Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms, Enoch's sacrifice-his silent departure, and his holding of "his purpose" till he died-was the sacrifice of a strong heroic soul. The last two lines of the poem may jar upon sensitive minds, and seem to be in discord with the tone of the whole poem. The gewgaws of showy pageantry and a costly funeral are in such a case more of a hollow mockery than a sterling tribute to the inborn greatness of the humble sailor whose life was one long combat with hostile fortune. The volume containing Enoch Arden and other poems. was dedicated to the poet's wife. Dear, near and true-no truer Time himself Shoots to the fall-take this, and pray that he Who wrote it, honouring your sweet faith in him, The more important of the poems included in the volume. were Aylmer's Field, the stern, dark story of which had been related to Tennyson by his friend Woolner, the sculptor; Sea Dreams, Tithonus, which Thackeray had previously published in Cornhill Magazine; The Grandmother, one of Tennyson's favourite poems, and selected by him for recitation on several important occasions; and the first of the semi-humorous dialect poems, the Northern Farmer. The last was a revelation to many of the poet's admirers. Except in the punning song of The Owl, he had not revealed a faculty for dry humour, but the Northern Farmer, displayed capacity of an original kind. The prototype of the worldly-minded man who thought his son a fool to marry for "luvv" instead of for "munny" was John Baumber, a famous old character who dwelt in the Grange next to the Rectory at Somersby. But the "old style" Northern Farmer, whose boast was I've 'ed my point o' yaäle ivry noight sin' I bean 'ere, And I've 'ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty yearis a general type, perhaps, rather than an individual study. The volume contained a poem entitled The Ringlet, which was omitted afterwards—a vivacious set of verses, not of a very high order, but pleasant enough to read in spare moments. Among smaller pieces were The Sailor Boy, The Islet, and The Flower-the last a protest against the crowd of imitators of his style who had risen up and threatened to detract from the honours of the original poet. The flower he had sown had at first been called a weed, but when it grew and wore a crown of light, thieves took it from him and sowed it far and wide. Most can raise the flowers now, Tennyson has seldom, however, had occasion for jealousy. Those who flattered him by their imitations were not able to reproduce the richness and luxury of Tithonus, the epic power of Sea Dreams, the passionate intensity of scorn and censure of Aylmer's Field. Nor had they the art to excel the master who gave the fanciful description of a wild, aimless voyage, full of unreality and designed exaggeration, crowded with charming pictures and flushed with the suggestive lights of a vivid but uncontrolled imagination. The Voyage is so entrancing that we could wish it were not a dream, and with the pursuers of the ideal we would sail evermore round the merry world. Such magic visions as came to the bewitched crew come but once, and are seen by enchanted eyes. How oft we saw the Sun retire, And burn the threshold of the night, And sleep beneath his pillar'd light. Of twilight slowly downward drawn, Again we dash'd into the dawn. New stars all night above the brim And one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, But each man murmur'd, “O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine!" One of the chief effects of the 1864 volume was to demonstrate Tennyson's versatility and his deep human feeling. He had been charged in early life with a preference for unrealities and the toys of romance, and until the publication of In Memoriam he had done little to rebut the charge. But in that great poem his own grief had been the theme. In Enoch Arden, Sea Dreams, Aylmer's Field, and The Grandmother the griefs of others commanded his attention. He had forsaken dreams for the dramas of life; he had "felt with his kind," and expressed their sorrows, hopes, and emotions. No longer was he the cold and passive observer of men, but their active sympathiser, finding words for their passions, giving voice to their wrongs. No longer was he the philosopher standing apart and drawing morals from intellectual problems; the problems of humanity day by day engaged his attention. The poor sailor-hero, the humble city-clerk and his wife, the broken-hearted youth, Leolin, and his brother,—desolate homes of rich and poor, sundered lives of gentle and simple, sorrows and disasters of mankind all the world over these supplied themes in the place of dreams and fancies and the simulated frenzies of youth. Poet has given us no tenderer views of women than Annie Lee, Edith Aylmer, and the city-clerk's wife. They stand out in their natural beauty and their true womanliness above all the Adelines and Margarets, and Lilians with their sudden pallors, their flushes, their curved frowns, and their faint smiles. Taine had said what could now be said no longer-that Tennyson had supplied the world with "keepsake characters from the hand of a lover and an artist." Now he had given us quivering flesh and blood, and the very glory and utter pathos of life itself. CHAPTER IX. THE IDYLLS OF THE KING. "With a melody -Merlin and the Gleam. THERE are great gaps in Tennyson's history. We travel along an ill-defined track, his works serving as guides and signs; but the space between is oft-times dark and seemingly nothing but waste. Whether the blanks will ever be filled is now more than doubtful. The periods which apparently were uneventful were in reality times of great preparation. The results of strenuous toil, and of hard work performed in semi-seclusion, were to be seen later. Tennyson, it may safely be said, was never idle. He was always at a task, and however silent he may have been, he was eventually to be heard in strains as deep and sweet as ever. No year of his life was barren and unproductive. Though the world saw nothing of his work, he was ever sowing seed, tending, maturing, and perfecting flowers of poesy, though his patience, slowness, and persistency illsuited the expectation and desire of his eager admirers. His industry was, indeed, marvellous. He was devoted to |