And all dark Tempe lay,
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal Earth,
And of Heaven--and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,--
And then I changed my pipings,--
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
=87. Marsyas= also was unfortunate enough to underrate Apollo's musical
ability. It seems that the flute, an invention of Minerva's, had been
thrown away by that goddess because Cupid laughed at the grimaces which
she made while playing it. Marsyas found the instrument, blew upon it,
and elicited such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge
Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god, of course, triumphed, and
he punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
=88. The Loves of Apollo.= Beside Psamathe of Argos, Coronis of
Thessaly, and the nymph Clymene, who have been already mentioned,
Apollo loved the muse Calliope, who bore him Orpheus,[107] and the
nymph Cyrene, whose son was Aristæus.[108] Of his relations with other
maidens the following myths exist.
=89. Daphne.=[109] The lord of the silver bow was not always prosperous
in his wooing. His first love, which, by the way, owed its origin
to the malice of Cupid, was specially unfortunate. It appears that
Apollo, seeing the boy playing with his bow and arrows, had tauntingly
advised him to leave warlike weapons for hands worthy of them and
content himself with the torch of love. Whereupon the son of Venus had
rejoined, "Thine arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine
shall strike thee."
[Illustration: APOLLO AND DAPHNE]
So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from
his quiver two arrows of different workmanship,--one to excite love,
the other to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the
latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck
the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneüs, and with the
golden one Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with
love for the maiden, but she, more than ever, abhorred the thought of
loving. Her delight was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the
chase. Spurning all lovers, she prayed her father that she might remain
always unmarried, like Diana. He consented, but, at the same time,
warned her that her beauty would defeat her purpose. It was the face
of this huntress maiden that Apollo saw. He saw the charming disorder
of her hair, and would have arranged it; he saw her eyes bright as
stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing them.
He longed for Daphne. He followed her; she fled swifter than the wind,
nor delayed a moment at his entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of
Peneüs; I am not a foe. It is for love I pursue thee. I am no clown, no
rude peasant. Jupiter is my father. I am lord of Delphi and Tenedos. I
know all things, present and future. I am the god of song and the lyre.
My arrows fly true to the mark; but alas! an arrow more fatal than mine
has pierced my heart! I am the god of medicine and know the virtues of
all healing plants. Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure."
[Illustration: FIG. 67. DAPHNE]
The nymph continues her flight and leaves his plea half-uttered. But
even as she flies she charms him. The wind catches her garments, and
her unbound hair streams loose behind her. The god, sped by Cupid,
gains upon her in the race. His panting breath blows upon her hair.
Her strength begins to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her
father, the river-god: "Help me, Peneüs! open the earth to inclose me,
or change my form, which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had
she spoken when a stiffness seized her limbs; and little by little she
took on the appearance of a laurel tree. Apollo embraced the branches
and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his lips.
"Since thou canst not be my wife," said he, "thou shalt assuredly be
my tree. I will wear thee for my crown. I will decorate with thee my
harp and my quiver. When the Roman conquerors conduct the triumphal
pomp to the Capitol, thou shalt be woven into wreaths for their brows.
And, as eternal youth is mine, thou also shalt be always green, and
thy leaf know no decay." The laurel tree bowed its head in grateful
acknowledgment.
The delicious humor of Lowell's extravaganza upon the story amply
justifies the following citation:
Ph[oe]bus, sitting one day in a laurel tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 't was a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
"My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remarked;
"When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought--but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,--
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?--who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,--
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite."[110]
=90. Marpessa.= Another maiden who declined Apollo's love was
Marpessa.[1] She is called by Homer "the fair-ankled daughter of
Evenus."
The god Apollo from the heaven of heavens
Her mortal sweetness through the air allured;[2]
but Idas, "that was strongest of men that were then on earth,"[111]
carried her off, assisted by Poseidon who gave him a winged chariot.
Her father Evenus vainly tried to catch up with the fleeing lovers;
but Apollo found them in Messene, and wrested the maiden away. Then
Jupiter, while the lovers were engaged in combat, separated them,
saying, "Let her decide."
They three together met; on the one side,
Fresh from diffusing light on all the world
Apollo; on the other without sleep
Idas, and in the midst Marpessa stood.
Just as a flower after drenching rain,
So from the falling of felicity
Her human beauty glowed, and it was new;
The bee too near her bosom drowsed and dropped.[2]
According to the story as romantically told by the English poet
Phillips, first spoke Apollo. The god told her that he dreaded that one
so fair should ever taste of sorrow and death; how, if she lived with
him, she should bide
In mere felicity above the world
In peace alive and moving, where to stir
Is ecstasy, and thrilling is repose,[112]
immortal, scattering joy without intermission, lighting the world,
bringing bliss to struggling men and sorrowing women, dispelling
shadows and shadowy fear.
Then Idas, humbly,--
"After such argument what can I plead?
Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is
In women to pity rather than to aspire,
A little will I speak."
And he tells her simply that he _loves_ her,--loves her not only for
her beauty, but
"Because Infinity upon thee broods;
And thou art full of whispers and of shadows;--"
and because her voice is music, her face mystery beyond his power to
comprehend;
"O beauty lone and like a candle clear
In this dark country of the world! Thou art
My woe, my early light, my music dying."
And Marpessa?--
As he was speaking, she with lips apart
Breathed, and with dimmer eyes leaned through the air
As one in dream, and now his human hand
Took in her own; and to Apollo spoke,--
saying that she knew how sweet it might be forever with a god to aid
suffering men and women and "gild the face that from its dead looks
up"; but still she feared immortality, for, though dying not, she must
grow old, and her god lover would tire of her when once her youth was
faded. And as for that "existence without tears for evermore" which he
promised,--
"Yet I being human, human sorrow miss.
The half of music, I have heard men say,
Is to have grieved."
To sorrow she was born. It is out of sadness that men have made this
world beautiful. If she chooses Idas, then they two will prosper
together, grow old together, and last descend into the "natural
ground," and "leave behind a wholesome memory on the earth."
When she had spoken, Idas with one cry
Held her, and there was silence; while the god
In anger disappeared. Then slowly they,
He looking downward, and she gazing up,
Into the evening green wandered away.
=91. Clytie.=[113] In the story of Clytie the conditions are reversed.
She was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no return.
