I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. Ah, well-but sing the foolish song A pensive pair, and you were gay It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear; For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets-right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. So, if I waste words now, in truth And makes me talk too much in age. 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, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon 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 mountainshade Sloped 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 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, harken ere I die. Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, 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, 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 smote The streaks of virgin snow. With downdropt 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 foambow brightens 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 milkwhite 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, 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 Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, cave 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 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, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, and thro'. |