They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,With a huge empty flagon by his side:The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,365But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans;
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide,Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,With a huge empty flagon by his side:The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,365But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans;
XLII
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago370These lovers fled away into the storm.That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,And all his warrior-guests, with shade and formOf witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,Were long be-nightmared. Angela[175]the old375Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.
And they are gone: aye, ages long ago370These lovers fled away into the storm.That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,And all his warrior-guests, with shade and formOf witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,Were long be-nightmared. Angela[175]the old375Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform;The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often looked at them,And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,5And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son:I married late, but I would wish to see10My grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter: he and I15Had once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,For many years." But William answer'd short:20"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora." Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,25And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again."30But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,And broke away. The more he look'd at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's house,35And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wedA laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'dHis niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;40But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law."And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,"It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"45And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,50And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought55Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:"I have obey'd my uncle until now,And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,60And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest: let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eye65Among the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a mound70That was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,75But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowers80That grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then when the farmer pass'd into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?85Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!""And did I not," said Allan, "did I notForbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:90"Do with me as you will, but take the child,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"And Allan said, "I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!95You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more."So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell100At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow'd down105And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praise110To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more."Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,115That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;120And I will beg of him to take thee back:But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child, until he growsOf age to help us."So the women kiss'd125Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,130Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in: but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:135And Allan set him down, and Mary said:"O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well.140O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:145'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'dHis face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slight150His father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before."So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—155"I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son.I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children."Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times160And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as years165Went forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
With farmer Allan at the farm abodeWilliam and Dora. William was his son,And she his niece. He often looked at them,And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,5And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, becauseHe had been always with her in the house,Thought not of Dora.Then there came a dayWhen Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son:I married late, but I would wish to see10My grandchild on my knees before I die:And I have set my heart upon a match.Now therefore look to Dora; she is wellTo look to; thrifty too beyond her age.She is my brother's daughter: he and I15Had once hard words, and parted, and he diedIn foreign lands; but for his sake I bredHis daughter Dora: take her for your wife;For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,For many years." But William answer'd short:20"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,I will not marry Dora." Then the old manWas wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!But in my time a father's word was law,25And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;Consider, William: take a month to think,And let me have an answer to my wish;Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,And never more darken my doors again."30But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,And broke away. The more he look'd at herThe less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;But Dora bore them meekly. Then beforeThe month was out he left his father's house,35And hired himself to work within the fields;And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wedA laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'dHis niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;40But if you speak with him that was my son,Or change a word with her he calls his wife,My home is none of yours. My will is law."And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,"It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"45And days went on, and there was born a boyTo William; then distresses came on him;And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.But Dora stored what little she could save,50And sent it them by stealth, nor did they knowWho sent it; till at last a fever seizedOn William, and in harvest time he died.Then Dora went to Mary. Mary satAnd look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought55Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:"I have obey'd my uncle until now,And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' meThis evil came on William at the first.But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,60And for your sake, the woman that he chose,And for this orphan, I am come to you:You know there has not been for these five yearsSo full a harvest: let me take the boy,And I will set him in my uncle's eye65Among the wheat; that when his heart is gladOf the full harvest, he may see the boy,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."And Dora took the child, and went her wayAcross the wheat, and sat upon a mound70That was unsown, where many poppies grew.Far off the farmer came into the fieldAnd spied her not; for none of all his menDare tell him Dora waited with the child;And Dora would have risen and gone to him,75But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.But when the morrow came, she rose and tookThe child once more, and sat upon the mound;And made a little wreath of all the flowers80That grew about, and tied it round his hatTo make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.Then when the farmer pass'd into the fieldHe spied her, and he left his men at work,And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?85Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!""And did I not," said Allan, "did I notForbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:90"Do with me as you will, but take the child,And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"And Allan said, "I see it is a trickGot up betwixt you and the woman there.I must be taught my duty, and by you!95You knew my word was law, and yet you daredTo slight it. Well—for I will take the boy;But go you hence, and never see me more."So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloudAnd struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell100At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,And the boy's cry came to her from the field,More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,Remembering the day when first she came,And all the things that had been. She bow'd down105And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stoodUpon the threshold. Mary saw the boyWas not with Dora. She broke out in praise110To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;But, Mary, let me live and work with you:He says that he will never see me more."Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,115That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,For he will teach him hardness, and to slightHis mother; therefore thou and I will go,And I will have my boy, and bring him home;120And I will beg of him to take thee back:But if he will not take thee back again,Then thou and I will live within one house,And work for William's child, until he growsOf age to help us."So the women kiss'd125Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and sawThe boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,130Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd outAnd babbled for the golden seal, that hungFrom Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.Then they came in: but when the boy beheldHis mother, he cried out to come to her:135And Allan set him down, and Mary said:"O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself,Or William, or this child; but now I comeFor Dora: take her back; she loves you well.140O Sir, when William died, he died at peaceWith all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,He could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he saidThat he was wrong to cross his father thus:145'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never knowThe troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'dHis face and pass'd—unhappy that I am!But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for youWill make him hard, and he will learn to slight150His father's memory; and take Dora back,And let all this be as it was before."So Mary said, and Dora hid her faceBy Mary. There was silence in the room;And all at once the old man burst in sobs:—155"I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill'd my son.I have kill'd him—but I loved him—my dear son.May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.Kiss me, my children."Then they clung aboutThe old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times160And all the man was broken with remorse;And all his love came back a hundredfold;And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,Thinking of William.So those four abodeWithin one house together; and as years165Went forward, Mary took another mate;But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
There lies a vale in Ida,[176]lovelierThan all the valleys of Ionian[177]hills.The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand5The lawns and meadow-ledges midway downHang rich in flowers, and far below them roarsThe long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravineIn cataract after cataract to the sea.Behind the valley topmost Gargarus[178]10Stands up and takes the morning: but in frontThe gorges, opening wide apart, revealTroas[179]and Ilion's[180]column'd citadel,The crown of Troas.Hither came at noonMournful Œnone, wandering forlorn15Of Paris,[181]once her playmate on the hills.Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neckFloated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade20Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff."O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:The grasshopper is silent in the grass:25The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.The purple flower droops: the golden beeIs lily-cradled: I alone awake.My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,30My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life."O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves35That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks,I am the daughter of a River-God,[182]Hear me, for I will speak, and build up allMy sorrow with my song, as yonder wallsRose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[183]40A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may beThat, while I speak of it, a little whileMy heart may wander from its deeper woe."O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.45I waited underneath the dawning hills,Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved,50Came up from reedy Simois[184]all alone."O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft:Far up the solitary morning smoteThe streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes55I sat alone: white-breasted like a starFronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skinDroop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hairCluster'd about his temples like a God's:And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens60When the wind blows the foam, and all my heartWent forth to embrace him coming ere he came."Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palmDisclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian[185]gold,65That smelt ambrosially,[186]and while I look'dAnd listen'd, the full-flowing river of speechCame down upon my heart."'My own Œnone,Beautiful-brow'd Œnone, my own soul,Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n70"For the most fair," would seem to award it thineAs lovelier than whatever Oread[187]hauntThe knolls of Ida, loveliest in all graceOf movement and the charm of married brows.'"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.75He prest the blossom of his lips to mine,And added, 'This was cast upon the board,When all the full-faced presence of the GodsRanged in the halls of Peleus[188]; whereuponRose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due:80But light-foot Iris[189]brought it yester-eve,Delivering, that to me, by common voiceElected umpire, Herè[190]comes to-day,Pallas[191]and Aphroditè,[192]claiming eachThis meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave85Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheardHear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud90Had lost his way between the piney sidesOf this long glen. Then to the bower they came,Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower.And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,Violet, amaracus,[193]and asphodel,[194]95Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose,And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,This way and that, in many a wild festoonRan riot, garlanding the gnarled boughsWith bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.100"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.On the tree-tops a crested peacock[195]lit,And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'dUpon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew.Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom105Coming thro' heaven like a light that growsLarger and clearer, with one mind the GodsRise up for reverence. She to Paris madeProffer of royal power, ample ruleUnquestion'd, overflowing revenue110Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale,And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn,Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore.Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll,From many an inland town and haven large,115Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadelIn glassy bays among her tallest towers.'"