Circumstance


  Two children in two neighbour villages
  Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas;
  Two strangers meeting at a festival;
  Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall;
  Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease;
  Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower,
  Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed;
  Two children in one hamlet born and bred;
  So runs [1] the round of life from hour to hour.

The Merman


1

  Who would be
  A merman bold,
  Sitting alone,
  Singing alone
  Under the sea,
  With a crown of gold,
  On a throne?


2

  I would be a merman bold;
  I would sit and sing the whole of the day;
  I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;
  But at night I would roam abroad and play
  With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,
  Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;
  And holding them back by their flowing locks
  I would kiss them often under the sea,
  And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
  Laughingly, laughingly;
  And then we would wander away, away
  To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,
  Chasing each other merrily.


3

  There would be neither moon nor star;
  But the wave would make music above us afar--
  Low thunder and light in the magic night--
  Neither moon nor star.
  We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,
  Call to each other and whoop and cry
  All night, merrily, merrily;
  They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,
  Laughing and clapping their hands between,
  All night, merrily, merrily:
  But I would throw to them back in mine
  Turkis and agate and almondine:
  Then leaping out upon them unseen
  I would kiss them often under the sea,
  And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
  Laughingly, laughingly.
  Oh! what a happy life were mine
  Under the hollow-hung ocean green!
  Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;
  We would live merrily, merrily.

The Mermaid


1

  Who would be
  A mermaid fair,
  Singing alone,
  Combing her hair
  Under the sea,
  In a golden curl
  With a comb of pearl,
  On a throne?


2

  I would be a mermaid fair;
  I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
  With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
  And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
  "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?"
  I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall,
  Low adown, low adown,
  From under my starry sea-bud crown
  Low adown and around,
  And I should look like a fountain of gold
  Springing alone
  With a shrill inner sound,
  Over the throne
  In the midst of the hall;
  Till that great sea-snake under the sea
  From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
  Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
  Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
  With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
  And all the mermen under the sea
  Would feel their immortality
  Die in their hearts for the love of me.


3

  But at night I would wander away, away,
  I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
  And lightly vault from the throne and play
  With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
  We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
  On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
  Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
  But if any came near I would call, and shriek,
  And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
  From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
  For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list,
  Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;
  They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
  In the purple twilights under the sea;
  But the king of them all would carry me,
  Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
  In the branching jaspers under the sea;
  Then all the dry pied things that be
  In the hueless mosses under the sea
  Would curl round my silver feet silently,
  All looking up for the love of me.
  And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
  All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
  Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
  All looking down for the love of me.

Sonnet To J. M. K.



  My hope and heart is with thee--thou wilt be
  A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest
  To scare church-harpies from the master's feast;
  Our dusted velvets have much need of thee:
  Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws,
  Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily;
  But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy
  To embattail and to wall about thy cause
  With iron-worded proof, hating to hark
  The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone
  Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk
  Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne
  Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark
  Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.

The Lady Of Shalott




Part I

  On either side the river lie
  Long fields of barley and of rye,
  That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
  And thro' the field the road runs by
  To many-tower'd Camelot;
  And up and down the people go,
  Gazing where the lilies blow
  Round an island there below,
  The island of Shalott.

  Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
  Little breezes dusk and shiver
  Thro' the wave that runs for ever
  By the island in the river
  Flowing down to Camelot.
  Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
  Overlook a space of flowers,
  And the silent isle imbowers
  The Lady of Shalott.

  By the margin, willow-veil'd
  Slide the heavy barges trail'd
  By slow horses; and unhail'd
  The shallop flitteth silken-sail'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,
  Hear a song that echoes cheerly
  From the river winding clearly,
  Down to tower'd Camelot:
  And by the moon the reaper weary,
  Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
  Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
  Lady of Shalott".


Part II

  There she weaves by night and day
  A magic web with colours gay.
  She has heard a whisper say,
  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,
  Shadows of the world appear.
  There she sees the highway near
  Winding down to Camelot:
  There the river eddy whirls,
  And there the surly village-churls,
  And the red cloaks of market girls,
  Pass onward from Shalott.

  Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
  An abbot on an ambling pad,
  Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
  Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
  Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

  And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
  The knights come riding two and two:
  She hath no loyal knight and true,
  The Lady of Shalott.

  But in her web she still delights
  To weave the mirror's magic sights,
  For often thro' the silent nights
  A funeral, with plumes and lights,
  And music, went to Camelot:
  Or when the moon was overhead,
  Came two young lovers lately wed;
  "I am half-sick of shadows," said
  The Lady of Shalott.



