Anon from out the long ravine below, She heard a wailing cry, that seem'd at first

Thin as the batlike shrillings of the Dead When driven to Hades, but, in coming near,

Across the downward thunder of the brook

Sounded 'Enone'; and on a sudden he, Paris, no longer beauteous as a God, Struck by a poison'd arrow in the fight, Lame, crooked, reeling, livid, thro' the mist

Rose, like the wraith of his dead self, and moan'd

'Enone, my Enone, while we dwelt Together in this valley-happy thenToo happy had I died within thine arms, Before the feud of Gods had marr'd our peace,

Paced, following, as in trance, the silent

cry.

She waked a bird of prey that scream'd and past;

She roused a snake that hissing writhed away;

A panther sprang across her path, she

heard

The shriek of some lost life among the pines,

But when she gain'd the broader vale, and saw

The ring of faces redden'd by the flames Enfolding that dark body which had lain Of old in her embrace, paused—and then ask'd

Falteringly, 'Who lies on yonder pyre?' But every man was mute for reverence. Then moving quickly forward till the heat Smote on her brow, she lifted up a voice Of shrill command, 'Who burns upon the pyre?'

Whereon their oldest and their boldest said,

'He, whom thou wouldst not heal!' and all at once

The morning light of happy marriage

A man who never changed a word with men,

Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint. Eve after eve that haggard anchorite Would haunt the desolated fane, and there

Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low 'Vicisti Galilæe'; louder again, Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God, "Vicisti Galilæe!' but-when now Bathed in that lurid crimson-ask'd 'Is earth

On fire to the West? or is the Demon-god Wroth at his fall?' and heard an answer 'Wake

Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life Of self-suppression, not of selfless love.' And once a flight of shadowy fighters crost

The disk, and once, he thought, a shape with wings

Came sweeping by him, and pointed to the West,

And at his ear he heard a whisper 'Rome'

And in his heart he cried 'The call of God!'

And call'd arose, and, slowly plunging down

Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face By waste and field and town of alien tongue,

Following a hundred sunsets, and the sphere

Of westward-wheeling stars; and every dawn

Struck from him his own shadow on to Rome.

Foot-sore, way-worn, at length he touch'd his goal,

The Christian city. All her splendour fail'd

To lure those eyes that only yearn'd to

see,

Fleeting betwixt her column'd palacewalls,

The shape with wings. Anon there past a crowd

With shameless laughter, Pagan oath, and jest,

Hard Romans brawling of their monstrous

games;

He, all but deaf thro' age and weariness,