Tristram.  All round the forest sweeps off, black in shade,
But it is moonlight in the open glade;
And in the bottom of the glade shine clear
The forest-chapel and the fountain near. 
—­I think, I have a fever in my blood; 280
Come, let me leave the shadow of this wood,
Ride down, and bathe my hot brow in the flood. 
—­Mild shines the cold spring in the moon’s clear light;
God! ’tis her face plays in the waters bright. 
“Fair love,” she says, “canst thou forget so soon, 285
At this soft hour under this sweet moon?”—­
Iseult!...

* * * * *

      Ah, poor soul! if this be so,
    Only death can balm thy woe. 
    The solitudes of the green wood 290
    Had no medicine for thy mood;
    The rushing battle clear’d thy blood
    As little as did solitude. 
    —­Ah! his eyelids slowly break
    Their hot seals, and let him wake; 295
    What new change shall we now see? 
    A happier?  Worse it cannot be.

Tristram.  Is my page here?  Come, turn me to the fire! 
Upon the window-panes the moon shines bright;
The wind is down—­but she’ll not come to-night. 300
Ah no! she is asleep in Cornwall now,
Far hence; her dreams are fair—­smooth is her brow
Of me she recks not, deg. nor my vain desire. deg.303

—­I have had dreams, I have had dreams, my page,
Would take a score years from a strong man’s age; 305
And with a blood like mine, will leave, I fear,
Scant leisure for a second messenger.

—­My princess, art thou there?  Sweet, do not wait! 
To bed, and sleep! my fever is gone by;
To-night my page shall keep me company. 310
Where do the children sleep? kiss them for me! 
Poor child, thou art almost as pale as I;
This comes of nursing long and watching late. 
To bed—­good night! deg. deg.314

* * * * *

She left the gleam-lit fireplace, 315
She came to the bed-side;
She took his hands in hers—­her tears
Down on his wasted fingers rain’d. 
She raised her eyes upon his face—­
Not with a look of wounded pride, 320
A look as if the heart complained—­
Her look was like a sad embrace;
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathise. 
Sweet flower! thy children’s eyes 325
Are not more innocent than thine. 
  But they sleep in shelter’d rest,
Like helpless birds in the warm nest,
On the castle’s southern side;
Where feebly comes the mournful roar 330