Alfred Tennyson.

The wreath of the Laureate has never been more worthily worn than by the great poet who has just passed away. To give even an outline of his biography would be superfluous. Tastes and fashions change in poetry as in all else; but whatever position may hereafter be gained by men now living, we think that Alfred Tennyson will be accorded the highest place in the roll of poets of the century so near its close. That he published mediocre verse at times, no one can deny; but there are excuses for a writer every line of whose writings had so large a commercial value. Certainly there was no lack of appreciation of his work while living, as is shown by one fact alone—that his poems in recent years commanded the highest prices ever paid in Britain for literary work. The position of laureate is a peculiarly difficult one, and severely tests a literary reputation ؟Could, for example, a poet be placed in a more trying position than to be required to write a metrical eulogy on the late Mr John Brown? When, however, we compare the work which fell to him in his official capacity with the fulsome verses of some of his predecessors, we realize how he maintained his position without sacrifice of personal dignity. Some of the poems so written, embodying as they did his genuine sentiments, rank high among his works; such, for example, as his poem « To the Queen » (1851) some lines of which have already passed into proverbs, and the magnificent dedication of the « Idylls of the King. » There was not much of the nature of the supple courtier in the nature of the man who could write

؟Shall we fear him? our own we never feared.
From our first Charles by force we wrung our claims.
Pricked by the Papal spur, we reared,
We flung the burthen of the second James.

The close of the poet's career was in keeping with the beauty of his life-work. We read how calmly he faced the « last enemy »—in his case a welcomed friend; of the moonbeams illumining with soft beauty the aged face; of last words of hope and trust and comfort. But he had long been prepared. His real farewell message is found in the prophetic words of the little piece which closes his volume published in 1889—the loveliest and sweetest poem ever written in the English tongue:

Crossing the Bar.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound or foam.
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there he no sadness of farewell
When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place,
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.