Who penitently hath won mine unfeign'd pardon.
Arise, my Queen."
Thereat the murmurous voice
Of those who heard became a broadening cry
That shook the very walls and echoed back.
Advertisement
Thence past they homeward each. But King and Queen
And Tristram kept heart holiday the while
The palace feasted.
And the silver chalice,
Grown hateful to the Queen, no more in hall
Was set, nor ever held it wine again.
For that sweet innocence whose dead smile crept
Athwart her slumbers could not Isador
Let be all blameless, who had wrought her death.
For by no mortal sorrow can be hid
That past whose face disfigur'd looks on us
From the dim frame that shuts around our years.
FR.