"_But when the queen, La beale Isoude heard these tidings shee made such
sorrow that shee was full nigh out of her minde, and so upon a day she
thought to slay herselfe, and never for to live after Sir Tristram's
death._"--Le Morte d'Arthure.
I
The wild dawn flares o'er wood and vale,
O'er all the world she used to love:
Low on her couch it finds her pale,
The dawn that breaks with flame above.
Her lute, that once was all her care,
To which her love had often sung,
Upon a damask-covered chair
Now lies neglected and unstrung.
Back from her face her hair she throws,
Her heavy hair that falls and slips,
Then, rising, to the casement goes
With languid eyes and pallid lips.