So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground with her
unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders. Nine days she sat, and
tasted neither food nor drink,--her own tears and the chilly dew her
only sustenance. She gazed on the sun when he rose; and as he passed
through his daily course to his setting, she saw no other object,--her
eyes fixed constantly on him. At last, they say, her limbs took root in
the ground and her face became a flower, turning on its stem to follow
the journeying sun.
In the following lines, Thomas Moore uses the flower as an emblem of
constancy:
The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look that she turned when he rose.
[Illustration: FIG. 68. ARTEMIS]
=92. Myths of Diana.= In company with her radiant brother, we find
Diana subduing Tityus and the Python and assisting in the punishment of
Niobe. The speedy transformation of Daphne has been attributed to this
goddess, the champion of maidenhood. According to some, it was she,
too, that changed Callisto into a bear, when for love of Jupiter that
nymph deserted the huntress-band. Numerous are the myths that celebrate
the severity of the goddess of the unerring bow toward those who
offended her. How she served Agamemnon for slaying one of her hinds is
told in the story of Troy;[114] how she punished [OE]neus for omitting
a sacrifice to her is narrated in the episode of the Calydonian
hunt.[115] Similar attributes of the goddess are exemplified in the
myths of Arethusa, Actæon, and Orion. It is only when she is identified
with Selene, the peaceful moonlight, that we perceive a softer side of
character, such as that displayed in her relations with Endymion.
=93. The Flight of Arethusa.=[116] A woodland nymph of Elis was this
Arethusa; she delighted not in her comeliness, but in the joys of
the chase. One day, returning from the wood heated with exercise, she
descended to a stream silently flowing, so clear that you might count
the pebbles on the bottom. She laid aside her garments; but while she
sported in the water, she heard an indistinct murmur rising as out of
the depths of the stream. She made haste to reach the nearest bank. A
voice followed her, "Why flyest thou, Arethusa? Alpheüs am I, the god
of this stream." The nymph ran, the god pursued. Arethusa, at last
exhausted, cried for help to Diana, who, hearing, wrapped her votary
in a thick cloud. Perplexed, the river-god still sought the trembling
maiden. But a cold sweat came over her. In less time than it takes
to tell, she had become a fountain. Alpheüs attempted then to mingle
his stream with hers. But the Cynthian queen cleft the ground, and
Arethusa, still endeavoring to escape, plunged into the abyss and,
passing through the bowels of the earth, came out in Sicily, still
followed by the passionate river-god.
[Illustration: FIG 69. ARETHUSA]
=94. Shelley's Arethusa.= In the following version of the pursuit,
Arethusa was already a river when Alpheüs espied her.
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,--
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains,
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;--
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams:
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheüs bold
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountain strook
And opened a chasm
In the rocks;--with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It concealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below;
The beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph's flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
[Illustration: FIG. 70. A YOUNG RIVER-GOD]
"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!"
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth's white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:--
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main,
Alpheüs rushed behind,--
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearlèd thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of colored light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night:
Outspeeding the shark,
And the swordfish dark,
Under the ocean foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They past to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel:
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;--
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
=95. The Fate of Actæon.=[117] Diana's severity toward young Actæon,
grandson of Cadmus whose kindred fell under the curse of Mars, is thus
narrated.
[Illustration: FIG. 71. ACTÆON]
One day, having repaired to a valley inclosed by cypresses and pines,
where gushed a fountain of sparkling water, the chaste Diana handed her
javelin, her quiver, and her bow to one nymph, her robe to another,
while a third unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the
most skillful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and
the rest drew water in capacious urns. While the huntress queen was
thus employed in the labors of the toilet, Actæon, the son of Autonoë
and Aristæus, having quitted his companions of the chase and rambling
without any especial object, came to the place, led thither by his
destiny. As he presented himself at the entrance of the cave, the
nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed towards the goddess to hide
her with their bodies. But she was taller than the rest and overtopped
them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or
at dawn came over the countenance of Diana, thus taken by surprise.
Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away and
sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at hand,
she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, saying, "Now go and
tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unappareled." Immediately
a pair of branching stag's horns grew out of the huntsman's head, his
neck gained in length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became
feet, his arms, his long legs, and his body were covered with a hairy
spotted hide. Fear took the place of his former boldness, and the hero
fled. What should he do?--go home to the palace or lie hid in the
woods? While he hesitated his dogs saw him. Over rocks and cliffs,
through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he fled, and they
followed. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs. Presently one
fastened on his back, another seized his shoulder; the rest of the
pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh. His friends and
fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and, looking everywhere for
Actæon, called on him to join the sport. At the sound of his name,
he turned his head and heard them regret that he should be away. He
earnestly wished he was. But Diana had no pity for him, nor was her
anger appeased till the dogs had torn his life out.
=96. The Fortunes and Death of Orion.= Orion, the son of Neptune, was a
giant and a mighty hunter, whose prowess and manly favor gained for him
the rare good will of Diana.
It is related that he loved Merope, the daughter of [OE]nopion, king
of Chios, and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild
beasts and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved;
but as [OE]nopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted to
gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at his
conduct, made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight, and cast him out
on the seashore. The blinded hero, instructed by an oracle to seek
the rays of morning, followed the sound of a Cyclops' hammer till he
reached Lemnos, where Vulcan, taking pity on him, gave him Cedalion,
one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun. Placing
Cedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there
meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.[118]
After this he dwelt as a hunter with the queen of the echoing chase;
and it was even hinted that she loved him. Her brother, highly
displeased, often chid her, but to no purpose. One day, therefore,
observing Orion as he waded through the sea with his head just above
the water, Apollo pointed out the black object to his sister, and
maintained that she could not hit it. The archer goddess discharged a
shaft with fatal aim: the waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the
land. Then bewailing her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him
among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword,
lion's skin, and club.
Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.[119]
In the beginning of winter, all through the night, Orion follows the
chase across the heavens; but with dawn he sinks toward the waters of
his father Neptune. In the beginning of summer, he may be seen with
daybreak in the eastern sky, where, beloved by Aurora, he remains
gradually paling before the light of day till, finally, Diana, jealous
of his happiness, draws her gentle darts and slays him.
[Illustration: FIG. 72. THE PLEIADES
From the painting by Vedder]
=97. The Pleiads=,[120] who still fly before Orion in the heavens,
were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train. One day Orion
saw them in B[oe]otia, became enamored of them, and gave pursuit. In
their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form. Jupiter,
accordingly, turned them into pigeons, and made them a constellation.
