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A star that with the choral starry dance

Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance

Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd.

“ No voice,” she shriek'd in that lone hall,

“ No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world :

One deep, deep silence all!"

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God,

Lost to her place and name;

And death and life she hated equally,

And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,

No comfort anywhere;

Remaining utterly confused with fears,

And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,

And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round

With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound

Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low

Moan of an unknown sea ;

And knows not if it be thunder or a sound

Of stones thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, “ I have found

A new land, but I die.”

She howl'd aloud, “I am on fire within.

There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin,

And save me lest I die?”

So when four years were wholly finished,

She threw her royal robes away. “ Make me a cottage in the vale,” she said, " Where I


may mourn and

“ Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are

So lightly, beautifully built:
Perchance I may return with others there

When I have purged my guilt.”


Of me

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,


shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake

A heart that doats on truer charms.

A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,

And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
You put strange memories in


head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your

low replies : A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat



had hardly cared to see.

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