ALFRED TENNYSON. "A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone "Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt thoughts' wildernesses. The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 'Nor heed nor see what things they be ; But from these, create he can KEATS. SHELLEY. THE poetic fire is one simple and intense element in human nature; it has its source in the divine mysteries of our existence; it developes with the first abstract delight of childhood, the first youthful aspiration towards something beyond our mortal reach; and eventually becomes the master passion of those who are possessed with it in the highest degree, and the most ennobling and refining influence that can be exercised upon the passions of others. At times, and in various degrees, all are open to the influence of the poetic element. Its objects are palpable to the external senses, in proportion as individual perception and sensibility have been habituated to contemplate them with interest and delight; and palpable to the imagination in proportion as an individual possesses this faculty, and has habituated it to ideal subjects and profoundly sympathetic reflections. If there be a third condition of its presence, it must be that of a certain consciousness of dreamy glories in the soul, with vague emotions, aimless impulses, and prophetic sensations, which may be said to tremble on the extreme verge of the fermenting source of that poetic fire, by which the life of humanity is purified and adorned. The first and second of these conditions must be clear to all; the last will not receive so general an admission, and perhaps may not be so intelligible to every body as could be wished. We thus arrive at the conclusion that the poetic element, though simple and entire, has yet various forms and modifications of development according to individual nature and circumstance, and, therefore, that its loftiest or subtlest manifestations are not equally apparent to the average mass of human intelligence. He, then, who can give a form and expression to these lofty or these subtle manifestations, in a way that shall be the most intelligible to the majority, is he who best accomplishes the mission of a Poet. We are about to claim for Alfred Tennyson-living as he is, and solely on account of what he has already accomplished-the title of a true poet of the highest class of genius, and one whose writings may be considered as peculiarly lucid to all competent understandings that have cultivated a love for poetry. It may fairly be assumed that the position of Alfred Tennyson, as a poet of fine genius, is now thoroughly established in the minds of all sincere and qualified lovers of the higher classes of poetry in this country. But what is his 66 It in its position in the public mind? Or, rather, to what extent is he known to the great mass of general readers? Choice and limited is the audience, we apprehend, to whom this favoured son of Apollo pours forth his melodious song. is true, however, that the public is a rising man gradual appreciation, perhaps of every genius of the present time; and certainly this appreciation is really on the rise with respect to the poetry of Tennyson. It is only some thirteen years since he published his first volume, and if it require all this time for "the best judges" to discover his existence, and determine "in one way, and the other," upon some of his most original features, the public may be excused for not knowing more about his poems than they do at present. That they desire to know more is apparent from many circumstances, and partly from the fact of the last edition of his works, in two volumes, having been disposed of in a few months. Probably the edition was not large; such, however, is the result after thirteen years. The name of Alfred Tennyson is pressing slowly, calmly, but surely, with certain recognition but no loud shouts of greeting, from the lips of the discerners of poets, of whom there remain a few, even in the cast-iron ages, along the lips of the less informed public, "to its own place" in the stony house of names. That it is the name of a true poet, the drowsy public exerts itself to acknowledge; testifying with a heavy lifting of the eyelid, to its consciousness of a new light in one of the nearer sconces. This poet's public is certainly awake to him, although you would not think so. And this public's poet, standing upon the recognition of his own genius, begins to feel the ground firm beneath his feet, after no worse persecution than is comprised in those charges of affectation, quaintness, and mannerism, which were bleated down the ranks of the innocent" sillie" critics as they went one after another to water. Let the toleration be chronicled to the honour of England.* And who knows? -There may be hope from this, and a few similar instances of misprision of the high treason of poetry, that our country may conclude her grand experience of a succession of poetical writers unequalled in the modern world, by learning some ages hence to know a poet when she sees one. tainly, if we looked only to the peculiar genius of Tennyson, with the eyes of our forefathers, and some others rather nearer to our own day, we should find it absolutely worthy of being either starved or stoned, or as Shelley said of Keats, "hooted into the grave." Cer A very striking remark was made in the Times, (December 26th, 1842,) with reference to the fate and progress of true poets in the mind of the public. Alluding to "the noble fragment of Hyperion,'" the writer says, "Strange as it may appear, it is no less certain that the half-finished works of this young, miseducated, and unripe genius, have had the greatest influence on that which is now the popular poetry. In the eyes of the 'young England' of poets, as in those of Shelley 'The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the immortals are.' "What a text," pursues the same writer, "for a dissertation on the mutability of popular taste!" True, indeed ; but we must not be tempted into it, at present. Objecting * One exception, at least, should be noticed. In 1833 a philosophical criticism appeared on Tennyson, in the "Monthly Repository," written by W. J. Fox, which unhesitatingly recognized his genius. to the expressions of "miseducated" and "unripe," as only applicable to the errors in " Endymion," and his earlier poems; and to "half-finished," as only applicable (we believe this is correct?) to "Hyperion," there can be no sort of doubt of the influence. But there is this peculiarity attached to it, one which stands alone in the history, certainly of all modern influences. It is, that he has not had a single mechanical imitator. There is an excellent reason for this. A mechanical imitation of style, or by choice of similar subjects, would not bear any resemblance to Keats; no one would recognize the intended imitation. When somebody expressed his surprise to Shelley, that Keats, who was not very conversant with the Greek language, could write so finely and classically of their gods and goddesses, Shelley replied, "He was a Greek." We may also refer to what Landor has said of him, in the paper headed with that gentleman's name in this present work. The writings of Keats are saturated and instinct with the purest inspiration of poetry; his mythology is full of ideal passion; his divinities are drawn as from "the life," nay, from their inner and essential life; his enchantments and his "faery land" are exactly like the most lovely and truthful records of one who has been a dweller among them, and a participator in their mysteries; and his descriptions of pastoral scenery, are often as natural and simple as they are romantic, and tinged all over with ideal beauty. Admitting all the faults, errors in taste, and want of design in his earliest works, but laying our hands with full faith upon his "Lamia," Isabella," "The Eve of St. Agnes," the four "Odes" in the same collection, and the fragment of " Hyperion," we unhesitatingly say that there is no poet, ancient or modern, upon whom the title of "Divine " can be more appropriately conferred than upon Keats. While the "Satanic School" was in its glory, it is no great wonder that -Wordsworth should have been a constant laughing-stock, and Keats an object for contemptuous dismissal to the tomb. It must, however, be added, that the marked neglect of the public towards the latter has continued down to the present day. The pure Greek wine of Keats has been set aside for the thin gruel of Kirk White. But if there be faith in the pure Ideal, and in the progress of intelligence and refinement, the ultimate recognition of Keats by the public will |