Helen Redeemed and Other Poems. Maurice Hewlett

In all the mail Hephaistos served his might

       Withal, of breastplate shining like the sun

       Upon flood-water, three-topped helm whereon

       Gleamed the gold basilisk, and goodly greaves.

       These bore he without word; but when from sheaves

       Of spears they picked the great ash Pelian

       Poseidon gave to Peleus, God to a man,

       For no man's manège else—than all men's fear:

       "Dry and cold fighting for thee this day, my spear,"

       Quoth he. And so when one the golden shield

       Immortal, daedal, for no one else to wield,

       Cast o'er his head, he frowned: "On thy bright face

       Let me see who shall dare a dint," he says,

       And stood in thought full-armed; thereafter poured

       Libation at the tent-door to the Lord

       Of earth and sky, and prayed, saying: "O Thou

       That hauntest dark Dodona, hear me now,

       Since that the shadowing arm of Time is flung

       Far over me, but cloudeth me full young.

       Scatheless I vow them. Let one Trojan cast

       His spear and loose my spirit. Rage is past

       Though I go forth my most provocative

       Adventure: 'tis not I that seek. Receive

       My prayer Thou as I have earned it—lo,

       Dying I stand, and hail Thee as I go

       Lord of the Ægis, wonderful, most great!"

       Which done, he took his stand, and bid his mate

       Urge on the steeds; and all the Achaian host

       Followed him, not with outcry or loud boast

       Of deeds to do or done, but silent, grim

       As to a shambles—so they followed him,

       Eyeing that nodding crest and swaying spear

       Shake with the chariot. Solemn thus they near

       The Trojan walls, slow-moving, as by a Fate

       Driven; and thus before the Skaian Gate

       Stands he in pomp of dreadful calm, to die,

       As once in dreadful haste to slay.

       Thereby

       The walls were thick with men, and in the towers

       Women stood gazing, clustered close as flowers

       That blur the rocks in some high mountain pass

       With delicate hues; but like the gray hill-grass

       Which the wind sweepeth, till in waves of light

       It tideth backwards—so all gray or white

       Showed they, as sudden surges moved them cloak

       Their heads, or bare their faces. And none spoke

       Among them, for there stood not woman there

       But mourned her dead, or sensed not in the air

       Her pendent doom of death, or worse than death.

       Frail as flowers were their faces, and all breath

       Came short and quick, as on this dreadful show

       Staring, they pondered it done far below

       As on a stage where the thin players seem

       Unkith to them who watch, the stuff of dream.

       Nor else about the plain showed living thing

       Save high in the blue where sailed on outspread wing

       A vulture bird intent, with mighty span

       Of pinion.

       In the hush spake the dead man,

       Hollow-voiced, terrible: "Ye tribes of Troy,

       Here stand I out for death, and ye for joy

       Of killing as ye will, by cast of spear,

       By bowshot or with sword. If any peer

       Of Hector or Sarpedon care the bout

       Which they both tried aforetime let him out

       With speed, and bring his many against one,

       Fearing no treachery, for there shall be none

       To aid me, God nor man; nor yet will I

       Stir finger in the business, but will die

       By murder sooner than in battle fall

       Under some Trojan hand."

       Breathless stood all,

       Not moving out; but Paris on the roof

       Of his high house, where snug he sat aloof,

       Drew taut the bowstring home, and notched a shaft,

       Soft whistling to himself, what time with craft

       Of peering eyes and narrow twisted face

       He sought an aim.

       Swift from her hiding-place

       Came burning Helen then, in her blue eyes

       A fire unquenchable, but cold as ice

       That scorcheth ere it strike a mortal chill

       Upon the heart. "Darest thou … ?"

       Smiling still,

       He heeded not her warning, nor he read

       The terror of her eyes, but drew and sped

       A screaming arrow, deadly, swerving not—

       Then stood to watch the ruin he had wrought.

       He heard the sob of breath o'er all the host

       Of hushing men; he marked, but then he lost,

       The blood-spurt at the shaft-head; for the crest

       Upheaved, the shoulders stiffen'd, ere to the breast

       Bent down the head, as though the glazing sight

       Curious would mark the death-spot. Still upright

       Stood he; but as a tree that on the side

       Of Ida yields to axe her soaring pride

       And lightlier waves her leafy crown, and swings

       From side to side—so on his crest the wings

       Erect seemed shaking upwards, and to sag

       The spear's point, and the burden'd head to wag

       Before the stricken body felt the stroke,

       Or the strong knees grew lax, or the heart broke.

       Breathless they waited; then the failing man

       Stiffened anew his neck, and changed and wan

       Looked for the last time in the face of day,

       And seemed to dare the Gods such might to slay

       As this, the sanguine splendid thing he was,

       Withal now gray of face and pinched. Alas,

       For pride of life! Now he had heard his knell.

       His spirit passed, and crashing down he fell,

       Mighty Achilles, and struck the earth, and lay

       A huddled mass, a bulk of bronze and clay

       Bestuck with gilt and glitter, like a toy.

       There dropt a forest hush on watching Troy,

       Upon the plain and watching ranks of men;

       And from a tower some woman keened him then

       With long thin cry that wavered in the air—