The Death of Trystan

King March seethed with rage, And hatred strange, As his steed trod the forest floor, He turned o’er the spear in his hand, And thought of his land, Where his son made his bride a whore. Young Trystan was wed to Esyllt the fair, March’s own wife—this fact he could not bear, And so he whetted his spear, thought ‘Fair’s fair— I must exact revenge.’ His steed cantered hence Through the forest dense And headed toward the glade, ‘That orgulous one Has ta’en my dearest one— I’ll purge his sin with this blade.’ Under an ancient oak-tree Trystan played sweetly, Upon an ancient harp, Esyllt sat nearby, With her hand on his thigh, As she listened to him carp. He told her the tale of Diviciacus the strong, Who took Britain single-handed, regardless of right or wrong, With Betis and Gadiferre by his side, And how these two saw that Darnant died, How good Gadiferre gained his name, ‘Forest-piercer’—that gave him great fame, And how Arthur’s line bore the name Of his symbol, red as fire, The fearsome dragon, the hero’s desire, How Zellanda came to Gadiferre’s court— But Trystan’s story was cut short, Because suddenly there came a snort, And a spear shot through the air, And swiftly that dart Pierced his tender heart, And sanguine rushed everywhere. The glade’s green cud was all wet with blood, And the strings of that harp, With which he did carp, Were all rent in twain, And deep was his pain, And Esyllt grieved herself sore, For spilt was the gore, And Trystan sang no more.