Helen Redeemed and Other Poems | Page 5

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