Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/167

 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passion of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear, Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door. You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.