Haste, oh, haste!

As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste,

We melt away,

Like dissolving spray, From the children of a diviner day,

With the lullaby

Of winds that die
On the bosom of their own harmony !

Ione.-What dark forms were they?

Panthea.- The past Hlours weak and grey,
With the spoil which their toil

Raked together,
From the conquest but One could foil.

Ione.-Have they past ?

Panthea.They have past ;
They outspeeded the blast,
While 'tis said, they are fled :

Ione.-Whither, oh, whither?
Panthea.-To the dark, to the past, to the dead.

Voice of Unseen Spirits.
Bright clouds float in heaven,
Dew-stars gleam on earth,

Waves assemble on ocean,

They are gathered and driven
By the storm of delight, by the panic of glee !

They shake with emotion,
They dance in their mirth.

But where are ye?
The pine boughs are singing
Old songs with new gladness,
The billows and fountains

Fresh music are flinging,
Like the notes of a spirit from land and from sea ;

The storms mock the mountains
With the thunder of gladness.

But where are ye?
Tone. What charioteers are these?
Panthea.-_Where are their chariots?

Semichorus of Hours.
The voice of the Spirits of Air and of Earth
Have drawn back the figured curtain of sleep
Which covered our being and darkened our birth
In the deep.

A Voice.--In the deep?
Semichorus II.-Oh, below the deep.

Semichorus I.-An hundred ages we have been kept
Cradled in visions of hate and care,
And each one who waked as his brother slept,
Found the truth-

Semichorus II.Worse than his visions were !

Semichorus I.-We have heard the lute of Hope in sleep ;
We have known the voice of Love in dreams,
We have felt the wand of Power, and leap-

Semichorns II.-As the billows leap in the morning beams!
Chorus----Weave the dance on the floor of the breeze,

Pierce with song heaven's silent light,
Enchant the day that too swiftly flees,

To check its flight ere the cave of night. Once the hungry Hours were hounds

Which chased the day like a bleeding deer, And it limped and stumbled with many wounds

Through the nightly dells of the desert year.

But now, oh weave the mystic measure

Of music, and dance, and shapes of light,
Let the Hours, and the spirits of might and pleasure,

Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite.
A Voice._Unite!

Panthea.-See, where the Spirits of the human mind Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, approach.

Chorus of Spirits.
We join the throng

Of the dance and the song.
By the whirlwind of gladness borne along;

As the flying-fish leap

From the Indian deep,
And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep.

Chorus of Hours.
Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet,
For sandals of lightning are on your feet,
And your wings are soft and swift as thought,
And your eyes are as love which is veiled not?

Chorus of Spirits.
We come from the mind

Of human kind
Which was late so dusk, and obscene, and blind,

Now 'tis an ocean

Of clear emotion,
A heaven of serene and mighty motion.

From that deep abyss

Of wonder and bliss, Whose caverns are crystal palaces ;

From those skiey towers

Where Thought's crowned powerg Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours !

From the dim recesses

Of woven caresses,
Where lovers catch ye by your loose tresses ;

From the azure isles,

Where sweet Wisdom smiles, Delaying your ships with her syren wiles.

From the temples high

Of Man's ear and eye, Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy;

From the murmurings

Of the unsealed springs Where Science bedews his Dædal wings.

Years after years

Through blood, and tears,
And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, and fears ;

We waded and flew,

And the islets were few
Where the bud-blighted flowers of happiness grew.

Our feet now, every palm,

Are sandalled with calm, And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm;

And, beyond our eyes,

The human love lies Which makes all it gazes on Paradise.

Chorus of Spirits and Hours. Then weave the web of the mystic measure; From the depths of the sky and the ends of the earth,

Come, swift Spirits of might and of pleasure,
Fill the dance and the music of mirth,

As the waves of a thousand streams rush by
To an ocean of splendour and harmony!

Chorus of Spirits.
Our spoil is won,

Our task is done,
We are free to dive, or soar, or run;

Beyond and around,

Or within the bound
Which clips the world with darkness round.

We'll pass the eyes

Of the starry skies
Into the hoar deep to colonize :

Death, Chaos, and Night,

From the sound of our flight,
Shall flee, like mist from a tempest's might.

And Earth, Air, and Light,

And the Spirit of Might,
Which drives round the stars in their fiery flight;

And Love, Thought, and Breath,

The powers that quell Death,
Wherever we soar shall assemble beneath.

And our singing shall build

In the void's loose field
A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to wield;

We will take our plan

From the new world of man,
And our work shall be called the Promethean.

Chorus of Hours.
Break the dance, and scatter the song;

Let some depart, and some remain.
Semichorus I.-We, beyond heaven, are driven along :
Semichorus II._Us the enchantments of earth retain :

Semichorus 1.–Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free,
With the Spirits which build a new earth and sea,
And a heaven where yet heaven could never be.

Semichorus II.--Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright,
Leading the Day and outspeeding the Night,
With the powers of a world of perfect light.

Semichorus I.--We whirl, singing loud, round the gathering sphere,
Till the trees, and the beasts, and the clouds appear
From its chaos made calm by love, not fear.

Semichorus II.-We encircle the ocean and mountains of earth,
And the happy forms of its death and birth
Change to the music of our sweet mirth.

Chorus of Hours and Spirits.
Break the dance, and scatter the song,

Let some depart, and some remain,
Wherever we fly we lead along
In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet strong,

The clouds that are heavy with love's sweet rain.
Panthea.-Ha! they are gone!

Ione. Yet feel you no delight
From the past sweetness ?