Though their number was seven, only six stars are visible; for Electra,
it is said, left her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy,
which had been founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an
effect on her sisters that they blanched, and have been pale ever
since. But Electra became a comet; her hair floating wildly behind her,
she still inconsolably ranges the expanse of heaven. According to some,
the lost Pleiad is Merope, who was vested with mortality in consequence
of her marriage with the mortal Sisyphus, king of Corinth.
Tennyson's reference to the Pleiads, in "Locksley Hall," is of course
familiar to all readers.
[Illustration: FIG. 73. ENDYMION]
=98. Endymion.= The frequent absence of Diana from her duties in heaven
is said to have awakened suspicion among the deities of Olympus, who
doubted whether she actually occupied these intervals with hunting.
It is easy to imagine the satisfaction with which Venus, who so often
had been reproached by Diana with her undue fondness of beautiful
youths, would welcome news of a corresponding weakness on the part of
the cold-hearted and apparently unyielding huntress queen. And such
satisfaction Venus once enjoyed, if we may trust the later classical
and the modern poets who have identified Diana with Selene, the more
ancient goddess of the moon.
For, one calm, clear night Selene looked down upon the beautiful
Endymion, who fed his flock on Mount Latmos, and saw him sleeping.
The heart of the goddess was unquestionably warmed by his surpassing
beauty. She came down to him; she kissed him; she watched over him
while he slept. She visited him again and again. But her secret could
not long be hidden from the company of Olympus. For more and more
frequently she was absent from her station in the sky, and toward
morning she was ever paler and more weary with her watching. When,
finally, her love was discovered, Jupiter gave Endymion, who had been
thus honored, a choice between death in any manner that was preferable,
or perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Endymion chose the
latter. He still sleeps in his Carian cave, and still the mistress of
the moon slips from her nocturnal course to visit him. She takes care,
too, that his fortunes shall not suffer by his inactive life: she
yields his flock increase, and guards his sheep and lambs from beasts
of prey.[121]
Keats, whose Endymion journeys on a mission under sea, thus describes a
meeting of the goddess and her lover:
On gold sand impearled
With lily shells and pebbles milky white,
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm
Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stayed
His wandering steps, and half-entrancèd laid
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.
And so he kept, until the rosy veils,
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fanned
Into sweet air; and sobered morning came
Meekly through billows:--when like taper-flame
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare
Along his fated way.[122]
=99. Myths of Venus.= Round the goddess of love cluster romances of
her own tender passion, of the affairs of the winged Cupid, and of the
loves of the worshipers at her shrine. Of the affection of Venus for
Mars and of her relations with Anchises,[123] the father of Æneas,
mention is elsewhere made. The following is the myth of Venus and
Adonis.
=100. Adonis.=[124] The sweetly smiling goddess, playing one day with
her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of his arrows. Before the
wound healed, she looked upon Adonis, the son of Cinyras and Myrrha,
and was captivated by him. She no longer took any interest in her
favorite resorts,--Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathus, rich in metals. She
absented herself even from Olympus, for Adonis was dearer to her than
heaven. Him she followed and bore him company. She who loved to recline
in the shade, with no care but to cultivate her charms, now rambled
through the woods and over the hills, girt like the huntress Diana.
She chased game that is safe to hunt, but kept clear of the wolves and
bears. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of dangerous animals. "Be
brave toward the timid," she would say, "courage against the courageous
is not safe." Having thus, on one occasion, warned him, she mounted her
chariot drawn by swans and drove away through the air. But Adonis was
too noble to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from
his lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with
a sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws, and,
rushing after Adonis, buried his tusks in the lad's side, and stretched
him dying upon the plain. The rest of the story is thus recounted:
THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS[125]
... Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh
with the boar's tusk, his white thigh with the boar's tusk, is
wounded; and sorrow on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes
his life away.
His dark blood drips down his skin of snow; beneath his brows
his eyes wax heavy and dim; and the rose flees from his lip, and
thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never
forego.
[Illustration: PETWORTH APHRODITE]
... She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost
her sacred beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris while Adonis
was living, but her beauty has died with Adonis! _Woe, woe
for Cypris_, the mountains all are saying. And the oak trees
answer, _Woe for Adonis!_ And the rivers bewail the sorrows of
Aphrodite, and the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains.
The flowers flush red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the
mountain-knees, through every dell, doth shrill the piteous dirge:
_Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath_ _perished, the lovely Adonis!_
... When she saw, when she marked the unstanched wound of Adonis,
when she saw the bright red blood about his languid thigh, she
cast her arms abroad, and moaned, "Abide with me, Adonis, hapless
Adonis, abide!... Awake, Adonis, for a little while, and kiss
me yet again, the latest kiss!... This kiss will I treasure,
even as thyself, Adonis, since, ah, ill-fated, thou art fleeing
me, thou art fleeing far, Adonis, and art faring to Acheron, to
that hateful king and cruel, while wretched I yet live, being
a goddess, and may not follow thee! Persephone, take thou my
lover, my lord, for thyself art stronger than I, and all lovely
things drift down to thee. But I am ill-fated, inconsolable is my
anguish; and I lament mine Adonis, dead to me, and I have no rest
for sorrow.
"Thou diest, oh, thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown away
as a dream! Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves
along the halls! With thee has the girdle of my beauty perished.
For why, ah, overbold, didst thou follow the chase, and being so
fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to fight with beasts?"
So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament:
_Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath_ _perished, the lovely Adonis!_
[Illustration: FIG. 74. THE DEATH OF ADONIS]
A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears
and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings
forth the rose; the tears, the wind-flower.
_Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!_
... Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from
thy dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for him
another year.
=101. Cupid and Psyche.=[126] A certain king and queen had three
daughters. The charms of the two elder were more than common, but the
beauty of the youngest was such that the poverty of language is unable
to express its praise. In fact, Venus found her altars deserted, while
men paid their vows to this virgin. When Psyche passed, the people sang
her praises and strewed her way with chaplets and flowers.
This perversion of homage gave great offense to Venus, who complained
that Paris might just as well not have yielded her the palm of beauty
over Pallas and Juno, if a mortal were thus to usurp her honors.
Wherefore she called Cupid and, pointing out Psyche to him, bade him
infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low,
unworthy being.
