Helen of Troy

BOOK V–THE WAR

The war round Troy, and how many brave men fell, and chiefly Sarpe­don, Pa­tro­clus, Hec­tor, Mem­non, and Achilles. The com­ing of the Ama­zon, and the wound­ing of Paris, and his death, and con­cern­ing the good end that OEnone made.

I.

For ten long years the Ar­give lea­guer lay Round Pri­am’s folk, and wrought them many woes, While, as a li­on crouch’d above his prey, The Tro­jans yet made head against their foes; And as the swift sea-​wa­ter ebbs and flows Be­tween the Straits of Helle and the main, Even so the tide of bat­tle sank and rose, And fill’d with waifs of war the Il­ian plain.

II.

And horse on horse was driv­en, as wave on wave; Like rain up­on the deep the ar­rows fell, And like the wind, the war-​cry of the brave Rang out above the bat­tle’s ebb and swell, And long the tale of slain, and sad to tell; Yet seem’d the end scarce near­er than of yore When nine years pass’d and still the citadel Frown’d on the Ar­give huts be­side the shore.

III.

And still the watch­ers on the city’s crown Afar from sa­cred Il­ios might spy The flame from many a fall­en sub­ject town Flare on the star­ry verges of the sky, And still from rich Maeo­nia came the cry Of cities sack’d where’er Achilles led. Yet none the more men deem’d the end was nigh While knight­ly Hec­tor fought un­van­quished.

IV.

But ev­er as each dawn bore grief afar, And fur­ther back, wax’d Paris glad and gay, And on the fringes of the cloud of war His ar­rows, like the light­ning, still would play; Yet fled he Menelaus on a day, And there had died, but Aphrodite’s pow­er Him in a gold­en cloud did safe con­vey With­in the walls of He­len’s fra­grant bow­er.

V.

But she, in long­ing for her lord and home, And scorn of her wild lover, did with­draw From all men’s eyes: but in the night would roam Till drowsy watch­men of the city saw A shad­owy shape that chill’d the night with awe, Tread­ing the bat­tle­ments; and like a ghost, She stretch’d her love­ly arms with­out a flaw, In shame and long­ing, to the Ar­give host.

VI.

But all day long with­in her bow­er she wept, Still dream­ing of the dames renown’d of old, Whom hate or love of the Im­mor­tals swept With­in the toils of Ate man­ifold; And most she loved the an­cient tales that told How the great Gods, at length to pity stirr’d, Changed Niobe up­on the moun­tains cold, To a cold stone; and Proc­ne to a bird,

VII.

And Myrrha to an in­cense-​breath­ing tree; - “And ah,” she mur­mur’d, “that the Gods were kind, And bade the Harpies lay their hands on me, And bear me with the cur­rents of the wind To the dim end of all things, and the blind Land where the Ocean tur­neth in his bed: Then should I leave mine evil days be­hind, And Sleep should fold his wings above my head.”

VI­II.

And once she heard a Tro­jan wom­an bless The fair-​haired Menelaus, her good lord, As brave among brave men, not mer­ci­less, Not swift to slay the cap­tives of his sword, Nor wont was he to win the gold ab­horr’d Of them that sell their cap­tives over sea, And He­len sighed, and bless’d her for that word, “Yet will he ne’er be mer­ci­ful to me!”

IX.

In no wise found she com­fort; to abide In Il­ios was to dwell with shame and fear, And if un­to the Ar­give host she hied, Then should she die by him that was most dear. And still the days dragg’d on with bit­ter cheer, Till even the great Gods had lit­tle joy, So fast their chil­dren fell be­neath the spear, Be­low the windy bat­tle­ments of Troy.

X.

Yet many a prince of south lands, or of east, For dark Cas­san­dra’s love came troop­ing in, And Pri­am made them mer­ry at the feast, And all night long they dream’d of wars to win, And with the morn­ing hurl’d in­to the din, And cried their la­dy’s name for bat­tle-​cry, And won no more than this: for Paris’ sin, By Diomede’s or Aias’ hand to die.

XI.

But for one hour with­in the night of woes The hope of Troy burn’d stead­fast as a star; When strife among the Ar­give lords arose, And dread Achilles held him from the war; Yea, and Apol­lo from his gold­en car And sil­ver bow his shafts of evil sped, And all the plain was dark­en’d, near and far, With smoke above the pyres of heroes dead.

