rom sacred ground,
And out the mazy glory of moving lights
One sped and flared, as of the meteorites
In autumn some fly further, brighter courses.
A chariot! They heard the thunder of the horses;
And as they flew the torch left a bright wake.
And thus to one another woman spake,
"Lo, more lights race! They follow him, they near,
Catch and draw level. Hark! Now you can hear
The tramp of men!"
Says one, "That baleful sheen
Is light upon their spears. The Greeks, I ween,
Are coming up to rescue or requite."
But then her mate: "They mass, they fill the night
With panic terror."
True, that all night things
Fled as they came. They heard the flickering wings
Of countless birds in haste, and as they flew
So fled the dark away. Light waxed and grew
Until the dead of night was vivified
And radiant opened out the countryside
With pulsing flames of fire, which gleamed and glanced,
Flickered, wavered, yet never stayed advance.
As the sun rising high o'er Ida cold
Beats a sea-path in flakes of molten gold,
So stretcht from shore to Troy that litten stream
That moved and shuddered, restless as a dream,
Yet ever nearing, till on spear and shield
They saw light like the moon on a drowned field,
And in the glare of torches saw and read
Gray faces, like the legions of the dead,
Silent about the walls, and waiting there.
But in the fragrant chamber Helen the fair
Lay close in arms, and Paris slept, his head
Upon her bosom, deep as any dead.

Sudden there smote the blast of a great horn,
Single, long-held and shuddering, and far-borne;
And then a deathless silence. Paris stirred
On that soft pillow, and listened while they heard
Many men running frantically, with feet
That slapt the stones, and voices in the street
Of question and call--"Oh, who are ye that run?
What of the night?" "O peace!" And some lost one
Wailed like a woman, and her a man did curse,
And there were scuffling, prayers, and then worse--
A silence. But the running ended not
While Paris lay alistening with a knot
Of Helen's loose hair twisting round his finger.
"O love," he murmured low, "I may not linger.
The street's awake. Alas, thou art too kind
To be a warrior's bride." Sighing, she twined
Her arm about his