“Hast thou lost the wish—­the will—­to cherish
    Those who trusted in thy godlike power? 
  Hyacinthus did not wholly perish;
    Still he lives, the firstling of thy bower;
        Still he feels thy rays,
        Fondly meets thy gaze,
    Though but now the spirit of a flower.”

  XXI.

  “Hear me, Phoebus!  Hear me and deliver! 
    Lo! the morning breaketh from afar—­
  God! thou comest bright and great as ever—­
    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.