All red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. Upon us are the chivalry of Rome; Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. “Up, Tristram, up!” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight! What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!” --Above the din, her voice is in my ears; I see her form glide through the crossing spears.-- Iseult!... Ah! he wanders forth again; We cannot keep him: now, as then, There’s a secret in his breast Which will never let him rest. These musing fits in the green wood, They cloud the brain, they dull the blood! --His sword is sharp, his horse is good; Beyond the mountains will he see The famous towns of Italy, And label with the blessed sign The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. At Arthur’s side he fights once more With the Roman Emperor. There’s many a gay knight where he goes Will help him to forget his care; The march, the leaguer, heaven’s blithe air, The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,-- Sick pining comes not where these are. --Ah! what boots it, that the jest Lightens every other brow, What, that every other breast Dances as the trumpets blow, If one’s own heart beats not light On the waves of the tossed fight, If one’s self cannot get free From the clog of misery? Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale Watching by the salt sea-tide, With her children at her side, For the gleam of thy white sail. Home, Tristram, to thy halls again! To our lonely sea complain, To our forests tell thy pain. 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; 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, 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 Had no medicine for thy mood; The rushing battle cleared thy blood As little as did solitude. --Ah! his eyelids slowly break Their hot seals, and let him wake; What new change shall we now see? A happier? Worse it cannot be. TRISTRAM.