Helen of Troy Part 11

LIX.

They reach'd the gateway of that highest glen And halted, wond'ring what the end should be; But Paris whisper'd Helen, while his men Fell back: "Here judged I G.o.ds, here shalt thou see What judgment mine old love will pa.s.s on me.

But hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know, Whether the G.o.ds at length will set thee free From that old net they wove so long ago."

LX.

Ah, there with wide snows round her like a pall, OEnone crouch'd in sable robes; as still As Winter brooding o'er the Summer's fall, Or Niobe upon her haunted hill, A woman changed to stone by grief, where chill The rain-drops fall like tears, and the wind sighs: And Paris deem'd he saw a deadly will Unmoved in wild OEnone's frozen eyes.

LXI.

"Nay, prayer to her were vain as prayer to Fate,"

He murmur'd, almost glad that it was so, Like some sick man that need no longer wait, But his pain lulls as Death draws near his woe.

And Paris beckon'd to his men, and slow They bore him dying from that fatal place, And did not turn again, and did not know The soft repentance on OEnone's face.

LXII.

But Paris spake to Helen: "Long ago, Dear, we were glad, who never more shall be Together, where the west winds fainter blow Round that Elysian island of the sea, Where Zeus from evil days shall set thee free.

Nay, kiss me once, it is a weary while, Ten weary years since thou hast smiled on me, But, Helen, say good-bye, with thine old smile!"

LXIII.

And as the dying sunset through the rain Will flush with rosy glow a mountain height, Even so, at his last smile, a blush again Pa.s.s'd over Helen's face, so changed and white; And through her tears she smiled, his last delight, The last of pleasant life he knew, for grey The veil of darkness gather'd, and the night Closed o'er his head, and Paris pa.s.s'd away.

LXIV.

Then for one hour in Helen's heart re-born, Awoke the fatal love that was of old, Ere she knew all, and the cold cheeks outworn, She kiss'd, she kiss'd the hair of wasted gold, The hands that ne'er her body should enfold; Then slow she follow'd where the bearers led, Follow'd dead Paris through the frozen wold Back to the town where all men wish'd her dead.

LXV.

Perchance it was a sin, I know not, this!

Howe'er it be, she had a woman's heart, And not without a tear, without a kiss, Without some strange new birth of the old smart, From her old love of the brief days could part For ever; though the dead meet, ne'er shall they Meet, and be glad by Aphrodite's art, Whose souls have wander'd each its several way.

LXVI.

And now was come the day when on a pyre Men laid fair Paris, in a broider'd pall, And fragrant spices cast into the fire, And round the flame slew many an Argive thrall.

When, like a ghost, there came among them all, A woman, once beheld by them of yore, When first through storm and driving rain the tall Black ships of Argos dash'd upon the sh.o.r.e.

LXVII.

Not now in wrath OEnone came; but fair Like a young bride when nigh her bliss she knows, And in the soft night of her fallen hair Shone flowers like stars, more white than Ida's snows, And scarce men dared to look on her, of those The pyre that guarded; suddenly she came, And sprang upon the pyre, and shrill arose Her song of death, like incense through the flame.

LXVIII.

And still the song, and still the flame went up, But when the flame wax'd fierce, the singing died; And soon with red wine from a golden cup Priests drench'd the pyre; but no man might divide The ashes of the Bridegroom from the Bride.

Nay, they were wedded, and at rest again, As in those old days on the mountain-side, Before the promise of their youth was vain.

BOOK VI--THE SACK OF TROY. THE RETURN OF HELEN

The sack of Troy, and of how Menelaus would have let stone Helen, but Aphrodite saved her, and made them at one again, and how they came home to Lacedaemon, and of their translation to Elysium.

I.

There came a day, when Trojan spies beheld How, o'er the Argive leaguer, all the air Was pure of smoke, no battle-din there swell'd, Nor any clarion-call was sounding there!

Yea, of the serried ships the strand was bare, And sea and sh.o.r.e were still, as long ago When Ilios knew not Helen, and the fair Sweet face that makes immortal all her woe.

II.

So for a s.p.a.ce the watchers on the wall Were silent, wond'ring what these things might mean.

But, at the last, sent messengers to call Priam, and all the elders, and the lean Remnant of goodly chiefs, that once had been The shield and stay of Ilios, and her joy, Nor yet despair'd, but trusted G.o.ds unseen, And cast their spears, and shed their blood for Troy.

III.

They came, the more part grey, grown early old, In war and plague; but with them was the young Coroebus, that but late had left the fold And flocks of sheep Maeonian hills among, And valiantly his lot with Priam flung, For love of a lost cause and a fair face,-- The eyes that once the G.o.d of Pytho sung, That now look'd darkly to the slaughter-place.

IV.

Now while the elders kept their long debate, Coroebus stole unheeded to his band, And led a handful by a postern gate Across the plain, across the barren land Where once the happy vines were wont to stand, And 'mid the cl.u.s.ters once did maidens sing,-- But now the plain was waste on every hand, Though here and there a flower would breathe of Spring.

V.

So swift across the trampled battle-field Unchallenged still, but wary, did they pa.s.s, By many a broken spear or shatter'd shield That in Fate's hour appointed faithless was: Only the heron cried from the mora.s.s By Xanthus' side, and ravens, and the grey Wolves left their feasting in the tangled gra.s.s, Grudging; and loiter'd, nor fled far away.

VI.

There lurk'd no spears in the high river-banks, No ambush by the cairns of men outworn, But empty stood the huts, in dismal ranks, Where men through all these many years had borne Fierce summer, and the biting winter's scorn; And here a sword was left, and there a bow, But ruinous seem'd all things and forlorn, As in some camp forsaken long ago.

VII.

Gorged wolves crept round the altars, and did eat The flesh of victims that the priests had slain, And wild dogs fought above the sacred meat Late offer'd to the deathless G.o.ds in vain, By men that, for reward of all their pain, Must haul the ropes, and weary at the oar, Or, drowning, clutch at foam amid the main, Nor win their haven on the Argive sh.o.r.e.

VIII.

Not long the young men marvell'd at the sight, But grasping one a sword, and one the spear Aias, or Tydeus' son, had borne in fight, They sped, and fill'd the town with merry cheer, For folk were quick the happy news to hear, And pour'd through all the gates into the plain, Rejoicing as they wander'd far and near, O'er the long Argive toils endured in vain.

IX.

Ah, sweet it was, without the city walls, To hear the doves coo, and the finches sing; Ah, sweet, to twine their true-loves coronals Of woven wind-flowers, and each fragrant thing That blossoms in the footsteps of the spring; And sweet, to lie, forgetful of their grief, Where violets trail by waters wandering, And the wild fig-tree putteth forth his leaf!

X.

Now while they wander'd as they would, they found A wondrous thing: a marvel of man's skill, That stood within a vale of hollow ground, And bulk'd scarce smaller than the bitter-hill,-- The common barrow that the dead men fill Who died in the long leaguer,--not of earth, Was this new portent, but of tree, and still The Trojans stood, and marvell'd 'mid their mirth.

XI.