shelley-第5章

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AEson　of　an　abstruseness　leaps　rosy　out　of　his　bubbling　genius。　　In

a　more　intensified　signification　than　it　is　probable　that

Shakespeare　dreamed　of；　Shelley　gives　to　airy　nothing　a　local

habitation　and　a　name。　　Here　afresh　he　touches　the　Metaphysical

School；　whose　very　title　was　drawn　from　this　habitual　pursuit　of

abstractions；　and　who　failed　in　that　pursuit　from　the　one　cause

omnipresent　with　them；　because　in　all　their　poetic　smithy　they　had

left　never　a　place　for　a　forge。　　They　laid　their　fancies　chill　on

the　anvil。　　Crashaw；　indeed；　partially　anticipated　Shelley's

success；　and　yet　further　did　a　later　poet；　so　much　further　that　we

find　it　difficult　to　understand　why　a　generation　that　worships

Shelley　should　be　reviving　Gray；　yet　almost　forget　the　name　of

Collins。　　The　generality　of　readers；　when　they　know　him　at　all；

usually　know　him　by　his　Ode　on　the　Passions。　　In　this；　despite　its

beauty；　there　is　still　a　soupcon　of　formalism；　a　lingering　trace　of

powder　from　the　eighteenth　century　periwig；　dimming　the　bright　locks

of　poetry。　　Only　the　literary　student　reads　that　little　masterpiece；

the　Ode　to　Evening；　which　sometimes　heralds　the　Shelleian　strain；

while　other　passages　are　the　sole　things　in　the　language　comparable

to　the　miniatures　of　Il　Penseroso。　　Crashaw；　Collins；　Shelleythree

ricochets　of　the　one　pebble；　three　jets　from　three　bounds　of　the　one

Pegasus！　　Collins's　Pity；　〃with　eyes　of　dewy　light；〃　is　near　of　kin

to　Shelley's　Sleep；　〃the　filmy…eyed〃；　and　the　〃shadowy　tribes　of

mind〃　are　the　lineal　progenitors　of　〃Thought's　crowned　powers。〃

This；　however；　is　personification；　wherein　both　Collins　and　Shelley

build　on　Spenser：　　the　dizzying　achievement　to　which　the　modern　poet

carried　personification　accounts　for　but　a　moiety；　if　a　large

moiety；　of　his　vivifying　power　over　abstractions。　　Take　the　passage

（already　alluded　to）　in　that　glorious　chorus　telling　how　the　Hours

come





From　the　temples　high

Of　man's　ear　and　eye

Roofed　over　Sculpture　and　Poesy；



*　*　*　*　*



From　those　skiey　towers

Where　Thought's　crowned　powers

Sit　watching　your　dance；　ye　happy　Hours！

Our　feet　now；　every　palm；

Are　sandalled　with　calm；

And　the　dew　of　our　wings　is　a　rain　of　balm；

And　beyond　our　eyes

The　human　love　lies

Which　makes　all　it　gazes　on　Paradise。





Any　partial　explanation　will　break　in　our　hands　before　it　reaches

the　root　of　such　a　power。　　The　root；　we　take　it；　is　this。　　He　had　an

instinctive　perception　（immense　in　range　and　fertility；　astonishing

for　its　delicate　intuition）　of　the　underlying　analogies　the　secret

subterranean　passages；　between　matter　and　soul；　the　chromatic

scales；　whereat　we　dimly　guess；　by　which　the　Almighty　modulates

through　all　the　keys　of　creation。　　Because；　the　more　we　consider　it；

the　more　likely　does　it　appear　that　Nature　is　but　an　imperfect

actress；　whose　constant　changes　of　dress　never　change　her　manner　and

method；　who　is　the　same　in　all　her　parts。



To　Shelley's　ethereal　vision　the　most　rarified　mental　or　spiritual

music　traced　its　beautiful　corresponding　forms　on　the　sand　of

outward　things。　　He　stood　thus　at　the　very　junction…lines　of　the

visible　and　invisible；　and　could　shift　the　points　as　he　willed。　　His

thoughts　became　a　mounted　infantry；　passing　with　baffling　swiftness

from　horse　to　foot　or　foot　to　horse。　　He　could　express　as　he　listed

the　material　and　the　immaterial　in　terms　of　each　other。　　Never　has　a

poet　in　the　past　rivalled　him　as　regards　this　gift；　and　hardly　will

any　poet　rival　him　as　regards　it　in　the　future：　　men　are　like　first

to　see　the　promised　doom　lay　its　hand　on　the　tree　of　heaven　and

shake　down　the　golden　leaves。　｛7｝



The　finest　specimens　of　this　faculty　are　probably　to　be　sought　in

that　Shelleian　treasury；　Prometheus　Unbound。　　It　is　unquestionably

the　greatest　and　most　prodigal　exhibition　of　Shelley's　powers；　this

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　bal