Tristram.  I am happy! yet I feel, there’s something
  Swells my heart, and takes my breath away. 
Through a mist I see thee; near—­come nearer! 75
  Bend—­bend down!—­I yet have much to say.

Iseult.  Heaven! his head sinks back upon the pillow—­
  Tristram!  Tristram! let thy heart not fail! 
Call on God and on the holy angels! 
  What, love, courage!—­Christ! he is so pale. 80

Tristram.  Hush, ’tis vain, I feel my end approaching! 
  This is what my mother said should be,
When the fierce pains took her in the forest,
  The deep draughts of death, in bearing me.

“Son,” she said, “thy name shall be of sorrow; 85
  Tristram art thou call’d for my death’s sake.” 
So she said, and died in the drear forest. 
  Grief since then his home with me doth make. deg. deg.88

I am dying.—­Start not, nor look wildly! 
  Me, thy living friend, thou canst not save. 90
But, since living we were ununited,
  Go not far, O Iseult! from my grave.

Close mine eyes, then seek the princess Iseult;
  Speak her fair, she is of royal blood! 
Say, I will’d so, that thou stay beside me—­ 95
  She will grant it; she is kind and good.

Now to sail the seas of death I leave thee—­
  One last kiss upon the living shore!

Iseult.  Tristram!—­Tristram!—­stay—­receive me with thee! 
  Iseult leaves thee, Tristram! never more. deg. deg.100

* * * * *

You see them clear—­the moon shines bright. 
Slow, slow and softly, where she stood,
She sinks upon the ground;—­her hood
Has fallen back; her arms outspread
Still hold her lover’s hand; her head 105
Is bow’d, half-buried, on the bed. 
O’er the blanch’d sheet her raven hair
Lies in disorder’d streams; and there,
Strung like white stars, the pearls still are,
And the golden bracelets, heavy and rare, 110
Flash on her white arms still. 
The very same which yesternight
Flash’d in the silver sconces’ deg. light, deg.113
When the feast was gay and the laughter loud
In Tyntagel’s palace proud. 115
But then they deck’d a restless ghost
With hot-flush’d cheeks and brilliant eyes,
And quivering lips on which the tide
Of courtly speech abruptly died,
And a glance which over the crowded floor, 120
The dancers, and the festive host,
Flew ever to the door. deg. deg.122
That the knights eyed her in surprise,
And the dames whispered scoffingly: 
“Her moods, good lack, they pass like showers!