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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 he 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.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
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