Poetry

ever;
What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father
Of all things; and then,
The rest of immortals,
The action of men.

The day in his hotness,
The strife with the palm;
The night in her silence,
The stars in their calm.

Lines Written by a Death-Bed

Yes, now the longing is o’erpast,
Which, dogg’d by fear and fought by shame,
Shook her weak bosom day and night,
Consum’d her beauty like a flame,
And dimm’d it like the desert blast.
And though the curtains hide her face,
Yet were it lifted to the light
The sweet expression of her brow
Would charm the gazer, till his thought
Eras’d 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
A tranquil, settled loveliness;
Her younger rival’s freshest grace.

But ah, though peace indeed is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear;
Though nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow;
Yet is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth?
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eye so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes?
Because it has the hope to come,
One day, to harbour in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerbes and living breath⁠—
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep.
It hears a voice within it tell⁠—
“Calm’s not life’s crown, though calm is well.”
’Tis all perhaps which man acquires:
But ’tis not what our youth desires.

Tristram and Iseult22

I

Tristram

Tristram	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! What 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?
The Page	Iseult.
Tristram	Ah! not the Iseult I desire.

---

What Knight is this so weak and pale,
Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,
Propt on pillows in his bed,
Gazing seawards for the light
Of some ship that fights the gale
On this wild December night?
Over 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,
Famous in Arthur’s court of old:
I know him by his forest dress.
The peerless hunter, harper, knight⁠—
Tristram of Lyoness.

What Lady is this, whose silk attire
Gleams 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.
Her looks are mild, her fingers slight
As the driven snow are white;
But her cheeks are sunk and pale.
Is it that the bleak sea-gale
Beating from the Atlantic sea
On 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
Spinning 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?
Or, 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?
I 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,
Iseult of Brittany.

Iseult of Brittany?⁠—but where
Is that other Iseult fair,
That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen?
She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore
From Ireland to Cornwall bore,
To Tyntagel, to the side
Of King Marc, to be his bride?
She who, as they voyag’d, quaff’d
With Tristram that spic’d magic draught,
Which since then for ever rolls
Through their blood, and binds their souls,
Working love, but working teen?⁠—
There were two Iseults, who did sway
Each her hour of Tristram’s day;
But 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
Watches 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—
Does 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:
He is weak with fever and pain,
And his spirit is not clear.
Hark! he mutters in his sleep,
As he wanders far from here,
Changes place and time of year,
And his closèd eye doth sweep
O’er some fair unwintry sea,
Not this fierce Atlantic deep,
As he mutters brokenly⁠—

Tristram

The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails⁠— Before 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 shipboard this delicious day. Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee, And 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!⁠ ⁠…

---

Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!
Keep his eyelids! let him seem
Not this fever-wasted wight
Thinn’d and pal’d before his time,
But the brilliant youthful knight
In 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!
And she too, that princess fair,
If her bloom be now less rare,
Let her have her youth again⁠—
Let her be as she was then!
Let her have her proud dark eyes,
And 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.
As 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
The green isle where she was bred,
And her bower