What lady is this, whose silk attire Gleams so rich in the light of the fire? The ringlets on her shoulders lying In their flitting lustre vying With the clasp of burnished gold Which her heavy robe doth hold. Her looks are mild, her fingers slight As the driven snow are white; But her cheeks are sunk and pale. Is it that the bleak sea-gale Beating from the Atlantic sea On this coast of Brittany, Nips too keenly the sweet flower? Is it that a deep fatigue Hath come on her, a chilly fear, Passing all her youthful hour Spinning with her maidens here, Listlessly through the window-bars Gazing seawards many a league From her lonely shore-built tower, While the knights are at the wars? Or, perhaps, has her young heart Felt already some deeper smart, Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair? Who is this snowdrop by the sea?-- I know her by her mildness rare, Her snow-white hands, her golden hair; I know her by her rich silk dress, And her fragile loveliness,-- The sweetest Christian soul alive, Iseult of Brittany. Iseult of Brittany? but where Is that other Iseult fair, That proud, first Iseult, Cornwall’s queen? She, whom Tristram’s ship of yore From Ireland to Cornwall bore, To Tyntagel, to the side Of King Marc, to be his bride? She who, as they voyaged, quaffed With Tristram that spiced magic draught Which since then forever rolls Through their blood, and binds their souls, Working love, but working teen? There were two Iseults who did sway Each her hour of Tristram’s day; But one possessed his waning time, The other his resplendent prime. Behold her here, the patient flower, Who possessed his darker hour! Iseult of the snow-white hand Watches pale by Tristram’s bed. She is here who had his gloom: Where art thou who hadst his bloom? One such kiss as those of yore Might thy dying knight restore! Does the love-draught work no more? 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.