Helen Redeemed

PROEM     Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood     Of passion by the blood     Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft     Hallowed, if that thin waft     Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song     To span such store of strong     And splendid vision of immortal themes     Late harvested in dreams,     Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet     Thou sing that slim and sweet     Fair woman for whose bosom and delight     Paris, as well he might,     Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost     And Troy's, and won and lost     Perforce; for who could look on her or feel     Her near and not dare steal     One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars     Such wonder of the stars     Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose     Of dawn which comes and goes     Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills,     Or music of upland rills     As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it     With thy poor market wit,     Adept to hue the wanton in the wild,     Defile the undefiled!     Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high     Where piled rocks testify     The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold     Over the rippling wold     Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise     First dawned in Helen's eyes,     Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art     To sing her rendered heart,     Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved     From loving, but was nerved     To see through years of robbery and shame     Her spirit, a clear flame,     Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace,     And hers who at last found ease     In white-arm'd Her, holy husbander     Of purer fire than e'er     To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing     In whom her beauties ring,     Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte,     Star of my day and night! 18th September 1912. FIRST STAVE THE DEATH OF ACHILLES     Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams,     Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams     Betray far Ida through a rended cloud     And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud     The thunder is--'twixt Ida and the main     Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain     About her like a carpet; from whose height     The watchman, ten years watching, every night     Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less     Their number as the years wax and duress     Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day--     More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay.     Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years     Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears     And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons     Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones,     Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood     The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood     Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride     Shed; nor yet so the end, for Her cried     Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done,     And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon     By sword or bitter arrow they went hence,     Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence.     Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek     Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak     Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high,     Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky     Told Thetis that her son must go the way     He sent Queen Hecuba's--himself must pay,     Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self,     The price of manslaying, with blood for pelf.     A grief immortal took her, and she grieved     Deep in sea-cave, whereover restless heaved     The wine-dark ocean--silently, not moving,     Tearless, a god. O Gods, however loving,     That is a lonely grief that must go dry     About the graves where the beloved lie,     And knows too much to doubt if death ends all     Pleasure in strength of limb, joy musical,     Mother-love, maiden-love, which never more     Must the dead look for on the further shore     Of Acheron, and past the willow-wood     Of Proserpine!         But when he understood,     Achilles, that his end was near at hand,     Darkling he heard the news, and on the strand     Beyond the ships he stood awhile, then cried     The Sea-God that high-hearted and clear-eyed     He might go down; and this for utmost grace     He asked, that not by battle might his face     Be marred, nor fighting might some Dardan best     Him who had conquered ever. For the rest,     Fate, which had given, might take, as fate should be.     So prayed he, and Poseidon out of the sea,     There where the deep blue into sand doth fade     And the long wave rolls in, a bar of jade,     Sent him a portent in that sea-blue bird     Swifter than light, the halcyon; and men heard     The trumpet of his praise: "Shaker of Earth,     Hail to thee! Now I fare to death in mirth,     As to a banquet!"         So when day was come     Lightly arose the prince to meet his doom,     And kissed Brises where she lay abed     And never more by hers might rest his head:     "Farewell, my dear, farewell, my joy," said he;     "Farewell to all delights 'twixt thee and me!     For now I take a road whose harsh alarms     Forbid so sweet a burden to my arms."     Then his clean limbs his weeping squires bedight     In all the mail Hephaistos served his might     Withal, of breastplate shining like the sun     Upon flood-water, three-topped helm whereon     Gleamed the gold basilisk, and goodly greaves.     These bore he without word; but when from sheaves     Of spears they picked the great ash Pelian     Poseidon gave to Peleus, God to a man,     For no man's mange else--than all men's fear:     "Dry and cold fighting for thee this day, my spear,"     Quoth he. And so when one the golden shield     Immortal, daedal, for no one else to wield,     Cast o'er his head, he frowned: "On thy bright face     Let me see who shall dare a dint," he says,     And stood in thought full-armed; thereafter poured     Libation at the tent-door to the Lord     Of earth and sky, and prayed, saying: "O Thou     That hauntest dark Dodona, hear me now,     Since that the shadowing arm of Time is flung     Far over me, but cloudeth me full young.     Scatheless I vow them. Let one Trojan cast     His spear and loose my spirit. Rage is past     Though I go forth my most provocative     Adventure: 'tis not I that seek. Receive     My prayer Thou as I have earned it--lo,     Dying I stand, and hail Thee as I go     Lord of the gis, wonderful, most great!"     Which done, he took his stand, and bid his mate     Urge on the steeds; and all the Achaian host     Followed him, not with outcry or loud boast     Of deeds to do or done, but silent, grim     As to a shambles--so they followed him,     Eyeing that nodding crest and swaying spear     Shake with the chariot. Solemn thus they near     The Trojan walls, slow-moving, as by a Fate     Driven; and thus before the Skaian Gate     Stands he in pomp of dreadful calm, to die,     As once in dreadful haste to slay.         Thereby     The walls were thick with men, and in the towers     Women stood gazing, clustered close as flowers     That blur the rocks in some high mountain pass     With delicate hues; but like the gray hill-grass     Which the wind sweepeth, till in waves of light     It tideth backwards--so all gray or white     Showed they, as sudden surges moved them cloak     Their heads, or bare their faces. And none spoke     Among them, for there stood not woman there     But mourned her dead, or sensed not in the air     Her pendent doom of death, or worse than death.     Frail as flowers were their faces, and all breath     Came short and quick, as on this dreadful show     Staring, they pondered it done far below     As on a stage where the thin players seem     Unkith to them who watch, the stuff of dream.     Nor else about the plain showed living thing     Save high in the blue where sailed on outspread wing     A vulture bird intent, with mighty span     Of pinion.         In the hush spake the dead man,     Hollow-voiced, terrible: "Ye tribes of Troy,     Here stand I out for death, and ye for joy     Of killing as ye will, by cast of spear,     By bowshot or with sword. If any peer     Of Hector or Sarpedon care the bout     Which they both tried aforetime let him out     With speed, and bring his many against one,     Fearing no treachery, for there shall be none     To aid me, God nor man; nor yet will I     Stir finger in the business, but will die     By murder sooner than in battle fall     Under some Trojan hand."         Breathless stood all,     Not moving out; but Paris on the roof     Of his high house, where snug he sat aloof,     Drew taut the bowstring home, and notched a shaft,     Soft whistling to himself, what time with craft     Of peering eyes and narrow twisted face     He sought an aim.         Swift from her hiding-place     Came burning Helen then, in her blue eyes     A fire unquenchable, but cold as ice     That scorcheth ere it strike a mortal chill     Upon the heart. "Darest thou...?"         Smiling still,     He heeded not her warning, nor he read     The terror of her eyes, but drew and sped     A screaming arrow, deadly, swerving not--     Then stood to watch the ruin he had wrought.     He heard the sob of breath o'er all the host     Of hushing men; he marked, but then he lost,     The blood-spurt at the shaft-head; for the crest     Upheaved, the shoulders stiffen'd, ere to the breast     Bent down the head, as though the glazing sight     Curious would mark the death-spot. Still upright     Stood he; but as a tree that on the side     Of Ida yields to axe her soaring pride     And lightlier waves her leafy crown, and swings     From side to side--so on his crest the wings     Erect seemed shaking upwards, and to sag     The spear's point, and the burden'd head to wag     Before the stricken body felt the stroke,     Or the strong knees grew lax, or the heart broke.     Breathless they waited; then the failing man     Stiffened anew his neck, and changed and wan     Looked for the last time in the face of day,     And seemed to dare the Gods such might to slay     As this, the sanguine splendid thing he was,     Withal now gray of face and pinched. Alas,     For pride of life! Now he had heard his knell.     His spirit passed, and crashing down he fell,     Mighty Achilles, and struck the earth, and lay     A huddled mass, a bulk of bronze and clay     Bestuck with gilt and glitter, like a toy.     There dropt a forest hush on watching Troy,     Upon the plain and watching ranks of men;     And from a tower some woman keened him then     With long thin cry that wavered in the air--     As once before one wailed her Hector there. SECOND STAVE MENELAUS' DREAM: HELEN ON THE WALL     So he who wore his honour like a wreath     About his brows went the dark way of death;     Which being done, that deed of ruth and doom     Gave breath to Troy; but on the Achaians gloom     Settled like pall of cloud upon a land     That swoons beneath it. Desperate they scanned     Each other, saying: "Now we are left by God,"     And in the huts behind the wall abode,     Heeding not Diomede, Idomeneus,     Nor keen Odysseus, nor that friend of Zeus     Mykenai's king, nor that robbed Menelaus,     Nor bowman Teukros, Nestor wise, nor Aias--     Huge Aias, cursed in death! Peleides bare     Himself with pride, but he went raving there.     For in the high assembly Thetis made     In honour of her son, to waft his shade     In peace to Hades' house, after the fire     Twice a man's height for him who did suspire     Twice a man's heart and render it to Heaven     Who gave it, after offerings paid and given,     And games of men and horses, she brought forth     His regal arms for hero of most worth     In the broad Danaan host, who was adjudged     Odysseus by all voices. Aias grudged     The vote and wandered brooding, drawn apart     From his room-fellows, seeding in his heart     Envy, which biting inwards did corrode     His mettle, and his ill blood plied the goad     Upon his brain, until the wretch made mad     Went muttering his wrongs, ill-trimmed, ill-clad,     Sightless and careless, with slack mouth awry,     And working tongue, and danger in the eye;     And oft would stare at Heaven and laugh his scorn:     "O fools, think not to trick me!" then forlorn     Would gaze about green earth or out to sea:     "This is the end of man in his degree"--     Thus would he moralise in those bare lands     With hopeless brows and tossing up of hands--     "To sow in sweat and see another reap!"     Then, pitying himself, he'd fall to weep     His desolation, scorned by Gods, by men     Slighted; but in a flash he'd rage again     And shake his naked sword at unseen foes,     And dare them bring Odysseus to his blows:     Or let the man but flaunt himself in arms...!     So threatening God knows what of savage harms,     On him the oxen patient in the marsh,     Knee-deep in rushes, gazed to hear his harsh     Outcry; and them his madness taught for Greeks,     So on their dumb immensity he wreaks     His vengeance, driving in the press with shout     Of "Aias! Aias!" hurtling, carving out     A way with mighty swordstroke, cut and thrust,     And makes a shambles in his witless lust;     And in the midst, bloodshot, with blank wild eyes     Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies     All reeking in his madman's battlefield,     And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed     The pity of his folly; then he sees     Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees     He stands amid his slaughter, and his own     Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan     Upon his planted sword. So Aias died     Lonely; and he who, never from his side     Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian,     Abode the fate foreordered in the plan     Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.     But think not on the dead, who die and leave     A memory more fragrant than their deeds,     But to the remnant rather and their needs     Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords     Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords     As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art     Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart?     Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull     As oxen impotent the wain to pull     Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge,     Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge     Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand     Dumb monuments of sufferance--so unmanned     The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care     To drive them forth, since they too knew despair,     And neither saw in battle nor retreat     A way of honour.         