Helen of Troy

BOOK III–THE FLIGHT OF HELEN

The flight of He­len and Paris from Lacedae­mon, and of what things be­fell them in their voy­ag­ing, and how they came to Troy.

I.

The grey Dawn’s daugh­ter, rosy Morn awoke In old Tithonus’ arms, and sud­den­ly Let har­ness her swift steeds be­neath the yoke, And drave her shin­ing char­iot through the sky. Then men might see the flocks of Thun­der fly, All gold and rose, the azure pas­tures through, What time the lark was car­olling on high Above the gar­dens drench’d with rainy dew.

II.

But Aphrodite sent a slum­ber deep On all in the King’s palace, young and old, And one by one the wom­en fell asleep, - Their lamentable tales left half un­told, - Be­fore the dawn, when folk wax weak and cold, But He­len wak­en’d with the shin­ing morn, For­get­ting quite her sor­rows man­ifold, And light of heart as was the day new-​born.

III.

She had no mem­ory of un­hap­py things, She knew not of the evil days to come, For­got­ten were her an­cient wan­der­ings, And as Lethaean wa­ters whol­ly numb The sense of spir­its in Ely­si­um, That no re­mem­brance may their bliss al­loy, Even so the ru­mour of her days was dumb, And all her heart was ready for new joy.

IV.

The young day knows not of an el­der dawn, Joys of old noons, old sor­rows of the night, And so from He­len was the past with­drawn, Her lord, her child, her home for­got­ten quite, Lost in the mar­vel of a new de­light: She was as one who knows he shall not die, When earth­ly colours melt in­to the bright Pure splen­dour of his im­mor­tal­ity.

V.

Then He­len rose, and all her body fair She bath’d in the spring wa­ter, pure and cold, And with her hand bound up her shin­ing hair And clothed her in the rai­ment that of old Athene wrought with mar­vels man­ifold, A bridal gift from an im­mor­tal hand, And all the front was clasp’d with clasps of gold, And for the gir­dle was a gold­en band.

VI.

Next from her up­per cham­ber silent­ly Went He­len, mov­ing like a morn­ing dream. She did not know the gold­en roof, the high Walls, and the shields that on the pil­lars gleam, On­ly she heard the mur­mur of the stream That wa­ters all the gar­den’s wide ex­panse, This song, and cry of singing birds, did seem To guide her feet as mu­sic guides the dance.

VII.

The mu­sic drew her on to the glad air From forth the cham­ber of en­chant­ed death, And lo! the world was wak­ing ev­ery­where; The wind went by, a cool de­li­cious breath, Like that which in the gar­dens wan­dereth, The gold­en gar­dens of the Hes­perides, And in its song un­heard of things it saith, The myr­iad mar­vels of the fairy seas.

VI­II.

So through the court­yard to the gar­den close Went He­len, where she heard the mur­mur­ing Of wa­ter ‘twixt the lily and the rose; For there­by doth a dou­ble foun­tain spring. To one stream do the wom­en pitch­ers bring By Menelaus’ gates, at close of day; The oth­er through the close doth shine and sing, Then to the swift Eu­ro­tas fleets away.

IX.

And He­len sat her down up­on the grass, And pluck’d the lit­tle daisies white and red, And toss’d them where the run­ning wa­ters pass, To watch them rac­ing from the foun­tain-​head, And whirl’d about where lit­tle streams dis­pread; And still with mer­ry birds the gar­den rang, And, MAR­RY, MAR­RY, in their song they said, Or so do maids in­ter­pret that they sang.

X.

Then stoop’d she down, and watch’d the crys­tal stream, And fish­es pois­ing where the wa­ters ran, And lo! up­on the glass a gold­en gleam, And pur­ple as of robes Sido­nian, Then, sud­den turn­ing, she be­held a man, That knelt be­side her; as her own face fair Was his, and o’er his shoul­ders for a span Fell the bright tress­es of his yel­low hair.

XI.

Then ei­ther look’d on oth­er with amaze As each had seen a God; for no long while They mar­vell’d, but as in the first of days, The first of men and maids did meet and smile, And Aphrodite did their hearts be­guile, So hands met hands, lips lips, with no word said Were they en­chant­ed ‘neath that leafy aisle, And silent­ly were woo’d, be­troth’d, and wed.

XII.

Ah, slow­ly did their si­lence wake to words That scarce had more of mean­ing than the song Pour’d forth of the in­nu­mer­able birds That fill the palace gar­dens all day long; So in­no­cent, so ig­no­rant of wrong, Was she, so hap­py each in oth­er’s eyes, Thus wrought the mighty God­dess that is strong, Even to make naught the wis­dom of the wise.

XI­II.

Now in the midst of that en­chant­ed place Right glad­ly had they linger’d all day through, And fed their love up­on each oth­er’s face, But Aphrodite had a coun­sel new, And silent­ly to Paris’ side she drew, In guise of Aethra, whis­per­ing that the day Pass’d on, while his ship wait­ed, and his crew Im­pa­tient, in the nar­row Gythi­an bay.

