ame in technique.
Tennyson tells a story. Dramatic poetry takes the story out of the
poet's lips and tells itself. The epic requires a strong centrality of
theme, movement, and dominancy, like a ubiquitous sovereign whose power
is always felt in every part of his empire. Viewing "The Idyls of the
King" as singing episodes, told us by some wandering minstrel, not only
do they not challenge hostile criticism, but they take rank among the
noblest contributions to the poetry of any language. "Columbus,"
"Ulyses," "Eleanore," "Enoch Arden," "Lucretius," "The Day-Dream,"
"Locksley Hall," "Dora," "Aylmer's Field," "The Gardener's Daughter,"
have all the subdued beauty of Wordsworth's narrative poems, and are as
certainly lyric as those unapproachable lyrics in "The Princess." The
ocean is epic in its vast expanse; tragic in its power to crush Armadas
on the rocks and let them

"Rot in ribs of wreck;"

and lyric in its songs, whether of storm outsounding cataracts, or the
singing scarce above the breath of waves that silver the shores of
summer seas. Commend me to the ocean, and give all the ocean to me.
Dispossess me of no might nor tragedy nor melody. Let the whole ocean
be mine. So, though Tennyson be not epic as Milton, nor dramatic as
Browning, he is yet a mine of wealth untold. He is more melodious than
Spenser (and what a praise!) Tennyson can not write the prose, but
always the poetry of life. So interpreted, how perfect his execution
becomes! His words distill like dews. Take unnumbered extracts from
his poems, and they seem bits of melody, picked out from nature's book
of melodies, and in themselves and as related they satisfy the heart.
Let these songs sing themselves to us:

"Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye;
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd;
I strove against the stream and all in vain;
Let the great river take me to the main;
No more, dear Love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more."

"Thy voice is heard through rolling drums,
That beat to battle where he stands;