LVII.

For under woven branches of the pine, The soft dry needles like a carpet spread, And high above the arching boughs did shine In frosty fret of silver, that the red New dawn fired into gold-work overhead: Within that vale where Paris oft had been With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled To be the sinful lover of a Queen.

LVIII.

Not here they found OEnone: "Nay, not here," Said Paris, faint and low, "shall she be found; Nay, bear me up the mountain, where the drear Winds walk for ever on a haunted ground. Methinks I hear her sighing in their sound; Or some God calls me there, a dying man. Perchance my latest journeying is bound Back where the sorrow of my life began."

LIX.

They reach'd the gateway of that highest glen And halted, wond'ring what the end should be; But Paris whisper'd Helen, while his men Fell back: "Here judged I Gods, here shalt thou see What judgment mine old love will pass on me. But hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know, Whether the Gods at length will set thee free From that old net they wove so long ago."

LX.

Ah, there with wide snows round her like a pall, OEnone crouch'd in sable robes; as still As Winter brooding o'er the Summer's fall, Or Niobe upon her haunted hill, A woman changed to stone by grief, where chill The rain-drops fall like tears, and the wind sighs: And Paris deem'd he saw a deadly will Unmoved in wild OEnone's frozen eyes.

LXI.

"Nay, prayer to her were vain as prayer to Fate," He murmur'd, almost glad that it was so, Like some sick man that need no longer wait, But his pain lulls as Death draws near his woe. And Paris beckon'd to his men, and slow They bore him dying from that fatal place, And did not turn again, and did not know The soft repentance on OEnone's face.

LXII.

But Paris spake to Helen: "Long ago, Dear, we were glad, who never more shall be Together, where the west winds fainter blow Round that Elysian island of the sea, Where Zeus from evil days shall set thee free. Nay, kiss me once, it is a weary while, Ten weary years since thou hast smiled on me, But, Helen, say good-bye, with thine old smile!"

LXIII.

And as the dying sunset through the rain Will flush with rosy glow a mountain height, Even so, at his last smile, a blush again Pass'd over Helen's face, so changed and white; And through her tears she smiled, his last delight, The last of pleasant life he knew, for grey The veil of darkness gather'd, and the night Closed o'er his head, and Paris pass'd away.

LXIV.

Then for one hour in Helen's heart re-born, Awoke the fatal love that was of old, Ere she knew all, and the cold cheeks outworn, She kiss'd, she kiss'd the hair of wasted gold, The hands that ne'er her body should enfold; Then slow she follow'd where the bearers led, Follow'd dead Paris through the frozen wold Back to the town where all men wish'd her dead.

LXV.

Perchance it was a sin, I know not, this! Howe'er it be, she had a woman's heart, And not without a tear, without a kiss, Without some strange new birth of the old smart, From her old love of the brief days could part For ever; though the dead meet, ne'er shall they Meet, and be glad by Aphrodite's art, Whose souls have wander'd each its several way.

* * * * *

LXVI.

And now was come the day when on a pyre Men laid fair Paris, in a broider'd pall, And fragrant spices cast into the fire, And round the flame slew many an Argive thrall. When, like a ghost, there came among them all, A woman, once beheld by them of yore, When first through storm and driving rain the tall Black ships of Argos dash'd upon the shore.

LXVII.

Not now in wrath OEnone came; but fair Like a young bride when nigh her bliss she knows, And in the soft night of her fallen hair Shone flowers like stars, more white than Ida's snows, And scarce men dared to look on her, of those The pyre that guarded; suddenly she came, And sprang upon the pyre, and shrill arose Her song of death, like incense through the flame.

LXVIII.

And still the song, and still the flame went up, But when the flame wax'd fierce, the singing died; And soon with red wine from a golden cup Priests drench'd the pyre; but no man might divide The ashes of the Bridegroom from the Bride. Nay, they were wedded, and at rest again, As in those old days on the mountain-side, Before the promise of their youth was vain.



BOOK VI—THE SACK OF TROY. THE RETURN OF HELEN

The sack of Troy, and of how Menelaus would have let stone Helen, but Aphrodite saved her, and made them at one again, and how they came home to Lacedaemon, and of their translation to Elysium.

I.

There came a day, when Trojan spies beheld How, o'er the Argive leaguer, all the air Was pure of smoke, no battle-din there swell'd, Nor any clarion-call was sounding there! Yea, of the serried ships the strand was bare, And sea and shore were still, as long ago When Ilios knew not Helen, and the fair Sweet face that makes immortal all her woe.

II.

So for a space the watchers on the wall Were silent, wond'ring what these things might mean. But, at the last, sent messengers to call Priam, and all the elders, and the lean Remnant of goodly chiefs, that once had been The shield and stay of Ilios, and her joy, Nor yet despair'd, but trusted Gods unseen, And cast their spears, and shed their blood for Troy.

III.

They came, the more part grey, grown early old, In war and plague; but with them was the young Coroebus, that but late had left the fold And flocks of sheep Maeonian hills among, And valiantly his lot with Priam flung, For love of a lost cause and a fair face,— The eyes that once the God of Pytho sung, That now look'd darkly to the slaughter-place.

IV.

Now while the elders kept their long debate, Coroebus stole unheeded to his band, And led a handful by a postern gate Across the plain, across the barren land Where once the happy vines were wont to stand, And 'mid the clusters once did maidens sing,— But now the plain was waste on every hand, Though here and there a flower would breathe of Spring.

V.

