Helen Redeemed and Other Poems | Page 7

Maurice Hewlett
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,
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