Shelley was the pure apostle of a noble but ideal philanthropy; yet it is easy to separate his poetry from his philosophy, which, though hostile to existing conditions of society, is so ethereal, so imbued with love for everything noble, and yet so abstract and impracticable, that it is not likely to do much harm.
Keats poured forth with great power the dreams of his immature youth, and died in the belief that the radiant forms had been seen in vain. In native felicity of poetic adornment these two were the first minds of their time, but the inadequacy of their performance to their poetic faculties shows how needful to the production of effective poetry is a substratum of solid thought, of practical sense, and of manly and extensive sympathy.
If we would apprehend the fullness and firmness of the powers of Shelley (1792-1822) without remaining ignorant of his weakness, we might study the lyrical drama of "Prometheus Unbound," a marvelous galaxy of dazzling images and wildly touching sentiments, or the "Alastor," a scene in which the melancholy quiet of solitude is visited but by the despairing poet who lies down to die. We find here, instead of sympathy with ordinary and universal feelings, warmth for the abstract and unreal, or, when the poet's own unrest prompts, as in the "Stanzas Written in Dejection near Naples," a strain of lamentation which sounds like a passionate sigh. Instead of clearness of thinking, we find an indistinctness which sometimes amounts to the unintelligible. In the "Revolt of Islam," his most ambitious poem, it is often difficult to apprehend even the outlines of the story.
No youthful poet ever exhibited more thorough possession of those faculties that are the foundation of genius than Keats (1798-1820), and it is impossible to say what he might have been had he lived to become acquainted with himself and with mankind. It was said of his "Endymion" most truly, that no book could be more aptly used as a test to determine whether a reader has a genuine love for poetry. His works have no interest of story, no insight into human nature, no clear sequence of thought; they are the rapturous voice of youthful fancy, luxuriating in a world of beautiful unrealities.
It may be questioned whether Crabbe and Moore are entitled to rank with the poets already reviewed.
Crabbe's (1754-1832) "Metrical Tales," describing everyday life, are striking, natural, and sometimes very touching, but they are warmed by no kindly thoughts and elevated by nothing of ideality.
Moore (1780-1851), one of the most popular of English poets, will long be remembered for his songs, so melodious and so elegant in phrase. His fund of imagery is inexhaustible, but oftener ingenious than poetical. His Eastern romances in "Lalla Rookh," with all their occasional felicities, are not powerful poetic narratives. He was nowhere so successful as in his satirical effusions of comic rhyme, in which his fanciful ideas are prompted by a wit so gayly sharp, and expressed with a neatness and pointedness so unusual, that it is to be regretted that these pieces should be condemned to speedy forgetfulness, as they must be, from the temporary interest of their topics.
Among the works of the numerous minor poets, the tragedies of Joanna Baillie, with all their faults as plays, are noble additions to the literature, and the closest approach made in recent times to the merit of the old English drama. After these may be named the stately and imposing dramatic poems of Milman, Maturin's impassioned "Bertram," and the finely- conceived "Julian" of Miss Mitford.
Rogers and Bowles have given us much of pleasing and reflective sentiment, accompanied with great refinement of taste.
To another and more modern school belong Procter (Barry Cornwall) and Leigh Hunt; the former the purer in taste, the latter the more original and inventive.