While morning yet is all divine,
About the fleeing stars entwine,
In modulations soft as strong,
The bright inevitable line
Of its elastic song?
Poor Child! when Fancy’s all is said,
What art thou but a creature dead, —
Dead to the real life of life,
The spiritual stir—the strife
Ineffable of soul and sense!
Yet mayst thou live without offence;
And thou, poor Child, in memory
A monument shalt stand to me
(With many a gem and many a flower,
And many a cloudlet of the sky)
Of God’s surpassing love and power,
Who, speaking only to the eye,
Can carry with an inward smart
A voiceless meaning to the heart.
To say nothing of Mr. Tennyson’s own creations, we owe him something for being, as we conceive, the indirect cause of such poetry as that of Mr. Clough and ‘A’. In himself he seems to us to unite in no small measure the metaphysical depth of S. T. Coleridge, with the objective sensuousness of an old ballad; the quiet thoughtfulness of our Poet Laureate, with the sweetness and smoothness of Mr. Moore;