TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.

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.ISEULT.Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly!What! I hear these bitter words from thee?Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel;Take my hand—dear Tristram, look on me!TRISTRAM.I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage;Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair.But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult!And 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!TRISTRAM.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;I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain;Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers,Joined at evening of their days again.TRISTRAM.No, thou shalt not speak! I should be findingSomething altered in thy courtly tone.Sit—sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived soIn the green wood, all our lives, alone.ISEULT.Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,Love like mine is altered in the breast:Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it;Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed!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?Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,—That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,—Those were friends to make me false to thee!Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced,Was 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 sufferedBoth have passed a youth repressed and sad,Both have brought their anxious day to evening,And have now short space for being glad!Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy peopleNor thy younger Iseult take it ill,That a former rival shares her office,When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.She 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, forever by my side.”Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me.I 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.TRISTRAM.I am happy! yet I feel there’s somethingSwells my heart, and takes my breath away.Through 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!What, 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.“Son,” she said, “thy name shall be of sorrow;Tristram art thou called for my death’s sake.”So she said, and died in the drear forest.Grief since then his home with me doth make.I am dying. Start not, nor look wildly!Me, 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.Say, I charged her, 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!ISEULT.Tristram! Tristram! stay—receive me with thee!Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! nevermore.. . . . . . . . . .You see them clear—the moon shines bright.Slow, slow and softly, where she stood,She sinks upon the ground; her hoodHad fallen back, her arms outspreadStill hold her lover’s hands; her headIs bowed, half-buried, on the bed.O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hairLies in disordered streams; and there,Strung like white stars, the pearls still are;And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare,Flash on her white arms still,—The very same which yesternightFlashed in the silver sconces’ light,When the feast was gay and the laughter loudIn Tyntagel’s palace proud.But then they decked a restless ghostWith hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes,And quivering lips on which the tideOf courtly speech abruptly died,And a glance which over the crowded floor,The dancers, and the festive host,Flew ever to the door;That the knights eyed her in surprise,And the dames whispered scoffingly,—“Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers!But yesternight and she would beAs pale and still as withered flowers;And now to-night she laughs and speaks,And has a color in her cheeks.Christ keep us from such fantasy!”—Yes, now the longing is o’erpast,Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame.Shook her weak bosom day and night,Consumed her beauty like a flame,And dimmed it like the desert-blast.And though the curtains hide her face,Yet, were it lifted to the light,The sweet expression of her browWould charm the gazer, till his thoughtErased the ravages of time,Filled up the hollow cheek, and broughtA freshness back as of her prime,—So healing is her quiet now;So perfectly the lines expressA 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.Swinging with it, in the lightFlaps the ghost-like tapestry.And on the arras wrought you seeA stately huntsman, clad in green,And round him a fresh forest-scene.On 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,And those blown rushes on the floor.He gazes down into the roomWith heated cheeks and flurried air,And to himself he seems to say,—“What place is this, and who are they?Who 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 mullioned windows clearThe castle-court all wet with rain,The drawbridge and the moat appear,And then the beach, and, marked with spray,The sunken reefs, and far awayThe unquiet bright Atlantic plain?—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?That 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-tasselled bugle blow,And through the glades thy pastime take—For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here!For these thou seest are unmoved;Cold, cold as those who lived and lovedA thousand years ago.

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.

ISEULT.

Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly!What! I hear these bitter words from thee?Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel;Take my hand—dear Tristram, look on me!

TRISTRAM.

I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage;Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair.But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult!And 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!

TRISTRAM.

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;I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain;Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers,Joined at evening of their days again.

TRISTRAM.

No, thou shalt not speak! I should be findingSomething altered in thy courtly tone.Sit—sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived soIn the green wood, all our lives, alone.

ISEULT.

Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,Love like mine is altered in the breast:Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it;Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed!

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?

Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,—That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,—Those were friends to make me false to thee!

Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced,Was 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 sufferedBoth have passed a youth repressed and sad,Both have brought their anxious day to evening,And have now short space for being glad!

Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy peopleNor thy younger Iseult take it ill,That a former rival shares her office,When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.

I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.

She 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, forever by my side.”

