Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey."

The Quarterly Reviewer is next chastised, and at last Shelley
has found his cue. The strain rises from thoughts of mortality
to the consolations of the eternal:

'Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep!
He hath awakened from the dream of life.
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife."

Keats is made "one with Nature"; he is a parce of that power

"Which wields the world with never wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above."

It is once more the same conviction, the offspring of his
philosophy and of his suffering, that we noticed in Hellas,
only here the pathos is more acute. So strong is the sense of
his own misery, the premonition of his own death, that we
scarcely know, nor does it matter, whether it is in the person
of Keats or of himself that he is lamenting the impermanence of
earthly good. His spirit was hastening to escape from "the
last clouds of cold mortality"; his bark is driven

"Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given."

A year later he was drowned.