PART III.

There she weaves by night and dayA magic web5with colors gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo look down to Camelot.She knows not what the curse may be,And so she weaveth steadily,And little other care hath she,The Lady of Shalott.And moving through a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river-eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbott on an ambling pad,6Sometimes a curly shepherd-ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed."I am half-sick of shadows," saidThe Lady of Shalott.7

And moving through a mirror clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding down to Camelot:There the river-eddy whirls,And there the surly village-churls,And the red cloaks of market girlsPass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,An abbott on an ambling pad,6Sometimes a curly shepherd-ladOr long-haired page in crimson clad,Goes by to towered Camelot;And sometimes through the mirror blue,The knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirrored magic sights,For often through the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot;Or, when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed."I am half-sick of shadows," saidThe Lady of Shalott.7

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,He rode between the barley-sheaves,The sun came dazzling through the leaves,And flamed upon the brazen greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross8knight forever kneeledTo a lady in his shieldThat sparkled on the yellow field,Beside remote Shalott.The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.9The bridle-bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric10slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor,11trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed12into the crystal mirror,"Tirra lirra," by the river13Sang Sir Lancelot.She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," criedThe Lady of Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,Like to some branch of stars we seeHung in the golden Galaxy.9The bridle-bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazoned baldric10slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armor rung,Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurned like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often through the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor,11trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flowedHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flashed12into the crystal mirror,"Tirra lirra," by the river13Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces through the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She looked down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," criedThe Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver towered Camelot;Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wrote,The Lady of Shalott.And down the river's dim expanse—Like some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott."

And down the river's dim expanse—Like some bold seër in a trance,Seeing all his own mischance—With a glassy countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Through the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe willowy hills and fields among,They heard her singing her last song,The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,Till her blood was frozen slowly,And her eyes were darkened wholly,Turned to towered Camelot;For ere she reached upon the tideThe first house by the water-side,Singing in her song she died,The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,By garden-wall and gallery,A gleaming shape she floated by,A corse between the houses high,Silent into Camelot.Out upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they crossed themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot;But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, "She has a lovely face;God in his mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott."

This poem was written in 1832. Considered as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into theIdyllcalled "Elaine," wherein he followed more closely the original narrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.

Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the Round Table, and for him Elaine, "the fair maid of Astolat," conceived a hopeless passion. "Her love was platonic and pure as that of a child, but it was masterful in its strength." Having learned that Lancelot was pledged to celibacy, she pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother, and having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spake thus:

"'While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and over.' . . . So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to Westminster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man espied."[23:A]At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the waterside, and seeing the boat and the lily maid of Astolat, they uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.

"But Arthur spied the letter in her hand,Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all:'Most noble Lord, Sir Lancelot of the Lake,I, sometime called the maid of Astolat,Come, for you left me taking no farewell,Hither, to take my last farewell of you.I loved you, and my love had no return,And therefore my true love has been my death. . . .Pray for my soul and yield me burial.Pray for my soul thou too Sir Lancelot,As thou art a knight peerless.'"[24:A]

And so the maid was buried, "not as one unknown, nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies, and mass and rolling music, like a queen. And the story of her dolorous voyage was blazoned on her tomb in letters gold and azure."

1.wold.An open tract of hilly country, where but few trees are left. This word is more frequently used, however, to designate a forest or thick wood.

2.Camelot.It is supposed that this Camelot was Winchester. It was the seat of King Arthur's court, and visitors are still shown the remains of what appear to have been certain kinds of intrenchments, which the inhabitants call "King Arthur's Palace." Sir Thomas Malory says: "Sir Ballin's sword was put into marble stone, standing it upright as a great millstone, and it swam down the stream to the city of Camelot, that is, in English, Wincheste." There was another Camelot, also King Arthur's capital, on the river Camel, in Cornwall, to which Shakespeare makes reference inKing Lear, II, ii. Tennyson, in "Gareth and Lynette," describes the appearance of the city when approached in the early morning:

"Far off they saw the silver-misty mornRolling her smoke about the Royal mount,That rose between the forest and the field.At times the summit of the high city flash'd;At times the spires and turrets half-way downPrick'd thro' the mist; at times the great gate shoneOnly, that open'd on the field below:Anon, the whole fair city had disappear'd."

3.dusk.Produce a ruffled surface. A very rare use of this word. The river referred to is probably the Thames.

4.trailed.Lat.traho, to draw; Dutchtreilen, to tow. What picture is presented to the imagination in the first five lines of this stanza? How do the barges differ in appearance and movement from the shallop mentioned two lines below?

5.web.Anything woven.stay.Stop.

6.pad.An easy-going saddle-horse; a palfrey. Describe the picture which is presented in this stanza.

7.Explain the meaning of the Lady's exclamation.

8.red-cross knight.A Knight wearing a red cross. One of King Arthur's Knights. The red-cross Knight in Spenser'sFaerie Queenesymbolizes holiness.

"And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,And dead, as living ever, him ador'd;Upon his shield the like was also scor'd,For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had.Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word;But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad."

