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,
And his spirit is not clear.
Hark! he mutters in his sleep,
As he wanders far from here,
Changes place and time of year,
And his closèd eye doth sweep
O'er some fair unwintry sea,
Not this fierce Atlantic deep,
While he mutters brokenly,—
TRISTRAM.
The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel's sails;
Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales,
And overhead the cloudless sky of May.
"Ah! would I were in those green fields at play,
Not pent on shipboard this delicious day!
Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,
Reach me my golden cup that stands by thee,
But pledge me in it first for courtesy."
Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanched like mine?
Child, 'tis no water this, 'tis poisoned wine!
Iseult!...
········
Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!
Keep his eyelids; let him seem
Not this fever-wasted wight
Thinned and paled before his time,
But the brilliant youthful knight
