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The originator of this species
of poetry in England was Southey, in his 'English Eclogues', written
before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse,
Southey says: "The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to
any poems in our language. This species of composition has become
popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the
German idylls given me in conversation. " Southey's eclogues are eight in
number: 'The Old Mansion House', 'The Grandmother's Tale', 'Hannah',
'The Sailor's Mother', 'The Witch', 'The Ruined Cottage', 'The Last of
the Family' and 'The Alderman's Funeral'. Southey was followed by
Wordsworth in 'The Brothers' and 'Michael'. Southey has nothing of the
charm, grace and classical finish of his disciple, but how nearly
Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who
compares Tennyson's studies with 'The Ruined Cottage'. But Tennyson's
real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so
much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.

'The Gardener's Daughter' was written as early as 1835, as it was read
to Fitzgerald in that year ('Life of Tennyson', i. , 182). Tennyson
originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled 'The
Antechamber', which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he
afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the 'Life', i. , 233-4. This
poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with
ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent
editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form "tho'" is substituted
for "though".
This morning is the morning of the day,
When I and Eustace from the city went
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew
The fable of the city where we dwelt.
My Eustace might have sat for Hercules;
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws
The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little;--Juliet, she [1]
So light of foot, so light of spirit--oh, she
To me myself, for some three careless moons,
The summer pilot of an empty heart
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not
Such touches are but embassies of love,
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her,
And said to me, she sitting with us then,
"When will _you_ paint like this? " and I replied,
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest),
"'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived,
A more ideal Artist he than all,
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ashbuds in the front of March. "
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece ".
And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear
The windy clanging of the minster clock;
Although between it and the garden lies
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream,
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar,
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge
Crown'd with the minster-towers.

The fields between
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine,
And all about the large lime feathers low,
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. [2]
In that still place she, hoarded in herself,
Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he,
So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth,
So gross to express delight, in praise of her
Grew oratory.