{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_3229/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_3229","id":"gutenberg_3229","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3229","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Helen, of Troy, Queen of Sparta -- Poetry"],"text":"Transcribed from the 1882 George Bell and Sons edition by David Price,\nemail ccx074@pglaf.org\n\n\n\n\n\nHELEN OF TROY\n\n\nBY\n\nA. LANG\n\nLONDON: GEORGE BELL AND SONS\nYORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN\n1882\n\nCHISWICK PRESS:--CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,\nCHANCERY LANE.\n\n   \"Le joyeulx temps passe souloit estre occasion que je faisoie de\n   plaisants diz et gracieuses chanconnetes et ballades.  Mais je me suis\n   mis a faire cette traittie d'affliction contre ma droite nature . . .\n   et suis content de l'avoir prinse, car mes douleurs me semblent en\n   estre allegees.\"--_Le Romant de Troilus_.\n\nTo all old Friends; to all who dwell\n   Where Avon dhu and Avon gel\n   Down to the western waters flow\nThrough valleys dear from long ago;\nTo all who hear the whisper'd spell\nOf Ken; and Tweed like music swell\nHard by the Land Debatable,\n   Or gleaming Shannon seaward go,--\n      To all old Friends!\n\nTo all that yet remember well\nWhat secrets Isis had to tell,\n   How lazy Cherwell loiter'd slow\n   Sweet aisles of blossom'd May below--\nWhate'er befall, whate'er befell,\n      To _all_ old Friends.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I--THE COMING OF PARIS\n\n\nOf the coming of Paris to the house of Menelaus, King of Lacedaemon, and\nof the tale Paris told concerning his past life.\n\nI.\n\nAll day within the palace of the King\n   In Lacedaemon, was there revelry,\nSince Menelaus with the dawn did spring\n   Forth from his carven couch, and, climbing high\n   The tower of outlook, gazed along the dry\nWhite road that runs to Pylos through the plain,\n   And mark'd thin clouds of dust against the sky,\nAnd gleaming bronze, and robes of purple stain.\n\nII.\n\nThen cried he to his serving men, and all\n   Obey'd him, and their labour did not spare,\nAnd women set out tables through the hall,\n   Light polish'd tables, with the linen fair.\n   And water from the well did others bear,\nAnd the good house-wife busily brought forth\n   Meats from her store, and stinted not the rare\nWine from Ismarian vineyards of the North.\n\nIII.\n\nThe men drave up a heifer from the field\n   For sacrifice, and sheath'd her horns with gold;\nAnd strong Boethous the axe did wield\n   And smote her; on the fruitful earth she roll'd,\n   And they her limbs divided; fold on fold\nThey laid the fat, and cast upon the fire\n   The barley grain.  Such rites were wrought of old\nWhen all was order'd as the Gods desire.\n\nIV.\n\nAnd now the chariots came beneath the trees\n   Hard by the palace portals, in the shade,\nAnd Menelaus knew King Diocles\n   Of Pherae, sprung of an unhappy maid\n   Whom the great Elian River God betray'd\nIn the still watches of a summer night,\n   When by his deep green water-course she stray'd\nAnd lean'd to pluck his water-lilies white.\n\nV.\n\nBesides King Diocles there sat a man\n   Of all men mortal sure the fairest far,\nFor o'er his purple robe Sidonian\n   His yellow hair shone brighter than the star\n   Of the long golden locks that bodeth war;\nHis face was like the sunshine, and his blue\n   Glad eyes no sorrow had the spell to mar\nWere clear as skies the storm hath thunder'd through.\n\nVI.\n\nThen Menelaus spake unto his folk,\n   And eager at his word they ran amain,\nAnd loosed the sweating horses from the yoke,\n   And cast before them spelt, and barley grain.\n   And lean'd the polish'd car, with golden rein,\nAgainst the shining spaces of the wall;\n   And called the sea-rovers who follow'd fain\nWithin the pillar'd fore-courts of the hall.\n\nVII.\n\nThe stranger-prince was follow'd by a band\n   Of men, all clad like rovers of the sea,\nAnd brown'd were they as is the desert sand,\n   Loud in their mirth, and of their bearing free;\n   And gifts they bore, from the deep treasury\nAnd forests of some far-off Eastern lord,\n   Vases of gold, and bronze, and ivory,\nThat might the Pythian fane have over-stored.\n\nVIII.\n\nNow when the King had greeted Diocles\n   And him that seem'd his guest, the twain were led\nTo the dim polish'd baths, where, for their ease,\n   Cool water o'er their lustrous limbs was shed;\n   With oil anointed was each goodly head\nBy Asteris and Phylo fair of face;\n   Next, like two gods for loveliness, they sped\nTo Menelaus in the banquet-place.\n\nIX.\n\nThere were they seated at the King's right hand,\n   And maidens bare them bread, and meat, and wine,\nWithin that fair hall of the Argive land\n   Whose doors and roof with gold and silver shine\n   As doth the dwelling-place of Zeus divine.\nAnd Helen came from forth her fragrant bower\n   The fairest lady of immortal line,\nLike morning, when the rosy dawn doth flower.\n\nX.\n\nAdraste set for her a shining chair,\n   Well-wrought of cedar-wood and ivory;\nAnd beautiful Alcippe led the fair,\n   The well-beloved child, Hermione,--\n   A little maiden of long summers three--\nHer star-like head on Helen's breast she laid,\n   And peep'd out at the strangers wistfully\nAs is the wont of children half afraid.\n\nXI.\n\nNow when desire of meat and drink was done,\n   And ended was the joy of minstrelsy,\nQueen Helen spake, beholding how the sun\n   Within the heaven of bronze was riding high:\n   \"Truly, my friends, methinks the hour is nigh\nWhen men may crave to know what need doth bring\n   To Lacedaemon, o'er wet ways and dry,\nThis prince that bears the sceptre of a king?\n\nXII.\n\n\"Yea, or perchance a God is he, for still\n   The great Gods wander on our mortal ways,\nAnd watch their altars upon mead or hill\n   And taste our sacrifice, and hear our lays,\n   And now, perchance, will heed if any prays,\nAnd now will vex us with unkind control,\n   But anywise must man live out his days,\nFor Fate hath given him an enduring soul.\n\nXIII.\n\n\"Then tell us, prithee, all that may be told,\n   And if thou art a mortal, joy be thine!\nAnd if thou art a God, then rich with gold\n   Thine altar in our palace court shall shine,\n   With roses garlanded and wet with wine,\nAnd we shall praise thee with unceasing breath;\n   Ah, then be gentle as thou art divine,\nAnd bring not on us baneful Love or Death!\"\n\nXIV.\n\nThen spake the stranger,--as when to a maid\n   A young man speaks, his voice was soft and low,--\n\"Alas, no God am I; be not afraid,\n   For even now the nodding daisies grow\n   Whose seed above my grassy cairn shall blow,\nWhen I am nothing but a drift of white\n   Dust in a cruse of gold; and nothing know\nBut darkness, and immeasurable Night.\n\nXV.\n\n\"The dawn, or noon, or twilight, draweth near\n   When one shall smite me on the bridge of war,\nOr with the ruthless sword, or with the spear,\n   Or with the bitter arrow flying far.\n   But as a man's heart, so his good days are,\nThat Zeus, the Lord of Thunder, giveth him,\n   Wherefore I follow Fortune, like a star,\nWhate'er may wait me in the distance dim.\n\nXVI.\n\n\"Now all men call me PARIS, Priam's son,\n   Who widely rules a peaceful folk and still.\nNay, though ye dwell afar off, there is none\n   But hears of Ilios on the windy hill,\n   And of the plain that the two rivers fill\nWith murmuring sweet streams the whole year long,\n   And walls the Gods have wrought with wondrous skill\nWhere cometh never man to do us wrong.\n\nXVII.\n\n\"Wherefore I sail'd not here for help in war,\n   Though well the Argives in such need can aid.\nThe force that comes on me is other far;\n   One that on all men comes: I seek the maid\n   Whom golden Aphrodite shall persuade\nTo lay her hand in mine, and follow me,\n   To my white halls within the cedar shade\nBeyond the waters of the barren sea.\"\n\nXVIII.\n\nThen at the Goddess' name grew Helen pale,\n   Like golden stars that flicker in the dawn,\nOr like a child that hears a dreadful tale,\n   Or like the roses on a rich man's lawn,\n   When now the suns of Summer are withdrawn,\nAnd the loose leaves with a sad wind are stirr'd,\n   Till the wet grass is strewn with petals wan,--\nSo paled the golden Helen at his word.\n\nXIX.\n\nBut swift the rose into her cheek return'd\n   And for a little moment, like a flame,\nThe perfect face of Argive Helen burn'd,\n   As doth a woman's, when some spoken name\n   Brings back to mind some ancient love or shame,\nBut none save Paris mark'd the thing, who said,\n   \"My tale no more must weary this fair dame,\nWith telling why I wander all unwed.\"\n\nXX.\n\nBut Helen, bending on him gracious brows,\n   Besought him for the story of his quest,\n\"For sultry is the summer, that allows\n   To mortal men no sweeter boon than rest;\n   And surely such a tale as thine is best\nTo make the dainty-footed hours go by,\n   Till sinks the sun in darkness and the West,\nAnd soft stars lead the Night along the sky.\"\n\nXXI.\n\nThen at the word of Helen Paris spoke,\n   \"My tale is shorter than a summer day,--\nMy mother, ere I saw the light, awoke,\n   At dawn, in Ilios, shrieking in dismay,\n   Who dream'd that 'twixt her feet there fell and lay\nA flaming brand, that utterly burn'd down\n   To dust of crumbling ashes red and grey,\nThe coronal of towers and all Troy town.\n\nXXII.\n\n\"Then the interpretation of this dream\n   My father sought at many priestly hands,\nWhere the white temple doth in Pytho gleam,\n   And at the fane of Ammon in the sands,\n   And where the oak tree of Dodona stands\nWith boughs oracular against the sky,--\n   And with one voice the Gods from all the lands,\nCried out, 'The child must die, the child must die.'\n\nXXIII.\n\n\"Then was I born to sorrow; and in fear\n   The dark priest took me from my sire, and bore\nA wailing child through beech and pinewood drear,\n   Up to the knees of Ida, and the hoar\n   Rocks whence a fountain breaketh evermore,\nAnd leaps with shining waters to the sea,\n   Through black and rock-wall'd pools without a shore,--\nAnd there they deem'd they took farewell of me.\n\nXXIV.\n\n\"But round my neck they tied a golden ring\n   That fell from Ganymedes when he soar'd\nHigh over Ida on the eagle's wing,\n   To dwell for ever with the Gods adored,\n   To be the cup-bearer beside the board\nOf Zeus, and kneel at the eternal throne,--\n   A jewel 'twas from old King Tros's hoard,\nThat ruled in Ilios ages long agone.\n\nXXV.\n\n\"And there they left me in that dell untrod,--\n   Shepherd nor huntsman ever wanders there,\nFor dread of Pan, that is a jealous God,--\n   Yea, and the ladies of the streams forbear\n   The Naiad nymphs, to weave their dances fair,\nOr twine their yellow tresses with the shy\n   Fronds of forget-me-not and maiden-hair,--\nThere had the priests appointed me to die.\n\nXXVI.\n\n\"But vainly doth a man contend with Fate!\n   My father had less pity on his son\nThan wild things of the woodland desolate.\n   'Tis said that ere the Autumn day was done\n   A great she-bear, that in these rocks did wonn,\nBeheld a sleeping babe she did convey\n   Down to a den beheld not of the sun,\nThe cavern where her own soft litter lay.\n\nXXVII.\n\n\"And therein was I nurtured wondrously,\n   So Rumour saith: I know not of these things,\nFor mortal men are ever wont to lie,\n   Whene'er they speak of sceptre-bearing kings:\n   I tell what I was told, for memory brings\nNo record of those days, that are as deep\n   Lost as the lullaby a mother sings\nIn ears of children that are fallen on sleep.\n\nXXVIII.\n\n\"Men say that now five autumn days had pass'd,\n   When Agelaus, following a hurt deer,\nTrod soft on crackling acorns, and the mast\n   That lay beneath the oak and beech-wood sere,\n   In dread lest angry Pan were sleeping near,\nThen heard a cry from forth a cavern grey,\n   And peeping round the fallen rocks in fear,\nBeheld where in the wild beast's tracks I lay.\n\nXXIX.\n\n\"So Agelaus bore me from the wild,\n   Down to his hut; and with his children I\nWas nurtured, being, as was deem'd, the child\n   Of Hermes, or some mountain deity;\n   For these with the wild nymphs are wont to lie\nWithin the holy caverns, where the bee\n   Can scarcely find a darkling path to fly\nThrough veils of bracken and the ivy-tree.\n\nXXX.\n\n\"So with the shepherds on the hills I stray'd,\n   And drave the kine to feed where rivers run,\nAnd play'd upon the reed-pipe in the shade,\n   And scarcely knew my manhood was begun,\n   The pleasant years still passing one by one,\nTill I was chiefest of the mountain men,\n   And clomb the peaks that take the snow and sun,\nAnd braved the anger'd lion in his den.\n\nXXXI.\n\n\"Now in my herd of kine was one more dear\n   By far than all the rest, and fairer far;\nA milkwhite bull, the captive of my spear,\n   And all the wondering shepherds called him _Star_:\n   And still he led his fellows to the war,\nWhen the lean wolves against the herds came down,\n   Then would he charge, and drive their hosts afar\nBeyond the pastures to the forests brown.\n\nXXXII.\n\n\"Now so it chanced that on an autumn morn,\n   King Priam sought a goodly bull to slay\nIn memory of his child, no sooner born\n   Than midst the lonely mountains cast away,\n   To die ere scarce he had beheld the day;\nAnd Priam's men came wandering afar\n   To that green pool where by the flocks I lay,\nAnd straight they coveted the goodly _Star_,\n\nXXXIII.\n\n\"And drave him, no word spoken, to the town:\n   One man mine arrow lit on, and he fell;\nHis comrades held me off, and down and down,\n   Through golden windings of the autumn dell,\n   They spurr'd along the beast that loved me well,\nTill red were his white sides; I following,\n   Wrath in my heart, their evil deeds to tell\nIn Ilios, at the footstool of the King.\n\nXXXIV.\n\n\"But ere they came to the God-builded wall,\n   They spied a meadow by the water-side,\nAnd there the men of Troy were gathered all\n   For joust and play; and Priam's sons defied\n   All other men in all Maeonia wide\nTo strive with them in boxing and in speed.\n   Victorious with the shepherds had I vied,\nSo boldly followed to that flowery mead.\n\nXXXV.\n\n\"Maeonia, Phrygia, Troia there were met,\n   And there the King, child of Laomedon,\nRich prizes for the vanquishers had set,\n   Damsels, and robes, and cups that like the sun\n   Shone, but the white bull was the chiefest one;\nAnd him the victor in the games should slay\n   To Zeus, the King of Gods, when all was done,\nAnd so with sacrifice should crown the day.\n\nXXXVI.\n\n\"Now it were over long, methinks, to tell\n   The contest of the heady charioteers,\nOf them the goal that turn'd, and them that fell.\n   But I outran the young men of my years,\n   And with the bow did I out-do my peers,\nAnd wrestling; and in boxing, over-bold,\n   I strove with Hector of the ashen spears,\nYea, till the deep-voiced Heralds bade us hold.\n\nXXXVII.\n\n\"Then Priam hail'd me winner of the day;\n   Mine were the maid, the cup, and chiefest prize,\nMine own fair milkwhite bull was mine to slay;\n   But then the murmurs wax'd to angry cries,\n   And hard men set on me in deadly wise,\nMy brethren, though they knew it not; I turn'd,\n   And fled unto the place of sacrifice,\nWhere altars to the God of strangers burn'd.\n\nXXXVIII.\n\n\"At mine own funeral feast, had I been slain,\n   But, fearing Zeus, they halted for a space,\nAnd lo, Apollo's priestess with a train\n   Of holy maidens came into that place,\n   And far did she outshine the rest in grace,\nBut in her eyes such dread was frozen then\n   As glares eternal from the Gorgon's face\nWherewith Athene quells the ranks of men.\n\nXXXIX.\n\n\"She was old Priam's daughter, long ago\n   Apollo loved her, and did not deny\nHis gifts,--the things that are to be to know,\n   The tongue of sooth-saying that cannot lie,\n   And knowledge gave he of all birds that fly\n'Neath heaven; and yet his prayer did she disdain.\n   So he his gifts confounded utterly,\nAnd sooth she saith, but evermore in vain.\n\nXL.\n\n\"She, when her dark eyes fell on me, did stand\n   At gaze a while, with wan lips murmuring,\nAnd then came nigh to me, and took my hand,\n   And led me to the footstool of the King,\n   And call'd me 'brother,' and drew forth the ring\nThat men had found upon me in the wild,\n   For still I bore it as a precious thing,\nThe token of a father to his child.\n\nXLI.\n\n\"This sign Cassandra show'd to Priam: straight\n   The King wax'd pale, and ask'd what this might be?\nAnd she made answer, 'Sir, and King, thy fate\n   That comes to all men born hath come on thee;\n   This shepherd is thine own child verily:\nHow like to thine his shape, his brow, his hands!\n   Nay there is none but hath the eyes to see\nThat here the child long lost to Troia stands.'\n\nXLII.\n\n\"Then the King bare me to his lofty hall,\n   And there we feasted in much love and mirth,\nAnd Priam to the mountain sent for all\n   That knew me, and the manner of my birth:\n   And now among the great ones of the earth\nIn royal robe and state behold me set,\n   And one fell thing I fear not; even dearth,\nWhate'er the Gods remember or forget.\n\nXLIII.\n\n\"My new rich life had grown a common thing,\n   The pleasant years still passing one by one,\nWhen deep in Ida was I wandering\n   The glare of well-built Ilios to shun,\n   In summer, ere the day was wholly done,\nWhen I beheld a goodly prince,--the hair\n   To bloom upon his lip had scarce begun,--\nThe season when the flower of youth is fair.\n\nXLIV.\n\n\"Then knew I Hermes by his golden wand\n   Wherewith he lulls the eyes of men to sleep;\nBut, nodding with his brows, he bade me stand,\n   And spake, 'To-night thou hast a tryst to keep,\n   With Goddesses within the forest deep;\nAnd Paris, lovely things shalt thou behold,\n   More fair than they for which men war and weep,\nKingdoms, and fame, and victories, and gold.