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Still she spake on and still she spake of power,'Which in all action is the end of all;120Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bredAnd throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crownsAlliance and allegiance, till thy handFail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me,From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born,125A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born,Should come most welcome, seeing men, in powerOnly, are likest gods, who have attain'dRest in a happy place and quiet seatsAbove the thunder, with undying bliss130In knowledge of their own supremacy.'"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruitOut at arm's-length, so much the thought of powerFlatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood135Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbsO'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spearUpon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,The while, above, her clear and earnest eyeOver her snow-cold breast and angry cheek140Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply."'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,These three alone lead life to sovereign power.Yet not for power (power of herselfWould come uncall'd for) but to live by law,145Acting the law we live by without fear;And, because right is right, to follow rightWere wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts.150Sequel of guerdon[196]could not alter meTo fairer. Judge thou me by what I am,So shalt thou find me fairest.Yet indeed,If gazing on divinity disrobedThy mortal eyes are frail to judge, of fair,155Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure,That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee,So that my vigour wedded to thy blood,Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God'sTo push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,160Dangers, and deeds, until endurance growSinew'd with action, and the full-grown will,Circled thro' all experiences, pure law,Commeasure perfect freedom.''Here she ceas'd,And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris,165Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Idalian[197]Aphroditè beautiful,170Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian[198]wells,With rosy slender fingers backward drewFrom her warm brows and bosom her deep hairAmbrosial, golden round her lucid throatAnd shoulder: from the violets her light foot175Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded formBetween the shadows of the vine-bunchesFloated the glowing sunlights as she moved."Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,180The herald of her triumph, drawing nighHalf-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise theeThe fairest and most loving wife in Greece.'She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear:But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm,185And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes,As she withdrew into the golden cloud,And I was left alone within the bower;And from that time to this I am alone,And I shall be alone until I die.190"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair?My love hath told me so a thousand times.Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,[199]195Eyed like the evening star, with playful tailCrouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she?Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my armsWere wound about thee, and my hot lips prestClose, close to thine in that quick-falling dew200Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rainsFlash in the pools of whirling Simois."O mother, hear me yet before I die.They came, they cut away my tallest pines,My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge205High over the blue gorge, and all betweenThe snowy peak and snow-white cataractFoster'd the callow eaglet—from beneathWhose thick mysterious boughs in the dark mornThe panther's roar came muffled, while I sat210Low in the valley. Never, never moreShall lone Œnone see the morning mistSweep thro' them; never see them overlaidWith narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud,Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.215"O mother, hear me yet before I die.I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds,Among the fragments tumbled from the glens,Or the dry thickets, I could meet with herThe Abominable,[200]that uninvited came220Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall,And cast the golden fruit upon the board,And bred this change; that I might speak my mind,And tell her to her face how much I hateHer presence, hated both of Gods and men.225"O mother, hear me yet before I die.Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,In this green valley, under this green hill,Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?230O happy tears, and how unlike to these!O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face?O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud,There are enough unhappy on this earth;235Pass by the happy souls, that love to live;I pray thee, pass before my light of life,And shadow all my soul, that I may die.Thou weighest heavy on the heart within,Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.240"O mother, hear me yet before I die.I will not die alone, for fiery thoughtsDo shape themselves within me, more and more,Whereof I catch the issue, as I hearDead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,245Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly seeMy far-off doubtful purpose, as a motherConjectures of the features of her childEre it is born: her child!—a shudder comesAcross me: never child be born of me,250Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!"O mother, hear me yet before I die.Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,Lest their shrill happy laughter come to meWalking the cold and starless road of death255Uncomforted, leaving my ancient loveWith the Greek woman.[201]I will rise and goDown into Troy, and ere the stars come forthTalk with the wild Cassandra,[202]for she saysA fire dances before her, and a sound260Rings ever in her ears of armed men.What this may be I know not, but I knowThat, wheresoe'er I am by night and day,All earth and air seem only burning fire."
There lies a vale in Ida,[176]lovelierThan all the valleys of Ionian[177]hills.The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand5The lawns and meadow-ledges midway downHang rich in flowers, and far below them roarsThe long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravineIn cataract after cataract to the sea.Behind the valley topmost Gargarus[178]10Stands up and takes the morning: but in frontThe gorges, opening wide apart, revealTroas[179]and Ilion's[180]column'd citadel,The crown of Troas.Hither came at noonMournful Œnone, wandering forlorn15Of Paris,[181]once her playmate on the hills.Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neckFloated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade20Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:The grasshopper is silent in the grass:25The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.The purple flower droops: the golden beeIs lily-cradled: I alone awake.My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love,30My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life.
"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves35That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks,I am the daughter of a River-God,[182]Hear me, for I will speak, and build up allMy sorrow with my song, as yonder wallsRose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[183]40A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may beThat, while I speak of it, a little whileMy heart may wander from its deeper woe.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.45I waited underneath the dawning hills,Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white hooved,50Came up from reedy Simois[184]all alone.
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft:Far up the solitary morning smoteThe streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes55I sat alone: white-breasted like a starFronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skinDroop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hairCluster'd about his temples like a God's:And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens60When the wind blows the foam, and all my heartWent forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palmDisclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian[185]gold,65That smelt ambrosially,[186]and while I look'dAnd listen'd, the full-flowing river of speechCame down upon my heart.
