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Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
Tressed with redolent ebony,
In many a dark delicious curl,
Flowing below her rose-hued zone;

The sweetest lady of the time,
Well worthy of the golden prime

Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Six columns, three on either side,
Pure silver, underpropped a rich
Throne o' the massive ore, from which
Down drooped, in many a floating fold,
Engarlanded and diapered
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold,
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirred
With merriment of kingly pride,

Sole star of all that place and time,
I saw him-in his golden prime,

THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID! Our critique is near its conclusion; and in correcting it for press, we see that its whole merit, which is great, consists in the extracts, which are "beautiful exceedingly." Perhaps, in the first part of our article, we may have exaggerated Mr Tennyson's not unfrequent silliness, for we are apt to be carried away by the whim of the moment, and in our humorous moods, many things wear a queer look to our aged eyes, which fill young pupils with tears; but we feel assured that in the second part we have not exaggerated his strength-that we have done no more than justice to his fine faculties—and that the millions who delight in Maga will, with one voice, confirm our judgment—that Alfred Tennyson is a poet.

But, though it might be a mistake of ours, were we to say that he has much to learn, it can be no mistake to say that he has not a little to unlearn, and more to bring into practice, before his genius can achieve its destined triumphs. A puerile partiality for particular forms of expression, nay, modes of spelling and of pronunciation, may be easily overlooked in one whom we must look on as yet a mere boy; but if he carry it with him, and indulge it in manhood, why it will make him seem silly as his sheep; and should he continue to bleat so when his head and beard are as grey as ours, he will be truly a laughable old ram, and the ewes will care no more for him than if he were a wether.

Further-he must consider that all the fancies that fleet

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across the imagination, like shadows on the grass of the treetops, are not entitled to be made small separate poems of about the length of one's little finger; that many, nay, most of them, should be suffered to pass away with a silent “God bless ye," like butterflies, single or in shoals, each family with its own hereditary character mottled on its wings; and that though thousands of those grave brown, and gay golden images will be blown back in showers, as if upon balmy breezes changing suddenly and softly to the airt whence inspiration at the moment breathes, yet not one in a thousand is worth being caught and pinned down on paper into poetry “gently as if you loved him ”-only the few that are bright with the “beauty still more beauteous ”—and a few such belong to all the orders—from the little silly moth that extinguishes herself in your taper, up to the mighty Emperor of Morocco at meridian wavering his burnished downage in the unconsuming sun who glorifies the wondrous stranger.

Now, Mr Tennyson does not seem to know this; or if he do, he is self-willed and perverse in his sometimes almost infantile vanity; (and how vain are most beautiful children !) and thinks that any Thought or Feeling or Fancy that has had the honour and the happiness to pass through his mind, must by that very act be worthy of everlasting commemoration. Heaven pity the poor world, were we to put into stanzas, and publish upon it, all our thoughts, thick as motes in the sun, or a summer evening atmosphere of midges!

Finally, Nature is mighty, and poets should deal with her on a grand scale. She lavishes her glorious gifts before their path in such profusion, that Genius—reverent as he is of the mysterious mother, and meeting her at sunrise on the mountains with grateful orisons—with grateful orisons bidding her farewell among the long shadows that stretch across the glens when sunset sinks into the sea—is yet privileged to tread with a seeming scorn in the midst of imagery that to commón eyes would be as a revelation of wonders from another world. Familiar to him are they as the grass

below his feet. In lowlier moods he looks at them—and in his love they grow beautiful. So did Burns beautify the daisy—“wee modest crimson-tipped flower!" But in loftier moods, the “ violet by the mossy stone" is not “half-hidden to the eye -it is left unthought of to its own sweet existence. The poet

then ranges wide and high, like Thomson, in his “Hymn to the Seasons," which he had so gloriously sung, seeing in all the changes of the rolling year “but the varied god,”—like Wordsworth, in his Excursion, communing too with the spirit “whose dwelling is the light of setting suns." Those great men are indeed among the

