The Press.
London, England, 1854-04-22 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

wand and encompassed by a golden band.
Ridiculous as this epithet becomes from its
constant repetition, it may pass muster in the
above cases,—" golden smoke" is more ques-
tionable, but what shall we say to " golden
thunders" ? Here, as in many like instances,
the author, through the mechanical habit
which has grown upon him, totally loses his
discriminating faculty. He is more profuse in
blazonry than the Heralds College, and spreads
more gilding over his pages than covers the
state coat of Garter King at Arms.
Yet we repeat Mr. Frederick Tennyson is a
poet, and we could cull many admirable pas-
sages from his volume in proof of our asser-
tion. He excels, when he gives his genius
fair play, in charming pictures of country life,
which often are as distinct and perfect as the
landscapes of Wilson or Constable. The
afternoon song of the blackbird brings
before us village scenery under its most
poetical aspects :

How soft the lovelight of the West reposes
On this green valley's cheery solitude,
On the trim cottage with its screen of roses,
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood,
And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings
Its bubbling freshness—while the Blackbird sings.
The very dial on the village church
Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy rest ;
The scribbled benches underneath the porch
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ;
But the broad casements of the old Three Kings
Blaze like a furnace—while the Blackbird sings.
• • •
Before her home, in her accustom'd seat,
The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet
The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid;
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
And spells in silence—while the Blackbird sings.
• • • •
The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manorhouse,
With its peach-cover'd walls, and rookery loud,
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screen'd with boughs,
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings
Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings.
•

Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal,
Where the great stack is piling in the sun ;
Thro' narrow gates o'erladen waggons reel,
And barking curs into the tumult run :
While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings
The merry tempest—and the Blackbird sings.

- • i
Now the good Vicar passes from his gate
Serene, with long white hair ; and in his eye
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer'd Fate,
And felt the wings of immortality ;
His heart is throng'd With great imaginings,
And tender mercies—while the Blackbird sings.

" Harvest Home" is another pretty rural
piece ; and as an example of the deeper feel-
ing and more imaginative power to be found
in the volume we can point to the fine lines
headed " Women and Children." We extract
but the second and third stanzas :
Oh if no faces were beheld on earth,
But toiling manhood, and repining age,
No welcome eyes of innocence and mirth
To look upon us kindly, who would wage
The gloomy battle for himself alone ?
Or through the dark of the o'erhanging cloud
Look wistfully for light? who would not groan
Beneath his daily task, and weep aloud?
But little children take us by the hand,
And gaze with trustful cheer into our eyes;
Patience and fortitude beside us stand
In woman's shape, and waft to heav'n our sighs ;
The guiltless child holds back the arm of guilt
Upraised to strike, and woman may atone
With sinless tears for sins of man, and melt
The damning seal when evil deeds are done.

Of the more ambitious pieces " Evening " is
one of the best. The opening lines are fine,
though we demur to " wheels of rayless
flame ":
Hush ! it is Even, dark•eyed Even,
With her low song, and tender sigh,
Soft•utter'd voice of Earth to Heaven

Witness'd by one sweet star of high;
On wheels of rayless flame she passeth by,
And Peace sits by her clasp'd unto her heart;
Hatred, relent ; and, Care, forget thy smart,
And, Anger, droop thine eye.
Dusky Memories throng her way,
Bright Fancies from the shadows peep,
And Hopes that panted in the day
Sadly hide their eyes and weep ;
Lorn Griefs look up into the balmy sky,
Plumed Love upon the soundless air comes out,
And Wit he bears his wavering lamp about,
Despair seeks where to die.
Before concluding we must allude to one
other characteristic of the book. Is it through
design or through carelessness that Mr. F.

SATURDAY,

Tennyson's verse seems to challenge compa-
rison with that of some of our most illustrious
bards ? The poem " Evening " bears strong
generic likeness to Milton's "Il Penseroso."
In the lines on the skylark are the same
thoughts and the same similes that are to be
found in the famous ode of Shelley. In his
first verse Mr. Tennyson asks,

Is it a Lira or star?
whilst' in Shelley we have

Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight.

In the third verse is the singular line,

Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers,
intended perhaps to be contrasted with Shel-
ley's,

Keen as are the arrows of that silver, &c.

Again Mr. Tennyson writes,

So the victorious poet sings alone,
And fills with light his solitary home,
thinking it perhaps an improvement on Shel-
ley's,
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden
Till the world, oce.
Mr. Tennyson's line,

Fondest hearts are stabbed with deepest pain,
suggests an unfavourable comparison with
Burns's,
Hearts that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill with deepest notes of woe.
And the address to Woman,
To thee kind angel, 0 to thee belongs
To minister unto the sick man's brow,
is unfortunate, if only because Scott's lines,

When pain or sickness wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou,
are so hackneyed.
It would be easy to point out very many of
such resemblances, but we certainly do not
accuse our author of intentional plagiarism
from works so well known. They show, how-
ever, the carelessness with which ho com-
poses, and suggest a doubt whether he has
any great original power. In any future pro-
duction from his pen we should be glad to re-
cognise more careful thought, as, though some
inspired minds may write from impulse, poets
of this author's capacity can only hope, as his
motto—Per aspera ad ardua tendo—implies, to
arrive at excellence by great diligence and
severe mental discipline.