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vantage in St. Simeon Stylites,' a kind of monological personation of a filthy and mad ascetic. We find exhibited, with the seriousness of bitter poetic irony, his loathsome, yet ridiculous attempts at saintship, all founded on an idea of the Divinity fit only for an African worshipping a scarecrow fetish made of dog's bones, goosefeathers, and dunghill rags. This is no topic for Poetry: she has better tasks than to wrap her mantle round a sordid, greedy lunatic.

How different, how superior is 'Ulysses! -There is in this work a delightful epic tone, and a clear unimpassioned wisdom quietly carving its sage words and graceful figures on pale but lasting marble. Yet we know not why, except from schoolboy recollections, a modern English poet should write of Ulysses rather than of the great voyagers of the modern world, Columbus, Gama, or even Drake. Their feelings and aims lie far nearer to our comprehension reach us by a far shorter line. Even of 'Godiva,' different as is the theme, a similar observation holds. It also is admirably well done; but the singularity and barbarousness of the facts spur, no doubt, the fancy, even told in plain prose, yet are far from rendering the topic favourable for poetry. The Day-Dream,' the old and pretty tale of the 'Sleeping Beauty,' is open to no such objection. Here the poetry was made to the writer's hand, and one cannot but wish that his grace, liveliness, and splendour had been employed on a matter of his own invention;* or, if borrowed, of some more earnest meaning. Yet, as graceful and lively description, as truth playing behind the mask of fairy-tale, the whole poem is most agreeable. It opens thus::

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Here droops the banner on the tower,
On the hall-hearths the festal fires,
The peacock in his laurel bower,
The parrot in his gilded wires.
Roof-haunting martens warm their eggs:
In these, in those the life is stay'd.
The mantles from the golden pegs
Droop sleepily: no sound is made,
Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all
Than those old portraits of old kings,
That watch the sleepers from the wall.
Here sits the butler with a flask
Between his knees, half-drained; and there
The wrinkled steward at his task;

The maid-of-honour blooming fair:
The page has caught her hand in his;
His own are pouted to a kiss:
Her lips are sever'd as to speak:

The blush is fix'd upon her cheek.
Till all the hundred summers pass,
The beams, that through the oriel shine,
Make prisms in every carven glass,
And beaker brimm'd with noble wine.
Each baron at the banquet sleeps,

Grave faces gather'd in a ring.
His state the king reposing keeps.
He must have been a jolly king.

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows
At distance like a little wood;
Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes,
And grapes with bunches red as blood;
All creeping plants, a wall of green
Close-matted, bur and brake and brier,
And glimpsing over these, just seen,

High up, the topmost palace spire.

When will the hundred summers die,
And thought and time be born agen,
And newer knowledge, drawing nigh,

Bring truth that sways the soul of men?
Here all things in their place remain,

As all were order'd ages since.
Come Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain,
And bring the fated fairy Prince.'

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'A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapp'd.
There rose a noise of striking clocks,
And feet that ran, and doors that clapp'd,
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks.
A fuller light illumined all,

A breeze through all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,

And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,

The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,
The fire shot up, the marten flew,

The maid and page renew'd their strife,
The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,

The palace bang'd, and buzz'd, and clack'd, And all the long-pent stream of life

Dash'd downward in a cataract.

And last of all the king awoke,

And in his chair himself uprear'd,
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,
By holy rood, a royal beard!

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How say you? we have slept, my lords.
My beard has grown into my lap."
The barons swore, with many words,
'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.

"Pardy," return'd the king, "but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mention'd half an hour ago?"
The chancellor, sedate and vain,
In courteous words return'd reply;

But dallied with his golden chain,

And, smiling, put the question by,'

author's characteristic power of distinct and deeply-dyed painting. But there is considerable affectation in some of the groupings both of words and things, and what is worse, the meaning, the morality, is trivial, and even mistaken. The writer's doctrine seems to be, that the soul, while by its own energy surrounding itself with all the most beautiful and expressive images that the history of mankind has produced, and sympathizing wholly with the world's best thoughts, is perpetrating some prodigious moral offence for which it is bound to repent in sackcloth and ashes. A more rational and not less religious view would

Another section follows before we have seem to be, that we should repent of the

that entitled 'The Departure :'

'And on her lover's arm she leant,

And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went

In that new world which is the old: Across the hills, and far away

Beyond their utmost purple rim. And deep into the dying day

The happy princess followed him.

"I'd sleep another hundred years,
O love, for such another kiss;"
"O wake for ever, love," she hears,

66

O love, 'twas such as this and this." And o'er them many a sliding star,

And many a merry wind was borne,
And, stream'd through many a golden bar,
The twilight melted into morn.

"O eyes long laid in happy sleep!"
"O happy sleep, that lightly fled !"
"O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!"
"O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!"
And o'er them many a flowing range
Of vapour buoy'd the crescent bark,
And, rapt through many a rosy change,
The twilight died into the dark.

"A hundred summers! can it be?

