Helen Redeemed and Other Poems by Hewlett, Maurice

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Δῶρον Ἔρως Ἀΐδῃ


Transcriber's Note

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Archaic spellings have been retained. Greek text appears as originally printed.


Love owes tribute unto Death, Being but a flower of breath, Ev'n as thy fair body is Moment's figure of the bliss Dwelling in the mind of God When He called thee from the sod, Like a crocus up to start, Gray-eyed with a golden heart, Out of earth, and point our sight To thy eternal home of light.

Here on earth is all we know: To let our love as steadfast blow, Open-hearted to the sun, Folded down when our day's done, As thy flower that bids it be Flower of thy charity. 'Tis not ours to boast or pray Breath from us shall outlive clay; 'Tis not thine, thou Pitiful, Set me task beyond my rule.

Yet as young men carve on trees Lovely names, and find in these Solace in the after time, So to have hid thee in my rhyme Shall be comfort when I take The lonely road. Then, for my sake, Keep thou this my graven sigh, And, that I may not all die, Open it, and hear it tell, Here was one who loved thee well.

_October 6, 1912._





Three of the Poems here published have appeared in book form already, in the Volume called _Songs and Meditations_, long out of print.



Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood Of passion by the blood Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft Hallowed, if that thin waft Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song To span such store of strong And splendid vision of immortal themes Late harvested in dreams, Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet Thou sing that slim and sweet Fair woman for whose bosom and delight Paris, as well he might, Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost And Troy's, and won and lost Perforce; for who could look on her or feel Her near and not dare steal One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars Such wonder of the stars Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose Of dawn which comes and goes Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills, Or music of upland rills As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it With thy poor market wit, Adept to hue the wanton in the wild, Defile the undefiled! Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high Where piled rocks testify The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold Over the rippling wold Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise First dawned in Helen's eyes, Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art To sing her rendered heart, Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved From loving, but was nerved To see through years of robbery and shame Her spirit, a clear flame, Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace, And hers who at last found ease In white-arm'd Heré, holy husbander Of purer fire than e'er To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing In whom her beauties ring, Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte, Star of my day and night!

_18th September 1912._



Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams, Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams Betray far Ida through a rended cloud And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud The thunder is--'twixt Ida and the main Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain About her like a carpet; from whose height The watchman, ten years watching, every night Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less Their number as the years wax and duress Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day-- More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay. Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones, Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride Shed; nor yet so the end, for Heré cried Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done, And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon By sword or bitter arrow they went hence, Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence. Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high, Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky Told Thetis that her son must go the way He sent Queen Hecuba's--himself must pay, Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self, The price of manslaying, with blood for pelf. A grief immortal took her, and she grieved Deep in sea-cave, whereover restless heaved The wine-dark ocean--silently, not moving, Tearless, a god. O Gods, however loving, That is a lonely grief that must go dry About the graves where the beloved lie, And knows too much to doubt if death ends all Pleasure in strength of limb, joy musical, Mother-love, maiden-love, which never more Must the dead look for on the further shore Of Acheron, and past the willow-wood Of Proserpine! But when he understood, Achilles, that his end was near at hand, Darkling he heard the news, and on the strand Beyond the ships he stood awhile, then cried The Sea-God that high-hearted and clear-eyed He might go down; and this for utmost grace He asked, that not by battle might his face Be marred, nor fighting might some Dardan best Him who had conquered ever. For the rest, Fate, which had given, might take, as fate should be. So prayed he, and Poseidon out of the sea, There where the deep blue into sand doth fade And the long wave rolls in, a bar of jade, Sent him a portent in that sea-blue bird Swifter than light, the halcyon; and men heard The trumpet of his praise: "Shaker of Earth, Hail to thee! Now I fare to death in mirth, As to a banquet!" So when day was come Lightly arose the prince to meet his doom, And kissed Briseïs where she lay abed And never more by hers might rest his head: "Farewell, my dear, farewell, my joy," said he; "Farewell to all delights 'twixt thee and me! For now I take a road whose harsh alarms Forbid so sweet a burden to my arms." Then his clean limbs his weeping squires bedight In all the mail Hephaistos served his might Withal, of breastplate shining like the sun Upon flood-water, three-topped helm whereon Gleamed the gold basilisk, and goodly greaves. These bore he without word; but when from sheaves Of spears they picked the great ash Pelian Poseidon gave to Peleus, God to a man, For no man's manège else--than all men's fear: "Dry and cold fighting for thee this day, my spear," Quoth he. And so when one the golden shield Immortal, daedal, for no one else to wield, Cast o'er his head, he frowned: "On thy bright face Let me see who shall dare a dint," he says, And stood in thought full-armed; thereafter poured Libation at the tent-door to the Lord Of earth and sky, and prayed, saying: "O Thou That hauntest dark Dodona, hear me now, Since that the shadowing arm of Time is flung Far over me, but cloudeth me full young. Scatheless I vow them. Let one Trojan cast His spear and loose my spirit. Rage is past Though I go forth my most provocative Adventure: 'tis not I that seek. Receive My prayer Thou as I have earned it--lo, Dying I stand, and hail Thee as I go Lord of the Ægis, wonderful, most great!" Which done, he took his stand, and bid his mate Urge on the steeds; and all the Achaian host Followed him, not with outcry or loud boast Of deeds to do or done, but silent, grim As to a shambles--so they followed him, Eyeing that nodding crest and swaying spear Shake with the chariot. Solemn thus they near The Trojan walls, slow-moving, as by a Fate Driven; and thus before the Skaian Gate Stands he in pomp of dreadful calm, to die, As once in dreadful haste to slay. Thereby The walls were thick with men, and in the towers Women stood gazing, clustered close as flowers That blur the rocks in some high mountain pass With delicate hues; but like the gray hill-grass Which the wind sweepeth, till in waves of light It tideth backwards--so all gray or white Showed they, as sudden surges moved them cloak Their heads, or bare their faces. And none spoke Among them, for there stood not woman there But mourned her dead, or sensed not in the air Her pendent doom of death, or worse than death. Frail as flowers were their faces, and all breath Came short and quick, as on this dreadful show Staring, they pondered it done far below As on a stage where the thin players seem Unkith to them who watch, the stuff of dream. Nor else about the plain showed living thing Save high in the blue where sailed on outspread wing A vulture bird intent, with mighty span Of pinion. In the hush spake the dead man, Hollow-voiced, terrible: "Ye tribes of Troy, Here stand I out for death, and ye for joy Of killing as ye will, by cast of spear, By bowshot or with sword. If any peer Of Hector or Sarpedon care the bout Which they both tried aforetime let him out With speed, and bring his many against one, Fearing no treachery, for there shall be none To aid me, God nor man; nor yet will I Stir finger in the business, but will die By murder sooner than in battle fall Under some Trojan hand." Breathless stood all, Not moving out; but Paris on the roof Of his high house, where snug he sat aloof, Drew taut the bowstring home, and notched a shaft, Soft whistling to himself, what time with craft Of peering eyes and narrow twisted face He sought an aim. Swift from her hiding-place Came burning Helen then, in her blue eyes A fire unquenchable, but cold as ice That scorcheth ere it strike a mortal chill Upon the heart. "Darest thou...?" Smiling still, He heeded not her warning, nor he read The terror of her eyes, but drew and sped A screaming arrow, deadly, swerving not-- Then stood to watch the ruin he had wrought. He heard the sob of breath o'er all the host Of hushing men; he marked, but then he lost, The blood-spurt at the shaft-head; for the crest Upheaved, the shoulders stiffen'd, ere to the breast Bent down the head, as though the glazing sight Curious would mark the death-spot. Still upright Stood he; but as a tree that on the side Of Ida yields to axe her soaring pride And lightlier waves her leafy crown, and swings From side to side--so on his crest the wings Erect seemed shaking upwards, and to sag The spear's point, and the burden'd head to wag Before the stricken body felt the stroke, Or the strong knees grew lax, or the heart broke. Breathless they waited; then the failing man Stiffened anew his neck, and changed and wan Looked for the last time in the face of day, And seemed to dare the Gods such might to slay As this, the sanguine splendid thing he was, Withal now gray of face and pinched. Alas, For pride of life! Now he had heard his knell. His spirit passed, and crashing down he fell, Mighty Achilles, and struck the earth, and lay A huddled mass, a bulk of bronze and clay Bestuck with gilt and glitter, like a toy. There dropt a forest hush on watching Troy, Upon the plain and watching ranks of men; And from a tower some woman keened him then With long thin cry that wavered in the air-- As once before one wailed her Hector there.



So he who wore his honour like a wreath About his brows went the dark way of death; Which being done, that deed of ruth and doom Gave breath to Troy; but on the Achaians gloom Settled like pall of cloud upon a land That swoons beneath it. Desperate they scanned Each other, saying: "Now we are left by God," And in the huts behind the wall abode, Heeding not Diomede, Idomeneus, Nor keen Odysseus, nor that friend of Zeus Mykenai's king, nor that robbed Menelaus, Nor bowman Teukros, Nestor wise, nor Aias-- Huge Aias, cursed in death! Peleides bare Himself with pride, but he went raving there. For in the high assembly Thetis made In honour of her son, to waft his shade In peace to Hades' house, after the fire Twice a man's height for him who did suspire Twice a man's heart and render it to Heaven Who gave it, after offerings paid and given, And games of men and horses, she brought forth His regal arms for hero of most worth In the broad Danaan host, who was adjudged Odysseus by all voices. Aias grudged The vote and wandered brooding, drawn apart From his room-fellows, seeding in his heart Envy, which biting inwards did corrode His mettle, and his ill blood plied the goad Upon his brain, until the wretch made mad Went muttering his wrongs, ill-trimmed, ill-clad, Sightless and careless, with slack mouth awry, And working tongue, and danger in the eye; And oft would stare at Heaven and laugh his scorn: "O fools, think not to trick me!" then forlorn Would gaze about green earth or out to sea: "This is the end of man in his degree"-- Thus would he moralise in those bare lands With hopeless brows and tossing up of hands-- "To sow in sweat and see another reap!" Then, pitying himself, he'd fall to weep His desolation, scorned by Gods, by men Slighted; but in a flash he'd rage again And shake his naked sword at unseen foes, And dare them bring Odysseus to his blows: Or let the man but flaunt himself in arms...! So threatening God knows what of savage harms, On him the oxen patient in the marsh, Knee-deep in rushes, gazed to hear his harsh Outcry; and them his madness taught for Greeks, So on their dumb immensity he wreaks His vengeance, driving in the press with shout Of "Aias! Aias!" hurtling, carving out A way with mighty swordstroke, cut and thrust, And makes a shambles in his witless lust; And in the midst, bloodshot, with blank wild eyes Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies All reeking in his madman's battlefield, And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed The pity of his folly; then he sees Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees He stands amid his slaughter, and his own Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan Upon his planted sword. So Aias died Lonely; and he who, never from his side Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian, Abode the fate foreordered in the plan Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.

But think not on the dead, who die and leave A memory more fragrant than their deeds, But to the remnant rather and their needs Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart? Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull As oxen impotent the wain to pull Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge, Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand Dumb monuments of sufferance--so unmanned The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care To drive them forth, since they too knew despair, And neither saw in battle nor retreat A way of honour. And the plain grew sweet Again with living green; the spring o' the year Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear; And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain, Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain, And seemed with tender irony to flout Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose, A holy pall to hide his folly and pain. Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain, And by and by the pent folk within walls Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep Watch, where before stood armèd sentinels; And battle-grounds were musical with bells Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships Loomed through the tender mist, their prows--like lips Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry Salvation out of Heaven--flung on high: Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road Was travelled, and held Paris for a God Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.

He in their love went sunning, took his ease In house and hall, at council or at feast, Careless of what was greatest or what least Of all his deeds, so only by his side She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride, The lovely harbour of his arms. But she, A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see, And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each If it might be her people's, and so hers, Poor alien!--Argive now herself she avers And proudly slave of Paris and no wife: Minion she calls herself; and when to strife Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges, And when to play he woos her with soft words, Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's, Towards that honoured mate who honoured her, Making her wife indeed, not paramour, Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall She watches every dawn for what dawn brings. And the strong spirit of her took new wings And left her lovely body in the arms Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms, And witless held a shell; but forth as light As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith, A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death Seems to the dying man a bedside guest, But to the watchers cannot be exprest. So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned, Renewing his day's torment in his sleep; Who presently starts up and sighing deep, Searches the entry, if haply in the skies The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow To tell all truth about her, and her woe And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips: "O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?" No answer hath she, but she looks him long And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more, But up and down he pads the beaten floor, And all that day his heart's wild crying hears, And can thank God for gracious dew of tears And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame. So came the next night, and with night she came, Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go Whence she had come. His need would have it so-- And her need. Never must she call in vain. Now takes he way alone over the plain Where dark yet hovers like a catafalque And all life swoons, and only dead thing walk, Uneasy sprites denied a resting space, That shudder as they flit from place to place, Like bats of flaggy wing that make night blink With endless quest: so do those dead, men think, Who fall and are unserved by funeral rite. These passes he, and nears the walls of might Which Godhead built for proud Laomedon, And knows the house of Paris built thereon, Terraced and set with gadding vines and trees And ever falling water, for the ease Of that sweet indweller he held in store. Thither he turns him quaking, but before Him dares not look, lest he should see her there Aglimmer through the dusk and, unaware, Discover her fill some mere homely part Intolerably familiar to his heart, And deeply there enshrined and glorified, Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied, Being called, and ever closer on he came As if no wrong nor misery nor shame Could harder be than not to see her--Nay, Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay Besmothered in his kisses--rather so Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go His round of lonely exile! Now he stands Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin, And motionless abides till day come in; Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe, Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls, Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls Of owl to owl from unseen towers. Afar A dog barked. High and hidden in the haar Which blew in from the sea a heron cried Honk! and he heard his wings, but not espied The heavy flight. Slow, slow the orb was filled With light, and with the light his heart was thrilled With opening music, faint, expectant, sharp As the first chords one picks out from the harp To prelude paean. Venturing all, he lift His eyes, and there encurtained in a drift Of sea-blue mantle close-drawn, he espies Helen above him watching, her grave eyes Upon him fixt, blue homes of mystery Unfathomable, eternal as the sea, And as unresting. So in that still place, In that still hour stood those two face to face.



But when he had her there, sharp root of ill To him and his, safeguarded from him still, Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred, Behandled, too much lost and too much won, Mock image making horrible the sun That once had shown her pure for his demesne, And still revealed her lovely, and unclean-- Despair turned into stone what had been kind, And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind. "O ruinous face," said he, "O evil head, Art thou so early from the wicked bed? So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice? Or is it that in luxury thou art nice Become, and dalliest?" Low her head she hung And moved her lips. As when the night is young The hollow wind presages storm, his moan Came wailing at her. "Ten years here, alone, And in that time to have seen thee thrice!" But she: "Often and often have I chanced to see My lord pass." His heart leapt, as leaps the child Enwombed: "Hast thou--?" Faintly her quick eyes smiled: "At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake; So have time to myself when I can take New air, and old thought." As a man who skills To read high hope out of dark oracles, So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he: "Lady, O God! Now would that I could be Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought Gathering!" Silent stood she, memory-fraught, Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul, So harpt upon her heart. "Is this the whole That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here Alone to be?" She blushed and dared to peer Downward. "Is it so wonderful," she said, "If I desire it?" He: "Nay, by my head, Not so; but wonderful I think it is In any man to suffer it." The hiss Of passion stript all vesture from his tones And showed the King man naked to the bones, Man naked to the body's utterance. She turned her head, but felt his burning glance Scorch, and his words leap up. "Dost thou desire I leave thee then? Answer me that." "Nay, sire, Not so." And he: "Bid me to stay while sleeps Thy house," he said, "so stay I." Her eyes' deeps Flooded his soul and drowned him in despair, Despair and rage. "Behold now, ten years' wear Between us and our love! Now if I cast My spear and rove the snow-mound of thy breast, Were that a marvel?" Long she lookt and grave, Pondering his face and searching. "Not so brave My lord as that would prove him. Nay, and I know He would not do it." And the truth was so; And well he knew the reason: better she. Yet for a little in that vacancy Of silence and unshadowing light they stood, Those long-divided, speechless. His first mood With bitter grudge was choked, but hers was mild, As fearing his. At last she named the child, Asking, Was all well? Short he told her, Yes, The child was well. She fingered in her dress And watched her hand at play there. "Here," she said, "There is no child," and sighed. Into his dead And wasted heart there leaped a flame and caught His hollow eyes. "Rememberest thou naught, Nothing regrettest, nothing holdst in grief Of all our joy together ere that thief Came rifling in?" For all her answer she Lookt long upon him, long and earnestly; And misty grew her eyes, and slowly filled. Slowly the great tears brimmed, and slowly rilled Adown her cheeks. So presently she hid Those wells of grief, and hung her lovely head; And he had no more words, but only a cry At heart too deep for utterance, and too high For tears.

