High over Troy the windy citadel, Pergamos, towereth, where is the cell And precinct of Athene. There, till reived, They kept the Pallium, sacred and still grieved By all who held the city consecrate To Her, as first it was, till she learned hate For what had once been lovely, and let in The golden Aphrodite, and sweet sin To ensnare Prince Paris and send him awooing A too-fair wife, to be his own undoing And Troy's and all the line's of Dardanos, That traced from Zeus to him, from him to Tros, From Tros to Ilos, to Laomedon, Who begat Priam as his second son.

But out of Troy a.s.sarakos too came, From whom came Kapys; and from him the fame Of good Anchises, with whom Kypris lay In love and got Aineias. He, that day Of dreadful wrath, safe only out did come, And builded great Troy's line in greater Rome.

Now to the forecourt flock the Trojan folk To view the portent. Now they bring to yoke Priam's white horses, that the stricken king Himself may see the wonder-working thing, Himself invoke with his frail trembling voice The good Twin Brethren for his aid and Troy's.

So presently before it Priam stands, Father and King of Troy, with feeble hands And mild pale eyes wherein Grief like a ghost Sits; and about him all he has not lost Of all his children gather, with grief-worn Andromache and her first, and last, born, The boy Astyanax. And there apart The wise Aineias stands, of steadfast heart But not acceptable--for some old grudge Inherited--Aineias, silent judge Of folly, as he had been since the sin Of Paris knelled the last days to begin.

But he himself, that Paris, came not out, But kept his house in these his days of doubt, Uncertain of his footing, being of those On whom the faintest breath of censure blows Chill as the wind that from the frozen North Palsies the fount o' the blood. He dared not forth Lest men should see--and how not see? he thought-- That Helen held him lightlier than she ought.

But Helen came there, gentle as of old, Self-held, sufficient to herself, not bold, Not modest nor immodest, taking none For judge or jury of what she may have done; But doing all she was to do, sedate, Intent upon it and deliberate.

As she had been at first, so was she now When she had put behind her her old vow And had no pride but thinking of her new.

But she was lovelier, of more burning hue, And in her eyes there shone, for who could see, A flickering light, half scare and half of glee, Which made those iris'd orbs to wax and wane Like to the light of April days, when rain And sun contend the sovereignty. She kept Beside the King, and only closer crept To let him feel her there when some harsh word Or look made her heart waver. Many she heard, And much she saw, but knew the King her friend, Him only since great Hector met his end.

And while so pensive and demure she stood, With one thin hand just peeping at her hood, The which close-folded her from head to knee, Her heart within her bosom hailed her--"Free!

Free from thy thralldom, free to save, to give, To love, be loved again, and die to live!"

So she--yet who had said, to see her there, The sweet-faced woman, blue-eyed, still and fair As windless dawn in some quiet mountain place, To such a music let her pa.s.sion race?

Now hath the King his witless welcome paid, And now invoked the G.o.ds, and the cold shade Which once was Hector; now, being upheld By two his sons, with shaking hands of eld The knees of those two carved and gilded youths He touches while he prays, and praying soothes The crying heart of Helen. But not so Ka.s.sandra views him pray, that well of woe Ka.s.sandra, she whom Loxias deceived With gift to see, and not to be believed; To read within the heart of Time all truth And see men blindly blunder, to have ruth, To burn, to cry, "Out, haro!" and be a mock-- Ah, and to know within this gross wood-block The fate of all her kindred, and her own, Unthinkable! Now with her terror blown Upon her face, to blanch it like a sheet, Now with bare frozen eyes which only greet The viewless neighbours of our world she strips The veil and shrieketh Troy's apocalypse: "Woe to thee, Ilios! The fire, the fire! And rain, Rain like to blood and tears to drown the plain And cover all the earth up in a shroud, One great death-clout for thee, Ilios the proud!

