| |
| THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier | |
| Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. | |
| The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen, | |
| Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, | |
| And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand | 5 |
| The lawns and meadow ledges midway down | |
| Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars | |
| The long brook falling through the cloven ravine | |
| In cataract after cataract to the sea. | |
| Behind the valley topmost Garfiarus | 10 |
| Stands up and takes the morning; but in front | |
| The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal | |
| Troas and Ilion’s columned citadel, | |
The crown of Troas.
Hither came at noon | |
| Mournful Œnone, wandering forlorn | 15 |
| Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. | |
| Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck | |
| Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. | |
| She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, | |
| Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade | 20 |
| Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. | |
| |
| “O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, | |
| Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: | |
| The grasshopper is silent in the grass: | 25 |
| The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, | |
| Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. | |
| The purple flowers droop; the golden bee | |
| Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. | |
| My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, | 30 |
| My 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, harken ere I die. | |
| Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves, | 35 |
| That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks, | |
| I am the daughter of a River-God; | |
| Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all | |
| My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls | |
| Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, | 40 |
| A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be | |
| That, while I speak of it, a little while | |
| My heart may wander from its deeper woe. | |
| |
| “O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, | |
| Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | 45 |
| 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-horned, white-hoofed, | 50 |
| Came up from reedy Simois all alone. | |
| |
| “O mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| Far off the torrent called me from the cleft: | |
| Far up the solitary morning smote | |
| The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes, | 55 |
| I sat alone: white-breasted like a star | |
| Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin | |
| Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny hair | |
| Clustered about his temples like a god’s; | |
| And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens | 60 |
| When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart | |
| Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm | |
| Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, | 65 |
| That smelt ambrosially, and while I looked | |
| And listened, the full-flowing river of speech | |
Came down upon my heart.
“‘My own Œnone, | |
| Beautiful-browed Œnone, my own soul, | |
| Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind engraven | 70 |
| “For the most fair,” would seem to award it thine. | |
| As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt | |
| The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace | |
| Of movement, and the charm of married brows.’ | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | 75 |
| 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 Gods | |
| Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon | |
| Rose feud, with question unto whom ’t were due. | 80 |
| But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, | |
| Delivering that to me, by common voice | |
| Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day | |
| Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each | |
| This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave | 85 |
| Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, | |
| Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard | |
| Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of gods.’ | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud | 90 |
| Had lost his way between the piny sides | |
| Of 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, | 95 |
| Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, | |
| And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, | |
| This way and that, in many a wild festoon | |
| Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs | |
| With bunch and berry and flower through and through. | 100 |
| |
| “O mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, | |
| And o’er him flowed a golden cloud, and leaned | |
| Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. | |
| Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom | 105 |
| Coming through Heaven, like a light that grows | |
| Larger and clearer, with one mind the gods | |
| Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made | |
| Proffer of royal power, ample rule | |
| Unquestioned, overflowing revenue | 110 |
| Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale | |
| And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, | |
| Or labored mines, undrainable of ore. | |
| Honor,’ she said, ‘and homage, tax and toll, | |
| From many an inland town and haven large, | 115 |
| Mast-thronged beneath her shadowing citadel | |
| In 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: | 120 |
| Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred | |
| And throned of wisdom,—from all neighbor crowns | |
| Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand | |
| Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, | |
| From me, heaven’s queen, Paris, to thee king-born, | 125 |
| A shepherd all thy life, but yet king-born, | |
| Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power | |
| Only, are likest gods, who have attained | |
| Rest in a happy place and quiet seats | |
| Above the thunder, with undying bliss, | 130 |
| In knowledge of their own supremacy.’ | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit | |
| Out at arm’s length, so much the thought of power | |
| Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood | 135 |
| Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs | |
| O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear | |
| Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, | |
| The while, above, her full and earnest eye | |
| Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek | 140 |
| Kept 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 herself | |
| Would come uncalled for,) but to live by law, | 145 |
| Acting the law we live by without fear; | |
| And because right is right, to follow right | |
| Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’ | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| Again she said: ‘I woo thee not with gifts. | 150 |
| Sequel of guerdon could not alter me | |
| To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, | |
So shalt thou find me fairest.
Yet, indeed, | |
| If gazing on divinity disrobed, | |
| Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, | 155 |
| Unbiased by self-profit, O, rest thee sure | |
| That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, | |
| So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, | |
| Shall strike within thy pulses, like a god’s, | |
| To push thee forward through a life of shocks, | 160 |
| Dangers and deeds, until endurance grow | |
| Sinewed with action, and the full-grown will, | |
| Circled through all experiences, pure law, | |
Commeasure perfect freedom.’
“Here she ceased, | |
| And Paris pondered, and I cried, ‘O Paris, | 165 |
| Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, | |
| Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! | |
| |
| “O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, | |
| Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, | 170 |
| Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, | |
| With rosy slender fingers backward drew | |
| From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair | |
| Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat | |
| And shoulder: from the violets her light foot | 175 |
| Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form | |
| Between the shadows of the vine bunches | |
| Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. | |
| |
| “Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. | |
| She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, | 180 |
| The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh, | |
| Half whispered in his ear, ‘I promise thee | |
| The fairest and most loving wife in Greece.’ | |
| She spoke and laughed: I shut my sight for fear: | |
| But when I looked, Paris had raised his arm, | 185 |
| 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.” * * * * * | 190 |
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