But if we were to instance all that Tennyson has
written, which is distinguished for its melody, we should
have to quote the larger portion of his poems. The
softness and liquid flow of his verse is no where more
remarkable than in that exquisite poem " The Lady of
Shalott," a few stanzas of which we have quoted above.
The choric song in the 66 Lotos Eaters" is also characterized for its melody. The copiousness of language,
without which such music could not be produced , is a
distinguishing feature with Tennyson. We have no
doubt that many, who have been charmed with his
poetry, might trace their admiration of it, in a great
measure, to its almost feminine sweetness.
We have thus proved that Tennyson's writings possess -and that in an eminent degree- one of the two requisites for poetry. But do they possess the other ? Are they always addressed either directly or indirectly to the feelings ?
There is no doubt that Tennyson is an artist, and that he can give a reason for every word he has written, and for the manner in which it has been written. He does not compose at random. Whether his verses flow smoothly from him in all the furor of the poetic phrenzy, or are as carefully composed as those of Gray, we feel that they are constructed after certain fixed rules, which, in the eye of the author, are true canons of poetry. Tennyson's theory is that poetry is the embodiment of the beautiful, in other words that by raising images of beauty in the reader's mind, and clothing these images in a metrical guise, you produce poetry. There is some truth in this idea ; but its fault is that it presents too confined a view of the subject. The love of the beautiful is an emotion ; and whatever is addressed to that emotion may be poetry. In a measure, therefore, the theory of Tennyson is correct. The sight of a beautiful woman, the sound of a fine strain of music, a lovely landscape, a setting sun, the galaxy, a single star, a flower, a fawn, all these raise the emotion of the beautiful in the mind, and the poet who sings of these, or by delicate allusions waking up a long train of associa tions, brings them before our mind, is so far forth a follower of the canon we have laid down- viz. that all poetry appeals either directly or indirectly to the emotions. But his fault is that he does not cover the whole ground. He forgets that the love of the beautiful is not the only emotion of the mind-that in fact there are other feelings and passions infinitely more powerful, all of which are susceptible of being excited, and to which, therefore, the poet ought to address himself. The love of country-hatred of wrong-emulation of great deeds -admiration of brave warriors -sympathy for the suffering-a feeling of brotherhood toward all men-veneration for the good of every age-the awe which the notions of Eternity and Deity excite, and a thousand other emotions have been successfully appealed to by Homer, Eschylus, Dante, Shakspeare, Milton, and in short every great poet, since the morning stars first sang together, or God gifted men with the prophetic faculty of song . But these emotions are disregarded, in the narrow view taken of the subject, by such poets as Tennyson. The consequence is that, cramped and confined by their theory, they can never rise to the loftiest heights of poetry, unless by a partial disregard of their creed. Their whole time is consumed in searching after and embodying the beautiful, so that they became at length mystical and emasculated. This effeminacy is noticeable in Keats, this mysticism in Tennyson and Jones Verey- all of whom write after this false creed, though the first continually violated its rules, and by that violation produced his best works. ' So the finest poem of Tennyson is opposed to his own theory of poetry ; for what is there of the beautiful in the ballad of Oriana ? a poem where passion is all in all. As it will exemplify our views, and is, moreover, the most glorious of Tennyson's poems, we give it entire.
ORIANA.
My heart is wasted with my wo,
Oriana ;
There is no rest for me below,
Oriana.
When the long dull wolds are ribbed with snow,
And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow.
Oriana,
Alone I wander to and fro,
Oriana.
Ere the light on dark was growing,
Oriana,
At midnight the cock was crowing,
Oriana,
Winds were blowing, waters flowing,
We heard the steeds to battle going,
Oriana ;
And the hollow bugle blowing,
Oriana.
In the yew wood, black as night,
Oriana,
Ere I rode into the fight,
Oriana,
While blissful tears blinded my sight,
By the starshine and moonlight,
Oriana,
I to thee my troth did plight,
Oriana.
She stood upon the castle wall,
Oriana ;
She watched my crest among them all,
Oriana ;
She saw me fight, she heard me call,
When forth there stepped a foeman tall,
Oriana,
Between me and the castle wall,
Oriana.
The bitter arrow went aside,
Oriana ;
The false, false arrow went aside,
Oriana ;
The damned arrow glanced aside,
And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride,
Oriana!
Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride,
Oriana!
