Helen of Troy Read Online

But they came,
  The Amazons, from frozen fields afar.
A match for heroes in the dreadful game
  Of spears, the darlings of the God of War,
  Whose coming was to Priam dearer far
Than light to him that is a long while blind,
  When leech's hand hath taen away the bar
That vex'd him, or the healing God is kind;

XXXIII.

And Troy was glad, and with the morning light
  The Amazons went forth to slay and slay;
And wondrously they drave the foe in flight,
  Until the Sun had wander'd half his way;
  But when he stoop'd to twilight and the grey
Hour when men loose the steer beneath the yoke,
  No more Achilles held him from the fray,
But dreadful through the women's ranks he broke.

XXXIV.

Then comes eclipse upon the crescent shield,
  And death on them that bear it, and they fall
One here, one there, about the stricken field,
  As in that art, of Love memorial,
  Which moulders on the holy Carian wall.
Ay, still we see, still love, still pity there
  The warrior–maids, so brave, so god–like tall,
In Time's despite imperishably fair.

XXXV.

But, as a dove that braves a falcon, stood
  Penthesilea, wrath outcasting fear,
Or as a hind, that in the darkling wood
  Withstands a lion for her younglings dear;
  So stood the girl before Achilles' spear;
In vain, for singing from his hand it sped,
  And crash'd through shield and breastplate till the sheer
Cold bronze drank blood, and down the queen fell dead.

XXXVI.

Then from her locks the helm Achilles tore
  And boasted o'er the slain; but lo, the face
Of her thus lying in the dust and gore
  Seem'd lovelier than is the maiden grace
  Of Artemis, when weary from the chase,
She sleepeth in a haunted dell unknown.
  And all the Argives marvell'd for a space,
But most Achilles made a heavy moan:

XXXVII.

And in his heart there came the weary thought
  Of all that was, and all that might have been,
Of all the sorrow that his sword had wrought,
  Of Death that now drew near him: of the green
  Vales of Larissa, where, with such a queen,
With such a love as now his spear had slain,
  He had been happy, who must wind the skein
Of grievous wars, and ne'er be glad again.

XXXVIII.

Yea, now wax'd Fate half weary of her game,
  And had no care but aye to kill and kill,
And many young kings to the battle came,
  And of that joy they quickly had their fill,
  And last came Memnon: and the Trojans still
Took heart, like wearied mariners that see
  (Long toss'd on unknown waves at the winds' will)
Through clouds the gleaming crest of Helike.

XXXIX.

For Memnon was the child of the bright Dawn,
  A Goddess wedded to a mortal king,
Who dwells for ever on the shores withdrawn
  That border on the land of sun–rising;
  And he was nurtured nigh the sacred spring
That is the hidden fountain of all seas,
  By them that in the Gods' own garden sing,
The lily–maidens call'd Hesperides.

XL.

But him the child of Thetis in the fight
  Met on a windy winter day, when high
The dust was whirled, and wrapp'd them like the night
  That falleth on the mountains stealthily
  When the floods come, and down their courses dry
The torrents roar, and lightning flasheth far:
  So rang, so shone their harness terribly
Beneath the blinding thunder–cloud of war.

XLI.

Then the Dawn shudder'd on her golden throne,
  And called unto the West Wind, and he blew
And brake the cloud asunder; and alone
  Achilles stood, but Memnon, smitten through,
  Lay beautiful amid the dreadful dew
Of battle, and a deathless heart was fain
  Of tears, to Gods impossible, that drew
From mortal hearts a little of their pain.

XLII.

But now, their leader slain, the Trojans fled,
  And fierce Achilles drove them in his hate,
Avenging still his dear Patroclus dead,
  Nor knew the hour with his own doom was great,
  Nor trembled, standing in the Scaean gate,
Where ancient prophecy foretold his fall;
  Then suddenly there sped the bolt of Fate,
And smote Achilles by the Ilian wall:

XLIII.

From Paris' bow it sped, and even there,
  Even as he grasp'd the skirts of victory,
Achilles fell, nor any man might dare
  From forth the Trojan gateway to draw nigh;
  But, as the woodmen watch a lion die,
Pierced with the hunter's arrow, nor come near
  Till Death hath veil'd his eyelids utterly,
Even so the Trojans held aloof in fear.

XLIV.

