Poems (Ripley)/Helen at the Bier of Hector
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HELEN AT THE BIER OF HECTOR
Within a room most vast, and gloomy in
Its grandeur, the noble Hector lay upon
A bier most richly draped in cloth of gold.—
The late sunlight fell through the casement set
Ajar to let the cool, sweet air within.—
No sound disturbed the stillness of the room.
Soft rustling of leaves and songs of birds
Made all the air without, melodious.—
The mighty warrior feared by enemies:
He, whose bright sword had pierced the noblest men,
And sent them headlong to an early grave—
Their golden armor clashing as they fell—
Was caught and slain at last in single combat,
Laid low by his most mighty enemy.—
Conquered at last, he sleeps; his rigid form
Lies there in state, like to the body of
A king.—And mourned like to an only child:
For he was dearly loved by all his friends;
And by his many enemies, admired,—
Though secretly—for he was noble souled.—
At last the brooding stillness was disturbed:
An oaken door down at the further end
Of the long room, was softly pushed ajar.
And softly closed again.—And a tall form
Came slowly towards the bier. Her sandled feet
Awakening soft echoes as she moved;
Her silken garments rustling like leaves.—
She moved straight on, and paused beside the bier,
Her hands like two white flowers, and starred with jewels
Were folded on her breast, as if she prayed;
Her rippling hair fell like a web of gold,
Loosely confined about her classic head,
With a rich band of gold and precious gems.—
Not one of all the lovely maids of Greece
Could rival her, the fairest of her sex:
Helen of Troy—the cause of bitter war
Most fiercely waged for many a lingering year,
And envied by her sisters, far less fair.—
She bends above the bier, her lovely face
All sad and drawn and piteous in its grief.—
And as she looks upon the face serene
In death, her tears fall thick and fast upon
It. "Oh my friend, my true and only friend.—
When others were most cruel, thou wert most kind;
When others made my life a misery,
From thee I heard no unkind word, or blame."
"My friend! My more than friend! Oh woe is me!
Thou wert too noble to oppress the weak,
Or persecute! Thy pity was too vast!"
"Farewell my friend; a long farewell! Farewell—
And may the gods protect thy noble soul!"
Its grandeur, the noble Hector lay upon
A bier most richly draped in cloth of gold.—
The late sunlight fell through the casement set
Ajar to let the cool, sweet air within.—
No sound disturbed the stillness of the room.
Soft rustling of leaves and songs of birds
Made all the air without, melodious.—
The mighty warrior feared by enemies:
He, whose bright sword had pierced the noblest men,
And sent them headlong to an early grave—
Their golden armor clashing as they fell—
Was caught and slain at last in single combat,
Laid low by his most mighty enemy.—
Conquered at last, he sleeps; his rigid form
Lies there in state, like to the body of
A king.—And mourned like to an only child:
For he was dearly loved by all his friends;
And by his many enemies, admired,—
Though secretly—for he was noble souled.—
At last the brooding stillness was disturbed:
An oaken door down at the further end
Of the long room, was softly pushed ajar.
And softly closed again.—And a tall form
Came slowly towards the bier. Her sandled feet
Awakening soft echoes as she moved;
Her silken garments rustling like leaves.—
She moved straight on, and paused beside the bier,
Her hands like two white flowers, and starred with jewels
Were folded on her breast, as if she prayed;
Her rippling hair fell like a web of gold,
Loosely confined about her classic head,
With a rich band of gold and precious gems.—
Not one of all the lovely maids of Greece
Could rival her, the fairest of her sex:
Helen of Troy—the cause of bitter war
Most fiercely waged for many a lingering year,
And envied by her sisters, far less fair.—
She bends above the bier, her lovely face
All sad and drawn and piteous in its grief.—
And as she looks upon the face serene
In death, her tears fall thick and fast upon
It. "Oh my friend, my true and only friend.—
When others were most cruel, thou wert most kind;
When others made my life a misery,
From thee I heard no unkind word, or blame."
"My friend! My more than friend! Oh woe is me!
Thou wert too noble to oppress the weak,
Or persecute! Thy pity was too vast!"
"Farewell my friend; a long farewell! Farewell—
And may the gods protect thy noble soul!"