Tristram of Lyonesse - VII - The Wifes Vigil

But all that year in Brittany forlorn,     More sick at heart with wrath than fear of scorn     And less in love with love than grief, and less     With grief than pride of spirit and bitterness,     Till all the sweet life of her blood was changed     And all her soul from all her past estranged     And all her will with all itself at strife     And all her mind at war with all her life,     Dwelt the white-handed Iseult, maid and wife,     A mourner that for mourning robes had on     Anger and doubt and hate of things foregone.     For that sweet spirit of old which made her sweet     Was parched with blasts of thought as flowers with heat     And withered as with wind of evil will;     Though slower than frosts or fires consume or kill     That bleak black wind vexed all her spirit still.     As ripples reddening in the roughening breath     Of the eager east when dawn does night to death,     So rose and stirred and kindled in her thought     Fierce barren fluctuant fires that lit not aught,     But scorched her soul with yearning keen as hate     And dreams that left her wrath disconsolate.     When change came first on that first heaven where all     Lifes hours were flowers that dawns light hand let fall,     The sun that smote her dewy cloud of days     Wrought from its showery folds his rainbows rays,     For love the red, for hope the gentle green,     But yellow jealousy glared pale between.     Ere yet the sky grew heavier, and her head     Bent flowerwise, chill with change and fancies fled,     She saw but love arch all her heaven across with red,     A burning bloom that seemed to breathe and beat     And waver only as flame with rapturous heat     Wavers; and all the world therewith smelt sweet,     As incense kindling from the rose-red flame:     And when that full flush waned, and love became     Scarce fainter, though his fading horoscope     From certitude of sight receded, hope     Held yet her April-coloured light aloft     As though to lure back love, a lamp sublime and soft.     But soon that light paled as a leaf grows pale     And fluttered leaf-like in the gathering gale     And melted even as dew-flakes, whose brief sheen     The sun that gave despoils of glittering green;     Till harder shone twixt hope and love grown cold     A sallow light like withering autumns gold,     The pale strong flame of jealous thought, that glows     More deep than hopes green bloom or loves enkindled rose:     As though the sunflowers faint fierce disk absorbed     The spirit and heart of starrier flowers disorbed.     That same full hour of twilights doors unbarred     To let bright night behold in Joyous Gard     The glad grave eyes of lovers far away     Watch with sweet thoughts of death the death of day     Saw lonelier by the narrower opening sea     Sit fixed at watch Iseult of Brittany.     As darkness from deep valleys void and bleak     Climbs till it clothe with night the sunniest peak     Where only of all a mystic mountain-land     Day seems to cling yet with a trembling hand     And yielding heart reluctant to recede,     So, till her soul was clothed with night indeed,     Rose the slow cloud of envious will within     And hardening hate that held itself no sin,     Veiled heads of vision, eyes of evil gleam,     Dim thought on thought, and darkling dream on dream.     Far off she saw in spirit, and seeing abhorred,     The likeness wrought on darkness of her lord     Shine, and the imperial semblance at his side     Whose shadow from her seat cast down the bride,     Whose power and ghostly presence thrust her forth:     Beside that unknown other sea far north     She saw them, clearer than in present sight     Rose on her eyes the starry shadow of night;     And on her heart that heaved with gathering fate     Rose red with storm the starless shadow of hate;     And eyes and heart made one saw surge and swell     The fires of sunset like the fires of hell.     As though Gods wrath would burn up sin with shame,     The incensed red gold of deepening heaven grew flame:     The sweet green spaces of the soft low sky     Faded, as fields that withering wind leaves dry:     The seas was like a doomsmans blasting breath     From lips afoam with ravenous lust of death.     A night like desolation, sombre-starred,     Above the great walled girth of Joyous Gard     Spread forth its wide sad strength of shadow and gloom     Wherein those twain were compassed round with doom:     Hell from beneath called on them, and she heard     Reverberate judgment in the wild winds word     Cry, till the sole sound of their names that rang     Clove all the sea-mist with a clarions clang,     And clouds to clouds and flames to clustering flames     Beat back the dark noise of the direful names.     Fear and strong exultation caught her breath,     And triumph like the bitterness of death,     And rapture like the rage of hate allayed     With ruin and ravin that its might hath made;     And her heart swelled and strained itself to hear     What may be heard of no mans hungering ear,     And as a soil that cleaves in twain for drouth     Thirsted for judgment given of Gods own mouth     Against them, till the strength of dark desire     Was in her as a flame of hells own fire.     Nor seemed the wrath which held her spirit in stress     Aught else or worse than passionate holiness,     Nor the ardent hate which called on judgments rod     More hateful than the righteousness of God.     How long, till thou do justice, and my wrong     Stand expiate? O long-suffering judge, how long?     Shalt thou not put him in mine hand one day     Whom I so loved, to spare not but to slay?     Shalt thou not cast her down for me to tread,     Me, on the pale pride of her humbled head?     