being an imitator of any one, is undoubtedly one of the most original poets that ever lived. Wordsworth has had many imitators, some of whom have been tolerably successful,—especially in the simplicity. They thought that was the grand secret. A few who had genuine ideas have been more worthy followers of the great poet of profound sentiment. Tennyson has also had followers; but only such as have felt his spirit, nor is he likely to have any mere imitators, for the dainty trivialities and mannerism of his early productions have been abandoned, and now let those imitate who can. They must have some fine poetical elements of their own in order to be at all successful.

If a matter-of-fact philosopher who prided himself upon the hardness of his head, and an exclusive faculty of understanding actual things, were to apply to us for the signification of the word Poetry," we could not do better than thrust into his hand, widely opened for the expected brick, one of Alfred Tennyson's volumes. His poetry is poetry in the intense sense, and admits of no equivocal definitions. The hard-headed realist might perhaps accept Macaulay's "Lays of Ancient Rome," as good martial music, (with the help of a little prompting from a friend of some imagination,) or Mr. Henry Taylor's "Philip van Artevelde" as excellent steady thinking; or a considerable portion even of Wordsworth's works as sound good sense,

though in verse, (a great admission); but if he did not understand Tennyson's poems to be "Poetry," he would not be very likely to misunderstand them for anything else. The essence and element of them are poetry. The poetry of the matter strikes through the manner. The Art stands up in his poems, self-proclaimed, and not as any mere modification of thought and language, but the operation of a separate and definite power in the human faculties. A similar observation attaches itself to the poetry of Shelley, to the later productions of Keats, to certain poems of Coleridge. But Tennyson and Shelley, more particularly, walk in the common daylight in their "singing clothes;" they are silver-voiced when they ask for salt, and say "Good-morrow to you" in a cadence. They each have a poetical dialect; not such a one as Wordsworth deprecated when he overthrew a system; not a conventional poetical idiom, but the very reverse of it-each poet fashioning his phrases upon his own individuality; and speaking as if he were making a language then, for the first time, under those purple eyes' of the muse, which tinted every syllable as it was uttered, with a separate benediction.

Perhaps the first spell cast by Mr. Tennyson, the master of many spells, he cast upon the ear. His power as a lyrical versifier is remarkable. The measures flow softly or roll nobly to his pen; as

well one as the other. He can gather up his strength, like a serpent, in the gleaming coil of a line; or dart it out straight and free. Nay, he will write you a poem with nothing in it except music, and as if its music were everything, it shall charm your soul. Be this said, not in reproach,-but in honour of him and of the English language, for the learned sweetness of his numbers. The Italian lyrists may take counsel, or at once enjoy,

'Where Claribel low lieth.'

But if sweetness of melody, and richness of harmony be the most exquisitely sensuous of Tennyson's characteristics, he is no less able to "pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone," for certainly his works are equally characterized by their thoughtful grace, depth of sentiment, and ideal beauty. And he not only has the most musical words at his command (without having recourse to exotic terminologies) but he possesses the power of conveying a sense of colour, and a precision of outline by means of words, to an extraordinary degree. In music and colour he was equalled by Shelley; but in form, clearly defined, with no apparent effort, and no harsh shades or lines, Tennyson stands unrivalled.

His ideality is both adornative and creative, although up to this period it is ostensibly rather the former than the latter. His ideal faculty is either

satisfied with an exquisitely delicate Arabesque painting, or clears the ground before him so as to melt and disperse all other objects into a suitable atmosphere, or aerial perspective, while he takes horse on a passionate impulse, as in some of his ballads which seem to have been panted through without a single pause. This is the case in "Oriana," in "Locksley Hall," in "The Sisters," &c. Or, at other times, selecting some ancient theme, he stands collected and self-contained, and rolls out with an impressive sense of dignity, orb after orb of that grand melancholy music of blank verse which leaves long vibrations in the reader's memory; as in "Ulysses," the divine "Enone," or the "Morte D'Arthur." The idea of the death, or fading away of Fairy-land, allegorically conveyed in the latter poem, is apparently the main basis of the design, and probably original; but it is observable that Tennyson scarcely ever invents any elaborate design of moving characters. The two other poems just named, with the "Lord of Burleigh," "Lady Clare," "Dora," "Godiva," and most of those which contain human character in a progressive story, are taken from various sources; but they are taken by a masterhand, and infused with new life and beauty, new thought and emotion. The same peculiarity as to ground-plot is observable in Shakspere and Chaucer, who never invented their subjects or stories; but

filled them up as nobody else ever had done, or could do. It was exactly the converse with Scott, who invented nearly all his stories, but borrowed materials to fill them up from all possible sources. Tennyson does not appear to possess much inventive construction. He has burnt his epic, or this would have settled the question. We would almost venture to predict that he will never write another; nor a five-act tragedy, nor a long heroic poem. Why should he?

Alfred Tennyson may be considered generally under four different aspects,-developed separately or in collective harmony, according to the nature of his subject that is to say, as a poet of fairy-land and enchantment; as a poet of profound sentiment in the affections (as Wordsworth is of the intellect and moral feelings); as a painter of pastoral nature; and as the delineator and representer of tragic emotions, chiefly with reference to one particular passion.

With regard to the first of these aspects of his genius, it may be admitted at the outset that Tennyson is not the portrayer of individual, nor of active practical character. His characters, with few exceptions, are generalizations, or refined abstractions, clearly developing certain thoughts, feelings, and forms, and bringing them home to all competent sympathies. This is almost exclusively the case in the