FYTTE YE FOWRTHE.

Full soone the gyftes of grammarye
Like a fleeting wraith are gone;
And soone, I wis, doth passe the blysse
That a synneful spelle hath wonne.
The barne that pyned piteouslie

Ere morne was colde and dead:
And they beare it forth from Tancreville,
To reste, in the kirkyarde layde.

Sir Hugh he erst was blyth and hende,
And of lovynge courtesie;

But now hys voyce is sterne and stoure;
But now he is sadde of bree.

It fell on a daye that forth he fared

To hunte the fallowe deere ;

With hys red-roan stede and his prowde meyné
He rode by the walles of Vire.

And now he is boune to the greenwood shaws
With all his companie;

The houndes they bay, and the hornes they blow,
And the donne deere fast they flee.

Fast rydes Sir Hugh the forest through
As one at the morte would be;
Then in the brake all suddenlie
A warlock fowle doth see.

An eldritch laugh she laughed alowde;
The fryghtened stede it sterte;

And downe from the selle the good knighte fell,
And moned in mickle hurte.

They lyfte him up from the cruel grownde,

They beare him tenderlie ;

And with pacing slowe, and teeneful brow,

They wende to hys castle high.

Burd Elsie she sittes in her bower so fayre,

And she weepeth sore alone;

For her sinne she hath tinte her bonnie barne,
And her trewe knyghte's love is gone.

They knock alowde at the castle gate,
They wind alowde the horne ;

And the crie of the waylers on the ayre
To the bower on high is borne.

Fayre Elsie ranne, and she never stint
Before the gate she wonne;

But when she came to the yeomen there,
They bare a corse alone.

"Woe worth the day!" fayre Elsie cried,
"I ever saw God's lyght;
For now by sinneful grammarye,

I have slayne my own trewe knyght."

And then she brought hys bodie in,
And she kist the clay-cold bree;
And to the Blessed Virgin thus
She spake right piteouslie:-
"Deare Ladye, of thine endlesse grace
Have pitty on me now;

Assoyle me of my fowle fowle shame,
And heare my stedfaste vowe.

My fayre estates, my broad bezants,
I give them all to thee,

To build thee here in the forest drear
A statelie nonnerie.

And there among the holy maydes,
For all my coming daies,

I'll pray thee every houre a prayer,
And ever syng thee prayse:

That so I may purge my synneful soule
From all its fowleness clere;

And pure at laste, in the worlde above,
May mete my barne and fere."

L.

TENNYSON'S ENOCH ARDEN.

CONSIDERABLY more than a year has already elapsed since the Poet Laureate presented his last volume to an enthusiastic and admiring public. But as yet no review or criticism on it has appeared in our magazine. No apology for this delay is needed. For it is a notorious fact that poetry, more than anything else, requires a careful study before any just criticism can be attempted. And the saying of the greatest of Historians τάχος γὰρ μετὰ ἀνοίας φιλεῖ γίγνεσθαι applies with unusual force to the works of Mr. Tennyson. The reason for this lies in the wonderful familiarity with which most of us regard the writings of the Laureate. We become so accustomed to the beauties and imperfections of his style that we are in danger of confounding them; and so attached to the friend of our pleasantest hours that we are almost unable to analyse his poems with the calm and unimpassioned feeling of the critic.

It would be quite impossible to speak at length on each of the poems which are contained in the volume before us: but I shall endeavour, though imperfectly I fear, to touch on some of the most prominent. The poem which stands first, and which gives its name to the volume, is called Enoch Arden. It is clearly a work of much labour, and its whole style and refinement mark it as one of the finest and most complete of Mr. Tennyson's works. But before anything is said about its component parts and the working out of its details, some few remarks may be made upon the plot.