Part III

  A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
  He rode between the barley sheaves,
  The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
  And flamed upon the brazen greaves
  Of bold Sir Lancelot.
  A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
  To a lady in his shield,
  That sparkled on the yellow field,
  Beside remote Shalott.

  The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
  Like to some branch of stars we see
  Hung in the golden Galaxy.
  The bridle bells rang merrily
  As he rode down to Camelot:
  And from his blazon'd baldric slung
  A mighty silver bugle hung,
  And as he rode his armour rung,
  Beside remote Shalott.

  All in the blue unclouded weather
  Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
  The helmet and the helmet-feather
  Burn'd like one burning flame together,
  As he rode down to Camelot.
  As often thro' the purple night,
  Below the starry clusters bright,
  Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
  Moves over still Shalott.

  His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
  On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
  From underneath his helmet flow'd
  His coal-black curls as on he rode,
  As he rode down to Camelot.
  From the bank and from the river
  He flashed into the crystal mirror,
  "Tirra lirra," by the river
  Sang Sir Lancelot.

  She left the web, she left the loom;
  She made three paces thro' the room,
  She saw the water-lily bloom,
  She saw the helmet and the plume,
  She look'd 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 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 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 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 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".

Mariana In The South


  Behind the barren hill upsprung
  With pointed rocks against the light,
  The crag sharpshadowed overhung
  Each glaring creek and inlet bright.
  Far, far, one light blue ridge was seen,
  Looming like baseless fairyland;
  Eastward a slip of burning sand,
  Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green,
  Down in the dry salt-marshes stood
  That house dark latticed. Not a breath
  Swayed the sick vineyard underneath,
  Or moved the dusty southernwood.
  "Madonna," with melodious moan
  Sang Mariana, night and morn,
  "Madonna! lo! I am all alone,
  Love-forgotten and love-forlorn."

  With one black shadow at its feet,
  The house thro' all the level shines,
  Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
  And silent in its dusty vines:
  A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
  An empty river-bed before,
  And shallows on a distant shore,
  In glaring sand and inlets bright.
  But "Ave Mary," made she moan,
  And "Ave Mary," night and morn,
  And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
  To live forgotten, and love forlorn".

  She, as her carol sadder grew,
  From brow and bosom slowly down
  Thro' rosy taper fingers drew
  Her streaming curls of deepest brown
  To left and right, and made appear,
  Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
  Her melancholy eyes divine
  The home of woe without a tear.
  And "Ave Mary," was her moan,
  "Madonna, sad is night and morn";
  And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,
  To live forgotten, and love forlorn".

  Till all the crimson changed, and past
  Into deep orange o'er the sea,
  Low on her knees herself she cast,
  Before Our Lady murmur'd she;
  Complaining, "Mother, give me grace
  To help me of my weary load".
  And on the liquid mirror glow'd
  The clear perfection of her face.
  "Is this the form," she made her moan,
  "That won his praises night and morn?"
  And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,
  I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn".

  Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,
  Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
  But day increased from heat to heat,
  On stony drought and steaming salt;
  Till now at noon she slept again,
  And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass,
  And heard her native breezes pass,
  And runlets babbling down the glen.
  She breathed in sleep a lower moan,
  And murmuring, as at night and morn,
  She thought, "My spirit is here alone,
  Walks forgotten, and is forlorn".

  Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:
  She felt he was and was not there,
  She woke: the babble of the stream
  Fell, and without the steady glare
  Shrank one sick willow sere and small.
  The river-bed was dusty-white;
  And all the furnace of the light
  Struck up against the blinding wall.
  She whisper'd, with a stifled moan
  More inward than at night or morn,
  "Sweet Mother, let me not here alone
  Live forgotten, and die forlorn".

  And rising, from her bosom drew
  Old letters, breathing of her worth,
  For "Love," they said, "must needs be true,
  To what is loveliest upon earth".
  An image seem'd to pass the door,
  To look at her with slight, and say,
  "But now thy beauty flows away,
  So be alone for evermore".
  "O cruel heart," she changed her tone,
  "And cruel love, whose end is scorn,
  Is this the end to be left alone,
  To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"

  But sometimes in the falling day
  An image seem'd to pass the door,
  To look into her eyes and say,
  "But thou shalt be alone no more".
  And flaming downward over all
  From heat to heat the day decreased,
  And slowly rounded to the east
  The one black shadow from the wall.
  "The day to night," she made her moan,
  "The day to night, the night to morn,
  And day and night I am left alone
  To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

  At eve a dry cicala sung,
  There came a sound as of the sea;
  Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
  And lean'd upon the balcony.
  There all in spaces rosy-bright
  Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears,
  And deepening thro' the silent spheres,
  Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
  And weeping then she made her moan,
  "The night comes on that knows not morn,
  When I shall cease to be all alone,
  To live forgotten, and love forlorn".

