Helen of Troy

BOOK IV–THE DEATH OF CORYTHUS

How He­len was made an out­cast by the Tro­jan wom­en, and how OEnone, the old love of Paris, sent her son Cory­thus to him as her mes­sen­ger, and how Paris slew him un­wit­ting­ly; and of the curs­es of OEnone, and the com­ing of the Ar­give host against Troy.

I.

For long in Troia was there peace and mirth, The pleas­ant hours still pass­ing one by one; And He­len joy’d at each fresh morn­ing’s birth, And al­most wept at set­ting of the sun, For sor­row that the hap­py day was done; Nor dream’d of years when she should hate the light, And mourn afresh for ev­ery day be­gun, Nor fare abroad save shame­ful­ly by night.

II.

And Paris was not one to back­ward cast A fear­ful glance; nor pluck sour fruits of sin, Half ripe; but seized all plea­sures while they last, Nor bod­ed evil ere ill days be­gin. Nay, nor lament­ed much when caught there­in, In each ad­ven­ture al­ways find­ing joy, And hope­ful still through waves of war to win By strength of Hec­tor, and the star of Troy.

III.

Now as the storms drive white sea-​birds afar With­in green up­land glens to seek for rest, So ru­mours pale of an ap­proach­ing war Were blown across the is­lands from the west: For Agamem­non sum­mon’d all the best From towns and tribes he ruled, and gave com­mand That free men all should gath­er at his hest Through coasts and islets of the Ar­give land.

IV.

Sido­nian mer­chant-​men had seen the fleet Black war-​gal­leys that sped from town to town; Had heard the ham­mers of the bronze-​smiths beat The long day through, and when the sun went down; And thin, said they, would show the leafy crown On many a sa­cred moun­tain-​peak in spring, For men had fell’d the pine-​trees tall and brown To fash­ion them curved ships for sea­far­ing.

V.

And still the ru­mour grew; for her­alds came, Old men from Ar­gos, bear­ing holy boughs, De­mand­ing great atone­ment for the shame And sore de­spite done Menelaus’ house; But home­ward soon they turn’d their scar­let prows, And all their weary voy­ag­ing was vain; For Troy had bound her­self with aw­ful vows To cleave to He­len till the walls were ta’en.

VI.

And now, like swal­lows ere the win­ter weath­er, The wom­en in shrill groups were gath­er­ing, With ea­ger tongues still com­muning to­geth­er, And many a taunt at He­len would they fling, Ay, through her in­no­cence she felt the sting, And shamed was now her gen­tle face and sweet, For e’en the chil­dren evil songs would sing To mock her as she hast­ed down the street.

VII.

Al­so the men who wor­shipp’d her of old As she had been a god­dess from above, Gazed at her now with lust­ful eyes and bold, As she were naught but Paris’ light-​o’-love; And though in truth they still were proud enough, Of that fair gem in their old city set, Yet well she knew that wan­ton word and scoff Went round the camp-​fire when the war­riors met.

VI­II.

There came a cer­tain hol­iday when Troy Was wont to send her no­ble ma­trons all, Young wives and old, with clam­our and with joy, To clothe Athene in her tem­ple hall, And robe her in a state­ly broi­der’d pall. But now they drove fair He­len from their train, “Bet­ter,” they scream’d, “to cast her from the wall, Than mock the Gods with of­fer­ings in vain.”

IX.

One joy she had, that Paris yet was true, Ay, fick­le Paris, true un­to the end; And in the court of Il­ios were two Kind hearts, still ea­ger He­len to de­fend, And help and com­fort in all need to lend:- The gen­tle Hec­tor with soft speech and mild, And the old king that ev­er was her friend, And loved her as a fa­ther doth his child.

X.

These, though they knew not all, these blamed her not, But cast the heavy bur­den on the God, Whose wrath, they deem’d, had ver­ily waxed hot Against the painful race on earth that trod, And in God’s hand was He­len but the rod To scourge a peo­ple that, in un­known wise, Had vex’d the far Olympian abode With se­cret sin or stint­ed sac­ri­fice.

* * * * * *

XI.

The days grew in­to months, and months to years, And still the Ar­give army did de­lay, Till folk in Troia half for­got their fears, And al­most as of old were glad and gay; And men and maids on Ida dared to stray, But He­len dwelt with­in her in­most room, And there from dawn­ing to de­clin­ing day, Wrought at the pa­tient mar­vels of her loom.

XII.

