First published in the 'Library Edition' of the 'Poems' in 1872.

WARRIOR of God, whose strong right arm debased

The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled

At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced

For ever - thee (thy pathway sand-erased)
Gliding with equal crowns two serpents led
Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed
Ammonian Oasis in the waste.

There in a silent shade of laurel brown
Apart the Chamian Oracle divine
Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries:
High things were spoken there, unhanded
down;

Only they saw thee from the secret shrine
Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes.

VI

POLAND

A matter to be wept with tears of blood!

VII

This sonnet and the two that follow were first printed in the 'Selections' of 1865, with the heading, Three Sonnets to a Coquette.' CARESS'D or chidden by the slender hand, And singing airy trifles this or that, Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand,

And run thro' every change of sharp and flat;

And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, When Sleep had bound her in his rosy

band,

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

First published in 1833, and much altered in 1842. See Notes.

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?

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PART II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors 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,

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.'

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She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and

morn,

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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

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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 sha't be alone no more.' And flaming downward over all

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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,

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