Helen of Troy Part 10

And all the Argives marvell'd for a s.p.a.ce, But most Achilles made a heavy moan:

x.x.xVII.

And in his heart there came the weary thought Of all that was, and all that might have been, Of all the sorrow that his sword had wrought, Of Death that now drew near him: of the green Vales of Larissa, where, with such a queen, With such a love as now his spear had slain, He had been happy, who must wind the skein Of grievous wars, and ne'er be glad again.

x.x.xVIII.

Yea, now wax'd Fate half weary of her game, And had no care but aye to kill and kill, And many young kings to the battle came, And of that joy they quickly had their fill, And last came Memnon: and the Trojans still Took heart, like wearied mariners that see (Long toss'd on unknown waves at the winds' will) Through clouds the gleaming crest of Helike.

x.x.xIX.

For Memnon was the child of the bright Dawn, A G.o.ddess wedded to a mortal king, Who dwells for ever on the sh.o.r.es withdrawn That border on the land of sun-rising; And he was nurtured nigh the sacred spring That is the hidden fountain of all seas, By them that in the G.o.ds' own garden sing, The lily-maidens call'd Hesperides.

XL.

But him the child of Thetis in the fight Met on a windy winter day, when high The dust was whirled, and wrapp'd them like the night That falleth on the mountains stealthily When the floods come, and down their courses dry The torrents roar, and lightning flasheth far: So rang, so shone their harness terribly Beneath the blinding thunder-cloud of war.

XLI.

Then the Dawn shudder'd on her golden throne, And called unto the West Wind, and he blew And brake the cloud asunder; and alone Achilles stood, but Memnon, smitten through, Lay beautiful amid the dreadful dew Of battle, and a deathless heart was fain Of tears, to G.o.ds impossible, that drew From mortal hearts a little of their pain.

XLII.

But now, their leader slain, the Trojans fled, And fierce Achilles drove them in his hate, Avenging still his dear Patroclus dead, Nor knew the hour with his own doom was great, Nor trembled, standing in the Scaean gate, Where ancient prophecy foretold his fall; Then suddenly there sped the bolt of Fate, And smote Achilles by the Ilian wall:

XLIII.

From Paris' bow it sped, and even there, Even as he grasp'd the skirts of victory, Achilles fell, nor any man might dare From forth the Trojan gateway to draw nigh; But, as the woodmen watch a lion die, Pierced with the hunter's arrow, nor come near Till Death hath veil'd his eyelids utterly, Even so the Trojans held aloof in fear.

XLIV.

But there his fellows on his wondrous s.h.i.+eld Laid the fair body of Achilles slain, And sadly bare him through the trampled field, And lo! the deathless maidens of the main Rose up, with Thetis, from the windy plain, And round the dead man beautiful they cried, Lamenting, and with melancholy strain The sweet-voiced Muses mournfully replied.

XLV.

Yea, Muses and Sea-maidens sang his dirge, And mightily the chant arose and shrill, And wondrous echoes answer'd from the surge Of the grey sea, and from the holy hill Of Ida; and the heavy clouds and chill Were gathering like mourners, sad and slow, And Zeus did thunder mightily, and fill The dells and glades of Ida deep with snow.

XLVI.

Now Paris was not sated with the fame And rich reward Troy gave his archery; But o'er the wine he boasted that the game That very night he deem'd to win, or die; "For scarce their watch the tempest will defy,"

He said, "and all undream'd of might we go, And fall upon the Argives where they lie, Unseen, unheard, amid the silent snow."

XLVII.

So, flush'd with wine, and clad in raiment white Above their mail, the young men follow'd him, Their guide a fading camp-fire in the night, And the sea's moaning in the distance dim.

And still with eddying snow the air did swim, And darkly did they wend they knew not where, White in that cursed night: an army grim, 'Wilder'd with wine, and blind with whirling air.

XLVIII.

There was an outcast in the Argive host, One Philoctetes; whom Odysseus' wile, (For, save he help'd, the Leaguer all was lost,) Drew from his lair within the Lemnian isle.

But him the people, as a leper vile, Hated, and drave to a lone hut afar, For wounded sore was he, and many a while His cries would wake the host foredone with war.

XLIX.

Now Philoctetes was an archer wight; But in his quiver had he little store Of arrows tipp'd with bronze, and feather'd bright; Nay, his were blue with mould, and fretted o'er With many a spell Melampus wrought of yore, Singing above his task a song of bane; And they were venom'd with the Centaur's gore, And tipp'd with bones of men a long while slain.

L.

This wretch for very pain might seldom sleep, And that night slept not: in the moaning blast He deem'd the dead about his hut did creep, And silently he rose, and round him cast His raiment foul, and from the door he pa.s.s'd, And peer'd into the night, and soothly heard A whisper'd voice; then gripp'd his arrows fast And strung his bow, and cried a bitter word:

LI.

"Art thou a gibbering ghost with war outworn, And thy faint life in Hades not begun?

Art thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn, And yet dost live, and look upon the sun?

If man,--methinks thy pleasant days are done, And thou shalt writhe in torment worse than mine; If ghost,--new pain in Hades hast thou won, And there with double woe shalt surely pine."

LII.

He spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft At venture through the midnight and the snow, A little while he listen'd, then he laugh'd Within himself, a dreadful laugh and low; For over well the answer did he know That midnight gave his message, the sharp cry And armour rattling on a fallen foe That now was learning what it is to die.

LIII.

Then Philoctetes crawl'd into his den And hugg'd himself against the bitter cold, While round their leader came the Trojan men And bound his wound, and bare him o'er the wold, Back to the lights of Ilios; but the gold Of Dawn was breaking on the mountains white, Or ere they won within the guarded fold, Long 'wilder'd in the tempest and the night.

LIV.

And through the gate, and through the silent street, And houses where men dream'd of war no more, The bearers wander'd with their weary feet, And Paris to his high-roof'd house they bore.

But vainly leeches on his wound did pore, And vain was Argive Helen's magic song, Ah, vain her healing hands, and all her lore, To help the life that wrought her endless wrong.

LV.

Slow pa.s.s'd the fever'd hours, until the grey Cold light was paling, and a sullen glow Of livid yellow crown'd the dying day, And brooded on the wastes of mournful snow.

Then Paris whisper'd faintly, "I must go And face that wild wood-maiden of the hill; For none but she can win from overthrow Troy's life, and mine that guards it, if she will."

LVI.

So through the dumb white meadows, deep with snow, They bore him on a pallet shrouded white, And sore they dreaded lest an ambush'd foe Should hear him moan, or mark the moving light That waved before their footsteps in the night; And much they joy'd when Ida's knees were won, And 'neath the pines upon an upland height, They watch'd the star that heraldeth the sun.

LVII.

For under woven branches of the pine, The soft dry needles like a carpet spread, And high above the arching boughs did s.h.i.+ne In frosty fret of silver, that the red New dawn fired into gold-work overhead: Within that vale where Paris oft had been With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled To be the sinful lover of a Queen.

LVIII.

Not here they found OEnone: "Nay, not here,"

Said Paris, faint and low, "shall she be found; Nay, bear me up the mountain, where the drear Winds walk for ever on a haunted ground.

Methinks I hear her sighing in their sound; Or some G.o.d calls me there, a dying man.

Perchance my latest journeying is bound Back where the sorrow of my life began."