And now came Paris from the house Into the sun, rosy and amorous, As when the sun himself from the sea-rim Lifteth, and gloweth on the earth grown dim With waiting; and he piped a low clear call As mellow as the thrush's at the fall Of day from some near thicket. At whose sound Rose up caught Helen and blushing turned her round To face him; but in going, ere she met The prince, her hand along the parapet She trailed, palm out, for sign to who below Rent at himself, nor had the wit to know In that dumb signal eloquence, and hope Therein beyond his sick heart's utmost scope. Throbbing he stood as when a quick-blown peat, Now white, now red, burns inly--O wild heat, O ravenous race of men, who'd barter Space And Time for one short snatch of instant grace! Withal, next day, drawn by his dear desire, When as the young green burned like emerald fire In the cold light, back to the tryst he came; But she was sooner there, and called his name Softly as cooing dove her bosom's mate; And showed her eyes to him, which half sedate To be so sought revealed her, half in doubt Lest he should deem her bold to meet the bout With too much readiness. But high he flaunted Her name towards the sky. "Thou God-enchanted, Thou miracle of dawn, thou Heart of the Rose, Hail thou!" On his own eloquence he grows The lover he proclaims. "O love," he saith, "I would not leave thee for a moment's breath, Nor once these ten long years had left thy side Had it been possible to stay!" She sighed, She wondered o'er his face, she looked her fill, Museful, still doubting, smiling half, athrill, All virgin to his praise. "O wonderful," She said, "Such store of love for one so foul As I am now!" O fatal hot-and-cold, O love, whose iris wings not long can hold The upper air! Sudden her thought smote hot On him. "Thou sayest! True it is, God wot! Warm from his bed, and tears for thy unworth; Warm from his bed, and tears to meet my mirth; Then back to his bed ere yet thy tears be dry!" She heard not, but she knew his agony Of burning vision, and kept back her tears Until his pity moved in tune with hers Towards herself. But he from thunderous brows Frowned on. "No more I see thee by this house, Except to slay thee when the hour decree An end to this vile nest of cuckoldry And holy vows made hateful, save thou speak To each my question sooth. Keep dry thy cheek From tears, hide up thy beauty with thy grief-- Or let him have his joy of them, thy thief, What time he may. Answer me thou, or vain Till thine hour strike to look for me again." With hanging head and quiet hanging hands, With lip atremble, as caught in fault she stands, Scarce might he hear her whispered message: "Ask, Lord, and I answer thee." Strung to his task: "Tell me now all," he said, "from that far day Whenas embracing thee, I stood to pray, And poured forth wine unto the thirsty earth To Zeus and to Poseidon, in whose girth Lie sea and land; to Gaia next, their spouse, And next to Heré, mistress of my house, Traitress, and thine, for grace upon my faring: For thou wert by to hear me, false arm bearing Upon my shoulder, glowing, lying cheek Next unto mine. Ay, and thou prayedst, with meek Fair seeming, prosperous send-off and return. Tell me what then, tell all, and let me learn With what pretence that dog-souled slaked his thirst In thy sweet liquor. Tell me that the first." Then Helen lifted up her head, and beamed Clear light upon him from her eyes, which seemed That blue which, lying on the white sea-bed And gazing up, the sunbeam overhead Would show, with green entinctured, and the warp Inwoven of golden shafts, blended yet sharp; So that a glory mild and radiant Transfigured them. Upon him fell aslant That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke It was as if the nightingale should croak In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak, So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak Dry matter and hard logic--as if she Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea Which was not hers to make; or as one faint And desperate lays down all his argument Like bricks upon a field, let who will make A house of them; so drily Helen spake With a flat voice. "Thou hadst been nine days gone, Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son, And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat, And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at I gave as fitting was. Then came the day I was beguiled. What more is there to say?" Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall Her eyes were. But the King said: "Tell me all. Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled, Or by thine own?" She shook her head and smiled Most sadly, pitying herself. "Who knoweth The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved Me then, and pleasured only where I moved About the house. And I had pleasure too To know of me he had it. Then we knew The day at hand when he must take the road And leave me; and its eve we close abode Within the house, and spake not. But I wept." She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept: "I was beguiled, beguiled." And then her lip She bit, and rueful showed her partnership In sinful dealing. But he, in his esteem Bleeding and raw, urged on. "To Kranai's deme He took thee then?" Speechless she bent her head Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played, And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade. So gazing, stood she silent, but the King Urged on. "From thence to Ilios, thou willing, He took thee?" Then, "I was beguiled," again She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night The low clouds break and shafted shows the light. "Ten years beguiled!" he said, "but now it seems Thou art----" She shook her head. "Nay, now come dreams; Nay, now I think, remember, now I see." "What callest thou to mind?" "Hermione," She said, "our child, and Sparta my own land, And all the honour that lay to my hand Had I but chosen it, as now I would"-- And sudden hid her face up in her hood, Her courage ebbed in grief, all hardness drowned In bitter weeping. Noble pity crowned The greater man in him; so for a space They wept together, she for loss; for grace Of gain wept he. "No more," he said, "my sweet, Tell me no more." "Ah, hear the whole of it Before my hour is gone," she cried. But he Groaning, "I dare not stay here lest I see Him take thee again." Both hands to fold her breast, She shook her head; like as the sun through mist Shone triumph in her eyes. "Have no more fear Of him or any----" Then, hearing a stir Within the house, her finger toucht her lip, And one fixt look she gave of fellowship Assured--then turned and quickly went her way; And his light vanisht with her for that day.



O singing heart, O twice-undaunted lover! O ever to be blest, twice blest moreover! Twice over win the world in one girl's eyes, Twice over lift her name up to the skies; Twice to hope all things, so to be twice born-- For he lives not who cannot front the morn Saying, "This day I live as never yet Lived striving man on earth!" What if the fret Of loss and ten years' agonizing snow Thy hairs or leave their tracery on thy brow, Each line beslotted by the demon hounds Hunting thee down o' nights? Laugh at thy wounds, Laugh at thy eld, strong lover, whose blood flows Clear from the fountain, singing as it goes, "She loves, and so I live and shall not die! Love on, love her: 'tis immortality." Once more before the sun he greeted her: She glowed her joy; her mood was calm and clear As mellow evening's whenas, like a priest, Rain has absolved the world, and golden mist Hangs over all like benediction. In her proud eyes sat triumph on a throne, To know herself beloved, her lover by, So near the consummation. Womanly She dallied with the moment when, all wife, Upon his breast she'd lie and cast her life, Cast body, soul and spirit in one gest Supreme of giving. Glorying in his quest Of her, now let her hide what he must glean, But not know yet. Ah, sweet to feel his keen Long eye-search, like the touch of eager fingers, And sweet to thrill beneath such hot blush-bringers; To fence with such a swordsman hazardous And sweet. "Belov'd, thou art glad of me!" Then thus Antiphonal to him she breathes, "Thou sayest!" "I see thy light and hail it!" "Thou begayest My poor light." "Knowest thou not that thou art loved?" "And am I loved then?" "If thou'ldst have it proved, Look in my eyes. Would thine were open book!" "Palimpsest I," she said, and would not look. But he was grappling now with truth, would have it, What though it cost him all his gain. She gave it, Looking him along. "O lady mine," he said, "Now are my clouds disperséd every shred; For thou art mine; I think thou lovest me. Speak, is that true?" She could not, or may be She would not hold her gaze, but let it fall, And watched her fingers idling on the wall, And so remained; but urged to it by the spell He cast, she whispered down, "I cannot tell Thee here, and thus apart"--which when he had In its full import drove him well-nigh mad With longing. "Call me and I come!" But fear Flamed in her eyes: "No, no, 'tis death! He's here At hand. 'Tis death for thee, and worse than death--" She ended so--"for both of us." And breath Failed him, for well he knew now what she meant, And sighed his thanks to Gods beneficent. Thereafter in sweet use of lovers' talk, In boon spring weather, whenas lovers walk Handfasted through the meadows pied, and wet With dew from flower and leaf, these lovers met-- Two bodies separate, one wild heart between, Day after day, these two long-severed been; And of this mating of the eye and tongue There grew desire passionate and strong For body's mating and its testimony, Hearts' intimacy, perfect, full and free. And Helen for her heart's ease did deny Her girdled Goddess of the beamy eye, Saying, "Come you down, Mistress of sleek loves And panting nights: your service of bought doves And honey-hearted wine may cost too dear. What hast thou done for me since first my ear With thy sly music thou didst sign and seal Apprentice to thy mystery, teach me feel Thy fierce divinity in the trembling touch Of open lips? Served I not thee too much In Kranai and in Sparta my demesne, Too much in wide-wayed Ilios, Eastern Queen? Yes, but it was too much a thousandfold, For what was I but leman bought and sold? "For woman craved what mercy hath man brought, What face a woman for a woman sought? What mercy or what face? And what saith she, The hunted, scornéd wretch? Boast that she be Coveted, hankered, spat on? One to gloat, The rest to snarl without! If man play goat, What must she play? Her glory is it to draw On greedy eye, sting greedy lip and paw, And find the crown of her desire therein? Hath she no rarer bliss than all this sin, Is she for dandling, kissing, hidden up For hungry hands to stroke or lips to sup? Hath she then nothing of her own, no mirth In honesty, nor eyes to worship worth, Nor pride except in that which makes men dogs, Nor loathing for the vice wherein, like logs That float beneath the sun, lie fair women Submiss, inert receptacles for sin? Is this her all? Hath she no heart, nor care Therefor? No womb, nor hope therein to bear Fruit of her heart's insurgence? Is her face, Are these her breasts for fondling, not to grace Her heart's high honour, swell to nurture it, That it too grow? Hath she no mother-wit, Nor sense for living things and innocent, Nor leap of joy for this good world's content Of sun and wind, of flower and leaf, and song Of bird, or shout of children as they throng The world of mated men and women? Nay, Persuade me not, O Kypris; but I say Evil hath been the lore which thou hast taught-- For many have loved my face, and many sought My breast, and thought it joy supping thereat Sweetness and dear delight; but out of that What hath there come to them, to me and all Mine but hot shame? Not milk, but bitter gall."

So in her high passion she rent herself And rocked, or hid her face upon the shelf Of the grim wall, lest he should see the whole Inexpiable sorrow of her soul. But he by pity pure made bountiful Lent her excuse, by every means to lull Her agony. Said he, "Of mortals who Can e'er withstand the way she wills them to, Kypris the forceful Goddess? Nay, dear child, Thou wert constrained." She said, "I was beguiled And clung to him until the day-dawn broke When I could read as in the roll of a book His open heart. And then my own heart reeled To know him craven, dog, not man, revealed A panting drudge of lust, who held me here Caged vessel. Nay, come close. I loved him dear, Too dear, I know; but never till he came Had known the leap of joy, the fire of flame Upon the heart he gave me, Paris the bright, Whose memory was music and his sight Fragrance, whose nearness made my footfall dance, Whose touch was fever, and his burning glance Faintness and blindness; in whose light my life Centred; who was the sun, and I, false wife, The foolish flower that turns whereso he wheels Over the broad earth's canopy, and steals Colour from his strong beam, but at the last Whenas the night comes and the day is past Droops, burnt at the heart. So loved I him, and so Waxed bold to dare the deed that brought this woe." And there she changed, and bitter was her cry: "Ah, lord, far better had it been to die Ere I had cast this pain on thee, and shame On me, and wrought such outrage on our name. Natheless I live----" "Ay, and give life!" he said; "Yet this thing more I'd have thee tell--what led Thy thought to me? From him, what turned thy troth-- Such troth as there could be?" She cried, "The oath! The oath ye sware before the Lords of Heaven, The sacrifice, the pledges taken and given When thou and Paris met upon the plain, And all the host sat down to watch you twain Do battle, which should have me. For my part, They took me forth to watch; as in the mart A heifer feels the giver of the feast Pinch in her flank, and hears the chaffer twist This way and that for so much fat or lean-- Even so was I, a queen, child of a queen." She bit her lip until the blood ran free, And in her eyes he markt deep injury Scald as the salt tears welled; but "Listen yet," She said: "Ye fought, and Paris fell beset Under thy spurning heel, yet felt no whit The bitterness as I must come to it; For she, his Goddess, hid him up in mists And brought him beat and broken from the lists Here to his chamber. But I stood and burned, Shameful to be by one lost, by one earned, A prize for games, a slave, a bandied thing-- Since as the oath was made so must I swing From bed to bed. But while I stood and wept, Melted in fruitless sorrow, up she crept For me, his Goddess, gliding like a snake, Who wreathed her arms and whispering me go make The nuptial couch, 'What oath binds love?' did say. Loathing him, I must go. He had his way, As well he might who paid that goodly price, Honour, truth, courage, all, to have his vice: The which forsook him when those fair things fled; For though my body hath lain in his bed, My heart abhors it. And now in truth I wis My lord's true heart is where my own heart is, The two together welded and made whole; And I will go to him and give my soul And shamed and faded body to his nod, To spurn or take; and he shall be my God." Whereat made virgin, as all women are By love's white purging fire which leaves no scar Where all was soiled and seamed before the torch Of Eros toucht the heart, and the keen scorch Lickt up the foul misuse of vase so fair As woman's body, Helen flusht and fair Leaned from the wall a fire-hued seraph's face And in one rapt long look gave and took Grace. Deep in her eyes he saw the light divine, Quick in him ran fierce joy of it like wine: Light unto light made answer, as a flag Answers when men tell tidings from one crag Unto another, and from peak to peak The good news flashes. Scarcely could he speak Measurable words, so high his wild thought whirled: "Bride, Goddess, Helen, O Wonder of the World, Shall I come for thee?" Her tender words came soft As dropping rose petals on garden croft Down from the wall's sheer height--"Come soon, come soon." And homing to the lines those drummed his tune.



Now calleth he assembly of the chiefs, Princes and kings and captains, them whose griefs To ease his own like treasure had been lent; Who came and sat at board within the tent Of him they hailed host-father and their lord For this adventure, in aught else abhorred Of all true men. He sits above the rest, The fox-red Agamemnon, round his crest The circlet of his kingship over kings, And at his thigh the sword gold-hilted swings Which Zeus gave Atreus once; and in his heart That gnawing doubt which twice had checkt his start For high emprise, having twice egged him to it, As stout Odysseus knew who had to rue it. Beside him Nestor sat, Nestor the old, White as the winter moon, with logic cold Instilled, as if the blood in him had fled And in his veins clear spirit ran instead, Which made men reasons and not fired their sprites. And next Idomeneus of countless fights, Shrewd leader of the Cretans; by his side Keen-flashing Diomedes in his pride, The young, the wild in onset, whose war-shrill, Next after Peleus' son's, held all Troy still, And stayed the gray crows at their ravelling Of dead men's bones. Into debate full fling Went he, adone with tapping of the foot And drumming on the board. Had but his suit Been granted--so he said--the war were done And Troy a name ere full three years had gone: For as for Helen and her daintiness, Troy held a mort of women who no less Than she could pleasure night when work was over And men came home ready to play the lover; And in housework would better her. Let Helen Be laid by Paris, villain, and dead villain-- Dead long ago if he had taken the field Instead of Menelaus. Then no shield Had Kypris' golden body been, acquist With his sword-arm already, near the wrist! So Diomedes. Next him sat a man With all his woe to come, the Lokrian Aias, son of Oïleus, bearded swart, Pale, with his little eyes, and legs too short And arms too long, a giant when he sat, Dwarf else, and in the fight a tiger-cat. But mark his neighbour, mark him well: to him Falleth the lot to lay a charge more grim On woman fair than even Althaia felt Like lead upon her heartstrings, when she knelt And blew to flame the brand that held the life Of her own son; or Procne with the knife, Who slew and dressed her child to be a meal To his own father. But this man's thews were steel, And steely were the nerves about his heart, As they had need. Mark him, and mark the part He plays hereafter. Odysseus is his name, The wily Ithacan, deathless in his fame And in his substance deathless, since he goes Immortal forth and back wherever blows The thunder of thy rhythm, O blind King, First of the tribe of them with songs to sing, Fountain of storied music and its end-- For who the poet since who doth not tend To essay thy leaping measure, or call down Thy nodded approbation for his crown And all his wages? Other chiefs sat there In order due: as Pyrrhos, very fair And young, with high bright colour, and the hue Of evening in his eyes of violet-blue-- Son of Achilles he, and new to war. Then Antiklos and Teukros, best by far Of all the bowmen in the host. And last Menestheus the Athenian dikast, Who led the folk from Pallas's fair home. To them spake Menelaus, being come Into assembly last, and taken in hand The spokesman's staff: "Ye princes of our land, Adventurous Achaians, stout of heart, Good news I bring, that now we may depart Each to his home and kindred, each to his hearth And wife and children dear and well-tilled garth, Contented with the honour he has brought To me and mine, since I have what we've sought With bitter pain and loss. Yea, even now Hath Heré crowned your strife and earned my vow Made these ten years come harvest, having drawn The veil from off those eyes than which not dawn Holds sweeter light nor holier, once they see. Yea, chieftains, Helen's heart comes back to me; And fast she watches now hard by the wall Of the wicked house, and ere the cock shall call Another morn I have her in my arms Redeemed for Sparta, pure of Trojan harms, Whole-hearted and clean-hearted as she came First, before Paris and his deed of shame Threatened my house with wreck, and on his own Have brought no joy. This night, disguised, alone, I stand within the city, waiting day; Then when men sleep, all in the shadowless gray, Robbing the robber, I drop down with her Over the wall--and lo! the end of the war!" Thus great of heart and high of heart he spake, And trembling ceased. Awhile none cared to break The silence, like unto that breathless hush That holds a forest ere the great winds rush Up from the sea-gulf, bringing furious rain Like mist to drown all nature, blot the plain In one great sheet of water without form. So held the chiefs. Then Diomede brake in storm. Ever the first he was to fling his spear Into the press of battle; dread his cheer, Like the long howling of a wolf at eve Or clamour of the sea-birds when they grieve And hanker the out-scouring of the net Hidden behind the darkness and the wet Of tempest-ridden nights. "Princes," he cried, "What say ye to this wooer of his bride, For whom it seems ten nations and their best Have fought ten years to bring her back to nest? Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this You flung forth fortune--to ensure him his? And he made snug at home, we seek our lands Barer than we left them, with emptier hands, And some with fewer members, shed that he Might fare as soft and trim as formerly! Not so went I adventuring, good friend; Not so look I this business to have end: Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight, And so will live by day as thou by night, Sating my eyes with havoc on this race Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place Brought level with the herbage and the weed, That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed, And moles make palaces, and bats keep house. And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse As quit thy score by thieving from a thief And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief For Tydeus' son, who sees no end of strife But in his own or in his foeman's life." So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: "By that great shade Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made Who slew my father, think not so to have done With Troy and Priam; for Peleides' son Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast, Murdered and unacquit while that man's father Liveth." Then leapt up two, and both together Cried, "Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!" And Aias said, "Are there no women then In Troy, but only her? And are we men Or virgins of Athené?" And the dream Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam His shifting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips Behind his beard. Then stood that prince of ships And shipmen, great Odysseus; with one hand He held the staff, with one he took command; And thus in measured tones, with word intent Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement, Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight Clamour died down, even as the wind at night Falls and is husht at rising of the moon. "Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon Is strife of ten years rounded to a close, Neither so are men seated, friends or foes. For say thus lightly we renounced the meed Of our long travail, gave so little heed To our great dead as find in one man's joy Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy-- Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear, Stock without master, wasting year by year; Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs For sorrow, but the darkness covers all-- What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall, Or what beside a name, who let go by Ilios the rich for others' usury? And have the blessed Gods no say in this? Think you they be won over by a kiss-- Heré the Queen, she, the unwearied aid Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid? Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate, Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate, And for her towers abasement to the dust? Behold, O King, lust shall be paid with lust, And treachery with treachery, and for blood Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood Of our pent passion; break her gates in, raze The walls of her, cumber her pleasant ways With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil, Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things, Harness of flashing bronze, swords, meed of kings, Chariots and horses swifter than the wind Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall. So only shall ye close this agelong strife, Nor by redemption of a too fair wife, Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold, O Menelaus, may the tale be told! Nay, but by slaying of Achilles' slayer, By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer, By not withholding from the spoils of war Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall." He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all, Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum, One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb; One raging to be contraried, one torn By those two passions wherewith he was born, The lust for body's ease and lust of gain. Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men, Gentle his voice to hear. "Laertes' son," He said, but 'twas Nestor he looked upon, The wise old man who sat beside his chair, Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it, Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it From foe, or over friend made stronger claim: "Laertes' son," the king said, "all men's fame Reports thee just and fertile in device; And as the friend of God great is thy price To us of Argos; for without the Gods How should we look to trace the limitless roads That weave a criss-cross 'twixt us and our home? Go to now, some will stay and other some Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart, Not warfaring as men fare to the mart, To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout; But honour is the prize wherefor they go out, And having that, dishonoured are content To leave the foe--that is best punishment. Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth, Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth-- As if of blood enough had not been spilt!-- Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt, Noble Odysseus, seeking how compose His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer, Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her. Come, let this be the sum of our debate." "Content you," Menelaus said, "I wait Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus." Then said Odysseus, "Be it as you choose, Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say Let me win into Troy as best I may, Seek out the lovely lady of our land And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand The sentries, how the warders of the gates; The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits To crown our long endeavour. These things learned, Back to the ships I come ere yet are burned The watch-fires of the night, before the sun Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run Out of the golden gateways of the East." Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least.



Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors And windows open wide, wanders the floors And all the passage ways about the house, Keen marshal of the sun, or serious The cool gray light of morning 'gins to peer Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee Nor full-flood glory of the day to be When round about the hill the sun shall swim And burn a sea-path--so demure and slim Went Helen on her business with swift feet And light, yet recollected, and her sweet Secret held hid, that she was loved where need Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed-- Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, passion white Of lovers knit in Heré's holy light! But while in early morn she wonned alone And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone, And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes: Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies. Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred She paced the hall soft-footed up and down, Lightly and feverishly with quick frown Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird That on the winter grass is aye deterred His food-searching by hint of unknown snare In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare; Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide Beat from her heart against her shielded side-- Now closely girdled went she like a maid-- And then slipt to the window, where she stayed But minutes three or four; for soon she past Out to the terrace, there to be at last Downgazing on her glory, which her king Reflected up in every motioning And flux of his high passion. Only here She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess What deeds must do ere that could come to pass. To her the instant homage held all joy-- And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy Beside the bliss of that? Or Paris, what Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot To have risked all the world and ten years loved This woman, now to find her nothing moved By what he had done with her, what desired To do? And more she chilled the less he tired, And more he ventured less she cared recall What was to her of nothing worth, or all: All if the King required it of her, nought If he who now could take it. It was bought, And his by bargain: let him have it then; But let it be for giving once again, And all the rubies in the world's deep heart Could fetch no price beside it. Yet apart She brooded on the man who held her chained, Minister to his pleasure, and disdained Him more the more herself she must disparage, Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage, So old, incredible, so flat, so stale, No more to be recalled than old wife's tale; And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low, Not villain and not hero, who would go Midway 'twixt baseness and nobility, And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more Than all the world, and made his mind a whore To minister his heart's need, for a price. All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet, Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret; But lift on wings of her exalted mood, She let him touch and finger what he would, Unconscious of his being--as he saw, And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw Of his esteem, "Ah, cruel art thou turned," Would cry, "Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned, Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!" With which to clasp her closer was he fain, To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be The plucker of such chords of such a rote; And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat, Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done. "Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun My worship!" So he said; but she, "They fade, But are not yet so old as thou hast made The soul thou pinnest here beneath my breasts Which you have loved too well." His hand he rests Over one fair white bosom like a cup, And leaning, of her lips his own must sup; But she will not, but gently doth refuse it, Without a reason, save she doth not choose it. Then when he flung away, she sat alone And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one Perturbéd bosom; and her fingers wove White webs as far afield her wits did rove Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair, So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there, A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh. But all the while she writhed within the mesh Of circumstance, and fiercely flamed her rage: "O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage For this sleek master's handling!" So she fumed What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow, And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill That knew, which said, "A true man loveth me still."

That same night, as she used, fair Helen went Among the suppliants in the hall, and lent To each who craved the bounty of her grace, Her gentle touch on wounds, her pitiful face To beaten eyes' dumb eloquence, that art She above all could use, to stroke the heart And plead compassion in bestowing it. So with her handmaids busy did she flit From man to man, 'mid outlaws, broken blades, Robbed husbandmen, their robbers, phantoms, shades Of what were men till hunger made them less Than man can be and still know uprightness; And whom she spake with kindly words and cheer In him the light of hope began to peer And glimmer in his eyes; and him she fed And nourisht, then sent homeward comforted A little, to endure a little more. Now among these, hard by the outer door, She marked a man unbent whose sturdy look Never left hers for long, whose shepherd's hook Seemed not a staff to prop him, whose bright eyes Burned steadily, as fire when the wind dies. Great in the girth was he, but not so tall By a full hand as many whom the wall Showed like gaunt channel-posts by an ebb tide Left stranded in a world of ooze. Beside His knees she kneeled, and to his wounded feet Applied her balms; but he, from his low seat Against the wall, leaned out and in her ear Whispered, but so that no one else could hear, "Other than my wounds are there for thy pains, Lady, and deeper. One, a grievous, drains The great heart of a king, and one is fresh, Though ten years old, in the sweet innocent flesh Of a young child." Nothing said she, but stoopt The closer to her task. He thought she droopt Her head, he knew she trembled, that her shoulder Twitcht as she wrought her task; so he grew bolder, Saying, "But thou art pitiful! I know That thou wilt wash their wounds." She whispered "Oh, Be sure of me!" Then he, "Let us have speech Secret together out of range or reach Of prying ears, if such a chance may be." Then she said, "Towards morning look for me Here, when the city sleeps, before the sun." So till the glimmer of dawn this hardy one Keepeth the watch in Paris' house. All night With hard unwinking eyes he sat upright, While all about the sleepers lay, like stones Littered upon a hill-top, save that moans, Sighings and "Gods, have pity!" showed that they By night rehearsed the miseries of day, And by bread lived not but by hope deferred. Grimly he suffered till such time he heard Helen's light foot and faint and gray in the mist Descried her slim veiled outline, saw her twist And slip between the sleepers on the ground, Atiptoe coming, swift, with scarce a sound, Not faltering in fear. No fear she had. From head to foot a sea-blue mantle clad Her lovely shape, from which her pale keen face Shone like the moon in frosty sky. No case Was his to waver, for her eyes spake true As Heaven upon the world. Him then she drew To follow her, out of the house, to where The ilex trees stood darkly, and the air Struck sharp and chill before the dawn's first breath. There stood a little altar underneath An image: Artemis the quick deerslayer, High-girdled and barekneed; to Whom in prayer First bowed, then stood erect with lifted hands, Palms upward, Helen. "Lady of open lands And lakes and windy heights," prayed she, "so do To me as to Amphion's wife when blew The wind of thy high anger, and she stared On sudden death that not one dear life spared Of all she had--so do to me if false I prove unto this Argive!" Then the walls And gates of Ilios she traced in the sand, And told him of the watch-towers, and how manned The gates at night; and where the treasure was, And where the houses of the chiefs. But as She faltered in the tale, "Show now," said he, "Where Priam's golden palace is." But she Said, "Nay, not that; for since the day of shame That brought me in, no word or look of blame Hath he cast on me. Nay, when Hector died And all the city turned on me and cried My name, as to an outcast dog men fling Howling and scorn, not one word said the King. And when they hissed me in the shrines of the Gods, And women egged their children on with nods To foul the house-wall, or in passing spat Towards it, he, the old King, came and sat Daily with me, and often on my hair Would lay a gentle hand. Him thou shalt spare For my sake who betray him." Odysseus said, "Well, thou shalt speak no more of him. His bed Is not of thy making, nor mine, but his Who hath thee here a cageling, thy Paris. Him he begat as well as Hector. Now Let Priam look to reap what he did sow." But when glad light brimmed o'er the cup of earth And shrill birds called forth men to grief or mirth As might afford their labour under the sun, Helen advised how best to get him gone, And fetched a roll of cord, the which made fast About a stanchion, about him next she cast, About and about until the whole was round His body, and the end to his arm she bound: Then showed him in the wall where best foothold Might be, and watcht him down as fold by fold He paid the cable out; and as he paid So did she twist it, till the coil was made As it had been at first. Then watcht she him Stride o'er the plain until he twinkled dim And sank into the mist. That day came not King Menelaus to the trysting spot; But ere Odysseus left her she had ta'en A crocus flower which on her breast had lain, And toucht it with her lips. "Give this," said she, "To my good lord who hath seen the flower in me."



What weariness of wind and wave and foam Was to be for Odysseus ere his home Of scrub and crag and scanty pasturage He saw again! What stress of pilgrimage Through roaring waterways and cities of men, What sojourn among folk beyond the ken Of mortal seafarers in homelier seas, More trodden lands! Sure, none had earned his ease As he, that windless morning when he drew Near silent Ithaca, gray in misty blue, And wondered on the old familiar scene, Which was to him as it had never been Aforetime. Say, had he but had inkling That in this hour all that long wandering Of his was self-ensured, had he been bold To plan and carry what must now be told Of this too hardy champion? Solve it you Whose chronicling is over. Mine's to do. All day until the setting of the sun, Devising how to use what he had won Odysseus stood; for nothing within walls Was hid, he knew the very trumpet-calls Wherewith they turned the guard out, and the cries The sentries used to hearten or advise The city in the watches of the night. Once in, no hope for Ilios; but his plight No better stood for that, since no way in Could he conceive, nor entry hope to win For any force enough to seize the gate And open for the host. But then some Fate, Or, some men say, Athené the gray-eyed, Ever his friend, never far from his side, Prompted him look about him. Then he heeds A stork set motionless in the dry reeds That lift their withered arms, a skeleton host, Long after winter and her aching frost Are gone, and rattle in the spring's soft breeze Dry bones, as if to daunt the budding trees And warn them of the summer's wrath to come. Still sat the bird, as fast asleep or numb With cold, her head half-buried in her breast, With close-shut eyes: a dead bird on the nest, Arrow-shot--for behold! a wound she bore Mid-breast, which stooping to, to see the more, Lo, forth from it came busy, one by one, Light-moving ants! So she to her death had gone These many days; and there where she lost life Her carrion shell with it again was rife. So teems the earth, that ere our clay be rotten New hosts sweep clean the hearth, our deeds forgotten. But stooping still, Odysseus saw her not Nor her brisk tenantry; afar his thought, And after it his vision, crossed the plain And lit on Ilios, dim and lapt in rain, Piled up like blocks which Titans rear to mark Where hero of their breed sits stiff and stark, Spear in dead hand, and dead chin on dead knees; And "Ha," cried he, "proud hinderer of our ease, Now hold I thee within my hollowed hand!" Straightway returning, Troy's destruction planned, He sends for one Epeios, craftsman good, And bids him frame him out a horse in wood, Big-bellied as a ship of sixty oars Such as men use for traffic, not in wars, Nor piracy, but roomy, deep in the hold, Where men may shelter if needs be from cold, Or sleep between their watches. "Scant not you," He said, "your timber not your sweat. Drive through This horse for me, Epeios, as if we Awaited it to give the word for sea And Hellas and our wives and children dear; For this is true, without it we stay here Another ten-year shift, if by main force We would take Troy, but ten days with my horse." So to their task Epeios and his teams Went valiantly, and heaved and hauled great beams Of timber from far Ida, and hacked amain And rought the framework out. Then to it again They went with adzes and their smoothing tools, And made all shapely; next bored for their dools With augurs, and made good stock on to stock With mortise and with dovetail. Last, they lock The frames with clamps, the nether to the upper, And body forth a horse from crest to crupper In outline. Now their ribbing must be shaped With axe to take the round, first rought, then scraped With adzes, then deep-mortised in the frame To bear the weight of so much mass, whose fame When all was won, the Earth herself might quake, Supporting on her broad breast. Now they take Planks sawn and smoothed, and set them over steam Of cauldrons to be supple. These to the beam Above they rivet fast, and bend them down Till from the belly more they seem to have grown Than in it to be ended, so well sunk And grooved they be. There's for the horse's trunk. But as for head and legs, these from the block Epeios carved, and fixed them on the stock With long pins spigotted and clamps of steel; And then the tail, downsweeping to the heel, He carved and rivetted in place. Yet more He did; for cunningly he made a door Beneath the belly of him, in a part Where Nature lends her aid to sculptor's art, And few would have the thought to look for it, Or eyes so keen to find, if they'd the wit. Greatly stood he, hogmaned, with wrinkled néck And wrying jaw, as though upon the check One rode him. On three legs he stood, with one Pawing the air, as if his course to run Was overdue. Almost you heard the champ And clatter of the bit, almost the stamp And scrape of hoof; almost his fretful crest He seemed to toss on high. So much confest The wondering host. "But where's the man to ride?" They askt. Odysseus said, "He'll go inside. Yet there shall seem a rider--nay, let two Bespan so brave a back," Epeios anew He spurred, and had his horsemen as he would, Two noble youths, star-frontletted, but nude Of clothing, and unarmed, who sat as though Centaurs not men, and with their knees did show The road to travel. Next Odysseus bid, "Gild thou me him, Epeios"; which he did, And burnisht after, till he blazed afar Like that great image which men hail for a star Of omen holy, image without peer, Chryselephantine Athené with her spear, Shining o'er Athens; to which their course they set When homeward faring through the seaways wet From Poros or from Nauplia, or some From the Eubœan gulf, or where the foam Washes the feet of Sounion, on whose brow Like a white crown the shafts burn even now. Such was the shaping of the Horse of Wood, The bane of Ilios. Ordered now they stood Midway between the ships and Troy, and cast The lots, who should go in from first to last Of all the chieftains chosen. And the lot Leapt out of Diomede, so in he got And sat up in the neck. Next Aias went, Clasping his shins and blinking as he bent, Working the ridges of his villainous brow, Like puzzled, patient monkey on a bough That peers with bald, far-seeing eyes, whose scope And steadfastness seem there to mock our hope; Next Antiklos, and next Meriones The Cretan; next good Teukros. After these Went Pyrrhos, Agamemnon, King of men, Menestheus and Idomeneus, and then King Menelaus; and Odysseus last Entered the desperate doorway, and made fast. And all the Achaian remnant, seeing their best To this great venture finally addrest, Stood awed in silence; but Nestor the old Bade bring the victims, and these on the wold In sight of Troy he slew, and so uplift The smoke of fire, and bloodsmoke, as a gift Acceptable to Him he hailed by name Kronion, sky-dweller, who giveth fame, Lord of the thunder; to Heré next, and Her, The Maid of War and holy harbinger Of Father Zeus, who bears the Ægis dread And shakes it when the storm peals overhead And lightning splits the firmament with fire; Nor yet forgat Poseidon, dark-haired sire Of all the seas, and of great Ocean's flow, The girdler of the world. So back with slow And pondered steps they all returned, and dark Swallowed up Troy, and Horse, and them who stark Abode within it. And the great stars shone Out over sea and land; and speaking none, Nursing his arms, nursing within his breast His enterprise, each hero sat at rest Ignorant of the world of day and night, Or whether he should live to see the light, Or see it but to perish in this cage. Only Odysseus felt his heart engage The blithelier for the peril. He was stuff That thrives by daring, nor can dare enough.

Three days, three nights before the Skaian Gate Sat they within their ambush, apt for fate; Three days, three nights, the Trojans swarmed the walls And towers or held high council in their halls What this portended, this o'erweening mass Reared up so high no man stretching could pass His hand over the crupper, of such girth Of haunch, to span the pair no man on earth Could compass with both arms. But most their eyes Were for the riders who in godlike guise Went naked into battle, as Gods use, Untrammel'd by our shifts of shields and shoes, As if we dread the earth whereof we are. Sons of God, these: for bore not each a star Ablaze upon his forelock? Lo, they say, Kastor and Polydeukes, who but they, Come in to save their sister at the last, And war for Troy, and root King Priam fast In his demesne, him and his heirs for ever! Now call they soothsayers to make endeavour With engines of their craft to read the thing; But others urge them hale it to the King-- "Let him dispose," they say, "of it and us, And order as he will, from Pergamos To heave it o'er the sheer and bring to wreck; Or burn with fire; or harbour to bedeck The temple of some God: of three ways one. Here it cannot abide to flout the sun With arrogant flash for every beam of his." Herewith agreed the men of mysteries, Raking the bloodsick earth to have the truth, And getting what they lookt for, as in sooth A man will do. So then they all fell to't To hale with cords and lever foot by foot The portent; and as frenzy frenzy breeds, And what one has another thinks he needs, So to a straining twenty other score Lent hands, and ever from the concourse more Of them, who hauled as if Troy's life depended On hastening forward that wherein it ended. So came the Horse to Troy, so was filled up With retribution that sweet loving-cup Paris had drunk to Helen overseas-- The cup which whoso drains must taste the lees.



High over Troy the windy citadel, Pergamos, towereth, where is the cell And precinct of Athené. There, till reived, They kept the Pallium, sacred and still grieved By all who held the city consecrate To Her, as first it was, till she learned hate For what had once been lovely, and let in The golden Aphrodité, and sweet sin To ensnare Prince Paris and send him awooing A too-fair wife, to be his own undoing And Troy's and all the line's of Dardanos, That traced from Zeus to him, from him to Tros, From Tros to Ilos, to Laomedon, Who begat Priam as his second son. But out of Troy Assarakos too came, From whom came Kapys; and from him the fame Of good Anchises, with whom Kypris lay In love and got Aineias. He, that day Of dreadful wrath, safe only out did come, And builded great Troy's line in greater Rome. Now to the forecourt flock the Trojan folk To view the portent. Now they bring to yoke Priam's white horses, that the stricken king Himself may see the wonder-working thing, Himself invoke with his frail trembling voice The good Twin Brethren for his aid and Troy's. So presently before it Priam stands, Father and King of Troy, with feeble hands And mild pale eyes wherein Grief like a ghost Sits; and about him all he has not lost Of all his children gather, with grief-worn Andromaché and her first, and last, born, The boy Astyanax. And there apart The wise Aineias stands, of steadfast heart But not acceptable--for some old grudge Inherited--Aineias, silent judge Of folly, as he had been since the sin Of Paris knelled the last days to begin. But he himself, that Paris, came not out, But kept his house in these his days of doubt, Uncertain of his footing, being of those On whom the faintest breath of censure blows Chill as the wind that from the frozen North Palsies the fount o' the blood. He dared not forth Lest men should see--and how not see? he thought-- That Helen held him lightlier than she ought. But Helen came there, gentle as of old, Self-held, sufficient to herself, not bold, Not modest nor immodest, taking none For judge or jury of what she may have done; But doing all she was to do, sedate, Intent upon it and deliberate. As she had been at first, so was she now When she had put behind her her old vow And had no pride but thinking of her new. But she was lovelier, of more burning hue, And in her eyes there shone, for who could see, A flickering light, half scare and half of glee, Which made those iris'd orbs to wax and wane Like to the light of April days, when rain And sun contend the sovereignty. She kept Beside the King, and only closer crept To let him feel her there when some harsh word Or look made her heart waver. Many she heard, And much she saw, but knew the King her friend, Him only since great Hector met his end. And while so pensive and demure she stood, With one thin hand just peeping at her hood, The which close-folded her from head to knee, Her heart within her bosom hailed her--"Free! Free from thy thralldom, free to save, to give, To love, be loved again, and die to live!" So she--yet who had said, to see her there, The sweet-faced woman, blue-eyed, still and fair As windless dawn in some quiet mountain place, To such a music let her passion race?

