quintessence it collects. It speaks out Khan" to Hazlitt, "the Thousand-andthe sentiments of millions of thankful One Nights?"—"No," was the answer.hearts. We feel in it what a noble thing "That's because you don't dream." But was the Arabian mind-like the Arabian surely, since the "noticeable man, with soil, "all the Sun's"-like the Arabian large grey eyes," awoke in death from climate, fervid, golden-like the Arabian his long life-dream, no poet has arisen of horse, light, elegant, ethereal, swift as the whom the word were more true than of wind. "Oh, for the golden prime of good Tennyson, whether in reproach or comHaroun Alraschid!" Oh, for one look-mendation, asleep or awake-" Behold though it were the last-of that Persian this dreamer cometh." maid, whom the poet has painted in In "Enone," we find him up on the words vivid as colours, palpable almost heights of Ida, with the large footprints as sense. Talk of enchantment! The of gods and goddesses still upon its sward, "Thousand-and-One Nights" is one en- and the citadel and town of Troy, as yet chantment-more powerful than the lamp unfallen, as yet unassailed, visible from of Aladdin, or the "Open Sesame" of its summit. Here the poet sees a vision Ali Baba. The author, were he one of his own-a vision which, recorded in not many-is a magician-a genie-verse, forms a high third with Wordsgreater than Scott, than Cervantes, equal worth's "Laodamia" and Keats' "Hyto Shakspere himself. What poetry, perion," in the classical style. Less aupassion, pathos, beauty of sentiment, ele- stere and magnificent than the poem of gance of costume, ingenuity of contri- Keats, which seems not so much a torso vance, wit, humour, farce, interest, va- of earthly art as a splinter fallen from riety, tact in transition, sunniness of some other exploded world-less chaste, spirit, dream-like wealth of imagination, polished, and spiritual, than "Laodamia," incidental but precious light cast upon that Elgin marble set in Elysian light, it customs, manners, history, religioneverything, in short, that can amuse or amaze, instruct or delight, the human spirit! Like the "Pilgrim's Progress," devoured by boys, it is a devout study for bearded men.

surpasses both in picturesque distinctness and pathetic power. The story is essentially that of "Locksley Hall,” but the scene is not among the flat and sandy moorland of Lincolnshire, but in the green gorges and lawns of Ida. The deceived Tennyson has expressed, especially, the lover is Enone, daughter of a river-god. moonlight voluptuousness of tone and She has been deceived by Paris, and her spirit which breathes around those de-plaint is the poem. Melancholy her song, licious productions, as well as the lavish as that of a disappointed woman-melomagnificence of dress and decoration, of dious as that of an aggrieved goddess. It furniture and architecture, which were is to Ida, her mother mountain, that she worthy of the witch element, the sunny cli- breathes her sorrow. She tells her of her mate, and the early enchanted era, where lover's matchless beauty-of her yielding and when they were written. But we up her heart to him-of the deities doubt if he mates adequately with that descending to receive the golden apple more potent and terrible magic which from his hands-of his deciding it to haunts their higher regions, as in the Venus, upon the promise of the "fairest sublime picture of the Prince's daughter and most loving wife in Greece"-of his fighting with the Enchanter in mid air, abandonment of Enone, and of her deor in the mysterious grandeur which fol- spair. Again and again, in her agony, she lows all the adventures of Aboulfaouris. cries for death; but the grim Shadow, With this, too, indeed, he must have too busy in hewing down the happy, will sympathy; for it is evident that he abun- not turn aside at her miserable bidding. dantly fulfils Coleridge's test of a genuine Her despair at last becomes fury; her lover of the "Arabian Nights." "Do tears begin to burn; she will arise-she you admire," said the author of "Kubla will leave her dreadful solitude

the incarnation of restlessness and insatiable activity. Sick of Ithaca, Argus, Telemachus, and (sub rosa) of Penelope too, the old, much-enduring Mariner King is again panting for untried dangers and undiscovered lands:

"My purpose holds, To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die.”

