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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？〃 as Turner said。 The one justification for classing
Shelley with the Lake poet is that he loved Nature with a love even
more passionate； though perhaps less profound。 Wordsworth's
Nightingale and Stockdove sums up the contrast between the two； as
though it had been written for such a purpose。 Shelley is the
〃creature of ebullient heart；〃 who
Sings as if the god of wine
Had helped him to a valentine。
Wordsworth's is the
… Love with quiet blending；
Slow to begin and never ending；
the 〃serious faith and inward glee。〃
But if Shelley； instead of culling Nature； crossed with its pollen
the blossoms of his own soul； that Babylonian garden is his
marvellous and best apology。 For astounding figurative opulence he
yields only to Shakespeare； and even to Shakespeare not in absolute
fecundity but in images。 The sources of his figurative wealth are
specialised； sources of Shakespeare's are universal。 It would have
been as conscious