Helen of Troy [15]
forgotten quite thine ancient sin,
Thy Lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin,
Even as thy Love forgets the words he spoke
The strong oath broken one weak heart to win,
The lips that kiss'd him, and the heart that broke?
XXVII.
"Nay, but methinks thou shalt not quite forget
The curse wherewith I curse thee till I die;
The tears that on the wood-nymph's cheeks are wet,
Shall burn thy hateful beauty deathlessly,
Nor shall God raise up seed to thee; but I
Have borne thy love this messenger: my son,
Who yet shall make him glad, for Time goes by
And soon shall thine enchantments all be done:
XXVIII.
"Ay, soon 'twixt me and Death must be his choice,
And little in that hour will Paris care
For thy sweet lips, and for thy singing voice,
Thine arms of ivory, thy golden hair.
Nay, me will he embrace, and will not spare,
But bid the folk that hate thee have their joy,
And give thee to the mountain beasts to tear,
Or burn thy body on a tower of Troy."
XXIX.
Even as she read, by Aphrodite's will
The cloud roll'd back from Helen's memory:
She saw the city of the rifted hill,
Fair Lacedaemon, 'neath her mountain high;
She knew the swift Eurotas running by
To mix his sacred waters with the sea,
And from the garden close she heard the cry
Of her beloved child, Hermione.
XXX.
Then instantly the horror of her shame
Fell on her, and she saw the coming years;
Famine, and fire, and plague, and all men's blame,
The wounds of warriors and the women's fears;
And through her heart her sorrow smote like spears,
And in her soul she knew the utmost smart
Of wives left lonely, sires bereaved, the tears
Of maidens desolate, of loves that part.
XXXI.
She drain'd the dregs out of the cup of hate;
The bitterness of sorrow, shame, and scorn;
Where'er the tongues of mortals curse their fate,
She saw herself an outcast and forlorn;
And hating sore the day that she was born,
Down in the dust she cast her golden head,
There with rent raiment and fair tresses torn,
At feet of Corythus she lay for dead.
XXXII.
But Corythus, beholding her sweet face,
And her most lovely body lying low,
Had pity on her grief and on her grace,
Nor heeded now she was his mother's foe,
But did what might be done to ease her woe,
While, as he thought, with death for life she strove,
And loosed the necklet round her neck of snow,
As who that saw had deem'd, with hands of love.
XXXIII.
And there was one that saw: for Paris woke
Half-deeming and half-dreaming that the van
Of the great Argive host had scared the folk,
And down the echoing corridor he ran
To Helen's bower, and there beheld the man
That kneel'd beside his lady lying there:
No word he spake, but drove his sword a span
Through Corythus' fair neck and cluster'd hair.
XXXIV.
Then fell fair Corythus, as falls the tower
An earthquake shaketh from a city's crown,
Or as a tall white fragrant lily-flower
A child hath in the garden trampled down,
Or as a pine-tree in the forest brown,
Fell'd by the sea-rovers on mountain lands,
When they to harry foreign folk are boune,
Taking their own lives in their reckless hands.
XXXV.
But still in Paris did his anger burn,
And still his sword was lifted up to slay,
When, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn,
He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay,
'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray,
And looking on them, knew what he had done,
Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day,
Knew how a father's hand had slain a son.
XXXVI.
Then Paris on his face fell grovelling,
And the night gather'd, and the silence grew
Within the darkened chamber of the king.
But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew,
And her new woes came back to her anew:
Ah, where is he but knows the bitter pain
To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true,
And his ill life returned to him again!
XXXVII.
She needed none to tell her whence it fell,
The thick red rain
Thy Lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin,
Even as thy Love forgets the words he spoke
The strong oath broken one weak heart to win,
The lips that kiss'd him, and the heart that broke?
XXVII.
"Nay, but methinks thou shalt not quite forget
The curse wherewith I curse thee till I die;
The tears that on the wood-nymph's cheeks are wet,
Shall burn thy hateful beauty deathlessly,
Nor shall God raise up seed to thee; but I
Have borne thy love this messenger: my son,
Who yet shall make him glad, for Time goes by
And soon shall thine enchantments all be done:
XXVIII.
"Ay, soon 'twixt me and Death must be his choice,
And little in that hour will Paris care
For thy sweet lips, and for thy singing voice,
Thine arms of ivory, thy golden hair.
Nay, me will he embrace, and will not spare,
But bid the folk that hate thee have their joy,
And give thee to the mountain beasts to tear,
Or burn thy body on a tower of Troy."
XXIX.
Even as she read, by Aphrodite's will
The cloud roll'd back from Helen's memory:
She saw the city of the rifted hill,
Fair Lacedaemon, 'neath her mountain high;
She knew the swift Eurotas running by
To mix his sacred waters with the sea,
And from the garden close she heard the cry
Of her beloved child, Hermione.
XXX.
Then instantly the horror of her shame
Fell on her, and she saw the coming years;
Famine, and fire, and plague, and all men's blame,
The wounds of warriors and the women's fears;
And through her heart her sorrow smote like spears,
And in her soul she knew the utmost smart
Of wives left lonely, sires bereaved, the tears
Of maidens desolate, of loves that part.
XXXI.
She drain'd the dregs out of the cup of hate;
The bitterness of sorrow, shame, and scorn;
Where'er the tongues of mortals curse their fate,
She saw herself an outcast and forlorn;
And hating sore the day that she was born,
Down in the dust she cast her golden head,
There with rent raiment and fair tresses torn,
At feet of Corythus she lay for dead.
XXXII.
But Corythus, beholding her sweet face,
And her most lovely body lying low,
Had pity on her grief and on her grace,
Nor heeded now she was his mother's foe,
But did what might be done to ease her woe,
While, as he thought, with death for life she strove,
And loosed the necklet round her neck of snow,
As who that saw had deem'd, with hands of love.
XXXIII.
And there was one that saw: for Paris woke
Half-deeming and half-dreaming that the van
Of the great Argive host had scared the folk,
And down the echoing corridor he ran
To Helen's bower, and there beheld the man
That kneel'd beside his lady lying there:
No word he spake, but drove his sword a span
Through Corythus' fair neck and cluster'd hair.
XXXIV.
Then fell fair Corythus, as falls the tower
An earthquake shaketh from a city's crown,
Or as a tall white fragrant lily-flower
A child hath in the garden trampled down,
Or as a pine-tree in the forest brown,
Fell'd by the sea-rovers on mountain lands,
When they to harry foreign folk are boune,
Taking their own lives in their reckless hands.
XXXV.
But still in Paris did his anger burn,
And still his sword was lifted up to slay,
When, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn,
He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay,
'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray,
And looking on them, knew what he had done,
Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day,
Knew how a father's hand had slain a son.
XXXVI.
Then Paris on his face fell grovelling,
And the night gather'd, and the silence grew
Within the darkened chamber of the king.
But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew,
And her new woes came back to her anew:
Ah, where is he but knows the bitter pain
To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true,
And his ill life returned to him again!
XXXVII.
She needed none to tell her whence it fell,
The thick red rain