| |
TRISTRAM RAISE the light, my Page, that I may see her.— | |
| Thou art come at last then, haughty Queen! | |
| Long I’ve waited, long I’ve fought my fever: | |
| Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. | |
| |
ISEULT Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried: | 5 |
| I was bound, I could not break the band. | |
| Chide not with the past, but feel the present: | |
| I am here—we meet—I hold thy hand. | |
| |
TRISTRAM Thou art come, indeed—thou hast rejoin’d me; | |
| Thou hast dar’d it: but too late to save. | 10 |
| Fear not now that men should tax thy honour. | |
| I am dying: build—(thou may’st)—my grave! | |
| |
ISEULT Tristram, for the love of Heaven, speak kindly! | |
| What, I hear these bitter words from thee? | |
| Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel— | 15 |
| Take my hand—dear Tristram, look on me! | |
| |
TRISTRAM I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage. | |
| Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. | |
| But thy dark eyes are not dimm’d, proud Iseult! | |
| And thy beauty never was more fair. | 20 |
| |
ISEULT Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty. | |
| I, like thee, have left my youth afar. | |
| Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers— | |
| See my cheek and lips, how white they are. | |
| |
TRISTRAM Thou art paler:—but thy sweet charm, Iseult! | 25 |
| Would not fade with the dull years away. | |
| Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! | |
| I forgive thee, Iseult!—thou wilt stay? | |
| |
ISEULT Fear me not, I will be always with thee; | |
| I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; | 30 |
| Sing thee tales of true long-parted lovers | |
| Join’d at evening of their days again. | |
| |
TRISTRAM No, thou shalt not speak; I should be finding | |
| Something alter’d in thy courtly tone. | |
| Sit—sit by me: I will think, we’ve liv’d so | 35 |
| In the greenwood, all our lives, alone. | |
| |
ISEULT Alter’d, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, | |
| Love like mine is alter’d in the breast. | |
| Courtly life is light and cannot reach it. | |
| Ah, it lives, because so deep suppress’d. | 40 |
| |
| Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong’d husband— | |
| That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! | |
| Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings— | |
| Those were friends to make me false to thee! 1 | |
| |
| What, thou think’st, men speak in courtly chambers | 45 |
| Words by which the wretched are consol’d? | |
| What, thou think’st, this aching brow was cooler, | |
| Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? | |
| |
| Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanc’d, | |
| Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, | 50 |
| Thee, a weeping exile in thy forest— | |
| Me, a smiling queen upon my throne? | |
| |
| Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer’d; | |
| Both have pass’d a youth constrain’d and sad; | |
| Both have brought their anxious day to evening, | 55 |
| And have now short space for being glad. | |
| |
| Join’d we are henceforth: nor will thy people, | |
| Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, | |
| That a former 2 rival shares her office, | |
| When she sees her humbled, pale, and still. | 60 |
| |
| I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, | |
| I, a statue on thy chapel floor, | |
| Pour’d in grief before the Virgin Mother, | |
| Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. | |
| |
| She will cry—‘Is this the foe 3 I dreaded? | 65 |
| This his idol? this that royal bride? | |
| Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight: | |
| Stay, pale queen! for ever by my side.’ | |
| |
| Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. | |
| I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. | 70 |
| Close thine eyes—this flooding moonlight blinds them— | |
| Nay, all’s well again: thou must not weep. | |
| |
TRISTRAM I am happy: yet I feel, there’s something | |
| Swells my heart, and takes my breath away: | |
| Through a mist I see thee: near!—come nearer! | 75 |
| Bend—bend down—I yet have much to say | |
| |
ISEULT Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow!— | |
| Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail. | |
| Call on God and on the holy angels! | |
| What, love, courage!—Christ! he is so pale. | 80 |
| |
TRISTRAM Hush, ’tis vain, I feel my end approaching. | |
| This is what my mother said should be, | |
| When the fierce pains took her in the forest, | |
| The deep draughts of death, in bearing me. | |
| |
| ‘Son,’ she said, ‘thy name shall be of sorrow! | 85 |
| Tristram art thou call’d for my death’s sake!’ | |
| So she said, and died in the drear forest. | |
| Grief since then his home with me doth make. | |
| |
| I am dying.—Start not, nor look wildly! | |
| Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. | 90 |
| But, since living we were ununited, | |
| Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave. | |
| |
| Rise, go hence, and seek the princess Iseult: | |
| Speak her fair, she is of royal blood. | |
| Say, I charg’d her, that ye live together:— | 95 |
| She will grant it—she is kind and good. | |
| |
| Now to sail the seas of Death I leave thee; | |
| One last kiss upon the living shore! | |
| |
ISEULT Tristram!—Tristram!—stay—receive me with thee! | |
| Iseult leaves thee, Tristram, never more. 4 . . . . . | 100 |
| You see them clear: the moon shines bright. | |
| Slow—slow and softly, where she stood, | |
| She sinks upon the ground: her hood | |
| Had fallen back: her arms outspread | |
| Still hold her lover’s hand: her head | 105 |
| Is bow’d, half-buried, on the bed. | |
| O’er the blanch’d sheet her raven hair | |
| Lies in disorder’d streams; and there, | |
| Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, | |
| And the golden bracelets heavy and rare | 110 |
| Flash on her white arms still. | |
| The very same which yesternight | |
| Flash’d in the silver sconces’ light, | |
| When the feast was gay and the laughter loud 5 | |
| In Tyntagel’s palace proud. 6 | 115 |
| But then they deck’d a restless ghost | |
| With hot-flush’d cheeks and brilliant eyes, | |
| And quivering lips on which the tide | |
| Of courtly speech abruptly died, | |
| And a glance that over the crowded floor, | 120 |
| The dancers, and the festive host, | |
| Flew ever to the door. | |
| That the knights eyed her in surprise, | |
| And the dames whisper’d scoffingly— | |
| ‘Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! | 125 |
| But yesternight and she would be | |
| As pale and still as wither’d flowers, | |
| And now to-night she laughs and speaks | |
| And has a colour in her cheeks. | |
| Christ 7 keep us from such fantasy!’— | 130 |
| The air of the December night | |
| Steals coldly around the chamber bright, | |
| Where those lifeless lovers be. 8 | |
| Swinging with it, in the light | |
| Flaps 9 the ghostlike tapestry. | 135 |
| And on the arras wrought 10 you see | |
| A stately Huntsman, clad in green, | |
| And round him a fresh forest scene. | |
| On that clear forest knoll 11 he stays | |
| With his pack round him, and delays. 12 | 140 |
| He stares and stares, with troubled face, | |
| At this 13 huge gleam-lit fireplace, | |
| At the bright iron-figur’d door, | |
| And those 14 blown rushes on the floor. | |
| He gazes down into the room | 145 |
| With heated cheeks and flurried air, | |
| And to himself he seems to say— | |
| ‘What place is this, and who are they? 15 | |
| Who is that kneeling Lady fair? | |
| And on his pillows that pale Knight | 150 |
| Who seems of marble on a tomb? | |
| How comes it here, this chamber bright | |
| Through whose mullion’d windows clear | |
| The castle court all wet with rain, | |
| The drawbridge and the moat appear, | 155 |
| And then the beach, and, mark’d with spray, | |
| The sunken reefs, and far away | |
| The unquiet bright Atlantic plain?— | |
| What, has some glamour made me 16 sleep, | |
| And sent me with my 17 dogs to sweep, | 160 |
| By night, with boisterous bugle peal, | |
| Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall, | |
| Not in the free greenwood at all? | |
| That Knight’s asleep, and at her prayer | |
| That Lady by the bed doth kneel: | 165 |
| Then hush, thou boisterous bugle peal!’— | |
| The wild boar rustles in his lair— | |
| The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air— | |
| But lord and hounds keep rooted there. | |
| |
| Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, | 170 |
| O Hunter! and without a fear | |
| Thy golden-tassell’d bugle blow, | |
| And through the glades thy pastime take! | |
| For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here. | |
| For these thou seest are unmov’d; | 175 |
| Cold, cold as those who liv’d and lov’d | |
| A thousand years ago. | |
