HELEN REDEEMED

AND OTHER POEMS

MAURICE HEWLETT

Δῶρον Ἔρως Ἀΐδῃ

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON
1913

Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Archaic spellings have been retained. All Greek words have mouse-hover transliterations, Δῶρον, and appear as originally printed.

DEDICATION

Love owes tribute unto Death,
Being but a flower of breath,
Ev'n as thy fair body is
Moment's figure of the bliss
Dwelling in the mind of God
When He called thee from the sod,
Like a crocus up to start,
Gray-eyed with a golden heart,
Out of earth, and point our sight
To thy eternal home of light.

Here on earth is all we know:
To let our love as steadfast blow,
Open-hearted to the sun,
Folded down when our day's done,
As thy flower that bids it be
Flower of thy charity.
'Tis not ours to boast or pray
Breath from us shall outlive clay;
'Tis not thine, thou Pitiful,
Set me task beyond my rule.

Yet as young men carve on trees
Lovely names, and find in these
Solace in the after time,
So to have hid thee in my rhyme
Shall be comfort when I take
The lonely road. Then, for my sake,
Keep thou this my graven sigh,
And, that I may not all die,
Open it, and hear it tell,
Here was one who loved thee well.

October 6, 1912.

PAGE
Helen Redeemed	1
Hypsipyle	123
Oreithyia	149
Clytié	155
Lai of Gobertz	159
The Saints' Maying	169
The Argive Women	173
Gnatho	187
To the Gods of the Country	193
Fourteen Sonnets—
Alma sdegnosa	197
The Winds' Possession	198
Aspetto reale	199
Kin Confessed	200
Quel giorno più	201
Absence	202
Presence	203
Dream Anguish	204
Hymnia-Beatrix	206
Lux e Tenebris	207
Duty	208
Wages	209
Eye-Service	210
Cloister Thoughts	211
The Chamber Idyll	213
Epigrammata—
The Old House	217
Blue Iris	217
The Rosebud	218
Spring on the Down	218
Snowy Night	219
Evening Mood	219
The Parting	220
Dedication of a Book	221

NOTE

Three of the Poems here published have appeared in book form already, in the Volume called Songs and Meditations, long out of print.

HELEN REDEEMED

PROEM

Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood
Of passion by the blood
Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft
Hallowed, if that thin waft
Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song
To span such store of strong
And splendid vision of immortal themes
Late harvested in dreams,
Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet
Thou sing that slim and sweet
Fair woman for whose bosom and delight
Paris, as well he might,
Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost
And Troy's, and won and lost
Perforce; for who could look on her or feel
Her near and not dare steal
One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars
Such wonder of the stars
Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose
Of dawn which comes and goes
Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills,
Or music of upland rills
As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it
With thy poor market wit,
Adept to hue the wanton in the wild,
Defile the undefiled!
Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high
Where piled rocks testify
The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold
Over the rippling wold
Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise
First dawned in Helen's eyes,
Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art
To sing her rendered heart,
Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved
From loving, but was nerved
To see through years of robbery and shame
Her spirit, a clear flame,
Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace,
And hers who at last found ease
In white-arm'd Heré, holy husbander
Of purer fire than e'er
To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing
In whom her beauties ring,
Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte,
Star of my day and night!

18th September 1912.

