Tristram of Lyonesse - IX - The Last Pilgrimage

Fate, that was born ere spirit and flesh were made,     The fire that fills mans life with light and shade;     The power beyond all godhead which puts on     All forms of multitudinous unison,     A raiment of eternal change inwrought     With shapes and hues more subtly spun than thought,     Where all things old bear fruit of all things new     And one deep chord throbs all the music through,     The chord of change unchanging, shadow and light     Inseparable as reverberate day from night;     Fate, that of all things save the soul of man     Is lord and God since body and soul began;     Fate, that keeps all the tune of things in chime;     Fate, that breathes power upon the lips of time;     That smites and soothes with heavy and healing hand     All joys and sorrows born in lifes dim land,     Till joy be found a shadow and sorrow a breath     And life no discord in the tune with death,     But all things fain alike to die and live     In pulse and lapse of tides alternative,     Through silence and through sound of peace and strife,     Till birth and death be one in sight of life;     Fate, heard and seen of no mans eyes or ears,     To no man shown through light of smiles or tears,     And moved of no mans prayer to fold its wings;     Fate, that is night and light on worldly things;     Fate, that is fire to burn and sea to drown,     Strength to build up and thunder to cast down;     Fate, shield and screen for each mans lifelong head,     And sword at last or dart that strikes it dead;     Fate, higher than heaven and deeper than the grave,     That saves and spares not, spares and doth not save;     Fate, that in gods wise is not bought and sold     For prayer or price of penitence or gold;     Whose law shall live when life bids earth farewell,     Whose justice hath for shadows heaven and hell;     Whose judgment into no gods hand is given,     Nor is its doom not more than hell or heaven:     Fate, that is pure of love and clean of hate,     Being equal-eyed as nought may be but fate;     Through many and weary days of foiled desire     Leads life to rest where tears no more take fire;     Through many and weary dreams of quenched delight     Leads life through death past sense of day and night.     Nor shall they feel or fear, whose date is done,     Aught that made once more dark the living sun     And bitterer in their breathing lips the breath     Than the dark dawn and bitter dust of death.     For all the light, with fragrance as of flowers,     That clothes the lithe live limbs of separate hours,     More sweet to savour and more clear to sight     Dawns on the soul deaths undivided night.     No vigils has that perfect night to keep,     No fever-fits of vision shake that sleep.     Nor if they wake, and any place there be     Wherein the soul may feel her wings beat free     Through air too clear and still for sound or strife     If life were haply death, and death be life;     If love with yet some lovelier laugh revive,     And song relume the light it bore alive,     And friendship, found of all earths gifts most good,     Stand perfect in perpetual brotherhood;     If aught indeed at all of all this be,     Though none might say nor any man might see,     Might he that sees the shade thereof not say     This dream were trustier than the truth of day.     Nor haply may not hope, with heart more clear,     Burn deathward, and the doubtful soul take cheer,     Seeing through the channelled darkness yearn a star     Whose eyebeams are not as the mornings are,     Transient, and subjugate of lordlier light,     But all unconquerable by noon or night,     Being kindled only of lifes own inmost fire,     Truth, stablished and made sure by strong desire,     Fountain of all things living, source and seed,     Force that perforce transfigures dream to deed,     God that begets on time, the body of death,     Eternity: nor may mans darkening breath,     Albeit it stain, disfigure or destroy     The glass wherein the soul sees life and joy     Only, with strength renewed and spirit of youth,     And brighter than the suns the body of Truth     Eternal, unimaginable of man,     Whose very face not Thoughts own eyes may scan,     But see far off his radiant feet at least,     Trampling the head of Fear, the false high priest,     Whose broken chalice foams with blood no more,     And prostrate on that high priests chancel floor,     Bruised, overthrown, blind, maimed, with bloodless rod,     The miscreation of his miscreant God.     