Helen Redeemed and Other Poems

Name: Helen Redeemed and Other Poems
Author: Maurice Hewlett

by Maurice Hewlett

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Poetry Mythology, Legends & Folklore

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #22803.

About this book

Helen Redeemed and Other Poems is a sprawling poetic retelling of the Trojan saga, beginning with an invocation to sing of Troy’s fall and the flood of passion that sweeps its heroes. The opening stanza weaves together mythic images of Helen, Achilles, and the gods, while the poet’s voice repeatedly calls on a bard to “strain thine art” and recount the tragic deeds of the Greeks and Trojans. The work proceeds in a series of “staves,” each shifting focus from the lament of Achilles to the dreams of Menelaus, and from the battlefield’s carnage to the quiet grief of the surviving women. The language is dense with classical allusion, employing archaic diction and a cadence that mimics epic verse, yet it remains anchored in the poet’s own reflective commentary on fate, honor, and the fleeting nature of beauty.

The style is unmistakably Victorian, echoing the grandiosity of 19th‑century epic poetry while indulging in a richly ornamental diction that may feel both familiar and challenging to modern readers. Maurice Hewlett’s voice is lofty, often invoking the gods and the natural world to frame human drama, and his frequent use of archaic spellings and elaborate metaphor creates a texture reminiscent of Tennyson or Longfellow. Readers who enjoy immersive mythic retellings, formal verse, and the lyrical intensity of period poetry will find this collection rewarding, especially those drawn to the emotional depth of the Trojan myth and the poet’s meditative take on heroism and loss.

Characters in Helen Redeemed and Other Poems

HelenRadiant Greek maiden, golden curls, ivory skin, flowing white chiton, serene eyes
AchillesYouthful warrior, bronze cuirass, long dark hair, fierce gaze, greaves and helm
ParisHandsome Trojan prince, wavy brown hair, soft features, embroidered tunic, laurel crown

The opening · free to read

Proem

Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood Of passion by the blood Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft Hallowed, if that thin waft Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song To span such store of strong And splendid vision of immortal themes Late harvested in dreams, Albeit long years laid up in tilth. Most meet Thou sing that slim and sweet Fair woman for whose bosom and delight Paris, as well he might, Wrought all the woe, and held her to his cost And Troy's, and won and lost Perforce; for who could look on her or feel Her near and not dare steal One hour of her, or hope to hold in bars Such wonder of the stars Undimmed? As soon expect to cage the rose Of dawn which comes and goes Fitful, or leash the shadows of the hills, Or music of upland rills As Helen's beauty and not tarnish it With thy poor market wit, Adept to hue the wanton in the wild, Defile the undefiled! Yet by the oath thou swearedst, standing high Where piled rocks testify The holy dust, and from Therapnai's hold Over the rippling wold Didst look upon Amyklai's, where sunrise First dawned in Helen's eyes, Take up thy tale, good poet, strain thine art To sing her rendered heart, Given last to him who loved her first, nor swerved From loving, but was nerved To see through years of robbery and shame Her spirit, a clear flame, Eloquent of her birthright. Tell his peace, And hers who at last found ease In white-arm'd Here, holy husbander Of purer fire than e'er To wife gave Kypris. Helen, and Thee sing In whom her beauties ring, Fair body of fair mind fair acolyte, Star of my day and night!

18th September 1912.

