University of Virginia Library

Helen, the daughter of King Tyndareus,
Or, as some say, of Ægis-bearing Zeus,
Had lived in Sparta many a goodly day
Ere the east wind blew down from Phrygia
Paris the fair, and many days lived she
In golden friendship free from taint, and free
With Paris and her husband afterward,
Until the son of Atreus went aboard
His swift black ship and sailed to far-off isles,
And there abode, leaving his wife long whiles
With Priam's godlike son (whether it was
By Aphrodite's lure, or for some cause
Of high state-policy or gain, or both).
The Queen to lose her lord was passing loath,
And fell to weeping, till the Phrygian
To soothe with words of comforting began,
And then was so insistent, that he must
Be as insistent to fulfil the trust
Of cherishing the dame, which the Greek King
Had laid upon his honour at parting,
In nowise dreaming of the afterhap
That Nemesis bare for him in her lap,
But full of tenderness for the young wife
Whom he was leaving, lest her daily life
Should be a prey to loneliness and tears,
And, as men oft in their preventing fears
Prevent their hopes, so did the Spartan King.
For, after the first days of sorrowing,
Helen began to look with grateful eyes
Upon his youth, who in such tender wise
Had healed her sorrows, nor was gratitude
Long ere it did descry in what it viewed
Fair lineaments and princely qualities,
Such as few men in any man despise,
And least of all a woman, who has been
Won by those very graces from her teen.
And thus these two lived joyously each day,
Wiling the swift-winged golden hours away,
Charmed by each other's gifts, as by a spell.
Helen, as woman, could but note too well
Him unto whom her least wish was a care
Like a behest from heaven, and compare
The goodliness of shape, the fair bright hair,
Fair face, swift feet, and skill in archery,
Which made him with far-darting Phœbus vie,
Against the simple worth of her own lord
Who, in the melée staunch and staunch in word,
Was yet none such as the Pergamian Prince,
Nor in such courtier-fashion could evince
The great, true love he bare her in his soul.
And, as for Paris, how should he control
His eyes from looking on the loveliness
That with its presence all his days did bless
And made his earth a heaven—not that he thought
In those first days of doing wrong in aught
Unto the son of Atreus; nor did he deem
That such things would be. Nathless in a dream
It seemed that Aphrodite to him came,
And, garlanding a crown of amber flame
Around the sleeping princess where she lay,
Set him to thinking of that other day
When he bestowed the apple upon her,
And she on him had promised to confer
The fairest of fair women on the earth,
And set him thinking if for grace and worth
And tenderness and beauty and all love,
A goodlier dwelt e'en in the Paphian grove,
And set him thinking if it were not this
The goddess gave him in her promises.
And then he woke and to himself thus spake:
“Certes, great shame were on me did I break
The trust that Menelaus laid on me.
But he has passed over the pitiless sea
To far-off isles, and may not ever come
Back to the haven of his high-roofed home,
And meanwhile godlike Helen pines alone:
I cannot stay here always and anon,
When I have sailed she will be left a prey
To the rude chieftains, who will on her lay
Hot impious hands and hasten to divide
The kingdom as a spoil. Better my bride
Were she than suffer such a cruel woe.
Yes! Menelaus will not come back now,
Being so long gone, and I too must be gone,
Leaving the tender Queen thus doubly lone.”

With such and such words to himself he glozed,
While Helen on her lonely couch reposed
And dreamed ('twas Aphrodite moved the queen,
So sung old poets) of what might have been
Had she met Priam's son in the old days,
How what would now be shame might have been praise,
And she been wedded to this peerless knight
Bright in the hair, bright in the face, and bright
In all that fills a house with joy and light,
And yet no woman but an archer bold,
His own well able in the field to hold
With all the Spartan princes, and in speed
Matched to outrun the boar, if there were need,
On Mount Täygetus. And then she woke
And chid herself for murmurs which she spoke
Unto herself while dreaming. But it chanced
That as she glid into the hall, she glanced
On Paris, while he chid himself likewise.
And lo it came to pass that when their eyes
Met, all the chidings vanished, and straightway
They thought but of the goodliness which they
Looked on in one another, and their hearts
Mingled, and, heedless of dread Hera's darts,
Who sanctifieth marriage, and the wrath
Of Menelaus, stepped on to the path,
Which leads through halls and gardens of delight
Down to the black abyss, and on that night
And many another after, took deep draughts
Of passion's magic cup, until the shafts
Of Eos drove the friendly shades away.

