Helen of Troy

BOOK II–THE SPELL OF APHRODITE

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.

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 grey, and grey to red, And gold­en throned 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 hour, 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 Helle 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 As 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 does 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 car­ried 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 fair 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 to the ir­re­me­able 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. Then 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 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.

XXV.

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.

XXVI.

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.

XXVII.

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.

XXVI­II.

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.

XXIX.

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.

XXX.

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!”

XXXI.

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.

XXXII.

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 Aethra 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.

XXXI­II.

Ah! slow­ly pass’d the mis­er­able day In the rich house that late was full of pride; Then the sun fell, and all the paths were grey, 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,

XXXIV.

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:

XXXV.

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.