of spiritual intelligences which interpenetrate the world we see,of those Ten thousand orbs involving and involved, ... ... it must needs be that the reflection of these transcendent things should come to us in forms that luxuriate into arabesque, in colours that shimmer into iridescence, in speech that kindles into imagery; while yet we can with little doubt discern whether he who addresses us is merely illuminating the mists of his own mind, or 'has beheld' (as Plato has it) 'and been initiated into the most blessed of initiations, gazing on simple and imperishable and happy visions in a stainless day.' And, finally, if we are told that, whatever these visions or mysteries may be, Shelley has not revealed them; that he has contributed nothing to the common faith and creed of men,-has only added to their aspiring anthem one keen melodious cry ;— we answer that this common religion of all the world advances by many kinds of prophecy, and is spread abroad by the flying flames of pure emotion as well as by the solid incandescence of eternal truth. Some few souls indeed there are,- -a Plato, a Dante, a Wordsworth,-whom we may without extravagance call stars of the spiritual firmament, so sure and lasting seems their testimony to those realities which life hides from us as sunlight hides the depth of heaven. But we affirm that in Shelley too there is a testimony of like kind, though it has less of substance and definition, and seems to float diffused in an ethereal loveliness. We may rather liken him to the dewdrop of his own song, which 'becomes a winged mist And wanders up the vault of the blue day, Outlives the noon, and in the sun's last ray Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst.' For the hues of sunset also have for us their revelation. We look, and the conviction steals over us that such a spectacle can be no accident in the scheme of things; that the whole universe is tending to beauty; and that the apocalypse of that crimsoned heaven may be not the less authentic because it is so fugitive, not the less real because it comes to us in a fantasy wrought but of light and air. FREDERIC W. H. MYERS. STANZAS - APRIL 1814. Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even : Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven. Pause not the time is past! Every voice cries 'Away!' Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude. Away, away! to thy sad and silent home; Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come, And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth. The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head, The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet. The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep; Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows: Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest :—yet, till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance and repentance ånd deep musings are not free From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile. FROM 'ALASTOR; OR, THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE.' Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerébam quid amarem amans amare. Confess. St. August. Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! If our great mother has imbued my soul Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; bed Mother of this unfathomable world, Of what we are. In lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, Staking his very life on some dark hope, Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, Of some mysterious and deserted fane) I wait thy breath, Great Parent; that my strain And motions of the forests and the sea, There was a Poet whose untimely tomb By solemn vision and bright silver dream And sound from the vast earth and ambient air Sent to his heart its choicest impulses. The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips: and all of great In truth or fable consecrates he felt And knew. When early youth had passed, he left To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke; or where bitumen-lakes With sluggish surge; or where the secret caves To avarice or pride, their starry domes Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven More graceful than her own. His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited |