Full oft the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years Lest she should fail and perish utterly, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. "What! is not this my place of strength," she said, "My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid But in dark corners of her palace stood On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand; A star that with the choral starry dance 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, And death and life she hated equally, Remaining utterly confused with fears, Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, A little before moon-rise hears the low And knows not if it be thunder or a sound Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. So when four years were wholly finished, "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: 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. |