Byron is often compared with Scott, as having given to us Europe and the Orient, just as Scott gave us Scotland and its people; but while there is a certain resemblance in the swing and dash of the verses, the resemblance is all on the surface, and the underlying difference between the two poets is as great as that between Thackeray and Bulwer-Lytton.  Scott knew his country well,—­its hills and valleys which are interesting as the abode of living and lovable men and women.  Byron pretended to know the secret, unwholesome side of Europe, which generally hides itself in the dark; but instead of giving us a variety of living men, he never gets away from his own unbalanced and egotistical self.  All his characters, in Cain, Manfred, The Corsair, The Giaour, Childe Harold, Don Juan, are tiresome repetitions of himself,—­a vain, disappointed, cynical man, who finds no good in life or love or anything.  Naturally, with such a disposition, he is entirely incapable of portraying a true woman.  To nature alone, especially in her magnificent moods, Byron remains faithful; and his portrayal of the night and the storm and the ocean in Childe Harold are unsurpassed in our language.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822)

    Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 
      What if my leaves are falling like its own! 
    The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
      Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
    Sweet though in sadness.  Be thou, spirit fierce,
      My spirit!  Be thou me, impetuous one!

In this fragment, from the “Ode to the West Wind,” we have a suggestion of Shelley’s own spirit, as reflected in all his poetry.  The very spirit of nature, which appeals to us in the wind and the cloud, the sunset and the moonrise, seems to have possessed him, at times, and made him a chosen instrument of melody.  At such times he is a true poet, and his work is unrivaled.  At other times, unfortunately, Shelley joins with Byron in voicing a vain rebellion against society.  His poetry, like his life, divides itself into two distinct moods.  In one he is the violent reformer, seeking to overthrow our present institutions and to hurry the millennium out of its slow walk into a gallop.  Out of this mood come most of his longer poems, like Queen Mab, Revolt of Islam, Hellas, and The Witch of Atlas, which are somewhat violent diatribes against government, priests, marriage, religion, even God as men supposed him to be.  In a different mood, which finds expression Alastor, Adonais, and his wonderful lyrics, Shelley is like a wanderer following a vague, beautiful vision, forever sad and forever unsatisfied.  In the latter mood he appeals profoundly to all men who have known what it is to follow after an unattainable ideal.