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, Of fame and profit unto yourselves ye come, The first-fruits of the stranger: aftertime, And that full voice which circled round the grave 'We of the court,' said Cyril. From the court!' She answered; 'then you know the prince?' And he, ་ 'We did not think in our own hall to hear 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! The child is hers; and they will beat my girl, 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. And make a wild petition night and day, 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, 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, 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. 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 : 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, 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 |