Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  To bear the brand there of a broken vow

  Was frozen again for very fear thereof

  That wrung his heart with keener pangs than love

  And all things rose upon him, all things past

  Ere last they parted, cloven in twain at last,

  Iseult from Tristram, Tristram from the queen;

  And how men found them in the wild woods green

  Sleeping, but sundered by the sword between,

  Dividing breach from amorous breasts a span,

  But scarce in heart the woman from the man

  As far as hope from joy or sleep from truth,

  And Mark that saw them held for sacred sooth

  These were no fleshly lovers, by that sign

  That severed them, still slumbering; so divine

  He deemed it: how at waking they beheld

  The king’s folk round the king, and uncompelled

  Were fain to follow and fare among them home

  Back to the towers washed round with rolling foam

  And storied halls wherethrough sea-music rang:

  And how report therafter swelled and sprang,

  A full-mouthed serpent, hissing in men’s ears

  Word of their loves: and one of all his peers

  That most he trusted, being his kinsman born,

  A man base-moulded for the stamp of scorn,

  Whose heart with hate was keen and cold and dark,

  Gave note by midnight whisper to King Mark

  Where he might take them sleeping; how ere day

  Had seen the grim next morning all away

  Fast bound they brought him down a weary way

  With forty knights about him, and their chief

  That traitor who for trust had given him grief,

  To the old hoar chapel, like a strait stone tomb

  Sheer on the sea-rocks, there to take his doom:

  How, seeing he needs must die, he bade them yet

  Bethink them if they dourest for shame forget

  What deeds for Cornwall had he done, and wrought

  For all their sake what rescue, when he fought

  Against the fierce foul Irish foe that came

  To take of them for tribute in their shame

  Three hundred heads of children; whom in fight

  His hand redeeming slew Moraunt the knight

  That none durst lift his eyes against, not one

  Had heart but he, who now had help of none,

  To take the battle; whence great shame it were

  To knighthood, yea, foul shame on all men there,

  To see him die so shamefully: nor dourest

  One man look up, nor one make answer first,

  Savanna even the very traitor, who defied

  And would have slain him naked in his pride,

  But he, that saw the sword plucked forth to slay,

  Looked on his hands, and wrenched their bonds away,

  Hailing those twain that he went bound between

  Suddenly to him, and kindling in his mien

  Shone lion-fashion forth with eyes alight,

  And lion-wise leapt on that kinsman knight

  And wrung forth of his felon hands with might

  The sword that should have slain him weaponless,

  And smote him sheer down: then came all the press

  All raging in upon him; but he wrought

  So well for his deliverance as they fought

  That ten strong knights rejoicingly he slew

  And took no wound, nor wearied: then the crew

  Waxed greater, and their cry on him; but he

  Had won the chapel now above the sea

  That chafed right under: then the heart in him

  Sprang, seeing the low cliff clear to leap, and swim

  Right out by the old blithe way the sea-mew takes

  Across the bounding billow-belt that breaks

  For ever, but the loud bright chain it makes

  To bind the bridal bosom of the land

  Time shall unlink not ever, till his hand

  Fall by its own last blow dead: thence again

  Might he win forth into the green great main

  Far on beyond, and there yield up his breath

  At least, with God’s will, by no shameful death,

  Or haply save himself, and come anew

  Some long day later, ere sweet life were through.

  And as the sea-gull hovers high, and turns

  With eyes wherein the keen heart glittering yearns

  Down toward the sweet green sea whereon the broad noon burns,

  And suddenly, soul-stricken with delight,

  Drops, and the glad wave gladdens, and the light

  Sees wing and wave confuse their fluttering white,

  So Tristram one brief breathing-space apart

  Hung, and gazed down; then with exulting heart

  Plunged: and the fleet foam round a joyous head

  Flashed, that shot under, and ere a shaft had sped

  Rose again radiant, a rejoicing star,

  And high along the water-ways afar

  Triumphed: and all they deemed he needs must die;

  But Gouvernayle his squire, that watched hard by,

  Sought where perchance a man might win ashore,

  Striving, with strong limbs labouring long and sore,

  And there abode an hour: till as from fight

  Crowned with hard conquest won by mastering might.

  Hardly, but happier for the imperious toil,

  Swam the knight in forth of the close waves’ coil,

  Sea-satiate, bruised with buffets of the brine,

  Laughing, and flushed as one afire with wine:

  All this came hard upon him in a breath;

  And how he marvelled in his heart that death

  Should be no bitterer than it seemed to be

  There, in the strenuous impulse of the sea

  Borne as to battle deathward: and at last

  How all his after seasons overpast

  Had brought him darkling to this dark sweet hour,

  Where his foot faltered nigh the bridal bower.

