Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?
Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,
Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.
His ancient wounds their scars expand,
With agony his heart is wrung:
O where is Isolde's lilye hand,
And where her soothing tongue?
She comes! she comes!—like flash of flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly:
She comes! she comes!—she only came
To see her Tristrem die.
She saw him die: her latest sigh
Joined in a kiss his parting breath:
The gentlest pair, that Britain bare,
United are in death.
There paused the harp: its lingering sound
Died slowly on the ear;
The silent guests still bent around,
For still they seem'd to hear.
Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak;
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh;
But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek
Did many a gauntlet dry.
On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,
The mists of evening close;
In camp, in castle, or in bower,
Each warrior sought repose.
Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent,
Dream'd o'er the woeful tale;
When footsteps light, across the bent,
The warrior's ears assail.
He starts, he wakes:—"What, Richard, ho!
"Arise, my page, arise!
"What venturous wight, at dead of night,
"Dare step where Douglas lies!"