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