Heard a carol, mournful, holy, For ere she reach'd upon the tide Under tower and balcony, Out upon the wharfs they came, Who is this? and what is here? 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, But" Ave Mary," made she moan, She, as her carol sadder grew, Her streaming curls of deepest brown And "Ave Mary," was her moan, Madonna, sad is night and morn ;' To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” Till all the crimson changed, and past "Is this the form," she made her moan, Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, She breathed in sleep a lower moan, Dreaming, she knew it was a dream : She felt he was and was not there. Fell, and, without, the steady glare And, rising, from her bosom drew "O cruel heart," she changed her tone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn ! " But sometimes in the falling day To look into her eyes and say, "But thou shalt be alone no more." And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east "The day to night,” she made her moan, At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And weeping then she made her moan, ELEÄNORE. 1. THY dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighborhood, Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 2. Or the yellow-banded bees, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull❜d A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd. 3. Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, Crimsons over an inland mere, Eleanore! 4. How may full-sail'd verse express, Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore ? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleanore? Every turn and glance of thine, Eleanore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, |