"Who serves for gain, a slave, by thankless pelf

Is paid: who gives himself is priceless, free.

I give myself, a man, to God: lo, He Renders me back a saint unto myself."

We count these last verses, which we have just quoted, to be of a very high order; they evidence power of language, as well as vigour of thought. Rising with his theme, the poet rejects the affluence of words and imagery, in which he has described his wanderings through the realms of Beauty and of Knowledge, and gives expression to a high truth, simple and holy, as it is eternal, in words befitting his theme, simple, strong, and unadorned. Every line has the force and terseness of an epigram, every sentiment the point and condensation of an adage. Had he given us nothing but this piece, we would have admitted his right to no humble place as a poet. It is not inferior to the "Excelsior," or "Ladder of St. Augustine" of Longfellow, in vigour or moral teaching, while it exhibits a richness and variety not to be found in either. It is, perhaps, more like what noble old George Herbert would have written, especially the latter part, though not quite so quaintly formal.

Amongst the many debts which we owe to Alfred Tennyson, perhaps not the least is this, that he has been the first of late times to open up the treasures of those delectable old French romances, the caskets wherein are enshrined all the glory and beauty of the ancient chivalry of Europe. One never opens a volume of "The Historie of Kynge Arthure," and dips into its pages, that he does not feel, as it

VOL. XLVI.-NO. CCLXXIV.

were, the very odour of poetry exhaling from them all that is noble and elevating in knightly honour, and faith, and devotion-all that is tender and beautiful in the love of fair women and the courtesies of gallant men-all that strong, simple dignity of word and action, that so finely contrasts with the airs of the modern petit maitre-all the refined, yet formal demeanour of courtly breeding, which accorded so well with the steed-clad and plumed warriors, the ermine-robed and brocaded dames, at once stiff yet polished, cumbrous, yet gracefully dignified. All these rise up before the mind, and one sees again Launcelot and Galahault, Arthur and his Queen Guenevere, and all the knights and dames at tourney or banquet, in Surluse, or at Camelot. The laureate was not slow in discovering the singular suitability of these romantic chronicles, for the purposes of the poet. Who has ever read the Morte d'Arthure" without feeling this, and acknowledging the fascination which holds him spell-bound as he reads? Others have followed the example thus set with various success, and amongst them let us mention, with honour, the name of Matthew Arnold; and last of all, the writer whose book we are now reviewing, tries his powers upon a passage of old English romantic chivalry. chivalry. The parting of Launcelot and Guenevere" is an episode in the loves of the Knight and Queen, which, in point of execution, as well as of conception, will bear comparison with the best things of the kind that have appeared in English verse. It has all the beauty and formality of the antique; all the polish and glow with which the modern artist has invested the ancient romance; and the whole scene is described with equal delicacy and tenderness. The poem, which is between three hundred and four hundred lines in length, will not very well bear to be broken by partial quotation. We shall briefly describe the subject of this "fragment," with an occasional passage from the poem.

The King is at Carlyel, and purposes to solemnise our Lady's Day with a joust of arms, in Camelot. Thither came all the chiefs of Christendom :

"The King of Northgalies; Anguishe, the King of Ireland; the Haut Prince,

Sir Galahault; the King o' the Hundred Knights; 2 L

The Kings of Scotland and of Britany;
And many more renowned knights whereof
The names are glorious. Also all the earls,
And all the dukes, and all the mighty men
And famous heroes of the Table Round,
From far Northumberland to where the wave
Rides rough on Devon from the outer main.
So that there was not seen for seven years,
Since when, at Whitsuntide, Sir Galahad
Departed out of Carlyel from the court,
So fair a fellowship of goodly knights."

The King desires that his Queen shall accompany him, but she is still sick, and refuses, whereupon Arthur is grieved, and in wrath breaks up his court, and rides

"To Astolat on this side Camelot."

And so, when he was ridden out

"With all his fellowship,"

The Queen arises, and calls to her Sir Launcelot, who had tarried behind. Then she thus appeals to the knight :

"Not for the memory of that love whereof No more than memory lives, but, sir, for that Which even when love is ended, yet endures Making immortal life with deathless deeds, Honour-true knighthood's golden spurs, the

crown

And priceless diadem of peerless Queens-
I make appeal to you, that hear perchance
The last appeal which I shall ever make.
So weigh my words not lightly! for I feel
The fluttering fires of life grow faint and cold
About my heart. And oft, indeed, to me
Lying whole hours awake in the dead nights
The end seems near, as tho' the darkness knew
The angel waiting there to call my soul
Perchance before the house awakes; and oft
When faint, and all at once, from far away,
The mournful midnight bells begin to sound
Across the river, all the days that were
(Brief, evil days!) return upon my heart,
And, where the sweetness seem'd, I see the
sin.