XII.

And many a time through vapour of that smoke The shafts of Troy fell fast; and on the plain All night the Tro­jan watch fires burn’d and broke Like evil stars athwart a mist of rain. And through the arms and blood, and through the slain, Like wolves among the frag­ments of the fight, Crept spies to slay whoe’er for­gat his pain One hour, and fell on slum­ber in the night.

XI­II.

And once, when wound­ed chiefs their tents did keep, And on­ly Aias might his weapons wield, Came Hec­tor with his host, and smit­ing deep, Brake bow and spear, brake axe and glaive and shield, Bul­wark and bat­tle­ment must rend and yield, And by the ships he smote the foe and cast Fire on the ships; and o’er the strick­en field, The Tro­jans saw that flame arise at last!

XIV.

But when Achilles saw the soar­ing flame, And knew the ships in per­il, sud­den­ly A change up­on his wrath­ful spir­it came, Nor will’d he that the Danaans should die: But call’d his Myr­mi­dons, and with a cry They fol­low’d where, like foam on a sea-​wave Pa­tro­clus’ crest was danc­ing, white and high, Above the tide that back the Tro­jans drave.

XV.

But like a rock amid the shift­ing sands, And chang­ing springs, and tu­mult of the deep, Sarpe­don stood, till ‘neath Pa­tro­clus’ hands, Smit­ten he fell; then Death and gen­tle Sleep Bare him from forth the bat­tle to the steep Where shines his cas­tle o’er the Ly­cian dell; There hath he buri­al due, while all folk weep Around the kind­ly Prince that loved them well.

XVI.

Not un­avenged he fell, nor all alone To Hades did his soul in­dig­nant fly, For soon was keen Pa­tro­clus over­thrown By Hec­tor, and the God of archery; And Hec­tor stripp’d his shin­ing panoply, Bright arms Achilles lent: ah! naked then, For­get­ful whol­ly of his chival­ry, Pa­tro­clus lay, nor heard the strife of men.

XVII.

Then Hec­tor from the war a lit­tle space With­drew, and clad him in Achilles’ gear, And braced the gleam­ing hel­met on his face, And donn’d the corslet, and that mighty spear He grasped–the lance that makes the bold­est fear; And home his com­rades bare his arms of gold, Those Pri­am once had worn, his fa­ther dear, But in his fa­ther’s arms he waxed not old!

XVI­II.

Then round Pa­tro­clus’ body, like a tide That storms the swollen out­let of a stream When the winds blow, and the rains fall, and wide The riv­er runs, and white the break­ers gleam, - Tro­jans and Ar­gives bat­tled till the beam Of He­lios was sink­ing to the wave, And now they near’d the ships: yet few could deem That arms of Ar­gos might the body save.

XIX.

But even then the tid­ings sore were borne To great Achilles, of Pa­tro­clus dead, And all his good­ly rai­ment hath he torn, And cast the dust up­on his gold­en head, And many a tear and bit­ter did he shed. Ay; there by his own sword had he been slain, But swift his God­dess-​moth­er, Thetis, sped Forth with her love­ly sea-​nymphs from the main.

XX.

For, as a moth­er when her young child calls Hear­kens to that, and hath no oth­er care: So Thetis, from her green and wind­less halls Rose, at the first word of Achilles’ prayer, To com­fort him, and promise gifts of fair New ar­mour wrought by an im­mor­tal hand; Then like a sil­ver cloud she scaled the air, Where bright the dwellings of Olym­pus stand.

XXI.

But, as a bea­con from a ‘lea­guer’d town With­in a sea-​girt isle, leaps sud­den­ly, A cloud by day; but when the sun goes down, The tongues of fire flash out, and soar on high, To sum­mon war­like men that dwell there­by And bid them bring a res­cue over-​seas, - So now Athene sent a flame to fly From brow and tem­ples of Aeacides.

XXII.

Then all un­arm’d he sped, and through the throng, He pass’d to the dyke’s edge, be­yond the wall, Nor leap’d the ranks of fight­ing men among, But shout­ed clear­er than the clar­ion’s call When foes on a be­lea­guer’d city fall. Three times he cried, and ter­ror fell on these That heard him; and the Tro­jans, one and all, Fled from that shout­ing of Aeacides.

XXI­II.