Hush, no words! that smile, I see, forgives me.I 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.

TRISTRAM.

I am happy! yet I feel there’s somethingSwells my heart, and takes my breath away.Through 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!What, 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.

“Son,” she said, “thy name shall be of sorrow;Tristram art thou called for my death’s sake.”So she said, and died in the drear forest.Grief since then his home with me doth make.

I am dying. Start not, nor look wildly!Me, 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.Say, I charged her, 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!

ISEULT.

Tristram! Tristram! stay—receive me with thee!Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! nevermore.. . . . . . . . . .You see them clear—the moon shines bright.Slow, slow and softly, where she stood,She sinks upon the ground; her hoodHad fallen back, her arms outspreadStill hold her lover’s hands; her headIs bowed, half-buried, on the bed.O’er the blanched sheet, her raven hairLies in disordered streams; and there,Strung like white stars, the pearls still are;And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare,Flash on her white arms still,—The very same which yesternightFlashed in the silver sconces’ light,When the feast was gay and the laughter loudIn Tyntagel’s palace proud.But then they decked a restless ghostWith hot-flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes,And quivering lips on which the tideOf courtly speech abruptly died,And a glance which over the crowded floor,The dancers, and the festive host,Flew ever to the door;That the knights eyed her in surprise,And the dames whispered scoffingly,—“Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers!But yesternight and she would beAs pale and still as withered flowers;And now to-night she laughs and speaks,And has a color in her cheeks.Christ keep us from such fantasy!”—

Yes, now the longing is o’erpast,Which, dogged by fear and fought by shame.Shook her weak bosom day and night,Consumed her beauty like a flame,And dimmed it like the desert-blast.And though the curtains hide her face,Yet, were it lifted to the light,The sweet expression of her browWould charm the gazer, till his thoughtErased the ravages of time,Filled up the hollow cheek, and broughtA freshness back as of her prime,—So healing is her quiet now;So perfectly the lines expressA 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.Swinging with it, in the lightFlaps the ghost-like tapestry.And on the arras wrought you seeA stately huntsman, clad in green,And round him a fresh forest-scene.On 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,And those blown rushes on the floor.He gazes down into the roomWith heated cheeks and flurried air,And to himself he seems to say,—“What place is this, and who are they?Who 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 mullioned windows clearThe castle-court all wet with rain,The drawbridge and the moat appear,And then the beach, and, marked with spray,The sunken reefs, and far awayThe unquiet bright Atlantic plain?—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?That 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-tasselled bugle blow,And through the glades thy pastime take—For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here!For these thou seest are unmoved;Cold, cold as those who lived and lovedA thousand years ago.

