Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,

Goes by to towered Camelot; And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true,

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,

And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed ;
“I am half-sick of shadows," said

The Lady of Shalott.

PART III.

A BOW-Shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight forever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot :
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,

And as he rode his armor rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“ Tirra lirra,” by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,

She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide ;
The mirror cracked from side to side ;
“ The curse is come upon me,” cried

The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV.

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,
Dead-pale between the houses high,

Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharves 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.

.

I.

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, “ to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.”

II.

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.”

III.

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."

IV.

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.”

V

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream :

She felt he was and was not there.