And Arthur and his knighthood for a space
Were all one will, and thro’ that strength the King
Drew in the petty princedoms under him,
Fought, and in twelve great battles overcame
The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reign’d.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

* * * * *

ELAINE.

Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where morning’s earliest ray
Might strike it, and awaken her with the gleam;
Then fearing rust or soilure, fashion’d for it
A case of silk, and braided thereupon
All the devices blazon’d on the shield
In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,
A border fantasy of branch and flower,
And yellow-throated nestling in the nest. 
Nor rested thus content, but day by day
Leaving her household and good father, climb’d
That eastern tower, and entering barr’d the door,
Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,
Now guess’d a hidden meaning in his arms,
Now made a pretty history to herself
Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,
And every scratch a lance had made upon it,
Conjecturing when and where:  this cut is fresh;
That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;
That at Cearleon; this at Camelot;
And ah, God’s mercy what a stroke was there! 
And here a thrust that might have kill’d, but God
Broke the Strong lance and roll’d his enemy down,
And saved him; so she lived in fantasy.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

* * * * *

THE LADY OF SHALOTT.

PART I.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
  To many-tower’d Camelot
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
     The Island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes, dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
     Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
     The lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
     Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 
Or is she known in all the land,
     The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly,
From the river winding clearly,
     Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairy
  Lady of Shalott.”