him　intellectually；　shared　his　views；　entered　into　his　aspirations；
  and　yetyet；　even　at　the　date　of　Epipsychidion　the　foolish　child；
  her　husband；　assigned　her　the　part　of　moon　to　Emilia　Viviani's　sun；
  and　lamented　that　he　was　barred　from　final；　certain；　irreversible
  happiness　by　a　cold　and　callous　society。　　Yet　few　poets　were　so
  mated　before；　and　no　poet　was　so　mated　afterwards；　until　Browning
  stooped　and　picked　up　a　fair…coined　soul　that　lay　rusting　in　a　pool
  of　tears。
  In　truth；　his　very　unhappiness　and　discontent　with　life；　in　so　far
  as　it　was　not　the　inevitable　penalty　of　the　ethical　anarch；　can　only
  be　ascribed　to　this　same　childlike　irrationalitythough　in　such　a
  form　it　is　irrationality　hardly　peculiar　to　Shelley。　　Pity；　if　you
  will；　his　spiritual　ruins　and　the　neglected　early　training　which　was
  largely　their　cause；　but　the　pity　due　to　his　outward　circumstances
  has　been　strangely　exaggerated。　　The　obloquy　from　which　he　suffered
  he　deliberately　and　wantonly　courted。　　For　the　rest；　his　lot　was　one
  that　many　a　young　poet　might　envy。　　He　had　faithful　friends；　a
  faithful　wife；　an　income　small　but　assured。　　Poverty　never　dictated
  to　his　pen；　the　designs　on　his　bright　imagination　were　never　etched
  by　the　sharp　fumes　of　necessity。
  If；　as　has　chanced　to　othersas　chanced；　for　example；　to　Mangan
  outcast　from　home；　health　and　hope；　with　a　charred　past　and　a
  bleared　future；　an　anchorite　without　detachment　and　self…cloistered
  without　self…sufficingness；　deposed　from　a　world　which　he　had　not
  abdicated；　pierced　with　thorns　which　formed　no　crown；　a　poet
  hopeless　of　the　bays　and　a　martyr　hopeless　of　the　palm；　a　land
  cursed　against　the　dews　of　love；　an　exile　banned　and　proscribed　even
  from　the　innocent　arms　of　childhoodhe　were　burning　helpless　at　the
  stake　of　his　unquenchable　heart；　then　he　might　have　been
  inconsolable；　then　might　he　have　cast　the　gorge　at　life；　then　have
  cowered　in　the　darkening　chamber　of　his　being；　tapestried　with
  mouldering　hopes；　and　hearkened　to　the　winds　that　swept　across　the
  illimitable　wastes　of　death。　　But　no　such　hapless　lot　was　Shelley's
  as　that　of　his　own　contemporariesKeats；　half　chewed　in　the　jaws　of
  London　and　spit　dying　on　to　Italy；　de　Quincey；　who；　if　he　escaped；
  escaped　rent　and　maimed　from　those　cruel　jaws；　Coleridge；　whom　they
  dully　mumbled　for　the　major　portion　of　his　life。　　Shelley　had
  competence；　poetry；　love；　yet　he　wailed　that　he　could　lie　down　like
  a　tired　child　and　weep　away　his　life　of　care。　　Is　it　ever　so　with
  you；　sad　brother；　is　it　ever　so　with　me？　and　is　there　no　drinking　of
  pearls　except　they　be　dissolved　in　biting　tears？　　〃Which　of　us　has
  his　desire；　or　having　it　is　satisfied？〃
  It　is　true　that　he　shared　the　fate　of　nearly　all　the　great　poets
  contemporary　with　him；　in　being　unappreciated。　　Like　them；　he
  suffered　from　critics　who　were　for　ever　shearing　the　wild　tresses　of
  poetry　between　rusty　rules；　who　could　never　see　a　literary　bough
