Helen Redeemed and Other Poems. Maurice Hewlett

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. Upon him fell aslant

       That lovely light, while in her cheeks the hue

       Of throbbing dawn came sudden. So he knew

       Her best before she spoke; for when she spoke

       It was as if the nightingale should croak

       In April midst the first young leaves, so bleak,

       So harsh she schooled her throat, that it should speak

       Dry matter and hard logic—as if she

       Were careful lest self-pity urged a plea

       Which was not hers to make; or as one faint

       And desperate lays down all his argument

       Like bricks upon a field, let who will make

       A house of them; so drily Helen spake

       With a flat voice. "Thou hadst been nine days gone,

       Came my lord Alexandros, Priam's son,

       And hailed me in the hall whereas I sat,

       And claimed his guest-right, which not wondering at

       I gave as fitting was. Then came the day

       I was beguiled. What more is there to say?"

       Fixt on her fingers playing on the wall

       Her eyes were. But the King said: "Tell me all.

       Thou wert beguiled: by his desire beguiled,

       Or by thine own?" She shook her head and smiled

       Most sadly, pitying herself. "Who knoweth

       The ways of Love, whence cometh, whither goeth

       The heart's low whimper? This I know, he loved

       Me then, and pleasured only where I moved

       About the house. And I had pleasure too

       To know of me he had it. Then we knew

       The day at hand when he must take the road

       And leave me; and its eve we close abode

       Within the house, and spake not. But I wept."

       She stayed, and whispering down her next word crept:

       "I was beguiled, beguiled." And then her lip

       She bit, and rueful showed her partnership

       In sinful dealing.

       But he, in his esteem

       Bleeding and raw, urged on. "To Kranai's deme

       He took thee then?"

       Speechless she bent her head

       Towards her tender breasts whereon, soft shed

       As upon low quiet hills, the dawn light played,

       And limned their gentle curves or sank in shade.

       So gazing, stood she silent, but the King

       Urged on. "From thence to Ilios, thou willing,

       He took thee?"

       Then, "I was beguiled," again

       She said; and he, who felt a worthier strain

       Stir in his gall compassion, and uplift

       Him out of knowledge, saw a blessed rift

       Upon his dark horizon, as tow'rds night

       The low clouds break and shafted shows the light.

       "Ten years beguiled!" he said, "but now it seems

       Thou art——" She shook her head. "Nay, now come dreams;

       Nay, now I think, remember, now I see."

       "What callest thou to mind?" "Hermione,"

       She said, "our child, and Sparta my own land,

       And all the honour that lay to my hand

       Had I but chosen it, as now I would"—

       And sudden hid her face up in her hood,