So swift across the trampled battle-field Unchallenged still, but wary, did they pass, By many a broken spear or shatter'd shield That in Fate's hour appointed faithless was: Only the heron cried from the morass By Xanthus' side, and ravens, and the grey Wolves left their feasting in the tangled grass, Grudging; and loiter'd, nor fled far away.

VI.

There lurk'd no spears in the high river-banks, No ambush by the cairns of men outworn, But empty stood the huts, in dismal ranks, Where men through all these many years had borne Fierce summer, and the biting winter's scorn; And here a sword was left, and there a bow, But ruinous seem'd all things and forlorn, As in some camp forsaken long ago.

VII.

Gorged wolves crept round the altars, and did eat The flesh of victims that the priests had slain, And wild dogs fought above the sacred meat Late offer'd to the deathless Gods in vain, By men that, for reward of all their pain, Must haul the ropes, and weary at the oar, Or, drowning, clutch at foam amid the main, Nor win their haven on the Argive shore.

VIII.

Not long the young men marvell'd at the sight, But grasping one a sword, and one the spear Aias, or Tydeus' son, had borne in fight, They sped, and fill'd the town with merry cheer, For folk were quick the happy news to hear, And pour'd through all the gates into the plain, Rejoicing as they wander'd far and near, O'er the long Argive toils endured in vain.

IX.

Ah, sweet it was, without the city walls, To hear the doves coo, and the finches sing; Ah, sweet, to twine their true-loves coronals Of woven wind-flowers, and each fragrant thing That blossoms in the footsteps of the spring; And sweet, to lie, forgetful of their grief, Where violets trail by waters wandering, And the wild fig-tree putteth forth his leaf!

X.

Now while they wander'd as they would, they found A wondrous thing: a marvel of man's skill, That stood within a vale of hollow ground, And bulk'd scarce smaller than the bitter-hill,— The common barrow that the dead men fill Who died in the long leaguer,—not of earth, Was this new portent, but of tree, and still The Trojans stood, and marvell'd 'mid their mirth.

XI.

Ay, much they wonder'd what this thing might be, Shaped like a Horse it was; and many a stain There show'd upon the mighty beams of tree, For some with fire were blacken'd, some with rain Were dank and dark amid white planks of plane, New cut among the trees that now were few On wasted Ida; but men gazed in vain, Nor truth thereof for all their searching knew.

XII.

At length they deem'd it was a sacred thing, Vow'd to Poseidon, monarch of the deep, And that herewith the Argives pray'd the King Of wind and wave to lull the seas to sleep; So this, they cried, within the sacred keep Of Troy must rest, memorial of the war; And sturdily they haled it up the steep, And dragg'd the monster to their walls afar.

XIII.

All day they wrought: and children crown'd with flowers Laid light hands on the ropes; old men would ply Their feeble force; so through the merry hours They toil'd, midst laughter and sweet minstrelsy, And late they drew the great Horse to the high Crest of the hill, and wide the tall gates swang; But thrice, for all their force, it stood thereby Unmoved, and thrice like smitten armour rang.

XIV.

Natheless they wrought their will; then altar fires The Trojans built, and did the Gods implore To grant fulfilment of all glad desires. But from the cups the wine they might not pour, The flesh upon the spits did writhe and roar, The smoke grew red as blood, and many a limb Of victims leap'd upon the temple floor, Trembling; and groans amid the chapels dim

XV.

Rang low, and from the fair Gods' images And from their eyes, dropp'd sweat and many a tear; The walls with blood were dripping, and on these That sacrificed, came horror and great fear; The holy laurels to Apollo dear Beside his temple faded suddenly, And wild wolves from the mountains drew anear, And ravens through the temples seem'd to fly.

XVI.

Yet still the men of Troy were glad at heart, And o'er strange meat they revell'd, like folk fey, Though each would shudder if he glanced apart, For round their knees the mists were gather'd grey, Like shrouds on men that Hell-ward take their way; But merrily withal they feasted thus, And laugh'd with crooked lips, and oft would say Some evil-sounding word and ominous.

XVII.

And Hecuba among her children spake, "Let each man choose the meat he liketh best, For bread no more together shall we break. Nay, soon from all my labour must I rest, But eat ye well, and drink the red wine, lest Ye blame my house-wifery among men dead." And all they took her saying for a jest, And sweetly did they laugh at that she said.

XVIII.

Then, like a raven on the of night, The wild Cassandra flitted far and near, Still crying, "Gather, gather for the fight, And brace the helmet on, and grasp the spear, For lo, the legions of the Night are here!" So shriek'd the dreadful prophetess divine. But all men mock'd, and were of merry cheer; Safe as the Gods they deem'd them, o'er their wine.

XIX.

For now with minstrelsy the air was sweet, The soft spring air, and thick with incense smoke; And bands of happy dancers down the street Flew from the flower-crown'd doors, and wheel'd, and broke; And loving words the youths and maidens spoke, For Aphrodite did their hearts beguile, As when beneath grey cavern or green oak The shepherd men and maidens meet and smile.

XX.

No guard they set, for truly to them all Did Love and slumber seem exceeding good; There was no watch by open gate nor wall, No sentinel by Pallas' image stood; But silence grew, as in an autumn wood When tempests die, and the vex'd boughs have ease, And wind and sunlight fade, and soft the mood Of sacred twilight falls upon the trees.

XXI.

Then the stars cross'd the zenith, and there came On Troy that hour when slumber is most deep, But any man that watch'd had seen a flame Spring from the tall crest of the Trojan keep; While from the belly of the Horse did leap Men arm'd, and to the gates went stealthily, While up the rocky way to Ilios creep The Argives, new return'd across the sea.

