As we read Byron or Burns, beautiful forms stand before us, we see the action of their breathing, read the passionate language of their eyes, involuntarily throw out our arms to embrace them; but we have glimpses only of the impalpable creations of Tennyson, as far away on gold-fringed clouds they bend to listen to dreamlike melodies which go up from fairy lakes and enchanted palaces. Tennyson has been praised as a strikingly original poet. He has indeed a bold and affluent fancy, whereby he tricks out common thoughts in dresses so unique that it is not always easy to identify them; but we have not seen in his works proofs of an original mind. He certainly is not an inventor of incidents, for most of those he uses were familiar in the last century. Dora he acknowledges was suggested by one of Miss Mitford’s portraits, and the Lady Clare by Mrs. Farrar’s Inheritance; The Day Dream, The Lady of Shalott, and Godiva, are versions of old tales, skilfully made, but showing no creative power. There is a statue-like definiteness and warmth of coloring about the following stanzas from the first of these poems which we have not elsewhere observed in his writings: THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purpled coverlet, The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown. On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl. The silk star-broider’d coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid The full black ringlets downward roll’d, Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm With bracelets of the diamond bright; Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light. She sleeps! her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart, The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest. There is also a beautiful passage in Godiva, which we cannot forbear to quote: Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasped the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim earl’s gift; but ever at a breath She lingered, looking like a summer moon Hair dipt in cloud; anon she shook her head And showered the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole on, and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar until she reached The gateway. A specimen of description, graphic, but not very poetical, is the following from the Miller’s Daughter: