Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee--
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Iseult_. Tristram!--Tristram!--stay--receive me with thee!Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more.° °100 * * * * * You see them clear--the moon shines bright.Slow, slow and softly, where she stood,She sinks upon the ground;--her hoodHas fallen back; her arms outspreadStill hold her lover's hand; her head 105Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed.O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hairLies in disorder'd streams; and there,Strung like white stars, the pearls still are,And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110Flash on her white arms still.The very same which yesternightFlash'd in the silver sconces'° light, °113When the feast was gay and the laughter loudIn Tyntagel's palace proud. 115But then they deck'd a restless ghostWith hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes,And quivering lips on which the tideOf courtly speech abruptly died,And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120The dancers, and the festive host,Flew ever to the door.° °122That the knights eyed her in surprise,And the dames whispered scoffingly:"Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers! 125But yesternight and she would beAs pale and still as wither'd flowers,And now to-night she laughs and speaksAnd has a colour in her cheeks;Christ keep us from such fantasy!"-- 130Yes, now the longing is o'erpast,Which, dogg'd° by fear and fought by shame, °132Shook her weak bosom day and night,Consumed her beauty like a flame,And dimm'd it like the desert-blast. 135And though the bed-clothes hide her face,Yet were it lifted to the light,The sweet expression of her browWould charm the gazer, till his thoughtErased the ravages of time, 140Fill'd 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, 145Her 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 light 150Flaps the ghostlike 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, 155With 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. 160He 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? 165And on his pillows that pale KnightWho seems of marble on a tomb?How comes it here, this chamber bright,Through whose mullion'd windows clearThe castle-court all wet with rain, 170The drawbridge and the moat appear,And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray,The sunken reefs, and far awayThe unquiet bright Atlantic plain?--What, has some glamour made me sleep, 175And 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 prayer 180That 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. 185 Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake,O Hunter! and without a fearThy golden-tassell'd bugle blow,And through the glades thy pastime take--For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here! 190For these thou seest are unmoved;Cold, cold as those who lived and lovedA thousand years ago.° °193
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