Amid the rich variety which the poet has left us, it is difficult to choose, but opening the book at random we select THE HYMN OF PAN. From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The cigale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the dædal Earth, And of Heaven-and the giant wars, Gods and men, we are all deluded thus! It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. Leaving those of Shelley's poems, of which the matter rather than the form, constitutes the value, or which are valuable in despite of an unpropitious form, we turn to such as, by their claims upon our admiration, both on account of their form and matter, stamp him with the character of the complete poet. A niche must here be allotted for his translations from the Greek poets, and especially for his translation of the Cyclops, a work almost entitled to rank as an original for the exquisite divination with which he has entered into the feelings of so distant a state of society, and the unaccountable power with which he has given to an accurate translation all the easy flow and beauty of an original. This undertaking calls more imperatively for notice that it is conterminous with, and possibly aided in the development of that power which enabled him to collect his wandering fancies into majestic structures, which are organic wholes—all in all, and all in every part. For this new insight into the nature and power of the Greek poets and his own genius, he was not improbably indebted to the writings of Schiller and Göthe, with the spirit of which it is perfectly in accordance. Schiller's translation of the Phoenicians," and Shelley's of the "Cyclops," are the The only versions of Greek dramas that give any idea of the original. translations from Faust, by Shelley, shew how intimately he had thought himself unto the works of that great author. Shelley's more finished larger poems are Rosalind and Helen, Adonais, Hellas, Prometheus Unbound, and the Cenci. The first-mentioned although cast in the narrative form, and human in its interest, is still deeply tinged with his original vice, his controversial tendency. The versification is sweet and fluent, but in other respects it is scarcely worthy of Shelley. The Hellas, he himself tells us, "written at the suggestion of the events of the moment, is a mere improvise." It contains some magnificent passages. The opening chorus, in particular, is beautiful, but too long for insertion here. The Adonais is also a child of occasion-a lament for Keates. It has much of Milton's Lycidas in the flow of its verse, although the structure of the stanza be different; nor does its imagery, or the constant under-tone of simple subdued pathos which pervades the poem, render it unworthy to stand in competition with that "melodious tear." In his "Cenci," Shelley first displayed to the world the full extent of his genius. Medwin tells us, that while "The Revolt of Islam" and others of his poems were thrown off by him, almost without exertion, the "Cenci was the product of severe and continuous labour. Its solid worth confirms the story. It is worthy to rank among the most successful efforts of dramatic art in the English language; and the fragments which have been given to the world of the unfinished drama, "Charles the First," shew that it was no chance burst, no happy accident. Shelley had occupied the field of the drama, and would have maintained it. He had the power of subduing the expressions of agony to the modulations of harmony, without lessening their power or diminishing the sympathy they were likely to excite. He could be alternately homely and magnificent. He knew how to check that overflowing of poetical thought which was natural to him, in order to give character to his dialogue; and this restraint, by compressing his thoughts, gave them a spring and elasticity which are felt unseen. Lastly, he saw clearly the distinction between the narrative and dramatic, and allows his characters to be seen and heard as the necessity of his art dictates. They but appear-the chain of causation which links their appearances is supplied, involuntarily, by the mind of the be. holder. The story of the "Cenci" is too well known to need repetition here. The characters are boldly expressed both by their words and actions. Not a syllable is attributed to them which the forwarding of the action does not call for. Not a scene is introduced in which some event does not occur to forward the catastrophe. The characters are discriminated by a delicate metaphysical tact. Old Cenci and Beatrice are the marked and prominent characters, and are distinguished not merely as male from female-good from evil-but as old from young. They are akin in power but the power of Cenci is that of a full-grown petrified soul which advances not; the power of Beatrice is growing, it increases with every struggle, every opportunity of display. Even the feebler characters differ in their feebleness-Gracoma too feeble to be virtuous, Orsino too feeble to be successfully a villain, the Pope too feeble to be just. How truly dramatic is the execution of the piece will be felt in the breathless horror of the murder scenes. Olimpio. How feel you to this work? A thousand crowns excellent market price Mar. Is that their natural hue? Olim.-Or 'tis my hate, and the deferred desire Mar. You are inclined then to this business? If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns Enter Beatrice and Lucretia below. Noble ladies! Beatr.-Are ye resolved? Olim. Is he asleep? Quiet? Lucr.-I mixed an opiate with his drink : He sleeps so soundly Beatr. That his death will be But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, A dark continuance of the Hell within him, Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? Mar. As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you. Beatr.-Well, follow! Olim.-Hush! Hark! What noise is that? Mar. Ha! some one comes! Beatr. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! (Ereunt.) An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. Lucr. They are about it now. Beatr.-Nay, it is done. Lucr.-I have not heard him groan. Beatr.-He will not groan. Lucr.-What sound is that? Beatr.-List! 'tis the tread of feet Mar. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, Beatr.-Miserable slaves! Where, if you dare not kill a sleeping man, With such a deed undone? Base palterers! Is an equivocation: it sleeps over A thousand daily acts disgracing men; And when a deed where mercy insults heaven- (Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.) Hadst thou a tongue to say, She murdered her own father, I must do it! But never dream ye shall outlive him long! Mar. I will go back and kill him. Olim. Beatr. Give me the weapon, we must do thy will. Olim.-Dead! Mar. We strangled him that there might be no blood; And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. Beatr.-(Giving them a bag of coin.) Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! It was the mantle which my grandfather To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. (A horn is sounded.) Lucr.-Hark! 'tis the castle horn; my God, it sounds Like the last trump. Beatr.Some tedious guest is coming. Lucr. The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! (Exeunt Olim and Mar.) Beatr.-Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: The spirit which doth reign within these limbs (Exeunt.) The Prometheus is dramatic in form only; there is little or no human interest in it. The sphere of action is the universe; the actors the gigantic creatures of the poet's imagination. Love, hatred, fear, the beauty of the elements and the human form,-these in the abstract are the materials employed by the poet, but he has fused them in the glowing furnace of his own mind, cast them in more gigantic moulds, and given them new purposes and relations. It is indeed a gigantic work, worthy, from the might and magnitude of its conceptions, to rank beside Eschylus. The great and good Titan, the tyrant Jove, the mysterious all-absorbing Demigorgon, are adequate to the infinity they are created to fill. The Oceanides and other lovely spirits cluster in undying beauty around these colossal beings. And on the outward form of the poem the author has lavished all the riches of his sweet majestic and varying versification. The Prometheus is a poem that never can be popular, The habits of thought presupposed in those to whom it addresses itself exist only in minds which have been long devoted to literature. But those who can appreciate must ever regard it as a mine of the richest beauties of poetry. Perfect we cannot call it; for, independently of one or two wanton defiances of feelings which may (and ought to) find place in the most cultivated minds, the consummation is imperfect. Man being finite, cannot comprehend infinite good, and all attempts to clothe such an idea in a bodily form must be unsuccessful. Words vainly attempt to describe a poem which can be known only from repeated perusals. Those who can find pleasure in rich combinations of melodious measures giving voice to crowding images of beauty, abstracted from every thing that is of the earth earthy, will relish the revels of the Hours and Spirits, after the delivery of Prometheus. Scene, a Part of the Forest near the Cave of PROMETHEUS. PANTHEA and IONE are sleeping; they awaken gradually during the First Song. Voice of Unseen Spirits. The pale stars are gone! For the sun, their swift shepherd, Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee Beyond his blue dwelling, As fawns flee the leopard. But where are ye? A train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by confusedly, Singing. Here, oh here: We bear the bier |