There were in Venus's garden two fountains,--one of sweet waters, the
other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain,
and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber
of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter
fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to
pity; and then he touched her side with the point of his arrow. She
awoke, and opening her eyes upon Cupid (himself invisible), so startled
him that in his confusion he wounded himself with his arrow. Heedless
of his wound, his thought now was to repair the mischief he had done.
He poured, at once, the waters of joy over her silken ringlets.
But Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from
her charms. Her two elder sisters had long been married to princes; but
Psyche's beauty failed to awaken love. Consequently her parents, afraid
that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted the
oracle of Apollo.
They received answer, "The virgin is destined for the bride of no
mortal lover. Her husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is
a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist."
This dreadful decree of the oracle filled the people with dismay; but,
at Psyche's request, preparations for her fate were made. The royal
maid took her place in a procession, which more resembled a funeral
than a nuptial pomp, and with her parents, amid the lamentations of
their subjects, ascended the mountain, where she was left alone.
While Psyche stood there, panting with fear and with eyes full of
tears, the gentle Zephyr lifted her and, with an easy motion, bore her
to a flowery dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid
herself down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke refreshed with
sleep, she beheld near by a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees.
Entering, she discovered in the midst a fountain, and fast by a palace
whose august front showed that it was not the work of mortal hands, but
the happy retreat of some god. She approached the building and entered.
Every object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden
pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with
carvings and paintings that represented beasts of the chase and rural
scenes. Other apartments were filled with still other beautiful and
precious productions of nature and art.
While her eyes were thus occupied, the voice of an invisible being
addressed her: "Sovereign lady, all that thou beholdest is thine. We
whose voices thou dost hear are thy servants. Retire, we pray thee, to
thy chamber, repose on thy bed of down, and when it may please thee
repair to the bath. Food awaits in the adjoining alcove."
After repose and the refreshment of the bath, Psyche seated herself
in the alcove, where, without any visible aid, a table immediately
presented itself, covered with delicacies and nectareous wines. Her
ears, too, were delighted with music from invisible performers.
For a long time she did not see her husband. He came in the hours of
darkness and fled before the dawn of morning; but his accents were full
of love and inspired a like passion in her. Often she begged him to
stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. "Having looked
upon me," he said, "mayhap thou wouldst fear, mayhap adore, me; but
all I ask of thee is love. I would rather thou shouldst love me as an
equal than adore me as a god." This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche
for a time. But the thought of her parents and of her sisters, left
in ignorance of her fate, preyed on her mind to such a degree that at
last, telling her distress to her lord, she drew from him an unwilling
consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.
[Illustration: FIG. 75. PSYCHE AT THE COUCH OF CUPID
From the painting by Thumann]
Zephyr, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain
down to their sister's valley. They embraced her. She returned their
caresses, and then committed them to the care of her attendant voices,
who should refresh them in her bath and at her table, and show them
her treasures. The view of these delights caused envy to enter their
bosoms. They plied their fortunate sister with questions about her
husband. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who generally
spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters, not
satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess that she had never
seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions.
Probably her husband was a dreadful monster, such as the Pythian oracle
had prophesied. Probably he was a direful serpent, who nourished her
now to devour her by and by. They advised her to provide herself
against the night with a lamp and a sharp knife, told her what to do if
her husband turned out the monster that they surmised, and, so saying,
departed.
These persuasions Psyche resisted as well as she could, but they did
not fail to have their effect on her mind. She prepared a lamp and a
sharp knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. That night, when
he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering
her lamp--
Scarce kept back a cry
At what she saw; for there before her lay
The very Love brighter than dawn of day;
And as he lay there smiling, her own name
His gentle lips in sleep began to frame,
And, as to touch her face, his hand did move;
O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love,
And she began to sob, and tears fell fast
Upon the bed.--But as she turned at last
To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing
That quenched her new delight, for flickering
The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair
A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there
The meaning of that sad sight knew full well,
Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.[127]
Without a word, Cupid spread his white wings, and flew out of window.
Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow, fell to the earth. For but an
instant Cupid, staying, reproached her with distrust of him. "No other
punishment inflict I than to leave thee forever. Love cannot dwell with
suspicion." And so he flew away.
When Psyche had recovered some degree of composure, she looked around
her. The palace and gardens had vanished. She found herself not far
from the city where her sisters dwelt. Thither she repaired, and told
them the story of her misfortunes, whereat they inwardly rejoiced.
"For now," thought they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this
idea, they rose early the next morning and, ascending the mountain,
each called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then,
leaping up, failed of the support of Zephyr, fell down the precipice,
and was dashed to pieces.
Psyche, meanwhile, wandered day and night, without food or repose, in
search of her husband. But he was lying heartsick in the chamber of
his mother; and that goddess was absent upon her own affairs. Then the
white sea gull which floats over the waves dived into the middle deep,
And rowing with his glistening wings arrived
At Aphrodite's bower beneath the sea.
She, as yet unaware of her son's mischance, was joyously consorting
with her handmaidens; but he, the sea gull,
But he with garrulous and laughing tongue
Broke up his news; how Eros fallen sick
Lay tossing on his bed, to frenzy stung
By such a burn as did but barely prick:
A little bleb, no bigger than a pease,
Upon his shoulder 'twas, that killed his ease,
Fevered his heart, and made his breathing thick.
"For which disaster hath he not been seen
This many a day at all in any place:
And thou, dear mistress," said he, "hast not been
Thyself among us now a dreary space:
And pining mortals suffer from a dearth
Of love; and for this sadness of the earth
Thy family is darkened with disgrace....
"'Tis plain that, if thy pleasure longer pause,
Thy mighty rule on earth hath seen its day:
The race must come to perish, and no cause
But that thou sittest with thy nymphs at play,
While on the Cretan hills thy truant boy
Has with his pretty mistress turned to toy,
And, less for pain than love, now pines away."[128]
And Venus cried angrily, "My son, then, has a mistress! And it is
Psyche, who witched away my beauty and was the rival of my godhead,
whom he loves!"
Therewith she issued from the sea, and, returning to her golden
chamber, found there the lad sick, as she had heard, and cried from
the doorway, "Well done, truly! to trample thy mother's precepts under
foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay, unite her
to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who
hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport, and the savor of thy
marriage bitter. There is one who shall chasten this body of thine, put
out thy torch, and unstring thy bow. Not till she has plucked forth
that hair, into which so oft these hands have smoothed the golden
light, and sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the injury done me
avenged." And with this she hastened in anger from the doors.