Yet even there in peace she might not be: There was a nymph, OEnone, in the hills, The daugh­ter of a Riv­er-​God was she, Of Ce­bren,–that the moun­tain si­lence fills With mur­mur’d mu­sic, for the count­less rills Of Ida meet him, danc­ing to the plain, - Her Paris wooed, yet ig­no­rant of ills, Among the shep­herd’s huts, nor wooed in vain.

XI­II.

Nay, Sum­mer of­ten found them by the fold In these glad days, ere Paris was a king, And oft the Au­tumn, in his car of gold, Had pass’d them, mer­ry at the vin­tag­ing: And scarce they felt the breath of the white wing Of Win­ter, in the cave where they would lie On beds of heather by the fire, till Spring Should crown them with her buds in pass­ing by.

XIV.

For el­bow-​deep their flow­ery bed was strown With fra­grant leaves and with crush’d as­pho­del, And sweet­ly still the shep­herd-​pipe made moan, And many a tale of Love they had to tell, - How Daph­nis loved the strange, shy maid­en well, And how she loved him not, and how he died, And oak-​trees moan’d his dirge, and blos­soms fell Like tears from lin­dens by the wa­ter-​side!

XV.

But cold­er, fleeter than the Win­ter’s wing, Time pass’d; and Paris changed, and now no more OEnone heard him on the moun­tain sing, Not now she met him in the for­est hoar. Nay, but she knew that on an alien shore An alien love he sought; yet was she strong To live, who deem’d that even as of yore In days to come might Paris love her long.

XVI.

For dark OEnone from her Fa­ther drew A pow­er be­yond all price; the gift to deal With wound­ed men, though now the dread­ful dew Of Death anoint them, and the se­cret seal Of Fate be set on them; these might she heal; And thus OEnone trust­ed still to save Her lover at the point of death, and steal His life from He­len, and the amorous grave.

XVII.

And she had borne, though Paris knew it not, A child, fair Cory­thus, to be her shame, And still she mused, whenas her heart was hot, “He hath no child by that Achaean dame:” But when her boy un­to his man­hood came, Then sor­er yet OEnone did re­pine, And bade him “fare to Il­ios, and claim Thy fa­ther’s love, and all that should be thine!”

XVI­II.

There­with a gold­en bod­kin from her hair She drew, and from a green-​tress’d birchen tree She pluck’d a strip of smooth white bark and fair, And many signs and wo­ful graved she, A mes­sage of the evil things to be. Then deft­ly closed the birch-​bark, fold on fold, And bound the to­kens well and cun­ning­ly, Three times and four times, with a thread of gold.

XIX.

“Give these to Ar­give He­len’s hand,” she cried: And so em­braced her child, and with no fear Be­held him leap­ing down the moun­tain-​side, Like a king’s son that goes to hunt the deer, Clad soft­ly, and in ei­ther hand a spear, With two swift-​foot­ed hounds that fol­low’d him, So leap’d he down the grassy slopes and sheer, And won the precinct of the for­est dim.

XX.

He trod that an­cient path his sire had trod, Far, far be­low he saw the sea, the town; He moved as light as an im­mor­tal god, For man­sions in Olym­pus glid­ing down. He left the shad­ow of the for­est brown, And through the shal­low wa­ters did he cross, And stood, ere twi­light fell, with­in the crown Of tow­ers, the sa­cred keep of Il­ios.

XXI.

Now folk that mark’d him hast­ing deem’d that he Had come to tell the host was on its way, As one that from the hills had seen the sea Be­cloud­ed with the Danaan ar­ray, So straight to Paris’ house with no de­lay They led him, and did ea­ger­ly await With­in the fore­court, in the twi­light grey, To hear some cer­tain mes­sage of their fate.

XXII.

Now Paris was asleep up­on his bed Tired with a list­less day; but all along The palace cham­bers Cory­thus was led, And still he heard a mu­sic, shrill and strong, That seem’d to clam­our of an old-​world wrong, And hearts a long time bro­ken; last they came To He­len’s bow­er, the foun­tain of the song That cried so loud against an an­cient shame.

XXI­II.

And He­len fared be­fore a mighty loom, And sang, and cast her shut­tle wrought of gold, And forth un­to the ut­most se­cret room The wave of her wild melody was roll’d; And still she fash­ion’d mar­vels man­ifold, Strange shapes of fish and ser­pent, bear and swan, The loves of the im­mor­tal Gods of old, Where­from the peo­ples of the world be­gan.

XXIV.

Now He­len met the stranger gra­cious­ly With gen­tle speech, and bade set forth a chair Well wrought of cedar wood and ivory That wise Ic­mal­ius had fash­ion’d fair. But when young Cory­thus had drunk the rare Wine of the princes, and had bro­ken bread, Then He­len took the word, and bade de­clare His in­stant tid­ings; and he spake and said,

XXV.

