Helen Redeemed and Other Poems

by Maurice Hewlett

NINTH STAVE

THE GODS FORSAKE TROY

Now Dawn came weeping forth, and on the crest
Of Ida faced a chill wind from the West.
Forth from the gray sea wrack-laden it blew
And howled among the towers, and stronger grew
As crept unseen the sun his path of light.
Then she who in the temple all that night
Had kept her rueful watch, the prophetess
Kassandra, peering sharply, heard the press
And rush of flight above her, and with sick
Foreboding waited; and the air grew thick
With flying shapes immortal overhead.
As in late Autumn, when the leaves are shed
And dismal flit about the empty ways,
And country folk provide against dark days,
And heap the woodstack, and their stores repair,
Attent you know the quickening of the air,
And closer yet the swish and sweep and swing
Of wings innumerable, emulous to bring
The birds to broader skies and kindlier sun,
And know indeed that winter is begun—
So seeing first, then hearing, she knew the hour
Was come when Troy must fall, and not a tower
Be left to front the morrow. And she covered
Her head and mourned, while one by one they hovered
Above their shrines, then flockt and faced the dawn.

First, in her car of shell and amber, drawn
By clustering doves with burnisht wings, a-throng,
Passes Queen Aphrodité, and her song
Is sweet and sharp: "I gave my sacred zone
To warm thy bosom, Helen which by none
That live by labour and in tears are born
And sighing go their ways, has e'er been worn.
It kindled in thine eyes the lovelight, showed
Thy burning self in his. Thy body glowed
With beauty like to mine: mine thy love-laughter
Thy cooing in the night, thy deep sleep after,
Thy rapture of the morning, love renewed;
And all the shadowed day to sit and brood
On what has been and what should be again:
Thou wilt not? Nay, I proffer not in vain
My gifts, for I am all or will be nought.
Lo, where I am can be no other thought."
Thus to the wooded heights of Ida she
Was drawn, hid in that pearly galaxy
Of snow-white pigeons.
Next upon the height
Of Pergamos uplift a beam of light
That for its core enshrined a naked youth,
Golden and fierce. She knew the God sans ruth,
Him who had given woeful prescience to her,
Apollo, once her lover and her wooer;
Who stood as one stands glorying in his grace
And strength, full in the sun, though on her place
Within the temple court no sun at all
Shone, nor as yet upon the topmost wall
Was any tinge of him, but all showed gray
And sodden in the wind and blown sea-spray.
Not to him dared she lift her voice in prayer,
Nor scarce her eyes to see him.
To him there
Came swift a spirit in shape of virgin slim,
With snooded hair and kirtle belted trim,
Short to the knee; and in her face the gale
Had blown bright sanguine colour. Free and hale
She was; and in her hand she held a bow
Unstrung, and o'er her shoulders there did go
A baldrick that made sharp the cleft betwixt
Her sudden breasts—to that a quiver fixt,
Showing gold arrow-points. No God there is
In Heaven more swift than Delian Artemis,
The young, the pure health-giver of the Earth,
Who loveth all things born, and brings to birth,
And after slays with merciful sudden death—
In whom is gladness all and wholesome breath,
And to whom all the praise of him who writes,
Ever.
These two she saw like meteorites
Flare down the wind and burn afar, then fade.
And Leto next, a mother grave and staid,
Drave out her chariot, which two winged stags drew,
Swift following, robed in gown of inky blue,
And hooded; and her hand which held the hood
Gleamed like a patch of snow left in a wood
Where hyacinths bring down to earth the sky.
And in her wake a winging company,
Dense as the cloud of gulls which from a rock
At sea lifts up in myriads, if the knock
Of oars assail their peace, she saw, and mourned
The household gods. For outward they too turned,
The spirits of the streams and water-brooks,
And nymphs who haunt the pastures, or in nooks
Of woodlands dwell. There like a lag of geese
Flew in long straying lines the Oreades
That in wild dunes and commons have their haunt;
There sped the Hamadryads; there aslant,
As from the sea, but wheeling ere they crost
Their sisters, thronged the river-nymphs, a host;
And now the Gods of homestead and the hearth,
Like sad-faced mourning women, left the garth
Where each had dwelt since Troy was stablishéd,
And been the holy influence over bed
And board and daily work under the sun
And nightlong slumber when day's work was done:
They rose, and like a driven mist of rain
Forsook the doomed high city and the plain,
And drifted eastaway; and as they went
Heaviness spread o'er Ilios like a tent,
And past not off, but brooded all day long.

