XVIII.

"Cruel was the spirit-power thou gavest-- Fatal, O Apollo, was thy love!

Pythian! Archer! brightest G.o.d and bravest, Hear, O hear me from thy throne above!

Let me not, I pray, Thus be cast away: Plead for me--thy slave--O plead to Jove!"

XIX.

"I have heard thee with the Muses singing-- Heard that full, melodious voice of thine, Silver-clear throughout the ether ringing-- Seen thy locks in golden cl.u.s.ters shine; And thine eye, so bright With its innate light, Hath ere now been bent so low as mine."

XX.

"Hast thou lost the wish--the will--to cherish Those who trusted in thy G.o.dlike power?

Hyacinthus did not wholly perish; Still he lives, the firstling of thy bower; Still he feels thy rays, Fondly meets thy gaze, Though but now the spirit of a flower."

XXI.

"Hear me, Phoebus! Hear me and deliver!

Lo! the morning breaketh from afar-- G.o.d! thou comest bright and great as ever-- Night goes back before thy burning car; All her lamps are gone-- Lucifer alone Lingers still for thee--the blessed star!"

XXII.

"Hear me, Phoebus!"--And therewith descended Through the window-arch a glory-gleam, All effulgent--and with music blended, For such solemn sounds arose as stream From the Memnon-lyre, When the morning fire Gilds the giant's forehead with its beam.

XXIII.

"Thou hast heard thy servant's prayer, Apollo; Thou dost call me, mighty G.o.d of Day!

Fare-thee-well, Ione!"--And more hollow Came the phantom-voice, then died away.

When the slaves arose, Not in calm repose, Not in sleep, but death, their mistress lay.

OENONE

On the holy mount of Ida, Where the pine and cypress grow, Sate a young and lovely woman, Weeping ever, weeping low.

Drearily throughout the forest Did the winds of autumn blow, And the clouds above were flying, And Scamander rolled below.

"Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!"

Thus the poor deserted spake-- "Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?

Why thy loving bride forsake?

Why no tender word at parting?

Why no kiss, no farewell take?

Would that I could but forget thee-- Would this throbbing heart might break!

"Is my face no longer blooming?

Are my eyes no longer bright?

Ah! my tears have made them dimmer, And my cheeks are pale and white.

I have wept since early morning, I will weep the livelong night; Now I long for sullen darkness, As I once have longed for light.

"Paris! canst thou then be cruel?

Fair, and young, and brave thou art-- Can it be that in thy bosom Lies so cold, so hard a heart?

Children were we bred together-- She who bore me suckled thee; I have been thine old companion, When thou hadst no more but me.

"I have watched thee in thy slumbers, When the shadow of a dream Pa.s.sed across thy smiling features, Like the ripple of a stream; And so sweetly were the visions Pictured there with lively grace, That I half could read their import By the changes on thy face.

"When I sang of Ariadne, Sang the old and mournful tale, How her faithless lover, Theseus, Left her to lament and wail; Then thine eyes would fill and glisten, Her complaint could soften thee: Thou hast wept for Ariadne-- Theseus' self might weep for me!

"Thou may'st find another maiden With a fairer face than mine-- With a gayer voice, and sweeter, And a spirit liker thine: For if e'er my beauty bound thee, Lost and broken is the spell; But thou canst not find another That will love thee half so well.

"O thou hollow ship that bearest Paris o'er the faithless deep, Wouldst thou leave him on some island, Where alone the waters weep?

Where no human foot is moulded In the wet and yellow sand-- Leave him there, thou hollow vessel!

Leave him on that lonely land!

"Then his heart will surely soften, When his foolish hopes decay, And his older love rekindle, As the new one dies away.

Visionary hills will haunt him, Rising from the gla.s.sy sea, And his thoughts will wander homewards Unto Ida and to me.

"O! that like a little swallow I could reach that lonely spot!

All his errors would be pardoned, All the weary past forgot.

Never should he wander from me-- Never should he more depart, For these arms would be his prison, And his home would be my heart."

Thus lamented fair Oenone, Weeping ever, weeping low, On the holy mount of Ida, Where the pine and cypress grow.

In the self-same hour Ca.s.sandra Shrieked her prophecy of woe, And into the Spartan dwelling Did the faithless Paris go.

THE BURIED FLOWER

In the silence of my chamber, When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmed sleep,

Oft I hear the angel-voices That have thrilled me long ago,-- Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow.

O, the garden I remember, In the gay and sunny spring, When our laughter made the thickets And the arching alleys ring!

O the merry burst of gladness!

O the soft and tender tone!

O the whisper never uttered Save to one fond ear alone!

O the light of life that sparkled In those bright and bounteous eyes!

O the blush of happy beauty, Tell-tale of the heart's surprise:

O the radiant light that girdled Field and forest, land and sea, When we all were young together, And the earth was new to me: