be, the world and man would both attain to their perfection in eternal love.  What resolution through some transcendental harmony was expected by Shelley for the palpable discords in the structure of the universe, we hardly know.  He did not give his philosophy systematic form:  and his new science of love remains a luminous poetic vision—­nowhere more brilliantly set forth than in the “sevenfold hallelujahs and harping symphonies” of this, the final triumph of his lyrical poetry.

In “Prometheus”, Shelley conceived a colossal work of art, and sketched out the main figures on a scale of surpassing magnificence.  While painting in these figures, he seems to reduce their proportions too much to the level of earthly life.  He quits his god-creating, heaven-compelling throne of mythopoeic inspiration, and descends to a love-story of Asia and Prometheus.  In other words, he does not sustain the visionary and primeval dignity of these incarnated abstractions; nor, on the other hand, has he so elaborated their characters in detail as to give them the substantiality of persons.  There is therefore something vague and hollow in both figures.  Yet in the subordinate passages of the poem, the true mythopoeic faculty—­the faculty of finding concrete forms for thought, and of investing emotion with personality—­shines forth with extraordinary force and clearness.  We feel ourselves in the grasp of a primitive myth-maker while we read the description of Oceanus, and the raptures of the Earth and Moon.

A genuine liking for “Prometheus Unbound” may be reckoned the touch-stone of a man’s capacity for understanding lyric poetry.  The world in which the action is supposed to move, rings with spirit voices; and what these spirits sing, is melody more purged of mortal dross than any other poet’s ear has caught, while listening to his own heart’s song, or to the rhythms of the world.  There are hymns in “Prometheus”, which seem to realize the miracle of making words, detached from meaning, the substance of a new ethereal music; and yet, although their verbal harmony is such, they are never devoid of definite significance for those who understand.  Shelley scorned the aesthetics of a school which finds “sense swooning into nonsense” admirable.  And if a critic is so dull as to ask what “Life of Life! thy lips enkindle” means, or to whom it is addressed, none can help him any more than one can help a man whose sense of hearing is too gross for the tenuity of a bat’s cry.  A voice in the air thus sings the hymn of Asia at the moment of her apotheosis:—­

    Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
    With their love the breath between them;
    And thy smiles before they dwindle
    Make the cold air fire; then screen them
    In those looks where whoso gazes
    Faints, entangled in their mazes.

    Child of Light! thy limbs are burning
    Through the vest which seems to hide them,
    As the radiant lines of morning
    Through the clouds, ere they divide them;
    And this atmosphere divinest
    Shrouds thee whereso’er thou shinest.