And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!'
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up
betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well - for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.'

100

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came,

And all the things that had been. She bow'd down

And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:.
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back:
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,

105

110

115

120

And work for William's child, until he grows

Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd

125

130

Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her:
And Allan set him down, and Mary said:

"O Father! if you let me call you so I never came a-begging for myself,

135

140

Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me
I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
'God bless him!' he said, ' and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd - unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you

145

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight 150
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before.”

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:

155

"I have been to blame - to blame. I have kill'd

my son.

I have kill'd him

but I loved him

my dear son.

May God forgive me! I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;

160

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

THERE lies a vale in Ida,° lovelier
Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
The swimming vapour 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
In cataract after cataract to the sea.
Behind the valley topmost Gargarus

Stands up and takes the morning: but in front
The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal
Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel,
The crown of Troas.

Hither came at noon

165

5

10

Mournful Enone, wandering forlorn

Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills.
Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck
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
Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.
"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida,
Dear mother Ida, hearken 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,
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.

"O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,

Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.

Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves

35

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, hearken ere I die.

40

1975

45

I waited underneath the dawning hills,
Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark,
And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine:
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, hearken 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 down-dropt 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:

And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow brightens 60
When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

"Dear mother Ida, hearken 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.

66 6

My own Enone,

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

Of movement and the charm of married brows.'

65

70