Touch not, handle not----" Outraged then she turned To Helen--"O thou, for whom Troy shall be burned, O ruinous face, O b.r.e.a.s.t.s made hard with gall, Now are ye satisfied? Ye shall have all, All Priam's sons and daughters, all his race Gone quick to death, hailing thee, ruinous face!"

Her tragic mask she turned upon all men: "The lion shall have Troy, to make his den Within her pleasant courts, in Priam's high seat Shall blink the vulture, sated of his meat; And in the temples emptied of their G.o.ds Bats shall make quick the night, and panting toads Make day a loathing to the light it brings.

Listen! Listen! they flock out; heed their wings.

The G.o.ds flee forth of this accursed haunt, And leave the memory of it an old chant, A nursery song, an idle tale that's told To children when your own sons are grown old In Argive bonds, and have no other joy Than whispering to their offspring tales of Troy."

Whereat she laught--O bitter sound to hear!

And struggled with herself, and grinned with fear And misery lest even now her fate Should catch her and she be believed too late.

"Is't possible, O G.o.ds! Are ye so doomed As not to know this Horse a mare, enwombed Of men and swords? Know ye not there unseen The Argive princes wait their dam shall yean?

Anon creeps Sparta forth, to find his balm In that vile woman; forth with itching palm Mykenai creeps, snuffing what may be won By filching; forth Pyrrhos the braggart's son That dared do violence to Hector dead, But while he lived called G.o.ds to serve his stead; Forth Aias like a beast, to mangle me-- These things ye will not credit, but I see."

Then once again, and last, she turned her switch On Helen, hissing, "Out upon thee, witch, Smooth-handed traitress, speak thy secrets out That we may know thee, how thou goest about Caressing, with a hand that hides a knife, That which shall prove false paramour, false wife, Fair as the sun is fair that smiles and slays"-- And then, "O ruinous face, O ruinous face!"

But nothing more, for sudden all was gone, Spent by her pa.s.sion. Muttering, faint and wan Down to the earth she sank, and to and fro Rocking, drew close her hood, and shrouded so, Her wild voice drowning, died in moans away.

But Helen stood bright-eyed as glancing day, Near by the Horse, and with a straying hand Did stroke it here and there, and listening stand, Leaning her head towards its gilded flank, And strain to hear men's breath behind the plank; And she had whispered if she dared some word Of promise; but afraid to be o'erheard, Leaned her head close and toucht it with her cheek, Then drew again to Priam, schooled and meek.

But Menelaus felt her touch, and mum Sat on, nursing his mighty throw to come; And Aias started, with some cry uncouth And vile, but fast Odysseus o'er his mouth Clapt hand, and checkt his foul perseverance To seek in every deed his own essence.

Now when the ways were darkened, and the sun Sank red to sea, and homeward all had gone Save that distraught Ka.s.sandra, who still served The temple whence the G.o.ddess long had swerved, Athene, hating Troy and loving them Who craved to s.n.a.t.c.h and make a diadem Of Priam's regal crown for other brows-- She, though foredoomed she knew, held to her vows, And duly paid the thankless evening rite-- There came to Paris' house late in the night Dephobus his brother, young and trim, For speech with fair-tressed Helen, for whose slim And budded grace long had he sighed in vain; And found her in full hall, and showed his pain And need of her. To whom when she draws close In hot and urgent crying words he shows His case, hers now, that here she tarry not Lest evil hap more dread than she can wot: "For this," he says, "is Troy's extremest hour."

But when to that she bowed her head, the power Of his high vision made him vehement: "Dark sets the sun," he cried, "and day is spent"; But she said, "Nay, the sun will rise with day, And I shall bathe in light, lift hands and pray."

"Thou lift up hands, bound down to a new lord!"

He mocked; then whispered, "Lady, with a sword I cut thy bonds if so thou wilt."

Apart She moved: "No sword, but a cry of the heart Shall loose me."

Then he said, "Hear what I cry From my heart unto thine: fly, Helen, fly!"