A yearhad flown, and o’er the sea away,In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;In King Marc’s chapel, in Tyntagel old:There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.The young surviving Iseult, one bright day,Had wandered forth. Her children were at playIn a green circular hollow in the heathWhich borders the seashore; a country pathCreeps over it from the tilled fields behind.The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined;And to one standing on them, far and nearThe lone unbroken view spreads bright and clearOver the waste. This cirque of open groundIs light and green; the heather, which all roundCreeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grassIs strewn with rocks and many a shivered massOf veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and thereDotted with holly-trees and juniper.In the smooth centre of the opening stoodThree hollies side by side, and made a screen,Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished greenWith scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food.Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,Watching her children play: their little handsAre busy gathering spars of quartz, and streamsOf stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screamsOf mad delight they drop their spoils, and boundAmong the holly-clumps and broken ground,Racing full speed, and startling in their rushThe fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrushOut of their glossy coverts; but when nowTheir cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow,Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair,In blinding masses showered the golden hair,Then Iseult called them to her, and the threeClustered under the holly-screen, and sheTold them an old-world Breton history.Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood there,Under the hollies, in the clear still air,—Mantles with those rich furs deep glisteringWhich Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring.Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease,Moved up and down under the glossy trees;But still, as they pursued their warm dry road,From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed,And still the children listened, their blue eyesFixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise.Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all awayFrom the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screamsBore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,The fell-fares settled on the thickets near.And they would still have listened, till dark nightCame keen and chill down on the heather bright;But when the red glow on the sea grew cold,And the gray turrets of the castle oldLooked sternly through the frosty evening-air,Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,And led them home over the darkening heath.And is she happy? Does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will:Is it this thought which makes her mien so still,Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meetHer children’s? She moves slow; her voice aloneHath yet an infantine and silver tone,But even that comes languidly; in truth,She seems one dying in a mask of youth.And now she will go home, and softly layHer laughing children in their beds, and playA while with them before they sleep; and thenShe’ll light her silver lamp,—which fishermenDragging their nets through the rough waves afar,Along this iron coast, know like a star,—And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sitHour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;Lifting her soft-bent head only to mindHer children, or to listen to the wind.And when the clock peals midnight, she will moveHer work away, and let her fingers roveAcross the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound,Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyesFixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise,And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have toldHer rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold;Then to her soft sleep—and to-morrow’ll beTo-day’s exact repeated effigy.Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.The children, and the gray-haired seneschal,Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound,Are there the sole companions to be found.But these she loves; and noisier life than thisShe would find ill to bear, weak as she is.She has her children, too, and night and dayIs with them; and the wide heaths where they play,The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore,The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,These are to her dear as to them; the talesWith which this day the children she beguiledShe gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child,In every hut along this sea-coast wild;She herself loves them still, and, when they are told,Can forget all to hear them, as of old.Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,Not suffering, which shuts up eye and earTo all that has delighted them before,And lets us be what we were once no more.No: we may suffer deeply, yet retainPower to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,By what of old pleased us, and will again.No: ’tis the gradual furnace of the world,In whose hot air our spirits are upcurledUntil they crumble, or else grow like steel,Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring;Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,But takes away the power: this can avail,By drying up our joy in every thing,To make our former pleasures all seem stale.This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fitOf passion, which subdues our souls to it,Till for its sake alone we live and move,—Call it ambition, or remorse, or love,—This too can change us wholly, and make seemAll which we did before, shadow and dream.And yet, I swear, it angers me to seeHow this fool passion gulls men potently;Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest,And an unnatural overheat at best.How they are full of languor and distressNot having it; which when they do possess,They straightway are burnt up with fume and care,And spend their lives in posting here and thereWhere this plague drives them; and have little ease,Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.Like that bald Cæsar, the famed Roman wight,Who wept at reading of a Grecian knightWho made a name at younger years than he;Or that renowned mirror of chivalry,Prince Alexander, Philip’s peerless son,Who carried the great war from MacedonInto the Soudan’s realm, and thundered onTo die at thirty-five in Babylon.What tale did Iseult to the children say,Under the hollies, that bright winter’s day?She told them of the fairy-haunted landAway the other side of Brittany,Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps,Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.For here he came with the fay Vivian,One April, when the warm days first began.He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,On her white palfrey; here he met his end,In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.This tale of Merlin and the lovely fayWas the one Iseult chose, and she brought clearBefore the children’s fancy him and her.Blowing between the stems, the forest-airHad loosened the brown locks of Vivian’s hair,Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyesSparkled with mocking glee and exercise.Her palfrey’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,For they had travelled far and not stopped yet.A brier in that tangled wildernessHad scored her white right hand, which she allowsTo rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;The other warded off the drooping boughs.But still she chatted on, with her blue eyesFixed full on Merlin’s face, her stately prize.Her ’havior had the morning’s fresh clear grace,The spirit of the woods was in her face;She looked so witching fair, that learned wightForgot his craft, and his best wits took flight,And he grew fond, and eager to obeyHis mistress, use her empire as she may.They came to where the brushwood ceased, and dayPeered ’twixt the stems; and the ground broke awayIn a sloped sward down to a brawling brook.And up as high as where they stood to lookOn the brook’s farther side was clear; but thenThe underwood and trees began again.This open glen was studded thick with thornsThen white with blossom; and you saw the horns,Through last year’s fern, of the shy fallow-deerWho come at noon down to the water here.You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart alongUnder the thorns on the green sward; and strongThe blackbird whistled from the dingles near,And the weird chipping of the woodpeckerRang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere.Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope’s brow,To gaze on the light sea of leaf and boughWhich glistering plays all round them, lone and mild,As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and hereThe grass was dry and mossed, and you saw clearAcross the hollow; white anemonesStarred the cool turf, and clumps of primrosesRan out from the dark underwood behind.No fairer resting-place a man could find.“Here let us halt,” said Merlin then; and sheNodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.They sate them down together, and a sleepFell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose,And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws,And takes it in her hand, and waves it overThe blossomed thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round,And made a little plot of magic ground.And in that daisied circle, as men say,Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day;But she herself whither she will can rove—For she was passing weary of his love.

