Helen Redeemed and Other Poems | Page 7

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.