And the plain grew sweet     Again with living green; the spring o' the year     Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear;     And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain,     Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain,     And seemed with tender irony to flout     Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out     The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires     More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres     Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose     Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose,     A holy pall to hide his folly and pain.     Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain,     And by and by the pent folk within walls     Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls     Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep     Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep     Watch, where before stood armd sentinels;     And battle-grounds were musical with bells     Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships     Loomed through the tender mist, their prows--like lips     Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry     Salvation out of Heaven--flung on high:     Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road     Was travelled, and held Paris for a God     Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.     He in their love went sunning, took his ease     In house and hall, at council or at feast,     Careless of what was greatest or what least     Of all his deeds, so only by his side     She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,     The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,     A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,     And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him     Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim     With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach     Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each     If it might be her people's, and so hers,     Poor alien!--Argive now herself she avers     And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:     Minion she calls herself; and when to strife     Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges     Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,     And when to play he woos her with soft words,     Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,     Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,     Making her wife indeed, not paramour,     Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all     His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall     She watches every dawn for what dawn brings.     And the strong spirit of her took new wings     And left her lovely body in the arms     Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms,     And witless held a shell; but forth as light     As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight     Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed     And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed     Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith,     A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death     Seems to the dying man a bedside guest,     But to the watchers cannot be exprest.     So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned     Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned,     Renewing his day's torment in his sleep;     Who presently starts up and sighing deep,     Searches the entry, if haply in the skies     The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes     Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face     Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace     Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow     To tell all truth about her, and her woe     And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt     To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt     Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips:     "O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips     Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?"     No answer hath she, but she looks him long     And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more,     But up and down he pads the beaten floor,     And all that day his heart's wild crying hears,     And can thank God for gracious dew of tears     And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame.     So came the next night, and with night she came,     Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go     Whence she had come. His need would have it so--     And her need. Never must she call in vain.     Now takes he way alone over the plain     Where dark yet hovers like a catafalque     And all life swoons, and only dead thing walk,     Uneasy sprites denied a resting space,     That shudder as they flit from place to place,     Like bats of flaggy wing that make night blink     With endless quest: so do those dead, men think,     Who fall and are unserved by funeral rite.     These passes he, and nears the walls of might     Which Godhead built for proud Laomedon,     And knows the house of Paris built thereon,     Terraced and set with gadding vines and trees     And ever falling water, for the ease     Of that sweet indweller he held in store.     Thither he turns him quaking, but before     Him dares not look, lest he should see her there     Aglimmer through the dusk and, unaware,     Discover her fill some mere homely part     Intolerably familiar to his heart,     And deeply there enshrined and glorified,     Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied,     Being called, and ever closer on he came     As if no wrong nor misery nor shame     Could harder be than not to see her--Nay,     Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay     Besmothered in his kisses--rather so     Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go     His round of lonely exile!         Now he stands     Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands     Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin,     And motionless abides till day come in;     Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe,     Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow     Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town     Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown     In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls,     Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls     Of owl to owl from unseen towers. Afar     A dog barked. High and hidden in the haar     Which blew in from the sea a heron cried     Honk! and he heard his wings, but not espied     The heavy flight. Slow, slow the orb was filled     With light, and with the light his heart was thrilled     With opening music, faint, expectant, sharp     As the first chords one picks out from the harp     To prelude paean. Venturing all, he lift     His eyes, and there encurtained in a drift     Of sea-blue mantle close-drawn, he espies     Helen above him watching, her grave eyes     Upon him fixt, blue homes of mystery     Unfathomable, eternal as the sea,     And as unresting.         So in that still place,     In that still hour stood those two face to face. THIRD STAVE MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN     But when he had her there, sharp root of ill     To him and his, safeguarded from him still,     Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred     By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred,     Behandled, too much lost and too much won,     Mock image making horrible the sun     That once had shown her pure for his demesne,     And still revealed her lovely, and unclean--     Despair turned into stone what had been kind,     And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind.     "O ruinous face," said he, "O evil head,     Art thou so early from the wicked bed?     So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice?     Or is it that in luxury thou art nice     Become, and dalliest?" Low her head she hung     And moved her lips. As when the night is young     The hollow wind presages storm, his moan     Came wailing at her. "Ten years here, alone,     And in that time to have seen thee thrice!"         But she:     "Often and often have I chanced to see     My lord pass."         His heart leapt, as leaps the child     Enwombed: "Hast thou--?"         Faintly her quick eyes smiled:     "At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake;     So have time to myself when I can take     New air, and old thought."         As a man who skills     To read high hope out of dark oracles,     So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he:     "Lady, O God! Now would that I could be     Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought     Gathering!" Silent stood she, memory-fraught,     Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul,     So harpt upon her heart. "Is this the whole     That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here     Alone to be?"         She blushed and dared to peer     Downward. "Is it so wonderful," she said,     "If I desire it?" He: "Nay, by my head,     Not so; but wonderful I think it is     In any man to suffer it." The hiss     Of passion stript all vesture from his tones     And showed the King man naked to the bones,     Man naked to the body's utterance.     She turned her head, but felt his burning glance     Scorch, and his words leap up. "Dost thou desire     I leave thee then? Answer me that."         "Nay, sire,     Not so." And he: "Bid me to stay while sleeps     Thy house," he said, "so stay I." Her eyes' deeps     Flooded his soul and drowned him in despair,     Despair and rage. "Behold now, ten years' wear     Between us and our love! Now if I cast     My spear and rove the snow-mound of thy breast,     Were that a marvel?"         Long she lookt and grave,     Pondering his face and searching. "Not so brave     My lord as that would prove him. Nay, and I know     He would not do it." And the truth was so;     And well he knew the reason: better she.     Yet for a little in that vacancy     Of silence and unshadowing light they stood,     Those long-divided, speechless. His first mood     With bitter grudge was choked, but hers was mild,     As fearing his. At last she named the child,     Asking, Was all well? Short he told her, Yes,     The child was well. She fingered in her dress     And watched her hand at play there.         "Here," she said,     "There is no child," and sighed. Into his dead     And wasted heart there leaped a flame and caught     His hollow eyes. "Rememberest thou naught,     Nothing regrettest, nothing holdst in grief     Of all our joy together ere that thief     Came rifling in?" For all her answer she     Lookt long upon him, long and earnestly;     And misty grew her eyes, and slowly filled.     Slowly the great tears brimmed, and slowly rilled     Adown her cheeks. So presently she hid     Those wells of grief, and hung her lovely head;     And he had no more words, but only a cry     At heart too deep for utterance, and too high     For tears.     And now came Paris from the house     Into the sun, rosy and amorous,     As when the sun himself from the sea-rim     Lifteth, and gloweth on the earth grown dim     With waiting; and he piped a low clear call     As mellow as the thrush's at the fall     Of day from some near thicket. At whose sound     Rose up caught Helen and blushing turned her round     To face him; but in going, ere she met     The prince, her hand along the parapet     She trailed, palm out, for sign to who below     Rent at himself, nor had the wit to know     In that dumb signal eloquence, and hope     Therein beyond his sick heart's utmost scope.     Throbbing he stood as when a quick-blown peat,     Now white, now red, burns inly--O wild heat,     O ravenous race of men, who'd barter Space     And Time for one short snatch of instant grace!     Withal, next day, drawn by his dear desire,     When as the young green burned like emerald fire     In the cold light, back to the tryst he came;     But she was sooner there, and called his name     Softly as cooing dove her bosom's mate;     And showed her eyes to him, which half sedate     To be so sought revealed her, half in doubt     Lest he should deem her bold to meet the bout     With too much readiness. But high he flaunted     Her name towards the sky. "Thou God-enchanted,     Thou miracle of dawn, thou Heart of the Rose,     Hail thou!" On his own eloquence he grows     The lover he proclaims. "O love," he saith,     "I would not leave thee for a moment's breath,     Nor once these ten long years had left thy side     Had it been possible to stay!"         She sighed,     She wondered o'er his face, she looked her fill,     Museful, still doubting, smiling half, athrill,     All virgin to his praise. "O wonderful,"     She said, "Such store of love for one so foul     As I am now!"         O fatal hot-and-cold,     O love, whose iris wings not long can hold     The upper air! Sudden her thought smote hot     On him. "Thou sayest! True it is, God wot!     Warm from his bed, and tears for thy unworth;     Warm from his bed, and tears to meet my mirth;     Then back to his bed ere yet thy tears be dry!"     She heard not, but she knew his agony     Of burning vision, and kept back her tears     Until his pity moved in tune with hers     Towards herself. But he from thunderous brows     Frowned on. "No more I see thee by this house,     Except to slay thee when the hour decree     An end to this vile nest of cuckoldry     And holy vows made hateful, save thou speak     To each my question sooth. Keep dry thy cheek     From tears, hide up thy beauty with thy grief--     Or let him have his joy of them, thy thief,     What time he may. Answer me thou, or vain     Till thine hour strike to look for me again."     With hanging head and quiet hanging hands,     With lip atremble, as caught in fault she stands,     Scarce might he hear her whispered message:         "Ask,     Lord, and I answer thee."         Strung to his task:     "Tell me now all," he said, "from that far day     Whenas embracing thee, I stood to pray,     And poured forth wine unto the thirsty earth     To Zeus and to Poseidon, in whose girth     Lie sea and land; to Gaia next, their spouse,     And next to Her, mistress of my house,     Traitress, and thine, for grace upon my faring:     For thou wert by to hear me, false arm bearing     Upon my shoulder, glowing, lying cheek     Next unto mine. Ay, and thou prayedst, with meek     Fair seeming, prosperous send-off and return.     Tell me what then, tell all, and let me learn     With what pretence that dog-souled slaked his thirst     In thy sweet liquor. Tell me that the first."     Then Helen lifted up her head, and beamed     Clear light upon him from her eyes, which seemed     That blue which, lying on the white sea-bed     And gazing up, the sunbeam overhead     Would show, with green entinctured, and the warp     Inwoven of golden shafts, blended yet sharp;     So that a glory mild and radiant     Transfigured them. Upon him fell aslant     That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue     Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew     Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke     It was as if the nightingale should croak     In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak,     So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak     Dry matter and hard logic--as if she     Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea     Which was not hers to make; or as one faint     And desperate lays down all his argument     Like bricks upon a field, let who will make     A house of them; so drily Helen spake     With a flat voice. "Thou hadst been nine days gone,     Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son,     And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat,     And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at     I gave as fitting was. Then came the day     I was beguiled. What more is there to say?"     Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall     Her eyes were. But the King said: "Tell me all.     Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled,     Or by thine own?" She shook her head and smiled     Most sadly, pitying herself. "Who knoweth     The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth     The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved     Me then, and pleasured only where I moved     About the house. And I had pleasure too     To know of me he had it. Then we knew     The day at hand when he must take the road     And leave me; and its eve we close abode     Within the house, and spake not. But I wept."     She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept:     "I was beguiled, beguiled." And then her lip     She bit, and rueful showed her partnership     In sinful dealing.         But he, in his esteem     Bleeding and raw, urged on. "To Kranai's deme     He took thee then?"         Speechless she bent her head     Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed     As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played,     And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade.     So gazing, stood she silent, but the King     Urged on. "From thence to Ilios, thou willing,     He took thee?"         Then, "I was beguiled," again     She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain     Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift     Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift     Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night     The low clouds break and shafted shows the light.     "Ten years beguiled!" he said, "but now it seems     Thou art----" She shook her head. "Nay, now come dreams;     Nay, now I think, remember, now I see."     "What callest thou to mind?" "Hermione,"     She said, "our child, and Sparta my own land,     And all the honour that lay to my hand     Had I but chosen it, as now I would"--     And sudden hid her face up in her hood,     Her courage ebbed in grief, all hardness drowned     In bitter weeping.         Noble pity crowned     The greater man in him; so for a space     They wept together, she for loss; for grace     Of gain wept he. "No more," he said, "my sweet,     Tell me no more."         "Ah, hear the whole of it     Before my hour is gone," she cried. But he     Groaning, "I dare not stay here lest I see     Him take thee again."         Both hands to fold her breast,     She shook her head; like as the sun through mist     Shone triumph in her eyes. "Have no more fear     Of him or any----" Then, hearing a stir     Within the house, her finger toucht her lip,     And one fixt look she gave of fellowship     Assured--then turned and quickly went her way;     And his light vanisht with her for that day. FOURTH STAVE THE APOLOGY OF HELEN     O singing heart, O twice-undaunted lover!     O ever to be blest, twice blest moreover!     Twice over win the world in one girl's eyes,     Twice over lift her name up to the skies;     Twice to hope all things, so to be twice born--     For he lives not who cannot front the morn     Saying, "This day I live as never yet     Lived striving man on earth!" What if the fret     Of loss and ten years' agonizing snow     Thy hairs or leave their tracery on thy brow,     Each line beslotted by the demon hounds     Hunting thee down o' nights? Laugh at thy wounds,     Laugh at thy eld, strong lover, whose blood flows     Clear from the fountain, singing as it goes,     "She loves, and so I live and shall not die!     Love on, love her: 'tis immortality."     Once more before the sun he greeted her:     She glowed her joy; her mood was calm and clear     As mellow evening's whenas, like a priest,     Rain has absolved the world, and golden mist     Hangs over all like benediction.     In her proud eyes sat triumph on a throne,     To know herself beloved, her lover by,     So near the consummation. Womanly     She dallied with the moment when, all wife,     Upon his breast she'd lie and cast her life,     Cast body, soul and spirit in one gest     Supreme of giving. Glorying in his quest     Of her, now let her hide what he must glean,     But not know yet. Ah, sweet to feel his keen     Long eye-search, like the touch of eager fingers,     And sweet to thrill beneath such hot blush-bringers;     To fence with such a swordsman hazardous     And sweet. "Belov'd, thou art glad of me!" Then thus     Antiphonal to him she breathes, "Thou sayest!"     "I see thy light and hail it!"         "Thou begayest     My poor light."         "Knowest thou not that thou art loved?"     "And am I loved then?"         "If thou'ldst have it proved,     Look in my eyes. Would thine were open book!"     "Palimpsest I," she said, and would not look.     But he was grappling now with truth, would have it,     What though it cost him all his gain. She gave it,     Looking him along. "O lady mine," he said,     "Now are my clouds dispersd every shred;     For thou art mine; I think thou lovest me.     Speak, is that true?"         She could not, or may be     She would not hold her gaze, but let it fall,     And watched her fingers idling on the wall,     And so remained; but urged to it by the spell     He cast, she whispered down, "I cannot tell     Thee here, and thus apart"--which when he had     In its full import drove him well-nigh mad     With longing. "Call me and I come!"         But fear     Flamed in her eyes: "No, no, 'tis death! He's here     At hand. 'Tis death for thee, and worse than death--"     She ended so--"for both of us."         And breath     Failed him, for well he knew now what she meant,     And sighed his thanks to Gods beneficent.     Thereafter in sweet use of lovers' talk,     In boon spring weather, whenas lovers walk     Handfasted through the meadows pied, and wet     With dew from flower and leaf, these lovers met--     Two bodies separate, one wild heart between,     Day after day, these two long-severed been;     And of this mating of the eye and tongue     There grew desire passionate and strong     For body's mating and its testimony,     Hearts' intimacy, perfect, full and free.     And Helen for her heart's ease did deny     Her girdled Goddess of the beamy eye,     Saying, "Come you down, Mistress of sleek loves     And panting nights: your service of bought doves     And honey-hearted wine may cost too dear.     What hast thou done for me since first my ear     With thy sly music thou didst sign and seal     Apprentice to thy mystery, teach me feel     Thy fierce divinity in the trembling touch     Of open lips? Served I not thee too much     In Kranai and in Sparta my demesne,     Too much in wide-wayed Ilios, Eastern Queen?     Yes, but it was too much a thousandfold,     For what was I but leman bought and sold?     "For woman craved what mercy hath man brought,     What face a woman for a woman sought?     What mercy or what face? And what saith she,     The hunted, scornd wretch? Boast that she be     Coveted, hankered, spat on? One to gloat,     The rest to snarl without! If man play goat,     What must she play? Her glory is it to draw     On greedy eye, sting greedy lip and paw,     And find the crown of her desire therein?     Hath she no rarer bliss than all this sin,     Is she for dandling, kissing, hidden up     For hungry hands to stroke or lips to sup?     Hath she then nothing of her own, no mirth     In honesty, nor eyes to worship worth,     Nor pride except in that which makes men dogs,     Nor loathing for the vice wherein, like logs     That float beneath the sun, lie fair women     Submiss, inert receptacles for sin?     Is this her all? Hath she no heart, nor care     Therefor? No womb, nor hope therein to bear     Fruit of her heart's insurgence? Is her face,     Are these her breasts for fondling, not to grace     Her heart's high honour, swell to nurture it,     That it too grow? Hath she no mother-wit,     Nor sense for living things and innocent,     Nor leap of joy for this good world's content     Of sun and wind, of flower and leaf, and song     Of bird, or shout of children as they throng     The world of mated men and women? Nay,     Persuade me not, O Kypris; but I say     Evil hath been the lore which thou hast taught--     For many have loved my face, and many sought     My breast, and thought it joy supping thereat     Sweetness and dear delight; but out of that     What hath there come to them, to me and all     Mine but hot shame? Not milk, but bitter gall."     So in her high passion she rent herself     And rocked, or hid her face upon the shelf     Of the grim wall, lest he should see the whole     Inexpiable sorrow of her soul.     But he by pity pure made bountiful     Lent her excuse, by every means to lull     Her agony. Said he, "Of mortals who     Can e'er withstand the way she wills them to,     Kypris the forceful Goddess? Nay, dear child,     Thou wert constrained."         She said, "I was beguiled     And clung to him until the day-dawn broke     When I could read as in the roll of a book     His open heart. And then my own heart reeled     To know him craven, dog, not man, revealed     A panting drudge of lust, who held me here     Caged vessel. Nay, come close. I loved him dear,     Too dear, I know; but never till he came     Had known the leap of joy, the fire of flame     Upon the heart he gave me, Paris the bright,     Whose memory was music and his sight     Fragrance, whose nearness made my footfall dance,     Whose touch was fever, and his burning glance     Faintness and blindness; in whose light my life     Centred; who was the sun, and I, false wife,     The foolish flower that turns whereso he wheels     Over the broad earth's canopy, and steals     Colour from his strong beam, but at the last     Whenas the night comes and the day is past     Droops, burnt at the heart. So loved I him, and so     Waxed bold to dare the deed that brought this woe."     And there she changed, and bitter was her cry:     "Ah, lord, far better had it been to die     Ere I had cast this pain on thee, and shame     On me, and wrought such outrage on our name.     Natheless I live----"         "Ay, and give life!" he said;     "Yet this thing more I'd have thee tell--what led     Thy thought to me? From him, what turned thy troth--     Such troth as there could be?"         She cried, "The oath!     The oath ye sware before the Lords of Heaven,     The sacrifice, the pledges taken and given     When thou and Paris met upon the plain,     And all the host sat down to watch you twain     Do battle, which should have me. For my part,     They took me forth to watch; as in the mart     A heifer feels the giver of the feast     Pinch in her flank, and hears the chaffer twist     This way and that for so much fat or lean--     Even so was I, a queen, child of a queen."     She bit her lip until the blood ran free,     And in her eyes he markt deep injury     Scald as the salt tears welled; but "Listen yet,"     She said: "Ye fought, and Paris fell beset     Under thy spurning heel, yet felt no whit     The bitterness as I must come to it;     For she, his Goddess, hid him up in mists     And brought him beat and broken from the lists     Here to his chamber. But I stood and burned,     Shameful to be by one lost, by one earned,     A prize for games, a slave, a bandied thing--     Since as the oath was made so must I swing     From bed to bed. But while I stood and wept,     Melted in fruitless sorrow, up she crept     For me, his Goddess, gliding like a snake,     Who wreathed her arms and whispering me go make     The nuptial couch, 'What oath binds love?' did say.     Loathing him, I must go. He had his way,     As well he might who paid that goodly price,     Honour, truth, courage, all, to have his vice:     The which forsook him when those fair things fled;     For though my body hath lain in his bed,     My heart abhors it. And now in truth I wis     My lord's true heart is where my own heart is,     The two together welded and made whole;     And I will go to him and give my soul     And shamed and faded body to his nod,     To spurn or take; and he shall be my God."     Whereat made virgin, as all women are     By love's white purging fire which leaves no scar     Where all was soiled and seamed before the torch     Of Eros toucht the heart, and the keen scorch     Lickt up the foul misuse of vase so fair     As woman's body, Helen flusht and fair     Leaned from the wall a fire-hued seraph's face     And in one rapt long look gave and took Grace.     Deep in her eyes he saw the light divine,     Quick in him ran fierce joy of it like wine:     Light unto light made answer, as a flag     Answers when men tell tidings from one crag     Unto another, and from peak to peak     The good news flashes. Scarcely could he speak     Measurable words, so high his wild thought whirled:     "Bride, Goddess, Helen, O Wonder of the World,     Shall I come for thee?"         Her tender words came soft     As dropping rose petals on garden croft     Down from the wall's sheer height--"Come soon, come soon."     And homing to the lines those drummed his tune. FIFTH STAVE A COUNCIL OF THE ACHAIANS: THE EMBASSY OF ODYSSEUS     Now calleth he assembly of the chiefs,     Princes and kings and captains, them whose griefs     To ease his own like treasure had been lent;     Who came and sat at board within the tent     Of him they hailed host-father and their lord     For this adventure, in aught else abhorred     Of all true men. He sits above the rest,     The fox-red Agamemnon, round his crest     The circlet of his kingship over kings,     And at his thigh the sword gold-hilted swings     Which Zeus gave Atreus once; and in his heart     That gnawing doubt which twice had checkt his start     For high emprise, having twice egged him to it,     As stout Odysseus knew who had to rue it.     Beside him Nestor sat, Nestor the old,     White as the winter moon, with logic cold     Instilled, as if the blood in him had fled     And in his veins clear spirit ran instead,     Which made men reasons and not fired their sprites.     And next Idomeneus of countless fights,     Shrewd leader of the Cretans; by his side     Keen-flashing Diomedes in his pride,     The young, the wild in onset, whose war-shrill,     Next after Peleus' son's, held all Troy still,     And stayed the gray crows at their ravelling     Of dead men's bones. Into debate full fling     Went he, adone with tapping of the foot     And drumming on the board. Had but his suit     Been granted--so he said--the war were done     And Troy a name ere full three years had gone:     For as for Helen and her daintiness,     Troy held a mort of women who no less     Than she could pleasure night when work was over     And men came home ready to play the lover;     And in housework would better her. Let Helen     Be laid by Paris, villain, and dead villain--     Dead long ago if he had taken the field     Instead of Menelaus. Then no shield     Had Kypris' golden body been, acquist     With his sword-arm already, near the wrist!     