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:
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 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,
And Ah,' 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,

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 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 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 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.'

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

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 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.