Shelley　：　AN　ESSAY
  by　Francis　Thompson
  The　Church；　which　was　once　the　mother　of　poets　no　less　than　of
  saints；　during　the　last　two　centuries　has　relinquished　to　aliens　the
  chief　glories　of　poetry；　if　the　chief　glories　of　holiness　she　has
  preserved　for　her　own。　　The　palm　and　the　laurel；　Dominic　and　Dante；
  sanctity　and　song；　grew　together　in　her　soil：　　she　has　retained　the
  palm；　but　forgone　the　laurel。　　Poetry　in　its　widest　sense；　｛1｝　and
  when　not　professedly　irreligious；　has　been　too　much　and　too　long
  among　many　Catholics　either　misprised　or　distrusted；　too　much　and
  too　generally　the　feeling　has　been　that　it　is　at　best　superfluous；
  at　worst　pernicious；　most　often　dangerous。　　Once　poetry　was；　as　she
  should　be；　the　lesser　sister　and　helpmate　of　the　Church；　the
  minister　to　the　mind；　as　the　Church　to　the　soul。　　But　poetry　sinned；
  poetry　fell；　and；　in　place　of　lovingly　reclaiming　her；　Catholicism
  cast　her　from　the　door　to　follow　the　feet　of　her　pagan　seducer。　　The
  separation　has　been　ill　for　poetry；　it　has　not　been　well　for
  religion。
  Fathers　of　the　Church　（we　would　say）；　pastors　of　the　Church；　pious
  laics　of　the　Church：　　you　are　taking　from　its　walls　the　panoply　of
  Aquinastake　also　from　its　walls　the　psaltery　of　Alighieri。　　Unroll
  the　precedents　of　the　Church's　past；　recall　to　your　minds　that
  Francis　of　Assisi　was　among　the　precursors　of　Dante；　that　sworn　to
  Poverty　he　forswore　not　Beauty；　but　discerned　through　the　lamp
  Beauty　the　Light　God；　that　he　was　even　more　a　poet　in　his　miracles
  than　in　his　melody；　that　poetry　clung　round　the　cowls　of　his　Order。
  Follow　his　footsteps；　you　who　have　blessings　for　men；　have　you　no
  blessing　for　the　birds？　　Recall　to　your　memory　that；　in　their　minor
  kind；　the　love　poems　of　Dante　shed　no　less　honour　on　Catholicism
  than　did　the　great　religious　poem　which　is　itself　pivoted　on　love；
  that　in　singing　of　heaven　he　sang　of　Beatricethis　supporting　angel
  was　still　carven　on　his　harp　even　when　he　stirred　its　strings　in
  Paradise。　　What　you　theoretically　know；　vividly　realise：　　that　with
  many　the　religion　of　beauty　must　always　be　a　passion　and　a　power；
  that　it　is　only　evil　when　divorced　from　the　worship　of　the　Primal
  Beauty。　　Poetry　is　the　preacher　to　men　of　the　earthly　as　you　of　the
  Heavenly　Fairness；　of　that　earthly　fairness　which　God　has　fashioned
  to　His　own　image　and　likeness。　　You　proclaim　the　day　which　the　Lord
  has　made；　and　Poetry　exults　and　rejoices　in　it。　　You　praise　the
  Creator　for　His　works；　and　she　shows　you　that　they　are　very　good。
  Beware　how　you　misprise　this　potent　ally；　for　hers　is　the　art　of
  Giotto　and　Dante：　　beware　how　you　misprise　this　insidious　foe；　for
  hers　is　the　art　of　modern　France　and　of　Byron。　　Her　value；　if　you
  know　it　not；　God　knows；　and　know　the　enemies　of　God。　　If　you　have　no
  room　for　her　beneath　the　wings　of　the　Holy　One；　there　is　place　for
  her　beneath　the　webs　of　the　Evil　One：　　whom　you　discard；　he
  embraces；　whom　you　cast　down　from　an　honourable　seat；　he　will
  advance　to　a　haughty　throne；　the　brows　you　dislaurel　of　a　just
  respect；　he　will　bind　with　baleful　splendours；　the　stone　which　you
  builders　reject；　he　will　make　his　head　of　the　corner。　　May　she　not
  prophesy　in　the　temple？　then　there　is　ready　for　her　the　tripod　of
  Delphi。　　Eye　her　not　askance　if　she　seldom　sing　directly　of
  religion：　　the　bird　gives　glory　to　God　though　it　sings　only　of　its
  innocent　loves。　　Suspicion　creates　its　own　cause；　distrust　begets
  reason　for　distrust。　　This　beautiful；　wild；　feline　Poetry；　wild
  because　left　to　range　the　wilds；　restore　to　the　hearth　of　your
  charity；　shelter　under　the　rafter　of　your　Faith；　discipline　her　to
  the　sweet　restraints　of　your　household；　feed　her　with　the　meat　from
  your　table；　soften　her　with　the　amity　of　your　children；　tame　her；
  fondle　her；　cherish　heryou　will　no　longer　then　need　to　flee　her。
  Suffer　her　to　wanton；　suffer　her　to　play；　so　she　play　round　the　foot
  of　the　Cross！
  There　is　a　change　of　late　years：　　the　Wanderer　is　being　called　to
  her　Father's　house；　but　we　would　have　the　call　yet　louder；　we　would
  have　the　proffered　welcome　more　unstinted。　　There　are　still　stray
  remnants　of　the　old　intolerant　distrust。　　It　is　still　possible　for
  even　a　French　historian　of　the　Church　to　enumerate　among　the
  articles　cast　upon　Savonarola's　famous　pile；　poesies　erotiques；　tant
  des　anciens　que　des　modernes；　livres　impies　ou　corrupteurs；　Ovide；
  Tibulle；　Properce；　pour　ne　nommer　que　les　plus　connus；　Dante；
