It seems to me that these physical characteristics forcibly illustrate the moral and intellectual genius of the man. The impulsiveness which has been ascribed to him is a wrong expression, for it is usually interpreted to mean the action of sudden motives waywardly, capriciously, or at least intermittingly working; whereas the character which Shelley so constantly displayed was an overbearing strength of conviction and feeling, a species of audacious, but chivalrous readiness to act upon conviction as promptly as possible, and, above all, a zealous disposition to say out all that was in his mind. It is better expressed by the word which some satirist put into the mouth of Coleridge, speaking of himself, and, instead of impulsiveness, it should have been called an "utterancy," coupled with decision and promptitude of action. The physical development of the man with the progress of time may be traced in the advancement of his writings. The physical qualities which are equally to be found in his poetry and prose were quite as manifest in his aspect, and not less so in his conduct of affairs. It must be remembered that his life terminated long before he had arrived half-way, "_nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita_," when more than one other great intellect has been but commencing its true work. I believe, that, if Shelley had lived, he would himself have been the most potent and useful commentator on his own writings, in the production of other and more complete works. But meanwhile the true measure of his genius is to be found in the influence which he has had, not only over those who have proclaimed their debt to him, but over numbers who have mistrusted and even denounced him. THE TEST. "Farewell awhile, my bonnie darling! One long, close kiss, and I depart: I hear the angry trumpet snarling, The drum-beat tingles at my heart." Behind him, softest flutes were breathing Across the vale their sweet recall; Before him burst the battle, seething In flame beneath its thunder-pall. All sights and sounds to stay invited; The meadows tossed their foam of flowers; The lingering Day beheld, delighted, The dances of his amorous Hours. He paused: again the fond temptation Assailed his heart, so firm before, And tender dreams, of Love's creation, Persuaded from the peaceful shore. "But no!" he sternly cried; "I follow The trumpet, not the shepherd's reed: Let idlers pipe in pastoral hollow,-- Be mine the sword, and mine the deed! "Farewell to Love!" he murmured, sighing: "Perchance I lose what most is dear; But better there, struck down and dying, Than be a man and wanton here!" He went where battle's voice was loudest; He pressed where danger nearest came; His hand advanced, among the proudest, Their banner through the lines of flame.