trembled and panted with bliss And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, And flowrets which, drooping as day drooped too, The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Each and all like ministering angels were And when evening descended from heaven above, And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound; Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it-consciousness; (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant.) [Forest Scenery.] [From Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude."] A wandering stream of wind, With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task, |