She stood upon the wall of windy Troy, And lifted high both arms, and cried aloud With no man near:— “Troy-town and glory of Greece Strive, let the flame aspire, and pride of life Glow to white heat! Great lords be strong, rejoice, Lament, know victory, know defeat—then die; Fair is the living many-coloured play Of hates and loves, and fair it is to cease, To cease from these and all Earth’s comely things. I, Helena, impatient of a couch Dim-scented, and dark eyes my face had fed, And soft captivity of circling arms, Come forth to shed my spirit on you, a wind And sunlight of commingling life and death. City and tented plain behold who stands Betwixt you! Seems she worth a play of swords, And glad expense of rival hopes and hates? Have the Gods given a prize which may content, Who set your games afoot,—no fictile vase, But a sufficient goblet of great gold, Embossed with heroes, filled with perfumed wine? And bare the breasts of Helen. Yesterday A mortal maiden I beheld, the light Tender within her eyes, laying white arms Around her sire’s mailed breast, and heard her chide Because his cheek was blood-splashed,—I beheld And did not wish me her. O, not for this A God’s blood thronged within my mother’s veins! For no such tender purpose rose the swan With ruffled plumes, and hissing in his joy Flashed up the stream, and held with heavy wings Leda, and curved the neck to reach her lips, And stayed, nor left her lightly. It is well To have quickened into glory one supreme, Swift hour, the century’s fiery-hearted bloom, Which falls,—to stand a splendour paramount, A beacon of high hearts and fates of men, A flame blown round by clear, contending winds, Which gladden in the contest and wax strong. Cities of Greece, fair islands, and Troy town, Accept a woman’s service; these my hands Hold not the distaff, ply not at the loom; I store from year to year no well-wrought web For daughter’s dowry; wide the web I make, Fine-tissued, costly as the Gods desire, Inwrought with colours flowerlike, piteous, strange. Oblivion yields before me: ye winged years Which make escape from darkness, the red light Of a wild dawn upon your plumes, I stand The mother of the stars and winds of heaven, Your eastern Eos; cry across the storm! Through me man’s heart grows wider; little town Asleep in silent sunshine and smooth air, While babe grew man beneath your girdling towers, Wake, wonder, lift the eager head alert, Snake-like, and swift to strike, while altar-flame Rises for plighted faith with neighbour town That slept upon the mountain-shelf, and showed A small white temple in the morning sun. Oh, ever one way tending you keen prows Which shear the shadowy waves when stars are faint And break with emulous cries unto the dawn, I gaze and draw you onward; splendid names Lurk in you, and high deeds, and unachieved Virtues, and house-o’erwhelming crimes, while life Leaps in sharp flame ere all be ashes grey. Thus have I willed it ever since the hour When that great lord, the one man worshipful, Whose hands had haled the fierce Hippolyta Lightly from out her throng of martial maids, Would grace his triumph, strengthen his large joy Nor asked a ten years’ siege to make acquist Of all her virgin store. No dream that was,— The moonlight in the woods, our singing stream, Eurotas, the sleek panther at my feet, And on my heart a hero’s strong right hand. O draught of love immortal! Dastard world Too poor for great exchange of soul, too poor For equal lives made glorious! O too poor For Theseus and for Helena! Yet now It yields once more a brightness, if no love; Around me flash the tides, and in my ears A dangerous melody and piercing-clear Sing the twin siren-sisters, Death and Life; I rise and gird my spirit for the close. Last night Cassandra cried ‘Ruin, ruin, and ruin!’ I mocked her not, nor disbelieved; the gloom Gathers, and twilight takes the unwary world. Hold me, ye Gods, a torch across the night, With one long flare blown back o’er tower and town, Till the last things of Troy complete themselves: —Then blackness, and the grey dust of a heart.” |