XXII.

Now when the silence broke, and in that hour When first the dawn of war was blazing red, There came a light in Helen's fragrant bower, As on that evil night before she fled From Lacedaemon and her marriage bed; And Helen in great fear lay still and cold, For Aphrodite stood above her head, And spake in that sweet voice she knew of old:

XXIII.

"Beloved one that dost not love me, wake! Helen, the night is over, the dawn is near, And safely shalt thou fare with me, and take Thy way through fire and blood, and have no fear: A little hour, and ended is the drear Tale of thy sorrow and thy wandering. Nay, long hast thou to live in happy cheer, By fair Eurotas, with thy lord, the King."

XXIV.

Then Helen rose, and in a cloud of gold, Unseen amid the vapour of the fire, Did Aphrodite veil her, fold on fold; And through the darkness, thronged with faces dire, And o'er men's bodies fallen in a mire Of new spilt blood and wine, the twain did go Where Lust and Hate were mingled in desire, And dreams and death were blended in one woe.

XXV.

Fire and the foe were masters now: the sky Flared like the dawn of that last day of all, When men for pity to the sea shall cry, And vainly on the mountain tops shall call To fall and end the horror in their fall; And through the vapour dreadful things saw they, The maidens leaping from the city wall, The sleeping children murder'd where they lay.

XXVI.

Yea, cries like those that make the hills of Hell Ring and re-echo, sounded through the night, The screams of burning horses, and the yell Of young men leaping naked into fight, And shrill the women shriek'd, as in their flight Shriek the wild cranes, when overhead they spy Between the dusky cloud-land and the bright Blue air, an eagle stooping from the sky.

XXVII.

And now the red glare of the burning shone On deeds so dire the pure Gods might not bear, Save Ares only, long to look thereon, But with a cloud they darken'd all the air. And, even then, within the temple fair Of chaste Athene, did Cassandra cower, And cried aloud an unavailing prayer; For Aias was the master in that hour.

XXVIII.

Man's lust won what a God's love might not win, And heroes trembled, and the temple floor Shook, when one cry went up into the din, And shamed the night to silence; then the roar Of war and fire wax'd great as heretofore, Till each roof fell, and every palace gate Was shatter'd, and the King's blood shed; nor more Remain'd to do, for Troy was desolate.

XXIX.

Then dawn drew near, and changed to clouds of rose The dreadful smoke that clung to Ida's head; But Ilios was ashes, and the foes Had left the embers and the plunder'd dead; And down the steep they drove the prey, and sped Back to the swift ships, with a captive train,— While Menelaus, slow, with drooping head, Follow'd, like one lamenting, through the plain.

XXX.

Where death might seem the surest, by the gate Of Priam, where the spears raged, and the tall Towers on the foe were falling, sought he fate To look on Helen once, and then to fall, Nor see with living eyes the end of all, What time the host their vengeance should fulfil, And cast her from the cliff below the wall, Or burn her body on the windy hill.

XXXI.

But Helen found he never, where the flame Sprang to the roofs, and Helen ne'er he found Where flock'd the wretched women in their shame The helpless altars of the Gods around, Nor lurk'd she in deep chambers underground, Where the priests trembled o'er their hidden gold, Nor where the armed feet of foes resound In shrines to silence consecrate of old.

XXXII.

So wounded to his hut and wearily Came Menelaus; and he bow'd his head Beneath the lintel neither fair nor high; And, lo! Queen Helen lay upon his bed, Flush'd like a child in sleep, and rosy-red, And at his footstep did she wake and smile, And spake: "My lord, how hath thy hunting sped, Methinks that I have slept a weary while!"

XXXIII.

For Aphrodite made the past unknown To Helen, as of old, when in the dew Of that fair dawn the net was round her thrown: Nay, now no memory of Troy brake through The mist that veil'd from her sweet eyes and blue The dreadful days and deeds all over-past, And gladly did she greet her lord anew, And gladly would her arms have round him cast.

XXXIV.

Then leap'd she up in terror, for he stood Before her, like a lion of the wild, His rusted armour all bestain'd with blood, His mighty hands with blood of men defiled, And strange was all she saw: the spears, the piled Raw skins of slaughter'd beasts with many a stain; And low he spake, and bitterly he smiled, "The hunt is ended, and the spoil is ta'en."

XXXV.

No more he spake; for certainly he deem'd That Aphrodite brought her to that place, And that of her loved archer Helen dream'd, Of Paris; at that thought the mood of grace Died in him, and he hated her fair face, And bound her hard, not slacking for her tears; Then silently departed for a space, To seek the ruthless counsel of his peers.

XXXVI.

Now all the Kings were feasting in much joy, Seated or couch'd upon the carpets fair That late had strown the palace floors of Troy, And lovely Trojan ladies served them there, And meat from off the spits young princes bare; But Menelaus burst among them all, Strange, 'mid their revelry, and did not spare, But bade the Kings a sudden council call.

XXXVII.

To mar their feast the Kings had little will, Yet did they as he bade, in grudging wise, And heralds call'd the host unto the hill Heap'd of sharp stones, where ancient Ilus lies. And forth the people flock'd, as throng'd as flies That buzz about the milking-pails in spring, When life awakens under April skies, And birds from dawning into twilight sing.

XXXVIII.