And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her
troubled countenance. "Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you, find
for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my
house." And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her
anger, saying, "What fault, Mistress, hath thy son committed, that thou
wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of
age? Because he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever to
be a child? Wilt thou forever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son,
always accusing his wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles
which are all thine own?" Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did
they seek to please him with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry
at their light taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and
with hasty steps made her way once more to the sea.[129]
And soon after, Psyche herself reached the temple of Ceres, where she
won the favor of the goddess by arranging in due order the heaps of
mingled grain and ears and the carelessly scattered harvest implements
that lay there. The holy Ceres then counseled her to submit to Venus,
to try humbly to win her forgiveness, and, mayhap, through her favor
regain the lover that was lost.
Obeying the commands of Ceres, Psyche took her way to the temple
of the golden-crowned Cypris. That goddess received her with angry
countenance, called her an undutiful and faithless servant, taunted
her with the wound given to her husband, and insisted that for so
ill-favored a girl there was no way of meriting a lover save by dint
of industry. Thereupon she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse
of the temple, where was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley,
millet, vetches, beans, and lentils prepared for food for her pigeons,
and gave order, "Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the
same kind in a parcel by themselves,--and see that thou get it done
before evening." This said, Venus departed and left the girl to her
task. But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous task, sat
stupid and silent; nor would the work have been accomplished had not
Cupid stirred up the ants to take compassion on her. They separated the
pile, sorting each kind to its parcel and vanishing out of sight in a
moment.
At the approach of twilight, Cytherea returned from the banquet of the
gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she
promptly exclaimed, "This is no work of thine, wicked one, but his,
whom to thine own and his misfortune thou hast enticed,"--threw the
girl a piece of black bread for her supper, and departed.
Next morning, however, the goddess, ordering Psyche to be summoned,
commanded her to fetch a sample of wool gathered from each of the
golden-shining sheep that fed beyond a neighboring river. Obediently
the princess went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to execute
the command. But the god of that stream inspired the reeds with
harmonious murmurs that dissuaded her from venturing among the golden
rams while they raged under the influence of the rising sun. Psyche,
observing the directions of the compassionate river-god, crossed
when the noontide sun had driven the cattle to the shade, gathered
the woolly gold from the bushes where it was clinging, and returned
to Venus with her arms full of the shining fleece. But, far from
commending her, that implacable mistress said, "I know very well that
by the aid of another thou hast done this; not yet am I assured that
thou hast skill to be of use. Here, now, take this box to Proserpine
and say, 'My mistress Venus entreats thee to send her a little of thy
beauty, for in tending her sick son she hath lost some of her own.'"
Psyche, satisfied that her destruction was at hand, doomed as she
was to travel afoot to Erebus, thought to shorten the journey by
precipitating herself at once from the summit of a tower. But a voice
from the tower, restraining her from this rash purpose, explained how
by a certain cave she might reach the realm of Pluto; how she might
avoid the peril of the road, pass by Cerberus, and prevail on Charon to
take her across the black river and bring her back again. The voice,
also, especially cautioned her against prying into the box filled with
the beauty of Proserpine.
So, taking heed to her ways, the unfortunate girl traveled safely to
the kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine,
where, contenting herself with plain fare instead of the delicious
banquet that was offered her, she delivered her message from Venus.
Presently the box, filled with the precious commodity, was restored to
her; and glad was she to come out once more into the light of day.
But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a desire
seized her to examine the contents of the box, and to spread the least
bit of the divine beauty on her cheeks that she might appear to more
advantage in the eyes of her beloved husband.
Therewith down by the wayside did she sit
And turned the box round, long regarding it;
But at the last, with trembling hands, undid
The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid;
But what was there she saw not, for her head
Fell back, and nothing she rememberèd
Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had,
The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad;
For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep
Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep
Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress
She would have cried, but in her helplessness
Could open not her mouth, or frame a word.[130]
But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, slipped through a crack in the
window of his chamber, flew to the spot where his beloved lay, gathered
up the sleep from her body and inclosed it again in the box, then
waked Psyche with the touch of an arrow. "Again," said he, "hast thou
almost perished by thy curiosity. But now perform the task imposed upon
thee by my mother, and I will care for the rest."
[Illustration: FIG. 76. PSYCHE AND CUPID ON MOUNT OLYMPUS
From the painting by Thumann]
Then Cupid, swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven,
presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a
favoring ear and pleaded the cause of the lovers with Venus. Gaining
her consent, he ordered Mercury to convey Psyche to the heavenly
abodes. On her advent, the king of the immortals, handing her a cup of
ambrosia, said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal. Thy Cupid shall
never break from the knot in which he is tied; these nuptials shall
indeed be perpetual."
Thus Psyche was at last united to Cupid; and in due season a daughter
was born to them whose name was Pleasure.
The allegory of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the following
lines:
They wove bright fables in the days of old,
When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
And told in song its high and mystic things!
And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given,
That led her through the world,--Love's worshiper,--
To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!
[Illustration: EROS WITH BOW]
In the full city,--by the haunted fount,--
Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,--
'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
The painted valley, and the scented air,
She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
And found his footsteps' traces everywhere.
But never more they met! since doubts and fears,
Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
And she became Love's angel bride in heaven![131]
The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a
writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more
recent date than most of the classic myths.
=102. Keats' Ode to Psyche.= To this fact allusion is made in the
following poem:
O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
Of leaves and tumbled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied!
'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions, too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love:
The wingèd boy I knew:
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Ph[oe]be's sapphire-regioned star,
Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming,
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathèd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
The loves of the devotees of Venus are as the sands of the sea for
number. Below are given the fortunes of a few: Hippomenes, Hero,
Pygmalion, Pyramus, and Phaon. The favor of the goddess toward Paris,
who awarded her the palm of beauty in preference to Juno and Minerva,
will occupy our attention in connection with the story of the Trojan
War.
