Mr. Tennyson's last production is "The Princess, a Medley," the largest and the most ambitious of his works; it is also his greatest failure. The subject is a sort of counterpart, or "female half" to the plot of Shakspere's "Love's Labor Lost;" it may also be considered as a pleasing banter on the rights of woman. It relates to a certain philosophical princess, who founded a college of women, to be brought up in high contempt of the present lords of the creation. The royal champion of the rights of woman has been betrothed to a neighboring prince, and the poet, assuming the character of this prince, narrates the tale.

The royal mistress of a college, where no men are permitted to make their appearance, scouts the idea of being bound by any such pre-contract. The lover, however, will not resign the lady; he resolves to insist upon the fulfilment of the bond. He therefore sets forth with two companions, Cyril and Florian. They disguise themselves in female apparel, and gain admission to the palace college of fair damsels.

"There at a board by tome and paper sat,

With two tame leopards couched beside her throne,

All beauty compassed in a female form,

The princess; liker to the inhabitant

Of some clear planet close upon the sun,

Than our man's earth. She rose her height and said,
'We give you welcome; not without redound

Of fame and profit unto yourselves ye come,

The first-fruits of the stranger: aftertime,

And that full voice which circled round the grave
Will rank you nobly, mingled up with me.
What! are the ladies of your land so tall?'

'We of the court,' said Cyril. From the court!'

She answered; 'then you know the prince?' And he,
The climax of his age; as though there were
One rose in all the world-your highness that-
He worships your ideal.' And she replied:

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'We did not think in our own hall to hear
This barren verbiage, current among men—
Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment;
We think not of him. When we set our hand
To this great work, we purposed with ourselves
Never to wed. You likewise will do well,
Ladies, in entering here, to cast and fling
The tricks which make us toys of men, that so,
Some future time, if so indeed you will,
You may with those self-styled our lords ally
Your fortunes, justlier balanced, scale with scale.'
At these high words, we, conscious of ourselves,
Perused the matting."

Singular to say, the princess has selected two widows, Lady Blanche and Lady Psyche, for the chief assistants in her new establishment; both of these have children, one an infant. The three disguised knights place them under the tuition of Lady Psyche, who proves to be the sister of Florian. This leads to a discovery:

"My brother! oh, she said,

What do you here? and in this dress? and these,

Why, who are these? a wolf within the fold!

A plot! a plot! a plot! to ruin all!"

All three appeal to Psyche's feelings; she agrees to conceal the discovery, on condition that they will steal away as soon as possible. The princess rides out, and summons her three new pupils to attend her; after much long and learned discourse, they sit down to a pic-nic. Here Cyril, forgetting his womanly reserve, sings a merry stave, which discovers all; a general flight ensues. The Princess Ida falls into a stream, owing to her horse taking fright. The prince, of course, saves her; it, however, avails him nothing. He is brought before her, she sitting in state. She is guarded by eight mighty daughters of the plough. She then scornfully dismisses him. The prince's father arrives with an army to liberate his

son; the fair virago's brother comes with another for her protection. A battle ensues, and the lover is dangerously wounded. Compassion rises in the heart of Ida, she nurses the wounded prince, and while she nurses, love finds an entrance. The college is broken up, and marriage closes the poem.

It is impossible for a true poet to write a long poem without revealing some snatches of his genius, and, although generally speaking, this poem is a mournful instance of mistaken powers, it abounds in fine passages. For example, the beauty of the following lament, made by Lady Psyche, when deprived of her child by the princess, is very striking:

"Ah me, my babe, my blossom, ah my child!
My one sweet child, whom I shall see no more;
For now will cruel Ida keep her back;
And either she will die for want of care,
Or sicken with ill usage, when they say

The child is hers; and they will beat my girl,
Remembering her mother. O, my flower!

Or they will take her, they will make her hard;

And she will pass me by in after life

With some cold reverence, worse than were she dead.
But I will go and sit beside the doors,

And make a wild petition night and day,
Until they hate to hear me, like a wind
Wailing for ever, till they open to me,
And lay my little blossom at my feet,
My babe, my sweet Aglaia, my one child;
And I will take her up and go my way,

And satisfy my soul with kissing her.'"

After the combat between Arac and the prince, when all parties had congregated on what had been the field of battle, this child is lying on the grass—

"Psyche ever stole

A little nearer, till the babe that by us,

Half lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede,

Laid like a new-fallen meteor on the grass,
Uncared for, spied its mother, and began
A blind and babbling laughter, and to dance
Its body, and reach its fatling innocent arms,
And lazy, lingering fingers. She the appeal

Brook'd not, but clamoring out, Mine-mine-not yours;

It is not yours, but mine; give me the child,'

Ceased all in tremble; piteous was the cry."

Cyril, wounded in the fight, raises himself on his knee, and implores of the princess to restore the child to her. She relents, but does not give it to the mother, to whom she is not yet reconciled-giving it, however, to Cyril.

"Take it, sir,' and so

Laid the soft babe in his hard mail'd hands,
Who turned half round to Psyche, as she sprang
To embrace it, with an eye that swam in thanks,
Then felt it sound and whole from head to foot,
And hugg'd, and never hugg'd it close enough;
And in her hunger mouth'd and mumbled it,
And hid her bosom with it; after that

Put on more calm."

A sketch of one of the female students reading in the maiden's university is pretty:

"One walked-reading by herself, and one

In this hand held a volume as to read,

And smoothed a petted peacock down with that.
Some to a love-song varied a shallop by,

Or under arches of the marble bridge

Hung shadow'd from the heat."

A description of a laughing, petulant daughter of a baronet is

well thrown off:

"At this upon the sward

She kept her tiny silken-sandaled foot:

'That's your light way, but I would make it death

For any male thing but to peep at us.'

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laughed :
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns,

And sweet as English air could make her, she."

It is a curious study to read Shakspere's play and Tennyson's poem; let our readers try the experiment; the mixed state of feeling will amply repay them at the end.

Alfred Tennyson is the son of a clergyman of Lincolnshire. He went through the usual routine of a classical education at Trinity College, Cambridge. His brothers and sisters partake of his poetical and musical nature, and are much attached to each other. Charles has published a volume of Sonnets and Poems, full of sweet poetical fancies; as a graceful appendage to his greater kinsman's fame, we will give one of his sonnets:

SONNET BY CHARLES TENNYSON.

"I trust thee from my soul, oh! Mary dear,
But ofttimes when delight has fullest power,
Hope treads too lightly for herself to hear,
And doubt is ever by until the hour;
I trust thee, Mary, but till thou art mine
Up from thy foot unto thy golden hair
O let me still misgive thee, and repine,
Uncommon doubts spring up with blessings rare!
Thine eyes of purest love give surest sign,
Drooping with fondness, and thy blushes tell
A flitting tale of steadiest faith and zeal:

Yes, I will doubt, to make success divine;

A tide of summer dreams with gentlest swell

Will bear upon me then, and I shall love most well!"

It is pleasant to know that a great poet's household is among the number of his admirers; it seems to take part of the sting of the old adage out of the saying "that no man is a prophet in his own land." Tennyson avoids general society, preferring to sit quietly with a friend, discussing the fancies that pour in his mind. He has