A yearhad flown, and o’er the sea away,In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;In King Marc’s chapel, in Tyntagel old:There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.

The young surviving Iseult, one bright day,Had wandered forth. Her children were at playIn a green circular hollow in the heathWhich borders the seashore; a country pathCreeps over it from the tilled fields behind.The hollow’s grassy banks are soft-inclined;And to one standing on them, far and nearThe lone unbroken view spreads bright and clearOver the waste. This cirque of open groundIs light and green; the heather, which all roundCreeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grassIs strewn with rocks and many a shivered massOf veined white-gleaming quartz, and here and thereDotted with holly-trees and juniper.In the smooth centre of the opening stoodThree hollies side by side, and made a screen,Warm with the winter-sun, of burnished greenWith scarlet berries gemmed, the fell-fare’s food.Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,Watching her children play: their little handsAre busy gathering spars of quartz, and streamsOf stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screamsOf mad delight they drop their spoils, and boundAmong the holly-clumps and broken ground,Racing full speed, and startling in their rushThe fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrushOut of their glossy coverts; but when nowTheir cheeks were flushed, and over each hot brow,Under the feathered hats of the sweet pair,In blinding masses showered the golden hair,Then Iseult called them to her, and the threeClustered under the holly-screen, and sheTold them an old-world Breton history.

Warm in their mantles wrapped, the three stood there,Under the hollies, in the clear still air,—Mantles with those rich furs deep glisteringWhich Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring.Long they stayed still, then, pacing at their ease,Moved up and down under the glossy trees;But still, as they pursued their warm dry road,From Iseult’s lips the unbroken story flowed,And still the children listened, their blue eyesFixed on their mother’s face in wide surprise.Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,Nor to the snow, which, though ’twas all awayFrom the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screamsBore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,The fell-fares settled on the thickets near.And they would still have listened, till dark nightCame keen and chill down on the heather bright;But when the red glow on the sea grew cold,And the gray turrets of the castle oldLooked sternly through the frosty evening-air,Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,And led them home over the darkening heath.And is she happy? Does she see unmovedThe days in which she might have lived and lovedSlip without bringing bliss slowly away,One after one, to-morrow like to-day?Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will:Is it this thought which makes her mien so still,Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meetHer children’s? She moves slow; her voice aloneHath yet an infantine and silver tone,But even that comes languidly; in truth,She seems one dying in a mask of youth.And now she will go home, and softly layHer laughing children in their beds, and playA while with them before they sleep; and thenShe’ll light her silver lamp,—which fishermenDragging their nets through the rough waves afar,Along this iron coast, know like a star,—And take her broidery-frame, and there she’ll sitHour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;Lifting her soft-bent head only to mindHer children, or to listen to the wind.And when the clock peals midnight, she will moveHer work away, and let her fingers roveAcross the shaggy brows of Tristram’s hound,Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyesFixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise,And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have toldHer rosary-beads of ebony tipped with gold;Then to her soft sleep—and to-morrow’ll beTo-day’s exact repeated effigy.Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.The children, and the gray-haired seneschal,Her women, and Sir Tristram’s aged hound,Are there the sole companions to be found.But these she loves; and noisier life than thisShe would find ill to bear, weak as she is.She has her children, too, and night and dayIs with them; and the wide heaths where they play,The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore,The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,These are to her dear as to them; the talesWith which this day the children she beguiledShe gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child,In every hut along this sea-coast wild;She herself loves them still, and, when they are told,Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,Not suffering, which shuts up eye and earTo all that has delighted them before,And lets us be what we were once no more.No: we may suffer deeply, yet retainPower to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,By what of old pleased us, and will again.No: ’tis the gradual furnace of the world,In whose hot air our spirits are upcurledUntil they crumble, or else grow like steel,Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring;Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,But takes away the power: this can avail,By drying up our joy in every thing,To make our former pleasures all seem stale.This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fitOf passion, which subdues our souls to it,Till for its sake alone we live and move,—Call it ambition, or remorse, or love,—This too can change us wholly, and make seemAll which we did before, shadow and dream.And yet, I swear, it angers me to seeHow this fool passion gulls men potently;Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest,And an unnatural overheat at best.How they are full of languor and distressNot having it; which when they do possess,They straightway are burnt up with fume and care,And spend their lives in posting here and thereWhere this plague drives them; and have little ease,Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.Like that bald Cæsar, the famed Roman wight,Who wept at reading of a Grecian knightWho made a name at younger years than he;Or that renowned mirror of chivalry,Prince Alexander, Philip’s peerless son,Who carried the great war from MacedonInto the Soudan’s realm, and thundered onTo die at thirty-five in Babylon.

