They bore him on a pallet shrouded white,
And sore they dreaded lest an ambush'd foe
Should hear him moan, or mark the moving light
That waved before their footsteps in the night;
And much they joy'd when Ida's knees were won,
And 'neath the pines upon an upland height,
They watch'd the star that heraldeth the sun.

LVII.

For under woven branches of the pine,
The soft dry needles like a carpet spread,
And high above the arching boughs did shine
In frosty fret of silver, that the red
New dawn fired into gold-work overhead:
Within that vale where Paris oft had been
With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled
To be the sinful lover of a Queen.

LVIII.

Not here they found OEnone: "Nay, not here,"
Said Paris, faint and low, "shall she be found;
Nay, bear me up the mountain, where the drear
Winds walk for ever on a haunted ground.
Methinks I hear her sighing in their sound;
Or some God calls me there, a dying man.
Perchance my latest journeying is bound
Back where the sorrow of my life began."