Page:Tristram of Lyonesse and other poems (IA tristramoflyonesswinrich).pdf/164

 His right hand ravening scattered them; but one That fled with sidelong glance athwart the sun Shot, and the shaft flew sure, and smote aright, Full in the wound's print of his great first fight When at his young strength's peril he made free Cornwall, and slew beside its bordering sea The fair land's foe, who yielding up his breath Yet left him wounded nigh to dark slow death. And hardly with long toil thence he won home Between the grey moor and the glimmering foam, And halting fared through his own gate, and fell, Thirsting: for as the sleepless fire of hell The fire within him of his wound again Burned, and his face was dark as death for pain, And blind the blithe light of his eyes: but they Within that watched and wist not of the fray Came forth and cried aloud on him for woe. And scarce aloud his thanks fell faint and slow As men reared up the strong man fallen and bore Down the deep hall that looked along the shore, And laid him soft abed, and sought in vain If herb or hand of leech might heal his pain. And the white-handed Iseult hearkening heard All, and drew nigh, and spake no wifely word, But gazed upon him doubtfully, with eyes Clouded; and he in kindly knightly wise Spake with scant breath, and smiling: 'Surely this Is penance for discourteous lips to kiss And feel the brand burn through them, here to lie And lack the strength here to do more than sigh