Helen Redeemed and Other Poems. Maurice Hewlett

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