What tale did Iseult to the children say,Under the hollies, that bright winter’s day?

She told them of the fairy-haunted landAway the other side of Brittany,Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps,Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.For here he came with the fay Vivian,One April, when the warm days first began.He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,On her white palfrey; here he met his end,In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.This tale of Merlin and the lovely fayWas the one Iseult chose, and she brought clearBefore the children’s fancy him and her.

Blowing between the stems, the forest-airHad loosened the brown locks of Vivian’s hair,Which played on her flushed cheek, and her blue eyesSparkled with mocking glee and exercise.Her palfrey’s flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,For they had travelled far and not stopped yet.A brier in that tangled wildernessHad scored her white right hand, which she allowsTo rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;The other warded off the drooping boughs.But still she chatted on, with her blue eyesFixed full on Merlin’s face, her stately prize.Her ’havior had the morning’s fresh clear grace,The spirit of the woods was in her face;She looked so witching fair, that learned wightForgot his craft, and his best wits took flight,And he grew fond, and eager to obeyHis mistress, use her empire as she may.

They came to where the brushwood ceased, and dayPeered ’twixt the stems; and the ground broke awayIn a sloped sward down to a brawling brook.And up as high as where they stood to lookOn the brook’s farther side was clear; but thenThe underwood and trees began again.This open glen was studded thick with thornsThen white with blossom; and you saw the horns,Through last year’s fern, of the shy fallow-deerWho come at noon down to the water here.You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart alongUnder the thorns on the green sward; and strongThe blackbird whistled from the dingles near,And the weird chipping of the woodpeckerRang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,And a fresh breath of spring stirred everywhere.Merlin and Vivian stopped on the slope’s brow,To gaze on the light sea of leaf and boughWhich glistering plays all round them, lone and mild,As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and hereThe grass was dry and mossed, and you saw clearAcross the hollow; white anemonesStarred the cool turf, and clumps of primrosesRan out from the dark underwood behind.No fairer resting-place a man could find.“Here let us halt,” said Merlin then; and sheNodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.

They sate them down together, and a sleepFell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose,And from her brown-locked head the wimple throws,And takes it in her hand, and waves it overThe blossomed thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round,And made a little plot of magic ground.And in that daisied circle, as men say,Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day;But she herself whither she will can rove—For she was passing weary of his love.

Saint Brandansails the northern main;The brotherhoods of saints are glad.He greets them once, he sails again;So late! such storms! The saint is mad!He heard, across the howling seas,Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,Twinkle the monastery-lights;But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;And now no bells, no convents more!The hurtling Polar lights are neared,The sea without a human shore.At last (it was the Christmas-night;Stars shone after a day of storm)He sees float past an iceberg white,And on it—Christ!—a living form.That furtive mien, that scowling eye,Of hair that red and tufted fell,It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—The traitor Judas, out of hell!Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;The moon was bright, the iceberg near.He hears a voice sigh humbly, “Wait!By high permission I am here.“One moment wait, thou holy man!On 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(It was the first after I came,Breathing 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,An angel touch mine arm, and say,—Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!“‘Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?’ I said.The leper recollect, said he,Who asked the passers-by for aid,In Joppa, and thy charity.“Then I remembered how I went,In Joppa, through the public street,One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat;“And in the street a leper sate,Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,The hot wind fevered him fivefold.“He gazed upon me as I passed,And murmured,Help me, or I die!To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,Saw him look eased, and hurried by.“O Brandan! think what grace divine,What blessing must full goodness shower,When 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,Forgot 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.“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.“I stanch with ice my burning breast,With silence balm my whirling brain.O Brandan! to this hour of rest,That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.”Tears started to Saint Brandan’s eyes;He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!The iceberg, and no Judas there!