\n\nXLV.\n\n\"'For, lo! to-night within the forest dim\n   Do Aphrodite and Athene meet,\nAnd Hera, who to thee shall bare each limb,\n   Each grace from golden head to ivory feet,\n   And thee, fair shepherd Paris, they entreat\nAs thou 'mongst men art beauteous, to declare\n   Which Queen of Queens immortal is most sweet,\nAnd doth deserve the meed of the most fair.\n\nXLVI.\n\n\"'For late between them rose a bitter strife\n   In Peleus' halls upon his wedding day,\nWhen Peleus took him an immortal wife,\n   And there was bidden all the God's array,\n   Save Discord only; yet she brought dismay,\nAnd cast an apple on the bridal board,\n   With \"Let the fairest bear the prize away\"\nDeep on its golden rind and gleaming scored.\n\nXLVII.\n\n\"'Now in the sudden night, whenas the sun\n   In Tethys' silver arms hath slept an hour,\nShalt thou be had into the forest dun,\n   And brought unto a dark enchanted bower,\n   And there of Goddesses behold the flower\nWith very beauty burning in the night,\n   And these will offer Wisdom, Love, and Power;\nThen, Paris, be thou wise, and choose aright!'\n\nXLVIII.\n\n\"He spake, and pass'd, and Night without a breath,\n   Without a star drew on; and now I heard\nThe voice that in the springtime wandereth,\n   The crying of Dame Hera's shadowy bird;\n   And soon the silence of the trees was stirred\nBy the wise fowl of Pallas; and anigh,\n   More sweet than is a girl's first loving word,\nThe doves of Aphrodite made reply.\n\nXLIX.\n\n\"These voices did I follow through the trees,\n   Threading the coppice 'neath a starless sky,\nWhen, lo! the very Queen of Goddesses,\n   In golden beauty gleaming wondrously,\n   Even she that hath the Heaven for canopy,\nAnd in the arms of mighty Zeus doth sleep,--\n   And then for dread methought that I must die,\nBut Hera called me with soft voice and deep:\n\nL.\n\n\"'Paris, give me the prize, and thou shalt reign\n   O'er many lordly peoples, far and wide,\nFrom them that till the black and crumbling plain,\n   Where the sweet waters of Aegyptus glide,\n   To those that on the Northern marches ride,\nAnd the Ceteians, and the blameless men\n   That round the rising-place of Morn abide,\nAnd all the dwellers in the Asian fen.\n\nLI.\n\n\"'And I will love fair Ilios as I love\n   Argos and rich Mycenae, that doth hoard\nDeep wealth; and I will make thee king above\n   A hundred peoples; men shall call thee lord\n   In tongues thou know'st not; thou shalt be adored\nWith sacrifice, as are the Gods divine,\n   If only thou wilt speak a little word,\nAnd say the prize of loveliness is mine.'\n\nLII.\n\n\"Then, as I doubted, like a sudden flame\n   Of silver came Athene, and methought\nBeholding her, how stately, as she came,\n   That dim wood to a fragrant fane was wrought;\n   So pure the warlike maiden seem'd, that nought\nBut her own voice commanding made me raise\n   Mine eyes to see her beauty, who besought\nIn briefest words the guerdon of all praise.\n\nLIII.\n\n\"She spake: 'Nor wealth nor crowns are in my gift;\n   But wisdom, but the eyes that glance afar,\nBut courage, and the spirit that is swift\n   To cleave her path through all the waves of war;\n   Endurance that the Fates can never mar;\nThese, and my loving friendship,--these are thine,\n   And these shall guide thee, steadfast as a star,\nIf thou hast eyes to know the prize is mine.'\n\nLIV.\n\n\"Last, in a lovely mist of rosy fire,\n   Came Aphrodite through the forest glade,\nThe queen of all delight and all desire,\n   More fair than when her naked foot she laid\n   On the blind mere's wild wave that sank dismay'd,\nWhat time the sea grew smoother than a lake;\n   I was too happy to be sore afraid.\nAnd like a song her voice was when she spake:\n\nLV.\n\n\"'Oh Paris, what is power?  Tantalus\n   And Sisyphus were kings long time ago,\nBut now they lie in the Lake Dolorous,\n   The hills of hell are noisy with their woe;\n   Ay, swift the tides of Empire ebb and flow,\nAnd that is quickly lost was hardly won,\n   As Ilios herself o'erwell did know\nWhen high walls help'd not King Laomedon.\n\nLVI.\n\n\"'And what are strength and courage? for the child\n   Of mighty Zeus, the strong man Herakles,\nKnew many days and evil, ere men piled\n   The pyre in Oeta, where he got his ease\n   In death, where all the ills of brave men cease.\nNay, Love I proffer thee; beyond the brine\n   Of all the currents of the Western seas,\nThe fairest woman in the world is thine!'\n\nLVII.\n\n\"She spake, and touched the prize, and all grew dim\n   I heard no voice of anger'd Deity,\nBut round me did the night air swoon and swim,\n   And, when I waken'd, lo! the sun was high,\n   And in that place accursed did I lie,\nWhere Agelaus found the naked child;\n   Then with swift foot I did arise and fly\nForth from the deeps of that enchanted wild.\n\nLVIII.\n\n\"And down I sped to Ilios, down the dell\n   Where, years agone, the white bull guided me,\nAnd through green boughs beheld where foam'd and fell\n   The merry waters of the Western sea;\n   Of Love the sweet birds sang from sky and tree,\nAnd swift I reach'd the haven and the shore,\n   And call'd my mariners, and follow'd free\nWhere Love might lead across the waters hoar.\n\nLIX.\n\n\"Three days with fair winds ran we, then we drave\n   Before the North that made the long waves swell\nRound Malea; but hardly from the wave\n   We 'scaped at Pylos, Nestor's citadel;\n   And there the son of Neleus loved us well,\nAnd brought us to the high prince, Diocles,\n   Who led us hither, and it thus befell\nThat here, below thy roof, we sit at ease.\"\n\nLX.\n\nThen all men gave the stranger thanks and praise,\n   And Menelaus for red wine bade call;\nAnd the sun fell, and dark were all the ways;\n   Then maidens set forth braziers in the hall,\n   And heap'd them high with lighted brands withal;\nBut Helen pass'd, as doth the fading day\n   Pass from the world, and softly left them all\nLoud o'er their wine amid the twilight grey.\n\nLXI.\n\nSo night drew on with rain, nor yet they ceased\n   Within the hall to drink the gleaming wine,\nAnd late they pour'd the last cup of the feast,\n   To Argus-bane, the Messenger divine;\n   And last, 'neath torches tall that smoke and shine,\nThe maidens strew'd the beds with purple o'er,\n   That Diocles and Paris might recline\nAll night, beneath the echoing corridor.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK II--THE SPELL OF APHRODITE\n\n\nThe coming of Aphrodite, and how she told Helen that she must depart in\ncompany with Paris, but promised withal that Helen, having fallen into a\ndeep sleep, should awake forgetful of her old life, and ignorant of her\nshame, and blameless of those evil deeds that the Goddess thrust upon\nher.\n\nI.\n\nNow in the upper chamber o'er the gate\n   Lay Menelaus on his carven bed,\nAnd swift and sudden as the stroke of Fate\n   A deep sleep fell upon his weary head.\n   But the soft-winged God with wand of lead\nCame not near Helen; wistful did she lie,\n   Till dark should change to grey, and grey to red,\nAnd golden throned Morn sweep o'er the sky.\n\nII.\n\nSlow pass'd the heavy night: like one who fears\n   The step of murder, she lies quivering,\nIf any cry of the night bird she hears;\n   And strains her eyes to mark some dreadful thing,\n   If but the curtains of the window swing,\nStirr'd by the breath of night, and still she wept\n   As she were not the daughter of a king,\nAnd no strong king, her lord, beside her slept.\n\nIII.\n\nNow in that hour, the folk who watch the night,\n   Shepherds and fishermen, and they that ply\nStrange arts and seek their spells in the star-light,\n   Beheld a marvel in the sea and sky,\n   For all the waves of all the seas that sigh\nBetween the straits of Helle and the Nile,\n   Flush'd with a flame of silver suddenly,\nFrom soft Cythera to the Cyprian isle.\n\nIV.\n\nAnd Hesperus, the kindest star of heaven,\n   That bringeth all things good, wax'd pale, and straight\nThere fell a flash of white malignant levin\n   Among the gleaming waters desolate;\n   The lights of sea and sky did mix and mate\nAnd change to rosy flame, and thence did fly\n   The lovely Queen of Love that turns to hate,\nLike summer lightnings 'twixt the sea and sky.\n\nV.\n\nAnd now the bower of Helen fill'd with light,\n   And now she knew the thing that she did fear\nWas close upon her (for the black of night\n   Doth burn like fire, whene'er the Gods are near);\n   Then shone like flame each helm and shield and spear\nThat hung within the chamber of the King,\n   But he,--though all the bower as day was clear,--\nSlept as they sleep that know no wakening.\n\nVI.\n\nBut Helen leap'd from her fair carven bed\n   As some tormented thing that fear makes bold,\nAnd on the ground she beat her golden head\n   And pray'd with bitter moanings manifold.\n   Yet knew that she could never move the cold\nHeart of the lovely Goddess, standing there,\n   Her feet upon a little cloud, a fold\nOf silver cloud about her bosom bare.\n\nVII.\n\nSo stood Queen Aphrodite, as she stands\n   Unmoved in her bright mansion, when in vain\nSome naked maiden stretches helpless hands\n   And shifts the magic wheel, and burns the grain,\n   And cannot win her lover back again,\nNor her old heart of quiet any more,\n   Where moonlight floods the dim Sicilian main,\nAnd the cool wavelets break along the shore.\n\nVIII.\n\nThen Helen ceased from unavailing prayer,\n   And rose and faced the Goddess steadily,\nTill even the laughter-loving lady fair\n   Half shrank before the anger of her eye,\n   And Helen cried with an exceeding cry,\n\"Why does Zeus live, if we indeed must be\n   No more than sullen spoils of destiny,\nAnd slaves of an adulteress like thee?\n\nIX.\n\n\"What wilt thou with me, mistress of all woe?\n   Say, wilt thou bear me to another land\nWhere thou hast other lovers?  Rise and go\n   Where dark the pine trees upon Ida stand,\n   For there did one unloose thy girdle band;\nOr seek the forest where Adonis bled,\n   Or wander, wander on the yellow sand,\nWhere thy first lover strew'd thy bridal bed.\n\nX.\n\n\"Ah, thy first lover! who is first or last\n   Of men and gods, unnumber'd and unnamed?\nLover by lover in the race is pass'd,\n   Lover by lover, outcast and ashamed.\n   Oh, thou of many names, and evil famed!\nWhat wilt thou with me?  What must I endure\n   Whose soul, for all thy craft, is never tamed?\nWhose heart, for all thy wiles, is ever pure?\n\nXI.\n\n\"Behold, my heart is purer than the plume\n   Upon the stainless pinions of the swan,\nAnd thou wilt smirch and stain it with the fume\n   Of all thy hateful lusts Idalian.\n   My name shall be a hissing that a man\nShall smile to speak, and women curse and hate,\n   And on my little child shall come a ban,\nAnd all my lofty home be desolate.\n\nXII.\n\n\"Is it thy will that like a golden cup\n   From lip to lip of heroes I must go,\nAnd be but as a banner lifted up,\n   To beckon where the winds of war may blow?\n   Have I not seen fair Athens in her woe,\nAnd all her homes aflame from sea to sea,\n   When my fierce brothers wrought her overthrow\nBecause Athenian Theseus carried me--\n\nXIII.\n\n\"Me, in my bloomless youth, a maiden child,\n   From Artemis' pure altars and her fane,\nAnd bare me, with Pirithous the wild\n   To rich Aphidna?  Many a man was slain,\n   And wet with blood the fair Athenian plain,\nAnd fired was many a goodly temple then,\n   But fire nor blood can purify the stain\nNor make my name reproachless among men.\"\n\nXIV.\n\nThen Helen ceased, her passion like a flame\n   That slays the thing it lives by, blazed and fell,\nAs faint as waves at dawn, though fierce they came,\n   By night to storm some rocky citadel;\n   For Aphrodite answer'd,--like a spell\nHer voice makes strength of mortals pass away,--\n   \"Dost thou not know that I have loved thee well,\nAnd never loved thee better than to-day?\n\nXV.\n\n\"Behold, thine eyes are wet, thy cheeks are wan,\n   Yet art thou born of an immortal sire,\nThe child of Nemesis and of the Swan;\n   Thy veins should run with ichor and with fire.\n   Yet this is thy delight and thy desire,\nTo love a mortal lord, a mortal child,\n   To live, unpraised of lute, unhymn'd of lyre,\nAs any woman pure and undefiled.\n\nXVI.\n\n\"Thou art the toy of Gods, an instrument\n   Wherewith all mortals shall be plagued or blest,\nEven at my pleasure; yea, thou shalt be bent\n   This way and that, howe'er it like me best:\n   And following thee, as tides the moon, the West\nShall flood the Eastern coasts with waves of war,\n   And thy vex'd soul shall scarcely be at rest,\nEven in the havens where the deathless are.\n\nXVII.\n\n\"The instruments of men are blind and dumb,\n   And this one gift I give thee, to be blind\nAnd heedless of the thing that is to come,\n   And ignorant of that which is behind;\n   Bearing an innocent forgetful mind\nIn each new fortune till I visit thee\n   And stir thy heart, as lightning and the wind\nBear fire and tumult through a sleeping sea.\n\nXVIII.\n\n\"Thou shalt forget Hermione; forget\n   Thy lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin;\nThy hand within a stranger's shalt thou set,\n   And follow him, nor deem it any sin;\n   And many a strange land wand'ring shalt thou win,\nAnd thou shalt come to an unhappy town,\n   And twenty long years shalt thou dwell therein,\nBefore the Argives mar its towery crown.\n\nXIX.\n\n\"And of thine end I speak not, but thy name,--\n   Thy name which thou lamentest,--that shall be\nA song in all men's speech, a tongue of flame\n   Between the burning lips of Poesy;\n   And the nine daughters of Mnemosyne,\nWith Prince Apollo, leader of the nine,\n   Shall make thee deathless in their minstrelsy!\nYea, for thou shalt outlive the race divine,\n\nXX.\n\n\"The race of Gods, for like the sons of men\n   We Gods have but our season, and go by;\nAnd Cronos pass'd, and Uranus, and then\n   Shall Zeus and all his children utterly\n   Pass, and new Gods be born, and reign, and die,--\nBut thee shall lovers worship evermore\n   What Gods soe'er usurp the changeful sky,\nOr flit to the irremeable shore.\n\nXXI.\n\n\"Now sleep and dream not, sleep the long day through,\n   And the brief watches of the summer night,\nAnd then go forth amid the flowers and dew,\n   Where the red rose of Dawn outburns the white.\n   Then shalt thou learn my mercy and my might\nBetween the drowsy lily and the rose;\n   There shalt thou spell the meaning of delight,\nAnd know such gladness as a Goddess knows!\"\n\nXXII.\n\nThen Sleep came floating from the Lemnian isle,\n   And over Helen crush'd his poppy crown,\nHer soft lids waver'd for a little while,\n   Then on her carven bed she laid her down,\n   And Sleep, the comforter of king and clown,\nKind Sleep the sweetest, near akin to Death,\n   Held her as close as Death doth men that drown,\nSo close that none might hear her inward breath--\n\nXXIII.\n\nSo close no man might tell she was not dead!\n   And then the Goddess took her zone,--where lies\nAll her enchantment, love and lustihead,\n   And the glad converse that beguiles the wise,\n   And grace the very Gods may not despise,\nAnd sweet Desire that doth the whole world move,--\n   And therewith touch'd she Helen's sleeping eyes\nAnd made her lovely as the Queen of Love.\n\nXXIV.\n\nThen laughter-loving Aphrodite went\n   To far Idalia, over land and sea,\nAnd scarce the fragrant cedar-branches bent\n   Beneath her footsteps, faring daintily;\n   And in Idalia the Graces three\nAnointed her with oil ambrosial,--\n   So to her house in Sidon wended she\nTo mock the prayers of lovers when they call.\n\nXXV.\n\nAnd all day long the incense and the smoke\n   Lifted, and fell, and soft and slowly roll'd,\nAnd many a hymn and musical awoke\n   Between the pillars of her house of gold,\n   And rose-crown'd girls, and fair boys linen-stoled,\nDid sacrifice her fragrant courts within,\n   And in dark chapels wrought rites manifold\nThe loving favour of the Queen to win.\n\nXXVI.\n\nBut Menelaus, waking suddenly,\n   Beheld the dawn was white, the day was near,\nAnd rose, and kiss'd fair Helen; no good-bye\n   He spake, and never mark'd a fallen tear,--\n   Men know not when they part for many a year,--\nHe grasp'd a bronze-shod lance in either hand,\n   And merrily went forth to drive the deer,\nWith Paris, through the dewy morning land.\n\nXXVII.\n\nSo up the steep sides of Taygetus\n   They fared, and to the windy hollows came,\nWhile from the streams of deep Oceanus\n   The sun arose, and on the fields did flame;\n   And through wet glades the huntsmen drave the game,\nAnd with them Paris sway'd an ashen spear,\n   Heavy, and long, and shod with bronze to tame\nThe mountain-dwelling goats and forest deer.\n\nXXVIII.\n\nNow in a copse a mighty boar there lay,\n   For through the boughs the wet winds never blew,\nNor lit the bright sun on it with his ray,\n   Nor rain might pierce the woven branches through,\n   But leaves had fallen deep the lair to strew:\nThen questing of the hounds and men's foot-fall\n   Aroused the boar, and forth he sprang to view,\nWith eyes that burn'd, at bay, before them all.\n\nXXIX.\n\nThen Paris was the first to rush on him,\n   With spear aloft in his strong hand to smite,\nAnd through the monster pierced the point; and dim\n   The flame fell in his eyes, and all his might\n   With his last cry went forth; forgetting fight,\nForgetting strength, he fell, and gladly then\n   They gather'd round, and dealt with him aright;\nThen left his body with the serving men.\n\nXXX.\n\nNow birds were long awake, that with their cry\n   Were wont to waken Helen; and the dew\nWhere fell the sun upon the lawn was dry,\n   And all the summer land was glad anew;\n   And maidens' footsteps rang the palace through,\nAnd with their footsteps chimed their happy song,\n   And one to other cried, \"A marvel new\nThat soft-wing'd Sleep hath held the Queen so long!\"\n\nXXXI.\n\nThen Phylo brought the child Hermione,\n   And close unto her mother's side she crept,\nAnd o'er her god-like beauty tumbled she,\n   Chiding her sweetly that so late she slept,\n   And babbling still a merry coil she kept;\nBut like a woman stiff beneath her shroud\n   Lay Helen; till the young child fear'd and wept,\nAnd ran, and to her nurses cried aloud.\n\nXXXII.\n\nThen came the women quickly, and in dread\n   Gather'd round Helen, but might naught avail\nTo wake her; moveless as a maiden dead\n   That Artemis hath slain, yet nowise pale,\n   She lay; but Aethra did begin the wail,\nAnd all the women with sad voice replied,\n   Who deem'd her pass'd unto the poplar vale\nWherein doth dread Persephone abide.\n\nXXXIII.\n\nAh! slowly pass'd the miserable day\n   In the rich house that late was full of pride;\nThen the sun fell, and all the paths were grey,\n   And Menelaus from the mountain-side\n   Came, and through palace doors all open wide\nRang the wild dirge that told him of the thing\n   That Helen, that the Queen had strangely died.\nThen on his threshold fell he grovelling,\n\nXXXIV.\n\nAnd cast the dust upon his yellow hair,\n   And, but that Paris leap'd and held his hand,\nHis hunter's knife would he have clutch'd, and there\n   Had slain himself, to follow to that land\n   Where flit the ghosts of men, a shadowy band\nThat have no more delight, no more desire,\n   When once the flesh hath burn'd down like a brand,\nDrench'd by the dark wine on the funeral pyre:\n\nXXXV.\n\nSo on the ashen threshold lay the king,\n   And all within the house was chill and drear;\nThe women watchers gather'd in a ring\n   About the bed of Helen and her bier;\n   And much had they to tell, and much to hear,\nOf happy queens and fair, untimely dead,--\n   Such joy they took amid their evil cheer,--\nWhile the low thunder muttered overhead.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK III--THE FLIGHT OF HELEN\n\n\nThe flight of Helen and Paris from Lacedaemon, and of what things befell\nthem in their voyaging, and how they came to Troy.\n\nI.\n\nThe grey Dawn's daughter, rosy Morn awoke\n   In old Tithonus' arms, and suddenly\nLet harness her swift steeds beneath the yoke,\n   And drave her shining chariot through the sky.\n   Then men might see the flocks of Thunder fly,\nAll gold and rose, the azure pastures through,\n   What time the lark was carolling on high\nAbove the gardens drench'd with rainy dew.\n\nII.\n\nBut Aphrodite sent a slumber deep\n   On all in the King's palace, young and old,\nAnd one by one the women fell asleep,--\n   Their lamentable tales left half untold,--\n   Before the dawn, when folk wax weak and cold,\nBut Helen waken'd with the shining morn,\n   Forgetting quite her sorrows manifold,\nAnd light of heart as was the day new-born.\n\nIII.\n\nShe had no memory of unhappy things,\n   She knew not of the evil days to come,\nForgotten were her ancient wanderings,\n   And as Lethaean waters wholly numb\n   The sense of spirits in Elysium,\nThat no remembrance may their bliss alloy,\n   Even so the rumour of her days was dumb,\nAnd all her heart was ready for new joy.\n\nIV.\n\nThe young day knows not of an elder dawn,\n   Joys of old noons, old sorrows of the night,\nAnd so from Helen was the past withdrawn,\n   Her lord, her child, her home forgotten quite,\n   Lost in the marvel of a new delight:\nShe was as one who knows he shall not die,\n   When earthly colours melt into the bright\nPure splendour of his immortality.\n\nV.\n\nThen Helen rose, and all her body fair\n   She bath'd in the spring water, pure and cold,\nAnd with her hand bound up her shining hair\n   And clothed her in the raiment that of old\n   Athene wrought with marvels manifold,\nA bridal gift from an immortal hand,\n   And all the front was clasp'd with clasps of gold,\nAnd for the girdle was a golden band.\n\nVI.\n\nNext from her upper chamber silently\n   Went Helen, moving like a morning dream.\nShe did not know the golden roof, the high\n   Walls, and the shields that on the pillars gleam,\n   Only she heard the murmur of the stream\nThat waters all the garden's wide expanse,\n   This song, and cry of singing birds, did seem\nTo guide her feet as music guides the dance.\n\nVII.\n\nThe music drew her on to the glad air\n   From forth the chamber of enchanted death,\nAnd lo! the world was waking everywhere;\n   The wind went by, a cool delicious breath,\n   Like that which in the gardens wandereth,\nThe golden gardens of the Hesperides,\n   And in its song unheard of things it saith,\nThe myriad marvels of the fairy seas.\n\nVIII.\n\nSo through the courtyard to the garden close\n   Went Helen, where she heard the murmuring\nOf water 'twixt the lily and the rose;\n   For thereby doth a double fountain spring.\n   To one stream do the women pitchers bring\nBy Menelaus' gates, at close of day;\n   The other through the close doth shine and sing,\nThen to the swift Eurotas fleets away.\n\nIX.\n\nAnd Helen sat her down upon the grass,\n   And pluck'd the little daisies white and red,\nAnd toss'd them where the running waters pass,\n   To watch them racing from the fountain-head,\n   And whirl'd about where little streams dispread;\nAnd still with merry birds the garden rang,\n   And, _marry_, _marry_, in their song they said,\nOr so do maids interpret that they sang.\n\nX.\n\nThen stoop'd she down, and watch'd the crystal stream,\n   And fishes poising where the waters ran,\nAnd lo! upon the glass a golden gleam,\n   And purple as of robes Sidonian,\n   Then, sudden turning, she beheld a man,\nThat knelt beside her; as her own face fair\n   Was his, and o'er his shoulders for a span\nFell the bright tresses of his yellow hair.\n\nXI.\n\nThen either look'd on other with amaze\n   As each had seen a God; for no long while\nThey marvell'd, but as in the first of days,\n   The first of men and maids did meet and smile,\n   And Aphrodite did their hearts beguile,\nSo hands met hands, lips lips, with no word said\n   Were they enchanted 'neath that leafy aisle,\nAnd silently were woo'd, betroth'd, and wed.\n\nXII.\n\nAh, slowly did their silence wake to words\n   That scarce had more of meaning than the song\nPour'd forth of the innumerable birds\n   That fill the palace gardens all day long;\n   So innocent, so ignorant of wrong,\nWas she, so happy each in other's eyes,\n   Thus wrought the mighty Goddess that is strong,\nEven to make naught the wisdom of the wise.\n\nXIII.\n\nNow in the midst of that enchanted place\n   Right gladly had they linger'd all day through,\nAnd fed their love upon each other's face,\n   But Aphrodite had a counsel new,\n   And silently to Paris' side she drew,\nIn guise of Aethra, whispering that the day\n   Pass'd on, while his ship waited, and his crew\nImpatient, in the narrow Gythian bay.\n\nXIV.\n\nFor thither had she brought them by her skill;\n   But Helen saw her not,--nay, who can see\nA Goddess come or go against her will?\n   Then Paris whisper'd, \"Come, ah, Love, with me!\n   Come to a shore beyond the barren sea;\nThere doth the bridal crown await thy head,\n   And there shall all the land be glad of thee!\"\nThen, like a child, she follow'd where he led.\n\nXV.\n\nFor, like a child's her gentle heart was glad.\n   So through the courtyard pass'd they to the gate;\nAnd even there, as Aphrodite bade,\n   The steeds of Paris and the chariots wait;\n   Then to the well-wrought car he led her straight,\nAnd grasped the shining whip and golden rein,\n   And swift they drave until the day was late\nBy clear Eurotas through the fruitful plain.\n\nXVI.\n\nBut now within the halls the magic sleep\n   Was broken, and men sought them everywhere;\nYet Aphrodite cast a cloud so deep\n   About their chariot none might see them there.\n   And strangely did they hear the trumpets blare,\nAnd noise of racing wheels; yet saw they nought:\n   Then died the sounds upon the distant air,\nAnd safe they won the haven that they sought.\n\nXVII.\n\nBeneath a grassy cliff, beneath the down,\n   Where swift Eurotas mingles with the sea,\nThere climb'd the grey walls of a little town,\n   The sleepy waters wash'd it languidly,\n   For tempests in that haven might not be.\nThe isle across the inlet guarded all,\n   And the shrill winds that roam the ocean free\nBroke and were broken on the rocky wall.\n\nXVIII.\n\nThen Paris did a point of hunting blow,\n   Nor yet the sound had died upon the hill\nWhen round the isle they spied a scarlet prow,\n   And oars that flash'd into that haven still,\n   The oarsmen bending forward with a will,\nAnd swift their black ship to the haven-side\n   They brought, and steer'd her in with goodly skill,\nAnd bare on board the strange Achaean bride.\n\nXIX.\n\nNow while the swift ship through the waters clave,\n   All happy things that in the waters dwell,\nArose and gamboll'd on the glassy wave,\n   And Nereus led them with his sounding shell:\n   Yea, the sea-nymphs, their dances weaving well,\nIn the green water gave them greeting free.\n   Ah, long light linger'd, late the darkness fell,\nThat night, upon the isle of Cranae!\n\nXX.\n\nAnd Hymen shook his fragrant torch on high,\n   Till all its waves of smoke and tongues of flame,\nLike clouds of rosy gold fulfill'd the sky;\n   And all the Nereids from the waters came,\n   Each maiden with a musical sweet name;\nDoris, and Doto, and Amphithoe;\n   And their shrill bridal song of love and shame\nMade music in the silence of the sea.\n\nXXI.\n\nFor this was like that night of summer weather,\n   When mortal men and maidens without fear,\nAnd forest-nymphs, and forest-gods together,\n   Do worship Pan in the long twilight clear.\n   And Artemis this one night spares the deer,\nAnd every cave and dell, and every grove\n   Is glad with singing soft and happy cheer,\nWith laughter, and with dalliance, and with love.\n\n* * * * *\n\nXXII.\n\nNow when the golden-throned Dawn arose\n   To waken gods and mortals out of sleep,\nQueen Aphrodite sent the wind that blows\n   From fairy gardens of the Western deep.\n   The sails are spread, the oars of Paris leap\nPast many a headland, many a haunted fane:\n   And, merrily all from isle to isle they sweep\nO'er the wet ways across the barren plain.\n\nXXIII.\n\nBy many an island fort, and many a haven\n   They sped, and many a crowded arsenal:\nThey saw the loves of Gods and men engraven\n   On friezes of Astarte's temple wall.\n   They heard that ancient shepherd Proteus call\nHis flock from forth the green and tumbling lea,\n   And saw white Thetis with her maidens all\nSweep up to high Olympus from the sea.\n\nXXIV.\n\nThey saw the vain and weary toil of men,\n   The ships that win the rich man all he craves;\nThey pass'd the red-prow'd barks Egyptian,\n   And heard afar the moaning of the slaves\n   Pent in the dark hot hold beneath the waves;\nAnd scatheless the Sardanian fleets among\n   They sail'd; by men that sow the sea with graves,\nBearing black fate to folk of alien tongue.\n\nXXV.\n\nThen all day long a rolling cloud of smoke\n   Would hang on the sea-limits, faint and far,\nBut through the night the beacon-flame upbroke\n   From some rich island-town begirt with war;\n   And all these things could neither make nor mar\nThe joy of lovers wandering, but they\n   Sped happily, and heedless of the star\nThat hung o'er their glad haven, far away.\n\nXXVI.\n\nThe fisher-sentinel upon the height\n   Watch'd them with vacant eyes, and little knew\nThey bore the fate of Troy; to him the bright\n   Plashed waters, with the silver shining through\n   When tunny shoals came cruising in the blue,\nWas more than Love that doth the world unmake;\n   And listless gazed he as the gulls that flew\nAnd shriek'd and chatter'd in the vessel's wake.\n\nXXVII.\n\nSo the wind drave them, and the waters bare\n   Across the great green plain unharvested,\nTill through an after-glow they knew the fair\n   Faint rose of snow on distant Ida's head.\n   And swifter then the joyous oarsmen sped;\nBut night was ended, and the waves were fire\n   Beneath the fleet feet of a dawning red\nOr ere they won the land of their desire.\n\nXXVIII.\n\nNow when the folk about the haven knew\n   The scarlet prow of Paris, swift they ran\nAnd the good ship within the haven drew,\n   And merrily their welcoming began.\n   But none the face of Helen dared to scan;\nTheir bold eyes fell before they had their fill,\n   For all men deem'd her that Idalian\nWho loved Anchises on the lonely hill.\n\nXXIX.\n\nBut when her sweet smile and her gentleness\n   And her kind speech had won them from dismay,\nThey changed their minds, and 'gan the Gods to bless\n   Who brought to Ilios that happy day.\n   And all the folk fair Helen must convey,\nCrown'd like a bride, and clad with flame-hued pall,\n   Through the rich plain, along the water-way\nRight to the great gates of the Ilian wall.\n\nXXX.\n\nAnd through the vines they pass'd, where old and young\n   Had no more heed of the glad vintaging,\nBut all unpluck'd the purple clusters hung,\n   Nor more of Linus did the minstrel sing,\n   For he and all the folk were following,\nWine-stain'd and garlanded, in merry bands,\n   Like men when Dionysus came as king,\nAnd led his revel from the sun-burnt lands,\n\nXXXI.\n\nSo from afar the music and the shout\n   Roll'd up to Ilios and the Scaean gate,\nAnd at the sound the city folk came out\n   And bore sweet Helen--such a fairy weight\n   As none might deem the burden of Troy's fate--\nAcross the threshold of the town, and all\n   Flock'd with her, where King Priam sat in state,\nGirt by his elders, on the Ilian wall.\n\nXXXII.\n\nNo man but knew him by his crown of gold,\n   And golden-studded sceptre, and his throne;\nAy, strong he seem'd as those great kings of old,\n   Whose image is eternal on the stone\n   Won from the dust that once was Babylon;\nBut kind of mood was he withal, and mild,\n   And when his eyes on Argive Helen shone,\nHe loved her as a father doth a child.\n\nXXXIII.\n\nRound him were set his peers, as Panthous,\n   Antenor, and Agenor, hardly grey,\nScarce touch'd as yet with age, nor garrulous\n   As are cicalas on a sunny day:\n   Such might they be when years had slipp'd away,\nAnd made them over-weak for war or joy,\n   Content to watch the Leaguer as it lay\nBeside the ships, beneath the walls of Troy.\n\nXXXIV.\n\nThen Paris had an easy tale to tell,\n   Which then might win upon men's wond'ring ears,\nWho deem'd that Gods with mortals deign to dwell,\n   And that the water of the West enspheres\n   The happy Isles that know not Death nor tears;\nYea, and though monsters do these islands guard,\n   Yet men within their coasts had dwelt for years\nUncounted, with a strange love for reward.\n\nXXXV.\n\nAnd there had Paris ventured: so said he,--\n   Had known the Sirens' song, and Circe's wile;\nAnd in a cove of that Hesperian sea\n   Had found a maiden on a lonely isle;\n   A sacrifice, if so men might beguile\nThe wrath of some beast-god they worshipp'd there,\n   But Paris, 'twixt the sea and strait defile,\nHad slain the beast, and won the woman fair.\n\nXXXVI.\n\nThen while the happy people cried \"Well done,\"\n   And Priam's heart was melted by the tale--\nFor Paris was his best-beloved son--\n   Came a wild woman, with wet eyes, and pale\n   Sad face, men look'd on when she cast her veil,\nNot gladly; and none mark'd the thing she said,\n   Yet must they hear her long and boding wail\nThat follow'd still, however fleet they fled.\n\nXXXVII.\n\nShe was the priestess of Apollo's fane,\n   Cassandra, and the God of prophecy\nSpurr'd her to speak and rent her! but in vain\n   She toss'd her wasted arms against the sky,\n   And brake her golden circlet angrily,\nAnd shriek'd that they had brought within the gate\n   _Helen_, _a serpent at their hearts to lie_!\n_Helen_, _a hell of people_, _king_, _and state_!\n\nXXXVIII.\n\nBut ere the God had left her; ere she fell\n   And foam'd among her maidens on the ground,\nThe air was ringing with a merry swell\n   Of flute, and pipe, and every sweetest sound,\n   In Aphrodite's fane, and all around\nWere roses toss'd beneath the glimmering green\n   Of that high roof, and Helen there was crown'd\nThe Goddess of the Trojans, and their Queen.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK IV--THE DEATH OF CORYTHUS\n\n\n   How Helen was made an outcast by the Trojan women, and how OEnone, the\n   old love of Paris, sent her son Corythus to him as her messenger, and\n   how Paris slew him unwittingly; and of the curses of OEnone, and the\n   coming of the Argive host against Troy.\n\nI.\n\nFor long in Troia was there peace and mirth,\n   The pleasant hours still passing one by one;\nAnd Helen joy'd at each fresh morning's birth,\n   And almost wept at setting of the sun,\n   For sorrow that the happy day was done;\nNor dream'd of years when she should hate the light,\n   And mourn afresh for every day begun,\nNor fare abroad save shamefully by night.\n\nII.\n\nAnd Paris was not one to backward cast\n   A fearful glance; nor pluck sour fruits of sin,\nHalf ripe; but seized all pleasures while they last,\n   Nor boded evil ere ill days begin.\n   Nay, nor lamented much when caught therein,\nIn each adventure always finding joy,\n   And hopeful still through waves of war to win\nBy strength of Hector, and the star of Troy.\n\nIII.\n\nNow as the storms drive white sea-birds afar\n   Within green upland glens to seek for rest,\nSo rumours pale of an approaching war\n   Were blown across the islands from the west:\n   For Agamemnon summon'd all the best\nFrom towns and tribes he ruled, and gave command\n   That free men all should gather at his hest\nThrough coasts and islets of the Argive land.\n\nIV.\n\nSidonian merchant-men had seen the fleet\n   Black war-galleys that sped from town to town;\nHad heard the hammers of the bronze-smiths beat\n   The long day through, and when the sun went down;\n   And thin, said they, would show the leafy crown\nOn many a sacred mountain-peak in spring,\n   For men had fell'd the pine-trees tall and brown\nTo fashion them curved ships for seafaring.\n\nV.\n\nAnd still the rumour grew; for heralds came,\n   Old men from Argos, bearing holy boughs,\nDemanding great atonement for the shame\n   And sore despite done Menelaus' house;\n   But homeward soon they turn'd their scarlet prows,\nAnd all their weary voyaging was vain;\n   For Troy had bound herself with awful vows\nTo cleave to Helen till the walls were ta'en.\n\nVI.\n\nAnd now, like swallows ere the winter weather,\n   The women in shrill groups were gathering,\nWith eager tongues still communing together,\n   And many a taunt at Helen would they fling,\n   Ay, through her innocence she felt the sting,\nAnd shamed was now her gentle face and sweet,\n   For e'en the children evil songs would sing\nTo mock her as she hasted down the street.\n\nVII.\n\nAlso the men who worshipp'd her of old\n   As she had been a goddess from above,\nGazed at her now with lustful eyes and bold,\n   As she were naught but Paris' light-o'-love;\n   And though in truth they still were proud enough,\nOf that fair gem in their old city set,\n   Yet well she knew that wanton word and scoff\nWent round the camp-fire when the warriors met.\n\nVIII.\n\nThere came a certain holiday when Troy\n   Was wont to send her noble matrons all,\nYoung wives and old, with clamour and with joy,\n   To clothe Athene in her temple hall,\n   And robe her in a stately broider'd pall.\nBut now they drove fair Helen from their train,\n   \"Better,\" they scream'd, \"to cast her from the wall,\nThan mock the Gods with offerings in vain.\"\n\nIX.\n\nOne joy she had, that Paris yet was true,\n   Ay, fickle Paris, true unto the end;\nAnd in the court of Ilios were two\n   Kind hearts, still eager Helen to defend,\n   And help and comfort in all need to lend:--\nThe gentle Hector with soft speech and mild,\n   And the old king that ever was her friend,\nAnd loved her as a father doth his child.\n\nX.\n\nThese, though they knew not all, these blamed her not,\n   But cast the heavy burden on the God,\nWhose wrath, they deem'd, had verily waxed hot\n   Against the painful race on earth that trod,\n   And in God's hand was Helen but the rod\nTo scourge a people that, in unknown wise,\n   Had vex'd the far Olympian abode\nWith secret sin or stinted sacrifice.\n\n* * * * * *\n\nXI.\n\nThe days grew into months, and months to years,\n   And still the Argive army did delay,\nTill folk in Troia half forgot their fears,\n   And almost as of old were glad and gay;\n   And men and maids on Ida dared to stray,\nBut Helen dwelt within her inmost room,\n   And there from dawning to declining day,\nWrought at the patient marvels of her loom.\n\nXII.\n\nYet even there in peace she might not be:\n   There was a nymph, OEnone, in the hills,\nThe daughter of a River-God was she,\n   Of Cebren,--that the mountain silence fills\n   With murmur'd music, for the countless rills\nOf Ida meet him, dancing to the plain,--\n   Her Paris wooed, yet ignorant of ills,\nAmong the shepherd's huts, nor wooed in vain.\n\nXIII.\n\nNay, Summer often found them by the fold\n   In these glad days, ere Paris was a king,\nAnd oft the Autumn, in his car of gold,\n   Had pass'd them, merry at the vintaging:\n   And scarce they felt the breath of the white wing\nOf Winter, in the cave where they would lie\n   On beds of heather by the fire, till Spring\nShould crown them with her buds in passing by.\n\nXIV.\n\nFor elbow-deep their flowery bed was strown\n   With fragrant leaves and with crush'd asphodel,\nAnd sweetly still the shepherd-pipe made moan,\n   And many a tale of Love they had to tell,--\n   How Daphnis loved the strange, shy maiden well,\nAnd how she loved him not, and how he died,\n   And oak-trees moan'd his dirge, and blossoms fell\nLike tears from lindens by the water-side!\n\nXV.\n\nBut colder, fleeter than the Winter's wing,\n   Time pass'd; and Paris changed, and now no more\nOEnone heard him on the mountain sing,\n   Not now she met him in the forest hoar.\n   Nay, but she knew that on an alien shore\nAn alien love he sought; yet was she strong\n   To live, who deem'd that even as of yore\nIn days to come might Paris love her long.\n\nXVI.\n\nFor dark OEnone from her Father drew\n   A power beyond all price; the gift to deal\nWith wounded men, though now the dreadful dew\n   Of Death anoint them, and the secret seal\n   Of Fate be set on them; these might she heal;\nAnd thus OEnone trusted still to save\n   Her lover at the point of death, and steal\nHis life from Helen, and the amorous grave.\n\nXVII.\n\nAnd she had borne, though Paris knew it not,\n   A child, fair Corythus, to be her shame,\nAnd still she mused, whenas her heart was hot,\n   \"He hath no child by that Achaean dame:\"\n   But when her boy unto his manhood came,\nThen sorer yet OEnone did repine,\n   And bade him \"fare to Ilios, and claim\nThy father's love, and all that should be thine!\"\n\nXVIII.\n\nTherewith a golden bodkin from her hair\n   She drew, and from a green-tress'd birchen tree\nShe pluck'd a strip of smooth white bark and fair,\n   And many signs and woful graved she,\n   A message of the evil things to be.\nThen deftly closed the birch-bark, fold on fold,\n   And bound the tokens well and cunningly,\nThree times and four times, with a thread of gold.\n\nXIX.\n\n\"Give these to Argive Helen's hand,\" she cried:\n   And so embraced her child, and with no fear\nBeheld him leaping down the mountain-side,\n   Like a king's son that goes to hunt the deer,\n   Clad softly, and in either hand a spear,\nWith two swift-footed hounds that follow'd him,\n   So leap'd he down the grassy slopes and sheer,\nAnd won the precinct of the forest dim.\n\nXX.\n\nHe trod that ancient path his sire had trod,\n   Far, far below he saw the sea, the town;\nHe moved as light as an immortal god,\n   For mansions in Olympus gliding down.\n   He left the shadow of the forest brown,\nAnd through the shallow waters did he cross,\n   And stood, ere twilight fell, within the crown\nOf towers, the sacred keep of Ilios.\n\nXXI.\n\nNow folk that mark'd him hasting deem'd that he\n   Had come to tell the host was on its way,\nAs one that from the hills had seen the sea\n   Beclouded with the Danaan array,\n   So straight to Paris' house with no delay\nThey led him, and did eagerly await\n   Within the forecourt, in the twilight grey,\nTo hear some certain message of their fate.\n\nXXII.\n\nNow Paris was asleep upon his bed\n   Tired with a listless day; but all along\nThe palace chambers Corythus was led,\n   And still he heard a music, shrill and strong,\n   That seem'd to clamour of an old-world wrong,\nAnd hearts a long time broken; last they came\n   To Helen's bower, the fountain of the song\nThat cried so loud against an ancient shame.\n\nXXIII.\n\nAnd Helen fared before a mighty loom,\n   And sang, and cast her shuttle wrought of gold,\nAnd forth unto the utmost secret room\n   The wave of her wild melody was roll'd;\n   And still she fashion'd marvels manifold,\nStrange shapes of fish and serpent, bear and swan,\n   The loves of the immortal Gods of old,\nWherefrom the peoples of the world began.\n\nXXIV.\n\nNow Helen met the stranger graciously\n   With gentle speech, and bade set forth a chair\nWell wrought of cedar wood and ivory\n   That wise Icmalius had fashion'd fair.\n   But when young Corythus had drunk the rare\nWine of the princes, and had broken bread,\n   Then Helen took the word, and bade declare\nHis instant tidings; and he spake and said,\n\nXXV.\n\n\"Lady and Queen, I have a secret word,\n   And bear a token sent to none but thee,\nAlso I bring message to my Lord\n   That spoken to another may not be.\"\n   Then Helen gave a sign unto her three\nBower-maidens, and they went forth from that place,\n   Silent they went; and all forebodingly,\nThey left the man and woman face to face.\n\nXXVI.\n\nThen from his breast the birchen scroll he took\n   And gave to Helen; and she read therein:\n\"Oh thou that on those hidden runes dost look,\n   Hast thou forgotten quite thine ancient sin,\n   Thy Lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin,\nEven as thy Love forgets the words he spoke\n   The strong oath broken one weak heart to win,\nThe lips that kiss'd him, and the heart that broke?\n\nXXVII.\n\n\"Nay, but methinks thou shalt not quite forget\n   The curse wherewith I curse thee till I die;\nThe tears that on the wood-nymph's cheeks are wet,\n   Shall burn thy hateful beauty deathlessly,\n   Nor shall God raise up seed to thee; but I\nHave borne thy love this messenger: my son,\n   Who yet shall make him glad, for Time goes by\nAnd soon shall thine enchantments all be done:\n\nXXVIII.\n\n\"Ay, soon 'twixt me and Death must be his choice,\n   And little in that hour will Paris care\nFor thy sweet lips, and for thy singing voice,\n   Thine arms of ivory, thy golden hair.\n   Nay, me will he embrace, and will not spare,\nBut bid the folk that hate thee have their joy,\n   And give thee to the mountain beasts to tear,\nOr burn thy body on a tower of Troy.\"\n\nXXIX.\n\nEven as she read, by Aphrodite's will\n   The cloud roll'd back from Helen's memory:\nShe saw the city of the rifted hill,\n   Fair Lacedaemon, 'neath her mountain high;\n   She knew the swift Eurotas running by\nTo mix his sacred waters with the sea,\n   And from the garden close she heard the cry\nOf her beloved child, Hermione.\n\nXXX.\n\nThen instantly the horror of her shame\n   Fell on her, and she saw the coming years;\nFamine, and fire, and plague, and all men's blame,\n   The wounds of warriors and the women's fears;\n   And through her heart her sorrow smote like spears,\nAnd in her soul she knew the utmost smart\n   Of wives left lonely, sires bereaved, the tears\nOf maidens desolate, of loves that part.\n\nXXXI.\n\nShe drain'd the dregs out of the cup of hate;\n   The bitterness of sorrow, shame, and scorn;\nWhere'er the tongues of mortals curse their fate,\n   She saw herself an outcast and forlorn;\n   And hating sore the day that she was born,\nDown in the dust she cast her golden head,\n   There with rent raiment and fair tresses torn,\nAt feet of Corythus she lay for dead.\n\nXXXII.\n\nBut Corythus, beholding her sweet face,\n   And her most lovely body lying low,\nHad pity on her grief and on her grace,\n   Nor heeded now she was his mother's foe,\n   But did what might be done to ease her woe,\nWhile, as he thought, with death for life she strove,\n   And loosed the necklet round her neck of snow,\nAs who that saw had deem'd, with hands of love.\n\nXXXIII.\n\nAnd there was one that saw: for Paris woke\n   Half-deeming and half-dreaming that the van\nOf the great Argive host had scared the folk,\n   And down the echoing corridor he ran\n   To Helen's bower, and there beheld the man\nThat kneel'd beside his lady lying there:\n   No word he spake, but drove his sword a span\nThrough Corythus' fair neck and cluster'd hair.\n\nXXXIV.\n\nThen fell fair Corythus, as falls the tower\n   An earthquake shaketh from a city's crown,\nOr as a tall white fragrant lily-flower\n   A child hath in the garden trampled down,\n   Or as a pine-tree in the forest brown,\nFell'd by the sea-rovers on mountain lands,\n   When they to harry foreign folk are boune,\nTaking their own lives in their reckless hands.\n\nXXXV.\n\nBut still in Paris did his anger burn,\n   And still his sword was lifted up to slay,\nWhen, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn,\n   He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay,\n   'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray,\nAnd looking on them, knew what he had done,\n   Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day,\nKnew how a father's hand had slain a son.\n\nXXXVI.\n\nThen Paris on his face fell grovelling,\n   And the night gather'd, and the silence grew\nWithin the darkened chamber of the king.\n   But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew,\n   And her new woes came back to her anew:\nAh, where is he but knows the bitter pain\n   To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true,\nAnd his ill life returned to him again!\n\nXXXVII.\n\nShe needed none to tell her whence it fell,\n   The thick red rain upon the marble floor:\nShe knew that in her bower she might not dwell,\n   Alone with her own heart for ever more;\n   No sacrifice, no spell, no priestly lore\nCould banish quite the melancholy ghost\n   Of Corythus; a herald sent before\nThem that should die for her, a dreadful host.\n\nXXXVIII.\n\nBut slowly Paris raised him from the earth,\n   And read her face, and knew that she knew all,\nNo more her eyes, in tenderness or mirth,\n   Should answer his, in bower or in hall.\n   Nay, Love had fallen when his child did fall,\nThe stream Love cannot cross ran 'twixt them red;\n   No more was Helen his, whate'er befall,\nNot though the Goddess drove her to his bed.\n\nXXXIX.\n\nThis word he spake, \"the Fates are hard on us\"--\n   Then bade the women do what must be done\nTo the fair body of dead Corythus.\n   And then he hurl'd into the night alone,\n   Wailing unto the spirit of his son,\nThat somewhere in dark mist and sighing wind\n   Must dwell, nor yet to Hades had it won,\nNor quite had left the world of men behind.\n\nXL.\n\nBut wild OEnone by the mountain-path\n   Saw not her son returning to the wold,\nAnd now was she in fear, and now in wrath\n   She cried, \"He hath forgot the mountain fold,\n   And goes in Ilios with a crown of gold:\"\nBut even then she heard men's axes smite\n   Against the beeches slim and ash-trees old,\nThese ancient trees wherein she did delight.\n\nXLI.\n\nThen she arose and silently as Sleep,\n   Unseen she follow'd the slow-rolling wain,\nBeneath an ashen sky that 'gan to weep,\n   Too heavy laden with the latter rain;\n   And all the folk of Troy upon the plain\nShe found, all gather'd round a funeral pyre,\n   And thereon lay her son, her darling slain,\nThe goodly Corythus, her heart's desire!\n\nXLII.\n\nAmong the spices and fair robes he lay,\n   His arm beneath his head, as though he slept.\nFor so the Goddess wrought that no decay,\n   No loathly thing about his body crept;\n   And all the people look'd on him and wept,\nAnd, weeping, Paris lit the pine-wood dry,\n   And lo, a rainy wind arose and swept\nThe flame and fragrance far into the sky.\n\nXLIII.\n\nBut when the force of flame was burning low,\n   Then did they drench the pyre with ruddy wine,\nAnd the white bones of Corythus bestow\n   Within a gold cruse, wrought with many a sign,\n   And wrapp'd the cruse about with linen fine\nAnd bare it to the tomb: when, lo, the wild\n   OEnone sprang, with burning eyes divine,\nAnd shriek'd unto the slayer of her child:\n\nXLIV.\n\n\"Oh Thou, that like a God art sire and slayer,\n   That like a God, dost give and take away!\nMethinks that even now I hear the prayer\n   Thou shalt beseech me with, some later day;\n   When all the world to thy dim eyes grow grey,\nAnd thou shalt crave thy healing at my hand,\n   Then gladly will I mock, and say thee nay,\nAnd watch thine hours run down like running sand!\n\nXLV.\n\n\"Yea, thou shalt die, and leave thy love behind,\n   And little shall she love thy memory!\nBut, oh ye foolish people, deaf and blind,\n   What Death is coming on you from the sea?\"\n   Then all men turned, and lo, upon the lee\nOf Tenedos, beneath the driving rain,\n   The countless Argive ships were racing free,\nThe wind and oarsmen speeding them amain.\n\nXLVI.\n\nThen from the barrow and the burial,\n   Back like a bursting torrent all men fled\nBack to the city and the sacred wall.\n   But Paris stood, and lifted not his head.\n   Alone he stood, and brooded o'er the dead,\nAs broods a lion, when a shaft hath flown,\n   And through the strong heart of his mate hath sped,\nThen will he face the hunters all alone.\n\nXLVII.\n\nBut soon the voice of men on the sea-sand\n   Came round him; and he turned, and gazed, and lo!\nThe Argive ships were dashing on the strand:\n   Then stealthily did Paris bend his bow,\n   And on the string he laid a shaft of woe,\nAnd drew it to the point, and aim'd it well.\n   Singing it sped, and through a shield did go,\nAnd from his barque Protesilaus fell.\n\nXLVIII.\n\nHalf gladdened by the omen, through the plain\n   Went Paris to the walls and mighty gate,\nAnd little heeded he that arrowy rain\n   The Argive bowmen shower'd in helpless hate.\n   Nay; not yet feather'd was the shaft of Fate,\nHis bane, the gift of mighty Heracles\n   To Philoctetes, lying desolate,\nWithin a far off island of the seas.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK V--THE WAR\n\n\nThe war round Troy, and how many brave men fell, and chiefly Sarpedon,\nPatroclus, Hector, Memnon, and Achilles.  The coming of the Amazon, and\nthe wounding of Paris, and his death, and concerning the good end that\nOEnone made.\n\nI.\n\nFor ten long years the Argive leaguer lay\n   Round Priam's folk, and wrought them many woes,\nWhile, as a lion crouch'd above his prey,\n   The Trojans yet made head against their foes;\n   And as the swift sea-water ebbs and flows\nBetween the Straits of Helle and the main,\n   Even so the tide of battle sank and rose,\nAnd fill'd with waifs of war the Ilian plain.\n\nII.\n\nAnd horse on horse was driven, as wave on wave;\n   Like rain upon the deep the arrows fell,\nAnd like the wind, the war-cry of the brave\n   Rang out above the battle's ebb and swell,\n   And long the tale of slain, and sad to tell;\nYet seem'd the end scarce nearer than of yore\n   When nine years pass'd and still the citadel\nFrown'd on the Argive huts beside the shore.\n\nIII.\n\nAnd still the watchers on the city's crown\n   Afar from sacred Ilios might spy\nThe flame from many a fallen subject town\n   Flare on the starry verges of the sky,\n   And still from rich Maeonia came the cry\nOf cities sack'd where'er Achilles led.\n   Yet none the more men deem'd the end was nigh\nWhile knightly Hector fought unvanquished.\n\nIV.\n\nBut ever as each dawn bore grief afar,\n   And further back, wax'd Paris glad and gay,\nAnd on the fringes of the cloud of war\n   His arrows, like the lightning, still would play;\n   Yet fled he Menelaus on a day,\nAnd there had died, but Aphrodite's power\n   Him in a golden cloud did safe convey\nWithin the walls of Helen's fragrant bower.\n\nV.\n\nBut she, in longing for her lord and home,\n   And scorn of her wild lover, did withdraw\nFrom all men's eyes: but in the night would roam\n   Till drowsy watchmen of the city saw\n   A shadowy shape that chill'd the night with awe,\nTreading the battlements; and like a ghost,\n   She stretch'd her lovely arms without a flaw,\nIn shame and longing, to the Argive host.\n\nVI.\n\nBut all day long within her bower she wept,\n   Still dreaming of the dames renown'd of old,\nWhom hate or love of the Immortals swept\n   Within the toils of Ate manifold;\n   And most she loved the ancient tales that told\nHow the great Gods, at length to pity stirr'd,\n   Changed Niobe upon the mountains cold,\nTo a cold stone; and Procne to a bird,\n\nVII.\n\nAnd Myrrha to an incense-breathing tree;--\n   \"And ah,\" she murmur'd, \"that the Gods were kind,\nAnd bade the Harpies lay their hands on me,\n   And bear me with the currents of the wind\n   To the dim end of all things, and the blind\nLand where the Ocean turneth in his bed:\n   Then should I leave mine evil days behind,\nAnd Sleep should fold his wings above my head.\"\n\nVIII.\n\nAnd once she heard a Trojan woman bless\n   The fair-haired Menelaus, her good lord,\nAs brave among brave men, not merciless,\n   Not swift to slay the captives of his sword,\n   Nor wont was he to win the gold abhorr'd\nOf them that sell their captives over sea,\n   And Helen sighed, and bless'd her for that word,\n\"Yet will he ne'er be merciful to me!\"\n\nIX.\n\nIn no wise found she comfort; to abide\n   In Ilios was to dwell with shame and fear,\nAnd if unto the Argive host she hied,\n   Then should she die by him that was most dear.\n   And still the days dragg'd on with bitter cheer,\nTill even the great Gods had little joy,\n   So fast their children fell beneath the spear,\nBelow the windy battlements of Troy.\n\nX.\n\nYet many a prince of south lands, or of east,\n   For dark Cassandra's love came trooping in,\nAnd Priam made them merry at the feast,\n   And all night long they dream'd of wars to win,\n   And with the morning hurl'd into the din,\nAnd cried their lady's name for battle-cry,\n   And won no more than this: for Paris' sin,\nBy Diomede's or Aias' hand to die.\n\nXI.\n\nBut for one hour within the night of woes\n   The hope of Troy burn'd steadfast as a star;\nWhen strife among the Argive lords arose,\n   And dread Achilles held him from the war;\n   Yea, and Apollo from his golden car\nAnd silver bow his shafts of evil sped,\n   And all the plain was darken'd, near and far,\nWith smoke above the pyres of heroes dead.\n\nXII.\n\nAnd many a time through vapour of that smoke\n   The shafts of Troy fell fast; and on the plain\nAll night the Trojan watch fires burn'd and broke\n   Like evil stars athwart a mist of rain.\n   And through the arms and blood, and through the slain,\nLike wolves among the fragments of the fight,\n   Crept spies to slay whoe'er forgat his pain\nOne hour, and fell on slumber in the night.\n\nXIII.\n\nAnd once, when wounded chiefs their tents did keep,\n   And only Aias might his weapons wield,\nCame Hector with his host, and smiting deep,\n   Brake bow and spear, brake axe and glaive and shield,\n   Bulwark and battlement must rend and yield,\nAnd by the ships he smote the foe and cast\n   Fire on the ships; and o'er the stricken field,\nThe Trojans saw that flame arise at last!\n\nXIV.\n\nBut when Achilles saw the soaring flame,\n   And knew the ships in peril, suddenly\nA change upon his wrathful spirit came,\n   Nor will'd he that the Danaans should die:\n   But call'd his Myrmidons, and with a cry\nThey follow'd where, like foam on a sea-wave\n   Patroclus' crest was dancing, white and high,\nAbove the tide that back the Trojans drave.\n\nXV.\n\nBut like a rock amid the shifting sands,\n   And changing springs, and tumult of the deep,\nSarpedon stood, till 'neath Patroclus' hands,\n   Smitten he fell; then Death and gentle Sleep\n   Bare him from forth the battle to the steep\nWhere shines his castle o'er the Lycian dell;\n   There hath he burial due, while all folk weep\nAround the kindly Prince that loved them well.\n\nXVI.\n\nNot unavenged he fell, nor all alone\n   To Hades did his soul indignant fly,\nFor soon was keen Patroclus overthrown\n   By Hector, and the God of archery;\n   And Hector stripp'd his shining panoply,\nBright arms Achilles lent: ah! naked then,\n   Forgetful wholly of his chivalry,\nPatroclus lay, nor heard the strife of men.\n\nXVII.\n\nThen Hector from the war a little space\n   Withdrew, and clad him in Achilles' gear,\nAnd braced the gleaming helmet on his face,\n   And donn'd the corslet, and that mighty spear\n   He grasped--the lance that makes the boldest fear;\nAnd home his comrades bare his arms of gold,\n   Those Priam once had worn, his father dear,\nBut in his father's arms he waxed not old!\n\nXVIII.\n\nThen round Patroclus' body, like a tide\n   That storms the swollen outlet of a stream\nWhen the winds blow, and the rains fall, and wide\n   The river runs, and white the breakers gleam,--\n   Trojans and Argives battled till the beam\nOf Helios was sinking to the wave,\n   And now they near'd the ships: yet few could deem\nThat arms of Argos might the body save.\n\nXIX.\n\nBut even then the tidings sore were borne\n   To great Achilles, of Patroclus dead,\nAnd all his goodly raiment hath he torn,\n   And cast the dust upon his golden head,\n   And many a tear and bitter did he shed.\nAy; there by his own sword had he been slain,\n   But swift his Goddess-mother, Thetis, sped\nForth with her lovely sea-nymphs from the main.\n\nXX.\n\nFor, as a mother when her young child calls\n   Hearkens to that, and hath no other care:\nSo Thetis, from her green and windless halls\n   Rose, at the first word of Achilles' prayer,\n   To comfort him, and promise gifts of fair\nNew armour wrought by an immortal hand;\n   Then like a silver cloud she scaled the air,\nWhere bright the dwellings of Olympus stand.\n\nXXI.\n\nBut, as a beacon from a 'leaguer'd town\n   Within a sea-girt isle, leaps suddenly,\nA cloud by day; but when the sun goes down,\n   The tongues of fire flash out, and soar on high,\n   To summon warlike men that dwell thereby\nAnd bid them bring a rescue over-seas,--\n   So now Athene sent a flame to fly\nFrom brow and temples of Aeacides.\n\nXXII.\n\nThen all unarm'd he sped, and through the throng,\n   He pass'd to the dyke's edge, beyond the wall,\nNor leap'd the ranks of fighting men among,\n   But shouted clearer than the clarion's call\n   When foes on a beleaguer'd city fall.\nThree times he cried, and terror fell on these\n   That heard him; and the Trojans, one and all,\nFled from that shouting of Aeacides.\n\nXXIII.\n\nBackward the Trojans reel'd in headlong flight,\n   Chariots and men, and left their bravest slain;\nAnd the sun fell; but Troy through all the night\n   Watch'd by her fires upon the Ilian plain,\n   For Hector did the sacred walls disdain\nOf Ilios; nor knew that he should stand\n   Ere night return'd, and burial crave in vain,\nUnarm'd, forsaken, at Achilles' hand.\n\nXXIV.\n\nBut all that night within his chamber high\n   Hephaestus made his iron anvils ring;\nAnd, ere the dawn, had wrought a panoply,\n   The goodliest ever worn by mortal king.\n   This to the Argive camp did Thetis bring,\nAnd when her child had proved it, like the star\n   That heralds day, he went forth summoning\nThe host Achaean to delight of war.\n\nXXV.\n\nAnd as a mountain torrent leaves its bed,\n   And seaward sweeps the toils of men in spate,\nOr as a forest-fire, that overhead\n   Burns in the boughs, a thing insatiate,\n   So raged the fierce Achilles in his hate;\nAnd Xanthus, angry for his Trojans slain,\n   Brake forth, while fire and wind made desolate\nWhat war and wave had spared upon the plain.\n\nXXVI.\n\nNow through the fume and vapour of the smoke\n   Between the wind's voice and the water's cry,\nThe battle shouting of the Trojans broke,\n   And reached the Ilian walls confusedly,\n   But over soon the folk that watch'd might spy\nThin broken bands that fled, avoiding death,\n   Yet many a man beneath the spear must die,\nEre by the sacred gateway they drew breath.\n\nXXVII.\n\nAnd as when fire doth on a forest fall\n   And hot winds bear it raging in its flight,\nAnd beechen boughs, and pines are ruin'd all,\n   So raged Achilles' anger in that fight;\n   And many an empty car, with none to smite\nThe madden'd horses, o'er the bridge of war\n   Was wildly whirled, and many a maid's delight\nThat day to the red wolves was dearer far.\n\n* * * * *\n\nXXVIII.\n\nSome Muse that loved not Troy hath done thee wrong,\n   Homer! who whisper'd thee that Hector fled\nThrice round the sacred walls he kept so long;\n   Nay, when he saw his people vanquished\n   Alone he stood for Troy; alone he sped\nOne moment, to the struggle of the spear,\n   And, by the Gods deserted, fell and bled,\nA warrior stainless of reproach and fear.\n\nXXIX.\n\nThen all the people from the battlement\n   Beheld what dreadful things Achilles wrought,\nFor on the body his revenge he spent,\n   The anger of the high Gods heeding nought,\n   To whom was Hector dearest, while he fought,\nOf all the Trojan men that were their joy,\n   But now no more their favour might be bought\nBy savour of his hecatombs in Troy.\n\nXXX.\n\nSo for twelve days rejoiced the Argive host,\n   And now Patroclus hath to Hades won,\nBut Hector naked lay, and still his ghost\n   Must wail where waters of Cocytus run;\n   Till Priam did what no man born hath done,\nWho dared to pass among the Argive bands,\n   And clasp'd the knees of him that slew his son,\nAnd kiss'd his awful homicidal hands.\n\nXXXI.\n\nAt such a price was Hector's body sent\n   To Ilios, where the women wail'd him shrill;\nAnd Helen's sorrow brake into lament\n   As bursts a lake the barriers of a hill,\n   For lost, lost, lost was that one friend who still\nStood by her with kind speech and gentle heart,\n   The sword of war, pure faith, and steadfast will,\nThat strove to keep all evil things apart.\n\n* * * * *\n\nXXXII.\n\nAnd so men buried Hector.  But they came,\n   The Amazons, from frozen fields afar.\nA match for heroes in the dreadful game\n   Of spears, the darlings of the God of War,\n   Whose coming was to Priam dearer far\nThan light to him that is a long while blind,\n   When leech's hand hath taen away the bar\nThat vex'd him, or the healing God is kind;\n\nXXXIII.\n\nAnd Troy was glad, and with the morning light\n   The Amazons went forth to slay and slay;\nAnd wondrously they drave the foe in flight,\n   Until the Sun had wander'd half his way;\n   But when he stoop'd to twilight and the grey\nHour when men loose the steer beneath the yoke,\n   No more Achilles held him from the fray,\nBut dreadful through the women's ranks he broke.\n\nXXXIV.\n\nThen comes eclipse upon the crescent shield,\n   And death on them that bear it, and they fall\nOne here, one there, about the stricken field,\n   As in that art, of Love memorial,\n   Which moulders on the holy Carian wall.\nAy, still we see, still love, still pity there\n   The warrior-maids, so brave, so god-like tall,\nIn Time's despite imperishably fair.\n\nXXXV.\n\nBut, as a dove that braves a falcon, stood\n   Penthesilea, wrath outcasting fear,\nOr as a hind, that in the darkling wood\n   Withstands a lion for her younglings dear;\n   So stood the girl before Achilles' spear;\nIn vain, for singing from his hand it sped,\n   And crash'd through shield and breastplate till the sheer\nCold bronze drank blood, and down the queen fell dead.\n\nXXXVI.\n\nThen from her locks the helm Achilles tore\n   And boasted o'er the slain; but lo, the face\nOf her thus lying in the dust and gore\n   Seem'd lovelier than is the maiden grace\n   Of Artemis, when weary from the chase,\nShe sleepeth in a haunted dell unknown.\n   And all the Argives marvell'd for a space,\nBut most Achilles made a heavy moan:\n\nXXXVII.\n\nAnd in his heart there came the weary thought\n   Of all that was, and all that might have been,\nOf all the sorrow that his sword had wrought,\n   Of Death that now drew near him: of the green\n   Vales of Larissa, where, with such a queen,\nWith such a love as now his spear had slain,\n   He had been happy, who must wind the skein\nOf grievous wars, and ne'er be glad again.\n\nXXXVIII.\n\nYea, now wax'd Fate half weary of her game,\n   And had no care but aye to kill and kill,\nAnd many young kings to the battle came,\n   And of that joy they quickly had their fill,\n   And last came Memnon: and the Trojans still\nTook heart, like wearied mariners that see\n   (Long toss'd on unknown waves at the winds' will)\nThrough clouds the gleaming crest of Helike.\n\nXXXIX.\n\nFor Memnon was the child of the bright Dawn,\n   A Goddess wedded to a mortal king,\nWho dwells for ever on the shores withdrawn\n   That border on the land of sun-rising;\n   And he was nurtured nigh the sacred spring\nThat is the hidden fountain of all seas,\n   By them that in the Gods' own garden sing,\nThe lily-maidens call'd Hesperides.\n\nXL.\n\nBut him the child of Thetis in the fight\n   Met on a windy winter day, when high\nThe dust was whirled, and wrapp'd them like the night\n   That falleth on the mountains stealthily\n   When the floods come, and down their courses dry\nThe torrents roar, and lightning flasheth far:\n   So rang, so shone their harness terribly\nBeneath the blinding thunder-cloud of war.\n\nXLI.\n\nThen the Dawn shudder'd on her golden throne,\n   And called unto the West Wind, and he blew\nAnd brake the cloud asunder; and alone\n   Achilles stood, but Memnon, smitten through,\n   Lay beautiful amid the dreadful dew\nOf battle, and a deathless heart was fain\n   Of tears, to Gods impossible, that drew\nFrom mortal hearts a little of their pain.\n\nXLII.\n\nBut now, their leader slain, the Trojans fled,\n   And fierce Achilles drove them in his hate,\nAvenging still his dear Patroclus dead,\n   Nor knew the hour with his own doom was great,\n   Nor trembled, standing in the Scaean gate,\nWhere ancient prophecy foretold his fall;\n   Then suddenly there sped the bolt of Fate,\nAnd smote Achilles by the Ilian wall:\n\nXLIII.\n\nFrom Paris' bow it sped, and even there,\n   Even as he grasp'd the skirts of victory,\nAchilles fell, nor any man might dare\n   From forth the Trojan gateway to draw nigh;\n   But, as the woodmen watch a lion die,\nPierced with the hunter's arrow, nor come near\n   Till Death hath veil'd his eyelids utterly,\nEven so the Trojans held aloof in fear.\n\nXLIV.\n\nBut there his fellows on his wondrous shield\n   Laid the fair body of Achilles slain,\nAnd sadly bare him through the trampled field,\n   And lo! the deathless maidens of the main\n   Rose up, with Thetis, from the windy plain,\nAnd round the dead man beautiful they cried,\n   Lamenting, and with melancholy strain\nThe sweet-voiced Muses mournfully replied.\n\nXLV.\n\nYea, Muses and Sea-maidens sang his dirge,\n   And mightily the chant arose and shrill,\nAnd wondrous echoes answer'd from the surge\n   Of the grey sea, and from the holy hill\n   Of Ida; and the heavy clouds and chill\nWere gathering like mourners, sad and slow,\n   And Zeus did thunder mightily, and fill\nThe dells and glades of Ida deep with snow.\n\nXLVI.\n\nNow Paris was not sated with the fame\n   And rich reward Troy gave his archery;\nBut o'er the wine he boasted that the game\n   That very night he deem'd to win, or die;\n   \"For scarce their watch the tempest will defy,\"\nHe said, \"and all undream'd of might we go,\n   And fall upon the Argives where they lie,\nUnseen, unheard, amid the silent snow.\"\n\nXLVII.\n\nSo, flush'd with wine, and clad in raiment white\n   Above their mail, the young men follow'd him,\nTheir guide a fading camp-fire in the night,\n   And the sea's moaning in the distance dim.\n   And still with eddying snow the air did swim,\nAnd darkly did they wend they knew not where,\n   White in that cursed night: an army grim,\n'Wilder'd with wine, and blind with whirling air.\n\nXLVIII.\n\nThere was an outcast in the Argive host,\n   One Philoctetes; whom Odysseus' wile,\n(For, save he help'd, the Leaguer all was lost,)\n   Drew from his lair within the Lemnian isle.\n   But him the people, as a leper vile,\nHated, and drave to a lone hut afar,\n   For wounded sore was he, and many a while\nHis cries would wake the host foredone with war.\n\nXLIX.\n\nNow Philoctetes was an archer wight;\n   But in his quiver had he little store\nOf arrows tipp'd with bronze, and feather'd bright;\n   Nay, his were blue with mould, and fretted o'er\n   With many a spell Melampus wrought of yore,\nSinging above his task a song of bane;\n   And they were venom'd with the Centaur's gore,\nAnd tipp'd with bones of men a long while slain.\n\nL.\n\nThis wretch for very pain might seldom sleep,\n   And that night slept not: in the moaning blast\nHe deem'd the dead about his hut did creep,\n   And silently he rose, and round him cast\n   His raiment foul, and from the door he pass'd,\nAnd peer'd into the night, and soothly heard\n   A whisper'd voice; then gripp'd his arrows fast\nAnd strung his bow, and cried a bitter word:\n\nLI.\n\n\"Art thou a gibbering ghost with war outworn,\n   And thy faint life in Hades not begun?\nArt thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn,\n   And yet dost live, and look upon the sun?\n   If man,--methinks thy pleasant days are done,\nAnd thou shalt writhe in torment worse than mine;\n   If ghost,--new pain in Hades hast thou won,\nAnd there with double woe shalt surely pine.\"\n\nLII.\n\nHe spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft\n   At venture through the midnight and the snow,\nA little while he listen'd, then he laugh'd\n   Within himself, a dreadful laugh and low;\n   For over well the answer did he know\nThat midnight gave his message, the sharp cry\n   And armour rattling on a fallen foe\nThat now was learning what it is to die.\n\nLIII.\n\nThen Philoctetes crawl'd into his den\n   And hugg'd himself against the bitter cold,\nWhile round their leader came the Trojan men\n   And bound his wound, and bare him o'er the wold,\n   Back to the lights of Ilios; but the gold\nOf Dawn was breaking on the mountains white,\n   Or ere they won within the guarded fold,\nLong 'wilder'd in the tempest and the night.\n\nLIV.\n\nAnd through the gate, and through the silent street,\n   And houses where men dream'd of war no more,\nThe bearers wander'd with their weary feet,\n   And Paris to his high-roof'd house they bore.\n   But vainly leeches on his wound did pore,\nAnd vain was Argive Helen's magic song,\n   Ah, vain her healing hands, and all her lore,\nTo help the life that wrought her endless wrong.\n\nLV.\n\nSlow pass'd the fever'd hours, until the grey\n   Cold light was paling, and a sullen glow\nOf livid yellow crown'd the dying day,\n   And brooded on the wastes of mournful snow.\n   Then Paris whisper'd faintly, \"I must go\nAnd face that wild wood-maiden of the hill;\n   For none but she can win from overthrow\nTroy's life, and mine that guards it, if she will.\"\n\nLVI.\n\nSo through the dumb white meadows, deep with snow,\n   They bore him on a pallet shrouded white,\nAnd sore they dreaded lest an ambush'd foe\n   Should hear him moan, or mark the moving light\n   That waved before their footsteps in the night;\nAnd much they joy'd when Ida's knees were won,\n   And 'neath the pines upon an upland height,\nThey watch'd the star that heraldeth the sun.\n\nLVII.\n\nFor under woven branches of the pine,\n   The soft dry needles like a carpet spread,\nAnd high above the arching boughs did shine\n   In frosty fret of silver, that the red\n   New dawn fired into gold-work overhead:\nWithin that vale where Paris oft had been\n   With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled\nTo be the sinful lover of a Queen.\n\nLVIII.\n\nNot here they found OEnone: \"Nay, not here,\"\n   Said Paris, faint and low, \"shall she be found;\nNay, bear me up the mountain, where the drear\n   Winds walk for ever on a haunted ground.\n   Methinks I hear her sighing in their sound;\nOr some God calls me there, a dying man.\n   Perchance my latest journeying is bound\nBack where the sorrow of my life began.\"\n\nLIX.\n\nThey reach'd the gateway of that highest glen\n   And halted, wond'ring what the end should be;\nBut Paris whisper'd Helen, while his men\n   Fell back: \"Here judged I Gods, here shalt thou see\n   What judgment mine old love will pass on me.\nBut hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know,\n   Whether the Gods at length will set thee free\nFrom that old net they wove so long ago.\"\n\nLX.\n\nAh, there with wide snows round her like a pall,\n   OEnone crouch'd in sable robes; as still\nAs Winter brooding o'er the Summer's fall,\n   Or Niobe upon her haunted hill,\n   A woman changed to stone by grief, where chill\nThe rain-drops fall like tears, and the wind sighs:\n   And Paris deem'd he saw a deadly will\nUnmoved in wild OEnone's frozen eyes.\n\nLXI.\n\n\"Nay, prayer to her were vain as prayer to Fate,\"\n   He murmur'd, almost glad that it was so,\nLike some sick man that need no longer wait,\n   But his pain lulls as Death draws near his woe.\n   And Paris beckon'd to his men, and slow\nThey bore him dying from that fatal place,\n   And did not turn again, and did not know\nThe soft repentance on OEnone's face.\n\nLXII.\n\nBut Paris spake to Helen: \"Long ago,\n   Dear, we were glad, who never more shall be\nTogether, where the west winds fainter blow\n   Round that Elysian island of the sea,\n   Where Zeus from evil days shall set thee free.\nNay, kiss me once, it is a weary while,\n   Ten weary years since thou hast smiled on me,\nBut, Helen, say good-bye, with thine old smile!\"\n\nLXIII.\n\nAnd as the dying sunset through the rain\n   Will flush with rosy glow a mountain height,\nEven so, at his last smile, a blush again\n   Pass'd over Helen's face, so changed and white;\n   And through her tears she smiled, his last delight,\nThe last of pleasant life he knew, for grey\n   The veil of darkness gather'd, and the night\nClosed o'er his head, and Paris pass'd away.\n\nLXIV.\n\nThen for one hour in Helen's heart re-born,\n   Awoke the fatal love that was of old,\nEre she knew all, and the cold cheeks outworn,\n   She kiss'd, she kiss'd the hair of wasted gold,\n   The hands that ne'er her body should enfold;\nThen slow she follow'd where the bearers led,\n   Follow'd dead Paris through the frozen wold\nBack to the town where all men wish'd her dead.\n\nLXV.\n\nPerchance it was a sin, I know not, this!\n   Howe'er it be, she had a woman's heart,\nAnd not without a tear, without a kiss,\n   Without some strange new birth of the old smart,\n   From her old love of the brief days could part\nFor ever; though the dead meet, ne'er shall they\n   Meet, and be glad by Aphrodite's art,\nWhose souls have wander'd each its several way.\n\n* * * * *\n\nLXVI.\n\nAnd now was come the day when on a pyre\n   Men laid fair Paris, in a broider'd pall,\nAnd fragrant spices cast into the fire,\n   And round the flame slew many an Argive thrall.\n   When, like a ghost, there came among them all,\nA woman, once beheld by them of yore,\n   When first through storm and driving rain the tall\nBlack ships of Argos dash'd upon the shore.\n\nLXVII.\n\nNot now in wrath OEnone came; but fair\n   Like a young bride when nigh her bliss she knows,\nAnd in the soft night of her fallen hair\n   Shone flowers like stars, more white than Ida's snows,\n   And scarce men dared to look on her, of those\nThe pyre that guarded; suddenly she came,\n   And sprang upon the pyre, and shrill arose\nHer song of death, like incense through the flame.\n\nLXVIII.\n\nAnd still the song, and still the flame went up,\n   But when the flame wax'd fierce, the singing died;\nAnd soon with red wine from a golden cup\n   Priests drench'd the pyre; but no man might divide\n   The ashes of the Bridegroom from the Bride.\nNay, they were wedded, and at rest again,\n   As in those old days on the mountain-side,\nBefore the promise of their youth was vain.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK VI--THE SACK OF TROY.  THE RETURN OF HELEN\n\n\nThe sack of Troy, and of how Menelaus would have let stone Helen, but\nAphrodite saved her, and made them at one again, and how they came home\nto Lacedaemon, and of their translation to Elysium.\n\nI.\n\nThere came a day, when Trojan spies beheld\n   How, o'er the Argive leaguer, all the air\nWas pure of smoke, no battle-din there swell'd,\n   Nor any clarion-call was sounding there!\n   Yea, of the serried ships the strand was bare,\nAnd sea and shore were still, as long ago\n   When Ilios knew not Helen, and the fair\nSweet face that makes immortal all her woe.\n\nII.\n\nSo for a space the watchers on the wall\n   Were silent, wond'ring what these things might mean.\nBut, at the last, sent messengers to call\n   Priam, and all the elders, and the lean\n   Remnant of goodly chiefs, that once had been\nThe shield and stay of Ilios, and her joy,\n   Nor yet despair'd, but trusted Gods unseen,\nAnd cast their spears, and shed their blood for Troy.\n\nIII.\n\nThey came, the more part grey, grown early old,\n   In war and plague; but with them was the young\nCoroebus, that but late had left the fold\n   And flocks of sheep Maeonian hills among,\n   And valiantly his lot with Priam flung,\nFor love of a lost cause and a fair face,--\n   The eyes that once the God of Pytho sung,\nThat now look'd darkly to the slaughter-place.\n\nIV.\n\nNow while the elders kept their long debate,\n   Coroebus stole unheeded to his band,\nAnd led a handful by a postern gate\n   Across the plain, across the barren land\n   Where once the happy vines were wont to stand,\nAnd 'mid the clusters once did maidens sing,--\n   But now the plain was waste on every hand,\nThough here and there a flower would breathe of Spring.\n\nV.\n\nSo swift across the trampled battle-field\n   Unchallenged still, but wary, did they pass,\nBy many a broken spear or shatter'd shield\n   That in Fate's hour appointed faithless was:\n   Only the heron cried from the morass\nBy Xanthus' side, and ravens, and the grey\n   Wolves left their feasting in the tangled grass,\nGrudging; and loiter'd, nor fled far away.\n\nVI.\n\nThere lurk'd no spears in the high river-banks,\n   No ambush by the cairns of men outworn,\nBut empty stood the huts, in dismal ranks,\n   Where men through all these many years had borne\n   Fierce summer, and the biting winter's scorn;\nAnd here a sword was left, and there a bow,\n   But ruinous seem'd all things and forlorn,\nAs in some camp forsaken long ago.\n\nVII.\n\nGorged wolves crept round the altars, and did eat\n   The flesh of victims that the priests had slain,\nAnd wild dogs fought above the sacred meat\n   Late offer'd to the deathless Gods in vain,\n   By men that, for reward of all their pain,\nMust haul the ropes, and weary at the oar,\n   Or, drowning, clutch at foam amid the main,\nNor win their haven on the Argive shore.\n\nVIII.\n\nNot long the young men marvell'd at the sight,\n   But grasping one a sword, and one the spear\nAias, or Tydeus' son, had borne in fight,\n   They sped, and fill'd the town with merry cheer,\n   For folk were quick the happy news to hear,\nAnd pour'd through all the gates into the plain,\n   Rejoicing as they wander'd far and near,\nO'er the long Argive toils endured in vain.\n\nIX.\n\nAh, sweet it was, without the city walls,\n   To hear the doves coo, and the finches sing;\nAh, sweet, to twine their true-loves coronals\n   Of woven wind-flowers, and each fragrant thing\n   That blossoms in the footsteps of the spring;\nAnd sweet, to lie, forgetful of their grief,\n   Where violets trail by waters wandering,\nAnd the wild fig-tree putteth forth his leaf!\n\nX.\n\nNow while they wander'd as they would, they found\n   A wondrous thing: a marvel of man's skill,\nThat stood within a vale of hollow ground,\n   And bulk'd scarce smaller than the bitter-hill,--\n   The common barrow that the dead men fill\nWho died in the long leaguer,--not of earth,\n   Was this new portent, but of tree, and still\nThe Trojans stood, and marvell'd 'mid their mirth.\n\nXI.\n\nAy, much they wonder'd what this thing might be,\n   Shaped like a Horse it was; and many a stain\nThere show'd upon the mighty beams of tree,\n   For some with fire were blacken'd, some with rain\n   Were dank and dark amid white planks of plane,\nNew cut among the trees that now were few\n   On wasted Ida; but men gazed in vain,\nNor truth thereof for all their searching knew.\n\nXII.\n\nAt length they deem'd it was a sacred thing,\n   Vow'd to Poseidon, monarch of the deep,\nAnd that herewith the Argives pray'd the King\n   Of wind and wave to lull the seas to sleep;\n   So this, they cried, within the sacred keep\nOf Troy must rest, memorial of the war;\n   And sturdily they haled it up the steep,\nAnd dragg'd the monster to their walls afar.\n\nXIII.\n\nAll day they wrought: and children crown'd with flowers\n   Laid light hands on the ropes; old men would ply\nTheir feeble force; so through the merry hours\n   They toil'd, midst laughter and sweet minstrelsy,\n   And late they drew the great Horse to the high\nCrest of the hill, and wide the tall gates swang;\n   But thrice, for all their force, it stood thereby\nUnmoved, and thrice like smitten armour rang.\n\nXIV.\n\nNatheless they wrought their will; then altar fires\n   The Trojans built, and did the Gods implore\nTo grant fulfilment of all glad desires.\n   But from the cups the wine they might not pour,\n   The flesh upon the spits did writhe and roar,\nThe smoke grew red as blood, and many a limb\n   Of victims leap'd upon the temple floor,\nTrembling; and groans amid the chapels dim\n\nXV.\n\nRang low, and from the fair Gods' images\n   And from their eyes, dropp'd sweat and many a tear;\nThe walls with blood were dripping, and on these\n   That sacrificed, came horror and great fear;\n   The holy laurels to Apollo dear\nBeside his temple faded suddenly,\n   And wild wolves from the mountains drew anear,\nAnd ravens through the temples seem'd to fly.\n\nXVI.\n\nYet still the men of Troy were glad at heart,\n   And o'er strange meat they revell'd, like folk fey,\nThough each would shudder if he glanced apart,\n   For round their knees the mists were gather'd grey,\n   Like shrouds on men that Hell-ward take their way;\nBut merrily withal they feasted thus,\n   And laugh'd with crooked lips, and oft would say\nSome evil-sounding word and ominous.\n\nXVII.\n\nAnd Hecuba among her children spake,\n   \"Let each man choose the meat he liketh best,\nFor bread no more together shall we break.\n   Nay, soon from all my labour must I rest,\n   But eat ye well, and drink the red wine, lest\nYe blame my house-wifery among men dead.\"\n   And all they took her saying for a jest,\nAnd sweetly did they laugh at that she said.\n\nXVIII.\n\nThen, like a raven on the of night,\n   The wild Cassandra flitted far and near,\nStill crying, \"Gather, gather for the fight,\n   And brace the helmet on, and grasp the spear,\n   For lo, the legions of the Night are here!\"\nSo shriek'd the dreadful prophetess divine.\n   But all men mock'd, and were of merry cheer;\nSafe as the Gods they deem'd them, o'er their wine.\n\nXIX.\n\nFor now with minstrelsy the air was sweet,\n   The soft spring air, and thick with incense smoke;\nAnd bands of happy dancers down the street\n   Flew from the flower-crown'd doors, and wheel'd, and broke;\n   And loving words the youths and maidens spoke,\nFor Aphrodite did their hearts beguile,\n   As when beneath grey cavern or green oak\nThe shepherd men and maidens meet and smile.\n\nXX.\n\nNo guard they set, for truly to them all\n   Did Love and slumber seem exceeding good;\nThere was no watch by open gate nor wall,\n   No sentinel by Pallas' image stood;\n   But silence grew, as in an autumn wood\nWhen tempests die, and the vex'd boughs have ease,\n   And wind and sunlight fade, and soft the mood\nOf sacred twilight falls upon the trees.\n\nXXI.\n\nThen the stars cross'd the zenith, and there came\n   On Troy that hour when slumber is most deep,\nBut any man that watch'd had seen a flame\n   Spring from the tall crest of the Trojan keep;\n   While from the belly of the Horse did leap\nMen arm'd, and to the gates went stealthily,\n   While up the rocky way to Ilios creep\nThe Argives, new return'd across the sea.\n\nXXII.\n\nNow when the silence broke, and in that hour\n   When first the dawn of war was blazing red,\nThere came a light in Helen's fragrant bower,\n   As on that evil night before she fled\n   From Lacedaemon and her marriage bed;\nAnd Helen in great fear lay still and cold,\n   For Aphrodite stood above her head,\nAnd spake in that sweet voice she knew of old:\n\nXXIII.\n\n\"Beloved one that dost not love me, wake!\n   Helen, the night is over, the dawn is near,\nAnd safely shalt thou fare with me, and take\n   Thy way through fire and blood, and have no fear:\n   A little hour, and ended is the drear\nTale of thy sorrow and thy wandering.\n   Nay, long hast thou to live in happy cheer,\nBy fair Eurotas, with thy lord, the King.\"\n\nXXIV.\n\nThen Helen rose, and in a cloud of gold,\n   Unseen amid the vapour of the fire,\nDid Aphrodite veil her, fold on fold;\n   And through the darkness, thronged with faces dire,\n   And o'er men's bodies fallen in a mire\nOf new spilt blood and wine, the twain did go\n   Where Lust and Hate were mingled in desire,\nAnd dreams and death were blended in one woe.\n\nXXV.\n\nFire and the foe were masters now: the sky\n   Flared like the dawn of that last day of all,\nWhen men for pity to the sea shall cry,\n   And vainly on the mountain tops shall call\n   To fall and end the horror in their fall;\nAnd through the vapour dreadful things saw they,\n   The maidens leaping from the city wall,\nThe sleeping children murder'd where they lay.\n\nXXVI.\n\nYea, cries like those that make the hills of Hell\n   Ring and re-echo, sounded through the night,\nThe screams of burning horses, and the yell\n   Of young men leaping naked into fight,\n   And shrill the women shriek'd, as in their flight\nShriek the wild cranes, when overhead they spy\n   Between the dusky cloud-land and the bright\nBlue air, an eagle stooping from the sky.\n\nXXVII.\n\nAnd now the red glare of the burning shone\n   On deeds so dire the pure Gods might not bear,\nSave Ares only, long to look thereon,\n   But with a cloud they darken'd all the air.\n   And, even then, within the temple fair\nOf chaste Athene, did Cassandra cower,\n   And cried aloud an unavailing prayer;\nFor Aias was the master in that hour.\n\nXXVIII.\n\nMan's lust won what a God's love might not win,\n   And heroes trembled, and the temple floor\nShook, when one cry went up into the din,\n   And shamed the night to silence; then the roar\n   Of war and fire wax'd great as heretofore,\nTill each roof fell, and every palace gate\n   Was shatter'd, and the King's blood shed; nor more\nRemain'd to do, for Troy was desolate.\n\nXXIX.\n\nThen dawn drew near, and changed to clouds of rose\n   The dreadful smoke that clung to Ida's head;\nBut Ilios was ashes, and the foes\n   Had left the embers and the plunder'd dead;\n   And down the steep they drove the prey, and sped\nBack to the swift ships, with a captive train,--\n   While Menelaus, slow, with drooping head,\nFollow'd, like one lamenting, through the plain.\n\nXXX.\n\nWhere death might seem the surest, by the gate\n   Of Priam, where the spears raged, and the tall\nTowers on the foe were falling, sought he fate\n   To look on Helen once, and then to fall,\n   Nor see with living eyes the end of all,\nWhat time the host their vengeance should fulfil,\n   And cast her from the cliff below the wall,\nOr burn her body on the windy hill.\n\nXXXI.\n\nBut Helen found he never, where the flame\n   Sprang to the roofs, and Helen ne'er he found\nWhere flock'd the wretched women in their shame\n   The helpless altars of the Gods around,\n   Nor lurk'd she in deep chambers underground,\nWhere the priests trembled o'er their hidden gold,\n   Nor where the armed feet of foes resound\nIn shrines to silence consecrate of old.\n\nXXXII.\n\nSo wounded to his hut and wearily\n   Came Menelaus; and he bow'd his head\nBeneath the lintel neither fair nor high;\n   And, lo!  Queen Helen lay upon his bed,\n   Flush'd like a child in sleep, and rosy-red,\nAnd at his footstep did she wake and smile,\n   And spake: \"My lord, how hath thy hunting sped,\nMethinks that I have slept a weary while!\"\n\nXXXIII.\n\nFor Aphrodite made the past unknown\n   To Helen, as of old, when in the dew\nOf that fair dawn the net was round her thrown:\n   Nay, now no memory of Troy brake through\n   The mist that veil'd from her sweet eyes and blue\nThe dreadful days and deeds all over-past,\n   And gladly did she greet her lord anew,\nAnd gladly would her arms have round him cast.\n\nXXXIV.\n\nThen leap'd she up in terror, for he stood\n   Before her, like a lion of the wild,\nHis rusted armour all bestain'd with blood,\n   His mighty hands with blood of men defiled,\n   And strange was all she saw: the spears, the piled\nRaw skins of slaughter'd beasts with many a stain;\n   And low he spake, and bitterly he smiled,\n\"The hunt is ended, and the spoil is ta'en.\"\n\nXXXV.\n\nNo more he spake; for certainly he deem'd\n   That Aphrodite brought her to that place,\nAnd that of her loved archer Helen dream'd,\n   Of Paris; at that thought the mood of grace\n   Died in him, and he hated her fair face,\nAnd bound her hard, not slacking for her tears;\n   Then silently departed for a space,\nTo seek the ruthless counsel of his peers.\n\nXXXVI.\n\nNow all the Kings were feasting in much joy,\n   Seated or couch'd upon the carpets fair\nThat late had strown the palace floors of Troy,\n   And lovely Trojan ladies served them there,\n   And meat from off the spits young princes bare;\nBut Menelaus burst among them all,\n   Strange, 'mid their revelry, and did not spare,\nBut bade the Kings a sudden council call.\n\nXXXVII.\n\nTo mar their feast the Kings had little will,\n   Yet did they as he bade, in grudging wise,\nAnd heralds call'd the host unto the hill\n   Heap'd of sharp stones, where ancient Ilus lies.\n   And forth the people flock'd, as throng'd as flies\nThat buzz about the milking-pails in spring,\n   When life awakens under April skies,\nAnd birds from dawning into twilight sing.\n\nXXXVIII.\n\nThen Helen through the camp was driven and thrust,\n   Till even the Trojan women cried in glee,\n\"Ah, where is she in whom thou put'st thy trust,\n   The Queen of love and laughter, where is she?\n   Behold the last gift that she giveth thee,\nThou of the many loves! to die alone,\n   And round thy flesh for robes of price to be\nThe cold close-clinging raiment of sharp stone.\"\n\nXXXIX.\n\nAh, slowly through that trodden field and bare\n   They pass'd, where scarce the daffodil might spring,\nFor war had wasted all, but in the air\n   High overhead the mounting lark did sing;\n   Then all the army gather'd in a ring\nRound Helen, round their torment, trapp'd at last,\n   And many took up mighty stones to fling\nFrom shards and flints on Ilus' barrow cast.\n\nXL.\n\nThen Menelaus to the people spoke,\n   And swift his wing'd words came as whirling snow,\n\"Oh ye that overlong have borne the yoke,\n   Behold the very fountain of your woe!\n   For her ye left your dear homes long ago,\nOn Argive valley or Boeotian plain;\n   But now the black ships rot from stern to prow,\nWho knows if ye shall see your own again?\n\nXLI.\n\n\"Ay, and if home ye win, ye yet may find,\n   Ye that the winds waft, and the waters bear\nTo Argos! ye are quite gone out of mind;\n   Your fathers, dear and old, dishonour'd there;\n   Your children deem you dead, and will not share\nTheir lands with you; on mainland or on isle,\n   Strange men are wooing now the women fair,\nAnd love doth lightly woman's heart beguile.\n\nXLII.\n\n\"These sorrows hath this woman wrought alone:\n   So fall upon her straightway that she die,\nAnd clothe her beauty in a cloak of stone!\"\n   He spake, and truly deem'd to hear her cry\n   And see the sharp flints straight and deadly fly;\nBut each man stood and mused on Helen's face,\n   And her undream'd-of beauty, brought so nigh\nOn that bleak plain, within that ruin'd place.\n\nLXIII.\n\nAnd as in far off days that were to be,\n   The sense of their own sin did men constrain,\nThat they must leave the sinful woman free\n   Who, by their law, had verily been slain,\n   So Helen's beauty made their anger vain,\nAnd one by one his gather'd flints let fall;\n   And like men shamed they stole across the plain,\nBack to the swift ships and their festival.\n\nXLIV.\n\nBut Menelaus look'd on her and said,\n   \"Hath no man then condemn'd thee,--is there none\nTo shed thy blood for all that thou hast shed,\n   To wreak on thee the wrongs that thou hast done.\n   Nay, as mine own soul liveth, there is one\nThat will not set thy barren beauty free,\n   But slay thee to Poseidon and the Sun\nBefore a ship Achaian takes the sea!\"\n\nXLV.\n\nTherewith he drew his sharp sword from his thigh\n   As one intent to slay her: but behold,\nA sudden marvel shone across the sky!\n   A cloud of rosy fire, a flood of gold,\n   And Aphrodite came from forth the fold\nOf wondrous mist, and sudden at her feet\n   Lotus and crocus on the trampled wold\nBrake, and the slender hyacinth was sweet.\n\nXLVI.\n\nThen fell the point that never bloodless fell\n   When spear bit harness in the battle din,\nFor Aphrodite spake, and like a spell\n   Wrought her sweet voice persuasive, till within\n   His heart there lived no memory of sin,\nNo thirst for vengeance more, but all grew plain,\n   And wrath was molten in desire to win\nThe golden heart of Helen once again.\n\nXLVII.\n\nThen Aphrodite vanish'd as the day\n   Passes, and leaves the darkling earth behind;\nAnd overhead the April sky was grey,\n   But Helen's arms about her lord were twined,\n   And his round her as clingingly and kind,\nAs when sweet vines and ivy in the spring\n   Join their glad leaves, nor tempests may unbind\nThe woven boughs, so lovingly they cling.\n\n* * * * *\n\nXLVIII.\n\nNoon long was over-past, but sacred night\n   Beheld them not upon the Ilian shore;\nNay, for about the waning of the light\n   Their swift ships wander'd on the waters hoar,\n   Nor stay'd they the Olympians to adore,\nSo eagerly they left that cursed land,\n   But many a toil, and tempests great and sore,\nBefell them ere they won the Argive strand.\n\nXLIX.\n\nTo Cyprus and Phoenicia wandering\n   They came, and many a ship, and many a man\nThey lost, and perish'd many a precious thing\n   While bare before the stormy North they ran,\n   And further far than when their quest began\nFrom Argos did they seem,--a weary while,--\n   Becalm'd in sultry seas Egyptian,\nA long day's voyage from the mouths of Nile.\n\nL.\n\nBut there the Gods had pity on them, and there\n   The ancient Proteus taught them how to flee\nFrom that so distant deep,--the fowls of air\n   Scarce in one year can measure out that sea;\n   Yet first within Aegyptus must they be,\nAnd hecatombs must offer,--quickly then\n   The Gods abated of their jealousy,\nWherewith they scourge the negligence of men.\n\nLI.\n\nAnd strong and fair the south wind blew, and fleet\n   Their voyaging, so merrily they fled\nTo win that haven where the waters sweet\n   Of clear Eurotas with the brine are wed,\n   And swift their chariots and their horses sped\nTo pleasant Lacedaemon, lying low\n   Grey in the shade of sunset, but the head\nOf tall Taygetus like fire did glow.\n\nLII.\n\nAnd what but this is sweet: at last to win\n   The fields of home, that change not while we change;\nTo hear the birds their ancient song begin;\n   To wander by the well-loved streams that range\n   Where not one pool, one moss-clad stone is strange,\nNor seem we older than long years ago,\n   Though now beneath the grey roof of the grange\nThe children dwell of them we used to know?\n\nLIII.\n\nCame there no trouble in the later days\n   To mar the life of Helen, when the old\nCrowns and dominions perish'd, and the blaze\n   Lit by returning Heraclidae roll'd\n   Through every vale and every happy fold\nOf all the Argive land?  Nay, peacefully\n   Did Menelaus and the Queen behold\nThe counted years of mortal life go by.\n\nLIV.\n\n\"Death ends all tales,\" but this he endeth not;\n   They grew not grey within the valley fair\nOf hollow Lacedaemon, but were brought\n   To Rhadamanthus of the golden hair,\n   Beyond the wide world's end; ah never there\nComes storm nor snow; all grief is left behind,\n   And men immortal, in enchanted air,\nBreathe the cool current of the Western wind.\n\nLV.\n\nBut Helen was a Saint in Heathendom,\n   A kinder Aphrodite; without fear\nMaidens and lovers to her shrine would come\n   In fair Therapnae, by the waters clear\n   Of swift Eurotas; gently did she hear\nAll prayers of love, and not unheeded came\n   The broken supplication, and the tear\nOf man or maiden overweigh'd with shame.\n\n\nO'er Helen's shrine the grass is growing green,\n   In desolate Therapnae; none the less\nHer sweet face now unworshipp'd and unseen\n   Abides the symbol of all loveliness,\n   Of Beauty ever stainless in the stress\nOf warring lusts and fears;--and still divine,\n   Still ready with immortal peace to bless\nThem that with pure hearts worship at her shrine.\n\n\n\n\nNOTE\n\n\n[In this story in rhyme of the fortunes of Helen, the theory that she was\nan unwilling victim of the Gods has been preferred.  Many of the\ndescriptions of manners are versified from the Iliad and the Odyssey.  The\ndescription of the events after the death of Hector, and the account of\nthe sack of Troy, is chiefly borrowed from Quintus Smyrnaeus.]\n\nThe character and history of Helen of Troy have been conceived of in very\ndifferent ways by poets and mythologists.  In attempting to trace the\nchief current of ancient traditions about Helen, we cannot really get\nfurther back than the Homeric poems, the Iliad and Odyssey.  Philological\nconjecture may assure us that Helen, like most of the characters of old\nromance, is \"merely the Dawn,\" or Light, or some other bright being\ncarried away by Paris, who represents Night, or Winter, or the Cloud, or\nsome other power of darkness.  Without discussing these ideas, it may be\nsaid that the Greek poets (at all events before allegorical explanations\nof mythology came in, about five hundred years before Christ) regarded\nHelen simply as a woman of wonderful beauty.  Homer was not thinking of\nthe Dawn, or the Cloud when he described Helen among the Elders on the\nIlian walls, or repeated her lament over the dead body of Hector.  The\nHomeric poems are our oldest literary documents about Helen, but it is\nprobable enough that the poet has modified and purified more ancient\ntraditions which still survive in various fragments of Greek legend.  In\nHomer Helen is always the daughter of Zeus.  Isocrates tells us\n(\"Helena,\" 211 b) that \"while many of the demigods were children of Zeus,\nhe thought the paternity of none of his daughters worth claiming, save\nthat of Helen only.\"  In Homer, then, Helen is the daughter of Zeus, but\nHomer says nothing of the famous legend which makes Zeus assume the form\nof a swan to woo the mother of Helen.  Unhomeric as this myth is, we may\nregard it as extremely ancient.  Very similar tales of pursuit and\nmetamorphosis, for amatory or other purposes, among the old legends of\nWales, and in the \"Arabian Nights,\" as well as in the myths of\nAustralians and Red Indians.  Again, the belief that different families\nof mankind descend from animals, as from the Swan, or from gods in the\nshape of animals, is found in every quarter of the world, and among the\nrudest races.  Many Australian natives of to-day claim descent, like the\nroyal house of Sparta, from the Swan.  The Greek myths hesitated as to\nwhether Nemesis or Leda was the bride of the Swan.  Homer only mentions\nLeda among \"the wives and daughters of mighty men,\" whose ghosts Odysseus\nbeheld in Hades: \"And I saw Leda, the famous bedfellow of Tyndareus, who\nbare to Tyndareus two sons, hardy of heart, Castor, tamer of steeds, and\nthe boxer Polydeuces.\"  These heroes Helen, in the Iliad (iii. 238),\ndescribes as her mother's sons.  Thus, if Homer has any distinct view on\nthe subject, he holds that Leda is the mother of Helen by Zeus, of the\nDioscuri by Tyndareus.\n\nGreek ideas as to the character of Helen varied with the various moods of\nGreek literature.  Homer's own ideas about his heroine are probably best\nexpressed in the words with which Priam greets her as she appears among\nthe assembled elders, who are watching the Argive heroes from the wall of\nTroy:--\"In nowise, dear child, do I blame thee; nay, the Gods are to\nblame, who have roused against me the woful war of the Achaeans.\"  Homer,\nlike Priam, throws the guilt of Helen on the Gods, but it is not very\neasy to understand exactly what he means by saying \"the Gods are to\nblame.\"  In the first place, Homer avoids the psychological problems in\nwhich modern poetry revels, by attributing almost all changes of the\nmoods of men to divine inspiration.  Thus when Achilles, in a famous\npassage of the first book of the Iliad, puts up his half-drawn sword in\nthe sheath, and does not slay Agamemnon, Homer assigns his repentance to\nthe direct influence of Athene.  Again, he says in the Odyssey, about\nClytemnestra, that \"she would none of the foul deed;\" that is of the love\nof Aegisthus, till \"the doom of the Gods bound her to her ruin.\"  So far\nthe same excuse is made for the murderous Clytemnestra as for the amiable\nHelen.  Again, Homer is, in the strictest sense, and in strong contrast\nto the Greek tragedians and to Virgil, a chivalrous poet.  It would\nprobably be impossible to find a passage in which he speaks harshly or\ncensoriously of the conduct of any fair and noble lady.  The sordid\ntreachery of Eriphyle, who sold her lord for gold, wins for her the\nepithet \"hateful;\" and Achilles, in a moment of strong grief, applies a\nterm of abhorrence to Helen.  But Homer is too chivalrous to judge the\nlife of any lady, and only shows the other side of the chivalrous\ncharacter--its cruelty to persons not of noble birth--in describing the\n\"foul death\" of the waiting women of Penelope.  \"God forbid that I should\ntake these women's lives by a clean death,\" says Telemachus (Odyssey,\nxxii. 462).  So \"about all their necks nooses were cast that they might\ndie by the death most pitiful.  And they writhed with their feet for a\nlittle space, but for no long while.\"  In trying to understand Homer's\nestimate of Helen, therefore, we must make allowance for his theory of\ndivine intervention, and for his chivalrous judgment of ladies.  But\nthere are two passages in the Iliad which may be taken as indicating\nHomer's opinion that Helen was literally a victim, an unwilling victim,\nof Aphrodite, and that she was carried away by force a captive from\nLacedaemon.  These passages are in the Iliad, ii. 356, 590.  In the\nformer text Nestor says, \"let none be eager to return home ere he has\ncouched with a Trojan's wife, and _avenged the longings and sorrows of\nHelen_\"--[Greek text].  It is thus that Mr. Gladstone, a notable champion\nof Helen's, would render this passage, and the same interpretation was\nfavoured by the ancient \"Separatists\" (Chorizontes), who wished to prove\nthat the Iliad and Odyssey were by different authors; but many\nauthorities prefer to translate \"to avenge our labours and sorrows for\nHelen's sake\"--\"to avenge all that we have endured in the attempt to win\nback Helen.\"  Thus the evidence of this passage is ambiguous.  The fairer\nway to seek for Homer's real view of Helen is to examine all the passages\nin which she occurs.  The result will be something like this:--Homer sees\nin Helen a being of the rarest personal charm and grace of character; a\nwoman who imputes to herself guilt much greater than the real measure of\nher offence.  She is ever gentle except with the Goddess who betrayed\nher, and the unworthy lover whose lot she is compelled to share.  Against\nthem her helpless anger breaks out in flashes of eloquent scorn.  Homer\nwas apparently acquainted with the myth of Helen's capture by Theseus, a\nmyth illustrated in the decorations of the coffer of Cypselus.  But we\nfirst see Helen, the cause of the war, when Menelaus and Paris are about\nto fight their duel for her sake, in the tenth year of the Leaguer\n(Iliad, iii. 121).  Iris is sent to summon Helen to the walls.  She finds\nHelen in her chamber, weaving at a mighty loom, and embroidering on\ntapestry the adventures of the siege--the battles of horse-taming Trojans\nand bronze-clad Achaeans.  The message of Iris renews in Helen's heart \"a\nsweet desire for her lord and her own city, and them that begat her;\" so,\ndraped in silvery white, Helen goes with her three maidens to the walls.