In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,

The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse-
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance-
With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.

And at the closing of the day

She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light-
Through the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot :
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot;
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.

WITH one black shadow at its feet,
The house through all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But "Ave Mary," made she moan,
And "Ave Mary," night and morn,
And "Ah," she sang,
66 to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn!"

She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down Through rosy taper fingers drew

Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear, Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And "Ave Mary," was her moan,

Madonna, sad is night and morn;
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn!"

Till all the crimson changed, and past
Into deep orange o'er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,
Before Our Lady murmured she;
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace
To help me of my weary load."
And on the liquid mirror glowed
The clear perfection of her face.

"Is this the form," she made her moan,
"That won his praises night and morn?"
And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,
I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,
Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
But day increased from heat to heat,
On stony drought and steaming salt;
Till now at noon she slept again,

And seemed knee-deep in mountain-grass,
And heard her native breezes pass,
And runlets babbling down the glen.
She breathed in sleep a lower moan,
And murmuring, as at night and morn,
She thought, My spirit is here alone,
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: She felt he was and was not there. She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare

297

Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
The river-bed was dusty-white;
And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whispered, with a stifled moan
More inward than at night or morn,
"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone
Live forgotten and die forlorn."

And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seemed to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone forevermore."

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?"

But sometimes in the falling day

An image seemed to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say,

"But thou shalt be alone no more." And flaming downward over all

From heat to heat the day decreased,
And slowly rounded to the east
The one black shadow from the wall.

"The day to night," she made her moan,
"The day to night, the night to morn,
And day and night I am left alone

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And leaned upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glittered on her tears,
And deepening through the silent spheres,
Heaven over heaven rose the night.

And weeping then she made her moan,
"The night comes on that knows not morn
When I shall cease to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

I SEE the wealthy miller yet,

His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead dryly curled, Seemed half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit,

Three fingers round the old silver cupI see his gray eyes twinkle yet

At his own jest-gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul

So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
My own sweet Alice, we must die.
There's somewhat in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by-and-by.
There's somewhat flows to us in life,
But more is taken quite away.
Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
That we may die the self-same day.
Have I not found a happy earth?

I least should breathe a thought of pain.
Would God renew me from my birth
I'd almost live my life again.
So sweet it seems with thee to walk,
And once again to woo thee mine-
It seems in after-dinner talk

Across the walnuts and the wine

To be the long and listless boy

Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you

Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken through By some wild skylark's matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove

In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy played Before I dreamed that pleasant dream— Still hither, thither idly swayed

Like those long mosses in the stream.

Or from the bridge I leaned to hear
The mill-dam rushing down with noise,
And see the minnows everywhere

In crystal eddies glance and poise,
The tall flag-flowers when they sprung
Below the range of stepping-stones,
Or those three chestnuts near, that hung
In masses thick with milky cones.

But, Alice, what an hour was that,

When after roving in the woods ('T was April then), I came and sat

Below the chestnuts, when their buds
Were glistening to the breezy blue;
And on the slope, an absent fool,
I cast me down, nor thought of you,
But angled in the higher pool!

A love-song I had somewhere read,
An echo from a measured strain,
Beat time to nothing in my head
From some odd corner of the brain.
It haunted me, the morning long,
With weary sameness in the rhymes,
The phantom of a silent song,

That went and came a thousand times.

Then leaped a trout. In lazy mood
I watched the little circles die;
They passed into the level flood,

And there a vision caught my eye;
The reflex of a beauteous form,

A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck.

For you remember, you had set,
That morning, on the casement's edge
A long green box of mignonette,

And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above

They met with two so full and brightSuch eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light.

I loved, and love dispelled the fear

That I should die an early death: For love possessed the atmosphere,

And filled the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was altered, and began

To move about the house with joy,
And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam
Through quiet meadows round the mill,
The sleepy pool above the dam,

The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door

Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold,

When April nights began to blow,
And April's crescent glimmered cold,
I saw the village lights below;
I knew your taper far away,

And full at heart of trembling hope,
From off the wold I came, and lay
Upon the freshly-flowered slope.

