ISEULT.
Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me,
Love like mine is altered in the breast:
Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it;
Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed!
What! thou think'st men speak in courtly chambers
Words by which the wretched are consoled?
What! thou think'st this aching brow was cooler,
Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold?
Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,—
That was bliss to make my sorrows flee!
Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,—
Those were friends to make me false to thee!
Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced,
Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown,—
Thee, a pining exile in thy forest,
Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?
Vain and strange debate, where both have suffered,
Both have passed a youth repressed and sad,
Both have brought their anxious day to evening,
And have now short space for being glad!
Joined we are henceforth; nor will thy people
Nor thy younger Iseult take it ill,
That a former rival shares her office,
When she sees her humbled, pale, and still.
I, a faded watcher by thy pillow,
I, a statue on thy chapel-floor,
Poured in prayer before the Virgin-Mother,
Rouse no anger, make no rivals more.