FIRST STAVE

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES

Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams,
Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams
Betray far Ida through a rended cloud
And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud
The thunder is—'twixt Ida and the main
Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain
About her like a carpet; from whose height
The watchman, ten years watching, every night
Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less
Their number as the years wax and duress
Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day—
More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay.
Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years
Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears
And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons
Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones,
Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood
The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood
Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride
Shed; nor yet so the end, for Heré cried
Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done,
And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon
By sword or bitter arrow they went hence,
Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence.
Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek
Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak
Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high,
Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky
Told Thetis that her son must go the way
He sent Queen Hecuba's—himself must pay,
Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self,
The price of manslaying, with blood for pelf.
A grief immortal took her, and she grieved
Deep in sea-cave, whereover restless heaved
The wine-dark ocean—silently, not moving,
Tearless, a god. O Gods, however loving,
That is a lonely grief that must go dry
About the graves where the beloved lie,
And knows too much to doubt if death ends all
Pleasure in strength of limb, joy musical,
Mother-love, maiden-love, which never more
Must the dead look for on the further shore
Of Acheron, and past the willow-wood
Of Proserpine!
But when he understood,
Achilles, that his end was near at hand,
Darkling he heard the news, and on the strand
Beyond the ships he stood awhile, then cried
The Sea-God that high-hearted and clear-eyed
He might go down; and this for utmost grace
He asked, that not by battle might his face
Be marred, nor fighting might some Dardan best
Him who had conquered ever. For the rest,
Fate, which had given, might take, as fate should be.
So prayed he, and Poseidon out of the sea,
There where the deep blue into sand doth fade
And the long wave rolls in, a bar of jade,
Sent him a portent in that sea-blue bird
Swifter than light, the halcyon; and men heard
The trumpet of his praise: "Shaker of Earth,
Hail to thee! Now I fare to death in mirth,
As to a banquet!"
So when day was come
Lightly arose the prince to meet his doom,
And kissed Briseïs where she lay abed
And never more by hers might rest his head:
"Farewell, my dear, farewell, my joy," said he;
"Farewell to all delights 'twixt thee and me!
For now I take a road whose harsh alarms
Forbid so sweet a burden to my arms."
Then his clean limbs his weeping squires bedight
In all the mail Hephaistos served his might
Withal, of breastplate shining like the sun
Upon flood-water, three-topped helm whereon
Gleamed the gold basilisk, and goodly greaves.
These bore he without word; but when from sheaves
Of spears they picked the great ash Pelian
Poseidon gave to Peleus, God to a man,
For no man's manège else—than all men's fear:
"Dry and cold fighting for thee this day, my spear,"
Quoth he. And so when one the golden shield
Immortal, daedal, for no one else to wield,
Cast o'er his head, he frowned: "On thy bright face
Let me see who shall dare a dint," he says,
And stood in thought full-armed; thereafter poured
Libation at the tent-door to the Lord
Of earth and sky, and prayed, saying: "O Thou
That hauntest dark Dodona, hear me now,
Since that the shadowing arm of Time is flung