But ever coursed new spirits to the throng
That packt the ways of Heaven. From the plain,
From mere and holt and hollow rose amain
The haunters of the silence; from the streams
And wells of water, from the country demes,
From plough and pasture, bottom, ridge and crest
The rustic Gods rose up and joined the rest.
Like a long wisp of cloud from out his banks
Streamed Xanthos, that swift river, to the ranks
Of flying shapes; and driven by that same mind
That urged him to it came Simoeis behind,
And other Gods and other, of stream and tree
And hill and vale—for nothing there can be
On earth or under Heaven, but hath in it
Essence whereby alone its form may hit
Our apprehension, channelled in the sense
Which feedeth us, that we through vision dense
See Gods as trees walking, or in the wind
That singeth in the bents guess what's behind
Its wailing music.
And now the unearthly flock,
Emptying every water, wood, bare rock
And pasture, beset Ida, and their wings
Beat o'er the forest which about her springs
And makes a sea of verdure, whence she lifts
Her soaring peaks to bathe them in the drifts
Of cloud, and rare reveal them unto men—
For Zeus there hath his dwelling, out of ken
Of men alike and gods. But now the brows,
The breasting summits, still eternal snows,
And all the faces of the mountain held
A concourse like in number to the field
Of Heaven upon some breathless summer night
Printed with myriad stars, some burning bright,
Some massed in galaxy, a cloudy scar,
And others faint, as infinitely far.
There rankt the Gods of Heaven, Earth, and Sea,
Brethren of them now hastening from the fee
Of stricken Priam. Out of his deep cloud
Zeus flamed his levin, and his thunder loud
Volleyed his welcome. With uplifted hands
Acclaiming, God's oncoming each God stands
To greet. And thus the Hierarchy at one
Sits to behold the bitter business done
Which Paris by his luxury bestirred.

But in the city, like a stricken bird
Grieving her desolation and despair,
As voiceless and as lustreless, astare
For imminent Death, Kassandra croucht beneath
Her very doom, herself the bride of Death;
For in the temple's forecourt reared the mass
Of that which was to bring the woe to pass,
And hidden in him both her murderers
Wrung at their nails.
And slow the long day wears
While all the city broods. The chiefs keep house,
Or gather on the wall, or make carouse
To simulate a freedom they feel not;
And at street corners men in shift or plot
Whisper together, or in the market-place
Gather, and peer each other in the face
Furtively, seeking comfort against care;
Whose eyes, meeting by chance, shift otherwhere
In haste. But in the houses, behind doors
Shuttered and barred, the women scrub their floors,
Or ply their looms as busily: for they
Ever cure care with care, and if a day
Be heavy lighten it with heavier task;
And for their griefs wear beauty like a mask,
And answer heart's presaging with a song
On their brave lips, and render right for wrong.
Little, by outward seeming, do they know
Of doom at hand, of fate or blood or woe,
Nor how their children, playing by their knees,
Must end this day of busyness-at-ease
In shrieking night, with clamour for their bread,
And a red bath, and a cold stone for a bed
Under the staring moon.

Now sinks the sun
Blood-red into the heavy sea and dun,
And forth from him, as he were stuck with swords,
Great streams of light go upward. Then the lords
Of havoc and unrest prepare their storms,
And o'er the silent city, vulture forms—
Eris and Enyo, Alké, Ioké,
The biter, the sharp-bitten, the mad, the fey—
Hover and light on pinnacle and tower:
The gray Erinnyes, watchful for the hour
When Haro be the wail. And down the sky
Like a white squall flung Até with a cry
That sounded like the wind in a ship's shrouds,
As shrill and wild at once. The driving clouds
Surging together, blotted out the sea,
The beachéd ships, the plain with mound and tree,
And slantwise came the sheeted rain, and fast
The darkness settled in. Kassandra cast
Her mantle o'er her head, and with slow feet
Entered her shrine deserted, there to greet
Her fate when it should come; and merciful Sleep
Befriended her.
Now from his lair did creep
Odysseus forth unarmed, his sword and spear
There in the Horse, and warily to peer
And spy his whereabouts the Ithacan
Went doubtful. Then his dreadful work began,
As down the bare way of steep Pergamos
Under the dark he sought for Paris' house.