  And harder seemed the passage now to pass,

  Though smoother-seeming than the still sea’s glass,

  More fit for very manhood’s heart to fear,

  Than all straits past of peril. Hardly here

  Might aught of all things hearten him save one,

  Faith: and as men’s eyes quail before the sun

  So quailed his heart before the star whose light

  Put out the torches of his bridal night,

  So quailed and shrank with sense of faith’s keen star

  That burned as fire beheld by night afar

  Deep in the darkness of his dreams; for all

  The bride-house now seemed hung with heavier pall

  Than clothes the house of mourning. Yet at last,

  Soul-sick with trembling at the heart, he passed

  Into the sweet light of the maiden bower

  Where lay the lonely lily-featured flower

  That, lying within his hand to gather, yet

  Might not be gathered of it. Fierce regret

  And bitter loyalty strove hard at strife

  With amorous pity toward the tender wife

  That wife indeed might never be, to wear

  The very crown of wedlock; never bear

  Children, to watch and worship her white hair

  When time should change, with hand more soft than snow,

  The fashion of its glory; never know

  The loveliness of laughing love that lives

  On little lips of children: all that gives

  Glory and grace and reverence and delight

  To wedded woman by her bridal right,

  All praise and pride that flowers too fair to fall,

  Love that should give had stripped her of them all

  And left her bare for ever. So his thought

  Consumed
him, as a fire within that wrought

  Visibly, ravening till its wrath were spent:

  So pale he stood, so bowed and passion-rent,

  Before the blithe-faced bride-folk, ere he went

  Within the chamber, heavy-eyed: and there

  Gleamed the white hands and glowed the glimmering hair

  That might but move his memory more of one more fair,

  More fair than all this beauty: but in sooth

  So fair she too shone in her flower of youth

  That scarcely might man’s heart hold fast its truth,

  Though strong, who gazed upon her: for her eyes

  Were emerald-soft as evening-coloured skies,

  And a smile in them like the light therein

  Slept, or shone out in joy that knew not sin,

  Clear as a child’s own laughter: and her mouth,

  Albeit no rose full-hearted from the south

  And passion-coloured for the perfect kiss

  That signs the soul for love and stamps it his,

  Was soft and bright as any bud new-blown;

  And through her cheek the gentler lifebloom shone

  Of mild wild roses nigh the northward sea.

  So in her bride-bed lay the bride: and he

  Drew night, and all the high sad heart in him

  Yearned on her, seeing the twilight meek and dim

  Through all the soft alcove tremblingly lit

  With hovering silver, as a heart in it

  Beating, that burned from one deep lamp above,

  Fainter than fire of torches, as the love

  Within him fainter than a bridegroom’s fire,

  No marriage-torch red with the heart’s desire,

  But silver-soft, a flameless light that glowed

  Starlike along night’s dark and starry road

  Wherein his soul was traveller. And he sighed,

  Seeing, and with eyes set sadly toward his bride

  Laid him down by her, and spake not: but within

  His heart spake, saying how sore should be the sin

  To break toward her, that of all womankind

  Was faithfullest, faith plighted, or unbind

  The bond first linked between them when they drank

  The love-draught: and his quick blood sprang and sank,

  Remembering in the pulse of all his veins

  That red swift rapture, all its fiery pains

  And all its fierier pleasures: and he spake

  Aloud, one burning word for love’s keen sake —

  “Iseult;” and full of love and lovelier fear

  A virgin voice gave answer— “I am here.”

  And a pang rent his heart at root: but still,

  For spirit and flesh were vassals to his will,

  Strong faith held mastery on them: and the breath

  Felt on his face did not his will to death,

  Nor glance nor lute-like voice nor flower-soft touch

  Might so prevail upon it overmuch

  That constancy might less prevail than they,

  For all he looked and loved her as she lay

  Smiling; and soft as bird alights on bough

  He kissed her maiden mouth and blameless brow,

  Once, and again his heart within him sighed:

  But all his young blood’s yearning toward his bride,

  How hard soe’er it held his life awake

  For passion, and sweet nature’s unforbidden sake,

  And will that strove unwillingly with will it might not break,

  Fell silent as a wind abashed, whose breath

  Dies out of heaven, suddenly done to death,

  When in between them on the dumb dusk air

  Floated the bright shade of a face more fair

  Than hers that hard beside him shrank and smiled

  And wist of all no more than might a child.

  So had she all her heart’s will, all she would,

  For love’s sake that sufficed her, glad and good,

  All night safe sleeping in her maidenhood.

