f poetry does not furnish such another
instance of enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the vernal
season!--The sorrows of a bereaved mother rank _after_ the blossoms of
the _woodbine_, and just before the hummings of the _bee_; and this is
_all_ that he has any curiosity about; for he proceeds:--

'Then cease, my friend, a little while
That I may'--

'send my love to my mother,' or 'give you some hints about bees, which I
have picked up from Aristaeus, in the Elysian Fields,' or 'tell you how I
am situated as to my own personal comforts in the world below'?--oh no--

'That I may--hear the _throstle sing_
His bridal song--the boast of spring.

Sweet as the noise, in parched plains,
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,
(_If any sense in me remains_)
Thy words will be--thy cheerful tones
As welcome to--my _crumbling bones_!'--p. 4.

'_If any sense in me remains!_'--This doubt is inconsistent with the
opening stanza of the piece, and, in fact, too modest; we take upon
ourselves to re-assure Mr. Tennyson, that, even after he shall be dead
and buried, as much '_sense_' will still remain as he has now the good
fortune to possess.

We have quoted these first two poems in _extenso_, to obviate any
suspicion of our having made a partial or delusive selection. We cannot
afford space--we wish we could--for an equally minute examination of the
rest of the volume, but we shall make a few extracts to show--what we
solemnly affirm--that every page teems with beauties hardly less
surprising.

_The Lady of Shalott_ is a poem in four parts, the story of which we
decline to maim by such an analysis as we could give, but it opens
thus--

'On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and _meet the sky_--
And _through_ the field the road runs _by_.'

The Lady of Shalott was, it seems, a spinster who had, under some
unnamed penalty, a certain web to weave.

'Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel singing clearly....

'No time has she for sport or play,
A charmed web she weaves alway;
A curse is on her if she stay
Her weaving either night or day....

'She knows not'--

Poor lady, nor we either--

'She knows not what that curse may be,
Therefore she weaveth steadily;
Therefore no other care has sh