But Corythus, beholding her sweet face, And her most lovely body lying low, Had pity on her grief and on her grace, Nor heeded now she was his mother's foe, But did what might be done to ease her woe, While, as he thought, with death for life she strove, And loosed the necklet round her neck of snow, As who that saw had deem'd, with hands of love.
XXXIII.
And there was one that saw: for Paris woke Half-deeming and half-dreaming that the van Of the great Argive host had scared the folk, And down the echoing corridor he ran To Helen's bower, and there beheld the man That kneel'd beside his lady lying there:
No word he spake, but drove his sword a span Through Corythus' fair neck and cluster'd hair.
XXXIV.
Then fell fair Corythus, as falls the tower An earthquake shaketh from a city's crown, Or as a tall white fragrant lily-flower A child hath in the garden trampled down, Or as a pine-tree in the forest brown, Fell'd by the sea-rovers on mountain lands, When they to harry foreign folk are boune, Taking their own lives in their reckless hands.
XXXV.
But still in Paris did his anger burn, And still his sword was lifted up to slay, When, like a lot leap'd forth of Fate's own urn, He mark'd the graven tokens where they lay, 'Mid Helen's hair in golden disarray, And looking on them, knew what he had done, Knew what dire thing had fallen on that day, Knew how a father's hand had slain a son.
XXXVI.
Then Paris on his face fell grovelling, And the night gather'd, and the silence grew Within the darkened chamber of the king.
But Helen rose, and a sad breath she drew, And her new woes came back to her anew:
Ah, where is he but knows the bitter pain To wake from dreams, and find his sorrow true, And his ill life returned to him again!
XXXVII.
She needed none to tell her whence it fell, The thick red rain upon the marble floor:
She knew that in her bower she might not dwell, Alone with her own heart for ever more;No sacrifice, no spell, no priestly lore Could banish quite the melancholy ghost Of Corythus; a herald sent before Them that should die for her, a dreadful host.
XXXVIII.
But slowly Paris raised him from the earth, And read her face, and knew that she knew all, No more her eyes, in tenderness or mirth, Should answer his, in bower or in hall.
Nay, Love had fallen when his child did fall, The stream Love cannot cross ran 'twixt them red;No more was Helen his, whate'er befall, Not though the Goddess drove her to his bed.
XXXIX.
This word he spake, "the Fates are hard on us" -Then bade the women do what must be done To the fair body of dead Corythus.
And then he hurl'd into the night alone, Wailing unto the spirit of his son, That somewhere in dark mist and sighing wind Must dwell, nor yet to Hades had it won, Nor quite had left the world of men behind.
XL.
But wild OEnone by the mountain-path Saw not her son returning to the wold, And now was she in fear, and now in wrath She cried, "He hath forgot the mountain fold, And goes in Ilios with a crown of gold:"But even then she heard men's axes smite Against the beeches slim and ash-trees old, These ancient trees wherein she did delight.
XLI.
Then she arose and silently as Sleep, Unseen she follow'd the slow-rolling wain, Beneath an ashen sky that 'gan to weep, Too heavy laden with the latter rain;And all the folk of Troy upon the plain She found, all gather'd round a funeral pyre, And thereon lay her son, her darling slain, The goodly Corythus, her heart's desire!
XLII.
Among the spices and fair robes he lay, His arm beneath his head, as though he slept.
For so the Goddess wrought that no decay, No loathly thing about his body crept;And all the people look'd on him and wept, And, weeping, Paris lit the pine-wood dry, And lo, a rainy wind arose and swept The flame and fragrance far into the sky.
XLIII.
But when the force of flame was burning low, Then did they drench the pyre with ruddy wine, And the white bones of Corythus bestow Within a gold cruse, wrought with many a sign, And wrapp'd the cruse about with linen fine And bare it to the tomb: when, lo, the wild OEnone sprang, with burning eyes divine, And shriek'd unto the slayer of her child:
XLIV.
"Oh Thou, that like a God art sire and slayer, That like a God, dost give and take away!
Methinks that even now I hear the prayer Thou shalt beseech me with, some later day;When all the world to thy dim eyes grow grey, And thou shalt crave thy healing at my hand, Then gladly will I mock, and say thee nay, And watch thine hours run down like running sand!
XLV.
"Yea, thou shalt die, and leave thy love behind, And little shall she love thy memory!
But, oh ye foolish people, deaf and blind, What Death is coming on you from the sea?"Then all men turned, and lo, upon the lee Of Tenedos, beneath the driving rain, The countless Argive ships were racing free, The wind and oarsmen speeding them amain.
XLVI.
Then from the barrow and the burial, Back like a bursting torrent all men fled Back to the city and the sacred wall.
But Paris stood, and lifted not his head.
Alone he stood, and brooded o'er the dead, As broods a lion, when a shaft hath flown, And through the strong heart of his mate hath sped, Then will he face the hunters all alone.
XLVII.
But soon the voice of men on the sea-sand Came round him; and he turned, and gazed, and lo!
The Argive ships were dashing on the strand:
Then stealthily did Paris bend his bow, And on the string he laid a shaft of woe, And drew it to the point, and aim'd it well.
Singing it sped, and through a shield did go, And from his barque Protesilaus fell.
XLVIII.
Half gladdened by the omen, through the plain Went Paris to the walls and mighty gate, And little heeded he that arrowy rain The Argive bowmen shower'd in helpless hate.
Nay; not yet feather'd was the shaft of Fate, His bane, the gift of mighty Heracles To Philoctetes, lying desolate, Within a far off island of the seas.
