Tristan and Isolda: Opera in Three Acts by Richard Wagner

Author:Richard Wagner [Wagner, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-08-07T00:00:00+00:00

SCENE II.

TRISTAN ( rushing in ). Isolda! Beloved!

ISOLDA. Tristan! Beloved one!

(Passionate embrace, with which they come down to the front.)

BOTH. Art thou mine?

Do I behold thee?

Do I embrace thee?

Can I believe it?

At last! At last!

Here on my breast!

Do I then clasp thee!

Is it thy own self?

Are these thine eyes?

These thy lips?

Here thy hand?

Here thy heart?

Is't I?—Is't thou,

held in my arms?

Am I not duped?

Is it no dream?

O rapture of spirit!

O sweetest, highest,

fairest, strongest,

holiest bliss?

Endless pleasure!

Boundless treasure!

Ne'er to sever!

Never! Never!

Unconceived,

unbelieved,

overpowering

exaltation!

Joy-proclaiming,

bliss-outpouring,

high in heaven,

earth ignoring!

Tristan mine!

Isolda mine!

Tristan!

Isolda!

Mine alone!

Thine alone!

Ever all my own!

TRISTAN. The light! The light!

O but this light,

how long 'twas let to burn!

The sun had sunk,

the day had fled;

but all their spite

not yet was sped:

the scaring signal

they set alight,

before my belov'd one's dwelling,

my swift approach repelling.

ISOLDA. Thy belov'd one's hand

lowered the light,

for Brangæna's fears

in me roused no fright:

while Love's goddess gave me aid,

sunlight a mock I made.

But the light its fear

and defeat repaid;

with thy misdeeds

a league it made.

What thou didst see

in shadowing night,

to the shining sun

of kingly might

must thou straightway surrender,

that it should

exist in bright

bonds of empty splendor.—

Could I bear it then?

Can I bear it now?

TRISTAN. O now were we

to night devoted,

the dishonest day

with envy bloated,

lying, could not mislead,

though it might part us indeed.

Its pretentious glows

and its glamouring light

are scouted by those

who worship night.

All its flickering gleams

in flashes out-blazing

blind us no more

where we are gazing.

Those who death's night

boldly survey,

those who have studied

her secret way,

the daylight's falsehoods—

rank and fame,

honor and all

at which men aim—

to them are no more matter

than dust which sunbeams scatter,

In the daylight's visions thronging

only abides one longing;

we yearn to hie

to holy night,

where, unending,

only true,

Love extendeth delight!

(TRISTAN draws ISOLDA gently aside to a flowery bank, sinks on his knee before her and rests his head on her arm.)

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