SIXTH STAVE

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.”