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.'

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.

WITH one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro' all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But Ave Mary,' made she moan,
And Ave Mary,' night and morn,
And Ah,' she sang, 'to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'

She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down
Thro' 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,' And 'Ah,' she sang, to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'

Till all the crimson changed, and past
Into deep orange o'er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmur'd she;
Complaining, Mother, give me grace
To help me of my weary load.'
And on the liquid mirror glow'd
The clear perfection of her face.

'Is this the form,' she made her
moan,

'That won his praises night and morn?'

And Ah,' she said, but I wake alone,

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.'