Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems

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Idylls of the King and a New Selection of Poems Page 35

by Alfred Tennyson


  Part ii

  There she weaves by night and day

  A magic web with colors gay.

  She has heard a whisper say,

  A curse is on her if she stay

  To look down to Camelot.

  She knows not what the curse may be,

  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 red-cross knight for ever kneel’d

  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.

  All in blue unclouded weather

  Thick-jewell’d 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.

  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.

  Part iv

  In the stormy east-wind straining,

  The pale yellow woods were waning,

  The broad stream in his banks complaining,

  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.

  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.”

  [publ. 1832, 1842]

  THE LOTOS-EATERS

  “COURAGE!” he said, and pointed toward the land,

  “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”

  In the afternoon they came unto a land,

  In which it seemed always afternoon.

  All round the coast the languid air did swoon,

  Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

  Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;

  And like a downward smoke, the slender stream

  Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

  A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,

  Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;

  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 winding 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 came.

  Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,

  Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave

  To each, but whoso did receive of them,

  And
taste, to him the gushing of the wave

  Far far away did seem to mourn and rave

  On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,

  His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;

  And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,

  And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

  They sat them down upon the yellow sand,

  Between the sun and moon upon the shore;

  And sweet it was to dream of Father-land,

  Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore

  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.”

  [publ. 1833; rev. ed. publ. 1842]

  CHORIC SONG

  i

  THERE is sweet music here that softer falls

  Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

  Or night-dews on still waters between walls

  Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;

  Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

  Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;

  Music that brings sweet sleep down from the

  blissful skies.

  Here are cool mosses deep,

  And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,

  And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,

  And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

  ii

  Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,

  And utterly consumed with sharp distress,

  While all things else have rest from weariness?

  All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

  We only toil, who are the first of things,

  And make perpetual moan,

  Still from one sorrow to another thrown;

  Nor ever fold our wings,

  And cease from wanderings,

  Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;

  Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,

  “There is no joy but calm!”

  Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of

  things?

  iii

  Lo! in the middle of the wood,

  The folded leaf is wood from out the bud

  With winds upon the branch, and there

  Grows green and broad, and takes no care,

  Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon

  Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow

  Falls, and floats adown the air.

  Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,

  The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,

  Drops in a silent autumn night.

  All its allotted length of days,

  The flower ripens in its place,

  Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,

  Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

  iv

  Hateful is the dark-blue sky,

  Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.

  Death is the end of life; ah, why

  Should life all labor be?

  Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

  And in a little while our lips are dumb.

  Let us alone. What is it that will last?

  All things are taken from us, and become

  Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

  Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

  To war with evil? Is there any peace

  In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

  All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

  In silence; ripen, fall and cease:

  Give us long rest or death, dark death, or

  dreamful ease.

  v

  How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

  With half-shut eyes ever to seem

  Falling asleep in a half-dream!

  To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,

  Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;

  To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;

  Eating the Lotos day by day,

  To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,

  And tender curving lines of creamy spray;

  To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

  To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;

  To muse and brood and live again in memory,

  With those old faces of our infancy

  Heap’d over with a mound of grass,

  Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

  vi

  Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,

  And dear the last embraces of our wives

  And their warm tears; but all hath suffer’d change;

  For surely now our household hearths are cold:

  Our sons inherit us; our looks are strange;

  And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

  Or else the island princes over-bold

  Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

  Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy,

  And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.

  Is there confusion in the little isle?

  Let what is broken so remain.

  The Gods are hard to reconcile;

  ’Tis hard to settle order once again.

  There is confusion worse than death,

  Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,

  Long labor unto aged breath,

  Sore tasks to hearts worn out by many wars

  And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

  vii

  But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,

  How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)

  With half-dropt eyelids still,

  Beneath a heaven dark and holy,

  To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

  His waters from the purple hill—

  To hear the dewy echoes calling

  From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine—

  To watch the emerald-color’d water falling

  Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!

  Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,

  Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the

  pine.

  viii

  The Lotos blooms below the barren peak;

  The Lotos blows by every winding creek;

  All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone;

  Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone

  Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-

  dust is blown.

  We have had enough of action, and of motion we,

  Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the

  surge was seething free,

  Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-

  fountains in the sea.

  Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal

  mind,

  In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined

  On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.

  For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are

  hurl’d

  Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are

  lightly curl’d

  Round their golden houses, girdled with the

  gleaming world;

  Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted

  lands,

  Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring

  deeps and fiery sands,

  Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking

  ships, and praying hands.

  But they smile, they find a music centred in a

  doleful song

  Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of

  wrong,

  Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are

  strong;

  Chanted from an ill-used race of
men that cleave

  the soil,

  Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,

  Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;

  Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis

  whisper’d—down in hell

  Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,

  Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.

  Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the

  shore

  Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave

  and oar;

  O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander

  more.

  [publ. 1832, 1842]

  BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

  BREAK, break, break,

  On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

  And I would that my tongue could utter

  The thoughts that arise in me.

  O well for the fisherman’s boy,

  That he shouts with his sister at play!

  O well for the sailor lad,

  That he sings in his boat on the bay!

  And the stately ships go on

  To their haven under the hill;

  But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,

  And the sound of a voice that is still!

  Break, break, break,

  At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

  But the tender grace of a day that is dead

  Will never come back to me.

  [1833-34; publ. 1842]

  THE TWO VOICES

  A STILL small voice spake unto me,

  “Thou art so full of misery,

  Were it not better not to be?”

  Then to the still small voice I said:

  “Let me not cast in endless shade

  What is so wonderfully made.”

  To which the voice did urge reply;

  “To-day I saw the dragon-fly

  Come from the wells where he did lie.

  “An inner impulse rent the veil

 

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