| |
[First published 1852. Reprinted 1853, ’54, ’57.]
TRISTRAM IS 1 she not come? The messenger was sure. | |
| Prop me upon the pillows once again— | |
| Raise me, my Page: this cannot long endure. | |
| Christ! what a night! how the sleet whips the pane! | |
| What lights will those out to the northward be? | 5 |
| |
THE PAGE The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. | |
| |
TRISTRAM Soft—who is that stands by the dying fire? | |
| |
THE PAGE Iseult.
TRISTRAM Ah! not the Iseult I desire.. . . . . | |
| What Knight is this so weak and pale, | |
| Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, | 10 |
| Propt on pillows in his bed, | |
| Gazing seawards for the light | |
| Of some ship that fights the gale | |
| On this wild December night? | |
| Over the sick man’s feet is spread | 15 |
| A dark green forest dress. | |
| A gold harp leans against the bed, | |
| Ruddy in the fire’s light. | |
| I know him by his harp of gold, | |
| Famous in Arthur’s court of old: | 20 |
| I know him by his forest dress. | |
| The peerless hunter, harper, knight— | |
| Tristram of Lyoness. | |
| |
| What Lady is this, whose silk attire | |
| Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? 2 | 25 |
| The ringlets on her shoulders lying | |
| In their flitting lustre vying | |
| With the clasp of burnish’d gold | |
| Which her heavy robe doth hold. | |
| Her looks are mild, her fingers slight | 30 |
| As the driven snow are white; 3 | |
| And 4 her cheeks are sunk and pale. | |
| Is it that the bleak 5 sea-gale | |
| Beating from the Atlantic sea | |
| On this coast of Brittany, | 35 |
| Nips too keenly the sweet Flower?— | |
| Is it that a deep fatigue | |
| Hath come on her, a chilly fear, | |
| Passing all her youthful hour | |
| Spinning with her maidens here, | 40 |
| Listlessly through the window bars | |
| Gazing seawards many a league | |
| From her lonely shore-built tower, | |
| While the knights are at the wars? | |
| Or, perhaps, has her young heart | 45 |
| Felt already some deeper smart, | |
| Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, | |
| Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?— | |
| Who is this snowdrop by the sea? | |
| I know her by her mildness rare, 6 | 50 |
| Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; 7 | |
| I know her by her rich silk dress, | |
| And her fragile loveliness. | |
| The sweetest Christian soul alive, | |
| Iseult of Brittany. | 55 |
| |
| Iseult of Brittany?—but where 8 | |
| Is that other Iseult fair, | |
| That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen? | |
| She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore | |
| From Ireland to Cornwall bore, | 60 |
| To Tyntagel, to the side 9 | |
| Of King Marc, to be his bride? | |
| She who, as they voyag’d, quaff’d | |
| With Tristram that spic’d magic draught, | |
| Which since then for ever rolls | 65 |
| Through their blood, and binds their souls, | |
| Working love, but working teen?— | |
| There were two Iseults, who did sway | |
| Each her hour of Tristram’s day; | |
| But one possess’d his waning time, | 70 |
| The other his resplendent prime. | |
| Behold her here, the patient Flower, | |
| Who possess’d his darker hour. | |
| Iseult of the Snow-White Hand | |
| Watches pale by Tristram’s bed.— | 75 |
| She is here who had his gloom, | |
| Where art thou who hadst his bloom? | |
| One such kiss as those of yore | |
| Might thy dying knight restore— | |
| Does the love-draught work no more? | 80 |
| Art thou cold, or false, or dead, | |
| Iseult of Ireland? | |
| |
| Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, | |
| And the knight sinks back on his pillows again: | |
| He is weak with fever and pain, | 85 |
| And his spirit is not clear. | |
| Hark! he mutters in his sleep, | |
| As he wanders far from here, | |
| Changes place and time of year, | |
| And his closed eye doth sweep | 90 |
| O’er some fair unwintry sea, | |
| Not this fierce Atlantic deep, | |
| As he mutters brokenly— | |
| |
TRISTRAM The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails— | |
| Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, | 95 |
| And overhead the cloudless sky of May.— | |
| ‘Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, | |
| Not pent on ship-board this delicious day. | |
| Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, | |
| Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, | 100 |
| And pledge me in it first for courtesy.—’ | |
| Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch’d like mine? | |
| Child, ’tis no water this, ’tis poison’d wine! | |
| Iseult!… . . . . . | |
| Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! | 105 |
| Keep his eyelids! let him seem | |
| Not this fever-wasted wight | |
| Thinn’d and pal’d before his time, | |
| But the brilliant youthful knight | |
| In the glory of his prime, | 110 |
| Sitting in the gilded barge, | |
| At thy side, thou lovely charge! | |
| Bending gaily o’er thy hand, | |
| Iseult of Ireland! | |
| And she too, that princess fair, | 115 |
| If her bloom be now less rare, | |
| Let her have her youth again— | |
| Let her be as she was then! | |
| Let her have her proud dark eyes, | |
| And her petulant quick replies, | 120 |
| Let her sweep her dazzling hand | |
| With its gesture of command, | |
| And shake back her raven hair | |
| With the old imperious air. | |
