Through the dark, up the drown’d sand,
Or his endless reveries
In the woods, where the gleams play 220
On the grass under the trees,
Passing the long summer’s day
Idle as a mossy stone
In the forest-depths alone,
The chase neglected, and his hound 225
Couch’d beside him on the ground. deg. deg.226
—­Ah! what trouble’s on his brow? 
Hither let him wander now;
Hither, to the quiet hours
Pass’d among these heaths of ours. 230
By the grey Atlantic sea;
Hours, if not of ecstasy,
From violent anguish surely free!

Tristram.  All red with blood the whirling river flows, The wide plain rings, the dazed air throbs with blows. 235 Upon us are the chivalry of Rome—­ Their spears are down, their steeds are bathed in foam. deg. deg.237 “Up, Tristram, up,” men cry, “thou moonstruck knight deg.! deg.238 What foul fiend rides thee deg.?  On into the fight!” deg.239 —­Above the din her deg. voice is in my ears; deg.240 I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—­ Iseult!...

* * * * *

Ah! he wanders forth again deg.; deg.243
We cannot keep him; now, as then,
There’s a secret in his breast deg. deg.245
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 250
The famous towns of Italy,
And label with the blessed sign deg. deg.252
The heathen Saxons on the Rhine. 
At Arthur’s side he fights once more
With the Roman Emperor. deg. deg.255
There’s many a gay knight where he goes
Will help him to forget his care;
The march, the leaguer, deg.  Heaven’s blithe air, deg.258
The neighing steeds, the ringing blows—­
Sick pining comes not where these are. 260
Ah! what boots it, deg. that the jest deg.261
Lightens every other brow,
What, that every other breast
Dances as the trumpets blow,
If one’s own heart beats not light 265
On the waves of the toss’d fight,
If oneself cannot get free
From the clog of misery? 
Thy lovely youthful wife grows pale
Watching by the salt sea-tide 270
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! 275