Saint Brandansails the northern main;The brotherhoods of saints are glad.He greets them once, he sails again;So late! such storms! The saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas,Chime convent-bells on wintry nights;He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides,Twinkle the monastery-lights;

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steered;And now no bells, no convents more!The hurtling Polar lights are neared,The sea without a human shore.

At last (it was the Christmas-night;Stars shone after a day of storm)He sees float past an iceberg white,And on it—Christ!—a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye,Of hair that red and tufted fell,It is—oh, where shall Brandan fly?—The traitor Judas, out of hell!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate;The moon was bright, the iceberg near.He hears a voice sigh humbly, “Wait!By high permission I am here.

“One moment wait, thou holy man!On 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(It was the first after I came,Breathing 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,An angel touch mine arm, and say,—Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!

“‘Ah! whence this mercy, Lord?’ I said.The leper recollect, said he,Who asked the passers-by for aid,In Joppa, and thy charity.

“Then I remembered how I went,In Joppa, through the public street,One morn when the sirocco spentIts storms of dust with burning heat;“And in the street a leper sate,Shivering with fever, naked, old;Sand raked his sores from heel to pate,The hot wind fevered him fivefold.

“He gazed upon me as I passed,And murmured,Help me, or I die!To the poor wretch my cloak I cast,Saw him look eased, and hurried by.

“O Brandan! think what grace divine,What blessing must full goodness shower,When 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,Forgot 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.

“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.

“I stanch with ice my burning breast,With silence balm my whirling brain.O Brandan! to this hour of rest,That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.”

Tears started to Saint Brandan’s eyes;He bowed his head, he breathed a prayer,Then looked—and lo, the frosty skies!The iceberg, and no Judas there!

Insummer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings his plaintive song.Green rolls, beneath the headlands,Green rolls the Baltic Sea;And there, below the Neckan’s feet,His wife and children be.He sings not of the ocean,Its shells and roses pale:Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings,He hath no other tale.He sits upon the headlands,And sings a mournful staveOf all he saw and felt on earth,Far from the kind sea-wave.Sings how, a knight, he wanderedBy castle, field, and town;But earthly knights have harder heartsThan the sea-children own.Sings of his earthly bridal,Priest, knights, and ladies gay.“And who art thou,” the priest began,“Sir Knight, who wedd’st to-day?”“I am no knight,” he answered;“From the sea-waves I come.”The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,The surpliced priest stood dumb.He sings how from the chapelHe vanished with his bride,And bore her down to the sea-halls,Beneath the salt sea-tide.He sings how she sits weeping’Mid shells that round her lie.“False Neckan shares my bed,” she weeps;“No Christian mate have I.”He sings how through the billowsHe rose to earth again,And sought a priest to sign the cross,That Neckan heaven might gain.He sings how, on an evening,Beneath the birch-trees cool,He sate and played his harp of gold,Beside the river-pool.Beside the pool sate Neckan,Tears filled his mild blue eye.On his white mule, across the bridge,A cassocked priest rode by.“Why sitt’st thou there, O Neckan,And play’st thy harp of gold?Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,Than thou shalt heaven behold.”But, lo! the staff, it budded;It greened, it branched, it waved.“O ruth of God!” the priest cried out,“This lost sea-creature saved!”The cassocked priest rode onwards,And vanished with his mule;And Neckan in the twilight grayWept by the river-pool.He wept, “The earth hath kindness,The sea, the starry poles;Earth, sea, and sky, and God above,—But, ah! not human souls!”In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings this plaintive song.

