nybody with eyes to see. And
she crowns all by speaking the English language with a beauty that has
seldom been equalled.

XVIII.

TENNYSON'S COMEDY OF THE FORESTERS.

"Besides, the King's name is a tower of strength." Thousands of people
all over the world honour, and ought to honour, every word that falls
from the pen of Alfred Tennyson. He is a very great man. No poet since
the best time of Byron has written the English language so well--that is
to say, with such affluent splendour of imagination; such passionate
vigour; such nobility of thought; such tenderness of pathos; such
pervasive grace, and so much of that distinctive variety, flexibility,
and copious and felicitous amplitude which are the characteristics of an
original style. No poet of the last fifty years has done so much to
stimulate endurance in the human soul and to clarify spiritual vision in
the human mind. It does not signify that now, at more than fourscore,
his hand sometimes trembles a little on the harp-strings, and his touch
falters, and his music dies away. It is still the same harp and the
same hand. This fanciful, kindly, visionary, drifting, and altogether
romantic comedy of _Robin Hood_ is not to be tried by the standard that
is author reared when he wrote _Ulysses_ and _Tithonus_ and _The Passing
of Arthur_--that imperial, unapproachable standard that no other poet
has satisfied.

"Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day."

But though the passion be subdued and the splendour faded, the deep
current of feeling flows on and the strong and tender voice can still
touch the heart and charm the ear. That tide of emotion and that tone of
melody blend in this play and make it beautiful. The passion is no
longer that of _Enone_ and _Lucretius_ and _Guinevere_ and _Locksley
Hall_ and _Maud_ and _The Vision of Sin_. The thought is no longer that
of _In Memoriam_, with its solemn majesty and infinite pathos. The music
is no longer that of _The May Queen_ and the _Talking Oak_ and _Idle
Tears_. But why should these be expected? He who struck those notes
strikes now another; and as we listen our wonder grows, and cannot help
but grow, that a bard of fourscore and upward should write in such
absolute sympathy with youth, love, hope, happiness, and all that is
free and wandering and martial and active in the vicissitudes of
adventure, the exploits of chivalry, and the vagabondish spirit of gypsy
frolic. The fact that he