That sovereign shadow cast of souls that dwell     In darkness and the prison-house of hell     Whose walls are built of deadly dread, and bound     The gates thereof with dreams as iron round,     And all the bars therein and stanchions wrought     Of shadow forged like steel and tempered thought     And words like swords and thunder-clouded creeds     And faiths more dire than sins most direful deeds:     That shade accursed and worshipped, which hath made     The soul of man that brought it forth a shade     Black as the womb of darkness, void and vain,     A throne for fear, a pasturage for pain,     Impotent, abject, clothed upon with lies,     A foul blind fume of words and prayers that rise,     Aghast and harsh, abhorrent and abhorred,     Fierce as its God, blood-saturate as its Lord;     With loves and mercies on its lips that hiss     Comfort, and kill compassion with a kiss,     And strike the world black with their blasting breath;     That ghost whose core of life is very death     And all its light of heaven a shadow of hell,     Fades, falls, wanes, withers by none other spell     But theirs whose eyes and ears have seen and heard     Not the face naked, not the perfect word,     But the bright sound and feature felt from far     Of life which feeds the spirit and the star,     Thrills the live light of all the suns that roll,     And stirs the still sealed springs of every soul.     Three dim days through, three slumberless nights long,     Perplexed at dawn, oppressed at evensong,     The strong mans soul now sealed indeed with pain,     And all its springs half dried with drought, had lain     Prisoner within the fleshly dungeon-dress     Sore chafed and wasted with its weariness.     And fain it would have found the star, and fain     Made this funereal prison-house of pain     A watch-tower whence its eyes might sweep, and see     If any place for any hope might be     Beyond the hells and heavens of sleep and strife,     Or any light at all of any life     Beyond the dense false darkness woven above,     And could not, lacking grace to look on love,     And in the third nights dying hour he spake,     Seeing scarce the seals that bound the dayspring break     And scarce the daystar burn above the sea:     O Ganhardine, my brother true to me,     I charge thee by those nights and days we knew     No great while since in England, by the dew     That bathed those nights with blessing, and the fire     That thrilled those days as music thrills a lyre,     Do now for me perchance the last good deed     That ever love may crave or life may need     Ere love lay life in ashes: take to thee     My ship that shows aloft against the sea     Carved on her stem the semblance of a swan,     And ere the waves at even again wax wan     Pass, if it may be, to my ladys land,     And give this ring into her secret hand,     And bid her think how hard on death I lie,     And fain would look upon her face and die.     But as a merchants laden be the bark     With royal ware for fraughtage, that King Mark     May take for toll thereof some costly thing;     And when this gift finds grace before the king,     Choose forth a cup, and put therein my ring     Where sureliest only of one it may be seen,     And bid her handmaid bear it to the queen     For earnest of thine homage: then shall she     Fear, and take counsel privily with thee,     To know what errand there is thine from me     And what my need in secret of her sight.     But make thee two sails, one like sea-foam white     To spread for signal if thou bring her back,     And if she come not see the sail be black,     That I may know or ever thou take land     If these my lips may die upon her hand     Or hers may never more be mixed with mine.     And his heart quailed for grief in Ganhardine,     Hearing; and all his brother bade he swore     Surely to do, and straight fare forth from shore.     But the white-handed Iseult hearkening heard     All, and her heart waxed hot, and every word     Thereon seemed graven and printed in her thought     As lines with fire and molten iron wrought.     And hard within her heavy heart she cursed     Both, and her life was turned to fiery thirst,     And all her soul was hunger, and its breath     Of hope and life a blast of raging death.     For only in hope of evil was her life.     So bitter burned within the unchilded wife     A virgin lust for vengeance, and such hate     Wrought in her now the fervent work of fate.     Then with a south-west wind the Swan set forth,     And over wintering waters bore to north,     And round the wild lands windy westward end     Up the blown channel bade her bright way bend     East on toward high Tintagel: where at dark     Landing, fair welcome found they of King Mark,     And Ganhardine with Brangwain as of old     Spake, and she took the cup of chiselled gold     Wherein lay secret Tristrams trothplight ring,     And bare it unbeholden of the king     Even to her ladys hand, which hardly took     A gift whereon a queens eyes well might look,     With grace forlorn of weary gentleness.     