There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, 40 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, 44 And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, 48 Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, 52 And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. 96 As often thro' the purple night, 100 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 104 From underneath his helmet flow'd As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 'Tirra lirra,' by the river 108 Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, 112 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; 116 "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, 120 The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Över tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat 124 Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse 128 Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. ULYSSES. [From Poems (1842)] It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd 20 Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 25 Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved 80 And this gray spirit yearning in desire Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 45 There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed you and I are old; 50 Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 55 The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 65 Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 70 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. THE PASSING OF ARTHUR. [From Idylls of the King (1869), Bk. XII, II, 170—541 = Morte D'Arthur (1842)] So all day long the noise of battle roll'd 6 King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, 10 That stood on a dark strait of barren land: Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 15 The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, 20 Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 1 Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how 45 And fling him far into the middle mere: 40 'It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, 100 There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. 65 So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: 'Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?' And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 70 'I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.' To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 76 Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, |