Classic Poem

Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors
And windows open wide, wanders the floors
And all the passage ways about the house,
Keen marshal of the sun, or serious
The cool gray light of morning 'gins to peer
Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere
Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee
Nor full-flood glory of the day to be
When round about the hill the sun shall swim
And burn a sea-path--so demure and slim
Went Helen on her business with swift feet
And light, yet recollected, and her sweet
Secret held hid, that she was loved where need
Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed--
Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, passion white
Of lovers knit in Heré's holy light!
But while in early morn she wonned alone
And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone,
And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes:
Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies.
Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim
Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him
On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard
For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred
She paced the hall soft-footed up and down,
Lightly and feverishly with quick frown
Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird
That on the winter grass is aye deterred
His food-searching by hint of unknown snare
In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare;
Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide
Beat from her heart against her shielded side--
Now closely girdled went she like a maid--
And then slipt to the window, where she stayed
But minutes three or four; for soon she past
Out to the terrace, there to be at last
Downgazing on her glory, which her king
Reflected up in every motioning
And flux of his high passion. Only here
She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near
The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess
What deeds must do ere that could come to pass.
To her the instant homage held all joy--
And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy
Beside the bliss of that?
Or Paris, what
Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot
To have risked all the world and ten years loved
This woman, now to find her nothing moved
By what he had done with her, what desired
To do? And more she chilled the less he tired,
And more he ventured less she cared recall
What was to her of nothing worth, or all:
All if the King required it of her, nought
If he who now could take it. It was bought,
And his by bargain: let him have it then;
But let it be for giving once again,
And all the rubies in the world's deep heart
Could fetch no price beside it.
Yet apart
She brooded on the man who held her chained,
Minister to his pleasure, and disdained
Him more the more herself she must disparage,
Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage,
So old, incredible, so flat, so stale,
No more to be recalled than old wife's tale;
And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low,
Not villain and not hero, who would go
Midway 'twixt baseness and nobility,
And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea
Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more
Than all the world, and made his mind a whore
To minister his heart's need, for a price.
All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice
With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet,
Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret;
But lift on wings of her exalted mood,
She let him touch and finger what he would,
Unconscious of his being--as he saw,
And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw
Of his esteem, "Ah, cruel art thou turned,"
Would cry, "Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned,
Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!"
With which to clasp her closer was he fain,
To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see
Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be
The plucker of such chords of such a rote;
And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat,
Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done.
"Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun
My worship!" So he said; but she, "They fade,
But are not yet so old as thou hast made
The soul thou pinnest here beneath my breasts
Which you have loved too well." His hand he rests
Over one fair white bosom like a cup,
And leaning, of her lips his own must sup;
But she will not, but gently doth refuse it,
Without a reason, save she doth not choose it.
Then when he flung away, she sat alone
And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one
Perturbéd bosom; and her fingers wove
White webs as far afield her wits did rove
Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair,
So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there,
A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh.
But all the while she writhed within the mesh
Of circumstance, and fiercely flamed her rage:
"O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage
For this sleek master's handling!" So she fumed
What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed
Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow,
And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe
Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill
That knew, which said, "A true man loveth me still."

That same night, as she used, fair Helen went
Among the suppliants in the hall, and lent
To each who craved the bounty of her grace,
Her gentle touch on wounds, her pitiful face
To beaten eyes' dumb eloquence, that art
She above all could use, to stroke the heart
And plead compassion in bestowing it.
So with her handmaids busy did she flit
From man to man, 'mid outlaws, broken blades,
Robbed husbandmen, their robbers, phantoms, shades
Of what were men till hunger made them less
Than man can be and still know uprightness;
And whom she spake with kindly words and cheer
In him the light of hope began to peer
And glimmer in his eyes; and him she fed
And nourisht, then sent homeward comforted
A little, to endure a little more.
Now among these, hard by the outer door,
She marked a man unbent whose sturdy look
Never left hers for long, whose shepherd's hook
Seemed not a staff to prop him, whose bright eyes
Burned steadily, as fire when the wind dies.