So Diomedes. Next him sat a man     With all his woe to come, the Lokrian     Aias, son of Oleus, bearded swart,     Pale, with his little eyes, and legs too short     And arms too long, a giant when he sat,     Dwarf else, and in the fight a tiger-cat.     But mark his neighbour, mark him well: to him     Falleth the lot to lay a charge more grim     On woman fair than even Althaia felt     Like lead upon her heartstrings, when she knelt     And blew to flame the brand that held the life     Of her own son; or Procne with the knife,     Who slew and dressed her child to be a meal     To his own father. But this man's thews were steel,     And steely were the nerves about his heart,     As they had need. Mark him, and mark the part     He plays hereafter. Odysseus is his name,     The wily Ithacan, deathless in his fame     And in his substance deathless, since he goes     Immortal forth and back wherever blows     The thunder of thy rhythm, O blind King,     First of the tribe of them with songs to sing,     Fountain of storied music and its end--     For who the poet since who doth not tend     To essay thy leaping measure, or call down     Thy nodded approbation for his crown     And all his wages?         Other chiefs sat there     In order due: as Pyrrhos, very fair     And young, with high bright colour, and the hue     Of evening in his eyes of violet-blue--     Son of Achilles he, and new to war.     Then Antiklos and Teukros, best by far     Of all the bowmen in the host. And last     Menestheus the Athenian dikast,     Who led the folk from Pallas's fair home.     To them spake Menelaus, being come     Into assembly last, and taken in hand     The spokesman's staff: "Ye princes of our land,     Adventurous Achaians, stout of heart,     Good news I bring, that now we may depart     Each to his home and kindred, each to his hearth     And wife and children dear and well-tilled garth,     Contented with the honour he has brought     To me and mine, since I have what we've sought     With bitter pain and loss. Yea, even now     Hath Her crowned your strife and earned my vow     Made these ten years come harvest, having drawn     The veil from off those eyes than which not dawn     Holds sweeter light nor holier, once they see.     Yea, chieftains, Helen's heart comes back to me;     And fast she watches now hard by the wall     Of the wicked house, and ere the cock shall call     Another morn I have her in my arms     Redeemed for Sparta, pure of Trojan harms,     Whole-hearted and clean-hearted as she came     First, before Paris and his deed of shame     Threatened my house with wreck, and on his own     Have brought no joy. This night, disguised, alone,     I stand within the city, waiting day;     Then when men sleep, all in the shadowless gray,     Robbing the robber, I drop down with her     Over the wall--and lo! the end of the war!"     Thus great of heart and high of heart he spake,     And trembling ceased. Awhile none cared to break     The silence, like unto that breathless hush     That holds a forest ere the great winds rush     Up from the sea-gulf, bringing furious rain     Like mist to drown all nature, blot the plain     In one great sheet of water without form.     So held the chiefs. Then Diomede brake in storm.     Ever the first he was to fling his spear     Into the press of battle; dread his cheer,     Like the long howling of a wolf at eve     Or clamour of the sea-birds when they grieve     And hanker the out-scouring of the net     Hidden behind the darkness and the wet     Of tempest-ridden nights. "Princes," he cried,     "What say ye to this wooer of his bride,     For whom it seems ten nations and their best     Have fought ten years to bring her back to nest?     Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this     You flung forth fortune--to ensure him his?     And he made snug at home, we seek our lands     Barer than we left them, with emptier hands,     And some with fewer members, shed that he     Might fare as soft and trim as formerly!     Not so went I adventuring, good friend;     Not so look I this business to have end:     Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight,     And so will live by day as thou by night,     Sating my eyes with havoc on this race     Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place     Brought level with the herbage and the weed,     That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed,     And moles make palaces, and bats keep house.     And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse     As quit thy score by thieving from a thief     And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief     For Tydeus' son, who sees no end of strife     But in his own or in his foeman's life."     So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: "By that great shade     Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made     Who slew my father, think not so to have done     With Troy and Priam; for Peleides' son     Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost     Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast,     Murdered and unacquit while that man's father     Liveth."     Then leapt up two, and both together     Cried, "Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill     Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!"     And Aias said, "Are there no women then     In Troy, but only her? And are we men     Or virgins of Athen?" And the dream     Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam     His shifting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips     Behind his beard.         Then stood that prince of ships     And shipmen, great Odysseus; with one hand     He held the staff, with one he took command;     And thus in measured tones, with word intent     Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement,     Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight     Clamour died down, even as the wind at night     Falls and is husht at rising of the moon.     "Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon     Is strife of ten years rounded to a close,     Neither so are men seated, friends or foes.     For say thus lightly we renounced the meed     Of our long travail, gave so little heed     To our great dead as find in one man's joy     Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy--     Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear,     Stock without master, wasting year by year;     Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons     Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs     For sorrow, but the darkness covers all--     What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall,     Or what beside a name, who let go by     Ilios the rich for others' usury?     And have the blessed Gods no say in this?     Think you they be won over by a kiss--     Her the Queen, she, the unwearied aid     Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid?     Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate,     Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate,     And for her towers abasement to the dust?     Behold, O King, lust shall be paid with lust,     And treachery with treachery, and for blood     Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood     Of our pent passion; break her gates in, raze     The walls of her, cumber her pleasant ways     With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil     Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil,     Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things,     Harness of flashing bronze, swords, meed of kings,     Chariots and horses swifter than the wind     Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind     Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall     Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall.     So only shall ye close this agelong strife,     Nor by redemption of a too fair wife,     Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold,     O Menelaus, may the tale be told!     Nay, but by slaying of Achilles' slayer,     By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer,     By not withholding from the spoils of war     Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are     Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall."     He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all,     Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum,     One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb;     One raging to be contraried, one torn     By those two passions wherewith he was born,     The lust for body's ease and lust of gain.     Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men,     Gentle his voice to hear. "Laertes' son,"     He said, but 'twas Nestor he looked upon,     The wise old man who sat beside his chair,     Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair     Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it,     Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it     From foe, or over friend made stronger claim:     "Laertes' son," the king said, "all men's fame     Reports thee just and fertile in device;     And as the friend of God great is thy price     To us of Argos; for without the Gods     How should we look to trace the limitless roads     That weave a criss-cross 'twixt us and our home?     Go to now, some will stay and other some     Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart,     Not warfaring as men fare to the mart,     To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout;     But honour is the prize wherefor they go out,     And having that, dishonoured are content     To leave the foe--that is best punishment.     Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth,     Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth--     As if of blood enough had not been spilt!--     Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt,     Noble Odysseus, seeking how compose     His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows     Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer,     Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her.     Come, let this be the sum of our debate."     "Content you," Menelaus said, "I wait     Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus."     Then said Odysseus, "Be it as you choose,     Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say     Let me win into Troy as best I may,     Seek out the lovely lady of our land     And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand     The sentries, how the warders of the gates;     The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits     To crown our long endeavour. These things learned,     Back to the ships I come ere yet are burned     The watch-fires of the night, before the sun     Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run     Out of the golden gateways of the East."     Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least. SIXTH STAVE HELEN AND PARIS; ODYSSEUS AND HELEN     Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors     And windows open wide, wanders the floors     And all the passage ways about the house,     Keen marshal of the sun, or serious     The cool gray light of morning 'gins to peer     Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere     Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee     Nor full-flood glory of the day to be     When round about the hill the sun shall swim     And burn a sea-path--so demure and slim     Went Helen on her business with swift feet     And light, yet recollected, and her sweet     Secret held hid, that she was loved where need     Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed--     Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, passion white     Of lovers knit in Her's holy light!     But while in early morn she wonned alone     And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone,     And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes:     Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies.     Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim     Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him     On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard     For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred     She paced the hall soft-footed up and down,     Lightly and feverishly with quick frown     Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird     That on the winter grass is aye deterred     His food-searching by hint of unknown snare     In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare;     Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide     Beat from her heart against her shielded side--     Now closely girdled went she like a maid--     And then slipt to the window, where she stayed     But minutes three or four; for soon she past     Out to the terrace, there to be at last     Downgazing on her glory, which her king     Reflected up in every motioning     And flux of his high passion. Only here     She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near     The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess     What deeds must do ere that could come to pass.     To her the instant homage held all joy--     And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy     Beside the bliss of that?         Or Paris, what     Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot     To have risked all the world and ten years loved     This woman, now to find her nothing moved     By what he had done with her, what desired     To do? And more she chilled the less he tired,     And more he ventured less she cared recall     What was to her of nothing worth, or all:     All if the King required it of her, nought     If he who now could take it. It was bought,     And his by bargain: let him have it then;     But let it be for giving once again,     And all the rubies in the world's deep heart     Could fetch no price beside it.         Yet apart     She brooded on the man who held her chained,     Minister to his pleasure, and disdained     Him more the more herself she must disparage,     Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage,     So old, incredible, so flat, so stale,     No more to be recalled than old wife's tale;     And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low,     Not villain and not hero, who would go     Midway 'twixt baseness and nobility,     And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea     Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more     Than all the world, and made his mind a whore     To minister his heart's need, for a price.     All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice     With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet,     Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret;     But lift on wings of her exalted mood,     She let him touch and finger what he would,     Unconscious of his being--as he saw,     And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw     Of his esteem, "Ah, cruel art thou turned,"     Would cry, "Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned,     Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!"     