Until, as fragrance from a flower, True love outbrake control, And dropped its sweetness as a shower Of pearls, that threadless roll To find their rest in some near nest; Her home, Sir Tristram's soul! And he, though frequent jousts he won; Though many a valiant deed Of prowess made his fame outrun The claim of knightly creed; Though maidens oft their glances soft Bestowed in tenderest meed; Though Brittany upon him prest A bride, in gratitude For service done; and though the quest Of sacred grail subdued His full heart-beat of smothered heat-- He loved but _Queen_ Isoude! And now with holy vows all tossed Of fever's frantic sway-- As mariner whose bark is crossed Upon a peaceful way By winds that lure from purpose pure And well-meant plans bewray-- He bade a trusty servitor To Cornwall's queen forthwith. "Take this," he said, "and show to her How great my languor, sith This signet's round will not be found To bear one hurted lith. "Say that Sir Tristram prays her aid, And so he prays not vain, Let sails of silken white be made, Whose gleam shall heal my pain, As hither borne some favoring morn, Love claims his own again! "But if she yield no heed to these Fond cravings of love's breath, Then bearing on the burdened breeze Let sail that shadoweth, Of darkest dark, beshroud the bark, A presage of my death." So spake the Lord of Lyonesse, And bode his joy or bale; While jealous of her right to bless, The wife Isoude, grown pale As buds of light that shrink from night, Made sad and lonely wail: "Alas! all one the loss to me, My lord alive or dead, If life of his by sorcery Of this fair queen be fed." Then adding, "Be her answer _nay_, Hope yet to hope is wed." She scanned the sea. On waves of balm A white sail of rare glow Came rounding to the harbor's calm With fullest promise--lo! Bleak winds arise, as false she cries, "_A black sail entereth_ slow." Too weak to battle with his grief, Sir Tristram breathed a sigh-- "Alack, that Isoude's sweet relief Should fail me where I lie: Sith not for me her face to see, Is but to droop and die." Black sails are hoisted now in truth! They wing two forms to rest: For Cornwall's queen a-cold, in ruth, Fell prone on Tristram's breast; And Cornwall's knight for kinsman's right Of shrine had made request. A letter lay upon the bier, And this the word it bare: "O love is sweet, O love is dear, And followeth everywhere Whoso has drained the chalice stained With its red wine and rare.