Great in the girth was he, but not so tall
By a full hand as many whom the wall
Showed like gaunt channel-posts by an ebb tide
Left stranded in a world of ooze. Beside
His knees she kneeled, and to his wounded feet
Applied her balms; but he, from his low seat
Against the wall, leaned out and in her ear
Whispered, but so that no one else could hear,
"Other than my wounds are there for thy pains,
Lady, and deeper. One, a grievous, drains
The great heart of a king, and one is fresh,
Though ten years old, in the sweet innocent flesh
Of a young child."
Nothing said she, but stoopt
The closer to her task. He thought she droopt
Her head, he knew she trembled, that her shoulder
Twitcht as she wrought her task; so he grew bolder,
Saying, "But thou art pitiful! I know
That thou wilt wash their wounds."
She whispered "Oh,
Be sure of me!"
Then he, "Let us have speech
Secret together out of range or reach
Of prying ears, if such a chance may be."
Then she said, "Towards morning look for me
Here, when the city sleeps, before the sun."
So till the glimmer of dawn this hardy one
Keepeth the watch in Paris' house. All night
With hard unwinking eyes he sat upright,
While all about the sleepers lay, like stones
Littered upon a hill-top, save that moans,
Sighings and "Gods, have pity!" showed that they
By night rehearsed the miseries of day,
And by bread lived not but by hope deferred.
Grimly he suffered till such time he heard
Helen's light foot and faint and gray in the mist
Descried her slim veiled outline, saw her twist
And slip between the sleepers on the ground,
Atiptoe coming, swift, with scarce a sound,
Not faltering in fear. No fear she had.
From head to foot a sea-blue mantle clad
Her lovely shape, from which her pale keen face
Shone like the moon in frosty sky. No case
Was his to waver, for her eyes spake true
As Heaven upon the world. Him then she drew
To follow her, out of the house, to where
The ilex trees stood darkly, and the air
Struck sharp and chill before the dawn's first breath.
There stood a little altar underneath
An image: Artemis the quick deerslayer,
High-girdled and barekneed; to Whom in prayer
First bowed, then stood erect with lifted hands,
Palms upward, Helen. "Lady of open lands
And lakes and windy heights," prayed she, "so do
To me as to Amphion's wife when blew
The wind of thy high anger, and she stared
On sudden death that not one dear life spared
Of all she had--so do to me if false
I prove unto this Argive!"
Then the walls
And gates of Ilios she traced in the sand,
And told him of the watch-towers, and how manned
The gates at night; and where the treasure was,
And where the houses of the chiefs. But as
She faltered in the tale, "Show now," said he,
"Where Priam's golden palace is."
But she
Said, "Nay, not that; for since the day of shame
That brought me in, no word or look of blame
Hath he cast on me. Nay, when Hector died
And all the city turned on me and cried
My name, as to an outcast dog men fling
Howling and scorn, not one word said the King.
And when they hissed me in the shrines of the Gods,
And women egged their children on with nods
To foul the house-wall, or in passing spat
Towards it, he, the old King, came and sat
Daily with me, and often on my hair
Would lay a gentle hand. Him thou shalt spare
For my sake who betray him."
Odysseus said,
"Well, thou shalt speak no more of him. His bed
Is not of thy making, nor mine, but his
Who hath thee here a cageling, thy Paris.
Him he begat as well as Hector. Now
Let Priam look to reap what he did sow."
But when glad light brimmed o'er the cup of earth
And shrill birds called forth men to grief or mirth
As might afford their labour under the sun,
Helen advised how best to get him gone,
And fetched a roll of cord, the which made fast
About a stanchion, about him next she cast,
About and about until the whole was round
His body, and the end to his arm she bound:
Then showed him in the wall where best foothold
Might be, and watcht him down as fold by fold
He paid the cable out; and as he paid
So did she twist it, till the coil was made
As it had been at first. Then watcht she him
Stride o'er the plain until he twinkled dim
And sank into the mist.
That day came not
King Menelaus to the trysting spot;
But ere Odysseus left her she had ta'en
A crocus flower which on her breast had lain,
And toucht it with her lips. "Give this," said she,
"To my good lord who hath seen the flower in me."