Then Helen through the camp was driven and thrust, Till even the Trojan women cried in glee, "Ah, where is she in whom thou put'st thy trust, The Queen of love and laughter, where is she? Behold the last gift that she giveth thee, Thou of the many loves! to die alone, And round thy flesh for robes of price to be The cold close-clinging raiment of sharp stone."

XXXIX.

Ah, slowly through that trodden field and bare They pass'd, where scarce the daffodil might spring, For war had wasted all, but in the air High overhead the mounting lark did sing; Then all the army gather'd in a ring Round Helen, round their torment, trapp'd at last, And many took up mighty stones to fling From shards and flints on Ilus' barrow cast.

XL.

Then Menelaus to the people spoke, And swift his wing'd words came as whirling snow, "Oh ye that overlong have borne the yoke, Behold the very fountain of your woe! For her ye left your dear homes long ago, On Argive valley or Boeotian plain; But now the black ships rot from stern to prow, Who knows if ye shall see your own again?

XLI.

"Ay, and if home ye win, ye yet may find, Ye that the winds waft, and the waters bear To Argos! ye are quite gone out of mind; Your fathers, dear and old, dishonour'd there; Your children deem you dead, and will not share Their lands with you; on mainland or on isle, Strange men are wooing now the women fair, And love doth lightly woman's heart beguile.

XLII.

"These sorrows hath this woman wrought alone: So fall upon her straightway that she die, And clothe her beauty in a cloak of stone!" He spake, and truly deem'd to hear her cry And see the sharp flints straight and deadly fly; But each man stood and mused on Helen's face, And her undream'd-of beauty, brought so nigh On that bleak plain, within that ruin'd place.

LXIII.

And as in far off days that were to be, The sense of their own sin did men constrain, That they must leave the sinful woman free Who, by their law, had verily been slain, So Helen's beauty made their anger vain, And one by one his gather'd flints let fall; And like men shamed they stole across the plain, Back to the swift ships and their festival.

XLIV.

But Menelaus look'd on her and said, "Hath no man then condemn'd thee,—is there none To shed thy blood for all that thou hast shed, To wreak on thee the wrongs that thou hast done. Nay, as mine own soul liveth, there is one That will not set thy barren beauty free, But slay thee to Poseidon and the Sun Before a ship Achaian takes the sea!"

XLV.

Therewith he drew his sharp sword from his thigh As one intent to slay her: but behold, A sudden marvel shone across the sky! A cloud of rosy fire, a flood of gold, And Aphrodite came from forth the fold Of wondrous mist, and sudden at her feet Lotus and crocus on the trampled wold Brake, and the slender hyacinth was sweet.

XLVI.

Then fell the point that never bloodless fell When spear bit harness in the battle din, For Aphrodite spake, and like a spell Wrought her sweet voice persuasive, till within His heart there lived no memory of sin, No thirst for vengeance more, but all grew plain, And wrath was molten in desire to win The golden heart of Helen once again.

XLVII.

Then Aphrodite vanish'd as the day Passes, and leaves the darkling earth behind; And overhead the April sky was grey, But Helen's arms about her lord were twined, And his round her as clingingly and kind, As when sweet vines and ivy in the spring Join their glad leaves, nor tempests may unbind The woven boughs, so lovingly they cling.

* * * * *

XLVIII.

Noon long was over-past, but sacred night Beheld them not upon the Ilian shore; Nay, for about the waning of the light Their swift ships wander'd on the waters hoar, Nor stay'd they the Olympians to adore, So eagerly they left that cursed land, But many a toil, and tempests great and sore, Befell them ere they won the Argive strand.

XLIX.

To Cyprus and Phoenicia wandering They came, and many a ship, and many a man They lost, and perish'd many a precious thing While bare before the stormy North they ran, And further far than when their quest began From Argos did they seem,—a weary while,— Becalm'd in sultry seas Egyptian, A long day's voyage from the mouths of Nile.

L.

But there the Gods had pity on them, and there The ancient Proteus taught them how to flee From that so distant deep,—the fowls of air Scarce in one year can measure out that sea; Yet first within Aegyptus must they be, And hecatombs must offer,—quickly then The Gods abated of their jealousy, Wherewith they scourge the negligence of men.

LI.

And strong and fair the south wind blew, and fleet Their voyaging, so merrily they fled To win that haven where the waters sweet Of clear Eurotas with the brine are wed, And swift their chariots and their horses sped To pleasant Lacedaemon, lying low Grey in the shade of sunset, but the head Of tall Taygetus like fire did glow.

LII.

And what but this is sweet: at last to win The fields of home, that change not while we change; To hear the birds their ancient song begin; To wander by the well-loved streams that range Where not one pool, one moss-clad stone is strange, Nor seem we older than long years ago, Though now beneath the grey roof of the grange The children dwell of them we used to know?

LIII.

Came there no trouble in the later days To mar the life of Helen, when the old Crowns and dominions perish'd, and the blaze Lit by returning Heraclidae roll'd Through every vale and every happy fold Of all the Argive land? Nay, peacefully Did Menelaus and the Queen behold The counted years of mortal life go by.

LIV.

"Death ends all tales," but this he endeth not; They grew not grey within the valley fair Of hollow Lacedaemon, but were brought To Rhadamanthus of the golden hair, Beyond the wide world's end; ah never there Comes storm nor snow; all grief is left behind, And men immortal, in enchanted air, Breathe the cool current of the Western wind.

LV.

