Thy downcast glances,-grave, but cunning,
As fringed eyelids rise and fall;

Thy shyness swiftly from me running,-
"Tis infantine coquetry all!

But far a-field thou hast not flown,

With mocks and threats, half lisp'd, half spoken ; I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh, and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging!
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after kindness more engaging!
The wilding rose-sweet as thyself—
And new-cropt daisies are thy treasure ;
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf
To taste again thy youthful pleasure.
But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming,
When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook,
The weary spell or hornbook thumbing.
Well, let it be! through weal and woe,
Thou know'st not now thy future range;
Life is a motley shifting show,-

And thou a thing of hope and change.

THE KITTEN.

WANTON droll, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustic's closing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone, and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till his supper cool;

And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose,

As bright the blazing fagot glows,

Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight:

Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil'd, and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,

The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.

Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,

As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till, from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with tail in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like Madam in her tantrums high;
Though ne'er a Madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.
Doth power in measured verses dwell,
All thy vagaries wild to tell?

Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound,
The giddy scamper round and round,
With leap, and jerk, and high curvet,
And many a whirling somerset,
(Permitted be the modern Muse
Expression technical to use,)

These mock the deftliest rhymester's skill,
But poor in art, though rich in will.
The nimblest tumbler, stage-bedight,

To thee is but a clumsy wight,
Who ev'ry limb and sinew strains
To do what costs thee little pains,
For which, I trow, the gaping crowd
Requites him oft with plaudits loud.
But, stopp'd the while thy wanton play,
Applauses too, thy feats repay:

For then, beneath some urchin's hand,
With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand,
While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides;
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur,-
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,

And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whisker'd cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone, by cottage fire,
Do rustics rude thy tricks admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles, with alter'd air,
To see thee climb his elbow chair;
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball;
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,-
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tow'r or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loathes the world and all its ways,
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find,
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimney-corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey?
A tiger, at his ruthless play?
Or, is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,

An emblem, view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?

Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguiled,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favour'd playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoil'd thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,-
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with savoury food.

Nor, when thy span of life be past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid;

And children show, with glistening eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.

WELCOME BAT AND OWLET GRAY.

O WELCOME bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging lone your airy way;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by ;
And welcome shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.
Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou in this witching hour?
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night?

Nn

ALFRED TENNYSON is, we understand, the son of a clergyman residing in Lincolnshire he was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he took his degree. He has a brother, Charles, who has published a volume of graceful and beautiful "Sonnets;" and another brother, Frederick, is said to possess considerable poetical powers. Their two sisters, also, are, we are told, distinguished by rare abilities. Their home is likened by a correspondent to "a nest of nightingales." Mr. Hunt, who has favoured us with some remarks upon the poetry of Alfred Tennyson, states, that "he is of the school of Keats; that is to say, it is difficult not to see that Keats has been a great deal in his thoughts; and that he delights in the same brooding over his sensationsand the same melodious enjoyment of their expression. In his desire to communicate this music, he goes so far as to accent the final syllables in his participles passive,-as pleached, crowned, purple-spikéd, &c.,-with visible printers' marks, which subjects him, but erroneously, to a charge of pedantry; though it is a nicety not complimentary to the reader, and of which he may as well get rid. Much, however, as he reminds us of Keats, his genius is his own: he would have written poetry had his precursor written none; and he has, also, a vein of metaphysical subtlety, in which the other did not indulge, as may be seen by his verses entitled, 'A Character,' those 'On the Confessions of a Sensitive Mind,' and numerous others. He is, also, a great lover of a certain home kind of landscape, which he delights to paint with a minuteness that, in the Moated Grange,' becomes affecting, and in the Miller's Daughter,' would remind us of the Dutch school, if it were not mixed up with the same deep feeling, though varied with a pleasant joviality. Mr. Tennyson has yet given no such evidence of sustained and broad power as that of Hyperion,' nor even of such gentler narrative as the Eve of St. Agnes,' and the poems of 'Lamia,' and 'Isabella,' but the materials of the noblest poetry are abundant in him." Hitherto he has but tried the strength of his wings: he is, no doubt, preparing for a more daring flight than he has yet ventured. There are, it is certain, many and glaring faults in his poems: he seems, by his frequent repetitions of them, to consider as beauties things which are unquestionably blemishes. His veneration for the old Poets, and his love for those among his contemporaries who have based their style upon them, have led him to adopt the puerilities in which the age of Elizabeth was fertile: he frequently mistakes affectation for simplicity, and occasionally fancies that to be natural which borders upon burlesque. Thus, several of the most beautiful of his compositions are marred by some Jarring word or conceit. In one of the sweetest of them all,-"The Miller's Daughter," and in one of the most exquisite stanzas of it, we find an example :

"Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife,

Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look through my very soul with thine.

Untouch'd with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes for ever dwell;

They have not shed A MANY tears,

Dear eyes! since first I knew them well"

Such faults are by no means rare among the poems of Mr. Tennyson. We need, however, but refer to our extracts for proof that his beauties are striking and numerous; and that a little more care would render them exquisitely perfect. We cannot but agree with Mr. Hunt, that "the materials of the noblest poetry are abundant in him :" they will become useless if neglected.

Mr. Tennyson has published two volumes; and the last is not the best. Our extracts are, with but one exception, made from the former. It is to be regretted that the reputation which this work obtained for him did not induce him to write with a higher object than that of amusing and gratifying the reader, by a collection of brief and comparatively unimportant poems; or that until he had succeeded in producing something more worthy of his genius, he did not abstain from appearing a second time before the public. The world will look with anxiety to the next; it will decide the point which is still undecided-whether another great Poet is to be added to the long list which the present century has supplied to us, or whether the industry and energy of the author of " Poems, chiefly Lyrical," are not equal to his delicacy and imagination. His compositions are, undoubtedly, brilliant and beautiful: their merit is sufficient to justify the praise he has received; and it is only because he has afforded ample proof of his capacity to do better, that we lament he has not yet fulfilled the earliest promise of his genius.