XIV.

For thith­er had she brought them by her skill; But He­len saw her not,–nay, who can see A God­dess come or go against her will? Then Paris whis­per’d, “Come, ah, Love, with me! Come to a shore be­yond the bar­ren sea; There doth the bridal crown await thy head, And there shall all the land be glad of thee!” Then, like a child, she fol­low’d where he led.

XV.

For, like a child’s her gen­tle heart was glad. So through the court­yard pass’d they to the gate; And even there, as Aphrodite bade, The steeds of Paris and the char­iots wait; Then to the well-​wrought car he led her straight, And grasped the shin­ing whip and gold­en rein, And swift they drave un­til the day was late By clear Eu­ro­tas through the fruit­ful plain.

XVI.

But now with­in the halls the mag­ic sleep Was bro­ken, and men sought them ev­ery­where; Yet Aphrodite cast a cloud so deep About their char­iot none might see them there. And strange­ly did they hear the trum­pets blare, And noise of rac­ing wheels; yet saw they nought: Then died the sounds up­on the dis­tant air, And safe they won the haven that they sought.

XVII.

Be­neath a grassy cliff, be­neath the down, Where swift Eu­ro­tas min­gles with the sea, There climb’d the grey walls of a lit­tle town, The sleepy wa­ters wash’d it lan­guid­ly, For tem­pests in that haven might not be. The isle across the in­let guard­ed all, And the shrill winds that roam the ocean free Broke and were bro­ken on the rocky wall.

XVI­II.

Then Paris did a point of hunt­ing blow, Nor yet the sound had died up­on the hill When round the isle they spied a scar­let prow, And oars that flash’d in­to that haven still, The oars­men bend­ing for­ward with a will, And swift their black ship to the haven-​side They brought, and steer’d her in with good­ly skill, And bare on board the strange Achaean bride.

XIX.

Now while the swift ship through the wa­ters clave, All hap­py things that in the wa­ters dwell, Arose and gam­boll’d on the glassy wave, And Nereus led them with his sound­ing shell: Yea, the sea-​nymphs, their dances weav­ing well, In the green wa­ter gave them greet­ing free. Ah, long light linger’d, late the dark­ness fell, That night, up­on the isle of Cranae!

XX.

And Hy­men shook his fra­grant torch on high, Till all its waves of smoke and tongues of flame, Like clouds of rosy gold ful­fill’d the sky; And all the Nerei­ds from the wa­ters came, Each maid­en with a mu­si­cal sweet name; Doris, and Doto, and Am­phithoe; And their shrill bridal song of love and shame Made mu­sic in the si­lence of the sea.

XXI.

For this was like that night of sum­mer weath­er, When mor­tal men and maid­ens with­out fear, And for­est-​nymphs, and for­est-​gods to­geth­er, Do wor­ship Pan in the long twi­light clear. And Artemis this one night spares the deer, And ev­ery cave and dell, and ev­ery grove Is glad with singing soft and hap­py cheer, With laugh­ter, and with dal­liance, and with love.

* * * * *

XXII.

Now when the gold­en-​throned Dawn arose To wak­en gods and mor­tals out of sleep, Queen Aphrodite sent the wind that blows From fairy gar­dens of the West­ern deep. The sails are spread, the oars of Paris leap Past many a head­land, many a haunt­ed fane: And, mer­ri­ly all from isle to isle they sweep O’er the wet ways across the bar­ren plain.

XXI­II.

By many an is­land fort, and many a haven They sped, and many a crowd­ed ar­se­nal: They saw the loves of Gods and men en­graven On friezes of As­tarte’s tem­ple wall. They heard that an­cient shep­herd Pro­teus call His flock from forth the green and tum­bling lea, And saw white Thetis with her maid­ens all Sweep up to high Olym­pus from the sea.

XXIV.

They saw the vain and weary toil of men, The ships that win the rich man all he craves; They pass’d the red-​prow’d barks Egyp­tian, And heard afar the moan­ing of the slaves Pent in the dark hot hold be­neath the waves; And scathe­less the Sar­da­ni­an fleets among They sail’d; by men that sow the sea with graves, Bear­ing black fate to folk of alien tongue.

XXV.

Then all day long a rolling cloud of smoke Would hang on the sea-​lim­its, faint and far, But through the night the bea­con-​flame up­broke From some rich is­land-​town be­girt with war; And all these things could nei­ther make nor mar The joy of lovers wan­der­ing, but they Sped hap­pi­ly, and heed­less of the star That hung o’er their glad haven, far away.

XXVI.

