ELEVENTH STAVE

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.