Whereat she shook her head and sighed, "Even so, Brother, I fly where thou canst never go.

Far go I, out of ken of thee and thy peers."

He knew not what she would, but said, "Thy fears Are of the G.o.ds and holy dooms and Fate, But mine the present menace in the gate.

This I would save thee."

"I fear it not," said she, "But wait it here."

He cried, "Here shalt thou see Thy Spartan, and his bitter sword-point feel Against thy bosom."

"I bare it to the steel,"

Saith she. He then, "If ever man deserved thee By service, I am he, who'd die to serve thee."

Glowing she heard him, being quickly moved By kindness, loving ever where she was loved.

But now her heart was fain for rest; the night Called her to sleep and dreams. So with a light And gentle hand upon him, "Brother, farewell,"

She said, "I stay the issue, and foretell Honour therein at least."

Then at the door She kissed him. And she saw his face no more.

NINTH STAVE

THE G.o.dS FORSAKE TROY

Now Dawn came weeping forth, and on the crest Of Ida faced a chill wind from the West.

Forth from the gray sea wrack-laden it blew And howled among the towers, and stronger grew As crept unseen the sun his path of light.

Then she who in the temple all that night Had kept her rueful watch, the prophetess Ka.s.sandra, peering sharply, heard the press And rush of flight above her, and with sick Foreboding waited; and the air grew thick With flying shapes immortal overhead.

As in late Autumn, when the leaves are shed And dismal flit about the empty ways, And country folk provide against dark days, And heap the woodstack, and their stores repair, Attent you know the quickening of the air, And closer yet the swish and sweep and swing Of wings innumerable, emulous to bring The birds to broader skies and kindlier sun, And know indeed that winter is begun-- So seeing first, then hearing, she knew the hour Was come when Troy must fall, and not a tower Be left to front the morrow. And she covered Her head and mourned, while one by one they hovered Above their shrines, then flockt and faced the dawn.

First, in her car of sh.e.l.l and amber, drawn By cl.u.s.tering doves with burnisht wings, a-throng, Pa.s.ses Queen Aphrodite, and her song Is sweet and sharp: "I gave my sacred zone To warm thy bosom, Helen which by none That live by labour and in tears are born And sighing go their ways, has e'er been worn.

It kindled in thine eyes the lovelight, showed Thy burning self in his. Thy body glowed With beauty like to mine: mine thy love-laughter Thy cooing in the night, thy deep sleep after, Thy rapture of the morning, love renewed; And all the shadowed day to sit and brood On what has been and what should be again: Thou wilt not? Nay, I proffer not in vain My gifts, for I am all or will be nought.

Lo, where I am can be no other thought."

Thus to the wooded heights of Ida she Was drawn, hid in that pearly galaxy Of snow-white pigeons.

Next upon the height Of Pergamos uplift a beam of light That for its core enshrined a naked youth, Golden and fierce. She knew the G.o.d sans ruth, Him who had given woeful prescience to her, Apollo, once her lover and her wooer; Who stood as one stands glorying in his grace And strength, full in the sun, though on her place Within the temple court no sun at all Shone, nor as yet upon the topmost wall Was any tinge of him, but all showed gray And sodden in the wind and blown sea-spray.

Not to him dared she lift her voice in prayer, Nor scarce her eyes to see him.

To him there Came swift a spirit in shape of virgin slim, With snooded hair and kirtle belted trim, Short to the knee; and in her face the gale Had blown bright sanguine colour. Free and hale She was; and in her hand she held a bow Unstrung, and o'er her shoulders there did go A baldrick that made sharp the cleft betwixt Her sudden b.r.e.a.s.t.s--to that a quiver fixt, Showing gold arrow-points. No G.o.d there is In Heaven more swift than Delian Artemis, The young, the pure health-giver of the Earth, Who loveth all things born, and brings to birth, And after slays with merciful sudden death-- In whom is gladness all and wholesome breath, And to whom all the praise of him who writes, Ever.

