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An emblem, viewed with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becomest a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoiled thee of our love;
Still be thou deemed, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat, —
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenished oft with savoury food.

Nor, when thy span of life be past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid ;
And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

O WELCOME bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging lone your airy way;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by;
And welcome shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep!
O welcome all ! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.
Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou in this witching hour !
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night!

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ALFRED TENNYSOx is, we understand, the son of a clergyman residing in Lincoln shire: he was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his degree. He has a brother, Charles, who has published a volume of graceful and beautiful “ Sonnets ;" and another brother, Frederick, is said to possess considerable poetical powers. Their two sisters, also, are, we are told, distinguished by rare abilities. Their home is likened by a correspondent to “ a nest of nightingales.” Mr. Hunt, who has favoured us with some remarks upon the poetry of Alfred Tennyson, states, that he is of the school of Keats: that is to say, it is difficult not to see that Keats has been a great deal in his thoughts; and that he delights in the same brooding over his sensationsand the same melodious enjoyment of their expression. In his desire to communicate this music, he goes so far as to accent the final syllables in his participles passive,-as pleached, crownéd, purple-spikéd, &c.,—with visible printers' marks, which subjects him, but erroneously, to a charge of pedantry; though it is a nicety not complimentary to the reader, and of which he may as well get rid. Much, however, as he reminds us of Keats, his genius is his own : he would have written poetry had his precursor written none; and he has, also, a vein of metaphysical subtlety, in which the other did not indulge, as may be seen by his verses entitled, 'A Character,' those. On the confessions of a Sensitive Mind,' and numerous others. He is, also, a great lover of a certain home kind of landscape, which he delights to paint with a minuteness that, in the "Moated Grange,' becomes affecting, and, in the Miller's Daughter,' would remind us of the Dutch school if it were not mixed up with the same deep feeling, though varied with a pleasant joviality. Mr. Tennyson has yet given no such evidence of sustained and broad power as that of Hyperion,' nor even of such gentler narrative as the Eve of St. Agnes,' and the poems of 'Lamia,' and 'Isabella,' but the materials of the noblest poetry are abundant in him." Hitherto he has but tried the strength of his wings; he is, no doubt, preparing for a more daring flight than he has yet

e are, it is certain, many and glaring faults in his poems: he seems, by his frequent repetitions of them, to consider as beauties things which are unquestionably blemishes. His veneration for the old Poets, and his love for those among his contemporaries who have based their style upon them, have led him to adopt the puerilities in which the age of Elizabeth was fertile : he frequently mistakes affectation for simplicity, and occasionally fancies that to be natural which borders upon burlesque. Thus, several of the most beautiful of his com ositions are marred by some jarring word or conceit. In one of the sweetest of them all," the Miller's Daughter," and in one of the most exquisite stanzas of it, we find an example:

« Look through mine eyes with thine, True wife,
Round my true heart thine arms entwine;
My other dearer life in life,
Look through my very soul with thine
Untouched with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes for ever dwell;
They have not shed A MANY tears,

Dear eyes ! since first I knew them well." Such faults are by no means rare among the poems of Mr. Tennyson. We need, how. ever, but refer to our extracts for proof that his beauties are striking and numerous : and that a little more care would render them exquisitely perfect. We cannot but agree with Mr. Hunt, that " the materials of the noblest poetry are abundant in him." they will become useless, if neglected.

Mr. Tennyson has published two volumes; and the last is not the best. Our extracts are, with but one exception, made from the former. It is to be regretted that the reputation which this work obtained for him did not induce him to write with a higher object than that of amusing and gratifying the reader, by a collection of brief and comparatively unimportant poems; or that until he had succeeded in producing something more worthy of his genius, he did not abstain from appearing a second time before the public. The world will look with anxiety to the next; it will decide the point which is still undecided-whether another great Poet is to be added to the long list which the present century has supplied to us, or whether the industry and energy of the author of " Poems, chiefly Lyrical," are not equal to his delicacy and imagination. His compositions are, undoubtedly, brilliant and beautiful : their merit is sufficient to justify the praise he has received; and it is only because he has afforded ample proof of his capacity to do better, that we lament he has not yet fulfilled the earliest promise of his genius.

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He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak,
Madman !—to chain with chains, and bind with bands
That island queen that sways the floods and lands
From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke,
When from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands,
With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke,
Peal after peal, the British battle broke,
Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands.
We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore
Heard the war moan along the distant sea,
Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires
Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more
We taught him ; late he learned humility,
Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with briars.


With blackest moss the flower plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all ; The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the peach to the garden wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange,

Unlifted was the clinking latch,

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary, -

I would that I were dead!"

Her tears fell with the dews at even,

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide. After the fitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, “ The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking, she heard the night fowl crow : The cock sung out an hour ere light;

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “ The day is dreary,

He cometh not," she said;
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall,

A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The clustered marishmosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver green with gnarled bark,

For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding grey.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up an' away, In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, “ The night is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !"

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creaked; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse

Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about.

Old faces glimmered through the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without.

She only said, “ My life is dreary,

He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “ I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !”

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound

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