But, seeing, her life leapt in her, keen to guess     The secret of the symbol: and her face     Flashed bright with blood whence all its grief-worn grace     Took fire and kindled to the quivering hair.     And in the dark soft hour of starriest air     Thrilled through with sense of midnight, when the world     Feels the wide wings of sleep about it furled,     Down stole the queen, deep-muffled to her wan     Mute restless lips, and came where yet the Swan     Swung fast at anchor: whence by starlight she     Hoised snowbright sails, and took the glimmering sea.     But all the long night long more keen and sore     His wounds grief waxed in Tristram evermore,     And heavier always hung his heart asway     Between dim fear and clouded hope of day.     And still with face and heart at silent strife     Beside him watched the maiden called his wife,     Patient, and spake not save when scarce he spake,     Murmuring with sense distraught and spirit awake     Speech bitterer than the words thereof were sweet:     And hatred thrilled her to the hands and feet,     Listening: for alway back reiterate came     The passionate faint burden of her name.     Nor ever through the labouring lips astir     Came any word of any thought of her.     But the soul wandering struggled and clung hard     Only to dreams of joy in Joyous Gard     Or wildwood nights beside the Cornish strand,     Or Merlins holier sleep here hard at hand     Wrapped round with deep soft spells in dim Broceliande.     And with such thirst as joys drained wine-cup leaves     When fear to hope as hope to memory cleaves     His soul desired the dewy sense of leaves,     The soft green smell of thickets drenched with dawn.     The faint slot kindling on the fiery lawn     As days first hour made keen the spirit again     That lured and spurred on quest his hound Hodain,     The breeze, the bloom, the splendour and the sound,     That stung like fire the hunter and the hound,     The pulse of wind, the passion of the sea,     The rapture of the woodland: then would he     Sigh, and as one that fain would all be dead     Heavily turn his heavy-laden head     Back, and close eyes for comfort, finding none.     And fain he would have died or seen the sun,     Being sick at heart of darkness: yet afresh     Began the long strong strife of spirit and flesh     And branching pangs of thought whose branches bear     The bloodred fruit whose core is black, despair.     And the wind slackened and again grew great,     Palpitant as mens pulses palpitate     Between the flowing and ebbing tides of fate     That wash their lifelong waifs of weal and woe     Through night and light and twilight to and fro.     Now as a pulse of hope its heartbeat throbbed,     Now like one stricken shrank and sank and sobbed,     Then, yearning as with child of death, put forth     A wail that filled the night up south and north     With woful sound of waters: and he said,     So might the wind wail if the world were dead     And its wings wandered over nought but sea.     I would I knew she would not come to me,     For surely she will come not: then should I,     Once knowing I shall not look upon her, die.     I knew not life could so long breathe such breath     As I do. Nay, what grief were this, if death,     The sole sure friend of whom the whole world saith     He lies not, nor hath ever this been said,     That death would heal not griefif death were dead     And all ways closed whence grief might pass with life!     Then softly spake his watching virgin wife     Out of her heart, deep down below her breath:     Fear not but death shall comeand after death     Judgment. And he that heard not answered her,     SayingAh, but one there was, if truth not err,     For true mens trustful tongues have said itone     Whom these mine eyes knew living while the sun     Looked yet upon him, and mine own ears heard     The deep sweet sound once of his godlike word     Who sleeps and dies not, but with soft live breath     Takes always all the deep delight of death,     Through loves gift of a woman: but for me     Loves hand is not the hand of Nimue,     Loves word no still smooth murmur of the dove,     No kiss of peace for me the kiss of love.     Nor, whatsoeer thy lifes love ever give,     Dear, shall it ever bid me sleep or live;     Nor from thy brows and lips and living breast     As his from Nimues shall my soul take rest;     Not rest but unrest hath our long love given     Unrest on earth that wins not rest in heaven.     What rest may we take ever? what have we     Had ever more of peace than has the sea?     