shelley-第3章

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La　gloire

Ne　compte　pas　toujours　les　voix；

Elle　les　pese　quelquefois。





Yet　if　this　might　be　needful　to　him　as　support；　neither　this；　nor

the　applause　of　the　present；　nor　the　applause　of　posterity；　could

have　been　needful　to　him　as　motive：　　the　one　all…sufficing　motive

for　a　great　poet's　singing　is　that　expressed　by　Keats：





I　was　taught　in　Paradise

To　ease　my　breast　of　melodies。





Precisely　so。　　The　overcharged　breast　can　find　no　ease　but　in

suckling　the　baby…song。　　No　enmity　of　outward　circumstances；

therefore；　but　his　own　nature；　was　responsible　for　Shelley's　doom。



A　being　with　so　much　about　it　of　childlike　unreasonableness；　and　yet

withal　so　much　of　the　beautiful　attraction　luminous　in　a　child's

sweet　unreasonableness；　would　seem　fore…fated　by　its　very　essence　to

the　transience　of　the　bubble　and　the　rainbow；　of　all　things　filmy

and　fair。　　Did　some　shadow　of　this　destiny　bear　part　in　his　sadness？

Certain　it　is　that；　by　a　curious　chance；　he　himself　in　Julian　and

Maddalo　jestingly　foretold　the　manner　of　his　end。　　〃O　ho！　　You　talk

as　in　years　past；〃　said　Maddalo　（Byron）　to　Julian　（Shelley）；　〃If　you

can't　swim；　Beware　of　Providence。〃　　Did　no　unearthly　dixisti　sound

in　his　ears　as　he　wrote　it？　　But　a　brief　while；　and　Shelley；　who

could　not　swim；　was　weltering　on　the　waters　of　Lerici。　　We　know　not

how　this　may　affect　others；　but　over　us　it　is　a　coincidence　which

has　long　tyrannised　with　an　absorbing　inveteracy　of　impression

（strengthened　rather　than　diminished　by　the　contrast　between　the

levity　of　the　utterance　and　its　fatal　fulfilment）thus　to　behold；

heralding　itself　in　warning　mockery　through　the　very　lips　of　its

predestined　victim；　the　Doom　upon　whose　breath　his　locks　were

lifting　along　the　coasts　of　Campania。　　The　death　which　he　had

prophesied　came　upon　him；　and　Spezzia　enrolled　another　name　among

the　mournful　Marcelli　of　our　tongue；　Venetian　glasses　which　foamed

and　burst　before　the　poisoned　wine　of　life　had　risen　to　their　brims。





Coming　to　Shelley's　poetry；　we　peep　over　the　wild　mask　of

revolutionary　metaphysics；　and　we　see　the　winsome　face　of　the　child。

Perhaps　none　of　his　poems　is　more　purely　and　typically　Shelleian

than　The　Cloud；　and　it　is　interesting　to　note　how　essentially　it

springs　from　the　faculty　of　make…believe。　　The　same　thing　is

conspicuous；　though　less　purely　conspicuous；　throughout　his　singing；

it　is　the　child's　faculty　of　make…believe　raised　to　the　nth　power。

He　is　still　at　play；　save　only　that　his　play　is　such　as　manhood

stops　to　watch；　and　his　playthings　are　those　which　the　gods　give

their　children。　　The　universe　is　his　box　of　toys。　　He　dabbles　his

fingers　in　the　day…fall。　　He　is　gold…dusty　with　tumbling　amidst　the

stars。　　He　makes　bright　mischief　with　the　moon。　　The　meteors　nuzzle

their　noses　in　his　hand。　　He　teases　into　growling　the　kennelled

thunder；　and　laughs　at　the　shaking　of　its　fiery　chain。　　He　dances　in

and　out　of　the　gates　of　heaven：　　its　floor　is　littered　with　his

broken　fancies。　　He　runs　wild　over　the　fields　of　ether。　　He　chases

the　rolling　world。　　He　gets　between　the　feet　of　the　horses　of　the

sun。　　He　stands　in　the　lap　of　patient　Nature　and　twines　her　loosened

tresses　after　a　hundred　wilful　fashions；　to　see　how　she　will　look

nicest　in　his　song。



This　it　was　which；　in　spite　of　his　essentially　modern　character　as　a

singer；　qualified　Shelley　to　be　the　poet　of　Prometheus　Unbound；　for

it　made　him；　in　the　truest　sense　of　the　word；　a　mythological　poet。

This　childlike　quality　assimilated　him　to　the　childlike　peoples

