II.

Iseult of Ireland.

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: Bound I was, 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 rejoined me; Thou hast dared it--but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thine honor! I am dying; build (thou may’st) my grave.

ISEULT.

Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly! What! I hear these bitter words from thee? Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel; 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 dimmed, proud Iseult! And thy beauty never was more fair.

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, 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; Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, Joined at evening of their days again.

TRISTRAM.

No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding Something altered in thy courtly tone. Sit--sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived so In the green wood, all our lives, alone.

ISEULT.

Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is altered in the breast: Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it; Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed!

What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled? What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?

Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,-- That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,-- Those were friends to make me false to thee!

Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown,-- Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?

Vain and strange debate, where both have suffered Both have passed a youth repressed and sad, Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short space for being glad!

Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy people Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill, That a former rival shares her office, When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.

I, a faded watcher by thy pillow, I, a statue on thy chapel-floor, Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.

She will cry, “Is this the foe I dreaded? This his idol, this that royal bride? Ah! an hour of health would purge his eyesight! Stay, pale queen, forever by my side.”

Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me. I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep. 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! 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.

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; Tristram art thou called 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. But, since living we were ununited, Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave.

Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; Speak her fair, she is of royal blood. Say, I charged her, that thou stay beside me: 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! nevermore.

* * * * *

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 hands; her head Is bowed, half-buried, on the bed. O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hair Lies in disordered streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are; And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, Flash on her white arms still,-- The very same which yesternight Flashed in the silver sconces’ light, When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel’s palace proud. But then they decked a restless ghost With hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door; That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly,-- “Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as withered flowers; And now to-night she laughs and speaks, And has a color in her cheeks. Christ keep us from such fantasy!”--

Yes, now the longing is o’erpast, Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame. Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimmed it like the desert-blast. And though the curtains hide her face, Yet, were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased the ravages of time, Filled up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime,-- So healing is her quiet now; So perfectly the lines express A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rival’s purest grace.

The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be. Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghost-like tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A stately huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene. On that clear forest-knoll he stays, With his pack round him, and delays. He stares and stares, with troubled face, At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace, At that bright, iron-figured door, And those blown rushes on the floor. He gazes down into the room With heated cheeks and flurried air, And to himself he seems to say,-- “_What place is this, and who are they?_ _Who is that kneeling lady fair?_ _And on his pillows that pale knight_ _Who seems of marble on a tomb?_ _How comes it here, this chamber bright,_ _Through whose mullioned windows clear_ _The castle-court all wet with rain,_ _The drawbridge and the moat appear,_ _And then the beach, and, marked with spray,_ _The sunken reefs, and far away_ _The unquiet bright Atlantic plain?_ _--What! has some glamour made me sleep,_ _And sent me with my dogs to sweep,_ _By night, with boisterous bugle-peal,_ _Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall,_ _Not in the free green wood at all?_ _That knight’s asleep, and at her prayer_ _That lady by the bed doth kneel--_ _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, O hunter! and without a fear Thy golden-tasselled bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take-- For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! For these thou seest are unmoved; Cold, cold as those who lived and loved A thousand years ago.

_TRISTRAM AND ISEULT._