| As of old, so let her be, | 125 |
| That first Iseult, princess bright, | |
| Chatting with her youthful knight | |
| As he steers her o’er the sea, | |
| Quitting at her father’s will | |
| The green isle where she was bred, | 130 |
| And her bower in Ireland, | |
| For the surge-beat Cornish strand, | |
| Where the prince whom she must wed | |
| Dwells on proud Tyntagel’s hill, 10 | |
| Fast beside the sounding sea. | 135 |
| And that golden cup her mother | |
| Gave her, that her future lord, 11 | |
| Gave her, that King Marc and she, 12 | |
| Might drink it on their marriage day, | |
| And for ever love each other, | 140 |
| Let her, as she sits on board, | |
| Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly, | |
| See it shine, and take it up, | |
| And to Tristram laughing say— | |
| ‘Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, | 145 |
| Pledge me in my golden cup!’ | |
| Let them drink it—let their hands | |
| Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, | |
| As they feel the fatal bands | |
| Of a love they dare not name, | 150 |
| With a wild delicious pain, | |
| Twine about their hearts again. | |
| Let the early summer be | |
| Once more round them, and the sea | |
| Blue, and o’er its mirror kind | 155 |
| Let the breath of the May wind, | |
| Wandering through their drooping sails, | |
| Die on the green fields of Wales. | |
| Let a dream like this restore | |
| What his eye must see no more. | 160 |
| |
TRISTRAM Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce walks are drear. | |
| Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? | |
| Were feet like those made for so wild a way? | |
| The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, | |
| Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day.— | 165 |
| ‘Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand— | |
| Tristram—sweet love—we are betray’d—out-plann’d. | |
| Fly—save thyself—save me. I dare not stay.’— | |
| One last kiss first!—‘’Tis vain—to horse—away!’ . . . . . | |
| Ah, sweet saints, his dream doth move | 170 |
| Faster surely than it should, | |
| From the fever in his blood. | |
| All the spring-time of his love | |
| Is already gone and past, | |
| And instead thereof is seen | 175 |
| Its winter, which endureth still— | |
| Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, 13 | |
| The pleasaunce walks, the weeping queen, | |
| The flying leaves, the straining blast, | |
| And that long, wild kiss—their last. | 180 |
| And this rough December night | |
| And his burning fever pain | |
| Mingle with his hurrying dream | |
| Till they rule it, till he seem | |
| The press’d fugitive again, | 185 |
| The love-desperate banish’d knight | |
| With a fire in his brain | |
| Flying o’er the stormy main. | |
| Whither does he wander now? | |
| Haply in his dreams the wind | 190 |
| Wafts him here, and lets him find | |
| The lovely Orphan Child again | |
| In her castle by the coast, | |
| The youngest, fairest chatelaine, | |
| That this realm of France can boast, | 195 |
| Our Snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, | |
| Iseult of Brittany. | |
| And—for through the haggard air, | |
| The stain’d arms, the matted hair | |
| Of that stranger-knight ill-starr’d, | 200 |
| There gleam’d something that recall’d | |
| The Tristram who in better days | |
| Was Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard— | |
| Welcom’d here, and here install’d, | |
| Tended of his fever here, | 205 |
| Haply he seems again to move | |
| His young guardian’s heart with love; | |
| In his exil’d loneliness, | |
| In his stately deep distress, | |
| Without a word, without a tear.— | 210 |
| Ah, ’tis well he should retrace | |
| His tranquil life in this lone place; | |
| His gentle bearing at the side | |
| Of his timid youthful bride; | |
| His long rambles by the shore | 215 |
| On winter evenings, when the roar | |
| Of the near waves came, sadly grand, | |
| Through the dark, up the drown’d sand: | |
| Or his endless reveries | |
| In the woods, where the gleams play | 220 |
| On the grass under the trees, | |
| Passing the long summer’s day | |
| Idle as a mossy stone | |
| In the forest depths alone; | |
| The chase neglected, and his hound | 225 |
| Couch’d beside him on the ground.— | |
| Ah, what trouble’s on his brow? | |
| Hither let him wander now, | |
| Hither, to the quiet hours | |
| Pass’d among these heaths of ours | 230 |
| By the grey Atlantic sea. | |
| Hours, if not of ecstasy, | |
| From violent anguish surely free. | |
| |
TRISTRAM All red with blood the whirling river flows, | |
| The wide plain rings, the daz’d air throbs with blows. | 235 |
| Upon us are the chivalry of Rome— | |
| Their spears are down, their steeds are bath’d in foam. | |
| ‘Up, Tristram, up,’ men cry, ‘thou moonstruck knight! | |
| What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!’— | |
| Above the din her voice is in my ears— | 240 |
| I see her form glide through the crossing spears.— | |
| Iseult!… . . . . . | |
| Ah, he wanders forth again; | |
| We cannot keep him; now as then | |
| There’s a secret in his breast | 245 |
| That will never let him rest. | |
| These musing fits in the green wood | |
| They cloud the brain, they dull the blood. | |
| His sword is sharp—his horse is good— | |
| Beyond the mountains will he see | 250 |
| The famous towns of Italy, | |
