Then while the happy people cried “Well done,”
And Priam’s heart was melted by the tale—
For Paris was his best-belovèd son—
Came a wild woman, with wet eyes, and pale
Sad face, men look’d on when she cast her veil,
Not gladly; and none mark’d the thing she said,
Yet must they hear her long and boding wail
That follow’d still, however fleet they fled.
XXXVII.
She was the priestess of Apollo’s fane,
Cassandra, and the God of prophecy
Spurr’d her to speak and rent her! but in vain
She toss’d her wasted arms against the sky,
And brake her golden circlet angrily,
And shriek’d that they had brought within the gate
Helen, a serpent at their hearts to lie!
Helen, a hell of people, king, and state!
XXXVIII.
But ere the God had left her; ere she fell
And foam’d among her maidens on the ground,
The air was ringing with a merry swell
Of flute, and pipe, and every sweetest sound,
In Aphrodite’s fane, and all around
Were roses toss’d beneath the glimmering green
Of that high roof, and Helen there was crown’d
The Goddess of the Trojans, and their Queen.
BOOK IV—THE DEATH OF CORYTHUS
How Helen was made an outcast by the Trojan women, and how Œnone, the old love of Paris, sent her son Corythus to him as her messenger, and how Paris slew him unwittingly; and of the curses of Œnone, and the coming of the Argive host against Troy.
I.
For long in Troia was there peace and mirth,
The pleasant hours still passing one by one;
And Helen joy’d at each fresh morning’s birth,
And almost wept at setting of the sun,
For sorrow that the happy day was done;
Nor dream’d of years when she should hate the light,
And mourn afresh for every day begun,
Nor fare abroad save shamefully by night.
II.