ality will prevent their being
appreciated for a time. But that time will come, we hope, to a not far
distant end. They demonstrate the possession of powers, to the future
direction of which we look with some anxiety. A genuine poet has deep
responsibilities to his country and the world, to the present and future
generations, to earth and heaven. He, of all men, should have distinct
and worthy objects before him, and consecrate himself to their
promotion. It is then he best consults the glory of his art, and his own
lasting fame. Mr. Tennyson has a dangerous quality in that facility of
impersonation on which we have remarked, and by which he enters so
thoroughly into the most strange and wayward idiosyncracies of other
men. It must not degrade him into a poetical harlequin. He has higher
work to do than that of disporting himself among "mystics" and "flowing
philosophers." He knows that "the poet's mind is holy ground"; He knows
that the poet's portion is to be

Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love;

he has shown, in the lines from which we quote, his own just conception
of the grandeur of the poet's destiny; and we look to him for its
fulfilment. It is not for such men to sink into mere verse-makers for
the amusement of themselves or others. They can influence the
associations of unnumbered minds; they can command the sympathies of
unnumbered hearts; they can disseminate principles; they can give those
principles power over men's imaginations; they can excite in a good
cause the sustained enthusiasm that is sure to conquer; they can blast
the laurels of tyrants, and hallow the memories of the martyrs'
patriotism; they can act with a force, the extent of which it is
difficult to estimate, upon national feelings and character, and
consequently upon national happiness.

MILL ON MACAULAY'S "LAYS"

[From _The Westminster Review_. February, 1843]

It is with the two great masters of modern ballad poetry (Campbell and
Scott) that Mr. Macaulay's performances are really to be compared, and
not with the real ballads or epics of an early age. The "Lays," in point
of form, are not in the least like the genuine productions of a
primitive age or people, and it is no blame to Mr. Macaulay that they
are not. He professes imitation of Homer, but we really see no
resemblance, except in the nature of some of the incidents, and the
animation and vigour of the narrative; and the "Iliad," after