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Rearing on high, a mighty blow let fall

       On Paris' helm; but shiv'ring in his hand

       In countless fragments new the faithless blade.

       Then thus to Jove, with eyes uplift to Heav'n,

       Atrides made his moan: "O Father Jove!

       Of all the Gods, the most unfriendly thou!

       On Paris' head I hop'd for all his crimes

       To wreak my vengeance due; but in my grasp

       My faithless sword is shatter'd, and my spear

       Hath bootless left my hand, nor reached my foe."

       Then onward rushing, by the horsehair plume

       He seiz'd his foeman's helm, and wrenching round

       Dragg'd by main force amid the well-greav'd Greeks.

       The broider'd strap, that, pass'd beneath his beard,

       The helmet held, the warrior's throat compress'd:

       Then had Atrides dragg'd him from the field,

       And endless fame acquir'd; but Venus, child

       Of Jove, her fav'rite's peril quickly saw.

       And broke the throttling strap of tough bull's hide.

       In the broad hand the empty helm remained.

       The trophy, by their champion whirl'd amid

       The well-greav'd Greeks, his eager comrades seiz'd;

       While he, infuriate, rush'd with murd'rous aim

       On Priam's son; but him, the Queen of Love

       (As Gods can only) from the field convey'd,

       Wrapt in a misty cloud; and on a couch,

       Sweet perfumes breathing, gently laid him down;

       Then went in search of Helen; her she found,

       Circled with Trojan dames, on Ilium's tow'r:

       Her by her airy robe the Goddess held,

       And in the likeness of an aged dame

       Who oft for her, in Sparta when she dwelt,

       Many a fair fleece had wrought, and lov'd her well,

       Address'd her thus: "Come, Helen, to thy house;

       Come, Paris calls thee; in his chamber he

       Expects thee, resting on luxurious couch,

       In costly garb, with manly beauty grac'd:

       Not from the fight of warriors wouldst thou deem

       He late had come, but for the dance prepar'd,

       Or resting from the dance's pleasing toil."

      She said, and Helen's spirit within her mov'd;

       And when she saw the Goddess' beauteous neck,

       Her lovely bosom, and her glowing eyes,

       She gaz'd in wonder, and address'd her thus:

       "Oh why, great Goddess, make me thus thy sport?

       Seek'st thou to bear me far away from hence

       To some fair Phrygian or Maeonian town,

       If there some mortal have thy favour gain'd?

       Or, for that Menelaus in the field

       Hath vanquish'd Paris, and is willing yet

       That I, his bane, should to his home return;

       Here art thou found, to weave again thy wiles!

       Go then thyself! thy godship abdicate!

       Renounce Olympus! lavish here on him

       Thy pity and thy care! he may perchance

       Make thee his wife—at least his paramour!

       But thither go not I! foul shame it were

       Again to share his bed; the dames of Troy

       Will for a byword hold me; and e'en now

       My soul with endless sorrow is possess'd."

      To whom in anger heav'nly Venus spoke:

       "Incense me not, poor fool! lest I in wrath

       Desert thee quite, and as I heretofore

       Have lov'd, so make thee object of my hate;

       And kindle, 'twixt the Trojans and the Greeks,

       Such bitter feuds, as both shall wreak on thee."

      She said; and trembled Helen, child of Jove;

       She rose in silence; in a snow-white veil

       All glitt'ring, shrouded; by the Goddess led

       She pass'd, unnotic'd by the Trojan dames.

       But when to Paris' splendid house they came,

       Thronging around her, her attendants gave

       Their duteous service; through the lofty hall

       With queenly grace the godlike woman pass'd.

       A seat the laughter-loving Goddess plac'd

       By Paris' side; there Helen sat, the child

       Of aegis-bearing Jove, with downcast eyes,

       Yet with sharp words she thus address'd her Lord:

       "Back from the battle? would thou there hadst died

       Beneath a warrior's arm, whom once I call'd

       My husband! vainly didst thou boast erewhile

       Thine arm, thy dauntless courage, and thy spear

       The warlike Menelaus should subdue!

       Go now again, and challenge to the fight

       The warlike Menelaus. Be thou ware!

       I warn thee, pause, ere madly thou presume

       With fair-hair'd Menelaus to contend!

       Soon shouldst thou fall beneath his conqu'ring spear."

      To whom thus Paris: "Wring not thus my soul

       With keen reproaches: now, with Pallas' aid,

       Hath Menelaus conquer'd; but my day

       Will come: I too can boast my guardian Gods.

       But turn we now to love, and love's delights;

       For never did thy beauty so inflame

       My sense; not when from Lacedaemon first

       I bore thee in my ocean-going ships,

       And revell'd in thy love on Cranae's isle,

       As now it fills my soul with fond desire."

      He said, and led her to the nuptial couch;

       Her Lord she follow'd; and while there reclin'd

       Upon the richly-inlaid couch they lay,

       Atrides, like a lion baffled, rush'd

       Amid the crowd, if haply he might find

       The godlike Paris; but not one of all

       The Trojans and their brave allies could aid

       The warlike Menelaus in his search;

       Not that, for love, would any one that knew

       Have screen'd him from his anger, for they all

       Abhorr'd him as the shade of death: then thus

       Outspoke great Agamemnon, King of men:

       "Hear me, ye Trojans, Dardans, and Allies!

       With warlike Menelaus rests, 'tis plain,

       The prize of vict'ry: then surrender ye

       The Argive Helen and the spoils of war,

       With compensation due to Greece, that so

      

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