The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang :: :: University of Virginia Library

The coming of Aphrodite, and how she told Helen that she must depart in company with Paris, but promised withal that Helen, having fallen into a deep sleep, should awake forgetful of her old life, and ignorant of her shame, and blameless of those evil deeds that the goddess thrust upon her.

THE SPELL OF APHRODITE

I

Now in the upper chamber o'er the gate
Lay Menelaus on his carven bed,
And swift and sudden as the stroke of fate
A deep sleep fell upon his weary head.
But the soft-winged god with wand of lead
Came not near Helen; wistful did she lie,
Till dark should change to gray, and gray to red,
And golden thronèd morn sweep o'er the sky.

II

Slow pass'd the heavy night: like one who fears
The step of murder, she lies quivering,
If any cry of the night bird she hears;
And strains her eyes to mark some dreadful thing,
If but the curtains of the window swing,
Stirr'd by the breath of night; and still she wept
As she were not the daughter of a king,
And no strong king, her lord, beside her slept.

III

Now in that night, the folk who watch the night,
Shepherds and fishermen, and they that ply
Strange arts and seek their spells in the star-light,
Beheld a marvel in the sea and sky,
For all the waves of all the seas that sigh
Between the straits of Hellé and the Nile,
Flush'd with a flame of silver suddenly,
From soft Cythera to the Cyprian isle.

IV

And Hesperus, the kindest star of heaven,
That bringeth all things good, wax'd pale, and straight
There fell a flash of white malignant levin
Among the gleaming waters desolate;
The lights of sea and sky did mix and mate
And change to rosy flame, and thence did fly
The lovely Queen of Love that turns to hate,
Like summer lightnings 'twixt the sea and sky.

V

And now the bower of Helen fill'd with light,
And now she knew the thing that she did fear
Was close upon her (for the black of night
Doth burn like fire, whene'er the gods are near);
Then shone like flame each helm and shield and spear
That hung within the chamber of the king.
But he—though all the bower as day was clear—
Slept as they sleep that know no wakening.

VI

But Helen leap'd from her fair carven bed
Like some tormented thing that fear makes bold;
And on the ground she beat her golden head
And pray'd with bitter moanings manifold.
Yet knew that she could never move the cold
Heart of the lovely goddess, standing there,
Her feet upon a little cloud, a fold
Of silver cloud about her bosom bare.

VII

So stood Queen Aphrodite, as she stands
Unmoved in her bright mansion, when in vain
Some naked maiden stretches helpless hands
And shifts the magic wheel, and burns the grain,
And cannot win her lover back again,
Nor her old heart of quiet any more,
Where moonlight floods the dim Sicilian main,
And the cool wavelets break along the shore.

VIII

Then Helen ceased from unavailing prayer,
And rose and faced the goddess steadily,
Till even the laughter-loving lady fair
Half shrank before the anger of her eye,
And Helen cried with an exceeding cry,
‘Why doth Zeus live, if we indeed must be
No more than sullen spoils of destiny,
And slaves of an adulteress like thee?

IX

‘What wilt thou with me, mistress of all woe?
Say, wilt thou bear me to another land
Where thou hast other lovers? Rise and go
Where dark the pine trees upon Ida stand,
For there did one unloose thy girdle band;
Or seek the forest where Adonis bled,
Or wander, wander on the yellow sand,
Where thy first lover strew'd thy bridal bed.

X

‘Ah, thy first lover! who is first or last
Of men and gods, unnumber'd and unnamed?
Lover by lover in the race is pass'd,
Lover by lover, outcast and ashamed.
Oh, thou of many names, and evil famed!
What wilt thou with me? What must I endure
Whose soul, for all thy craft, is never tamed?
Whose heart, for all thy wiles, is ever pure?

XI

‘Behold, my heart is purer than the plume
Upon the stainless pinions of the swan,
And thou wilt smirch and stain it with the fume
Of all thy hateful lusts Idalian.
My name shall be a hissing that a man
Shall smile to speak, and women curse and hate,
And on my little child shall come a ban,
And all my lofty home be desolate.

