ELEANORE. Thy dark eyes opened not, Nor first revealed to English air, For there is nothing there Which from the outward to the inward brought, Far off from human neighborhood Thou wert born on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fanned But thou wert nurst in some delicious land At the moment of thy birth, From old well heads of haunted rills, And shadowed coves on a sunny shore, To deck thy cradle Eleanore ?" In these specimens the poetical reader will find more to admire than to censure; but the critics sometimes are deaf, "charm ye never so wisely" their ears are shut to music, and their eyes to beauty. Three years afterwards, Mr. Tennyson published another volume, and gave the fullest evidence of his poetical genius. He had been wise enough to profit by the criticism of his friends and enemies, and, consequently, the new volume was received with more favor: it showed a marvellous advance on the previous book, and stamped the author as one of the rising men of our time. In this volume were the exquisite poems of "The Miller's Daughter," and "The Proud Lady Clara Vere de Vere." Shortly after he printed a poem called "The Lover's Tale:" this, however, he supprest, contenting himself with giving a few copies away. As he disavows this production, we shall quote nothing from it. It is decidedly unworthy his reputation. Here lapse ten years of Alfred Tennyson's life; silent to the public, but slowly working. In 1843 appeared his two volumes, including many of his old productions previously published, with the addition of many new ones; alterations were also made in those he retained. In this volume he first made audible "The Two Voices," undoubtedly the greatest poem he has written; we observe that it was composed as far back as 1833; contrasting the union of force and thoughtful subtlety displayed in this poem, with the last of his productions, "The Princess," the conclusion is forced upon us that the mind of Alfred Tennyson is not progressive. We shall devote some space to its examination, and select instances of the peculiar force with which the poet places before the mind of his readers thoughts of the utmost subtlety. The poem is an argument, pro. and con. between the hopeful and despondent impulses of our nature, one prompting to suicide, the other urging cheerfulness and patience : "A'still small voice' spake unto me, Thou art so full of misery, 'Were it not better not To BE?' Then to the still small voice I said: 'Let me not cast in endless shade To which the voice did urge reply, Come from the wells where he did lie.' An inner impulse rent the veil He dried his wings-like gauze they grew, I said, 'when first the world began, She gave him mind-the lordliest Thereto the silent voice replied- This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe, Is boundless better-boundless worse."" The despondent spirit then goes on to show that the existence of any particular item is immaterial in so vast an universe. The hope-blest voice demands that some peculiarity gives an individual value to every separate human being. "To which he answered scoffingly— Or will one beam be less intense, Is cancelled in the world of sense!" A shower of tears is the poet's reply. Again the Mephistophilean voice urges the despondency of his heart, as a conclusive argument of the insufficiency of human life to attain felicity. The brighter voice consults patience in you, "Shut the life from happier chance." "Were it not well to bide mine hour, I said when I am gone away— The darkness of his soul avers that it is viler to breathe and watch, than once from dread of pain to die; adding— "Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Go, vexed spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is filled with dust, 'Hard task to pluck resolve!' I cried, He urges that the future may bring a happier time. "To sing the joyful pæan clear, And sitting, burnish without fear The brand, the buckler and the spear." Appealing at the same time to the old visions of future glory, which may yet come to pass. It may yet happen "In some good cause-not in mine own Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, Then dying of a mortal stroke The desponding spirit declares all these are but the "stirrings of the blood," those impulsive delusions, without which life would expire beneath the steadfast weight of misery, and the daily, hourly invasion of wrong. He concludes this strain with a verse painfully revolting to the egotism of man. "For every worm beneath the moon, Draws different threads, and late and soon O dull, one-sided voice, (said I,) I know that age to age succeeds, I said I toil beneath the curse, And that in seeking to undo Consider well-the voice replied, His face that two hours since hath died, Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride?" All the miseries of the human race pass over his head; he is insensible to all. Earthquakes rouse him not. Finely, subtly, logically, the poet answers the doubter "If all be dark-vague voice-I said, These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead." Oh! the volume of thought, the world of suggestion, the chaos of doubt in that one line "Thou canst not show the dead are dead." |