The fish­er-​sen­tinel up­on the height Watch’d them with va­cant eyes, and lit­tle knew They bore the fate of Troy; to him the bright Plashed wa­ters, with the sil­ver shin­ing through When tun­ny shoals came cruis­ing in the blue, Was more than Love that doth the world un­make; And list­less gazed he as the gulls that flew And shriek’d and chat­ter’d in the ves­sel’s wake.

XXVII.

So the wind drave them, and the wa­ters bare Across the great green plain un­har­vest­ed, Till through an af­ter-​glow they knew the fair Faint rose of snow on dis­tant Ida’s head. And swifter then the joy­ous oars­men sped; But night was end­ed, and the waves were fire Be­neath the fleet feet of a dawn­ing red Or ere they won the land of their de­sire.

XXVI­II.

Now when the folk about the haven knew The scar­let prow of Paris, swift they ran And the good ship with­in the haven drew, And mer­ri­ly their wel­com­ing be­gan. But none the face of He­len dared to scan; Their bold eyes fell be­fore they had their fill, For all men deem’d her that Idalian Who loved An­chis­es on the lone­ly hill.

XXIX.

But when her sweet smile and her gen­tle­ness And her kind speech had won them from dis­may, They changed their minds, and ‘gan the Gods to bless Who brought to Il­ios that hap­py day. And all the folk fair He­len must con­vey, Crown’d like a bride, and clad with flame-​hued pall, Through the rich plain, along the wa­ter-​way Right to the great gates of the Il­ian wall.

XXX.

And through the vines they pass’d, where old and young Had no more heed of the glad vin­tag­ing, But all un­pluck’d the pur­ple clus­ters hung, Nor more of Li­nus did the min­strel sing, For he and all the folk were fol­low­ing, Wine-​stain’d and gar­land­ed, in mer­ry bands, Like men when Diony­sus came as king, And led his rev­el from the sun-​burnt lands,

XXXI.

So from afar the mu­sic and the shout Roll’d up to Il­ios and the Scaean gate, And at the sound the city folk came out And bore sweet He­len–such a fairy weight As none might deem the bur­den of Troy’s fate - Across the thresh­old of the town, and all Flock’d with her, where King Pri­am sat in state, Girt by his el­ders, on the Il­ian wall.

XXXII.

No man but knew him by his crown of gold, And gold­en-​stud­ded scep­tre, and his throne; Ay, strong he seem’d as those great kings of old, Whose im­age is eter­nal on the stone Won from the dust that once was Baby­lon; But kind of mood was he with­al, and mild, And when his eyes on Ar­give He­len shone, He loved her as a fa­ther doth a child.

XXXI­II.

Round him were set his peers, as Pan­thous, An­tenor, and Agenor, hard­ly grey, Scarce touch’d as yet with age, nor gar­ru­lous As are ci­calas on a sun­ny day: Such might they be when years had slipp’d away, And made them over-​weak for war or joy, Con­tent to watch the Lea­guer as it lay Be­side the ships, be­neath the walls of Troy.

XXXIV.

Then Paris had an easy tale to tell, Which then might win up­on men’s wond’ring ears, Who deem’d that Gods with mor­tals deign to dwell, And that the wa­ter of the West en­spheres The hap­py Isles that know not Death nor tears; Yea, and though mon­sters do these is­lands guard, Yet men with­in their coasts had dwelt for years Un­count­ed, with a strange love for re­ward.

XXXV.

And there had Paris ven­tured: so said he, - Had known the Sirens’ song, and Circe’s wile; And in a cove of that Hes­pe­ri­an sea Had found a maid­en on a lone­ly isle; A sac­ri­fice, if so men might be­guile The wrath of some beast-​god they wor­shipp’d there, But Paris, ‘twixt the sea and strait de­file, Had slain the beast, and won the wom­an fair.

XXXVI.

Then while the hap­py peo­ple cried “Well done,” And Pri­am’s heart was melt­ed by the tale - For Paris was his best-​beloved son - Came a wild wom­an, with wet eyes, and pale Sad face, men look’d on when she cast her veil, Not glad­ly; and none mark’d the thing she said, Yet must they hear her long and bod­ing wail That fol­low’d still, how­ev­er fleet they fled.

XXXVII.

She was the priest­ess of Apol­lo’s fane, Cas­san­dra, and the God of prophe­cy Spurr’d her to speak and rent her! but in vain She toss’d her wast­ed arms against the sky, And brake her gold­en cir­clet an­gri­ly, And shriek’d that they had brought with­in the gate He­len, a ser­pent at their hearts to lie! He­len, a hell of peo­ple, king, and state!

XXXVI­II.

But ere the God had left her; ere she fell And foam’d among her maid­ens on the ground, The air was ring­ing with a mer­ry swell Of flute, and pipe, and ev­ery sweet­est sound, In Aphrodite’s fane, and all around Were ros­es toss’d be­neath the glim­mer­ing green Of that high roof, and He­len there was crown’d The God­dess of the Tro­jans, and their Queen.