"'My own Œnone,Beautiful-brow'd Œnone, my own soul,Behold this fruit whose gleaming rind ingrav'n70"For the most fair," would seem to award it thineAs lovelier than whatever Oread[187]hauntThe knolls of Ida, loveliest in all graceOf movement and the charm of married brows.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.75He prest the blossom of his lips to mine,And added, 'This was cast upon the board,When all the full-faced presence of the GodsRanged in the halls of Peleus[188]; whereuponRose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due:80But light-foot Iris[189]brought it yester-eve,Delivering, that to me, by common voiceElected umpire, Herè[190]comes to-day,Pallas[191]and Aphroditè,[192]claiming eachThis meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave85Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheardHear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud90Had lost his way between the piney sidesOf this long glen. Then to the bower they came,Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower.And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,Violet, amaracus,[193]and asphodel,[194]95Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose,And overhead the wandering ivy and vine,This way and that, in many a wild festoonRan riot, garlanding the gnarled boughsWith bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.100
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.On the tree-tops a crested peacock[195]lit,And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'dUpon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew.Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom105Coming thro' heaven like a light that growsLarger and clearer, with one mind the GodsRise up for reverence. She to Paris madeProffer of royal power, ample ruleUnquestion'd, overflowing revenue110Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale,And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn,Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore.Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll,From many an inland town and haven large,115Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadelIn glassy bays among her tallest towers.'
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Still she spake on and still she spake of power,'Which in all action is the end of all;120Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bredAnd throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crownsAlliance and allegiance, till thy handFail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me,From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee, king-born,125A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born,Should come most welcome, seeing men, in powerOnly, are likest gods, who have attain'dRest in a happy place and quiet seatsAbove the thunder, with undying bliss130In knowledge of their own supremacy.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruitOut at arm's-length, so much the thought of powerFlatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood135Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbsO'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spearUpon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,The while, above, her clear and earnest eyeOver her snow-cold breast and angry cheek140Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
"'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,These three alone lead life to sovereign power.Yet not for power (power of herselfWould come uncall'd for) but to live by law,145Acting the law we live by without fear;And, because right is right, to follow rightWere wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts.150Sequel of guerdon[196]could not alter meTo fairer. Judge thou me by what I am,So shalt thou find me fairest.Yet indeed,If gazing on divinity disrobedThy mortal eyes are frail to judge, of fair,155Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure,That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee,So that my vigour wedded to thy blood,Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God'sTo push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,160Dangers, and deeds, until endurance growSinew'd with action, and the full-grown will,Circled thro' all experiences, pure law,Commeasure perfect freedom.'
'Here she ceas'd,And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris,165Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Idalian[197]Aphroditè beautiful,170Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian[198]wells,With rosy slender fingers backward drewFrom her warm brows and bosom her deep hairAmbrosial, golden round her lucid throatAnd shoulder: from the violets her light foot175Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded formBetween the shadows of the vine-bunchesFloated the glowing sunlights as she moved.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,180The herald of her triumph, drawing nighHalf-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise theeThe fairest and most loving wife in Greece.'She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear:But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm,185And I beheld great Herè's angry eyes,As she withdrew into the golden cloud,And I was left alone within the bower;And from that time to this I am alone,And I shall be alone until I die.190
"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair?My love hath told me so a thousand times.Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,[199]195Eyed like the evening star, with playful tailCrouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she?Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my armsWere wound about thee, and my hot lips prestClose, close to thine in that quick-falling dew200Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rainsFlash in the pools of whirling Simois.
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.They came, they cut away my tallest pines,My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge205High over the blue gorge, and all betweenThe snowy peak and snow-white cataractFoster'd the callow eaglet—from beneathWhose thick mysterious boughs in the dark mornThe panther's roar came muffled, while I sat210Low in the valley. Never, never moreShall lone Œnone see the morning mistSweep thro' them; never see them overlaidWith narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud,Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.215
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds,Among the fragments tumbled from the glens,Or the dry thickets, I could meet with herThe Abominable,[200]that uninvited came220Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall,And cast the golden fruit upon the board,And bred this change; that I might speak my mind,And tell her to her face how much I hateHer presence, hated both of Gods and men.225
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,In this green valley, under this green hill,Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?230O happy tears, and how unlike to these!O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face?O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud,There are enough unhappy on this earth;235Pass by the happy souls, that love to live;I pray thee, pass before my light of life,And shadow all my soul, that I may die.Thou weighest heavy on the heart within,Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.240
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.I will not die alone, for fiery thoughtsDo shape themselves within me, more and more,Whereof I catch the issue, as I hearDead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,245Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly seeMy far-off doubtful purpose, as a motherConjectures of the features of her childEre it is born: her child!—a shudder comesAcross me: never child be born of me,250Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!
"O mother, hear me yet before I die.Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,Lest their shrill happy laughter come to meWalking the cold and starless road of death255Uncomforted, leaving my ancient loveWith the Greek woman.[201]I will rise and goDown into Troy, and ere the stars come forthTalk with the wild Cassandra,[202]for she saysA fire dances before her, and a sound260Rings ever in her ears of armed men.What this may be I know not, but I knowThat, wheresoe'er I am by night and day,All earth and air seem only burning fire."