These two she saw like meteorites Flare down the wind and burn afar, then fade.

And Leto next, a mother grave and staid, Drave out her chariot, which two winged stags drew, Swift following, robed in gown of inky blue, And hooded; and her hand which held the hood Gleamed like a patch of snow left in a wood Where hyacinths bring down to earth the sky.

And in her wake a winging company, Dense as the cloud of gulls which from a rock At sea lifts up in myriads, if the knock Of oars a.s.sail their peace, she saw, and mourned The household G.o.ds. For outward they too turned, The spirits of the streams and water-brooks, And nymphs who haunt the pastures, or in nooks Of woodlands dwell. There like a lag of geese Flew in long straying lines the Oreades That in wild dunes and commons have their haunt; There sped the Hamadryads; there aslant, As from the sea, but wheeling ere they crost Their sisters, thronged the river-nymphs, a host; And now the G.o.ds of homestead and the hearth, Like sad-faced mourning women, left the garth Where each had dwelt since Troy was stablished, And been the holy influence over bed And board and daily work under the sun And nightlong slumber when day's work was done: They rose, and like a driven mist of rain Forsook the doomed high city and the plain, And drifted eastaway; and as they went Heaviness spread o'er Ilios like a tent, And past not off, but brooded all day long.

But ever coursed new spirits to the throng That packt the ways of Heaven. From the plain, From mere and holt and hollow rose amain The haunters of the silence; from the streams And wells of water, from the country demes, From plough and pasture, bottom, ridge and crest The rustic G.o.ds rose up and joined the rest.

Like a long wisp of cloud from out his banks Streamed Xanthos, that swift river, to the ranks Of flying shapes; and driven by that same mind That urged him to it came Simoeis behind, And other G.o.ds and other, of stream and tree And hill and vale--for nothing there can be On earth or under Heaven, but hath in it Essence whereby alone its form may hit Our apprehension, channelled in the sense Which feedeth us, that we through vision dense See G.o.ds as trees walking, or in the wind That singeth in the bents guess what's behind Its wailing music.

And now the unearthly flock, Emptying every water, wood, bare rock And pasture, beset Ida, and their wings Beat o'er the forest which about her springs And makes a sea of verdure, whence she lifts Her soaring peaks to bathe them in the drifts Of cloud, and rare reveal them unto men-- For Zeus there hath his dwelling, out of ken Of men alike and G.o.ds. But now the brows, The breasting summits, still eternal snows, And all the faces of the mountain held A concourse like in number to the field Of Heaven upon some breathless summer night Printed with myriad stars, some burning bright, Some ma.s.sed in galaxy, a cloudy scar, And others faint, as infinitely far.

There rankt the G.o.ds of Heaven, Earth, and Sea, Brethren of them now hastening from the fee Of stricken Priam. Out of his deep cloud Zeus flamed his levin, and his thunder loud Volleyed his welcome. With uplifted hands Acclaiming, G.o.d's oncoming each G.o.d stands To greet. And thus the Hierarchy at one Sits to behold the bitter business done Which Paris by his luxury bestirred.

But in the city, like a stricken bird Grieving her desolation and despair, As voiceless and as l.u.s.treless, astare For imminent Death, Ka.s.sandra croucht beneath Her very doom, herself the bride of Death; For in the temple's forecourt reared the ma.s.s Of that which was to bring the woe to pa.s.s, And hidden in him both her murderers Wrung at their nails.

And slow the long day wears While all the city broods. The chiefs keep house, Or gather on the wall, or make carouse To simulate a freedom they feel not; And at street corners men in shift or plot Whisper together, or in the market-place Gather, and peer each other in the face Furtively, seeking comfort against care; Whose eyes, meeting by chance, shift otherwhere In haste. But in the houses, behind doors Shuttered and barred, the women scrub their floors, Or ply their looms as busily: for they Ever cure care with care, and if a day Be heavy lighten it with heavier task; And for their griefs wear beauty like a mask, And answer heart's presaging with a song On their brave lips, and render right for wrong.

