From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,
Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that which I most cherished
Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the
versification could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged
the pen of poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can
consider himself entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity
he still retains the unwavering love of woman.
From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him
as the noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite
only a very brief specimen. I call him, and think him the noblest of
poets, not because the impressions he produces are at all times the
most profound- not because the poetical excitement which be induces is
at all times the most intense- but because it is at all times the most
ethereal- in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is
so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his
last long poem, "The Princess":-
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
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