Saint Brandan sails the northern main;The brotherhood of saints are glad.He greets them once, he sails again;So late!—such storms!—The Saint is mad!5He heard, across the howling seas,Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;°7He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,°Twinkle the monastery-lights;But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd—10And now no bells, no convents more!°11The hurtling Polar lights° are near'd,The sea without a human shore.[p.29]At last—(it was the Christmas night;Stars shone after a day of storm)—15He sees float past an iceberg white,And on it—Christ!—a living form.That furtive mien, that scowling eye,°18Of hair that red° and tufted fell—It is—Oh, where shall Brandan fly?—20The traitor Judas, out of hell!°21Palsied with terror, Brandan sate°;The moon was bright, the iceberg near.He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait!By high permission I am here.25"One moment wait, thou holy manOn earth my crime, my death, they knew;My name is under all men's ban—Ah, tell them of my respite too!"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night—30(It was the first after I came,°31Breathing self-murder,° frenzy, spite,To rue my guilt in endless flame)—"I felt, as I in torment lay'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power,35An angel touch my arm, and say:Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!"'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.°38The Leper recollect,° said he,Who ask'd the passers-by for aid,°40In Joppa,° and thy charity.[p.30]"Then I remember'd how I went,In Joppa, through the public street,One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat;45"And in the street a leper sate,Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,The hot wind fever'd him five-fold."He gazed upon me as I pass'd50And murmur'd:Help me, or I die!—To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,Saw him look eased, and hurried by."Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine,What blessing must full goodness shower,55When fragment of it small, like mine,Hath such inestimable power!"Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, IDid that chance act of good, that one!Then went my way to kill and lie—60Forgot my good as soon as done."That germ of kindness, in the wombOf mercy caught, did not expire;Outlives my guilt, outlives my doom,And friends me in the pit of fire.65"Once every year, when carols wake,On earth, the Christmas-night's repose,Arising from the sinner's lake,I journey to these healing snows.[p.31]"I stanch with ice my burning breast,70With silence balm my whirling brain.Oh, Brandan! to this hour of restThat Joppan leper's ease was pain."—Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes;He bow'd his head, he breathed a prayer—75Then look'd, and lo, the frosty skies!The iceberg, and no Judas there!
Come, dear children, let us away;Down and away below!Now my brothers call from the bay,Now the great winds shoreward blow,5Now the salt tides seaward flow;°6Now the wild white horses° play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away!This way, this way!10Call her once before you go—Call once yet!In a voice that she will know:°13"Margaret°! Margaret!"Children's voices should be dear15(Call once more) to a mother's ear;Children's voices, wild with pain—Surely she will come again![p.32]Call her once and come away;This way, this way!20"Mother dear, we cannot stay!The wild white horses foam and fret."Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down;Call no more!25One last look at the white-wall'd town,And the little grey church on the windy shore;Then come down!She will not come though you call all day;Come away, come away!30Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?35Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,Where the salt weed sways in the stream,°39Where the sea-beasts, ranged° all round,40Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,°42Dry their mail° and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,45Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?[p.33]Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?50Once she sate with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,And the youngest sate on her knee.She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,°54When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.°55She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea;She said: "I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee."60I said: "Go up, dear heart, through the waves;Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!"She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?65"The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say;Come!" I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach, by the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town;70Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,75And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:"Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone;The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."[p.34]80But, ah, she gave me never a look,°81For her eyes were seal'd° to the holy book!Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.Come away, children, call no more!Come away, come down, call no more!85Down, down, down!Down to the depths of the sea!She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy,90For the humming street, and the child with its toy!For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;For the wheel where I spun,°93And the blessed light of the sun°!"And so she sings her fill,95Singing most joyfully,Till the spindle drops from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,And over the sand at the sea;100And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow-clouded eye,And a heart sorrow-laden,105A long, long sigh;For the cold strange eyes of a little MermaidenAnd the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children;Come children, come down!110The hoarse wind blows coldly;Lights shine in the town.[p.35]She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,115Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.120Singing: "Here came a mortal,But faithless was she!And alone dwell for everThe kings of the sea."But, children, at midnight,125When soft the winds blow,When clear falls the moonlight,When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seaward°129From heaths starr'd with broom,°130And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch'd sands a gloom;Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie,Over banks of bright seaweed135The ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze, from the sand-hills,At the white, sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back down.140Singing: "There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she!She left lonely for everThe kings of the sea."
[p.35]
.
°1Tristram. 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!°5What 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?°8The Page. Iseult.°Tristram. Ah! not the Iseult I desire.
What Knight is this so weak and pale,10Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,Propt on pillows in his bed,Gazing seaward for the lightOf some ship that fights the galeOn this wild December night?15Over the sick man's feet is spreadA dark green forest-dress;A gold harp leans against the bed,Ruddy in the fire's light.I know him by his harp of gold,°20Famous in Arthur's court° of old;I know him by his forest-dress—The peerless hunter, harper, knight,°23Tristram of Lyoness.°[p.37]What Lady is this, whose silk attire25Gleams so rich in the light of the fire?The ringlets on her shoulders lyingIn their flitting lustre vyingWith the clasp of burnish'd goldWhich her heavy robe doth hold.30Her looks are mild, her fingers slight°31As the driven snow are white°;But her cheeks are sunk and pale.Is it that the bleak sea-galeBeating from the Atlantic sea35On this coast of Brittany,Nips too keenly the sweet flower?Is it that a deep fatigueHath come on her, a chilly fear,Passing all her youthful hour40Spinning with her maidens here,Listlessly through the window-barsGazing seawards many a league,From her lonely shore-built tower,While the knights are at the wars?45Or, perhaps, has her young heartFelt 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?—50I 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,55Iseult of Brittany.
[p.38]Iseult of Brittany?—but whereIs that other Iseult fair,That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen?She, whom Tristram's ship of yore60From Ireland to Cornwall bore,°61To Tyntagel,° to the side°62Of King Marc,° to be his bride?She who, as they voyaged, quaff'dWith Tristram that spiced magic draught,65Which since then for ever rollsThrough their blood, and binds their souls,°67Working love, but working teen°?—.There were two Iseults who did swayEach 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 Hand75Watches 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 yoreMight 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,°88As he wanders° far from here,Changes place and time of year,90And his closéd eye doth sweep°91O'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 seemNot this fever-wasted wightThinn'd and paled before his time,But the brilliant youthful knight110In 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 handWith its gesture of command,And shake back her raven hairWith the old imperious air!125As of old, so let her be,That first Iseult, princess bright,Chatting with her youthful knightAs he steers her o'er the sea,Quitting at her father's will°130The green isle° where she was bred,And her bower in Ireland,For the surge-beat Cornish strandWhere the prince whom she must wed°134Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill,°135High above the sounding sea.And that potion rare her motherGave 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 handsTremble, 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 beOnce more round them, and the sea155Blue, and o'er its mirror kindLet the breath of the May-wind,Wandering through their drooping sails,Die on the green fields of Wales!Let a dream like this restore°160What 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?°164The 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 moveFaster surely than it should,From the fever in his blood!All the spring-time of his loveIs already gone and past,175And instead thereof is seenIts winter, which endureth still—Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill,The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen,[p.42]The flying leaves, the straining blast,°180And 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 seem185The press'd fugitive again,The love-desperate banish'd knightWith a fire in his brainFlying o'er the stormy main.—Whither does he wander now?190Haply in his dreams the windWafts him here, and lets him find°192The lovely orphan child° againIn her castle by the coast;°194The 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°200Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd,°There gleam'd something, which recall'dThe Tristram who in better days°203Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard°—°204Welcomed here,° and here install'd,205Tended of his fever here,Haply he seems again to moveHis young guardian's heart with loveIn 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 sideOf his timid youthful bride;215His long rambles by the shoreOn winter-evenings, when the roarOf the near waves came, sadly grand,Through the dark, up the drown'd sand,Or his endless reveries220In the woods, where the gleams playOn the grass under the trees,Passing the long summer's dayIdle as a mossy stoneIn the forest-depths alone,225The chase neglected, and his hound°226Couch'd beside him on the ground.°—Ah! what trouble's on his brow?Hither let him wander now;Hither, to the quiet hours230Pass'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—°237Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.°°238"Up, Tristram, up," men cry, "thou moonstruck knight°!°239What 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!...
