Helen of Troy [12]
Whose image is eternal on the stone
Won from the dust that once was Babylon;
But kind of mood was he withal, and mild,
And when his eyes on Argive Helen shone,
He loved her as a father doth a child.
XXXIII.
Round him were set his peers, as Panthous,
Antenor, and Agenor, hardly grey,
Scarce touch'd as yet with age, nor garrulous
As are cicalas on a sunny day:
Such might they be when years had slipp'd away,
And made them over-weak for war or joy,
Content to watch the Leaguer as it lay
Beside the ships, beneath the walls of Troy.
XXXIV.
Then Paris had an easy tale to tell,
Which then might win upon men's wond'ring ears,
Who deem'd that Gods with mortals deign to dwell,
And that the water of the West enspheres
The happy Isles that know not Death nor tears;
Yea, and though monsters do these islands guard,
Yet men within their coasts had dwelt for years
Uncounted, with a strange love for reward.
XXXV.
And there had Paris ventured: so said he, -
Had known the Sirens' song, and Circe's wile;
And in a cove of that Hesperian sea
Had found a maiden on a lonely isle;
A sacrifice, if so men might beguile
The wrath of some beast-god they worshipp'd there,
But Paris, 'twixt the sea and strait defile,
Had slain the beast, and won the woman fair.
XXXVI.
Then while the happy people cried "Well done,"
And Priam's heart was melted by the tale -
For Paris was his best-beloved son -
Came a wild woman, with wet eyes, and pale
Sad face, men look'd on when she cast her veil,
Not gladly; and none mark'd the thing she said,
Yet must they hear her long and boding wail
That follow'd still, however fleet they fled.
XXXVII.
She was the priestess of Apollo's fane,
Cassandra, and the God of prophecy
Spurr'd her to speak and rent her! but in vain
She toss'd her wasted arms against the sky,
And brake her golden circlet angrily,
And shriek'd that they had brought within the gate
Helen, a serpent at their hearts to lie!
Helen, a hell of people, king, and state!
XXXVIII.
But ere the God had left her; ere she fell
And foam'd among her maidens on the ground,
The air was ringing with a merry swell
Of flute, and pipe, and every sweetest sound,
In Aphrodite's fane, and all around
Were roses toss'd beneath the glimmering green
Of that high roof, and Helen there was crown'd
The Goddess of the Trojans, and their Queen.
BOOK IV--THE DEATH OF CORYTHUS
How Helen was made an outcast by the Trojan women, and how OEnone,
the old love of Paris, sent her son Corythus to him as her messenger,
and how Paris slew him unwittingly; and of the curses of OEnone, and
the coming of the Argive host against Troy.
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
Won from the dust that once was Babylon;
But kind of mood was he withal, and mild,
And when his eyes on Argive Helen shone,
He loved her as a father doth a child.
XXXIII.
Round him were set his peers, as Panthous,
Antenor, and Agenor, hardly grey,
Scarce touch'd as yet with age, nor garrulous
As are cicalas on a sunny day:
Such might they be when years had slipp'd away,
And made them over-weak for war or joy,
Content to watch the Leaguer as it lay
Beside the ships, beneath the walls of Troy.
XXXIV.
Then Paris had an easy tale to tell,
Which then might win upon men's wond'ring ears,
Who deem'd that Gods with mortals deign to dwell,
And that the water of the West enspheres
The happy Isles that know not Death nor tears;
Yea, and though monsters do these islands guard,
Yet men within their coasts had dwelt for years
Uncounted, with a strange love for reward.
XXXV.
And there had Paris ventured: so said he, -
Had known the Sirens' song, and Circe's wile;
And in a cove of that Hesperian sea
Had found a maiden on a lonely isle;
A sacrifice, if so men might beguile
The wrath of some beast-god they worshipp'd there,
But Paris, 'twixt the sea and strait defile,
Had slain the beast, and won the woman fair.
XXXVI.
Then while the happy people cried "Well done,"
And Priam's heart was melted by the tale -
For Paris was his best-beloved son -
Came a wild woman, with wet eyes, and pale
Sad face, men look'd on when she cast her veil,
Not gladly; and none mark'd the thing she said,
Yet must they hear her long and boding wail
That follow'd still, however fleet they fled.
XXXVII.
She was the priestess of Apollo's fane,
Cassandra, and the God of prophecy
Spurr'd her to speak and rent her! but in vain
She toss'd her wasted arms against the sky,
And brake her golden circlet angrily,
And shriek'd that they had brought within the gate
Helen, a serpent at their hearts to lie!
Helen, a hell of people, king, and state!
XXXVIII.
But ere the God had left her; ere she fell
And foam'd among her maidens on the ground,
The air was ringing with a merry swell
Of flute, and pipe, and every sweetest sound,
In Aphrodite's fane, and all around
Were roses toss'd beneath the glimmering green
Of that high roof, and Helen there was crown'd
The Goddess of the Trojans, and their Queen.
BOOK IV--THE DEATH OF CORYTHUS
How Helen was made an outcast by the Trojan women, and how OEnone,
the old love of Paris, sent her son Corythus to him as her messenger,
and how Paris slew him unwittingly; and of the curses of OEnone, and
the coming of the Argive host against Troy.
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