9.Galaxy.The milky-way. Gr.gala,galaktos, milk.

10.baldric.A belt thrown over the shoulder. From Lat.balteus.

11.bearded meteor.A shooting-star emitting rays of light in the direction in which it moves. The beard of a comet is the light which it throws out in front of it, in distinction from the tail or rays behind.

12.He flashed.His image was thrown upon and reflected from.

13."Tirra lirra." Frenchtire lire. Probably intended to imitate the note of the lark.

[23:A]Malory's King Arthur, Part III.

[24:A]Tennyson's Elaine.

I come from haunts of coot1and hern,2I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker3down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps,4a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland5setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel6covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom,7I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my shady shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly8bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.

I come from haunts of coot1and hern,2I make a sudden sally,And sparkle out among the fern,To bicker3down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps,4a little town,And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow,And many a fairy foreland5setWith willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travel,With many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel6covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom,7I glance,Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeams danceAgainst my shady shallows.

I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly8bars;I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on forever.

This little lyric forms a part of "an idyl" of the same title, published in 1855. The poet introduces it in the following manner:

"Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the EastAnd he to Italy—too late—too late:. . . . . . . . . Yet the brook he loved. . . . . seems, as I re-listen to it,Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy,To me that loved him; for, 'O brook,' he says,'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies:'I come from haunts of coot and hern,'" etc.

In reading this poem, observe how strikingly the sound is made to correspond to the sense.

1.coot.A wild water-fowl, resembling the duck.

2.hern.Heron.

3.bicker.To move unsteadily.

4.thorps.Small villages. A. S.thorpe. From Ger.trupp, a troop.

5.foreland.A promontory.

6.hazel covers.Hazel thickets.

7.gloom.Glimmer, shine obscurely.

8.shingly.Gravelly.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land;"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."In the afternoon they came unto a land,In which it seemed always afternoon.All round the coast the languid air did swoon,Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;And like a downward smoke, the slender streamAlong the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;And some through wavering lights and shadows brokeRolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.They saw the gleaming river seaward flowFrom the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops,Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.The charmed sunset lingered low adownIn the red West: through mountain clefts the daleWas seen far inland, and the yellow downBordered with palm, and many a winding valeAnd meadow, set with slender galingale;A land where all things always seemed the same!And round about the keel with faces pale,Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gaveTo each, but whoso did receive of them,And taste, to him the gushing of the waveFar, far away did seem to mourn and raveOn alien shores; and if his fellow spake,His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake,And music in his ears his beating heart did make.They sat them down upon the yellow sand,Between the sun and moon upon the shore;And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,Of child and wife, and slave; but evermoreMost weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.Then some one said, "We will return no more;"And all at once they sang, "Our island homeIs far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;And some through wavering lights and shadows brokeRolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.They saw the gleaming river seaward flowFrom the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops,Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset lingered low adownIn the red West: through mountain clefts the daleWas seen far inland, and the yellow downBordered with palm, and many a winding valeAnd meadow, set with slender galingale;A land where all things always seemed the same!And round about the keel with faces pale,Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gaveTo each, but whoso did receive of them,And taste, to him the gushing of the waveFar, far away did seem to mourn and raveOn alien shores; and if his fellow spake,His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all awake,And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,Between the sun and moon upon the shore;And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,Of child and wife, and slave; but evermoreMost weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.Then some one said, "We will return no more;"And all at once they sang, "Our island homeIs far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

There is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep.And thro' the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weighed upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown:Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,"There is no joy but calm!"Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

Lo! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo'd from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo! sweetened with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of days,The flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labour be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful Past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence; ripen, fall, and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber lightWhich will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other's whispered speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeaped over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears: but all hath suffered change;For surely now our household hearths are cold:Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island-princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten-years' war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The gods are hard to reconcile:'Tis hard to settle order once again.Thereisconfusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labour unto aged breath,Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars,And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

But, propped on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)With half-dropped eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowlyHis waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—To watch the emerald-coloured water fallingThro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine.

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:The Lotos blows by every winding creek:All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:Thro' every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we,Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was seething free,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclinedOn the hills like gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurledFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curledRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whispered, down in hellSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;Oh, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

"Thence for nine whole days was I borne by ruinous winds over the teeming deep; but on the tenth day we set foot on the land of the lotus-eaters, who eat a flowery food. So we stepped ashore and drew water, and straightway my company took their mid-day meal by the swift ships. Now when we had tasted meat and drink, I sent forth certain of my company to go and make search of what manner of men they were who here live upon the earth by bread, and I chose out two of my fellows, and sent a third with them as herald. Then straightway they went and mixed with the men of the lotus-eaters, and so it was that the lotus-eaters devised not death for our fellows, but gave them of the lotus to taste. Now whosoever of them did eat the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus, had no more wish to bring tidings nor to come back, but there he chose to abide with the lotus-eating men, ever feeding on the lotus, and forgetful of his homeward way. Therefore I led them back to the ships weeping, and sore against their will, and dragged them beneath the benches, and bound them in the hollow barques. But I commanded the rest of my well-loved company to make speed and go on board the swift ships, lest haply any should eat of the lotus and be forgetful of returning."—Homer's Odyssey, ix, 80.