But there his fellows on his wondrous shield
  Laid the fair body of Achilles slain,
And sadly bare him through the trampled field,
  And lo! the deathless maidens of the main
  Rose up, with Thetis, from the windy plain,
And round the dead man beautiful they cried,
  Lamenting, and with melancholy strain
The sweet–voiced Muses mournfully replied.

XLV.

Yea, Muses and Sea–maidens sang his dirge,
  And mightily the chant arose and shrill,
And wondrous echoes answer'd from the surge
  Of the grey sea, and from the holy hill
  Of Ida; and the heavy clouds and chill
Were gathering like mourners, sad and slow,
  And Zeus did thunder mightily, and fill
The dells and glades of Ida deep with snow.

XLVI.

Now Paris was not sated with the fame
  And rich reward Troy gave his archery;
But o'er the wine he boasted that the game
  That very night he deem'd to win, or die;
  "For scarce their watch the tempest will defy,"
He said, "and all undream'd of might we go,
  And fall upon the Argives where they lie,
Unseen, unheard, amid the silent snow."

XLVII.

So, flush'd with wine, and clad in raiment white
  Above their mail, the young men follow'd him,
Their guide a fading camp–fire in the night,
  And the sea's moaning in the distance dim.
  And still with eddying snow the air did swim,
And darkly did they wend they knew not where,
  White in that cursed night: an army grim,
'Wilder'd with wine, and blind with whirling air.

XLVIII.

There was an outcast in the Argive host,
  One Philoctetes; whom Odysseus' wile,
(For, save he help'd, the Leaguer all was lost,)
  Drew from his lair within the Lemnian isle.
  But him the people, as a leper vile,
Hated, and drave to a lone hut afar,
  For wounded sore was he, and many a while
His cries would wake the host foredone with war.

XLIX.

Now Philoctetes was an archer wight;
  But in his quiver had he little store
Of arrows tipp'd with bronze, and feather'd bright;
  Nay, his were blue with mould, and fretted o'er
  With many a spell Melampus wrought of yore,
Singing above his task a song of bane;
  And they were venom'd with the Centaur's gore,
And tipp'd with bones of men a long while slain.

L.

This wretch for very pain might seldom sleep,
  And that night slept not: in the moaning blast
He deem'd the dead about his hut did creep,
  And silently he rose, and round him cast
  His raiment foul, and from the door he pass'd,
And peer'd into the night, and soothly heard
  A whisper'd voice; then gripp'd his arrows fast
And strung his bow, and cried a bitter word:

LI.

"Art thou a gibbering ghost with war outworn,
  And thy faint life in Hades not begun?
Art thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn,
  And yet dost live, and look upon the sun?
  If man,—methinks thy pleasant days are done,
And thou shalt writhe in torment worse than mine;
  If ghost,—new pain in Hades hast thou won,
And there with double woe shalt surely pine."

LII.

He spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft
  At venture through the midnight and the snow,
A little while he listen'd, then he laugh'd
  Within himself, a dreadful laugh and low;
  For over well the answer did he know
That midnight gave his message, the sharp cry
  And armour rattling on a fallen foe
That now was learning what it is to die.

LIII.

Then Philoctetes crawl'd into his den
  And hugg'd himself against the bitter cold,
While round their leader came the Trojan men
  And bound his wound, and bare him o'er the wold,
  Back to the lights of Ilios; but the gold
Of Dawn was breaking on the mountains white,
  Or ere they won within the guarded fold,
Long 'wilder'd in the tempest and the night.

LIV.

And through the gate, and through the silent street,
  And houses where men dream'd of war no more,
The bearers wander'd with their weary feet,
  And Paris to his high–roof'd house they bore.
  But vainly leeches on his wound did pore,
And vain was Argive Helen's magic song,
  Ah, vain her healing hands, and all her lore,
To help the life that wrought her endless wrong.

LV.

Slow pass'd the fever'd hours, until the grey
  Cold light was paling, and a sullen glow
Of livid yellow crown'd the dying day,
  And brooded on the wastes of mournful snow.
  Then Paris whisper'd faintly, "I must go
And face that wild wood–maiden of the hill;
  For none but she can win from overthrow
Troy's life, and mine that guards it, if she will."

LVI.

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

LVII.

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

LVIII.

