THE DEATH OF ŒNONE
I.
Now many a rolling month was gone,
And years were past away,
And Paris he dwelt in merry Troy town,
He and his lady gay.
The lady Œnone sate in her bower,
Nursing her sorrow and teen;
Ivy and briony twined her round
And vine-leaves nodded between.
All pale and wan was that lone lady,
And thrice she deeply sighed:
“’Tis long, ’tis long for a knight to be
Away from his own true bride.
“But here yestreen came the wild woman,[1]
That redeth things to come
And up the mountain-side she ran,
And away from her Trojan home.
“She spake me words so keen, so keen,
And shriek’d one deadly shriek:
And now I know the town below
Will fall by hand of Greek.
“And they will slay my traitor lord,
Their hands in his blood they will wet;
Now, by my fay,” said the lone lady,
“I’ll save my shepherd yet.”
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With that she clapt her lily-white hands,
Her lily-white hands clapt she,
And to her came running her sweet young son,
The boy was fair to see.
All men might tell that scann’d him well
He came of a royal race,—
By the eyes below his forehead of snow,
And the light of his god-like face.
Twice seven summers on Ida hill,
And all with his lone lone mother;
And all with the goats and painted pards,
For a sister and a brother.
“Now hie thee, hie thee, my winsome lad,
And tell your traitor sire,
The Greek will take Troy town so gay,
And burn it in the fire.
“The wild woman she redd it to me,
In sooth as I you say:
And yet there are days but two and three
And the Greek will have his way.
“But tell him the wild wood twinkles green,
And waves the tall fir-tree;
And the hills might keep a shepherd, I ween,
That have long kept thee and me, my son,
That have long kept thee and me.”
II.
Lady Helen she look’d from a window down.
Her face shone clear as the light:
“Now who comes walking thro’ merry Troy town,
A boy full fair to sight.
“All men may see by his bearing free
He comes of a royal race,—
By the eyes below his forehead of snow,
And the charm of his god-like face.”
“O lady, I come from Ida hill,
In sooth as I you say;
And I would speak with Lord Paris:
Fair lady, say me not nay.”
“Lo, I will bring thee to Lord Paris,
For thou art a comely lad;
And take this mantle thy shoulder upon,
I doubt it will make him glad.”
- ↑ Cassandra.