Eleanore


1

  Thy dark eyes open'd not,
  Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air,
  For there is nothing here,
  Which, from the outward to the inward brought,
  Moulded thy baby thought.
  Far off from human neighbourhood,
  Thou wert born, on a summer morn,
  A mile beneath the cedar-wood.
  Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd
  With breezes from our oaken glades,
  But thou wert nursed in some delicious land
  Of lavish lights, and floating shades:
  And flattering thy childish thought
  The oriental fairy brought,
  At the moment of thy birth,
  From old well-heads of haunted rills,
  And the hearts of purple hills,
  And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore,
  The choicest wealth of all the earth,
  Jewel or shell, or starry ore,
  To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.


2

  Or the yellow-banded bees,
  Thro' half-open lattices
  Coming in the scented breeze,
  Fed thee, a child, lying alone,
  With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd--
  A glorious child, dreaming alone,
  In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down,
  With the hum of swarming bees
  Into dreamful slumber lull'd.


3

  Who may minister to thee?
  Summer herself should minister
  To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded
  On golden salvers, or it may be,
  Youngest Autumn, in a bower
  Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded
  With many a deep-hued bell-like flower
  Of fragrant trailers, when the air
  Sleepeth over all the heaven,
  And the crag that fronts the Even,
  All along the shadowing shore,
  Crimsons over an inland mere,
   Eleänore!


4

  How may full-sail'd verse express,
  How may measured words adore
  The full-flowing harmony
  Of thy swan-like stateliness,
  Eleänore?
  The luxuriant symmetry
  Of thy floating gracefulness,
  Eleänore?
  Every turn and glance of thine,
  Every lineament divine,
  Eleänore,
  And the steady sunset glow,
  That stays upon thee? For in thee
  Is nothing sudden, nothing single;
  Like two streams of incense free
  From one censer, in one shrine,
  Thought and motion mingle,
  Mingle ever. Motions flow
  To one another, even as tho'
  They were modulated so
  To an unheard melody,
  Which lives about thee, and a sweep
  Of richest pauses, evermore
  Drawn from each other mellow-deep;
  Who may express thee, Eleänore?


5

  I stand before thee, Eleanore;
  I see thy beauty gradually unfold,
  Daily and hourly, more and more.
  I muse, as in a trance, the while
  Slowly, as from a cloud of gold,
  Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.
  I muse, as in a trance, whene'er
  The languors of thy love-deep eyes
  Float on to me. _I_ would _I_ were
  So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies,
  To stand apart, and to adore,
  Gazing on thee for evermore,
  Serene, imperial Eleanore!


6

  Sometimes, with most intensity
  Gazing, I seem to see
  Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep,
  Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep
  In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite,
  I cannot veil, or droop my sight,
  But am as nothing in its light:
  As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set,
  Ev'n while we gaze on it,
  Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow
  To a full face, there like a sun remain
  Fix'd--then as slowly fade again,
  And draw itself to what it was before;
  So full, so deep, so slow,
  Thought seems to come and go
  In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.


7

  As thunder-clouds that, hung on high,
  Roof'd the world with doubt and fear,
  Floating thro' an evening atmosphere,
  Grow golden all about the sky;
  In thee all passion becomes passionless,
  Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness,
  Losing his fire and active might
  In a silent meditation,
  Falling into a still delight,
  And luxury of contemplation:
  As waves that up a quiet cove
  Rolling slide, and lying still
  Shadow forth the banks at will:
  Or sometimes they swell and move,
  Pressing up against the land,
  With motions of the outer sea:
  And the self-same influence
  Controlleth all the soul and sense
  Of Passion gazing upon thee.
  His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love,
  Leaning his cheek upon his hand,
  Droops both his wings, regarding thee,
  And so would languish evermore,
  Serene, imperial Eleänore.


