en the children evil songs would sing
To mock her as she hasted down the street.

VII.

Also the men who worshipp'd her of old
As she had been a goddess from above,
Gazed at her now with lustful eyes and bold,
As she were naught but Paris' light-o'-love;
And though in truth they still were proud enough,
Of that fair gem in their old city set,
Yet well she knew that wanton word and scoff
Went round the camp-fire when the warriors met.

VIII.

There came a certain holiday when Troy
Was wont to send her noble matrons all,
Young wives and old, with clamour and with joy,
To clothe Athene in her temple hall,
And robe her in a stately broider'd pall.
But now they drove fair Helen from their train,
"Better," they scream'd, "to cast her from the wall,
Than mock the Gods with offerings in vain."

IX.

One joy she had, that Paris yet was true,
Ay, fickle Paris, true unto the end;
And in the court of Ilios were two
Kind hearts, still eager Helen to defend,
And help and comfort in all need to lend:--
The gentle Hector with soft speech and mild,
And the old king that ever was her friend,
And loved her as a father doth his child.

X.

These, though they knew not all, these blamed her not,
But cast the heavy burden on the God,
Whose wrath, they deem'd, had verily waxed hot
Against the painful race on earth that trod,
And in God's hand was Helen but the rod
To scourge a people that, in unknown wise,
Had vex'd the far Olympian abode
With secret sin or stinted sacrifice.

* * * * * *

XI.

The days grew into months, and months to years,
And still the Argive army did delay,
Till folk in Troia half forgot their fears,
And almost as of old were glad and gay;
And men and maids on Ida dared to stray,
But Helen dwelt within her inmost room,
And there from dawning to declining day,
Wrought at the patient marvels of her loom.

XII.

Yet even there in peace she might not be:
There was a nymph, OEnone, in the hills,
The daughter of a River-God was she,
Of Cebren,--that the mountain silence fills
With murmur'd music, for the countless rills
Of Ida meet him, dancing to the plain,--
Her Paris wooed, yet ignorant of ills,
Among the shepherd's huts, nor wooed in vain.

XIII.

Nay, Summer often found them by the fold
In these glad days, ere Paris was a king,
And oft the Autumn, in his car of gold,
Had pass'd them, merry at the vintaging: