Ossian Collection > Aspects of poetry

VIII.] SHELLEY AS A LYRIC POET. 247
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside the helm, conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing ;
It seems to float ever, for ever,
Upon the many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses !
Till, like one in slumber bound.
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around
Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound.
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music's most serene dominions,
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar
Without a course, without a star.
But, by the instinct of sweet music driven j
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided :
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonising this earth with what we feel above.'
In these two lyrics you have Shelley at his highest
perfection. Exquisitely beautiful as they are, they are,
however, beautiful as the mirage is beautiful, and as
unsubstantial. There is nothing in the reality of things
answering to Asia. She is not human, she is not divine.
There is nothing moral in her — no will, no power to
subdue evil ; only an exquisite essence, a melting love-
liness. There is in her no law, no righteousness ; some-