The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 10

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 towered 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 gla.s.sy 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 darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached 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 crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little s.p.a.ce; He said, "She has a lovely face; G.o.d in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of the meadow, By a stream-side on the gra.s.s; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her s.h.i.+ning hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow.

Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses, Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done,-- And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooses, "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds!

He shall love me without guile; And to _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be n.o.ble, With an eye that takes the breath; And the lute he plays upon, Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death!

"And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs, along the sod, Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face; He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in; And I kneel here for thy grace.'

"Then, ay, then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand-- Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!'

For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.

"Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a _yes_ I must not say-- Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'

I will utter and dissemble-- 'Light to-morrow with to-day.'

"Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong, To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain, And kneel down beside my feet-- 'Lo! my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time a glove; But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer--'Pardon, If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son!

Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but _thee_!'

"He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_.

Pus.h.i.+ng through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads, Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.

Lo, the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds!

Ellie went home sad and slow.

If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth, I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TELLING THE BEES.

Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.

There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago.

There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.

I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.

Since we parted, a month had pa.s.sed,-- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well sweep near.

I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her windowpane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves.

Just the same as a month before,-- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,-- Nothing changed but the hives of bees.

Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the ch.o.r.e-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black.

Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!

Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away."