(_Metam._ xi. 108-30) had not himself gone into such details on the
subject.] She has made a gallant attempt to connect the two stories
with which Midas has ever since Ovid's days been associated, and a
distinct--indeed a too perceptible--effort to press out a moral
meaning in this, as she had easily extricated a cosmological meaning
in the other tale.

Perhaps we have said too much to introduce these two little
unpretending poetical dramas. They might indeed have been allowed to
speak for themselves. A new frame often makes a new face; and some of
the best known and most exquisite of Shelley's lyrics, when restored
to the surroundings for which the poet intended them, needed no other
set-off to appeal to the reader with a fresh charm of quiet classical
grace and beauty. But the charm will operate all the more unfailingly,
if we remember that this clear classical mood was by no means such a
common element in the literary atmosphere of the times--not even a
permanent element in the authors' lives. We have here none of the
feverish ecstasy that lifts _Prometheus_ and _Hellas_ far above the
ordinary range of philosophical or political poetry. But Shelley's
encouragement, probably his guidance and supervision, have raised his
wife's inspiration to a place considerably higher than that of
_Frankenstein_ or _Valperga_. With all their faults these pages
reflect some of that irradiation which Shelley cast around his own
life--the irradiation of a dream beauteous and generous, beauteous in
its theology (or its substitute for theology) and generous even in its
satire of human weaknesses.