THE LADY OF SHALOTT

First published in 1833, and much altered in 1842. See Notes.

PART I

ON either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song

that echoes cheerly

From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot; And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers T is the fairy Lady of Shalott.'

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PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,

The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' 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 thro' 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,

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH

First printed in 1833, but changed so much in 1842 that we give the original form in full in the Notes.

WITH One black shadow at its feet,

The house thro' 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, AndAh,' she sang, 'to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'

She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' 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,

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To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'

She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and

morn,

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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 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 whisper'd, 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

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Old letters, breathing of her worth, For Love,' they said, 'must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth.' An image seem'd to pass the door,

To look at her with slight, and say
But now thy beauty flows away,
So be alone for evermore.'

'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 seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say,

'But thou sha't be alone no more.' And flaming downward over all

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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,

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I wept: Tho' I should die, I know
That all about the thorn will blow
In tufts of rosy-tinted snow;

'And men, thro' novel spheres of thought
Still moving after truth long sought,
Will learn new things when I am not.'

'Yet,' said the secret voice, 'some time, Sooner or later, will gray prime Make thy grass hoar with early rime.

'Not less swift souls that yearn for light, Rapt after heaven's starry flight, Would sweep the tracts of day and night.

'Not less the bee would range her cells,
The furzy prickle fire the dells,
The foxglove cluster dappled bells.'

I said that all the years invent;
Each month is various to present
The world with some development.