, in his
edition of Shelley, pointed this out.) With the words 'as they go' the
image was not self-consistent: for the critics could not be 'going,' or
walking away, at the same time when they were fawning on the poet's
feet. This last remark assumes that the words 'as they go' mean 'as the
critics go ': but perhaps (and indeed I think this is more than
probable) the real meaning was 'as the feet of Byron go'--as Byron
proceeds disdainfully on his way. If this was Shelley's original
meaning, he probably observed after a while that the words 'as _they_
go' seem to follow on with '_they_ fawn,' and not with 'the proud feet';
and, in order to remove the ambiguity, he substituted the expression
'lying low.'

+Stanza 29,+ 11. 1-3. _'The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; He
sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gathered into death.'_ The
spawning of a reptile (say a lizard or toad), and the death of an insect
(say a beetle or gnat), are two things totally unconnected. Shelley
however seems to link them together, as if this spawning were the origin
of the life, the brief life, of the insect. He appears therefore to use
'reptile,' not in the defined sense which we commonly attach to the
word, but in the general sense of 'a creeping creature,' such for
instance as a grub or caterpillar, the first form of an insect, leading
on to its final metamorphosis or development. Even so his natural
history is curiously at fault: for no grub or caterpillar can
spawn--which is the function of the fully-developed insect itself,
whether 'ephemeral' or otherwise. Can Shelley have been ignorant of
this?

1. 4. _'And the immortal stars awake again.'_ The imagery of this stanza
(apart from the 'reptiles' and 'ephemeral insects') deserves a little
consideration. The sun (says Shelley) arises, and then sets: when it
sets, the immortal stars awake again. Similarly, a godlike mind (say the
mind of Keats) appears, and its light illumines the earth, and veils the
heaven: when it disappears, 'the spirit's awful night' is left to 'its
kindred lamps.' This seems as much as to say that the splendour of a new
poetic genius appears to contemporaries to throw preceding poets into
obscurity; but this is only a matter of the moment, for, when the new
genius sinks in death, the others shine forth again as stars of the
intellectual zenith, to which the new genius is kindred indeed, but not
superior. With these words concludes the speech of Urania, whic