But Helen was a Saint in Heathendom, A kinder Aphrodite; without fear Maidens and lovers to her shrine would come In fair Therapnae, by the waters clear Of swift Eurotas; gently did she hear All prayers of love, and not unheeded came The broken supplication, and the tear Of man or maiden overweigh'd with shame.

O'er Helen's shrine the grass is growing green, In desolate Therapnae; none the less Her sweet face now unworshipp'd and unseen Abides the symbol of all loveliness, Of Beauty ever stainless in the stress Of warring lusts and fears;—and still divine, Still ready with immortal peace to bless Them that with pure hearts worship at her shrine.



NOTE

[In this story in rhyme of the fortunes of Helen, the theory that she was an unwilling victim of the Gods has been preferred. Many of the descriptions of manners are versified from the Iliad and the Odyssey. The description of the events after the death of Hector, and the account of the sack of Troy, is chiefly borrowed from Quintus Smyrnaeus.]

The character and history of Helen of Troy have been conceived of in very different ways by poets and mythologists. In attempting to trace the chief current of ancient traditions about Helen, we cannot really get further back than the Homeric poems, the Iliad and Odyssey. Philological conjecture may assure us that Helen, like most of the characters of old romance, is "merely the Dawn," or Light, or some other bright being carried away by Paris, who represents Night, or Winter, or the Cloud, or some other power of darkness. Without discussing these ideas, it may be said that the Greek poets (at all events before allegorical explanations of mythology came in, about five hundred years before Christ) regarded Helen simply as a woman of wonderful beauty. Homer was not thinking of the Dawn, or the Cloud when he described Helen among the Elders on the Ilian walls, or repeated her lament over the dead body of Hector. The Homeric poems are our oldest literary documents about Helen, but it is probable enough that the poet has modified and purified more ancient traditions which still survive in various fragments of Greek legend. In Homer Helen is always the daughter of Zeus. Isocrates tells us ("Helena," 211 b) that "while many of the demigods were children of Zeus, he thought the paternity of none of his daughters worth claiming, save that of Helen only." In Homer, then, Helen is the daughter of Zeus, but Homer says nothing of the famous legend which makes Zeus assume the form of a swan to woo the mother of Helen. Unhomeric as this myth is, we may regard it as extremely ancient. Very similar tales of pursuit and metamorphosis, for amatory or other purposes, among the old legends of Wales, and in the "Arabian Nights," as well as in the myths of Australians and Red Indians. Again, the belief that different families of mankind descend from animals, as from the Swan, or from gods in the shape of animals, is found in every quarter of the world, and among the rudest races. Many Australian natives of to-day claim descent, like the royal house of Sparta, from the Swan. The Greek myths hesitated as to whether Nemesis or Leda was the bride of the Swan. Homer only mentions Leda among "the wives and daughters of mighty men," whose ghosts Odysseus beheld in Hades: "And I saw Leda, the famous bedfellow of Tyndareus, who bare to Tyndareus two sons, hardy of heart, Castor, tamer of steeds, and the boxer Polydeuces." These heroes Helen, in the Iliad (iii. 238), describes as her mother's sons. Thus, if Homer has any distinct view on the subject, he holds that Leda is the mother of Helen by Zeus, of the Dioscuri by Tyndareus.

Greek ideas as to the character of Helen varied with the various moods of Greek literature. Homer's own ideas about his heroine are probably best expressed in the words with which Priam greets her as she appears among the assembled elders, who are watching the Argive heroes from the wall of Troy:—"In nowise, dear child, do I blame thee; nay, the Gods are to blame, who have roused against me the woful war of the Achaeans." Homer, like Priam, throws the guilt of Helen on the Gods, but it is not very easy to understand exactly what he means by saying "the Gods are to blame." In the first place, Homer avoids the psychological problems in which modern poetry revels, by attributing almost all changes of the moods of men to divine inspiration. Thus when Achilles, in a famous passage of the first book of the Iliad, puts up his half-drawn sword in the sheath, and does not slay Agamemnon, Homer assigns his repentance to the direct influence of Athene. Again, he says in the Odyssey, about Clytemnestra, that "she would none of the foul deed;" that is of the love of Aegisthus, till "the doom of the Gods bound her to her ruin." So far the same excuse is made for the murderous Clytemnestra as for the amiable Helen. Again, Homer is, in the strictest sense, and in strong contrast to the Greek tragedians and to Virgil, a chivalrous poet. It would probably be impossible to find a passage in which he speaks harshly or censoriously of the conduct of any fair and noble lady. The sordid treachery of Eriphyle, who sold her lord for gold, wins for her the epithet "hateful;" and Achilles, in a moment of strong grief, applies a term of abhorrence to Helen. But Homer is too chivalrous to judge the life of any lady, and only shows the other side of the chivalrous character—its cruelty to persons not of noble birth—in describing the "foul death" of the waiting women of Penelope. "God forbid that I should take these women's lives by a clean death," says Telemachus (Odyssey, xxii. 462). So "about all their necks nooses were cast that they might die by the death most pitiful. And they writhed with their feet for a little space, but for no long while." In trying to understand Homer's estimate of Helen, therefore, we must make allowance for his theory of divine intervention, and for his chivalrous judgment of ladies. But there are two passages in the Iliad which may be taken as indicating Homer's opinion that Helen was literally a victim, an unwilling victim, of Aphrodite, and that she was carried away by force a captive from Lacedaemon. These passages are in the Iliad, ii. 356, 590. In the former text Nestor says, "let none be eager to return home ere he has couched with a Trojan's wife, and avenged the longings and sorrows of Helen"—[Greek text]. It is thus that Mr. Gladstone, a notable champion of Helen's, would render this passage, and the same interpretation was favoured by the ancient "Separatists" (Chorizontes), who wished to prove that the Iliad and Odyssey were by different authors; but many authorities prefer to translate "to avenge our labours and sorrows for Helen's sake"—"to avenge all that we have endured in the attempt to win back Helen." Thus the evidence of this passage is ambiguous. The fairer way to seek for Homer's real view of Helen is to examine all the passages in which she occurs. The result will be something like this:—Homer sees in Helen a being of the rarest personal charm and grace of character; a woman who imputes to herself guilt much greater than the real measure of her offence. She is ever gentle except with the Goddess who betrayed her, and the unworthy lover whose lot she is compelled to share. Against them her helpless anger breaks out in flashes of eloquent scorn. Homer was apparently acquainted with the myth of Helen's capture by Theseus, a myth illustrated in the decorations of the coffer of Cypselus. But we first see Helen, the cause of the war, when Menelaus and Paris are about to fight their duel for her sake, in the tenth year of the Leaguer (Iliad, iii. 121). Iris is sent to summon Helen to the walls. She finds Helen in her chamber, weaving at a mighty loom, and embroidering on tapestry the adventures of the siege—the battles of horse-taming Trojans and bronze-clad Achaeans. The message of Iris renews in Helen's heart "a sweet desire for her lord and her own city, and them that begat her;" so, draped in silvery white, Helen goes with her three maidens to the walls. There, above the gate, like some king in the Old Testament, Paris sits among his counsellors, and they are all amazed at Helen's beauty; "no marvel is it that Trojans and Achaeans suffer long and weary toils for such a woman, so wondrous like to the immortal goddesses." Then Priam, assuring Helen that he holds her blameless, bids her name to him her kinsfolk and the other Achaean warriors. In her reply, Helen displays that grace of penitence which is certainly not often found in ancient literature:—"Would that evil death had been my choice, when I followed thy son, and left my bridal bower and my kin, and my daughter dear, and the maidens of like age with me." Agamemnon she calls, "the husband's brother of me shameless; alas, that such an one should be." She names many of the warriors, but misses her brothers Castor and Polydeuces, "own brothers of mine, one mother bare us. Either they followed not from pleasant Lacedaemon, or hither they followed in swift ships, but now they have no heart to go down into the battle for dread of the shame and many reproaches that are mine."

"So spake she, but already the life-giving earth did cover them, there in Lacedaemon, in their own dear country."

Menelaus and Paris fought out their duel, the Trojan was discomfited, but was rescued from death and carried to Helen's bower by Aphrodite. Then the Goddess came in disguise to seek Helen on the wall, and force her back into the arms of her defeated lover. Helen turned on the Goddess with an abruptness and a force of sarcasm and invective which seem quite foreign to her gentle nature. "Wilt thou take me further yet to some city of Phrygia or pleasant Maeonia, if there any man is dear to thee . . . Nay, go thyself and sit down by Paris, and forswear the paths of the Gods, but ever lament for him and cherish him, till he make thee his wife, yea, or perchance his slave, but to him will I never go." But this anger of Helen is soon overcome by fear, when the Goddess, in turn, waxes wrathful, and Helen is literally driven by threats—"for the daughter of Zeus was afraid,"—into the arms of Paris. Yet even so she taunts her lover with his cowardice, a cowardice which she never really condones. In the sixth book of the Iliad she has been urging him to return to the war. She then expresses her penitence to Hector, "would that the fury of the wind had borne me afar to the mountains, or the wave of the roaring sea—ere ever these ill deeds were done!" In this passage too, she prophesies that her fortunes will be [Greek text] famous in the songs, good or evil, of men unborn. In the last book of the Iliad we meet Helen once more, as she laments over the dead body of Hector. "'Never, in all the twenty years since I came hither, have I heard from thee one taunt or one evil word: nay, but if any other rebuked me in the halls, any one of my husband's brothers, or of their sisters, or their wives, or the mother of my husband (but the king was ever gentle to me as a father), then wouldst thou restrain them with thy loving kindness and thy gentle speech.' So spake she; weeping."

In the Odyssey, Helen is once more in Lacedaemon, the honoured but still penitent wife of Menelaus. How they became reconciled (an extremely difficult point in the story), there is nothing in Homer to tell us.

Sir John Lubbock has conjectured that in the morals of the heroic age Helen was not really regarded as guilty. She was lawfully married, by "capture," to Paris. Unfortunately for this theory there is abundant proof that, in the heroic age, wives were nominally bought for so many cattle, or given as a reward for great services. There is no sign of marriage by capture, and, again, marriage by capture is a savage institution which applies to unmarried women, not to women already wedded, as Helen was to Menelaus. Perhaps the oldest evidence we have for opinion about the later relations of Helen and Menelaus, is derived from Pausanias's (174. A.D.) description of the Chest of Cypselus. This ancient coffer, a work of the seventh century, B.C., was still preserved at Olympia, in the time of Pausanias. On one of the bands of cedar or of ivory, was represented (Pausanias, v. 18), "Menelaus with a sword in his hand, rushing on to kill Helen—clearly at the sacking of Ilios." How Menelaus passed from a desire to kill Helen to his absolute complacency in the Odyssey, Homer does not tell us. According to a statement attributed to Stesichorus (635, 554, B.C.?), the army of the Achaeans purposed to stone Helen, but was overawed and compelled to relent by her extraordinary beauty: "when they beheld her, they cast down their stones on the ground." It may be conjectured that the reconciliation followed this futile attempt at punishing a daughter of Zeus. Homer, then, leaves us without information about the adventures of Helen, between the sack of Tiny and the reconciliation with Menelaus. He hints that she was married to Deiphobus, after the death of Paris, and alludes to the tradition that she mimicked the voices of the wives of the heroes, and so nearly tempted them to leave their ambush in the wooden horse. But in the fourth book of the Odyssey, when Telemachus visits Lacedaemon, he finds Helen the honoured wife of Menelaus, rich in the marvellous gifts bestowed on her, in her wanderings from Troy, by the princes of Egypt.

