We pass by two--what shall we call them?--tales, or odes, or sketches, entitled 'Mariana in the South' and 'Eleänore,' of which we fear we could make no intelligible extract, so curiously are they run together into one dreamy tissue--to a little novel in rhyme, called 'The Miller's Daughter.' Millers' daughters, poor things, have been so generally betrayed by their sweethearts, that it is refreshing to find that Mr. Tennyson has united himself to _his_ miller's daughter in lawful wedlock, and the poem is a history of his courtship and wedding. He begins with a sketch of his own birth, parentage, and personal appearance-- 'My father's mansion, mounted high, Looked down upon the village-spire; I was a long and listless boy, And son and heir unto the Squire.' But the son and heir of Squire Tennyson often descended from the 'mansion mounted high;' and 'I met in all the close green ways, While walking with my line and rod,' A metonymy for 'rod and line'-- 'The wealthy miller's mealy face, Like the _moon in an ivytod_. 'He looked so jolly and so good-- While fishing in the mill-dam water, I laughed to see him as he stood, And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.'--p. 33. He, however, soon saw, and, need we add, loved the miller's daughter, whose countenance, we presume, bore no great resemblance either to the 'mealy face' of the miller, or 'the moon in an ivy-tod;' and we think our readers will be delighted at the way in which the impassioned husband relates to his wife how his fancy mingled enthusiasm for rural sights and sounds, with a prospect of the less romantic scene of her father's occupation. 'How dear to me in youth, my love, Was everything about the mill; The black, the silent pool above, The pool beneath that ne'er stood still; The meal-sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, _The very air about the door, Made misty with the floating meal!_'--p. 36. The accumulation of tender images in the following lines appears not less wonderful:-- 'Remember you that pleasant day When, after roving in the woods, ('Twas April then) I came and lay Beneath those _gummy_ chestnut-buds? 'A water-rat from off the bank Plunged in the stream. With idle care, Downlooking through the sedges rank, I saw your troubled image there. 'If you remember, you had set, Upon the narrow casement-edge, A _long green box_ of mignonette And you were leaning on the ledge.' The poet's truth to Nature in his 'gummy' chestnut-buds, and to Art in the 'long green box' of mignonette--and that masterful touch of likening the first intrusion of love into the virgin bosom of the Miller's daughter to the plunging of a water-rat into the mill-dam--these are beauties which, we do not fear to say, equal anything even in Keats.