Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors And windows open wide, wanders the floors And all the passage ways about the house, Keen marshal of the sun, or serious
The cool gray light of morning‘ gins to peer Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee Nor full-flood glory of the day to be
When round about the hill the sun shall swim And burn a sea-path — so demure and slim Went Helen on her business with swift feet And light, yet recollected, and her sweet
Secret held hid, that she was loved where need Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed — Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, passion white Of lovers knit in Heré's holy light!
But while in early morn she wonned alone And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone, And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes: Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies.
Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred
She paced the hall soft-footed up and down, Lightly and feverishly with quick frown Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird That on the winter grass is aye deterred
His food-searching by hint of unknown snare In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare; Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide Beat from her heart against her shielded side —
Now closely girdled went she like a maid — And then slipt to the window, where she stayed But minutes three or four; for soon she past Out to the terrace, there to be at last
Downgazing on her glory, which her king Reflected up in every motioning And flux of his high passion. Only here She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near
The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess What deeds must do ere that could come to pass. To her the instant homage held all joy — And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy
Beside the bliss of that? Or Paris, what Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot To have risked all the world and ten years loved
This woman, now to find her nothing moved By what he had done with her, what desired To do? And more she chilled the less he tired, And more he ventured less she cared recall
What was to her of nothing worth, or all: All if the King required it of her, nought If he who now could take it. It was bought, And his by bargain: let him have it then;
But let it be for giving once again, And all the rubies in the world's deep heart Could fetch no price beside it. Yet apart
She brooded on the man who held her chained, Minister to his pleasure, and disdained Him more the more herself she must disparage, Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage,
So old, incredible, so flat, so stale, No more to be recalled than old wife's tale; And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low, Not villain and not hero, who would go
Midway‘ twixt baseness and nobility, And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more Than all the world, and made his mind a whore
To minister his heart's need, for a price. All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet, Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret;
But lift on wings of her exalted mood, She let him touch and finger what he would, Unconscious of his being — as he saw, And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw
Of his esteem, “Ah, cruel art thou turned,” Would cry, “Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned, Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!” With which to clasp her closer was he fain,
To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be The plucker of such chords of such a rote; And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat,
Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done. “Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun My worship!” So he said; but she, “They fade, But are not yet so old as thou hast made
The soul thou pinnest here beneath my breasts Which you have loved too well.” His hand he rests Over one fair white bosom like a cup, And leaning, of her lips his own must sup;
But she will not, but gently doth refuse it, Without a reason, save she doth not choose it. Then when he flung away, she sat alone And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one
Perturbéd bosom; and her fingers wove White webs as far afield her wits did rove Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair, So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there,
A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh. But all the while she writhed within the mesh Of circumstance, and fiercely flamed her rage: “O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage
For this sleek master's handling!” So she fumed What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow, And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe
Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill That knew, which said, “A true man loveth me still.” That same night, as she used, fair Helen went Among the suppliants in the hall, and lent
To each who craved the bounty of her grace, Her gentle touch on wounds, her pitiful face To beaten eyes’ dumb eloquence, that art She above all could use, to stroke the heart
And plead compassion in bestowing it. So with her handmaids busy did she flit From man to man,‘ mid outlaws, broken blades, Robbed husbandmen, their robbers, phantoms, shades
Of what were men till hunger made them less Than man can be and still know uprightness; And whom she spake with kindly words and cheer In him the light of hope began to peer
And glimmer in his eyes; and him she fed And nourisht, then sent homeward comforted A little, to endure a little more. Now among these, hard by the outer door,
She marked a man unbent whose sturdy look Never left hers for long, whose shepherd's hook Seemed not a staff to prop him, whose bright eyes Burned steadily, as fire when the wind dies.
Great in the girth was he, but not so tall By a full hand as many whom the wall Showed like gaunt channel-posts by an ebb tide Left stranded in a world of ooze. Beside
His knees she kneeled, and to his wounded feet Applied her balms; but he, from his low seat Against the wall, leaned out and in her ear Whispered, but so that no one else could hear,
“Other than my wounds are there for thy pains, Lady, and deeper. One, a grievous, drains The great heart of a king, and one is fresh, Though ten years old, in the sweet innocent flesh
Of a young child.” Nothing said she, but stoopt The closer to her task. He thought she droopt Her head, he knew she trembled, that her shoulder
Twitcht as she wrought her task; so he grew bolder, Saying, “But thou art pitiful! I know That thou wilt wash their wounds.” She whispered “Oh,
Be sure of me!” Then he, “Let us have speech Secret together out of range or reach Of prying ears, if such a chance may be.”
Then she said, “Towards morning look for me Here, when the city sleeps, before the sun.” So till the glimmer of dawn this hardy one Keepeth the watch in Paris’ house. All night
With hard unwinking eyes he sat upright, While all about the sleepers lay, like stones Littered upon a hill-top, save that moans, Sighings and “Gods, have pity!” showed that they
By night rehearsed the miseries of day, And by bread lived not but by hope deferred. Grimly he suffered till such time he heard Helen's light foot and faint and gray in the mist
Descried her slim veiled outline, saw her twist And slip between the sleepers on the ground, Atiptoe coming, swift, with scarce a sound, Not faltering in fear. No fear she had.
From head to foot a sea-blue mantle clad Her lovely shape, from which her pale keen face Shone like the moon in frosty sky. No case Was his to waver, for her eyes spake true
As Heaven upon the world. Him then she drew To follow her, out of the house, to where The ilex trees stood darkly, and the air Struck sharp and chill before the dawn's first breath.
There stood a little altar underneath An image: Artemis the quick deerslayer, High-girdled and barekneed; to Whom in prayer First bowed, then stood erect with lifted hands,
Palms upward, Helen. “Lady of open lands And lakes and windy heights,” prayed she, “so do To me as to Amphion's wife when blew The wind of thy high anger, and she stared
On sudden death that not one dear life spared Of all she had — so do to me if false I prove unto this Argive!” Then the walls
And gates of Ilios she traced in the sand, And told him of the watch-towers, and how manned The gates at night; and where the treasure was, And where the houses of the chiefs. But as
She faltered in the tale, “Show now,” said he, “Where Priam's golden palace is.” But she Said, “Nay, not that; for since the day of shame
That brought me in, no word or look of blame Hath he cast on me. Nay, when Hector died And all the city turned on me and cried My name, as to an outcast dog men fling
Howling and scorn, not one word said the King. And when they hissed me in the shrines of the Gods, And women egged their children on with nods To foul the house-wall, or in passing spat
Towards it, he, the old King, came and sat Daily with me, and often on my hair Would lay a gentle hand. Him thou shalt spare For my sake who betray him.”
Odysseus said, “Well, thou shalt speak no more of him. His bed Is not of thy making, nor mine, but his Who hath thee here a cageling, thy Paris.
Him he begat as well as Hector. Now Let Priam look to reap what he did sow.” But when glad light brimmed o'er the cup of earth And shrill birds called forth men to grief or mirth
As might afford their labour under the sun, Helen advised how best to get him gone, And fetched a roll of cord, the which made fast About a stanchion, about him next she cast,
About and about until the whole was round His body, and the end to his arm she bound: Then showed him in the wall where best foothold Might be, and watcht him down as fold by fold
He paid the cable out; and as he paid So did she twist it, till the coil was made As it had been at first. Then watcht she him Stride o'er the plain until he twinkled dim
And sank into the mist. That day came not King Menelaus to the trysting spot; But ere Odysseus left her she had ta'en
A crocus flower which on her breast had lain, And toucht it with her lips. “Give this,” said she, “To my good lord who hath seen the flower in me.”
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