Back­ward the Tro­jans reel’d in head­long flight, Char­iots and men, and left their bravest slain; And the sun fell; hut Troy through all the night Watch’d by her fires up­on the Il­ian plain, For Hec­tor did the sa­cred walls dis­dain Of Il­ios; nor knew that he should stand Ere night re­turn’d, and buri­al crave in vain, Un­arm’d, for­sak­en, at Achilles’ hand.

XXIV.

But all that night with­in his cham­ber high Hep­haes­tus made his iron anvils ring; And, ere the dawn, had wrought a panoply, The goodli­est ev­er worn by mor­tal king. This to the Ar­give camp did Thetis bring, And when her child had proved it, like the star That her­alds day, he went forth sum­mon­ing The host Achaean to de­light of war.

XXV.

And as a moun­tain tor­rent leaves its bed, And sea­ward sweeps the toils of men in spate, Or as a for­est-​fire, that over­head Burns in the boughs, a thing in­sa­tiate, So raged the fierce Achilles in his hate; And Xan­thus, an­gry for his Tro­jans slain, Brake forth, while fire and wind made des­olate What war and wave had spared up­on the plain.

XXVI.

Now through the fume and vapour of the smoke Be­tween the wind’s voice and the wa­ter’s cry, The bat­tle shout­ing of the Tro­jans broke, And reached the Il­ian walls con­fus­ed­ly, But over soon the folk that watch’d might spy Thin bro­ken bands that fled, avoid­ing death, Yet many a man be­neath the spear must die, Ere by the sa­cred gate­way they drew breath.

XXVII.

And as when fire doth on a for­est fall And hot winds bear it rag­ing in its flight, And beechen boughs, and pines are ru­in’d all, So raged Achilles’ anger in that fight; And many an emp­ty car, with none to smite The mad­den’d hors­es, o’er the bridge of war Was wild­ly whirled, and many a maid’s de­light That day to the red wolves was dear­er far.

* * * * *

XXVI­II.

Some Muse that loved not Troy hath done thee wrong, Homer! who whis­per’d thee that Hec­tor fled Thrice round the sa­cred walls he kept so long; Nay, when he saw his peo­ple van­quished Alone he stood for Troy; alone he sped One mo­ment, to the strug­gle of the spear, And, by the Gods de­sert­ed, fell and bled, A war­rior stain­less of re­proach and fear.

XXIX.

Then all the peo­ple from the bat­tle­ment Be­held what dread­ful things Achilles wrought, For on the body his re­venge he spent, The anger of the high Gods heed­ing nought, To whom was Hec­tor dear­est, while he fought, Of all the Tro­jan men that were their joy, But now no more their favour might be bought By savour of his hecatombs in Troy.

XXX.

So for twelve days re­joiced the Ar­give host, And now Pa­tro­clus hath to Hades won, But Hec­tor naked lay, and still his ghost Must wail where wa­ters of Co­cy­tus run; Till Pri­am did what no man born hath done, Who dared to pass among the Ar­give bands, And clasp’d the knees of him that slew his son, And kiss’d his aw­ful homi­ci­dal hands.

XXXI.

At such a price was Hec­tor’s body sent To Il­ios, where the wom­en wail’d him shrill; And He­len’s sor­row brake in­to lament As bursts a lake the bar­ri­ers of a hill, For lost, lost, lost was that one friend who still Stood by her with kind speech and gen­tle heart, The sword of war, pure faith, and stead­fast will, That strove to keep all evil things apart.

* * * * *

XXXII.

And so men buried Hec­tor. But they came, The Ama­zons, from frozen fields afar. A match for heroes in the dread­ful game Of spears, the dar­lings of the God of War, Whose com­ing was to Pri­am dear­er far Than light to him that is a long while blind, When leech’s hand hath taen away the bar That vex’d him, or the heal­ing God is kind;

XXXI­II.

And Troy was glad, and with the morn­ing light The Ama­zons went forth to slay and slay; And won­drous­ly they drave the foe in flight, Un­til the Sun had wan­der’d half his way; But when he stoop’d to twi­light and the grey Hour when men loose the steer be­neath the yoke, No more Achilles held him from the fray, But dread­ful through the wom­en’s ranks he broke.

XXXIV.

