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.

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.

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 reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

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:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.

91

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 1

JOHN KEATS

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose

Fast withereth too.

1. In many ways this poem presents an interesting contrast to the "The Lady of Shalott." The poems are alike, however, in their mystic atmosphere. La Belle Dame, etc. The beautiful lady without

mercy.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed

And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
"I love thee true."

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

And there she lulléd me asleep,

And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried-"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapéd wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

92

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS

WILLIAM MORRIS

Had she come all the way for this,

To part at last without a kiss?

Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain

That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods?

Along the dripping leafless woods,
The stirrup touching either shoe,
She rode astride as troopers do;
With kirtle kilted to her knee,
To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;
And the wet dripp'd from every tree
Upon her head and heavy hair,
And on her eyelids broad and fair;
The tears and rain ran down her face.

By fits and starts they rode apace,
And very often was his place
Far off from her; he had to ride

Ahead, to see what might betide

When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when

There rose a murmuring from his men,

Had to turn back with promises;

Ah me! she had but little ease;
And often for pure doubt and dread
She sobb'd, made giddy in the head
By the swift riding; while, for cold,
Her slender fingers scarce could hold
The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,
She felt the foot within her shoe
Against the stirrup: all for this,
To part at last without a kiss
Beside the haystack in the floods.

For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,
They saw across the only way

That Judas, Godmar, and the three

Red running lions dismally

Grinn'd from his pennon, under which

In one straight line along the ditch

They counted thirty heads.

So then,

While Robert turn'd round to his men,
She saw at once the wretched end,
And, stooping down, tried hard to rend
Her coif1 the wrong way from her head,
And hid her eyes; while Robert said:
"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,

At Poictiers 2 where we made them run

So fast-why, sweet my love, good cheer,
The Gascon frontier is so near,

Nought after this.”

1. Coif. A close fitting cap, like a small hood.

2. Poictiers. A battle in which the Black Prince of England de feated the French and captured King John, 1356.