Is this your meed of honour? Was it for this You flung forth fortune--to ensure him his?

And he made snug at home, we seek our lands Barer than we left them, with emptier hands, And some with fewer members, shed that he Might fare as soft and trim as formerly!

Not so went I adventuring, good friend; Not so look I this business to have end: Nay, but I fight to live, not live to fight, And so will live by day as thou by night, Sating my eyes with havoc on this race Of robbers of the hearth; see their strong place Brought level with the herbage and the weed, That where they revelled once shrew-mice may feed, And moles make palaces, and bats keep house.

And if thou art of spleen so slow to rouse As quit thy score by thieving from a thief And leave him scatheless else, thou art no chief For Tydeus' son, who sees no end of strife But in his own or in his foeman's life."

So he. Then Pyrrhos spake: "By that great shade Wherein I stand, which thy false Paris made Who slew my father, think not so to have done With Troy and Priam; for Peleides' son Must slake the sword that cries, and still the ghost Of him that haunts the ingles of this coast, Murdered and unacquit while that man's father Liveth."

Then leapt up two, and both together Cried, "Give us Troy to sack, give us our fill Of gold and bronze; give us to burn and kill!"

And Aias said, "Are there no women then In Troy, but only her? And are we men Or virgins of Athene?" And the dream Of her who served that dauntless One made gleam His shifting eyes, and stretcht his fleshy lips Behind his beard.

Then stood that prince of ships And shipmen, great Odysseus; with one hand He held the staff, with one he took command; And thus in measured tones, with word intent Upon the deed, fierce but not vehement, Drave in his dreadful message. At his sight Clamour died down, even as the wind at night Falls and is husht at rising of the moon.

"Ye chieftains of Achaia, not so soon Is strife of ten years rounded to a close, Neither so are men seated, friends or foes.

For say thus lightly we renounced the meed Of our long travail, gave so little heed To our great dead as find in one man's joy Full recompense for all we've sunk in Troy-- Wives desolate, children fatherless, lands, gear, Stock without master, wasting year by year; Youth past, age creeping on, friends, brothers, sons Lost in the void, gone where no respite runs For sorrow, but the darkness covers all-- What name should we bequeath our sons but thrall, Or what beside a name, who let go by Ilios the rich for others' usury?

And have the blessed G.o.ds no say in this?

Think you they be won over by a kiss-- Here the Queen, she, the unwearied aid Of all our striving, Pallas the war-maid?

Have they not vowed, and will ye scant their hate, Havoc on Ilios from gate to gate, And for her towers abas.e.m.e.nt to the dust?

Behold, O King, l.u.s.t shall be paid with l.u.s.t, And treachery with treachery, and for blood Blood shall be shed. Therefore let loose the flood Of our pent pa.s.sion; break her gates in, raze The walls of her, c.u.mber her pleasant ways With dead men; set on havoc, sate with spoil Men ravening; get corn and wine and oil, Women to clasp in love, gold, silken things, Harness of flashing bronze, swords, meed of kings, Chariots and horses swifter than the wind Which, coursing Ida, leaves ruin behind Of snapt tall trees: not faster shall they fall Than Trojan spears once we are on the wall.

So only shall ye close this agelong strife, Nor by redemption of a too fair wife, Now smiling, now averse, now hot, now cold, O Menelaus, may the tale be told!

Nay, but by slaying of Achilles' slayer, By the betrayal of the bed-betrayer, By not withholding from the spoils of war Men freeborn, nor from them that beaten are Their rueful wages. Ilios must fall."

He said, and sat, and heard the acclaim of all, Save of the sons of Atreus, who sat glum, One flusht, one white as parchment, and both dumb; One raging to be contraried, one torn By those two pa.s.sions wherewith he was born, The l.u.s.t for body's ease and l.u.s.t of gain.

Then slow he rose, Mykenai's king of men, Gentle his voice to hear. "Laertes' son,"

He said, but 'twas Nestor he looked upon, The wise old man who sat beside his chair, Mild now who once, a lion, kept his lair Untoucht of any, or if e'er he left it, Left it for prey, and held that when he reft it From foe, or over friend made stronger claim: "Laertes' son," the king said, "all men's fame Reports thee just and fertile in device; And as the friend of G.o.d great is thy price To us of Argos; for without the G.o.ds How should we look to trace the limitless roads That weave a criss-cross 'twixt us and our home?

Go to now, some will stay and other some Take to the sea-ways, hasty to depart, Not warfaring as men fare to the mart, To best a neighbour in some chaffering bout; But honour is the prize wherefor they go out, And having that, dishonoured are content To leave the foe--that is best punishment.

Natheless since men there be, Argives of worth, Who needs must shed more blood ere they go forth-- As if of blood enough had not been spilt!-- Devise thou with my brother if thou wilt, n.o.ble Odysseus, seeking how compose His honour with thy judgment. Well he knows Thy singleness of heart, deep ponderer, Lover of a fair wife, and sure of her.

Come, let this be the sum of our debate."

"Content you," Menelaus said, "I wait Upon thy word, thou fosterling of Zeus."

Then said Odysseus, "Be it as you choose, Ye sons of Atreus. Then, advised, I say Let me win into Troy as best I may, Seek out the lovely lady of our land And learn of her the watchwords, see how stand The sentries, how the warders of the gates; The strength, how much it is; what prize awaits To crown our long endeavour. These things learned, Back to the ships I come ere yet are burned The watch-fires of the night, before the sun Hath urged his steeds the course they are to run Out of the golden gateways of the East."

Which all agreed, and Helen's lord not least.

