Art thou a man that holdst my grief in scorn, And yet dost live, and look upon the sun?
If man,--methinks thy pleasant days are done, And thou shalt writhe in torment worse than mine;If ghost,--new pain in Hades hast thou won, And there with double woe shalt surely pine."LII.
He spake, and drew the string, and sent a shaft At venture through the midnight and the snow, A little while he listen'd, then he laugh'd Within himself, a dreadful laugh and low;For over well the answer did he know That midnight gave his message, the sharp cry And armour rattling on a fallen foe That now was learning what it is to die.
LIII.
Then Philoctetes crawl'd into his den And hugg'd himself against the bitter cold, While round their leader came the Trojan men And bound his wound, and bare him o'er the wold, Back to the lights of Ilios; but the gold Of Dawn was breaking on the mountains white, Or ere they won within the guarded fold, Long 'wilder'd in the tempest and the night.
LIV.
And through the gate, and through the silent street, And houses where men dream'd of war no more, The bearers wander'd with their weary feet, And Paris to his high-roof'd house they bore.
But vainly leeches on his wound did pore, And vain was Argive Helen's magic song, Ah, vain her healing hands, and all her lore, To help the life that wrought her endless wrong.
LV.
Slow pass'd the fever'd hours, until the grey Cold light was paling, and a sullen glow Of livid yellow crown'd the dying day, And brooded on the wastes of mournful snow.
Then Paris whisper'd faintly, "I must go And face that wild wood-maiden of the hill;For none but she can win from overthrow Troy's life, and mine that guards it, if she will."LVI.
So through the dumb white meadows, deep with snow, They bore him on a pallet shrouded white, And sore they dreaded lest an ambush'd foe Should hear him moan, or mark the moving light That waved before their footsteps in the night;And much they joy'd when Ida's knees were won, And 'neath the pines upon an upland height, They watch'd the star that heraldeth the sun.
LVII.
For under woven branches of the pine, The soft dry needles like a carpet spread, And high above the arching boughs did shine In frosty fret of silver, that the red New dawn fired into gold-work overhead:
Within that vale where Paris oft had been With fair OEnone, ere the hills he fled To be the sinful lover of a Queen.
LVIII.
Not here they found OEnone: "Nay, not here,"Said Paris, faint and low, "shall she be found;Nay, bear me up the mountain, where the drear Winds walk for ever on a haunted ground.
Methinks I hear her sighing in their sound;Or some God calls me there, a dying man.
Perchance my latest journeying is bound Back where the sorrow of my life began."LIX.
They reach'd the gateway of that highest glen And halted, wond'ring what the end should be;But Paris whisper'd Helen, while his men Fell back: "Here judged I Gods, here shalt thou see What judgment mine old love will pass on me.
But hide thee here; thou soon the end shalt know, Whether the Gods at length will set thee free From that old net they wove so long ago."LX.
