Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 17

_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 n.o.ble head, Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward 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 l.u.s.tre 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, Pa.s.sing all her youthful hour Spinning with her maidens here, Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seawards many a league, From her lonely sh.o.r.e-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 voyaged, quaff'd With Tristram that spiced 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 closed eye doth sweep O'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; 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 ship-board this delicious day!_ _Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,_ _Reach 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!...

Ah, 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 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 in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand; Where the prince whom she must wed Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, High 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, And 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: "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 Of 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 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 What 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?

The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, Had 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!_"

Ah! 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, And instead thereof is seen Its winter, which endureth still-- Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, The flying leaves, the straining blast, And 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 The 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?

Haply in his dreams the wind Wafts him here, and lets him find The lovely orphan child again In her castle by the coast; The youngest, fairest chatelaine, Whom 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 Of that stranger-knight ill-starr'd, There gleam'd something, which recall'd The Tristram who in better days Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard-- Welcomed here, and here install'd, Tended 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, Without a word, without a tear.

--Ah! 'tis well he should retrace His tranquil life in this lone place; His gentle bearing at the side Of his timid youthful bride; His long rambles by the sh.o.r.e 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 In the woods, where the gleams play On the gra.s.s under the trees, Pa.s.sing the long summer's day Idle as a mossy stone In the forest-depths alone, The chase neglected, and his hound Couch'd beside him on the ground.

--Ah! what trouble's on his brow?

Hither let him wander now; Hither, to the quiet hours Pa.s.s'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, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows.

Upon us are the chivalry of Rome-- Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam.

"Up, Tristram, up," men cry, "thou moonstruck knight!

What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!"

--Above the din her voice is in my ears; I see her form glide through the crossing spears.-- Iseult!...