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 towered 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 seer 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 darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached 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 crossed 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."

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_

The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; "Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde-- The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song.--

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire it seemeth mee Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset's golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o'er the grassy sea Came downe that kyndly message free, The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place." He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast; For lo! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- Then beaten foam flew round about-- Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by: I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high-- A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side. And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, "Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, "Cusha, Cusha!" all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth. When the water winding down, Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver. Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed."

JEAN INGELOW.

_The Forsaken Merman_

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away, This way, this way!

Call her once before you go. Call once yet, In a voice that she will know: "Margaret! Margaret!" Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear: Children's voices wild with pain. Surely she will come again. Call her once, and come away. This way, this way! "Mother dear, we cannot stay." The wild white horses foam and fret, Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore, Then come down. She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world forever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sat with you and me, On a red-gold throne in the heart of the sea. And the youngest sat on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell, She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea, She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day.

'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; "Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say." "Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach in the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town, Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear; "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart," I said, "we are here alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more, Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down, Down to the depths of the sea, She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy, For the priest and the bell, and the holy well, For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun." And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window and looks at the sand; And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow clouded eye, And a heart sorrow laden, A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children, Come children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, "Here came a mortal, But faithless was she, And alone dwell forever The kings of the sea."

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze from the sand-hills At the white sleeping town; At the church on the hillside-- And then come back, down. Singing, "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she: She left lonely forever The kings of the sea."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

_The Sands of Dee_

I

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.

II

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.

III

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never