Chapter 1

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HELEN REDEEMED

AND OTHER POEMS

BY MAURICE HEWLETT

Δῶρον Ἔρως Ἀΐδῃ

MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1913

Transcriber's Note

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Archaic spellings have been retained. Greek text appears as originally printed.

DEDICATION

Love owes tribute unto Death, Being but a flower of breath, Ev'n as thy fair body is Moment's figure of the bliss Dwelling in the mind of God When He called thee from the sod, Like a crocus up to start, Gray-eyed with a golden heart, Out of earth, and point our sight To thy eternal home of light.

Here on earth is all we know: To let our love as steadfast blow, Open-hearted to the sun, Folded down when our day's done, As thy flower that bids it be Flower of thy charity. 'Tis not ours to boast or pray Breath from us shall outlive clay; 'Tis not thine, thou Pitiful, Set me task beyond my rule.

Yet as young men carve on trees Lovely names, and find in these Solace in the after time, So to have hid thee in my rhyme Shall be comfort when I take The lonely road. Then, for my sake, Keep thou this my graven sigh, And, that I may not all die, Open it, and hear it tell, Here was one who loved thee well.

_October 6, 1912._

CONTENTS

PAGE

HELEN REDEEMED 1 HYPSIPYLE 123 OREITHYIA 149 CLYTIÉ 155 LAI OF GOBERTZ 159 THE SAINTS' MAYING 169 THE ARGIVE WOMEN 173 GNATHO 187 TO THE GODS OF THE COUNTRY 193 FOURTEEN SONNETS-- ALMA SDEGNOSA 197 THE WINDS' POSSESSION 198 ASPETTO REALE 199 KIN CONFESSED 200 QUEL GIORNO PIÙ 201 ABSENCE 202 PRESENCE 203 DREAM ANGUISH 204 HYMNIA-BEATRIX 206 LUX E TENEBRIS 207 DUTY 208 WAGES 209 EYE-SERVICE 210 CLOISTER THOUGHTS 211 THE CHAMBER IDYLL 213 EPIGRAMMATA-- THE OLD HOUSE 217 BLUE IRIS 217 THE ROSEBUD 218 SPRING ON THE DOWN 218 SNOWY NIGHT 219 EVENING MOOD 219 THE PARTING 220 DEDICATION OF A BOOK 221

NOTE

Three of the Poems here published have appeared in book form already, in the Volume called _Songs and Meditations_, long out of print.

HELEN REDEEMED

PROEM

Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood Of passion by the blood Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft Hallowed, if that thin waft Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song To span such store of strong And splendid vision of immortal themes Late harvested in dreams, Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet Thou sing that slim and sweet Fair woman for whose bosom and delight Paris, as well he might, Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost And Troy's, and won and lost Perforce; for who could look on her or feel Her near and not dare steal One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars Such wonder of the stars Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose Of dawn which comes and goes Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills, Or music of upland rills As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it With thy poor market wit, Adept to hue the wanton in the wild, Defile the undefiled! Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high Where piled rocks testify The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold Over the rippling wold Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise First dawned in Helen's eyes, Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art To sing her rendered heart, Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved From loving, but was nerved To see through years of robbery and shame Her spirit, a clear flame, Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace, And hers who at last found ease In white-arm'd Heré, holy husbander Of purer fire than e'er To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing In whom her beauties ring, Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte, Star of my day and night!

