p. 54 A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein. Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe, Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold. lily-girl p. 55THE NEW HELEN p. 55 Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy The sons of God fought in that great emprise? Why dost thou walk our common earth again? Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy, His purple galley and his Tyrian men And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes? For surely it was thou, who, like a star Hung in the silver silence of the night, Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might Into the clamorous crimson waves of war! Where Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon? In amorous Sidon was thy temple built Over the light and laughter of the sea Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt, Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry, All through the waste and wearied hours of noon; p. 56Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned, And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned From Calpé and the cliffs of Herakles! p. 56 No! thou art Helen, and none other one! It was for thee that young Sarpedôn died, And Memnôn’s manhood was untimely spent; It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried With Thetis’ child that evil race to run, In the last year of thy beleaguerment; Ay! even now the glory of thy fame Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel, Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name. Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew, Where never mower rose at break of day But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew, And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey? Didst thou lie there by some Lethæan stream Deep brooding on thine ancient memory, p. 57The
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