Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/368

. Did our limits permit it we might give numerous instances. Still, with all these faults, Tennyson is a fine poet, and has proved himself to be a man of genius. His style is based on that of Keats, but he is still original. His peculiarities have won him astonishing favor among men disposed to the same mystic cast of thought ; and more than one imitator has sprung up in our country. Much of Professor Longfellow's style has been borrowed from Tennyson, and it is evident that the latter has often been in the former's eye when writing.

Tennyson is singularly deficient in that feeling of brotherhood which has characterized all the great poets, and especially Shakspeare. Now and then a glimpse of it may be caught in the writings of our author ; but it does not spring from his heart-we feel it is wrote carelessly, and that it irks the wearer. He does not breathe that love for humanity which ought ever to be a part of the true poet's character. We rarely rise from his writings better men ; we rarely have our sympathies enlarged by his poems. All is cold and lifeless, though beautiful-the winter moon twinkling on the sharp icy snow, instead of the warm and blushing sun diffusing health through our limbs and happiness through our hearts. The chilling aristocracy, of which he is a member, has frozen all the best sympathies of Tennyson's bosom. How differently he writes of his fellow men and of love ! The one scarcely wakes a feeling of enthusiasm in his bosom, the other enlists his sympathies and fires his imagination. He has not come as the prophet of a people, but as the priest of love. He neglects the most god-like portion of his mission, and instead of appealing to the universal heart of man, strikes his lyre only for the effeminate few. Verily he shall have his reward !

The volumes on our table contain the later as well as the earlier effusions of Tennyson. We cannot see that he has improved with years. If we except Godiva, the Gardener's Daughter, and one or two other poems, there is nothing in the second volume equal to the general contents of the first ; and there are one or two pieces, "Walking to the Mill," and " Simon Stylites" for instance, which are insufferably bad. That the best of his later poems display more finish, as well as more compactness than his earlier ones cannot be doubted ; but much of the airy and seductive grace which charmed us in "Madeline," 66 Mariana," " Adeline," "The Lotos Eaters," and other poems is wanting in the productions of his maturer age. But with all his faults Tennyson takes high rank among the present generation of English poets. We do not know indeed but what he stands at their head, for Wordsworth, Moore, Campbell and Southey belong to our fathers and not to ourselves. They are men of the past ; but Tennyson belongs to the present. C. THE STRANGE CAVALIER.

A TALE OF THE OLDEN TIME.

BY H. SYMMES.

" LET me tell your fortune, pretty ladies-very good fortune to you, ma'am," cried a dark-eyed gipsy, as two ladies turned the corner of a beautifully-sequestered lane, while the last rays of a gorgeous sun were merging into the more voluptuous tinge of a summer twilight. " Oh, do let us have our fortune told-I should so like to know my fortune !" exclaimed the younger of the ladies, who leant upon the arm of her companion. " Nonsense, Annette," rejoined her friend, and by this time they had reached the spot where the sibyl was standing. Her appearance fully demonstrated her tribe ; her face was of the most swarthy hue, but interesting in the expression ; her eyes were jet black ; and her dark elf-locks, which hung dishevelled over her neck and shoulders, were partly concealed by a small hat that was tied under the chin by a party-colored handkerchief; while her figure, of no ordinary mould, was encumbered by the tattered fragments of an old red cloak. The ladies paused for an instant to contemplate the object before them. "I can tell you," said she, addressing the younger lady, " what, mayhap, you will not like to hear. You will love, but you will not be loved again ; you will sigh, but no sigh will be returned to you ; you will weep, but your tears will fall on your cheek like dew on the summer flower, that dries but to receive fresh moisture." Without uttering a word, the ladies now turned, and hastily pursued their way homeward. They had wandered, attracted by the beauty of the evening, farther than they had intended. The Baroness D-, for so we must introduce her to our readers, had taken under her protection Annette De M-, who was an orphan, and the sole remaining branch of a noble family. The Baroness D had herself been left an orphan at an early age. She had afterward married the Baron D , who had been dead about two years at the time our tale commences, leaving her without progeny, her only child having died in its infancy. She had inherited her husband's vast estates, and was at this time residing in her favorite castle, situated in the most beautiful of the midland counties of England. The ladies silently pursued their way until they reached the extensive avenue that formed the barrier to the noble domain. Trees of regular but enormous height were thickly studded on either side, and the Baroness frequently started at the echo of their footsteps as she pressed forward with her young companion. The moon had risen and now shone in silvery brightness, while not a zephyr fanned the foliage, nor a whisper broke upon the stillness of the night. They had reached