MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN
=122. Myths of Stars and Winds.= The tales of Stars and Winds and the
other lesser powers of the celestial regions are closely interwoven.
That the winds which sweep heaven should kiss the stars is easy to
understand. The stories of Aurora (Eos) and of Aura, of Phosphor and of
Halcyone, form, therefore, a ready sequence.
[Illustration: FIG. 97. PHOSPHOR, EOS, AND HELIOS (THE SUN) RISING FROM
THE SEA]
=123. Cephalus and Procris.=[163] Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, fell
in love with Cephalus, a young huntsman. She stole him away, lavished
her love upon him, tried to content him, but in vain. He cared for his
young wife Procris more than for the goddess. Finally, Aurora dismissed
him in displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep thy wife; but
thou shalt one day be sorry that thou didst ever see her again."
Cephalus returned and was as happy as before in his wife. She, being
a favorite of Diana, had received from her for the chase a dog and a
javelin, which she handed over to her husband. Of the dog it is told
that when about to catch the swiftest fox in the country, he was
changed with his victim into stone. For the heavenly powers, who had
made both and rejoiced in the speed of both, were not willing that
either should conquer. The javelin was destined to a sad office. It
appears that Cephalus, when weary of the chase, was wont to stretch
himself in a certain shady nook to enjoy the breeze. Sometimes he would
say aloud, "Come, gentle Aura, sweet goddess of the breeze, come and
allay the heat that burns me." Some one, foolishly believing that he
addressed a maiden, told the secret to Procris. Hoping against hope,
she stole out after him the next morning and concealed herself in the
place which the informer had indicated. Cephalus, when tired with
sport, stretched himself on the green bank and summoned fair Aura as
usual. Suddenly he heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in
the bushes. Supposing it to proceed from some wild animal, he threw his
javelin at the spot. A cry told him that the weapon had too surely met
its mark. He rushed to the place and raised his wounded Procris from
the earth. She, at last, opened her feeble eyes and forced herself to
utter these words: "I implore thee, if thou hast ever loved me, if I
have ever deserved kindness at thy hands, my husband, grant me this
last request; marry not that odious Breeze!" So saying, she expired in
her lover's arms.
[Illustration: FIG. 98. SUN, RISING, PRECEDED BY DAWN
From the painting by Guido Reni]
[Illustration: FIG. 99. SUNRISE; EOS PURSUING CEPHALUS]
=124. Dobson's The Death of= =Procris.= A different version of the
story is given in the following:
Procris, the nymph, had wedded Cephalus;--
He, till the spring had warmed to slow-winged days
Heavy with June, untired and amorous,
Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways,
His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze
Turned from her own, and even farther ranged
His woodland war; while she, in dull amaze,
Beholding with the hours her husband changed,
Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged.
So, on a day, she rose and found him not.
Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade
Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot
Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade;
Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid
Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast
Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made
Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past
Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast.
And all day long her slight spear devious flew,
And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim,
For ever, as the ivory bow she drew,
Before her ran the still unwounded game.
Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came,
And, lo! a hart that panted with the chase.
Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame,
And swift she gat her to a leafy place,
Thinking, "I yet may chance unseen to see his face."
Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus,
Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare,
Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous,
Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair.
He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair
Move in the covert, deeming that apart
Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there;
Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart,
Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart.
But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers,
Shot in the throat. From out the little wound
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground.
None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound,
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,
Till, at the dawn, the hornèd wood-men found
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier,
To lie beside the sea,--with many an uncouth tear.
=125. Ceyx and Halcyone.= The son of Aurora and Cephalus was Phosphor,
the Star of Morning. His son Ceyx, king of Trachis in Thessaly, had
married Halcyone, daughter of Æolus.[164] Their reign was happy until
the brother of Ceyx met his death. The direful prodigies that followed
this event made Ceyx feel that the gods were hostile to him. He thought
best therefore to make a voyage to Claros in Ionia to consult the
oracle of Apollo. In spite of his wife's entreaties (for as daughter
of the god of winds she knew how dreadful a thing a storm at sea was),
Ceyx set sail. He was shipwrecked and drowned. His last prayer was that
the waves might bear his body to the sight of Halcyone, and that it
might receive burial at her hands.
In the meanwhile, Halcyone counted the days till her husband's promised
return. To all the gods she offered frequent incense, but more than all
to Juno. The goddess, at last, could not bear to be further pleaded
with for one already dead. Calling Iris, she enjoined her to approach
the drowsy dwelling of Somnus and bid him send a vision to Halcyone in
the form of Ceyx, to reveal the sad event.
[Illustration: FIG. 100. THE GOD OF SLEEP]
Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tinging the sky with her
bow, seeks the cave near the Cimmerian country, which is the abode of
the dull god, Somnus. Here Ph[oe]bus dare not come. Clouds and shadows
are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The cock
never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchdog nor goose disturbs the
silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the wind,
nor sound of human conversation breaks the stillness. From the bottom
of the rock the river Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep.
Poppies grow before the door of the cave, from whose juices Night
distills slumbers which she scatters over the darkened earth. There
is no gate to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman. In the midst, on
a couch of black ebony adorned with black plumes and black curtains
the god reclines, his limbs relaxed in sleep. Around him lie dreams,
resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or
the forest leaves, or the seashore sand grains.
Brushing away the dreams that hovered around her, Iris lit up the cave
and delivered her message to the god, who, scarce opening his eyes, had
great difficulty in shaking himself free from himself.
Then Iris hasted away from the drowsiness creeping over her, and
returned by her bow as she had come. But Somnus called one of his
sons, Morpheus, the most expert in counterfeiting forms of men, to
perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and
yielded himself again to grateful repose.
Morpheus flew on silent wings to the Hæmonian city, where he assumed
the form of Ceyx. Pale like a dead man, naked and dripping, he stood
before the couch of the wretched wife and told her that the winds of
the Ægean had sunk his ship, that he was dead.
Weeping and groaning, Halcyone sprang from sleep and, with the dawn,
hastening to the seashore, descried an indistinct object washed to and
fro by the waves. As it floated nearer she recognized the body of her
husband. In despair, leaping from the mole, she was changed instantly
to a bird, and poured forth a song of grief as she flew. By the mercy
of the gods Ceyx was likewise transformed. For seven days before and
seven days after the winter solstice, Jove forbids the winds to blow.
Then Halcyone broods over her nest; then the way is safe to seafarers.
Æolus confines the winds that his grandchildren may have peace.
=126. Aurora and Tithonus.=[165] Aurora seems frequently to have been
inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite, and almost
her latest, was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him
away and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting
to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern,
to her great mortification, that he was growing old. When his hair was
white she left his society; but he still had the range of her palace,
lived on ambrosial food, and was clad in celestial raiment. In time
he lost the power of using his limbs; and then she shut him up in his
chamber, whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally, she
turned him into a grasshopper.
=127. Tennyson's Tithonus.= The following is, according to a fine
poetic conception, the lament of the old man when but a white-haired
shadow:
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man--
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give;
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears
To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt them ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."
Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch--if I be he that watched--
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd
Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not forever in thine East:
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground;
Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
=128. Memnon=, the son of Aurora and Tithonus, was king of the
Æthiopians. He went with warriors to assist his kindred in the Trojan
War, and was received by King Priam with honor. He fought bravely, slew
Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, and held the Greeks at bay until
Achilles appeared. Before that hero he fell.
Then Aurora, seeing her son's fate, directed his brothers, the Winds,
to convey his body to the banks of the river Æsepus in Mysia. In the
evening Aurora, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, bewept her
son. Night spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the
offspring of the Dawn. The Æthiopians raised his tomb on the banks
of the stream in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the
sparks and cinders of his funeral pile to be turned into birds, which,
dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into the
flame. Every year at the anniversary of his death they celebrated his
obsequies in like manner. Aurora remained inconsolable. The dewdrops
are her tears.[166]
[Illustration: FIG. 101. THE DEATH OF MEMNON]
The kinship of Memnon to the Dawn is certified even after his death. On
the banks of the Nile are two colossal statues, one of which is called
Memnon's; and it was said that when the first rays of morning fell
upon this statue, a sound like the snapping of a harp-string issued
therefrom.[167]
So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane
Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the adoring song.[168]
FOOTNOTES:
[163] Ovid, Metam. 7, 394 _et seq._
[164] Ovid, Metam. 11, 583-748.
[165] Homeric Hymn to Venus; Horace, Odes, 1, 22; 2, 16; Apollodorus,
3, 12, § 4.
[166] Ovid, Metam. 13, 622, etc. Odyssey, 4, 188; 11, 522. Pindar,
Pyth. 6, 30.
[167] Pausanias, 1, 42, § 2.
[168] Darwin, Botanic Garden.