8

  But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined,
  While the amorous, odorous wind
  Breathes low between the sunset and the moon;
  Or, in a shadowy saloon,
  On silken cushions half reclined;
  I watch thy grace; and in its place
  My heart a charmed slumber keeps,
  While I muse upon thy face;
  And a languid fire creeps
  Thro' my veins to all my frame,
  Dissolvingly and slowly: soon
  From thy rose-red lips MY name
  Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,
  With dinning sound my ears are rife,
  My tremulous tongue faltereth,
  I lose my colour, I lose my breath,
  I drink the cup of a costly death,
  Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life.
  I die with my delight, before
  I hear what I would hear from thee;
  Yet tell my name again to me,
  I would  be dying evermore,
  So dying ever, Eleänore.

The Miller's Daughter



  I met in all the close green ways,
  While walking with my line and rod,
  The wealthy miller's mealy face,
  Like the moon in an ivy-tod.
  He looked so jolly and so good--
  While fishing in the milldam-water,
  I laughed to see him as he stood,
  And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.

  *       *       *       *       *      *


  I see the wealthy miller yet,
  His double chin, his portly size,
  And who that knew him could forget
  The busy wrinkles round his eyes?
  The slow wise smile that, round about
  His dusty forehead drily curl'd,
  Seem'd half-within and half-without,
  And full of dealings with the world?

  In yonder chair I see him sit,
  Three fingers round the old silver cup--
  I see his gray eyes twinkle yet
  At his own jest--gray eyes lit up
  With summer lightnings of a soul
  So full of summer warmth, so glad,
  So healthy, sound, and clear and whole,
  His memory scarce can make me sad.

  Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss:
  My own sweet Alice, we must die.
  There's somewhat in this world amiss
  Shall be unriddled by and by.
  There's somewhat flows to us in life,
  But more is taken quite away.
  Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,
  That we may die the self-same day.

  Have I not found a happy earth?
  I least should breathe a thought of pain.
  Would God renew me from my birth
  I'd almost live my life again.
  So sweet it seems with thee to walk,
  And once again to woo thee mine--
  It seems in after-dinner talk
  Across the walnuts and the wine--

  To be the long and listless boy
  Late-left an orphan of the squire,
  Where this old mansion mounted high
  Looks down upon the village spire:
  For even here, where I and you
  Have lived and loved alone so long,
  Each morn my sleep was broken thro'
  By some wild skylark's matin song.

  And oft I heard the tender dove
  In firry woodlands making moan;
  But ere I saw your eyes, my love,
  I had no motion of my own.
  For scarce my life with fancy play'd
  Before I dream'd that pleasant dream--
  Still hither thither idly sway'd
  Like those long mosses in the stream.

  Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear
  The milldam rushing down with noise,
  And see the minnows everywhere
  In crystal eddies glance and poise,
  The tall flag-flowers when they sprung
  Below the range of stepping-stones,
  Or those three chestnuts near, that hung
  In masses thick with milky cones.

  But, Alice, what an hour was that,
  When after roving in the woods
  ('Twas April then), I came and sat
  Below the chestnuts, when their buds
  Were glistening to the breezy blue;
  And on the slope, an absent fool,
  I cast me down, nor thought of you,
  But angled in the higher pool.

  A love-song I had somewhere read,
  An echo from a measured strain,
  Beat time to nothing in my head
  From some odd corner of the brain.
  It haunted me, the morning long,
  With weary sameness in the rhymes,
  The phantom of a silent song,
  That went and came a thousand times.

  Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood
  I watch'd the little circles die;
  They past into the level flood,
  And there a vision caught my eye;
  The reflex of a beauteous form,
  A glowing arm, a gleaming neck,
  As when a sunbeam wavers warm
  Within the dark and dimpled beck.

  For you remember, you had set,
  That morning, on the casement's edge
  A long green box of mignonette,
  And you were leaning from the ledge:
  And when I raised my eyes, above
  They met with two so full and bright--
  Such eyes! I swear to you, my love,
  That these have never lost their light.

  I loved, and love dispell'd the fear
  That I should die an early death:
  For love possess'd the atmosphere,
  And filled the breast with purer breath.
  My mother thought, What ails the boy?
  For I was alter'd, and began
  To move about the house with joy,
  And with the certain step of man.

  I loved the brimming wave that swam
  Thro' quiet meadows round the mill,
  The sleepy pool above the dam,
  The pool beneath it never still,
  The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor,
  The dark round of the dripping wheel,
  The very air about the door
  Made misty with the floating meal.

