And the spear on the wall was uphung, for watchman's ken920
Saw near nor far
Overtrampling the Ilian plains those sea-borne men,
That host of war.
I was ranging the braids of mine hair 'neath soft snood-fold:
On mine eyes thrown
Were the rays from the limitless[1] sheen, the mirror-gold,
Ere I sank down
To my rest on the couch;—but a tumult's tempest-blast
Swept up the street,
And a battle-cry thundered—"Ye sons of Greeks, on fast!930
Be the castles of Troy overthrown, that home at last
May hail your feet!"
From my dear bed, my lost bed, I sprang, like Dorian maid
But mantle-veiled,
And to Artemis' altar I clung—woe's me, I prayed
In vain, and wailed.
And my lord I beheld lying dead; and I was borne
O'er deep salt sea,
Looking back upon Troy, by the ship from Ilium torn
As she sped on the Hellas-ward path: then woe-forlorn940
I swooned,—ah me!—
- ↑ The Greek word, for which I cannot find any English equivalent in this sense, expresses that apparent absence of any bounding surface in a perfect mirror, which has sometimes betrayed the unwary into walking through such.