Tennyson, with his fine artistic instinct, saw that the idea of Ulysses at rest was an incongruous thought, and has chosen rather to picture him journeying ever onwards toward infinity or death

It may be, that the gulfs will wash us down

It may be, we shall reach the happy isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew."

"I will rise and go Down into Troy, and, ere the stars come forth, Talk with the wild Cassandra; for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of arm'd men. What this may be I know not; but I know That whereso'er I am, by night and day, All earth and air seems only burning fire." And fancy follows Enone to Ilium, and sees the two beautiful broken-hearted maidens meeting, like two melancholy flames, upon one funeral pile, mingling their hot tears, exchanging their sad stories, and joining, in desperate exultation, at the prospect of the ruin which is already darkening, like a tempest, round the towers and temples of Troy. It is pleasant to find from such productions that, after all, the poetry of Greece is not dead-that the oaks of Delphos and Dodona have not shed all their oracular leaves-that the lightnings in Jove's hand are still warm And with breathless interest, and a feel-and the snows of Olympus are yet clearing approaching the sublime, we watch and bright, shining over the waste of years the grey-headed monarch stepping, with —that Mercury's feet are winged still his few aged followers, into the bark, and still is Apollo's hair unshorn-that the mythology of Homer, long dead to belief, is still alive to the airy purposes of poetry-that, though the "dreadful infant's hand" hath smitten down the gods upon the capitol, it has left then the freedom of the Parnassian Hill; and that a Wordsworth, or a Tennyson, may even now, by inclining the ear of imagination, hear the river-god plunging in Scamander -Enone wailing upon Ida-Old Triton blowing his wreathed horn; for never was a truth more certain, than that "a thing of beauty is a joy for ever."

which is to be their home till death, and stretching away toward eternity; and every heart and imagination cry out after him-" Go, and return no more."

And

"Godiva" is an old story newly tolda delicate subject delicately handled—the final and illuminated version of an ancient and world-famous tradition.. Its beauty is, that, like its heroine, it is clothed on with chastity." It represses the imagination as gently and effectually as her naked virtue did the eye. We hold our breath, and shut every window of our fancy, till the great ride be over. We had intended to say something of in this trial and triumph of female resohis "Lotos-Eaters," but are afraid to lution and virtue, the poet would have break in upon its charmed rest-to dis- us believe that nature herself sympathised turb its sleepy spell-to venture on that that the light was bashful, and the land "in which it seemed always afternoon" or to stir its melancholy, mildeyed inhabitants. We will pass it by, treading so softly that the "blind mole may not hear a footfall." We must beware of slumbering, and we could hardly but be dull on the enchanted ground.

While "The Lotos-Eeaters" breathes the very spirit of luxurious repose, and seems, to apply his own words, a perfect poem in "perfect rcst," " Ulysses" is

sun ashamed, and the wind hushed, till the sublime pilgrimage was past-and that, when it ended, a sigh of satisfaction, wide as the circle of earth and heaven, proclaimed Godiva's victory.

"The Vision of Sin" strikes, we think, upon a stronger, though darker, chord than any of his other poems. There are in it impenetrable obscurities, but, like jet black ornaments, some may think them dearer for their darkness. You

And on the glimmering limit, far withGod made himself an awful rose of dawn.” drawn,

A reply there is; but whether in the affirmative or negative, we do not know. A revelation there is; but whether it be an interference in behalf of the sinner, or a display, in ruddy light, of God's rightdeep uncertainty. Tennyson, like Adeousness in his punishment, is left in dison in his "Vision of Mirza," ventures not to withdraw the veil from the left side of the eternal ocean. He leaves the curtain to be the painting. He permits it dare, shapes of beauty, or forms of fiery the imagination of the reader to figure, if wrath, upon the "awful rose of dawn," as upon a vast background. It is his only to start the thrilling suggestion.

