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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.

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.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right-
The leaves upon her falling light-
Thro' 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.

With one black shadow at its feet,

The house thro’ all the level shines,
Close-iatticed 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.'

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,

Turn'd to tower'd 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.

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,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'

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 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 cross'd themselves for fear,

All the knights at Camelot :

Till all the crimson changed, and past

Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; Complaining, “Mother, give me grace,

To help me of my weary load.'

And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face.

'Is this the form,' she made her

moan, “That won his praises night and

mom ?' And · Ah,' she said, “but I wake

alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.'

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.'

'Ocruel heart, 'she changed hertone,

“And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die 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 seem'd 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.'

But sometimes in the falling day

An image seem'd 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.'

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.'

At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea ; Backward the lattice-blind she flung,

And lean’d upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears,

And deepening thro' the silent spheresHeaven 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 TWO VOICES.

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.'

A STILL small voice spake unto me, “Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be ?'

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