OENONE had been weeping, but the blast Bitterly cold had dried her tears, for high Upon the mountain stood she, where the grass Was short and dry, and where the fir-tree cones Roll'd as the whirlwind rusht along the down. Thence she beheld the walls and temples doom'd So soon to fall, and view'd her husband's roof, (Hers he was once, altho' another's now) And call'd their Corythos from out the wood. "Go," said she, "go, my child! there is at Troy One who, without thy mother, may love @3thee@1. Thy father lives . . alas! lives unaware How few before him lie his destined days: For now from Lemnos Philoctetes comes And brings with him the deadly shafts bequeath'd By Hercules, wherewith, the Fates have sung, Paris must perish and the city fall. Hated thou wilt not be by her he loves, Altho' no child she ever bore to him And thou art mine, if thou canst but delay The hour foredoom'd: he may remember days Of other times, and how serene they were, Days when the poplar on its bark retain'd Two names inscribed by him, and when invoked Was Xanthos to bear witness to his vow. When his lost son hath saved him, and he knows He may not be ungrateful, but become The kinder father for unkindness past." She mingled kisses with o'erflowing tears, Embraced him, then consigned him . . not at once . . To Agelaos: he was oft recall'd, And urged with admonitions fresh and fresh To keep as distant as was possible From wave sail-whitened and insidious shore, And every spot where Argive rampires rose. Downward, thro' crags and briars they wend their way. Fixt to the place, she heard not long the shout Of Corythos, nor outcry of shrill birds He pelted, whooping; then she turn'd around Toward her mountain home, and thus exclaim'd . . "Mountains and woods, the birthplace of my child, I see ye yet! he, dearer to my eyes, Is lost to them! Paris, once gone, return'd No more to me! alas! nor love remains Nor pledge of love! not only have I lost Him who might bring again to me past hours By countenance, by mien, by sound of laugh, By words persuasive, when presaging fear Darkened my brow, that cause was none for grief, I have lost here . . how little if success Follow the loss! . . all solace, all support! All things beside are just the same around. Xanthos and Simois tremble at the touch Of early morning; then approaches me Tenedos, one unbroken mass distinct, And sidelong surges overleap the cliffs. I am changed nothing; nothing can I change: Such is the life of Nymphs; it must not cease, Nor must the comeliness of youth decay. Wretched! what look I back on? that frail gift And fugitive, which others grasp, I mourn. OEnone! O OEnone! beauteous once He thought thee; he whom thou wilt ever hold Beauteous and dear, now sees thee like the snow That lost its colour in a southern gale. How easy is it to snap off the bud Of tender life, and sow upon a breast Laid open ineradicable cares! How soon droops youth when faith, that propt it, fails! How often in her anguish would the maid Recall irrevocable hours, and grieve Most for the man whose future grief she sees! Asterope, my sister! happy thou In him who loves but one! canst thou believe That AEsacos and Paris are cognate? But him the mild Arisbe bore; and him, Born of a furious River, Hecuba. I envy not alone the happier wed, But even the wretched who avoid the light, The unmarried, too, whose parents turn'd aside Their nuptial torch, and widows o'er whose beds Black wreaths are drooping; for the pang that death Inflicts, time may, tho' time alone, assuage. Where Nile besprinkles from his lotus-cup The nuptial floor; where sacred Ganges rolls Alike inscrutable his vaster stream, If Memnon's mother sheds ambrosial tears Before the sun arises; if, ye maids Of ocean, in the refuge of your caves Ye daily hear your Thetis wail her loss, Shunning wise Glaucos, deaf to Triton's shell, To Doris, and the Nymphs that wait around; If maids and matrons wail'd o'er Hector's corse, Mangled, and stretcht upon a tardy bier, Hector was still Andromache's, as when He drave before him the Achaian host, As when he tost his infant to his crest And laught that Hector's child could ever fear. What fault ye Gods was mine, unless to love And be deserted, and to pass my nights Among the haunts of beasts, where wolves and bears