words upon the subject. We simply beg leave to differ from almost all the rest of the world in our opinion of Alfred Tennyson. We believe that he is very far from being among the first poets in our language, and a careful perusal of his works has firmly established us in this opinion. The Princess, which has been lauded as the best of his poems, we venture to say, did it come from a nameless poet in our country, would never be republished the other side of the water. If we may say it, Tennyson has talent as a poet, but we cannot see where he has exhibited much genius. At least if he have the poetic spark, the divine afflatus has never yet kindled it into a living flame. He has fancy-all his poems are fanciful enough, but a rich, glowing imagination, a power to soften and subdue the soul, a skill to move the finest feelings of the human heart,-where are they? Truly we have never seen them in Alfred Tennyson's poems. We are not going to stop now to inquire into the secret of his popularity, but to us it's the easiest thing in the world. His poems, so to speak, "jibe in" with the spirit and tendencies of the age, and while they have not originality enough to strike out into a new channel, they have lightness sufficient to keep them on the top of the popular current. There is, moreover, just fog enough about them to make them look wonderful to the multitude and so the gaping crowd gulp them down and with infinite relish swallow the "unbolted grist, husks and all." It is an easy thing, O unsuspicious reader, to be popular, and the author of the Princess has shown us this. That dreamer of all dreamers, Ralph Waldo Emerson, most gravely asserts in a review of Wordsworth, that there are but two poems of the present century which will survive, and Reader, who do you think are the authors of these. As we live, they are Leigh Hunt and Alfred Tennyson. Whew-w-w.!

We wish that we could follow the usual custom here, and as we offer our belief, say "we present it with diffidence," but of this useful commodity, we hav'ent a bit, and so Reader you must take our opinion of Tennyson just as it is, for the better or worse, even though you should find it as the Dutchman did his wife-"all worse and no petter."

VI

A student and admirer of Dr. Brown, once asked a lady what she thought of his master's metaphysics. "There is too much poetry in

them," said she "to suit my taste." "But what do you think of his poetry," inquired the student. "Altogether too metaphysical for me," was the reply.

We agree with the lady-we never differ from the fair sex-especially in her second answer. Poetry in metaphysics we can swallow with tolerable ease, at least Dr. Brown's is quite passable, but metaphysics in poetry is no go. The transcendentalism of these metaphysical times, when it steps its foot within the domain of poetry, is profanity treading upon sacred ground. Poetic thought is a luminary, and poetry its own spontaneous radiance, which is only obscured and darkened by the clouds which some quasi poets throw around it. Poetry in its native state, is as clear as the light and as beautiful too. The Emersonish," "Tennysonish," "Sophomorish," "foggish," soidisant poetry is not poetry in anything but the name.

66

Poetry is that which speaks to the inner sense of the human soul and can be better felt than described. When we see it, we look upon the smile of nature and feel that it is bright as a sunbeam; when we hear it, we listen to the voice of nature, and its whisperings are melodious as a strain of music. Poetry is, in fact, in most of its effects, like music, and the true poet is a musician who soothes or excites us, lulls us to repose, or rouses us up to action by the magic strains which he lets fall upon the ear. He knows how to bring out every tone which the "harp of a thousand strings" can sound, and as he sweeps its strange cords, at one time, we stand entranced at the soft breathings of the most bewitching harmony, and at another, start back and close our ears almost affrighted at the strange discord that sends its jarring tones through the soul;-now the notes rise and fall in the wildest, thrilling sounds, and now dying away in the most delightful melody, they come in the sweetest, gentlest tones upon the ear;-at one time, they are like the roar of the tempest as it sweeps along and tears up every thing that may oppose its way, and at another like the soft breeze as it gently whispers through the leaves of the forest or as we hear it when it softly kisses the violet or murmurs its tale of love to the blushing rose.

The ancients believed there was a spirit that dwelt in every thing that was beautiful, existing in every bubbling fountain, and rippling brook, and quivering leaf, and opening flower;-that it was heard in the whispering breeze, and seen in the glittering sunlight, and felt, in the overpowering solitude;-that it took up its abode wherever there was aught that was lovely to offer it an habitation, and that it sent out its

influence to soften and subdue the heart of every one who should come within the circle of its power? It was the spirit of the beautiful, said they, and they bowed before it and freely offered it their adorations. We call this indeed a fable, but who shall say that the poet may not find it almost a reality to his own soul? Who shall say that there may not be hours when he shall bow to an unseen influence, which steals upon his soul and kindles in him thoughts which he shall breathe upon the world in forms of poetry. It is such an influence that awakes within him--as says that truest poet, Wordsworth—

"A passion that disturbs him with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interpos'd
Whose dwelling is the light of setting sun,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky and on the mind of man."

.Св

CXV

"Some deep bell that slowly tolling
Throws a stillness on the air,
Telling with its dull vibrations
Of lost hope and wild despair.

CXVI

"At length-at length one blessed evening When the Battle's strife was o'er, And the Baron's heart beat lightly 'Neath the sacred wounds he bore.

CXVII

"Wandering o'er the field of battle
'Mid the wounded and the slain,
Winning hopes of holy pardon
By the sweet relief of pain.

CXVIII

"Suddenly a low deep wailing
Broke upon his listening ear,
One deep voice of passionate fondness
Mixed with broken sobs of fear.

CXIX

"And he saw a fair young being
Kneeling o'er a Moslem chief-
With her arms clasped closely 'round him
In the madness of her grief.

CXX

แ "Wild sweet words in foreign accents
Strangly thrilled his eager car,

While within his scorched eyeballs
Sprang the first warm grateful tear

CXXI

"And his inward spirit melted

As before the Virgin mild

With clasped hands and earnest wonder
Bows the spirit of a child.

CXXII

"All to him unknown, unquestioned

Was that strange yet sweet relief

And with eyes of love and pity
Knelt beside the dying chief.

CXXIII

"Gently from her arms he took him
But he saw 'twas all in vain
And with woman's tender instinct

Gave him to her clasp again.