  project　beyond　the　trim　level　of　its　day　but　they　must　lop　it　with　a
  crooked　criticism；　who　kept　indomitably　planting　in　the　defile　of
  fame　the　〃established　canons〃　that　had　been　spiked　by　poet　after
  poet。　　But　we　decline　to　believe　that　a　singer　of　Shelley's　calibre
  could　be　seriously　grieved　by　want　of　vogue。　　Not　that　we　suppose
  him　to　have　found　consolation　in　that　senseless　superstition；　〃the
  applause　of　posterity。〃　　Posterity！　posterity　which　goes　to　Rome；
  weeps　large…sized　tears；　carves　beautiful　inscriptions　over　the　tomb
  of　Keats；　and　the　worm　must　wriggle　her　curtsey　to　it　all；　since　the
  dead　boy；　wherever　he　be；　has　quite　other　gear　to　tend。　　Never　a
  bone　less　dry　for　all　the　tears！
  A　poet　must　to　some　extent　be　a　chameleon　and　feed　on　air。　　But　it
  need　not　be　the　musty　breath　of　the　multitude。　　He　can　find　his
  needful　support　in　the　judgement　of　those　whose　judgement　he　knows
  valuable；　and　such　support　Shelley　had：
  La　gloire
  Ne　compte　pas　toujours　les　voix；
  Elle　les　pese　quelquefois。
  Yet　if　this　might　be　needful　to　him　as　support；　neither　this；　nor
  the　applause　of　the　present；　nor　the　applause　of　posterity；　could
  have　been　needful　to　him　as　motive：　　the　one　all…sufficing　motive
  for　a　great　poet's　singing　is　that　expressed　by　Keats：
  I　was　taught　in　Paradise
  To　ease　my　breast　of　melodies。
  Precisely　so。　　The　overcharged　breast　can　find　no　ease　but　in
  suckling　the　baby…song。　　No　enmity　of　outward　circumstances；
  therefore；　but　his　own　nature；　was　responsible　for　Shelley's　doom。
  A　being　with　so　much　about　it　of　childlike　unreasonableness；　and　yet
  withal　so　much　of　the　beautiful　attraction　luminous　in　a　child's
  sweet　unreasonableness；　would　seem　fore…fated　by　its　very　essence　to
  the　transience　of　the　bubble　and　the　rainbow；　of　all　things　filmy
  and　fair。　　Did　some　shadow　of　this　destiny　bear　part　in　his　sadness？
  Certain　it　is　that；　by　a　curious　chance；　he　himself　in　Julian　and
  Maddalo　jestingly　foretold　the　manner　of　his　end。　　〃O　ho！　　You　talk
  as　in　years　past；〃　said　Maddalo　（Byron）　to　Julian　（Shelley）；　〃If　you
  can't　swim；　Beware　of　Providence。〃　　Did　no　unearthly　dixisti　sound
  in　his　ears　as　he　wrote　it？　　But　a　brief　while；　and　Shelley；　who
  could　not　swim；　was　weltering　on　the　waters　of　Lerici。　　We　know　not
  how　this　may　affect　others；　but　over　us　it　is　a　coincidence　which
  has　long　tyrannised　with　an　absorbing　inveteracy　of　impression
  （strengthened　rather　than　diminished　by　the　contrast　between　the
  levity　of　the　utterance　and　its　fatal　fulfilment）thus　to　behold；
  heralding　itself　in　warning　mockery　through　the　very　lips　of　its
  predestined　victim；　the　Doom　upon　whose　breath　his　locks　were
  lifting　along　the　coasts　of　Campania。　　The　death　which　he　had
  prophesied　came　upon　him；　and　Spezzia　enrolled　another　name　among
  the　mournful　Marcelli　of　our　tongue；　Venetian　glasses　which　foamed
  and　burst　before　the　poisoned　wine　of　life　had　risen　to　their　brims。
  Coming　to　Shelley's　poetry；　we　peep　over　the　wild　mask　of