To begin then, the plot is dramatic, and bears a somewhat close resemblance to the great classical models. Take for instance the story of the Labdacide which forms the basis of so many of the most celebrated Greek Tragedies. There, as in the poem before us, the whole story is one of unintentional guilt. The different steps and gradual development of the plot are much the same in both cases. In ignorance both victims approach the precipice that is hidden from their view

and the fatal slip is made. But there the bond of resemblance between the plots of the ancient and modern poets is snapped. Thenceforth the two stories pursue a different path. In the former case bitter remorse seizes upon the unfortunate victim. Wherever he flies the hounds of hell dog his foot-steps. Images of blood and slaughter rise up before him, and strange phantasies haunt him day and night. And at last he is either forced to kill himself, or remorse drives him to madness. The evil does not stop here. Posterity inherits the evil fruits of crime; and generation hands down to generation the cruel destiny.

Who shall absolve thee from the guilt
Of that red blood so foully spilt?

How, how the Alastor would'st thou name
Accomplice in that deed of shame?

Ancient hereditary foe

Of all that house of guilt and woe
Borne on the overwhelming flood
Rushing amain of kindred blood.

The modern poet, however, having reached the climax, feels a difficulty which was unknown to the Classical writers. Christianity has spread over the world a new morality and new ideas of justice. Hence neither of the above solutions of the difficulty would harmonize with the spirit of the age. Mr. Tennyson feels his position acutely, and being unable to solve the question, he throws a veil over it and leaves his readers to follow out their own imaginations.

The story itself is briefly told. In a small sea-side village lived a rough sailor's lad, the hero of the story, whose two constant companions were Philip Ray the miller's son, and Annie Lee. In course of time Enoch Arden managed to save money enough to make a home for Annie, and for seven years they passed a happy time of "mutual love and honourable toil." At last came a change, and while clambering up a mast Enoch slipt and broke a limb. As soon as he recovered he found that most of his savings were spent: and accordingly he went out on a voyage in the ship Good Fortune. Meanwhile troubles began to thicken round his wife; her baby died, and all Enoch's savings were gone. was then that Philip's nobleness of character began to show itself. In her time of sorrow he gave her support; and at last thinking that Enoch must be dead, he persuaded her to marry him. Annie showed some reluctance at first, and

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continual fears and doubts hovered round her; but at last they were dissipated by new cares

Then the new mother came about her heart,
Then her good Philip was her all in all.

Meanwhile the ship in which Enoch is returning is wrecked, and he is cast upon a Tropical Island, where he lingers for years in hope of revisiting his native village. At length he is taken up by another ship which was driven from its course by adverse winds, and finally returns to his home. But what a change awaited the unfortunate man! No fond wife hastened to welcome him: no children rushed forth to bring their father home in triumph. To no purpose had all his life been spent in endeavouring to procure them a good education and careful bringing up. "Enoch poor man was cast away and lost." But notwithstanding all this bitter disappointment, his courage remains unshaken. Nay, the heroism of his nature appears in all the more brilliant light because it is set off by misfortune. Too fond of his wife to give her pain by making himself known to her, he returns to his solitary home in the village. And there gentle sickness gradually removes him from the world of sorrow to which he has returned. Such is the touching and beautiful story which Mr. Tennyson has told in his own exquisite language. Throughout the whole of it he has shown a great dramatic power, and to the very last our interest is well kept up. No part in short has an undue prominence attached to it: while the principal character is never lost sight of for a moment.

Of the two male characters, Enoch Arden and Philip Ray, the Laureate has certainly bestowed the greater pains on the latter. His character is most carefully developed. Intense affection for Annie, and a rare delicacy and softness, mark its chief characteristics. When Enoch spoke his love boldly and impetuously, Philip loved in silence. Again when Annie and Enoch were sitting together in the wood, Philip did not rush in upon their solitude, and passionately implore them: still less did any feeling of anger or revenge come over him. But he quietly withdrew and bore his own sorrows alone rather than mar her happiness. But no act has brought out the delicacy of his character so much as the present of fruit and flowers which he sent to Annie from time to time in her distress, and even

With some pretext of fineness in the meal,
To save the offence of charitable, flour

From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.