Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/Oenone
For other versions of this work, see Oenone (Tennyson).
ŒNONE.
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelierThan any in old Ionia, beautifulWith emerald slopes of sunny sward, that leanAbove the loud glenriver, which hath wornA path thro' steepdown granite walls belowMantled with flowering tendriltwine. In frontThe cedarshadowy valleys open wide.Far-seen, high over all the Godbuilt wallAnd many a snowycolumned range divine,Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods,The work of Gods—bright on the darkblue skyThe windy citadel of IlionShone, like the crown of Troas. Hither cameMournful Œnone wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck,Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold,Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest.She, leaning on a vine-entwined stone,Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadowSloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.
"O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.The grasshopper is silent in the grass,The lizard with his shadow on the stoneSleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged[1]Cicala in the noonday leapeth notAlong the water-rounded granite-rockThe purple flower droops: the golden beeIs lilycradled: 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.
"O mother Ida, many fountained Ida,Dear mother Ida; hearken ere I die.Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O CavesThat house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks,I am the daughter of a River-God,Hear me, for I will speak, and build up allMy sorrow with my song, as yonder wallsRose slowly to a music slowly breathed,A cloud that gathered shape: for it may beThat, while I speak of it, a little whileMy heart may wander from its deeper woe.
"O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark,And dewydark aloft the mountain pine;Beautiful Paris, evilhearted Paris,Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved,Came up from reedy Simois all alone.
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I sate alone: the goldensandalled mornRosehued the scornful hills: I sate aloneWith downdropt eyes: whitebreasted like a starFronting the dawn he came: a leopard skinFrom his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hairClustered about his temples like a God's:And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightensWhen the wind blows the foam: and I called out,'Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo,Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.He, mildly smiling, in his milkwhite palmClose-held a golden apple, lightningbrightWith changeful flashes, dropt with dew of HeavenAmbrosially smelling. From his lip,Curved crimson, the fullflowing river of speechCame down upon my heart.
"'My own Œnone,Beautifulbrowed Œnone, mine own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n"For the most fair," in aftertime may breedDeep evilwilledness of heaven and sereHeartburning toward hallowed Ilion;And all the colour of my afterlifeWill be the shadow of today. TodayHere and Pallas and the floating graceOf laughterloving Aphrodite meetIn manyfolded Ida to receiveThis meed of beauty, she to whom my handAward the palm. Within the green hillside,Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine,Is an ingoing grotto, strown with sparAnd ivymatted at the mouth, whereinThou unbeholden may'st behold, unheardHear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloudHad lost his way between the piney hills.They came—all three—the Olympian goddesses: Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower,Lustrous with lily flower, violeteyedBoth white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset,Shadowed with singing pine; and all the while,Above, the overwandering ivy and vineThis way and that in many a wild festoonRan riot, garlanding the gnarlèd boughsWith bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.On the treetops a golden glorious cloudLeaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew.How beautiful they were, too beautifulTo look upon! hut Paris was to meMore lovelier than all the world beside.
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.First spake the imperial OlympianWith archèd eyebrow smiling sovranly,Fulleyèd Here. She to Paris madeProffer of royal power, ample ruleUnquestioned, overflowing revenueWherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale And riversundered champaign clothed with corn,Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine—Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll,From many an inland town and haven large,Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadelIn glassy bays among her tallest towers.'
"O mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Still she spake on and still she spake of power'Which in all action is the end of all.Power fitted to the season, measured hy.The height of the general feeling, wisdombornAnd throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crownsAlliance and allegiance evermore.Such boon from me Heaven's Queen to thee kingborn,A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn,Should come most welcome, seeing men, in thisOnly are likest gods, who have attainedRest in a happy place and quiet seatsAbove the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy;The changeless calm of undisputed right,The highest height and topmost strength of power.'