Now hath the King his witless welcome paid, And now invoked the gods, and the cold shade Which once was Hector; now, being upheld By two his sons, with shaking hands of eld The knees of those two carved and gilded youths He touches while he prays, and praying soothes The crying heart of Helen. But not so Kassandra views him pray, that well of woe Kassandra, she whom Loxias deceived With gift to see, and not to be believed; To read within the heart of Time all truth And see men blindly blunder, to have ruth, To burn, to cry, "Out, haro!" and be a mock-- Ah, and to know within this gross wood-block The fate of all her kindred, and her own, Unthinkable! Now with her terror blown Upon her face, to blanch it like a sheet, Now with bare frozen eyes which only greet The viewless neighbours of our world she strips The veil and shrieketh Troy's apocalypse: "Woe to thee, Ilios! The fire, the fire! And rain, Rain like to blood and tears to drown the plain And cover all the earth up in a shroud, One great death-clout for thee, Ilios the proud! Touch not, handle not----" Outraged then she turned To Helen--"O thou, for whom Troy shall be burned, O ruinous face, O breasts made hard with gall, Now are ye satisfied? Ye shall have all, All Priam's sons and daughters, all his race Gone quick to death, hailing thee, ruinous face!" Her tragic mask she turned upon all men: "The lion shall have Troy, to make his den Within her pleasant courts, in Priam's high seat Shall blink the vulture, sated of his meat; And in the temples emptied of their Gods Bats shall make quick the night, and panting toads Make day a loathing to the light it brings. Listen! Listen! they flock out; heed their wings. The Gods flee forth of this accursèd haunt, And leave the memory of it an old chant, A nursery song, an idle tale that's told To children when your own sons are grown old In Argive bonds, and have no other joy Than whispering to their offspring tales of Troy." Whereat she laught--O bitter sound to hear! And struggled with herself, and grinned with fear And misery lest even now her fate Should catch her and she be believed too late. "Is't possible, O Gods! Are ye so doomed As not to know this Horse a mare, enwombed Of men and swords? Know ye not there unseen The Argive princes wait their dam shall yean? Anon creeps Sparta forth, to find his balm In that vile woman; forth with itching palm Mykenai creeps, snuffing what may be won By filching; forth Pyrrhos the braggart's son That dared do violence to Hector dead, But while he lived called Gods to serve his stead; Forth Aias like a beast, to mangle me-- These things ye will not credit, but I see." Then once again, and last, she turned her switch On Helen, hissing, "Out upon thee, witch, Smooth-handed traitress, speak thy secrets out That we may know thee, how thou goest about Caressing, with a hand that hides a knife, That which shall prove false paramour, false wife, Fair as the sun is fair that smiles and slays"-- And then, "O ruinous face, O ruinous face!" But nothing more, for sudden all was gone, Spent by her passion. Muttering, faint and wan Down to the earth she sank, and to and fro Rocking, drew close her hood, and shrouded so, Her wild voice drowning, died in moans away. But Helen stood bright-eyed as glancing day, Near by the Horse, and with a straying hand Did stroke it here and there, and listening stand, Leaning her head towards its gilded flank, And strain to hear men's breath behind the plank; And she had whispered if she dared some word Of promise; but afraid to be o'erheard, Leaned her head close and toucht it with her cheek, Then drew again to Priam, schooled and meek. But Menelaus felt her touch, and mum Sat on, nursing his mighty throw to come; And Aias started, with some cry uncouth And vile, but fast Odysseus o'er his mouth Clapt hand, and checkt his foul perseverance To seek in every deed his own essence.

Now when the ways were darkened, and the sun Sank red to sea, and homeward all had gone Save that distraught Kassandra, who still served The temple whence the Goddess long had swerved, Athené, hating Troy and loving them Who craved to snatch and make a diadem Of Priam's regal crown for other brows-- She, though foredoomed she knew, held to her vows, And duly paid the thankless evening rite-- There came to Paris' house late in the night Deïphobus his brother, young and trim, For speech with fair-tressed Helen, for whose slim And budded grace long had he sighed in vain; And found her in full hall, and showed his pain And need of her. To whom when she draws close In hot and urgent crying words he shows His case, hers now, that here she tarry not Lest evil hap more dread than she can wot: "For this," he says, "is Troy's extremest hour." But when to that she bowed her head, the power Of his high vision made him vehement: "Dark sets the sun," he cried, "and day is spent"; But she said, "Nay, the sun will rise with day, And I shall bathe in light, lift hands and pray." "Thou lift up hands, bound down to a new lord!" He mocked; then whispered, "Lady, with a sword I cut thy bonds if so thou wilt." Apart She moved: "No sword, but a cry of the heart Shall loose me." Then he said, "Hear what I cry From my heart unto thine: fly, Helen, fly!" Whereat she shook her head and sighed, "Even so, Brother, I fly where thou canst never go. Far go I, out of ken of thee and thy peers." He knew not what she would, but said, "Thy fears Are of the Gods and holy dooms and Fate, But mine the present menace in the gate. This I would save thee." "I fear it not," said she, "But wait it here." He cried, "Here shalt thou see Thy Spartan, and his bitter sword-point feel Against thy bosom." "I bare it to the steel," Saith she. He then, "If ever man deserved thee By service, I am he, who'd die to serve thee." Glowing she heard him, being quickly moved By kindness, loving ever where she was loved. But now her heart was fain for rest; the night Called her to sleep and dreams. So with a light And gentle hand upon him, "Brother, farewell," She said, "I stay the issue, and foretell Honour therein at least." Then at the door She kissed him. And she saw his face no more.



Now Dawn came weeping forth, and on the crest Of Ida faced a chill wind from the West. Forth from the gray sea wrack-laden it blew And howled among the towers, and stronger grew As crept unseen the sun his path of light. Then she who in the temple all that night Had kept her rueful watch, the prophetess Kassandra, peering sharply, heard the press And rush of flight above her, and with sick Foreboding waited; and the air grew thick With flying shapes immortal overhead. As in late Autumn, when the leaves are shed And dismal flit about the empty ways, And country folk provide against dark days, And heap the woodstack, and their stores repair, Attent you know the quickening of the air, And closer yet the swish and sweep and swing Of wings innumerable, emulous to bring The birds to broader skies and kindlier sun, And know indeed that winter is begun-- So seeing first, then hearing, she knew the hour Was come when Troy must fall, and not a tower Be left to front the morrow. And she covered Her head and mourned, while one by one they hovered Above their shrines, then flockt and faced the dawn.

First, in her car of shell and amber, drawn By clustering doves with burnisht wings, a-throng, Passes Queen Aphrodité, and her song Is sweet and sharp: "I gave my sacred zone To warm thy bosom, Helen which by none That live by labour and in tears are born And sighing go their ways, has e'er been worn. It kindled in thine eyes the lovelight, showed Thy burning self in his. Thy body glowed With beauty like to mine: mine thy love-laughter Thy cooing in the night, thy deep sleep after, Thy rapture of the morning, love renewed; And all the shadowed day to sit and brood On what has been and what should be again: Thou wilt not? Nay, I proffer not in vain My gifts, for I am all or will be nought. Lo, where I am can be no other thought." Thus to the wooded heights of Ida she Was drawn, hid in that pearly galaxy Of snow-white pigeons. Next upon the height Of Pergamos uplift a beam of light That for its core enshrined a naked youth, Golden and fierce. She knew the God sans ruth, Him who had given woeful prescience to her, Apollo, once her lover and her wooer; Who stood as one stands glorying in his grace And strength, full in the sun, though on her place Within the temple court no sun at all Shone, nor as yet upon the topmost wall Was any tinge of him, but all showed gray And sodden in the wind and blown sea-spray. Not to him dared she lift her voice in prayer, Nor scarce her eyes to see him. To him there Came swift a spirit in shape of virgin slim, With snooded hair and kirtle belted trim, Short to the knee; and in her face the gale Had blown bright sanguine colour. Free and hale She was; and in her hand she held a bow Unstrung, and o'er her shoulders there did go A baldrick that made sharp the cleft betwixt Her sudden breasts--to that a quiver fixt, Showing gold arrow-points. No God there is In Heaven more swift than Delian Artemis, The young, the pure health-giver of the Earth, Who loveth all things born, and brings to birth, And after slays with merciful sudden death-- In whom is gladness all and wholesome breath, And to whom all the praise of him who writes, Ever. These two she saw like meteorites Flare down the wind and burn afar, then fade. And Leto next, a mother grave and staid, Drave out her chariot, which two winged stags drew, Swift following, robed in gown of inky blue, And hooded; and her hand which held the hood Gleamed like a patch of snow left in a wood Where hyacinths bring down to earth the sky. And in her wake a winging company, Dense as the cloud of gulls which from a rock At sea lifts up in myriads, if the knock Of oars assail their peace, she saw, and mourned The household gods. For outward they too turned, The spirits of the streams and water-brooks, And nymphs who haunt the pastures, or in nooks Of woodlands dwell. There like a lag of geese Flew in long straying lines the Oreades That in wild dunes and commons have their haunt; There sped the Hamadryads; there aslant, As from the sea, but wheeling ere they crost Their sisters, thronged the river-nymphs, a host; And now the Gods of homestead and the hearth, Like sad-faced mourning women, left the garth Where each had dwelt since Troy was stablishéd, And been the holy influence over bed And board and daily work under the sun And nightlong slumber when day's work was done: They rose, and like a driven mist of rain Forsook the doomed high city and the plain, And drifted eastaway; and as they went Heaviness spread o'er Ilios like a tent, And past not off, but brooded all day long.

But ever coursed new spirits to the throng That packt the ways of Heaven. From the plain, From mere and holt and hollow rose amain The haunters of the silence; from the streams And wells of water, from the country demes, From plough and pasture, bottom, ridge and crest The rustic Gods rose up and joined the rest. Like a long wisp of cloud from out his banks Streamed Xanthos, that swift river, to the ranks Of flying shapes; and driven by that same mind That urged him to it came Simoeis behind, And other Gods and other, of stream and tree And hill and vale--for nothing there can be On earth or under Heaven, but hath in it Essence whereby alone its form may hit Our apprehension, channelled in the sense Which feedeth us, that we through vision dense See Gods as trees walking, or in the wind That singeth in the bents guess what's behind Its wailing music. And now the unearthly flock, Emptying every water, wood, bare rock And pasture, beset Ida, and their wings Beat o'er the forest which about her springs And makes a sea of verdure, whence she lifts Her soaring peaks to bathe them in the drifts Of cloud, and rare reveal them unto men-- For Zeus there hath his dwelling, out of ken Of men alike and gods. But now the brows, The breasting summits, still eternal snows, And all the faces of the mountain held A concourse like in number to the field Of Heaven upon some breathless summer night Printed with myriad stars, some burning bright, Some massed in galaxy, a cloudy scar, And others faint, as infinitely far. There rankt the Gods of Heaven, Earth, and Sea, Brethren of them now hastening from the fee Of stricken Priam. Out of his deep cloud Zeus flamed his levin, and his thunder loud Volleyed his welcome. With uplifted hands Acclaiming, God's oncoming each God stands To greet. And thus the Hierarchy at one Sits to behold the bitter business done Which Paris by his luxury bestirred.

But in the city, like a stricken bird Grieving her desolation and despair, As voiceless and as lustreless, astare For imminent Death, Kassandra croucht beneath Her very doom, herself the bride of Death; For in the temple's forecourt reared the mass Of that which was to bring the woe to pass, And hidden in him both her murderers Wrung at their nails. And slow the long day wears While all the city broods. The chiefs keep house, Or gather on the wall, or make carouse To simulate a freedom they feel not; And at street corners men in shift or plot Whisper together, or in the market-place Gather, and peer each other in the face Furtively, seeking comfort against care; Whose eyes, meeting by chance, shift otherwhere In haste. But in the houses, behind doors Shuttered and barred, the women scrub their floors, Or ply their looms as busily: for they Ever cure care with care, and if a day Be heavy lighten it with heavier task; And for their griefs wear beauty like a mask, And answer heart's presaging with a song On their brave lips, and render right for wrong. Little, by outward seeming, do they know Of doom at hand, of fate or blood or woe, Nor how their children, playing by their knees, Must end this day of busyness-at-ease In shrieking night, with clamour for their bread, And a red bath, and a cold stone for a bed Under the staring moon.

Now sinks the sun Blood-red into the heavy sea and dun, And forth from him, as he were stuck with swords, Great streams of light go upward. Then the lords Of havoc and unrest prepare their storms, And o'er the silent city, vulture forms-- Eris and Enyo, Alké, Ioké, The biter, the sharp-bitten, the mad, the fey-- Hover and light on pinnacle and tower: The gray Erinnyes, watchful for the hour When Haro be the wail. And down the sky Like a white squall flung Até with a cry That sounded like the wind in a ship's shrouds, As shrill and wild at once. The driving clouds Surging together, blotted out the sea, The beachéd ships, the plain with mound and tree, And slantwise came the sheeted rain, and fast The darkness settled in. Kassandra cast Her mantle o'er her head, and with slow feet Entered her shrine deserted, there to greet Her fate when it should come; and merciful Sleep Befriended her. Now from his lair did creep Odysseus forth unarmed, his sword and spear There in the Horse, and warily to peer And spy his whereabouts the Ithacan Went doubtful. Then his dreadful work began, As down the bare way of steep Pergamos Under the dark he sought for Paris' house.



There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce, Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears, Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall Went out and shot her gaze into the murk Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift, But idly, waiting always for some lift In the close-wrapping fog that might discover The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover-- Lover and husband, master and lord of life, Coming at last to take a slave to wife. And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start, And thankt the Goddess for the balm they brought. Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought By hope and care and waiting, she was mild And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds Time past or time to come, but fills all needs With present kindness. She would laugh and talk, Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk The terrace 'neath the eyes of all her fate, And seem to heed what they might show or prate, As if her whole heart's heart were in this house And not at fearful odds and perilous. And should one speak of Paris, as to say, "Would that our lord might see thee go so gay About his house!" Gently she'd bend her head Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise, Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise Lit like a butterfly and quivered there. Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere At council with the chieftains, into the hall To Helen there, was come, adventuring all, Odysseus in the garb of countryman, A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip, And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came And louted low, and hailed her by her name, Among her maidens easy to be known, Though not so tall as most, and not full blown To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose; But like a summer wave her bosom flows Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face Seems pious as the moon in a blue space Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue Of early morning, gray through mist of blue. Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed Queen of them all, but by the right expressed In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold Upon her lips which Gods have. Nay, not cold, Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say All in a sigh, and with one word betray The passion of thy heart! But who can wis The fainting piercing message of thy kiss? O blest initiate--let him live to tell Thy godhead, show himself thy miracle! But when she saw him there with his head bowed And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed, And broad across the iris swam the black Until her eyes showed darkling. "Friend, your lack Tell me," she said, "and what is mine to give Is yours; but little my prerogative Here in this house, where I am not the queen You call me, but another name, I ween, Serves me about the country you are of, Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love. Yet are we all alike in evil plight, And should be tender of each other's right, And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done Upon us. Have you wife and little one Hungry at home? Have you a son afield? Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford To serve...." He said, "Nay, you can sheathe the sword, Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy. Lady, I come to end this war of Troy In your good pleasure." With her steady eyes Unwinking fixt, "Let you and me devise," Said she, "this happy end of bow and spear, So shall we serve the land. You have my ear; Speak then." "But so," he said, "these maidens have it. But we save Troy alone, or never save it." Turning she bid them leave her with a nod, And they obeyed. Swift then and like a God She seemed, with bright all-knowing eyes and calm Gesture of high-held head, and open palm To greet. "Laertes' son, what news bringst thou?" "Lady," he said, "the best. The hour is now. We stand within the heaven-establisht walls, We gird the seat. Within an hour it falls, The seat divine of Dardanos and Tros, After our ten years' travail and great loss Of heroes not yet rested, but to rest Soon." Then she laid her hand upon her breast To stay it. "Who are ye that stand here-by?" "Desperate men," he said, "prepared to die If thou wilt have it so. Chief is there none Beside the ships but Nestor. All are gone Forth in the Horse. Under thy covering hand Thou holdest all Achaia. Here we stand, Epeios, Pyrrhos, Antiklos, with these Cretan Idomeneus, Meriones, Aias the Lokrian, Teukros, Diomede Of the loud war-cry, next thy man indeed, Golden-haired Menelaus the robbed King, And Agamemnon by him, and I who bring This news and must return to take what lot Thou choosest us; for all is thine, God wot, To end or mend, to make or mar at will." A weighty utterance, but she heard the thrill Within her heart, and listened only that-- To know her love so near. So near he sat Hidden when she that toucht the Horse's flank Could have toucht him! "Odysseus!" her voice sank To the low tone of the soft murmuring dove That nests and broods, "Odysseus, heard my love My whisper of his name when close I stood And stroked the Horse?" "I heard and understood," He said, "and Lokrian Aias would have spoken Had I not clapt a hand to his mouth--else broken By garish day had been our house of dream, And our necks too. I heard a woman scream Near by and cry upon the Ruinous Face, But none made answer to her." Nought she says To that but "I am ready; let my lord Come when he will. Humbly I wait his word." "That word I bring," Odysseus said, "he comes. Await him here." Her wide eyes were the homes Of long desire. "Ah, let me go with thee Even as I am; from this dark house take me While Paris is abroad!" He shook his head. "Not so, but he must find thee here abed-- And Paris here." The light died out; a mask Of panic was her face, what time her task Stared on a field of white horror like blood: "Here! But there must be strife then!" "Well and good," Said he. Then she, shivering and looking small, "And one must fall?" she said; he, "One must fall." Reeling she turned her pincht face other way And muttered with her lips, grown cold and gray, Then fawning came at him, and with her hands Besought him, but her voice made no demands, Only her haunted eyes were quick, and prayed, "Ah, not to fall through me!" "By thee," he said, "The deed is to be done." She droopt adown Her lovely head; he heard her broken moan, "Have I not caused enough of blood-shedding, And enough women's tears? Is not the sting Sharp enough of the knife within my side?" No more she could. Then he, "Think not to avoid The lot of man, who payeth the full price For each deed done, and riddeth vice by vice: Such is the curse upon him. The doom is By God decreed, that for thy forfeit bliss In Sparta thou shalt pay the price in Troy, Dishonour for lost honour, pain for joy; By what hot thought impelled, by that alone Win back; by violence violence atone. If by chicane thou fleddest, by chicane Win back thy blotted footprints. Out again With all thine arts of kisses slow and long, Of smiles and stroking hands, and crooning song Whenas full-fed with love thou lulledst asleep; Renew thine eyebright glances, whisper and creep And twine about his neck thy wreathing arms: As we with spears so do thou with thy charms, Arm thee and wait the hour of fire and smoke To purge this robbery. Paris by the stroke Of him he robbed shall wash out his old cheat In blood, and thou, woman, by new deceit Of him redeem thy first. For thus God saith, Traitress, thou shalt betray thy thief to death." He ceased, and she by misery made wild And witless, shook, and like a little child Gazed piteous, and asked, "What must I do?" He answered, "Hold him by thee, falsely true, Until the King stand armed within the house Ready to take his blood-price. Even thus, By shame alone shalt thou redeem thy shame." And now she claspt his knee and cried his name: "Mercy! I cannot do it. Let me die Sooner than go to him so. What, must I lie With one and other, make myself a whore, And so go back to Sparta, nevermore To hold my head up level with my slaves, Nor dare to touch my child?" Said he, "Let knaves Deal knavishly till freedom they can win; And so let sinners purge themselves of sin." Then fiercely looking on her where she croucht Fast by his knees, his whole mind he avoucht: "How many hast thou sent the way of death By thy hot fault? What ghosts like wandering breath Shudder and wail unhouseled on the plain, Shreds of Achaian honour? What hearts in pain Cry the night through? What souls this very night Fare forth? Art thou alone to sup delight, Alone to lap in pleasantness, who first And only, with thy lecher and his thirst, Wrought all the harm? Only for thy smooth sake Did Paris reive, and Menelaus ache, And Hector die ashamed, and Peleus' son Stand to the arrow, and Aias Telamon Find madness and self-murder for the crown Of all his travail?" He eyed her up and down Sternly, as measuring her worth in scorn. "Not thus may traffic any woman born While men endure cold nights and burning days, Hunger and wretchedness." She stands, she says, "Enough--I cannot answer. Tell me plain What I must do." "At dark," he said, "we gain The Gates and open them. A trumpet's blast Will sound the entry of the host. Hold fast Thy Paris then. We storm the citadel, High Pergamos; that won, the horn will tell The sack begun. But hold thou Paris bound Fast in thine arms. Once more the horn shall sound. That third is doom for him. Release him then." All blank she gazed. "Unarmed to face armed men?" "Unarmed," he said, "to meet his judgment day."