For, waking lone, long hours before the dawn,
Beyond the borders of the dark I seem
To see the twilight of another world,
That grows and grows and glimmers on my
gaze.

And oft, when late, before the languorous

moon

down

Thro' yonder windows to the West goes Among the pines, deep peace upon me falls, Deep peace like death, so that I think I know. The blessed Mary and the righteous saints Stand at the throne, and intercede for me. Wherefore these things are thus I cannot tell. But now I pray you of your fealty,

And by all knightly faith which may be left, Arise and get you hence, and join the King."

This is, indeed, well conceived. What dignity is there even in her re

"About her, all unheeded, her long hair Loos'd its warm, yellow, waving loveliness, And o'er her bare and shining shoulder cold Fell floating free. Upon one full white arm, To which the amorous purple coverlet Clung dimpling close, her drooping state was propt.

There, half in shadow of her soft gold curls, She lean'd, and like a rose enricht with dew, Whose heart is heavy with the clinging bee, Bow'd down toward him all her glowing face, While in the light of her large angry eyes Uprose, and rose, a slow imperious sorrow, And o'er the shine of still, unquivering tears Swam on to him."

Then follows a fine description of the war of feeling in the heart of the knight anger, pride, honour, love, and all the memory of the past as he stands with averted face, and speechless lips, amid the silence of the place

"And the long day-light dying down the floors."

At length he breaks the silence, and speaks words of reproach, and somewhat of a scornful upbraiding, as he reminds her (in a passage of great beauty) of all he had done to exalt her fame, by his knightly achievements. The memory of all this brings a tender sadness over the spirit of the knight, that subdues his haughty mood; the while Guenevere muses

"But held her heart's proud pain superbly still."

The change of feeling is introduced and aided by an incident that shows the skill of the writer :

sea,

That swells against the planets and the moon
With sad continual strife and vain unrest,
In silence rise and roll the labouring clouds
That bind the thunder, o'er the heaving
heart

Of Guenevere all sorrows fraught with love.
All stormy sorrows, in that silence pass'd.
And like a star in that tumultuous night
Love wax'd and waned, and came and went,
changed hue,

And was and was not: till the cloud came down,

And all her soul dissolved in showers: and love

Rose thro' the broken storm."

There is in this something that reminds us of Dante. Yet, the difference of treatment of a somewhat similar incident, by the great Florentine master, is world-wide the same sentiments and emotions are introduced by each; but what one tells simply, and by a word, the other amplifies in the description by a figure. A different issue is, however, suggested. Launcelot obeys the injunction of Guenevere; he goes and joins the King, and the episode closes with a charming evening picture, that throws a tinting of quiet and redeeming holiness over the scene of passion:

"Before the Virgin Mother on her knees. There, in a halo of the silver shrine,

That touch'd and turn'd to starlight her slow tears,

Below the feet of the pale-pictur'd saint
She lay, pour'd out in prayer.

"Meanwhile, without, A sighing rain from a low fringe of cloud Whisper'd among the melancholy hills. The night's dark limits widen'd: far above The crystal sky lay open: and the star

Of eve, his rosy circlet trembling clear, Grew large and bright, and in the silver moats,

Between the accumulated terraces,
Tangled a trail of fire: and all was still."

We shall not enter further into the consideration of the poems in this volume. There are some two or three others, as "The Wife's Tragedy," and "A Soul's Loss," which are very good, and some few of which we can say no more than that they are such as half-a-dozen smaller people, whom we could name, could write any day of the year. They are on the staple love-themes, and thrown in, apparently, by way of filling stuff to suit, we suppose, the publisher's requirements, and make up a respectablesized volume, and make the mass of buyers satisfied with their penn'orth. From what we have already said, and the quotations we have made in this article, it is scarcely necessary that we should formally announce our own estimate of Owen Meredith as a poet. We think he has, beyond any doubt, established his claim; and, we believe, he will yet take a high rank. He has all the elements necessary for successa quick fancy, and good, imaginative power, combined with the more solid gifts of intellect, the faculties of reflection and reasoning. He has, too, a large measure of what all true poets have— a perception and love of all beauty, natural and moral; to these are added a singularly happy and vivid ability for description, and a fine warmth of feeling; nor are the mechanism of his art wanting in rich, felicitous language, at times, too, very vigorous. Whoever be the author of this volume, he has no reason to be ashamed of what he has written. As we said before, we suspect he has concealed his real name. Into his motives for so doing, if our conjecture be correct, we have no wish, as we have no right, to pry; but of this we feel convinced, that whenever the time shall come, he may avow his paternity without a blush. We now bid him farewell, we hope but for a season, and we commend his volume most heartily to the notice of all who love real poetry.