Gods

Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom

'twere due :

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphroditè, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the

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,

Violet, amaracus, and asphodel,
Lotos and lilies and a wind arose,
And overhead the wandering ivy and
vine,

'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; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom-from all neighbour 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,

A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men,

Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my

arms

Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest

Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew

Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines,

My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge

High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet-from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn

The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat

Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone Enone see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid

With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens,

Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her

The Abominable, that uninvited came
Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall,
And cast the golden fruit upon the board,
And bred this change; that I might speak
my mind,

And tell her to her face how much I hate
Her presence, hated both of Gods and

men.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,

In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?

Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears?

O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face?

O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight?

O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud,

There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.

'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more,

Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,

Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes Across me never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!

THE SISTERS.

WE were two daughters of one race:
She was the fairest in the face:

The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
They were together, and she fell ;
Therefore revenge became me well.
O the Earl was fair to see!

She died she went to burning flame: She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.

The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late,

To win his love I lay in wait:

O the Earl was fair to see!

I made a feast; I bad him come;
I won his love, I brought him home.

The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
And after supper, on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head :
O the Earl was fair to see!

I kiss'd his eyelids into rest :
His ruddy cheek upon my breast.

The wind is raging in turret and tree.
I hated him with the hate of hell,
But I loved his beauty passing well.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I rose up in the silent night:
I made my dagger sharp and bright.
The wind is raving in turret and tree.
As half-asleep his breath he drew,
Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'.
O the Earl was fair to see!

I curl'd and comb'd his comely head,
He look'd so grand when he was dead.
The wind is blowing in turret and tree.
I wrapt his body in the sheet,
And laid him at his mother's feet.
O the Earl was fair to see!

ΤΟ

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM.

I SEND you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul,

To which my soul made answer readily :
Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide.'

Four courts I made, East, West and

South and North,

In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam.

And round the cool green courts there

ran a row

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery

That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky

Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell

Across the mountain stream❜d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?'

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,

And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd, Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd

and traced,

Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires.