TRISTRAM AND ISEULT°

TRISTRAM AND ISEULT°

I

TRISTRAM

.

°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 light Of some ship that fights the gale On this wild December night? 15Over the sick man's feet is spread A 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 attire 25Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying With the clasp of burnish'd gold Which 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-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea 35On 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 40Spinning 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? 45Or, 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?— 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 where Is that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen? She, whom Tristram's ship of yore 60From Ireland to Cornwall bore, °61To Tyntagel,° to the side °62Of King Marc,° to be his bride? She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd With Tristram that spiced magic draught, 65Which since then for ever rolls Through their blood, and binds their souls, °67Working love, but working teen°?—. There were two Iseults who did sway Each 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 Hand 75Watches 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 yore Might 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 seem Not this fever-wasted wight Thinn'd and paled before his time, But the brilliant youthful knight 110In 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 hand With its gesture of command, And shake back her raven hair With the old imperious air! 125As of old, so let her be, That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knight As 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 strand Where the prince whom she must wed °134Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill,° 135High 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, 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 hands Tremble, 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 be Once more round them, and the sea 155 Blue, and o'er 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 °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 move Faster surely than it should, From the fever in his blood! All the spring-time of his love Is already gone and past, 175And instead thereof is seen Its 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 seem 185The press'd fugitive again, The love-desperate banish'd knight With a fire in his brain Flying o'er the stormy main. —Whither does he wander now? 190Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here, and lets him find °192The lovely orphan child° again In 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'd The 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 move His young guardian's heart with love In 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 side Of his timid youthful bride; 215His long rambles by the shore On winter-evenings, when the roar Of the near waves came, sadly grand, Through the dark, up the drown'd sand, Or his endless reveries 220In the woods, where the gleams play On the grass under the trees, Passing the long summer's day Idle as a mossy stone In 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 hours 230Pass'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 wood They cloud the brain, they dull the blood! —His sword is sharp, his horse is good; 250Beyond the mountains will he see The 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 goes Will 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 jest Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, 265If 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 270Watching 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, 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 clear The 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! 'tis her face 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 wood Had no medicine for thy mood; The rushing battle clear'd thy blood As little as did solitude. —Ah! his eyelids slowly break 295Their 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 tears Down 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 divine A grief, and sympathise. 325Sweet 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; 330Where 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. [p.47] 335It 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. 340Round 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 345At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby-owner chased The 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 sight 355Of 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 360Of 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 365The 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 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. 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; 10 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? 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! 20 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! 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; 30 I 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 finding Something alter'd in thy courtly tone. 35Sit—sit by me! I will think, we've lived so In 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— 40 Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppress'd! What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers Words 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, 50 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 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, 60 When 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. 70 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. [p.51] Tristram. I am happy! yet I feel, there's something Swells 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! 80 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. 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. °88 Grief since then his home with me doth make.° I am dying.—Start not, nor look wildly! 90 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! 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! °100 Iseult 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 hood Has fallen back; her arms outspread 105Still hold her lover's hand; her head Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed. O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies 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 loud 115In Tyntagel's palace proud. But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of 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 be As pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks And 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 brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought 140Erased the ravages of time, Fill'd up the hollow cheek, and brought A freshness back as of her prime— So healing is her quiet now. So perfectly the lines express 145A tranquil, settled loveliness, Her younger rival's purest grace. The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be; 150Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghostlike tapestry. And on the arras wrought you see A 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 room With 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 Knight Who seems of marble on a tomb? How comes it here, this chamber bright, Through whose mullion'd windows clear 170The 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 away The 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 prayer That 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 fear Thy 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.°

III

[p.55]

ISEULT OF BRITTANY°

A year had 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. 5The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the sea-shore—a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. 10The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear °13Over the waste. This cirque° of open ground Is light and green; the heather, which all round 15Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there °18Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.° In the smooth centre of the opening stood 20Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green °22With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's° food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play; their little hands 25Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams °26Of stagshorn° for their hats; anon, with screams [p.56] Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush 30The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts;—but when now Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair— 35Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she °37Told them an old-world Breton history.° Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air— 40Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still—then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees. But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, 45From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes Fix'd 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, 50Nor to the snow, which, though 'twas all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, 55The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listen'd, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, [p.57] And the grey turrets of the castle old 60Look'd 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 unmoved 65The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip 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, 70Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, 75She seems one dying in a mask of youth. And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play Awhile with them before they sleep; and then She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen 80Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, °81Along this iron coast,° know like a star,° And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind 85Her children, or to listen to the wind. And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the shaggy brows of Tristram's hound Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; 90Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes [p.58] Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise, °92And at her prie-dieu° kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, Then to her soft sleep—and to-morrow'll be 95To-day's exact repeated effigy. Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall. °97The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal,° Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, Are there the sole companions to be found. 100But these she loves; and noiser life than this She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children, too, and night and day Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, 105The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, These are to her dear as to them; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild. 110She 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 ear To all that has delighted them before, 115And lets us be what we were once no more. No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power 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, 120In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd Until they crumble, or else grow like steel— [p.59] 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, 125By drying up our joy in everything, To make our former pleasures all seem stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and move— 130Call it ambition, or remorse, or love— This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream. And yet, I swear, it angers me to see °134How this fool passion gulls° men potently; 135Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, And an unnatural overheat at best. How they are full of languor and distress Not having it; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, °140And spend their lives in posting here and there° Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please. °143Like that bold Cæsar,° the famed Roman wight, Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight 145Who made a name at younger years than he; Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, °147Prince Alexander,° Philip's peerless son, Who carried the great war from Macedon °149Into the Soudan's° realm, and thundered on 150To die at thirty-five in Babylon. What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright-winter's day? [p.60] She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, 155Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; °156Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande,° Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps. °159For here he came with the fay° Vivian, 160One 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. °164This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay° 165Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children's fancy him and her. Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes 170Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise. Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet. A brier in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows 175To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs. But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize. Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, 180The spirit of the woods was in her face. She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight; And he grew fond, and eager to obey °184His mistress, use her empire° as she may. [p.61] 185They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook; And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear, but then 190The underwood and trees began again. This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here. 195You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodpecker Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, 200And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere. Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild. As if to itself the quiet forest smiled. 205Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The grass was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemones Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind. 210No fairer resting-place a man could find. "Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree. They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep. 215 Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, [p.62] And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover. °219Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple° round, 220And made a little plot of magic ground. And in that daised circle, as men say, °222Is Merlin prisoner° till the judgment-day; But she herself whither she will can rove— °224For she was passing weary of his love.°