There lies a vale in Ida, lovelierThan all the valleys of Ionian hills.The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,And loiters, slowly drawn. On either handThe 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 GargarusStands up and takes the morning: but in frontThe gorges, opening wide apart, revealTroas and Ilion's column'd citadel,The crown of Troas.
Hither came at noonMournful Œnone, wandering forlornOf Paris, 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-shadeSloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:The grasshopper is silent in the grass:The 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,My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O CavesThat house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks,I am the daughter of a River-God,Hear me, for I will speak, and build up allMy sorrow with my song, as yonder wallsRose slowly to a music slowly breathed,A 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, harken ere I die.I 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,Came up from reedy Simois all alone.
"O mother Ida, harken 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 eyesI 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 brighten'd as the foam-bow brightensWhen the wind blows the foam, and all my heartWent forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palmDisclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,That smelt ambrosially, 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'n"For the most fair," would seem to award it thine,As lovelier than whatever Oread hauntThe knolls of Ida, loveliest in all graceOf movement, and the charm of married brows.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.He 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; whereuponRose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due:But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve,Delivering that to me, by common voiceElected umpire, Herè comes to-day,Pallas and Aphroditè, claiming eachThis meed of fairest. Thou, within the caveBehind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheardHear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloudHad 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, and asphodel,Lotos 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'.
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.On the tree-tops a crested peacock 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 whomComing 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 revenueWherewith to embellish state, 'from many a valeAnd 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,Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadelIn glassy bays among her tallest towers.'
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die.Still she spake on and still she spake of power,'Which in all action is the end of all;Power 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,A 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 blissIn knowledge of their own supremacy.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken 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 stoodSomewhat apart, her clear and bared limbsO'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spearUpon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,The while, above, her full and earnest eyeOver her snow-cold breast and angry cheekKept 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,Acting the law we live by without fear;And, because right is right, to follow rightWere wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts.Sequel of guerdon 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,Unbias'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sureThat 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's,To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,Dangers, 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'dAnd Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris,Give 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, harken ere I die.Idalian Aphroditè beautiful,Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian 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 footShone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded formBetween the shadows of the vine-bunchesFloated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,The 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,And 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.
"Yet, mother Ida, harken 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,Eyed 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 dewOf 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 ledgeHigh 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 satLow 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.
"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, that uninvited cameInto the fair Pele{:i}an 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.
"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?O 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,Pass 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.
"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,Like 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,Unblest, 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 deathUncomforted, leaving my ancient loveWith the Greek woman. I will rise and goDown into Troy, and ere the stars come forthTalk with the wild Cassandra, for she saysA fire dances before her, and a soundRings 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."
