Back to the lights of Ilios; but the gold
Of Dawn was breaking on the mountains white,
Or ere they won within the guarded fold,
Long 'wilder'd in the tempest and the night.

LIV.

And through the gate, and through the silent street,
And houses where men dream'd of war no more,
The bearers wander'd with their weary feet,
And Paris to his high-roof'd house they bore.
But vainly leeches on his wound did pore,
And vain was Argive Helen's magic song,
Ah, vain her healing hands, and all her lore,
To help the life that wrought her endless wrong.

LV.

Slow pass'd the fever'd hours, until the grey
Cold light was paling, and a sullen glow
Of livid yellow crown'd the dying day,
And brooded on the wastes of mournful snow.
Then Paris whisper'd faintly, "I must go
And face that wild wood-maiden of the hill;
For none but she can win from overthrow
Troy's life, and mine that guards it, if she will."

LVI.

So through the dumb white meadows, deep with snow,