| And label with the blessed sign | |
| The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. | |
| At Arthur’s side he fights once more | |
| With the Roman Emperor. | 255 |
| There’s many a gay knight where he goes | |
| Will help him to forget his care. | |
| The march—the leaguer—Heaven’s blithe air— | |
| The neighing steeds—the ringing blows; | |
| Sick pining comes not where these are. | 260 |
| Ah, what boots it, that the jest | |
| Lightens every other brow. | |
| What, that every other breast | |
| Dances as the trumpets blow, | |
| If one’s own heart beats not light | 265 |
| On 14 the waves of the toss’d fight, | |
| If oneself cannot get free | |
| From the clog of misery? | |
| Thy lovely youthful Wife grows pale | |
| Watching by the salt sea tide | 270 |
| With her children at her side | |
| For the gleam of thy white sail. | |
| Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! | |
| To our lonely sea complain, | |
| To our forests tell thy pain. | 275 |
| |
TRISTRAM All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, | |
| But it is moonlight in the open glade: | |
| And in the bottom of the glade shine clear | |
| The forest chapel and the fountain near. | |
| I think, I have a fever in my blood: | 280 |
| Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, | |
| Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. | |
| Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light. | |
| God! ’tis her face plays in the waters bright.— | |
| ‘Fair love,’ she says, ‘canst thou forget so soon, | 285 |
| At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?’— | |
| Iseult!… . . . . . | |
| Ah poor soul, if this be so, | |
| Only death can balm thy woe. | |
| The solitudes of the green wood | 290 |
| Had no medicine for thy mood. | |
| The rushing battle clear’d thy blood | |
| As little as did solitude. | |
| Ah, his eyelids slowly break | |
| Their hot seals, and let him wake. | 295 |
| What new change shall we now see? | |
| A happier? Worse it cannot be. | |
| |
TRISTRAM Is my Page here? Come, turn me to the fire. | |
| Upon the window panes the moon shines bright; | |
| The wind is down: but she’ll not come to-night. | 300 |
| Ah no—she is asleep in Cornwall now, 15 | |
| Far hence—her dreams are fair—smooth is her brow. 16 | |
| Of me she recks not, nor my vain 17 desire. | |
| I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my Page, | |
| Would take a score years from a strong man’s age. | 305 |
| And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, | |
| Scant leisure for a second messenger. | |
| My Princess, art thou there? Sweet, ’tis too late. | |
| To bed, and sleep: my fever is gone by: | |
| To-night my Page shall keep me company. | 310 |
| Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me. | |
| Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I: | |
| This comes of nursing long and watching late. | |
| To bed—good night! . . . . . | |
| She left the gleam-lit fire-place, | 315 |
| She came to the bed-side. | |
| She took his hands in hers: her tears | |
| Down on her slender fingers rain’d. | |
| She rais’d her eyes upon his face— | |
| Not with a look of wounded pride, | 320 |
| A look as if the heart complain’d:— | |
| Her look was like a sad embrace; | |
| The gaze of one who can divine | |
| A grief, and sympathize. | |
| Sweet Flower, thy children’s eyes | 325 |
| Are not more innocent than thine. | |
| But they sleep in shelter’d rest, | |
| Like helpless birds in the warm nest, | |
| On the Castle’s southern side; | |
| Where feebly comes the mournful roar | 330 |
| Of buffeting wind and surging tide | |
| Through many a room and corridor. | |
| Full on their window the Moon’s ray | |
| Makes their chamber as bright as day; | |
| It shines upon the blank white walls, | 335 |
| And on the snowy pillow falls, | |
| And on two angel-heads doth play | |
| Turn’d to each other:—the eyes clos’d— | |
| The lashes on the cheeks repos’d. | |
| Round each sweet brow the cap close-set | 340 |
| Hardly lets peep the golden hair; | |
| Through the soft-open’d lips the air | |
| Scarcely moves the coverlet. | |
| One little wandering arm is thrown | |
| At random on the counterpane, | 345 |
| And often the fingers close in haste | |
| As if their baby owner chas’d | |
| The butterflies again. | |
| This stir they have and this alone; | |
| But else they are so still. | 350 |
| Ah, tired madcaps, you lie still | |
| But were you at the window now | |
| To look forth on the fairy sight | |
| Of your illumin’d haunts by night; | |
| To see the park-glades where you play | 355 |
| Far lovelier than they are by day; | |
| To see the sparkle on the caves, | |
| And upon every giant bough | |
| Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves | |
| Are jewell’d with bright drops of rain— | 360 |
| How would your voices run again! | |
| And far beyond the sparkling trees | |
| Of the castle park one sees | |
| The bare heaths spreading, clear as day, | |
| Moor behind moor, far, far away, | 365 |
| Into the heart of Brittany. | |
| And here and there, lock’d by the land, | |
| Long inlets of smooth glittering sea, | |
| And many a stretch of watery sand | |
| All shining in the white moon-beams. | 370 |
| But you see fairer in your dreams. | |
| |
| What voices are these on the clear night air? | |
| What lights in the court? what steps on the stair? | |
