Iseult Of Brittany

A year had flown, and oer the sea away,     In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay;     In King Marcs chapel, in Tyntagel old     There in a ship they bore those lovers cold.     The young surviving Iseult, one bright day,     Had wanderd forth. Her children were at play     In a green circular hollow in the heath     Which borders the sea-shore a country path     Creeps over it from the tilld fields behind.     The hollows grassy banks are soft-inclined,     And to one standing on them, far and near     The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear     Over the waste. This cirque of open ground     Is light and green; the heather, which all round     Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass     Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiverd mass     Of veind white-gleaming quartz, and here and there     Dotted with holly-trees and juniper.     In the smooth centre of the opening stood     Three hollies side by side, and made a screen,     Warm with the winter-sun, of burnishd green     With scarlet berries gemmd, the fell-fares food.     Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands,     Watching her children play; their little hands     Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams     Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams     Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound     Among the holly-clumps and broken ground,     Racing full speed, and startling in their rush     The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush     Out of their glossy coverts; but when now     Their cheeks were flushd, and over each hot brow,     Under the featherd hats of the sweet pair,     In blinding masses showerd the golden hair     Then Iseult calld them to her, and the three     Clusterd under the holly-screen, and she     Told them an old-world Breton history.          Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there,     Under the hollies, in the clear still air     Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering     Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring.     Long they stayd still then, pacing at their ease,     Moved up and down under the glossy trees.     But still, as they pursued their warm dry road,     From Iseults lips the unbroken story flowd,     And still the children listend, their blue eyes     Fixd on their mothers face in wide surprise;     Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side,     Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide,     Nor to the snow, which, though twas all away     From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay,     Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams     Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams,     Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear,     The fell-fares settled on the thickets near.     And they would still have listend, till dark night     Came keen and chill down on the heather bright;     But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold,     And the grey turrets of the castle old     Lookd sternly through the frosty evening-air,     Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair,     And brought her tale to an end, and found the path,     And led them home over the darkening heath.          And is she happy? Does she see unmovd     The days in which she might have lived and loved     Slip without bringing bliss slowly away,     One after one, to-morrow like to-day?     Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will     Is it this thought which makes her mien so still,     Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,     So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet     Her childrens? She moves slow; her voice alone     Hath yet an infantine and silver tone.     But even that comes languidly; in truth,     She seems one dying in a mask of youth.     And now she will go home, and softly lay     Her laughing children in their beds, and play     Awhile with them before they sleep; and then     Shell light her silver lamp, which fishermen     Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar,     Along this iron coast, know like a star,     And take her broidery-frame, and there shell sit     Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it;     Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind     Her children, or to listen to the wind.     And when the clock peals midnight, she will move     Her work away, and let her fingers rove     Across the shaggy brows of Tristrams hound     Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;     Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes     Fixt, her slight hands claspd on her lap; then rise,     And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told     Her rosary-beads of ebony tippd with gold,     Then to her soft sleep and to-morrowll be     To-days exact repeated effigy.          Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.     The children, and the grey-haird seneschal,     Her women, and Sir Tristrams aged hound,     Are there the sole companions to be found.     But these she loves; and noisier life than this     She would find ill to bear, weak as she is.     She has her children, too, and night and day     Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play,     The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore,     The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails,     These are to her dear as to them; the tales     With which this day the children she beguiled     She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child,     In every hut along this sea-coast wild.     She herself loves them still, and, when they are told,     Can forget all to hear them, as of old.          Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear,     Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear     To all that has delighted them before,     And lets us be what we were once no more.     No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain     Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,     By what of old pleased us, and will again.     No, tis the gradual furnace of the world,     In whose hot air our spirits are upcurld     Until they crumble, or else grow like steel     Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring     Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel,     But takes away the power this can avail,     By drying up our joy in everything,     To make our former pleasures all seem stale.     This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit     Of passion, which subdues our souls to it,     Till for its sake alone we live and move     Call it ambition, or remorse, or love     This too can change us wholly, and make seem     All which we did before, shadow and dream.          And yet, I swear, it angers me to see     How this fool passion gulls men potently;     Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest,     And an unnatural overheat at best.     How they are full of languor and distress     Not having it; which when they do possess,     They straightway are burnt up with fume and care,     And spend their lives in posting here and there     Where this plague drives them; and have little ease,     Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.     Like that bald Caesar, the famed Roman wight,     Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight     Who made a name at younger years than he;     Or that renownd mirror of chivalry,     Prince Alexander, Philips peerless son,     Who carried the great war from Macedon     Into the Soudans realm, and thundered on     To die at thirty-five in Babylon.          What tale did Iseult to the children say,     Under the hollies, that bright winters day?          She told them of the fairy-haunted land     Away the other side of Brittany,     Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea;     Of the deep forest-glades of Broceliande,     Through whose green boughs the golden sunshine creeps,     Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.     For here he came with the fay Vivian,     One April, when the warm days first began.     He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend,     On her white palfrey; here he met his end,     In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.     This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay     Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear     Before the childrens fancy him and her.          Blowing between the stems, the forest-air     Had loosend the brown locks of Vivians hair,     Which playd on her flushd cheek, and her blue eyes     Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.     Her palfreys flanks were mired and bathed in sweat,     For they had travelld far and not stoppd yet.     A brier in that tangled wilderness     Had scored her white right hand, which she allows     To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress;     The other warded off the drooping boughs.     But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes     Fixd full on Merlins face, her stately prize.     Her haviour had the mornings fresh clear grace,     The spirit of the woods was in her face.     She lookd so witching fair, that learned wight     Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight;     And he grew fond, and eager to obey     His mistress, use her empire as she may.          They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day     Peerd twixt the stems; and the ground broke away,     In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook;     And up as high as where they stood to look     On the brooks farther side was clear, but then     The underwood and trees began again.     This open glen was studded thick with thorns     Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns,     Through last years fern, of the shy fallow-deer     Who come at noon down to the water here.     You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along     Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong     The blackbird whistled from the dingles near,     And the weird chipping of the woodpecker     Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair,     And a fresh breath of spring stirrd everywhere.     Merlin and Vivian stoppd on the slopes brow,     To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough     Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild,     As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.     Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here     The grass was dry and mossd, and you saw clear     Across the hollow; white anemonies     Starrd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses     Ran out from the dark underwood behind.     No fairer resting-place a man could find.     Here let us halt, said Merlin then; and she     Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.          They sate them down together, and a sleep     Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.     Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose,     And from her brown-lockd head the wimple throws,     And takes it in her hand, and waves it over     The blossomd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.     Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round,     And made a little plot of magic ground.     And in that daisied circle, as men say,     Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day;     But she herself whither she will can rove,     For she was passing weary of his love.