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,
For often 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.

PART III.

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 redcross knight forever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,

That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

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 armor rung,

Beside remote Shalott.

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!

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 dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh 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,

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

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 grand old gardener 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.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.