"While yet he pondered these things in his mind and in his heart, Helen came forth from her fragrant vaulted chamber, like Artemis of the golden arrows; and with her came Adraste and set for her the well-wrought chair, and Alcippe bare a rug of soft wool, and Phylo bare a silver basket which Alcandre gave her, the wife of Polybus, who dwelt in Thebes of Egypt, where is the chiefest store of wealth in the houses. He gave two silver baths to Menelaus, and tripods twain, and ten talents of gold. And besides all this, his wife bestowed on Helen lovely gifts; a golden distaff did she give, and a silver basket with wheels beneath, and the rims thereof were finished with gold. This it was that the handmaid Phylo bare and set beside her, filled with dressed yarn, and across it was laid a distaff charged with wool of violet blue. So Helen sat her down in the chair, and beneath was a footstool for the feet."

When the host and guests begin to weep the ready tears of the heroic age over the sorrows of the past, and dread of the dim future, Helen comforts them with a magical potion.

"Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, turned to new thoughts. Presently she cast a drug into the wine whereof they drank, a drug to lull all pain and anger, and bring forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoso should drink a draught thereof, when it is mingled in the bowl, on that day he would let no tear fall down his cheeks, not though his mother and his father died, not though men slew his brother or dear son with the sword before his face, and his own eyes beheld it. Medicines of such virtue and so helpful had the daughter of Zeus, which Polydamna, the wife of Thon, had given her, a woman of Egypt, where Earth the grain-giver yields herbs in greatest plenty, many that are healing in the cup, and many baneful."

So Telemachus was kindly entertained by Helen and Menelaus, and when he left them it was not without a gift.

"And Helen stood by the coffers wherein were her robes of curious needlework which she herself had wrought. Then Helen, the fair lady, lifted one and brought it out, the widest and most beautifully embroidered of all, and it shone like a star, and lay far beneath the rest."

Presently, we read, "Helen of the fair face came up with the robe in her hands, and spake: 'Lo! I too give thee this gift, dear child, a memorial of the hands of Helen, for thy bride to wear upon the day of thy desire, even of thy marriage. But meanwhile let it lie with thy mother in her chamber. And may joy go with thee to thy well-builded house, and thine own country.'"

Helen's last words, in Homer, are words of good omen, her prophecy to Telemachus that Odysseus shall return home after long wanderings, and take vengeance on the rovers. We see Helen no more, but Homer does not leave us in doubt as to her later fortunes. He quotes the prophecy which Proteus, the ancient one of the sea, delivered to Menelaus:—

"But thou, Menelaus, son of Zeus, art not ordained to die and meet thy fate in Argos, the pasture-land of horses, but the deathless gods will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the world's end, where is Rhadamanthus of the fair hair, where life is easiest for men. No snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but alway ocean sendeth forth the breeze of the shrill West to blow cool on men: yea, for thou hast Helen to wife, and thereby they deem thee to be son of Zeus."

We must believe, with Isocrates, that Helen was translated, with her lord, to that field of Elysium, "where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow." This version of the end of Helen's history we have adopted, but many other legends were known in Greece. Pausanias tells us that, in a battle between the Crotoniats and the Locrians, one Leonymus charged the empty space in the Locrian line, which was entrusted to the care of the ghost of Aias. Leonymus was wounded by the invisible spear of the hero, and could not be healed of the hurt. The Delphian oracle bade him seek the Isle of Leuke in the Euxine Sea, where Aias would appear to him, and heal him. When Leonymus returned from Leuke he told how Achilles dwelt there with his ancient comrades, and how he was now wedded to Helen of Troy. Yet the local tradition of Lacedaemon showed the sepulchre of Helen in Therapnae. According to a Rhodian legend (adopted by the author of the "Epic of Hades"), Helen was banished from Sparta by the sons of Menelaus, came wandering to Rhodes, and was there strangled by the servants of the queen Polyxo, who thus avenged the death of her husband at Troy. It is certain, as we learn both from Herodotus (vi. 61) and from Isocrates, that Helen was worshipped in Therapnae. In the days of Ariston the king, a deformed child was daily brought by her nurse to the shrine of Helen. And it is said that, as the nurse was leaving the shrine, a woman appeared unto her, and asked what she bore in her arms, who said, "she bore a child." Then the woman said, "show it to me," which the nurse refused, for the parents of the child had forbidden that she should be seen of any. But the woman straitly commanding that the child should be shown, and the other beholding her eagerness, at length the nurse showed the child, and the woman caressed its face and said, "she shall be the fairest woman in Sparta." And from that day the fashion of its countenance was changed, "and the child became the fairest of all the Spartan women."

