«La dama de Shalott»: Alfred Tennyson; poema y análisis.
La dama de Shalott (The Lady of Shalott) es un poema mitológico del escritor inglés Alfred Tennyson, publicado en 1833 y reescrito en 1842.
La dama de Shalott, uno de los mejores poemas de Alfred Tennyson, nos introduce en el Ciclo Artúrico, enfocándose principalmente en la figura mítica de Elaine de Astolat [o Donna di Scalotta], quien muere de pena al ser rechazada por Sir Lancelot.
La dama de Shalott fue admirablemente recibido por los prerrafaelitas, en particular por John William Waterhouse, quien la retrató en las pinturas que pueden ver aquí y aquí.
La dama de Shalott.
The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
En la ribera, durmiendo,
grandes campos de cebada y centeno
visten colinas y encuentran al cielo;
por el campo nace el sendero
hacia las mil torres de Camelot;
y arriba, y abajo, la gente anda,
mirando los lirios que florecen,
en la isla que río abajo emerge:
la isla de Shalott.
Tiembla el álamo, palidece el sauce,
grises ráfagas estremecen los aires
y la ola, que por siempre llena el cauce,
por el río y desde la isla distante
fluye incesante hasta Camelot.
Cuatro muros grises: sus grises torres
reinan el espacio entre las flores,
y en el silencio de la isla se esconde
la dama de Shalott.
Tras un velo de sauces, por la ribera,
las pesadas barcas arrastradas
por lentos caballos; y furtiva,
una vela de seda traza
surcos de espuma, hacia Camelot.
Pero ¿quién la vio saludando?
¿o en la ventana de su cuarto mirando?
¿o acaso es conocida en el reino
la dama de Shalott?
Sólo los segadores, muy temprano,
cuando arrancan los maduros granos,
oyen ecos de un alegre canto
que brota desde el río, alto y claro
hasta las mil torres de Camelot:
Bajo la luna el segador trabaja,
apilando haces en las eras altas.
Escucha y susurra: “es ella, el hada,
la dama de Shalott”.
II.
Ella teje día y noche,
seda mágica de hermosos colores.
Ha oído un rumor sobre
una maldición: como se asome
y mire lejos, hacia Camelot.
No conoce la condena que pueda ser,
ella surce y no deja de tejer,
otra cosa no existe que pueda temer,
la dama de Shalott.
Moviéndose sobre un espejo claro
que cuelga frente a ella todo el año,
sombras del mundo aparecen. Cercano
ve ella el camino que serpenteando
conduce a las torres de Camelot;
Allí el remolino del río gira,
y descortés el aldeano grita,
y de las mozas las capas rojizas
se alejan de Shalott.
A veces un tropel de alegres damas,
un abate, al que portan con calma,
o es un pastor de cabeza rizada,
o de largo pelo y carmesí capa,
un paje se dirige a Camelot;
y a veces cruzan el azul espejo
caballeros de dos en dos viniendo:
no tiene un buen y leal caballero
la dama de Shalott.
Pero en su tela disfruta y recoge
del espejo las mágicas visiones,
y a menudo en las silenciosas noches
un funeral con plumas y faroles
y música, iba hacia Camelot:
O venían, la luna en su camino,
amantes casados de ahora mismo;
“Estoy enferma de tanta sombra”, dijo
la dama de Shalott.
III
A tiro de arco del alero de ella,
él cabalgaba entre la mies de la era;
deslumbraba el sol entre hojas nuevas,
y ardía sobre las broncíneas grebas
del valiente y audaz Sir Lancelot.
Un cruzado al que arrodillado puso
con la dama por siempre en el escudo,
brillaba en el campo amarillo, junto
la lejana Shalott.
Brillaba libre enjoyada la brida:
una rama de estrellas imprevistas
colgadas de una Galaxia amarilla.
Sonaban alegres las campanillas
mientras cabalgaba hacia Camelot:
y en bandolera, plata entre blasones,
colgaba un potente clarín. Al trote,
su armadura tintineaba, sobre
la lejana Shalott.
Bajo el azul despejado del cielo
refulgía la silla de oro y cuero,
ardía el yelmo y la pluma del yelmo,
juntas como una sola llama al viento,
mientras cabalgaba hacia Camelot:
Así en la noche púrpura se viera,
bajo cúmulos sembrados de estrellas,
un cometa, cola de luz, que llega,
a la quieta Shalott.
Su frente alta y clara, al sol brillaba;
sobre los pulidos cascos trotaba;
por debajo de su yelmo flotaban
los bucles negros, mientras cabalgaba,
cabalgaba directo a Camelot.
Desde la orilla, y desde el río,
brilló en el espejo de cristal,
“tralarí lará” cantando en el río
iba Sir Lancelot.
Dejó la tela, y dejó el telar,
tres pasos en su cuarto ella fue a dar,
ella vio el lirio de agua reventar,
el yelmo y la pluma ella fue a mirar,
y posó su mirada en Camelot.
Voló la tela, y se quedó aparte;
se rompió el espejo de parte a parte;
“la maldición vino a mi”, gritó suave
la dama de Shalott.
IV
En la tormenta que de este soplaba,
los bosques de oro pálido menguaban,
y el río ancho en su orilla los lloraba.
Un cielo negro y bajo diluviaba
encima las torres de Camelot.
Ella bajó hasta el río, y encontróse
bajo un sauce, una barca aún a flote,
y escribió, justo en la proa del bote,
“La dama de Shalott”.
Del río a través del pequeño espacio
como un audaz adivino extasiado
y en trance, viendo ante sí su trágico
destino, y con el semblante impávido,
ella miró lejos, a Camelot.
Y cuando el día por fin se acababa,
ella se tendió, y soltando amarras,
dejó que la corriente la arrastrara,
la dama de Shalott.
Tendida, vestida de un blanco nieve
desbordando por los lados del bote
las hojas cayendo sobre ella, leves,
a través del sonido de la noche,
ella flotaba hacia Camelot.
Y mientras la afilada proa hería
los campos y las esbeltas colinas,
se oyó un cantar, su última melodía,
la dama de Shalott.
Se oyó un cantar, un cantar triste y santo
cantado con fuerza y luego muy bajo,
hasta helarse su sangre muy despacio,
por completo sus ojos se cerraron
fijos en las torres de Camelot.
Porque hasta allí llegó con la marea,
de las primeras casas a la puerta,
y cantando su canción quedó muerta,
la dama de Shalott.
Debajo la torre y la balconada
entre las galerías y las tapias
hermosa y resplandeciente flotaba,
pálida de muerte, entre las casas,
entrando silenciosa en Camelot.
Al embarcadero juntos salieron:
dama y señor, burgués y caballero,
su nombre junto a la proa leyeron,
la dama de Shalott.
¿Qué tenemos aquí? ¿Y qué es todo esto?
Y en el palacio de luces y juegos
el jolgorio real tornó silencio;
Se santiguaron todos con miedo,
los caballeros, allí en Camelot:
Pero Lancelot, meditando un poco,
fue y dijo, “Ella tiene el rostro hermoso,
por gracia de Dios misericordioso,
la dama de Shalott.”
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.
II
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.
III
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 armour 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.
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;
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.'
Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
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.
II
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.
III
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 armour 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.
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;
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.'
Lord Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)
Poemas de Lord Tennyson. I Poemas góticos.
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El análisis, resumen y la traducción al español del poema de Alfred Tennyson: La dama de Shalott (The Lady of Shalott) fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
2 comentarios:
me gusto mucho
Poema "mitológico"? No tiene absolutamente nada que ver con la mitología. Si está basado en las leyendas artúricas; pero leyenda y mito son conceptos muy diferentes.
By the way, este es mi poema favorito en la vida. (L
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