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I die with my delight, before
I hear what I would hear from

Yet tell my name again to me,
I would be dying evermore,
So dying ever, Eleanore.


As thunder-clouds that, hung on high,

Roof'd the world with doubt and

fear, Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his fire and active might

In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight,

And luxury of contemplation : As waves that up a quiet cove

Rolling slide, and lying still

Shadow forth the banks at will : Or sometimes they swell and move,

Pressing up against the land,
With motions of the outer sea :

And the self-same influence

Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken’d, languid Love,

Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
Droops both his wings, regarding thee,

And so would languish evermore,
Serene, imperial Eleänore.

My life is full of weary days,

But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wander'd into other ways :

I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise. And now shake hands across the brink

Of that deep grave to which I go : Shake hands once more : I cannot sink

So far-far down, but I shall know
Thy voice, and answer from below.



But when I see thee roam, with tresses

unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and

the moon ;

Or, in a shadowy saloon,
On silken cushions half reclined ;

I watch thy grace ; and in its place
My heart a charmed slumber keeps,

While I muse upon thy face ;
And a languid fire creeps

Thro' my veins to all my frame,
Dissolvingly and slowly : soon

From thy rose-red lips My name
Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon,
With dinning sound my ears are rise,

My tremulous tongue faltereth,
I lose my colour, I lose my breath,

I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warm

est lite.

When in the darkness over me

The four-handed mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree,

Nor wreathe thy cap with dolesul crape,

But pledge me in the flowing grape. And when the sappy field and wood

Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with

may, Ring sudden scritches of the jay, Then let wise Nature work her will,

And on my clay her darnel grow ;
Come only, when the days are still,

And at my headstone whisper low,
And tell me if the woodbines blow,



TO As when with downcast eyes we muse and

brood, And ebb into a former life, or seem To lapse far back in some confused dream




To states of mystical similitude ;

Which with increasing might doth forward If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair,

fee Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, So that we say, “All this hath been before,

and isle, All this hath been, I know not when or And in the middle of the green salt sea where.'

Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. So, friend, when first I look'd upon your Mine be the power which ever to its sway face,

Will win the wise at once, and by degrees Our thought gave answer each to each, so May into uncongenial spirits flow;

Ev'n as the warm gulf-stream of Florida Opposed mirrors each reflecting each- Floats far away into the Northern seas That tho’I knew not in what time or place, The lavish growths of southern Mexico. Methought that I had often met with you, And either lived in either's heart and speech.


WARRIOR of God, whose strong right TO J. M. K.

arm debased

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap My hope and heart is with thee—thou

bled wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest

At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled To scare church-harpies from the master's Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disfeast;


For everOur dusted velvets have much need of

—thee (thy pathway sand-erased) thee:

Gliding with equal crowns two serpents Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws,

led Distill'd from worm - canker'd Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed

Ammonian Oasis in the waste. homily ;

There in a silent shade of laurel brown But spurr'd at heart with feriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause

Apart the Chamian Oracle divine With iron-worded proof, hating to hark

Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries : The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone High things were spoken there, unhanded Half God's good sabbath, while the wornout clerk

Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from Returning with hot cheek and kindled a throne


v. Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark

BUONAPARTE. Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.

He thought to quell the stubborn hearts

of oak,

Madman !—to chain with chains, and bind Mine be the strength of spirit, full and

with bands free,

That island queen who sways the floods Like some broad river rushing down

and lands alone,

From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, With the selssame impulse wherewith he | When from her wooden walls, - lit by was thrown

sure hands, From his loud fount upon the echoing with thunders, and with lightnings, and lea:

with smoke, –


down ;




Peal after peal, the British battle broke, And chased away the still-recurring gnat, Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. And woke her with a lay from fairy land. We taught him lowlier moods, when El. But now they live with Beauty less and sinore

less, Heard the war moan along the distant sea, For Hope is other Hope and wanders far, Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; fires

And Fancy watches in the wilderness, Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more Poor Fancy sadder than a single star, We taught him : late he learned humility That sets at twilight in a land of reeds. Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with briers.

The form, the form alone is eloquent ! VI.

A nobler yearning never broke her rest POLAND.

Than but to dance and sing, be gaily

drest, How long, O God, shall men be ridden down,

And win all eyes with all accomplishAnd trampled under by the last and least Of men ? The heart of Poland hath not

Yet in the whirling dances as we went, ceased

My fancy made me for a moment blest To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth To find my heart so near the beauteous

breast drown The fields, and out of every smouldering That once had power to rob it of content,

A moment came the tenderness of tears, town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in- The phantom of a wish that once could

move, creased, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East

A ghost of passion that no smiles re

storeTransgress his ample bound to some new

For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot Cries to Thee, ‘Lord, how long shall

love, these things be?

And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand How long this icy-hearted Muscovite

years, Oppress the region?' Us, O Just and

She still would take the praise, and care Good, Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three ;

Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right

Of those dead lineaments that near thee A matter to be wept with tears of blood !

lie? O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the

past, Caress'D or chidden by the slender hand, Inpainting some dead friend from memory? And singing airy trifles this or that, Weep on: beyond his object Love can Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch

last: and stand,

His object lives : more cause to weep And run thro' every change of sharp and

have I :

My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, No tears of love, but tears that Love can When Sleep had bound her in his rosy

die. band,

I pledge her not in any cheerful cup,


no more.




flat ;

weary bones.


Nor care to sit beside her where she sits-
Ah pity-hint it not in human tones,

But breathe it into earth and close it up

With secret death for ever, in the pits
Which some green Christmas crams with

O BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was

tied, Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly

see ; If I were loved, as I desire to be, Thy sister smiled and said, “No tears for What is there in the great sphere of the

me ! earth,

A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.' And range of evil between death and birth, And then, the couple standing side by That I should fear,--if I were loved by

side, thee?

Love lighted down between them full of All the inner, all the outer world of pain glee, Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if | And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thou wert mine,

thee, As I have heard that, somewhere in the .O happy bridesmaid, make a happy main,

bride.' Fresh-water springs come up through And all at once a pleasant truth I learn’d, bitter brine.

For while the tender service made thee 'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand

weep, with thee,

I loved thee for the tear thou couldst not To wait for death-mute-careless of all

hide, ills,

And prest thy hand, and knew the press Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge

return'd, Of some new deluge from a thousand hills And thought, ‘My life is sick of single Flung leagues of roaring foam into the sleep : gorge

o happy bridesmaid, make a happy Below us, as far on as eye could see.


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For osten 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.

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 ' 'Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott.'


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

Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red cross knight for ever kneelid
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,

Beside remote Shalott.


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The gemmy bridle glitter'd 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 blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

THERE she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours 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,

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,

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

Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode ;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
• Tirra lirra,' by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,

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