[p.38] Iseult of Brittany?—but where
Is that other Iseult fair,
That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen?
She, whom Tristram's ship of yore
60From Ireland to Cornwall bore,
°[61]To Tyntagel,° to the side
°[62]Of King Marc,° to be his bride?
She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd
With Tristram that spiced magic draught,
65Which since then for ever rolls
Through their blood, and binds their souls,
°[67]Working love, but working teen°?—.
There were two Iseults who did sway
Each her hour of Tristram's day;
70But one possess'd his waning time,
The other his resplendent prime.
Behold her here, the patient flower,
Who possess'd his darker hour!
Iseult of the Snow-White Hand
75Watches pale by Tristram's bed.
She is here who had his gloom,
Where art thou who hadst his bloom?
One such kiss as those of yore
Might thy dying knight restore!
80Does the love-draught work no more?
Art thou cold, or false, or dead,
Iseult of Ireland?
Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain,
And the knight sinks back on his pillows again.
85He is weak with fever and pain;
And his spirit is not clear.
[p.39] Hark! he mutters in his sleep,
°[88]As he wanders° far from here,
Changes place and time of year,
90And his closéd eye doth sweep
°[91]O'er some fair unwintry sea,°
Not this fierce Atlantic deep,
While he mutters brokenly:—
Tristram. The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails;
95Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales,
And overhead the cloudless sky of May.—
"Ah, would I were in those green fields at play,
Not pent on ship-board this delicious day!
Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,
100Reach me my golden phial stands by thee,
But pledge me in it first for courtesy."—
Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch'd like mine?
Child, 'tis no true draught this, 'tis poison'd wine!
Iseult!...
105Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!
Keep his eyelids! let him seem
Not this fever-wasted wight
Thinn'd and paled before his time,
But the brilliant youthful knight
110In the glory of his prime,
Sitting in the gilded barge,
At thy side, thou lovely charge,
Bending gaily o'er thy hand,
Iseult of Ireland!
115And she too, that princess fair,
If her bloom be now less rare,
[p.40] Let her have her youth again—
Let her be as she was then!
Let her have her proud dark eyes,
120And her petulant quick replies—
Let her sweep her dazzling hand
With its gesture of command,
And shake back her raven hair
With the old imperious air!
125As of old, so let her be,
That first Iseult, princess bright,
Chatting with her youthful knight
As he steers her o'er the sea,
Quitting at her father's will
°[130]The green isle° where she was bred,
And her bower in Ireland,
For the surge-beat Cornish strand
Where the prince whom she must wed
°[134]Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill,°
135High above the sounding sea.
And that potion rare her mother
Gave her, that her future lord,
Gave her, that King Marc and she,
Might drink it on their marriage-day,
140And for ever love each other—
Let her, as she sits on board,
Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly!
See it shine, and take it up,
And to Tristram laughing say:
145"Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy,
Pledge me in my golden cup!"
Let them drink it—let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame,
As they feel the fatal bands
[p.41] 150Of a love they dare not name,
With a wild delicious pain,
Twine about their hearts again!
Let the early summer be
Once more round them, and the sea
155 Blue, and o'er its mirror kind
Let the breath of the May-wind,
Wandering through their drooping sails,
Die on the green fields of Wales!
Let a dream like this restore
°[160]What his eye must see no more!°
Tristram. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks° are drear—
Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here?
Were feet like those made for so wild a way?
°[164]The southern winter-parlour, by my fay,°
165Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!
"Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!—
Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betray'd—out-plann'd.
Fly—save thyself—save me!—I dare not stay."—
One last kiss first!—"'Tis vain—to horse—away!"
170Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move
Faster surely than it should,
From the fever in his blood!
All the spring-time of his love
Is already gone and past,
175And instead thereof is seen
Its winter, which endureth still—
Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,
The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,
[p.42] The flying leaves, the straining blast,
°[180]And that long, wild kiss—their last.°
And this rough December-night,
And his burning fever-pain,
Mingle with his hurrying dream,
Till they rule it, till he seem
185The press'd fugitive again,
The love-desperate banish'd knight
With a fire in his brain
Flying o'er the stormy main.
—Whither does he wander now?
190Haply in his dreams the wind
Wafts him here, and lets him find
°[192]The lovely orphan child° again
In her castle by the coast;
°[194]The youngest, fairest chatelaine,°
195Whom this realm of France can boast,
Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,
Iseult of Brittany.
And—for through the haggard air,
The stain'd arms, the matted hair
°[200]Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd,°
There gleam'd something, which recall'd
The Tristram who in better days
°[203]Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard°—
°[204]Welcomed here,° and here install'd,
205Tended of his fever here,
Haply he seems again to move
His young guardian's heart with love
In his exiled loneliness,
In his stately, deep distress,
210Without a word, without a tear.
—Ah! 'tis well he should retrace
[p.43] His tranquil life in this lone place;
His gentle bearing at the side
Of his timid youthful bride;
215His long rambles by the shore
On winter-evenings, when the roar
Of the near waves came, sadly grand,
Through the dark, up the drown'd sand,
Or his endless reveries
220In the woods, where the gleams play
On the grass under the trees,
Passing the long summer's day
Idle as a mossy stone
In the forest-depths alone,
225The chase neglected, and his hound
°[226]Couch'd beside him on the ground.°
—Ah! what trouble's on his brow?
Hither let him wander now;
Hither, to the quiet hours
230Pass'd among these heaths of ours.
By the grey Atlantic sea;
Hours, if not of ecstasy,
From violent anguish surely free!
Tristram. All red with blood the whirling river flows,
235The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.
Upon us are the chivalry of Rome—
°[237]Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.°
°[238]"Up, Tristram, up," men cry, "thou moonstruck knight°!
°[239]What foul fiend rides thee°? On into the fight!"
°[240]—Above the din her° voice is in my ears;
I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—
Iseult!...