[Illustration: FIG. 77. ARTEMIS OF GABII]
=103. Atalanta's Race.=[132] Atalanta, the daughter of Sch[oe]neus of
B[oe]otia, had been warned by an oracle that marriage would be fatal
to her happiness. Consequently she fled the society of men and devoted
herself to the sports of the chase. Fair, fearless, swift, and free,
in beauty and in desire she was a Cynthia,--of mortal form and with a
woman's heart. To all suitors (for she had many) she made answer: "I
will be the prize of him only who shall conquer me in the race; but
death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this
hard condition some would try. Of one such race Hippomenes was to be
judge. It was his thought, at first, that these suitors risked too much
for a wife. But when he saw Atalanta lay aside her robe for the race
with one of them, he changed his mind and began to swell with envy of
whomsoever seemed likely to win.
The virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than
ever. The breezes gave wings to her feet; her hair flew over her
shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A
ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain
casts on a marble wall. Her competitor was distanced and was put to
death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixed his
eyes on the virgin and said, "Why boast of beating those laggards? I
offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with pity in
her face and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer so goodly a
youth or not. While she hesitated, the spectators grew impatient for
the contest and her father prompted her to prepare. Then Hippomenes
addressed a prayer to Cypris: "Help me, Venus, for thou hast impelled
me." Venus heard and was propitious.
[Illustration: FIG. 78. ATALANTA'S RACE
From the painting by Poynter]
She gathered three golden apples from the garden of her temple in her
own island of Cyprus and, unseen by any, gave them to Hippomenes,
telling him how to use them. Atalanta and her lover were ready. The
signal was given.
They both started; he, by one stride, first,
For she half pitied him so beautiful,
Running to meet his death, yet was resolved
To conquer: soon she near'd him, and he felt
The rapid and repeated gush of breath
Behind his shoulder.
From his hand now dropt
A golden apple: she lookt down and saw
A glitter on the grass, yet on she ran.
He dropt a second; now she seem'd to stoop:
He dropt a third; and now she stoopt indeed:
Yet, swifter than a wren picks up a grain
Of millet, rais'd her head: it was too late,
Only one step, only one breath, too late.
Hippomenes had toucht the maple goal
With but two fingers, leaning pronely forth.
She stood in mute despair; the prize was won.
Now each walkt slowly forward, both so tired,
And both alike breathed hard, and stopt at times.
When he turn'd round to her, she lowered her face
Cover'd with blushes, and held out her hand,
The golden apple in it.
"Leave me now,"
Said she, "I must walk homeward."
He did take
The apple and the hand.
"Both I detain,"
Said he, "the other two I dedicate
To the two Powers that soften virgin hearts,
Eros and Aphrodite; and this one
To her who ratifies the nuptial vow."
She would have wept to see her father weep;
But some God pitied her, and purple wings
(What God's were they?) hovered and interposed.[133]
But the oracle was yet to be fulfilled. The lovers, full of their own
happiness, after all, forgot to pay due honor to Aphrodite, and the
goddess was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them to give
offense to Cybele. That powerful goddess took from them their human
form: the huntress heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she
made a lioness; her lord and master a lion,--and yoked them to her car,
where they are still to be seen in all representations in statuary or
painting of the goddess Cybele.
=104 Hero and Leander= were star-crossed lovers of later classical
fiction.[134] Although their story is not of supernatural beings,
or of events necessarily influenced by supernatural agencies, and
therefore not mythical in the strict sense of the word, it deserves
to be included here both because of its pathetic beauty and its long
literary tradition. The poet Marlowe puts the story into English thus:
On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon....
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true: so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest.
In Abydos dwelt the manly Leander, who, as luck would have it,
bethought himself one day of the festival of Venus in Sestos, and
thither fared to do obeisance to the goddess.
On this feast-day,--O cursèd day and hour!--
Went Hero through Sestos, from her tower
To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this had Venus none;
The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, ...
And in the midst a silver altar stood:
There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,
Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
And modestly they opened as she rose:
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
And thus Leander was enamourèd.
Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd,
Till with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd,
Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:
Such power and virtue hath an amorous look.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overrul'd by fate.
When two are stript long e'er the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows; let it suffice,
What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
He kneel'd; but unto _her_ devoutly prayed:
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
"Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him";
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up; she blush'd as one asham'd;
Wherewith Leander much more was inflam'd.
He touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled:
Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled....
So they conversed by touch of hands, till Leander, plucking up courage,
began to plead with words, with sighs and tears.
These arguments he us'd, and many more;
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war:
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook,
The more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook:
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paus'd awhile, at last she said,
"Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
Ay me! such words as these should I abhor,
And yet I like them for the orator."
With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her,
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear." ...
Then she told him of the turret by the murmuring sea where all day long
she tended Venus' swans and sparrows:
"Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd,
For unawares, "Come thither," from her slipp'd;
And suddenly her former color chang'd,
And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd;
And, like a planet moving several ways
At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart:
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,
Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain;
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings....
[Illustration: FIG. 79. HERO AND LEANDER
From the painting by Keller]
For a season all went well. Guided by a torch which his mistress reared
upon the tower, he was wont of nights to swim the strait that he might
enjoy her company. But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough;
his strength failed and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to
the European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her
despair cast herself into the sea and perished.
A picture of the drowning Leander is thus described by Keats:[135]
Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
Hid in the fringe of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joinèd be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea:
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;
Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
=105. Pygmalion and the Statue.=[136] Pygmalion saw so much to blame
in women, that he came at last to abhor the sex and resolved to live
unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a
statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman was to compare with
it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to
be alive and that was prevented from moving only by modesty. His art
was so perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like
the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion at last fell in love with his
counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it as if to
assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then
believe that it was only ivory.
The festival of Venus was at hand,--a festival celebrated with great
pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor
of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the
solemnities, he stood before the altar and, according to one of our
poets, timidly said:
O Aphrodite, kind and fair,
That what thou wilt canst give,
Oh, listen to a sculptor's prayer,
And bid mine image live!
For me the ivory and gold
That clothe her cedar frame
Are beautiful, indeed, but cold;
Ah, touch them with thy flame!
Oh, bid her move those lips of rose,
Bid float that golden hair,
And let her choose me, as I chose,
This fairest of the fair!
And then an altar in thy court
I'll offer, decked with gold;
And there thy servants shall resort,
Thy doves be bought and sold![137]
According to another version of the story, he said not, "bid mine image
live," but "one like my ivory virgin." At any rate, with such a prayer
he threw incense on the flame of the altar. Whereupon Venus, as an omen
of her favor, caused the flame to shoot up thrice a fiery point into
the air.