And whither goest thou, tell me where ?" "O seek my father's court with me,

For there are greater wonders there."
And o'er the hills, and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
Beyond the night, across the day,
Through all the world she follow'd him.'

-vol. ii. p, 159.

The poems which we would class under the head MORALITIES, in which Reflection lifts the rod to silence Feeling, are scattered up and down the volumes under various titles. They almost all appear to us decided and remarkable failures, and only one or two of the shorter and slighter at all worthy of Mr. Tennyson.

The Palace of Art,' indeed, has the tints and force of poetry, and shows the

errors we commit from the inactivity of our
higher powers and feelings. We hardly
know a notion worthier of Simeon [Stylites],
or of some crack-brained sot repenting in
the stocks, than this doctrine that the use
of our noblest faculties on their right objects
is an outrage against our best duties. Hap-
pily, Mr. Tennyson's practice is wiser than
the theory propounded in this piece; and
his theory itself, if we may judge from the
doctrinal parts of his second and more ma-
ture volume, is also much improved.
long and dull production called the 'Two
Voices,' a dispute on immortality, adding
nothing to our previous knowledge, and of
which the substance might have been bet-
ter given in three pages (or one) than thirty,
has yet no such folly in it as the many-
coloured mistake of the Palace of Art.'

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In all Mr. Tennyson's didactic writing one sees too clearly that, unless when the Image enchains his heart, the Thought has far too little hold upon him to produce any lively movement of soul. His speculations have the commonplaceness, vagueness, and emptiness of dreams, though the dreams of genius; and hopefully do we trust that the poet will not again throw off his magic mantle for either the monkish gown or stoic robe.

We have now reached that class of poems which stand first in our list, and which we have entitled IDYLLS. We have reserved till now all special mention of them, as holding them the most valuable part of Mr. Tennyson's writings, a real addition to our literature. They have all more or less of the properly Idyllic character, though in three or four of them marked with the rapid and suggestive style of the ballad. In all we find some warm feeling, most often love, a clear and faithful eye for visible nature, skilful art and completeness of construction, and a mould of verse which for smoothness and play of melody has seldom

222

Poems by Alfred Tennyson.

been equalled in the language. The heart-[rustic life and rounded into song. Espefelt tenderness, the glow, the gracefulness, cially, as compared with the antique mothe strong sense, the lively painting, in many dels, we see in them all the gain that of these compositions, drawn from the Christianity and civilisation have brought heart of our actual English life, set them to the relation of the sexes, and to the chafar above the glittering marvels and musical racters of women. phantasms of Mr. Tennyson's mythological romances, at first sight the most striking portion of his works.

Among the happier specimens of this class two are pre-eminent-the 'Gardener's Daughter,' and 'Dora.' These are both of them Idylls in the strictest sense of the term, and might rank with the eclogues of Theocritus and Virgil, and with some poems of Goethe-as anecdotes drawn from

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The Gardener's Daughter' is a husband's recollection of his successful love, the object of which has been withdrawn from him by death. The unrhymed verse has a quiet fulness of sound, and all the delineation a clear yet rich completeness of truth, that render the little work, though far from the loftiest, yet one of the most delightful we know. As English landscapepainting, what can exceed this?

'Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells,
And sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear
The windy clanging of the minster clock;
Although between it and the garden lies

A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream,
That stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar,
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge
Crown'd with the minster-towers.

The fields between

Are dewy-fresh, brows'd by deep-udder'd kine,
And all about the large lime feathers low,

The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.'

Or take the companion picture, where this view is alive with human passion:

'There sat we down upon a garden mound,
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,
Between us, in the circle of his arms
Enwound us both; and over many a range
Of waning lime the grey cathedral towers,

Across a hazy glimmer of the west,

Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd

The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd;

We spoke of other things; we coursed about

The subject most at heart, more near and near,
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round
The central wish, until we settled there.'-vol. ii.

p. 29.

'Dora,' though not so luxuriously beautiful, has less, indeed nothing, that could be spared without serious loss, and being only half the length of the former one, we shall extract it entire ;

With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

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VOL. LXX.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wished this marriage, night and day,
For many years." But William answer'd short,
"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

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I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said,
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus !
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't.
Consider: take a month to think, and give
An answer to my wish; or by the Lord
That made me, you shall pack, and never more
Darken my doors again." And William heard,
And answer'd something madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said,
"I have obey'd my uncle until now,
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you:

You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest: let me take the boy,
And I will set him in mine uncle's eye
Among the wheat; then when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
And Dora took the child and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field,
And spied her not; for none of all his men

Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart failed her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said, "Where were you yesterday?
29

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!"
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,

"Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret: and the reapers reaped,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more.'
Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back:
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd

Each other, and set out, and reached the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapp'd him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that lov'd him; and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her,
And Allan set him down; and Mary said:
"O Father!-if you let me call you so--
I never came a-begging for myself,

Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora take her back; she loves you well.
O sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men: for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me;
I had been a patient wife; but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus.
'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know

The troubles I have gone through! Then he turn'd

His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am!

But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs :

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