"In this poem, 'The Lotos-Eaters,' the artistic ideal of the young poet (it was written in 1830) found its most finished expression and its culminating point. Here he seems to have attained a consciousness that beyond the ideal which he had adopted there is another, larger, grander, and more satisfying. Nowhere else, perhaps, in the range of poetry, is the trance of a listless life so harmoniously married to appropriate melodies and appropriate accompaniments."—North British Review.

Alfred Tennysonwas born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, England, in 1809. His early education was received at home from his father, who was rector of Somersby and vicar of Bennington and Grimsby. He was afterwards sent to Trinity College, Cambridge, where, at the age of twenty, he received the chancellor's medal for a poem in blank verse, entitled "Timbuctoo." In 1830 he published a small volume of "Poems chiefly Lyrical." A revised edition of this volume, published in 1833, contained "The Lady of Shalott," "The Lotos-Eaters," and others of his best-known short poems. In 1850, upon the death of Wordsworth, he was appointed poet-laureate. In the same year he was married to Emily, daughter of Henry Sellwood, Esq., and niece of Sir John Franklin. Since 1851, Tennyson has resided for the greater part of the time at Farringford, Freshwater, Isle of Wight. In December, 1883, he was made Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater.

"Mr. Tennyson," says R. H. Hutton, "was an artist even before he was a poet; in other words, the eye for beauty, grace, and harmony of effect was even more emphatically one of his original gifts than the voice for poetic utterance itself. This, probably, it is which makes his very earliest pieces appear so full of effort, and sometimes even so full of affectation. They were elaborate attempts to embody what he saw, before the natural voice of the poet had come to him. I think it possible to trace not only a pre-poetic period in his art, but to date the period at which the soul was 'infused' into his poetry, and the brilliant external figures became the dwelling-places of germinating poetic thoughts creating their own music. Curiously enough, the first poem where there is any trace of those musings of the Round Table to which he has directed so much of his maturest genius, is also a confession that the poet was sick of the magic mirror of fancy and its picture-shadows, and was turning away from them to the poetry of human life. Whenever Mr. Tennyson's pictorial fancy has had it in any degree in its power to run away with the guiding and controlling mind, the richness and the workmanship have to some extent overgrown the spiritual principle of his poems. It is obvious, for instance, that even in relation to natural scenery, what his poetical faculty delights in most are rich, luxuriantlandscapes, in which either nature or man has accumulated a lavish variety of effects. It is in the scenery of the mill, the garden, the chase, the down, the rich pastures, the harvest-field, the palace pleasure-grounds, the Lord of Burleigh's fair domains, the luxuriant sylvan beauty, bearing testimony to the careful hand of man, 'the summer crisp with shining woods,' that Mr. Tennyson most delights. If he strays to rarer scenes, it is almost in search of richer and more luxuriant loveliness, like the tropical splendors of 'Enoch Arden' and the enervating skies which cheated the Lotos-Eaters of their longing for home."

"Mr. Tennyson," says a writer in theNorth British Review, "deserves an especial study, not only as a poet, but as a leader and a landmark of popular thought and feeling. As a poet, he belongs to the highest category of English writers; for poetry is the strongest and most vigorous branch of English literature. In this literature his works are evidently destined to secure a permanent place; for they express in language refined and artistic, but not unfamiliar, a large segment of the popular thought of the period over which they range. He has, moreover, a clearly marked if not strongly individualized style, which has served as a model for imitators, and as a starting-point for poets who have sought to improve upon it."

Principal Poems of Tennyson:Charge of the Light Brigade, written in 1854; Dora, 1842; The Dying Swan, 1830; Enoch Arden, 1864; Idylls of the King, 1859-1873,—to be read in the following order: The Coming of Arthur; Gareth and Lynette; Geraint and Enid; Merlin and Vivien; Lancelot and Elaine; The Holy Grail; Pelleas and Ettarre; The Last Tournament; Guinevere; The Passing of Arthur;—In Memoriam, 1850 (131 parts); Locksley Hall, 1842; Locksley Hall Sixty Years Afterwards, 1886; Maud, 1855 (3 parts); The Princess, 1847 (7 parts); Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington, 1852.

Dramatic Pieces:Queen Mary, 1875; Harold, 1876; The Cup, 1881; The Falcon, 1882; Becket, 1884; The Foresters: Robin Hood and Maid Marian, 1892.

References:Stedman'sVictorian Poets; Van Dyke'sThe Poetry of Tennyson; Taine'sHistory of English Literature, vol. IV; Kingsley'sMiscellanies; Elsdale'sStudies in the Idylls; Buchanan'sMaster Spirits; Tainsh'sStudies in Tennyson; Hutton'sEssays; Chapman'sCompanion to In Memoriam; Walters'sIn Tennyson Land.

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