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And once you tried the Muses too;

You fail'd, Sir: therefore now you turn,
You fall on those who are to you

As Captain is to Subaltern.
But men of long-enduring hopes,

And careless what this hour may bring,
Can pardon little would-be Popes

And Brummels, when they try to sting.
An artist, Sir, should rest in Art,

And waive a little of his claim ;
To have the deep Poetic heart

Is more than all poetic fame.
But you, Sir, you are hard to please;

You never look but half content :
Nor like a gentleman at ease,

With moral breadth of temperament.
And what with spites and what with fears,

You cannot let a body be:
It's always ringing in your ears,

“They call this man as good as ine."
What profits now to understand

The merits of a spotless shirt,
A dapper boot—a little hand-

If half the little soul is dirt ?


You talk of tinsel! Why we

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks.
You prate of Nature ! you are he

That spilt his life about the cliques.

A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame:

It looks too arrogant a jest-
The fierce old man- -to take his name

You bandbox. Off, and let him rest. (Punch, February 28, 1846)




The last four of sixteen stanzas, the first twelve of which are incorporated in sect. xxvi of “Maud.”

[blocks in formation]

'Tis a phantom fair and good;
I can call it to my side,

So to guard my life from ill,
Tho' its ghastly sister glide

And be moved around me still
With the moving of the blood,

That is moved not of the will.

Let it pass, the dreary brow,

Let the dismal face go by.
Will it lead me to the grave ?

Then I lose it : it will fly:
Can it overlast the nerves ?

Can it overlive the eye ?
But the other, like a star,
Thro' the channel windeth far

Till it fade and fail and die,
To its Archetype that waits,
Clad in light by golden gates-
Clad in light the Spirit waits

To embrace me in the sky. (The Tribute, 1837)





A CLOUD-WHITE crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew, (her zone in sight,
Clasped with one blinding diamond bright,)

Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot,
Though the squally eastwind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly

Lady of Shalott.
With a steady, stony glance-
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance-

She looked down to Camelot.
It was the closing of the day,
She loosed the chain, and down she lay,
The broad stream bore her far away,

The Lady of Shalott.
As when to sailors while they roam,
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Rising and dropping with the foam,
From dying swans wild warblings come,

Blown shoreward ; so to Camelot
Still as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her chanting her death song,
The Lady of Shalott.

They crossed themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast,
That puzzled more than all the rest,

The well-fed wits at Camelot.
The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear notthis is I,

The Lady of Shalott."


THE LOTOS-EATERS CONCLUDING PASSAGE TO THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF 1833 We have had enough of motion, Weariness and wild alarm, Tossing on the tossing ocean, Where the tuskèd sea-horse walloweth In a stripe of grass-green calm, At noon tide beneath the lee; And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth His foam-fountains in the sea. Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry. This is lovelier and sweeter, Men of Ithaca, this is meeter, In the hollow rosy vale to tarry, Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater ! We will eat the Lotos, sweet As the yellow honeycomb, In the valley some, and some On the ancient heights divine; And no more roam, On the loud hoar foam, To the melancholy home At the limit of the brine, The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline. We'll lift no more the shattered oar, No more unfurl the straining sail ; With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale We will abide in the golden vale Of the Lotos-land till the Lotos fail ; We will not wander more. Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat On the solitary steeps, And the merry lizard leaps, And the foam-white waters pour ; And the dark pine weeps, And the lithe vine creeps, And the heavy melon sleeps On the level of the shore : Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more. Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar, Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.



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