s own eye_."

Were we not right in saying that there is nothing in the writings of any
former poetaster to equal the silly and conceited jargon of the present
versifier? Having favoured us with the emphatic lines in italics, to
depict the physical concomitants of Maud's guilt, he again has recourse
to asterisks, to veil the mental throes by which her mind is tortured
into madness by remorse: and very wisely--for they lead us to suppose
that the writer could have powerfully delineated these inner agitations,
if he had chosen; but that he has abstained from doing so out of mercy
to the feelings of his readers. We must, therefore, content ourselves
with the following feebleness, with which the poem concludes:

"Maud, with her books, comes, day by day,
Fantastically clad,
To read them near the poor; and all
Who meet her, look so sad--
That even to herself it is
Quite plain that she is mad."

"Lilian" is the next tale in the volume. This poem is an echo, both in
sentiment and in versification of Mr Tennyson's "Locksley Hall;" and a
baser and more servile echo was never bleated forth from the throat of
any of the imitative flock. There are many other indications in the
volume which show that Mr Tennyson is the model which Mr Patmore has set
up for his imitation; but "Lilian," more particularly, is a complete
counterpart in coarsest fustian of the silken splendours of Mr
Tennyson's poem. It is "Locksley Hall" stripped of all its beauty, and
debased by a thousand vulgarities, both of sentiment and style. The
burden of both poems consists of bitter denunciations poured forth by
disappointed and deserted love; with this difference, that the passion
which Mr Tennyson gives utterance to, Mr Patmore reverberates in rant. A
small poet, indeed, could not have worked after a more unsafe model. For
while he might hope to mimic the agitated passions of "Locksley Hall,"
in vain could he expect to be visited by the serene imagination which,
in that poem, steeps their violence in an atmosphere of beauty. Even
with regard to Mr Tennyson's poem, it is rather for the sake of its
picturesque descriptions, than on account of its burning emotions, that
we recur to it with pleasure. We rejoice to follow him to regions where

"Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,
_Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland_, droops the trailer from
the crag."

It is rather, we say, on account of suc