Matthew Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum and Other Poems Part 7

_The Page_. The lanterns of the fis.h.i.+ng-boats at sea.

_Tristram_. Soft--who is that, stands by the dying fire?

_The Page_. Iseult. 8

_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, 10 Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the light Of some s.h.i.+p that fights the gale On this wild December night?

Over the sick man's feet is spread 15 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; 20 I know him by his forest-dress-- The peerless hunter, harper, knight, Tristram of Lyoness. 23 What Lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? 25 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 30 As the driven snow are white; 31 But her cheeks are sunk and pale.

Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea On this coast of Brittany, 35 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, 40 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 45 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, 50 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. 55

Iseult of Brittany?--but where Is that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall's queen?

She, whom Tristram's s.h.i.+p of yore From Ireland to Cornwall bore, 60 To Tyntagel, to the side 61 Of King Marc, to be his bride? 62 She who, as they voyaged, quaff'd With Tristram that spiced magic draught, Which since then for ever rolls 65 Through their blood, and binds their souls, Working love, but working teen?--. 67 There were two Iseults who did sway Each her hour of Tristram's day; But one possess'd his waning time, 70 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. 75 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? 80 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; 85 And his spirit is not clear.

Hark! he mutters in his sleep, As he wanders far from here, 88 Changes place and time of year, And his closed eye doth sweep 90 O'er some fair unwintry sea, 91 Not this fierce Atlantic deep, While he mutters brokenly:--

_Tristram_. The calm sea s.h.i.+nes, loose hang the vessel's sails; Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 95 And overhead the cloudless sky of May.-- _"Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, Not pent on s.h.i.+p-board this delicious day!

Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, Reach me my golden phial stands by thee, 100 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! 105 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, 110 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, 115 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-- 120 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, 125 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, 130 And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand Where the prince whom she must wed Dwells on loud Tyntagel's hill, 134 High above the sounding sea. 135 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-- 140 Let her, as she sits on board, Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly!

See it s.h.i.+ne, and take it up, And to Tristram laughing say: "Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 145 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, 150 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 155 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! 160

_Tristram_. Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear-- 161 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, 164 Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day! 165 _"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 170 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 175 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. 180 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, 185 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 190 Wafts him here, and lets him find The lovely orphan child again 192 In her castle by the coast; The youngest, fairest chatelaine, 194 Whom this realm of France can boast, 195 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, 200 There gleam'd something, which recall'd The Tristram who in better days Was Launcelot's guest at Joyous Gard-- 203 Welcomed here, and here install'd, 204 Tended of his fever here, 205 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. 210 --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 215 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 220 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 225 Couch'd beside him on the ground. 226 --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. 230 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. 235 Upon us are the chivalry of Rome-- Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. 237 "Up, Tristram, up," men cry, "thou moonstruck knight! 238 What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!" 239 --Above the din her voice is in my ears; 240 I see her form glide through the crossing spears.-- Iseult!...

Ah! he wanders forth again; 243 We cannot keep him; now, as then, There's a secret in his breast 245 Which will never let him rest.

These musing fits in the green wood They cloud the brain, they dull the blood!

--His sword is sharp, his horse is good; Beyond the mountains will he see 250 The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign 252 The heathen Saxons on the Rhine.

At Arthur's side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor. 255 There's many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care; The march, the leaguer, Heaven's blithe air, 258 The neighing steeds, the ringing blows-- Sick pining comes not where these are. 260 Ah! what boots it, that the jest 261 Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, If one's own heart beats not light 265 On the waves of the toss'd fight, If oneself cannot get free From the clog of misery?

Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea-tide 270 With her children at her side For the gleam of thy white sail.

Home, Tristram, to thy halls again!

To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain! 275

_Tristram_. All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade, But it is moonlight in the open glade; And in the bottom of the glade s.h.i.+ne clear The forest-chapel and the fountain near.

--I think, I have a fever in my blood; 280 Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood, Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood.

--Mild s.h.i.+nes the cold spring in the moon's clear light; G.o.d! 'tis _her_ face plays in the waters bright.

"Fair love," she says, "canst thou forget so soon, 285 At this soft hour under this sweet moon?"-- Iseult!...

Ah, poor soul! if this be so, Only death can balm thy woe.

The solitudes of the green wood 290 Had no medicine for thy mood; The rus.h.i.+ng battle clear'd thy blood As little as did solitude.

--Ah! his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake; 295 What new change shall we now see?

A happier? Worse it cannot be.

_Tristram_. Is my page here? Come, turn me to the fire!

Upon the window-panes the moon s.h.i.+nes bright; The wind is down--but she'll not come to-night. 300 Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now, Far hence; her dreams are fair--smooth is her brow Of me she recks not, nor my vain desire. 303

--I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page, Would take a score years from a strong man's age; 305 And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear, Scant leisure for a second messenger.

--My princess, art thou there? Sweet, do not wait!

To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by; To-night my page shall keep me company. 310 Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me!

Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I; This comes of nursing long and watching late.

To bed--good night! 314

She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 315 She came to the bed-side; She took his hands in hers--her tears Down on his wasted fingers rain'd.

She raised her eyes upon his face-- Not with a look of wounded pride, 320 A look as if the heart complained-- Her look was like a sad embrace; The gaze of one who can divine A grief, and sympathise.