Chapter 4

That same night, as she used, fair Helen went Among the suppliants in the hall, and lent To each who craved the bounty of her grace, Her gentle touch on wounds, her pitiful face To beaten eyes' dumb eloquence, that art She above all could use, to stroke the heart And plead compassion in bestowing it. So with her handmaids busy did she flit From man to man, 'mid outlaws, broken blades, Robbed husbandmen, their robbers, phantoms, shades Of what were men till hunger made them less Than man can be and still know uprightness; And whom she spake with kindly words and cheer In him the light of hope began to peer And glimmer in his eyes; and him she fed And nourisht, then sent homeward comforted A little, to endure a little more. Now among these, hard by the outer door, She marked a man unbent whose sturdy look Never left hers for long, whose shepherd's hook Seemed not a staff to prop him, whose bright eyes Burned steadily, as fire when the wind dies. Great in the girth was he, but not so tall By a full hand as many whom the wall Showed like gaunt channel-posts by an ebb tide Left stranded in a world of ooze. Beside His knees she kneeled, and to his wounded feet Applied her balms; but he, from his low seat Against the wall, leaned out and in her ear Whispered, but so that no one else could hear, "Other than my wounds are there for thy pains, Lady, and deeper. One, a grievous, drains The great heart of a king, and one is fresh, Though ten years old, in the sweet innocent flesh Of a young child." Nothing said she, but stoopt The closer to her task. He thought she droopt Her head, he knew she trembled, that her shoulder Twitcht as she wrought her task; so he grew bolder, Saying, "But thou art pitiful! I know That thou wilt wash their wounds." She whispered "Oh, Be sure of me!" Then he, "Let us have speech Secret together out of range or reach Of prying ears, if such a chance may be." Then she said, "Towards morning look for me Here, when the city sleeps, before the sun." So till the glimmer of dawn this hardy one Keepeth the watch in Paris' house. All night With hard unwinking eyes he sat upright, While all about the sleepers lay, like stones Littered upon a hill-top, save that moans, Sighings and "Gods, have pity!" showed that they By night rehearsed the miseries of day, And by bread lived not but by hope deferred. Grimly he suffered till such time he heard Helen's light foot and faint and gray in the mist Descried her slim veiled outline, saw her twist And slip between the sleepers on the ground, Atiptoe coming, swift, with scarce a sound, Not faltering in fear. No fear she had. From head to foot a sea-blue mantle clad Her lovely shape, from which her pale keen face Shone like the moon in frosty sky. No case Was his to waver, for her eyes spake true As Heaven upon the world. Him then she drew To follow her, out of the house, to where The ilex trees stood darkly, and the air Struck sharp and chill before the dawn's first breath. There stood a little altar underneath An image: Artemis the quick deerslayer, High-girdled and barekneed; to Whom in prayer First bowed, then stood erect with lifted hands, Palms upward, Helen. "Lady of open lands And lakes and windy heights," prayed she, "so do To me as to Amphion's wife when blew The wind of thy high anger, and she stared On sudden death that not one dear life spared Of all she had--so do to me if false I prove unto this Argive!" Then the walls And gates of Ilios she traced in the sand, And told him of the watch-towers, and how manned The gates at night; and where the treasure was, And where the houses of the chiefs. But as She faltered in the tale, "Show now," said he, "Where Priam's golden palace is." But she Said, "Nay, not that; for since the day of shame That brought me in, no word or look of blame Hath he cast on me. Nay, when Hector died And all the city turned on me and cried My name, as to an outcast dog men fling Howling and scorn, not one word said the King. And when they hissed me in the shrines of the Gods, And women egged their children on with nods To foul the house-wall, or in passing spat Towards it, he, the old King, came and sat Daily with me, and often on my hair Would lay a gentle hand. Him thou shalt spare For my sake who betray him." Odysseus said, "Well, thou shalt speak no more of him. His bed Is not of thy making, nor mine, but his Who hath thee here a cageling, thy Paris. Him he begat as well as Hector. Now Let Priam look to reap what he did sow." But when glad light brimmed o'er the cup of earth And shrill birds called forth men to grief or mirth As might afford their labour under the sun, Helen advised how best to get him gone, And fetched a roll of cord, the which made fast About a stanchion, about him next she cast, About and about until the whole was round His body, and the end to his arm she bound: Then showed him in the wall where best foothold Might be, and watcht him down as fold by fold He paid the cable out; and as he paid So did she twist it, till the coil was made As it had been at first. Then watcht she him Stride o'er the plain until he twinkled dim And sank into the mist. That day came not King Menelaus to the trysting spot; But ere Odysseus left her she had ta'en A crocus flower which on her breast had lain, And toucht it with her lips. "Give this," said she, "To my good lord who hath seen the flower in me."

