Poetry

nursing long and watching late.
To bed⁠—good night!

---

She left the gleam-lit fireplace,
She came to the bedside.
She took his hands in hers: her tears
Down on her slender fingers rain’d.
She rai’ed her eyes upon his face⁠—
Not with a look of wounded pride,
A look as if the heart complain’d:⁠—
Her look was like a sad embrace;
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathize.
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 clos’d,
The lashes on the cheeks repos’d.
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 chas’d
The butterflies 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 illumin’d 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 moonbeams.
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: I was bound, 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 dar’d 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, for the 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! 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; 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. Sit⁠—sit by me: I will think, we’ve liv’d 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. Ah, it lives, because so deep suppress’d. Royal state with Marc, my deep-wrong’d husband⁠— That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! Silken courtiers whispering honied nothings⁠— Those were friends to make me false to thee! What, thou think’st, men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consol’d? What, thou think’st, this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanc’d, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown, Thee, a weeping 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 constrain’d and sad; Both 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, 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 grief before the Virgin Mother, Rouse no anger, make no rivals more. She 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. 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.
Tristram	I am happy: yet I feel, there’s something Swells my heart, and takes my breath away: Through 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! 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. “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. Grief since then