XII

‘Is it thy will that like a golden cup
From lip to lip of heroes I must go,
And be but as a banner lifted up,
To beckon where the winds of war may blow?
Have I not seen fair Athens in her woe,
And all her homes aflame from sea to sea,
When my fierce brothers wrought her overthrow
Because Athenian Theseus ravish'd me—

XIII

‘Me, in my bloomless youth, a maiden child,
From Artemis' pure altars and her fane,
And bare me, with Pirithous the wild
To rich Aphidna? Many a man was slain,
And wet with blood the wide Athenian plain,
And fired was many a goodly temple then,
But fire nor blood can purify the stain
Nor make my name reproachless among men.’

XIV

Then Helen ceased, her passion like a flame
That slays the thing it lives by, blazed and fell,
As faint as waves at dawn, though fierce they came,
By night to storm some rocky citadel;
For Aphrodite answer'd—like a spell
Her voice makes strength of mortals pass away—
‘Dost thou not know that I have loved thee well,
And never loved thee better than to-day?

XV

‘Behold, thine eyes are wet, thy cheeks are wan,
Yet art thou born of an immortal sire,
The child of Nemesis and of the Swan;
Thy veins should run with ichor and with fire.
Yet this is thy delight and thy desire,
To love a mortal lord, a mortal child;
To live, unpraised of lute, unhymn'd of lyre,
As any woman pure and undefiled.

XVI

‘Thou art the toy of gods, an instrument
Wherewith all mortals shall be plagued or blest,
Even at my pleasure; yea thou shalt be bent
This way and that, howe'er it like me best:
And following thee, as tides the moon, the west
Shall flood the eastern coasts with waves of war,
And thy vex'd soul shall scarcely be at rest,
Even in the havens where the deathless are.

XVII

‘The instruments of men are blind and dumb;
And this one gift I give thee, to be blind
And heedless of the thing that is to come,
And ignorant of that which is behind;
Bearing an innocent forgetful mind
In each new fortune till I visit thee
And stir thy heart, as lightning and the wind
Bear fire and tumult through a sleeping sea.

XVIII

‘Thou shalt forget Hermione; forget
Thy lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin;
Thy hand within a stranger's shalt thou set,
And follow him, nor deem it any sin;
And many a strange land wand'ring shalt thou win,
And thou shalt come to an unhappy town,
And twenty long years shalt thou dwell therein,
Before the Argives mar its towery crown.

XIX

‘And of thine end I speak not; but thy name—
Thy name which thou lamentest—that shall be
A song in all men's speech, a tongue of flame
Between the burning lips of Poesy;
And the nine daughters of Mnemosyne,
With Prince Apollo, leader of the nine,
Shall make thee deathless in their minstrelsy!
Yea, for thou shalt outlive the race divine,

XX

‘The race of gods, for like the sons of men
We gods have but our season, and go by;
And Cronos pass'd, and Uranus, and then
Shall Zeus and all his children utterly
Pass, and new gods be born, and reign, and die—
But thee shall lovers worship evermore
What gods soe'er usurp the changeful sky,
Or flit forsaken to the changeless shore.

XXI

‘Now sleep and dream not, sleep the long day through,
And the brief watches of the summer night;
And then go forth amid the flowers and dew,
Where the red rose of dawn outburns the white.
There shalt thou learn my mercy and my might
Between the drowsy lily and the rose;
There shalt thou spell the meaning of delight,
And know such gladness as a goddess knows!’

XXII

Then Sleep came floating from the Lemnian isle,
And over Helen crush'd his poppy crown,
Her soft lids waver'd for a little while,
Then on her carven bed she laid her down,
And Sleep, the comforter of king and clown,
Kind Sleep the sweetest, near akin to Death,
Held her as close as Death doth men that drown,
So close that none might hear her inward breath—

XXIII

So close no man might tell she was not dead!
And then the goddess took her zone—where lies
All her enchantment, love and lustihead,
And the glad converse that beguiles the wise,
And grace the very gods may not despise,
And sweet desire that doth the whole world move—
And therewith touch'd she Helen's sleeping eyes
And made her lovely as the queen of love.

XXIV

Then round her throat she clasp'd an amulet
A ruby graven with a wondrous spell,
That in a coil of burning gold was set,
And thence the blood-red drops for ever fell,
And strangely vanish'd; (thus old stories tell)
Nor mark'd her white breast with their over-flow—
A symbol of men's blood, that still must well,
Where Helen pass'd, nor stain her feet of snow.