When Pygmalion reached his home, to his amazement he saw before him his
statue garlanded with flowers.
Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do
With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,
A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,
And therewithal a soft voice called his name,
And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,
He saw betwixt him and the setting sun
The lively image of his lovèd one.
He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,
Her very lips, were such as he had made,
And though her tresses fell but in such guise
As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed
In that fair garment that the priests had laid
Upon the goddess on that very morn,
Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.
Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,
Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,
And once again her silver voice rang clear,
Filling his soul with great felicity,
And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me,
O dear companion of my new-found life,
For I am called thy lover and thy wife?...
"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise,
Or stored with words aright the tale to tell,
But listen: when I opened first mine eyes
I stood within the niche thou knowest well,
And from my hand a heavy thing there fell
Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,
But with a strange, confusèd noise could hear.
"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,
But awful as this round white moon o'erhead,
So that I trembled when I saw her there,
For with my life was born some touch of dread,
And therewithal I heard her voice that said,
'Come down and learn to love and be alive,
For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'"[138]
A fuller account of Venus' address to the statue is the following:
O maiden, in mine image made!
O grace that shouldst endure!
While temples fall, and empires fade,
Immaculately pure:
Exchange this endless life of art
For beauty that must die,
And blossom with a beating heart
Into mortality!
Change, golden tresses of her hair,
To gold that turns to gray;
Change, silent lips, forever fair,
To lips that have their day!
Oh, perfect arms, grow soft with life,
Wax warm, ere cold ye wane;
Wake, woman's heart, from peace to strife,
To love, to joy, to pain![139]
The maiden was called Galatea. Venus blessed the nuptials, and from
the union Paphos was born, by whose name the city, sacred to Venus, is
known.
=106. Pyramus and Thisbe.=[140] Pyramus was the handsomest youth and
Thisbe the fairest maiden in Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned.
Their parents occupied adjoining houses. Propinquity brought the young
people together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly
have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, parents
could not forbid (for Venus and Cupid favored the match),--that love
should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by
signs and glances, and the fire burned the more intensely that it was
covered. In the wall between the two houses there was a crack, caused
by some fault in the structure. It afforded a passage to the voice;
and tender messages passed back and forth through the gap. When night
came and they must say farewell, the lovers pressed their lips upon the
wall, she on her side, he on his.
[Illustration: FIG. 80. THISBE
From the painting by Edward Burne-Jones]
One morning, when Aurora had put out the stars and the sun had melted
the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot and arranged
a meeting for that night at a well-known edifice, standing without the
city's bounds,--the Tomb of Ninus. The one who first arrived should
await the other at the foot of a white mulberry tree near a cool
spring. Evening came. Thisbe, arriving first, sat alone by the monument
in the dim light of the evening. Suddenly she descried a lioness, her
jaws reeking with recent slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake
her thirst. The maiden fled at the sight, dropping her veil as she ran.
The lioness, after drinking at the spring, turned toward the woods,
and, seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody
mouth.
Now Pyramus approached the place of meeting. He saw in the sand the
footsteps of the lion. He found the veil all rent and bloody. "O,
hapless girl," cried he, "I have been the cause of thy death; but I
follow thee!" So saying, he drew his sword and plunged it into his
heart. The blood spurted from the wound and tinged the white mulberries
of the tree all red, and, sinking into the earth, reached the roots, so
that the sanguine hue mounted through the trunk to the fruit.
By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to
disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for
the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came
to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries, she doubted
whether it was the same place. While she hesitated, she saw the form of
her lover struggling in the agonies of death. She screamed and beat her
breast, she embraced the lifeless body, poured tears into its wounds,
and imprinted kisses on the cold lips. "O, Pyramus," she cried, "what
has done this? It is thine own Thisbe that speaks." At the name of
Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She saw her
veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword. "Thine own
hand has slain thee, and for my sake," she said. "I, too, can be brave
for once, and my love is as strong as thine. But ye, unhappy parents
of us both, deny us not our united request. As love and death have
joined us, let one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks
of slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our blood."
So saying, she plunged the sword into her breast. The two bodies were
buried in one sepulcher, and the tree henceforth produced purple
berries.
=107. Phaon= ferried a boat between Lesbos and Chios. One day the queen
of Paphos and Amathus,[141] in the guise of an ugly crone, begged a
passage, which was so good-naturedly granted that in recompense she
bestowed on the ferryman a salve possessing magical properties of youth
and beauty. As a consequence of the use made of it by Phaon, the women
of Lesbos went wild for love of him. None, however, admired him more
than the poetess Sappho, who addressed to him some of her warmest and
rarest love-songs.
=108. The Vengeance of Venus.= Venus did not fail to follow with her
vengeance those who dishonored her rites or defied her power. The youth
Hippolytus who, eschewing love, preferred Diana to her, she brought
miserably to his ruin. Polyphonte she transformed into an owl, Arsinoë
into a stone, and Myrrha into a myrtle tree.[142] Her influence in
the main was of mingled bane and blessing, as in the cases of Helen,
[OE]none, Pasiphaë, Ariadne, Procris, Eriphyle, Laodamia, and others
whose stories are elsewhere told.[143]
=109. Myths of Mercury.= According to Homer,[144] Maia bore Mercury
at the peep of day,--a schemer subtle beyond all belief. He began
playing on the lyre at noon; for, wandering out of the lofty cavern
of Cyllene, he found a tortoise, picked it up, bored the life out of
the beast, fitted the shell with bridge and reeds, and accompanied
himself therewith as he sang a strain of unpremeditated sweetness. At
evening of the same day he stole the oxen of his half brother Apollo
from the Pierian mountains, where they were grazing. He covered their
hoofs with tamarisk twigs, and, still further to deceive the pursuer,
drove them backward into a cave at Pylos. There rubbing laurel branches
together, he made fire and sacrificed, as an example for men to follow,
two heifers to the twelve gods (himself included). Then home he went
and slept, innocent as a new-born child! To his mother's warning that
Apollo would catch and punish him, this innocent replied, in effect,
"I know a trick better than that!" And when the puzzled Apollo, having
traced the knavery to this babe in swaddling clothes, accused him of
it, the sweet boy swore a great oath by his father's head that he stole
not the cows, nor knew even what cows might be, for he had only that
moment heard the name of them. Apollo proceeded to trounce the baby,
with scant success, however, for Mercury persisted in his assumption of
ignorance. So the twain appeared before their sire, and Apollo entered
his complaint: he had not seen nor ever dreamed of so precocious a
cattle-stealer, liar, and full-fledged knave as this young rascal.