[p.44]°243Ah! he wanders forth again°;We cannot keep him; now, as then,°245There's a secret in his breast°Which will never let him rest.These musing fits in the green woodThey cloud the brain, they dull the blood!—His sword is sharp, his horse is good;250Beyond the mountains will he seeThe famous towns of Italy,°252And label with the blessed sign°The heathen Saxons on the Rhine.At Arthur's side he fights once more°255With the Roman Emperor.°There's many a gay knight where he goesWill help him to forget his care;°258The march, the leaguer,° Heaven's blithe air,The neighing steeds, the ringing blows—260Sick pining comes not where these are.°261Ah! what boots it,° that the jestLightens every other brow,What, that every other breastDances as the trumpets blow,265If one's own heart beats not lightOn the waves of the toss'd fight,If oneself cannot get freeFrom the clog of misery?Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale270Watching by the salt sea-tideWith her children at her sideFor the gleam of thy white sail.Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!To our lonely sea complain,275To our forests tell thy pain!
[p.45]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 clearThe forest-chapel and the fountain near.280—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 moon's clear light;God! 'tisherface plays in the waters bright.285"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.290The solitudes of the green woodHad no medicine for thy mood;The rushing battle clear'd thy bloodAs little as did solitude.—Ah! his eyelids slowly break295Their 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;300The wind is down—but she'll not come to-night.Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,Far hence; her dreams are fair—smooth is her brow°303Of me she recks not,° nor my vain desire.[p.46]—I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,305Would take a score years from a strong man's age;And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,Scant leisure for a second messenger.—My princess, art thou there? Sweet, do not wait!To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;310To-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.°314To bed—good night!°
315She left the gleam-lit fireplace,She came to the bed-side;She took his hands in hers—her tearsDown on his wasted fingers rain'd.She raised her eyes upon his face—320Not 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 divineA grief, and sympathise.325Sweet flower! thy children's eyesAre not more innocent than thine.But they sleep in shelter'd rest,Like helpless birds in the warm nest,On the castle's southern side;330Where feebly comes the mournful roarOf buffeting wind and surging tideThrough many a room and corridor.—Full on their window the moon's rayMakes their chamber as bright as day.[p.47]335It shines upon the blank white walls,And on the snowy pillow falls,And on two angel-heads doth playTurn'd to each other—the eyes closed,The lashes on the cheeks reposed.340Round each sweet brow the cap close-setHardly lets peep the golden hair;Through the soft-open'd lips the airScarcely moves the coverlet.One little wandering arm is thrown345At random on the counterpane,And often the fingers close in hasteAs if their baby-owner chasedThe butterflies again.350This 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 sight355Of your illumined haunts by night,To see the park-glades where you playFar lovelier than they are by day,To see the sparkle on the eaves,And upon every giant-bough360Of those old oaks, whose wet red leavesAre jewell'd with bright drops of rain—How would your voices run again!And far beyond the sparkling treesOf the castle-park one sees365The bare heaths spreading, clear as day,Moor behind moor, far, far away,Into the heart of Brittany.And here and there, lock'd by the land,[p.48]Long inlets of smooth glittering sea,370And many a stretch of watery sandAll 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?
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.5Iseult. 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 rejoin'd me;10Thou hast dared it—but too late to save.Fear not now that men should tax thine honour!I am dying: build—(thou may'st)—my grave!Iseult. Tristram, ah, for love of Heaven, speak kindly!What, I hear these bitter words from thee?15Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel—Take my hand—dear Tristram, look on me![p.49]Tristram. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage—Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair.But thy dark eyes are not dimm'd, proud Iseult!20And thy beauty never was more fair.Iseult. Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty!I, like thee, have left my youth afar.Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers—See my cheek and lips, how white they are!25Tristram. Thou art paler—but thy sweet charm, Iseult!Would not fade with the dull years away.Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight!I forgive thee, Iseult!—thou wilt stay?Iseult. Fear me not, I will be always with thee;30I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain;Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers,Join'd at evening of their days again.Tristram. No, thou shalt not speak! I should be findingSomething alter'd in thy courtly tone.35Sit—sit by me! I will think, we've lived soIn the green wood, all our lives, alone.Iseult. Alter'd, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,Love like mine is alter'd in the breast;Courtly life is light and cannot reach it—40Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd!What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambersWords by which the wretched are consoled?What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler,Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?[p.50]45Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong'd husband—That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!