I.
For long in Troia was there peace and mirth,
The pleasant hours still passing one by one;
And Helen joy’d at each fresh morning’s birth,
And almost wept at setting of the sun,
For sorrow that the happy day was done;
Nor dream’d of years when she should hate the light,
And mourn afresh for every day begun,
Nor fare abroad save shamefully by night.
II.
And Paris was not one to backward cast
A fearful glance; nor pluck sour fruits of sin,
Half ripe; but seized all pleasures while they last,
Nor boded evil ere ill days begin.
Nay, nor lamented much when caught therein,
In each adventure always finding joy,
And hopeful still through waves of war to win
By strength of Hector, and the star of Troy.
III.
Now as the storms drive white sea-birds afar
Within green upland glens to seek for rest,
So rumours pale of an approaching war
Were blown across the islands from the west:
For Agamemnon summon’d all the best
From towns and tribes he ruled, and gave command
That free men all should gather at his hest
Through coasts and islets of the Argive land.
IV.
Sidonian merchant-men had seen the fleet
Black war-galleys that sped from town to town;
Had heard the hammers of the bronze-smiths beat
The long day through, and when the sun went down;
And thin, said they, would show the leafy crown
On many a sacred mountain-peak in spring,
For men had fell’d the pine-trees tall and brown
To fashion them curved ships for seafaring.
V.
And still the rumour grew; for heralds came,
Old men from Argos, bearing holy boughs,
Demanding great atonement for the shame
And sore despite done Menelaus’ house;
But homeward soon they turn’d their scarlet prows,
And all their weary voyaging was vain;
For Troy had bound herself with awful vows
To cleave to Helen till the walls were ta’en.
VI.
And now, like swallows ere the winter weather,
The women in shrill groups were gathering,
With eager tongues still communing together,
And many a taunt at Helen would they fling,
Ay, through her innocence she felt the sting,
And shamed was now her gentle face and sweet,
For e’en the children evil songs would sing
To mock her as she hasted down the street.
VII.
Also the men who worshipp’d her of old
As she had been a goddess from above,
Gazed at her now with lustful eyes and bold,
As she were naught but Paris’ light-o’-love;
And though in truth they still were proud enough,
Of that fair gem in their old city set,
Yet well she knew that wanton word and scoff
Went round the camp-fire when the warriors met.
VIII.
There came a certain holiday when Troy
Was wont to send her noble matrons all,
Young wives and old, with clamour and with joy,
To clothe Athene in her temple hall,
And robe her in a stately broider’d pall.
But now they drove fair Helen from their train,
“Better,” they scream’d, “to cast her from the wall,
Than mock the Gods with offerings in vain.”
IX.
One joy she had, that Paris yet was true,
Ay, fickle Paris, true unto the end;
And in the court of Ilios were two
Kind hearts, still eager Helen to defend,
And help and comfort in all need to lend:-
The gentle Hector with soft speech and mild,
And the old king that ever was her friend,
And loved her as a father doth his child.
X.
These, though they knew not all, these blamed her not,
But cast the heavy burden on the God,
Whose wrath, they deem’d, had verily waxed hot
Against the painful race on earth that trod,
And in God’s hand was Helen but the rod
To scourge a people that, in unknown wise,
Had vex’d the far Olympian abode
With secret sin or stinted sacrifice.
* * *
* *
XI.
The days grew into months, and months to years,
And still the Argive army did delay,
Till folk in Troia half forgot their fears,
And almost as of old were glad and gay;
And men and maids on Ida dared to stray,
But Helen dwelt within her inmost room,
And there from dawning to declining day,
Wrought at the patient marvels of her loom.
XII.
Yet even there in peace she might not be:
There was a nymph, none, in the hills,
The daughter of a River-God was she,
Of Cebren,–that the mountain silence fills
With murmur’d music, for the countless rills
Of Ida meet him, dancing to the plain, –
Her Paris wooed, yet ignorant of ills,
Among the shepherd’s huts, nor wooed in vain.
XIII.
Nay, Summer often found them by the fold
In these glad days, ere Paris was a king,
And oft the Autumn, in his car of gold,
Had pass’d them, merry at the vintaging:
And scarce they felt the breath of the white wing
Of Winter, in the cave where they would lie
On beds of heather by the fire, till Spring
Should crown them with her buds in passing by.
XIV.
For elbow-deep their flowery bed was strown
With fragrant leaves and with crush’d asphodel,
And sweetly still the shepherd-pipe made moan,
And many a tale of Love they had to tell, –
How Daphnis loved the strange, shy maiden well,
And how she loved him not, and how he died,
And oak-trees moan’d his dirge, and blossoms fell
Like tears from lindens by the water-side!
XV.
But colder, fleeter than the Winter’s wing,
Time pass’d; and Paris changed, and now no more
none heard him on the mountain sing,
Not now she met him in the forest hoar.
Nay, but she knew that on an alien shore
An alien love he sought; yet was she strong
To live, who deem’d that even as of yore
In days to come might Paris love her long.
XVI.
For dark none from her Father drew
A power beyond all price; the gift to deal
With wounded men, though now the dreadful dew
Of Death anoint them, and the secret seal
Of Fate be set on them; these might she heal;
And thus none trusted still to save
Her lover at the point of death, and steal
His life from Helen, and the amorous grave.
XVII.
And she had borne, though Paris knew it not,
A child, fair Corythus, to be her shame,
And still she mused, whenas her heart was hot,
“He hath no child by that Achaean dame:”
But when her boy unto his manhood came,
Then sorer yet none did repine,
And bade him “fare to Ilios, and claim
Thy father’s love, and all that should be thine!”
XVIII.
Therewith a golden bodkin from her hair
She drew, and from a green-tress’d birchen tree
She pluck’d a strip of smooth white bark and fair,
And many signs and woful graved she,
A message of the evil things to be.
Then deftly closed the birch-bark, fold on fold,
And bound the tokens well and cunningly,
Three times and four times, with a thread of gold.
XIX.
“Give these to Argive Helen’s hand,” she cried:
And so embraced her child, and with no fear
Beheld him leaping down the mountain-side,
Like a king’s son that goes to hunt the deer,
Clad softly, and in either hand a spear,
With two swift-footed hounds that follow’d him,
So leap’d he down the grassy slopes and sheer,
And won the precinct of the forest dim.
XX.
He trod that ancient path his sire had trod,
Far, far below he saw the sea, the town;
He moved as light as an immortal god,
For mansions in Olympus gliding down.
He left the shadow of the forest brown,
And through the shallow waters did he cross,
And stood, ere twilight fell, within the crown
Of towers, the sacred keep of Ilios.
XXI.
Now folk that mark’d him hasting deem’d that he
Had come to tell the host was on its way,
As one that from the hills had seen the sea
Beclouded with the Danaan array,
So straight to Paris’ house with no delay
They led him, and did eagerly await
Within the forecourt, in the twilight grey,
To hear some certain message of their fate.
XXII.
Now Paris was asleep upon his bed
Tired with a listless day; but all along
The palace chambers Corythus was led,
And still he heard a music, shrill and strong,
That seem’d to clamour of an old-world wrong,
And hearts a long time broken; last they came
To Helen’s bower, the fountain of the song
That cried so loud against an ancient shame.
XXIII.
And Helen fared before a mighty loom,
And sang, and cast her shuttle wrought of gold,
And forth unto the utmost secret room
The wave of her wild melody was roll’d;
And still she fashion’d marvels manifold,
Strange shapes of fish and serpent, bear and swan,
The loves of the immortal Gods of old,