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruitOut at arm's-length, so much the thought of powerFlattered his heart: but Pallas where she stoodSomewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbsO'erthwarted with the brazenheaded spearUpon her pearly shoulder leaning cold,The while, above, her full and earnest eyeOver her snowcold breast and angry cheekKept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
"'Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrolAre the three hinges of the gates of Life,That open into power, everywayWithout horizon, bound or shadow or cloud.Yet not for power (power of herself Will come uncalled-for) but to live by lawActing the law we live by without fear,And, because right is right, to follow rightWere wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.(Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.)Not as men value gold because it tricksAnd blazons outward Life with ornament,But rather as the miser, for itself.Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood.The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infectEach other, bound in one with hateful love.So both into the fountain and the streamA drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me,And look upon me and consider me,So shalt thou find me fairest, so endurance,Like to an athlete's arm, shall still becomeSinewed with motion, till thine active will(As the dark body of the Sun robed roundWith his own ever-emanating lights)Be flooded o'er with her own effluences,And thereby grow to freedom.'
"Here she ceasedAnd Paris pondered. I cried out, 'Oh Paris,Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not,Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!
"O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida,Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Idalian Aphrodite oceanborn,Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells,With rosy slender fingers upward drewFrom her warm brow and bosom her dark hairFragrant and thick, and on her head upboundIn a purple band: below her lucid neckShone ivorylike, and from the ground her footGleamed rosywhite, and o'er her rounded formBetween the shadows of the vinebunchesFloated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes,The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half whispered in his ear, 'I promise theeThe fairest and most loving wife in Greece.'I only saw my Paris raise his arm:I only saw great Here's angry eyes,As she withdrew into the golden cloud,And I was left alone within the bower;And from that time to this I am alone,And I shall be alone until I die.
"Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair?My love hath told me so a thousand times.Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday,When I past by, a wild and wanton pard,Eyed like the eveningstar, with playful tailCrouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she?Ah me, my mountain-shepherd, that my armsWere wound about thee, and my hot lips prestClose—close to thine in that quickfalling dewOf fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn-rainsFlash in the pools of whirling Simois.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.They came, they cut away my tallest pines—My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledgeHigh over the blue gorge, or lower downFilling greengulphèd Ida, all betweenThe snowy peak and snowwhite cataractFostered the callow eaglet—from beneathWhose thick mysterious boughs in the dark mornThe panther's roar came muffled, while I satLow in the valley. Never, nevermoreShall lone Œnone see the morning mistSweep thro' them—never see them overlaidWith narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud,Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.
"Oh! mother Ida, hearken ere I die.Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,In this green valley, under this green hill,Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears?Oh happy tears, and how unlike to these! Oh happy Heaven, how can'st thou see my face?Oh happy earth, how can'st thou bear my weight?O death, death, death, thou everfloating cloud,There are enough unhappy on this earth,Pass by the happy souls, that love to live:I pray thee, pass before my light of life,And shadow all my soul, that I may die.Thou weighest heavy on the heart within,Weigh heavy on my eyelids—let me die.
"Yet, mother Ida, hear me ere I die.I will not die alone, for fiery thoughtsDo shape themselves within me, more and more,Whereof I catch the issue, as I hearDead sounds at night come from the inmost hills,Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly seeMy far-off doubtful purpose, as a motherConjectures of the features of her childEre it is born. I will not die alone.
"Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone,Lest their shrill happy laughter come to meWalking the cold and starless road of DeathUncomforted, leaving my ancient loveWith the Greek woman. I will rise and goDown into Troy, and ere the stars come forthTalk with the wild Cassandra, for she saysA fire dances before her, and a soundRings ever in her ears of armèd men.What this may be I know not, but I knowThat, whereso'er I am by night and day,All earth and air seem only burning fire."
- ↑ In the Pyrenees, where part of this poem was written, I saw a very beautiful species of Cicala, which had scarlet wings spotted with black. Probably nothing of the kind exists in Mount Ida.