If thou art blest—my mother's smile
Undimm'd—if bees are on the wing.
No, we believe the whole circle of poetry does not furnish such another instance of enthusiasm for the sights and sounds of the vernal season! The sorrows of a bereaved mother rank after the blossoms of the woodbine, and just before the hummings of the bee; and this is all he has any curiosity about, for he proceeds:
Then cease, my friend, a little while,
That I may —
"send my love to my mother;" or "give you some hints about bees, which I have picked up from Aristseus in the Elysian Fields;" or "tell you how I am situated as to my own personal comforts in the world below"? 0, no!
That I may hear the throstle sing
His bridal song the—boast of spring.'
This is tolerably severe. The following lines, however, gave too palpable an opportunity for even the most obtuse critic to let slip:
Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones
(If any sense in me remains)
Thy words will be, thy cheerful tones
As welcome to my—crumbling bones.
And this is the commentary,
'If any sense in me remains!
This doubt is inconsistent with the opening stanza of the piece, and, in fact, too modest. We take upon ourselves to reassure Mr. Tennyson, that, even after he shall be dead and buried, as much "sense" will still remain as he has now the good fortune to possess.'
Take the following again:
'The accumulation of tender images in the following lines appears not less wonderful:
