SPECTATOR'S LIBRARY.

. POETRY.

Poems. By Allied Tennyson. In two volumes. Moses. Vicriow, Sultuess; a Novel. By the Author of •• Hardness." In three volumes. Samacirrs and &ley.

rouvrear. Ecirrour.

The Facture System Illustrated; in a Scries gf Letters to the Right Honourable Lord

Ashley, M.P., &c. &c. By William Dodd. a Factory Cripple Alarm/.

TENNYSON'S COLLECTED POEMS.

THESE elegant little volumes, whose contents at first sight appear to be original, are discovered on examination to be a collected, re- vised, and enlarged edition of the author's Poems. But although the gloss of novelty is brushed from many of them, their intrinsic merits are not so small, nor is poetry so rife in the land, that their appearance should be chronicled in silence without a word on their quality or the characteristics of their author. What REYNOLDS says of art is true of all literature which pro- fesses to represent life and nature : that there are but two classes or styles by which a high-toned ability can be exhibited—the clas- sical, presenting the most general view of things in the most natural manner; the singular, which portrays some very limited reality, and in whose portraiture the peculiar mind of the artist is promi- nent. In the first, or classical style, he of course places the great painters of the Roman and other Italian schools ; among examples of the singular or characteristic style, he adduces Sax, VATOR ROSA and POUFS'S.

By the word classical, in literature, a mere imitation of the ancients is not to be understood. The author who attempts this can represent nothing in existence, and might as well try to adapt the construc- tion of our language to the deeply-inflected Latin, or write in old Roman at once. Whoever presents a large and general subject comprehensively, and in a style reflective of its own nature, is a classic or author of the first rank. SHAKSPERE is a classic, though disregarding the merely formal rules deducible from the practice of the ancient dramatists, and some other rules of Frenchified formal- ists for which classical authority cannot be cited. Pons again is a classic ; for though his subjects are less general than SEIAK- EPEES'S, lie did not, as smatterers say, merely depict manners, but presented the spirit of a social existence which pervaded the civilized world for a good part of two centuries and still continues to influence it. BYRON, on the contrary, is of the singular class ; SO is SCOTT in bis poetry.

Although Mr. TENNYSON sometimes rises to a general truth, and sometimes, confounding "what is trivial with what is simple," approaches the namby-pamby, his proper class seems to be the singular or characteristic ; for the majority of his poems are of this kind, depending less upon their general truth than upon some peculiar character which he imparts to them. But the worst point in TENNYSON'S poetry is that this peculiarity is not always his own. The most obvious defect in this way, as we formerly noticed, is his diction ; which, as in other writers of what is called the Cockney school, is piebald with the spots of various times—an ob- solete word here, a cant phrase there, and anon a vulgarism by way of being natural. Following the same bad example, his versifica- tion is sometimes made purposely irregular ; which, if it produced music instead of discord, could only give pleasure, in short poems, by diverting the attention from substance to form. His obligations, however, are not confined to the more mechanical parts of compo- sition. His style is often borrowed—often suggests, if it does not reflect, the manner of some singular writer. Sometimes it is WORDSWORTH, Or LEIGH Hear, or CHARLES LAMB ; sometimes it is Hsaaicx, or the pure metaphysical school, who could only vitiate not clog HERRICK'S fancy ; or the old Pindaric writers, so far as regards structure ; and once or twice he has called up the idea of SPENSER and BYRON. This imitation of other writers, and what is worse, of the bad or questionable points of other writers, is the more to be regretted, because Mr. TENNYSON has powers which properly cultivated would place him among the first rank of living poets. He has a keen eye for the beauties of nature, though he often describes them with a quaintness which rather detracts from their beauties; he has a perception and a relish of the natural and the homely, whether in manner or in feeling; his affections appear to be genial, without the mawkishness or affectation so abounding in these days of cant ; his ken is extensive, and he can read, we fancy, both past and present with a more judging eye than belongs to the tribe of poetasters. When not led astray in search of mechanical improvements or " effects" in metre or words, his verse flows with an animated smoothness ; and his diction, always easy, sometimes exhibits great felicity of expression; whilst the peculiarity of his manner—the way in which things are tinted by passing through his mind—imparts attraction by the character it impresses. These merits, however, are not always fully displayed; not, perhaps, in twenty poems throughout the volumes. Even where no affected choice of phraseology and no imitation of other writers are perceptible, either a deficiency of judgment, or the singu- lar character of the writer's mind, defeats the power of his genius. He often chooses personal themes which are too trivial to excite interest ; or sets his reader puzzling in an allegory whose meaning is not very easily unriddled; or, plunging into dead ages, endea- vours to impart attraction to classical themes; and though some of these last exhibit grace and fancy, the genius of TENNYSON might be better employed. Among the elite of the volumes may be reckoned most of the poems in the nature of ballads or pastorals—for TENNYSON IS strongest upon old or rustic English ground ; a few of the lighter personal poems, as " The Skipping-rope," and some not reducible to any class, as " The Talking Oak." The gem of the whole, for variety, delicate perception of character, rustic grace, spirit and pathos, is the pastoral tale embraced in " The May Queen," and its two sequels. But the series is too long for our space, and we will not mar them by separation, but take instead the poem which ranks next. Mr. TENNYSON says the idea of Lady Clara Vere de Yore was suggested by the novel of The Inherit- ance; but we suspect he had some reality in his eye.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart, For pastime ere you went to town. At me you smiled; but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired :

The daughter of a hundred Earls—

You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vero de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name; Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that Boats on truer charms : A simple maiden in her Bower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vero de 'Pere, Some meeker pupil you must find; For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply : The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than L Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in ray bead.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead : Oh your sneet eyes, your low replies!

A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view— She had the passions of her kind—

She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed I heard one bitter word, That scarce is fit for you to bear: Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Yore de Vere.

Lady Clara Yore de Vete, There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door.

You changed a wholesome heart to gall: You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth ; And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent

The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good;

Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Yore; You pine among your halls and towers : The languid light of your proud eycs Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Yore de Vere, If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh ! teach the orphan boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew; Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.