L POEMS CHIEFLY LYRICAL. 1832. LORD TENNYSON. 1.-LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. ADY CLARA VERE DE VERE, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, I could not stoop to such a mind. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent 'Tis only noble to be good. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers; Is wearied of the rolling hours. You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. ΟΝ II.-THE LADY OF SHALOTT. either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; To many-tower'd Camelot ; And up and down the people go, The island of Shalott. Willows whiten, aspens quiver, By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, And the silent isle imbowers By the margin, willow-veil'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, Down to tower'd Camelot : PART II. THERE she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. 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 thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Winding down to Camelot : There the river eddy whirls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; And sometimes through the mirror blue But in her web she still delights And music, went to Camelot. PART III. A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves, |