Hermes, the son of Jove and Maia, sing,
O Muse, th’ Arcadian and Cyllenian king,
They rich in flocks, he heaven enriching still
In messages return’d with all his will.
Whom glorious Maia, the nymph rich in hair,
Mixing with Jove in amorous affair,
Brought forth to him, sustaining a retreat
From all th’ Immortals of the blessed seat,
And living in the same dark cave, where Jove
Inform’d at midnight the effect of love,
Unknown to either man or Deity,
Sweet sleep once having seized the jealous eye
Of Juno deck’d with wrists of ivory.
But when great Jove’s high mind was consummate,
The tenth month had in heaven confined the date
Of Maia’s labour, and into the sight
She brought in one birth labours infinite;
For then she bore a son, that all tried ways
Could turn and wind to wish’d events assays,
A fair-tongu’d, but false-hearted, counsellor,
Rector of ox-stealers, and for all stealths bore
A varied finger; speeder of night’s spies,
And guide of all her dreams’ obscurities;
Guard of door-guardians; and was born to be,
Amongst th’ Immortals, that wing’d Deity
That in an instant should do acts would ask
The powers of others an eternal task.
Born in the morn, he form’d his lute at noon,
At night stole all the oxen of the Sun;
And all this in his birth’s first day was done,
Which was the fourth of the increasing moon.
Because celestial limbs sustain’d his strains,
His sacred swath-bands must not be his chains,
So, starting up, to Phœbus’ herd he stept,
Found straight the high-roof’d cave where they were kept,
And th’ entry passing, he th’ invention found
Of making lutes; and did in wealth abound
By that invention, since he first of all
Was author of that engine musical,
By this means moved to the ingenious work:
Near the cave’s inmost overture did lurk
A tortoise, tasting th’ odoriferous grass,
Leisurely moving; and this object was
The motive to Jove’s son (who could convert
To profitable uses all desert
That nature had in any work convey’d)
To form the lute; when, smiling, thus he said:
“Thou mov’st in me a note of excellent use,
Which thy ill form shall never so seduce
T’ avert the good to be inform’d by it,
In pliant force, of my form-forging wit.”
Then the slow tortoise, wrought on by his mind,
He thus saluted: “All joy to the kind
Instinct of nature in thee, born to be
The spiriter of dances, company
For feasts, and following banquets, graced and blest
For bearing light to all the interest
Claim’d in this instrument! From whence shall spring
Play fair and sweet, to which may Graces sing.
A pretty painted coat thou putt’st on here,
O Tortoise, while thy ill-bred vital sphere
Confines thy fashion; but, surprised by me,
I’ll bear thee home, where thou shalt ever be
A profit to me; and yet nothing more
Will I contemn thee in my merited store.
Goods with good parts got worth and honour gave,
Left goods and honours every fool may have,
And since thou first shall give me means to live,
I’ll love thee ever. Virtuous qualities give
To live at home with them enough content,
Where those that want such inward ornament
Fly out for outward, their life made their load.
_Tis best to be at home, harm lurks abroad._
And certainly thy virtue shall be known,
’Gainst great-ill-causing incantation
To serve as for a lance or amulet.
And where, in comfort of thy vital heat,
Thou now breath’st but a sound confus’d for song,
Expos’d by nature, after death, more strong
Thou shalt in sounds of art be, and command
Song infinite sweeter.” Thus with either hand
He took it up, and instantly took flight
Back to his cave with that his home delight.
Where (giving to the mountain tortoise vents
Of life and motion) with fit instruments
Forged of bright steel he straight inform’d a lute,
Put neck and frets to it, of which a suit
He made of splitted quills, in equal space
Impos’d upon the neck, and did embrace
Both back and bosom. At whose height (as gins
T’ extend and ease the string) he put in pins.
