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which comes on the true heart with advancing years, towards the world of actual man. In the first volume there are indications that the poet, calm as he is, and apart as he seems from the crowded path of human life, is still one of the true spirits who live for and feel with all. The poem of Lady Clara Vere de Vere is a stern lesson to the heartlessness of aristocratic pride, shrouded as it may be under the fairest of forms. . Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

« Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown:

When thus he inet his mother's view, You thought to break a country heart

She had the passions of her kind, For pastime, ere you went to town.

She spake some certain truths of you At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

Indeed I heard one bitter word I saw the snare, and I retired :

That scarce is fit for you to hear, The daughter of a hundred earls,

Her manners had not that repose You are not one to be desired.

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Verc. “ Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

" Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name;

There stands a spectre in your hall: Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

The guilt of blood is at your door, Too proud to care from whence I came.

You changed a wholesome heart to gall, Nor would I break for your sweet sake You held your course without rernorse. A heart that doats on truer charms,

To make him trust his modest worth, A simple maiden in her flower

And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.

And slew him with your noble birth. " Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

“ Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find,

From yon blue heavens above us bent. For were you queen of all that is,

The grand old gardener and his wife I could not stoop to such a mind.

Smile at the claims of long descent. You sought to prove how I could love, Howe'er it be, it seems to me, And my disdain is my reply.

"Tis only noble to be good. The lion on your old stone gates

Kind hearts are more than coronet Is not more cold to you than I.

And simple faith than Norman blood. "Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

" I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You put strange memories in my head.

You pine among your halls and towers: Not thrice your branching limes have The languid light of your proud eyes blown

Is wearied of the rolling hours. Since I beheld young Laurence dead. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, O your sweet eyes, your low replies;

But sickening of a vague disease, A great enchantress you may be ;

You know so ill to deal with time. But there was that across his throat,

You needs must play such pranks as Which you had hardly cared to see.

" Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

Il time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,

Nor any poor about your lands?
Oh! teach the orphan boy to read,

Or teach the orphan girl to sew,
Pray heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go."

replie dead.


The poems which immediately follow this, The May Queen and New Year's Eve, are practical examples of the truth just enunciated,

" A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats of arms." The natural beauty of The May Queen, and the exquisite pathos of the New Year's Eve, have made them universally known. In the second volume, the poet seems particularly to have endeavoured to enforce his ideas of the dignity of a virtuous nature, which stands in its own divine worth, far above all artificial distinctions. His Gardener's Daughter, the ballad of Lady Clara, and that most ne treba rightful one of The Lord of Burleigh, all teach it. Lady Godiva

In the age an example of that high devotion to the public good, which is

ya 'pared to make the most entire sacrifice of self; and of which i s tory, here and there, amid its mass of selfishness and crime,

esents us with some glorious examples-none more glorious than at of the beautiful Godiva. But Locksley Hall and The Two

ices are the most brilliant of all Tennyson's productions, and of firma

jongst the most perfect things in the language. * We can scarcely conceive anything more perfectly musical and

trinsically poetical than Locksley Hall. It is the soliloquy of a 99 ronged, high, and passionate nature. The speaker, a young man

pable of great things, wars against the false maxims of the present 1.used:

me, yet sees how it is advancing into something better and greater. be perceives how mind is moving forward into its destined empire.

e feels and makes us feel how great is this age and this England Ser Fer

which we live. Some of the thoughts and expressions stand rominent even amid the superb beauty of the whole, and have

ever been surpassed in their felicitous truth and pictorial power. 30 days. The description of his life at that country hall, and the love of himFOW

elf and his cousin Amy, are fine; but how much finer these stanzas, ats of arms.

he result of the fickle cousin's marrying a mere clod with a title. Che certain consequence of the wife's mind, which would have soared sind strengthened in the association with his own, sinking to the

Sevel of the brute she had allied herself to, is most admirably told -I Fad lore,

dow constantly do we see this effect in life, but where has it been, [asand in so few words, so fully expressed ?

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** Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,

And her whis per thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring.
Many an evening by the waters did we wateh the stately ships,
And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more!
O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore !
Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,
Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue !
Is it well to wish thee happy!-having known me-to decline
On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!
Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day,
What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.
As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,
And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine.
Go to him: it is thy duty : kiss him; take his hand in thine.
It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:
Soothe him with thy fner fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.
He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand
Better wert thou dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand!
Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,
Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.
Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!
Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth !

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Cursed be the sickly forms that err from Nature's honest rule!

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool." With a lover's fancy he would seek comfort in persuading himself that his love was dead, but quickly spurns from him this idea. Every line which follows this-the picture of the repentant wife, and the drunken husband, “ hunting in his dreams,” the child that roots out regret, the mother grown into the matron schooling this child, a daughter, into the world's philosophy—all is masterly. Not less so the portraiture of the age

" What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?

Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow;
I have but an angry fancy,-what is that which I should do!
I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground.
When the ranks are rolled in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound.
But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honour feels,
And the nations do but murinur, snarling at each other's heels."

How finely, in the next stanzas, are portrayed the expectations of the ardent youth, the light of London, and the imagined progress of scenic and real life!

"Can I but re-live in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.

Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age !
Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,
When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life;
Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,
Eager-hearted as a boy when tirst he leaves his father's field,
And at night along the dusty highway near and nearer drawn,
Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn,
And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,
Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men;
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:
That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do:
For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be:
Saw the heavens filled with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales:
Heard the heavens filled with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew
Froin the nation's airy navies grappling in the central blue;
Far along the world-wide whisper of the south wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-stori..
Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-fags were furled,
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.
There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe.
And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law.
So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry,
Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;
Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint,
Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:
Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,
Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire.
Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,
And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns."

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beste data bertan sappointed in love, and sickened in hope of civilized life, the rebe the best inspire om ker dreams, for a moment, of flying to some savage land, and

ing the exciting life of a tropical hunter. In the reaction of his rer's far le Traghts how vividly is expressed the precious preeminence of

pas desde la es pean existence, with all its attendant evils ! ich füüvas ties ken tusta."

: “ Pool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,

But I count the grey barbarian lower than the Christian child. het, the authengt

I to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, ter into the Fun Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! ptritura de teren Mated with a squalid savage-what to me were sun or clime!

I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time

I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, is burned a

Than that earth should stand and gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon.
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Contrato pero, 2016

Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: margra day, and

Betler listy years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Mother-Age! (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun;
Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun-

0 I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set ; untis Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.” the pert stadig the light of Law Vho shall say, after this, that Alfred Tennyson wants power ?

re speaks the man of this moving age. There speaks the spirit tized into the great spirit of progress. In the silence of his uitative retreat the poet sees the world rolling before him, and is in ack with the majesty of its mind subduing its physical mass to Houses, and trampling on time, space, and the far greater evils—

trajudice, false patriotism, and falser ideas of glory. Brotherhood, Birgir meisies ice, and comfort advance out of the school and the shop, and studier Ma'piness sits securely beneath the guardianship of

" The Parliament of man, the Federation of the world." Alfred Tennyson has given many a fatal blow to many an old and A rrow maxim in his poems; he has breathed into his later ones

2 generous and the victorious breath of noblest philanthropy, the Garso spring of the great renovator-the Christian religion. This will world, and all *je him access to the bosoms of the multitude

" Men his brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new;" hanging rod his vigorous song will cheer them at their toil, and nerve them ries grappila i to more glorious efforts. Of the hold which his poetry has already whisper of the ken on the public heart, a striking instance was given some time ago.

ne anonymous author of The New Timon stepped out of his way aid his subject to represent Tennyson's muse as a puling school-miss wone universal outburst of indignation from the press scared the

probrious lines speedily out of the snarler's pages. A new edition problemas quickly announced, from which they had wisely vanished. ABS Perhaps, however, the crown of all Tennyson's verse is The Two

the oices. "I have said that he is not metaphysical. He is better. exeris caving to others to build and rebuild theories of the human mind, lieg, mert ennyson deals with its palpable morernents like a genuine philo

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sopher, and one of the highest order, a Christian philosophá Tle Two Voices are the voice of an animated assurance in the heart, and the voice of scepticism. In this poem there is no person who has passed through the searching, withering ordeal of religious doubts and fears as to the spiritual permanency of our existence—and who has not ?—but will find in these simple stanzas the map and history of their own experience. The clearness, the graphic power, and logical force and acumen which distinguish this poem are of the highest order. There is nothing in the poems of Wordsworth which can surpass, if it can equal it. Let us take, as our last quotation, the closing portion of this lyric, the whole of which cannot be read with too much attention. Here the combat with Apollyon in the Valley of the Shadow of Death is most simply and beautifully put an end to by the buoyant spirit of nature, and man walking amid his human ties hand in hand with her and piety.

“ The still voice laughed. I talk,' said he,

Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality.' • But thou,' said I, hast missed thy mark Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark By making all the horizon dark, • Why not set forth if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? 'Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death. « Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death for which we pant: More life, and fuller that I want.' I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice in quiet scorn, • Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east. Like softened airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church-bells began to peal. On to God's house the people prest; Passing the place where each must rest, Each entered like a welcome guest. One walked between his wife and child, With measured footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled. The prudent partner of his blood Leaned on him, faithful, gentle, good, Wearing the rose of womanhood. And in their double love secure, The little maiden walked demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure. These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat.

I blessed them, and they wandere on;
I spoke, but answer came there none:
The dull and bitter voice was gone.
A second voice was at mine ear,
A little whisper, silver-clear,
A murmur, Be of better cheer.'
As from some blissful neighbourhood,
A notice faintly understood.

I see the end and know the goori."
A little hint to solace woe,
A hint, a whisper breathing low,

I may not speak of what I know.'
Like an Eolian harp that wakes
No certain air, but overtakes
Far thought with music that it makes
Such seemed the whisper at my side:
• What is it thou knowest, sweet voice!

I cried. "A hidden hope,' the voice replied. So heavenly toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the showet. To feel, although no tongue can prove, That every cloud, that spreads above, And veileth love, itself is love. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature's living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent. I wondered at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers : You scarce could see the grass for fluwers. I wondered, while I passed along : The woods were filled so full with song, There seemed no room for sense of wrong So variously seemed all things wrought I marvelled how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought. And wherefore rather made I choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said. Rejoice! Rejoice!

* Suicide.

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