There came a day when Arês left at rest His spear, and smoothed his harmful, unhelmed brow, Calling Alectryôn to his side, and said: “The shadow of Olympos longer falls Through misty valleys of the lower world; The Earth shall be at peace a summer’s night; Men shall have calm, and the unconquered host Peopling the walls of Troas, and the tribes Of Greece, shall sleep sweet sleep upon their arms; For Aphroditê, queen of light and love, Awaits me, blooming in the House of Fire, Girt with the cestus, infinite in grace, Dearer than battle and the joy of war: She, for whose charms I would renounce the sword Forever, even godhood, would she wreathe My brows with myrtle, dwelling far from Heaven. Hêphæstos, the lame cuckold, unto whose Misshapen squalor Zeus hath given my queen, To-night seeks Lemnos, and his sooty vault Roofed by the roaring surge; wherein, betimes, He and his Cyclops pound the ringing iron, Forging great bolts for Zeus, and welding mail, White-hot, in shapes for Heroes and the Gods. Do thou, Alectryôn, faithful to my trust, Hie with me to the mystic House of Fire. Therein, with wine and fruitage of her isle, Sweet odors, and all rarest sights and sounds, My Paphian mistress shall regale us twain. But when the feast is over, and thou seest Arês and Aphroditê pass beyond The portals of that chamber whence all winds Of love flow ever toward the fourfold Earth, Watch by the entrance, sleepless, while we sleep; And warn us ere the glimpses of the Dawn; Lest Hêlios, the spy, may peer within Our windows, and to Lemnos speed apace, In envy clamoring to the hobbling smith, Hêphæstos, of the wrong I do his bed.” Thus Arês; and the Thracian boy, well pleased, Swore to be faithful to his trust, and liege To her, the perfect queen of light and love. So saying, they reached the fiery, brazen gates, Encolumned high by Heaven’s artisan, Hêphæstos, rough, begrimed, and halt of foot,— Yet unto whom was Aphroditê given By Zeus, because from his misshapen hands All shapely things found being; but the gift Brought him no joyance, nor made pure his fame, Like those devices which he wrought himself, Grim, patient, unbeloved.