SEVENTH STAVE

THEY BUILD THE HORSE AND ENTER IN

What weariness of wind and wave and foam Was to be for Odysseus ere his home Of scrub and crag and scanty pasturage He saw again! What stress of pilgrimage Through roaring waterways and cities of men, What sojourn among folk beyond the ken Of mortal seafarers in homelier seas, More trodden lands! Sure, none had earned his ease As he, that windless morning when he drew Near silent Ithaca, gray in misty blue, And wondered on the old familiar scene, Which was to him as it had never been Aforetime. Say, had he but had inkling That in this hour all that long wandering Of his was self-ensured, had he been bold To plan and carry what must now be told Of this too hardy champion? Solve it you Whose chronicling is over. Mine's to do. All day until the setting of the sun, Devising how to use what he had won Odysseus stood; for nothing within walls Was hid, he knew the very trumpet-calls Wherewith they turned the guard out, and the cries The sentries used to hearten or advise The city in the watches of the night. Once in, no hope for Ilios; but his plight No better stood for that, since no way in Could he conceive, nor entry hope to win For any force enough to seize the gate And open for the host. But then some Fate, Or, some men say, Athené the gray-eyed, Ever his friend, never far from his side, Prompted him look about him. Then he heeds A stork set motionless in the dry reeds That lift their withered arms, a skeleton host, Long after winter and her aching frost Are gone, and rattle in the spring's soft breeze Dry bones, as if to daunt the budding trees And warn them of the summer's wrath to come. Still sat the bird, as fast asleep or numb With cold, her head half-buried in her breast, With close-shut eyes: a dead bird on the nest, Arrow-shot--for behold! a wound she bore Mid-breast, which stooping to, to see the more, Lo, forth from it came busy, one by one, Light-moving ants! So she to her death had gone These many days; and there where she lost life Her carrion shell with it again was rife. So teems the earth, that ere our clay be rotten New hosts sweep clean the hearth, our deeds forgotten. But stooping still, Odysseus saw her not Nor her brisk tenantry; afar his thought, And after it his vision, crossed the plain And lit on Ilios, dim and lapt in rain, Piled up like blocks which Titans rear to mark Where hero of their breed sits stiff and stark, Spear in dead hand, and dead chin on dead knees; And "Ha," cried he, "proud hinderer of our ease, Now hold I thee within my hollowed hand!" Straightway returning, Troy's destruction planned, He sends for one Epeios, craftsman good, And bids him frame him out a horse in wood, Big-bellied as a ship of sixty oars Such as men use for traffic, not in wars, Nor piracy, but roomy, deep in the hold, Where men may shelter if needs be from cold, Or sleep between their watches. "Scant not you," He said, "your timber not your sweat. Drive through This horse for me, Epeios, as if we Awaited it to give the word for sea And Hellas and our wives and children dear; For this is true, without it we stay here Another ten-year shift, if by main force We would take Troy, but ten days with my horse." So to their task Epeios and his teams Went valiantly, and heaved and hauled great beams Of timber from far Ida, and hacked amain And rought the framework out. Then to it again They went with adzes and their smoothing tools, And made all shapely; next bored for their dools With augurs, and made good stock on to stock With mortise and with dovetail. Last, they lock The frames with clamps, the nether to the upper, And body forth a horse from crest to crupper In outline. Now their ribbing must be shaped With axe to take the round, first rought, then scraped With adzes, then deep-mortised in the frame To bear the weight of so much mass, whose fame When all was won, the Earth