With which to clasp her closer was he fain,     To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see     Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be     The plucker of such chords of such a rote;     And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat,     Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done.     "Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun     My worship!" So he said; but she, "They fade,     But are not yet so old as thou hast made     The soul thou pinnest here beneath my breasts     Which you have loved too well." His hand he rests     Over one fair white bosom like a cup,     And leaning, of her lips his own must sup;     But she will not, but gently doth refuse it,     Without a reason, save she doth not choose it.     Then when he flung away, she sat alone     And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one     Perturbd bosom; and her fingers wove     White webs as far afield her wits did rove     Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair,     So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there,     A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh.     But all the while she writhed within the mesh     Of circumstance, and fiercely flamed her rage:     "O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage     For this sleek master's handling!" So she fumed     What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed     Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow,     And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe     Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill     That knew, which said, "A true man loveth me still."     That same night, as she used, fair Helen went     Among the suppliants in the hall, and lent     To each who craved the bounty of her grace,     Her gentle touch on wounds, her pitiful face     To beaten eyes' dumb eloquence, that art     She above all could use, to stroke the heart     And plead compassion in bestowing it.     So with her handmaids busy did she flit     From man to man, 'mid outlaws, broken blades,     Robbed husbandmen, their robbers, phantoms, shades     Of what were men till hunger made them less     Than man can be and still know uprightness;     And whom she spake with kindly words and cheer     In him the light of hope began to peer     And glimmer in his eyes; and him she fed     And nourisht, then sent homeward comforted     A little, to endure a little more.     Now among these, hard by the outer door,     She marked a man unbent whose sturdy look     Never left hers for long, whose shepherd's hook     Seemed not a staff to prop him, whose bright eyes     Burned steadily, as fire when the wind dies.     Great in the girth was he, but not so tall     By a full hand as many whom the wall     Showed like gaunt channel-posts by an ebb tide     Left stranded in a world of ooze. Beside     His knees she kneeled, and to his wounded feet     Applied her balms; but he, from his low seat     Against the wall, leaned out and in her ear     Whispered, but so that no one else could hear,     "Other than my wounds are there for thy pains,     Lady, and deeper. One, a grievous, drains     The great heart of a king, and one is fresh,     Though ten years old, in the sweet innocent flesh     Of a young child."         Nothing said she, but stoopt     The closer to her task. He thought she droopt     Her head, he knew she trembled, that her shoulder     Twitcht as she wrought her task; so he grew bolder,     Saying, "But thou art pitiful! I know     That thou wilt wash their wounds."         She whispered "Oh,     Be sure of me!"         Then he, "Let us have speech     Secret together out of range or reach     Of prying ears, if such a chance may be."     Then she said, "Towards morning look for me     Here, when the city sleeps, before the sun."     So till the glimmer of dawn this hardy one     Keepeth the watch in Paris' house. All night     With hard unwinking eyes he sat upright,     While all about the sleepers lay, like stones     Littered upon a hill-top, save that moans,     Sighings and "Gods, have pity!" showed that they     By night rehearsed the miseries of day,     And by bread lived not but by hope deferred.     Grimly he suffered till such time he heard     Helen's light foot and faint and gray in the mist     Descried her slim veiled outline, saw her twist     And slip between the sleepers on the ground,     Atiptoe coming, swift, with scarce a sound,     Not faltering in fear. No fear she had.     From head to foot a sea-blue mantle clad     Her lovely shape, from which her pale keen face     Shone like the moon in frosty sky. No case     Was his to waver, for her eyes spake true     As Heaven upon the world. Him then she drew     To follow her, out of the house, to where     The ilex trees stood darkly, and the air     Struck sharp and chill before the dawn's first breath.     There stood a little altar underneath     An image: Artemis the quick deerslayer,     High-girdled and barekneed; to Whom in prayer     First bowed, then stood erect with lifted hands,     Palms upward, Helen. "Lady of open lands     And lakes and windy heights," prayed she, "so do     To me as to Amphion's wife when blew     The wind of thy high anger, and she stared     On sudden death that not one dear life spared     Of all she had--so do to me if false     I prove unto this Argive!"         Then the walls     And gates of Ilios she traced in the sand,     And told him of the watch-towers, and how manned     The gates at night; and where the treasure was,     And where the houses of the chiefs. But as     She faltered in the tale, "Show now," said he,     "Where Priam's golden palace is."         But she     Said, "Nay, not that; for since the day of shame     That brought me in, no word or look of blame     Hath he cast on me. Nay, when Hector died     And all the city turned on me and cried     My name, as to an outcast dog men fling     Howling and scorn, not one word said the King.     And when they hissed me in the shrines of the Gods,     And women egged their children on with nods     To foul the house-wall, or in passing spat     Towards it, he, the old King, came and sat     Daily with me, and often on my hair     Would lay a gentle hand. Him thou shalt spare     For my sake who betray him."         Odysseus said,     "Well, thou shalt speak no more of him. His bed     Is not of thy making, nor mine, but his     Who hath thee here a cageling, thy Paris.     Him he begat as well as Hector. Now     Let Priam look to reap what he did sow."     But when glad light brimmed o'er the cup of earth     And shrill birds called forth men to grief or mirth     As might afford their labour under the sun,     Helen advised how best to get him gone,     And fetched a roll of cord, the which made fast     About a stanchion, about him next she cast,     About and about until the whole was round     His body, and the end to his arm she bound:     Then showed him in the wall where best foothold     Might be, and watcht him down as fold by fold     He paid the cable out; and as he paid     So did she twist it, till the coil was made     As it had been at first. Then watcht she him     Stride o'er the plain until he twinkled dim     And sank into the mist.         That day came not     King Menelaus to the trysting spot;     But ere Odysseus left her she had ta'en     A crocus flower which on her breast had lain,     And toucht it with her lips. "Give this," said she,     "To my good lord who hath seen the flower in me." SEVENTH STAVE THEY BUILD THE HORSE AND ENTER IN     What weariness of wind and wave and foam     Was to be for Odysseus ere his home     Of scrub and crag and scanty pasturage     He saw again! What stress of pilgrimage     Through roaring waterways and cities of men,     What sojourn among folk beyond the ken     Of mortal seafarers in homelier seas,     More trodden lands! Sure, none had earned his ease     As he, that windless morning when he drew     Near silent Ithaca, gray in misty blue,     And wondered on the old familiar scene,     Which was to him as it had never been     Aforetime. Say, had he but had inkling     That in this hour all that long wandering     Of his was self-ensured, had he been bold     To plan and carry what must now be told     Of this too hardy champion? Solve it you     Whose chronicling is over. Mine's to do.     All day until the setting of the sun,     Devising how to use what he had won     Odysseus stood; for nothing within walls     Was hid, he knew the very trumpet-calls     Wherewith they turned the guard out, and the cries     The sentries used to hearten or advise     The city in the watches of the night.     Once in, no hope for Ilios; but his plight     No better stood for that, since no way in     Could he conceive, nor entry hope to win     For any force enough to seize the gate     And open for the host.         But then some Fate,     Or, some men say, Athen the gray-eyed,     Ever his friend, never far from his side,     Prompted him look about him. Then he heeds     A stork set motionless in the dry reeds     That lift their withered arms, a skeleton host,     Long after winter and her aching frost     Are gone, and rattle in the spring's soft breeze     Dry bones, as if to daunt the budding trees     And warn them of the summer's wrath to come.     Still sat the bird, as fast asleep or numb     With cold, her head half-buried in her breast,     With close-shut eyes: a dead bird on the nest,     Arrow-shot--for behold! a wound she bore     Mid-breast, which stooping to, to see the more,     Lo, forth from it came busy, one by one,     Light-moving ants! So she to her death had gone     These many days; and there where she lost life     Her carrion shell with it again was rife.     So teems the earth, that ere our clay be rotten     New hosts sweep clean the hearth, our deeds forgotten.     But stooping still, Odysseus saw her not     Nor her brisk tenantry; afar his thought,     And after it his vision, crossed the plain     And lit on Ilios, dim and lapt in rain,     Piled up like blocks which Titans rear to mark     Where hero of their breed sits stiff and stark,     Spear in dead hand, and dead chin on dead knees;     And "Ha," cried he, "proud hinderer of our ease,     Now hold I thee within my hollowed hand!"     Straightway returning, Troy's destruction planned,     He sends for one Epeios, craftsman good,     And bids him frame him out a horse in wood,     Big-bellied as a ship of sixty oars     Such as men use for traffic, not in wars,     Nor piracy, but roomy, deep in the hold,     Where men may shelter if needs be from cold,     Or sleep between their watches. "Scant not you,"     He said, "your timber not your sweat. Drive through     This horse for me, Epeios, as if we     Awaited it to give the word for sea     And Hellas and our wives and children dear;     For this is true, without it we stay here     Another ten-year shift, if by main force     We would take Troy, but ten days with my horse."     So to their task Epeios and his teams     Went valiantly, and heaved and hauled great beams     Of timber from far Ida, and hacked amain     And rought the framework out. Then to it again     They went with adzes and their smoothing tools,     And made all shapely; next bored for their dools     With augurs, and made good stock on to stock     With mortise and with dovetail. Last, they lock     The frames with clamps, the nether to the upper,     And body forth a horse from crest to crupper     In outline.         Now their ribbing must be shaped     With axe to take the round, first rought, then scraped     With adzes, then deep-mortised in the frame     To bear the weight of so much mass, whose fame     When all was won, the Earth herself might quake,     Supporting on her broad breast. Now they take     Planks sawn and smoothed, and set them over steam     Of cauldrons to be supple. These to the beam     Above they rivet fast, and bend them down     Till from the belly more they seem to have grown     Than in it to be ended, so well sunk     And grooved they be. There's for the horse's trunk.     But as for head and legs, these from the block     Epeios carved, and fixed them on the stock     With long pins spigotted and clamps of steel;     And then the tail, downsweeping to the heel,     He carved and rivetted in place. Yet more     He did; for cunningly he made a door     Beneath the belly of him, in a part     Where Nature lends her aid to sculptor's art,     And few would have the thought to look for it,     Or eyes so keen to find, if they'd the wit.     Greatly stood he, hogmaned, with wrinkled nck     And wrying jaw, as though upon the check     One rode him. On three legs he stood, with one     Pawing the air, as if his course to run     Was overdue. Almost you heard the champ     And clatter of the bit, almost the stamp     And scrape of hoof; almost his fretful crest     He seemed to toss on high. So much confest     The wondering host. "But where's the man to ride?"     They askt. Odysseus said, "He'll go inside.     Yet there shall seem a rider--nay, let two     Bespan so brave a back," Epeios anew     He spurred, and had his horsemen as he would,     Two noble youths, star-frontletted, but nude     Of clothing, and unarmed, who sat as though     Centaurs not men, and with their knees did show     The road to travel. Next Odysseus bid,     "Gild thou me him, Epeios"; which he did,     And burnisht after, till he blazed afar     Like that great image which men hail for a star     Of omen holy, image without peer,     Chryselephantine Athen with her spear,     Shining o'er Athens; to which their course they set     When homeward faring through the seaways wet     From Poros or from Nauplia, or some     From the Eub[oe]an gulf, or where the foam     Washes the feet of Sounion, on whose brow     Like a white crown the shafts burn even now.     Such was the shaping of the Horse of Wood,     The bane of Ilios.         Ordered now they stood     Midway between the ships and Troy, and cast     The lots, who should go in from first to last     Of all the chieftains chosen. And the lot     Leapt out of Diomede, so in he got     And sat up in the neck. Next Aias went,     Clasping his shins and blinking as he bent,     Working the ridges of his villainous brow,     Like puzzled, patient monkey on a bough     That peers with bald, far-seeing eyes, whose scope     And steadfastness seem there to mock our hope;     Next Antiklos, and next Meriones     The Cretan; next good Teukros. After these     Went Pyrrhos, Agamemnon, King of men,     Menestheus and Idomeneus, and then     King Menelaus; and Odysseus last     Entered the desperate doorway, and made fast.     And all the Achaian remnant, seeing their best     To this great venture finally addrest,     Stood awed in silence; but Nestor the old     Bade bring the victims, and these on the wold     In sight of Troy he slew, and so uplift     The smoke of fire, and bloodsmoke, as a gift     Acceptable to Him he hailed by name     Kronion, sky-dweller, who giveth fame,     Lord of the thunder; to Her next, and Her,     The Maid of War and holy harbinger     Of Father Zeus, who bears the gis dread     And shakes it when the storm peals overhead     And lightning splits the firmament with fire;     Nor yet forgat Poseidon, dark-haired sire     Of all the seas, and of great Ocean's flow,     The girdler of the world. So back with slow     And pondered steps they all returned, and dark     Swallowed up Troy, and Horse, and them who stark     Abode within it. And the great stars shone     Out over sea and land; and speaking none,     Nursing his arms, nursing within his breast     His enterprise, each hero sat at rest     Ignorant of the world of day and night,     Or whether he should live to see the light,     Or see it but to perish in this cage.     