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charmed neighbourhood-fields of snow, so talkative when they happen to lie at the foot of the mountain, are quite out of breath when they get to the top, and the sand, so noisy on the summit of a hill, is dumb at its foot. The very crocodiles, too, are mutenot dumb but mute. The red-combèd dragon curl'd' is next introduced • Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stolen

away, For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings night and day,

Sing away, sing aloud evermore, in the wind, without stop.' The north wind, it appears, had by this time awaked again

· Lest his scaled eyelid drop,

For he is older than the world'older than the hills, besides not rhyming to curl'd,' would hardly have been a sufficiently venerable phrase for this most harmonious of lyrics. It proceeds

• If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,
We shall lose eternal pleasure,
Worth eternal want of rest.
Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure
Of the wisdom of the west.
In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.'-p. 102. This recipe for keeping a secret, by singing it so loud as to be heard for miles, is almost the only point, in all Mr. Tennyson's poems, in which we can trace the remotest approach to anything like what other men have written, but it certainly does remind us of the chorus of conspirators' in the Rovers.

Hanno, however, who understood no language but Punic-(the Hesperides sang, we presume, either in Greek or in English) appears to have kept on his way without taking any notice of the song, for the poem concludes,–

• The apple of gold hangs over the sea,
Five links, a golden chain, are we,
Hesper, the Dragon, and sisters three;
Daughters three,
Bound about
All round about
The gnarlèd bole of the charmed tree,
The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit.
Guard it well, guard it warily,
Watch it warily,
Singing airily,

Standing about the charmed root.'-p. 107. We hardly think that, if Hanno had translated it into Punic, the song would have been more intelligible.



The · Lotuseaters '- a kind of classical opium-eaters -- are Ulysses and his crew. They land on the charmed island,' and eat of the charmèd root,' and then they sing

• Long enough the winedark wave our weary bark did carry.

This is lovelier and sweeter,
Men of Ithaca, this is meeter,
In the hollow rosy vale to tarry,
Like a dreamy Lotuseater—a delicious Lotuseater!
We will eat the Lotus, sweet
As the yellow honeycomb;
In the valley some, and some-
On the ancient heights divine,
And no more roam,
On the loud hoar foam,
To the melancholy home,
At the limits of the brine,

The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline.'-p. 116. Our readers will, we think, agree that this is admirably characteristic, and that the singers of this song must have made pretty free with the intoxicating fruit. How they got home you must read in Homer :-Mr. Tennyson -- himself, we presume, a dreamy lotus-eater, a delicious lotus-eater-leaves them in full song.

Next comes another class of poems,— Visions. The first is the Palace of Art,' or a fine house, in which the poet dreams that he sees a very fine collection of well-known pictures. An ordinary versifier would, no doubt, have followed the old routine, and dully described himself as walking into the Louvre, or Buckingham Palace, and there seeing certain masterpieces of painting : -a true poet dreams it. We have not room to hang many of these chefs-d'æuvre, but for a few we must find space. - The Madonna'

• The maid mother by a crucifix,

In yellow pastures sunny warm,
Beneath branch work of costly sardonyx

Sat smiling-babe in arm.'--p. 72. The use of this latter, apparently, colloquial phrase is a deep stroke of art. The form of expression is always used to express an habitual and characteristic action. A knight is described lance in rest'-a dragoon,sword in hand'--so, as the idea of the Virgin is inseparably connected with her child, Mr. Tennyson reverently describes her conventional position—' babe in arm.

His gallery of illustrious portraits is thus admirably arranged:The Madonna-Ganymede-St. Cecilia-Europa-Deep-haired Milton—Shakspeare-Grim Dante-Michael Angelo-LutherLord Bacon-Cervantes—Calderon-King David—the Halicarnassëan' (quære, which of them ?)—Alfred, (not Alfred Tennyson, though no doubt in any other man's gallery he would have had a place) and finally


Isaïah, with fierce Ezekiel,

Swarth Moses by the Coptic sea,
Plato, Petrarca, Livy, and Raphaël,

And eastern Confutzee ! We can hardly suspect the very original mind of Mr. Tennyson to have harboured any recollections of that celebrated Doric idyll, • The groves of Blarney,' but certainly there is a strong likeness between Mr. Tennyson's list of pictures and the Blarney collection of statues