herself might quake, Supporting on her broad breast. Now they take Planks sawn and smoothed, and set them over steam Of cauldrons to be supple. These to the beam Above they rivet fast, and bend them down Till from the belly more they seem to have grown Than in it to be ended, so well sunk And grooved they be. There's for the horse's trunk. But as for head and legs, these from the block Epeios carved, and fixed them on the stock With long pins spigotted and clamps of steel; And then the tail, downsweeping to the heel, He carved and rivetted in place. Yet more He did; for cunningly he made a door Beneath the belly of him, in a part Where Nature lends her aid to sculptor's art, And few would have the thought to look for it, Or eyes so keen to find, if they'd the wit. Greatly stood he, hogmaned, with wrinkled néck And wrying jaw, as though upon the check One rode him. On three legs he stood, with one Pawing the air, as if his course to run Was overdue. Almost you heard the champ And clatter of the bit, almost the stamp And scrape of hoof; almost his fretful crest He seemed to toss on high. So much confest The wondering host. "But where's the man to ride?" They askt. Odysseus said, "He'll go inside. Yet there shall seem a rider--nay, let two Bespan so brave a back," Epeios anew He spurred, and had his horsemen as he would, Two noble youths, star-frontletted, but nude Of clothing, and unarmed, who sat as though Centaurs not men, and with their knees did show The road to travel. Next Odysseus bid, "Gild thou me him, Epeios"; which he did, And burnisht after, till he blazed afar Like that great image which men hail for a star Of omen holy, image without peer, Chryselephantine Athené with her spear, Shining o'er Athens; to which their course they set When homeward faring through the seaways wet From Poros or from Nauplia, or some From the Eubœan gulf, or where the foam Washes the feet of Sounion, on whose brow Like a white crown the shafts burn even now. Such was the shaping of the Horse of Wood, The bane of Ilios. Ordered now they stood Midway between the ships and Troy, and cast The lots, who should go in from first to last Of all the chieftains chosen. And the lot Leapt out of Diomede, so in he got And sat up in the neck. Next Aias went, Clasping his shins and blinking as he bent, Working the ridges of his villainous brow, Like puzzled, patient monkey on a bough That peers with bald, far-seeing eyes, whose scope And steadfastness seem there to mock our hope; Next Antiklos, and next Meriones The Cretan; next good Teukros. After these Went Pyrrhos, Agamemnon, King of men, Menestheus and Idomeneus, and then King Menelaus; and Odysseus last Entered the desperate doorway, and made fast. And all the Achaian remnant, seeing their best To this great venture finally addrest, Stood awed in silence; but Nestor the old Bade bring the victims, and these on the wold In sight of Troy he slew, and so uplift The smoke of fire, and bloodsmoke, as a gift Acceptable to Him he hailed by name Kronion, sky-dweller, who giveth fame, Lord of the thunder; to Heré next, and Her, The Maid of War and holy harbinger Of Father Zeus, who bears the Ægis dread And shakes it when the storm peals overhead And lightning splits the firmament with fire; Nor yet forgat Poseidon, dark-haired sire Of all the seas, and of great Ocean's flow, The girdler of the world. So back with slow And pondered steps they all returned, and dark Swallowed up Troy, and Horse, and them who stark Abode within it. And the great stars shone Out over sea and land; and speaking none, Nursing his arms, nursing within his breast His enterprise, each hero sat at rest Ignorant of the world of day and night, Or whether he should live to see the light, Or see it but to perish in this cage. Only Odysseus felt his heart engage The blithelier for the peril. He was stuff That thrives by daring, nor can dare enough.