Has not our life been as a wind that blows     Through lonelier lands than rear the wild white rose     That each year sees requickened, but for us     Time once and twice hath here or there done thus     And left the next year following empty and bare?     What rose hath our last years rose left for heir,     What wine our last years vintage? and to me     More were one fleet forbidden sense of thee,     One perfume of thy present grace, one thought     Made truth one hour, ere all mine hours be nought,     One very word, breath, look, sign, touch of hand,     Than all the green leaves in Broceliande     Full of sweet sound, full of sweet wind and sun;     O God, thou knowest I would no more but one,     I would no more but once more ere I die     Find thus much mercy. Nay, but then were I     Happier than he whom there thy grace hath found,     For thine it must be, this that wraps him round,     Thine only, albeit a fiends force gave him birth,     Thine that has given him heritage on earth     Of slumber-sweet eternity to keep     Fast in soft hold of everliving sleep.     Happier were I, more sinful man, than he,     Whom one love-worthier then than Nimue     Should with a breath make blest among the dead.     And the wan wedded maiden answering said,     Soft as hate speaks within itself apart:     Surely ye shall not, ye that rent mine heart,     Being one in sin, in punishment be twain.     And the great knight that heard not spake again     And sighed, but sweet thought of sweet things gone by     Kindled with fire of joy the very sigh     And touched it through with rapture: Ay, this were     How much more than the sun and sunbright air,     How much more than the springtide, how much more     Than sweet strong sea-wind quickening wave and shore     With one divine pulse of continuous breath,     If she might kiss me with the kiss of death,     And make the light of life by deaths look dim!     And the white wedded virgin answered him,     Inwardly, wan with hurt no herb makes whole:     Yea surely, ye whose sin hath slain my soul,     Surely your own souls shall have peace in death     And pass with benediction in their breath     And blessing given of mine their sin hath slain.     And Tristram with sore yearning spake again,     Saying: Yea, might this thing once be, how should I,     With all my soul made one thanksgiving, die,     And pass before what judgment-seat may be,     And cry, Lord, now do all thou wilt with me,     Take all thy fill of justice, work thy will;     Though all thy heart of wrath have all its fill,     My heart of suffering shall endure, and say,     For that thou gavest me living yesterday     I bless thee though thou curse me. Ay, and well     Might one cast down into the gulf of hell,     Remembering this, take heart and thank his fate     That God, whose doom now scourges him with hate     Once, in the wild and whirling world above,     Bade mercy kiss his dying lips with love.     But if this come not, then he doth me wrong.     For what hath love done, all this long life long     That death should trample down his poor last prayer     Who prays not for forgiveness? Though love were     Sin dark as hate, have we not here that sinned     Suffered? has that been less than wintry wind     Wherewith our love lies blasted? O mine own,     O mine and no mans yet save mine alone,     Iseult! what ails thee that I lack so long     All of thee, all things thine for which I long?     For more than watersprings to shadeless sands,     More to me were the comfort of her hands     Touched once, and more than rays that set and rise     The glittering arrows of her glorious eyes,     More to my sense than fire to dead cold air     The wind and light and odour of her hair,     More to my soul than summers to the south     The mute clear music of her amorous mouth,     And to my hearts heart more than heavens great rest     The fullness of the fragrance of her breast.     Iseult, Iseult, what grace hath life to give     More than we twain have had of life, and live?     Iseult, Iseult, what grace may death not keep     As sweet for us to win of death, and sleep?     Come therefore, let us twain pass hence and try     If it be better not to live but die,     With love for lamp to light us out of life.     And on that word his wedded maiden wife,     Pale as the moon in star-forsaken skies     Ere the sun fill them, rose with set strange eyes     And gazed on him that saw not: and her heart     Heaved as a mans death-smitten with a dart     That smites him sleeping, warm and full of life:     So toward her lord that was not looked his wife,     His wife that was not: and her heart within     Burnt bitter like an aftertaste of sin     To one whose memory drinks and loathes the lee     Of shame or sorrow deeper than the sea:     And no fear touched him of her eyes above     And ears that hoarded each poor word whence love     Made sweet the broken music of his breath.     