Arnold, Tristram and Iseult

Gazing seaward for the light TRISTRAM AND ISEULT Of some ship that fights the gale BY MATTHEW ARNOLD (1852) On this wild December night? Over the sick man’s feet is spread A dark green forest-dress; I: Tristram A gold harp leans against the bed, Ruddy in the fire’s light. Tristram 20 I know him by his harp of gold, Famous in Arthur’s court of old; I know him by his forest-dress— Is she not come? The messenger was sure. The peerless hunter, harper, knight, Prop me upon the pillows once again— Tristram of Lyoness. Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure. —Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane! What lights will those out to the northward be? What Lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? The Page The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. With the clasp of burnish’d gold Which her heavy robe doth hold. Tristram 30 Her looks are mild, her fingers slight As the driven snow are white; Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire? But her cheeks are sunk and pale. The Page Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea Iseult. On this coast of Brittany, Nips too keenly the sweet flower? Tristram Is it that a deep fatigue Hath come on her, a chilly fear, Ah! not the Iseult I desire. Passing all her youthful hour 40 Spinning with her maidens here, * * * Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seawards many a league, 10 What Knight is this so weak and pale, From her lonely shore-built tower, Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head, While the knights are at the wars? Propt on pillows in his bed, MATTHEW ARNOLD, “TRISTRAM AND ISEULT” 2 Or, perhaps, has her young heart One such kiss as those of yore Felt already some deeper smart, Might thy dying knight restore! Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, Does the love-draught work no more? Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair? 80 Art thou cold, or false, or dead, Who is this snowdrop by the sea?— Iseult of Ireland? 50 I know her by her mildness rare, Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; * * * I know her by her rich silk dress, And her fragile loveliness— Loud howls the wind, sharp patters the rain, The sweetest Christian soul alive, And the knight sinks back on his pillows again. Iseult of Brittany. He is weak with fever and pain, And his spirit is not clear. Hark! he mutters in his sleep, Iseult of Brittany?—but where As he wanders far from here, Is that other Iseult fair, Changes place and time of year, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen? And his closéd eye doth sweep She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore 90 O’er some fair unwintry sea, From Ireland to Cornwall bore, Not this fierce Atlantic deep, 60 To Tyntagel, to the side While he mutters brokenly:— Of King Marc, to be his bride? She who, as they voyaged, quaff’d Tristram With Tristram that spiced magic draught, Which since then for ever rolls The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails; Through their blood, and binds their souls, Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, Working love, but working teen?— And overhead the cloudless sky of May.— There were two Iseults who did sway “Ah, would I were in those green fields at play, Each her hour of Tristram’s day; Not pent on ship-board this delicious day! But one possess’d his waning time, Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy, 70 The other his resplendent prime. Reach me my golden phial stands by thee, Behold her here, the patient flower, 100 But pledge me in it first for courtesy.—” Who possess’d his darker hour! Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch’d like mine? Iseult of the Snow-White Hand Child, ’tis no true draught this, ’tis poison’d wine! Watches pale by Tristram’s bed. Iseult! . She is here who had his gloom, Where art thou who hadst his bloom? * * * MATTHEW ARNOLD, “TRISTRAM AND ISEULT” 3 Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! And for ever love each other— Keep his eyelids! let him seem 140 Let her, as she sits on board, Not this fever-wasted wight Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly! Thinn’d and paled before his time, See it shine, and take it up, But the brilliant youthful knight And to Tristram laughing say: In the glory of his prime, “Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 110 Sitting in the gilded barge, Pledge me in my golden cup!” At thy side, thou lovely charge, Let them drink it—let their hands Bending gaily o’er thy hand, Tremble, and their cheeks be flame, Iseult of Ireland! As they feel the fatal bands And she too, that princess fair, Of a love they dare not name, If her bloom be now less rare, 150 With a wild delicious pain, Let her have her youth again— Twine about their hearts again! Let her be as she was then! Let the early summer be Let her have her proud dark eyes, Once more round them, and the sea And her petulant quick replies— Blue, and o’er its mirror kind 120 Let her sweep her dazzling hand Let the breath of the May-wind, With its gesture of command, Wandering through their drooping sails, And shake back her raven hair Die on the green fields of Wales! With the old imperious air! Let a dream like this restore As of old, so let her be, What his eye must see no more! That first Iseult, princess bright, Chatting with her youthful knight Tristram As he steers her o’er the sea, Quitting at her father’s will 160 Chill blows the wind, the pleasaunce-walks are drear— The green isle where she was bred, Madcap, what jest was this, to meet me here? Were feet like those made for so wild a way? 130 And her bower in Ireland, For the surge-beat Cornish strand; The southern winter-parlour, by my fay, Where the prince whom she must wed Had been the likeliest trysting-place to-day! Dwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill “Tristram!—nay, nay—thou must not take my hand!— High above the sounding sea. Tristram!—sweet love!—we are betray’d—out-plann’d. And that potion rare her mother Fly—save thyself—save me!—I dare not stay.”— Gave her, that her future lord, One last kiss first!—“’Tis vain—to horse—away!” Gave her, that King Marc and she, * * * Might drink it on their marriage-day, MATTHEW ARNOLD, “TRISTRAM AND ISEULT” 4 Ah! sweet saints, his dream doth move Tended of his fever here, 170 Faster surely than it should, Haply he seems again to move From the fever in his blood! His young guardian’s heart with love; All the spring-time of his love In his exiled loneliness, Is already gone and past, In his stately, deep distress, And instead thereof is seen Without a word, without a tear. Its winter, which endureth still— 210 —Ah! ’tis well he should retrace Tyntagel on its surge-beat hill, His tranquil life in this lone place; The pleasaunce-walks, the weeping queen, His gentle bearing at the side The flying leaves, the straining blast, Of his timid youthful bride; And that long, wild kiss—their last. His long rambles by the shore 180 And this rough December-night, On winter-evenings, when the roar And his burning fever-pain, Of the near waves came, sadly grand, Mingle with his hurrying dream, Through the dark, up the drown’d sand, Till they rule it, till he seem Or his endless reveries The press’d fugitive again, In the woods, where the gleams play The love-desperate banish’d knight 220 On the grass under the trees, With a fire in his brain Passing the long summer’s day Flying o’er the stormy main. Idle as a mossy stone —Whither does he wander now? In the forest-depths alone, Haply in his dreams the wind The chase neglected, and his hound 190 Wafts him here, and lets him find Couch’d beside him on the ground. The lovely orphan child again —Ah! what trouble’s on his brow? In her castle by the coast; Hither let him wander now; The youngest, fairest chatelaine, Hither, to the quiet hours Whom this realm of France can boast, Pass’d among these heaths of ours Our snowdrop by the Atlantic sea, 230 By the grey Atlantic sea; Iseult of Brittany. Hours, if not of ecstasy, And—for through the haggard air, From violent anguish surely free! The stain’d arms, the matted hair Of that stranger-knight ill-starr’d, Tristram 200 There gleam’d something, which recall’d The Tristram who in better days All red with blood the whirling river flows, Was Launcelot’s guest at Joyous Gard— The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. Welcomed here, and here install’d, Upon us are the chivalry of Rome— MATTHEW ARNOLD, “TRISTRAM AND ISEULT” 5 Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale “Up, Tristram, up,” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight! Watching by the salt sea-tide What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!” 270 With her children at her side —Above the din her voice is in my ears; For the gleam of thy white sail.

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