TENTH STAVE

ODYSSEUS COMES AGAIN TO PARIS' HOUSE

There in her cage roamed Helen light and fierce,
Unresting, with bright eyes and straining ears,
Nor ever stayed her steps; but first the hall
She ranged, touching the pillars; next to the wall
Went out and shot her gaze into the murk
Whereas the ships should lie; then to her work
Upon the great loom turned and wove a shift,
But idly, waiting always for some lift
In the close-wrapping fog that might discover
The moving hosts, the spearmen of her lover—
Lover and husband, master and lord of life,
Coming at last to take a slave to wife.
And as wide-eyed she stared to feel her heart
Leap to her side, she felt the warm tears start,
And thankt the Goddess for the balm they brought.
Yet to her women, withal so highly wrought
By hope and care and waiting, she was mild
And gentle-voiced, and playful as a child
That sups the moment's joy, and nothing heeds
Time past or time to come, but fills all needs
With present kindness. She would laugh and talk,
Take arms, suffer embraces, even walk
The terrace 'neath the eyes of all her fate,
And seem to heed what they might show or prate,
As if her whole heart's heart were in this house
And not at fearful odds and perilous.
And should one speak of Paris, as to say,
"Would that our lord might see thee go so gay
About his house!" Gently she'd bend her head
Down to her breast and pluck a vagrant thread
Forth from her tunic's hem, and looking wise,
Gaze at her hand which on her bosom's rise
Lit like a butterfly and quivered there.
Now in the dusk, with Paris otherwhere
At council with the chieftains, into the hall
To Helen there, was come, adventuring all,
Odysseus in the garb of countryman,
A herdsman from the hills, with stain of tan
Upon his neck and arms, with staff and scrip,
And round each leg bound crosswise went a strip
Of good oxhide. Within the porch he came
And louted low, and hailed her by her name,
Among her maidens easy to be known,
Though not so tall as most, and not full blown
To shape and flush like a full-hearted rose;
But like a summer wave her bosom flows
Lax and most gentle, and her tired sweet face
Seems pious as the moon in a blue space
Of starless heaven, and in her eyes the hue
Of early morning, gray through mist of blue.
Not by a flaunted beauty is she guessed
Queen of them all, but by the right expressed
In her calm gaze and fearless, and that hold
Upon her lips which Gods have. Nay, not cold,
Thou holy one, not cold thy lips, which say
All in a sigh, and with one word betray
The passion of thy heart! But who can wis
The fainting piercing message of thy kiss?
O blest initiate—let him live to tell
Thy godhead, show himself thy miracle!
But when she saw him there with his head bowed
And humble hands, deeply her fair face glowed,
And broad across the iris swam the black
Until her eyes showed darkling. "Friend, your lack
Tell me," she said, "and what is mine to give
Is yours; but little my prerogative
Here in this house, where I am not the queen
You call me, but another name, I ween,
Serves me about the country you are of,
Which Ilios gives me too, but not in love.
Yet are we all alike in evil plight,
And should be tender of each other's right,
And of each other's wrongdoing, and wrongs done
Upon us. Have you wife and little one
Hungry at home? Have you a son afield?
Or do you mourn? Alas, I cannot wield
The sword you lack, nor bow nor spear afford
To serve...."
He said, "Nay, you can sheathe the sword,
Slack bowstring, and make spear a hunter's toy.
Lady, I come to end this war of Troy
In your good pleasure."
With her steady eyes
Unwinking fixt, "Let you and me devise,"
Said she, "this happy end of bow and spear,
So shall we serve the land. You have my ear;
Speak then."
"But so," he said, "these maidens have it.
But we save Troy alone, or never save it."
Turning she bid them leave her with a nod,
And they obeyed. Swift then and like a God
She seemed, with bright all-knowing eyes and calm
Gesture of high-held head, and open palm
To greet. "Laertes' son, what news bringst thou?"
"Lady," he said, "the best. The hour is now.
We stand within the heaven-establisht walls,
We gird the seat. Within an hour it falls,
The seat divine of Dardanos and Tros,
After our ten years' travail and great loss
Of heroes not yet rested, but to rest
Soon."
Then she laid her hand upon her breast
To stay it. "Who are ye that stand here-by?"
"Desperate men," he said, "prepared to die
If thou wilt have it so. Chief is there none
Beside the ships but Nestor. All are gone
Forth in the Horse. Under thy covering hand
Thou holdest all Achaia. Here we stand,
Epeios, Pyrrhos, Antiklos, with these
Cretan Idomeneus, Meriones,
Aias the Lokrian, Teukros, Diomede
Of the loud war-cry, next thy man indeed,
Golden-haired Menelaus the robbed King,
And Agamemnon by him, and I who bring
This news and must return to take what lot
Thou choosest us; for all is thine, God wot,
