comforter,' and the belief that even in things evil exists the soul of good.
Of all poets Shelley is the most poetical:
'Love was born with him, in him, so intense,
It was his very being, not a sense.'—
The defect of his imagination was a want of being sufficiently balanced with the real; everything appeared to him through an exaggerated medium. He reasoned with his feelings; now feelings are the worst possible reasoners—they excite, and they mislead. He saw evil and sorrow, and believed too easily in redress: he was too young to make allowance—that first step in true philosophy—and fancied that to defy a system was to destroy it. It was a boy's error, who believes he is judging when he is only learning. Shelley's versification has a melody peculiarly its own. It can only be described by similitudes. It suggests the notes of some old favourite song—the sound of falling waters, or the murmurs of the wind among the branches. There is a nameless fascination in some sweet human voices, and there is the same in many of the shorter poems of Shelley.
Scott is the epic poet of chivalry. His verses, read aloud, have the same effect as that splendid composition in the Puritani, 'Sona la Tromba.' They awaken all that is active and martial in your nature. His narrative never flags; it is like a horse at full gallo—you have all the excitement of exercise. Take the combat between Roderick Dhu and Fitzjames—you do not read it, you see it—you watch the warriors, and hold your breath—you are yourself inclined
'To falter thanks to Heaven for life,
Redeem'd unhoped from desperate strife.'
