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- She floated down to Camelot : Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Under tower and balcony, Out upon the wharfs they came, And round the prow they read her name, Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; 91 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 1 JOHN KEATS O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, The sedge has wither'd from the lake, O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew, Fast withereth too. 1. In many ways this poem presents an interesting contrast to the "The Lady of Shalott." The poems are alike, however, in their mystic atmosphere. La Belle Dame, etc. The beautiful lady without mercy. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful-a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lulléd me asleep, And there I dream'd-Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried-"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" I saw their starved lips in the gloam And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. 92 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS WILLIAM MORRIS Had she come all the way for this, To part at last without a kiss? Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain Along the dripping leafless woods, By fits and starts they rode apace, Ahead, to see what might betide When the roads cross'd; and sometimes, when There rose a murmuring from his men, Had to turn back with promises; Ah me! she had but little ease; For when they near'd that old soak'd hay, That Judas, Godmar, and the three Red running lions dismally Grinn'd from his pennon, under which In one straight line along the ditch They counted thirty heads. So then, While Robert turn'd round to his men, At Poictiers 2 where we made them run So fast-why, sweet my love, good cheer, Nought after this." 1. Coif. A close fitting cap, like a small hood. 2. Poictiers. A battle in which the Black Prince of England defeated the French and captured King John, 1356. |