And many a stretch of watery sand All shining in the white moonbeams. But you see fairer in your dreams! What voices are these on the clear night air? What lights in the court, what steps on the stair? _TRISTRAM AND ISEULT._ II. Iseult of Ireland. TRISTRAM. Raise the light, my page! that I may see her.-- Thou art come at last, then, haughty queen! Long I’ve waited, long I’ve fought my fever; Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been. ISEULT. Blame me not, poor sufferer! that I tarried: Bound I was, I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present; I am here, we meet, I hold thy hand. TRISTRAM. Thou art come, indeed; thou hast rejoined me; Thou hast dared it--but too late to save. Fear not now that men should tax thine honor! I am dying; build (thou may’st) my grave. ISEULT. Tristram, ah! for love of heaven, speak kindly! What! I hear these bitter words from thee? Sick with grief I am, and faint with travel; Take my hand--dear Tristram, look on me! TRISTRAM. I forgot, thou comest from thy voyage; Yes, the spray is on thy cloak and hair. But thy dark eyes are not dimmed, proud Iseult! And thy beauty never was more fair. ISEULT. Ah, harsh flatterer! let alone my beauty! I, like thee, have left my youth afar. Take my hand, and touch these wasted fingers; See my cheek and lips, how white they are! TRISTRAM. Thou art paler; but thy sweet charm, Iseult, Would not fade with the dull years away. Ah, how fair thou standest in the moonlight! I forgive thee, Iseult! thou wilt stay? ISEULT. Fear me not, I will be always with thee; I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain; Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers, Joined at evening of their days again. TRISTRAM. No, thou shalt not speak! I should be finding Something altered in thy courtly tone. Sit--sit by me! I will think, we’ve lived so In the green wood, all our lives, alone. ISEULT. Altered, Tristram? Not in courts, believe me, Love like mine is altered in the breast: Courtly life is light, and cannot reach it; Ah! it lives, because so deep-suppressed! What! thou think’st men speak in courtly chambers Words by which the wretched are consoled? What! thou think’st this aching brow was cooler, Circled, Tristram, by a band of gold? Royal state with Marc, my deep-wronged husband,-- That was bliss to make my sorrows flee! Silken courtiers whispering honeyed nothings,-- Those were friends to make me false to thee! Ah! on which, if both our lots were balanced, Was indeed the heaviest burden thrown,-- Thee, a pining exile in thy forest, Me, a smiling queen upon my throne?