_18th September 1912._

FIRST STAVE

THE DEATH OF ACHILLES

Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams, Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams Betray far Ida through a rended cloud And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud The thunder is--'twixt Ida and the main Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain About her like a carpet; from whose height The watchman, ten years watching, every night Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less Their number as the years wax and duress Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day-- More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay. Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones, Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride Shed; nor yet so the end, for Heré cried Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done, And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon By sword or bitter arrow they went hence, Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence. Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high, Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky Told Thetis that her son must go the way He sent Queen Hecuba's--himself must pay, Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self, The price of manslaying, with blood for pelf. A grief immortal took her, and she grieved Deep in sea-cave, whereover restless heaved The wine-dark ocean--silently, not moving, Tearless, a god. O Gods, however loving, That is a lonely grief that must go dry About the graves where the beloved lie, And knows too much to doubt if death ends all Pleasure in strength of limb, joy musical, Mother-love, maiden-love, which never more Must the dead look for on the further shore Of Acheron, and past the willow-wood Of Proserpine! But when he understood, Achilles, that his end was near at hand, Darkling he heard the news, and on the strand Beyond the ships he stood awhile, then cried The Sea-God that high-hearted and clear-eyed He might go down; and this for utmost grace He asked, that not by battle might his face Be marred, nor fighting might some Dardan best Him who had conquered ever. For the rest, Fate, which had given, might take, as fate should be. So prayed he, and Poseidon out of the sea, There where the deep blue into sand doth fade And the long wave rolls in, a bar of jade, Sent him a portent in that sea-blue bird Swifter than light, the halcyon; and men heard The trumpet of his praise: "Shaker of Earth, Hail to thee! Now I fare to death in mirth, As to a banquet!" So when day was come Lightly arose the prince to meet his doom, And kissed Briseïs where she lay abed And never more by hers might rest his head: "Farewell, my dear, farewell, my joy," said he; "Farewell to all delights 'twixt thee and me! For now I take a road whose harsh alarms Forbid so sweet a burden to my arms." Then his clean limbs his weeping squires bedight 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-- As once before one wailed her Hector there.

SECOND STAVE

MENELAUS' DREAM: HELEN ON THE WALL

So he who wore his honour like a wreath About his brows went the dark way of death; Which being done, that deed of ruth and doom Gave breath to Troy; but on the Achaians gloom Settled like pall of cloud upon a land That swoons beneath it. Desperate they scanned Each other, saying: "Now we are left by God," And in the huts behind the wall abode, Heeding not Diomede, Idomeneus, Nor keen Odysseus, nor that friend of Zeus Mykenai's king, nor that robbed Menelaus, Nor bowman Teukros, Nestor wise, nor Aias-- Huge Aias, cursed in death! Peleides bare Himself with pride, but he went raving there. For in the high assembly Thetis made In honour of her son, to waft his shade In peace to Hades' house, after the fire Twice a man's height for him who did suspire Twice a man's heart and render it to Heaven Who gave it, after offerings paid and given, And games of men and horses, she brought forth His regal arms for hero of most worth In the broad Danaan host, who was adjudged Odysseus by all voices. Aias grudged The vote and wandered brooding, drawn apart From his room-fellows, seeding in his heart Envy, which biting inwards did corrode His mettle, and his ill blood plied the goad Upon his brain, until the wretch made mad Went muttering his wrongs, ill-trimmed, ill-clad, Sightless and careless, with slack mouth awry, And working tongue, and danger in the eye; And oft would stare at Heaven and laugh his scorn: "O fools, think not to trick me!" then forlorn Would gaze about green earth or out to sea: "This is the end of man in his degree"-- Thus would he moralise in those bare lands With hopeless brows and tossing up of hands-- "To sow in sweat and see another reap!" Then, pitying himself, he'd fall to weep His desolation, scorned by Gods, by men Slighted; but in a flash he'd rage again And shake his naked sword at unseen foes, And dare them bring Odysseus to his blows: Or let the man but flaunt himself in arms...! So threatening God knows what of savage harms, On him the oxen patient in the marsh, Knee-deep in rushes, gazed to hear his harsh Outcry; and them his madness taught for Greeks, So on their dumb immensity he wreaks His vengeance, driving in the press with shout Of "Aias! Aias!" hurtling, carving out A way with mighty swordstroke, cut and thrust, And makes a shambles in his witless lust; And in the midst, bloodshot, with blank wild eyes Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies All reeking in his madman's battlefield, And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed The pity of his folly; then he sees Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees He stands amid his slaughter, and his own Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan Upon his planted sword. So Aias died Lonely; and he who, never from his side Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian, Abode the fate foreordered in the plan Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.

But think not on the dead, who die and leave A memory more fragrant than their deeds, But to the remnant rather and their needs Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart? Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull As oxen impotent the wain to pull Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge, Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand Dumb monuments of sufferance--so unmanned The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care To drive them forth, since they too knew despair, And neither saw in battle nor retreat A way of honour. And the plain grew sweet Again with living green; the spring o' the year Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear; And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain, Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain, And seemed with tender irony to flout Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose, A holy pall to hide his folly and pain. Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain, And by and by the pent folk within walls Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep Watch, where before stood armèd sentinels; And battle-grounds were musical with bells Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships Loomed through the tender mist, their prows--like lips Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry Salvation out of Heaven--flung on high: Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road Was travelled, and held Paris for a God Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.