Now was thick silence broken; now no way For her to shift her task nor he his fate. Keenly she heeds. "'Tis Paris at the gate! What now? Whither away? Where wilt thou hide?" He lookt her in the face. "Here I abide What he may do. Was it not truth I spake That all Hellas lay in thy hand? Now take What counsel or what comfort may avail." Paris stood in the door and cried her Hail. "Hail to thee, Rose of the World!" then saw the man, And knit his brows upon him, close to scan His features; but Odysseus had his hood Shadowing his face. Some time the Trojan stood Judging, then said, "Thou seek'st? What seekest thou?" "A debt is owed me. I seek payment now." So he was told; but he drew nearer yet. "I would know more of thee and of thy debt," He said. And then Odysseus, "This thy strife Hath ruined all my fields which are my life, Brought murrain on my beasts, cold ash to my hearth, Emptiness to my croft. Hunger and dearth, Are these enough? Who pays me?" Then Paris, "I pay, but first will know what man it is I am to pay, and in what kind." So said, Snatching the hood, he whipt it from his head And lookt and knew the Ithacan. "Now by Zeus, Treachery here!" He swung his sword-arm loose Forth of his cloak and set hand to his sword; But Helen softly called him: "Hath my lord No word of greeting for his bondwoman?" Straightway he went to her, and left the man, And took her in his arms, and held her close. And light of foot, Odysseus quit the house.



Now Paris tipt her chin and turned her face Upwards to his that fondly he might trace The beauty of her budded lips, and stoop And kiss them softly; and fingered in the loop That held her girdle, and closer pressed, on fire, Towards her; for her words had stung desire Anew; and wooing in his fond boy's way, Whispered and lookt his passion; then to pray Began: "Ah, love, long strange to me, behold Thy winter past, and come the days of gold And pleasance of the spring! For in thine eyes I see his light and hail him as he flies! Nay, cloud him not, nor veil him"--for she made To turn her face, saying, "Ah, let them fade: The soul thou prisonest here is grayer far." But he would give no quarter now. "O star, O beacon-star, shine on me in the night That I may wash me in thy bath of light, Taking my fill of thee; so cleanséd all And healed, I rise renewed to front what call May be!" which said, with conquest in his bones And in his eyes assurance, in high tones He called her maids, bade take her and prepare The couch, and her to be new-wedded there; For long had they been strangers to their bliss. So by the altar standeth she submiss And watchful, praying silent and intense To a strange-figured Goddess, to his sense Who knew but Aphrodité. "Love, what now? Who is thy God? What secret rite hast thou?" For grave and stern above that altar stood Heré the Queen of Heaven. In dry mood She answered him, "Chaste wives to her do pray Before they couch, Blest be the strife! You say We are to be new-wedded. Pour with me Libation that we love not fruitlessly." So said, she took the well-filled cup and poured, And prayed, saying, "O Mother, not abhorred Be this my service of thee. Count it not Offence, nor let my prayers be forgot When reckoning comes of things done and not done By me thy child, or to me, hapless one, Unloving paramour and unloved wife!" "Heré, to thee for issue of the strife!" Cried Paris then, and poured. So Helen went And let her maids adorn her to his bent.

Then took he joy of her, and little guessed Or cared what she might give or get. Possest Her body by his body, but her mind Searcht terribly the issue. As one blind Explores the dark about him in broad day And fingers in the air, so as she lay Lax in his arms, her fainting eyes, aglaze For terror coming, sought escape all ways. Alas for her! What way for woman fair, Whose joy no fairer makes her than despair? Her burning lips that kisses could not cool, Her beating heart that not love made so full, The surging of her breast, her clinging hands: Here are such signs as lover understands, But fated Paris nowise. Her soul, distraught To save him, proved the net where he was caught. For more she anguisht lest love be his bane The fiercelier spurred she him, to make him fain Of that which had been ruinous to all. But all the household gathered on the wall While these two in discordant bed were plight, And watcht the Achaian fires. No beacon-light Showed by the shore, but countless, flickering, streamed Innumerable lights, wove, dipt and gleamed Like fireflies on a night of summer heat, Withal one way they moved, though many beat Across and back, and mingled with the rest. Anon a great glare kindled from the crest Of Ida, and was answered by a blaze Behind the ships, which threw up in red haze Huge forms of prow and beak. Then from the Mound Of Ilos fire shot up, from sacred ground, And out the mazy glory of moving lights One sped and flared, as of the meteorites In autumn some fly further, brighter courses. A chariot! They heard the thunder of the horses; And as they flew the torch left a bright wake. And thus to one another woman spake, "Lo, more lights race! They follow him, they near, Catch and draw level. Hark! Now you can hear The tramp of men!" Says one, "That baleful sheen Is light upon their spears. The Greeks, I ween, Are coming up to rescue or requite." But then her mate: "They mass, they fill the night With panic terror." True, that all night things Fled as they came. They heard the flickering wings Of countless birds in haste, and as they flew So fled the dark away. Light waxed and grew Until the dead of night was vivified And radiant opened out the countryside With pulsing flames of fire, which gleamed and glanced, Flickered, wavered, yet never stayed advance. As the sun rising high o'er Ida cold Beats a sea-path in flakes of molten gold, So stretcht from shore to Troy that litten stream That moved and shuddered, restless as a dream, Yet ever nearing, till on spear and shield They saw light like the moon on a drowned field, And in the glare of torches saw and read Gray faces, like the legions of the dead, Silent about the walls, and waiting there. But in the fragrant chamber Helen the fair Lay close in arms, and Paris slept, his head Upon her bosom, deep as any dead.

Sudden there smote the blast of a great horn, Single, long-held and shuddering, and far-borne; And then a deathless silence. Paris stirred On that soft pillow, and listened while they heard Many men running frantically, with feet That slapt the stones, and voices in the street Of question and call--"Oh, who are ye that run? What of the night?" "O peace!" And some lost one Wailed like a woman, and her a man did curse, And there were scuffling, prayers, and then worse-- A silence. But the running ended not While Paris lay alistening with a knot Of Helen's loose hair twisting round his finger. "O love," he murmured low, "I may not linger. The street's awake. Alas, thou art too kind To be a warrior's bride." Sighing, she twined Her arm about his neck and toucht his face, And pressed it gently back to its warm place Of pillowing. And Paris kissed her breast And slept; but her heart's riot gave no rest As quaking there she lay, awaiting doom. Then afar off rose clamour, and the room Was fanned with sudden light and sudden dark, As on a summer night in a great park Blazed forth you see each tuft of grass or mound, Anon the drowning blackness, while the sound Of Zeus's thunder hardens every close: So here the chamber glared, then dipt, and rose That far confuséd tumult, and now and then The scurrying feet of passion-driven men. Thrilling she waited with sick certainty Of doom inexorable, while the struck city Fought its death-grapple, and the windy height Of Pergamos became a shambles. White The holy shrines stared on a field of blood, And with blank eyes the emptied temples stood While murder raved before them, and below And all about the city ran the woe Of women for their children. Then the flame Burst in the citadel, and overcame The darkness, and the time seemed of broad day. And Helen stared unwinking where she lay Pillowing Paris. Now glad and long and shrill The second trumpet sounds. They have the hill-- High Troy is down, is down! Starting, he wakes And turns him in her arms. His face she takes In her two hands and turns it up to hers. Nothing she says, nothing she does, nor stirs From her still scrutiny, nor so much as blinks Her eyes, deep-searching, of whose blue he drinks, And fond believes her all his own, while she Marvels that aught of his she e'er could be In times bygone. But now he is on fire Again, and urges on her his desire, And loses all the sense of present needs For him in burning Troy, where Priam bleeds Head-smitten, trodden on his palace-floor, And white Kassandra yieldeth up her flower To Aias' lust, and of the Dardan race Survive he only, renegade disgrace, He only and Aineias the wise prince. But now is crying fear abroad and wins The very household of the shameful lover; Now are the streets alive, for worse in cover Like a trapt rat to die than fight the odds Under the sky. Now women shriek to the Gods, And men run witlessly, and in and out The Greeks press, burning, slaying, and the rout Screameth to Heaven. As at sea the mews Pack, their wings battling, when some fresh wrack strews The tideway, and in greater haste to stop Others from prey, will let their morsel drop, And all the while make harsh lament--so here The avid spoilers bickered in their fear To be manœuvred out of robbery, And tore the spoil, and mangled shamefully Bodies of men to strip them, and in haste To forestall ravishers left the victims chaste. Ares, the yelling God, and Até white Swept like a snow-storm over Troy that night; And towers rockt, and in the naked glare Of fire the smoke climbed to the upper air; And clamour was as of the dead broke loose. But Menelaus his stern way pursues, And to the wicked house with chosen band Cometh, his good sword naked in his hand; And now, while Paris loves and holds her fast In arms, the third horn sounds a shattering blast, Long-held, triumphant; and about the door Gathers the household, to cry, to pray, to implore, And at the last break in and scream the truth-- "The Greeks! The Greeks! Save yourselves!" Then in sooth Starts Paris out of bed, and as he goes Sees in the eyes of Helen all she knows And all believes; and with his utter loss Of her rises the man in him that was Ere luxury had entered blood and bone Of him. No word he said, but let one groan, And turned his dying eyes to hers, and read Therein his fate, that to her he was dead, Long dead and cold in grave. Whereat he past Out of the door, and met his end at last As man, not minion. But the woman fair Lay on her face, half buried in her hair, Naked and prone beneath her saving sin, Not yet enheartened new life to begin.


But thou didst rise, Maid Helen, as from sleep, A final tryst to keep With thy true lover, in whose hands thy life Lay, as in arms; his wife In heart as well as deed; his wife, his friend, His soul's fount and its end! For such it is, the marriage of true minds, Each in each sanction finds; So if her beauty lift her out of thought Whither man's to be brought To worship her perfection on his knees, So in his strength she sees Self glorified, and two make one clear orb Whereinto all rays absorb Which stream from God and unto God return.-- So, as he fared, I yearn To be, and serve my years of pain and loss 'Neath my walled Ilios, With my eyes ever fixt to where, a star, Thou and thy sisters are, Helen and Beatrice, with thee embraced, Hands in thy hands, and arms about thy waist.



Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife, Twifold in essence, as in life, The lamp of Death, the star of Birth, Half cradled and half mourned by Earth, By Hell half won, half lost! aid me To sing thy fond Hypsipyle, Thy bosom's mate who, unafraid, Renounced for thee what part she had In sun and wind upon the hill, In dawn about the mere, in still Woodlands, in kiss of lapping wave, In laughter, in love--all this she gave!-- And shared thy dream-life, visited The sunless country of the dead, There to abide with thee, their Queen, In that gray region, shadow-seen By them that cast no shadows, yet Themselves are shadows. Nor forget, Koré, her love made manifest To thee, familiar of her breast And partner of her whispering mouth.

Thee too, Our Lady of the South, Uranian Kypris, I invoke, Regent of starry space, with stroke Of splendid wing, in whose white wake Stream those who, filled with thee, forsake Their clinging shroudy clots, and rise, Lover and loved, to thy pure skies, To thy blue realm! O lady, touch My lips with rue, for she loved much.

What poet in what cloistered nook, Indenting in what roll of a book His rhymes, can voice the tides of love? Nay, thrilling lark, nay, moaning dove, The nightingale's full-chargéd throat That cheereth now, and now doth gloat, And now recordeth bitter-sweet Longing, too wise to image it: These be your minstrels, lovers! Choose From their winged choir your urgent Muse; Let her your speechless joys relate Which men with words sophisticate, Striving by reasons make appear To head what heart proclaims so clear To heart; as if by wit to wis What mouth to mouth tells in a kiss, Or in their syllogisms dry Freeze a swift glance's cogency. Nay, but the heart's so music-fraught, Music is all in love, words naught. One heart's a rote, with music stored Though mute; but two hearts make a chord Of piercing music. One alone Is nothing: two make the full tone.


On Enna's uplands, on a lea Between the mountains and the sea, Shadowed anon by wandering cloud, Or flickering wings of birds a-crowd, And now all golden in the sun, See Koré, see her maidens run Hither and thither through those hours Of dawn among the wide-eyed flowers, While gentian, crocus, asphodel (With rosy star in each white bell), Anemone, blood-red with rings Of paler fire, that plant that swings A crimson cluster in the wind They pluck, or sit anon to bind Of these earth-stars a coronet For their smooth-tresséd Queen, who yet Strays with her darling interlaced, Hypsipyle the grave, the chaste-- Her whose gray shadow-life with his Who singeth now for ever is. She, little slim thing, Koré's mate, Child-faced, gray-eyed, of sober gait, Of burning mind and passion pent To image-making, ever went Where wonned her Mistress; for those two By their hearts' grace together grew, The one to need, the one to give (As women must if they would live, Who substance win by waste of self And only spend to hoard their pelf: "O heart, take all of mine!" "O heart, That which thou tak'st of thee is part-- No robbery therefore: mine is thine, Take then!"): so she and Proserpine Intercommunion'd each bright day, And when night fell together lay Cradled in arms, or cheek to cheek Whispered the darkness out. Thou meek And gentle vision! let me tell Thy beauties o'er I love so well: Thy sweet low bosom's rise and fall, Pulsing thy heart's clear madrigal; Or how the blue beam from thine eyes Imageth all love's urgencies; Thy lips' frail fragrance, as of flowers Remembered in penurious hours Of winter-exile; of thy brow, Not written as thy breast of snow With love's faint charact'ry, for his wing Leaves not the heart long! Last I sing Thy thin quick fingers, in whose pleaching Lieth all healing, all good teaching-- Wherewith, touching my discontent, I know how thou art eloquent! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle! Now may that serve to comfort me, While I, O Maiden dedicate, Seek voice for singing thy gray Fate!

Now, as they went, one heart in two, Brusht to the knees by flowers, by dew Anointed, by the wind caressed, By the light kissed on eyes and breast, 'Twas Koré talked; Hypsipyle Listened, with eyes far-set, for she Of speech was frugal, voicing low And rare her heart's deep underflow-- Content to lie, like fallow sweet For rain or sun to cherish it, Or scattered seed substance to find In her deep-funded, quiet mind. And thus the Goddess: "Blest art thou, Hypsipyle, who canst not know Until the hour strikes what must come To pass! But I foresee the doom And stay to meet it. Even here The place, and now the hour!" Then fear Took her who spake so fearless, cold Threaded her thronging veins--behold! A hand on either shoulder stirs That slim, sweet body close to hers, And need fires need till, lip with lip, They seal and sign their fellowship, While Koré, godhead all forgot, Clings whispering, "Child, leave me not Whenas to darkness and the dead I go!" And clear the answer sped From warm mouth murmuring kiss and cheer, "Never I leave thee, O my dear!" Thereafter stand they beatingly, Not speaking; and the hour draws nigh.

And all the land shows passing fair, Fair the broad sea, the living air, The misty mountain-sides, the lake Flecked blue and purple! To forsake These, and those bright flower-gatherers Scattered about this land of theirs, That stoop or run, that kneel to pick, That cry each other to come quick And see new treasure, unseen yet! Remembered joy--ah, how forget!

But mark how all must come to pass As was foreknowledged. In the grass Whereas the Goddess and her mate Stood, one and other, prompt for fate-- Listless the first and heavy-eyed, Astrain the second--she espied That strange white flower, unseen before, With chalice pale, which thin stalk bore And swung, as hanging by a hair, So fine it seemed afloat in air, Unlinkt and wafted for the feast Of some blest mystic, without priest Or acolyte to tender it: Whereto the maid did stoop and fit Her hand about its silken cup To close it, that her mouth might sup The honey-drop within. The bloom Saw Koré then, and knew her doom Foretold in it; and stood in trance Fixéd and still. No nigromance Used she, but read the fate it bore In seedless womb and petals frore. Chill blew the wind, waiting stood She, Waiting her mate, Hypsipyle.

Then in clear sky the thunder tolled Sudden, and all the mountains rolled The dreadful summons round, and still Lay all the lands, only the rill Made tinkling music. Once more drave Peal upon peal--and lo! a grave Yawned in the Earth, and gushing smoke Belched out, as driven, and hung, and broke With sullen puff; like tongues the flame Leapt following. Thence Aïdoneus came, Swart-bearded king, with iron crown'd, In iron mailed, his chariot bound About with iron, holding back Amain two steeds of glistering black And eyeballs white-rimmed fearfully, And nostrils red, and crests flying free; Who held them pawing at the verge, Tossing their spume up, as the surge Flung high against some seaward bluff. Nothing he spake, or smooth or gruff, But drave his errand, gazing down Upon the Maid, whose blown back gown Revealed her maiden. Still and proud Stood she among her nymphs, unbowed Her comely head, undimmed her eye, Inseparate her lips and dry, Facing his challenge of her state, Neither denying, nor desperate, Pleading no mercy, seeing none, Her wild heart masked in face of stone. But they, her bevy, clustered thick As huddled sheep, set their eyes quick, And held each other, hand or waist, Paling or flushing as fear raced Thronging their veins--they knew not, they, The gathered fates that broke this day,

And all the land seemed passing fair To one who knew, and waited there.

"Goddess and Maid," then said the King, "Long have I sought this day should bring An end of torment. Know me thou God postulant, with whom below A world awaits her queen, while here I seek and find one without peer; Nor deem her heedless nor unschooled In what in Heaven is writ and ruled. Decreed of old my bride-right was, Decreed thy Mother's pain and loss, Decreed thy loathing, and decreed That which thou shunnest to be thy need; For thou shalt love me, Lady, yet, Though little liking now, and fret Of jealous care shall grave thy heart And draw thee back when time's to part-- If fond Demeter have her will Against thine own."

