A LEGEND OF KING ARTHUR'S TIME.
Dying afar in Brittany,
The gallant Tristram lay;
His gentle bride's sweet ministry,
Her tender touch and way,
That erstwhile brought the rest he sought,
No more held soothing sway.
The naming of her tuneful name,
Isoude—so sweet to hear
Because its music was the same
With one long holden dear—
Now, like a bell discordant, fell,
And brought but mocking cheer.
Her eyne so blue, with lids so white,
Her tresses from their snood,
That rippling ambered all the light
About her where she stood,
Served only now to cloud his brow
Who longed for lost Isoude—
Isoude, who charmed him once when storm
Had blown his ship ashore
On Ireland's coast; Isoude, whose form
Bewitched him more and more,
As mem'ry came, his love to flame,
When hope, alas! was o'er:
Isoude, who sailed with him the sea
Across to Cornwall land,
To marry Mark, whose treachery
Did Tristram's faith command
To win her grace for kingly place,
And his own heart withstand.
On sultry deck becalmed they pine;
Careless, their thirst to ease,
A philter—mixt for bridal wine—
Her lip beguiles, and his:
O subtle draught unconscious quaffed!
They drained it to the lees—
Until in Tristram's knightly form
All joy for her seemed blent;
Until her cheek could only warm
Beneath his gaze intent;
Until her heart sought him apart,
Whoever came or went;
Until the potion did beget
An all-enduring spell;
Albeit Cornwall's king now met
And liked her fairness well,
And claimed her hand, while through the land
Rang sound of marriage bell;
Until, as fragrance from a flower,
True love outbrake control,
And dropped its sweetness as a shower
Of pearls, that threadless roll
To find their rest in some near nest;
Her home, Sir Tristram's soul!
And he, though frequent jousts he won;
Though many a valiant deed
Of prowess made his fame outrun
The claim of knightly creed;
Though maidens oft their glances soft
Bestowed in tenderest meed;
Though Brittany upon him prest
A bride, in gratitude
For service done; and though the quest
Of sacred grail subdued
His full heart-beat of smothered heat—
He loved but Queen Isoude!
And now with holy vows all tossed
Of fever's frantic sway—
As mariner whose bark is crossed
Upon a peaceful way
By winds that lure from purpose pure
And well-meant plans bewray—
He bade a trusty servitor
To Cornwall's queen forthwith.
"Take this," he said, "and show to her
How great my languor, sith
This signet's round will not be found
To bear one hurted lith.
"Say that Sir Tristram prays her aid,
And so he prays not vain,
Let sails of silken white be made,
Whose gleam shall heal my pain,
As hither borne some favoring morn,
Love claims his own again!
"But if she yield no heed to these
Fond cravings of love's breath,
Then bearing on the burdened breeze
Let sail that shadoweth,
Of darkest dark, beshroud the bark,
A presage of my death."
So spake the Lord of Lyonesse,
And bode his joy or bale;
While jealous of her right to bless,
The wife Isoude, grown pale
As buds of light that shrink from night,
Made sad and lonely wail:
"Alas! all one the loss to me,
My lord alive or dead,
If life of his by sorcery
Of this fair queen be fed."
Then adding, "Be her answer nay,
Hope yet to hope is wed."
She scanned the sea. On waves of balm
A white sail of rare glow
Came rounding to the harbor's calm
With fullest promise—lo!
Bleak winds arise, as false she cries,
"A black sail entereth slow."
Too weak to battle with his grief,
Sir Tristram breathed a sigh—
"Alack, that Isoude's sweet relief
Should fail me where I lie:
Sith not for me her face to see,
Is but to droop and die."
Black sails are hoisted now in truth!
They wing two forms to rest:
For Cornwall's queen a-cold, in ruth,
Fell prone on Tristram's breast;
And Cornwall's knight for kinsman's right
Of shrine had made request.
A letter lay upon the bier,
And this the word it bare:
"O love is sweet, O love is dear,
And followeth everywhere
Whoso has drained the chalice stained
With its red wine and rare.
"O love is dear, O love is sweet,
And yet, of faith's decree
Would Honor quench beneath stern feet
Love's bloom if that need be.
O King, one wills. But Love distils
His philters fatefully!"
Then did the King in penitence
Weep dole for these two dead.
Some slight remorse had pricked his sense
That he through wile had wed
His best knight's love; alas, to prove
Such end, so ill bestead!
In royal crypt he bade the twain
Be laid; and there a vine,
O'er which the murderous scythe was vain,
Sprang up the graves to twine,
Defying death with its green breath:
True plant of seed divine!
Mary B. Dodge.