TENNYSON AND BOTANY. 201 



we have the portentous image of the angel of death walking all alone 

 " beneath a yew." 



Our limits forbid more than a mere enumerative mention of other 

 well-known trees, whose memory Mr. Tennyson has rendered sweeter 

 to all future generations of tree-lovers. " Immemorial elms," " perky 

 larches and pines," " laburnums, dropping-wells of fire," elders, hol- 

 lies, " the pillared dusk of sounding sycamores," " dry-tongued lau- 

 rels," " slender acacias " — all these and many others are to be found 

 within the four corners of his poems. One only remains, the oak — 

 " sole king of forests all ; " and, as Mr. Tennyson has celebrated the 

 praises of the monarch of the woods at great length in the " Talking 

 Oak," we shall add a few words on that charming composition by way 

 of conclusion. 



As is well known, the poem takes the form of a colloquy between 

 an ancient oak, which formed a meeting-place for two lovers, and the 

 young gentleman in the case. He comes to question the tree about 

 his lady-love, who had visited the hallowed spot in his absence. And 

 Landor himself, in his happiest vein, never conceived a more exquisite 

 imaginary conversation. Here, in sportive phrase and bantering talk, 

 is the whole philosophy of forest-life set forth with a poetic felicity, 

 saucy humor, and scientific precision of language, each admirable of 

 its kind. The poem is literally a love-idyl and botanic treatise com- 

 bined, and never, surely, were lovers and science — January and May, 

 might one say — so delightfully harmonized, conveying, too, to those 

 who have eyes to see and hearts to understand, glimpses of a spiritual 

 interpretation of Nature, undreamt of by Pope and his school. Thus 

 pleasantly does the old oak of " Sumner Chace " discourse to Walter 

 of Olivia's charms ; and the reader will not fail to notice the skillful 

 way in which the poet's practical acquaintance with trees is turned to 



account : 



" I swear (and else may insects prick 

 Each leaf into a gall) 

 This girl, for whom your heart is sick, 

 Is three times worth them all ; " 



and then, with a warmth of praise unusual and almost improper in 

 such a venerable inhabitant of the forest, he continues : 



" Her kisses were so close and kind, 

 That, trust me on my word, 

 Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, 

 But yet my sap was stirred : 



" And even into my inmost ring 

 A pleasure I discerned, 

 Like those blind motions of the spring, 

 That show the year is turned." 



Farther on, the not ungrateful lover invokes all atmospheric and 



