In the stormy east-wind straining, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat And down the river's dim expanse- Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; Lying, robed in snowy white She floated down to Camelot : Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Under tower and balcony, Out upon the wharfs they came, Who is this? and what is here? MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. WITH one black shadow at its feet, She, as her carol sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down Through 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; Till all the crimson changed, and past "Is this the form," she made her moan, Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, And seemed knee-deep in mountain-grass, 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 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 297 Shrank one sick willow sere and small. She whispered, with a stifled moan 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 seemed to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone forevermore." "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 seemed 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, "The day to night," she made her moan, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And leaned upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glittered on her tears, And weeping then she made her moan, To live forgotten, and love forlorn." THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. I SEE the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead dryly curled, Seemed half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world? In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cupI see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest-gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me sad. Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: I least should breathe a thought of pain. Across the walnuts and the wine To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire: For even here, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken through By some wild skylark's matin song. And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan; But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy played Before I dreamed that pleasant dream— Still hither, thither idly swayed Like those long mosses in the stream. Or from the bridge I leaned to hear In crystal eddies glance and poise, But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods ('T was April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds A love-song I had somewhere read, That went and came a thousand times. Then leaped a trout. In lazy mood And there a vision caught my eye; A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. For you remember, you had set, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and brightSuch eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. I loved, and love dispelled the fear That I should die an early death: For love possessed the atmosphere, And filled the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was altered, and began To move about the house with joy, I loved the brimming wave that swam The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal. And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights began to blow, And full at heart of trembling hope, The deep brook groaned beneath the mill; O will she answer if I call? O would she give me vow for vow, Sometimes I saw you sit and spin: And all the casement darkened there. But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day; And so it was-half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone. And slowly was my mother brought And down I went to fetch my bride: I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kissed away before they fell. I watched the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; Ah, well-but sing the foolish song A pensive pair, and you were gay It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells- For all the spirit is his own. You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth, And makes me talk too much in age. And now those vivid hours are gone, Half-angered with my happy lot, Love that hath us in the net, Love is hurt with jar and fret. ENONE. Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul with thine! Untouched with any shade of years, May those kind eyes forever dwell!' They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. Yet tears they shed: they had their part Became an outward breathing type, And left a want unknown before; With farther lookings on. The kiss, The comfort, I have found in thee: Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go. CENONE. THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Hither came at noon 299 Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crowned snake! O Mountain-brooks, I am the daughter of a river-god, "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, whitehooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far-off the torrent called me from the cleft: The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropped eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked And listened, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. "My own Enone, Beautiful-browed Enone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingraven "For the most fair," would seem to award it | Above the thunder, with undying bliss thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt Of movement, and the charm of married brows.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He pressed the blossom of his lips to mine, And added, "This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of gods.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piny sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, In knowledge of their own supremacy.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood "Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncalled for), but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.' "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. "Yet indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, With bunch and berry and flower through and So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, through. Shall strike within thy pulses, like a god's, "Here she ceased, "O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtile smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh, Half-whispered in his ear, I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.' She spoke and laughed: I shut my sight for fear: But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm, |