_Nonsense--pastoral._ "_Lost Echo_ sits amid the _voiceless mountains_,[M] And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay, _And will no more reply_ to winds and fountains." _Nonsense--physical._ --"for whose disdain she (Echo) pin'd away Into a _shadow_ of all _sounds_!" _Nonsense--vermicular._ "Flowers springing from the corpse ----------------------illumine death And _mock_ the _merry_ worm that wakes beneath." _Nonsense--pathetic._ "Alas! that all we lov'd of him should be But for our grief, as if it had not been, And _grief itself be mortal_! WOE IS ME!" _Nonsense--nondescript._ "In the death chamber for a moment Death, _Blush'd to annihilation_!" _Nonsense--personal._ "A pardlike spirit, beautiful and swift-- A love in _desolation mask'd_;--a Power Girt _round with weakness_;--it can scarce _uplift_ The _weight_ of the _superincumbent hour_!" We have some idea that this fragment of character is intended for Mr. Shelley himself. It closes with a passage of memorable and ferocious blasphemy:-- ---------------"He with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguin'd brow, Which was like Cain's or CHRIST'S!!!" What can be said to the wretched person capable of this daring profanation. The name of the first murderer--the accurst of God--brought into the same aspect image with that of the Saviour of the World! We are scarcely satisfied that even to quote such passages may not be criminal. The subject is too repulsive for us to proceed even in expressing our disgust for the general folly that makes the Poem as miserable in point of authorship, as in point of principle. We know that among a certain class this outrage and this inanity meet with some attempt at palliation, under the idea that frenzy holds the pen. That any man who insults the common order of society, and denies the being of God, is essentially mad we never doubted. But for the madness, that retains enough of rationality to be wilfully mischievous, we can have no more lenity than for the appetites of a wild beast. The poetry of the work is _contemptible_--a mere collection of bloated words heaped on each other without order, harmony, or meaning; the refuse of a schoolboy's common-place book, full of the vulgarisms of pastoral poetry, yellow gems and blue stars, bright Phoebus and rosy-fingered Aurora; and of this stuff is Keats's wretched Elegy compiled.