Insummer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls, beneath the headlands,Green rolls the Baltic Sea;And there, below the Neckan’s feet,His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean,Its shells and roses pale:Of earth, of earth, the Neckan sings,He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands,And sings a mournful staveOf all he saw and felt on earth,Far from the kind sea-wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wanderedBy castle, field, and town;But earthly knights have harder heartsThan the sea-children own.

Sings of his earthly bridal,Priest, knights, and ladies gay.“And who art thou,” the priest began,“Sir Knight, who wedd’st to-day?”

“I am no knight,” he answered;“From the sea-waves I come.”The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,The surpliced priest stood dumb.

He sings how from the chapelHe vanished with his bride,And bore her down to the sea-halls,Beneath the salt sea-tide.

He sings how she sits weeping’Mid shells that round her lie.“False Neckan shares my bed,” she weeps;“No Christian mate have I.”

He sings how through the billowsHe rose to earth again,And sought a priest to sign the cross,That Neckan heaven might gain.

He sings how, on an evening,Beneath the birch-trees cool,He sate and played his harp of gold,Beside the river-pool.

Beside the pool sate Neckan,Tears filled his mild blue eye.On his white mule, across the bridge,A cassocked priest rode by.

“Why sitt’st thou there, O Neckan,And play’st thy harp of gold?Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,Than thou shalt heaven behold.”

But, lo! the staff, it budded;It greened, it branched, it waved.“O ruth of God!” the priest cried out,“This lost sea-creature saved!”

The cassocked priest rode onwards,And vanished with his mule;And Neckan in the twilight grayWept by the river-pool.

He wept, “The earth hath kindness,The sea, the starry poles;Earth, sea, and sky, and God above,—But, ah! not human souls!”

In summer, on the headlands,The Baltic Sea along,Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,And sings this plaintive song.

Come, dear children, let us away;Down and away below!Now my brothers call from the bay,Now the great winds shoreward blow,Now the salt tides seaward flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away!This way, this way!Call her once before you go,—Call once yet!In a voice that she will know,—“Margaret! Margaret!”Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;Children’s voices, wild with pain,—Surely she will come again!Call her once, and come away;This way, this way!“Mother dear, we cannot stay!The wild white horses foam and fret.”Margaret! Margaret!Come, dear children, come away down;Call no more!One last look at the white-walled town,And the little gray church on the windy shore;Then come down!She will not come, though you call all day;Come away, come away!Children 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?Sand-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,Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once 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 combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little gray 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.”I 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?“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-walled town;Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little gray 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 climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And 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.”But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were sealed 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!Down, 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,For 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,And the blessed light of the sun!”And so she sings her fill,Singing 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;And 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,A long, long sigh,For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away, children;Come, children, come down!The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door:She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, “Here came a mortal,But faithless was she!And alone dwell foreverThe kings of the sea.”But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow,When clear falls the moonlight,When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starred with broom,And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanched sands a gloom;Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie,Over banks of bright seaweedThe 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,Singing, “There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she!She left lonely foreverThe kings of the sea.”

Call her once before you go,—Call once yet!In a voice that she will know,—“Margaret! Margaret!”Children’s voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother’s ear;Children’s voices, wild with pain,—Surely she will come again!Call her once, and come away;This way, this way!“Mother dear, we cannot stay!The wild white horses foam and fret.”Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;Call no more!One last look at the white-walled town,And the little gray church on the windy shore;Then come down!She will not come, though you call all day;Come away, come away!

Children 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?Sand-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,Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world for ever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once 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 combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little gray 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.”I 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?“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-walled town;Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,To the little gray 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 climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,And 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.”But, ah! she gave me never a look,For her eyes were sealed 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!

Down, 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,For 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,And the blessed light of the sun!”And so she sings her fill,Singing 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;And 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,A long, long sigh,For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children;Come, children, come down!The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door:She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, “Here came a mortal,But faithless was she!And alone dwell foreverThe kings of the sea.”

But, children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow,When clear falls the moonlight,When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starred with broom,And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanched sands a gloom;Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie,Over banks of bright seaweedThe 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,Singing, “There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she!She left lonely foreverThe kings of the sea.”

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