Do I not well, being angry? doth not hell     Require them? yea, thou knowest that I do well.     Is not thy seal there set of bloodred light     For witness on the brows of day and night?     Who shall unseal it? what shall melt away     Thy signet from the doors of night and day?     No man, nor strength of any spirit above,     Nor prayer, nor ardours of adulterous love.     Thou art God, the strong lord over body and soul:     Hast thou not in the terrors of thy scroll     All names of all men written as with fire?     Thine only breath bids time and space respire:     And are not all things evil in them done     More clear in thine eyes than in ours the sun?     Hast thou not sight stretched wide enough to see     These that offend it, these at once and me?     Is thine arm shortened or thine hand struck down     As palsied? have thy brows not strength to frown?     Are thine eyes blind with film of withering age?     Burns not thine heart with righteousness of rage     Yet, and the royal rancour toward thy foes     Retributive of ruin? Time should close,     Thou saidst, and earth fade as a leaf grows grey,     Ere one word said of thine should pass away.     Was this then not thy word, thou God most high,     That sin shall surely bring forth death and die,     Seeing how these twain live and have joy of life,     His harlot and the man that made me wife?     For is it I, perchance, I that have sinned?     Me, peradventure, should thy wasting wind     Smite, and thy sun blast, and thy storms devour     Me with keen fangs of lightning? should thy power     Put forth on me the weight of its awakening hour?     Shall I that bear this burden bear that weight     Of judgment? is my sin against thee great,     If all my heart against them burn with all its hate?     Thine, and not mine, should hate be? nay, but me     They have spoiled and scoffed at, who can touch not thee.     Me, me, the fullness of their joy drains dry,     Their fruitfulness makes barren: thou, not I,     Lord, is it, whom their wrongdoing clothes with shame,     That all who speak shoot tongues out at thy name     As all who hear mock mine? Make me thy sword     At least, if even thou too be wronged, O Lord,     At all of these that wrong me: make mine hand     As lightning, or my tongue a fiery brand,     To burn or smite them with thy wrath: behold,     I have nought on earth save thee for hope or hold,     Fail me not thou: I have nought but this to crave,     Make me thy mean to give them to the grave,     Thy sign that all men seeing may speak thee just,     Thy word which turns the strengths of sin to dust,     Thy blast which burns up towers and thrones with fire.     Lord, is this gift, this grace that I require,     So great a gift, Lord, for thy grace to give     And bid me bear thy part retributive?     That I whom scorn makes mouths at, I might be     Thy witness if loud sin may mock at thee?     For lo, my life is as a barren ear     Plucked from the sheaf: dark days drive past me here     Downtrodden, while joys reapers pile their sheaves,     A thing more vile than autumns weariest leaves,     For these the sun filled once with sap of life.     O thou my lord that hadst me to thy wife,     Dost thou not fear at all, remembering me,     The love that bowed my whole soul down to thee?     Is this so wholly nought for man to dread,     Man, whose life walks between the quick and dead,     Naked, and warred about with wind and sea,     That one should love and hate as I do thee?     That one should live in all the world his foe     So mortal as the hate that loves him so?     Nought, is it nought, O husband, O my knight,     O strong man and indomitable in fight,     That one more weak than foam-bells on the sea     Should have in heart such thoughts as I of thee?     Thou art bound about with stately strengths for bands:     What strength shall keep thee from my strengthless hands?     Thou art girt about with goodly guards and great:     What fosse may fence thee round as deep as hate?     Thou art wise: will wisdom teach thee fear of me?     Thou art great of heart: shall this deliver thee?     What wall so massive, or what tower so high,     Shall be thy surety that thou shouldst not die,     If that which comes against thee be but I?     Who shall rise up of power to take thy part,     What skill find strength to save, what strength find art,     If that which wars against thee be my heart?     Not iron, nor the might of force afield,     Nor edge of sword, nor sheltering weight of shield,     Nor all thy fame since all thy praise began,     Nor all the love and laud thou hast of man,     Nor, though his noiseless hours with wool be shod,     Shall Gods love keep thee from the wrath of God.     O son of sorrows, hast thou said at heart,     Haply, God loves thee, God shall take thy part,     Who hath all these years endured thee, since thy birth     From sorrows womb bade sin be born on earth?     So long he hath cast his buckler over thee,     Shall he not surely guard thee even from me?     Yea, but if yet he give thee while I live     Into mine hands as he shall surely give,     Ere death at last bring darkness on thy face,     Call then on him, call not on me for grace,     Cast not away one prayer, one suppliant breath,     On me that commune all this while with death.     For I that was not and that was thy wife     Desire not but one hour of all thy life     Wherein to triumph till that hour be past;     But this mine hour I look for is thy last.     So mused she till the fire in sea and sky     Sank, and the northwest wind spake harsh on high,     And like the seas heart waxed her heart that heard,     Strong, dark, and bitter, till the keen winds word     Seemed of her own soul spoken, and the breath     All round her not of darkness, but of death.