Then comes eclipse up­on the cres­cent shield, And death on them that bear it, and they fall One here, one there, about the strick­en field, As in that art, of Love memo­ri­al, Which moul­ders on the holy Car­ian wall. Ay, still we see, still love, still pity there The war­rior-​maids, so brave, so god-​like tall, In Time’s de­spite im­per­ish­ably fair.

XXXV.

But, as a dove that braves a fal­con, stood Penthe­silea, wrath out­cast­ing fear, Or as a hind, that in the dark­ling wood With­stands a li­on for her younglings dear; So stood the girl be­fore Achilles’ spear; In vain, for singing from his hand it sped, And crash’d through shield and breast­plate till the sheer Cold bronze drank blood, and down the queen fell dead.

XXXVI.

Then from her locks the helm Achilles tore And boast­ed o’er the slain; but lo, the face Of her thus ly­ing in the dust and gore Seem’d love­li­er than is the maid­en grace Of Artemis, when weary from the chase, She sleep­eth in a haunt­ed dell un­known. And all the Ar­gives mar­vell’d for a space, But most Achilles made a heavy moan:

XXXVII.

And in his heart there came the weary thought Of all that was, and all that might have been, Of all the sor­row that his sword had wrought, Of Death that now drew near him: of the green Vales of Laris­sa, where, with such a queen, With such a love as now his spear had slain, He had been hap­py, who must wind the skein Of grievous wars, and ne’er be glad again.

XXXVI­II.

Yea, now wax’d Fate half weary of her game, And had no care but aye to kill and kill, And many young kings to the bat­tle came, And of that joy they quick­ly had their fill, And last came Mem­non: and the Tro­jans still Took heart, like wea­ried mariners that see (Long toss’d on un­known waves at the winds’ will) Through clouds the gleam­ing crest of He­like.

XXXIX.

For Mem­non was the child of the bright Dawn, A God­dess wed­ded to a mor­tal king, Who dwells for ev­er on the shores with­drawn That bor­der on the land of sun-​ris­ing; And he was nur­tured nigh the sa­cred spring That is the hid­den foun­tain of all seas, By them that in the Gods’ own gar­den sing, The lily-​maid­ens call’d Hes­perides.

XL.

But him the child of Thetis in the fight Met on a windy win­ter day, when high The dust was whirled, and wrapp’d them like the night That fal­leth on the moun­tains stealthi­ly When the floods come, and down their cours­es dry The tor­rents roar, and light­ning flasheth far: So rang, so shone their har­ness ter­ri­bly Be­neath the blind­ing thun­der-​cloud of war.

XLI.

Then the Dawn shud­der’d on her gold­en throne, And called un­to the West Wind, and he blew And brake the cloud asun­der; and alone Achilles stood, but Mem­non, smit­ten through, Lay beau­ti­ful amid the dread­ful dew Of bat­tle, and a death­less heart was fain Of tears, to Gods im­pos­si­ble, that drew From mor­tal hearts a lit­tle of their pain.

XLII..

But now, their lead­er slain, the Tro­jans fled, And fierce Achilles drove them in his hate, Aveng­ing still his dear Pa­tro­clus dead, Nor knew the hour with his own doom was great, Nor trem­bled, stand­ing in the Scaean gate, Where an­cient prophe­cy fore­told his fall; Then sud­den­ly there sped the bolt of Fate, And smote Achilles by the Il­ian wall:

XLI­II.

From Paris’ bow it sped, and even there, Even as he grasp’d the skirts of vic­to­ry, Achilles fell, nor any man might dare From forth the Tro­jan gate­way to draw nigh; But, as the wood­men watch a li­on die, Pierced with the hunter’s ar­row, nor come near Till Death hath veil’d his eye­lids ut­ter­ly, Even so the Tro­jans held aloof in fear.

XLIV.

But there his fel­lows on his won­drous shield Laid the fair body of Achilles slain, And sad­ly bare him through the tram­pled field, And lo! the death­less maid­ens of the main Rose up, with Thetis, from the windy plain, And round the dead man beau­ti­ful they cried, Lament­ing, and with melan­choly strain The sweet-​voiced Mus­es mourn­ful­ly replied.

XLV.

Yea, Mus­es and Sea-​maid­ens sang his dirge, And might­ily the chant arose and shrill, And won­drous echoes an­swer’d from the surge Of the grey sea, and from the holy hill Of Ida; and the heavy clouds and chill Were gath­er­ing like mourn­ers, sad and slow, And Zeus did thun­der might­ily, and fill The dells and glades of Ida deep with snow.

XLVI.

Now Paris was not sat­ed with the fame And rich re­ward Troy gave his archery; But o’er the wine he boast­ed that the game That very night he deem’d to win, or die; “For scarce their watch the tem­pest will de­fy,” He said, “and all un­dream’d of might we go, And fall up­on the Ar­gives where they lie, Un­seen, un­heard, amid the silent snow.”

XLVII.

So, flush’d with wine, and clad in rai­ment white Above their mail, the young men fol­low’d him, Their guide a fad­ing camp-​fire in the night, And the sea’s moan­ing in the dis­tance dim. And still with ed­dy­ing snow the air did swim, And dark­ly did they wend they knew not where, White in that cursed night: an army grim, ‘Wilder’d with wine, and blind with whirling air.

XLVI­II.

There was an out­cast in the Ar­give host, One Philoctetes; whom Odysseus’ wile, (For, save he help’d, the Lea­guer all was lost,) Drew from his lair with­in the Lem­ni­an isle. But him the peo­ple, as a lep­er vile, Hat­ed, and drave to a lone hut afar, For wound­ed sore was he, and many a while His cries would wake the host fore­done with war.

XLIX.

Now Philoctetes was an archer wight; But in his quiver had he lit­tle store Of ar­rows tipp’d with bronze, and feath­er’d bright; Nay, his were blue with mould, and fret­ted o’er With many a spell Melam­pus wrought of yore, Singing above his task a song of bane; And they were ven­om’d with the Cen­taur’s gore, And tipp’d with bones of men a long while slain.

L.

This wretch for very pain might sel­dom sleep, And that night slept not: in the moan­ing blast He deem’d the dead about his hut did creep, And silent­ly he rose, and round him cast His rai­ment foul, and from the door he pass’d, And peer’d in­to the night, and sooth­ly heard A whis­per’d voice; then gripp’d his ar­rows fast And strung his bow, and cried a bit­ter word:

LI.

“Art thou a gib­ber­ing ghost with war out­worn, And thy faint life in Hades not be­gun? Art thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn, And yet dost live, and look up­on the sun? If man,–me­thinks thy pleas­ant days are done, And thou shalt writhe in tor­ment worse than mine; If ghost,–new pain in Hades hast thou won, And there with dou­ble woe shalt sure­ly pine.”

LII.

He spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft At ven­ture through the mid­night and the snow, A lit­tle while he lis­ten’d, then he laugh’d With­in him­self, a dread­ful laugh and low; For over well the an­swer did he know That mid­night gave his mes­sage, the sharp cry And ar­mour rat­tling on a fall­en foe That now was learn­ing what it is to die.

LI­II.

Then Philoctetes crawl’d in­to his den And hugg’d him­self against the bit­ter cold, While round their lead­er came the Tro­jan men And bound his wound, and bare him o’er the wold, Back to the lights of Il­ios; but the gold Of Dawn was break­ing on the moun­tains white, Or ere they won with­in the guard­ed fold, Long ‘wilder’d in the tem­pest and the night.

LIV.

And through the gate, and through the silent street, And hous­es where men dream’d of war no more, The bear­ers wan­der’d with their weary feet, And Paris to his high-​roof’d house they bore. But vain­ly leech­es on his wound did pore, And vain was Ar­give He­len’s mag­ic song, Ah, vain her heal­ing hands, and all her lore, To help the life that wrought her end­less wrong.

LV.

Slow pass’d the fever’d hours, un­til the grey Cold light was pal­ing, and a sullen glow Of livid yel­low crown’d the dy­ing day, And brood­ed on the wastes of mourn­ful snow. Then Paris whis­per’d faint­ly, “I must go And face that wild wood-​maid­en of the hill; For none but she can win from over­throw Troy’s life, and mine that guards it, if she will.”

LVI.

So through the dumb white mead­ows, deep with snow, They bore him on a pal­let shroud­ed white, And sore they dread­ed lest an am­bush’d foe Should hear him moan, or mark the mov­ing light That waved be­fore their foot­steps in the night; And much they joy’d when Ida’s knees were won, And ‘neath the pines up­on an up­land height, They watch’d the star that her­aldeth the sun.

LVII.