SIXTH STAVE

HELEN AND PARIS; ODYSSEUS AND HELEN

Like as the sweet free air, when maids the doors And windows open wide, wanders the floors And all the pa.s.sage ways about the house, Keen marshal of the sun, or serious The cool gray light of morning 'gins to peer Ere yet the household stirs, or chanticlere Calls hinds to labour but hints not the glee Nor full-flood glory of the day to be When round about the hill the sun shall swim And burn a sea-path--so demure and slim Went Helen on her business with swift feet And light, yet recollected, and her sweet Secret held hid, that she was loved where need Called her to mate, and that she loved indeed-- Ah, sacred calm of wedlock, pa.s.sion white Of lovers knit in Here's holy light!

But while in early morn she wonned alone And Paris slept, shrill rose her singing tone, And brave the light on kindled cheeks and eyes: Brave as her hope is, brave the flag she flies.

Then, as the hour drew on when the sun's rim Should burn a sheet of gold to herald him On Ida's snowy crest, lithe as a pard For some lord's pleasuring encaged and barred She paced the hall soft-footed up and down, Lightly and feverishly with quick frown Peered shrewdly this way, that way, like a bird That on the winter gra.s.s is aye deterred His food-searching by hint of unknown snare In thicket, holt or bush, or lawn too bare; Anon stopped, lip to finger, while the tide Beat from her heart against her shielded side-- Now closely girdled went she like a maid-- And then slipt to the window, where she stayed But minutes three or four; for soon she past Out to the terrace, there to be at last Downgazing on her glory, which her king Reflected up in every motioning And flux of his high pa.s.sion. Only here She triumphed, nor cared she to ask how near The end of Troy, nor hazarded a guess What deeds must do ere that could come to pa.s.s.

To her the instant homage held all joy-- And what to her was Sparta, or what Troy Beside the bliss of that?

Or Paris, what Was he, who daily, nightly plained his lot To have risked all the world and ten years loved This woman, now to find her nothing moved By what he had done with her, what desired To do? And more she chilled the less he tired, And more he ventured less she cared recall What was to her of nothing worth, or all: All if the King required it of her, nought If he who now could take it. It was bought, And his by bargain: let him have it then; But let it be for giving once again, And all the rubies in the world's deep heart Could fetch no price beside it.

Yet apart She brooded on the man who held her chained, Minister to his pleasure, and disdained Him more the more herself she must disparage, Reflecting on him all her hateful carriage, So old, incredible, so flat, so stale, No more to be recalled than old wife's tale; And scorned him, saw him neither high nor low, Not villain and not hero, who would go Midway 'twixt baseness and n.o.bility, And not be fierce, if fierceness hurt a flea Before his eyes. The man loved one thing more Than all the world, and made his mind a wh.o.r.e To minister his heart's need, for a price.

All which she loathed, yet chose not to be nice With the snug-revelling wretch, her master yet, Whose leaguer, though she scorned it, was no fret; But lift on wings of her exalted mood, She let him touch and finger what he would, Unconscious of his being--as he saw, And with a groan, whipt sharp upon the raw Of his esteem, "Ah, cruel art thou turned,"

Would cry, "Ah, frosty fire, where I am burned, Yet dying bless the flame that is my bane!"

With which to clasp her closer was he fain, To touch in love, and feast his eyes to see Her quiver at his touch, and laugh to be The plucker of such chords of such a rote; And laughing stoop and kiss her milky throat, Then see her shut eyes hide what he had done.

"Nay, shut them not upon me, nay, nor shun My worship!" So he said; but she, "They fade, But are not yet so old as thou hast made The soul thou pinnest here beneath my b.r.e.a.s.t.s Which you have loved too well." His hand he rests Over one fair white bosom like a cup, And leaning, of her lips his own must sup; But she will not, but gently doth refuse it, Without a reason, save she doth not choose it.

Then when he flung away, she sat alone And nursed her hope and sorrow, both in one Perturbed bosom; and her fingers wove White webs as far afield her wits did rove Perpending and perpending. So frail, so fair, So faint she seemed, a wraith you had said there, A woman dead, and not in lovely flesh.

But all the while she writhed within the mesh Of circ.u.mstance, and fiercely flamed her rage: "O slave, O minion, thing kept in a cage For this sleek master's handling!" So she fumed What time her wide eyes sought all ways, or loomed Like winter lakes dark in a field of snow, And still; nor lifted they their pall of woe Responsive to her heart, nor flashed the thrill That knew, which said, "A true man loveth me still."

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 compa.s.sion 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 st.u.r.dy 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 "G.o.ds, have pity!" showed that they By night rehea.r.s.ed 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 G.o.ds, And women egged their children on with nods To foul the house-wall, or in pa.s.sing 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, Athene 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 sh.e.l.l 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 t.i.tans 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 h.e.l.las 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 sc.r.a.ped With adzes, then deep-mortised in the frame To bear the weight of so much ma.s.s, 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 neck 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 hors.e.m.e.n as he would, Two n.o.ble 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 Athene 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 Euban 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 Here next, and Her, The Maid of War and holy harbinger Of Father Zeus, who bears the aegis 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 ma.s.s Reared up so high no man stretching could pa.s.s His hand over the crupper, of such girth Of haunch, to span the pair no man on earth Could compa.s.s with both arms. But most their eyes Were for the riders who in G.o.dlike guise Went naked into battle, as G.o.ds use, Untrammel'd by our shifts of shields and shoes, As if we dread the earth whereof we are.

Sons of G.o.d, 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 G.o.d: 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 Pa.s.sION OF Ka.s.sANDRA