To all of which Mercury responded that he was, on the contrary, a
veracious person, but that his brother Apollo was a coward to bully
a helpless little new-born thing that slept, nor ever had thought of
"lifting" cattle. The wink with which the lad of Cyllene accompanied
this asseveration threw Jupiter into uncontrollable roars of laughter.
Consequently, the quarrel was patched up: Mercury gave Apollo the
new-made lyre; Apollo presented the prodigy with a glittering whiplash
and installed him herdsman of his oxen. Nay even, when Mercury had
sworn by sacred Styx no more to try his cunning in theft upon Apollo,
that god in gratitude invested him with the magic wand of wealth,
happiness, and dreams (the _caduceus_), it being understood, however,
that Mercury should indicate the future only by signs, not by speech
or song as did Apollo. It is said that the god of gain avenged himself
for this enforced rectitude upon others: upon Venus, whose girdle he
purloined; upon Neptune, whose trident he filched; upon Vulcan, whose
tongs he borrowed; and upon Mars, whose sword he stole.
[Illustration: HERMES OF PRAXITELES]
[Illustration: FIG. 81. HERMES AND DOG]
The most famous exploit of the Messenger, the slaughter of Argus, has
already been narrated.
FOOTNOTES:
[66] Ovid, Metam. I, 700 _et seq._
[67] Ovid, Metam. 2, 410 _et seq._
[68] Translated by Andrew Lang: Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus, London,
1880.
[69] § 70.
[70] Ovid, Metam. 3, 260 _et seq._
[71] §§ 42, 110-113.
[72] From E. R. Sill's Semele.
[73] Commentary, §§ 118, 255.
[74] Ovid, Metam. 7, 172 _et seq._
[75] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 3, 379 [Schirmer]. Originals in
Pausanias, Apollodorus, and Hyginus.
[76] From Tennyson's Amphion. See Horace, Ars Poet. 394.
[77] Ovid, Metam. 8, 620-724.
[78] From The Sons of Cydippe, by Edmund Gosse in his On Viol and Flute.
[79] § 27, and Commentary.
[80] From Ovid.
[81] From Spenser's Muiopotmos.
[82] Ovid, Metam. 6, 1-145.
[83] § 200.
[84] Iliad, 5, 850 _et seq._ (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). In
accordance with the system of nomenclature adopted in this work, Latin
equivalents are given, wherever possible, for Greek names.
[85] Iliad, 21, 390 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[86] Ovid, Metam. 3, 1-137; 4, 563-614.
[87] Iliad, 2, 1335.
[88] Ovid, Metam. 6, 313-381.
[89] § 30.
[90] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 2, 254, Article _Aloadæ_ [Schultz].
[91] Ovid, Metam. 10, 162-219.
[92] Ovid, Metam. 2, 1-400.
[93] § 44.
[94] _Medio tutissimus ibis._--OVID.
[95]
_Hic situs est Phaëthon, currus auriga paterni,_
_Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis._--OVID.
[96] Iliad, 1, 43-52 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[97] Ovid, Metam. 6, 165-312.
[98] From W. S. Landor's Niobe.
[99] See Commentary, §§ 64, 80.
[100] Iliad, 18, 564 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[101] Cicero, Natura Deorum, 3, 22.
[102] See Commentary.
[103] From Browning's Balaustion's Adventure. The Greek form of the
proper names has been retained.
[104] Proserpine.
[105] For the originals, see Iliad, 2, 715, and the Alcestis of
Euripides.
[106] Ovid, Metam. 11, 146-193.
[107] § 118.
[108] § 145.
[109] Ovid, Metam. 1, 452-567.
[110] From the Fable for Critics.
[111] Iliad, 9, 561; Apollodorus, 1, 7, § 8.
[112] Stephen Phillips, Marpessa.
[113] Ovid, Metam. 4, 256-270.
[114] § 196.
[115] § 168.
[116] Ovid, Metam. 5, 585-641.
[117] Ovid, Metam. 3, 138-252.
[118] Apollodorus, 1, 4, § 3.
[119] Ovid, Fasti, 5, 537; Iliad, 18, 486, and 22, 29; Odyssey, 5, 121,
274.
[120] The story is told by Hyginus in his Fables, and in his Poetical
Astronomy.
[121] Authorities are Pausanias, 5, 1, §§ 2-4; Ovid, Ars. Am. 3, 83;
Tristia, 2, 299; Apollonius, and Apollodorus.
[122] From the Endymion, Bk. 3.
[123] § 194.
[124] Ovid, Metam. 10, 503-559, 708-739.
[125] From an elegy intended to be sung at one of the spring
celebrations in memory of Adonis. Translated from Bion by Andrew Lang.
_Cypris_, _Cytherea_, and the _Paphian_ refer to Venus. See Commentary.
This elegy is also translated by Mrs. Browning and by Sir Edwin Arnold.
[126] Apuleius, Metam. Golden Ass, 4, 28, etc.
[127] William Morris, The Story of Cupid and Psyche, in The Earthly
Paradise.
[128] Robert Bridges, Eros and Psyche.
[129] The last three paragraphs are from Pater's version in Marius the
Epicurean.
[130] William Morris, The Earthly Paradise.
[131] By T. K. Hervey.
[132] Ovid, Metam. 10, 560-680.
[133] From W. S. Landor's Hippomenes and Atalanta.
[134] The poetical passages are from Marlowe's Hero and Leander, First
Sestiad. Marlowe's narrative was completed by Chapman. See Musæus of
Alexandria, De Amore Herois et Leandri; Virg. Georg. 3, 258; Ovid, Her.
18, 19; Stat. Theb. 6, 770.
[135] Sonnet, On a Picture of Leander.
[136] Ovid, Metam. 10, 243-297.
[137] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion.
[138] From William Morris, Pygmalion and the Image, in The Earthly
Paradise.
[139] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion, or The Statue's Choice. A witty
and not unpoetic bit of burlesque.
[140] Ovid, Metam. 4, 55-166.
[141] § 100, and Commentary.
[142] Murray, Manual of Mythology, p. 87; Ovid, Metam. 10, 298-502.
[143] See Index for sections.
[144] Hymn to Mercury (Hermes).