poetry which appealed as probably no other poetry has appealed to every class, wherever our language is spoken, he dwelt fondly on all that constitutes the greatness and glory of England, on her grandeur in the past, on the magnificent promise of the part she will play in the future, if her sons are true to her. There should be no distinction, for she recognises no distinction between her children at home and her children in her colonies. She is the common mother of a common race: one flag, one sceptre, the same proud ancestry, the same splendid inheritance. “How strange England cannot see,” he once wrote, “that her true policy lies in a close union with her colonies.” Sharers of our glorious past, Shall we not thro’ good and ill Cleave to one another still? Britain’s myriad voices call, Sons be welded all and all Into one imperial whole, One with Britain, heart and soul! One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne! Thus did the poetry of Tennyson draw closer, and thus will it continue to draw closer those sentimental ties—ties, in Burke’s phrase, “light as air, but strong as links of iron,” which bind the colonies to the mother country; and in so doing, if he did not actually initiate, he furthered, as no other single man has furthered, the most important movement of our time. Nor has any man of genius in the present century—not Dickens, not Ruskin—been moved by a purer spirit of philanthropy, or done more to show how little the qualities and actions which dignify humanity depend, or need depend, on the accidents of fortune. He brought poetry into touch with the discoveries of science, and with the speculations of theology and metaphysics, and though, in treating such subjects, his power is not, perhaps, equal to his charm, the debt which his countrymen owe him, even intellectually, is incalculable. [7] See Wordsworth’s letter to Lady Beaumont, _Prose Works_, vol. ii., p. 176. Early Poems To the Queen This dedication was first prefixed to the seventh edition of these poems in 1851, Tennyson having succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, 19th Nov., 1850. Revered, beloved[1]—O you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth Could give the warrior kings of old, Victoria,[2]—since your Royal grace To one of less desert allows This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter’d nothing base; And should your greatness, and the care That yokes with empire, yield you time To make demand of modern rhyme If aught of ancient worth be there; Then—while[3] a sweeter music wakes, And thro’ wild March the throstle calls, Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes— Take, Madam, this poor book of song; For tho’ the faults were thick as dust In vacant chambers, I could trust Your kindness.[4] May you rule us long. And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day! May children of our children say, “She wrought her people lasting good;[5]