But last of all there came the hateful day,
Put back how often, when he needs must sail
Back to the Ilian shore, when favouring gale
And low waves and propitious augury
Conspired to bid the wanderer to sea,
And even Paris durst no longer stay
Lest Zeus himself should chafe at his delay.
And so he called his Trojans, and gave word
That on the morrow he would go aboard
And hoise sail for the Troad. Whereat they
Shouted with joy, seeing that many a day
It had been their desire once more to come
Unto the softer living of their home,
Its rich broad meadows and its goodly trees,
Its wealth and well-built houses; for of these
Small store was there at Sparta, great and strong
In heroes as she was. Then all day long
He and fair Helen gave themselves to love,
Although at first he took good heart and strove
To bid her his farewell, and swiftly go
Down to his ships to spread all sail and row
Beyond the reach of ill. But still she clung
Close unto him, and on his shoulder hung,
And whispered that the summer sun was slow
In making home, and that fair winds would blow
For long days yet, and that the seas in June
Were softer than a summer afternoon.
Then wherefore haste to stand to sea that day?
Or, if that day, why row the bark away
Before the sun's wrath softened and the eve
Stole down the sky the rowers to relieve
With calm and cool? And even as she spake
She heaved up sighs as though the parting brake
Her heartstrings, and her white hands garlanded
About his neck, pressing her golden head
Against his shoulder lovingly. But he
Read in his heart a sullen augury
Of threatening ill, and, deeming that he might
Avert their consummation by swift flight,
Turned a deaf ear to her most moving pray'rs,
And to assist the seamen in their cares
For watering and provision, forthwith passed
Down to his fleet black ship. But at the last,
When all things needful were within the hold,
In glitter of her beauty and red gold
Came peerless Helen, with a goodly train
Of virgins in bright raiment, Tyrian
Sea-purple or vermilion, whom she
Left standing by the ship's side on the quay,
And herself stepping on an outspread cloak,
Which one who seemed a ruler of ship-folk
Strewed for her slim, white, daintily-sandalled feet,
His homage with soft courtesy did greet,
And asked for Paris, safe voyage and God-speed
Wishing to bid him, and see if indeed
He was for sailing, and, when he had come,
Spake unto him of speeding to his home,
And, bidding him farewell in accents clear,
That all the folk who stood about might hear,
When they set up their din of loud applause,
Whispered to him to plead some specious cause
And stave the sailing off but for one day,
But for the night. Yet still he said her nay
In that he feared to. And then she again,
Seeing that Paris dared not to remain,
Gathered a desperate courage from despair,
And, flinging off all wifely shame and care
In the fierce love that lorded o'er her heart,
And, reckoning life naught should he depart
And leave her lonely in the bronze-sheathed house,
Whispered to him in accents tremulous
And passionate that, when she gave the word,
He should his faulchion draw and cut the cord
Which moored the ship and put straight out to sea
And carry her with him, and said that she
Would so dispose her train that none should be
Able to raise a finger in despite
When that she gave the signal for their flight.
And so it fell: for, bidding virgins twain
To stay by her, she bade the rest to gain
The homestead with all haste, and bring from thence
A milk-white steer with gilt horns and incense
For sacrifice and banquet, and rich wine
To win with gifts the clemency divine
Of King Poseidon, and to hold high feast
In honour of their parting, ancient guest.
And, when that they were gone, and as she thought
Come to the house, she turned about and sought
Paris, and he, although his heart waxed chill
Beneath the same presentiment of ill,
Bade to let go, and the huge galley leapt,
Like a loosed dog, from out the pier, and swept
With stately swing of deftly fitted oars
And swell of purple sails, and with bright spores
Of phosphorescent water sprinkled back
As the swift prow sped on its gleaming track,
And with rich strains of flutes and wafts of spice
Breathed from the poop moulded with some device
Of the Dædalian art, straight out to sea.
And those two sate together lovingly
Beneath an awning of thick web, with sides
Curtained from view, three golden eventides
And morningtides. And for the time great joy
Was theirs, but tempered with a dull alloy
Of aguish misgivings, and remorse,
Which sits behind the rider on the horse
Of pleasure when he tramples 'neath the hoofs
Another's paradise. And now the roofs
Upon the shore began to fade from view,
And they were left between the nether blue
And upper, without aught within their sight
To break the ring of azure, save the flight
Of wingèd fish escaping from the jaws
Of the bonitos to the expectant maws
Of hovering snowy sea birds, till the isles
With which the glorious Ægæan smiles
Fronted the flying bark, and made them heed
Unto their helm and move with minished speed.
And so they came to Troy one summer day,
And long whiles ere they passed right up the bay,
Through the shrouds looking, Helen did she list
Could see the shore's grey outline, dimmed with mist
As by a mist of tears or by a dream—
So in her ecstasy it well might seem.
But when they drew up to the quays of Troy
The city folk met them with hail of joy,
Seeing the well-known sails which they had deemed
Would never come again, and all men streamed
Down from the seaward gate unto the quay,
And women too, bareheaded, fired to see
The darling of their city once again,
Him who had been the brightest of all men,
Swiftest in chace, and surest with the bow,
And who had scouted every thought of woe,
Making the townsmen glad and of good heart,
Ready to play a gallant manly part,
On field or wall against the enemy.
This was the Paris of their memory,
Not like the after Paris, weak with sin,
Careless of all things so that he might win
Another hour with Helen, unashamed,
Though worsted in the fight, and world-wide blamed
As coward, miscreant, and city curse,
And basest knight of all the universe.

And when they looked on Helen, every shout
Doubled itself and brought even elders out
To see what good it should be that could raise
An outburst so beyond the wont of praise.
Such infinite grace was in her visage seen
To gladden eyes of men, and all her mien
So gentle, godlike, marvellously bright,
That all their hearts clave unto her outright;
Nor did she ever fall from that high state,
But men were glad to meet their bitter fate
For her sake till the city fell. Such love
Had the gods deigned her in all hearts to move.

So they went up to Ilion, and the crowd
Followed with glee and joyous shoutings, proud
Of their long-lost and late-recovered chief
And his fair bride, and dreaming not that grief
Out of such joyful auspices should come.
And thus Queen Helen came to her new home.