Only Odysseus felt his heart engage     The blithelier for the peril. He was stuff     That thrives by daring, nor can dare enough.     Three days, three nights before the Skaian Gate     Sat they within their ambush, apt for fate;     Three days, three nights, the Trojans swarmed the walls     And towers or held high council in their halls     What this portended, this o'erweening mass     Reared up so high no man stretching could pass     His hand over the crupper, of such girth     Of haunch, to span the pair no man on earth     Could compass with both arms. But most their eyes     Were for the riders who in godlike guise     Went naked into battle, as Gods use,     Untrammel'd by our shifts of shields and shoes,     As if we dread the earth whereof we are.     Sons of God, these: for bore not each a star     Ablaze upon his forelock? Lo, they say,     Kastor and Polydeukes, who but they,     Come in to save their sister at the last,     And war for Troy, and root King Priam fast     In his demesne, him and his heirs for ever!     Now call they soothsayers to make endeavour     With engines of their craft to read the thing;     But others urge them hale it to the King--     "Let him dispose," they say, "of it and us,     And order as he will, from Pergamos     To heave it o'er the sheer and bring to wreck;     Or burn with fire; or harbour to bedeck     The temple of some God: of three ways one.     Here it cannot abide to flout the sun     With arrogant flash for every beam of his."     Herewith agreed the men of mysteries,     Raking the bloodsick earth to have the truth,     And getting what they lookt for, as in sooth     A man will do. So then they all fell to't     To hale with cords and lever foot by foot     The portent; and as frenzy frenzy breeds,     And what one has another thinks he needs,     So to a straining twenty other score     Lent hands, and ever from the concourse more     Of them, who hauled as if Troy's life depended     On hastening forward that wherein it ended.     So came the Horse to Troy, so was filled up     With retribution that sweet loving-cup     Paris had drunk to Helen overseas--     The cup which whoso drains must taste the lees. EIGHTH STAVE THE HORSE IN TROY; THE PASSION OF KASSANDRA     High over Troy the windy citadel,     Pergamos, towereth, where is the cell     And precinct of Athen. There, till reived,     They kept the Pallium, sacred and still grieved     By all who held the city consecrate     To Her, as first it was, till she learned hate     For what had once been lovely, and let in     The golden Aphrodit, and sweet sin     To ensnare Prince Paris and send him awooing     A too-fair wife, to be his own undoing     And Troy's and all the line's of Dardanos,     That traced from Zeus to him, from him to Tros,     From Tros to Ilos, to Laomedon,     Who begat Priam as his second son.     But out of Troy Assarakos too came,     From whom came Kapys; and from him the fame     Of good Anchises, with whom Kypris lay     In love and got Aineias. He, that day     Of dreadful wrath, safe only out did come,     And builded great Troy's line in greater Rome.     Now to the forecourt flock the Trojan folk     To view the portent. Now they bring to yoke     Priam's white horses, that the stricken king     Himself may see the wonder-working thing,     Himself invoke with his frail trembling voice     The good Twin Brethren for his aid and Troy's.     So presently before it Priam stands,     Father and King of Troy, with feeble hands     And mild pale eyes wherein Grief like a ghost     Sits; and about him all he has not lost     Of all his children gather, with grief-worn     Andromach and her first, and last, born,     The boy Astyanax. And there apart     The wise Aineias stands, of steadfast heart     But not acceptable--for some old grudge     Inherited--Aineias, silent judge     Of folly, as he had been since the sin     Of Paris knelled the last days to begin.     But he himself, that Paris, came not out,     But kept his house in these his days of doubt,     Uncertain of his footing, being of those     On whom the faintest breath of censure blows     Chill as the wind that from the frozen North     Palsies the fount o' the blood. He dared not forth     Lest men should see--and how not see? he thought--     That Helen held him lightlier than she ought.     But Helen came there, gentle as of old,     Self-held, sufficient to herself, not bold,     Not modest nor immodest, taking none     For judge or jury of what she may have done;     But doing all she was to do, sedate,     Intent upon it and deliberate.     As she had been at first, so was she now     When she had put behind her her old vow     And had no pride but thinking of her new.     But she was lovelier, of more burning hue,     And in her eyes there shone, for who could see,     A flickering light, half scare and half of glee,     Which made those iris'd orbs to wax and wane     Like to the light of April days, when rain     And sun contend the sovereignty. She kept     Beside the King, and only closer crept     To let him feel her there when some harsh word     Or look made her heart waver. Many she heard,     And much she saw, but knew the King her friend,     Him only since great Hector met his end.     And while so pensive and demure she stood,     With one thin hand just peeping at her hood,     The which close-folded her from head to knee,     Her heart within her bosom hailed her--"Free!     Free from thy thralldom, free to save, to give,     To love, be loved again, and die to live!"     So she--yet who had said, to see her there,     The sweet-faced woman, blue-eyed, still and fair     As windless dawn in some quiet mountain place,     To such a music let her passion race?     Now hath the King his witless welcome paid,     And now invoked the gods, and the cold shade     Which once was Hector; now, being upheld     By two his sons, with shaking hands of eld     The knees of those two carved and gilded youths     He touches while he prays, and praying soothes     The crying heart of Helen. But not so     Kassandra views him pray, that well of woe     Kassandra, she whom Loxias deceived     With gift to see, and not to be believed;     To read within the heart of Time all truth     And see men blindly blunder, to have ruth,     To burn, to cry, "Out, haro!" and be a mock--     Ah, and to know within this gross wood-block     The fate of all her kindred, and her own,     Unthinkable! Now with her terror blown     Upon her face, to blanch it like a sheet,     Now with bare frozen eyes which only greet     The viewless neighbours of our world she strips     The veil and shrieketh Troy's apocalypse:     "Woe to thee, Ilios! The fire, the fire! And rain,     Rain like to blood and tears to drown the plain     And cover all the earth up in a shroud,     One great death-clout for thee, Ilios the proud!     Touch not, handle not----" Outraged then she turned     To Helen--"O thou, for whom Troy shall be burned,     O ruinous face, O breasts made hard with gall,     Now are ye satisfied? Ye shall have all,     All Priam's sons and daughters, all his race     Gone quick to death, hailing thee, ruinous face!"     Her tragic mask she turned upon all men:     "The lion shall have Troy, to make his den     Within her pleasant courts, in Priam's high seat     Shall blink the vulture, sated of his meat;     And in the temples emptied of their Gods     Bats shall make quick the night, and panting toads     Make day a loathing to the light it brings.     Listen! Listen! they flock out; heed their wings.     The Gods flee forth of this accursd haunt,     And leave the memory of it an old chant,     A nursery song, an idle tale that's told     To children when your own sons are grown old     In Argive bonds, and have no other joy     Than whispering to their offspring tales of Troy."     Whereat she laught--O bitter sound to hear!     And struggled with herself, and grinned with fear     And misery lest even now her fate     Should catch her and she be believed too late.     "Is't possible, O Gods! Are ye so doomed     As not to know this Horse a mare, enwombed     Of men and swords? Know ye not there unseen     The Argive princes wait their dam shall yean?     Anon creeps Sparta forth, to find his balm     In that vile woman; forth with itching palm     Mykenai creeps, snuffing what may be won     By filching; forth Pyrrhos the braggart's son     That dared do violence to Hector dead,     But while he lived called Gods to serve his stead;     Forth Aias like a beast, to mangle me--     These things ye will not credit, but I see."     Then once again, and last, she turned her switch     On Helen, hissing, "Out upon thee, witch,     Smooth-handed traitress, speak thy secrets out     That we may know thee, how thou goest about     Caressing, with a hand that hides a knife,     That which shall prove false paramour, false wife,     Fair as the sun is fair that smiles and slays"--     And then, "O ruinous face, O ruinous face!"     But nothing more, for sudden all was gone,     Spent by her passion. Muttering, faint and wan     Down to the earth she sank, and to and fro     Rocking, drew close her hood, and shrouded so,     Her wild voice drowning, died in moans away.     But Helen stood bright-eyed as glancing day,     Near by the Horse, and with a straying hand     Did stroke it here and there, and listening stand,     Leaning her head towards its gilded flank,     And strain to hear men's breath behind the plank;     And she had whispered if she dared some word     Of promise; but afraid to be o'erheard,     Leaned her head close and toucht it with her cheek,     Then drew again to Priam, schooled and meek.     But Menelaus felt her touch, and mum     Sat on, nursing his mighty throw to come;     And Aias started, with some cry uncouth     And vile, but fast Odysseus o'er his mouth     Clapt hand, and checkt his foul perseverance     To seek in every deed his own essence.     Now when the ways were darkened, and the sun     Sank red to sea, and homeward all had gone     Save that distraught Kassandra, who still served     The temple whence the Goddess long had swerved,     Athen, hating Troy and loving them     Who craved to snatch and make a diadem     Of Priam's regal crown for other brows--     She, though foredoomed she knew, held to her vows,     And duly paid the thankless evening rite--     There came to Paris' house late in the night     Dephobus his brother, young and trim,     For speech with fair-tressed Helen, for whose slim     And budded grace long had he sighed in vain;     And found her in full hall, and showed his pain     And need of her. To whom when she draws close     In hot and urgent crying words he shows     His case, hers now, that here she tarry not     Lest evil hap more dread than she can wot:     "For this," he says, "is Troy's extremest hour."     But when to that she bowed her head, the power     Of his high vision made him vehement:     "Dark sets the sun," he cried, "and day is spent";     But she said, "Nay, the sun will rise with day,     And I shall bathe in light, lift hands and pray."     "Thou lift up hands, bound down to a new lord!"     He mocked; then whispered, "Lady, with a sword     I cut thy bonds if so thou wilt."         Apart     She moved: "No sword, but a cry of the heart     Shall loose me."         Then he said, "Hear what I cry     From my heart unto thine: fly, Helen, fly!"     Whereat she shook her head and sighed, "Even so,     Brother, I fly where thou canst never go.     Far go I, out of ken of thee and thy peers."     He knew not what she would, but said, "Thy fears     Are of the Gods and holy dooms and Fate,     But mine the present menace in the gate.     This I would save thee."         "I fear it not," said she,     "But wait it here."         He cried, "Here shalt thou see     Thy Spartan, and his bitter sword-point feel     Against thy bosom."         "I bare it to the steel,"     Saith she. He then, "If ever man deserved thee     By service, I am he, who'd die to serve thee."     Glowing she heard him, being quickly moved     By kindness, loving ever where she was loved.     But now her heart was fain for rest; the night     Called her to sleep and dreams. So with a light     And gentle hand upon him, "Brother, farewell,"     She said, "I stay the issue, and foretell     Honour therein at least."         Then at the door     She kissed him. And she saw his face no more. NINTH STAVE THE GODS FORSAKE TROY     Now Dawn came weeping forth, and on the crest     Of Ida faced a chill wind from the West.     Forth from the gray sea wrack-laden it blew     And howled among the towers, and stronger grew     As crept unseen the sun his path of light.     Then she who in the temple all that night     Had kept her rueful watch, the prophetess     Kassandra, peering sharply, heard the press     And rush of flight above her, and with sick     Foreboding waited; and the air grew thick     With flying shapes immortal overhead.     As in late Autumn, when the leaves are shed     And dismal flit about the empty ways,     And country folk provide against dark days,     And heap the woodstack, and their stores repair,     Attent you know the quickening of the air,     And closer yet the swish and sweep and swing     Of wings innumerable, emulous to bring     The birds to broader skies and kindlier sun,     And know indeed that winter is begun--     So seeing first, then hearing, she knew the hour     Was come when Troy must fall, and not a tower     Be left to front the morrow. And she covered     Her head and mourned, while one by one they hovered     Above their shrines, then flockt and faced the dawn.     First, in her car of shell and amber, drawn     By clustering doves with burnisht wings, a-throng,     Passes Queen Aphrodit, and her song     Is sweet and sharp: "I gave my sacred zone     To warm thy bosom, Helen which by none     That live by labour and in tears are born     And sighing go their ways, has e'er been worn.     It kindled in thine eyes the lovelight, showed     Thy burning self in his. Thy body glowed     With beauty like to mine: mine thy love-laughter     Thy cooing in the night, thy deep sleep after,     Thy rapture of the morning, love renewed;     And all the shadowed day to sit and brood     On what has been and what should be again:     Thou wilt not? Nay, I proffer not in vain     My gifts, for I am all or will be nought.     Lo, where I am can be no other thought."     Thus to the wooded heights of Ida she     Was drawn, hid in that pearly galaxy     Of snow-white pigeons.         Next upon the height     Of Pergamos uplift a beam of light     That for its core enshrined a naked youth,     Golden and fierce. She knew the God sans ruth,     Him who had given woeful prescience to her,     Apollo, once her lover and her wooer;     Who stood as one stands glorying in his grace     And strength, full in the sun, though on her place     Within the temple court no sun at all     Shone, nor as yet upon the topmost wall     Was any tinge of him, but all showed gray     And sodden in the wind and blown sea-spray.     Not to him dared she lift her voice in prayer,     Nor scarce her eyes to see him.         