\nThere, above the gate, like some king in the Old Testament, Paris sits\namong his counsellors, and they are all amazed at Helen's beauty; \"no\nmarvel is it that Trojans and Achaeans suffer long and weary toils for\nsuch a woman, so wondrous like to the immortal goddesses.\"  Then Priam,\nassuring Helen that he holds her blameless, bids her name to him her\nkinsfolk and the other Achaean warriors.  In her reply, Helen displays\nthat grace of penitence which is certainly not often found in ancient\nliterature:--\"Would that evil death had been my choice, when I followed\nthy son, and left my bridal bower and my kin, and my daughter dear, and\nthe maidens of like age with me.\"  Agamemnon she calls, \"the husband's\nbrother of me shameless; alas, that such an one should be.\"  She names\nmany of the warriors, but misses her brothers Castor and Polydeuces, \"own\nbrothers of mine, one mother bare us.  Either they followed not from\npleasant Lacedaemon, or hither they followed in swift ships, but now they\nhave no heart to go down into the battle for dread of the shame and many\nreproaches that are mine.\"\n\n\"So spake she, but already the life-giving earth did cover them, there in\nLacedaemon, in their own dear country.\"\n\nMenelaus and Paris fought out their duel, the Trojan was discomfited, but\nwas rescued from death and carried to Helen's bower by Aphrodite.  Then\nthe Goddess came in disguise to seek Helen on the wall, and force her\nback into the arms of her defeated lover.  Helen turned on the Goddess\nwith an abruptness and a force of sarcasm and invective which seem quite\nforeign to her gentle nature.  \"Wilt thou take me further yet to some\ncity of Phrygia or pleasant Maeonia, if there any man is dear to thee . .\n. Nay, go thyself and sit down by Paris, and forswear the paths of the\nGods, but ever lament for him and cherish him, till he make thee his\nwife, yea, or perchance his slave, but to him will I never go.\"  But this\nanger of Helen is soon overcome by fear, when the Goddess, in turn, waxes\nwrathful, and Helen is literally driven by threats--\"for the daughter of\nZeus was afraid,\"--into the arms of Paris.  Yet even so she taunts her\nlover with his cowardice, a cowardice which she never really condones.  In\nthe sixth book of the Iliad she has been urging him to return to the war.\nShe then expresses her penitence to Hector, \"would that the fury of the\nwind had borne me afar to the mountains, or the wave of the roaring\nsea--ere ever these ill deeds were done!\"  In this passage too, she\nprophesies that her fortunes will be [Greek text] famous in the songs,\ngood or evil, of men unborn.  In the last book of the Iliad we meet Helen\nonce more, as she laments over the dead body of Hector.  \"'Never, in all\nthe twenty years since I came hither, have I heard from thee one taunt or\none evil word: nay, but if any other rebuked me in the halls, any one of\nmy husband's brothers, or of their sisters, or their wives, or the mother\nof my husband (but the king was ever gentle to me as a father), then\nwouldst thou restrain them with thy loving kindness and thy gentle\nspeech.'  So spake she; weeping.\"\n\nIn the Odyssey, Helen is once more in Lacedaemon, the honoured but still\npenitent wife of Menelaus.  How they became reconciled (an extremely\ndifficult point in the story), there is nothing in Homer to tell us.\n\nSir John Lubbock has conjectured that in the morals of the heroic age\nHelen was not really regarded as guilty.  She was lawfully married, by\n\"capture,\" to Paris.  Unfortunately for this theory there is abundant\nproof that, in the heroic age, wives were nominally _bought_ for so many\ncattle, or given as a reward for great services.  There is no sign of\nmarriage by capture, and, again, marriage by capture is a savage\ninstitution which applies to unmarried women, not to women already\nwedded, as Helen was to Menelaus.  Perhaps the oldest evidence we have\nfor opinion about the later relations of Helen and Menelaus, is derived\nfrom Pausanias's (174. A.D.) description of the Chest of Cypselus.  This\nancient coffer, a work of the seventh century, B.C., was still preserved\nat Olympia, in the time of Pausanias.  On one of the bands of cedar or of\nivory, was represented (Pausanias, v. 18), \"Menelaus with a sword in his\nhand, rushing on to kill Helen--clearly at the sacking of Ilios.\"  How\nMenelaus passed from a desire to kill Helen to his absolute complacency\nin the Odyssey, Homer does not tell us.  According to a statement\nattributed to Stesichorus (635, 554, B.C.?), the army of the Achaeans\npurposed to stone Helen, but was overawed and compelled to relent by her\nextraordinary beauty: \"when they beheld her, they cast down their stones\non the ground.\"  It may be conjectured that the reconciliation followed\nthis futile attempt at punishing a daughter of Zeus.  Homer, then, leaves\nus without information about the adventures of Helen, between the sack of\nTiny and the reconciliation with Menelaus.  He hints that she was married\nto Deiphobus, after the death of Paris, and alludes to the tradition that\nshe mimicked the voices of the wives of the heroes, and so nearly tempted\nthem to leave their ambush in the wooden horse.  But in the fourth book\nof the Odyssey, when Telemachus visits Lacedaemon, he finds Helen the\nhonoured wife of Menelaus, rich in the marvellous gifts bestowed on her,\nin her wanderings from Troy, by the princes of Egypt.\n\n\"While yet he pondered these things in his mind and in his heart, Helen\ncame forth from her fragrant vaulted chamber, like Artemis of the golden\narrows; and with her came Adraste and set for her the well-wrought chair,\nand Alcippe bare a rug of soft wool, and Phylo bare a silver basket which\nAlcandre gave her, the wife of Polybus, who dwelt in Thebes of Egypt,\nwhere is the chiefest store of wealth in the houses.  He gave two silver\nbaths to Menelaus, and tripods twain, and ten talents of gold.  And\nbesides all this, his wife bestowed on Helen lovely gifts; a golden\ndistaff did she give, and a silver basket with wheels beneath, and the\nrims thereof were finished with gold.  This it was that the handmaid\nPhylo bare and set beside her, filled with dressed yarn, and across it\nwas laid a distaff charged with wool of violet blue.  So Helen sat her\ndown in the chair, and beneath was a footstool for the feet.\"\n\nWhen the host and guests begin to weep the ready tears of the heroic age\nover the sorrows of the past, and dread of the dim future, Helen comforts\nthem with a magical potion.\n\n\"Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, turned to new thoughts.  Presently she\ncast a drug into the wine whereof they drank, a drug to lull all pain and\nanger, and bring forgetfulness of every sorrow.  Whoso should drink a\ndraught thereof, when it is mingled in the bowl, on that day he would let\nno tear fall down his cheeks, not though his mother and his father died,\nnot though men slew his brother or dear son with the sword before his\nface, and his own eyes beheld it.  Medicines of such virtue and so\nhelpful had the daughter of Zeus, which Polydamna, the wife of Thon, had\ngiven her, a woman of Egypt, where Earth the grain-giver yields herbs in\ngreatest plenty, many that are healing in the cup, and many baneful.\"\n\nSo Telemachus was kindly entertained by Helen and Menelaus, and when he\nleft them it was not without a gift.\n\n\"And Helen stood by the coffers wherein were her robes of curious\nneedlework which she herself had wrought.  Then Helen, the fair lady,\nlifted one and brought it out, the widest and most beautifully\nembroidered of all, and it shone like a star, and lay far beneath the\nrest.\"\n\nPresently, we read, \"Helen of the fair face came up with the robe in her\nhands, and spake: 'Lo!  I too give thee this gift, dear child, a memorial\nof the hands of Helen, for thy bride to wear upon the day of thy desire,\neven of thy marriage.  But meanwhile let it lie with thy mother in her\nchamber.  And may joy go with thee to thy well-builded house, and thine\nown country.'\"\n\nHelen's last words, in Homer, are words of good omen, her prophecy to\nTelemachus that Odysseus shall return home after long wanderings, and\ntake vengeance on the rovers.  We see Helen no more, but Homer does not\nleave us in doubt as to her later fortunes.  He quotes the prophecy which\nProteus, the ancient one of the sea, delivered to Menelaus:--\n\n\"But thou, Menelaus, son of Zeus, art not ordained to die and meet thy\nfate in Argos, the pasture-land of horses, but the deathless gods will\nconvey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end, where is\nRhadamanthus of the fair hair, where life is easiest for men.  No snow is\nthere, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but alway ocean sendeth forth\nthe breeze of the shrill West to blow cool on men: yea, for thou hast\nHelen to wife, and thereby they deem thee to be son of Zeus.\"\n\nWe must believe, with Isocrates, that Helen was translated, with her\nlord, to that field of Elysium, \"where falls not hail, or rain, or any\nsnow.\"  This version of the end of Helen's history we have adopted, but\nmany other legends were known in Greece.  Pausanias tells us that, in a\nbattle between the Crotoniats and the Locrians, one Leonymus charged the\nempty space in the Locrian line, which was entrusted to the care of the\nghost of Aias.  Leonymus was wounded by the invisible spear of the hero,\nand could not be healed of the hurt.  The Delphian oracle bade him seek\nthe Isle of Leuke in the Euxine Sea, where Aias would appear to him, and\nheal him.  When Leonymus returned from Leuke he told how Achilles dwelt\nthere with his ancient comrades, and how he was now wedded to Helen of\nTroy.  Yet the local tradition of Lacedaemon showed the sepulchre of\nHelen in Therapnae.  According to a Rhodian legend (adopted by the author\nof the \"Epic of Hades\"), Helen was banished from Sparta by the sons of\nMenelaus, came wandering to Rhodes, and was there strangled by the\nservants of the queen Polyxo, who thus avenged the death of her husband\nat Troy.  It is certain, as we learn both from Herodotus (vi. 61) and\nfrom Isocrates, that Helen was worshipped in Therapnae.  In the days of\nAriston the king, a deformed child was daily brought by her nurse to the\nshrine of Helen.  And it is said that, as the nurse was leaving the\nshrine, a woman appeared unto her, and asked what she bore in her arms,\nwho said, \"she bore a child.\"  Then the woman said, \"show it to me,\"\nwhich the nurse refused, for the parents of the child had forbidden that\nshe should be seen of any.  But the woman straitly commanding that the\nchild should be shown, and the other beholding her eagerness, at length\nthe nurse showed the child, and the woman caressed its face and said,\n\"she shall be the fairest woman in Sparta.\"  And from that day the\nfashion of its countenance was changed, \"and the child became the fairest\nof all the Spartan women.\"\n\nIt is a characteristic of Greek literature that, with the rise of\ndemocracy, the old epic conception of the ancient heroes altered.  We can\nscarcely recognize the Odysseus of Homer in the Odysseus of Sophocles.\nThe kings are regarded by the tragedians with some of the distrust and\nhatred which the unconstitutional tyrants of Athens had aroused.  Just as\nthe later _chansons de geste_ of France, the poems written in an age of\nfeudal opposition to central authority, degraded heroes like Charles, so\nrhetorical, republican, and sophistical Greece put its quibbles into the\nlips of Agamemnon and Helen, and slandered the stainless and fearless\nPatroclus and Achilles.\n\nThe Helen of Euripides, in the \"Troades,\" is a pettifogging sophist, who\npleads her cause to Menelaus with rhetorical artifice.  In the \"Helena,\"\nagain, Euripides quite deserts the Homeric traditions, and adopts the\nlate myths which denied that Helen ever went to Troy.  She remained in\nEgypt, and Achaeans and Trojans fought for a mere shadow, formed by the\nGods out of clouds and wind.  In the \"Cyclops\" of Euripides, a satirical\ndrama, the cynical giant is allowed to speak of Helen in a strain of\ncoarse banter.  Perhaps the essay of Isocrates on Helen may be regarded\nas a kind of answer to the attacks of several speakers in the works of\nthe tragedians.  Isocrates defends Helen simply on the plea of her\nbeauty: \"To Heracles Zeus gave strength, to Helen beauty, which naturally\nrules over even strength itself.\"  Beauty, he declares, the Gods\nthemselves consider the noblest thing in the world, as the Goddesses\nshowed when they contended for the prize of loveliness.  And so\nmarvellous, says Isocrates, was the beauty of Helen, that for her glory\nZeus did not spare his beloved son, Sarpedon; and Thetis saw Achilles\ndie, and the Dawn bewailed her Memnon.  \"Beauty has raised more mortals\nto immortality than all the other virtues together.\"  And that Helen is\nnow a Goddess, Isocrates proves by the fact that the sacrifices offered\nto her in Therapnae, are such as are given, not to heroes, but to\nimmortal Gods.\n\nWhen Rome took up the legends of Greece, she did so in no chivalrous\nspirit.  Few poets are less chivalrous than Virgil; no hero has less of\nchivalry than his pious and tearful Aeneas.  In the second book of the\nAeneid, the pious one finds Helen hiding in the shrine of Vesta, and\ndetermines to slay \"the common curse of Troy and of her own country.\"\nThere is no glory, he admits, in murdering a woman:--\n\n   Extinxisse nefas tamen et sumpsisse merentis\n   Laudabor poenas, animumqne explesse juvabit\n   Ultricis flammae, et cineres satiasse meorum.\n\nBut Venus appears and rescues the unworthy lover of Dido from the\ncrowning infamy which he contemplates.  Hundreds of years later, Helen\nfound a worthier poet in Quintus Smyrnaeus, who in a late age sang the\nswan-song of Greek epic minstrelsy.  It is thus that (in the fourth\ncentury A.D.) Quintus describes Helen, as she is led with the captive\nwomen of Ilios, to the ships of the Achaeans:--\"Now Helen lamented not,\nbut shame dwelt in her dark eyes, and reddened her lovely cheeks, . . .\nwhile around her the people marvelled as they beheld the flawless grace\nand winsome beauty of the woman, and none dared upbraid her with secret\ntaunt or open rebuke.  Nay, as she had been a Goddess they beheld her\ngladly, for dear and desired was she in their sight.  And as when their\nown country appeareth to men long wandering on the sea, and they, being\nescaped from death and the deep, gladly put forth their hands to greet\ntheir own native place; even so all the Danaans were glad at the sight of\nher, and had no more memory of all their woful toil, and the din of war:\nsuch a spirit did Cytherea put into their hearts, out of favour to fair\nHelen and father Zeus.\"  Thus Quintus makes amends for the trivial verses\nin which Coluthus describes the flight of a frivolous Helen with an\neffeminate Paris.\n\nTo follow the fortunes of Helen through the middle ages would demand much\nspace and considerable research.  The poets who read Dares Phrygius\nbelieved, with the scholar of Dr. Faustus, that \"Helen of Greece was the\nadmirablest lady that ever lived.\"  When English poetry first found the\nsecret of perfect music, her sweetest numbers were offered by Marlowe at\nthe shrine of Helen.  The speech of Faustus is almost too hackneyed to be\nquoted, and altogether too beautiful to be omitted:--\n\n   Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,\n   And burnt the topless towers of Ilium!\n   Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.\n   Her lips suck forth my soul! see where it flies;\n   Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again;\n   Here will I dwell, for heaven is in those lips,\n   And all is dross that is not Helena.\n\n   * * * * *\n\n   Oh thou art fairer than the evening air\n   Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.\n\nThe loves of Faustus and Helen are readily allegorized into the passion\nof the Renaissance for classical beauty, the passion to which all that is\nnot beauty seemed very dross.  This is the idea of the second part of\n\"Faust,\" in which Helen once more became, as she prophesied in the Iliad,\na song in the mouths of later men.  Almost her latest apparition in\nEnglish poetry, is in the \"Hellenics\" of Landor.  The sweetness of the\ncharacter of Helen; the tragedy of the death of Corythus by the hand of\nhis father Paris; and the omnipotence of beauty and charm which triumph\nover the wrath of Menelaus, are the subjects of Landor's verse.  But\nHelen, as a woman, has hardly found a nobler praise, in three thousand\nyears, than Helen, as a child, has received from Mr. Swinburne in\n\"Atalanta in Calydon.\"  Meleager is the speaker:--\n\n   Even such (for sailing hither I saw far hence,\n   And where Eurotas hollows his moist rock\n   Nigh Sparta, with a strenuous-hearted stream)\n   Even such I saw their sisters; one swan-white,\n   The little Helen, and less fair than she\n   Fair Clytemnestra, grave as pasturing fawns\n   Who feed and fear some arrow; but at whiles,\n   As one smitten with love or wrung with joy,\n   She laughs and lightens with her eyes, and then\n   Weeps; whereat Helen, having laughed, weeps too,\n   And the other chides her, and she being chid speaks naught,\n   But cheeks and lips and eyelids kisses her\n   Laughing, so fare they, as in their bloomless bud\n   And full of unblown life, the blood of gods.\n\nThere is all the irony of Fate in Althaeas' reply\n\n   Sweet days befall them and good loves and lords,\n   Tender and temperate honours of the hearths,\n   Peace, and a perfect life and blameless bed.","title":"Helen of Troy","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":24834}