Prose remains of Arthur Hugh Clough, with a selection from his letters and a memoir

PART II.

_Tristram._ Raise the light, my page, that I may see her. --Thou art come at last, then, haughty Queen! Long I’ve waited, long have fought my fever, Late thou comest, cruel thou hast been.

_Iseult._ Blame me not, poor sufferer, that I tarried. I was bound; I could not break the band. Chide not with the past, but feel the present; I am here--we meet--I hold thy hand.