Break my first slumber, and my last, with howls, And the winds roar incessant from above? Perhaps the Gods hereafter may look down With gentler eyes, nor deem my fault so great. Howe'er it be, may Corythos be blest With other days, with better than pursuit Of stag, or net thrown over birds when driven By cold and hunger to scant oats unhous'd .. O may they grant him happier, and forbid That children suffer when their sires transgress." Meanwhile the youth was stopping near the walls, And stood there wondering that e' en those, so vast, So lofty, had resisted such a host Under so many tents on all sides round. "But where is that old fig-tree? where the scene Of Hector and Achilles face to face? Where that of Venus when she drew the cloud Around my father to preserve his life?" Such were his questions, seizing the guide's hand, Hurrying him onward, and entreating him Forthwith to lead him into Troy itself, Even into Priam's house. Thus Agelaos Represses him. "Thy mother's sole command Was @3Onward! straight to Helena's abode@1." An aged man, who heard the two converse, Stopt them. "O Dardan," cried the impatient boy, "Say where dwells Helena?" "With sterner voice "Go," said the Dardan, "the destroyer's court To all is open .. there it lies: pass on." The youth threw instantly both arms around The old man's neck, and, "Blessed," he exclaim'd, "Blessed, to whom my mother's injuries Are hateful! It is virtue so to hate The wicked Spartan. Here none other house Than Priam's will I enter, where with his Abides my father, where Andromache Prostrate on earth bemoans her husband slain, While that bold wanton, fearing neither Pan Nor Zeus, with busy needle works, I ween, For other temples golden tapestries, Or twitches the shrill harp with nail of Sphynx." Many, as they were speaking, past them by. One woman, pausing, askt them if the ships Could be discern'd from Ida whence they came, And whether favourable were the winds For their departure: to the eld she spake, But gazed upon the youth: he saw her cheeks Redden and pale; his guide too, not unmoved, Thought, if in Ilion be such beauty, who Would turn a glance elsewhere, tho' all the Gods And all the Goddesses might promise more? Now saw the youth, nor had he seen till now, The maidens following her; their vests succinct, Their hair close-braided; faultless all in form, All modest in demeanour. Not so fast The motion of his heart when rusht the boar Into his toils, and knotty cornel spear Whiz'd as it struck the bristles, and the tusks Rattled with gnashing rage thro' boiling blood. Whither were going they, she gently askt. "To where Assaracos and Ilos dwelt," Replied the elder, "where dwells Paris now." Then she, "The way is safer shown by us, And sooner will ye find him when he leaves The citadel. At early dawn he heard A clamour from the coast; and soon a skiff Was seen: an old man landed; one alone Came with him; 'twas Odysseus; more behind. Soon roam'd the sailors, culling on the coast Bay and verbena; soon was every prow Glimmering with these unhoped-for signs of peace." Shaking his head, the Idaean answered thus. "'Twas surely Philoctetes who arrived. The arms he bears were those of Hercales, And now the bow of Nessos and the shafts Infected by the Hydra, come against The falling city of Laomedon." Struck by the words she heard, the more she wisht To hear, the quicker went she on, and bade Her damsels hasten too: she did look back, Yet hasten'd. The Idaean strangers moved Tardily now thro' crowds who stood before The house of Hector: there they stood; there came Widows and maids and matrons, carrying Honey (the outraged Manes to appease) And children on their shoulders, who lookt up, Stretching their eyes, stretching their bodies out To see their equal-aged Astyanax. The older and the younger wept alike At the morn silence: all things were laid waste Around the roof-tree of their hero's house. The palace now they reach where Paris dwelt; They wonder at the wide and lofty dome, The polisht columns and the brazen forms Of heroes and of Gods, and marble steps, And valves resounding at the gates unbarr'd. They enter them. What ivory! and what gold! What breathing images depicted there! Daedalos had enricht the Cretan king With divers; and his daughter when she fled With