The criticisms of no poet are so amusing. Ward (T. H.), who is unrivaled in general judicious criticism, calling from oblivion innumerable forgotten names, seems never to have so much as heard of him, while Taine, our French critic, who unceremoniously “skips” numerous poets of acknowledged rank, gives to scarcely one English poet so extended, clear, close, appreciative criticism as to Tennyson. Shaw in his “Literary Compendium” does not deign to mention him, while Bayard Taylor said “No English poet, with the possible exception of Byron, has so ministered to the natural appetite for poetry.” The average newspaper ridicules him as stupid, but one of our keenest critics says, “He can gather up his strength like a serpent in the gleaming coil of a line, or dart it out straight and free.” When Tennyson appeared as a poet at the age of thirty-two he evidenced a rare poetic taste, unlike that which had hitherto catered to English readers. For a long time the poetry of England had been prosy in the extreme, metaphysical, monotonous, remorseful, dark and somber, and the appearance of a poet light, graceful and sentimental, was an event calculated to arouse the nation into joyous enthusiasm. There was about his life, as in his stanzas, a poetic halo, living as he did in the Isle of Wight, away from the rivalries and annoyances of society. Queen Victoria appointed him laureate, out of respect to the public demand that he be thus honored. It is three centuries since Spenser first wore the laurel. The first century embraced five names, three of whom—Spenser, Johnson and Dryden—were men of recognized superiority. The second had no poet of note. From the reign of the Prince of Orange to the independence of America there was no man of talent who consented to sing the praises of William, Mary, Anne or the Georges. The present century has been honored by scholarly, virtuous men, devoid of marked genius. It is a delightful thing to be able to say that of the entire sixteen, dull as some of them have been, they have been almost unexceptionally men of recognized purity of character, in ages when poets were renowned for their laxity of morals. [CONCLUDED.] THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME. BY ADA IDDINGS GALE. Thy deep tones burden all the air And hearing, strangest thoughts are mine; Thou’rt calling all the world to prayer, To contemplation all divine. Fled are the pageants of the past That once turned at thy deep voiced calls, In glooms doth stand the palace vast, And silent are its splendid halls. The galaxy of kings and queens, Of courtiers—maids of honor fair, The glittering robe of costly sheen, The tossing plume, the jewel rare, The wild retainers in their glee, That passed unheeded, thy sad tone; Alas! that life so frail should be By moulded brass and iron outdone.