Careless of what was greatest or what least

Of all his deeds, so only by his side

She lay, the blush-rose Helen, stolen bride,

The lovely harbour of his arms. But she,

A thrall, now her own thralldom plain could see,

And sick of dalliance, loathed herself, and him

Who had beguiled her. Now through eyes made dim

With tears she looked towards the salt sea-beach

Where stood the ships, and sought for sign in each

If it might be her people's, and so hers,

Poor alien!—Argive now herself she avers

And proudly slave of Paris and no wife:

Minion she calls herself; and when to strife

Of love he claims her, secret her heart surges

Back to her lord; and when to kiss he urges,

[18]

And when to play he woos her with soft words,

Secret her fond heart calleth, like a bird's,

Towards that honoured mate who honoured her,

Making her wife indeed, not paramour,

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