  ISEULT AT TINTAGEL

  But that same night in Cornwall oversea

  Couched at Queen Iseult’s hand, against her knee,

  With keen kind eyes that read her whole heart’s pain

  Fast at wide watch lay Tristram’s hound Hodain,

  The goodliest and the mightiest born on earth,

  That many a forest day of fiery mirth

  Had plied his craft before them; and the queen

  Cherished him, even for those dim years between,

  More than of old in those bright months far flown

  When ere a blast of Tristram’s horn was blown

  Each morning as the woods rekindled, ere

  Day gat full empire of the glimmering air,

  Delight of dawn would quicken him, and fire

  Spring and pant in his breath with bright desire

  To be among the dewy ways on quest:

  But now perforce at restless-hearted rest

  He chafed through days more barren than the sand,

  Soothed hardly but soothed only with her hand,

  Though fain to fawn thereon and follow, still

  With all his heart and all his loving will

  Desiring one divided from his sight,

  For whose lost sake dawn was as dawn of night

  And noon as night’s noon in his eyes was dark.

  But in the halls far under sat King Mark,

  Feasting, and full of cheer, with heart uplift,

  As on the night that harper gat his gift:

  And music revelled on the fitful air,

  And songs came floated up the festal stair,

  And muffled roar of wassail, where the king

  Took heart from wine-cups and the quiring string

  Till all his cold thin veins rejoiced and ran

  Strong as with lifeblood of a kinglier man.

  But the queen shut from sound her wearied ears,

  Shut her sad eyes from sense of aught save tears,

  And wrung her hair with soft fierce hands, and prayed:

  ”O God, God born of woman, of a maid,

  Christ, once in flesh of thine own fashion clad;

  O very love, so glad in heaven and sad

  On earth for earth’s sake alway; since thou art

  Pure only, I only impure of spirit and heart,

  Since thou for sin’s sake and the bitter doom

  Didst as a veil put on a virgin’s womb,

  I that am none, and cannot hear or see

  Or shadow or likeness or a sound of thee

  Far off, albeit with man’s own speech and face

  Thou shine yet and thou speak yet, showing forth grace —

  Ah me! grace only shed on souls that are

  Lit and led forth of shadow by thy star —

  Alas! to these men only grace, to these,

  Lord, whom thy love draws Godward, to thy knees —

  I, can I draw thee me-ward, can I seek,

  Who love thee not, to love me? seeing how weak,

  Lord, all this little love I bear thee is,

  And how much is my strong love more than this,

  My love that I love man with, that I bear

  Him sinning through me sinning? wilt thou care,

  God, for this love, if love be any, alas,

  In me to give thee, though long since there was,

  How long, when I too, Lord, was clean, even I,

  That now am unclean till the day I die —

  Haply by burning, harlot-fashion, made

  A horror in all hearts of wife and maid,

  Hateful, not knowing if ever in these mine eyes

  Shone any light of thine in any wise

  Or this were love at all that I bore thee?”

  And the night spake, and thundered on the sea,

  Ravening aloud for ruin of lives: and all

  The bastions of the main cliff’s northward wall

  Rang res
ponse out from all their deepening length,

  As the east wind girded up his godlike strength

  And hurled in hard against that high-towered hold

  The fleeces of the flock that knows no fold,

  The rent white shreds of shattering storm: but she

  Heard not nor heeded wind or storming sea,

  Knew not if night were mild or mad with wind.

  ”Yea, though deep lips and tender hair be thinned,

  Though cheek wither, brow fade, and bosom wane,

  Shall I change also from this heart again

  To maidenhood of heart and holiness?

  Shall I more love thee, Lord, or love him less —

  Ah miserable! though spirit and heart be rent,

  Shall I repent, Lord God? shall I repent?

  Nay, though thou slay me! for herein I am blest,

  That as I loved him yet I love him best —

  More than mine own soul or thy love or thee,

  Though thy love save and my love save not me.

  Blest am I beyond women ever herein,

  That beyond all born women is my sin,

  And perfect my transgression: that above

  All offerings of all others is my love,

  Who have chosen it only, and put away for this

  Thee, and my soul’s hope, Saviour, of the kiss

  Wherewith thy lips make welcome all thine own

  When in them life and death are overthrown;

  The sinless lips that seal the death of sin,

  The kiss wherewith their dumb lips touched begin

  Singing in heaven.

  ”Where we shall never, love,

  Never stand up nor sing! for God above

  Knows us, how too much more than God to me

  Thy sweet love is, my poor love is to thee!

  Dear, dost thou see now, dost thou hear to-night

  Sleeping, my waste wild speech, my face worn white,

  — Speech once heard soft by thee, face once kissed red! —

  In such a dream as when men see their dead

  And know not if they know if dead these be?

  Ah love, are thy days my days, and to thee

  Are all nights like as my nights? does the sun

  Grieve thee? art thou soul-sick till day be done,

  And weary till day rises? is thine heart

  Full of dead things as mine is? Nay, thou art

  Man, with man’s strength and praise and pride of life,

  No bondwoman, no queen, no loveless wife

  That would be shamed albeit she had not sinned.”

  And swordlike was the sound of the iron wind,

  And as a breaking battle was the sea.

  ”Nay, Lord, I pray thee let him love not me,

  Love me not any more, nor like me die,

  And be no more than such a thing as I.

  Turn his heart from me, lest my love too lose