'Then cease, my friend, a little while
That I may'—
'send my love to my mother,' or 'give you some hints about bees, which I have picked up from Aristæus, in the Elysian Fields,' or 'tell you how I am situated as to my own personal comforts in the world below'?—oh no—
'That I may—hear the throstle sing
His bridal song—the boast of spring.
Sweet as the noise, in parchèd plains,
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,
(If any sense in me remains)
Thy words will be—thy cheerful tones
As welcome to—my crumbling bones!'—p. 4.
'If any sense in me remains!'—This doubt is inconsistent with the opening stanza of the piece, and, in fact, too modest; we take upon ourselves to re-assure Mr. Tennyson, that, even after he shall be dead and buried, as much 'sense' will still remain as he has now the good fortune to possess.
We have quoted these first two poems in extenso, to obviate any suspicion of our having made a partial or delusive selection. We cannot afford space—we wish we could—for an equally minute examination of the rest of the volume, but we shall make a few extracts to show—what we solemnly affirm—that every page teems with beauties hardly less surprising.
The Lady of Shalott is a poem in four parts, the story of which we decline to maim by such an analysis as we could give, but it opens thus—
'On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky—
And through the field the road runs by.'
The Lady of Shalott was, it seems, a spinster who had, under some unnamed penalty, a certain web to weave.
'Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel singing clearly....