EIGHTH STAVE

High over Troy the windy citadel,

Pergamos, towereth, where is the cell

And precinct of Athené. There, till reived,

They kept the Pallium, sacred and still grieved

By all who held the city consecrate

To Her, as first it was, till she learned hate

For what had once been lovely, and let in

The golden Aphrodité, and sweet sin

To ensnare Prince Paris and send him awooing

A too-fair wife, to be his own undoing

And Troy's and all the line's of Dardanos,

That traced from Zeus to him, from him to Tros,

From Tros to Ilos, to Laomedon,

Who begat Priam as his second son.

But out of Troy Assarakos too came,

From whom came Kapys; and from him the fame

Of good Anchises, with whom Kypris lay

In love and got Aineias. He, that day

Of dreadful wrath, safe only out did come,

And builded great Troy's line in greater Rome.

Now to the forecourt flock the Trojan folk

To view the portent. Now they bring to yoke

Priam's white horses, that the stricken king

Himself may see the wonder-working thing,

Himself invoke with his frail trembling voice

The good Twin Brethren for his aid and Troy's.

So presently before it Priam stands,

Father and King of Troy, with feeble hands

And mild pale eyes wherein Grief like a ghost

Sits; and about him all he has not lost

Of all his children gather, with grief-worn

Andromaché and her first, and last, born,

The boy Astyanax. And there apart

The wise Aineias stands, of steadfast heart

But not acceptable — for some old grudge

Inherited — Aineias, silent judge

Of folly, as he had been since the sin

Of Paris knelled the last days to begin.

But he himself, that Paris, came not out,

But kept his house in these his days of doubt,

Uncertain of his footing, being of those

On whom the faintest breath of censure blows

Chill as the wind that from the frozen North

Palsies the fount o’ the blood. He dared not forth

Lest men should see — and how not see? he thought —

That Helen held him lightlier than she ought.

But Helen came there, gentle as of old,

Self-held, sufficient to herself, not bold,

Not modest nor immodest, taking none

For judge or jury of what she may have done;

But doing all she was to do, sedate,

Intent upon it and deliberate.

As she had been at first, so was she now

When she had put behind her her old vow

And had no pride but thinking of her new.

But she was lovelier, of more burning hue,

And in her eyes there shone, for who could see,

A flickering light, half scare and half of glee,

Which made those iris'd orbs to wax and wane

Like to the light of April days, when rain

And sun contend the sovereignty. She kept

Beside the King, and only closer crept

To let him feel her there when some harsh word

Or look made her heart waver. Many she heard,

And much she saw, but knew the King her friend,

Him only since great Hector met his end.

And while so pensive and demure she stood,

With one thin hand just peeping at her hood,

The which close-folded her from head to knee,

Her heart within her bosom hailed her — “Free!

Free from thy thralldom, free to save, to give,

To love, be loved again, and die to live!”

So she — yet who had said, to see her there,

The sweet-faced woman, blue-eyed, still and fair

As windless dawn in some quiet mountain place,

To such a music let her passion race?

Now hath the King his witless welcome paid,

And now invoked the gods, and the cold shade

Which once was Hector; now, being upheld

By two his sons, with shaking hands of eld

The knees of those two carved and gilded youths

He touches while he prays, and praying soothes

The crying heart of Helen. But not so

Kassandra views him pray, that well of woe

Kassandra, she whom Loxias deceived

With gift to see, and not to be believed;

To read within the heart of Time all truth

And see men blindly blunder, to have ruth,

To burn, to cry, “Out, haro!” and be a mock —

Ah, and to know within this gross wood-block

The fate of all her kindred, and her own,

Unthinkable! Now with her terror blown

Upon her face, to blanch it like a sheet,

Now with bare frozen eyes which only greet

The viewless neighbours of our world she strips

The veil and shrieketh Troy's apocalypse:

“Woe to thee, Ilios! The fire, the fire! And rain,

Rain like to blood and tears to drown the plain

And cover all the earth up in a shroud,

One great death-clout for thee, Ilios the proud!

Touch not, handle not ——” Outraged then she turned

To Helen — “O thou, for whom Troy shall be burned,

O ruinous face, O breasts made hard with gall,

Now are ye satisfied? Ye shall have all,

All Priam's sons and daughters, all his race

Gone quick to death, hailing thee, ruinous face!”

Her tragic mask she turned upon all men:

“The lion shall have Troy, to make his den

Within her pleasant courts, in Priam's high seat

Shall blink the vulture, sated of his meat;

And in the temples emptied of their Gods

Bats shall make quick the night, and panting toads

Make day a loathing to the light it brings.