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

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 Gods, here shalt thou see
  What judgment mine old love will pass on me.
But hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know,
  Whether the Gods 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,
  Œnone 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 Œnone'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 Œnone'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
  Pass'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 pass'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 shore.

LXVII.

Not now in wrath Œnone 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 shore 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 space 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 Gods 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 God 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 clusters 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 pass,
By many a broken spear or shatter'd shield
  That in Fate's hour appointed faithless was:
  Only the heron cried from the morass
By Xanthus' side, and ravens, and the grey
  Wolves left their feasting in the tangled grass,
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 Gods 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 shore.

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.

Ay, much they wonder'd what this thing might be,
  Shaped like a Horse it was; and many a stain
There show'd upon the mighty beams of tree,
  For some with fire were blacken'd, some with rain
  Were dank and dark amid white planks of plane,
New cut among the trees that now were few
  On wasted Ida; but men gazed in vain,
Nor truth thereof for all their searching knew.

XII.

At length they deem'd it was a sacred thing,
  Vow'd to Poseidon, monarch of the deep,
And that herewith the Argives pray'd the King
  Of wind and wave to lull the seas to sleep;
  So this, they cried, within the sacred keep
Of Troy must rest, memorial of the war;
  And sturdily they haled it up the steep,
And dragg'd the monster to their walls afar.

XIII.

All day they wrought: and children crown'd with flowers
  Laid light hands on the ropes; old men would ply
Their feeble force; so through the merry hours
  They toil'd, midst laughter and sweet minstrelsy,
  And late they drew the great Horse to the high
Crest of the hill, and wide the tall gates swang;
  But thrice, for all their force, it stood thereby
Unmoved, and thrice like smitten armour rang.

XIV.

Natheless they wrought their will; then altar fires
  The Trojans built, and did the Gods implore
To grant fulfilment of all glad desires.
  But from the cups the wine they might not pour,
  The flesh upon the spits did writhe and roar,
The smoke grew red as blood, and many a limb
  Of victims leap'd upon the temple floor,
Trembling; and groans amid the chapels dim

XV.

Rang low, and from the fair Gods' images
  And from their eyes, dropp'd sweat and many a tear;
The walls with blood were dripping, and on these
  That sacrificed, came horror and great fear;
  The holy laurels to Apollo dear
Beside his temple faded suddenly,
  And wild wolves from the mountains drew anear,
And ravens through the temples seem'd to fly.

XVI.

Yet still the men of Troy were glad at heart,
  And o'er strange meat they revell'd, like folk fey,
Though each would shudder if he glanced apart,
  For round their knees the mists were gather'd grey,
  Like shrouds on men that Hell–ward take their way;
But merrily withal they feasted thus,
  And laugh'd with crooked lips, and oft would say
Some evil–sounding word and ominous.

XVII.

And Hecuba among her children spake,
  "Let each man choose the meat he liketh best,
For bread no more together shall we break.
  Nay, soon from all my labour must I rest,
  But eat ye well, and drink the red wine, lest
Ye blame my house–wifery among men dead."
  And all they took her saying for a jest,
And sweetly did they laugh at that she said.

XVIII.

Then, like a raven on the of night,
  The wild Cassandra flitted far and near,
Still crying, "Gather, gather for the fight,
  And brace the helmet on, and grasp the spear,
  For lo, the legions of the Night are here!"
So shriek'd the dreadful prophetess divine.
  But all men mock'd, and were of merry cheer;
Safe as the Gods they deem'd them, o'er their wine.

XIX.

For now with minstrelsy the air was sweet,
  The soft spring air, and thick with incense smoke;
And bands of happy dancers down the street
  Flew from the flower–crown'd doors, and wheel'd, and broke;
  And loving words the youths and maidens spoke,
For Aphrodite did their hearts beguile,
  As when beneath grey cavern or green oak
The shepherd men and maidens meet and smile.

XX.

No guard they set, for truly to them all
  Did Love and slumber seem exceeding good;
There was no watch by open gate nor wall,
  No sentinel by Pallas' image stood;
  But silence grew, as in an autumn wood
When tempests die, and the vex'd boughs have ease,
  And wind and sunlight fade, and soft the mood
Of sacred twilight falls upon the trees.

XXI.