Iseult, my life that wast and art my death,     My life in life that hast been, and that art     Death in my death, sole wound that cleaves mine heart,     Mine heart that else, how spent soeer, were whole,     Breath of my spirit and anguish of my soul,     How can this be that hence thou canst not hear,     Being but by space divided? One is here,     But one of twain I looked at once to see;     Shall death keep time and thou not keep with me?     And the white married maiden laughed at heart,     Hearing, and scarce with lips at all apart     Spake, and as fire between them was her breath;     Yea, now thou liest not: yea, for I am death.     By this might eyes that watched without behold     Deep in the gulfs of aching air acold     The roses of the dawning heaven that strew     The low soft suns way ere his power shine through     And burn them up with fire: but far to west     Had sunk the dead moon on the live seas breast,     Slain as with bitter fear to see the sun:     And eastward was a strong bright wind begun     Between the clouds and waters: and he said,     Seeing hardly through dark dawn her doubtful head,     Iseult? and like a death-bell faint and clear     The virgin voice rang answerI am here.     And his heart sprang, and sank again: and she     Spake, saying, What would my knightly lord with me?     And Tristram: Hath my lady watched all night     Beside me, and I knew not? God requite     Her love for comfort shown a man nigh dead.     Yea, God shall surely guerdon it, she said,     Who hath kept me all my days through to this hour.     And Tristram: God alone hath grace and power     To pay such grace toward one unworthier shown     Than ever durst, save only of God alone,     Crave pardon yet and comfort, as I would     Crave now for charity if my heart were good,     But as a cowards it fails me, even for shame.     Then seemed her face a pale funereal flame     That burns down slow by midnight, as she said:     Speak, and albeit thy bidding spake me dead,     Gods love renounce me if it were not done.     And Tristram: When the sea-line takes the sun     That now should be not far off sight from far,     Look if there come not with the morning star     My ship bound hither from the northward back,     And if the sail be white thereof or black.     And knowing the soothfast sense of his desire     So sore the heart within her raged like fire     She could not wring forth of her lips a word,     But bowing made sign how humbly had she heard.     And the sign given made light his heart; and she     Set her face hard against the yearning sea     Now all athirst with trembling trust of hope     To see the sudden gates of sunrise ope;     But thirstier yearned the heart whose fiery gate     Lay wide that vengeance might come in to hate.     And Tristram lay at thankful rest, and thought     Now surely life nor death could grieve him aught,     Since past was now lifes anguish as a breath,     And surely past the bitterness of death.     For seeing he had found at these her hands this grace,     It could not be but yet some breathing-space     Might leave him life to look again on loves own face.     Since if for deaths sake, in his heart he said,     Even she take pity upon me quick or dead,     How shall not even from Gods hand be compassion shed?     For night bears dawn, how weak soeer and wan,     And sweet ere death, men fable, sings the swan.     So seems the Swan my signal from the sea     To sound a song that sweetens death to me     Clasped round about with radiance from above     Of dawn, and closer clasped on earth by love.     Shall all things brighten, and this my sign be dark?     And high from heaven suddenly rang the lark,     Triumphant; and the far first refluent ray     Filled all the hollow darkness full with day.     And on the deep skys verge a fluctuant light     Gleamed, grew, shone, strengthened into perfect sight,     As bowed and dipped and rose again the sails clear white.     And swift and steadfast as a sea-mews wing     It neared before the wind, as fain to bring     Comfort, and shorten yet its narrowing track.     And she that saw looked hardly toward him back,     Saying, Ay, the ship comes surely; but her sail is black.     And fain he would have sprung upright, and seen,     And spoken: but strong death struck sheer between,     And darkness closed as iron round his head:     And smitten through the heart lay Tristram dead.     And scarce the word had flown abroad, and wail     Risen, ere to shoreward came the snowbright sail,     And lightly forth leapt Ganhardine on land,     And led from ship with swift and reverent hand     Iseult: and round them up from all the crowd     Broke the great wail for Tristram out aloud.     