_We use the word "Victorian" in literature to distinguish what was written after the decline of that age of which Walter Scott, Coleridge, and Wordsworth were the survivors. It is well to recollect, however, that Tennyson, who is the Victorian writer_ par excellence, _had published the most individual and characteristic of his lyrics long before the Queen ascended the throne, and that Elizabeth Barrett, Henry Taylor, William Barnes, and others were by this date of mature age. It is difficult to remind ourselves, who have lived in the radiance of that august figure, that some of the most beautiful of Tennyson's lyrics, such as "Mariana" and "The Dying Swan" are now separated from us by as long a period of years as divided them from Dr. Johnson and the author of "Night Thoughts." The reflection is of value only as warning us of the extraordinary length of the epoch we still call "Victorian." It covers, not a mere generation, but much more than half a century. During this length of time a complete revolution in literary taste might have been expected to take place. This has not occurred, and the cause may very well be the extreme license permitted to the poets to adopt whatever style they pleased. Where all the doors stand wide open, there is no object in escaping; where there is but one door, and that one barred, it is human nature to fret for some violent means of evasion. How divine have been the methods of the Victorian lyrists may easily be exemplified_:-- _"Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife To heart of neither wife nor maid, Lead we not here a jolly life Betwixt the shine and shade?_ _"Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife To tongue of neither wife nor maid, Thou wagg'st, but I am worn with strife, And feel like flowers that fade."_ _That is a masterpiece, but so is this:--_ _"Nay, but you who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, --So fair, see, ere I let it fall?_ _"Because, you spend your lives in praisings, To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her? Above this tress, and this I touch, But cannot praise, I love so much!"_ _And so is this:--_ _"Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will._ _"This be the verse yon grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill."_ _But who would believe that the writers of these were contemporaries?_