  And oft in ramblings on the wold,
  When April nights begin to blow,
  And April's crescent glimmer'd cold,
  I saw the village lights below;
  I knew your taper far away,
  And full at heart of trembling hope,
  From off the wold I came, and lay
  Upon the freshly-flower'd slope.

  The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill;
  And "by that lamp," I thought "she sits!"
  The white chalk-quarry from the hill
  Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits.
  "O that I were beside her now!
  O will she answer if I call?
  O would she give me vow for vow,
  Sweet Alice, if I told her all?"

  Sometimes I saw you sit and spin;
  And, in the pauses of the wind,
  Sometimes I heard you sing within;
  Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind.
  At last you rose and moved the light,
  And the long shadow of the chair
  Flitted across into the night,
  And all the casement darken'd there.

  But when at last I dared to speak,
  The lanes, you know, were white with may,
  Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek
  Flush'd like the coming of the day;
  And so it was--half-sly, half-shy,
  You would, and would not, little one!
  Although I pleaded tenderly,
  And you and I were all alone.

  And slowly was my mother brought
  To yield consent to my desire:
  She wish'd me happy, but she thought
  I might have look'd a little higher;
  And I was young--too young to wed:
  "Yet must I love her for your sake;
  Go fetch your Alice here," she said:
  Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

  And down I went to fetch my bride:
  But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
  This dress and that by turns you tried,
  Too fearful that you should not please.
  I loved you better for your fears,
  I knew you could not look but well;
  And dews, that would have fall'n in tears,
  I kiss'd away before they fell.

  I watch'd the little flutterings,
  The doubt my mother would not see;
  She spoke at large of many things,
  And at the last she spoke of me;
  And turning look'd upon your face,
  As near this door you sat apart,
  And rose, and, with a silent grace
  Approaching, press'd you heart to heart.

  Ah, well--but sing the foolish song
  I gave you, Alice, on the day
  When, arm in arm, we went along,
  A pensive pair, and you were gay,
  With bridal flowers--that I may seem,
  As in the nights of old, to lie
  Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
  While those full chestnuts whisper by.

  It is the miller's daughter,
  And she is grown so dear, so dear,
  That I would be the jewel
  That trembles at her ear:
  For hid in ringlets day and night,
  I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

  And I would be the girdle
  About her dainty, dainty waist,
  And her heart would beat against me,
  In sorrow and in rest:
  And I should know if it beat right,
  I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

  And I would be the necklace,
  And all day long to fall and rise
  Upon her balmy bosom,
  With her laughter or her sighs,
  And I would lie so light, so light,
  I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

  A trifle, sweet! which true love spells
  True love interprets--right alone.
  His light upon the letter dwells,
  For all the spirit is his own.
  So, if I waste words now, in truth
  You must blame Love. His early rage
  Had force to make me rhyme in youth
  And makes me talk too much in age.

  And now those vivid hours are gone,
  Like mine own life to me thou art,
  Where Past and Present, wound in one,
  Do make a garland for the heart:
  So sing that other song I made,
  Half anger'd with my happy lot,
  The day, when in the chestnut shade
  I found the blue Forget-me-not.

  Love that hath us in the net,
  Can he pass, and we forget?
  Many suns arise and set.
  Many a chance the years beget.
  Love the gift is Love the debt.
  Even so.
  Love is hurt with jar and fret.
  Love is made a vague regret.
  Eyes with idle tears are wet.
  Idle habit links us yet.
  What is love? for we forget:
  Ah, no! no!

  Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife,
  Round my true heart thine arms entwine;
  My other dearer life in life,
  Look thro' my very soul with thine!
  Untouch'd with any shade of years,
  May those kind eyes for ever dwell!
  They have not shed a many tears,
  Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

  Yet tears they shed: they had their part
  Of sorrow: for when time was ripe,
  The still affection of the heart
  Became an outward breathing type,
  That into stillness past again,
  And left a want unknown before;
  Although the loss that brought us pain,
  That loss but made us love the more.

  With farther lookings on. The kiss,
  The woven arms, seem but to be
  Weak symbols of the settled bliss,
  The comfort, I have found in thee:
  But that God bless thee, dear--who wrought
  Two spirits to one equal mind--
  With blessings beyond hope or thought,
  With blessings which no words can find.

