h underlies the whole of this passage is that man
is the creature and thrall of fate. In society, in the world, he is
exposed to the incidence of passion, which he can neither resist nor
yield to without torture. He is overcome by the world, and, as a last
resource, he turns to nature and solitude. He lifts up his eyes to the
hills, unexpectant of Divine aid, but in the hope that, by claiming
kinship with Nature, and becoming "a portion of that around" him, he may
forego humanity, with its burden of penitence, and elude the curse.
There is a further reference to this despairing recourse to Nature in
_The Dream_, viii. 10, _seq_.--

" ... he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues! and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries."]

[je] {260} ----_through Eternity._--[MS.]

[318] [Shelley seems to have taken Byron at his word, and in the
_Adonais_ (xxx. 3, _seq._) introduces him in the disguise of--

"The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument."

Notwithstanding the splendour of Shelley's verse, it is difficult to
suppress a smile. For better or for worse, the sense of the ludicrous
has asserted itself, and "brother" cannot take "brother" quite so
seriously as in "the brave days of old." But to each age its own humour.
Not only did Shelley and Byron worship at the shrine of Rousseau, but
they took delight in reverently tracing the footsteps of St. Preux and
Julie.]

[319] {261} [The name "Tigris" is derived from the Persian _tir_
(Sanscrit _Tigra_), "an arrow." If Byron ever consulted Hofmann's
_Lexicon Universale_, he would have read, "_Tigris_, a velocitate dictus
quasi _sagitta_;" but most probably he neither had nor sought an
authority for his natural and beautiful simile.]

[jf] _To its young cries and kisses all awake._--[MS.]

[320] [Compare _Tintern Abbey_. In this line, both language and
sentiment are undoubtedly Wordsworth's--

"The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours, and their forms, were then to me
An appetite, a _feeling_, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm."

But here the resemblance ends. Wit