Ah! he wanders forth again; We cannot keep him; now, as then, There's a secret in his breast Which 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 Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor.

There's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care; The march, the leaguer, Heaven's 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 one's own heart beats not light On the waves of the toss'd 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 moon's clear light; G.o.d! '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 clear'd 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 she'll 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 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; 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 rain'd.

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 children's eyes Are 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; Where feebly comes the mournful roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor.

--Full on their window the moon's 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 Turn'd to each other--the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed.

Round each sweet brow the cap close-set Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft-open'd 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 jewell'd 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, lock'd 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?

II

Iseult of Ireland

_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 rejoin'd me; Thou 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?

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 dimm'd, 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!