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I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see!

I rose up in the silent night :
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!

ΤΟ

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

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So that she thought, "And who shall | And one, the reapers at their sultry

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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 scornful crags,

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was
there

Not less than truth design'd.

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,

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 Avalon,

And watch'd by weeping queens.

Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian
king to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

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To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands | Wrote "Mene, mene," and divided quite and cried, The kingdom of her thought.

"I marvel if my still delight

In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Be flatter'd to the height.

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

"What! isnot 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

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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 upas 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 saw 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.

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Since I beheld young Laurence dead.
O, 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,

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

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.

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