To him there     Came swift a spirit in shape of virgin slim,     With snooded hair and kirtle belted trim,     Short to the knee; and in her face the gale     Had blown bright sanguine colour. Free and hale     She was; and in her hand she held a bow     Unstrung, and o'er her shoulders there did go     A baldrick that made sharp the cleft betwixt     Her sudden breasts--to that a quiver fixt,     Showing gold arrow-points. No God there is     In Heaven more swift than Delian Artemis,     The young, the pure health-giver of the Earth,     Who loveth all things born, and brings to birth,     And after slays with merciful sudden death--     In whom is gladness all and wholesome breath,     And to whom all the praise of him who writes,     Ever.     These two she saw like meteorites     Flare down the wind and burn afar, then fade.     And Leto next, a mother grave and staid,     Drave out her chariot, which two winged stags drew,     Swift following, robed in gown of inky blue,     And hooded; and her hand which held the hood     Gleamed like a patch of snow left in a wood     Where hyacinths bring down to earth the sky.     And in her wake a winging company,     Dense as the cloud of gulls which from a rock     At sea lifts up in myriads, if the knock     Of oars assail their peace, she saw, and mourned     The household gods. For outward they too turned,     The spirits of the streams and water-brooks,     And nymphs who haunt the pastures, or in nooks     Of woodlands dwell. There like a lag of geese     Flew in long straying lines the Oreades     That in wild dunes and commons have their haunt;     There sped the Hamadryads; there aslant,     As from the sea, but wheeling ere they crost     Their sisters, thronged the river-nymphs, a host;     And now the Gods of homestead and the hearth,     Like sad-faced mourning women, left the garth     Where each had dwelt since Troy was stablishd,     And been the holy influence over bed     And board and daily work under the sun     And nightlong slumber when day's work was done:     They rose, and like a driven mist of rain     Forsook the doomed high city and the plain,     And drifted eastaway; and as they went     Heaviness spread o'er Ilios like a tent,     And past not off, but brooded all day long.     But ever coursed new spirits to the throng     That packt the ways of Heaven. From the plain,     From mere and holt and hollow rose amain     The haunters of the silence; from the streams     And wells of water, from the country demes,     From plough and pasture, bottom, ridge and crest     The rustic Gods rose up and joined the rest.     Like a long wisp of cloud from out his banks     Streamed Xanthos, that swift river, to the ranks     Of flying shapes; and driven by that same mind     That urged him to it came Simoeis behind,     And other Gods and other, of stream and tree     And hill and vale--for nothing there can be     On earth or under Heaven, but hath in it     Essence whereby alone its form may hit     Our apprehension, channelled in the sense     Which feedeth us, that we through vision dense     See Gods as trees walking, or in the wind     That singeth in the bents guess what's behind     Its wailing music.         And now the unearthly flock,     Emptying every water, wood, bare rock     And pasture, beset Ida, and their wings     Beat o'er the forest which about her springs     And makes a sea of verdure, whence she lifts     Her soaring peaks to bathe them in the drifts     Of cloud, and rare reveal them unto men--     For Zeus there hath his dwelling, out of ken     Of men alike and gods. But now the brows,     The breasting summits, still eternal snows,     And all the faces of the mountain held     A concourse like in number to the field     Of Heaven upon some breathless summer night     Printed with myriad stars, some burning bright,     Some massed in galaxy, a cloudy scar,     And others faint, as infinitely far.     There rankt the Gods of Heaven, Earth, and Sea,     Brethren of them now hastening from the fee     Of stricken Priam. Out of his deep cloud     Zeus flamed his levin, and his thunder loud     Volleyed his welcome. With uplifted hands     Acclaiming, God's oncoming each God stands     To greet. And thus the Hierarchy at one     Sits to behold the bitter business done     Which Paris by his luxury bestirred.     But in the city, like a stricken bird     Grieving her desolation and despair,     As voiceless and as lustreless, astare     For imminent Death, Kassandra croucht beneath     Her very doom, herself the bride of Death;     For in the temple's forecourt reared the mass     Of that which was to bring the woe to pass,     And hidden in him both her murderers     Wrung at their nails.         And slow the long day wears     While all the city broods. The chiefs keep house,     Or gather on the wall, or make carouse     To simulate a freedom they feel not;     And at street corners men in shift or plot     Whisper together, or in the market-place     Gather, and peer each other in the face     Furtively, seeking comfort against care;     Whose eyes, meeting by chance, shift otherwhere     In haste. But in the houses, behind doors     Shuttered and barred, the women scrub their floors,     Or ply their looms as busily: for they     Ever cure care with care, and if a day     Be heavy lighten it with heavier task;     And for their griefs wear beauty like a mask,     And answer heart's presaging with a song     On their brave lips, and render right for wrong.     Little, by outward seeming, do they know     Of doom at hand, of fate or blood or woe,     Nor how their children, playing by their knees,     Must end this day of busyness-at-ease     In shrieking night, with clamour for their bread,     And a red bath, and a cold stone for a bed     Under the staring moon.         Now sinks the sun     Blood-red into the heavy sea and dun,     And forth from him, as he were stuck with swords,     Great streams of light go upward. Then the lords     Of havoc and unrest prepare their storms,     And o'er the silent city, vulture forms--     Eris and Enyo, Alk, Iok,     The biter, the sharp-bitten, the mad, the fey--     Hover and light on pinnacle and tower:     The gray Erinnyes, watchful for the hour     When Haro be the wail. And down the sky     Like a white squall flung At with a cry     That sounded like the wind in a ship's shrouds,     As shrill and wild at once. The driving clouds     Surging together, blotted out the sea,     The beachd ships, the plain with mound and tree,     And slantwise came the sheeted rain, and fast     The darkness settled in. Kassandra cast     Her mantle o'er her head, and with slow feet     Entered her shrine deserted, there to greet     Her fate when it should come; and merciful Sleep     Befriended her.         Now from his lair did creep     Odysseus forth unarmed, his sword and spear     There in the Horse, and warily to peer     And spy his whereabouts the Ithacan     Went doubtful. Then his dreadful work began,     As down the bare way of steep Pergamos     Under the dark he sought for Paris' house. TENTH STAVE ODYSSEUS COMES AGAIN TO PARIS' HOUSE     There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce,     Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears,     Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall     She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall     Went out and shot her gaze into the murk     Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work     Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift,     But idly, waiting always for some lift     In the close-wrapping fog that might discover     The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover--     Lover and husband, master and lord of life,     Coming at last to take a slave to wife.     And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart     Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start,     And thankt the Goddess for the balm they brought.     Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought     By hope and care and waiting, she was mild     And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child     That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds     Time past or time to come, but fills all needs     With present kindness. She would laugh and talk,     Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk     The terrace 'neath the eyes of all her fate,     And seem to heed what they might show or prate,     As if her whole heart's heart were in this house     And not at fearful odds and perilous.     And should one speak of Paris, as to say,     "Would that our lord might see thee go so gay     About his house!" Gently she'd bend her head     Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread     Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise,     Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise     Lit like a butterfly and quivered there.     Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere     At council with the chieftains, into the hall     To Helen there, was come, adventuring all,     Odysseus in the garb of countryman,     A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan     Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip,     And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip     Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came     And louted low, and hailed her by her name,     Among her maidens easy to be known,     Though not so tall as most, and not full blown     To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose;     But like a summer wave her bosom flows     Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face     Seems pious as the moon in a blue space     Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue     Of early morning, gray through mist of blue.     Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed     Queen of them all, but by the right expressed     In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold     Upon her lips which Gods have. Nay, not cold,     Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say     All in a sigh, and with one word betray     The passion of thy heart! But who can wis     The fainting piercing message of thy kiss?     O blest initiate--let him live to tell     Thy godhead, show himself thy miracle!     But when she saw him there with his head bowed     And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed,     And broad across the iris swam the black     Until her eyes showed darkling. "Friend, your lack     Tell me," she said, "and what is mine to give     Is yours; but little my prerogative     Here in this house, where I am not the queen     You call me, but another name, I ween,     Serves me about the country you are of,     Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love.     Yet are we all alike in evil plight,     And should be tender of each other's right,     And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done     Upon us. Have you wife and little one     Hungry at home? Have you a son afield?     Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield     The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford     To serve...."     He said, "Nay, you can sheathe the sword,     Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy.     Lady, I come to end this war of Troy     In your good pleasure."         With her steady eyes     Unwinking fixt, "Let you and me devise,"     Said she, "this happy end of bow and spear,     So shall we serve the land. You have my ear;     Speak then."         "But so," he said, "these maidens have it.     But we save Troy alone, or never save it."     Turning she bid them leave her with a nod,     And they obeyed. Swift then and like a God     She seemed, with bright all-knowing eyes and calm     Gesture of high-held head, and open palm     To greet. "Laertes' son, what news bringst thou?"     "Lady," he said, "the best. The hour is now.     We stand within the heaven-establisht walls,     We gird the seat. Within an hour it falls,     The seat divine of Dardanos and Tros,     After our ten years' travail and great loss     Of heroes not yet rested, but to rest     Soon."     Then she laid her hand upon her breast     To stay it. "Who are ye that stand here-by?"     "Desperate men," he said, "prepared to die     If thou wilt have it so. Chief is there none     Beside the ships but Nestor. All are gone     Forth in the Horse. Under thy covering hand     Thou holdest all Achaia. Here we stand,     Epeios, Pyrrhos, Antiklos, with these     Cretan Idomeneus, Meriones,     Aias the Lokrian, Teukros, Diomede     Of the loud war-cry, next thy man indeed,     Golden-haired Menelaus the robbed King,     And Agamemnon by him, and I who bring     This news and must return to take what lot     Thou choosest us; for all is thine, God wot,     To end or mend, to make or mar at will."     A weighty utterance, but she heard the thrill     Within her heart, and listened only that--     To know her love so near. So near he sat     Hidden when she that toucht the Horse's flank     Could have toucht him! "Odysseus!" her voice sank     To the low tone of the soft murmuring dove     That nests and broods, "Odysseus, heard my love     My whisper of his name when close I stood     And stroked the Horse?"         "I heard and understood,"     He said, "and Lokrian Aias would have spoken     Had I not clapt a hand to his mouth--else broken     By garish day had been our house of dream,     And our necks too. I heard a woman scream     Near by and cry upon the Ruinous Face,     But none made answer to her."         Nought she says     To that but "I am ready; let my lord     Come when he will. Humbly I wait his word."     "That word I bring," Odysseus said, "he comes.     Await him here."         Her wide eyes were the homes     Of long desire. "Ah, let me go with thee     Even as I am; from this dark house take me     While Paris is abroad!"         He shook his head.     "Not so, but he must find thee here abed--     And Paris here."         The light died out; a mask     Of panic was her face, what time her task     Stared on a field of white horror like blood:     "Here! But there must be strife then!"         "Well and good,"     Said he.         Then she, shivering and looking small,     "And one must fall?" she said; he, "One must fall."     Reeling she turned her pincht face other way     And muttered with her lips, grown cold and gray,     Then fawning came at him, and with her hands     Besought him, but her voice made no demands,     Only her haunted eyes were quick, and prayed,     "Ah, not to fall through me!"         "By thee," he said,     "The deed is to be done."         She droopt adown     Her lovely head; he heard her broken moan,     "Have I not caused enough of blood-shedding,     And enough women's tears? Is not the sting     Sharp enough of the knife within my side?"     No more she could.         Then he, "Think not to avoid     The lot of man, who payeth the full price     For each deed done, and riddeth vice by vice:     Such is the curse upon him. The doom is     By God decreed, that for thy forfeit bliss     In Sparta thou shalt pay the price in Troy,     Dishonour for lost honour, pain for joy;     By what hot thought impelled, by that alone     Win back; by violence violence atone.     