thou feel’st for me when I suffer.  But—­what I suffer, thou canst not feel for me! this terrible yearning in my heart, this feverish burning’s cruel smart,—­ did I but show it, couldst thou but know it, no time here wouldst thou tarry, to watch from tow’r thou wouldst hurry; with all devotion viewing the ocean, with eyes impatiently spying, there, where her ship’s sails are flying.  Before the wind she drives to find me; on the wings of love she neareth,—­ Isolda hither steereth!—­ she nears, she nears, so boldly and fast!  It waves, it waves, the flag from the mast!  Hurra!  Hurra! she reaches the bar!  Dost thou not see?  Kurvenal, dost thou not see?

(As KURNEVAL hesitates to leave TRISTAN, who is gazing at him in mute expectation, the mournful tune of the shepherd is heard, as before.)

KURVENAL (dejectedly).  Still is no ship in sight.

TRISTAN (has listened with waning excitement and now recommences with growing melancholy).  Is this the meaning then, thou old pathetic ditty, of all thy sighing sound?—­ On evening’s breeze it sadly rang when, as a child, my father’s death-news chill’d me; through morning’s mist it stole more sadly, when the son his mother’s fate was taught, when they who gave me breath both felt the hand of death to them came also through their pain the ancient ditty’s yearning strain, which asked me once and asks me now which was the fate before me to which my mother bore me?—­ What was the fate?—­ The strain so plaintive now repeats it:—­ for yearning—­and dying!

(He falls back senseless.)

KURVENAL (who has been vainly striving to calm TRISTAN, cries
out in terror). 
My master!  Tristan!—­
Frightful enchantment!—­
O love’s deceit! 
O passion’s pow’r! 
Most sweet dream ’neath the sun,
see the work thou hast done!—­
Here lies he now,
the noblest of knights,
with his passion all others above: 
behold! what reward
his ardor requites;
the one sure reward of love!

(with sobbing voice.)

Art thou then dead? 
Liv’st thou not? 
Hast to the curse succumbed?—­

(He listens for TRISTAN’S breath.)

O rapture!  No! 
He still moves!  He lives!
and gently his lips are stirr’d.

TRISTAN (very faintly).  The ship—­is’t yet in sight?

KURVENAL.  The ship?  Be sure t’will come to-day:  it cannot tarry longer.

TRISTAN.  On board Isolda,—­ see, she smiles—­ with the cup that reconciles.  Dost thou see?  Dost thou see her now?  Full of grace and loving mildness, floating o’er the ocean’s wildness?  By billows of flowers lightly lifted, gently toward the land she’s drifted.  Her look brings ease and sweet repose; her hand one last relief bestows.  Isolda!  Ah, Isolda!  How fair, how sweet art thou!—­ And Kurvenal, why!—­ what ails thy sight?  Away, and watch for her, foolish I see so well and plainly, let not thine eye seek vainly Dost thou not hear?  Away, with speed!  Haste to the watch-tow’r!  Wilt thou not heed?  The ship, the ship!  Isolda’s ship!—­ Thou must discern it, must perceive it!  The ship—­dost thou see it?—­