Mr. Shelley writes with vigor, sublimity, and pathos; but we do not admire his train of thought or feeling. He deals too much with abstractions and high imaginings—and forgets the world to which he writes, and by whom he must expect to be read. Abstractions suit not with life—nor are the bulk of readers capable of valuing them. Their value to life and its business is little worth; and when they are coupled with subtractions from our hopes and fears of an hereafter, they become eminently injurious. Mr. Shelley’s mind is contemplative: and did he turn his contemplations to the benefit of his fellow men, his superior powers would not be worse than wasted on the world.