And, lighted there, he utters his bitter and blasted feelings in lines reminding After all, we have considerable misgivus, from their fierce irony, their misan-ings about placing Tennyson-for what thropy, their thrice-drugged despair, of he has hitherto done-among our great Swift's "Legion Club;" and—as in that poets. We cheerfully accord him great wicked, wondrous poem-a light sparkle powers; but he is, as yet, guiltless of of contemptuous levity glimmers with a great achievements. His genius is bold, ghastly sheen over the putrid pool of but is waylaid at almost every step by the malice and misery below, and cannot all timidity and weakness of his temperadisguise the workings of that remorse ment. His utterance is not proportionate which is not repentance. At length this to his vision. He sometimes reminds us of sad evil utterance dies away in the throat a dumb man with important tidings withof the expiring sinner, and behind his in, but only able to express them by gesconsummated ruin there arises a "mystic tures, starts, sobs, and tears. His works mountain range," along which voices are are loopholes, not windows, through which heard lamenting, or seeking to explain, intense glimpses come and go, but no the causes of his ruin. One saysbroad, clear, and rounded prospect is commanded. As a thinker, he often seems like one who should perversely pause a hundred feet from the summit of a lofty hill, and refuse to ascend higher. "Up! the breezes call thee-the clouds marshal thy way-the glorious prospect waits thee, as a bride adorned for her husband-angels or gods may meet thee on the topit may be thy Mountain of Transfiguration." But no; the pensive or wilful poet chooses to remain below.

"Behold it was a crime Of sense, avenged by sense, that wore with time."

Another

་་ 'The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame." A third

"He had not wholly quench'd his powerA little grain of conscience made him sour.' And thus, at length, in a darkness visible of mystery and grandeur, the "Vision of Sin" closes:

Nevertheless, the eye of genius is flashing in Tennyson's head, and his ear is un

stopped, whether to the harmonies of na- | rod shivered. Still, even as an artist, ture, or to the still sad music of huma- Tennyson has not yet done himself full nity. We care not much in which of the justice, nor built up any structure so tracks he has already cut out he may shapely, complete, and living, as may choose to walk; but we would prefer if perpetuate his name.* he were persuaded more frequently to Alfred Tennyson is the son of an Engsee visions and dream dreams-like his lish clergyman in Lincolnshire. He is of "Vision of Sin"-imbued with high pur- a retiring disposition, and seldom, though pose, and forming the Modern Metamor- sometimes, emerges from his retirement phoses of truth. We have no hope that into the literary coteries of London. And he will ever be, in the low sense, a po- yet welcome is he ever among them— pular poet, or that to him the task is al- with his eager physiognomy, his dark lotted of extracting music from the railway hair and eyes, and his small, black totrain, or of setting in song the "fairy tales | bacco-pipe. Some years ago, we met a of science"-the great astronomical or brother of his in Dumfries, who bore, we geological discoveries of the age. Nor is he were told, a marked, though miniature likely ever to write anything which, like resemblance to him, a beautiful painter the poems of Burns or Campbell, can go and an expert versifier, after the style of directly to the heart of the entire nation. Alfred. For no "Song of the Shirt," even, need The particulars of his literary career we look from him. But the imaginative- are familiar to most. His first producness of his nature, the deep vein of his tion was a small volume of poems, pubmoral sentiment, the bias given to his lished in 1831. Praised in the "Westmind by his early reading, the airy charm minster" elaborately, and extravagantly of his versification, and the seclusion in eulogised in the "Englishman's Magawhich he lives, like a flower in its own zine" (a periodical conducted by William peculiar jar, all seem to prepare him for Kennedy, but long since defunct, and becoming a great spiritual dreamer, who which, according to some malicious permight write not only "Recollections of the sons, died of this same article)—it was Arabian Nights," but "Arabian Nights" sadly mangled by less generous critics. themselves, equally graceful in costume," Blackwood's Magazine" doled it out but impressed with a deeper sentiment, some severely-sifted praise; and the chastened into severer taste, and warmed author, in his next volume, rhymed back with a purer flame. Success to such his ingratitude in the well-known lines pregnant slumbers! soft be the pillow as to "Rusty, musty, fusty, crusty Christhat of his own "Sleeping Beauty;" may topher," whose blame he forgave, but every syrup of strength and sweetness whose praise he could not. Meanwhile, drop upon his eyelids, and may his dreams be such as to banish sleep from many an eye, and to fill the hearts of millions with beauty!

