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amazing lyric world； where immortal clarities sigh past in the
perfumes of the blossoms； populate the breathings of the breeze；
throng and twinkle in the leaves that twirl upon the bough； where
the very grass is all a…rustle with lovely spirit…things； and a
weeping mist of music fills the air。 The final scenes especially
are such a Bacchic reel and rout and revelry of beauty as leaves one
staggered and giddy； poetry is spilt like wine； music runs to
drunken waste。 The choruses sweep down the wind； tirelessly； flight
after flight； till the breathless soul almost cries for respite from
the unrolling splendours。 Yet these scenes； so wonderful from a
purely poetical standpoint that no one could wish them away； are （to
our humble thinking） nevertheless the artistic error of the poem。
Abstractedly； the development of Shelley's idea required that he
should show the earthly paradise which was to follow the fall of
Zeus。 But dramatically with that fall the action ceases； and the
drama should have ceased with it。 A final chorus； or choral series；
of rejoicings （such as does ultimately end the drama where
Prometheus appears on the scene） would have been legitimate enough。
Instead； however； the bewildered reader finds the drama unfolding
itself through scene after scene which leaves the action precisely
where it found it； because there is no longer an action to advance。
It is as if the choral finale of an opera were prolonged through two
acts。
We have； nevertheless； called Prometheus Shelley's greatest poem
because it is the most comprehensive storehouse of his power。 Were
we asked to name the most PERFECT among his longer efforts； we
should name the poem in which he lamented Keats： under the shed
petals of his lovely fancy giving the slain bird a silken burial。
Seldom is the death of a poet mourned in true poetry。 Not often is
the singer coffined in laurel…wood。 Among the very few exceptions
to such a rule； the greatest is Adonais。 In the English language
only Lycidas competes with it； and when we prefer Adonais to
Lycidas； we are following the precedent set in the case of Cicero：
Adonais is the longer。 As regards command over abstraction； it is
no less characteristically Shelleian than Prometheus。 It is
throughout a series of abstractions vitalised with daring
exquisiteness； from Morning who sought：
Her eastern watch…tower； and her hair unbound；
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground；
and who
Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day；
to the Dreams that were the flock of the dead shepherd； the Dreams
Whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed； and whom he taught
The love that was its music；
of whom one sees； as she hangs mourning over him；
Upon the silken fringe of his faint eyes；
Like dew upon a sleeping flower； there lies
A tear some dream has loosened from his brain！
Lost angel of a ruined Paradise！
She knew not 'twas her own； as with no stain
She faded like a cloud which hath outwept its rain。
In the solar spectrum； beyond the extreme red and extreme violet
rays； are whole series of colours； demonstrable； but imperceptible
to gross human vision。 Such writing as this we have quoted renders
visible the invisibilities of imaginative colour。
One thing prevents Adonais from being ideally perfect： its lack of
Christian hope。 Yet we remember well the writer of a popular memoir
on Keats proposing as 〃the best consolation for the mind pained by
this sad record〃 Shelley's inexpressibly sad exposition of
Pantheistic immortality：
He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely； etc。
What desolation can it be that discerns comfort in this hope； whose
wan countenance is as the countenance of a despair？ What deepest
depth of agony is it that finds consolation in this immortality： an
immortality which thrusts you into death； the maw of Nature； that
your dissolved elements may circulate through her veins？
Yet such； the poet tells me； is my sole balm for the hurts of life。
I am as the vocal breath floating from an organ。 I too shall fade
on the winds； a cadence soon forgotten。 So I dissolve and die； and
am lost in the ears of men： the particles of my being twine in
newer melodies； and from my one death arise a hundred lives。 Why；
through the thin partition of this consolation Pantheism can hear
the groans of its neighbour； Pessimism。 Better almost the black
resignation which the fatalist draws from his own hopelessness； from
the fierce kisses of misery that hiss against his tears。
With some gleams； it is true； of more than mock solace； Adonais is
lighted； but they are obtained by implicitly assuming the personal
immortality which the poem explicitly denies； as when； for instance；
to greet the dead youth；
The inheritors of unfulfilled renown ＇thought
Rose from their thrones； built beyond mortal
Far in the unapparent。
And again the final stanza of the poem：
The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me； my spirit's bark is driven
Far from the shore； far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest riven；
The massy earth； the sphered skies are given：
I am borne darkly； fearfully afar；
Whilst； burning through the inmost veil of heaven；
The soul of Adonais like a star
Beacons from the abode where the eternal are。
The Soul of Adonais？Adonais； who is but
A portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely。
After all； to finish where we began； perhaps the poems on which the
lover of Shelley leans most lovingly； which he has oftenest in his
mind； which best represent Shelley to him and which he instinctively
reverts to when Shelley's name is mentioned are some of the shorter
poems and detached lyrics。 Here Shelley forgets for a while all
that ever makes his verse turbid； forgets that he is anything but a
poet； forgets sometimes that he is anything but a child； lies back
in his skiff； and looks at the clouds。 He plays truant from earth；
slips through the wicket of fancy into heaven's meadow； and goes
gathering stars。 Here we have that absolute virgin…gold of song
which is the scarcest among human products； and for which we can go
to but three poetsColeridge； Shelley； Chopin； ｛8｝ and perhaps we
should add Keats。 Christabel and Kubla…Khan； The Skylark； The
Cloud； and The Sensitive Plant （in its first two parts）。 The Eve of
Saint Agnes and The Nightingale； certain of the Nocturnes；these
things make very quintessentialised loveliness。 It is attar of
poetry。
Remark； as a thing worth remarking； that； although Shelley's diction
is at other times singularly rich； it ceases in these poems to be
rich； or to obtrude itself at all； it is imperceptible； his Muse has
become a veritable Echo； whose body has dissolved from about her
voice。 Indeed； when his diction is richest； nevertheless the poetry
so dominates the expression that we feel the latter only as an
atmosphere until we are satiated with the former； then we discover
with surprise to how imperial a vesture we had been blinded by
gazing on the face of his song。 A lesson； this； deserving to be
conned by a generation so opposite in tendency as our own： a lesson
that in poetry； as in the Kingdom of God； we should not take thought
too greatly wherewith we shall be clothed； but seek first ｛9｝ the
spirit； and all these things will be added unto us。
On the marvellous music of Shelley's verse we need not dwell； except
to note that he avoids that metronomic beat of rhythm which Edgar
Poe introduced into modern lyric measures； as Pope introduced it
into the rhyming heroics of his day。 Our varied metres are becoming
as painfully over…polished as Pope's one metre。 Shelley could at
need sacrifice smoothness to fitness。 He could write an anapaest
that would send Mr。 Swinburne into strong shudders （e。g。； 〃stream
did glide〃） when he instinctively felt that by so forgoing the more
obvious music of melody he would better secure the higher music of
harmony。 If we have to add that in other ways he was far from
escaping the defects of his merits； and would sometimes have to
acknowledge that his Nilotic flood too often overflowed its banks；
what is this but saying that he died young？
It may be thought that in our casual comments on Shelley's life we
have been blind to its evil side。 That； however； is not the case。
We see clearly that he committed grave sins； and one cruel crime；
but we remember also that he was an Atheist from his boyhood； we
reflect how gross must have been the moral neglect in the training
of a child who COULD be an Atheist from his boyhood： and we decline
to judge so unhappy a being by the rules which we should apply to a
Catholic。 It seems to us that Shelley was strugglingblindly；
weakly； stumblingly； but still struggling