I
HOT through Troy’s ruin Menelaus broke | |
| To Priam’s palace, sword in hand, to sate | |
| On that adulterous whore a ten years’ hate | |
| And a king’s honour. Through red death, and smoke, | |
| And cries, and then by quieter ways he strode, | 5 |
| Till the still innermost chamber fronted him. | |
| He swung his sword, and crashed into the dim | |
| Luxurious bower, flaming like a god. | |
| |
| High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. | |
| He had not remembered that she was so fair, | 10 |
| And that her neck curved down in such a way; | |
| And he felt tired. He flung the sword away, | |
| And kissed her feet, and knelt before her there, | |
| The perfect Knight before the perfect Queen. | |
| |
II
So far the poet. How should he behold | 15 |
| That journey home, the long connubial years? | |
| He does not tell you how white Helen bears | |
| Child on legitimate child, becomes a scold, | |
| Haggard with virtue. Menelaus bold | |
| Waxed garrulous, and sacked a hundred Troys | 20 |
| ’Twixt noon and supper. And her golden voice | |
| Got shrill as he grew deafer. And both were old. | |
| |
| Often he wonders why on earth he went | |
| Troyward, or why poor Paris ever came. | |
| Oft she weeps, gummy-eyed and impotent; | 25 |
| Her dry shanks twitch at Paris’ mumbled name. | |
| So Menelaus nagged; and Helen cried; | |
| And Paris slept on by Scamander side. | |
