III.

Iseult of Brittany.

A year had flown, and o’er the sea away, In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; In King Marc’s chapel, in Tyntagel old: There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.

The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wandered forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the seashore; a country path Creeps over it from the tilled fields behind. The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined; And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque of open ground Is light and green; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks and many a shivered mass Of veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and there Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished green With scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play: their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts; but when now Their cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow, Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses showered the golden hair, Then Iseult called them to her, and the three Clustered under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history.

Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air,-- Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees; But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed, And still the children listened, their blue eyes Fixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise. Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listened, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the gray turrets of the castle old Looked sternly through the frosty evening-air, Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, And led them home over the darkening heath. And is she happy? Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day? Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will: Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children’s? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play A while with them before they sleep; and then She’ll light her silver lamp,--which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar, Along this iron coast, know like a star,-- And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound, Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold; Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow’ll be To-day’s exact repeated effigy. Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. The children, and the gray-haired seneschal, Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound, Are there the sole companions to be found. But these she loves; and noisier life than this She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and day Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, These are to her dear as to them; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild; She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear To all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more. No: we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again. No: ’tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcurled Until they crumble, or else grow like steel, Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring; Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power: this can avail, By drying up our joy in every thing, To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and move,-- Call it ambition, or remorse, or love,-- This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream. And yet, I swear, it angers me to see How this fool passion gulls men potently; Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distress Not having it; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, And spend their lives in posting here and there Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. Like that bald Cæsar, the famed Roman wight, Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight Who made a name at younger years than he; Or that renowned mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander, Philip’s peerless son, Who carried the great war from Macedon Into the Soudan’s realm, and thundered on To die at thirty-five in Babylon.

What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright winter’s day?

She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps, Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. For here he came with the fay Vivian, One April, when the warm days first began. He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, On her white palfrey; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day. This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children’s fancy him and her.

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosened the brown locks of Vivian’s hair, Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, For they had travelled far and not stopped yet. A brier in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs. But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fixed full on Merlin’s face, her stately prize. Her ’havior had the morning’s fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face; She looked so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight, And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire as she may.

They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peered ’twixt the stems; and the ground broke away In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook. And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook’s farther side was clear; but then The underwood and trees began again. This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year’s fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere. Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope’s brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The grass was dry and mossed, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemones Starred the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. No fairer resting-place a man could find. “Here let us halt,” said Merlin then; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.

They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossomed thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, And made a little plot of magic ground. And in that daisied circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; But she herself whither she will can rove-- For she was passing weary of his love.

_SAINT BRANDAN._

Saint Brandan sails the northern main; The brotherhoods of saints are glad. He greets them once, he sails again; So late! such storms! The saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas, Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered; And now no bells, no convents more! The hurtling Polar lights are neared, The sea without a human shore.

At last (it was the Christmas-night; Stars shone after a day of storm) He sees float past an iceberg white, And on it--Christ!--a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell, It is--oh, where shall Brandan fly?-- The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly, “Wait! By high permission I am here.

“One moment wait, thou holy man! On earth my crime, my death, they knew; My name is under all men’s ban: Ah! tell them of my respite too.

“Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night (It was the first after I came, Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, To rue my guilt in endless flame),--

“I felt, as I in torment lay ’Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch mine arm, and say,-- _Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!_

“‘Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?’ I said. _The leper recollect_, said he, _Who asked the passers-by for aid,_ _In Joppa, and thy charity_.

“Then I remembered how I went, In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spent Its storms of dust with burning heat; “And in the street a leper sate, Shivering with fever, naked, old; Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, The hot wind fevered him fivefold.

“He gazed upon me as I passed, And murmured, _Help me, or I die!_ To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

“O Brandan! think what grace divine, What blessing must full goodness shower, When fragment of it small, like mine, Hath such inestimable power!

“Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I Did that chance act of good, that one! Then went my way to kill and lie, Forgot my good as soon as done.

“That germ of kindness, in the womb Of mercy caught, did not expire; Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom, And friends me in the pit of fire.

“Once every year, when carols wake, On earth, the Christmas-night’s repose, Arising from the sinner’s lake, I journey to these healing snows.

“I stanch with ice my burning breast, With silence balm my whirling brain. O Brandan! to this hour of rest, That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.”

Tears started to Saint Brandan’s eyes; He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer, Then looked--and lo, the frosty skies! The iceberg, and no Judas there!

_THE NECKAN._

In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls, beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea; And there, below the Neckan’s feet, His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale: Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands, And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth, Far from the kind sea-wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wandered By castle, field, and town; But earthly knights have harder hearts Than the sea-children own.

Sings of his earthly bridal, Priest, knights, and ladies gay. “And who art thou,” the priest began, “Sir Knight, who wedd’st to-day?”

“I am no knight,” he answered; “From the sea-waves I come.” The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed, The surpliced priest stood dumb.

He sings how from the chapel He vanished with his bride, And bore her down to the sea-halls, Beneath the salt sea-tide.

He sings how she sits weeping ’Mid shells that round her lie. “False Neckan shares my bed,” she weeps; “No Christian mate have I.”

He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again, And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan heaven might gain.

He sings how, on an evening, Beneath the birch-trees cool, He sate and played his harp of gold, Beside the river-pool.

Beside the pool sate Neckan, Tears filled his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassocked priest rode by.

“Why sitt’st thou there, O Neckan, And play’st thy harp of gold? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt heaven behold.”

But, lo! the staff, it budded; It greened, it branched, it waved. “O ruth of God!” the priest cried out, “This lost sea-creature saved!”

The cassocked priest rode onwards, And vanished with his mule; And Neckan in the twilight gray Wept by the river-pool.

He wept, “The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above,-- But, ah! not human souls!”

In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song.

_THE FORSAKEN MERMAN._

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way!

Call her once before you go,-- Call once yet! In a voice that she will know,-- “Margaret! Margaret!” Children’s voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; Children’s voices, wild with pain,-- Surely she will come again! Call her once, and come away; This way, this way! “Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret.” Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-walled town, And the little gray church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come, though you call all day; Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay,-- In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam, Where the salt weed sways in the stream, Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day. ’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! And I lose my poor soul, merman! here with thee.” I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!” She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.

Children dear, was it yesterday? Children dear, were we long alone? “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say; Come!” I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town; Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little gray church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” But, ah! she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun!” And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door: She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, “Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell forever The kings of the sea.”

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starred with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanched sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side, And then come back down, Singing, “There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely forever The kings of the sea.”

SONNETS.

_AUSTERITY OF POETRY._

That son of Italy who tried to blow,[8] Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show.

Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star; and what to youth belong,-- Gay raiment sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! Lo,

Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off--and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorned outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within.

_A PICTURE AT NEWSTEAD._

What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?-- ’Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry Stormily sweet, his Titan-agony; It was the sight of that Lord Arundel Who struck, in heat, his child he loved so well, And his child’s reason flickered, and did die. Painted (he willed it) in the gallery They hang; the picture doth the story tell.

Behold the stern, mailed father, staff in hand! The little fair-haired son, with vacant gaze, Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!

Methinks the woe, which made that father stand Baring his dumb remorse to future days, Was woe than Byron’s woe more tragic far.

_RACHEL._