‘Whither is gone the wisdom and the power, That ancient sages scattered with the notes Of thought-suggesting lyres? The music floats In the void air; e’en at this breathing hour, In every cell and every blooming bower, The sweetness of old lays is hovering still; But the strong soul, the self-constraining will, The rugged root that bare the winsome flower, Is weak and withered. Were we like the Fays That sweetly nestle in the fox-glove bells, Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipped shells, Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays; Then might our pretty modern Philomels Sustain our spirits with their roundelays.’ We had more to say of Hartley: we were to show that his Prometheus was defective; that its style had no Greek severity, no defined outline; that he was a critic as well as a poet, though in a small detached way, and what is odd enough, that he could criticise in rhyme. We were to make plain how his heart was in the right place, how his love affairs were hopeless, how he was misled by his friends; but our time is done and our space is full, and these topics must ‘go without day’ of returning. We may end as we began. There are some that are bold and strong and incessant and energetic and hard, and to these is the world’s glory; and some are timid and meek and impotent and cowardly and rejected and obscure. ‘One man esteemeth one day above another, another esteemeth every day alike.’ And so of Hartley, whom few regarded; he had a resource, the stillness of thought, the gentleness of musing, the peace of nature. ‘To his side the fallow deer Came and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty; And both the undying fish that swim, In Bowscale-tarn did wait on him; The pair were servants of his eye, In their immortality; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro for his delight. He knew the rocks which Angels haunt Upon the mountains visitant. He hath kenned them taking wing, And into caves where Fairies sing He hath entered; and been told By voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see The face of thing that is to be, And if that men report him right His tongue could whisper words of might. —Now another day is come, Fitter hope and nobler doom, He hath thrown aside his crook, And hath buried deep his book.’ ‘And now the streams may sing for others’ pleasure, The hills sleep on in their eternity.’ He is gone from among them. _PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY._[26] (1856.)