Helen of Troy Part 6

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.

x.x.xVII.

She was the priestess of Apollo's fane, Ca.s.sandra, and the G.o.d 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 h.e.l.l of people_, _king_, _and state_!

x.x.xVIII.

But ere the G.o.d 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 G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sing 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 fas.h.i.+on them curved s.h.i.+ps 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 wors.h.i.+pp'd her of old As she had been a G.o.ddess from above, Gazed at her now with l.u.s.tful 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.ds 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 G.o.d, Whose wrath, they deem'd, had verily waxed hot Against the painful race on earth that trod, And in G.o.d'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, OEnone, in the hills, The daughter of a River-G.o.d 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 pa.s.s'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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s'd; and Paris changed, and now no more OEnone heard him on the mountain sing, Not now she met him in the forest h.o.a.r.

Nay, but she knew that on an alien sh.o.r.e 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 OEnone 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 OEnone 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 OEnone 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.