"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,

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.

66

"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.

66

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.

I sat alone

With down-dropt eyes

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
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

"Dear mother Ida, harken 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.

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,
Delivering that to me, by common voice

Elected umpire, Here comes to-day
Pallas and Aphrodite, 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.

66

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,
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, harken 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 cloth'd with corn, Or labour'd mines undrainable of ore.

Honour,' 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.'

66

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, 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, harken ere I die.

She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit