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قراءة كتاب Helen Redeemed and Other Poems
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
groan
Upon his planted sword. So Aias died
Lonely; and he who, never from his side
Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian,
Abode the fate foreordered in the plan
Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.
But think not on the dead, who die and leave
A memory more fragrant than their deeds,
But to the remnant rather and their needs
Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords
Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords
As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art
Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart?
Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull
As oxen impotent the wain to pull
Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge,
Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge
Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand
Dumb monuments of sufferance—so unmanned
The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care
To drive them forth, since they too knew despair,
And neither saw in battle nor retreat
A way of honour.
And the plain grew sweet
Again with living green; the spring o' the year
Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear;
And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain,
Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain,
And seemed with tender irony to flout
Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out
The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires
More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres
Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose
Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose,
A holy pall to hide his folly and pain.
Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain,
And by and by the pent folk within walls
Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls
Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep
Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep
Watch, where before stood armèd sentinels;
And battle-grounds were musical with bells
Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships
Loomed through the tender mist, their prows—like lips
Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry
Salvation out of Heaven—flung on high:
Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road
Was travelled, and held Paris for a God
Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.
A memory more fragrant than their deeds,
But to the remnant rather and their needs
Give thought with me. What comfort in their swords
Have they, robbed of the might of two such lords
As Peleus' son and Telamon's? What art
Can drive the blood back to the stricken heart?
Like huddled sheep cowed obstinate, as dull
As oxen impotent the wain to pull
Out of a rut, which, failing at first lunge,
Answer not voice nor goad, but sideways plunge
Or backward urge with lowered heads, or stand
Dumb monuments of sufferance—so unmanned
The Achaians brooded, nor their chiefs had care
To drive them forth, since they too knew despair,
And neither saw in battle nor retreat
A way of honour.
And the plain grew sweet
Again with living green; the spring o' the year
Came in with flush of flower and bird-call clear;
And Nature, for whom nothing wrought is vain,
Out of shed blood caused grass to spring amain,
And seemed with tender irony to flout
Man's folly and pain when twixt dead spears sprang out
The crocus-point and pied the plain with fires
More gracious than his beacons; and from pyres
Of burnt dead men the asphodel uprose
Like fleecy clouds flushed with the morning rose,
A holy pall to hide his folly and pain.
Thus upon earth hope fell like a new rain,
And by and by the pent folk within walls
Took heart and ploughed the glebe and from the stalls
Led out their kine to pasture. Goats and sheep
Cropt at their ease, and herd-boys now did keep
Watch, where before stood armèd sentinels;
And battle-grounds were musical with bells
Of feeding beasts. Afar, high-beacht, the ships
Loomed through the tender mist, their prows—like lips
Of thirsty birds which, lacking water, cry
Salvation out of Heaven—flung on high:
Which marking, Ilios deemed her worst of road
Was travelled, and held Paris for a God
Who winged the shaft that brought them all this peace.
He in their love went sunning, took his ease
In house and hall, at council or at feast,
Careless of what was greatest or what least
Of all his deeds, so only by his side
She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,
The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,
A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,
And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him
Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim
With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach
Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each
If it might be her people's, and so hers,
Poor alien!—Argive now herself she avers
And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:
Minion she calls herself; and when to strife
Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges
Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,
And when to play he woos her with soft words,
Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,
Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,
Making her wife indeed, not paramour,
Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all
His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall
She watches every dawn for what dawn brings.
And the strong spirit of her took new wings
And left her lovely body in the arms
Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms,
And witless held a shell; but forth as light
As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight
Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed
And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed
Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith,
A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death
Seems to the dying man a bedside guest,
But to the watchers cannot be exprest.
So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned
Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned,
Renewing his day's torment in his sleep;
Who presently starts up and sighing deep,
Searches the entry, if haply in the skies
The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes
Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face
Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace
Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow
To tell all truth about her, and her woe
And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt
To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt
Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips:
"O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips
Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?"
No answer hath she, but she looks him long
And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more,
But up and down he pads the beaten floor,
And all that day his heart's wild crying hears,
And can thank God for gracious dew of tears
And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame.
So came the next night, and with night she came,
Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go
Whence she had come. His need would have it
In house and hall, at council or at feast,
Careless of what was greatest or what least
Of all his deeds, so only by his side
She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,
The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,
A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,
And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him
Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim
With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach
Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each
If it might be her people's, and so hers,
Poor alien!—Argive now herself she avers
And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:
Minion she calls herself; and when to strife
Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges
Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,
And when to play he woos her with soft words,
Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,
Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,
Making her wife indeed, not paramour,
Mother, and sharer of his hearth and all
His gear. Thus every night: and on the wall
She watches every dawn for what dawn brings.
And the strong spirit of her took new wings
And left her lovely body in the arms
Of him who doted, conning o'er her charms,
And witless held a shell; but forth as light
As the first sigh of dawn her spirit took flight
Across the dusky plain to where fires gleamed
And muffled guards stood sentry; and it streamed
Within the hut, and hovered like a wraith,
A presence felt, not seen, as when gray Death
Seems to the dying man a bedside guest,
But to the watchers cannot be exprest.
So hovered Helen in a dream, and yearned
Over the sleeper as he moaned and turned,
Renewing his day's torment in his sleep;
Who presently starts up and sighing deep,
Searches the entry, if haply in the skies
The day begin to stir. Lo there, her eyes
Like waning stars! Lo there, her pale sad face
Becurtained in loose hair! Now he can trace
Athwart that gleaming moon her mouth's droopt bow
To tell all truth about her, and her woe
And dreadful store of knowledge. As one shockt
To worse than death lookt she, with horror lockt
Behind her tremulous tragic-moving lips:
"O love, O love," saith he, and saying, slips
Out of the bed: "Who hath dared do thee wrong?"
No answer hath she, but she looks him long
And deep, and looking, fades. He sleeps no more,
But up and down he pads the beaten floor,
And all that day his heart's wild crying hears,
And can thank God for gracious dew of tears
And tender thoughts of her, not thoughts of shame.
So came the next night, and with night she came,
Dream-Helen; and he knew then he must go
Whence she had come. His need would have it