Ah, sweet angels, let him dream!
Keep his eyelids; let him seem
Not this fever wasted wight
Thinned and paled before his time,
But the brilliant youthful knight
In the glory of his prime,
Sitting in the gilded barge,
At thy side, thou lovely charge,
Bending gayly o'er thy hand,
Iseult of Ireland!
And that golden cup her mother
Gave her, that her future lord,
Gave her, that King Marc and she
Might drink it on their marriage day,
And for ever love each other.
Let her as she sits on board,
Ah! sweet saints, unwittingly!
See it shine and take it up,
And to Tristram laughing say,
"Sir Tristram of thy courtesy,
Pledge me in my golden cup."
Let them drink it; let their hands
Tremble, and their cheeks be flame,
As they feel the fatal bands
Of a love they dare not name,
With a wild delicious pain,
Twine about their hearts again!
"Tristram! nay, nay, thou must not take my hand!
Tristram! sweet love! we are betrayed, outplanned.
Fly, save thyself, save me! I dare not stay."
One last kiss first!
"'Tis vain to horse away! Fly, fly away!"