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COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY MACMILLAN AND CO.

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bis, and my love together,

you that are seventy-seven, lith a faith as clear as the heights of

the June-blue heaven, nd a fancy as summer-new s the green of the bracken amid the

gloom of the heather.

TO THE MASTER OF

BALLIOL.

1.

EAR Master in our classic town,
ou, loved by all the younger gown

There at Balliol,
ay your Plato for one minute down,

CENONE sat within the cave from out
Whose ivy-matted mouth she used to gaze
Down at the Troad; but the goodly view
Was now one blank, and all the serpent

vines
Which on the touch of heavenly feet had

risen, And gliding thro' the branches over

bower'd The naked Three, were wither'd long ago, And throʻ the sunless winter morning

mist In silence wept upon the flowerless earth. And while she stared at those dead

cords that ran Dark thro' the mist, and linking tree to

tree, But once were gayer than a dawning sky With many a pendent bell and fragrant

star, Her Past became her Present, and she

II.

ad read a Grecian tale re-told, Chich, cast in later Grecian mould,

Quintus Calaber mewhat lazily handled of old;

saw

III.

Him, climbing toward her with the golden

fruit, ad on this white midwinter day

Him, happy to be chosen Judge of Gods, or have the far-off hymns of May, Her husband in the Aush of youth and All her melodies,

dawn, I her harmonies echo'd away?-

Paris, himself as beauteous as a God. * Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co.

851

Paced, following, as

cry.
She waked a bird

and past;

She roused a snake

away; A panther sprang

heard The shriek of some

pines, But when she gain?

and saw

The ring of faces rec Enfolding that dark

Their oldest, and the same who first

found
Paris, a naked babe, among the wate
Of Ida, following lighted on him the
And shouted, and the shepherds Ls

and came.
One raised the Prince, one sicek

squalid hair,
One kiss'd his hand, another closer

eyes, And then, remembering the gay

mate rear'd Among them, and forgetful of the re Whose crime had half unpeopled of old in her embrace

these All that day long labour'd, heving

pines, And built their shepherd-prince a fua

pile; And, while the star of eve was drave

light From the dead sun, kindled the Whereon their oldest

and all Stood round it, hush'd, or calling 'He, whom thou wou

But when the white fog vanish's in

ask'd Falteringly

, 'Who lie But every man was ne Then moving quickly Smote on her brow, Of shrill command,

I am

Pyre?

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 · (Enoné'; 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, , And sunder'd each from each.

dying now Pierced by a poison'd dart. Save me.

Thou knowest, Taught by some God, whatever herb or

balm May clear the blood from poison, and thy

fame Is blown thro' all the Troad, and to thee The shepherd brings his adder-bitten

lamb, The wounded warrior climbs from Troy

to thee. My life and death are in thy hand. The

Gods Avenge on stony hearts a fruitless prayer For pity. Let me owe my life to thee. I wrought thee bitter wrong, but thou

forgive, Forget it. Man is but the slave of Fate. (Enone, by thy love which once was

mine, Help, heal me. I am poison'd to the

heart. And I to mine' she said 'Adulterer, Go back to thine adulteress and die!'

He groan'd, he turn'd, and in the mist

said,

name.

all at once The morning light

broke

Before the day, and every topmost Thro' all the clouded y

Spired into bluest heaven, still in

cave,

And muffing up her

crying

Amazed, and ever seeming stared to 'Husband !' she leap

pile, And mixt herself with.

face,

By ghastlier than the Gorgon be. His face deform’d by lurid blotch

blainThere, like a creature frozen to the Beyond all hope of warmth, (Enone 5

ST. TELEM

Had the fierce ashes Been hurl'd so high

the ?

Not moving, till in front of that raise
Which drowsed in gloom, self-daniel
The sunset blazed along the wall of For day by day, thro'

from the west,
A ghostly
Enone! I can wrong thee now DO DUR).
Enone, my Enone,' and the dream Rear'd on the tumble
Wail'd in her, when she woke berat

the stars.
What star could burn so low? not

Then her head sank, she slept,

thro' her dream

murmur floated, 'Come të

eve, In that four-hundred

Christ, The wrathsul sunset gla

fane No longer sacred to th On one huge slope be

at once

cave

Became a shadow, sank and disappear'd, But, ere the mountain rolls into the

plain, Fell headlong dead; and of the shep

herds one

The man, whose pious

CROSS,

yet. What light was there? She rose

slowly down, By the long torrent's ever-deepen't

ced, following, as in trance, the silent A man who never changed a word with cry.

men, e waked a bird of prey that scream'd Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint. and past;

Eve after eve that haggard anchorite e roused a snake that hissing writhed Would haunt the desolated fane, and away;

there panther sprang across her path, she Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low heard

• Vicisti Galilæe'; louder again, le shriek of some lost life among the Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God, pines,

• Vicisti Galileee!' but-when now it when she gain'd the broader vale, Bathed in that lurid crimson-ask'd ‘Is and saw

earth le ring of faces redden'd by the flames On fire to the West? or is the Demon-god afolding that dark body which had lain Wroth at his fall?' and heard an answer cold in her embrace, paused-and then

· Wake ask'd

Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life alteringly, “Who lies on yonder pyre?' Of self-suppression, not of selfless love.' it every man was mute for reverence. And once a flight of shadowy fighters nen moving quickly forward till the heat

crost note on her brow, she lifted up a voice The disk, and once, he thought, a shape f shrill command, “Who burns upon the

with wings pyre?'

Came sweeping by him, and pointed to hereon their oldest and their boldest

the West, said,

And at his ear he heard a whisper Je, whom thou wouldst not heal!' and

• Rome' all at once

And in his heart he cried “The call of he morning light of happy marriage

God!' broke

And callid arose, and, slowly plunging hro' all the clouded years of widowhood,

down nd muffling up her comely head, and Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face crying

By waste and field and town of alien Husband !' she leapt upon the funeral

tongue, pile,

Following a hundred sunsets, and the nd mixt herself with him and past in fire.

sphere Of westward-wheeling stars; and every

dawn ST. TELEMACHUS.*

Struck from him his own shadow on to

Rome. Iad the fierce ashes of some fiery peak Foot-sore, way-worn, at length he een hurld so high they ranged about

touch'd his goal, the globe?

The Christian city. All her splendour 'or day by day, thro' many a blood-red

fail'd eve,

To lure those eyes that only yearn'd to n that four-hundredth summer after

see, Christ,

Fleeting betwixt her column'd palace'he wrathful sunset glared against a cross

walls, Rear'd on the tumbled ruins of an old The shape with wings. Anon there past fane

a crowd No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed With shameless laughter, Pagan oath, On one huge slope beyond, where in his

and jest, cave

Hard Romans brawling of their monstrous Che man, whose pious hand had built the

games; cross,

He, all but deaf thro' age and weariness, Copyright, 1892, by Macmillan & Co.

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