peaceful folk and still.
Nay, though ye dwell afar off, there is none
But hears of Ilios on the windy hill,
And of the plain that the two rivers fill
With murmuring sweet streams the whole year long,
And walls the Gods have wrought with wondrous skill
Where cometh never man to do us wrong.

XVII.

"Wherefore I sail'd not here for help in war,
Though well the Argives in such need can aid.
The force that comes on me is other far;
One that on all men comes: I seek the maid
Whom golden Aphrodite shall persuade
To lay her hand in mine, and follow me,
To my white halls within the cedar shade
Beyond the waters of the barren sea."

XVIII.

Then at the Goddess' name grew Helen pale,
Like golden stars that flicker in the dawn,
Or like a child that hears a dreadful tale,
Or like the roses on a rich man's lawn,
When now the suns of Summer are withdrawn,
And the loose leaves with a sad wind are stirr'd,
Till the wet grass is strewn with petals wan,--
So paled the golden Helen at his word.

XIX.

But swift the rose into her cheek return'd
And for a little moment, like a flame,
The perfect face of Argive Helen burn'd,
As doth a woman's, when some spoken name
Brings back to mind some ancient love or shame,
But none save Paris mark'd the thing, who said,
"My tale no more must weary this fair dame,
With telling why I wander all unwed."

XX.

But Helen, bending on him gracious brows,
Besought him for the story of his quest,
"For sultry is the summer, that allows
To mortal men no sweeter boon than rest;
And surely such a tale as thine is best
To make the dainty-footed hours go by,
Till sinks the sun in darkness and the West,
And soft stars lead the Night along the sky."

XXI.

Then at the word of Helen Paris spoke,
"My tale is shorter than a summer day,--
My mother, ere I saw the light, awoke,
At dawn, in Ilios, shrieking in dismay,
Who dream'd that 'twixt her feet there fell and lay
A flaming brand, that utterly burn'd down
To dust of crumbling ashes red and grey,
The coronal of towers and all Troy town.

XXII.

"Then the interpretation of this dream
My father sought at many priestly hands,
Where the white temple doth in Pytho gleam,
And at the fane of Ammon in the sands,
And where the oak tree of Dodona stands
With boughs oracular against the sky,--
And with one voice the Gods from all the lands,
Cried out, 'The child must