Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell
  To claim her ancient throne,
So we have bidden friends farewell
  To follow her alone.

The Lady of the laurelled brow,
  The Queen of pride and power,
Looks rather like a phantom now,
  And rather like a flower.

Deep in her eyes the lamp of night
  Burns with a secret flame,
Where shadows pass that have no sight,
  And ghosts that have no name.

For mute is battle's brazen horn
  That rang for Priest and King,
And she who drank of that brave morn
  Is pale with evening.