Listen! Listen! they flock out; heed their wings.

The Gods flee forth of this accursèd haunt,

And leave the memory of it an old chant,

A nursery song, an idle tale that's told

To children when your own sons are grown old

In Argive bonds, and have no other joy

Than whispering to their offspring tales of Troy.”

Whereat she laught — O bitter sound to hear!

And struggled with herself, and grinned with fear

And misery lest even now her fate

Should catch her and she be believed too late.

“Is't possible, O Gods! Are ye so doomed

As not to know this Horse a mare, enwombed

Of men and swords? Know ye not there unseen

The Argive princes wait their dam shall yean?

Anon creeps Sparta forth, to find his balm

In that vile woman; forth with itching palm

Mykenai creeps, snuffing what may be won

By filching; forth Pyrrhos the braggart's son

That dared do violence to Hector dead,

But while he lived called Gods to serve his stead;

Forth Aias like a beast, to mangle me —

These things ye will not credit, but I see.”

Then once again, and last, she turned her switch

On Helen, hissing, “Out upon thee, witch,

Smooth-handed traitress, speak thy secrets out

That we may know thee, how thou goest about

Caressing, with a hand that hides a knife,

That which shall prove false paramour, false wife,

Fair as the sun is fair that smiles and slays” —

And then, “O ruinous face, O ruinous face!”

But nothing more, for sudden all was gone,

Spent by her passion. Muttering, faint and wan

Down to the earth she sank, and to and fro

Rocking, drew close her hood, and shrouded so,

Her wild voice drowning, died in moans away.

But Helen stood bright-eyed as glancing day,

Near by the Horse, and with a straying hand

Did stroke it here and there, and listening stand,

Leaning her head towards its gilded flank,

And strain to hear men's breath behind the plank;

And she had whispered if she dared some word

Of promise; but afraid to be o'erheard,

Leaned her head close and toucht it with her cheek,

Then drew again to Priam, schooled and meek.

But Menelaus felt her touch, and mum

Sat on, nursing his mighty throw to come;

And Aias started, with some cry uncouth

And vile, but fast Odysseus o'er his mouth

Clapt hand, and checkt his foul perseverance

To seek in every deed his own essence.

Now when the ways were darkened, and the sun

Sank red to sea, and homeward all had gone

Save that distraught Kassandra, who still served

The temple whence the Goddess long had swerved,

Athené, hating Troy and loving them

Who craved to snatch and make a diadem

Of Priam's regal crown for other brows —

She, though foredoomed she knew, held to her vows,

And duly paid the thankless evening rite —

There came to Paris’ house late in the night

Deïphobus his brother, young and trim,

For speech with fair-tressed Helen, for whose slim

And budded grace long had he sighed in vain;

And found her in full hall, and showed his pain

And need of her. To whom when she draws close

In hot and urgent crying words he shows

His case, hers now, that here she tarry not

Lest evil hap more dread than she can wot:

“For this,” he says, “is Troy's extremest hour.”

But when to that she bowed her head, the power

Of his high vision made him vehement:

“Dark sets the sun,” he cried, “and day is spent”;

But she said, “Nay, the sun will rise with day,

And I shall bathe in light, lift hands and pray.”

“Thou lift up hands, bound down to a new lord!”

He mocked; then whispered, “Lady, with a sword

I cut thy bonds if so thou wilt.”

Apart

She moved: “No sword, but a cry of the heart

Shall loose me.”

Then he said, “Hear what I cry

From my heart unto thine: fly, Helen, fly!”

Whereat she shook her head and sighed, “Even so,

Brother, I fly where thou canst never go.

Far go I, out of ken of thee and thy peers.”

He knew not what she would, but said, “Thy fears

Are of the Gods and holy dooms and Fate,

But mine the present menace in the gate.

This I would save thee.”

“I fear it not,” said she,

“But wait it here.”

He cried, “Here shalt thou see

Thy Spartan, and his bitter sword-point feel

Against thy bosom.”

“I bare it to the steel,”

Saith she. He then, “If ever man deserved thee

By service, I am he, who'd die to serve thee.”

Glowing she heard him, being quickly moved

By kindness, loving ever where she was loved.

But now her heart was fain for rest; the night

Called her to sleep and dreams. So with a light

And gentle hand upon him, “Brother, farewell,”

She said, “I stay the issue, and foretell

Honour therein at least.”

Then at the door

She kissed him. And she saw his face no more.