Panthea.-As the bare green hill
When some soft cloud vanishes into rain,
Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny water
To the unpavilioned sky!

We close our review of Shelley's writings here. Many have been passed over unnoticed ; and of those which have been adverted to, the merits have been canvassed hurriedly and incompletely. Our limits forbade a more exhaustive scrutiny. Something we would have said on Shelley's beautiful prose style-a rare quality in a poet-but, for the same reason, this topic must pass undiscussed. Our object has been to

criticise the poems of a real poet as such ; to banish out of view, when doing this, all reference to his moral conduct, or to his speculative opi. nions. The intrusion of personal feelings, the attempt to insinuate un. popular opinions, under the disguise of poetry, are a fair object of remark for the critic, when they, in any way, blemish the poem as such ; not otherwise. A poem is an object of contemplation; it addresses itself to our passive imagination ; it is not intended, nor, in well-regulated minds, is it calculated to influence the opinion or the will. It is a babyish notion, that of acting in emulation of the heroes of a favourite poem, and unworthy of a mind sufficiently developed to taste the beauties of poetry. Human beings, worthy of the name, act from motives of justice or utility, not of vain theatrical parade. If those, who are so ready to cry out about the danger of corrupting youth, and to add, as a corollary, the propriety of misrepresenting all works which they fancy likely to have such a tendency, in order to frighten children from them, would train up the young in the light of truth, and in the habit of self-control, they might expose them fearlessly to all influences. Thus educated, the beauties of poetry would attract them, while any alloy of impurer metal would repel. This is a matter of no slight importance. The cultivation of the faculty which finds a pleasure in the simple contemplation of the beautiful is an object of no mean importance, and is only effectual by exercise. The wider the range of beautiful objects that can be subjected to its examination the better. No one dreams now that a young man may be turned to idolatry by the perusal of Homer. Why must he necessarily adopt Shelley's abstract opinions, because he admires his poetry? We repeat it, train the mind aright, then let it loose, to range among the world of books, as you must, to range through all the varieties of society. It may stagger, but it will steady at last. It is almost ludicrous to think, that, at this time of day, it should be necessary to insist upon such a truism, in order to procure a fair hearing for Shelley—for the subtlest, sweetest, most etherial, veriest poet of our age.


Hurraa! hurrah! my ocean bird,

The sun's broad rays are flung Across the cliff's majestic brow,

Where eagles oft have swung : Spread thy white pinions to the gale,

Dash through the foaming spray That sparkles with a thousand hues,

My bark-away-away! Hurrah! the monarch of the wild

May climb the mountain side, And gaze upon his fairest home

With freedom's conscious pride.

But liberty upon the waste

Of waters seems more free:
Fling to the sky thy heaving crest,

Thou bright and glorious sea !
Hurrah! again with joy I hear

The whirling of the wave,
In whose dread furrows are entombed

The reckless and the brave.
O when my life's last pulse is gone,

I ask no more than this;
My requiein be the light sea breeze

My grave the blue abyss !


If we could anticipate early a brilliant success for this work, we should think more highly of the wisdom of the book-buying public than we fear there are grounds for. This is a reading age; and precisely because it is so reading an age, any book which is the result of profound meditation, is perhaps less likely to be duly and profitably read than at a former period. The world reads too much, and too quickly, to read well. When books were few, to get through one was a work of time and labour: what was written with thought was read with thought, and with a desire to extract from it as much of the materials of knowledge as possible. But when almost every person who can spell, can and will write, what is to be done? It is difficult to know what to read, except by reading every thing; and so much of the world's business is now transacted through the press, that it is necessary to know what is printed if we desire to know what is going on. Op veighs with so vast a weight in the balance of events, that ideas of no value in themselves, are of importance from the mere circumstance that they are ideas, and have a bona fide existence as such anywhere out of Bedlam. The world, in consequence, gorges itself with intellectual food of all qualities, and in order to swallow the more, bolts it. Nothing is now read slowly, or twice over.

Books are run through with no less rapidity, and scarcely leave a more durable impression than a newspaper article. It is for this, among other causes, that so few books are produced of any

value. The lioness in the fable boasted that though she produced only one at a birth, that one was a lion. But if each lion only counted for one, and each leveret for one, the advantage would all be on the side of the hare. When every unit is individually weak, it is only multitude that tells. Who wonders that the newspapers should carry all before them? A book produces no greater effect than an article, and there can be three hundred and sixty-five of these in one year. He, therefore, who should and would write a book, and write it in the proper manner of writing a book, now dashes down his first hasty thoughts, or what he mistakes for thoughts, in a periodical. And the public is in the predicament of an indolent man, who cannot bring himself to apply his mind vigorously to his own affairs; and over whom, therefore, not he who speaks most wisely, but he who speaks most frequently, obtains the influence.

At such a period, any person who once more gives to mankind a phi. losophical work, which he has conscientiously endeavoured to make as good as he could, by unsparing labour and meditation, make it, performs an act the more meritorious, as it is the less likely to meet with any reward ; and if, like Mr. Austin, he is qualified for the more successful and profitable kinds of literary composition, yet deliberately prefers the more instructive, the greater is his deserving. There are passages in the volume before us, which shew that if the author chose, he could excel as a popular writer; and the mere clippings and parings of a work like this, would be material enough to be wrought up into more than one popular book. But Mr. Austin knows, that in order to make an impression upon careless, rapid, and impatient readers, it is necessary

* The Province of Jurisprudence Determined. By John Austin, Esq., Barrister at Law.

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