The Maid stood still And guarded watched, and her proud eyes' Scrutiny bade his own advise Whether indeed their solemn stare Saw Destiny and read it there Beyond her suitor, or within Her own heart heard the message ring. Awhile she gazed: her stern aspect, Young and yet fraught with Godhead, checkt Both Him who claimed, and her who'd cling, And them who wondered. "O great King," She said, and mournful was her crying As when night-winds set pine-trees sighing, "King of the folk beyond the tide Of sleep, behold thy chosen bride Not shunning thee, nor seeking. Take That which Gods neither mar nor make, But only They, the Three, who spin The threads which hem and mesh us in, Both Gods and men, till she who peers The longest cuts them with her shears. Take, take, Aïdoneus, and take her, My fosterling." Then He, "O star Of Earth, O Beacon of my days, Light of my nights, whose beamy rays Shall pierce the foggy cerement Wherein my dead grope and lament Beyond all loss the loss of light, Come! and be pleasant in my sight This thy beloved. Perchance she too Shall find a suitor come to woo; For love men leave not with their bones-- That is the soul's, and half atones And half makes bitterer their loss, Remembering what their fortune was." Trembling Hypsipyle uplift Her eyes towards the hills, where swift The shadows flew, but no more fleet Than often she with flying feet And flying raiment, she with these Her mates, whom now estranged she sees-- As if the shadow-world had spread About her now, and she was dead-- Her mates no more! cut off by fear From these two fearless ones. A tear Welled up and hovered, hung a gem Upon her eyelid's dusky hem, As raindrops linkt and strung arow Broider with stars the winter bough. This was her requiem and farewell To them, thus rang she her own knell; Nor more gave she, nor more asked they, But took and went the fairy way. For thus with unshed tears made blind Went she: thus go the fairy kind Whither fate driveth; not as we Who fight with it, and deem us free Therefore, and after pine, or strain Against our prison bars in vain. For to them Fate is Lord of Life And Death, and idle is a strife With such a master. They not know Life past, life coming, but life now; Nor back look they to long, nor forth To hope, but sup the minute's worth With draught so quick and keen that each Moment gives more than we could reach In all our term of three-score years, Whereof full score we give to fears Of losing them, and other score Dreaming how fill the twenty more. Now is the hour, Bride of the Night! The chariot turns, the great steeds fight The rocky entry; flies the dust Behind the wheels at each fierce thrust Of giant shoulder, at each lunge Of giant haunch. Down, down they plunge Into the dark, with rioting mane, And the earth's door shuts-to again. Now fly, ye Oreads, strain your arms, Let eyes and hair voice your alarms-- Hair blown back, mouths astretch for fear, Strained eyeballs--cry that Mother dear Her daughter's rape; fly like the gale That down the valleys drives the hail In scurrying sheets, and lays the corn Flat, which when man of woman born Seeth, he bows him to the grass, Whispering in hush, _The Oreads pass_. (In shock he knows ye, and in mirth, Since he is kindred of that earth Which bore ye in her secret stress, Images of her loveliness, To her dear paramour the Wind.) Follow me now that car behind.


O ye that know the fairy throng, And heed their secret under-song; In flower or leaf's still ecstasy Of birth and bud their passion see, In wind or calm, in driving rain Or frozen snow discern them strain To utter and to be; who lie At dawn in dewy brakes to spy The rapture of their flying feet-- Follow me now those coursers fleet, Sucked in their wake, down ruining Through channelled night, where only sing The shrill gusts streaming through the hair Of them who sway and bend them there, And peer in vain with shielded eyes To rend the dark. Clinging it lies, Thick as wet gossamer that shrouds October brushwoods, or low clouds That from the mountain tops roll down Into the lowland vales, to drown Men's voices and to choke their breath And make a silence like to death. But this was hot and dry; it came And smote them, like the gush of flame Fanned in a smithy, that outpours And floods with fire the open doors. Downward their course was, swift as flight Of meteor flaring through the night, Steady and dreadful, with no sound Of wheels or hoofs upon the ground, Nor jolt, nor jar; for once past through Earth's portals, steeds and chariot flew On wings invisible and strong And even-oaring, such as throng The nights when birds of passage sweep O'er cities and the folk asleep: Such was their awful flight. Afar Showed Hades glimmering like a star Seen red through fog: and as they sped To that, the frontiers of the dead Revealed their sullen leagues and bare, And sad forms flitting here and there, Or clustered, waiting who might come Their empty ways with news of home. Yet all one course at length must hold, Or late or soon, and all be tolled By Charon in his dark-prowed boat. Thither was swept the chariot And crossed dry-wheeled the coiling flood Of Styx, and o'er the willow wood And slim gray poplars which do hem The further shore, Hell's diadem-- So by the tower foursquare and great Where King Aïdoneus keeps his state And rules his bodyless thralls they stand.

Dark ridge and hollow showed the land Fold over fold, like waves of soot Fixt in an anguish of pursuit For evermore, so far as eye Could range; and all was hot and dry As furnace is which all about Etna scorcheth in days of drouth, And showeth dun and sinister That fair isle linked to main so fair. Nor tree nor herbage grew, nor sang Water among the rocks: hard rang The heel on metal, or on crust Grew tender, or went soft in dust; Neither for beast nor bird nor snake Was harbourage; nor could such slake Their thirst, nor from the bitter heat Hide, since the sun not furnished it; But airless, shadowless and dense The land lay swooning, dead to sense Beneath that vault of stuprous black, Motionless hanging, without wrack Of cloud to break and pass, nor rent To hint the blue. Like the foul tent A foul night makes, it sagged; for stars Showed hopeless faces, with two scars In each, their eyes' immortal woe, Ever to seek and never know: In all that still immensity These only moved--these and the sea, Which dun and sullen heaved, with surge And swell unseen, save at the verge Where fainted off the black to gray And showed such light as on a day Of sun's eclipse men tremble at.

Here the dead people moved or sat, Casting no shadow, hailing none Boldly; but in fierce undertone They plied each other, or on-sped Their way with signal of the head For answer, or arms desperate Flung up, or shrug disconsolate. And this the quest of every one: "What hope have ye?" And answer, "None." Never passed shadow shadow but That answer got to question put. In that they lived, in that, alas! Lovely and hapless, Thou must pass Thy days, with this for added lot-- Aching, to nurse things unforgot.

Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle! The Oread choir, the Oread glee: The nimble air of quickening hills, The sweet dawn light that floods and fills The hollowed valleys; the dawn wind That bids the world wake, and on blind Eyelids of sleeping mortals lays Cool palms that urge them see and praise The Day-God coming with the sun To hearten toil! He warned you run And hide your beauties deep in brake Of fern or briar, or reed of lake, Or in wet crevice of the rock, There to abide until the clock You reckon by, with shadowy hands, Lay benediction on the lands And landsmen, and the eve-jar's croak Summon ye, lightfoot fairy folk, To your activity full tide Over the empty earth and wide. Here be your food, fair nymph, and coy Of mortal ken--remember'd joy!

Remember'd joy! Ah, stormy nights, Ah, the mad revel when wind fights With wind, and slantwise comes the rain And shatters at the window-pane, To wake the hind, who little knows Whose fingers drum those passionate blows, Nor what swift indwellers of air Ye be who hide in forms so fair Your wayward motions, cruel to us, While lovely, and dispiteous! Ah, nights of flying scud and rout When scared the slim young moon rides out In her lagoon of open sky, Or older, marks your revelry As calm and large she oars above Your drifting lives of ruth or love. Boon were those nights of dusted gold And glint of fireflies! Boon the cold And witching frost! All's one, all's one To thee, whose nights and days go on Now in one span of changeless dusk On one earth, crackling like the husk Of the dropt mast in winter wood: Remember'd joy--'tis all thy food, Hypsipyle, to whose fond sprite I vow my praise while I have light.

Dumbly she wandered there, as pale With lack of light, with form as frail As those poor hollow congeners Whose searching eyes encountered hers, Petitioning as mute as she Some grain of hope, where none might be, Daring not yet to voice their moan To her whose case was not their own; For where they go like breath in a shell That wails, my love goes quick in Hell.

Alas, for her, the sweet and slim! Slowly she pines; her eyes grow dim With seeking; her smooth, sudden breasts Hang languidly; those little nests For kisses which her dimples were, In cheeks graved hollow now by care Vanish, and sharply thrusts her chin, And sharp her bones of arm and shin. Reproach she looks, about, above, Denied her light, denied her love, Denied for what she sacrificed, Doomed to be fruitless agonist. (O God, and I must see her fade, Must see and anguish--in my shade!) Nor help nor comfort gat she now From her whose need called forth her vow; For close in arms Queen Koré dwelt In that great tower Aïdoneus built To cherish her; deep in his bed, Loved as the Gods love whom they wed; Turned from pale maiden to pale wife, Pale now with love's insatiate strife First to appease, and then renew The wild desire to mingle two Natures, to long, to seek, to shun, To have, to give, to make two one That must be two if they would each Learn all the lore that love can teach. So strove the mistress, while the maid Went alien among the dead, Unspoken, speaking none, but watcht By them who knew themselves outmatcht By her, translated whole, nor guessed What miseries gnawed within that breast, Which could be toucht, which could give meat To babe; which was not eye-deceit As theirs, poor phantoms. So went she Grudged but unscathed beside the sea, Or sat alone by that sad strand Nursing her worn cheek in her hand; And did not mark, as day on day Lengthened the arch of changeless gray, How she was shadowed, how to her Stretcht arms another prisoner; Nor knew herself desirable By any thankless guest of Hell-- Withal each phantom seemed no less Whole-natured to her heedlessness.

Midway her round of solitude She used to haunt a dead sea-wood Where among boulders lifeless trees Stuck rigid fingers to the breeze-- That stream of faint hot air that flits Aimless at noon. 'Tis there she sits Hour after hour, and as a dove Croons when her breast is ripe for love, So sings this exile, quiet, sad chants Of love, yet knows not what she wants; And singing there in undertone, Is one day answered by the moan Of hidden mourner; but no fear Hath she for sound so true, though near; Nay, but sings out her elegy, Which, like an echo, answers he. Again she sings; he suits her mood, Nor breaks upon her solitude: So she, choragus, calls the tune, And as she leads he follows soon. As bird with bird vies in the brake, She sings no note he will not take-- As when she pleads, "Ah, my lost love, The night is dark thou art not of," Quick cometh answering the phrase, "O love, let all our nights be days!" This, rapt, with beating heart, she heeds And follows, "Sweet love, my heart bleeds! Come, stay the wound thyself didst give"; Then he, "I come to bid thee live." And so they carol, and her heart Swells to believe his counterpart, And strophé striketh clear, which he Caps with his brave antistrophe; And as a maiden waxes bold, And opens what should not be told When all her auditory she sees Within her mirror, so to trees And rocks, and sullen sounding main She empties all her passioned pain; And "love, love, love," her burden is, And "I am starving for thee," his. Moved, melted, all on fire she stands, Holding abroad her quivering hands, Raises her sweet eyes faint with tears And dares to seek him whom she hears; And from her parted lips a sigh Stealeth, as knowing he is nigh And her fate on her--then she'd shun That which she seeks; but the thing's done.

Hollow-voiced, dim, spake her a shade, "O thou that comest, nymph or maid-- If nymph, then maiden, since for aye Virgin is immortality, Nor love can change what Death cannot-- Look on me by love new-begot; Look on me, child new-born, nor start To see my form who knowest my heart; For it is thine. O Mother and Wife, Take then my love--thou gavest it life!"

So spake one close: to whom she lent The wonder of her eyes' content-- That lucent gray, as if moonlight Shone through a sapphire in the night-- And saw him faintly imaged, rare As wisp of cloud on hillside bare, A filamental form, a wraith Shaped like that man who in the faith Of one puts all his hope: who stood Trembling in her near neighbourhood, A thing of haunted eyes, of slim And youthful seeming; yet not dim, Yet not unmanly in his fashion Of speech, nor impotent of passion-- The which his tones gave earnest of And his aspéct of hopeless love; Who, drawing nearer, came to stand So close beside her that one hand Lit on her shoulder--yet no touch She felt: "O maiden overmuch," He grieved, "O body far too sweet For such as I, frail counterfeit Of man, who yet was once a man, Cut off before the midmost span Of mortal life was but half run, Or ere to love he had found one Like thee--yet happy in that fate, That waiting, he is fortunate: For better far in Hell to fare With thee than commerce otherwhere, Sharing the snug and fat outlook Of bed and board and ingle-nook With earth-bound woman, earth-born child. Nay, but high love is free and wild And centreth not in mortal things; But to the soul giveth he wings, And with the soul strikes partnership, So may two let corruption slip And breasting level, with far eyes Lifted, seek haven in the skies, Untrammel'd by the earthly mesh. O thou," said he, "of fairy flesh, Immortal prisoner, take of me Love! 'tis my heritage in fee; For I am very part thereof, And share the godhead." So his love Pled he with tones in love well-skilled Which on her bosom beat and thrilled, And pierced. No word nor look she had To voice her heart, or sad or glad. Rapt stood she, wooed by eager word And by her need, whose cry she heard Above his crying; but she guessed She was desired, beset, possessed Already, handfasted to sight, And yielding so, her heart she plight.

Thus was her mating: of the eyes And ears, and her love half surmise, Detected by her burning face Which saw, not felt, his fierce embrace. For on her own she knew no hand When caging it he seemed to stand, And round her waist felt not the warm Sheltered peace of the belting arm She saw him clasp withal. When rained His words upon her, or eyes strained As though her inmost shrine to pierce Where hid her heart of hearts, her ears Conceived, although her body sweet Might never feel a young life beat And leap within it. Ah, what cry That mistress e'er heard poet sigh Could voice thy beauty? Or what chant Of music be thy ministrant? Since thou art Music, poesy Must both thy spouse and increase be!

In the hot dust, where lizards crouch And pant, he made her bridal couch; Thither down drew her to his side And, phantom, taught her to be bride With words so ardent, looks so hot She needs must feel what she had not, Guess herself in beleaguered bed And throb response. Thus she was wed. As she whom Zeus loved in a cloud, So lay she in her lover's shroud, And o'er her members crept the chill We know when mist creeps up a hill Out of the vale at eve. As grows The ivy, rooting as it goes, In such a quick close envelope She lay aswoon, nor guessed the scope Nor tether of his hot intent, Nor what to that inert she lent, Save when at last with half-turned head And glimmering eyes, encompasséd She saw herself, a bride possest By ghostly bridegroom, held and prest To unfelt bosom, saw his mouth Against her own, which to his drouth Gave no allay that she could sense, Nor took of her sweet recompense. So moved by pity, stirred by rue, Out of their onslaught young love grew. Love that with delicate tongues of fire Can kindle hearts inflamed desire In her for him who needed it; And so she claimed and by eyes' wit Had what she would: and now made war, Being, as all sweet women are, Prudes till Love calls them, and then fierce In love's high calling. Thus with her ears She fed on love, and to her eyes Lent deeds of passionate emprise-- Till at the last, the shadowy strife Ended, she owned herself all wife.

High mating of the mind! O love, Since this must be, on this she throve! Remember'd joy, Hypsipyle, Since this must be, O love, let be!



Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace from Athens where you tarried Down by Ilissus all a blowy day Among the asphodels, how rapt away Thither, and in what frozen bed wert married?

"I was a King's tall daughter still unwed, Slim and desirable my locks to shed Free from the fillet. He my maiden belt Undid with busy fingers hid but felt, And made me wife upon no marriage bed.

"As idly there I lay alone he came And blew upon my side, and beat a flame Into my cheeks, and kindled both my eyes. I suffered him who took no bodily guise: The light clouds know whether I was to blame.

"Into my mouth he blew an amorous breath; I panted, but lay still, as quiet as death. The whispering planes and sighing grasses know Whether it was the wind that loved me so: I know not--only this, 'O love,' he saith,

"'O long beset with love, and overloved, O easy saint, untempted and unproved, O walking stilly virgin ways in hiding, Come out, thou art too choice for such abiding! She never valued ease who never roved.

"'Thou mayst not see thy lover, but he now Is here, and claimeth thy low moonlit brow, Thy wonderful eyes, and lips that part and pout, And polished throat that like a flower shoots out From thy dark vesture folded and crossed low.'

"With that he had his way and went his way; For Gods have mastery, and a maiden's nay Grows faint ere it is whispered all. I sped Homeward with startled face and tiptoe tread, And up the stair, and in my chamber lay.

"Crouching I lay and quaked, and heard the wind Wail round the house like a mad thing confined, And had no rest; turn wheresoe'er I would This urgent lover stormed my solitude And beat against the haven of my mind.

"And over all a clamour and dis-ease Filled earth and air, and shuddered in my knees So that I could not stand, but by the wall Leaned pitifully breathing. Still his call Volleyed against the house and tore the trees.

"Then out my turret-window as I might I leaned my body to the blind wet night; That eager lover leapt me, circled round, Wreathed, folded, held me prisoner, wrapt and bound In manacles of terror and delight.

"That night he sealed me to him, and I went Thenceforth his leman, submiss and content; So from the hall and feast, whenas I heard His clear voice call, I flitted like a bird That beats the brake, and garnered what he lent.

"I was no maid that was no wife; my days Went by in dreams whose lights are golden haze And skies are crimson. Laughing not, nor crying, I strayed all witless with my loose hair flying, Bearing that load that women think their praise.

"And felt my breasts grow heavy with that food That women laugh to feel and think it good; But I went shamefast, hanging down my head, With girdle all too strait to serve my stead, And bore an unguessed burden in my blood.

"There was a winter night he came again And shook the window, till cried out my pain Unto him, saying, 'Lord, I dare not live! Lord, I must die of that which thou didst give! Pity me, Lord!' and fell. The winter rain

"Beat at the casement, burst it, and the wind Filled all the room, and swept me white and blind Into the night. I heard the sound of seas Beleaguer earth, I heard the roaring trees Singing together. We left them far behind.

"And so he bore me into stormy Thrace, Me and my load, and kissed back to my face The sweet new blood of youth, and to my limbs The wine of life; and there I bore him twins, Zethes and Calaïs, in a rock-bound place."

Oreithyia, by the North Wind carried To stormy Thrace, think you of how you tarried And let him woo and wed? "Ah, no, for now He's kissed all Athens from my open brow. I am the Wind's wife, wooed and won and married."



Hearken, O passers, what thing Fortuned in Hellas. A maid, Lissom and white as the roe, Lived recess'd in a glade. Clytié, Hamadryad, She was called that I sing-- Flower so fair, so frail, that to bring her a woe, Surely a pitiful thing!

A wild bright creature of trees, Brooks, and the sun among leaves, Clytié, grown to be maid: Ah, she had eyes like the sea's Iris of green and blue! White as sea-foam her brows, And her hair reedy and gold: So she grew and waxt supple and fit to be spouse In a king's palace of old.

All in a kirtle of green, With her tangle of red-gold hair, In the live heart of an oak, Clytié, harbouring there, Thronéd there as a queen, Clytié wondering woke: Ah, child, what set thee too high for thy sweet demesne, And who ponder'd the doleful stroke?

For the child that was maiden grown, The queen of the forest places, Clytié, Hamadryad, Tired of the joy she had, And the kingdom that was her own; And tired of the quick wood-races, And joy of herself in the pool when she wonder'd down, And tired of her budded graces.

And the child lookt up to the Sun And the burning track of his car In the broad serene above her: "O King Sun, be thou my lover, For my beauty is just begun. I am fresh and fair as a star; Come, lie where the lilies are: Behold, I am fair and dainty and white all over, And I waste in the wood unknown!"

Rose-flusht, daring, she strain'd Her young arms up, and she voiced The wild desire of her heart. The woodland heard her, the faun, The satyr, and things that start, Peering, heard her; the dove, crooning, complain'd In the pine-tree by the lawn. Only the runnel rejoiced In his rushy hollow apart To see her beauty flash up White and red as the dawn.

Sorrow, ye passers-by, The quick lift of her word, The crimson blush of her pride! Heard her the heavens' lord In his flaming seat in the sky: "Overbold of her years that will not be denied; She would be the Sun-God's bride!" His brow it was like the flat of a sword, And levin the glance of his side.

And he bent unto her, and his mouth Burnt her like coals of fire; He gazed with passionate eyes, Like flame that kindles and dries, And his breath suckt hers as the white rage of the South Draws life; his desire Was like to a tiger's drouth. What shall the slim maiden avail? Alas, and alas for her youth!

