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.

PART IV.

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 lightThrough 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."

cause

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,

66

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 woo'd 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

saw

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

66

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."

MR. DARLEY is the author of Sylvia or the May Queen, a poem devoted to summer and the fairies; the Manuscripts of Erdeley; Thomas à Becket, a tragedy; Ethelstan, a chronicle; and other pieces, narrative, lyrical and dramatic. He belongs to a new class of writers, of whom we have elsewhere noticed ROBERT BROWNING, and R. H. HORNE. He has shown himself to be a true poet, of an original vein of thought, and an affluent imagination. In the preface to Ethelstan, he says, "I would fain build a cairn, or rude national monument, on some eminence of our Poetic Mountain, to a few amongst the many heroes of our race, sleeping even yet with no memorial there, or one hidden beneath the moss of ages. Ethelstan' is the second stone, Becket' was the first, borne thither by me for this homely pyramid; to rear it may be above my powers, but were it a mere mound of rubbish, it might re

6

6

A SCENE FROM ETHELSTAN.

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-
queen,
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

so many

Of our wise Saxon kings; who gave up power Without a sigh to those who still sigh'd for it;

main untrampled and unscorned, from the sacredness of its purpose." Aside from this object, his works would command respect; but their beauty is marred by an affected quaintness, by novel epithets, and occasional obscurities. His ruggedness of manner, interrupted by a frequent melody of expression, remind us of the old poets, whom he has carefully studied, and well described in one of the richest and most idiomatic specimens of recent prose, his Critical Essay prefixed to Moxon's edition of BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, in which he says, “You find tulips growing out of sandbanks, pluck Hesperian fruit from crab-trees, step from velvet turf upon sharp stubble." "No prose or poetry," says a judicious critic in Arcturus, "can be farther from the sonorous school of ADDISON, and nowhere can we find rythmical cadences of greater beauty, than in some occasional passages of Darley."

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

To king it?

Eth. None save the Etheling should; he cannot: Childe Edmund is o'er-green in wit; though pre

mature

In that too for his years, and grown by exercise
Of arms, and practice of all manlike feats,-
Which his bent towards them makes continual,
As young hawks love to use their beaks and wings
In coursing sparrows ere let loose at herons,-
Grown his full pitch of stature. Ah! dear sister,
Thy choice and lot with thy life's duties chime,
All cast for privacy. So best! our world
Hath need of such as thee and thy fair nuns,
And these good fathers of the monastery,
To teach youth, tend the poor, the sick, the sad,
Relume the extinguish'd lights of ancient lore,
Making each little cell a glorious lantern
To beam forth truth o'er our benighted age,
With other functions high, howe'er so humble,
Which I disparage not! But, dearest sister,
Even the care of our own soul becomes
A sin-base selfishness-when we neglect
All care for others; and self-love too oft
Is the dark shape in which the devil haunts
Nunneries, monkeries, and most privacies,
Where your devout recluse, devoted less
To God than self, works for his single weal;
When like that God he should, true catholic,
Advance the universal where he may...
You see this penitential garb,
Yet call me best of men?

....

SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS.

Ur the dale and down the bourne,

O'er the meadow swift we fly; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh.

By the grassy-fringed river,

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep;

Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep.
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we're rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.
Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,—
As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.
Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain
Till its little breakers foam.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh;
Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming,

Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming

Till we're at our play again.

THE GAMBOLS OF CHILDREN. Down the dimpled green-sward dancing Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy, Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy.

Rows of liquid eyes in laughter,

How they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after,

Like bright ripples on a river. Tipsy band of rubious faces,

Flush'd with joy's ethereal spirit, Make your mocks and sly grimaces At love's self, and do not fear it.

A VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

HERE he, your law, vociferous wits, Strong son of the sounding anvil, sits; Black and sharp his eyebrow edge, His hand smites heavily as his sledgeAt will he kindles bright discourse, Or blows it out, with blustrous force; The fiery talk, with dominant clamour, Moulds as hot metal with his hammer. Yet this swart sinewy boisterer, His wife and babe sit smiling near, All fairness with all feebleness in her arms, Safe in their innocence and in their charms.

SUICIDE.

FOOL! I mean not

That poor-soul'd piece of heroism, self-slaughter:
Oh no! the miserablest day we live
There's many a better thing to do than die !

THE FAIRIES.

SUFFICE to say, that smoother glade,
Kept greener by a deeper shade,
Never by antler'd form was trod;
Never was strown by that white crowd
Which nips with pettish haste the grass;
Never was lain upon by lass

In harvest time, when Love is tipsy,
And steals to coverts like a gipsy,
There to unmask his ruby face
In unreproved luxuriousness.
'Tis true, in brief, of this sweet place,
What the tann'd moon-bearer did feign
Of one rich spot in his own Spain:
The part just o'er it in the skies
Is the true seat of Paradise.

Have you not oft, in the still wind, Heard sylvan notes of a strange kind, That rose one moment, and then fell, Swooning away like a far knell ? Listen!-that wave of perfume broke Into sea-music, as I spoke, Fainter than that which seems to roar On the moon's silver-sanded shore, When through the silence of the night Is heard the ebb and flow of light. Oh, shut the eye and ope the ear! Do you not hear, or think you hear, A wide hush o'er the woodland pass Like distant waving fields of grass?Voices!-ho! ho!-a band is coming, Loud as ten thousand bees a-humming, Or ranks of little merry men Tromboning deeply from the glen, And now as if they changed, and rung Their citterns small, and riband-slung. Over their gallant shoulders hung!— A chant! a chant! that swoons and swells Like soft winds jangling meadow-bells; Now brave, as when in Flora's bower Gay Zephyr blows a trumpet-flower; Now thrilling fine, and sharp, and clear, Like Dian's moonbeam dulcimer;

But mix'd with whoops, and infant laughter,
Shouts following one another after,
As on a hearty holyday

When youth is flush and full of May;
Small shouts, indeed, as wild bees knew
Both how to hum, and holloa too.
What is the living meadow sown
With dragon-teeth, as long agone?
Or is an army on the plains

Of this sweet clime, to fight with cranes!
Helmet and hauberk, pike and lance,
Gorget and glaive through the long grass glance;
Red-men, and blue-men, and buff-men, small,
Loud-mouth'd captains, and ensigns tall,