  Petrarque；　Boccace；　tous　ces　auteurs　Italiens　qui　deje　souillaient
  les　ames　et　ruinaient　les　moeurs；　en　creant　ou　perfectionnant　la
  langue。　｛2｝　　Blameworthy　carelessness　at　the　least；　which　can　class
  the　Vita　Nuova　with　the　Ars　Amandi　and　the　Decameron！　　And　among
  many　English　Catholics　the　spirit　of　poetry　is　still　often　received
  with　a　restricted　Puritanical　greeting；　rather　than　with　the
  traditionally　Catholic　joyous　openness。
  We　ask；　therefore；　for　a　larger　interest；　not　in　purely　Catholic
  poetry；　but　in　poetry　generally；　poetry　in　its　widest　sense。　　With
  few　exceptions；　whatsoever　in　our　best　poets　is　great　and　good　to
  the　non…Catholic；　is　great　and　good　also　to　the　Catholic；　and　though
  Faber　threw　his　edition　of　Shelley　into　the　fire　and　never　regretted
  the　act；　though；　moreover；　Shelley　is　so　little　read　among　us　that
  we　can　still　tolerate　in　our　Churches　the　religious　parody　which
  Faber　should　have　thrown　after　his　three…volumed　Shelley；　｛3｝in
  spite　of　this；　we　are　not　disposed　to　number　among　such　exceptions
  that　straying　spirit　of　light。
  We　have　among　us　at　the　present　day　no　lineal　descendant；　in　the
  poetical　order；　of　Shelley；　and　any　such　offspring　of　the
  aboundingly　spontaneous　Shelley　is　hardly　possible；　still　less
  likely；　on　account　of　the　defect　by　which　（we　think）　contemporary
  poetry　in　general；　as　compared　with　the　poetry　of　the　early
  nineteenth　century；　is　mildewed。　　That　defect　is　the　predominance　of
  art　over　inspiration；　of　body　over　soul。　　We　do　not　say　the　DEFECT
  of　inspiration。　　The　warrior　is　there；　but　he　is　hampered　by　his
  armour。　　Writers　of　high　aim　in　all　branches　of　literature；　even
  when　they　are　notas　Mr。　Swinburne；　for　instance；　islavish　in
  expression；　are　generally　over…deliberate　in　expression。　　Mr。　Henry
  James；　delineating　a　fictitious　writer　clearly　intended　to　be　the
  ideal　of　an　artist；　makes　him　regret　that　he　has　sometimes　allowed
  himself　to　take　the　second…best　word　instead　of　searching　for　the
  best。　　Theoretically；　of　course；　one　ought　always　to　try　for　the
  best　word。　　But　practically；　the　habit　of　excessive　care　in　word…
  selection　frequently　results　in　loss　of　spontaneity；　and；　still
  worse；　the　habit　of　always　taking　the　best　word　too　easily　becomes
  the　habit　of　always　taking　the　most　ornate　word；　the　word　most
  removed　from　ordinary　speech。　　In　consequence　of　this；　poetic
  diction　has　become　latterly　a　kaleidoscope；　and　one's　chief
  curiosity　is　as　to　the　precise　combinations　into　which　the　pieces
  will　be　shifted。　　There　is；　in　fact；　a　certain　band　of　words；　the
  Praetorian　cohorts　of　poetry；　whose　prescriptive　aid　is　invoked　by
  every　aspirant　to　the　poetical　purple；　and　without　whose
  prescriptive　aid　none　dares　aspire　to　the　poetical　purple；　against
  these　it　is　time　some　banner　should　be　raised。　　Perhaps　it　is　almost
  impossible　for　a　contemporary　writer　quite　to　evade　the　services　of
  the　free…lances　whom　one　encounters　under　so　many　standards。　｛4｝
  But　it　is　at　any　rate　curious　to　note　that　the　literary　revolution
  against　the　despotic　diction　of　Pope　seems　issuing；　like　political
  revolutions；　in　a　despotism　of　its　own　making。
  This；　then；　we　cannot　but　think；　distinguishes　the　literary　period
  of　Shelley　from　our　own。　　It　distinguishes　even　the　unquestionable
  treasures　and　masterpieces　of　to…day　from　similar　treasures　and
  masterpieces　of　the　precedent　day；　even　the　Lotus…Eaters　from　Kubla…
  Khan；　even　Rossetti's　ballads　from　Christabel。　　It　is　present　in　the
  restraint　of　Matthew　Arnold　no　less　than　in　the　exuberance　of
  Swinburne；　and　affects　our　writers　who　aim　at　simplicity　no　less
  than　those　who　seek　richness。　　Indeed；　nothing　is　so　artificial　as
  our　simplicity。　　It　is　the　simplicity　of　the　French　stage　ingenue。
  We　are　self…conscious　to　the　finger…tips；　and　this　inherent　quality；
  entailing　on　our　poetry　the　inevitable　loss　of　spontaneity；　ensures
  that　whatever　poets；　of　whatever　excellence；　may　be　born　to　us　from
  the　Shelleian　stock；　its　founder's　spirit　can　take　among　us　no
  reincarnation。　　An　age　that　is　ceasing　to　produce　child…like
  children　cannot　produce　a　Shelley。　　For　both　as　poet　and　man　he　was
  essentially　a　child。
  Yet；　just　as　in　the　effete　French　society　before　the　Revolution　the
  Queen　played　at　Arcadia；　the　King　played　at　being　a　mechanic；
  everyone　played　at　simplicity　and　universal　philanthropy；　leaving
  for　most　durable　outcome　of　their　philanthropy　the　guillotine；　as
  the　most　durable　outcome　of　ours　ma