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Out upon the wharves they came,
Who is this? and what is here?
All the knights at Camelot:
The Lady of Shalott."
MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.
With one black shadow at its feet,
The house through 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."
Ii. She, as her carol sadder grew,
From brow and bosom slowly down, Through 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 murmured she; Complaining, "Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load." And on the liquid mirror glowed 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;
And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass,
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:
More inward than at night or morn,
And, rising, from her bosom drew
Old letters, breathing of her worth,
To what is loveliest upon earth."
"0 cruel heart," she changed her tone,
To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"
But sometimes in the falling day
An image seemed to pass the door,
"But thou shalt be alone no more."
"The day to night," she made her moan,
At eve a dry cicala sung,
There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung,
And leaned upon the balcony.
Large Hesper glittered on her tears,
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."
Thy dark eyes opened not,
Nor first revealed themselves to English air,
Thou wert born, on a summer morn,
With breezes from our oaken glades,
Of lavish lights, and floating shades:
At the moment of thy birth,
And shadowed coves on a sunny shore,
Jewel or shell, or starry ore,
Or the yellow-banded bees,
With whitest honey in fairy gardens culled
Into dreamful slumber lulled.
Who may minister to thee?
To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded
On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thickened 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,
How may full-sailed verse express,