"I shook him down because he was The finest on the tree.
"Thrice-happy he that may caress
The ringlet's waving balm
The cushions of whose touch may press
The maiden's tender palm.
"I, rooted here among the groves,
But languidly adjust
My vapid vegetable loves
With anthers and with dust:
"For ah! the dryad-days were brief
Whereof the poets talk, When that, which breathes within the leaf, Could slip its bark and walk. "But could I, as in times foregone, From spray, and branch, and stem, Have suck'd and gather'd into one The life that spreads in them, "She had not found me so remiss; But, lightly issuing through, I would have paid her kiss for kiss With usury thereto."
Oh flourish high, with leafy towers, And overlook the lea,
Pursue thy loves among the bowers, But leave thou mine to me.
Oh flourish, hidden deep in fern, Old oak, I love thee well; A thousand thanks for what I learn And what remains to tell.
"'Tis little more: the day was warm, At last, tired out with play, She sank her head upon her arm, And at my feet she lay.
"Her eyelids dropp'd their silken eaves: I breathed upon her eyes Through all the summer of my leaves A welcome mix'd with sighs.
"I took the swarming sound of life- The music from the town- The whispers of the drum and fife, And lull'd them in my own.
"Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip To light her shaded eye; A second flutter'd round her lip Like a golden butterfly;
"A third would glimmer on her neck To make the necklace shine;
Another slid, a sunny fleck, From head to ankle fine.
"Then close and dark my arms I spread, And shadow'd all her rest- Dropt dews upon her golden head,
An acorn in her breast. "But in a pet she started up, And pluck'd it out, and drew My little oakling from the cup, And flung him in the dew.
"And yet it was a graceful gift- I felt a pang within
As when I see the woodman lift His axe to slay my kin.
He lies beside thee on the grass- Oh kiss him once for me.
"Oh kiss him twice and thrice for me,
That have no lips to kiss, For never yet was oak on lea
Shall grow so fair as this." Step deeper yet in herb and fern, Look further through the chace, Spread upward till thy boughs discern The front of Sumner-place.
This fruit of thine by Love is blest That but a moment lay Where fairer fruit of love may rest Some happy future day.
I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, The warmth it thence shall win
To riper life may magnetise The baby-oak within.
But thou, while kingdoms overset, Or lapse from hand to hand, Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet Thine acorn in the land.
May never saw dismember thee, Nor wielded axe disjoint, That art the fairest-spoken tree From here to Lizard-point. Oh rock upon thy towery top All throats that gurgle sweet! All starry culmination drop Balm-dews to bathe thy feet!
All grass of silky feather grow- And while he sinks or swells
The full south-breeze around thee blow
The sound of minster bells.
The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes! The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes!
Nor ever lightning char thy grain,
But, rolling as in sleep,
Low thunders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep!
And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side
Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride.
And when my marriage-morn may fall, She, dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball
In wreath about her hair.
And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth,
In which the swarthy ring-dove sat And mystic sentence spoke;
And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak.
Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn.
ON either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd,
Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers " "Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."
THERE she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours 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 through 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 through 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 through 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.
A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling through the leaves And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross 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 this blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot. As often through 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 through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked 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.
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 seër 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- Through 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 of balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, A corse 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."
He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.
Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, " My son, I married late; but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short, "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said, "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to't. Consider: take a month to think, and give An answer to my wish; or by the Lord That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore Darken my doors again." And William heard, And answer'd something madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wood and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said, " My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"
And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.
Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat, And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said, "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then when the farmer pass'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work And came and said, "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
"Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more."
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you! He says that he will never see me more." Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us."
So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch; they peep'd, and
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapp'd him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her, And Allan set him down; and Mary said:
"O Father! if you let me call you so- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me; I had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus. God bless him!" he said, and may he never know
The troubles I have gone through!" Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am! But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs :-
"I have been to blame-to blame.
I have kill'd him-but I loved him my dear son. May God forgive me!-I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children."
