Thanksgiving-dances for the glad event,
And bid each altar smoke with sacrifice!
For we are minded to begin a fresh
Existence, better than the life before;
Seeing I own myself supremely blest."

Whereupon all the friendly moralists

Drew this conclusion: chirped, each beard to each: “Manifold are thy shapings, Providence!

Many a hopeless matter Gods arrange.

What we expected never came to pass:

What we did not expect Gods brought to bear;

So have things gone, this whole experience through!"

Ah, but if you had seen the play itself!

695

700

They say, my poet failed to get the prize:

Sophokles got the prize, great name! They say,
Sophokles also means to make a piece,

705

Model a new Admetos, a new wife:

Success to him! One thing has many sides.

The great name! But no good supplants a good,

Nor beauty undoes beauty. Sophokles

710

Will carve and carry a fresh cup, brimful

Of beauty and good, firm to the altar-foot,

And glorify the Dionusiac shrine:

Not clash against this crater in the place

Where the God put it when his mouth had drained,
To the last dregs, libation life-blood-like,

715

And praised Euripides forevermore

The Human with his droppings of warm tears.

TENNYSON.

OENONE.

THERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier

Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.

The swimming vapor slopes athwart the glen,
Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine,
And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand
The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down
Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars
The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine

5

In cataract after cataract to the sea.

Behind the valley topmost Gargarus

IO

Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal

Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.

Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck

15

Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest.

She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,
Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade

20

Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:
The grasshopper is silent in the grass:
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,

25

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.
The purple flower droops: the golden bee
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love;
My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,
And I am all aweary of my life.

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.

"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:

30

35

40

45

Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris,

Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved,

50

Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

"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. With downdropt eyes

55

I sat alone: 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,

60

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

65

70

And added This was cast upon the board,
When all the full-faced presence of the Gods
Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon

Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.

He prest the blossom of his lips to mine,

6

75

Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due:

80

But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve,

Delivering, that to me, by common voice,

Elected umpire, Heré comes to-day,

Pallas and Aphrodité, claiming each

This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave

85

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

90

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,

95

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'.

100

"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 clothed with corn,
Or labor'd mines undrainable of ore.

6

Honor,' 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,

6

Which in all action is the end of all;

Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred

And throned of wisdom - from all neighbor crowns
Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand

Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me,

105

110

115

120

From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king-born, 125
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 Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power

130