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, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.
The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd 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.
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 clasp'd in his embrace.
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 The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel,
Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn
Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped 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: 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, 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, hearken ere I die.
Hear me O Earth, hear me ✪ Hills, O Caves
That 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 all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gather'd 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-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken 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, hearken ere I die.
Far off the torrent call'd me from the cleft:
Far up the solitary morning smote
The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard-skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's;
And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Want forth to embrace him coming ere he came.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.
He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold,
That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.
"My own Enone, Beautiful-brow'd Enone, 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 haunt
The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken 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 Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupor Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due: 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
Behind you whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney 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,
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 thro' and thro
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit,
And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew.
Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' 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 Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue
Wherewith to embellish state, from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore.
Honor,' she said, ' and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In 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;
'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.
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 power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood 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 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-controi, These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
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