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All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelld shone the saddle-leather The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned 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.

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 súrly 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.

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,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,

She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried

The Lady of Shalott.


A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And famed 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.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks com-

Heavily the low sky raining

Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote

The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot. 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.

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As half-asleep his breath he drew,
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and

O the Earl was fair to see!

I curld 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!

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



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,

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.

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.

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


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 :

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.

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did go;

Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the

oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren

foam. Then some one said, “We will return

no more"; And all at once they sang, “ Our island

home Is far beyond the wave;

we will no longer roam.”

And some thro' wavering lights and

shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward

flow From the inner land: far off, three

mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with

showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the

woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts

the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow

down Border'd with palm, and many a wind

ing vale And meadow, set with slender galingale : A land where all things always seem’d

the same! And round about the keel with faces

pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters


So all day long the noise of battle

roll'd Among the mountains by the winter

sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had fallin' in Lyonness about their

Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound

was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross,


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