re magnificent verse than in Percivale's
account of his constantly baffled quest and of Lancelot's visit to the
"enchanted towers of Carbonek."

Far earlier than these, _Enoch Arden_ and its companion poems were
something more of a return to the scheme of the earlier books--no very
long single composition, but a medley of blank verse pieces and lyrics,
the former partly expansions of the scheme of the earlier "English
Idyll," the latter various and generally beautiful; one or two, such as
"In the Valley of Cauterets," of the most beautiful. Here, too, were
some interesting translations, with the dialect pieces above referred
to; and all the later volumes, except those containing the plays,
preserved this mixed manner. Their contents are too numerous for many to
be mentioned here. Only in the _Ballads and Other Poems_ was something
like a distinctly new note struck in the two splendid patriotic pieces
on "The Last Fight of the _Revenge_" and the "Defence of Lucknow,"
which, even more than the poet's earlier "Charge of the Light Brigade,"
deserve the title of the best English war-songs since Campbell; in
"Rizpah," an idyll of a sterner and more tragic kind than anything he
had previously attempted; and in the "Voyage of Maeldune," this last in
some respects the most interesting of the whole. For the marvellous
power which great poets possess of melting, of "founding," so to speak,
minor styles and kinds of poetry to their own image, while not losing a
certain character of the original, has never been shown better than
here. Attention had, even before the date of this poem, been drawn to
the peculiar character of early Celtic poetry,---not the adulterated
style of Ossian, but the genuine method of the old Irish singers. And,
since, a whole band of young and very clever writers have set
themselves, with a mixture of political and poetical enthusiasm, the
task of reviving these notes if possible. They have rarely succeeded in
getting very close to them without mere archaic pastiche. Tennyson in
this poem carried away the whole genius of the Celtic legend, infused it
into his own verse, branded it with his own seal, and yet left the
character of the vintage as unmistakable as if he had been an Irishman
of the tenth century, instead of an Englishman of the nineteenth. And
indeed there are no times, or countries, or languages in the kingdom of
poetry.

A very little more may, perhaps, still be said about this great
poet,--gre