Poems

Front matter

POEMS.

POEMS

BY

Sonnet

POEMS.

SONNET.

Mine be the strength of spirit fierce and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea:— Which with increasing might doth forward flee By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, And in the middle of the green salt sea Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. Mine be the Power which ever to it's sway Will win the wise at once, and by degrees May into uncongenial spirits flow; Even as the great gulfstream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mexico.

To ——

TO ——

i.

All good things have not kept aloof,

Nor wandered into other ways: I have not lacked thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise, But life is full of weary days.

ii.

Shake hands, my friend, across the brink

Of that deep grave to which I go. Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far—far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below.

iii.

When, in the darkness over me,

The fourhanded mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypresstree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape.

iv.

And when the sappy field and wood

Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And through damp holts, newflushed with May, Ring sudden langhters of the Jay;

v.

Then let wise Nature work her will

And on my clay her darnels grow. Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow,

vi.

If thou art blest, my mother's smile

Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: Then cease, my friend, a little while, That I may hear the throstle sing His bridal song, the boast of spring.

vii.

Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains

Of bubbling wells that fret the stones, (If any sense in me remains) Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones As welcome to my crumbling hones.

Buonaparte

BUONAPARTE.

He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, Madman!—to chain with chains, and bind with bands That island queen that sways the floods and lands From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, When from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands, With thunders, and with lightnings, and with smoke, Peal after peal, the British battle broke, Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore Heard the war moan along the distant sea, Rocking with shattered spars, with sudden fires Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more We taught him: late he learned humility Perforce, like those whom Gideon schooled with briars.

Sonnet

SONNET.

i.

O beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!

How can'st thou let me waste my youth in sighs? I only ask to sit beside thy feet. Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes. Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold My arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak. And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek. Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word kiss hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke.

Sonnet

SONNET.

ii.

But were I loved, as I desire to be,

What is there in the great sphere of the earth, And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear,—if I were loved by thee? All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh-water-springs come up through bitter brine. 'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand-in-hand with thee, To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, though the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see.

The Lady of Shalott

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

PART THE FIRST.

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold, and meet the sky. And thro' the field the road runs by To manytowered Camelot. The yellowleavèd waterlily, The green-sheathèd daffodilly, Tremble in the water chilly, Round about Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens shiver, The sunbeam-showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island in the river, Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, tis the fairy Lady of Shalott."

The little isle is all inrailed With a rose-fence, and overtrailed With roses: by the marge unhailed The shallop flitteth silkensailed, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearlgarland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparellèd, The Lady of Shalott.

PART THE SECOND.

No time hath she to sport and play: A charmèd web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day, To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be; Therefore she weaveth steadily, Therefore no other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

She lives with little joy or fear. Over the water, running near, The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting tower'd Camelot. And as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market-girls, Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or longhair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to towered Camelot.

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue, The knights come riding, two and two. She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights: For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, came from Camelot. Or, when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers, lately wed: "I am half-sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.

PART THE THIRD.

A bowshot from her bower-eaves. He rode between the barley-sheaves: The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A redcross knight for ever kneeled To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle-bells rang merrily, As he rode down from Camelot.

And from his blazon'd baldric slung, A mighty silver bugle hung, And, as he rode, his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather, Thickjewelled shone the saddle-leather. The helmet, and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down from Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over green Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed. On burnished hooves his war-horse trode. From underneath his helmet flowed His coalblack curls, as on he rode, As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank, and from the river, He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra, tirra lirra," Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web: she left the loom: She made three paces thro' the room: She saw the waterflower bloom: She saw the helmet and the plume: She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web, and floated wide, The mirror cracked from side to side, "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

PART THE FOURTH.

In the stormy eastwind straining The pale-yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot: Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, The Lady of Shalott.

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight. All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew, (her zone in sight, Clasped with one blinding diamond bright,) Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot,

Though the squally eastwind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott.

With a steady, stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She looked down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day, She loosed the chain, and down she lay, The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot

Still as the boathead wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her deathsong, The Lady of Shalott.

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darkened wholly, And her smooth face sharpened slowly Turned to towered Camelot: For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the waterside, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By gardenwall and gallery, A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Deadcold, between the houses high, Dead into towered Camelot.

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the plankèd wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, "The Lady of Shalott."

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire and guest. There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The wellfed wits at Camelot. The web was woven curiously The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not,—this is I, The Lady of Shalott."

Mariana in the South

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.

Behind the barren hill upsprung With pointed rocks against the light, The crag sharpshadowed overhung Each glaring creek and inlet bright. Far, far, one lightblue ridge was seen, Looming like baseless fairyland; Eastward a slip of burning sand, Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green. Down in the dry salt-marshes stood That house darklatticed. Not a breath Swayed the sick vineyard underneath, Or moved the dusty southernwood.

"Madonna," with melodious moan Sang Mariana, night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn."

She, as her carol sadder grew, From her warm brow and bosom down Through rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown On either side, and made appear, Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. "Madonna," with melodious moan Sang Mariana, night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn."

When the dawncrimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Unto our lady prayèd she.

She moved her lips, she prayed alone, She praying disarrayed and warm From slumber, deep her wavy form In the darklustrous mirror shone. "Madonna," in a low clear tone Said Mariana, night and morn, Low she mourned, "I am all alone, Love-forgotten, and love-forlorn."

At noon she slumbered. All along The silvery field, the large leaves talked With one another, as among The spikèd maize in dreams she walked. The lizard leapt: the sunlight played: She heard the callow nestling lisp, And brimful meadow-runnels crisp, In the full-leavèd platan-shade. In sleep she breathed in a lower tone, Murmuring as at night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn,"

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream Most false: he was and was not there. She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare Shrank the sick olive sere and small. The riverbed was dusty-white; From the bald rock the blinding light Beat ever on the sunwhite wall. She whispered, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, "Madonna, leave me not all alone, To die forgotten and live forlorn."

One dry cicala's summer song At night filled all the gallery, Backward the latticeblind she flung, And leaned upon the balcony. Ever the low wave seemed to roll Up to the coast; far on, alone In the East, lange Hesper overshone The mourning gulf, and on her soul

Poured divine solace, or the rise Of moonlight from the margin gleamed, Volcano-like, afar, and streamed On her white arm, and heavenward eyes. Not all alone she made her moan, Yet ever sang she, night and morn, "Madonna, lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.”

Eleänore

ELEANORE.

Thy dark eyes opened not— Nor first revealed themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedarwood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fanned With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought, The oriental fairy brought,

At the moment of thy birth, From old wellheads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, And shadowed coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.

Or the yellowbanded bees, Through half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens culled— A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silksoft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees, Into dreamful slumber lulled.

Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister

To thee, with fruitage goldenrinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grapethickened from the light, and blinded With many a deephued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland meer, Eleanore!

How may fullsailed verse express, How may measured words adore The fullflowing harmony Of thy swanlike stateliness, Eleänore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleänore?

Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleänore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streamins of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep, Who may express thee, Eleänore?

I stand before thee, Eleänore; I see thy beauty gradually unfold,

Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy lovedeep eyes, Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore!

Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awakened, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpowered quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light. As though a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it,

Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fixed—then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleänore.

As thunderclouds that, hung on high, Did roof noonday with doubt and fear, Floating through an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touched by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his fire and active might, In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation: As waves that from the outer deep Roll into a quiet cove, There fall away, and lying still,

Having glorious dreams in sleep, Shadow forth the banks at will: Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the selfsame influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bowstring slackened, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore.

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, When the amorous, odorous wind, Breathes low between the sunset and the moon, Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined, I gaze on thee the cloudless noon Of mortal beauty: in its place

My heart a charmèd slumber keeps, While I muse upon thy face, And a languid fire creeps Through my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly: soon From thy rose-red lips my name Floweth; then I faint, I swoon, With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimmed with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleänore.

The Miller's Daughter

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

<>I. I met in all the close green ways, While walking with my line and rod, The wealthy miller's mealy face, Like the moon in an ivytod. He looked so jolly and so good— While fishing in the milldam-water, I laughed to see him as he stood, And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.

<>II. I see the wealthy miller yet— His double chin—his portly size; And who that knew him could forget The husy wrinkles round his eyes,

The slow wise smile, that, round about His dusty forehead drily curled, Seemed half-within, and half-without, And full of dealings with the world?

<>III. In yonder chair I see him sit— Three fingers round the old silver cup: I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest—gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound and clear and whole, His memory scarce makes me sad.

<>IV. Yet fill my glass,—give me one kiss; My darling Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss, Shall be unriddled by and by.

There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my own sweet wife, That we may die the selfsame day.

<>V. My father's mansion, mounted high, Looked down upon the village-spire. RemainsCloughv2p13I was a long and listless boy, And son and heir unto the squire. In these dear walls, where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song.

<>VI. I often heard the cooing dove In firry woodlands mour alone, But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own:

For scarce my life with fancy played, Before I dreamed that pleasant dream, Still hither, thither, idly swayed, Like the long mosses in the stream.

<>VII. Sometimes I whistled in the wind, Sometimes I angled, thought and deed Torpid, as swallows left behind That winter 'neath the floating weed: At will to wander everyway From brook to brook my sole delight, As lithe eels over meadows gray Oft shift their glimmering pool by night.

<>VIII. How dear to me in youth, my love, Was every thing about the mill, The black and silent pool above, The pool beneath that ne'er stood still,

The mealsacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal!

<>IX. I loved from off the bridge to hear The rushing sound the water made, And see the fish that everywhere In the backcurrent glanced and played; Low down the tall flagflower that sprung Beside the noisy steppingstones, And the massed chestnutboughs that hung Thickstudded over with white cones.

<>X. Remember you that pleasant day When, after roving in the woods, (‘Twas April then) I came and lay Beneath those gummy chestnutbuds

That glistened in the April blue. Upon the slope so smooth and cool, I lay and never thought of you, But angled in the deep millpool.

