byam-shaw

Guinevere. Alfred Lord Tennyson. Illustrated by Byam Shaw. London: T.C. & E.C. Jack, 1906.

QUEEN GUINEVERE had fled the court, and sat 
There in the holy house at Almesbury
Weeping, none with her save a little maid, 
A novice: one low light betwixt them burn'd 
Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad, 
Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, 
The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,
Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

Byam Shaw’s illustration for Poe’s William Wilson in ‘Selected Tales of Mystery’ (London : Sidgwick & Jackson, 1909) on the frontispiece with caption ‘A masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio.’

“It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18 – , that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine-table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance.”

Poems; with introd. by Richard Garnett and illus. by Byam Shaw (1904)


Artemis Prologizes

I AM a Goddess of the ambrosial courts,
And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed
By none who temples whiten this world.
Thro’ Heaven I roll my lucid moon along;
I shed in Hell o'er my pale people peace;
On Earth, I caring for the creatures, guard
Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleep,
And every feathered mother’s callow brood,
And all that love green haunts and loneliness

Byam Shaw’s illustration for Poe's Metzengerstein in “Selected Tales of Mystery”, 1909. (source)

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm sullenly succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building like a shroud, and, streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere, shot forth a glare of preternatural light; while a cloud of smoke settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal figure of — a horse.

“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.”
–from “Eleonora” by Edgar Allan Poe

(Illustration by Byam Shaw for a London edition dated 1909).