"Up, Tristram, up!" men cry, "thou moonstruck knight!
What foul fiend rides thee? On into the fight!"
—Above the din, her voice is in my ears;
I see her form glide through the crossing spears.—
Iseult!...
········
Ah! he wanders forth again;
We cannot keep him: now, as then,
There's a secret in his breast
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
The famous towns of Italy,
And label with the blessed sign
The heathen Saxons on the Rhine.
At Arthur's side he fights once more
With the Roman Emperor.
There's many a gay knight where he goes
Will help him to forget his care;
The march, the leaguer, heaven's blithe air,
The neighing steeds, the ringing blows,—
Sick pining comes not where these are.
—Ah! what boots it, that the jest
Lightens every other brow,
What, that every other breast
Dances as the trumpets blow,
If one's own heart beats not light
On the waves of the tossed fight,
If one's self cannot get free