XXV

Then laughter-loving Aphrodite went
To far Idalia, over land and sea,
And scarce the fragrant cedar-branches bent
Beneath her footsteps, faring daintily;
And in Idalia the Graces three
Anointed her with oil ambrosial—
So to her house in Sidon wended she
To mock the prayers of lovers when they call.

XXVI

And all day long the incense and the smoke
Lifted, and fell, and soft and slowly roll'd;
And many a hymn and musical awoke
Between the pillars of her house of gold,
And rose-crown'd girls, and fair boys linen-stoled,
Did sacrifice her fragrant courts within,
And in dark chapels wrought rites manifold
The loving favour of the queen to win.

XXVII

But Menelaus, waking suddenly,
Beheld the dawn was white, the day was near,
And rose, and kiss'd fair Helen; no good-bye
He spake, and never mark'd a fallen tear—
Men know not when they part for many a year—
He grasp'd a bronze-shod lance in either hand,
And merrily went forth to drive the deer,
With Paris, through the dewy morning land.

XXIII

So up the steep sides of Taygetus
They fared, and to the windy hollows came;
While from the streams of deep Oceanus
The sun arose, and on the fields did flame;
And through wet glades the huntsmen drave the game,
And with them Paris sway'd an ashen spear,
Heavy, and long, and shod with bronze to tame
The mountain-dwelling goats and forest deer.

XXIX

Now in a copse a mighty boar there lay,
For through the boughs the wet winds never blew,
Nor lit the bright sun on it with his ray,
Nor rain might pierce the woven branches through;
But leaves had fallen deep the lair to strew:
Then questing of the hounds and men's foot-fall
Aroused the boar, and forth he sprang to view,
With eyes that burn'd, at bay, before them all.

XXX

Then Paris was the first to rush on him,
With spear aloft in his strong hand to smite,
And through the monster pierced the point; and dim
The flame fell in his eyes, and all his might
With his last cry went forth; forgetting fight,
Forgetting strength, he fell, and gladly then
They gather'd round, and dealt with him aright,
Then left his body with the serving men.

XXXI

Now birds were long awake, that with their cry
Were wont to waken Helen; and the dew
Where fell the sun upon the lawn was dry,
And all the summer land was glad anew;
And maidens' footsteps rang the palace through,
And with their footsteps chimed their happy song.
And one to other cried, ‘A marvel new
That soft-wing'd sleep hath held the queen so long!’

XXXII

Then Phylo brought the child Hermione,
And close unto her mother's side she crept,
And o'er her god-like beauty tumbled she,
Chiding her sweetly that so late she slept,
And babbling still a merry coil she kept;
But like a woman stiff beneath her shroud
Lay Helen; till the young child fear'd and wept,
And ran, and to her nurses cried aloud.

XXXIII

Then came the women quickly, and in dread
Gather'd round Helen, but might naught avail
To wake her; moveless as a maiden dead
That Artemis hath slain, yet nowise pale,
She lay; but Æthra did begin the wail,
And all the women with sad voice replied,
Who deem'd her pass'd unto the poplar vale
Wherein doth dread Persephone abide.

XXXIV

Ah! slowly went the miserable day
In the rich house that late was full of pride;
Till the sun fell, and all the paths were gray,
And Menelaus from the mountain-side
Came, and through palace doors all open wide
Rang the wild dirge that told him of the thing
That Helen, that the queen had strangely died.
Then on his threshold fell he grovelling,

XXXV

And cast the dust upon his yellow hair,
And, but that Paris leap'd and held his hand,
His hunter's knife would he have clutch'd, and there
Had slain himself, to follow to that land
Where flit the ghosts of men, a shadowy band
That have no more delight, no more desire,
When once the flesh hath burn'd down like a brand,
Drench'd by the dark wine on the funeral pyre:

XXXVI

So on the ashen threshold lay the king,
And all within the house was chill and drear,
The women watchers gather'd in a ring
About the bed of Helen and her bier;
And much had they to tell, and much to hear,
Of happy queens and fair, untimely dead—
Such joy they took amid their evil cheer—
While the low thunder muttered overhead.