If by chicane thou fleddest, by chicane     Win back thy blotted footprints. Out again     With all thine arts of kisses slow and long,     Of smiles and stroking hands, and crooning song     Whenas full-fed with love thou lulledst asleep;     Renew thine eyebright glances, whisper and creep     And twine about his neck thy wreathing arms:     As we with spears so do thou with thy charms,     Arm thee and wait the hour of fire and smoke     To purge this robbery. Paris by the stroke     Of him he robbed shall wash out his old cheat     In blood, and thou, woman, by new deceit     Of him redeem thy first. For thus God saith,     Traitress, thou shalt betray thy thief to death."     He ceased, and she by misery made wild     And witless, shook, and like a little child     Gazed piteous, and asked, "What must I do?"     He answered, "Hold him by thee, falsely true,     Until the King stand armed within the house     Ready to take his blood-price. Even thus,     By shame alone shalt thou redeem thy shame."     And now she claspt his knee and cried his name:     "Mercy! I cannot do it. Let me die     Sooner than go to him so. What, must I lie     With one and other, make myself a whore,     And so go back to Sparta, nevermore     To hold my head up level with my slaves,     Nor dare to touch my child?"         Said he, "Let knaves     Deal knavishly till freedom they can win;     And so let sinners purge themselves of sin."     Then fiercely looking on her where she croucht     Fast by his knees, his whole mind he avoucht:     "How many hast thou sent the way of death     By thy hot fault? What ghosts like wandering breath     Shudder and wail unhouseled on the plain,     Shreds of Achaian honour? What hearts in pain     Cry the night through? What souls this very night     Fare forth? Art thou alone to sup delight,     Alone to lap in pleasantness, who first     And only, with thy lecher and his thirst,     Wrought all the harm? Only for thy smooth sake     Did Paris reive, and Menelaus ache,     And Hector die ashamed, and Peleus' son     Stand to the arrow, and Aias Telamon     Find madness and self-murder for the crown     Of all his travail?" He eyed her up and down     Sternly, as measuring her worth in scorn.     "Not thus may traffic any woman born     While men endure cold nights and burning days,     Hunger and wretchedness."         She stands, she says,     "Enough--I cannot answer. Tell me plain     What I must do."         "At dark," he said, "we gain     The Gates and open them. A trumpet's blast     Will sound the entry of the host. Hold fast     Thy Paris then. We storm the citadel,     High Pergamos; that won, the horn will tell     The sack begun. But hold thou Paris bound     Fast in thine arms. Once more the horn shall sound.     That third is doom for him. Release him then."     All blank she gazed. "Unarmed to face armed men?"     "Unarmed," he said, "to meet his judgment day."     Now was thick silence broken; now no way     For her to shift her task nor he his fate.     Keenly she heeds. "'Tis Paris at the gate!     What now? Whither away? Where wilt thou hide?"     He lookt her in the face. "Here I abide     What he may do. Was it not truth I spake     That all Hellas lay in thy hand? Now take     What counsel or what comfort may avail."     Paris stood in the door and cried her Hail.     "Hail to thee, Rose of the World!" then saw the man,     And knit his brows upon him, close to scan     His features; but Odysseus had his hood     Shadowing his face. Some time the Trojan stood     Judging, then said, "Thou seek'st? What seekest thou?"     "A debt is owed me. I seek payment now."     So he was told; but he drew nearer yet.     "I would know more of thee and of thy debt,"     He said.         And then Odysseus, "This thy strife     Hath ruined all my fields which are my life,     Brought murrain on my beasts, cold ash to my hearth,     Emptiness to my croft. Hunger and dearth,     Are these enough? Who pays me?"         Then Paris,     "I pay, but first will know what man it is     I am to pay, and in what kind." So said,     Snatching the hood, he whipt it from his head     And lookt and knew the Ithacan. "Now by Zeus,     Treachery here!" He swung his sword-arm loose     Forth of his cloak and set hand to his sword;     But Helen softly called him: "Hath my lord     No word of greeting for his bondwoman?"     Straightway he went to her, and left the man,     And took her in his arms, and held her close.     And light of foot, Odysseus quit the house. ELEVENTH STAVE THE BEGUILING OF PARIS     Now Paris tipt her chin and turned her face     Upwards to his that fondly he might trace     The beauty of her budded lips, and stoop     And kiss them softly; and fingered in the loop     That held her girdle, and closer pressed, on fire,     Towards her; for her words had stung desire     Anew; and wooing in his fond boy's way,     Whispered and lookt his passion; then to pray     Began: "Ah, love, long strange to me, behold     Thy winter past, and come the days of gold     And pleasance of the spring! For in thine eyes     I see his light and hail him as he flies!     Nay, cloud him not, nor veil him"--for she made     To turn her face, saying, "Ah, let them fade:     The soul thou prisonest here is grayer far."     But he would give no quarter now. "O star,     O beacon-star, shine on me in the night     That I may wash me in thy bath of light,     Taking my fill of thee; so cleansd all     And healed, I rise renewed to front what call     May be!" which said, with conquest in his bones     And in his eyes assurance, in high tones     He called her maids, bade take her and prepare     The couch, and her to be new-wedded there;     For long had they been strangers to their bliss.     So by the altar standeth she submiss     And watchful, praying silent and intense     To a strange-figured Goddess, to his sense     Who knew but Aphrodit. "Love, what now?     Who is thy God? What secret rite hast thou?"     For grave and stern above that altar stood     Her the Queen of Heaven.         In dry mood     She answered him, "Chaste wives to her do pray     Before they couch, Blest be the strife! You say     We are to be new-wedded. Pour with me     Libation that we love not fruitlessly."     So said, she took the well-filled cup and poured,     And prayed, saying, "O Mother, not abhorred     Be this my service of thee. Count it not     Offence, nor let my prayers be forgot     When reckoning comes of things done and not done     By me thy child, or to me, hapless one,     Unloving paramour and unloved wife!"     "Her, to thee for issue of the strife!"     Cried Paris then, and poured. So Helen went     And let her maids adorn her to his bent.     Then took he joy of her, and little guessed     Or cared what she might give or get. Possest     Her body by his body, but her mind     Searcht terribly the issue. As one blind     Explores the dark about him in broad day     And fingers in the air, so as she lay     Lax in his arms, her fainting eyes, aglaze     For terror coming, sought escape all ways.     Alas for her! What way for woman fair,     Whose joy no fairer makes her than despair?     Her burning lips that kisses could not cool,     Her beating heart that not love made so full,     The surging of her breast, her clinging hands:     Here are such signs as lover understands,     But fated Paris nowise. Her soul, distraught     To save him, proved the net where he was caught.     For more she anguisht lest love be his bane     The fiercelier spurred she him, to make him fain     Of that which had been ruinous to all.     But all the household gathered on the wall     While these two in discordant bed were plight,     And watcht the Achaian fires. No beacon-light     Showed by the shore, but countless, flickering, streamed     Innumerable lights, wove, dipt and gleamed     Like fireflies on a night of summer heat,     Withal one way they moved, though many beat     Across and back, and mingled with the rest.     Anon a great glare kindled from the crest     Of Ida, and was answered by a blaze     Behind the ships, which threw up in red haze     Huge forms of prow and beak. Then from the Mound     Of Ilos fire shot up, from sacred ground,     And out the mazy glory of moving lights     One sped and flared, as of the meteorites     In autumn some fly further, brighter courses.     A chariot! They heard the thunder of the horses;     And as they flew the torch left a bright wake.     And thus to one another woman spake,     "Lo, more lights race! They follow him, they near,     Catch and draw level. Hark! Now you can hear     The tramp of men!"         Says one, "That baleful sheen     Is light upon their spears. The Greeks, I ween,     Are coming up to rescue or requite."     But then her mate: "They mass, they fill the night     With panic terror."         True, that all night things     Fled as they came. They heard the flickering wings     Of countless birds in haste, and as they flew     So fled the dark away. Light waxed and grew     Until the dead of night was vivified     And radiant opened out the countryside     With pulsing flames of fire, which gleamed and glanced,     Flickered, wavered, yet never stayed advance.     As the sun rising high o'er Ida cold     Beats a sea-path in flakes of molten gold,     So stretcht from shore to Troy that litten stream     That moved and shuddered, restless as a dream,     Yet ever nearing, till on spear and shield     They saw light like the moon on a drowned field,     And in the glare of torches saw and read     Gray faces, like the legions of the dead,     Silent about the walls, and waiting there.     But in the fragrant chamber Helen the fair     Lay close in arms, and Paris slept, his head     Upon her bosom, deep as any dead.     Sudden there smote the blast of a great horn,     Single, long-held and shuddering, and far-borne;     And then a deathless silence. Paris stirred     On that soft pillow, and listened while they heard     Many men running frantically, with feet     That slapt the stones, and voices in the street     Of question and call--"Oh, who are ye that run?     What of the night?" "O peace!" And some lost one     Wailed like a woman, and her a man did curse,     And there were scuffling, prayers, and then worse--     A silence. But the running ended not     While Paris lay alistening with a knot     Of Helen's loose hair twisting round his finger.     "O love," he murmured low, "I may not linger.     The street's awake. Alas, thou art too kind     To be a warrior's bride." Sighing, she twined     Her arm about his neck and toucht his face,     And pressed it gently back to its warm place     Of pillowing. And Paris kissed her breast     And slept; but her heart's riot gave no rest     As quaking there she lay, awaiting doom.     Then afar off rose clamour, and the room     Was fanned with sudden light and sudden dark,     As on a summer night in a great park     Blazed forth you see each tuft of grass or mound,     Anon the drowning blackness, while the sound     Of Zeus's thunder hardens every close:     So here the chamber glared, then dipt, and rose     That far confusd tumult, and now and then     The scurrying feet of passion-driven men.     Thrilling she waited with sick certainty     Of doom inexorable, while the struck city     Fought its death-grapple, and the windy height     Of Pergamos became a shambles. White     The holy shrines stared on a field of blood,     And with blank eyes the emptied temples stood     While murder raved before them, and below     And all about the city ran the woe     Of women for their children. Then the flame     Burst in the citadel, and overcame     The darkness, and the time seemed of broad day.     And Helen stared unwinking where she lay     Pillowing Paris.         Now glad and long and shrill     The second trumpet sounds. They have the hill--     High Troy is down, is down! Starting, he wakes     And turns him in her arms. His face she takes     In her two hands and turns it up to hers.     Nothing she says, nothing she does, nor stirs     From her still scrutiny, nor so much as blinks     Her eyes, deep-searching, of whose blue he drinks,     And fond believes her all his own, while she     Marvels that aught of his she e'er could be     In times bygone. But now he is on fire     Again, and urges on her his desire,     And loses all the sense of present needs     For him in burning Troy, where Priam bleeds     Head-smitten, trodden on his palace-floor,     And white Kassandra yieldeth up her flower     To Aias' lust, and of the Dardan race     Survive he only, renegade disgrace,     He only and Aineias the wise prince.     But now is crying fear abroad and wins     The very household of the shameful lover;     Now are the streets alive, for worse in cover     Like a trapt rat to die than fight the odds     Under the sky. Now women shriek to the Gods,     And men run witlessly, and in and out     The Greeks press, burning, slaying, and the rout     Screameth to Heaven. As at sea the mews     Pack, their wings battling, when some fresh wrack strews     The tideway, and in greater haste to stop     Others from prey, will let their morsel drop,     And all the while make harsh lament--so here     The avid spoilers bickered in their fear     To be man[oe]uvred out of robbery,     And tore the spoil, and mangled shamefully     Bodies of men to strip them, and in haste     To forestall ravishers left the victims chaste.     Ares, the yelling God, and At white     Swept like a snow-storm over Troy that night;     And towers rockt, and in the naked glare     Of fire the smoke climbed to the upper air;     And clamour was as of the dead broke loose.     But Menelaus his stern way pursues,     And to the wicked house with chosen band     Cometh, his good sword naked in his hand;     And now, while Paris loves and holds her fast     In arms, the third horn sounds a shattering blast,     Long-held, triumphant; and about the door     Gathers the household, to cry, to pray, to implore,     And at the last break in and scream the truth--     "The Greeks! The Greeks! Save yourselves!"         Then in sooth     Starts Paris out of bed, and as he goes     Sees in the eyes of Helen all she knows     And all believes; and with his utter loss     Of her rises the man in him that was     Ere luxury had entered blood and bone     Of him. No word he said, but let one groan,     And turned his dying eyes to hers, and read     Therein his fate, that to her he was dead,     Long dead and cold in grave. Whereat he past     Out of the door, and met his end at last     As man, not minion.         But the woman fair     Lay on her face, half buried in her hair,     Naked and prone beneath her saving sin,     Not yet enheartened new life to begin. ENVOY     But thou didst rise, Maid Helen, as from sleep,     A final tryst to keep     With thy true lover, in whose hands thy life     Lay, as in arms; his wife     In heart as well as deed; his wife, his friend,     His soul's fount and its end!     For such it is, the marriage of true minds,     Each in each sanction finds;     So if her beauty lift her out of thought     Whither man's to be brought     To worship her perfection on his knees,     So in his strength she sees     Self glorified, and two make one clear orb     Whereinto all rays absorb     Which stream from God and unto God return.--     So, as he fared, I yearn     To be, and serve my years of pain and loss     'Neath my walled Ilios,     With my eyes ever fixt to where, a star,     Thou and thy sisters are,     Helen and Beatrice, with thee embraced,     Hands in thy hands, and arms about thy waist. 1911-12.