He lay down and dreamed: but she
Lay and looked towards the sea;
And a bitter dream dreamt he.
But he stood away and said:
“Lo, an evil rede were read
If I had her maidenhead.
“One that I love more than her
Dwells across the water fair,
Yseult of the golden hair.
“And for love that she has worn
Men will smite her face with scorn,
Shame that such a queen were born!
“Lo, to both much ill were done,
For this Yseult, loving one,
Loves but him below the sun.
“And great shame will overtake
All her beauty for my sake
If her maidenhood I break.
“And this thing shall never be
That for maiden love for me
Men should shame her as they see.
“For some men will say, ‘Behold,
Yseult queen, the hair of gold
Was his paramour of old.’
“And for love I loved before
Shall they call her paramour.”
So he musèd long and sore.
And the maiden in his sight
Lay beside him, very bright,
Like a sleeper, straight and white.
Then he thought him, lying there,
Of Queen Yseult’s golden hair
And the brows of Guinevere.
Spake the snow-hand maidenly,
“Tristram, for thy courtesy
Think thou no scorn to kiss me.”
A great tremble took his heart,
Many memories made him start,
Listening as he lay apart.
Sidelong to him crept she close,
Pale as any winter rose
When the air is grey with snows.
For she heard him start and stir,
And drew ever near and near
Lest his heart were wrath with her.
But his eyes grew very dim,
And a tremble went thro’ him
Shuddering over heart and limb.
For pure love of her he wept
As in fear she crept and crept
Slowly, lest perchance he slept.
Soft as lighteth bird on bough
Thrice he kissed her, breathing low,
Kissed her mouth and maiden brow.
And in under breath said he
When his face she could not see,
“Christ look over her and me.”
Low sweet words of love she said
With her face against his head
On the pillows of the bed.
Then a pleasure bright and mild
Smoothed her sweet face, and she smiled,
Sleeping as a maiden child.
And his hands for love of her
From the throat and shoulders bare
Parted off the ruffling hair.
Then he kissed her hair and head
For the sweet words she had said;
And in kissing her he prayed.
Praying in his heart he spake,
That for Mary’s maiden sake
Christ would keep his faith awake.
And the sweet saints knew aright
That he bore him well in fight,
Warring ever in their sight.
And the Mother pitied him,
For he shook in heart and limb,
Lying in the chamber dim.
And he bowed his body fair
Down athwart the window there,
Weeping for the golden hair.
It was wonderful to see
That he wept so bitterly
With his face to the blown sea.
As he turned and softly stept,
Lest perchance she had not slept,
Bitterly he wept and wept.
She lay out before him there,
All her body white and bare
Overswept with waves of hair.
There she rested, breathing low,
Purer than the naked snow,
Beautiful to see and know.
In her sleep she spake and prayed;
And for those dear words she said,
He came softly to the bed.
And in love he would not hide,
Praying between pain and pride,
Laid him softly at her side.
So from evening till the day
At her side in love he lay;
Slept no child as pure as they.
So her love had all it would,
All night sleeping as she could,
Sleeping in her maidenhood.
CANTO 6
How Queen Yseult kept her ring
Days are come and days are gone
Over Cornwall many a one,
Since her ordeal was done.
Mark was tender with his fear,
Lest some worse thing he should hear,
And bade all men honour her.
So Queen Yseult’s days were fair,
And her maidens, waiting bare,
Combed and crowned the golden hair.
But King Mark would keep apart,
Lest her eyes should make him start,
Full of envy was his heart.
And his face grew long and lean
And his lips more pale, I ween,
Hiding harsh words of the queen.
And in bitter speech he said,
When much wine had filled his head,
A bad prayer that she were dead.
So the court began to stir,
And the maidens gathered near,
Whispered secret things of her.
And most bitter pain she had,
Painèd thro’ her speeches glad,
Till her heart grew faint or mad.
In the pleasure that she made
At the revels the king bade,
Wild and wandering words she said.
And at night when all the room
Spread about her black and dumb,
She lay gazing thro’ the gloom.
All old comfort she forgot,
And her throat and lips grew hot,
And her large eyes moistened not.
Then she thought the grave were cold,
And spake soft her name of old,
“Yseult, queen, the hair of gold.”
And she wept for that one thing,
For she looked upon the king,
And drew forth her golden ring.
Slept King Mark upon the bed,
Thick hot wine had filled his head,
Some fierce word in sleep he said.
She had thought long since to hear
Speech of Tristram spoken clear,
That his life was kept for her.
And when any knight came nigh
To her place for courtesy,
Saw she Tristram standing by.
And when songs of her were sung,
Heard his voice the leaves among
Singing in the sweet French tongue.
And when harpers harped anew,
Very pale and faint she grew
Like a lily dead in dew.
So she held him dead and lain
Out beyond the water-plain,
Naked under sun and rain.
In the dark she rose to weep,
“Long wet tendrils clasp and creep
Where the good knight lies asleep.”
No one heard the words she said
On the pillows of the bed,
Praise and prayer for Tristram dead.
No one saw her girdle slip,
Saw her loosen it to weep,
Thinking how he touched her lip.
Heavily her robe sank white,
Heavily her hair sank bright,
Rustling down in the dead night.
And her breast was loosened so
From the hunger of its woe,
Where the samite rustled low.
Clothèd qu
eenlike sate she there,
Sate she in the moonlight bare,
Golden light and golden hair.
To much evil was she brought,
Very bitter things she thought
Thro’ her quiet lips said naught.
And the sweet saints pitied her
As they saw the weeping hair,
And the face so very fair.
At her side no queen might stand,
Was none like her in the land,
Golden hair and arrow hand.
Then she prayed, if any heard,
And the air about her stirr’d
As the motions of a bird.