Then the stars cross'd the zenith, and there came
  On Troy that hour when slumber is most deep,
But any man that watch'd had seen a flame
  Spring from the tall crest of the Trojan keep;
  While from the belly of the Horse did leap
Men arm'd, and to the gates went stealthily,
  While up the rocky way to Ilios creep
The Argives, new return'd across the sea.

XXII.

Now when the silence broke, and in that hour
  When first the dawn of war was blazing red,
There came a light in Helen's fragrant bower,
  As on that evil night before she fled
  From Lacedaemon and her marriage bed;
And Helen in great fear lay still and cold,
  For Aphrodite stood above her head,
And spake in that sweet voice she knew of old:

XXIII.

"Beloved one that dost not love me, wake!
  Helen, the night is over, the dawn is near,
And safely shalt thou fare with me, and take
  Thy way through fire and blood, and have no fear:
  A little hour, and ended is the drear
Tale of thy sorrow and thy wandering.
  Nay, long hast thou to live in happy cheer,
By fair Eurotas, with thy lord, the King."

XXIV.

Then Helen rose, and in a cloud of gold,
  Unseen amid the vapour of the fire,
Did Aphrodite veil her, fold on fold;
  And through the darkness, thronged with faces dire,
  And o'er men's bodies fallen in a mire
Of new spilt blood and wine, the twain did go
  Where Lust and Hate were mingled in desire,
And dreams and death were blended in one woe.

XXV.

Fire and the foe were masters now: the sky
  Flared like the dawn of that last day of all,
When men for pity to the sea shall cry,
  And vainly on the mountain tops shall call
  To fall and end the horror in their fall;
And through the vapour dreadful things saw they,
  The maidens leaping from the city wall,
The sleeping children murder'd where they lay.

XXVI.

Yea, cries like those that make the hills of Hell
  Ring and re–echo, sounded through the night,
The screams of burning horses, and the yell
  Of young men leaping naked into fight,
  And shrill the women shriek'd, as in their flight
Shriek the wild cranes, when overhead they spy
  Between the dusky cloud–land and the bright
Blue air, an eagle stooping from the sky.

XXVII.

And now the red glare of the burning shone
  On deeds so dire the pure Gods might not bear,
Save Ares only, long to look thereon,
  But with a cloud they darken'd all the air.
  And, even then, within the temple fair
Of chaste Athene, did Cassandra cower,
  And cried aloud an unavailing prayer;
For Aias was the master in that hour.

XXVIII.

Man's lust won what a God's love might not win,
  And heroes trembled, and the temple floor
Shook, when one cry went up into the din,
  And shamed the night to silence; then the roar
  Of war and fire wax'd great as heretofore,
Till each roof fell, and every palace gate
  Was shatter'd, and the King's blood shed; nor more
Remain'd to do, for Troy was desolate.

XXIX.

Then dawn drew near, and changed to clouds of rose
  The dreadful smoke that clung to Ida's head;
But Ilios was ashes, and the foes
  Had left the embers and the plunder'd dead;
  And down the steep they drove the prey, and sped
Back to the swift ships, with a captive train,—
  While Menelaus, slow, with drooping head,
Follow'd, like one lamenting, through the plain.

XXX.

Where death might seem the surest, by the gate
  Of Priam, where the spears raged, and the tall
Towers on the foe were falling, sought he fate
  To look on Helen once, and then to fall,
  Nor see with living eyes the end of all,
What time the host their vengeance should fulfil,
  And cast her from the cliff below the wall,
Or burn her body on the windy hill.

XXXI.

But Helen found he never, where the flame
  Sprang to the roofs, and Helen ne'er he found
Where flock'd the wretched women in their shame
  The helpless altars of the Gods around,
  Nor lurk'd she in deep chambers underground,
Where the priests trembled o'er their hidden gold,
  Nor where the armed feet of foes resound
In shrines to silence consecrate of old.

XXXII.

So wounded to his hut and wearily
  Came Menelaus; and he bow'd his head
Beneath the lintel neither fair nor high;
  And, lo! Queen Helen lay upon his bed,
  Flush'd like a child in sleep, and rosy–red,
And at his footstep did she wake and smile,
  And spake: "My lord, how hath thy hunting sped,
Methinks that I have slept a weary while!"

XXXIII.

