Tristram.  The calm sea shines, loose hang the vessel’s sails;
Before us are the sweet green fields of Wales, 95
And overhead the cloudless sky of May.—­
"Ah, would I were in those green fields at play,
Not pent on ship-board this delicious day! 
Tristram, I pray thee, of thy courtesy,
Reach me my golden phial stands by thee, 100
But pledge me in it first for courtesy."—­
Ha! dost thou start? are thy lips blanch’d like mine? 
Child, ’tis no true draught this, ’tis poison’d wine! 
Iseult!...

* * * * *

Ah, sweet angels, let him dream! 105
Keep his eyelids! let him seem
Not this fever-wasted wight
Thinn’d and paled before his time,
But the brilliant youthful knight
In the glory of his prime, 110
Sitting in the gilded barge,
At thy side, thou lovely charge,
Bending gaily o’er thy hand,
Iseult of Ireland! 
And she too, that princess fair, 115
If her bloom be now less rare,
Let her have her youth again—­
Let her be as she was then! 
Let her have her proud dark eyes,
And her petulant quick replies—­ 120
Let her sweep her dazzling hand
With its gesture of command,
And shake back her raven hair
With the old imperious air! 
As of old, so let her be, 125
That first Iseult, princess bright,
Chatting with her youthful knight
As he steers her o’er the sea,
Quitting at her father’s will
The green isle deg. where she was bred, deg.130
And her bower in Ireland,
For the surge-beat Cornish strand
Where the prince whom she must wed
Dwells on loud Tyntagel’s hill, deg. deg.134
High above the sounding sea. 135
And that potion rare her mother
Gave her, that her future lord,
Gave her, that King Marc and she,
Might drink it on their marriage-day,
And for ever love each other—­ 140
Let her, as she sits on board,
Ah, sweet saints, unwittingly! 
See it shine, and take it up,
And to Tristram laughing say: 
“Sir Tristram, of thy courtesy, 145
Pledge me in my golden cup!”
Let them drink it—­let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame,
As they feel the fatal bands
Of a love they dare not name, 150
With a wild delicious pain,
Twine about their hearts again! 
Let the early summer be
Once more round them, and the sea
Blue, and o’er its mirror kind 155
Let the breath of the May-wind,
Wandering through their drooping sails,
Die on the green fields of Wales! 
Let a dream like this restore
What his eye must see no more! deg. deg.160