It must be owned, indeed, that this play lacks the highest poetry in its expression as much as in its conception. We occasionally come across passages of vivid and vigorous limning, as Count Feria’s reply to Elizabeth towards the end of the play, and Howard’s description to the Lord Mayor of the state of mind of the citizens. But even the force of this latter passage is not dramatic. There is none of the rush and movement of an excited populace. There are a few striking groups. But they are inactive. Theirs is a kind of dead life, if we may be pardoned such an expression. Rather, they are mere _tableaux vivants_. They inspire us with no fear for Mary’s throne. More near to dramatic power and beauty is Elizabeth’s soliloquy at Woodstock, suddenly lowered in the midst of its poetry, even to nursery familiarity, by the introduction of such a phrase as “catch me who can.” But for one single effort of the highest poetic flight we look in vain. Even the few snatches of his lyre which he introduces fail to woo us. They are not natural. If they are poetry, it is poetry in a court-dress. It is rich with brocade, and the jewels glitter bravely; it treads delicately, but its movements are artificial and constrained. Compare, for example, the song of the Woodstock milkmaid, wherein labor is visible in every line, with those gushes of nature with which the poet’s soul would seem to be bubbling over the brim of the visible in the various lyrical snatches of Ariel or with the song of Spring at the end of _Love’s Labor Lost_. But what has more surprised us than the lack of the poetic inspiration in this drama is the occasional want of correct taste in a writer of such exceeding polish as Mr. Tennyson. Such a speech as “And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose-- Your boots are from the horses,” should not have been put in the mouth of a lady, still less a lady of the rank of Elizabeth, and that the less when she appeals to our sympathies from a kind of honorable imprisonment. Lady Magdalen Dacres may have beat King Philip with a staff for insulting her, and have remained a lady, but we do not want to be told, in the midst of dramatic pathos, “But by God’s providence a good stout staff Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm; I do believe I lamed his Majesty’s.” Is our poet, again, so barren of invention that he could find no other way of portraying Philip’s indifference to his Queen than the following: “By S. James, I do protest, Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard, I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. Simon, is supper ready?” “RENARD--Ay, my liege, I saw the covers laying.” “PHILIP--Let’s have it.”