Tristram

    Tristram     Is she not come? The messenger was sure.     Prop me upon the pillows once again     Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.     Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!     What lights will those out to the northward be?     The Page     The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.     Tristram     Soft who is that, stands by the dying fire?     The Page     Iseult.     Tristram     Ah! not the Iseult I desire.     .         .         .         .         .     What Knight is this so weak and pale,     Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,     Propt on pillows in his bed,     Gazing seaward for the light     Of some ship that fights the gale     On this wild December night?     Over the sick mans feet is spread     A dark green forest-dress;     A gold harp leans against the bed,     Ruddy in the fires light.     I know him by his harp of gold,     Famous in Arthurs court of old;     I know him by his forest-dress     The peerless hunter, harper, knight     Tristram of Lyoness.     What Lady is this, whose silk attire     Gleams so rich in the light of the fire?     The ringlets on her shoulders lying     In their flitting lustre vying     With the clasp of burnishd gold     Which her heavy robe doth hold.     Her looks are mild, her fingers slight     As the driven snow are white;     But her cheeks are sunk and pale.     Is it that the bleak sea-gale     Beating from the Atlantic sea     On this coast of Brittany,     Nips too keenly the sweet flower?     Is it that a deep fatigue     Hath come on her, a chilly fear,     Passing all her youthful hour     Spinning with her maidens here,     Listlessly through the window-bars     Gazing seawards many a league,     From her lonely shore-built tower,     While the knights are at the wars?     Or, perhaps, has her young heart     Felt already some deeper smart,     Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,     Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?     Who is this snowdrop by the sea?     I know her by her mildness rare,     Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;     I know her by her rich silk dress,     And her fragile loveliness     The sweetest Christian soul alive,     Iseult of Brittany.     Iseult of Brittany? but where     Is that other Iseult fair,     That proud, first Iseult, Cornwalls queen?     She, whom Tristrams ship of yore     From Ireland to Cornwall bore,     To Tyntagel, to the side     Of King Marc, to be his bride?     She who, as they voyaged, quaffd     With Tristram that spiced magic draught,     Which since then for ever rolls     Through their blood, and binds their souls,     Working love, but working teen?     There were two Iseults who did sway     Each her hour of Tristrams day;     But one possessd his waning time,     The other his resplendent prime.     Behold her here, the patient flower,     Who possessd his darker hour!     Iseult of the Snow-White Hand     Watches pale by Tristrams 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!     Does 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.     He is weak with fever and pain,     And his spirit is not clear.     Hark! he mutters in his sleep,     As he wanders far from here,     Changes place and time of year,     And his closd eye doth sweep     Oer some fair unwintry sea,     Not this fierce Atlantic deep,     While he mutters brokenly:     Tristram     The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessels sails;     Before 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,     Reach me my golden phial stands by thee,     But pledge me in it first for courtesy.     Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanchd like mine?     Child, tis no true draught this, tis poisond wine!     Iseult!. . . .     .         .         .         .         .     Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!     Keep his eyelids! let him seem     Not this fever-wasted wight     Thinnd and paled before his time,     But the brilliant youthful knight     In the glory of his prime,     Sitting in the gilded barge,     At thy side, thou lovely charge,     Bending gaily oer thy hand,     Iseult of Ireland!     And she too, that princess fair,     If her bloom be now less rare,     Let her have her youth again     Let her be as she was then!     Let her have her proud dark eyes,     And 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!     As of old, so let her be,     That first Iseult, princess bright,     Chatting with her youthful knight     As he steers her oer the sea,     Quitting at her fathers will     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     Dwells on loud Tyntagels hill     High 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,     And 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:     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     Of 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     Blue, and oer 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     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?     The southern winter-parlour, by my fay,     Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day!     Tristram! nay, nay thou must not take my hand!     Tristram! sweet love! we are betrayd out-plannd.     Fly save thyself save me! I dare not stay.     One last kiss first! Tis vain to horse away!     .         .         .         .         .     Ah! 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,     And instead thereof is seen     Its winter, which endureth still     Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,     The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,     The flying leaves, the straining blast,     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     The pressd fugitive again,     The love-desperate banishd knight     With a fire in his brain     Flying oer the stormy main.     Whither does he wander now?     