For Aphrodite made the past unknown
  To Helen, as of old, when in the dew
Of that fair dawn the net was round her thrown:
  Nay, now no memory of Troy brake through
  The mist that veil'd from her sweet eyes and blue
The dreadful days and deeds all over–past,
  And gladly did she greet her lord anew,
And gladly would her arms have round him cast.

XXXIV.

Then leap'd she up in terror, for he stood
  Before her, like a lion of the wild,
His rusted armour all bestain'd with blood,
  His mighty hands with blood of men defiled,
  And strange was all she saw: the spears, the piled
Raw skins of slaughter'd beasts with many a stain;
  And low he spake, and bitterly he smiled,
"The hunt is ended, and the spoil is ta'en."

XXXV.

No more he spake; for certainly he deem'd
  That Aphrodite brought her to that place,
And that of her loved archer Helen dream'd,
  Of Paris; at that thought the mood of grace
  Died in him, and he hated her fair face,
And bound her hard, not slacking for her tears;
  Then silently departed for a space,
To seek the ruthless counsel of his peers.

XXXVI.

Now all the Kings were feasting in much joy,
  Seated or couch'd upon the carpets fair
That late had strown the palace floors of Troy,
  And lovely Trojan ladies served them there,
  And meat from off the spits young princes bare;
But Menelaus burst among them all,
  Strange, 'mid their revelry, and did not spare,
But bade the Kings a sudden council call.

XXXVII.

To mar their feast the Kings had little will,
  Yet did they as he bade, in grudging wise,
And heralds call'd the host unto the hill
  Heap'd of sharp stones, where ancient Ilus lies.
  And forth the people flock'd, as throng'd as flies
That buzz about the milking–pails in spring,
  When life awakens under April skies,
And birds from dawning into twilight sing.

XXXVIII.

Then Helen through the camp was driven and thrust,
  Till even the Trojan women cried in glee,
"Ah, where is she in whom thou put'st thy trust,
  The Queen of love and laughter, where is she?
  Behold the last gift that she giveth thee,
Thou of the many loves! to die alone,
  And round thy flesh for robes of price to be
The cold close–clinging raiment of sharp stone."

XXXIX.

Ah, slowly through that trodden field and bare
  They pass'd, where scarce the daffodil might spring,
For war had wasted all, but in the air
  High overhead the mounting lark did sing;
  Then all the army gather'd in a ring
Round Helen, round their torment, trapp'd at last,
  And many took up mighty stones to fling
From shards and flints on Ilus' barrow cast.

XL.

Then Menelaus to the people spoke,
  And swift his wing'd words came as whirling snow,
"Oh ye that overlong have borne the yoke,
  Behold the very fountain of your woe!
  For her ye left your dear homes long ago,
On Argive valley or Boeotian plain;
  But now the black ships rot from stern to prow,
Who knows if ye shall see your own again?

XLI.

"Ay, and if home ye win, ye yet may find,
  Ye that the winds waft, and the waters bear
To Argos! ye are quite gone out of mind;
  Your fathers, dear and old, dishonour'd there;
  Your children deem you dead, and will not share
Their lands with you; on mainland or on isle,
  Strange men are wooing now the women fair,
And love doth lightly woman's heart beguile.

XLII.

"These sorrows hath this woman wrought alone:
  So fall upon her straightway that she die,
And clothe her beauty in a cloak of stone!"
  He spake, and truly deem'd to hear her cry
  And see the sharp flints straight and deadly fly;
But each man stood and mused on Helen's face,
  And her undream'd–of beauty, brought so nigh
On that bleak plain, within that ruin'd place.

LXIII.

And as in far off days that were to be,
  The sense of their own sin did men constrain,
That they must leave the sinful woman free
  Who, by their law, had verily been slain,
  So Helen's beauty made their anger vain,
And one by one his gather'd flints let fall;
  And like men shamed they stole across the plain,
Back to the swift ships and their festival.

XLIV.

But Menelaus look'd on her and said,
  "Hath no man then condemn'd thee,—is there none
To shed thy blood for all that thou hast shed,
  To wreak on thee the wrongs that thou hast done.
  Nay, as mine own soul liveth, there is one
That will not set thy barren beauty free,
  But slay thee to Poseidon and the Sun
Before a ship Achaian takes the sea!"

XLV.

Therewith he drew his sharp sword from his thigh
  As one intent to slay her: but behold,
A sudden marvel shone across the sky!
  A cloud of rosy fire, a flood of gold,
  And Aphrodite came from forth the fold
Of wondrous mist, and sudden at her feet
  Lotus and crocus on the trampled wold
Brake, and the slender hyacinth was sweet.

XLVI.

Then fell the point that never bloodless fell
  When spear bit harness in the battle din,
For Aphrodite spake, and like a spell
  Wrought her sweet voice persuasive, till within
  His heart there lived no memory of sin,
No thirst for vengeance more, but all grew plain,
  And wrath was molten in desire to win
The golden heart of Helen once again.

XLVII.

Then Aphrodite vanish'd as the day
  Passes, and leaves the darkling earth behind;
And overhead the April sky was grey,
  But Helen's arms about her lord were twined,
  And his round her as clingingly and kind,
As when sweet vines and ivy in the spring
  Join their glad leaves, nor tempests may unbind
The woven boughs, so lovingly they cling.

* * * * *

XLVIII.

Noon long was over–past, but sacred night
  Beheld them not upon the Ilian shore;
Nay, for about the waning of the light
  Their swift ships wander'd on the waters hoar,
  Nor stay'd they the Olympians to adore,
So eagerly they left that cursed land,
  But many a toil, and tempests great and sore,
Befell them ere they won the Argive strand.

XLIX.

To Cyprus and Phoenicia wandering
  They came, and many a ship, and many a man
They lost, and perish'd many a precious thing
  While bare before the stormy North they ran,
  And further far than when their quest began
From Argos did they seem,—a weary while,—
  Becalm'd in sultry seas Egyptian,
A long day's voyage from the mouths of Nile.

L.

But there the Gods had pity on them, and there
  The ancient Proteus taught them how to flee
From that so distant deep,—the fowls of air
  Scarce in one year can measure out that sea;
  Yet first within Aegyptus must they be,
And hecatombs must offer,—quickly then
  The Gods abated of their jealousy,
Wherewith they scourge the negligence of men.

LI.

And strong and fair the south wind blew, and fleet
  Their voyaging, so merrily they fled
To win that haven where the waters sweet
  Of clear Eurotas with the brine are wed,
  And swift their chariots and their horses sped
To pleasant Lacedaemon, lying low
  Grey in the shade of sunset, but the head
Of tall Taygetus like fire did glow.

LII.

And what but this is sweet: at last to win
  The fields of home, that change not while we change;
To hear the birds their ancient song begin;
  To wander by the well–loved streams that range
  Where not one pool, one moss–clad stone is strange,
Nor seem we older than long years ago,
  Though now beneath the grey roof of the grange
The children dwell of them we used to know?

LIII.

Came there no trouble in the later days
  To mar the life of Helen, when the old
Crowns and dominions perish'd, and the blaze
  Lit by returning Heraclidae roll'd
  Through every vale and every happy fold
Of all the Argive land? Nay, peacefully
  Did Menelaus and the Queen behold
The counted years of mortal life go by.

LIV.

"Death ends all tales," but this he endeth not;
  They grew not grey within the valley fair
Of hollow Lacedaemon, but were brought
  To Rhadamanthus of the golden hair,
  Beyond the wide world's end; ah never there
Comes storm nor snow; all grief is left behind,
  And men immortal, in enchanted air,
Breathe the cool current of the Western wind.

LV.

But Helen was a Saint in Heathendom,
  A kinder Aphrodite; without fear
Maidens and lovers to her shrine would come
  In fair Therapnae, by the waters clear
  Of swift Eurotas; gently did she hear
All prayers of love, and not unheeded came
  The broken supplication, and the tear
Of man or maiden overweigh'd with shame.

O'er Helen's shrine the grass is growing green,
  In desolate Therapnae; none the less
Her sweet face now unworshipp'd and unseen
  Abides the symbol of all loveliness,
  Of Beauty ever stainless in the stress
Of warring lusts and fears;—and still divine,
  Still ready with immortal peace to bless
Them that with pure hearts worship at her shrine.

NOTE

[In this story in rhyme of the fortunes of Helen, the theory that she was an unwilling victim of the Gods has been preferred. Many of the descriptions of manners are versified from the Iliad and the Odyssey. The description of the events after the death of Hector, and the account of the sack of Troy, is chiefly borrowed from Quintus Smyrnaeus.]

The character and history of Helen of Troy have been conceived of in very different ways by poets and mythologists. In attempting to trace the chief current of ancient traditions about Helen, we cannot really get further back than the Homeric poems, the Iliad and Odyssey. Philological conjecture may assure us that Helen, like most of the characters of old romance, is "merely the Dawn," or Light, or some other bright being carried away by Paris, who represents Night, or Winter, or the Cloud, or some other power of darkness. Without discussing these ideas, it may be said that the Greek poets (at all events before allegorical explanations of mythology came in, about five hundred years before Christ) regarded Helen simply as a woman of wonderful beauty. Homer was not thinking of the Dawn, or the Cloud when he described Helen among the Elders on the Ilian walls, or repeated her lament over the dead body of Hector. The Homeric poems are our oldest literary documents about Helen, but it is probable enough that the poet has modified and purified more ancient traditions which still survive in various fragments of Greek legend. In Homer Helen is always the daughter of Zeus. Isocrates tells us ("Helena," 211 b) that "while many of the demigods were children of Zeus, he thought the paternity of none of his daughters worth claiming, save that of Helen only." In Homer, then, Helen is the daughter of Zeus, but Homer says nothing of the famous legend which makes Zeus assume the form of a swan to woo the mother of Helen. Unhomeric as this myth is, we may regard it as extremely ancient. Very similar tales of pursuit and metamorphosis, for amatory or other purposes, among the old legends of Wales, and in the "Arabian Nights," as well as in the myths of Australians and Red Indians. Again, the belief that different families of mankind descend from animals, as from the Swan, or from gods in the shape of animals, is found in every quarter of the world, and among the rudest races. Many Australian natives of to–day claim descent, like the royal house of Sparta, from the Swan. The Greek myths hesitated as to whether Nemesis or Leda was the bride of the Swan. Homer only mentions Leda among "the wives and daughters of mighty men," whose ghosts Odysseus beheld in Hades: "And I saw Leda, the famous bedfellow of Tyndareus, who bare to Tyndareus two sons, hardy of heart, Castor, tamer of steeds, and the boxer Polydeuces." These heroes Helen, in the Iliad (iii. 238), describes as her mother's sons. Thus, if Homer has any distinct view on the subject, he holds that Leda is the mother of Helen by Zeus, of the Dioscuri by Tyndareus.

Greek ideas as to the character of Helen varied with the various moods of Greek literature. Homer's own ideas about his heroine are probably best expressed in the words with which Priam greets her as she appears among the assembled elders, who are watching the Argive heroes from the wall of Troy:—"In nowise, dear child, do I blame thee; nay, the Gods are to blame, who have roused against me the woful war of the Achaeans." Homer, like Priam, throws the guilt of Helen on the Gods, but it is not very easy to understand exactly what he means by saying "the Gods are to blame." In the first place, Homer avoids the psychological problems in which modern poetry revels, by attributing almost all changes of the moods of men to divine inspiration. Thus when Achilles, in a famous passage of the first book of the Iliad, puts up his half–drawn sword in the sheath, and does not slay Agamemnon, Homer assigns his repentance to the direct influence of Athene. Again, he says in the Odyssey, about Clytemnestra, that "she would none of the foul deed;" that is of the love of Aegisthus, till "the doom of the Gods bound her to her ruin." So far the same excuse is made for the murderous Clytemnestra as for the amiable Helen. Again, Homer is, in the strictest sense, and in strong contrast to the Greek tragedians and to Virgil, a chivalrous poet. It would probably be impossible to find a passage in which he speaks harshly or censoriously of the conduct of any fair and noble lady. The sordid treachery of Eriphyle, who sold her lord for gold, wins for her the epithet "hateful;" and Achilles, in a moment of strong grief, applies a term of abhorrence to Helen. But Homer is too chivalrous to judge the life of any lady, and only shows the other side of the chivalrous character—its cruelty to persons not of noble birth—in describing the "foul death" of the waiting women of Penelope. "God forbid that I should take these women's lives by a clean death," says Telemachus (Odyssey, xxii. 462). So "about all their necks nooses were cast that they might die by the death most pitiful. And they writhed with their feet for a little space, but for no long while." In trying to understand Homer's estimate of Helen, therefore, we must make allowance for his theory of divine intervention, and for his chivalrous judgment of ladies.