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Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.

Out upon the wharves they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,

WEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,



YET we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet,

That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete ;

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That not a worm is cloven in vain ;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Under the silver moon ;

Blow him again to me, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Behold, we know not anything,

I can but trust that good shall fall
At last-far off-at last to all,
And every Winter change to Spring.


So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.

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 of 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."

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

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The wish that of the living whole

No life may fail beyond the grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife?
That Nature tends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;

That I considering everywhere

Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,

And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope through darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,

And faintly trust the larger hope.



ND answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

"My end draws nigh: 'tis time that I
were gone.

Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

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Clothed with his breath and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills.

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were 'ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream. By


Three Queens with crowns of gold; and from them rose

A cry that shivered to the tingling stars;
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the

And to the barge they came. There these three

Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

But she that rose the tallest of them all

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Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his


So like a shatter'd column lay the King.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light hath led The Holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! But thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by

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O hark, O hear; how thin, how clear, And thinner, clearer, further going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,


O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,


For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest-if indeed I go-
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;
Where falls not hail nor rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns,
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan,
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.


REAK, break, break

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

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"The splendor falls on castle walls."


O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor-lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

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O great poet has been less understood by his own generation than was Robert Browning. His earlier writings aimed at lofty themes, which they did not interpret so successfully as to be comprehended by the reading public. His "Sordelo" has been likened to a house built by a young architect who forgot that a staircase was necessary. The author, a boy little beyond twenty, essayed a high thing, in which he partially failed, and for more than forty years the British public remembered it to his discredit, and seemed never weary of ridiculing and abusing it. Even in this, however, was the promise of Browning's best work.


He was the son of a clerk in the Bank of England, but had the entire sympathy and support of his father in his choice of literature as a profession. His life is almost without incident, and its details are not much known.

He lived from the time of his marriage, in 1846, principally abroad. After the death of Mrs. Browning, in 1861, he again lived in London in the winter; but died at Venice in 1889. The subtlety of Browning's poetry, the depth of meaning which is buried sometimes under the most trifling narrative, and sometimes so deeply hidden as to dismay any but the most determined student, has always prevented him from becoming a popular poet. For those, however, who will bestow upon them the necessary thought and study, his poems yield the richest returns. His best-known works are "Paracelsus," "Bells and Pomegranates," "The Blot on the 'Scutcheon," "Pippa Passes," "Men and Women," and "The Ring and the Book." Many of his shorter poems are more popular, and among these "The Ride from Ghent to Aix" is a masterpiece in action and intensity.


SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he : I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; "Speed! "echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;

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