among　whom　mythologies　have　their　rise。　　Those　Nature　myths　which；

according　to　many；　are　the　basis　of　all　mythology；　are　likewise　the

very　basis　of　Shelley's　poetry。　　The　lark　that　is　the　gossip　of

heaven；　the　winds　that　pluck　the　grey　from　the　beards　of　the

billows；　the　clouds　that　are　snorted　from　the　sea's　broad　nostril；

all　the　elemental　spirits　of　Nature；　take　from　his　verse　perpetual

incarnation　and　reincarnation；　pass　in　a　thousand　glorious

transmigrations　through　the　radiant　forms　of　his　imagery。



Thus；　but　not　in　the　Wordsworthian　sense；　he　is　a　veritable　poet　of

Nature。　　For　with　Nature　the　Wordsworthians　will　admit　no　tampering：

they　exact　the　direct　interpretative　reproduction　of　her；　that　the

poet　should　follow　her　as　a　mistress；　not　use　her　as　a　handmaid。　　To

such　following　of　Nature；　Shelley　felt　no　call。　　He　saw　in　her　not　a

picture　set　for　his　copying；　but　a　palette　set　for　his　brush；　not　a

habitation　prepared　for　his　inhabiting；　but　a　Coliseum　whence　he

might　quarry　stones　for　his　own　palaces。　　Even　in　his　descriptive

passages　the　dream…character　of　his　scenery　is　notorious；　it　is　not

the　clear；　recognisable　scenery　of　Wordsworth；　but　a　landscape　that

hovers　athwart　the　heat　and　haze　arising　from　his　crackling

fantasies。　　The　materials　for　such　visionary　Edens　have　evidently

been　accumulated　from　direct　experience；　but　they　are　recomposed　by

him　into　such　scenes　as　never　had　mortal　eye　beheld。　　〃Don't　you

wish　you　had？〃　as　Turner　said。　　The　one　justification　for　classing

Shelley　with　the　Lake　poet　is　that　he　loved　Nature　with　a　love　even

more　passionate；　though　perhaps　less　profound。　　Wordsworth's

Nightingale　and　Stockdove　sums　up　the　contrast　between　the　two；　as

though　it　had　been　written　for　such　a　purpose。　　Shelley　is　the

〃creature　of　ebullient　heart；〃　who





Sings　as　if　the　god　of　wine

Had　helped　him　to　a　valentine。





Wordsworth's　is　the





…　Love　with　quiet　blending；

Slow　to　begin　and　never　ending；





the　〃serious　faith　and　inward　glee。〃



But　if　Shelley；　instead　of　culling　Nature；　crossed　with　its　pollen

the　blossoms　of　his　own　soul；　that　Babylonian　garden　is　his

marvellous　and　best　apology。　　For　astounding　figurative　opulence　he

yields　only　to　Shakespeare；　and　even　to　Shakespeare　not　in　absolute

fecundity　but　in　images。　　The　sources　of　his　figurative　wealth　are

specialised；　sources　of　Shakespeare's　are　universal。　　It　would　have

been　as　conscious　an　effort　for　him　to　speak　without　figure　as　it　is

for　most　men　to　speak　with　figure。　　Suspended　in　the　dripping　well

of　his　imagination　the　commonest　object　becomes　encrusted　with

imagery。　　Herein　again　he　deviates　from　the　true　Nature　poet；　the

normal　Wordsworth　type　of　Nature　poet：　　imagery　was　to　him　not　a

mere　means　of　expression；　not　even　a　mere　means　of　adornment；　it　was

a　delight　for　its　own　sake。



And　herein　we　find　the　trail　by　which　we　would　classify　him。　　He

belongs　to　a　school　of　which　not　impossibly　he　may　hardly　have　read

a　linethe　Metaphysical　School。　　To　a　large　extent　he　IS　what　the

Metaphysical　School　should　have　been。　　That　school　was　a　certain

kind　of　poetry　trying　for　a　range。　　Shelley　is　the　range　found。

Crashaw　and　Shelley　sprang　from　the　same　seed；　but　in　the　one　case

the　seed　was　choked　with　thorns；　in　the　other　case　it　fell　on　good

ground。　　The　Metaphysical　School　was　in　its　direct　results　an

abortive　movement；　though　indirectly　much　came　of　itfor　Dryden

came　of　it。　　Dryden；　to　a　greater　extent　than　is　（we　imagine）

generally　perceived；　was　Cowley　systematised；　and　Cowley；　who　sank

into　the　arms　of　Dryden；　rose　from　the　lap　of　Donne。



But　the　movement　was　so　abortive　that　few　will　thank　us　for