Haply in his dreams the wind     Wafts him here, and lets him find     The lovely orphan child again     In her castle by the coast;     The youngest, fairest chatelaine,     Whom this realm of France can boast,     Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea,     Iseult of Brittany.     And for through the haggard air,     The staind arms, the matted hair     Of that stranger-knight ill-starrd,     There gleamd something, which recalld     The Tristram who in better days     Was Launcelots guest at Joyous Gard     Welcomd here, and here installd,     Tended of his fever here,     Haply he seems again to move     His young guardians heart with love;     In his exild loneliness,     In his stately, deep distress,     Without a word, without a tear.     Ah! tis well he should retrace     His tranquil life in this lone place;     His gentle bearing at the side     Of his timid youthful bride;     His long rambles by the shore     On winter-evenings, when the roar     Of the near waves came, sadly grand,     Through the dark, up the drownd sand,     Or his endless reveries     In the woods, where the gleams play     On the grass under the trees,     Passing the long summers day     Idle as a mossy stone     In the forest-depths alone,     The chase neglected, and his hound     Couchd beside him on the ground.     Ah! what troubles on his brow?     Hither let him wander now;     Hither, to the quiet hours     Passd 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,     The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.     Upon us are the chivalry of Rome     Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.     Up, Tristram, up, men cry, thou moonstruck knight!     What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!     Above the din her voice is in my ears     I see her form glide through the crossing spears.     Iseult!. . . .     .         .         .         .         .     Ah! he wanders forth again;     We cannot keep him; now, as then,     Theres a secret in his breast     That will never let him rest.     These musing fits in the green wood     They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!     His sword is sharp his horse is good     Beyond the mountains will he see     The famous towns of Italy,     And label with the blessed sign     The heathen Saxons on the Rhine.     At Arthurs side he fights once more     With the Roman Emperor.     Theres many a gay knight where he goes     Will help him to forget his care;     The march the leaguer Heavens blithe air     The neighing steeds the ringing blows     Sick pining comes not where these are.     Ah! what boots it, that the jest     Lightens every other brow,     What, that every other breast     Dances as the trumpets blow,     If ones own heart beats not light     On the waves of the tossd fight,     If oneself cannot get free     From the clog of misery?     Thy lovely youthful Wife grows pale     Watching by the salt sea-tide     With her children at her side     For the gleam of thy white sail.     Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!     To our lonely sea complain,     To our forests tell thy pain!     Tristram     All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade,     But it is moonlight in the open glade;     And in the bottom of the glade shine clear     The forest-chapel and the fountain near.     I think, I have a fever in my blood;     Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood,     Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood.     Mild shines the cold spring in the moons clear light;     God! tis her face plays in the waters bright     Fair love, she says, canst thou forget so soon,     At this soft hour, under this sweet moon?     Iseult!. . . .     .         .         .         .         .     Ah, poor soul! if this be so,     Only death can balm thy woe.     The solitudes of the green wood     Had no medicine for thy mood;     The rushing battle cleard thy blood     As little as did solitude.     Ah! his eyelids slowly break     Their hot seals, and let him wake;     What new change shall we now see?     A happier? Worse it cannot be.     Tristram     Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!     Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;     The wind is down but shell not come to-night.     Ah no she is asleep in Cornwall now,     Far hence her dreams are fair smooth is her brow.     Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire.     I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,     Would take a score years from a strong mans age;     And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,     Scant leisure for a second messenger.     My princess, art thou there? Sweet, tis too wait!     To bed, and sleep: my fever is gone by:     To-night my page shall keep me company.     Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!     Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I;     This comes of nursing long and watching late.     To bed good night!     .         .         .         .         .     She left the gleam-lit fireplace,     She came to the bed-side;     She took his hands in hers her tears     Down on his wasted fingers raind.     She raised her eyes upon his face     Not with a look of wounded pride,     A look as if the heart complained:     Her look was like a sad embrace;     The gaze of one who can divine     A grief, and sympathise.     Sweet flower! thy childrens eyes     Are not more innocent than thine.     But they sleep in shelterd rest,     Like helpless birds in the warm nest,     On the castles 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 Moons 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     Turnd to each other the eyes closd     The lashes on the cheeks reposd.     Round each sweet brow the cap close-set     Hardly lets peep the golden hair;     Through the soft-opend 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 jewelld 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, lockd by the land,     Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,     And many a stretch of watery sand     All shining in the white moon-beams     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?