Far over me, but cloudeth me full young.
Scatheless I vow them. Let one Trojan cast
His spear and loose my spirit. Rage is past
Though I go forth my most provocative
Adventure: 'tis not I that seek. Receive
My prayer Thou as I have earned it—lo,
Dying I stand, and hail Thee as I go
Lord of the Ægis, wonderful, most great!"
Which done, he took his stand, and bid his mate
Urge on the steeds; and all the Achaian host
Followed him, not with outcry or loud boast
Of deeds to do or done, but silent, grim
As to a shambles—so they followed him,
Eyeing that nodding crest and swaying spear
Shake with the chariot. Solemn thus they near
The Trojan walls, slow-moving, as by a Fate
Driven; and thus before the Skaian Gate
Stands he in pomp of dreadful calm, to die,
As once in dreadful haste to slay.
Thereby
The walls were thick with men, and in the towers
Women stood gazing, clustered close as flowers
That blur the rocks in some high mountain pass
With delicate hues; but like the gray hill-grass
Which the wind sweepeth, till in waves of light
It tideth backwards—so all gray or white
Showed they, as sudden surges moved them cloak
Their heads, or bare their faces. And none spoke
Among them, for there stood not woman there
But mourned her dead, or sensed not in the air
Her pendent doom of death, or worse than death.
Frail as flowers were their faces, and all breath
Came short and quick, as on this dreadful show
Staring, they pondered it done far below
As on a stage where the thin players seem
Unkith to them who watch, the stuff of dream.
Nor else about the plain showed living thing
Save high in the blue where sailed on outspread wing
A vulture bird intent, with mighty span
Of pinion.
In the hush spake the dead man,
Hollow-voiced, terrible: "Ye tribes of Troy,
Here stand I out for death, and ye for joy
Of killing as ye will, by cast of spear,
By bowshot or with sword. If any peer
Of Hector or Sarpedon care the bout
Which they both tried aforetime let him out
With speed, and bring his many against one,
Fearing no treachery, for there shall be none
To aid me, God nor man; nor yet will I
Stir finger in the business, but will die
By murder sooner than in battle fall
Under some Trojan hand."
Breathless stood all,
Not moving out; but Paris on the roof
Of his high house, where snug he sat aloof,
Drew taut the bowstring home, and notched a shaft,
Soft whistling to himself, what time with craft
Of peering eyes and narrow twisted face
He sought an aim.
Swift from her hiding-place
Came burning Helen then, in her blue eyes
A fire unquenchable, but cold as ice
That scorcheth ere it strike a mortal chill
Upon the heart. "Darest thou...?"
Smiling still,
He heeded not her warning, nor he read
The terror of her eyes, but drew and sped
A screaming arrow, deadly, swerving not—
Then stood to watch the ruin he had wrought.
He heard the sob of breath o'er all the host
Of hushing men; he marked, but then he lost,
The blood-spurt at the shaft-head; for the crest
Upheaved, the shoulders stiffen'd, ere to the breast
Bent down the head, as though the glazing sight
Curious would mark the death-spot. Still upright
Stood he; but as a tree that on the side
Of Ida yields to axe her soaring pride
And lightlier waves her leafy crown, and swings
From side to side—so on his crest the wings
Erect seemed shaking upwards, and to sag
The spear's point, and the burden'd head to wag
Before the stricken body felt the stroke,
Or the strong knees grew lax, or the heart broke.
Breathless they waited; then the failing man
Stiffened anew his neck, and changed and wan
Looked for the last time in the face of day,
And seemed to dare the Gods such might to slay
As this, the sanguine splendid thing he was,
Withal now gray of face and pinched. Alas,
For pride of life! Now he had heard his knell.
His spirit passed, and crashing down he fell,
Mighty Achilles, and struck the earth, and lay
A huddled mass, a bulk of bronze and clay
Bestuck with gilt and glitter, like a toy.
There dropt a forest hush on watching Troy,
Upon the plain and watching ranks of men;
And from a tower some woman keened him then
With long thin cry that wavered in the air—
As once before one wailed her Hector there.

SECOND STAVE

MENELAUS' DREAM: HELEN ON THE WALL

So he who wore his honour like a wreath
About his brows went the dark way of death;
Which being done, that deed of ruth and doom
Gave breath to Troy; but on the Achaians gloom
Settled like pall of cloud upon a land
That swoons beneath it. Desperate they scanned
Each other, saying: "Now we are left by God,"
And in the huts behind the wall abode,
Heeding not Diomede, Idomeneus,
Nor keen Odysseus, nor that friend of Zeus
Mykenai's king, nor that robbed Menelaus,
Nor bowman Teukros, Nestor wise, nor Aias—
Huge Aias, cursed in death! Peleides bare
Himself with pride, but he went raving there.
For in the high assembly Thetis made
In honour of her son, to waft his shade
In peace to Hades' house, after the fire
Twice a man's height for him who did suspire
Twice a man's heart and render it to Heaven
Who gave it, after offerings paid and given,
And games of men and horses, she brought forth
His regal arms for hero of most worth
In the broad Danaan host, who was adjudged
Odysseus by all voices. Aias grudged
The vote and wandered brooding, drawn apart
From his room-fellows, seeding in his heart
Envy, which biting inwards did corrode
His mettle, and his ill blood plied the goad
Upon his brain, until the wretch made mad
Went muttering his wrongs, ill-trimmed, ill-clad,
Sightless and careless, with slack mouth awry,
And working tongue, and danger in the eye;
And oft would stare at Heaven and laugh his scorn:
"O fools, think not to trick me!" then forlorn
Would gaze about green earth or out to sea:
"This is the end of man in his degree"—
Thus would he moralise in those bare lands
With hopeless brows and tossing up of hands—
"To sow in sweat and see another reap!"
Then, pitying himself, he'd fall to weep
His desolation, scorned by Gods, by men
Slighted; but in a flash he'd rage again
And shake his naked sword at unseen foes,
And dare them bring Odysseus to his blows:
Or let the man but flaunt himself in arms...!
So threatening God knows what of savage harms,
On him the oxen patient in the marsh,
Knee-deep in rushes, gazed to hear his harsh
Outcry; and them his madness taught for Greeks,
So on their dumb immensity he wreaks
His vengeance, driving in the press with shout
Of "Aias! Aias!" hurtling, carving out
A way with mighty swordstroke, cut and thrust,
And makes a shambles in his witless lust;
And in the midst, bloodshot, with blank wild eyes
Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies
All reeking in his madman's battlefield,
And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed
The pity of his folly; then he sees
Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees
He stands amid his slaughter, and his own
Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan
Upon his planted sword. So Aias died
Lonely; and he who, never from his side
Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian,
Abode the fate foreordered in the plan
Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.

But think not on the dead, who die and leave
A memory more fragrant than their deeds,
But to the remnant rather and their needs
Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords
Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords
As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art
Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart?
Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull
As oxen impotent the wain to pull
Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge,
Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge
Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand
Dumb monuments of sufferance—so unmanned
The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care
To drive them forth, since they too knew despair,
And neither saw in battle nor retreat
A way of honour.
And the plain grew sweet
Again with living green; the spring o' the year
Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear;
And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain,
Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain,
And seemed with tender irony to flout
Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out
The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires
More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres
Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose
Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose,
A holy pall to hide his folly and pain.
Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain,
And by and by the pent folk within walls
Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls
Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep
Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep
Watch, where before stood armèd sentinels;
And battle-grounds were musical with bells
Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships
Loomed through the tender mist, their prows—like lips
Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry
Salvation out of Heaven—flung on high:
Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road
Was travelled, and held Paris for a God
Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.