<>XI. A water-rat from off the bank Plunged in the stream. With idle care, Downlooking thro' the sedges rank, I saw your troubled image there. Upon the dark and dimpled beck It wandered like a floating light, A full fair form, a warm white neck, And two white arms—how rosy white!

<>XII. If you remember, you had set Upon the narrow casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge.

I raised my eyes at once: above They met two eyes so blue and bright, Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That they have never lost their light.

<>XIII. That slope beneath the chestnut tall Is wooed with choicest breaths of air: Methinks that I could tell you all The cowslips and the kingcups there. Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, Each quaintly-folded cuckoopint, And silver-paly cuckooflower.

<>XIV. In rambling on the eastern wold, When thro' the showery April nights Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, From all the other village-lights

I knew your taper far away. My heart was full of trembling hope. Down from the wold I came and lay Upon the dewyswarded slope.

<>XV. The white chalkquarry from the hill Upon the broken ripple gleamed, I murmured lowly, sitting still While round my feet the eddy streamed: "Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes, The mirror where her sight she feeds, The song she sings, the air she breathes, The letters of the book she reads."

<>XVI. Sometimes I saw you sit and spin, And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within, Sometimes your shadow crossed the blind.

At last you rose, and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darkened there.

<>XVII. I loved, but when I dared to speak My love, the lanes were white with May, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy, You would, and would not, little one, Altho' I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone.

<>XVIII. Remember you the clear moonlight, That whitened all the eastern ridge, When o'er the water, dancing white, I stepped upon the old millbridge.

I heard you whisper from above A lutetoned whisper, "I am here;" I murmured, "Speak again, my love, The stream is loud: I cannot hear."

<>XIX. I heard, as I have seemed to hear, When all the under-air was still, The low voice of the glad new year Call to the freshly-flowered hill. I heard, as I have often heard The nightingale in leavy woods Call to its mate, when nothing stirred To left or right but falling floods.

<>XX. Come, Alice, sing to me the song I made you on our marriageday, When, arm in arm, we went along Half-tearfully, and you were gay

With brooch and ring: for I shall seem, The while you sing that song, to hear The millwheel turning in the stream, And the green chestnut whisper near.

<>SONG. I wish I were her earring, Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek, (So might my shadow tremble Over her downy cheek,) Hid in her hair, all day and night, Touching her neck so warm and white.

I wish I were the girdle Buckled about her dainty waist, That her heart might beat against me, In sorrow and in rest. I should know well if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

I wish I were her necklace, So might I ever fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom With her laughter, or her sighs. I would lie round so warm and light I would not be unclasped at night.

<>XXI. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells— True love interprets right alone; For o'er each letter broods and dwells, (Like light from running waters thrown On flowery swaths) the blissful flame Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night, With pulses thrilling thro' his frame Do inly tremble, starrybright.

<>XXII. How I waste language—yet in truth You must blame love, whose early rage Made me a rhymster in my youth, And over-garrulous in age. Sing me that other song I made, Half-angered with my happy lot, When in the breezy limewood-shade, I found the blue forget-me-not.

<>SONG. All yesternight you met me not. My ladylove, forget me not. When I am gone, regret me not, But, here or there, forget me not. With your arched eyebrow threat me not, And tremulous eyes, like April skies, That seem to say, 'forget me not.' I pray you, love, forget me not.

In idle sorrow set me not; Regret me not: forget me not: Oh! leave me not; oh, let me not Wear quite away;—forget me not. With roguish laughter fret me not From dewy eyes, like April skies, That ever look, 'forget me not,' Blue as the blue forget-me-not.

<>XXIII. Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine, My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine. Untouched with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell, They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes! since first I knew them well.

<>XXIV. I've half a mind to walk, my love, To the old mill across the wolds, For look! the sunset from above Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casementglass, Touching the sullen pool below. On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

O Love, Love, Love!

φαἰνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴπος θεοῑπον Εμμεν ἀνίρ. Sappho.

<>I. O Love, Love, Love! oh, withering might! O sun, that at thy noonday height Shudderest, when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light! Lo! falling from my constant mind, Lo! parched and withered, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

<>II. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood, that went and came, A thousand little shafts of flame Were shivered in my narrow frame.

O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

<>III. Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Downdeepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

<>IV. The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is poured upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

<>V. My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye, I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow—live—die looking on his face, Die, dying clasped in his embrace.

Œnone

ŒNONE.

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than any in old Ionia, beautiful With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn A path thro' steepdown granite walls below Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. Far-seen, high over all the Godbuilt wall And many a snowycolumned range divine, Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, The work of Gods—bright on the darkblue sky The windy citadel of Ilion Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came Mournful Œnone wandering forlorn

Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a vine-entwined stone, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

"O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. The grasshopper is silent in the grass, The lizard with his shadow on the stone Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged Cicala in the noonday leapeth not Along the water-rounded granite-rock The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lilycradled: 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 fountained Ida, Dear mother Ida; hearken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves 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, 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, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, And dewydark aloft the mountain pine; Beautiful Paris, evilhearted Paris, Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone.