Prometheus, too, with his "flowing limbs," has just Blake's fault of impersonation--the touch of unreality in that painter's Adam.
Passing to "The Cenci", we change at once the moral and artistic atmosphere.

The lyrical element, except for one most lovely dirge, is absent.

Imagery and description are alike sternly excluded.

Instead of soaring to the empyrean, our feet are firmly planted on the earth.

In exchange for radiant visions of future perfection, we are brought into the sphere of dreadful passions--all the agony, endurance, and half-maddened action, of which luckless human innocence is capable.