"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!