he was quietly forming a small but zealous cohort of admirers; and some of his poems, such as "Mariana," &c., were universally read and appreciated. His On the whole, Tennyson is less a pro- second production was less successful, phet than an artist. And this alone and deserved to be less successful, than would serve better to reconcile us to his the first. It was stuffed with wilful imsilence, should it turn out that his poetic career is over. The loss of even the above, is not even an attempt towards a His "Princess," published since the finest artist may be supplied-that of whole. Nor do we admire so much as the a prophet, who has been cut off in the public his "In Memoriam." It is a succesmidst of his mission, or whose words some sion of fine quaint moralisings, with many envious influence or circumstance has timid gleams of thought, but with no adesnatched from his lips, is irreparable. Inquate subject, no consecutive power, no new insight, no free, strong motion, no real unity, the one case, it is but a painter's pencil and discovering rather an elaborate and imithat is broken; in the other, it is a magic tative ingenuity than original genius.

pertinences and affectations. His critics in their dim ocean mangers; but we are told him he wrote ill, and he answered not so willing to part with that beautiful them by writing worse. His third ex- sisterhood, and hope to see them again hibited a very different spirit. It con- at no distant day, standing in their lovely sisted of a selection from his two former isle, and singing, volumes, and a number of additional pieces the principal of which we have already analysed. In his selection, he winnows his former works with a very salutary severity; but what has he done with that delectable strain of the "Syrens?" We think he has acted well in stabling and shutting up his "Krakens"

"Come hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we.

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words.

Ye will not find so happy a shore,
Weary mariners, all the world o'er.
Oh fly, oh fly no more."

DR GEORGE CROLY.

" and the

taken foremost places in the walks of letters and science, and yet have voluntarily devoted themselves to the Christian cause, and yet continue amid all this de

Not only is the literary divine not a dis- should "help the woman; " grace to his profession, he is a positive thunder of a Bossuet, a Massillon, a Hall, honour. His pulpit becomes an emi- or a Chalmers breaking from the pulpit, nence, commanding a view of both worlds. does not speak so loud in behalf of our He is a witness at the nuptials of truth faith as the "still, small voice" issuing and beauty, and the general cause of from the studious chamber of an Addison, Christianity is subserved by him in more a Boyle, a Bowdler, an Isaac Taylor, and ways than one; for, first, the names of a Cowper. But men who might have great men devoted at once to letters and religion neutralise, and more than neutralise, those which are often produced and paraded on the other side; again, they show that the theory of science votion tremblingly alive to all the graces, sanctified, and literature laid down before the Lord, has been proved and incarnated in living examples, and does not therefore remain in the baseless regions of mere hypothesis; and, thirdly, they evince that, even if religion be an imposture and a delusion, it is one so plausible and powerful as to have subjugated very strong intellects, and that it will not therefore do for every sciolist in the school of infidelity to pretend contempt for those who confess that it has commanded and convinced them.

Literary divines, next to religious laymen, are the chosen champions of Christianity. We say next to laymen, for, when they come forth from their desks, their laboratories, or observatories, and bear spontaneous testimony in behalf of religion, it is as though the "earth" again

beauties, and powers of literature, are surely standing evidences at least of the sincerity of their own convictions, if not of the truth of that faith on which these convictions centre. And when they openly give testimony to their belief, we listen as if we heard science and literature themselves pronouncing the creed, or swearing the sacramental oath of Christianity.

Such an one is Dr George Croly. He might have risen to distinction in any path he chose to pursue; he has attained wide eminence as a literary man; he has never lost sight of the higher aims of his own profession; and he is now in the ripe autumn of his powers, with redoubled energy and hope, about to dive down in search of new pearls in that old deep which communicates with the omniscience of God.