Theseus, who had slain the Minotaur, Brought part away within his hollow ship; And these were Helena's: a scient hand Drew her, the fairest, foremost into light Among the girls she danced with, while the Gods Of heaven and ocean gazed on her alone. Above them sate the Sire of all, and nigh She who on Cypros landed from her shell; Curl'd conchs less bright the round-eyed Tritons blew. Helena sent for Paris: what had said The shepherd she related, but one fact Repressing . . who the mother of the boy, And whom the boy resembled. Such was once Paris, the guest of Sparta; but ten years Had cull'd and carried off the flower of youth. She thought not in these moments of his flight Inglorious from the spear of Diomed, Of nearer peril thought she; he, reclined Upon his purple couch, her fear controll'd. "No Philoctetes is arrived, afar Sits he, alone upon the Lesbian rock, Heavy with mortal wound; a wing drives off The beasts from worrying their expected prey, Often he waves it o'er his weary head Lest vulture settle on it, often sees The brazen breast of eagle close above, Too weak his voice to scare it off, too weak His groans, tho' louder. Thinkest he who bore All this from faithless friend, who sits athirst, Ahungered, on the beach, who bends his ear Down to the earth and hears the pulse of oars Fainter and fainter, and the seaman's song Lively as ever, and while he bemoans His wasting and immedicable wound . . What can Lernaean arrow do against us? Grant, if that far-famed bowman limp across The heavy sands crisp with Achaian gore, Year after year, in flakes not washt away, Where lies our danger? He but comes to find Broken the chariot that had drag'd along Hector, the blackened pyre where Ajax lies, The corslet of Patroclos. Lo, O Troy! Those mighty hands that threaten now thy fall! Now is the time for us to turn our backs, To leave our heritage, to leave the fane Of Pallas, fane inviolate till now, The roofs that Neptune helpt her to erect, And over which Apollo, shining forth And shouting and exhorting, bent his bow. An old man bears an older on his back, Odysseus Philoctetes. Aye, 'tis time, My Helena, our footsteps to retrace Toward Mycaenai: let us bear away Our household Gods, by former wars unmoved . . Carry thou the Palladion in thy breast That trembles so with pious fear, and bring Gifts to Diana on Taygetos! The rampire of the Achaians is o'erthrown; The Myrmidons are scattered; every tent Lies open . . that is little . . for, behold! A lame man wins the race and grasps the prize! While dark invidious Here exercised Her hatred on her judge, and arm'd the son Of Tydeus, and while Ajax rear'd his shield Covered with seven bull-hides, and Nereid-born The proud AEmonian shook Aetion's towers, Thy fears, even then, I might, in jest, rebuke. On me no prowess have the Gods bestow'd? No Venus, no Apollo, favoured @3me!@1" Her failing spirits with derisive glee And fondness he refresht: her anxious thoughts Followed, and upon Corythos they dwelt. Often he met her eyes, nor shun'd they his, For, royal as she was and born of Zeus, She was compassionate, and bow'd her head To share her smiles and griefs with those below. All in her sight were level, for she stood High above all within the seagirt world. At last she questioned Corythos what brought His early footsteps thro' such dangerous ways, And from abode so peaceable and safe. At once he told her why he came: she held Her hand to Corythos: he stood ashamed Not to have hated her: he lookt, he sigh'd, He hung upon her words . . what gentle words! How chaste her countenance. "What open brows The brave and beauteous ever have!" thought she, "But even the hardiest, when above their heads Death is impending, shudder at the sight Of barrows on the sands and bones exposed And whitening in the wind, and cypresses From Ida waiting for dissever'd friends." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON SENESIS' MUMMY by LEONIE ADAMS VERSES FOR CHILDREN: MAPLE TREE by ZEDA K. AILES APPARITIONS by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH WHEN KREISLER PLAYS by FRANCES BARTLETT FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER by JOHN BETJEMAN SYMBOL OF OUR COUNTRY by MAUD MCKINSEY BUTLER TO A.D. UNREASONABLE DISTRUSTFUL OF HER OWN BEAUTY by THOMAS CAREW |