I KNOW not what it presages,
This heart with sadness fraught:
'Tis a tale of the olden ages,
That will not from my thought.
The air grows cool, and darkles;
The Rhine flows calmly on;
The mountain summit sparkles
In the light of the setting sun.
There sits, in soft reclining,

A maiden wondrous fair,
With golden raiment shining,

And combing her golden hair.
With a comb of gold she combs it;
And combing, low singeth she-
A song of a strange, sweet sadness,
A wonderful melody.

The sailor shudders, as o'er him,

The strain comes floating by;
He sees not the cliffs before him-

He only looks on high.

Ah! round him the dark waves, flinging
Their arms draw him slowly down-
And this, with her wild, sweet singing,
The Lorelei has done.

HENRY HEINE. (German.) Translation of CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH

THE WATER LADY.

I.

ALAS, that moon should ever beam

To show what man should never see!-
I saw a maiden on a stream,
And fair was she!

II.

I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.

IV.

I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips, if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.

V.

And still I staid a little more--
Alas! she never comes again!

I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.

VI.

I know my life will fade away— I know that I must vainly pine; For I am made of mortal clay, But she 's divine!

THOMAS HOOD.

THE WATER FAY.

THE night comes stealing o'er me,

And clouds are on the sea; While the wavelets rustle before me With a mystical melody.

A water-maid rose singing

Before me, fair and pale;

And snow-white breasts were springing, Like fountains, 'neath her veil.

She kissed me and she pressed me,
Till I wished her arms away:
"Why hast thou so caressed me,
Thou lovely water fay?"

"Oh, thon need'st not alarm thee, That thus thy form I hold; For I only seek to warm me,

And the night is black and cold."

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 awayThe 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 songThe 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—
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 royal palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed 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."

ALFRED TENNYSON

COMUS, A MASK.

THE PERSONS.

The attendant SPIRIT, afterwards in the habit of THYRSIS.

COMUS, with his crew.

The LADY.

First BROTHER.

Second BROTHER.

SABRINA, the Nymph.

THE FIRST SCENE DISCOVERS A WILD WOOD.

The attendant SPIRIT descends or enters. BEFORE the starry threshold of Jove's court My mansion is, where those immortal shapes Of bright aerial spirits live insphered In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, Which men call earth, and, with low-thoughted care

Confined, and pestered in this pinfold here, Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being, Unmindful of the crown that virtue gives, After this mortal change, to her true ser vants,

Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats.
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key
That opes the palace of eternity.

To such my errand is; and, but for such,
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds
With the rank vapors of this sin-worn mould.
But to my task: Neptune, besides the

sway

Of every salt flood, and each ebbing stream,
Took in, by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove,
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles,
That like to rich and various gems inlay
The unadorned bosom of the deep;
Which he, to grace his tributary gods,
By course commits to several government,
And gives them leave to wear their sapphire

crowns,

And wield their little tridents. But this isle,
The greatest and the best of all the main,
He quarters to his blue-haired deities;
And all this tract, that fronts the falling sun,
A noble peer of mickle trust and power
Has in his charge, with tempered awe to
guide

An old and haughty nation, proud in arins;

lore,

Are coming to attend their father's state,
And new-intrusted sceptre; but their way
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear
wood,

The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
And here their tender age might suffer peril,
But that, by quick command from sovereign
Jove,

I was despatched for their defence and guard; And listen why-for I will tell you now What never yet was heard in tale or song, From old or modern bard, in hall or bower. Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape

557

And they, so perfect is their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely than be
fore;

And all their friends and native home forget,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Therefore, when any favored of high Jove
Chances to pass through this adventurous
glade,

Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

I shoot from heav'n, to give him safe convoy

As now I do. But first I must put off
These my sky robes, spun out of Iris' woof,
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain,
That to the service of this house belongs,
Who with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied
song,

listed,

roar,

faith,

With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,

Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son
Much like his father, but his mother more;
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus
named;

Who ripe, and frolic of his full grown age,
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,
At last betakes him to this ominous wood,
And, in thick shelter of black shades imbow-
ered,

Excels his mother at her mighty art,
Offering to every weary traveller
His orient liquor in a crystal glass,

they taste,

And, in this office of his mountain watch, Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid, Of this occasion. But I hear the tread Of hateful steps; I must be viewless now.

COMUS enters, with a charming rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts-but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistening; they como in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.

COMUS. The star that bids the shepherd fold
Now the top of heaven doth hold;
And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream;

thirst)

tenance,

changed

Into some brutish forin, of wolf, or bear,

Or ounce, or tiger, hog or bearded goat

Braid your locks with rosy twine Dropping odors, dropping wine.

Rigor now is gone to bed,