Statues growing that noble place in,

All heathen goddesses most rare,
Homer, Plutarch, and Nebuchadnezzar,

All standing naked in the open air !' In this poem we first observed a stroke of art (repeated afterwards) which we think very ingenious. No one who has ever written verse but must have felt the pain of erasing some happy line, some striking stanza, which, however excellent in itself, did not exactly suit the place for which it was destined. How curiously does an author mould and remould the plastic verse in order to fit in the favourite thought; and when he finds that he cannot introduce it, as Corporal Trim says, any how, with what reluctance does he at last reject the intractable, but still cherished offspring of his brain ! Mr. Tennyson manages this delicate matter in a new and better

way ;


with great candour and simplicity, If this poem were not already too long, I should have added the following stanzas,' and then he adds them, (p. 84;) -or, the following lines are manifestly superfluous, as a part of the text, but they may be allowed to stand as a separate poem,' (p. 121,) which they do ;-or, “I intended to have added something on statuary, but I found it very difficult;'—(he had, moreover, as we have seen, been anticipated in this line by the Blarney poet)—' but I had finished the statues of Elijah and Olympias --judge whether I have succeeded,'(p. 73)—and then we have these two statues. This is certainly the most ingenious device that has ever come under our observation, for reconciling the rigour of criticism with the indulgence of parental partiality. It is economical too, and to the reader profitable, as by these means

• We lose no drop of the immortal man.' The other vision is • A Dream of Fair Women,' in which the heroines of all ages-some, indeed, that belong to the times of

heathen goddesses most rare '--pass before his view. We have not time to notice them all, but the second, whom we take to be Iphigenia, touches the heart with a stroke of nature more power


ful than even the veil that the Grecian painter threw over the head of her father.

dimly I could descry
The stern blackbearded kings with wolfish eyes,

Watching to see me die.
The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat;

The temples, and the people, and the shore ;
One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat-

Slowly,--and nothing more!' What touching simplicity—what pathetic resignation—he cut my throat — nothing more! One might indeed ask, what more' she would have ?

But we must hasten on; and to tranquillize the reader's mind after the last affecting scene, shall notice the only two pieces of a lighter strain which the volume affords. The first is elegant and playful; it is a description of the author's study, which he affectionately calls his Darling Room.

• darling room, my heart's delight;
Dear room, the apple of my sight;
With thy two couches, soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite;
No little room so warm and bright,

Wherein to read, wherein to write.' We entreat our readers to note how, even in this little trifle, the singular taste and genius of Mr. Tennyson break forth. In such a dear little room a narrow-minded scribbler would have been content with one sofa, and that one he would probably have covered with black mohair, or red cloth, or a good striped chintz; how infinitely more characteristic is white dimity !-'tis as it were a type of the purity of the poet's mind. He proceeds

· For I the Nonnenwerth bave seen,
And Oberwinter's vineyards green,
Musical Lurlei; and between
The hills to Bingen I have been,
Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene
Curves towards Mentz, a woody scene.
• Yet never did there meet my sight,
In any town, to left or right,
A little room so exquisite,
With two such couches soft and white;
Not any room so warm and bright,

Wherein to read, wherein to write.'--p. 153. A common poet would have said that he had been in London or in Paris—in the loveliest villa on the banks of the Thames, or the most gorgeous chateau on the Loire—that he had reclined in


Madame de Staël's boudoir, and mused in Mr. Rogers's comfortable study; but the darling room of the poet of nature (which we must suppose to be endued with sensibility, or he would not have addressed it) would not be flattered with such common-place comparisons ;—no, no, but it is something to have it said that there is no such room in the ruins of the Drachenfels, in the vineyard of Oberwinter, or even in the rapids of the Rhene, under the Lurleyberg. We have ourselves visited all these celebrated spots, and can testify, in corroboration of Mr. Tennyson, that we did not see in any of them anything like this little room so exquisite.

The second of the lighter pieces, and the last with which we shall delight our readers, is a severe retaliation on the editor of the Edinburgh Magazine, who, it seems, had not treated the first volume of Mr. Tennyson with the same respect that we have, we trust, evinced for the second.

You did late review my lays,

Crusty Christopher;
You did mingle blame and praise,

Rusty Christopher.
When I learnt from whom it came
I forgave you all the blame,

Musty Christopher;
I could not forgive the praise,

Fusty Christopher.'-p. 153. Was there ever anything so genteelly turned-so terse-so sharp-and the point so stinging and so true ?

• I could not forgive the praise,

Fusty Christopher ! This leads us to observe on a phenomenon which we have frequently seen, but never been able to explain. It has been occasionally our painful lot to excite the displeasure of authors whom we have reviewed, and who have vented their dissatisfaction, some in prose, some in verse, and some in what we could not distinctly say whether it was verse or prose; but we have invariably found that the common formula of retort was that adopted by Mr. Tennyson against his northern critic, namely, that the author would always

Forgive us all the blame,

But could not forgive the praise. Now this seems very surprising. It has sometimes, though we regret to say rarely, happened, that, as in the present instance, we have been able to deal out unqualified praise, but we never found that the dose in this case disagreed with the most squeamish stomach ; on the contrary, the patient has always seemed exceedingly com


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