The young surviving Iseult, one bright day, Had wander'd forth. Her children were at play In a green circular hollow in the heath Which borders the sea-shore--a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind. The hollow's grassy banks are soft-inclined, And to one standing on them, far and near The lone unbroken view spreads bright and clear Over the waste. This cirque of open ground Is light and green; the heather, which all round Creeps thickly, grows not here; but the pale grass Is strewn with rocks, and many a shiver'd mass Of vein'd white-gleaming quartz, and here and there Dotted with holly-trees and juniper. In the smooth centre of the opening stood Three hollies side by side, and made a screen, Warm with the winter-sun, of burnish'd green With scarlet berries gemm'd, the fell-fare's food. Under the glittering hollies Iseult stands, Watching her children play; their little hands Are busy gathering spars of quartz, and streams Of stagshorn for their hats; anon, with screams Of mad delight they drop their spoils, and bound Among the holly-clumps and broken ground, Racing full speed, and startling in their rush The fell-fares and the speckled missel-thrush Out of their glossy coverts;--but when now Their cheeks were flush'd, and over each hot brow, Under the feather'd hats of the sweet pair, In blinding masses shower'd the golden hair-- Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three Cluster'd under the holly-screen, and she Told them an old-world Breton history. Warm in their mantles wrapt the three stood there, Under the hollies, in the clear still air-- Mantles with those rich furs deep glistering Which Venice ships do from swart Egypt bring. Long they stay'd still--then, pacing at their ease, Moved up and down under the glossy trees. But still, as they pursued their warm dry road, From Iseult's lips the unbroken story flow'd, And still the children listen'd, their blue eyes Fix'd on their mother's face in wide surprise; Nor did their looks stray once to the sea-side, Nor to the brown heaths round them, bright and wide, Nor to the snow, which, though 't was all away From the open heath, still by the hedgerows lay, Nor to the shining sea-fowl, that with screams Bore up from where the bright Atlantic gleams, Swooping to landward; nor to where, quite clear, The fell-fares settled on the thickets near. And they would still have listen'd, till dark night Came keen and chill down on the heather bright; But, when the red glow on the sea grew cold, And the grey turrets of the castle old Look'd sternly through the frosty evening-air, Then Iseult took by the hand those children fair, And brought her tale to an end, and found the path, And led them home over the darkening heath.