°47Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings°—Those were friends to make me false to thee!Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced,50Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown—Thee, a pining exile in thy forest,Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd,Both have pass'd a youth consumed and sad,55Both have brought their anxious day to evening,And have now short space for being glad!Join'd we are henceforth; nor will thy people,Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill,That a former rival shares her office,60When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,Pour'd in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.65She will cry: "Is this the foe I dreaded?This his idol? this that royal bride?Ah, an hour of health would purge his eyesight!Stay, pale queen! for ever by my side."Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me.70I am now thy nurse, I bid thee sleep.Close thine eyes—this flooding moonlight blinds them!—Nay, all's well again! thou must not weep.[p.51]Tristram. I am happy! yet I feel, there's somethingSwells my heart, and takes my breath away.75Through a mist I see thee; near—come nearer!Bend—bend down!—I yet have much to say.Iseult. Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow—Tristram! Tristram! let thy heart not fail!Call on God and on the holy angels!80What, love, courage!—Christ! he is so pale.Tristram. Hush, 'tis vain, I feel my end approaching!This is what my mother said should be,When the fierce pains took her in the forest,The deep draughts of death, in bearing me.85"Son," she said, "thy name shall be of sorrow;Tristram art thou call'd for my death's sake."So she said, and died in the drear forest.°88Grief since then his home with me doth make.°I am dying.—Start not, nor look wildly!90Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save.But, since living we were ununited,Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave.Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult;Speak her fair, she is of royal blood!95Say, I will'd so, that thou stay beside me—She will grant it; she is kind and good.Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee—One last kiss upon the living shore![p.52]Iseult. Tristram!—Tristram!—stay—receive me with thee!°100Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more.°
You see them clear—the moon shines bright.Slow, slow and softly, where she stood,She sinks upon the ground;—her hoodHas fallen back; her arms outspread105Still hold her lover's hand; her headIs bow'd, half-buried, on the bed.O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hairLies in disorder'd streams; and there,Strung like white stars, the pearls still are,110And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare,Flash on her white arms still.The very same which yesternight°113Flash'd in the silver sconces'° light,When the feast was gay and the laughter loud115In Tyntagel's palace proud.But then they deck'd a restless ghostWith hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes,And quivering lips on which the tideOf courtly speech abruptly died,120And a glance which over the crowded floor,The dancers, and the festive host,°122Flew ever to the door.°That the knights eyed her in surprise,And the dames whispered scoffingly:125"Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers!But yesternight and she would beAs pale and still as wither'd flowers,And now to-night she laughs and speaksAnd has a colour in her cheeks;130Christ keep us from such fantasy!"—[p.53]Yes, now the longing is o'erpast,°132Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame,Shook her weak bosom day and night,Consumed her beauty like a flame,135And dimm'd it like the desert-blast.And though the bed-clothes hide her face,Yet were it lifted to the light,The sweet expression of her browWould charm the gazer, till his thought140Erased the ravages of time,Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and broughtA freshness back as of her prime—So healing is her quiet now.So perfectly the lines express145A tranquil, settled loveliness,Her younger rival's purest grace.The air of the December-nightSteals coldly around the chamber bright,Where those lifeless lovers be;150Swinging with it, in the lightFlaps the ghostlike tapestry.And on the arras wrought you seeA stately Huntsman, clad in green,And round him a fresh forest-scene.155On that clear forest-knoll he stays,With his pack round him, and delays.He stares and stares, with troubled face,At this huge, gleam-lit fireplace,At that bright, iron-figured door,160And those blown rushes on the floor.He gazes down into the roomWith heated cheeks and flurried air,[p.54]And to himself he seems to say:"What place is this, and who are they?165Who is that kneeling Lady fair?And on his pillows that pale KnightWho seems of marble on a tomb?How comes it here, this chamber bright,Through whose mullion'd windows clear170The castle-court all wet with rain,The drawbridge and the moat appear,And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray,The sunken reefs, and far awayThe unquiet bright Atlantic plain?175—What, has some glamour made me sleep,And sent me with my dogs to sweep,By night, with boisterous bugle-peal,Through some old, sea-side, knightly hall,Not in the free green wood at all?180That Knight's asleep, and at her prayerThat Lady by the bed doth kneel—Then hush, thou boisterous bugle-peal!"—The wild boar rustles in his lair;The fierce hounds snuff the tainted air;But lord and hounds keep rooted there.Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake,O Hunter! and without a fearThy golden-tassell'd bugle blow,And through the glades thy pastime take—190For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here!For these thou seest are unmoved;Cold, cold as those who lived and loved°193A thousand years ago.°