ALFRED LORD TENNYSON Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd. And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power- - a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world. THE LADY OF SHALOTT [1832. Revised 1842.] natural scene ON either side the river lie The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, scientific Flowing down to Camelot. By the margin, willow-veil'd, But who hath seen her wave her Only reapers, reaping early Down to tower'd Camelo And by the moon the reaper wear Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.' THERE she weaves by night and d To look down to Camelot. 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 g 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 cla Goes by to tower'd Camelo And sometimes thro' the mirror b The knights come riding two and She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott. But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sig For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camel Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed 'I am half sick of shadows,' sai The Lady of Shalott. PART III effec A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, key of The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, As he rode down to Camelot : All in the blue unclouded weather As often thro' the purple night, His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; As he rode down to Camelot. Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She look'd down to Camelot. PART IV IN the stormy east-wind straining, Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat And round about the prow she wrote And down the river's dim expanse - With a glassy countenance 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 : Naline And as the boat-head wound along Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Under tower and balcony, Out upon the wharfs they came, Who is this? and what is here? And they cross'd themselves for fear, But Lancelot mused a little space; menolig QENONE [1832. Revised 1842] THERE iesa vale in Ida, lovelier Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn, On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Hither came at noon ALFRED LORD TENNYSON Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. Sang to the stillness, till the mountain- Sloped downward to her seat from the 'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd_Ida, My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, That house the cold crown'd snake! O I am the daughter of a River-God, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 'O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny Cluster'd about his temples like a God's; When the wind blows the foam, and all Went forth to embrace him coming ere 'Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure 'Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I He prest the blossom of his lips to And added "This was cast upon the When all the full-faced presence o Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; where But light-foot Iris brought it yester-e cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 1 'Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I di It was the deep midnoon: one silv cloud Had lost his way between the piney si came, Naked they came to that smooth-sward And at their feet the crocus brake like fi Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, 'O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that Larger and clearer, with one mind the Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made louch in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss 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 Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd 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 On this craight Jennyon aro pabriskie poimo: anded Engrans Yet indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 'Here she ceased, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, "O Paris, Give it to Pallas!" but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! 'O mother Ida, many-fountain'd 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 subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, "I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece," She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, onussi puss And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die. 'Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms |