Helen of Troy Part 4

XXVIII.

Now in a copse a mighty boar there lay, For through the boughs the wet winds never blew, Nor lit the bright sun on it with his ray, Nor rain might pierce the woven branches through, But leaves had fallen deep the lair to strew: Then questing of the hounds and men's foot-fall Aroused the boar, and forth he sprang to view, With eyes that burn'd, at bay, before them all.

XXIX.

Then Paris was the first to rush on him, With spear aloft in his strong hand to smite, And through the monster pierced the point; and dim The flame fell in his eyes, and all his might With his last cry went forth; forgetting fight, Forgetting strength, he fell, and gladly then They gather'd round, and dealt with him aright; Then left his body with the serving men.

x.x.x.

Now birds were long awake, that with their cry Were wont to waken Helen; and the dew Where fell the sun upon the lawn was dry, And all the summer land was glad anew; And maidens' footsteps rang the palace through, And with their footsteps chimed their happy song, And one to other cried, "A marvel new That soft-wing'd Sleep hath held the Queen so long!"

x.x.xI.

Then Phylo brought the child Hermione, And close unto her mother's side she crept, And o'er her G.o.d-like beauty tumbled she, Chiding her sweetly that so late she slept, And babbling still a merry coil she kept; But like a woman stiff beneath her shroud Lay Helen; till the young child fear'd and wept, And ran, and to her nurses cried aloud.

x.x.xII.

Then came the women quickly, and in dread Gather'd round Helen, but might naught avail To wake her; moveless as a maiden dead That Artemis hath slain, yet nowise pale, She lay; but Aethra did begin the wail, And all the women with sad voice replied, Who deem'd her pa.s.s'd unto the poplar vale Wherein doth dread Persephone abide.

x.x.xIII.

Ah! slowly pa.s.s'd the miserable day In the rich house that late was full of pride; Then the sun fell, and all the paths were grey, And Menelaus from the mountain-side Came, and through palace doors all open wide Rang the wild dirge that told him of the thing That Helen, that the Queen had strangely died.

Then on his threshold fell he grovelling,

x.x.xIV.

And cast the dust upon his yellow hair, And, but that Paris leap'd and held his hand, His hunter's knife would he have clutch'd, and there Had slain himself, to follow to that land Where flit the ghosts of men, a shadowy band That have no more delight, no more desire, When once the flesh hath burn'd down like a brand, Drench'd by the dark wine on the funeral pyre:

x.x.xV.

So on the ashen threshold lay the king, And all within the house was chill and drear; The women watchers gather'd in a ring About the bed of Helen and her bier; And much had they to tell, and much to hear, Of happy queens and fair, untimely dead,-- Such joy they took amid their evil cheer,-- While the low thunder muttered overhead.

BOOK III--THE FLIGHT OF HELEN

The flight of Helen and Paris from Lacedaemon, and of what things befell them in their voyaging, and how they came to Troy.

I.

The grey Dawn's daughter, rosy Morn awoke In old t.i.thonus' arms, and suddenly Let harness her swift steeds beneath the yoke, And drave her s.h.i.+ning chariot through the sky.

Then men might see the flocks of Thunder fly, All gold and rose, the azure pastures through, What time the lark was carolling on high Above the gardens drench'd with rainy dew.

II.

But Aphrodite sent a slumber deep On all in the King's palace, young and old, And one by one the women fell asleep,-- Their lamentable tales left half untold,-- Before the dawn, when folk wax weak and cold, But Helen waken'd with the s.h.i.+ning morn, Forgetting quite her sorrows manifold, And light of heart as was the day new-born.

III.

She had no memory of unhappy things, She knew not of the evil days to come, Forgotten were her ancient wanderings, And as Lethaean waters wholly numb The sense of spirits in Elysium, That no remembrance may their bliss alloy, Even so the rumour of her days was dumb, And all her heart was ready for new joy.

IV.

The young day knows not of an elder dawn, Joys of old noons, old sorrows of the night, And so from Helen was the past withdrawn, Her lord, her child, her home forgotten quite, Lost in the marvel of a new delight: She was as one who knows he shall not die, When earthly colours melt into the bright Pure splendour of his immortality.

V.

Then Helen rose, and all her body fair She bath'd in the spring water, pure and cold, And with her hand bound up her s.h.i.+ning hair And clothed her in the raiment that of old Athene wrought with marvels manifold, A bridal gift from an immortal hand, And all the front was clasp'd with clasps of gold, And for the girdle was a golden band.

VI.

Next from her upper chamber silently Went Helen, moving like a morning dream.

She did not know the golden roof, the high Walls, and the s.h.i.+elds that on the pillars gleam, Only she heard the murmur of the stream That waters all the garden's wide expanse, This song, and cry of singing birds, did seem To guide her feet as music guides the dance.

VII.

The music drew her on to the glad air From forth the chamber of enchanted death, And lo! the world was waking everywhere; The wind went by, a cool delicious breath, Like that which in the gardens wandereth, The golden gardens of the Hesperides, And in its song unheard of things it saith, The myriad marvels of the fairy seas.

VIII.

So through the courtyard to the garden close Went Helen, where she heard the murmuring Of water 'twixt the lily and the rose; For thereby doth a double fountain spring.

To one stream do the women pitchers bring By Menelaus' gates, at close of day; The other through the close doth s.h.i.+ne and sing, Then to the swift Eurotas fleets away.

IX.

And Helen sat her down upon the gra.s.s, And pluck'd the little daisies white and red, And toss'd them where the running waters pa.s.s, To watch them racing from the fountain-head, And whirl'd about where little streams dispread; And still with merry birds the garden rang, And, _marry_, _marry_, in their song they said, Or so do maids interpret that they sang.

X.

Then stoop'd she down, and watch'd the crystal stream, And fishes poising where the waters ran, And lo! upon the gla.s.s a golden gleam, And purple as of robes Sidonian, Then, sudden turning, she beheld a man, That knelt beside her; as her own face fair Was his, and o'er his shoulders for a span Fell the bright tresses of his yellow hair.

XI.

Then either look'd on other with amaze As each had seen a G.o.d; for no long while They marvell'd, but as in the first of days, The first of men and maids did meet and smile, And Aphrodite did their hearts beguile, So hands met hands, lips lips, with no word said Were they enchanted 'neath that leafy aisle, And silently were woo'd, betroth'd, and wed.

XII.

Ah, slowly did their silence wake to words That scarce had more of meaning than the song Pour'd forth of the innumerable birds That fill the palace gardens all day long; So innocent, so ignorant of wrong, Was she, so happy each in other's eyes, Thus wrought the mighty G.o.ddess that is strong, Even to make naught the wisdom of the wise.

XIII.

Now in the midst of that enchanted place Right gladly had they linger'd all day through, And fed their love upon each other's face, But Aphrodite had a counsel new, And silently to Paris' side she drew, In guise of Aethra, whispering that the day Pa.s.s'd on, while his s.h.i.+p waited, and his crew Impatient, in the narrow Gythian bay.

XIV.

For thither had she brought them by her skill; But Helen saw her not,--nay, who can see A G.o.ddess come or go against her will?

Then Paris whisper'd, "Come, ah, Love, with me!