Hang on each leaf and cling to every bough."

Shelley studied the scenery of his fine poem, "Alastor," in the same
shades with Pope; but he had, like Jonathan of old, touched his lips
with a rod dipped in poetic honey, and his "eyes were enlightened" to
see sights of beauty and mystery which to the other are denied. Keats
could have comprised all the poetry of "Windsor Forest" into one sonnet
or line; indeed, has he not done so, where, describing his soul
following the note of the nightingale into the far depths of the woods,
where she is pouring out her heart in song, he says--

"And with thee fade away into the forest dim?"

The "Essay on Criticism" is rather a wonderful, intellectual, and
artistic feat, than a true poem. It is astonishing as the work of a boy
of nineteen, and contains a unique collection of clever and sparkling
sentences, displaying the highest powers of acuteness and assimilation,
if not much profound and original insight or genius. This poem suggests
the wish that more of our critics would write in verse. The music might
lessen the malice, and set off the commonplace to advantage, so that if
there were no "reason," there might be at least "rhyme." His "Lines to
the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady" are too elaborate and artificial for
the theme. It is a tale of intrigue, murder, and suicide, set to a
musical snuff-box! His "Rape of the Lock" we have already characterised.
It is an "Iliad in a nutshell," an Epic of Lilliput, where all the
proportions are accurately observed, and where the finishing is so exact
and admirable, that you fancy the author to have had microscopic eyes.
It contains certainly the most elegant and brilliant badinage, the most
graceful raillery, the most finished nonsense, and one of the most
exquisitely-managed machineries in the language. His "Eloisa and