  Arise, and let us wander forth,
  To yon old mill across the wolds;
  For look, the sunset, south and north,
  Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
  And fires your narrow casement glass,
  Touching the sullen pool below:
  On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
  Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

Fatima



  O Love, Love, Love! O withering might!
  O sun, that from thy noonday height
  Shudderest when I strain my sight,
  Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,
  Lo, falling from my constant mind,
  Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
  I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

  Last night I wasted hateful hours
  Below the city's eastern towers:
  I thirsted for the brooks, the showers:
  I roll'd among the tender flowers:
  I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth:
  I look'd athwart the burning drouth
  Of that long desert to the south.

  Last night, when some one spoke his name,
  From my swift blood that went and came
  A thousand little shafts of flame.
  Were shiver'd in my narrow frame
  O Love, O fire! once he drew
  With one long kiss, my whole soul thro'
  My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

  Before he mounts the hill, I know
  He cometh quickly: from below
  Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow
  Before him, striking on my brow.
  In my dry brain my spirit soon,
  Down-deepening from swoon to swoon,
  Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

  The wind sounds like a silver wire,
  And from beyond the noon a fire
  Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher
  The skies stoop down in their desire;
  And, isled in sudden seas of light,
  My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight,
  Bursts into blossom in his sight.

  My whole soul waiting silently,
  All naked in a sultry sky,
  Droops blinded with his shining eye:
  I 'will' possess him or will die.
  I will grow round him in his place,
  Grow, live, die looking on his face,
  Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.

‘None


  There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier
  Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
  The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,
  Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
  And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
  The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
  Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
  The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine
  In cataract after cataract to the sea.
  Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
  Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
  The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
  Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel,
  The crown of Troas.

  Hither came at noon
  Mournful ‘none, wandering forlorn
  Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
  Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck
  Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.
  She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,
  Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade
  Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

  "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:
  The grasshopper is silent in the grass;
  The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,
  Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.
  The purple flowers droop: the golden bee
  Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.
  My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
  My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
  And I am all aweary of my life.

  "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves
  That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks,
  I am the daughter of a River-God,
  Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
  My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
  Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,
  A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be
  That, while I speak of it, a little while
  My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

  "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  I waited underneath the dawning hills,
  Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,
  And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:
  Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,
  Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved,
  Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

  "O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft:
  Far up the solitary morning smote
  The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes
  I sat alone: white-breasted like a star
  Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin
  Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair
  Cluster'd about his temples like a God's;
  And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens
  When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart
  Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm
  Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
  That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd
  And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech
  Came down upon my heart.

  "'My own ‘none,
  Beautiful-brow'd ‘none, my own soul,
  Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n
  "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine,
  As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt
  The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace
  Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  He prest the blossom of his lips to mine,
  And added 'This was cast upon the board,
  When all the full-faced presence of the Gods
  Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon
  Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due:
  But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve,
  Delivering, that to me, by common voice
  Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day,
  Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each
  This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave
  Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,
  Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard
  Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud
  Had lost his way between the piney sides
  Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came,
  Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower,
  And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,
  Violet, amaracus, and asphodel
  Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose,
  And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,
  This way and that, in many a wild festoon
  Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs
  With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.

  "O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit,
  And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd
  Upon him, slowing dropping fragrant dew.
  Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom
  Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows
  Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods
  Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made
  Proffer of royal power, ample rule
  Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue
  Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale
  And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn,
  Or labour'd mines undrainable of ore.
  Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll,
  From many an inland town and haven large,
  Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel
  In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'

  "O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Still she spake on and still she spake of power,
  'Which in all action is the end of all;
  Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred
  And throned of wisdom--from all neighbour crowns
  Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand
  Fail from the sceptre staff. Such boon from me,
  From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris to thee king-born,
  A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born,
  Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power
  Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd
  Rest in a happy place and quiet seats
  Above the thunder, with undying bliss
  In knowledge of their own supremacy.'

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit
  Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power
  Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
  Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs
  O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear
  Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,
  The while, above, her full and earnest eye
  Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek
  Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

  "'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
  These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
  Yet not for power, (power of herself
  Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law,
  Acting the law we live by without fear;
  And, because right is right, to follow right
  Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts.
  Sequel of guerdon could not alter me
  To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am,
  So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet indeed,

  If gazing on divinity disrobed
  Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair,
  Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure
  That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee,

  So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood,
  Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's,
  To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,
  Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow
  Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will.
  Circled thro' all experiences, pure law,
  Commeasure perfect freedom.' "Here she ceased,
  And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris,
  Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,
  Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

  "O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida.
  Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful,
  Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian  wells,
  With rosy slender fingers backward drew
  From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair
  Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat
  And shoulder: from the violets her light foot
  Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form
  Between the shadows of the vine-bunches
  Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

  "Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,
  The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh
  Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee
  The fairest and most loving wife in Greece'.
  She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear:
  But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm,
  And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes,
  As she withdrew into the golden cloud,
  And I was left alone within the bower;
  And from that time to this I am alone,
  And I shall be alone until I die.