connecting　with　it　the　name　of　Shelley。　　This　is　because　to　most

people　the　Metaphysical　School　means　Donne；　whereas　it　ought　to　mean

Crashaw。　　We　judge　the　direction　of　a　development　by　its　highest

form；　though　that　form　may　have　been　produced　but　once；　and　produced

imperfectly。　　Now　the　highest　product　of　the　Metaphysical　School　was

Crashaw；　and　Crashaw　was　a　Shelley　manque；　he　never　reached　the

Promised　Land；　but　he　had　fervid　visions　of　it。　　The　Metaphysical

School；　like　Shelley；　loved　imagery　for　its　own　sake：　　and　how

beautiful　a　thing　the　frank　toying　with　imagery　may　be；　let　The

Skylark　and　The　Cloud　witness。　　It　is　only　evil　when　the　poet；　on

the　straight　way　to　a　fixed　object；　lags　continually　from　the　path

to　play。　　This　is　commendable　neither　in　poet　nor　errand…boy。　　The

Metaphysical　School　failed；　not　because　it　toyed　with　imagery；　but

because　it　toyed　with　it　frostily。　　To　sport　with　the　tangles　of

Neaera's　hair　may　be　trivial　idleness　or　caressing　tenderness；

exactly　as　your　relation　to　Neaera　is　that　of　heartless　gallantry　or

of　love。　　So　you　may　toy　with　imagery　in　mere　intellectual

ingenuity；　and　then　you　might　as　well　go　write　acrostics：　　or　you

may　toy　with　it　in　raptures；　and　then　you　may　write　a　Sensitive

Plant。　　In　fact；　the　Metaphysical　poets　when　they　went　astray　cannot

be　said　to　have　done　anything　so　dainty　as　is　implied　by　TOYING　with

imagery。　　They　cut　it　into　shapes　with　a　pair　of　scissors。　　From　all

such　danger　Shelley　was　saved　by　his　passionate　spontaneity。　　No

trappings　are　too　splendid　for　the　swift　steeds　of　sunrise。　　His

sword…hilt　may　be　rough　with　jewels；　but　it　is　the　hilt　of　an

Excalibur。　　His　thoughts　scorch　through　all　the　folds　of　expression。

His　cloth　of　gold　bursts　at　the　flexures；　and　shows　the　naked

poetry。





It　is　this　gift　of　not　merely　embodying　but　apprehending　everything

in　figure　which　co…operates　towards　creating　his　rarest

characteristics；　so　almost　preternaturally　developed　in　no　other

poet；　namely；　his　well…known　power　to　condense　the　most　hydrogenic

abstraction。　　Science　can　now　educe　threads　of　such　exquisite

tenuity　that　only　the　feet　of　the　tiniest　infant…spiders　can　ascend

them；　but　up　the　filmiest　insubstantiality　Shelley　runs　with　agile

ease。　　To　him；　in　truth；　nothing　is　abstract。　　The　dustiest

abstractions





Start；　and　tremble　under　his　feet；

And　blossom　in　purple　and　red。





The　coldest　moon　of　an　idea　rises　haloed　through　his　vaporous

imagination。　　The　dimmest…sparked　chip　of　a　conception　blazes　and

scintillates　in　the　subtile　oxygen　of　his　mind。　　The　most　wrinkled

AEson　of　an　abstruseness　leaps　rosy　out　of　his　bubbling　genius。　　In

a　more　intensified　signification　than　it　is　probable　that

Shakespeare　dreamed　of；　Shelley　gives　to　airy　nothing　a　local

habitation　and　a　name。　　Here　afresh　he　touches　the　Metaphysical

School；　whose　very　title　was　drawn　from　this　habitual　pursuit　of

abstractions；　and　who　failed　in　that　pursuit　from　the　one　cause

omnipresent　with　them；　because　in　all　their　poetic　smithy　they　had

left　never　a　place　for　a　forge。　　They　laid　their　fancies　chill　on

the　anvil。　　Crashaw；　indeed；　partially　anticipated　Shelley's

success；　and　yet　further　did　a　later　poet；　so　much　further　that　we

find　it　difficult　to　understand　why　a　generation　that　worships

Shelley　should　be　reviving　Gray；　yet　almost　forget　the　name　of

Collins。　　The　generality　of　readers；　when　they　know　him　at　all；

usually　know　him　by　his　Ode　on　the　Passions。　　In　this；　despite　its

beauty；　there　is　still　a　soupcon　of　formalism；　a　lingering　trace　of

powder　from　the　eighteenth　century　periwig；　dimming　the