Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 20

III

Iseult of Brittany

A year had flown, and o'er the sea away, In Cornwall, Tristram and Queen Iseult lay; In King Marc's chapel, in Tyntagel old-- There in a s.h.i.+p they bore those lovers cold.

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-sh.o.r.e--a country path Creeps over it from the till'd fields behind.

The hollow's gra.s.sy 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 gra.s.s Is strewn with rocks, and many a s.h.i.+ver'd ma.s.s 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 ma.s.ses shower'd the golden hair-- Then Iseult call'd them to her, and the three Cl.u.s.ter'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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.

And is she happy? Does she see unmoved The days in which she might have lived and loved Slip without bringing bliss slowly away, One after one, to-morrow like to-day?

Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will-- Is it this thought which makes her mien so still, Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet, So sunk, so rarely lifted save to meet Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone Hath yet an infantine and silver tone, But even that comes languidly; in truth, She seems one dying in a mask of youth.

And now she will go home, and softly lay Her laughing children in their beds, and play Awhile with them before they sleep; and then She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen Dragging their nets through the rough waves, afar, Along this iron coast, know like a star, And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it; Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind Her children, or to listen to the wind.

And when the clock peals midnight, she will move Her work away, and let her fingers rove Across the s.h.a.ggy brows of Tristram's hound Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground; Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes Fixt, her slight hands clasp'd on her lap; then rise, And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told Her rosary-beads of ebony tipp'd with gold, Then to her soft sleep--and to-morrow 'll be To-day's exact repeated effigy.

Yes, it is lonely for her in her hall.

The children, and the grey-hair'd seneschal, Her women, and Sir Tristram's aged hound, Are there the sole companions to be found.

But these she loves; and noisier life than this She would find ill to bear, weak as she is.

She has her children, too, and night and day Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-sh.o.r.e, The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, These are to her dear as to them; the tales With which this day the children she beguiled She gleaned from Breton grandames, when a child, In every hut along this sea-coast wild.

She herself loves them still, and, when they are told, Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

Dear saints, it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, which shuts up eye and ear To all that has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more.

No, we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again.

No, 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcurl'd Until they crumble, or else grow like steel-- Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring-- Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power--this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, To make our former pleasures all seem stale.

This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit Of pa.s.sion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and move-- Call it ambition, or remorse, or love-- This too can change us wholly, and make seem All which we did before, shadow and dream.

And yet, I swear, it angers me to see How this fool pa.s.sion gulls men potently; Being, in truth, but a diseased unrest, And an unnatural overheat at best.

How they are full of languor and distress Not having it; which when they do possess, They straightway are burnt up with fume and care, And spend their lives in posting here and there Where this plague drives them; and have little ease, Are furious with themselves, and hard to please.

Like that bold Caesar, the famed Roman wight, Who wept at reading of a Grecian knight Who made a name at younger years than he; Or that renown'd mirror of chivalry, Prince Alexander, Philip's peerless son, Who carried the great war from Macedon Into the Soudan's realm, and thundered on To die at thirty-five in Babylon.

What tale did Iseult to the children say, Under the hollies, that bright winter's day?

She told them of the fairy-haunted land Away the other side of Brittany, Beyond the heaths, edged by the lonely sea; Of the deep forest-glades of Broce-liande, Through whose green boughs the golden suns.h.i.+ne creeps, Where Merlin by the enchanted thorn-tree sleeps.

For here he came with the fay Vivian, One April, when the warm days first began.

He was on foot, and that false fay, his friend, On her white palfrey; here he met his end, In these lone sylvan glades, that April-day.

This tale of Merlin and the lovely fay Was the one Iseult chose, and she brought clear Before the children's fancy him and her.

Blowing between the stems, the forest-air Had loosen'd the brown locks of Vivian's hair, Which play'd on her flush'd cheek, and her blue eyes Sparkled with mocking glee and exercise.

Her palfrey's flanks were mired and bathed in sweat, For they had travell'd far and not stopp'd yet.

A brier in that tangled wilderness Had scored her white right hand, which she allows To rest ungloved on her green riding-dress; The other warded off the drooping boughs.

But still she chatted on, with her blue eyes Fix'd full on Merlin's face, her stately prize.

Her 'haviour had the morning's fresh clear grace, The spirit of the woods was in her face.

She look'd so witching fair, that learned wight Forgot his craft, and his best wits took flight; And he grew fond, and eager to obey His mistress, use her empire as she may.

They came to where the brushwood ceased, and day Peer'd 'twixt the stems; and the ground broke away, In a sloped sward down to a brawling brook; And up as high as where they stood to look On the brook's farther side was clear, but then The underwood and trees began again.

This open glen was studded thick with thorns Then white with blossom; and you saw the horns, Through last year's fern, of the shy fallow-deer Who come at noon down to the water here.

You saw the bright-eyed squirrels dart along Under the thorns on the green sward; and strong The blackbird whistled from the dingles near, And the weird chipping of the woodp.e.c.k.e.r Rang lonelily and sharp; the sky was fair, And a fresh breath of spring stirr'd everywhere.

Merlin and Vivian stopp'd on the slope's brow, To gaze on the light sea of leaf and bough Which glistering plays all round them, lone and mild, As if to itself the quiet forest smiled.

Upon the brow-top grew a thorn, and here The gra.s.s was dry and moss'd, and you saw clear Across the hollow; white anemonies Starr'd the cool turf, and clumps of primroses Ran out from the dark underwood behind.

No fairer resting-place a man could find.

"Here let us halt," said Merlin then; and she Nodded, and tied her palfrey to a tree.

They sate them down together, and a sleep Fell upon Merlin, more like death, so deep.

Her finger on her lips, then Vivian rose, And from her brown-lock'd head the wimple throws, And takes it in her hand, and waves it over The blossom'd thorn-tree and her sleeping lover.

Nine times she waved the fluttering wimple round, And made a little plot of magic ground.

And in that daised circle, as men say, Is Merlin prisoner till the judgment-day; But she herself whither she will can rove-- For she was pa.s.sing weary of his love.

SAINT BRANDAN

Saint Brandan sails the northern main; The brotherhoods of saints are glad.

He greets them once, he sails again; So late!--such storms!--The Saint is mad!

He heard, across the howling seas, Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, Twinkle the monastery-lights.

But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd-- And now no bells, no convents more!

The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, The sea without a human sh.o.r.e.

At last--(it was the Christmas night; Stars shone after a day of storm)-- He sees float past an iceberg white, And on it--Christ!--a living form.

That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell---- It is--Oh, where shall Brandan fly?-- The traitor Judas, out of h.e.l.l!

Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; The moon was bright, the iceberg near.

He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait!

By high permission I am here.

"One moment wait, thou holy man!

On earth my crime, my death, they knew; My name is under all men's ban-- Ah, tell them of my respite too!

"Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night-- (It was the first after I came, Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, To rue my guilt in endless flame)--

"I felt, as I in torment lay 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch mine arm, and say: _Go hence and cool thyself an hour!_

"'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said.

_The Leper recollect_, said he, _Who ask'd the pa.s.sers-by for aid,_ _In Joppa, and thy charity._

"Then I remember'd how I went, In Joppa, through the public street, One morn when the sirocco spent Its storms of dust with burning heat;

"And in the street a leper sate, s.h.i.+vering with fever, naked, old; Sand raked his sores from heel to pate, The hot wind fever'd him five-fold.

"He gazed upon me as I pa.s.s'd, And murmur'd: _Help me, or I die!_-- To the poor wretch my cloak I cast, Saw him look eased, and hurried by.