the capable mind with light, and, as the sublime always does, with
awe.

When Ferdinand, in "The Tempest," leaps "with hair up-staring"
into the sea, crying,--

"Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here,"

the mind is suddenly filled with an image of the tumult and flaming
rage of a thunder-storm at sea, such as words have never elsewhere
carried. What a reach in the imaginative stroke! In the first scene of
"Faust," the earth-spirit, whom Faust has evoked, concludes the
whirling, dazzling, brief, but gigantic sketch of his function with
these words, the majesty of which translation cannot entirely
subdue:--

"I ply the resounding great loom of old Time,
And work at the Godhead's live vesture sublime."

How ennobling is the idea the mind harbors of humanity, after taking
in these lines from Wordsworth's "Ode on Intimations of
Immortality:"--

"But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."

With a single epithet, coined for the occasion, Keats flashes upon our
imagination the dethroned Saturn and the immensity of his fall: