ALFRED TENNYSON. 166 



delicate patient, " so softly worn, so sweetly weak," 

 still lingers — it k the last day of the year, and while 

 her tender mother sits by her side, she gives utter- 

 ance to the pure and unaffected feelings of her heart. 

 Her eyes brighten as she recounts the happy scenes 

 of May-day. She only wishes to live to see a flower, 

 — the tiny snow-drop, or the golden crocus. She 

 touchingly alludes to her grave, which she desires 

 may be " beneath the hawthorn shade." She en- 

 treats her mother to stay her grief and rest her com- 

 fort on " another child." She speaks of her garden 

 tools, her rose-bush, and her mignionette, and coin- 

 mends them to her sister's care. She concludes 

 with a last request, 



" But I would see the sun rise on the glad new year, 



So if you 're waking call me, call me early, mother dear.*' 



The conception of the poet is beautiful, and his 

 execution is still more so. It is indeed delightful 

 to contemplate, though it be but in the picture of 

 fancy, such an angelic being as Mr. Tennyson's 

 poetry suggests : a being of a refined sensibility, of 

 a glowing philanthropy, who passes her days in 

 rural retirement, unambitious of fortune or of fame, 

 apart from the allurements of fashion, who can ad- 

 mire the geometric web of the spider, ghstening 

 with pearly dew, or the simple daisy, adorned with 

 golden face and silvery fringe, is a most rare and 

 precious jewel. She needs no " storied urn," or 

 "pealing anthem," to tell her virtues. The soft 

 whispers of the breeze, and the song of the tuneful 

 birds shall be her funeral dirge — and 



** The wild flowers too she loved so well, 

 Shall blow and breathe ther sweetness there; 



And all around her grave shall tell 

 * She felt that Nature's face was fair/ " 



E. G. 



