In the West Country

by Francis A. Knight

But, alas, Iseult and Sir Tristram, in all innocence, drained the magic cup. The subtle potion fired their veins;

". . . . . their hands

Tremble, and their cheeks are flame

As they feel the fatal bands

Of a love they dare not name."

In fancy we see that other chamber, far off upon the coast of Brittany, where, after long years the Knight lay dying. We see him

". . . . . . . . . weak and pale,

Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,

Propt on pillows on his bed,

Gazing sea-ward for the light