. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. hange of my still soul. 60 For some were hung with arras greenand blue,Showing a gaudy summer-morn,Where with pufFd cheek the beltedhunter blewHis wreathed bugle-horn. One seemd all dark and red — a tractof sand,And some one pacing there alone,Who paced for ever in a glimmeringland,Lit with a low large moon. One showd an iron coast and seemd to hear them climb andfall 70 And roar rock-thwarted under bellow-ing caves,Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain,The ragged rim
. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. hange of my still soul. 60 For some were hung with arras greenand blue,Showing a gaudy summer-morn,Where with pufFd cheek the beltedhunter blewHis wreathed bugle-horn. One seemd all dark and red — a tractof sand,And some one pacing there alone,Who paced for ever in a glimmeringland,Lit with a low large moon. One showd an iron coast and seemd to hear them climb andfall 70 And roar rock-thwarted under bellow-ing caves,Beneath the windy wall. And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain,The ragged rims of thunder broodinglow,With shadow-streaks of And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind. 80 And one a foreground black withstones and slags;Beyond, aline of heights; and higherAll barrd with long white cloud thescornful crags;And highest, snow and fire. And one, an English home — gray twi-light pourd 56 THE LADY OF SHALOTT AND OTHER POEMS. In a clear-walld city on the sea,Near gilded organ-pipes, her hairWound with white roses, slept Saint Cecily On dewy pastures, dewy trees,Softer than sleep — all things in orderstored,A haunt of ancient Peace. Nor these alone, but every landscapefair,As fit for every mood of mind, 90Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern,was there,Not less than truth designd. Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,Beneath branch-work of costly sard-onyxSat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-walld city on thesea,Near gilded organ-pipes, her hairWound with white roses, slept SaintCecily;An angel lookd at her. 100 Or thronging all one porch of Paradise A group of Houris bowd to seeThe dying Islamite, with hands andeyesThat said, We wait for thee. Or mythic Uthers deeply - woundedsonIn some fair space of sloping greensLay, dozing in the vale of Aval on,And watchd by weeping queens. THE PALACE OF ART 57 Or hollowing one ha
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