In truth, the Shakespearean gallery is crowded with portraits of his progenitors--e.g., besides those already mentioned, John of Gaunt, Edmund Mortimer Earl of March, Richard Earl of Cambridge, Richard Plantagenet "the Yeoman," Edmund Beaufort Duke of Somerset, Lord Hastings (of the reigns of Edward IV. and Richard III.), and Lord Stanley. Mr. Tennyson is not only descended from the first Earl of Derby and that third earl with whose death, according to Camden, "the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep," but from the "stout Stanley" who fronted the right of the Scots at Flodden, and whose name in Scott's poem was the last on the lips of the dying Marmion. "Lord Marmion," says Scott, "is entirely a fictitious personage:" "but" he adds "that the family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenay in Normandy, was highly distinguished; Robert de Marmion, a follower of Duke William, having obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth. This Robert's descendant, Avice, married John, Lord Grey of Rotherfield, one of the original Knights of the Garter, whose great-granddaughter became (in 1401) the wife of John, Lord D'Eyncourt, another ancestor of Mr. Tennyson's; whose uncle, the Right Honourable Charles Tennyson, many years Liberal member for Lambeth, assumed the name of D'Eyncourt by royal licence." Probably the learned compiler of this abstruse genealogy has no time to study the poets, or he might have read of one who claimed an even more ancient descent:-- NOBLES and HERALDS, by your leave, Here lies, what once was, MATTHEW PRIOR, The son of ADAM and of EVE, Can STUART or NASSAU claim higher? The following beautiful lines, which occur in _The Princess_, have been the subject of many parodies:-- Home they brought her warrior dead; She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, "She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Took the face cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee-- Like summer tempest came her tears-- "Sweet my child, I live for thee." * * * * * An excellent parody, by Shirley Brooks, appeared in _Punch_, December 30, 1865. HOME THEY BROUGHT. (_With abject apologies to Mr. Tennyson, Miss Dance and Miss Dolby_). HOME they brought her lap-dog dead, Just run over by a fly, JEAMES to Buttons, winking, said, "Won't there be a row, O my!" Then they called the flyman low, Said his baseness could be proved: How she to the Beak should go-- Yet she neither spoke nor moved.