Idyll XVIII: The Epithalamy of Helen (Edmonds)

It seems that once upon a time at the house of flaxen-haired Menelaus in Sparta, the first twelve maidens of the town, fine pieces all of Laconian womanhood, came crowned with fresh flowering luces, and before a new-painted chamber took up the dance, when the younger child of Atreus shut the wedding door upon the girl of his wooing, upon the daughter of Tyndaretis, to wit the beloved Helen. There with their pretty feet criss-crossing all to the time of one tune they sang till the palace rang again with the echoes of this wedding-song :—

What Bridegroom! dear Bridegroom! thus early abed and asleep?

Wast born a man of sluggardye,

Or is thy pillow sweet to thee,

Or ere thou cam’st to bed maybe

Didst drink a little deep?

If thou wert so fain to sleep betimes, ’twere better sleep alone, And leave a maid with maids to play By a fond mother’s side till dawn of day, Sith for the morrow and its morn, For this and all the years unborn, This sweet bride is thine own.

When thou like others of high degree cam’st here thy suit a-pressing, Sure some good body, well is thee, sneezed thee a proper blessing; For of all these lordings there’s but one shall be son of the High Godhead, Aye, ‘neath one coverlet with thee Great Zeus his daughter is come to be, A lady whose like is not to see Where Grecian women tread.

And if she bring a mother’s bairn ’twill be of a wondrous grace; For sure all we which her fellows be, that ran with her the race, Anointed lasses like the lads, Eurotas’ pools beside— o’ the four-times threescore maidens that were Sparta’s flower and pride There was none so fair as might compare with Menelaüs’ bride.

O Lady Night, ’tis passing bright the face o’ the rising day; ’Tis like the white spring o’ the year When winter is no longer here; But so shines golden Helen clear Among our meinie so gay.

And the crops that upstand in a fat ploughland do make it fair to see, And a cypress the garden where she grows, And a Thessaly steed the chariot he knows; But so doth Helen red as the rose Make fair her dear countrye.

And never doth woman on bobbin wind such thread as her baskets teem,

Nor shuttlework so close and fine ane from the weavers beam,

Nor none hath skill to ply the quill to the Gods of Women above

As the maiden wise in whose bright eyes dwells all desire and love.

O maid of beauty, maid of grace, thou art a huswife now; But we shall betimes to the running-place i’ the meads where flowers do blow, And cropping garlands sweet and sweet about our brows to do, Like lambs athirst for the mother’s teat shall long, dear Helen, for you.

For you afore all shall a coronal of the gay groundling trefoil Hang to a shady platan-tree, and a vial of running oil His offering drip from a silver lip beneath the same platan-tree, And a Doric rede be writ i’ the bark For him that passeth by to mark, ‘I am Helen’s; worship me.’

And ’tis Bride farewell, and Groom farewell, that be son of a mighty sire,

And Leto, great Nurse Leto, grant children at your desire,

And Cypris, holy Cypris, an equal love alway, And Zeus, high Zeus, prosperitye That drawn of parents of high degree Shall pass to a noble progenye For ever and a day.

Sleep on and rest, and on either breast may the love-breath playing go; Sleep now, but when the day shall break Forget not from your sleep to wake; For we shall come wi’ the dawn along Soon as the first-waked master o’ song Lift feathery neck to crow.

Sing Hey for the Wedding, sing Ho for the Wedder,

And thanks to him that made it!