Little, by outward seeming, do they know Of doom at hand, of fate or blood or woe, Nor how their children, playing by their knees, Must end this day of busyness-at-ease In shrieking night, with clamour for their bread, And a red bath, and a cold stone for a bed Under the staring moon.

Now sinks the sun Blood-red into the heavy sea and dun, And forth from him, as he were stuck with swords, Great streams of light go upward. Then the lords Of havoc and unrest prepare their storms, And o'er the silent city, vulture forms-- Eris and Enyo, Alke, Ioke, The biter, the sharp-bitten, the mad, the fey-- Hover and light on pinnacle and tower: The gray Erinnyes, watchful for the hour When Haro be the wail. And down the sky Like a white squall flung Ate with a cry That sounded like the wind in a ship's shrouds, As shrill and wild at once. The driving clouds Surging together, blotted out the sea, The beached ships, the plain with mound and tree, And slantwise came the sheeted rain, and fast The darkness settled in. Ka.s.sandra cast Her mantle o'er her head, and with slow feet Entered her shrine deserted, there to greet Her fate when it should come; and merciful Sleep Befriended her.

Now from his lair did creep Odysseus forth unarmed, his sword and spear There in the Horse, and warily to peer And spy his whereabouts the Ithacan Went doubtful. Then his dreadful work began, As down the bare way of steep Pergamos Under the dark he sought for Paris' house.

TENTH STAVE

ODYSSEUS COMES AGAIN TO PARIS' HOUSE

There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce, Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears, Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall Went out and shot her gaze into the murk Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift, But idly, waiting always for some lift In the close-wrapping fog that might discover The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover-- Lover and husband, master and lord of life, Coming at last to take a slave to wife.

And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start, And thankt the G.o.ddess for the balm they brought.

Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought By hope and care and waiting, she was mild And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds Time past or time to come, but fills all needs With present kindness. She would laugh and talk, Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk The terrace 'neath the eyes of all her fate, And seem to heed what they might show or prate, As if her whole heart's heart were in this house And not at fearful odds and perilous.

And should one speak of Paris, as to say, "Would that our lord might see thee go so gay About his house!" Gently she'd bend her head Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise, Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise Lit like a b.u.t.terfly and quivered there.

Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere At council with the chieftains, into the hall To Helen there, was come, adventuring all, Odysseus in the garb of countryman, A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip, And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came And louted low, and hailed her by her name, Among her maidens easy to be known, Though not so tall as most, and not full blown To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose; But like a summer wave her bosom flows Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face Seems pious as the moon in a blue s.p.a.ce Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue Of early morning, gray through mist of blue.

Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed Queen of them all, but by the right expressed In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold Upon her lips which G.o.ds have. Nay, not cold, Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say All in a sigh, and with one word betray The pa.s.sion of thy heart! But who can wis The fainting piercing message of thy kiss?

O blest initiate--let him live to tell Thy G.o.dhead, show himself thy miracle!

But when she saw him there with his head bowed And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed, And broad across the iris swam the black Until her eyes showed darkling. "Friend, your lack Tell me," she said, "and what is mine to give Is yours; but little my prerogative Here in this house, where I am not the queen You call me, but another name, I ween, Serves me about the country you are of, Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love.

Yet are we all alike in evil plight, And should be tender of each other's right, And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done Upon us. Have you wife and little one Hungry at home? Have you a son afield?

Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford To serve...."

He said, "Nay, you can sheathe the sword, Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy.

Lady, I come to end this war of Troy In your good pleasure."

With her steady eyes Unwinking fixt, "Let you and me devise,"

Said she, "this happy end of bow and spear, So shall we serve the land. You have my ear; Speak then."

"But so," he said, "these maidens have it.

But we save Troy alone, or never save it."