Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson was born August 6, 1809. He was the fourth of twelve siblings, most of whom were gifted in the literary arts - although none quite as much as Alfred himself. As a boy, he was subject to a family which presented him with the best of two worlds in the form of a highly intellectual father who was sometimes prone to bouts of manic depression often caused by drinking and a mother who seemed inclined to answer questions concerning life and death in an extremely fundamentalist manner. Both of these factors would later influence his works and the directions they took.
When he was just seventeen years old, he and two of his brothers, Charles and Frederick, collaborated on a volume of poetry strangely titled Poems by Two Brothers (1827). Soon after, Tennyson entered Cambridge and found himself surrounded by a group of peers who called themselves "The Apostles." One young man in particular, Mr. Arthur Henry Hallam, became Tennyson's most trusted friend and most honest critic. Tennyson's college days were numbered, however. He was required to return home abruptly when his father became terminally ill and the family found itself in deep financial straits.
The death of Tennyson's father did not affect him as deeply as the sudden death of Arthur Hallam, however. Mr. Hallam died of a fever in Vienna, Austria in September of 1833. This sudden tragedy, just two years after the death of the elder Tennyson, nearly destroyed the young poet. To help him overcome his grief, Tennyson wrote a series of poems dedicated to the healing process of overcoming a tragedy. The most famous of these is probably In Memoriam, which he worked on for seventeen years and published in 1850. It is in this poem that he comes to the realization that "Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
In the early 1830s, Tennyson attempted to publish two volumes of poetry, both of which were severly ridiculed by critics. He persevered, however, and in 1842 he published Poems. This collection included some of his most well-known works including, Ulysses, Morte D'Arthur and The Lotos-Eaters.
The Lady of Shalott was another such poem that was rejected in his first attempt to publish. It was also one he submitted in this later volume, somewhat rewritten, and this time overwhelmingly praised. This classic poem includes some of his most powerful images including those of Arthurian legend which he so often utilized throughout his career.
Tennyson continued to publish and in 1850 he succeeded William Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, a position he occupied for almost half of a century. In 1855, Tennyson earned the degree of D.C.L. by Oxford University and later in 1884, he was presented with the title of Peer of the Realm by Queen Victoria.
Tennyson died on October 6, 1892, and was buried in Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey in London.

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-towered 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 forever
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."

**PART II**
THERE she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

**PART III**
A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight forever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A might silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On bunish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide:
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

**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 tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round abount 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 darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd 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,
A corse 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 cross'd 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

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