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Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft

       Hallowed, if that thin waft

       Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song

       To span such store of strong

       And splendid vision of immortal themes

       Late harvested in dreams,

       Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet

       Thou sing that slim and sweet

       Fair woman for whose bosom and delight

       Paris, as well he might,

       Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost

       And Troy's, and won and lost

       Perforce; for who could look on her or feel

       Her near and not dare steal

       One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars

       Such wonder of the stars

       Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose

       Of dawn which comes and goes

       Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills,

       Or music of upland rills

       As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it

       With thy poor market wit,

       Adept to hue the wanton in the wild,

       Defile the undefiled!

       Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high

       Where piled rocks testify

       The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold

       Over the rippling wold

       Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise

       First dawned in Helen's eyes,

       Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art

       To sing her rendered heart,

       Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved

       From loving, but was nerved

       To see through years of robbery and shame

       Her spirit, a clear flame,

       Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace,

       And hers who at last found ease

       In white-arm'd Heré, holy husbander

       Of purer fire than e'er

       To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing

       In whom her beauties ring,

       Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte,

       Star of my day and night!

       18th September 1912.

FIRST STAVE

       Table of Contents

      THE DEATH OF ACHILLES

      Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams,

       Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams

       Betray far Ida through a rended cloud

       And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud

       The thunder is—'twixt Ida and the main

       Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain

       About her like a carpet; from whose height

       The watchman, ten years watching, every night

       Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less

       Their number as the years wax and duress

       Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day—

       More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay.

       Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years

       Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears

       And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons

       Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones,

       Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood

       The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood

       Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride

       Shed; nor yet so the end, for Heré cried

       Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done,

       And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon

       By sword or bitter arrow they went hence,

       Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence.

       Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek

       Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak

       Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high,

       Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky

       Told Thetis that her son must go the way

       He sent Queen Hecuba's—himself must pay,

       Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self,

       The price of manslaying, 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

      

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