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[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 |
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THE PAGE The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. | |
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TRISTRAM Softwho is that stands by the dying fire? | |
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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 mans feet is spread | 15 |
A dark green forest dress. | |
A gold harp leans against the bed, | |
Ruddy in the fires light. | |
I know him by his harp of gold, | |
Famous in Arthurs court of old: | 20 |
I know him by his forest dress. | |
The peerless hunter, harper, knight | |
Tristram of Lyoness. | |
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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 burnishd 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 |
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Iseult of Brittany?but where 8 | |
Is that other Iseult fair, | |
That proud, first Iseult, Cornwalls queen? | |
She, whom Tristrams 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 voyagd, quaffd | |
With Tristram that spicd 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 Tristrams day; | |
But one possessd his waning time, | 70 |
The other his resplendent prime. | |
Behold her here, the patient Flower, | |
Who possessd his darker hour. | |
Iseult of the Snow-White Hand | |
Watches pale by Tristrams 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? | |
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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 |
Oer some fair unwintry sea, | |
Not this fierce Atlantic deep, | |
As he mutters brokenly | |
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TRISTRAM The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessels 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 blanchd like mine? | |
Child, tis no water this, tis poisond wine! | |
Iseult!
. . . . . | |
Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! | 105 |
Keep his eyelids! let him seem | |
Not this fever-wasted wight | |
Thinnd and pald 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 oer 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 oer the sea, | |
Quitting at her fathers 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 Tyntagels 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 itlet 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 oer 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 |
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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, naythou must not take my hand | |
Tristramsweet lovewe are betraydout-plannd. | |
Flysave thyselfsave me. I dare not stay. | |
One last kiss first!Tis vainto horseaway! . . . . . | |
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 kisstheir 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 pressd fugitive again, | 185 |
The love-desperate banishd knight | |
With a fire in his brain | |
Flying oer 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. | |
Andfor through the haggard air, | |
The staind arms, the matted hair | |
Of that stranger-knight ill-starrd, | 200 |
There gleamd something that recalld | |
The Tristram who in better days | |
Was Launcelots guest at Joyous Gard | |
Welcomd here, and here installd, | |
Tended of his fever here, | 205 |
Haply he seems again to move | |
His young guardians heart with love; | |
In his exild 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 drownd sand: | |
Or his endless reveries | |
In the woods, where the gleams play | 220 |
On the grass under the trees, | |
Passing the long summers day | |
Idle as a mossy stone | |
In the forest depths alone; | |
The chase neglected, and his hound | 225 |
Couchd beside him on the ground. | |
Ah, what troubles on his brow? | |
Hither let him wander now, | |
Hither, to the quiet hours | |
Passd among these heaths of ours | 230 |
By the grey Atlantic sea. | |
Hours, if not of ecstasy, | |
From violent anguish surely free. | |
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TRISTRAM All red with blood the whirling river flows, | |
The wide plain rings, the dazd air throbs with blows. | 235 |
Upon us are the chivalry of Rome | |
Their spears are down, their steeds are bathd 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 | |
Theres 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 sharphis 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 Arthurs side he fights once more | |
With the Roman Emperor. | 255 |
Theres many a gay knight where he goes | |
Will help him to forget his care. | |
The marchthe leaguerHeavens blithe air | |
The neighing steedsthe 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 ones own heart beats not light | 265 |
On 14 the waves of the tossd 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 |
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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 moons 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 cleard 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. | |
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TRISTRAM Is my Page here? Come, turn me to the fire. | |
Upon the window panes the moon shines bright; | |
The wind is down: but shell not come to-night. | 300 |
Ah noshe is asleep in Cornwall now, 15 | |
Far henceher dreams are fairsmooth 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 mans 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 bedgood 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 raind. | |
She raisd her eyes upon his face | |
Not with a look of wounded pride, | 320 |
A look as if the heart complaind: | |
Her look was like a sad embrace; | |
The gaze of one who can divine | |
A grief, and sympathize. | |
Sweet Flower, thy childrens eyes | 325 |
Are not more innocent than thine. | |
But they sleep in shelterd rest, | |
Like helpless birds in the warm nest, | |
On the Castles 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 Moons 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 | |
Turnd to each other:the eyes closd | |
The lashes on the cheeks reposd. | |
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set | 340 |
Hardly lets peep the golden hair; | |
Through the soft-opend 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 chasd | |
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 illumind 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 jewelld 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, lockd 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. | |
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What voices are these on the clear night air? | |
What lights in the court? what steps on the stair? | |