Night goes back before thy burning car;
All her lamps are gone--
Lucifer alone
Lingers still for thee--the blessed star!"

XXII.

"Hear me, Phoebus!"--And therewith descended
Through the window-arch a glory-gleam,
All effulgent--and with music blended,
For such solemn sounds arose as stream
From the Memnon-lyre,
When the morning fire
Gilds the giant's forehead with its beam.

XXIII.

"Thou hast heard thy servant's prayer, Apollo;
Thou dost call me, mighty God of Day!
Fare-thee-well, Ione!"--And more hollow
Came the phantom-voice, then died away.
When the slaves arose,
Not in calm repose,
Not in sleep, but death, their mistress lay.

OENONE

On the holy mount of Ida,
Where the pine and cypress grow,
Sate a young and lovely woman,
Weeping ever, weeping low.
Drearily throughout the forest
Did the winds of autumn blow,
And the clouds above were flying,
And Scamander rolled below.

"Faithless Paris! cruel Paris!"
Thus the poor deserted spake--
"Wherefore thus so strangely leave me?
Why thy loving bride forsake?
Why no tender word at parting?
Why no kiss, no farewell take?
Would that I could but forget thee--
Would this throbbing heart might break!

"Is my face no longer blooming?
Are my eyes no longer bright?
Ah! my tears have made them dimmer,
And my cheeks are pale and white.
I have wept since early morning,
I will weep the livelong night;
Now I long for sullen darkness,
As I once have longed for light.

"Paris! canst thou then be cruel?
Fair, and young, and brave thou art--
Can it be that in thy bosom
Lies so cold, so hard a heart?
Children were we bred together--
She who bore me suckled thee;
I have been thine old companion,
When thou hadst no more but me.

"I have watched thee in thy slumbers,
When the shadow of a dream
Passed across thy smiling features,
Like the ripple of a stream;
And so sweetly were the visions
Pictured there with lively grace,
That I half could read their import
By the changes on thy face.

"When I sang of Ariadne,
Sang the old and mournful tale,
How her faithless lover, Theseus,
Left her to lament and wail;
Then thine eyes would fill and glisten,
Her complaint could soften thee:
Thou hast wept for Ariadne--
These