XXXIII.
Ah! slowly pass’d the miserable day
In the rich house that late was full of pride;
Then the sun fell, and all the paths were grey,
And Menelaus from the mountain-side
Came, and through palace doors all open wide
Rang the wild dirge that told him of the thing
That Helen, that the Queen had strangely died.
Then on his threshold fell he grovelling,
XXXIV.
And cast the dust upon his yellow hair,
And, but that Paris leap’d and held his hand,
His hunter’s knife would he have clutch’d, and there
Had slain himself, to follow to that land
Where flit the ghosts of men, a shadowy band
That have no more delight, no more desire,
When once the flesh hath burn’d down like a brand,
Drench’d by the dark wine on the funeral pyre:
XXXV.
So on the ashen threshold lay the king,
And all within the house was chill and drear;
The women watchers gather’d in a ring
About the bed of Helen and her bier;
And much had they to tell, and much to hear,
Of happy queens and fair, untimely dead,—
Such joy they took amid their evil cheer,—
While the low thunder muttered overhead.
BOOK III—THE FLIGHT OF HELEN
The flight of Helen and Paris from Lacedaemon, and of what things befell them in their voyaging, and how they came to Troy.
I.
The grey Dawn’s daughter, rosy Morn awoke
In old Tithonus’ arms, and suddenly
Let harness her swift steeds beneath the yoke,
And drave her shining chariot through the sky.
Then men might see the flocks of Thunder fly,
All gold and rose, the azure pastures through,
What time the lark was carolling on high
Above the gardens drench’d with rainy dew.