Strong blew the breeze—the surge closed o’er The cloven track of keel and oar, But while she fled, there drove along, Fast in her wake, a mighty throng— Athirst for blood, athirst for war, Forward in fell pursuit they sprung, Then leapt on Simois’ bank ashore, The leafy coppices among— No rangers, they, of wood and field, But huntsmen of the sword and shield. Heaven’s jealousy, that works its will, Sped thus on Troy its destined ill, Well named, at once, the Bride and Bane; And loud rang out the bridal strain; But they to whom that song befel Did turn anon to tears again; Zeus tarries, but avenges still The husband’s wrong, the household’s stain! He, the hearth’s lord, brooks not to see Its outraged hospitality. Even now, and in far other tone, Troy chants her dirge of mighty moan, _Woe upon Paris, woe and hate! Who wooed his country’s doom for mate_— This is the burthen of the groan, Wherewith she wails disconsolate The blood, so many of her own Have poured in vain, to fend her fate; Troy! thou hast fed and freed to roam A lion-cub within thy home! A suckling creature, newly ta’en From mother’s teat, still fully fain Of nursing care; and oft caressed, Within the arms, upon the breast, Even as an infant, has it lain; Or fawns and licks, by hunger pressed, The hand that will assuage its pain; In life’s young dawn, a well-loved guest, A fondling for the children’s play, A joy unto the old and gray. But waxing time and growth betrays The blood-thirst of the lion-race, And, for the house’s fostering care, Unbidden all, it revels there, And bloody recompense repays— Rent flesh of tine, its talons tare: A mighty beast, that slays and slays, And mars with blood the household fair, A God-sent pest invincible, A minister of fate and hell. Even so to Ilion’s city came by stealth A spirit as of windless seas and skies, A gentle phantom-form of joy and wealth, With love’s soft arrows speeding from its eyes— Love’s rose, whose thorn doth pierce the soul in subtle wise. Ah, well-a-day! the bitter bridal-bed, When the fair mischief lay by Paris’ side! What curse on palace and on people sped With her, the Fury sent on Priam’s pride, By angered Zeus! what tears of many a widowed bride! Long, long ago to mortals this was told, How sweet security and blissful state Have curses for their children—so men hold— And for the man of all-too prosperous fate Springs from a bitter seed some woe insatiate. Alone, alone, I deem far otherwise; Not bliss nor wealth it is, but impious deed, From which that after-growth of ill doth rise! Woe springs from wrong, the plant is like the seed— While Right, in honour’s house, doth its own likeness breed.