Tremble, O maids, that would set Your love-longing to the Sun! For Clytié mourn, and take heed How she loved her king and did bleed Ere kissing had yet begun. For lo! one shaft from his terrible eyes she met, And it burnt to her soul, and anon She paled, and the fever-fret Did bite to her bones; and wan She fell to rueing the deed.

Mark ye, maidens, and cower! Lo, for an end of breath, Clytié, hardy and frail, Anguisht after her death. For the Sun-flower droops and is pale When her king hideth his power, And ever draggeth the woe of her piteous tale, As a woman that laboureth Yet never reacheth the hour: So Clytié yearns to the Sun, for her wraith Moans in the bow'd sunflower.

Clytié, Hamadryad, Called was she that I sing: Flower so fair and frail that to work her this woe, Surely a pitiful thing!



Of courteous Limozin wight, Gobertz, I will indite: From Poicebot had he his right Of gentlehood; Made monk in his own despite In San Léonart the white, Withal to sing and to write _Coblas_ he could.

Learning had he, and rare Music, and _gai saber_: No monk with him to compare In that monast'ry. Full lusty he was to bear Cowl and chaplet of hair God willeth monks for to wear For sanctity.

There in dortoir as he lay, To this Gobertz, by my fay, Came fair women to play In his sleep; Then he had old to pray, Fresh and silken came they, With eyen saucy and gray That set him weep.

May was the month, and soft The singing nights; up aloft The quarter moon swam and scoffed His unease. Rose this Gobertz, and doffed His habit, and left that croft, Crying _Eleison_ oft At Venus' knees.

Heartly the road and the town Mauléon, over the down, Sought he, and the renown Of Savaric; To that good knight he knelt down, Asking of him in bown Almesse of laurel crown For his music.

Fair him Savaric spake, "If _coblas_ you know to make, Song and music to wake For your part, Horse and lute shall you take Of _Jongleur_, lightly forsake Cloister for woodland brake With good heart."

Down the high month of May Now rideth Gobertz his way To Aix, to Puy, to Alais, To Albi the old; In Toulouse mindeth to stay With Count Simon the Gay, There to abide what day Love shall hold.

Shrill riseth his song: _Cobla_, _lai_, or _tenzon_, None can render him wrong In that _meinie_-- Love alone, that erelong Showed him in all that throng Of ladies Tibors the young, None but she.

She was high-hearted and fair, Low-breasted, with hair Gilded, and eyes of vair In burning face: On her Gobertz astare, Looking, stood quaking there To see so debonnair Hold her place.

Proud _donzela_ and free, To clip nor to kiss had she Talént, nor for minstrelsy Was she fain; Mistress never would be, Nor master have; but her fee She vowed to sweet Chastity, Her suzerain.

Then this Gobertz anon Returneth to Mauléon, To Savaric maketh moan On his knees. Other pray'r hath he none Save this, "Sir, let me begone Whence I came, since fordone My expertise."

Quod Savaric, "Hast thou sped So ill in _amors_?" Answeréd This Gobertz, "By my head, She scorneth me." "_Hauberc_ and arms then, instead Of lute and begarlanded Poll, take you," he said, "For errantry."

Now rides he out, a dubbed knight, The Spanish road, for to fight Paynimry; day and night Urgeth he; In Saragoza the bright, And Pampluna with might Seeketh he what respite For grief there be.

War-dimmed grew his gear, Grim his visage; in fear Listened Mahound his cheer Deep in Hell. Fled his legions to hear Gobertz the knight draw near. Now he closeth the year In Compostell.

Offering there hath he made Saint James, candles him paid, Gold on the shrine hath laid; Now Gobertz Is for Toulouse, where that maid Tibors wonned unafraid Of Love and his accolade That breaketh hearts.

He rode north and by east, Nor rider spared he nor beast, Nor tempered spur till at least Forth of Spain; Not for mass-bell nor priest, For fast-day nor yet for feast Stayed he, till voyage ceased In Aquitaine.

Now remaineth to tell What this Gobertz befell When that he sought hostel In his land. Dined he well, drank he well, Envy then had somedeal With women free in _bordel_ For to spend.

In poor _alberc_ goeth he Where bought pleasure may be, Careless proffereth fee For his bliss. O Gobertz, look to thee. Such a sight shalt thou see Will make the red blood to flee Thy heart, ywis.

Fair woman they bring him in Shamefast in her burning sin, All afire is his skin _Par amors_. Look not of her look to win, Dare not lift up her chin, Gobertz; in that soiled fond thing Lo, Tibors!

"O love, O love, out, alas! That it should come to this pass, And thou be even as I was In green youth, Whenas delight and solace Served I with wantonness, And burned anon like the grass To this ruth!"

But then lift she her sad eyes, Gray like wet morning skies, That wait the sun to arise, Tears to amend. "Gobertz, _amic_," so she cries, "By Jesus' agonies Hither come I by lies Of false friend.

"Sir Richart de Laund he hight, Who fair promised me plight Of word and ring, on a night Of no fame; So then evilly bright Had his will and delight Of me, and fled unrequite For my shame!

"Alas, and now to my thought Flieth the woe that I wrought Thee, Gobertz, that distraught Thou didst fare. Now a vile thing of nought Fare I that once was so haught And free, and could not be taught By thy care."

But Gobertz seeth no less Her honour and her sweetness, Soon her small hand to kiss Taketh he, Saying, "Now for that stress Drave thee here thou shalt bless God, for so ending this Thy penury."

Yet she would bid him away, Seeking her sooth to say, In what woful array She was cast. "Nay," said he, "but, sweet may, Here must we bide until day: Then to church and to pray Go we fast."

Now then to all his talént, Seeing how he was bent, Him the comfort she lent Of her mind. Cried Gobertz, well content, "If love by dreariment Cometh, that was well spent, As I find."

Thereafter somewhat they slept, When to his arms she had crept For comfort, and freely wept Sin away. Up betimes then he leapt, Calling her name: forth she stept Meek, disposed, to accept What he say.

By hill road taketh he her To the gray nuns of Beaucaire, There to shred off her hair And take veil. Himself to cloister will fare Monk to be, with good care For their two souls. May his pray'r Them avail!


[1] I owe the substance of this _lai_ to my friend Ezra Pound, who unearthed it, ψαμάθῳ εἰλυμένα πολλῇ, in some Provençal repertory.


Since green earth is awake Let us now pastime take, Not serving wantonness Too well, nor niggardness, Which monks of men would make.

But clothed like earth in green, With jocund hearts and clean, We will take hands and go Singing where quietly blow The flowers of Spring's demesne.

The cuckoo haileth loud The open sky; no cloud Doth fleck the earth's blue tent; The land laughs, well content To put off winter shroud.

Now, since 'tis Easter Day, All Christians may have play; The young Saints, all agaze For Christ in Heaven's maze, May laugh who wont to pray.

Then welcome to our round They light on homely ground:-- Agnes, Saint Cecily, Agatha, Dorothy, Margaret, Hildegonde;

Next come with Barbara Lucy and Ursula; And last, queen of the Nine, Clear-eyed Saint Catherine Joyful arrayeth her.

Then chooseth each her lad, And after frolic had Of dance and carolling And playing in a ring, Seek all the woodland shade.

And there for each his lass Her man a nosegay has, Which better than word spoken Might stand to be her token And emblem of her grace.

For Cecily, who bent Her slim white neck and went To Heaven a virgin still, The nodding daffodil, That bends but is not shent.

Lucy, whose wounded eyes Opened in Heaven star-wise, The lady-smock, whose light Doth prank the grass with white, Taketh for badge and prize.

Because for Lord Christ's hest Men shore thy warm bright breast, Agatha, see thy part Showed in the burning heart Of the white crocus best.

What fate was Barbara's Shut in the tower of brass, We figure and hold up Within the stiff king-cup That crowns the meadow grass.

Agnes, than whose King Death Stayed no more delicate breath On earth, we give for dower Wood-sorrel, that frail flower That Spring first quickeneth.

Dorothy, whose shrill voice Bade Heathendom rejoice, The sweet-breath'd cowslip hath; And Margaret, who in death Saw Heaven, her pearly choice.

Then she of virgin brood Whom Prince of Britain woo'd, Ursula, takes by favour The hyacinth whose savour Enskies the sunny wood.

Hildegonde, whose spirit high The Cross did not deny, Yet blusht to feel the shame, Anemones must claim, Whose roses early die.

Last, she who gave in pledge Her neck to the wheel's edge, Taketh the fresh primrose Which (even as she her foes) Redeems the wintry hedge.

So garlanded, entwined, Each as may prompt her mind, The Saints renew for Earth And Heaven such seemly mirth As God once had design'd.

And when the day is done, And veil'd the goodly Sun, Each man his maid by right Doth kiss and bid Good-night; And home goes every one.

The maids to Heaven do hie To serve God soberly; The lads, their loves in Heaven, What lowly work is given They do, to win the sky.




* * * * *


The women's house in the House of Paris in Troy.

TIME.--The Tenth year of the War.

* * * * *

_Helen's women are lying alone in the twilight hour. Chthonoë presently rises and throws a little incense upon the altar flame. Then she begins to speak to the Image of Aphrodite in a low and tired voice._


Goddess of burning and little rest, By the hand swaying on thy breast, By glancing eye and slow sweet smile Tell me what long look or what guile Of thine it was that like a spear Pierced her heart, who caged me here In this close house, to be with her Mistress at once and prisoner! Far from earth and her pleasant ways I lie, whose nights are as my days In this dim house, where on the wall I watch the shadows rise and fall And know not what is reckt or done By men and horses out in the sun, Nor heed their traffic, nor their cheer As forth they go or back, but hear The fountain plash into the pond, The brooding doves, and sighs of fond Lovers whose lips yearn as they sever For longer joy, joy such as never Hath man but in the mind. But what Men do without, that I know not Who see them but as shadows thrown Upon a screen. I see them blown Like clouds of flies about the plain Where the winds sweep them and make vain Their panoplies. They hem the verge Of this high wall to guard us--urge Galloping horses into war And meet in shock of battle, far Below us and our dreams: withal Ten years have past us in this thrall Since Helen came with eyes agleam To Troy, and trod the ways of dream.


Men came about us, crying, "The Greeks! Ships out at sea with high-held peaks Like questing birds!" But I lay still Kissing, nor turned.


So I, until The herald broke into my sleep, Crying Agamemnon on the deep With ships from high Mykenai. Then I minded he was King of Men-- But not of women in the arms They loved.


I heard their shrill alarms Faint and far off, like an old fame. Below this guarded house men came-- Chariots and horses clasht; they cried King Agamemnon in his pride, Or Hector, or young Diomede; But I was kissing, could not heed Aught save the eyes that held mine bound. Anon a hush--anon the sound Of hooves resistless, pounding--a cry, "Achilles! Save yourselves!" But I-- Clinging I lay, and sighed in sign That love must weary at last, even mine-- Even mine, Sweetheart!


Who watcht when flared Lord Hector like a meteor, dared The high stockade and fired the ships? I watcht his lips who had had my lips.


And when he slew Menoikios' son, Sister, what then?


My cheek was wan For lack of kissing--so I blew On slumbering lids to draw anew The eyes of him who had loved me well, But now was faint.


O Kypris, tell The deeds of men, not lovers!


Here Came one all palsied in his fear, Chattering and white, to Paris abed, Flusht in his sleep--told Hector dead, Dead and dishonoured, while he slept. He sighed and turned. But Helen wept.


Not I. I turned and felt warm draught Of breath upon my cheek, and laught Softly, and snuggling, slept.


Fie, fie! Goddess, drugged in thy dreams we lie, Logs, not women, logs in the sun!


Thou art sated. So fretteth One, The very fount of Love's sweet well, The chord of Love made visible, Sickened of her own loveliness, Haggard as hawk too long in jess, Aching for flight.


Recall the bout When Paris armed him and went out Into the lists, and all men thronged To see----


Lord Paris and him he wronged Fight for her, who should have her! We stood Upon the walls, and she with her hood Close to her cheek. But I saw the flicker In her blue eyes!


But I was quicker, And saw the man she looked upon, And after what her blue eyes shone Like cyanus in morning light.


Husband and lover she saw fight, Man to man, with death between.


Hatred coucht, as long and lean As a lone wolf, on her man's crest--


And bit the Trojan!


Thine was the rest, Goddess! And Helen lit the fire, With her disdain, of his desire.


Her eyes burned like the frosty stars Of winter midnight.


His the scars! Bitten in his wax-pale cheek.


Nay, in his heart----


Nay, in his bleak And writhen smile you see it!


Nay! In his sick soul.


Let him go his way! Hear my thought of a happier thing-- Sparta's trees in flood of spring Where Eurotas' banks abrim Drown the reeds, and foam-clots swim Like a scattered brood of duck!


Flowers anod! White flowers to pluck, Stiffened in the foamy curds! Ah, the green thickets quick with birds!


Calling Itys! Itys! Itys!


She calls not here--her house it is In Sparta!

RHODOPE (_with a sob_)



From my heart a cry-- Send me back, Goddess, ere I die To those dear places and clean things-- To see my people, feel the wings Of the gray night fold over me, And touch my mother's knees, and be Her child, as long ago I was Before I lay burning in Ilios!

[_They hide their faces in their knees. Then one by one they sing._]

Let me sing an old sweet air, Mother of Argos, to Thee, For hope in my heart is fair As light on the hills seen from afar at sea; And my weary eyes turn there As to the haven where my soul would be.


I will arise and make choice The house of my tumbled breast, For she cometh, I hear the voice Of her wings of healing, and she shall be my guest; And my joys shall be her joys, And my home her home, O wind of the South West!


As a bird that listens and thrills, Hidden deep in the night, For the sound of the little rills That run musically towards the light; As a hart to the high hills Turneth his dying eyes, my soul takes flight.


Ah, to be folded deep In the shade of Taygetus, In my mother's arms to sleep Even as a child when I lay harboured thus! Oh, that I were as thy sheep, Lacedaemon, my land, cradle and nurse of us!


In Argos they sow the grain, In Troy blood is their sowing; There a green mantle covers the plain Where the sweet green corn and sweet short grass are growing; But here passion and pain-- Blood and dust upon earth, and a hot wind blowing.


To the hold on the far red hill From the hold on the wide green lea, Over the running water, follow who will Therapnae's hawk with the dove of Amyklae. But I would lie husht and still, And feel the new grass growing quick over me!

[_The scene grows dark as they sit. Their eyes are full of tears. Presently one looks up, listening, then another, then another. They are all alert._]


Who prayeth peace? I feel her peace Steal through me as a quiet air Enters the house with sweet increase Of light to healing, praise to prayer!


What do I know of guiltiness When she is here, and with grave eyes Seeketh the ways of quietness And lampeth them?


Arise, arise!

[_They all stand waiting._]


Hark! Her footfall like the dew--


As a flower by frost made sere Long before the sun breaks through, Feeleth him, I know her near.

[_Helen stands in the doorway._]


This is she, the source of light, Source of light and end of it, Argive Helen, slim and sweet, For whose bosom and delight, For whose eyes, those wells of peace, Paris wrought, as well he might, Ten years' woe for Troy and Greece.


Starry wonder that she was, Caged like sea-bird in his arms, See her passion thrill, then pass From him who, doting on her charms, So became abominable. Watch her bosom dip and swell, See her nostrils fan and curve At his touch who loved not well, But loved too much, who broke the spell; Watch her proud head stiffen and swerve.


Upon the wall with claspt white hands See her vigil keep intent, Argive Helen, lo! she stands Looking seaward where the fires Hem the shore innumerable; Sign of that avenging host, All Achaia's chivalry, Past the tongue of man to tell, Peers and kindred of her sires Come to win back Helen lost.


There to her in that gray hour, That gray hour before the sun, Cometh he she waiteth for, Menelaus like a ghost, Like a dry leaf tempest-tost, Stalking restless, her reproach.


There alone, those two, long severed been, Eye each other, one wild heart between.


"O thou ruinous face, O thou fatally fair, O the pity of thee! What dost thou there, Watching the madness of me?"


Him seemed her eyes were pools of dark To drown him, yet no word she spake; But gazing, grave as a lonely house, All her wonder thrilled to wake.


"By thy roses and snow, By thy sun-litten hair, By thy low bosom and slow Pondered kisses, O hear!

"By thy glimmering eyes, By thy burning cheek, By thy murmuring sighs, Speak, Helen, O speak!

"Ruinous Face, O Ruinous Face, Art thou come so early," he said, "So early forth from the wicked bed?"


Him she pondered, grave and still, Stirring not from her safe place: He marked the glow, he felt the thrill, He saw the dawn new in her face.


Within her low voice wailed the tone Of one who grieves and prays for death: "Lord, I am come to be alone, Alone here with my sorrow," she saith.


"False wife, what pity was thine For hearth and altar, for man and child? What is thy sorrow worth unto mine?" She rocked, moaning, "I was beguiled!"


Ten years' woe for Troy and Greece By her begun, the slim, the sweet, Ended by her in final peace Of him who loved her first of all; Nor ever swerved from his high passion, But through misery and shame Saw her spirit like a flame Eloquent of her sacred fashion-- Hers whose eyes are homes of light, To which she tends, from which she came.


[2] _Helen Redeemed_, the first poem in this book, was originally conceived as a drama. Here is a scene from it, the first after the Prologue, which would have been spoken by Odysseus. The action of the play would have begun with the entry of Helen.


Gnatho, Satyr, homing at dusk, Trotting home like a tired dog, By mountain slopes 'twixt the junipers And flamed oleanders near the sea, Found a girl-child asleep in a fleece, Frail as wax, golden and rose; Whereat at first he skipt aside And stayed him, nosing and peering, whereto Next he crept, softly breathing, Blinking his fear. None was there To guard; the sun had dipt in the sea, Faint fire empurpled the flow Of heaving water; no speck, no hint Of oar or wing on the main, on the deep Sky, empty as a great shell, Fainting in its own glory. This thing, This rare breath, this miracle-- Alone with him in the world! His To wonder, fall to, with craning eyes Fearfully daring; next, since it moved not, Stooping, to handle, to stroke, to peer upon Closely, nosing its tender length, Doglike snuffing--at last to kiss In reverence wonderful, lightlier far Than thistledown falls, brushing the Earth. But the child awoke and, watching him, cried not, Cruddled visage, choppy hands, Blinking eyes, red-litten, astare, Horns and feet--nay, crowed and strained To reach this wonder. As one a glass Light as foam, hued like the foam, A breath-bubble of fire, will carry, He in arms lifted his freight, Looking wonderfully upon it With scarce a breath, and humbleness To be so brute ebbed to the flood Of pride in his new assuréd worth-- Trusted so, who could be vile?

So to his cave in the wood he bore her, Fleeting swift as a fear thro' the dark trees.

There in the silence of tall trees, Under the soaring shafts, Far beneath the canopied leafage, In the forest whisper, the thick silences; Or on the wastes Of sheltered mountains where the spires Of solemn cypress frame the descent Upon the blue, and open to sea-- Here grew Ianthe maiden slim With none to spy but this gnarled man-brute; Most fair, most hid, like a wood-flower Slim for lack of light; so she grew In flowering line of limb And flower of face, retired and shy, Urged by the bland air; unknown, Lonely and lovely, husbanding Her great possessions--hers now, Another's when he cared to claim them. For thus went life: to lead the herds Of pricking deer she saw the great stags Battle in empty glades, then mate; Thus on the mountains chose the bears, And in the woods she heard the wolves Anguishing in their loves Thro' the dense nights, far in the forest. And so collected went she, and sure Her time would come and with it her master.

