Follows them with a long complaining cry,—
So Hermod gazed, and yearned to join his kin.
At last he sighed, and set forth back to heaven.
TRISTRAM AND ISEULT.7
I.
Tristram.
TRISTRAM.
Is she not come? The messenger was sure.
Prop me upon the pillows once again.
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
THE PAGE.
The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.
TRISTRAM.
Soft—who is that, stands by the dying fire?
THE PAGE.
Iseult.
TRISTRAM.
Ah! not the Iseult I desire.
········
What knight is this so weak and pale,
Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head,
Propped on pillows in his bed,
Gazing seaward for the light
Of some ship that fights the gale
On this wild December night?
