Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 19

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 lived 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!

What, thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled?

What, thou think'st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?

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!

Ah, on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown-- Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?

Vain and strange debate, where both have suffer'd Both have pa.s.s'd a youth consumed and sad, Both have brought their anxious day to evening, And have now short s.p.a.ce 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 prayer 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 G.o.d 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 his home with me doth make.

I am dying.--Start not, nor look wildly!

Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save.

But, since living we were ununited, Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave.

Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult; Speak her fair, she is of royal blood!

Say, I will'd so, that thou stay beside me-- She will grant it; she is kind and good.

Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee-- One last kiss upon the living sh.o.r.e!

_Iseult_

Tristram!--Tristram!--stay--receive me with thee!

Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more.

You see them clear--the moon shines bright.

Slow, slow and softly, where she stood, She sinks upon the ground;--her hood Had fallen back; her arms outspread Still hold her lover's hand; her head Is bow'd, half-buried, on the bed.

O'er the blanch'd sheet her raven hair Lies in disorder'd streams; and there, Strung like white stars, the pearls still are, And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, Flash on her white arms still.

The very same which yesternight Flash'd in the silver sconces' light, When the feast was gay and the laughter loud In Tyntagel's palace proud.

But then they deck'd a restless ghost With hot-flush'd cheeks and brilliant eyes, And quivering lips on which the tide Of courtly speech abruptly died, And a glance which over the crowded floor, The dancers, and the festive host, Flew ever to the door.

That the knights eyed her in surprise, And the dames whispered scoffingly: "Her moods, good lack, they pa.s.s like showers!

But yesternight and she would be As pale and still as wither'd flowers, And now to-night she laughs and speaks And has a colour in her cheeks; Christ keep us from such fantasy!"--

Yes, now the longing is o'erpast, Which, dogg'd by fear and fought by shame, Shook her weak bosom day and night, Consumed her beauty like a flame, And dimm'd it like the desert-blast.

And though the bed-clothes hide her face, Yet were it lifted to the light, The sweet expression of her brow Would charm the gazer, till his thought Erased 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 purest grace.

The air of the December-night Steals coldly around the chamber bright, Where those lifeless lovers be; Swinging with it, in the light Flaps the ghostlike tapestry.

And on the arras wrought you see A stately Huntsman, clad in green, And round him a fresh forest-scene.

On that clear forest-knoll he stays, With 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.

He gazes down into the room With 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?_ _And on his pillows that pale Knight_ _Who seems of marble on a tomb?_ _How comes it here, this chamber bright,_ _Through whose mullion'd windows clear_ _The castle-court all wet with rain,_ _The drawbridge and the moat appear,_ _And then the beach, and, mark'd with spray,_ _The sunken reefs, and far away_ _The unquiet bright Atlantic plain?_ _--What, has some glamour made me sleep,_ _And 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_ _That 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.

Cheer, cheer thy dogs into the brake, O Hunter! and without a fear Thy golden-ta.s.sell'd bugle blow, And through the glades thy pastime take-- For thou wilt rouse no sleepers here!

For these thou seest are unmoved; Cold, cold as those who lived and loved A thousand years ago.