“Lights of the world and demigods of fame;" but all poets, ere they gain a bright name, must thus celebrate the worship of nature. So is it, too, with painters. They do well, even the greatest of them, to trace up the brooks to their source in stone-basin or mossy well, in the glen-head, where greensward glades among the heather seem the birthplace of the Silent People—the Fairies. But in their immortal works they must show us how “red comes the river down; castles of rock or of cloud —long withdrawing vales, where mid-way between the flowery foreground, and in the distance of blue mountain-ranges, some great city lifts up its dim-seen spires through the misty smoke beneath which imagination hears the hum of life" peaceful as some immeasurable plain," the breast of old ocean sleeping in the sunshine—or as if an earthquake shook the pillars of his caverned depths, tumbling the foam of his breakers, mast-high, if mast be there, till the canvass ceases to be silent, and the gazer hears him howling over his prey-See-see !--the foundering wreck of a threedecker going down head-foremost to eternity.

With such admonition, we bid Alfred Tennyson farewell.


BART., K.C.B., K.G.H.

[JULY 1833 ]

This Island has mainly owed her greatness to her Navy; nor in all the revolutions among kingdoms and empires, that may be destined to take place in time, can we imagine a condition of the world in which her greatness will not still have to be guarded by the same power. It represents the national character in its most formidable attributes, and embodies the national might in the most magnificent impersonation. The British Navy—these are words of fear to tyrants, and of succour to slaves. All shores have been shaken by that thunder; and usurpation has felt the crown falling from its forehead,

“ As patriot hopes arise, and doubts are dumb,

When bold, in Freedom's cause, the Sons of Ocean come!” In none of those great sea-fights with the intrepid and skilful Hollanders were our fleets vanquished; some were doubtful or drawn battles ; in most our flag flew in triumph. Previous to their Great Revolution, the French never could cope with us at sea ; ever after it, whether engaging our fleets with their own, or in junction with the Spaniard, they sustained signal and total overthrows. As certain was the same issue in all single combats between ship and ship; and our enemies fought not for the glory of victory, but of resistance against inevitable defeat. The glories even of Hawke and Rodney were eclipsed by those of Jervis and Nelson and the dominion of the seas was settled at Aboukir and Trafalgar.

The Americans are of our own blood, and they fought against us, both on shore and sea, in a way worthy of their national origin. At sea, in almost all their victories, but not in all, they were greatly, in some overwhelmingly, superior in force; nor need we now either be surprised or mortified at the issue of such combats. Britain ought rather to be proud that her flag had never been struck on the sea, and then always with honour, but to her own sons, who, for that freedom's sake which has ever been her own glory, had been nobly rebellious, and in their independence had shown that they were worthy to contend with the heroes of that country from whom they derived their own descent. Never more may they meet as enemies ! Providence seems to have assigned to this small island, and to that mighty continent, a different destiny, but equally great; and may both, now and ever, be fulfilled in peace! America, if her councils continue to be wise, will never seek to be a great naval power. Britain will never cease to uphold her Fleets, else of no avail will be her armies ; together flourishing they will still go forth, should need ever be, “ conquering and to conquer; " but against none, let us all devoutly hope, but the enemies of liberty, and law, and social order, without which, either to men or states, what is life?

We are not among the number of those who fear for the decay of our navy. Within these few years, indeed, many of our most illustrious naval heroes have died; and the rising race of officers and seamen have chiefly fought but at Algiers and Navarino, against the moored ships or the batteries of barbarians, which were of course demolished, under Exmouth and Codrington, and in a way worthy their former fame. But as long as the spirit survives, there will be no want of officers and men for our ships ; let that languish, and the navy of England, going to rot in harbour, need never more put to sea.

The bright series of victories won by our invincible army in the Peninsula, and transcendently consummated at Waterloo, seemed for a while to throw our navy into the shade ; but as well may the nation forget that name as that of Trafalgar, and allow the names of Wellington and Nelson to fall together into oblivion. The achievements and character of navy

and army are alike mighty and immortal; nor need we fear the decline of the spirit that alike animates both services, while that national spirit itself continues to be cherished and upheld by all who have it in their "holy keeping;” and all who breathe the air and tread the soil of liberty have some part in

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