Helen of Troy Part 7

XIX.

"Give these to Argive Helen's hand," she cried: And so embraced her child, and with no fear Beheld him leaping down the mountain-side, Like a king's son that goes to hunt the deer, Clad softly, and in either hand a spear, With two swift-footed hounds that follow'd him, So leap'd he down the gra.s.sy slopes and sheer, And won the precinct of the forest dim.

XX.

He trod that ancient path his sire had trod, Far, far below he saw the sea, the town; He moved as light as an immortal G.o.d, For mansions in Olympus gliding down.

He left the shadow of the forest brown, And through the shallow waters did he cross, And stood, ere twilight fell, within the crown Of towers, the sacred keep of Ilios.

XXI.

Now folk that mark'd him hasting deem'd that he Had come to tell the host was on its way, As one that from the hills had seen the sea Beclouded with the Danaan array, So straight to Paris' house with no delay They led him, and did eagerly await Within the forecourt, in the twilight grey, To hear some certain message of their fate.

XXII.

Now Paris was asleep upon his bed Tired with a listless day; but all along The palace chambers Corythus was led, And still he heard a music, shrill and strong, That seem'd to clamour of an old-world wrong, And hearts a long time broken; last they came To Helen's bower, the fountain of the song That cried so loud against an ancient shame.

XXIII.

And Helen fared before a mighty loom, And sang, and cast her shuttle wrought of gold, And forth unto the utmost secret room The wave of her wild melody was roll'd; And still she fashion'd marvels manifold, Strange shapes of fish and serpent, bear and swan, The loves of the immortal G.o.ds of old, Wherefrom the peoples of the world began.

XXIV.

Now Helen met the stranger graciously With gentle speech, and bade set forth a chair Well wrought of cedar wood and ivory That wise Icmalius had fashion'd fair.

But when young Corythus had drunk the rare Wine of the princes, and had broken bread, Then Helen took the word, and bade declare His instant tidings; and he spake and said,

XXV.

"Lady and Queen, I have a secret word, And bear a token sent to none but thee, Also I bring message to my Lord That spoken to another may not be."

Then Helen gave a sign unto her three Bower-maidens, and they went forth from that place, Silent they went; and all forebodingly, They left the man and woman face to face.

XXVI.

Then from his breast the birchen scroll he took And gave to Helen; and she read therein: "Oh thou that on those hidden runes dost look, Hast thou forgotten quite thine ancient sin, Thy Lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin, Even as thy Love forgets the words he spoke The strong oath broken one weak heart to win, The lips that kiss'd him, and the heart that broke?

XXVII.

"Nay, but methinks thou shalt not quite forget The curse wherewith I curse thee till I die; The tears that on the wood-nymph's cheeks are wet, Shall burn thy hateful beauty deathlessly, Nor shall G.o.d raise up seed to thee; but I Have borne thy love this messenger: my son, Who yet shall make him glad, for Time goes by And soon shall thine enchantments all be done:

XXVIII.

"Ay, soon 'twixt me and Death must be his choice, And little in that hour will Paris care For thy sweet lips, and for thy singing voice, Thine arms of ivory, thy golden hair.

Nay, me will he embrace, and will not spare, But bid the folk that hate thee have their joy, And give thee to the mountain beasts to tear, Or burn thy body on a tower of Troy."

XXIX.

Even as she read, by Aphrodite's will The cloud roll'd back from Helen's memory: She saw the city of the rifted hill, Fair Lacedaemon, 'neath her mountain high; She knew the swift Eurotas running by To mix his sacred waters with the sea, And from the garden close she heard the cry Of her beloved child, Hermione.

x.x.x.

Then instantly the horror of her shame Fell on her, and she saw the coming years; Famine, and fire, and plague, and all men's blame, The wounds of warriors and the women's fears; And through her heart her sorrow smote like spears, And in her soul she knew the utmost smart Of wives left lonely, sires bereaved, the tears Of maidens desolate, of loves that part.

x.x.xI.

She drain'd the dregs out of the cup of hate; The bitterness of sorrow, shame, and scorn; Where'er the tongues of mortals curse their fate, She saw herself an outcast and forlorn; And hating sore the day that she was born, Down in the dust she cast her golden head, There with rent raiment and fair tresses torn, At feet of Corythus she lay for dead.

x.x.xII.

But Corythus, beholding her sweet face, And her most lovely body lying low, Had pity on her grief and on her grace, Nor heeded now she was his mother's foe, But did what might be done to ease her woe, While, as he thought, with death for life she strove, And loosed the necklet round her neck of snow, As who that saw had deem'd, with hands of love.

x.x.xIII.

And there was one that saw: for Paris woke Half-deeming and half-dreaming that the van Of the great Argive host had scared the folk, And down the echoing corridor he ran To Helen's bower, and there beheld the man That kneel'd beside his lady lying there: No word he spake, but drove his sword a span Through Corythus' fair neck and cl.u.s.ter'd hair.

x.x.xIV.

Then fell fair Corythus, as falls the tower An earthquake shaketh from a city's crown, Or as a tall white fragrant lily-flower A child hath in the garden trampled down, Or as a pine-tree in the forest brown, Fell'd by the sea-rovers on mountain lands, When they to harry foreign folk are boune, Taking their own lives in their reckless hands.

x.x.xV.

But still in Paris did his anger burn, And still his sword was lifted up to slay, When, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn, He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay, 'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray, And looking on them, knew what he had done, Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day, Knew how a father's hand had slain a son.

x.x.xVI.

Then Paris on his face fell grovelling, And the night gather'd, and the silence grew Within the darkened chamber of the king.

But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew, And her new woes came back to her anew: Ah, where is he but knows the bitter pain To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true, And his ill life returned to him again!

x.x.xVII.

She needed none to tell her whence it fell, The thick red rain upon the marble floor: She knew that in her bower she might not dwell, Alone with her own heart for ever more; No sacrifice, no spell, no priestly lore Could banish quite the melancholy ghost Of Corythus; a herald sent before Them that should die for her, a dreadful host.

x.x.xVIII.

But slowly Paris raised him from the earth, And read her face, and knew that she knew all, No more her eyes, in tenderness or mirth, Should answer his, in bower or in hall.

Nay, Love had fallen when his child did fall, The stream Love cannot cross ran 'twixt them red; No more was Helen his, whate'er befall, Not though the G.o.ddess drove her to his bed.

x.x.xIX.

This word he spake, "the Fates are hard on us"-- Then bade the women do what must be done To the fair body of dead Corythus.

And then he hurl'd into the night alone, Wailing unto the spirit of his son, That somewhere in dark mist and sighing wind Must dwell, nor yet to Hades had it won, Nor quite had left the world of men behind.

XL.

But wild OEnone by the mountain-path Saw not her son returning to the wold, And now was she in fear, and now in wrath She cried, "He hath forgot the mountain fold, And goes in Ilios with a crown of gold:"

But even then she heard men's axes smite Against the beeches slim and ash-trees old, These ancient trees wherein she did delight.

XLI.

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