It is a characteristic of Greek literature that, with the rise of democracy, the old epic conception of the ancient heroes altered. We can scarcely recognize the Odysseus of Homer in the Odysseus of Sophocles. The kings are regarded by the tragedians with some of the distrust and hatred which the unconstitutional tyrants of Athens had aroused. Just as the later chansons de geste of France, the poems written in an age of feudal opposition to central authority, degraded heroes like Charles, so rhetorical, republican, and sophistical Greece put its quibbles into the lips of Agamemnon and Helen, and slandered the stainless and fearless Patroclus and Achilles.

The Helen of Euripides, in the "Troades," is a pettifogging sophist, who pleads her cause to Menelaus with rhetorical artifice. In the "Helena," again, Euripides quite deserts the Homeric traditions, and adopts the late myths which denied that Helen ever went to Troy. She remained in Egypt, and Achaeans and Trojans fought for a mere shadow, formed by the Gods out of clouds and wind. In the "Cyclops" of Euripides, a satirical drama, the cynical giant is allowed to speak of Helen in a strain of coarse banter. Perhaps the essay of Isocrates on Helen may be regarded as a kind of answer to the attacks of several speakers in the works of the tragedians. Isocrates defends Helen simply on the plea of her beauty: "To Heracles Zeus gave strength, to Helen beauty, which naturally rules over even strength itself." Beauty, he declares, the Gods themselves consider the noblest thing in the world, as the Goddesses showed when they contended for the prize of loveliness. And so marvellous, says Isocrates, was the beauty of Helen, that for her glory Zeus did not spare his beloved son, Sarpedon; and Thetis saw Achilles die, and the Dawn bewailed her Memnon. "Beauty has raised more mortals to immortality than all the other virtues together." And that Helen is now a Goddess, Isocrates proves by the fact that the sacrifices offered to her in Therapnae, are such as are given, not to heroes, but to immortal Gods.

When Rome took up the legends of Greece, she did so in no chivalrous spirit. Few poets are less chivalrous than Virgil; no hero has less of chivalry than his pious and tearful Aeneas. In the second book of the Aeneid, the pious one finds Helen hiding in the shrine of Vesta, and determines to slay "the common curse of Troy and of her own country." There is no glory, he admits, in murdering a woman:—

Extinxisse nefas tamen et sumpsisse merentis Laudabor poenas, animumqne explesse juvabit Ultricis flammae, et cineres satiasse meorum.

But Venus appears and rescues the unworthy lover of Dido from the crowning infamy which he contemplates. Hundreds of years later, Helen found a worthier poet in Quintus Smyrnaeus, who in a late age sang the swan-song of Greek epic minstrelsy. It is thus that (in the fourth century A.D.) Quintus describes Helen, as she is led with the captive women of Ilios, to the ships of the Achaeans:—"Now Helen lamented not, but shame dwelt in her dark eyes, and reddened her lovely cheeks, . . . while around her the people marvelled as they beheld the flawless grace and winsome beauty of the woman, and none dared upbraid her with secret taunt or open rebuke. Nay, as she had been a Goddess they beheld her gladly, for dear and desired was she in their sight. And as when their own country appeareth to men long wandering on the sea, and they, being escaped from death and the deep, gladly put forth their hands to greet their own native place; even so all the Danaans were glad at the sight of her, and had no more memory of all their woful toil, and the din of war: such a spirit did Cytherea put into their hearts, out of favour to fair Helen and father Zeus." Thus Quintus makes amends for the trivial verses in which Coluthus describes the flight of a frivolous Helen with an effeminate Paris.

To follow the fortunes of Helen through the middle ages would demand much space and considerable research. The poets who read Dares Phrygius believed, with the scholar of Dr. Faustus, that "Helen of Greece was the admirablest lady that ever lived." When English poetry first found the secret of perfect music, her sweetest numbers were offered by Marlowe at the shrine of Helen. The speech of Faustus is almost too hackneyed to be quoted, and altogether too beautiful to be omitted:—

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, And burnt the topless towers of Ilium! Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss. Her lips suck forth my soul! see where it flies; Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again; Here will I dwell, for heaven is in those lips, And all is dross that is not Helena.

* * * * *

Oh thou art fairer than the evening air Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

The loves of Faustus and Helen are readily allegorized into the passion of the Renaissance for classical beauty, the passion to which all that is not beauty seemed very dross. This is the idea of the second part of "Faust," in which Helen once more became, as she prophesied in the Iliad, a song in the mouths of later men. Almost her latest apparition in English poetry, is in the "Hellenics" of Landor. The sweetness of the character of Helen; the tragedy of the death of Corythus by the hand of his father Paris; and the omnipotence of beauty and charm which triumph over the wrath of Menelaus, are the subjects of Landor's verse. But Helen, as a woman, has hardly found a nobler praise, in three thousand years, than Helen, as a child, has received from Mr. Swinburne in "Atalanta in Calydon." Meleager is the speaker:—

Even such (for sailing hither I saw far hence, And where Eurotas hollows his moist rock Nigh Sparta, with a strenuous-hearted stream) Even such I saw their sisters; one swan-white, The little Helen, and less fair than she Fair Clytemnestra, grave as pasturing fawns Who feed and fear some arrow; but at whiles, As one smitten with love or wrung with joy, She laughs and lightens with her eyes, and then Weeps; whereat Helen, having laughed, weeps too, And the other chides her, and she being chid speaks naught, But cheeks and lips and eyelids kisses her Laughing, so fare they, as in their bloomless bud And full of unblown life, the blood of gods.

There is all the irony of Fate in Althaeas' reply

Sweet days befall them and good loves and lords, Tender and temperate honours of the hearths, Peace, and a perfect life and blameless bed.

THE END