And ere her ear might hear her heart had heard,     Nor sought she sign for witness of the word;     But came and stood above him newly dead,     And felt his death upon her: and her head     Bowed, as to reach the spring that slakes all drouth;     And their four lips became one silent mouth.     So came their hour on them that were in life     Tristram and Iseult: so from love and strife     The stroke of loves own hand felt last and best     Gave them deliverance to perpetual rest.     So, crownless of the wreaths that life had wound,     They slept, with flower of tenderer comfort crowned;     From bondage and the fear of time set free,     And all the yoke of space on earth and sea     Cast as a curb for ever: nor might now     Fear and desire bid soar their souls or bow,     Lift up their hearts or break them: doubt nor grief     More now might move them, dread nor disbelief     Touch them with shadowy cold or fiery sting,     Nor sleepless languor with its weary wing,     Nor harsh estrangement, born of times vain breath,     Nor change, a darkness deeper far than death.     And round the sleep that fell around them then     Earth lies not wrapped, nor records wrought of men     Rise up for timeless token: but their sleep     Hath round it like a raiment all the deep;     No change or gleam or gloom of sun and rain,     But all time long the might of all the main     Spread round them as round earth soft heaven is spread,     And peace more strong than death round all the dead.     For death is of an hour, and after death     Peace: nor for aught that fear or fancy saith,     Nor even for very loves own sake, shall strife     Perplex again that perfect peace with life.     And if, as men that mourn may deem or dream,     Rest haply here than there might sweeter seem,     And sleep, that lays one hand on all, more good     By some sweet graves grace given of wold or wood     Or clear high glen or sunbright wind-worn down     Than where life thunders through the trampling town     With daylong feet and nightlong overhead,     What grave may cast such grace round any dead,     What so sublime sweet sepulchre may be     For all that life leaves mortal, as the sea?     And these, rapt forth perforce from earthly ground,     These twain the deep sea guards, and girdles round     Their sleep more deep than any seas gulf lies,     Though changeless with the change in shifting skies,     Nor mutable with seasons: for the grave     That held them once, being weaker than a wave,     The waves long since have buried: though their tomb     Was royal that by ruths relenting doom     Men gave them in Tintagel: for the word     Took wing which thrilled all piteous hearts that heard     The word wherethrough their lifelong lot stood shown,     And when the long sealed springs of fate were known,     The blind bright innocence of lips that quaffed     Love, and the marvel of the mastering draught,     And all the fraughtage of the fateful bark,     Loud like a child upon them wept King Mark,     Seeing round the swords hilt which long since had fought     For Cornwalls love a scroll of writing wrought,     A scripture writ of Tristrams hand, wherein     Lay bare the sinless source of all their sin,     No choice of will, but chance and sorcerous art,     With prayer of him for pardon: and his heart     Was molten in him, wailing as he kissed     Each with the kiss of kinshipHad I wist,     Ye had never sinned nor died thus, nor had I     Borne in this doom that bade you sin and die     So sore a part of sorrow. And the king     Built for their tomb a chapel bright like spring     With flower-soft wealth of branching tracery made     Fair as the frondage each fleet year sees fade,     That should not fall till many a year were done.     There slept they wedded under moon and sun     And change of stars: and through the casements came     Midnight and noon girt round with shadow and flame     To illume their grave or veil it: till at last     On these things too was doom as darkness cast:     For the strong sea hath swallowed wall and tower,     And where their limbs were laid in woful hour     For many a fathom gleams and moves and moans     The tide that sweeps above their coffined bones     In the wrecked chancel by the shivered shrine:     Nor where they sleep shall moon or sunlight shine     Nor man look down for ever: none shall say,     Here once, or here, Tristram and Iseult lay:     But peace they have that none may gain who live,     And rest about them that no love can give,     And over them, while death and life shall be,     The light and sound and darkness of the sea.