  "Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die.
  Fairest--why fairest wife? am I not fair?
  My love hath told me so a thousand times.
  Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,
  When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,
  Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail
  Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she?
  Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms
  Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest
  Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew
  Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains
  Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

  "O mother, hear me yet before I die.
  They came, they cut away my tallest pines,
  My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge
  High over the blue gorge, and all between
  The snowy peak and snow-white cataract
  Foster'd the callow eaglet--from beneath
  Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn
  The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat
  Low in the valley. Never, never more
  Shall lone ‘none see the morning mist
  Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid
  With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud,
  Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

  "O mother, here me yet before I die.
  I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds,
  Among the fragments tumbled from the glens,
  Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her,
  The Abominable, that uninvited came
  Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall,
  And cast the golden fruit upon the board,
  And bred this change; that I might speak my mind,
  And tell her to her face how much I hate
  Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.

  "O mother, here me yet before I die.
  Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,
  In this green valley, under this green hill,
  Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?
  Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?
  O happy tears, and how unlike to these!
  O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face?
  O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?
  O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud,
  There are enough unhappy on this earth,
  Pass by the happy souls, that love to live:
  I pray thee, pass before my light of life,
  And shadow all my soul, that I may die.
  Thou weighest heavy on the heart within,
  Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.

  "O mother, hear me yet before I die.
  I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts
  Do shape themselves within me, more and more,
  Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear
  Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,
  Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see
  My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother
  Conjectures of the features of her child
  Ere it is born: her child!--a shudder comes
  Across me: never child be born of me,
  Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!

  "O mother, hear me yet before I die.
  Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,
  Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me
  Walking the cold and starless road of
  Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love
  With the Greek woman. I will rise and go
  Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth
  Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says
  A fire dances before her, and a sound
  Rings ever in her ears of armed men.
  What this may be I know not, but I know
  That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day,
  All earth and air seem only burning fire."



[1833.]

  There is a dale in Ida, lovelier
  Than any in old Ionia, beautiful
  With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean
  Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn
  A path thro' steepdown granite walls below
  Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front
  The cedarshadowy valleys open wide.
  Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall
  And many a snowycolumned range divine,
  Mounted with awful sculptures--men and Gods,
  The work of Gods--bright on the dark-blue sky
  The windy citadel of Ilion
  Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came
  Mournful ‘none wandering forlorn
  Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck,
  Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold,
  Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest.
  She, leaning on a vine-entwinèd stone,
  Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow
  Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

  "O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  The grasshopper is silent in the grass,
  The lizard with his shadow on the stone
  Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged [21]
  Cicala in the noonday leapeth not
  Along the water-rounded granite-rock.
  The purple flower droops: the golden bee
  Is lilycradled: I alone awake.
  My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,
  My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim,
  And I am all aweary of my life.

  "O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves
  That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks,
  I am the daughter of a River-God,
  Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
  My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
  Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,
  A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be
  That, while I speak of it, a little while
  My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

  "O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark,
  And dewydark aloft the mountain pine;
  Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,
  Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved,
  Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

  "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  I sate alone: the goldensandalled morn
  Rosehued the scornful hills: I sate alone
  With downdropt eyes: white-breasted like a star
  Fronting the dawn he came: a leopard skin
  From his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hair
  Clustered about his temples like a God's:
  And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens
  When the wind blows the foam; and I called out,
  'Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo,
  Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo'.

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  He, mildly smiling, in his milk-white palm
  Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright
  With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven
  Ambrosially smelling. From his lip,
  Curved crimson, the full-flowing river of speech
  Came down upon my heart.

                           "' My own ‘none,
  Beautifulbrowed ‘none, mine own soul,
  Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n
  "For the most fair," in aftertime may breed
  Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sore
  Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion;
  And all the colour of my afterlife
  Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day
  Hera and Pallas and the floating grace
  Of laughter-loving Aphrodite meet
  In manyfolded Ida to receive
  This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand
  Award the palm. Within the green hillside,
  Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,
  Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar
  And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein
  Thou unbeholden may'st behold, unheard
  Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud
  Had lost his way between the piney hills.
  They came--all three--the Olympian goddesses.
  Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower,
  Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed
  Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset,
  Shadowed with singing-pine; and all the while,
  Above, the overwandering ivy and vine
  This way and that in many a wild festoon
  Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs
  With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.
  On the treetops a golden glorious cloud
  Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew.
  How beautiful they were, too beautiful
  To look upon! but Paris was to me
  More lovelier than all the world beside.