The deep brook groaned beneath the mill;
And "by that lamp," I thought," she sits!"
The white chalk-quarry from the hill
Gleamed to the flying moon by fits.
"O that I were beside her now!

O will she answer if I call?

O would she give me vow for vow,
Sweet Alice, if I told her all?"

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin:
And, in the pauses of the wind,
Sometimes I heard you sing within;
Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind.
At last you rose and moved the light,
And the long shadow of the chair
Flitted across into the night,

And all the casement darkened there.

But when at last I dared to speak,

The lanes, you know, were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day; And so it was-half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly,

And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought
To yield consent to my desire:
She wished me happy, but she thought
I might have looked a little higher;
And I was young-too young to wed:
"Yet must I love her for your sake;
Go fetch your Alice here," she said:
Her eyelids quivered as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride:
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,

I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kissed away before they fell.

I watched the little flutterings,

The doubt my mother would not see;
She spoke at large of many things,
And at the last she spoke of me;
And turning looked upon your face,
As near this door you sat apart,
And rose, and, with a silent grace
Approaching, pressed you heart to heart.

Ah, well-but sing the foolish song
I gave you, Alice, on the day
When, arm in arm, we went along,

A pensive pair, and you were gay
With bridal flowers-that I may seem,
As in the nights of old, to lie
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
While those full chestnuts whisper by.

It is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasped at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells-
True love interprets-right alone.
His light upon the letter dwells,

For all the spirit is his own.
So, if I waste words now, in truth

You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth,

And makes me talk too much in age.

And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like mine own life to me thou art,
Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart:
So sing that other song I made,

Half-angered with my happy lot,
The day, when in the chestnut-shade
I found the blue forget-me-not.

Love that hath us in the net,
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set.
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debt.
Even so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret.
Eves with idle tears are wet.
Idle habit links us yet.
What is love? for we forget:
Ab, no! no!

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! Untouched with any shade of years,

May those kind eyes forever dwell!' They have not shed a many tears,

Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part
Of sorrow for when time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness passed again,

And left a want unknown before;
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more,

With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee:
But that God bless thee, dear-who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind-
With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

CENONE.

THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling through the cloven ravine
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's columned citadel,
The crown of Troas.

Hither came at noon

299

Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck
Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest.
She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper
cliff.

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:
The grasshopper is silent in the grass:
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,
Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.
The purple flowers droop: the golden bee
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
And I am all aweary of my life.

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crowned snake! O Mountain-brooks,

I am the daughter of a river-god,
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,
A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be
That, while I speak of it, a little while
My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
I waited underneath the dawning hills,
Aloft the mountain-lawn was dewy-dark,
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine;
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,

Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, whitehooved,

Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.

Far-off the torrent called me from the cleft:
Far up the solitary morning smote

The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropped

eyes

I sat alone: white-breasted like a star
Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard-skin
Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair
Clustered about his temples like a god's;
And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow
brightens

When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart

Went forth to embrace him coming ere he

came.

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked And listened, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

"My own Enone, Beautiful-browed Enone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingraven

thine,

As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace

Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He pressed the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, "This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of gods.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piny sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they

came,

Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel,

Lotos and lilies and a wind arose,

And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,
This way and that, in many a wild festoon
Ran riot, garlanding the gnarlèd boughs

In knowledge of their own supremacy.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power

Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbs
O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear
Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,
The while, above, her full and earnest eye
Over her snow-cold breast ånd angry cheek
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply:

"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncalled for), but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest.

"Yet indeed,

through.

Shall strike within thy pulses, like a god's,
To push thee forward through a life of shocks,
Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow
Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will,
Circled through all experiences, pure law,
Commeasure perfect freedom.'

"Here she ceased,
And Paris pondered, and I cried, ‘O Paris,
Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtile smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh, Half-whispered in his ear, I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laughed: I shut my sight for fear:

But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm,
And I beheld great Here's angry eyes,
As she withdrew into the golden cloud,
And I was left alone within the bower;
And from that time to this I am alone,
And I shall be alone until I die.