“La­dy and Queen, I have a se­cret word, And bear a to­ken sent to none but thee, Al­so I bring mes­sage to my Lord That spo­ken to an­oth­er may not be.” Then He­len gave a sign un­to her three Bow­er-​maid­ens, and they went forth from that place, Silent they went; and all fore­bod­ing­ly, They left the man and wom­an face to face.

XXVI.

Then from his breast the birchen scroll he took And gave to He­len; and she read there­in: “Oh thou that on those hid­den runes dost look, Hast thou for­got­ten quite thine an­cient sin, Thy Lord, thy lofty palace, and thy kin, Even as thy Love for­gets the words he spoke The strong oath bro­ken one weak heart to win, The lips that kiss’d him, and the heart that broke?

XXVII.

“Nay, but me­thinks thou shalt not quite for­get The curse where­with I curse thee till I die; The tears that on the wood-​nymph’s cheeks are wet, Shall burn thy hate­ful beau­ty death­less­ly, Nor shall God raise up seed to thee; but I Have borne thy love this mes­sen­ger: my son, Who yet shall make him glad, for Time goes by And soon shall thine en­chant­ments all be done:

XXVI­II.

“Ay, soon ‘twixt me and Death must be his choice, And lit­tle in that hour will Paris care For thy sweet lips, and for thy singing voice, Thine arms of ivory, thy gold­en hair. Nay, me will he em­brace, and will not spare, But bid the folk that hate thee have their joy, And give thee to the moun­tain beasts to tear, Or burn thy body on a tow­er of Troy.”

XXIX.

Even as she read, by Aphrodite’s will The cloud roll’d back from He­len’s mem­ory: She saw the city of the rift­ed hill, Fair Lacedae­mon, ‘neath her moun­tain high; She knew the swift Eu­ro­tas run­ning by To mix his sa­cred wa­ters with the sea, And from the gar­den close she heard the cry Of her beloved child, Hermione.

XXX.

Then in­stant­ly the hor­ror of her shame Fell on her, and she saw the com­ing years; Famine, and fire, and plague, and all men’s blame, The wounds of war­riors and the wom­en’s fears; And through her heart her sor­row smote like spears, And in her soul she knew the ut­most smart Of wives left lone­ly, sires be­reaved, the tears Of maid­ens des­olate, of loves that part.

XXXI.

She drain’d the dregs out of the cup of hate; The bit­ter­ness of sor­row, shame, and scorn; Where’er the tongues of mor­tals curse their fate, She saw her­self an out­cast and for­lorn; And hat­ing sore the day that she was born, Down in the dust she cast her gold­en head, There with rent rai­ment and fair tress­es torn, At feet of Cory­thus she lay for dead.

XXXII.

But Cory­thus, be­hold­ing her sweet face, And her most love­ly body ly­ing low, Had pity on her grief and on her grace, Nor heed­ed now she was his moth­er’s foe, But did what might be done to ease her woe, While, as he thought, with death for life she strove, And loosed the neck­let round her neck of snow, As who that saw had deem’d, with hands of love.

XXXI­II.

And there was one that saw: for Paris woke Half-​deem­ing and half-​dream­ing that the van Of the great Ar­give host had scared the folk, And down the echo­ing cor­ri­dor he ran To He­len’s bow­er, and there be­held the man That kneel’d be­side his la­dy ly­ing there: No word he spake, but drove his sword a span Through Cory­thus’ fair neck and clus­ter’d hair.

XXXIV.

Then fell fair Cory­thus, as falls the tow­er An earth­quake shaketh from a city’s crown, Or as a tall white fra­grant lily-​flow­er A child hath in the gar­den tram­pled down, Or as a pine-​tree in the for­est brown, Fell’d by the sea-​rovers on moun­tain lands, When they to har­ry for­eign folk are boune, Tak­ing their own lives in their reck­less hands.

XXXV.

But still in Paris did his anger burn, And still his sword was lift­ed up to slay, When, like a lot leap’d forth of Fate’s own urn, He mark’d the graven to­kens where they lay, ‘Mid He­len’s hair in gold­en dis­ar­ray, And look­ing on them, knew what he had done, Knew what dire thing had fall­en on that day, Knew how a fa­ther’s hand had slain a son.

XXXVI.

Then Paris on his face fell grov­el­ling, And the night gath­er’d, and the si­lence grew With­in the dark­ened cham­ber of the king. But He­len rose, and a sad breath she drew, And her new woes came back to her anew: Ah, where is he but knows the bit­ter pain To wake from dreams, and find his sor­row true, And his ill life re­turned to him again!

XXXVII.

She need­ed none to tell her whence it fell, The thick red rain up­on the mar­ble floor: She knew that in her bow­er she might not dwell, Alone with her own heart for ev­er more; No sac­ri­fice, no spell, no priest­ly lore Could ban­ish quite the melan­choly ghost Of Cory­thus; a her­ald sent be­fore Them that should die for her, a dread­ful host.

XXXVI­II.

But slow­ly Paris raised him from the earth, And read her face, and knew that she knew all, No more her eyes, in ten­der­ness or mirth, Should an­swer his, in bow­er or in hall. Nay, Love had fall­en when his child did fall, The stream Love can­not cross ran ‘twixt them red; No more was He­len his, whate’er be­fall, Not though the God­dess drove her to his bed.

XXXIX.

This word he spake, “the Fates are hard on us” - Then bade the wom­en do what must be done To the fair body of dead Cory­thus. And then he hurl’d in­to the night alone, Wail­ing un­to the spir­it of his son, That some­where in dark mist and sigh­ing wind Must dwell, nor yet to Hades had it won, Nor quite had left the world of men be­hind.

XL.

But wild OEnone by the moun­tain-​path Saw not her son re­turn­ing to the wold, And now was she in fear, and now in wrath She cried, “He hath for­got the moun­tain fold, And goes in Il­ios with a crown of gold:” But even then she heard men’s ax­es smite Against the beech­es slim and ash-​trees old, These an­cient trees where­in she did de­light.

XLI.

Then she arose and silent­ly as Sleep, Un­seen she fol­low’d the slow-​rolling wain, Be­neath an ashen sky that ‘gan to weep, Too heavy laden with the lat­ter rain; And all the folk of Troy up­on the plain She found, all gath­er’d round a fu­ner­al pyre, And there­on lay her son, her dar­ling slain, The good­ly Cory­thus, her heart’s de­sire!

XLII.

Among the spices and fair robes he lay, His arm be­neath his head, as though he slept. For so the God­dess wrought that no de­cay, No loath­ly thing about his body crept; And all the peo­ple look’d on him and wept, And, weep­ing, Paris lit the pine-​wood dry, And lo, a rainy wind arose and swept The flame and fra­grance far in­to the sky.

XLI­II.

But when the force of flame was burn­ing low, Then did they drench the pyre with rud­dy wine, And the white bones of Cory­thus be­stow With­in a gold cruse, wrought with many a sign, And wrapp’d the cruse about with linen fine And bare it to the tomb: when, lo, the wild OEnone sprang, with burn­ing eyes di­vine, And shriek’d un­to the slay­er of her child:

XLIV.

“Oh Thou, that like a God art sire and slay­er, That like a God, dost give and take away! Me­thinks that even now I hear the prayer Thou shalt be­seech me with, some lat­er day; When all the world to thy dim eyes grow grey, And thou shalt crave thy heal­ing at my hand, Then glad­ly will I mock, and say thee nay, And watch thine hours run down like run­ning sand!

XLV.

“Yea, thou shalt die, and leave thy love be­hind, And lit­tle shall she love thy mem­ory! But, oh ye fool­ish peo­ple, deaf and blind, What Death is com­ing on you from the sea?” Then all men turned, and lo, up­on the lee Of Tene­dos, be­neath the driv­ing rain, The count­less Ar­give ships were rac­ing free, The wind and oars­men speed­ing them amain.

XLVI.

Then from the bar­row and the buri­al, Back like a burst­ing tor­rent all men fled Back to the city and the sa­cred wall. But Paris stood, and lift­ed not his head. Alone he stood, and brood­ed o’er the dead, As broods a li­on, when a shaft hath flown, And through the strong heart of his mate hath sped, Then will he face the hunters all alone.

XLVII.

But soon the voice of men on the sea-​sand Came round him; and he turned, and gazed, and lo! The Ar­give ships were dash­ing on the strand: Then stealthi­ly did Paris bend his bow, And on the string he laid a shaft of woe, And drew it to the point, and aim’d it well. Singing it sped, and through a shield did go, And from his bar­que Prote­si­laus fell.

XLVI­II.

Half glad­dened by the omen, through the plain Went Paris to the walls and mighty gate, And lit­tle heed­ed he that ar­rowy rain The Ar­give bow­men show­er’d in help­less hate. Nay; not yet feath­er’d was the shaft of Fate, His bane, the gift of mighty Her­acles To Philoctetes, ly­ing des­olate, With­in a far off is­land of the seas.