SHELLEY AS A CHILD
From a copy by Reginald Easton of the Duc de Montpensier’s miniature of Shelley, in the Bodleian Library.
Shelley, too, was a lover of freedom; but of a freedom that was the breath of the soul rather than social or political liberty. He lacked humor, he bore no yoke in his youth, his father was a matter-of-fact and eccentric tyrant, and the boy of genius lost his way in a world which nobody helped him to understand. When one reads the story of his brief and confused career, of the shabby and immoral things he did, it must be remembered that he discovered how to fly, but nobody taught him how to walk. He was always a splendid, wayward child, to whom visions were more real than facts. He died at thirty, and his life was only beginning.
But what a splendid prelude it was! “Alastor,” the “Stanzas Written in Dejection,” the “Ode to the West Wind,” “The Cloud,” the immortal lines “To a Skylark,” are flights of poetry which reflect the splendor of the sky under which they seem to move as if impelled by wings. “Prometheus Unbound,” “The Revolt of Islam,” and other long poems show his hatred of tyranny, whether human or divine, his ardent passion for humanity. He was only at times a great artist: his verse often lacks substance and reality, and has the beauty and remoteness of cloud pictures. His critical faculty was obscured by the spontaneity and facility of his creative moods; but he had the power of growth. His best work was at the end of his career, and he died at the moment the signs of maturity were showing themselves. He had no creed save that of resistance to tyranny, and he defined nothing; but he had noble visions, a beautiful voice, a splendid faith. With all the faults of his youth, and they were of tragic seriousness, there was something angelic about him, and he made life richer and more splendid.
THE SHELLEY MEMORIAL
Designed by E. Onslow Ford.
KEATS’ LOVE OF BEAUTY