He in their love went sunning, took his ease
In house and hall, at council or at feast,
Careless of what was greatest or what least
Of all his deeds, so only by his side
She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,
The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,
A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,
And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him
Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim
With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach
Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each
If it might be her people's, and so hers,
Poor alien!—Argive now herself she avers
And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:
Minion she calls herself; and when to strife
Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges
Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,
And when to play he woos her with soft words,
Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,
Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,
Making her wife indeed, not paramour,
Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all
His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall
She watches every dawn for what dawn brings.
And the strong spirit of her took new wings
And left her lovely body in the arms
Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms,
And witless held a shell; but forth as light
As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight
Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed
And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed
Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith,
A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death
Seems to the dying man a bedside guest,
But to the watchers cannot be exprest.
So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned
Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned,
Renewing his day's torment in his sleep;
Who presently starts up and sighing deep,
Searches the entry, if haply in the skies
The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes
Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face
Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace
Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow
To tell all truth about her, and her woe
And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt
To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt
Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips:
"O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips
Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?"
No answer hath she, but she looks him long
And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more,
But up and down he pads the beaten floor,
And all that day his heart's wild crying hears,
And can thank God for gracious dew of tears
And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame.
So came the next night, and with night she came,
Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go
Whence she had come. His need would have it so—
And her need. Never must she call in vain.
Now takes he way alone over the plain
Where dark yet hovers like a catafalque
And all life swoons, and only dead thing walk,
Uneasy sprites denied a resting space,
That shudder as they flit from place to place,
Like bats of flaggy wing that make night blink
With endless quest: so do those dead, men think,
Who fall and are unserved by funeral rite.
These passes he, and nears the walls of might
Which Godhead built for proud Laomedon,
And knows the house of Paris built thereon,
Terraced and set with gadding vines and trees
And ever falling water, for the ease
Of that sweet indweller he held in store.
Thither he turns him quaking, but before
Him dares not look, lest he should see her there
Aglimmer through the dusk and, unaware,
Discover her fill some mere homely part
Intolerably familiar to his heart,
And deeply there enshrined and glorified,
Laid up with bygone bliss. Yet on he hied,
Being called, and ever closer on he came
As if no wrong nor misery nor shame
Could harder be than not to see her—Nay,
Even if within that smooth thief's arms she lay
Besmothered in his kisses—rather so
Had he stood stabbed to see, than on to go
His round of lonely exile!
Now he stands
Beneath her house, and on his spear his hands
Rest, and upon his hands he grounds his chin,
And motionless abides till day come in;
Pure of his vice, that he might ease her woe,
Not brand her with his own. Not yet the glow
Of false dawn throbbed, nor yet the silent town
Stood washt in light, clear-printed to the crown
In the cold upper air. Dark loomed the walls,
Ghostly the trees, and still shuddered the calls
Of owl to owl from unseen towers. Afar
A dog barked. High and hidden in the haar
Which blew in from the sea a heron cried
Honk! and he heard his wings, but not espied
The heavy flight. Slow, slow the orb was filled
With light, and with the light his heart was thrilled
With opening music, faint, expectant, sharp
As the first chords one picks out from the harp
To prelude paean. Venturing all, he lift
His eyes, and there encurtained in a drift
Of sea-blue mantle close-drawn, he espies
Helen above him watching, her grave eyes
Upon him fixt, blue homes of mystery
Unfathomable, eternal as the sea,
And as unresting.
So in that still place,
In that still hour stood those two face to face.

THIRD STAVE

MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN

But when he had her there, sharp root of ill
To him and his, safeguarded from him still,
Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred
By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred,
Behandled, too much lost and too much won,
Mock image making horrible the sun
That once had shown her pure for his demesne,
And still revealed her lovely, and unclean—
Despair turned into stone what had been kind,
And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind.
"O ruinous face," said he, "O evil head,
Art thou so early from the wicked bed?
So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice?
Or is it that in luxury thou art nice
Become, and dalliest?" Low her head she hung
And moved her lips. As when the night is young
The hollow wind presages storm, his moan
Came wailing at her. "Ten years here, alone,
And in that time to have seen thee thrice!"
But she:
"Often and often have I chanced to see
My lord pass."
His heart leapt, as leaps the child
Enwombed: "Hast thou—?"
Faintly her quick eyes smiled:
"At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake;
So have time to myself when I can take
New air, and old thought."
As a man who skills
To read high hope out of dark oracles,
So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he:
"Lady, O God! Now would that I could be
Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought
Gathering!" Silent stood she, memory-fraught,
Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul,
So harpt upon her heart. "Is this the whole
That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here
Alone to be?"
She blushed and dared to peer
Downward. "Is it so wonderful," she said,
"If I desire it?" He: "Nay, by my head,
Not so; but wonderful I think it is
In any man to suffer it." The hiss
Of passion stript all vesture from his tones
And showed the King man naked to the bones,
Man naked to the body's utterance.
She turned her head, but felt his burning glance
Scorch, and his words leap up. "Dost thou desire
I leave thee then? Answer me that."
"Nay, sire,
Not so." And he: "Bid me to stay while sleeps
Thy house," he said, "so stay I." Her eyes' deeps
Flooded his soul and drowned him in despair,
Despair and rage. "Behold now, ten years' wear
Between us and our love! Now if I cast
My spear and rove the snow-mound of thy breast,
Were that a marvel?"
Long she lookt and grave,
Pondering his face and searching. "Not so brave
My lord as that would prove him. Nay, and I know
He would not do it." And the truth was so;
And well he knew the reason: better she.
Yet for a little in that vacancy
Of silence and unshadowing light they stood,
Those long-divided, speechless. His first mood
With bitter grudge was choked, but hers was mild,
As fearing his. At last she named the child,
Asking, Was all well? Short he told her, Yes,
The child was well. She fingered in her dress
And watched her hand at play there.
"Here," she said,
"There is no child," and sighed. Into his dead
And wasted heart there leaped a flame and caught
His hollow eyes. "Rememberest thou naught,
Nothing regrettest, nothing holdst in grief
Of all our joy together ere that thief
Came rifling in?" For all her answer she
Lookt long upon him, long and earnestly;
And misty grew her eyes, and slowly filled.
Slowly the great tears brimmed, and slowly rilled
Adown her cheeks. So presently she hid
Those wells of grief, and hung her lovely head;
And he had no more words, but only a cry
At heart too deep for utterance, and too high
For tears.