To end or mend, to make or mar at will."
A weighty utterance, but she heard the thrill
Within her heart, and listened only that—
To know her love so near. So near he sat
Hidden when she that toucht the Horse's flank
Could have toucht him! "Odysseus!" her voice sank
To the low tone of the soft murmuring dove
That nests and broods, "Odysseus, heard my love
My whisper of his name when close I stood
And stroked the Horse?"
"I heard and understood,"
He said, "and Lokrian Aias would have spoken
Had I not clapt a hand to his mouth—else broken
By garish day had been our house of dream,
And our necks too. I heard a woman scream
Near by and cry upon the Ruinous Face,
But none made answer to her."
Nought she says
To that but "I am ready; let my lord
Come when he will. Humbly I wait his word."
"That word I bring," Odysseus said, "he comes.
Await him here."
Her wide eyes were the homes
Of long desire. "Ah, let me go with thee
Even as I am; from this dark house take me
While Paris is abroad!"
He shook his head.
"Not so, but he must find thee here abed—
And Paris here."
The light died out; a mask
Of panic was her face, what time her task
Stared on a field of white horror like blood:
"Here! But there must be strife then!"
"Well and good,"
Said he.
Then she, shivering and looking small,
"And one must fall?" she said; he, "One must fall."
Reeling she turned her pincht face other way
And muttered with her lips, grown cold and gray,
Then fawning came at him, and with her hands
Besought him, but her voice made no demands,
Only her haunted eyes were quick, and prayed,
"Ah, not to fall through me!"
"By thee," he said,
"The deed is to be done."
She droopt adown
Her lovely head; he heard her broken moan,
"Have I not caused enough of blood-shedding,
And enough women's tears? Is not the sting
Sharp enough of the knife within my side?"
No more she could.
Then he, "Think not to avoid
The lot of man, who payeth the full price
For each deed done, and riddeth vice by vice:
Such is the curse upon him. The doom is
By God decreed, that for thy forfeit bliss
In Sparta thou shalt pay the price in Troy,
Dishonour for lost honour, pain for joy;
By what hot thought impelled, by that alone
Win back; by violence violence atone.
If by chicane thou fleddest, by chicane
Win back thy blotted footprints. Out again
With all thine arts of kisses slow and long,
Of smiles and stroking hands, and crooning song
Whenas full-fed with love thou lulledst asleep;
Renew thine eyebright glances, whisper and creep
And twine about his neck thy wreathing arms:
As we with spears so do thou with thy charms,
Arm thee and wait the hour of fire and smoke
To purge this robbery. Paris by the stroke
Of him he robbed shall wash out his old cheat
In blood, and thou, woman, by new deceit
Of him redeem thy first. For thus God saith,
Traitress, thou shalt betray thy thief to death."
He ceased, and she by misery made wild
And witless, shook, and like a little child
Gazed piteous, and asked, "What must I do?"
He answered, "Hold him by thee, falsely true,
Until the King stand armed within the house
Ready to take his blood-price. Even thus,
By shame alone shalt thou redeem thy shame."
And now she claspt his knee and cried his name:
"Mercy! I cannot do it. Let me die
Sooner than go to him so. What, must I lie
With one and other, make myself a whore,
And so go back to Sparta, nevermore
To hold my head up level with my slaves,
Nor dare to touch my child?"
Said he, "Let knaves
Deal knavishly till freedom they can win;
And so let sinners purge themselves of sin."
Then fiercely looking on her where she croucht
Fast by his knees, his whole mind he avoucht:
"How many hast thou sent the way of death
By thy hot fault? What ghosts like wandering breath
Shudder and wail unhouseled on the plain,
Shreds of Achaian honour? What hearts in pain
Cry the night through? What souls this very night
Fare forth? Art thou alone to sup delight,
Alone to lap in pleasantness, who first
And only, with thy lecher and his thirst,
Wrought all the harm? Only for thy smooth sake
Did Paris reive, and Menelaus ache,
And Hector die ashamed, and Peleus' son
Stand to the arrow, and Aias Telamon
Find madness and self-murder for the crown
Of all his travail?" He eyed her up and down
Sternly, as measuring her worth in scorn.
"Not thus may traffic any woman born
While men endure cold nights and burning days,
Hunger and wretchedness."
She stands, she says,
"Enough—I cannot answer. Tell me plain
What I must do."
"At dark," he said, "we gain
The Gates and open them. A trumpet's blast
Will sound the entry of the host. Hold fast
Thy Paris then. We storm the citadel,
High Pergamos; that won, the horn will tell
The sack begun. But hold thou Paris bound
Fast in thine arms. Once more the horn shall sound.
That third is doom for him. Release him then."
All blank she gazed. "Unarmed to face armed men?"
"Unarmed," he said, "to meet his judgment day."