"Her slow, full words sank through the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea." Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, "The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn." "And Freedom reared in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes "The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And winged with flame." She lingered, looking like a summer moon We close our extracts from Tennyson with the poem of "Ulysses." For its length, it is certainly one of the most grandly solemn pieces of wisdom in English literature. The unbroken majesty of its tone, the calm depth of its thought, the picturesque images which serenely blend with the fixed feeling of the piece, the spirit of hoar antiquity which pervades it, and the clearness with which the whole picture is brought home to the imagination, leave upon the soul a most profound impression of the author's genius. "ULYSSES. "It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch where through Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life For some three suns to store and hoard myself, Meet adoration to my household gods When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Push off, and, sitting well in order, smite It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." The poetry of BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR (Barry Cornwall) has splendid traits of genius. Passages might be clipped from his writings which no poet would disown. The difficulty with him is, that he writes often in a “fury and pride of soul," without having definite ideas and images. Feeling, — strong, vehement, rushing feeling, which clutches at illustrations speaking to the ear and sensibility rather than the imagination, is the inspiration of much of his poetry. Occasionally his verse splits on the rocks of obscurity and rant. But there is a breadth of passion in some of his poems, which, whether it is expressed in vast and vague metaphors, or simmers and gleams in radiant fancies, or is poured out on his page in one hot gush, or leaps deliriously down the "dark, deep, thundering river" of his style, has ever a kindling effect on sensibility. There never was a poet more honest in the expression of his nature. His songs are the reflections of all moods of his mind, and he cares not if the sentiment of one contradicts that of another. In grief, or love, or fear, or despair, at the festive board or the bed of sickness, wherever and whenever the spirit of song comes to him, it takes the color of the emotion which animates or saddens the moment. He is a large-hearted and most lovable man; and his poetry is admired because it is the expression of his character. Proctor is not deficient in fineness as well as fulness of passion. There is a depth of meaning in some of his pieces which is felt in the remotest sanctuaries of our being. Though a little affectation and daintiness may occasionally creep into his delineations of the softer passions, he has given us many exquisite pictures of pensive beauty. The tenderness of a kindly and generous heart, and the thoughtfulness of a brooding spirit, are often dis played in his writings. His imagination acts with as much effect, perhaps, in shedding over his representations of feeling a warm, rich, golden flush, as in shaping beautiful and graceful images. Without taking into consideration the passionate beauty of many of his dramatic scenes, his songs would be sufficient to stamp his reputation. For the union of voluptuous repose with the most perfect purity, what can excel the following: "A CHAMBER SCENE. "Tread softly through these amorous rooms : The carpet's silken leaves have sprung, "Tread softly! By a creature fair His red lips open, like the roses And passion fills the archéd halls; "Tread softly-softly, like the foot Of Winter, shod with fleecy snow, Had we space we should like to extract "A Petition to Time," "The Lake has Burst," the address "To the Singer Pasta," and, indeed, a number of Mr. Griswold's |