The Death Of none
By Alfred Lord Tennyson
none sat within the cave from out
Whose ivy-matted mouth she used to gaze
Down at the Troad; but the goodly view
Was now one blank, and all the serpent vines
Which on the touch of heavenly feet had risen,
And gliding thro the branches over-bowerd
The naked Three, were witherd long ago,
And thro the sunless winter morning-mist
In silence wept upon the flowerless earth.
And while she stared at those dead cords that ran
Dark thro the mist, and linking tree to tree,
But once were gayer than a dawning sky
With many a pendent bell and fragrant star,
Her Past became her Present, and she saw
Him, climbing toward her with the golden fruit,
Him, happy to be chosen judge of Gods,
Her husband in the flush of youth and dawn,
Paris, himself as beauteous as a God.
Anon from out the long ravine below,
She heard a wailing cry, that seemd at first
Thin as the bat like shrillings of the Dead
When driven to Hades, but, in coming near,
Across the downward thunder of the brook
Sounded none; and on a sudden he,
Paris, no longer beauteous as a God,
Struck by a poisond arrow in the fight,
Lame, crooked, reeling, livid, thro the mist
Rose, like the wraith of his dead self, and moand
none, my none, while we dwelt
Together in this valleyhappy then
Too happy had I died within thine arms,
Before the feud of Gods had marrd our peace,
And sunderd each from each. I am dying now
Pierced by a poisond dart. Save me. Thou knowest,
Taught by some God, whatever herb or balm
May clear the blood from poison, and thy fame
Is blown thro all the Troad, and to thee
The shepherd brings his adder-bitten lamb,
The wounded warrior climbs from Troy to thee.
My life and death are in thy hand. The Gods
Avenge on stony hearts a fruitless prayer
For pity. Let me owe my life to thee.
I wrought thee bitter wrong, but thou forgive,
Forget it. Man is but the slave of Fate.
none, by thy love which once was mine,
Help, heal me. I am poisond to the heart.
And I to mine she said Adulterer,
Go back to thine adulteress and die!
He groand, he turnd, and in the mist at once
Became a shadow, sank and disappeard,
But, ere the mountain rolls into the plain,
Fell headlong dead; and of the shepherds one
Their oldest, and the same who first had found
Paris, a naked babe, among the woods
Of Ida, following lighted on him there,
And shouted, and the shepherds heard and came.
One raised the Prince, one sleekd the squalid hair,
One kissd his hand, another closed his eyes,
And then, remembering the gay playmate reard
Among them, and forgetful of the man,
Whose crime had half unpeopled Ilion, these
All that day long labourd, hewing the pines,
And built their shepherd-prince a funeral pile;
And, while the star of eve was drawing light
From the dead sun, kindled the pyre, and all
Stood round it, hushd, or calling on his name.
But when the white fog vanishd like a ghost
Before the day, and every topmost pine
Spired into bluest heaven, still in her cave,
Amazed, and ever seeming stared upon
By ghastlier than the Gorgon head, a face,
His face deformd by lurid blotch and blain
There, like a creature frozen to the heart
Beyond all hope of warmth, none sat
Not moving, till in front of that ravine
Which drowsed in gloom, self-darkend from the west,
The sunset blazed along the wall of Troy.
Then her head sank, she slept, and thro her dream
A ghostly murmur floated, Come to me,
none! I can wrong thee now no more,
none, my none, and the dream
Waild in her, when she woke beneath the stars.
What star eould burn so low? not Ilion yet.
What light was there? She rose and slowly down,
By the long torrents ever-deepend roar,
Paced, following, as in trance, the silent cry.
She waked a bird of prey that screamd and past
She roused a snake that hissing writhed away;
A panther sprang across her path, she heard
The shriek of some lost life among the pines,
But when she gaind the broader vale, and saw
The ring of faces reddend by the flames
Enfolding that dark body which had lain
Of old in her embrace, pausedand then askd
Falteringly, Who lies on yonder pyre?
But every man was mute for reverence.
Then moving quickly forward till the heat
Smote on her brow, she lifted up a voice
Of shrill command, Who burns upon the pyre?
Whereon their oldest and their boldest said,
He, whom thou wouldst not heal! and all at once
The morning light of happy marriage broke
Thro all the clouded years of widowhood,
And muffling up her comely head, and crying
Husband! she leapt upon the funeral pile,
And mixt herself with him and past in fire.