Helen Redeemed and Other Poems. Maurice Hewlett

THIRD STAVE

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      MENELAUS SPEAKS WITH HELEN

      But when he had her there, sharp root of ill

       To him and his, safeguarded from him still,

       Too sweet to be forgotten, too much marred

       By usage to be what she seemed, bescarred,

       Behandled, too much lost and too much won,

       Mock image making horrible the sun

       That once had shown her pure for his demesne,

       And still revealed her lovely, and unclean—

       Despair turned into stone what had been kind,

       And bitter surged his griefs, to flood his mind.

       "O ruinous face," said he, "O evil head,

       Art thou so early from the wicked bed?

       So prompt to slough the snugness of thy vice?

       Or is it that in luxury thou art nice

       Become, and dalliest?" Low her head she hung

       And moved her lips. As when the night is young

       The hollow wind presages storm, his moan

       Came wailing at her. "Ten years here, alone,

       And in that time to have seen thee thrice!"

       But she:

       "Often and often have I chanced to see

       My lord pass."

       His heart leapt, as leaps the child

       Enwombed: "Hast thou—?"

       Faintly her quick eyes smiled:

       "At this time my house sleepeth, but I wake;

       So have time to myself when I can take

       New air, and old thought."

       As a man who skills

       To read high hope out of dark oracles,

       So gleamed his eyes; so fierce and quick said he:

       "Lady, O God! Now would that I could be

       Beside thee there, breathing thy breath, thy thought

       Gathering!" Silent stood she, memory-fraught,

       Nor looked his way. But he must know her soul,

       So harpt upon her heart. "Is this the whole

       That thou wouldst have me think, that thou com'st here

       Alone to be?"

       She blushed and 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,