J. F. Campbell Collection > Minstrelsy of the Scottish border

THOMAS THE RHYMER. 439
No art the poison might withstand ;
No medicine could be found,
Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand
Had probed the rankling wound.
With gentle hand and soothing tongue
She bore the leech's part ;
And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.
O fatal was the gift, I ween !
For, doom'd in evil tide,
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen.
His cowardly uncle's bride.
Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard
In fairy tissue wove ;
"Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,
In gay confusion strove.
The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High rear'd its glittering head ;
And Avalon's enchanted vale
In all its wonders spread.
Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye ;
Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he ?
Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,
Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.
His ancient wounds their scars expand,
With agony his heart is wrung :
O where is Isolde's lilye hand.
And where her soothing tongue ?
She comes ! she comes ! — like flash of flame
Can lovers' footsteps fly :
She comes! she comes! — she only came
To see her Tristrem die.
She saw him die : her latest sigh
Joined in a kiss his parting breath :
The gentlest pair that Britain bare,
United are in death.