I made my dagger sharp and bright.
The wind is raving in turret and tree.
As half-asleep his breath he drew,
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head,
He look'd so grand when he was dead.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
I wrapt his body in the sheet,
And laid him at his mother's feet.

O the Earl was fair to see!

TO

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I SEND you here a sort of allegory,
(For you will understand it) of a soul,
A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts,
A spacious garden full of flowering weeds,
A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain,
That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen
In all varieties of mould and mind)
And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good,
Good only for its beauty, seeing not
That Beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are
(three sisters

That doat upon each other, friends to man,
Living together under the same roof,
And never can be sunder'd without tears.
And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie
Howling in outer darkness. Not for this
Was common clay ta'en from the common
(earth,

Moulded by God, and temper'd with the (tears

Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

THE PALACE OF ART. I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I said,,,O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well."

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd (brass,

I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bates of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.

And while the world runs round and
(round," I said,

Four courts I made, East, West and South (and North,

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam.

And round the cool green courts there ran (a row

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery

That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one (swell

Across the mountain stream❜d below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze (upon

My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in thes

And that sweet incense rise?"

sun,

Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace (stood,

All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood Ang change of my still soul.

For some were hung with arras green and (blue,

Showing a gaudy summer-morn. Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter (blew

His wreathed bugle-horn.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the set,
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise,
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avelon,
And watch'd by weeping queens.

And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. You seem'd to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing (caves,

Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow

By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry-toil.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.

And one, a foreground black with stones (and slags,

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scorn(ful crags,

And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home (pour'd

gray twilight

Ön dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep all things in order (stored,

To list a foot-fall, ere he saw

The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king (to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd, A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's mantle blue unclasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borne: From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd

The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky

Above the pillar'd town.

Nor these alone: but every legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd.

The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong,

Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd (his song,

And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; A million wrinkles carved his skin A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast From cheek and throat and chin. Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set

Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale

Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought, they wil not fail.

The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and (stings;

Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro

The heads and crowns of kings; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man de(clined,

And trusted any cure.

But over these she trod: and those great (bells

Began to chime. She took her throne She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,

To sing her songs alone.

And thro' the topmost Oriels' coloured flame
Two godlike faces gazed below
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd'Verulam,

;

The first of those who know. And all those names, that in their motion (were

Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange:

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, eme(rald, blue,

eyes,

Flush'd in her temples and her And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, (drew

Rivers of melodies.

No nightingale delighteth to prolong,
Her low preamble all alone,

More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone;
Singing and murmuring in her feastful
(mirth,

Joying to feel herself alive,

Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toilsLit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems,

To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and (cried,

I marvel if my still delight

In this great honse so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height.

"O all things fair to sate my various eyes! O shapes and hues that please me well! O silent faces of the Great and Wise,

My Gods, with whom I dwell!

O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of (swine

That range on yonder plain.

In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in,

And drives them to the deep."
Then of the moral instinct would she prate,
And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;
And at the last she said:

"I take possession of man's mind and deed.
I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all."

* * *

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne."

And so she throve and prosper'd: so three (years

She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of hell.

Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
God, before whom ever lie bare

Lord of the senses five;

Communing with herself: All these are (mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me." She when young night

(divine

Plagued her with sore despair.

When she would think, where'er she turn'd (her sight,

The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote,,Mene, mene," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn.

What! is not this my place of strength," (she said.

"My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were (laid

Since my first memory?"

But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes: and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of
(blood,

And horrible nightmares.

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she
(came,

That stood against the wall.

A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, Mid onward-sloping motions infinite

Making for one sure goal.

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand; Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the (land

Their moon-led waters white.

A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance

Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this (world:

One deep, deep silence all!" She,mouldering with the dull earth's moul(dering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame.
Lay there exiled from eternal God,

Lost to her place and name;
And death and life she hated equally,
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere;
Remaining utterly confused with fears,
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
In doubt and great perplexity,

A little before moon-rise hears the low
Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, I have
(found

A new land, but I die."

She howl'd aloud,,,I am on fire within.
There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
And save me lest I die?"

So when four years were wholly finished,
She threw her royal robes away.
Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
"Where I may mourn and pray."

"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that (are

So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.'

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I was the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your old stone gates
Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse.

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent
The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'Tis only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,

You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara, Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate. Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

THE MAY QUEEN.

You must wake and call me early, call me (early, mother dear;

To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all (the glad New-year;

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the mad(dest merriest day;

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm (to be Queen o' the May,

There's many a black black eye, they say, (but none so bright as mine;

There's Margaret and Mary,there's Kate and (Caroline:

But none so fair as little Alice in all the (land they say,

So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm (to be Queen o' the may.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I (shall never wake,

If you do not call me loud when the day be(gins to break:

But 1 must gather knots of flowers, and buds (and garlands gay,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, (I'm to be Queen o' the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye (should I see,

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath (the hazel-tree?

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I (gave him yesterday,

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, (I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was (all in white,

And I ran by him without speaking, like a (flash of light.

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not (what they say,

For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm (to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can

(never be: