But wild OEnone by the mountain-path
Saw not her son returning to the wold,
And now was she in fear, and now in wrath
She cried, "He hath forgot the mountain fold,
And goes in Ilios with a crown of gold:"
But even then she heard men's axes smite
Against the beeches slim and ash-trees old,
These ancient trees wherein she did delight.

XLI.

Then she arose and silently as Sleep,
Unseen she follow'd the slow-rolling wain,
Beneath an ashen sky that 'gan to weep,
Too heavy laden with the latter rain;
And all the folk of Troy upon the plain
She found, all gather'd round a funeral pyre,
And thereon lay her son, her darling slain,
The goodly Corythus, her heart's desire!

XLII.

Among the spices and fair robes he lay,
His arm beneath his head, as though he slept.
For so the Goddess wrought that no decay,
No loathly thing about his body crept;
And all the people look'd on him and wept,
And, weeping, Paris lit the pine-wood dry,
And lo, a rainy wind arose and swept
The flame and fragrance far into the sky.