And she thought an angel came,
Poised his wings of painted flame,
And spoke bitterly her name.
For she bowed before his look,
And her heart such trembling took,
That her limbs with weeping shook.
Then she rose and did not pray,
Far off sounds she heard at play
Blown about a windy bay.
Down athwart the window bright
Leant she into the dead light,
Wept for Tristram the good knight.
The deep sky and sharp grey crag,
Black with many a jut and jag,
The pale stream where stirred the flag,
All the long white lines of sea,
All the long white slope of lea,
In the moonlight watchèd she.
Then again she sank to weep,
In the rushes rustling deep,
Flung a white and golden heap,
And she thought, “The world is wide,
Somewhere I might flee and hide,
So the king should ease his pride.
“And thereafter will he know
All the chance of this our woe,
And repent him, hearing so.
“He will say in all men’s sight
That this Yseult had not right,
Who took Tristram for her knight.
“If King Mark should weep,” said she,
Thinking what a woe might be,
“Shall not all men pity me?
“For none ever,” soft she said,
“Any truer woman had
Than this Tristram that is dead.
“All things had my lord of me,
Love and help and mercy free,
And my thought his thought to be.”
So her heart was comforted
Of the bitter pain it had,
As she lay down on the bed.
And the saints sent sleep to her,
In the moonlight very fair,
Golden light and golden hair.
She remembered that old night
When across the courts all white
Bare she Tristram the good knight.
And she smiled with pride anon,
As came to her one by one
All the mercies she had done.
How for very love she bore
Things no woman knew before,
And would bear for evermore.
And a dumb great smile smiled she,
And it deepened still to see,
Till she laughed low laughters three.
And she said, “This love put by
(In a holy voice and high)
Shall not perish tho’ I die.
“And when men shall praise him dead
(Both her cheeks flushed royal-red)
All my story shall be said.
“For I shall not blush to know
(And she rose up, speaking so)
That men speak of this my woe.
“For that I love Tristram well
(And her voice rang like a bell)
Is no shame for them to tell.
“Since indeed no shame it were
(Said she, shaking back her hair)
That one loved him thrice as fair.
“For such knight was never seen
(Spake most loftily the Queen)
Since a noble man has been.
“For the wars he warred of old
(Straight she drew the hair of gold)
In all people will be told.
“So by Tristram the good knight
(All her face was full of light)
Shall I stand in all men’s sight.
“Hair and eyes and smile and speech
(Soft she wove it, plait and pleach)
Gave I to Sir Tristram each.
“Men would praise me oft in place
(Wondrous was her lighted face)
For my smile and spoken grace.
“Many singers sang of me
(Stately stood she, as a tree)
For pure heart and courtesy.
“Thought and grace and loving heart
(She looked up with lips apart)
All I gave to be his part.
“Now there is no more to say
(Said she softly as one may)
Tho’ I die for him ere day.”
And she knew the measures bland,
“Is none like her in the land,
Golden hair and arrow hand.”
All day long the eager light
Was a trouble in her sight,
And the festal lamps by night.
Then the king soft speeches made,
Half in hate and half afraid,
And she loathed the words he said,
Tho’ she hearkened not a whit;
And a sorrow vexed her wit,
Ever turning over it.
And her pride was made most weak,
And a shadow blind and meek
Took her brows and altered cheek.
And old thoughts about her came
When the dais was all aflame
With large lights, each day the same.
And she wist not what to say
Could not move her lips to pray
For the heart that beat alway.
And she paused before her glass,
For so tight the girdle was
By her breast, she could not pass.
And she thought, “If he should come
Back across the grey salt foam
I were altered in his doom.
“Nay,” she said, “for love were there,
And the corn-ripe golden hair,
Tho’ the face should be less fair.”
Then she smiled, and faintlier
Came the silken courtly stir;
But the king’s eyes hated her.
And their straight cold look she knew,
And again more faint she grew
Than a lily dead in dew.
So she saw days go and come,
And at night in the old room
Lay she gazing thro’ the gloom.
LANCELOT
Very long and hot it was,
The dry light on the dry grass,
The set noon on lakes of glass,
All that summer time;
And the great woods burnt and brown,
With dry tendrils dropping down,
And the sky’s white rampart thrown
On the bare wall of a town,
Round breadths of oak and lime.
Thro’ the woods I rode and rode,
No prayer of mine clomb up to God;
Sharp leaves crackled on the road
Where my horse the heaviest trode,
Over leaves and grass.
Thro’ the sad boughs rent on high
Naked burnt the great blind sky;
Yet I did not pray to die,
For no pain that was.
Here and there some colour was
Hidden in the muffled grass,
Some late flower that one might pass,
Or else a brown, smooth beech-mast was,
Or carven acorn cup.
And birds sang, and could not long,
For a trouble in their song:
All things there did suffer wrong,
All but I who rode along.
> Now I grow so tired of this,
I would give much gold to kiss
One leaf of those primroses
That grow here when the green spring is
Whereof their life is made.
Under moon and under star
I have ridden fast and far
Where the deep leaves thickest are
In the huddled shade.
I cannot see what I shall do.
Now the day drops angrily,
Leaves a red stain on the sea,
And fierce light on field and tree,
Red as any brand.
A great slumber takes me round
In this place of sleepy sound;
Surely now the gift is found
And ready to my hand.
For there is left me nothing new
And none rides with me riding through
These brown wood walks so straight and few
For many nights and days.
And men say that I shall not win,
Tho’ the chosen for all my sin;
The sleepy beams crawl out and in
Under the branches rare and thin
Where thro’ I ride always.
(He sleeps.)
THE ANGEL
Lo, the air begins to move
Like a heart that beats with love
All about thee and above,
For the hope it whispers of
But a little while.
A great love has healed his heart,
The shut eyelids move and start,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 155
