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 classic tradition were stormed and shattered at a charge has itself long since become a classic. That the greatest poet was also the greatest prose-writer of his generation there could no longer be any doubt among men of any intelligence: but not even yet was more than half the greatness of his multitudinous force revealed. Two years later, at the age of twenty-seven, he published the superb and entrancing Orientales: the most musical and many-coloured volume of verse that ever had glorified the language. From Le Feu du Ciel to Sara la Baigneuse, from the thunder-peals of exterminating judgment to the flute-notes of innocent girlish luxury in the sense of loveliness and life, the inexhaustible range of his triumph expands and culminates and extends. Shelley has left us no more exquisite and miraculous piece of lyrical craftsmanship than Les Djinns; none perhaps so rich in variety of modulation, so perfect in rise and growth and relapse and reiterance of music.

Murs, ville, Et port, Asile De mort, Mer grise Où brise La brise, Tout dort.

Dans la plaine Naît un bruit. C'est l'haleine De la nuit. Elle brame Comme une âme Qu'une flamme Toujours suit.