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And once you tried the Muses too;
As Captain is to Subaltern.
But men of long-enduring hopes,
And careless what this hour may bring,
And Brummels, when they try to sting.
An artist, Sir, should rest in Art,
But you, Sir, you are hard to please;
With moral breadth of temperament.
And what with spites and what with fears,
"They call this man as good as me.”
What profits now to understand
A dapper boot-a little hand-
You talk of tinsel ! Why we see
The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks.
You prate of Nature! you are he
That spilt his life about the cliques.
A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame:
(Punch, February 28, 1846)
BUT SHE TARRIES IN HER PLACE.
The last four of sixteen stanzas, the first twelve of which are incorporated in sect. xxvi of "Maud.”
BUT she tarries in her place,
I can shadow forth my bride
In the silence of my life-
"Tis a phantom fair and good;
And be moved around me still
With the moving of the blood,
That is moved not of the will.
Let it pass, the dreary brow,
(The Tribute, 1837)
THE LADY OF SHALOTT
VERSES FROM THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF 1833, PART IV
A CLOUD-WHITE crown of pearl she dight,
That loosely flew, (her zone in sight,
Though the squally eastwind keenly
With a steady, stony glance-
She looked down to Camelot.
As when to sailors while they roam,
They crossed themselves, their stars they blest,
The well-fed wits at Camelot.
"The web was woven curiously,
Draw near and fear not-this is I,
The Lady of Shalott."
CONCLUDING PASSAGE TO THE ORIGINAL VERSION OF 1833
WE have had enough of motion,
Weariness and wild alarm,
Tossing on the tossing ocean,
Where the tuskèd sea-horse walloweth
In a stripe of grass-green calm,
At noon tide beneath the lee;
And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth
His foam-fountains in the sea.
Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry.
In the hollow rosy vale to tarry,
Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater!
We will eat the Lotos, sweet
As the yellow honeycomb,
In the valley some, and some
On the loud hoar foam,
At the limit of the brine,
The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline.
No more unfurl the straining sail;
Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat
On the solitary steeps,
And the merry lizard leaps,
And the foam-white waters pour ;
And the dark pine weeps,
And the lithe vine creeps,
And the heavy melon sleeps
On the level of the shore:
Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more.
Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore