 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
69
The Wounded Tristram.
Inscribed to the Memory of Alvary.
Hushed is the House; like listening phantoms
Charmed by that lyre forlorn, whose wild sorrow
Stilled the waves of the River of Wailing,
Dumb we dream, each lone by his neighbour,
A thrilling presence, remote, a spirit.
Charmed by that lyre forlorn, whose wild sorrow
Stilled the waves of the River of Wailing,
Dumb we dream, each lone by his neighbour,
A thrilling presence, remote, a spirit.
Only music lives: the great music
Throbs like the heart of a passion immortal,
With a pulse of flame, with a sound overwhelming
Sense and soul, as when ocean thunders
Notes of doom through the shrieking forest.
Throbs like the heart of a passion immortal,
With a pulse of flame, with a sound overwhelming
Sense and soul, as when ocean thunders
Notes of doom through the shrieking forest.
70
Why should one breathe or move, sigh or whisper,
When in the shuddering strings, the moaning,
Murmuring wood, in the thunders indignant
Pealed from the blaring brass, the strong music
Agonizes, still agonizes?
When in the shuddering strings, the moaning,
Murmuring wood, in the thunders indignant
Pealed from the blaring brass, the strong music
Agonizes, still agonizes?
There on his couch lies the wounded Tristram;
Wearier that couch than the cross of a Saviour!
Comes no sail to the straining eyeballs,
Comes no kiss to the lips, no easing
To the limbs, tossing vainly, vainly!
Wearier that couch than the cross of a Saviour!
Comes no sail to the straining eyeballs,
Comes no kiss to the lips, no easing
To the limbs, tossing vainly, vainly!
Well, thou wounded Tristram, I know thee:
Thou art I, thy passion my passion!
On that couch with thee lies my body,
Hurt with a magic wound; for its birthright
Dealt with life by the hand that made me.
Thou art I, thy passion my passion!
On that couch with thee lies my body,
Hurt with a magic wound; for its birthright
Dealt with life by the hand that made me.
71
There, in the shuddering strings, the moaning,
Murmuring wood, in the thunders indignant
Pealed from the tragic brass, moans my spirit,
Desolate, weary, love-lorn, God-abandoned,
Agonizing, still agonizing.
Murmuring wood, in the thunders indignant
Pealed from the tragic brass, moans my spirit,
Desolate, weary, love-lorn, God-abandoned,
Agonizing, still agonizing.
Ah! for thee, o'er the seas that sunder,
Comes at last the embrace, the moment;
But for me comes no sail, no succour,
No Isolt, with her kiss to heal me,
Even too late, o'er the seas that sunder.
Comes at last the embrace, the moment;
But for me comes no sail, no succour,
No Isolt, with her kiss to heal me,
Even too late, o'er the seas that sunder.
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