Volume 23 — THE PHILTER.

Dying afar in Brittany, The gallant Tristram lay; His gentle bride's sweet ministry, Her tender touch and way, That erstwhile brought the rest he sought, No more held soothing sway. The naming of her tuneful name, Isoude—so sweet to hear Because its music was the same With one long holden dear— Now, like a bell discordant, fell, And brought but mocking cheer. Her eyne so blue, with lids so white, Her tresses from their snood, That rippling ambered all the light About her where she stood, Served only now to cloud his brow Who longed for lost Isoude— Isoude, who charmed him once when storm Had blown his ship ashore On Ireland's coast; Isoude, whose form Bewitched him more and more, As mem'ry came, his love to flame, When hope, alas! was o'er: Isoude, who sailed with him the sea Across to Cornwall land, To marry Mark, whose treachery Did Tristram's faith command To win her grace for kingly place, And his own heart withstand. On sultry deck becalmed they pine; Careless, their thirst to ease, A philter—mixt for bridal wine— Her lip beguiles, and his: O subtle draught unconscious quaffed! They drained it to the lees— Until in Tristram's knightly form All joy for her seemed blent; Until her cheek could only warm Beneath his gaze intent; Until her heart sought him apart, Whoever came or went; Until the potion did beget An all-enduring spell; Albeit Cornwall's king now met And liked her fairness well, And claimed her hand, while through the land Rang sound of marriage bell; Until, as fragrance from a flower, True love outbrake control, And dropped its sweetness as a shower Of pearls, that threadless roll To find their rest in some near nest; Her home, Sir Tristram's soul! And he, though frequent jousts he won; Though many a valiant deed Of prowess made his fame outrun The claim of knightly creed; Though maidens oft their glances soft Bestowed in tenderest meed; Though Brittany upon him prest A bride, in gratitude For service done; and though the quest Of sacred grail subdued His full heart-beat of smothered heat— He loved but Queen Isoude! And now with holy vows all tossed Of fever's frantic sway— As mariner whose bark is crossed Upon a peaceful way By winds that lure from purpose pure And well-meant plans bewray— He bade a trusty servitor To Cornwall's queen forthwith. "Take this," he said, "and show to her How great my languor, sith This signet's round will not be found To bear one hurted lith. "Say that Sir Tristram prays her aid, And so he prays not vain, Let sails of silken white be made, Whose gleam shall heal my pain, As hither borne some favoring morn, Love claims his own again! "But if she yield no heed to these Fond cravings of love's breath, Then bearing on the burdened breeze Let sail that shadoweth, Of darkest dark, beshroud the bark, A presage of my death." So spake the Lord of Lyonesse, And bode his joy or bale; While jealous of her right to bless, The wife Isoude, grown pale As buds of light that shrink from night, Made sad and lonely wail: "Alas! all one the loss to me, My lord alive or dead, If life of his by sorcery Of this fair queen be fed." Then adding, "Be her answer nay, Hope yet to hope is wed." She scanned the sea. On waves of balm A white sail of rare glow Came rounding to the harbor's calm With fullest promise—lo! Bleak winds arise, as false she cries, "A black sail entereth slow." Too weak to battle with his grief, Sir Tristram breathed a sigh— "Alack, that Isoude's sweet relief Should fail me where I lie: Sith not for me her face to see, Is but to droop and die." Black sails are hoisted now in truth! They wing two forms to rest: For Cornwall's queen a-cold, in ruth, Fell prone on Tristram's breast; And Cornwall's knight for kinsman's right Of shrine had made request. A letter lay upon the bier, And this the word it bare: "O love is sweet, O love is dear, And followeth everywhere Whoso has drained the chalice stained With its red wine and rare. "O love is dear, O love is sweet, And yet, of faith's decree Would Honor quench beneath stern feet Love's bloom if that need be. O King, one wills. But Love distils His philters fatefully!" Then did the King in penitence Weep dole for these two dead. Some slight remorse had pricked his sense That he through wile had wed His best knight's love; alas, to prove Such end, so ill bestead! In royal crypt he bade the twain Be laid; and there a vine, O'er which the murderous scythe was vain, Sprang up the graves to twine, Defying death with its green breath: True plant of seed divine! Mary B. Dodge.