"Which in all action is the end of all; 120 Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom-from all neighbor crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from me, From me, heaven's queen, Paris, to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, i ,in power Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss 130 In knowledge of their own supremacy." 'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 140 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see comes Across me: never child be born of me, 250 Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes! 'O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire." THE LOTOS-EATERS [First printed 1833; altered in 1842.] 260 Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, 'We will return no more;' And all at once they sang, 'Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.' 30 The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. The Lotos blooms below the barren peak, The Lotos blows by every winding creek; All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotus-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 120 [First printed in 1842, and unaltered.] IT little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd On the hills like Gods together, careless of Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with |