shelley-第5部分

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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　strugglingtowards　higher　things。

His　Pantheism　is　an　indication　of　it。　　Pantheism　is　a　half…way

house；　and　marks　ascent　or　descent　according　to　the　direction　from

which　it　is　approached。　　Now　Shelley　came　to　it　from　absolute

Atheism；　therefore　in　his　case　it　meant　rise。　　Again；　his　poetry

alone　would　lead　us　to　the　same　conclusion；　for　we　do　not　believe

that　a　truly　corrupted　spirit　can　write　consistently　ethereal

poetry。　　We　should　believe　in　nothing；　if　we　believed　that；　for　it

would　be　the　consecration　of　a　lie。　　Poetry　is　a　thermometer：　　by

taking　its　average　height　you　can　estimate　the　normal　temperature　of

its　writer's　mind。　　The　devil　can　do　many　things。　　But　the　devil

cannot　write　poetry。　　He　may　mar　a　poet；　but　he　cannot　make　a　poet。

Among　all　the　temptations　wherewith　he　tempted　St。　Anthony；　though

we　have　often　seen　it　stated　that　he　howled；　we　have　never　seen　it

stated　that　he　sang。



Shelley's　anarchic　principles　were　as　a　rule　held　by　him　with　some

misdirected　view　to　truth。　　He　disbelieved　in　kings。　　And　is　it　not

a　mere　factregret　it　if　you　willthat　in　all　European　countries；

except　two；　monarchs　are　a　mere　survival；　the　obsolete　buttons　on

the　coat…tails　of　rule；　which　serve　no　purpose　but　to　be　continually

coming　off？　　It　is　a　miserable　thing　to　note　how　every　little　Balkan

State；　having　obtained　liberty　（save　the　mark！）　by　Act　of　Congress；

straightway　proceeds　to　secure　the　service　of　a　professional　king。

These　gentlemen　are　plentiful　in　Europe。　　They　are　the　〃noble

Chairmen〃　who　lend　their　names　for　a　consideration　to　any

enterprising　company　which　may　be　speculating　in　Liberty。　　When　we

see　these　things；　we　revert　to　the　old　lines　in　which　Persius　tells

how　you　cannot　turn　Dama　into　a　freeman　by　twirling　him　round　your

finger　and　calling　him　Marcus　Dama。



Again；　Shelley　desired　a　religion　of　humanity；　and　that　meant；　to

him；　a　religion　for　humanity；　a　religion　which；　unlike　the　spectral

Christianity　about　him；　should　permeate　and　regulate　the　whole

organisation　of　men。　　And　the　feeling　is　one　with　which　a　Catholic

must　sympathise；　in　an　age　whenif　we　may　say　so　without

irreverencethe　Almighty　has　been　made　a　constitutional　Deity；　with

certain　state…grants　of　worship；　but　no　influence　over　political

affairs。　　In　these　matters　his　aims　were　generous；　if　his　methods

were　perniciously　mistaken。　　In　his　theory　of　Free　Love　alone；

borrowed　like　the　rest　from　the　Revolution；　his　aim　was　as

mischievous　as　his　method。　　At　the　same　time　he　was　at　least

logical。　　His　theory　was　repulsive；　but　comprehensible。　　Whereas

from　our　present　via　mediafacilitation　of　divorcecan　only　result

the　era　when　the　young　lady　in　reduced　circumstances　will　no　longer

turn　governess　but　will　be　open　to　engagement　as　wife　at　a

reasonable　stipend。



We　spoke　of　the　purity　of　Shelley's　poetry。　　We　know　of　but　three

passages　to　which　exception　can　be　taken。　　One　is　happily　hidden

under　a　heap　of　Shelleian　rubbish。　　Another　is　offensive；　because　it

presents　his　theory　of　Free　Love　in　its　most　odious　form。　　The　third

is　very　much　a　matter；　we　think；　for　the　individual　conscience。

Compare　with　this　the　genuinely　corrupt　Byron；　through　the　cracks

and　fissures　of　whose　heaving　versification　steam　up　perpetually　the

sulphurous　vapours　from　his　central　iniquity。　　We　cannot　credit　that

any　Christian　ever　had　his　faith　shaken　through　reading　Shelley；

unless　his　faith　were　shaken　before　he　read　Shelley。　　Is　any　safely

havened　bark　likely　to　slip　its　cable；　and　make　for　a　flag　planted

on　the　very　reef　where　the　planter　himself　was　wrecked？





Why　indeed　（one　is　tempted　to　ask　in　concluding）　should　it　be　that

the　poets　who　have　written　for　us　the　poetry　richest　in　skiey　grain；

most　free　from　admixture　with　the　duller　things　of　earththe

Shelleys；　the　Coleridges；　the　Keatsare　the　very　poets　whose　lives

are　among　the　saddest　records　in　literature？　　Is　it　that　（by　some

subtile　mystery　of　analogy）　sorrow；　passion；　and　fantasy　are

indissolubly　connected；　like　water；　fire；　and　cloud；　that　as　from

sun　and　dew　are　born　the　vapours；　so　from　fire　and　tears　ascend　the

〃visions　of　aerial　joy〃；　that　the　harvest　waves　richest　over　the

battlefields　of　the　soul；　that　the　heart；　like　the　earth；　smells

sweetest　after　rain；　that　the　spell　on　which　depend　such　necromantic

castles　is　some　spirit　of　pain　charm…poisoned　at　their　base？　｛10｝

Such　a　poet；　it　may　be；　mists　with　sighs　the　window　of　his　life

until　the　tears　run　down　it；　then　some　air　of　searching　poetry；　like

an　air　of　searching　frost；　turns　it　to　a　crystal　wonder。　　The　god　of

golden　song　is　the　god；　too；　of　the　golden　sun；　so　peradventure

song…light　is　like　sunlight；　and　darkens　the　countenance　of　the

soul。　　Perhaps　the　rays　are　to　the　stars　what　thorns　are　to　the

flowers；　and　so　the　poet；　after　wandering　over　heaven；　returns　with

bleeding　feet。　　Less　tragic　in　its　merely　temporal　aspect　than　the

life　of　Keats　or　Coleridge；　the