  "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  First spake the imperial Olympian
  With archèd eyebrow smiling sovranly,
  Fulleyèd here. She to Paris made
  Proffer of royal power, ample rule
  Unquestioned, overflowing revenue
  Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale
  And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn,
  Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine--
  Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll,
  From many an inland town and haven large,
  Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadel
  In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'

  "O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Still she spake on and still she spake of power
  'Which in all action is the end of all.
  Power fitted to the season, measured by
  The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn
  And throned of wisdom--from all neighbour crowns
  Alliance and allegiance evermore. Such boon from me
  Heaven's Queen to thee kingborn,
  A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn,
  Should come most welcome, seeing men, in this
  Only are likest gods, who have attained
  Rest in a happy place and quiet seats
  Above the thunder, with undying bliss
  In knowledge of their own supremacy;
  The changeless calm of undisputed right,
  The highest height and topmost strength of power.'

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit
  Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power
  Flattered his heart: but Pallas where she stood
  Somewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbs
  O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear
  Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold;
  The while, above, her full and earnest eye
  Over her snowcold breast and angry cheek
  Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

  "'Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrol
  Are the three hinges of the gates of Life,
  That open into power, everyway
  Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud.
  Yet not for power (power of herself
  Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law
  Acting the law we live by without fear,
  And, because right is right, to follow right
  Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

  (Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.)
  Not as men value gold because it tricks
  And blazons outward Life with ornament,
  But rather as the miser, for itself.
  Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood.
  The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect
  Each other, bound in one with hateful love.
  So both into the fountain and the stream
  A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me,
  And look upon me and consider me,
  So shall thou find me fairest, so endurance,
  Like to an athlete's arm, shall still become
  Sinewed with motion, till thine active will
  (As the dark body of the Sun robed round
  With his own ever-emanating lights)
  Be flooded o'er with her own effluences,
  And thereby grow to freedom.' "Here she ceased
  And Paris pondered. I cried out, 'Oh, Paris,
  Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,
  Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

  "O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,
  Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Idalian Aphrodite oceanborn,
  Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells,
  With rosy slender fingers upward drew
  From her warm brow and bosom her dark hair
  Fragrant and thick, and on her head upbound
  In a purple band: below her lucid neck
  Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot
  Gleamed rosywhite, and o'er her rounded form
  Between the shadows of the vine-bunches
  Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,
  The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh
  Half-whispered in his ear, 'I promise thee
  The fairest and most loving wife in Greece'.
  I only saw my Paris raise his arm:
  I only saw great Herè's angry eyes,
  As she withdrew into the golden cloud,
  And I was left alone within the bower;
  And from that time to this I am alone.
  And I shall be alone until I die.

  "Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Fairest--why fairest wife? am I not fair?
  My love hath told me so a thousand times.
  Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,
  When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard,
  Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail
  Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she?
  Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms
  Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest
  Close-close to thine in that quickfalling dew
  Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains
  Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  They came, they cut away my tallest pines--
  My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge
  High over the blue gorge, or lower down
  Filling greengulphèd Ida, all between
  The snowy peak and snowwhite cataract
  Fostered the callow eaglet--from beneath
  Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark
  The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat
  Low in the valley. Never, nevermore
  Shall lone ‘none see the morning mist
  Sweep thro' them--never see them overlaid
  With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud,
  Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

  "Oh! mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,
  In this green valley, under this green hill,
  Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?
  Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears?
  Oh happy tears, and how unlike to these!
  Oh happy Heaven, how can'st thou see my face?
  Oh happy earth, how can'st thou bear my weight?
  O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud,
  There are enough unhappy on this earth,
  Pass by the happy souls, that love to live:
  I pray thee, pass before my light of life.
  And shadow all my soul, that I may die.
  Thou weighest heavy on the heart within,
  Weigh heavy on my eyelids--let me die.

  "Yet, mother Ida, hear me ere I die.
  I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts
  Do shape themselves within me, more and more,
  Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear
  Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,
  Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see
  My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother
  Conjectures of the features of her child
  Ere it is born. I will not die alone.

  "Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
  Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,
  Lest their shrill, happy laughter, etc.