But they sleep in sheltered rest,
Like helpless birds in the warm nest,
On the castle’s southern side;
Where feebly comes the mournful roar
Of buffeting wind and surging tide
Through many a room and corridor.
—Full on their window the moon’s ray
Makes their chamber as bright as day.
It shines upon the blank white walls,
And on the snowy pillow falls,
And on two angel-heads doth play
Turned to each other; the eyes closed,
The lashes on the cheeks reposed.
Round each sweet brow the cap close-set
Hardly lets peep the golden hair;
Through the soft-opened lips, the air
Scarcely moves the coverlet.
One little wandering arm is thrown
At random on the counterpane,
And often the fingers close in haste
As if their baby-owner chased
The butterflies again.
This stir they have, and this alone;
But else they are so still!
—Ah, tired madcaps! you lie still;
But were you at the window now,
To look forth on the fairy sight
Of your illumined haunts by night,
To see the park-glades where you play
Far lovelier than they are by day,
To see the sparkle on the eaves,
And upon every giant-bough
Of those old oaks, whose wet red leaves
Are jewelled with bright drops of rain,—
How would your voices run again!
And far beyond the sparkling trees
Of the castle-park, one sees
The bare heaths spreading, clear as day,
Moor behind moor, far, far away,
Into the heart of Brittany.
And here and there, locked by the land,
Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,
And many a stretch of watery sand
All shining in the white moonbeams.
But you see fairer in your dreams!
What voices are these on the clear night air?
What lights in the court, what steps on the stair?
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.
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.