For un­der wo­ven branch­es of the pine, The soft dry nee­dles like a car­pet spread, And high above the arch­ing boughs did shine In frosty fret of sil­ver, that the red New dawn fired in­to gold-​work over­head: With­in that vale where Paris oft had been With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled To be the sin­ful lover of a Queen.

LVI­II.

Not here they found OEnone: “Nay, not here,” Said Paris, faint and low, “shall she be found; Nay, bear me up the moun­tain, where the drear Winds walk for ev­er on a haunt­ed ground. Me­thinks I hear her sigh­ing in their sound; Or some God calls me there, a dy­ing man. Per­chance my lat­est jour­ney­ing is bound Back where the sor­row of my life be­gan.”

LIX.

They reach’d the gate­way of that high­est glen And halt­ed, wond’ring what the end should be; But Paris whis­per’d He­len, while his men Fell back: “Here judged I Gods, here shalt thou see What judg­ment mine old love will pass on me. But hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know, Whether the Gods at length will set thee free From that old net they wove so long ago.”

LX.

Ah, there with wide snows round her like a pall, OEnone crouch’d in sable robes; as still As Win­ter brood­ing o’er the Sum­mer’s fall, Or Niobe up­on her haunt­ed hill, A wom­an changed to stone by grief, where chill The rain-​drops fall like tears, and the wind sighs: And Paris deem’d he saw a dead­ly will Un­moved in wild OEnone’s frozen eyes.

LXI.

“Nay, prayer to her were vain as prayer to Fate,” He mur­mur’d, al­most glad that it was so, Like some sick man that need no longer wait, But his pain lulls as Death draws near his woe. And Paris beck­on’d to his men, and slow They bore him dy­ing from that fa­tal place, And did not turn again, and did not know The soft re­pen­tance on OEnone’s face.

LXII.

But Paris spake to He­len: “Long ago, Dear, we were glad, who nev­er more shall be To­geth­er, where the west winds fainter blow Round that Elysian is­land of the sea, Where Zeus from evil days shall set thee free. Nay, kiss me once, it is a weary while, Ten weary years since thou hast smiled on me, But, He­len, say good-​bye, with thine old smile!”

LXI­II.

And as the dy­ing sun­set through the rain Will flush with rosy glow a moun­tain height, Even so, at his last smile, a blush again Pass’d over He­len’s face, so changed and white; And through her tears she smiled, his last de­light, The last of pleas­ant life he knew, for grey The veil of dark­ness gath­er’d, and the night Closed o’er his head, and Paris pass’d away.

LX­IV.

Then for one hour in He­len’s heart re-​born, Awoke the fa­tal love that was of old, Ere she knew all, and the cold cheeks out­worn, She kiss’d, she kiss’d the hair of wast­ed gold, The hands that ne’er her body should en­fold; Then slow she fol­low’d where the bear­ers led, Fol­low’d dead Paris through the frozen wold Back to the town where all men wish’d her dead.

LXV.

Per­chance it was a sin, I know not, this! Howe’er it be, she had a wom­an’s heart, And not with­out a tear, with­out a kiss, With­out some strange new birth of the old smart, From her old love of the brief days could part For ev­er; though the dead meet, ne’er shall they Meet, and be glad by Aphrodite’s art, Whose souls have wan­der’d each its sev­er­al way.

* * * * * *

LXVI.

And now was come the day when on a pyre Men laid fair Paris, in a broi­der’d pall, And fra­grant spices cast in­to the fire, And round the flame slew many an Ar­give thrall. When, like a ghost, there came among them all, A wom­an, once be­held by them of yore, When first through storm and driv­ing rain the tall Black ships of Ar­gos dash’d up­on the shore.

LXVII.

Not now in wrath OEnone came; but fair Like a young bride when nigh her bliss she knows, And in the soft night of her fall­en hair Shone flow­ers like stars, more white than Ida’s snows, And scarce men dared to look on her, of those The pyre that guard­ed; sud­den­ly she came, And sprang up­on the pyre, and shrill arose Her song of death, like in­cense through the flame.

LXVI­II.

And still the song, and still the flame went up, But when the flame wax’d fierce, the singing died; And soon with red wine from a gold­en cup Priests drench’d the pyre; but no man might di­vide The ash­es of the Bride­groom from the Bride. Nay, they were wed­ded, and at rest again, As in those old days on the moun­tain-​side, Be­fore the promise of their youth was vain.