The Death of Achilles

Where Simoeis and Xanthos, holy streams, Flow brimming on the level, and chance gleams Betray far Ida through a rended cloud And hint the awful home of Zeus, whose shroud The thunder is--'twixt Ida and the main Behold gray Ilios, Priam's fee, the plain About her like a carpet; from whose height The watchman, ten years watching, every night Counteth the beacon fires and sees no less Their number as the years wax and duress Of hunger thins the townsmen day by day-- More than the Greeks kill plague and famine slay. Here in their wind-swept city, ten long years Beset and in this tenth in blood and tears And havocry to fall, old Priam's sons Guard still their gods, their wives and little ones, Guard Helen still, for whose fair womanhood The sin was done, woe wrought, and all the blood Of Danaan and Dardan in their pride Shed; nor yet so the end, for Here cried Shrill on the heights more vengeance on wrong done, And Greek or Trojan paid it. Late or soon By sword or bitter arrow they went hence, Each with their goodliest paying one man's offence. Goodliest in Troy fell Hector; back to Greek Then swung the doomstroke, and to Dis the bleak Must pass great Hector's slayer. Zeus on high, Hidden from men, held up the scales; the sky Told Thetis that her son must go the way He sent Queen Hecuba's--himself must pay, Himself though young, splendid Achilles' self, The price of manslaying, with blood for pelf. A grief immortal took her, and she grieved Deep in sea-cave, whereover restless heaved The wine-dark ocean--silently, not moving, Tearless, a god. O Gods, however loving, That is a lonely grief that must go dry About the graves where the beloved lie, And knows too much to doubt if death ends all Pleasure in strength of limb, joy musical, Mother-love, maiden-love, which never more Must the dead look for on the further shore Of Acheron, and past the willow-wood Of Proserpine! But when he understood, Achilles, that his end was near at hand, Darkling he heard the news, and on the strand Beyond the ships he stood awhile, then cried The Sea-God that high-hearted and clear-eyed He might go down; and this for utmost grace He asked, that not by battle might his face Be marred, nor fighting might some Dardan best Him who had conquered ever. For the rest, Fate, which had given, might take, as fate should be. So prayed he, and Poseidon out of the sea, There where the deep blue into sand doth fade And the long wave rolls in, a bar of jade, Sent him a portent in that sea-blue bird Swifter than light, the halcyon; and men heard The trumpet of his praise: "Shaker of Earth, Hail to thee! Now I fare to death in mirth, As to a banquet!" So when day was come Lightly arose the prince to meet his doom, And kissed Briseis where she lay abed And never more by hers might rest his head: "Farewell, my dear, farewell, my joy," said he; "Farewell to all delights 'twixt thee and me! For now I take a road whose harsh alarms Forbid so sweet a burden to my arms." Then his clean limbs his weeping squires bedight In all the mail Hephaistos served his might Withal, of breastplate shining like the sun Upon flood-water, three-topped helm whereon Gleamed the gold basilisk, and goodly greaves. These bore he without word; but when from sheaves Of spears they picked the great ash Pelian Poseidon gave to Peleus, God to a man, For no man's manege else--than all men's fear: "Dry and cold fighting for thee this day, my spear," Quoth he. And so when one the golden shield Immortal, daedal, for no one else to wield, Cast o'er his head, he frowned: "On thy bright face Let me see who shall dare a dint," he says, And stood in thought full-armed; thereafter poured Libation at the tent-door to the Lord Of earth and sky, and prayed, saying: "O Thou That hauntest dark Dodona, hear me now, Since that the shadowing arm of Time is flung Far over me, but cloudeth me full young. Scatheless I vow them. Let one Trojan cast His spear and loose my spirit. Rage is past Though I go forth my most provocative Adventure: 'tis not I that seek. Receive My prayer Thou as I have earned it--lo, Dying I stand, and hail Thee as I go Lord of the AEgis, wonderful, most great!" Which done, he took his stand, and bid his mate Urge on the steeds; and all the Achaian host Followed him, not with outcry or loud boast Of deeds to do or done, but silent, grim As to a shambles--so they followed him, Eyeing that nodding crest and swaying spear Shake with the chariot. Solemn thus they near The Trojan walls, slow-moving, as by a Fate Driven; and thus before the Skaian Gate Stands he in pomp of dreadful calm, to die, As once in dreadful haste to slay. Thereby The walls were thick with men, and in the towers Women stood gazing, clustered close as flowers That blur the rocks in some high mountain pass With delicate hues; but like the gray hill-grass Which the wind sweepeth, till in waves of light It tideth backwards--so all gray or white Showed they, as sudden surges moved them cloak Their heads, or bare their faces. And none spoke Among them, for there stood not woman there But mourned her dead, or sensed not in the air Her pendent doom of death, or worse than death. Frail as flowers were their faces, and all breath Came short and quick, as on this dreadful show Staring, they pondered it done far below As on a stage where the thin players seem Unkith to them who watch, the stuff of dream. Nor else about the plain showed living thing Save high in the blue where sailed on outspread wing A vulture bird intent, with mighty span Of pinion. In the hush spake the dead man, Hollow-voiced, terrible: "Ye tribes of Troy, Here stand I out for death, and ye for joy Of killing as ye will, by cast of spear, By bowshot or with sword. If any peer Of Hector or Sarpedon care the bout Which they both tried aforetime let him out With speed, and bring his many against one, Fearing no treachery, for there shall be none To aid me, God nor man; nor yet will I Stir finger in the business, but will die By murder sooner than in battle fall Under some Trojan hand." Breathless stood all, Not moving out; but Paris on the roof Of his high house, where snug he sat aloof, Drew taut the bowstring home, and notched a shaft, Soft whistling to himself, what time with craft Of peering eyes and narrow twisted face He sought an aim. Swift from her hiding-place Came burning Helen then, in her blue eyes A fire unquenchable, but cold as ice That scorcheth ere it strike a mortal chill Upon the heart. "Darest thou...?" Smiling still, He heeded not her warning, nor he read The terror of her eyes, but drew and sped A screaming arrow, deadly, swerving not-- Then stood to watch the ruin he had wrought. He heard the sob of breath o'er all the host Of hushing men; he marked, but then he lost, The blood-spurt at the shaft-head; for the crest Upheaved, the shoulders stiffen'd, ere to the breast Bent down the head, as though the glazing sight Curious would mark the death-spot. Still upright Stood he; but as a tree that on the side Of Ida yields to axe her soaring pride And lightlier waves her leafy crown, and swings From side to side--so on his crest the wings Erect seemed shaking upwards, and to sag The spear's point, and the burden'd head to wag Before the stricken body felt the stroke, Or the strong knees grew lax, or the heart broke. Breathless they waited; then the failing man Stiffened anew his neck, and changed and wan Looked for the last time in the face of day, And seemed to dare the Gods such might to slay As this, the sanguine splendid thing he was, Withal now gray of face and pinched. Alas, For pride of life! Now he had heard his knell. His spirit passed, and crashing down he fell, Mighty Achilles, and struck the earth, and lay A huddled mass, a bulk of bronze and clay Bestuck with gilt and glitter, like a toy. There dropt a forest hush on watching Troy, Upon the plain and watching ranks of men; And from a tower some woman keened him then With long thin cry that wavered in the air-- As once before one wailed her Hector there.

Menelaus' Dream: Helen on the Wall

So he who wore his honour like a wreath About his brows went the dark way of death; Which being done, that deed of ruth and doom Gave breath to Troy; but on the Achaians gloom Settled like pall of cloud upon a land That swoons beneath it. Desperate they scanned Each other, saying: "Now we are left by God," And in the huts behind the wall abode, Heeding not Diomede, Idomeneus, Nor keen Odysseus, nor that friend of Zeus Mykenai's king, nor that robbed Menelaus, Nor bowman Teukros, Nestor wise, nor Aias-- Huge Aias, cursed in death! Peleides bare Himself with pride, but he went raving there. For in the high assembly Thetis made In honour of her son, to waft his shade In peace to Hades' house, after the fire Twice a man's height for him who did suspire Twice a man's heart and render it to Heaven Who gave it, after offerings paid and given, And games of men and horses, she brought forth His regal arms for hero of most worth In the broad Danaan host, who was adjudged Odysseus by all voices. Aias grudged The vote and wandered brooding, drawn apart From his room-fellows, seeding in his heart Envy, which biting inwards did corrode His mettle, and his ill blood plied the goad Upon his brain, until the wretch made mad Went muttering his wrongs, ill-trimmed, ill-clad, Sightless and careless, with slack mouth awry, And working tongue, and danger in the eye; And oft would stare at Heaven and laugh his scorn: "O fools, think not to trick me!" then forlorn Would gaze about green earth or out to sea: "This is the end of man in his degree"-- Thus would he moralise in those bare lands With hopeless brows and tossing up of hands-- "To sow in sweat and see another reap!" Then, pitying himself, he'd fall to weep His desolation, scorned by Gods, by men Slighted; but in a flash he'd rage again And shake his naked sword at unseen foes, And dare them bring Odysseus to his blows: Or let the man but flaunt himself in arms...! So threatening God knows what of savage harms, On him the oxen patient in the marsh, Knee-deep in rushes, gazed to hear his harsh Outcry; and them his madness taught for Greeks, So on their dumb immensity he wreaks His vengeance, driving in the press with shout Of "Aias! Aias!" hurtling, carving out A way with mighty swordstroke, cut and thrust, And makes a shambles in his witless lust; And in the midst, bloodshot, with blank wild eyes Stands frothing at the lips, and after lies All reeking in his madman's battlefield, And sleeps nightlong. But with the dawn's revealed The pity of his folly; then he sees Himself at his fool's work. With shaking knees He stands amid his slaughter, and his own Adds to the wreck, plunging without a groan Upon his planted sword. So Aias died Lonely; and he who, never from his side Removed, had shared his fame, the Lokrian, Abode the fate foreordered in the plan Which the Blind Women ignorantly weave.

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