nauseating quality of some of the verse is very remarkable.
'Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,
You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child!
The whole edificatory agony is gone through, right down to the pet clergyman of the Adelphi pit.
'It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,
And now it seems so hard to stay, and yet His will be done!
But still I think it can't be long before I find release;
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. . . .
*******He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin,
Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there 's One will let me in:
Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be;
Now my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.'
Which suggests the horrible suspicion that it was 'that good man' who had made it too hard for the poor thing to stay.
The conclusion to be drawn from all this seems only too clear. Here we have Tennyson at work as a poet for a whole decade, and, with the exception of a few snatches of fine verse in 'The Lotus Eaters' and 'A Dream of Fair Women,' he has produced nothing of any permanent interest. It is a notable record, even for a popular poet.
