Came, and through palace doors all open wide
Rang the wild dirge that told him of the thing
That Helen, that the Queen had strangely died.
Then on his threshold fell he grovelling,

XXXIV.

And cast the dust upon his yellow hair,
And, but that Paris leap'd and held his hand,
His hunter's knife would he have clutch'd, and there
Had slain himself, to follow to that land
Where flit the ghosts of men, a shadowy band
That have no more delight, no more desire,
When once the flesh hath burn'd down like a brand,
Drench'd by the dark wine on the funeral pyre:

XXXV.

So on the ashen threshold lay the king,
And all within the house was chill and drear;
The women watchers gather'd in a ring
About the bed of Helen and her bier;
And much had they to tell, and much to hear,
Of happy queens and fair, untimely dead, -
Such joy they took amid their evil cheer, -
While the low thunder muttered overhead.



BOOK III--THE FLIGHT OF HELEN