Over the world to the end of it
Flash for a million miles.'
Surely these songs, even in the fragmentary state in which we have been forced to give them, will be recognized as the work of a great master, by everyone who has the feeling and the fancy requisite for any appreciation of poetry, and are surely as worthy of Mr. Tennyson's genius as Shakspeare's songs are of his, or the lyrics in 'Wilhelm Meister' of Goethe's. They are full of the old exquisite art that has endeared the songs of the 'Princess' to so many thousand hearts. We find here, as in those and other old favourites, those lovely and indescribable touches which seem to paint in sound or air the very things they name—the
'Winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still;'
the
'Wet west wind, how you blow, how you blow;'—
There is the alliteration that is so magical because so seldom used—
'Woods where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stay'd to be kind,
Meadows in which we met;'