Three days, three nights before the Skaian Gate Sat they within their ambush, apt for fate; Three days, three nights, the Trojans swarmed the walls And towers or held high council in their halls What this portended, this o'erweening mass Reared up so high no man stretching could pass His hand over the crupper, of such girth Of haunch, to span the pair no man on earth Could compass with both arms. But most their eyes Were for the riders who in godlike guise Went naked into battle, as Gods use, Untrammel'd by our shifts of shields and shoes, As if we dread the earth whereof we are. Sons of God, these: for bore not each a star Ablaze upon his forelock? Lo, they say, Kastor and Polydeukes, who but they, Come in to save their sister at the last, And war for Troy, and root King Priam fast In his demesne, him and his heirs for ever! Now call they soothsayers to make endeavour With engines of their craft to read the thing; But others urge them hale it to the King-- "Let him dispose," they say, "of it and us, And order as he will, from Pergamos To heave it o'er the sheer and bring to wreck; Or burn with fire; or harbour to bedeck The temple of some God: of three ways one. Here it cannot abide to flout the sun With arrogant flash for every beam of his." Herewith agreed the men of mysteries, Raking the bloodsick earth to have the truth, And getting what they lookt for, as in sooth A man will do. So then they all fell to't To hale with cords and lever foot by foot The portent; and as frenzy frenzy breeds, And what one has another thinks he needs, So to a straining twenty other score Lent hands, and ever from the concourse more Of them, who hauled as if Troy's life depended On hastening forward that wherein it ended. So came the Horse to Troy, so was filled up With retribution that sweet loving-cup Paris had drunk to Helen overseas-- The cup which whoso drains must taste the lees.

EIGHTH STAVE

THE HORSE IN TROY; THE PASSION OF KASSANDRA

High over Troy the windy citadel, Pergamos, towereth, where is the cell And precinct of Athené. There, till reived, They kept the Pallium, sacred and still grieved By all who held the city consecrate To Her, as first it was, till she learned hate For what had once been lovely, and let in The golden Aphrodité, and sweet sin To ensnare Prince Paris and send him awooing A too-fair wife, to be his own undoing And Troy's and all the line's of Dardanos, That traced from Zeus to him, from him to Tros, From Tros to Ilos, to Laomedon, Who begat Priam as his second son. But out of Troy Assarakos too came, From whom came Kapys; and from him the fame Of good Anchises, with whom Kypris lay In love and got Aineias. He, that day Of dreadful wrath, safe only out did come, And builded great Troy's line in greater Rome. Now to the forecourt flock the Trojan folk To view the portent. Now they bring to yoke Priam's white horses, that the stricken king Himself may see the wonder-working thing, Himself invoke with his frail trembling voice The good Twin Brethren for his aid and Troy's. So presently before it Priam stands, Father and King of Troy, with feeble hands And mild pale eyes wherein Grief like a ghost Sits; and about him all he has not lost Of all his children gather, with grief-worn Andromaché and her first, and last, born, The boy Astyanax. And there apart The wise Aineias stands, of steadfast heart But not acceptable--for some old grudge Inherited--Aineias, silent judge Of folly, as he had been since the sin Of Paris knelled the last days to begin. But he himself, that Paris, came not out, But kept his house in these his days of doubt, Uncertain of his footing, being of those On whom the faintest breath of censure blows Chill as the wind that from the frozen North Palsies the fount o' the blood. He dared not forth Lest men should see--and how not see? he thought-- That Helen held him lightlier than she ought. But Helen came there, gentle as of old, Self-held, sufficient to herself, not bold, Not modest nor immodest, taking none For judge or jury of what she may have done; But doing all she was to do, sedate, Intent upon it and deliberate. As she had been at first, so was she now When she had put behind her her old vow And had no pride but thinking of her new. But she was lovelier, of more burning hue, And in her eyes there shone, for who could see, A flickering light, half scare and half of glee, Which made those iris'd orbs to wax and wane Like to the light of April days, when rain And sun contend the sovereignty. She kept Beside the King, and only closer crept To let him feel her there when some harsh word Or look made her heart waver. Many she heard, And much she saw, but knew the King her friend, Him only since great Hector met his end. And while so pensive and demure she stood, With one thin hand just peeping at her hood, The which close-folded her from head to knee, Her heart within her bosom hailed her--"Free! Free from thy thralldom, free to save, to give, To love, be loved again, and die to live!" So she--yet who had said, to see her there, The sweet-faced woman, blue-eyed, still and fair As windless dawn in some quiet mountain place, To such a music let her passion race?