And now came Paris from the house
Into the sun, rosy and amorous,
As when the sun himself from the sea-rim
Lifteth, and gloweth on the earth grown dim
With waiting; and he piped a low clear call
As mellow as the thrush's at the fall
Of day from some near thicket. At whose sound
Rose up caught Helen and blushing turned her round
To face him; but in going, ere she met
The prince, her hand along the parapet
She trailed, palm out, for sign to who below
Rent at himself, nor had the wit to know
In that dumb signal eloquence, and hope
Therein beyond his sick heart's utmost scope.
Throbbing he stood as when a quick-blown peat,
Now white, now red, burns inly—O wild heat,
O ravenous race of men, who'd barter Space
And Time for one short snatch of instant grace!
Withal, next day, drawn by his dear desire,
When as the young green burned like emerald fire
In the cold light, back to the tryst he came;
But she was sooner there, and called his name
Softly as cooing dove her bosom's mate;
And showed her eyes to him, which half sedate
To be so sought revealed her, half in doubt
Lest he should deem her bold to meet the bout
With too much readiness. But high he flaunted
Her name towards the sky. "Thou God-enchanted,
Thou miracle of dawn, thou Heart of the Rose,
Hail thou!" On his own eloquence he grows
The lover he proclaims. "O love," he saith,
"I would not leave thee for a moment's breath,
Nor once these ten long years had left thy side
Had it been possible to stay!"
She sighed,
She wondered o'er his face, she looked her fill,
Museful, still doubting, smiling half, athrill,
All virgin to his praise. "O wonderful,"
She said, "Such store of love for one so foul
As I am now!"
O fatal hot-and-cold,
O love, whose iris wings not long can hold
The upper air! Sudden her thought smote hot
On him. "Thou sayest! True it is, God wot!
Warm from his bed, and tears for thy unworth;
Warm from his bed, and tears to meet my mirth;
Then back to his bed ere yet thy tears be dry!"
She heard not, but she knew his agony
Of burning vision, and kept back her tears
Until his pity moved in tune with hers
Towards herself. But he from thunderous brows
Frowned on. "No more I see thee by this house,
Except to slay thee when the hour decree
An end to this vile nest of cuckoldry
And holy vows made hateful, save thou speak
To each my question sooth. Keep dry thy cheek
From tears, hide up thy beauty with thy grief—
Or let him have his joy of them, thy thief,
What time he may. Answer me thou, or vain
Till thine hour strike to look for me again."
With hanging head and quiet hanging hands,
With lip atremble, as caught in fault she stands,
Scarce might he hear her whispered message:
"Ask,
Lord, and I answer thee."
Strung to his task:
"Tell me now all," he said, "from that far day
Whenas embracing thee, I stood to pray,
And poured forth wine unto the thirsty earth
To Zeus and to Poseidon, in whose girth
Lie sea and land; to Gaia next, their spouse,
And next to Heré, mistress of my house,
Traitress, and thine, for grace upon my faring:
For thou wert by to hear me, false arm bearing
Upon my shoulder, glowing, lying cheek
Next unto mine. Ay, and thou prayedst, with meek
Fair seeming, prosperous send-off and return.
Tell me what then, tell all, and let me learn
With what pretence that dog-souled slaked his thirst
In thy sweet liquor. Tell me that the first."
Then Helen lifted up her head, and beamed
Clear light upon him from her eyes, which seemed
That blue which, lying on the white sea-bed
And gazing up, the sunbeam overhead
Would show, with green entinctured, and the warp
Inwoven of golden shafts, blended yet sharp;
So that a glory mild and radiant
Transfigured them. Upon him fell aslant
That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue
Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew
Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke
It was as if the nightingale should croak
In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak,
So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak
Dry matter and hard logic—as if she
Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea
Which was not hers to make; or as one faint
And desperate lays down all his argument
Like bricks upon a field, let who will make
A house of them; so drily Helen spake
With a flat voice. "Thou hadst been nine days gone,
Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son,
And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat,
And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at
I gave as fitting was. Then came the day
I was beguiled. What more is there to say?"
Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall
Her eyes were. But the King said: "Tell me all.
Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled,
Or by thine own?" She shook her head and smiled
Most sadly, pitying herself. "Who knoweth
The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth
The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved
Me then, and pleasured only where I moved
About the house. And I had pleasure too
To know of me he had it. Then we knew
The day at hand when he must take the road
And leave me; and its eve we close abode
Within the house, and spake not. But I wept."
She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept:
"I was beguiled, beguiled." And then her lip
She bit, and rueful showed her partnership
In sinful dealing.
But he, in his esteem
Bleeding and raw, urged on. "To Kranai's deme
He took thee then?"
Speechless she bent her head
Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed
As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played,
And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade.
So gazing, stood she silent, but the King
Urged on. "From thence to Ilios, thou willing,
He took thee?"
Then, "I was beguiled," again
She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain
Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift
Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift
Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night
The low clouds break and shafted shows the light.
"Ten years beguiled!" he said, "but now it seems
Thou art——" She shook her head. "Nay, now come dreams;
Nay, now I think, remember, now I see."
"What callest thou to mind?" "Hermione,"
She said, "our child, and Sparta my own land,
And all the honour that lay to my hand
Had I but chosen it, as now I would"—
And sudden hid her face up in her hood,
Her courage ebbed in grief, all hardness drowned
In bitter weeping.
Noble pity crowned
The greater man in him; so for a space
They wept together, she for loss; for grace
Of gain wept he. "No more," he said, "my sweet,
Tell me no more."
"Ah, hear the whole of it
Before my hour is gone," she cried. But he
Groaning, "I dare not stay here lest I see
Him take thee again."
Both hands to fold her breast,
She shook her head; like as the sun through mist
Shone triumph in her eyes. "Have no more fear
Of him or any——" Then, hearing a stir
Within the house, her finger toucht her lip,
And one fixt look she gave of fellowship
Assured—then turned and quickly went her way;
And his light vanisht with her for that day.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Helen Redeemed and Other Poems

HELEN REDEEMED

AND OTHER POEMS

MAURICE HEWLETT

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

NOTE

HELEN REDEEMED

PROEM

FIRST STAVE

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES

SECOND STAVE

MENELAUS' DREAM: HELEN ON THE WALL

THIRD STAVE

MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN

FOURTH STAVE

THE APOLOGY OF HELEN

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Helen Redeemed and Other Poems

HELEN REDEEMED AND OTHER POEMS

MAURICE HEWLETT

DEDICATION

CONTENTS

NOTE

HELEN REDEEMED

PROEM

FIRST STAVE

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES

SECOND STAVE

MENELAUS' DREAM: HELEN ON THE WALL

THIRD STAVE

MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN

FOURTH STAVE

THE APOLOGY OF HELEN

HELEN REDEEMED

AND OTHER POEMS