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's
Thinking of William.
So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour.
MR. DARLEY is the author of Sylvia or the | main untrampled and unscorned, from the May Queen, a poem devoted to summer and sacredness of its. purpose." Aside from this the fairies; the Manuscripts of Erdeley; Tho- object, his works would command respect; mas à Becket, a tragedy; Ethelstan, a chroni- but their beauty is marred by an affected quaintcle; and other pieces, narrative, lyrical and ness, by novel epithets, and occasional obdramatic. He belongs to a new class of scurities. His ruggedness of manner, interwriters, of whom we have elsewhere noticed rupted by a frequent melody of expression, ROBERT BROWNING, and R. H. HORNE. He remind us of the old poets, whom he has carehas shown himself to be a true poet, of an origi- fully studied, and well described in one of the nal vein of thought, and an affluent imagination. richest and most idiomatic specimens of recent In the preface to Ethelstan, he says, "I would prose, his Critical Essay prefixed to Moxon's fain build a cairn, or rude national monument, edition of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, in which on some eminence of our Poetic Mountain, to he says, "You find tulips growing out of sanda few amongst the many heroes of our race, banks, pluck Hesperian fruit from crab-trees, sleeping even yet with no memorial there, or step from velvet turf upon sharp stubble." one hidden beneath the moss of ages. Eth- "No prose or poetry," says a judicious critic elstan' is the second stone, Becket' was the in Arcturus, "can be farther from the sonorous first, borne thither by me for this homely pyra- school of ADDISON, and nowhere can we find mid; to rear it may be above my powers, but rythmical cadences of greater beauty, than were it a mere mound of rubbish, it might re- in some occasional passages of DARLEY."
The king in sackcloth at an oaken table in a small Cabinet. Enter his sister, Edgitha, abbess of Beverley, whom he embraces.
Ethelstan. My sister! my born friend! Why at this hour,
[forth, When none save night's rough minions venture Was thy pale health so bold?
Edgitha. Is there no flush
Bespreads my cheek? that's health! new life, my brother!
Which joy to see thee brings. But out, alas! What change in thee, what mournful change? Eth. Years! years!
Edg. Nay, thou'rt, if not in bloomiest youth's
spring-tide,
Yet in its autumn.
Eth. Autumn is ever sere!
Youth saddens near its ending, like old age; Or worse, for this hath better life at hand.
Edg. No! no! that is not it, that is not it! Eth. And then bethink thee, Sihtric's widow-
Kings wear not, like the peacocks, feather'd crowns; Our goldenest have some iron in them too!
Edg. Ah! wouldst thou take meek sample from
Of our wise Saxon kings; who gave up power Without a sigh to those who still sigh'd for it;
And changed their glittering robes with russet weeds, And turn'd their sceptres into crucifixes,
And bared their heads of all but tonsured crowns, And lived out hermit lives in mossy cells, Or died at Rome on saintly pilgrimage: Were they not wise?
Eth. Wise for themselves they were! Edg. Then wherefore not thou for thyself as well? Wherefore, in thy loved town of Beverley, Under thy patron saint, canonized John, As servant dedicate through him to heaven, Seek not thy temporal rest and peace eterne? Wherefore withdraw not from the thorny ways And unreclaimable wilderness of this world, To the smooth-marbled aisle and cloister trim Beside us; to these gardens paced by forms Bland-whispering as their trees, and moving round Each shrub they tend, softly as its own shadow? Wherefore retire thee not, wouldst thou enjoy Calm raptures of ecstatic contemplation, To yon elm-pillar'd avenue, sky roof'd, That leads from Minster Church to Monastery, Both by thyself embeautified, as if But for thyself? Nothing disturbeth there Save the grand hum of the organ heard within, Or murmuring chorus that with faint low chime Tremble to lift their voices up o'erhigh Even in God's praises! Here find happiness, Here make thy quietary! as thy sister, [she, Once queen, hath done. Wherefore not, thou and
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