  revolutionary　metaphysics；　and　we　see　the　winsome　face　of　the　child。
  Perhaps　none　of　his　poems　is　more　purely　and　typically　Shelleian
  than　The　Cloud；　and　it　is　interesting　to　note　how　essentially　it
  springs　from　the　faculty　of　make…believe。　　The　same　thing　is
  conspicuous；　though　less　purely　conspicuous；　throughout　his　singing；
  it　is　the　child's　faculty　of　make…believe　raised　to　the　nth　power。
  He　is　still　at　play；　save　only　that　his　play　is　such　as　manhood
  stops　to　watch；　and　his　playthings　are　those　which　the　gods　give
  their　children。　　The　universe　is　his　box　of　toys。　　He　dabbles　his
  fingers　in　the　day…fall。　　He　is　gold…dusty　with　tumbling　amidst　the
  stars。　　He　makes　bright　mischief　with　the　moon。　　The　meteors　nuzzle
  their　noses　in　his　hand。　　He　teases　into　growling　the　kennelled
  thunder；　and　laughs　at　the　shaking　of　its　fiery　chain。　　He　dances　in
  and　out　of　the　gates　of　heaven：　　its　floor　is　littered　with　his
  broken　fancies。　　He　runs　wild　over　the　fields　of　ether。　　He　chases
  the　rolling　world。　　He　gets　between　the　feet　of　the　horses　of　the
  sun。　　He　stands　in　the　lap　of　patient　Nature　and　twines　her　loosened
  tresses　after　a　hundred　wilful　fashions；　to　see　how　she　will　look
  nicest　in　his　song。
  This　it　was　which；　in　spite　of　his　essentially　modern　character　as　a
  singer；　qualified　Shelley　to　be　the　poet　of　Prometheus　Unbound；　for
  it　made　him；　in　the　truest　sense　of　the　word；　a　mythological　poet。
  This　childlike　quality　assimilated　him　to　the　childlike　peoples
  among　whom　mythologies　have　their　rise。　　Those　Nature　myths　which；
  according　to　many；　are　the　basis　of　all　mythology；　are　likewise　the
  very　basis　of　Shelley's　poetry。　　The　lark　that　is　the　gossip　of
  heaven；　the　winds　that　pluck　the　grey　from　the　beards　of　the
  billows；　the　clouds　that　are　snorted　from　the　sea's　broad　nostril；
  all　the　elemental　spirits　of　Nature；　take　from　his　verse　perpetual
  incarnation　and　reincarnation；　pass　in　a　thousand　glorious
  transmigrations　through　the　radiant　forms　of　his　imagery。
  Thus；　but　not　in　the　Wordsworthian　sense；　he　is　a　veritable　poet　of
  Nature。　　For　with　Nature　the　Wordsworthians　will　admit　no　tampering：
  they　exact　the　direct　interpretative　reproduction　of　her；　that　the
  poet　should　follow　her　as　a　mistress；　not　use　her　as　a　handmaid。　　To
  such　following　of　Nature；　Shelley　felt　no　call。　　He　saw　in　her　not　a
  picture　set　for　his　copying；　but　a　palette　set　for　his　brush；　not　a
  habitation　prepared　for　his　inhabiting；　but　a　Coliseum　whence　he
  might　quarry　stones　for　his　own　palaces。　　Even　in　his　descriptive
  passages　the　dream…character　of　his　scenery　is　notorious；　it　is　not
  the　clear；　recognisable　scenery　of　Wordsworth；　but　a　landscape　that
  hovers　athwart　the　heat　and　haze　arising　from　his　crackling
  fantasies。　　The　materials　for　such　visionary　Edens　have　evidently
  been　accumulated　from　direct　experience；　but　they　are　recomposed　by
  him　into　such　scenes　as　never　had　mortal　eye　beheld。　　〃Don't　you
  wish　you　had？〃　a