The moon rain's out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour, With music sweet as love which overflows her bower. Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet, those heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety." I do not like to omit a word of it: but it is taking too much Should we not say from the samples before us that Shel room. ley, in melody and exuberance cf fancy, was incalculably superior to Wordsworth? But mark their inferences. Shelley. "Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen, then, as I am listening now." Wordsworth. "What though my course be rugged and uneven, If Wordsworth have superiority then, it consists in greater maturity and dignity of sentiment. While reading Shelley, we must surrender ourselves without reserve to the magnetic power of genius; we must not expect to be satisfied, but rest content with being stimulated. He alone who can resign his soul in unquestioning simplicity to the descant of the nightingale or the absorption of the sea-side, may hope to receive from the mind of a Shelley the suggestions which, to those who know how to receive, he can so liberally impart. I cannot leave Shelley without quoting two or three stanzas, in which he speaks of himself, and which are full of his peculiar beauties and peculiar faults. "A frail form, A phantom among men, companionless, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Makes faint with too much sweet, those heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety." I do not like to omit a word of it: but it is taking too much Should we not say from the samples before us that Shel room. ley, in melody and exuberance of fancy, was incalculably superior to Wordsworth? But mark their inferences. Shelley. "Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, From my lips would flow The world should listen, then, as I am listening now." Wordsworth. "What though my course be rugged and uneven, I o'er the earth will go plodding on If Wordsworth have superiority then, it consists in greater maturity and dignity of sentiment. While reading Shelley, we must surrender ourselves without reserve to the magnetic power of genius; we must not expect to be satisfied, but rest content with being stimulated. He alone who can resign his soul in unquestioning simplicity to the descant of the nightingale or the absorption of the sea-side, may hope to receive from the mind of a Shelley the suggestions which, to those who know how to receive, he can so liberally impart. I cannot leave Shelley without quoting two or three stanzas, in which he speaks of himself, and which are full of his peculiar beauties and peculiar faults. "A frail form, A phantom among men, companionless, |