But Gnatho watcht her under his brows When she lay heedless, spilling beauty-- How ever lovelier, suppler, sleeker, How more desirable, how near; How rightly his, how surely his-- Then gnaw'd his cheek and turn'd his head.

For unsuspect, some dim forbidding Rose within him and knockt at his heart And said, Not thine, but for reverence. And some wild horror desperate drove him, Suing a pardon from unknown Gods For untold trespass, to seek the sea, Upon whose shore, to whose cool breathing He'd stretch his arms, broken with strife Of self and self; and all that water Steadfast lapt and surged. Came tears To furrow his cheeks, came strength to return To her, and bear with longer breath Her sweet familiarities, blind Obedience to nascent blind desire-- Till again he lookt and burn'd again.

Thus his black ferment boil'd. O' nights He'd dream and revel frenziedly As with the love-stung nymphs. Awake, In a chill sweat, he'd tear at himself, Claw at his flesh and leap in the brook, Drench the red embers of his vice Into a mass abhorred. Clean then, He'd seek his bed and pass unscath'd The bower of fern where the sleek limbs Of white Ianthe, mesht in her hair, Lay lax in sleep. But Gnatho now Saw only God, as on some still peak Snowy and lonely under the stars We look, and see God in all that calm.

One night of glamour, under a moon That seemed to steep the air with gold, They two sat stilly and watcht the sea Tremulously heaving over a path Of light like a river of molten gold. Warm blew the breeze to land; she lean'd Her idle head, idly played Her fingers in his belt, and he Embracing held her, yielding, subdued; Sideways saw the curve of her cheek, Downcast lashes, droopt lip Which seem'd to court his pleasure-- Then On waves of fire came racing his needs With zest of rage to possess and tear That which his frenzy, maskt as love, Courted: so he lean'd to her ear, Thrilled in torrents hoarse his case-- "Love, I burn, I burn! Slake me, love!" He raved in whisper. And she lookt up with her wide full eyes, Saying, "My love!" and yielded herself.

Deep night settled on hill and plain, The moon went out, the concourse of stars Lay strewn above, and with golden eyes Peered on them lockt. Far and faint The great stags belled; far and faint Quested the wolves; the leopards' howling Lent desolation to night; and low The night-jar purr'd. At sea one light Swayed restlessly, and on the rocks Sounded the tireless lapping deep. Lockt they lay thro' all the silences.

Dawn stole in with whimper of rain And a wailing wind from the sea-- Gray sea, gray dawn and scurrying clouds And scud of rain. The fisher boat, The sands, the headlands fringed with broom And tamarisk were blotted. Alone, Caged in the mist of earth That beat his torment back to himself, So that in vain he sought for the Gods, And lifted up hands in vain To witness this white wreck prone and still-- Gnatho the Satyr blinkt on his work.



Sun and Moon, shine upon me; Make glad my days and clear my nights!

O Earth, whose child I am, Grant me thy patience!

O Heaven, whose heir I may be, Keep quick my hope!

Your steadfastness I need, O Hills; O Rain, thy kindness!

Snow, keep me pure; O Fire, teach me thy pride!

From you, ye Winds, I ask your blitheness!





Not that dull spleen which serves i' the world for scorn, Is hers I watch from far off, worshipping As in remote Chaldaea the ancient king Adored the star that heralded the morn. Her proud content she bears as a flag is borne Tincted the hue royal; or as a wing It lifts her soaring, near the daylight spring, Whence, if she lift, our days must pass forlorn.

The pure deriving of her spirit-state Is so remote from men and their believing, They shrink when she is cold, and estimate That hardness which is but a God's dismay: As when the Heaven-sent sprite thro' Hell sped cleaving, Only the gross air checkt him on his way.


When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall, And the wan sunlight flits before the blast; When fields are brown and crops are garnered all, And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast; Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood Leap like a freshet river for the sea, Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood To snuff the salt west wind and wanton free.

Then would you know how brave she is, how high Her ancestry, how kindred to the wind, Mark but her flashing feet, her ravisht eye That takes the boist'rous weather and feels it kind: And hear her eager voice, how tuned it is To Autumn's clarion shrill for Artemis.


That hour when thou and Grief were first acquainted Thou wrotest, "Come, for I have lookt on death." Piteous I held my indeterminate breath And sought thee out, and saw how he had painted Thine eyes with rings of black; yet never fainted Thy radiant immortality underneath Such stress of dark; but then, as one that saith, "I know Love liveth," sat on by death untainted.

O to whom Grief too poignant was and dry To sow in thee a fountain crop of tears! O youth, O pride, set too remote and high For touch of solace that gives grace to men! Thy life must be our death, thy hopes our fears: We weep, thou lookest strangely--we know thee then!


Long loving, all our love was husbanded Until one morning on the brown hillside, One misty Autumn morn when Sun did hide His radiance, yet was felt. No words we said, But in one flash transfigured, glorified, All her heart's tumult beating white and red, She fell prone on her face and hid her wide Over-brimmed eyes in dewy fern. I prayed, Then spake, "In us two now is manifest That throbbing kindred whereof thou art graft And I the grafted, in this holy place." She, turning half, with sober shame confest Discovery, then hid her rosy face. I read her wilding heart, and my heart laught.


That day--it was the last of many days, Nor could we know when such days might be given Again--we read how Dante trod the ways Of utmost Hell, and how his heart was riven By sad Francesca, whose sin was forgiven So far that, on her Paolo fixing gaze, She supt on his again, and thought it Heaven, She knew her gentler fate and felt it praise.

We read that lovers' tale; each lookt at each; But one was fearless, innocent of guile; So did the other learn what she could teach: We read no more, we kiss'd not, but a smile Of proud possession flasht, hover'd a while 'Twixt soul and soul. There was no need for speech.


When she had left us but a little while Methought I sensed her spirit here and there About my house: upon the empty stair Her robe brusht softly; o'er her chamber still There lay her fragrant presence to beguile Numb heart, dead heart. I knelt before her chair, And praying felt her hand laid on my hair, Felt her sweet breath, and guess'd her wistful smile.

Then thro' my tears I lookt about the room, But she was gone. I heard my heart beat fast; The street was silent; I could not see her now. Sorrow and I took up our load, and past To where our station was with heads bent low, And autumn's death-moan shiver'd thro' the gloom.


When she had left us but a little while, I still could hear the ringing of her voice, Still see athwart the dusk her shy half-smile And that sweet trust wherein I most rejoice.

Then in her self-same tones I heard, "Go thou, Set to that work appointed thee to do, Remembering I am with thee here and now, Watchful as ever. See, my eyes shine true!"

I lookt, and saw the concourse of clear stars, Steadfast, of limpid candour, and could discover Her soul look on me thro' the prison-bars Which slunk like sin from such an honest Lover:

And thro' the vigil-pauses of that night She beam'd on me; and my soul felt her light.


My thought of thee is tortured in my sleep-- Sometimes thou art near beside me, but a cloud Doth grudge me thy pale face, and rise to creep Slowly about thee, to lap thee in a shroud; And I, as standing by my dead, to weep Desirous, cannot weep, nor cry aloud. Or we must face the clamouring of a crowd Hissing our shame; and I who ought to keep Thine honour safe and my betrayed heart proud, Knowing thee true, must watch a chill doubt leap The tired faith of thee, and thy head bow'd, Nor budge while the gross world holdeth thee cheap!

Or there are frost-bound meetings, and reproach At parting, furtive snatches full of fear; Love grown a pain; we bleed to kiss, and kiss Because we bleed for love; the time doth broach Shame, and shame teareth at us till we tear Our hearts to shreds--yet wilder love for this!


Before you pass and leave me gaunt and chill Alone to do what I have joyed in doing In your glad sight, suffer me, nor take ill If I confess you prize and me pursuing. As the rapt Tuscan lifted up his eyes Whither his Lady led, and lived with her, Strong in her strength, and in her wisdom wise, Love-taught with song to be her thurifer; So I, that may no nearer stand than he To minister about the holy place, Am well content to watch my Heaven in thee And read my Credo in thy sacred face. For even as Beatrix Dante's wreath did bind, So, Hymnia, hast thou imparadised my mind.


I thank all Gods that I can let thee go, Lady, without one thought, one base desire To tarnish that clear vision I gained by fire, One stain in me I would not have thee know. That is great might indeed that moves me so To look upon thy Form, and yet aspire To look not there, rather than I should mire That wingéd Spirit that haunts and guards thy brow.

So now I see thee go, secure in this That what I have is thee, that whole of thee Whereof thy fair infashioning is sign: For I see Honour, Love, and Wholesomeness, And striving ever to reach them, and to be As they, I keep thee still; for they are thine.


Oh, I am weak to serve thee as I ought; My shroud of flesh obscures thy deity, So thy sweet Spirit that should embolden me To shake my wings out wide, serves me for nought, But receives tarnish, vile dishonour, wrought By that thou earnest to bless--O agony And unendurable shame! that, loving thee, I dare not love, fearing my poisonous thought!

Man is too vile for any such high grace, For that he seeks to honour he can but mar; So had I rather shun thy starry face And fly the exultation to know thee near-- For if one glance from me wrought thee a scar 'Twould not be death, but life that I should fear.


Sometimes the spirit that never leaves me quite Taps at my heart when thou art in the way, Saying, Now thy Queen cometh: therefore pray, Lest she should see thee vile, and at the sight Shiver and fly back piteous to the light That wanes when she is absent. Then, as I may, I wash my soilèd hands and muttering, say, Lord, make me clean; robe Thou me in Thy white!

So for a brief space, clad in ecstasy, Pure, disembodied, I fall to kiss thy feet, And sense thy glory throbbing round about; Whereafter, rising, I hold thee in a sweet And gentle converse that lifts me up to be, When thou art gone, strange to the gross world's rout.


Meseems thine eyes are two still-folded lakes Wherein deep water reflects the guardian sky, Searching wherein I see how Heaven is nigh And our broad Earth at peace. So my Love takes My soul's thin hands and, chafing them, she makes My life's blood lusty and my life's hope high For the strong lips and eyes of Poesy, To hold the world well squandered for their sakes.

I looked thee full this day: thine unveiled eyes Rayed their swift-searching magic forth; and then I felt all strength that love can put in men Whenas they know that loveliness is wise. For love can be content with no less prize, To lift us up beyond our mortal ken.



Within these long gray shadows many dead Lie waiting: we wait with them. Do you believe That at the last the threadbare soul will give All his shifts over, and stand dishevellèd, Naked in truth? Then we shall hear it said, "Ye two have waited long, daring to live Grimly through days tormented; now reprieve Awaiteth you with all these ancient dead!"

The slope sun letteth down thro' our dark bars His ladder from the skies. Hand fast in hand, With quiet hearts and footsteps quiet and slow, Like children venturous in an unknown land We will come to the fields whose flowers are stars, And kneeling ask, "Lord, wilt Thou crown us now?"


The blue night falleth, the moon Is over the hill; make fast, Fasten the latch, I am tired: come soon, Come! I would sleep at last In your bosom, my love, my love!

The airy chamber above Has the lattice ajar, that night May breathe upon you and me, my love, And the moon bless our marriage-rite-- Come, lassy, to bed, to bed!

The roof-thatch overhead Shall cover the stars' bright eyes; The fleecy quilt shall be coverlid For your meek virginities, And your wedding, my bride, my bride!

See, we are side to side, Virgin in deed and name-- Come, for love will not be denied, Tarry not, have no shame: Are we not man and bride?





Mossy gray stands the House, four-square to the wind, Embosomed in the hills. The garden old Of yew and box and fishpond speaks her mind, Sweet-ordered, quaint, recluse, fold within fold Of quietness; but true and choice and kind-- A sober casket for a heart of gold.


Blue is the Adrian sea, and darkly blue The Ægean; and the shafted sun thro' them, That fishes grope to, gives the beamy hue Rayed from her iris's deep diadem.


In June I brought her roses, and she cupt One slim bud in her hand and cherisht it, And put it to her mouth. Rose and she supt Each other's sweetness; but the flower was lit By her kind eyes, and glowed. Then in her breast She laid it blushing, warm and doubly blest.


When Spring blows o'er the land, and sunlight flies Across the hills, we take the upland way. I have her waist, the wooing wind her eyes And lips and cheeks. His kissing makes her gay As flowers. "Thou hast two lovers, O my dear," Say I; and she, "He takes what thou dost fear."


The snow lies deep, ice-fringes hem the thatch; I knock my shoes, my Love lifts me the latch, Shows me her eyes--O frozen stars, they shine Kindly! I clasp her. Quick! her lips are mine.


Late, when the sun was smouldering down the west, She took my arm and laid her cheek to me; The fainting twilight held her, and I guess'd All she would tell, but could not let me see-- Wonder and joy, the rising of her breast, And confidence, and still expectancy.


Breathless was she and would not have us part: "Adieu, my Saint," I said, "'tis come to this." But she leaned to me, one hand at her heart, And all her soul sighed trembling in a kiss.


To the Fountain of my long Dream, To the Chalice of all my Sorrow, To the Lamp held up, and the Stream Of Light that beacons the Morrow;

To the Bow, the Quiver and Dart, To the Bridle-rein, to the Yoke Proudly upborne, to the Heart On Fire, to the Mercy-stroke;

To Apollo herding his Cattle, To Proserpina grave in Dis; To the high Head in the Battle, And the Crown--I consecrate this.


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_SPECTATOR._--"The three plays have throughout a high level of dramatic interest, and they have moments of great tragic beauty.... It is not a book of sporadic beauties, for its most remarkable quality is its unity of interest and effect. The chorus has many passages of lyrical charm ... but it is the great story which moves us most deeply, the stress of dramatic and logical sequence, so that we have no time to notice the art of it all. This is a high tribute to Mr. Hewlett's technical skill. At its best the irregular verse has a sharp freshness which the more orthodox metres could scarcely give."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"The poetry is full of music, yet refreshingly free from monotony, and in passages when swift broken phrases are of the essence of the atmosphere the effect is splendidly dramatic and austere. Mr. Hewlett is to be congratulated upon a high success in a field of the worthiest enterprise."

_OBSERVER._--"There is no single passage that can fail to charm when read aloud, woven with magic of rhythm, and music of phrase. It is a great heroic subject, nobly conceived, and finely and thoughtfully executed."

_BLACK AND WHITE._--"_The Agonists_ is more than fine verse; it is literature impregnated with the purest fragrance of the classic spirit."

_DAILY EXPRESS._--"There is real drama in _The Agonists_, and there is much splendid beauty."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"Of the beauty of a great deal of the poetry it is difficult to speak too highly."

_STANDARD._--"The imaginative grasp of these dramas, as well as their lyric charm, is unquestionable, and so also is the rare skill with which the strife of elemental passions is described and the action of the relentless laws which made men of old regard life as the sport of the gods."



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_SPECTATOR._--"_The Forest Lovers_ is no mere literary _tour de force_, but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is greatly enhanced by the author's excellent style."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Mr. Maurice Hewlett's _The Forest Lovers_ stands out with conspicuous success.... There are few books of this season which achieve their aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr. Hewlett's ingenious and enthralling romance."


_EVENING STANDARD._--"Mr. Hewlett has produced a remarkable series of historical novels, and _The Song of Renny_ is one of the best of them.... An admirable romance, full of 'go' and colour and good temper."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"Mr. Hewlett is mounted upon his Pegasus again, riding full tilt against a rushing wind, with the moonlight of imagination playing glorious tricks upon all the marvellous sights around him."


_ATHENÆUM._--"A fine book, fine not only for its extraordinary wealth of incidental beauties, but also for the consistency of conception and the tolerant humanity with which its main theme is put before you."

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._--"That Mr. Maurice Hewlett would give us a flaming, wonderful picture of Queen Mary was a foregone conclusion."


Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON in _THE FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW_.--"Such historic imagination, such glowing colour, such crashing speed, set forth in such pregnant form, carry me away spell-bound."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"The story carries us along as though throughout we were galloping on strong horses. There is a rush and fervour about it all which sweeps us off our feet till the end is reached, and the tale is done. It is very clever, very spirited."


_DAILY CHRONICLE._--"And even such as fail to understand, will very certainly enjoy--enjoy the sometimes gay and sometimes biting humour, the deft delineation, the fine quality of colour, the delicately-flavoured phrasing."

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"The most finished studies which have appeared since some of the essays of Walter Pater."


_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"_Open Country_ is a beautiful bit of work, a work that is inspired through and through with a genuine love for what is pure and beautiful. Mr. Hewlett's main figures have not only a wonderful charm in themselves, but they are noble, simple, and true-hearted creatures. Sanchia, the heroine, is a divine creation."

_EVENING STANDARD._--"_Open Country_ is an important book and a fine novel."


_DAILY NEWS._--"_Rest Harrow_ has not only the effect of providing an æsthetically logical conclusion to the motives of _Open Country_, but it throws back a radiant retrospective influence, enhancing the value of what has preceded it.... In many ways the best piece of work Mr. Hewlett has done."

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"The present book certainly sustains the charm of _Open Country_ without any faltering of dramatic movement."


_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"A wondrously beautiful piece of fiction, gallant and romantic, a high treat for lovers of good reading."

_WORLD._--"A rarely picturesque and beautiful production."

_EVENING STANDARD._--"A story which fascinates him who reads."


_DAILY TELEGRAPH._--"The story, as a whole, sustains a lofty level of creative vigour, and is dignified, moreover, with something of the epic flavour, as the old order is seen breaking up under the advance of new ideas and revolutionary enthusiasms.... Among the best books that the present age is likely to produce."

_DAILY GRAPHIC._--"The best work of its kind since Meredith."


_SPECTATOR._--"The materials for romance provided by this period (the Renaissance) are inexhaustibly rich, and Mr. Maurice Hewlett is admirably equipped for the task of reconstituting many of its phases."

_EVENING STANDARD._--"The present volume is a rich mine of beauty. It contains four fine romantic tales."






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_PALL MALL GAZETTE._--"An enterprise to be welcomed by all lovers of good literature."

_DAILY MAIL._--"This cheap and handsome edition is very welcome."

_WORLD._--"Extremely attractive edition.... Notable examples of what can nowadays be achieved in the way of handsome book-production at surprisingly moderate prices."






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_TIMES._--"Its vividness is extraordinary; there is no one quite like Mr. Hewlett for seizing all the colour and character of a place in half a dozen words.... An admirable book.... Mr. Pennell's profuse illustrations to this book are very attractive."



_OBSERVER._--"This re-issue of Mr. Hewlett's beautiful book comes to us as one of the pleasant Eversley Series--a form in which it may be hoped, for the sake of the reading world, that it is to make many new friends."

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With Introduction by THOMAS HUGHES, and a Portrait.


Edited by Professor DOWDEN. With a Portrait.


Edited, with a Biographical Introduction, by J. DYKES CAMPBELL. Portrait as Frontispiece.


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With a Portrait; and an Introduction by W. E. HENLEY.


With Introduction, Memoir, and Notes, by W. M. ROSSETTI.

THE DYNASTS. An Epic-Drama of the War with Napoleon.

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* * * * *

THE BAB BALLADS, with which are included Songs of a Savoyard.

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