Er bestaan twee versies van het gedicht: het origineel uit 1833 met twintig stanza's en een versie uit 1842 met negentien stanza's.
De legende van Elaine van Astolat zoals verhaald in een dertiende-eeuwse Italiaanse novelle met de titel Donna di Scalotta (No. lxxxi in de bundel Cento Novelle Antiche.[1] Tennyson legde de nadruk op de opsluiting in de toren en haar door hem aan de legende toegevoegde besluit om haar isolement koste wat het kost te verbreken.[2]
De betoverde naamloze edelvrouw zit met haar rug naar het raam in een door water omringde toren aan haar weefgetouw. Zij weet dat zij de werkelijkheid, waaronder het nabijgelegen Camelot, alleen in de spiegel mag aanschouwen. Zo zij uit het raam zou kijken zou de betovering worden verbroken en haar noodlot, in het gedicht onbenoemd, maar het betreft een vroege dood, vervuld worden. Wanneer zij in de spiegel de onweerstaanbaar knappe Lancelot voorbij ziet rijden kan zij zich niet langer beheersen. De spiegel breekt op het ogenblik dat zij naar buiten kijkt.
De dame laat zich in het gedicht van Tennyson op een boot naar Camelot drijven. Onderweg sterft zij.
De autograaf van het gedicht is in Tennysons eigen handschrift bewaard gebleven en berust in de verzameling manuscripten in de bibliotheek van het Trinity College van de Universiteit van Cambridge[3].
Het gedicht
Dit is de eerste, in 1833 gepubliceerde versie van het gedicht.
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;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
The sunbeam showers break and quiver
In the stream that runneth 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.
Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel, singing clearly,
O'er the stream of Camelot.
Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
Lady of Shalott.'
The little isle is all inrail'd
With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd
With roses: by the marge unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,
Skimming down to Camelot.
A pearl garland winds her head:
She leaneth on a velvet bed,
Full royally apparelled,
The Lady of Shalott.
Part the Second.
No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
She lives with little joy or fear.
Over the water, running near,
The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting tower'd Camelot.
And as the mazy web she whirls,
She sees 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, came from 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 the Third.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flam'd upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
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 from Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his arm our rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down from Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down from Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom
She made three paces thro' the room
She saw the water-flower 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 the Fourth.
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;
Outside the isle a shallow boat
Beneath a willow lay afloat,
Below the carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.
A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew (her zone in sight
Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)
Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,
Though the squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.
With a steady stony glance--
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance--
She look'd down to Camelot.
It was the closing of the day:
She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
As when to sailors while they roam,
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Rising and dropping with the foam,
From dying swans wild warblings come,
Blown shoreward; so to Camelot
Still as the boathead wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.
A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
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 pale, pale corpse she floated by,
Deadcold, between the houses high,
Dead into tower'd Camelot.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked wharfage came:
Below the stern they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast,
That puzzled more than all the rest,
The wellfed wits at Camelot.
'The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear not,--this is I,
The Lady of Shalott.'
Cyril Rootham schreef in 1909 "The Lady of Shalott", een cantate voor mezzo-sopraan, koor en orkest
Phyllis Margaret Duncan Tate schreef in 1956 "The Lady of Shalott", een cantate in vier delen voor tenor, altviool, slagwerk (2 of 3 spelers), 2 piano's en celesta
The Band Perry met hun lied "If I Die Young". In hun videoclip worden meerdere verwijzingen gemaakt naar het gedicht van Alfred Tennyson.
Literatuur
Fogelman, Pegga A. Ladies of Shalott: A Victorian Masterpiece and its Contexts. Ed. George P. Landow. Brown University: 1985. p. 158.
Houfe, Simon. The Dictionary of British Book Illustrators and Caricaturists 1800 — 1914 Woodbridge, Suffolk: Baron Publishing, 1978.
Life, Allan Roy. "Art and Poetry: A Study of the Illustrations of Two Pre-Raphaelite Artists, William Hoiman Hunt and John Everett Millais." Ph.D. diss., University of British Columbia, 1974.
Rossetti, William Michael. Dante Gabriel Rossetti: His Family Letters. Boston: Roberts Bros., 1895.
Poems by Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet Laureate. London: E. Moxon, 1857.
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