Part 2 (1/2)

Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this You flung forth fortune--to ensure him his?

And he made snug at home, we seek our lands Barer than we left them, with emptier hands, And some with fewer members, shed that he Might fare as soft and trim as formerly!

Not so went I adventuring, good friend; Not so look I this business to have end: Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight, And so will live by day as thou by night, Sating my eyes with havoc on this race Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place Brought level with the herbage and the weed, That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed, And moles make palaces, and bats keep house.

And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse As quit thy score by thieving from a thief And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief For Tydeus' son, who sees no end of strife But in his own or in his foeman's life.”

So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: ”By that great shade Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made Who slew my father, think not so to have done With Troy and Priam; for Peleides' son Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast, Murdered and unacquit while that man's father Liveth.”

Then leapt up two, and both together Cried, ”Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!”

And Aias said, ”Are there no women then In Troy, but only her? And are we men Or virgins of Athene?” And the dream Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam His s.h.i.+fting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips Behind his beard.

Then stood that prince of s.h.i.+ps And s.h.i.+pmen, great Odysseus; with one hand He held the staff, with one he took command; And thus in measured tones, with word intent Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement, Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight Clamour died down, even as the wind at night Falls and is husht at rising of the moon.

”Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon Is strife of ten years rounded to a close, Neither so are men seated, friends or foes.

For say thus lightly we renounced the meed Of our long travail, gave so little heed To our great dead as find in one man's joy Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy-- Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear, Stock without master, wasting year by year; Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs For sorrow, but the darkness covers all-- What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall, Or what beside a name, who let go by Ilios the rich for others' usury?

And have the blessed G.o.ds no say in this?

Think you they be won over by a kiss-- Here the Queen, she, the unwearied aid Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid?

Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate, Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate, And for her towers abas.e.m.e.nt to the dust?

Behold, O King, l.u.s.t shall be paid with l.u.s.t, And treachery with treachery, and for blood Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood Of our pent pa.s.sion; break her gates in, raze The walls of her, c.u.mber her pleasant ways With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil, Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things, Harness of flas.h.i.+ng bronze, swords, meed of kings, Chariots and horses swifter than the wind Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall.

So only shall ye close this agelong strife, Nor by redemption of a too fair wife, Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold, O Menelaus, may the tale be told!

Nay, but by slaying of Achilles' slayer, By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer, By not withholding from the spoils of war Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall.”

He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all, Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum, One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb; One raging to be contraried, one torn By those two pa.s.sions wherewith he was born, The l.u.s.t for body's ease and l.u.s.t of gain.

Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men, Gentle his voice to hear. ”Laertes' son,”

He said, but 'twas Nestor he looked upon, The wise old man who sat beside his chair, Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it, Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it From foe, or over friend made stronger claim: ”Laertes' son,” the king said, ”all men's fame Reports thee just and fertile in device; And as the friend of G.o.d great is thy price To us of Argos; for without the G.o.ds How should we look to trace the limitless roads That weave a criss-cross 'twixt us and our home?

Go to now, some will stay and other some Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart, Not warfaring as men fare to the mart, To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout; But honour is the prize wherefor they go out, And having that, dishonoured are content To leave the foe--that is best punishment.

Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth, Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth-- As if of blood enough had not been spilt!-- Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt, n.o.ble Odysseus, seeking how compose His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer, Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her.

Come, let this be the sum of our debate.”

”Content you,” Menelaus said, ”I wait Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus.”

Then said Odysseus, ”Be it as you choose, Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say Let me win into Troy as best I may, Seek out the lovely lady of our land And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand The sentries, how the warders of the gates; The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits To crown our long endeavour. These things learned, Back to the s.h.i.+ps I come ere yet are burned The watch-fires of the night, before the sun Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run Out of the golden gateways of the East.”

Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least.

SIXTH STAVE

HELEN AND PARIS; ODYSSEUS AND HELEN

Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors And windows open wide, wanders the floors And all the pa.s.sage 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, pa.s.sion white Of lovers knit in Here'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 gra.s.s 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 s.h.i.+elded 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 pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.s.

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 n.o.bility, 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 wh.o.r.e 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 wors.h.i.+p!” So he said; but she, ”They fade, But are not yet so old as thou hast made The soul thou pinnest here beneath my b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 Perturbed 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 circ.u.mstance, 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 compa.s.sion 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 st.u.r.dy 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.”