Seven strings of several tunes he then applied,
Made of the entrails of a sheep well-dried,
And throughly twisted. Next he did provide
A case for all, made of an ox’s hide,
Out of his counsels to preserve as well
As to create. And all this action fell
Into an instant consequence. His word
And work had individual accord,
All being as swiftly to perfection brought
As any worldly man’s most ravish’d thought,
Whose mind care cuts in an infinity
Of varied parts or passions instantly,
Or as the frequent twinklings of an eye.
And thus his house-delight given absolute end,
He touch’d it, and did every string extend
(With an exploratory spirit assay’d)
To all the parts that could on it be play’d.
It sounded dreadfully; to which he sung,
As if from thence the first and true force sprung
That fashions virtue. God in him did sing.
His play was likewise an unspeakable thing,
Yet, but as an extemporal assay,
Of what show it would make being the first way,
It tried his hand; or a tumultuous noise,
Such as at feasts the first-flower’d spirits of boys
Pour out in mutual contumelies still,
As little squaring with his curious will,
Or was as wanton and untaught a store.
Of Jove, and Maia that rich shoes still wore,
He sung; who suffer’d ill reports before,
And foul stains under her fair titles bore.
But Hermes sung her nation, and her name
Did iterate ever; all her high-flown fame
Of being Jove’s mistress; celebrating all
Her train of servants, and collateral
Sumpture of houses; all her tripods there,
And caldrons huge, increasing every year.
All which she knew, yet felt her knowledge stung
With her fame’s loss, which (found) she more wish’d sung.
But now he in his sacred cradle laid
His lute so absolute, and straight convey’d
Himself up to a watch-tow’r forth his house,
Rich, and divinely odoriferous,
A lofty wile at work in his conceit,
Thirsting the practice of his empire’s height.
And where impostors rule (since sable night
Must serve their deeds) he did his deeds their right.
For now the never-resting Sun was turn’d
For th’ under earth, and in the ocean burn’d
His coach and coursers; when th’ ingenious spy
Pieria’s shady hill had in his eye,
Where the immortal oxen of the Gods
In air’s flood solaced their select abodes,
And earth’s sweet green flow’r, that was never shorn,
Fed ever down. And these the witty-born,
Argicides, set serious spy upon,
Severing from all the rest, and setting gone
Full fifty of the violent bellowers.
Which driving through the sands, he did reverse
(His birth’s-craft straight rememb’ring) all their hoves,
And them transpos’d in opposite removes,
The fore behind set, the behind before,
T’ employ the eyes of such as should explore.
And he himself, as sly-pac’d, cast away
His sandals on the sea sands; past display
And unexcogitable thoughts in act
Putting, to shun of his stol’n steps the tract,
Mixing both tamrisk and like-tamrisk sprays
In a most rare confusion, to raise
His footsteps up from earth. Of which sprays he
(His armful gathering fresh from off the tree)
Made for his sandals ties, both leaves and ties
Holding together; and then fear’d no eyes
That could affect his feet’s discoveries.
The tamrisk boughs he gather’d, making way
Back from Pieria, but as to convey
Provision in them for his journey fit,
It being long and, therefore, needing it.
An old man, now at labour near the field
Of green Onchestus, knew the verdant yield
Of his fair armful; whom th’ ingenious son
Of Maia, therefore, salutation
Did thus begin to: “Ho, old man! that now
Art crooked grown with making plants to grow,
Thy nerves will far be spent, when these boughs shall
To these their leaves confer me fruit and all.
But see not thou whatever thou dost see,
Nor hear though hear, but all as touching me
Conceal, since nought it can endamage thee.”
This, and no more, he said, and on drave still
His broad-brow’d oxen. Many a shady hill,
And many an echoing valley, many a field
Pleasant and wishful, did his passage yield
Their safe transcension. But now the divine
And black-brow’d Night, his mistress, did decline
Exceeding swiftly; Day’s most early light
Fast hasting to her first point, to excite
Worldlings to work; and in her watch-tow’r shone
King Pallas-Megamedes’ seed (the Moon);
When through th’ Alphæan flood Jove’s powerful son
Phœbus-Apollo’s ample-foreheaded herd
(Whose necks the lab’ring yoke had never sphered)
Drave swiftly on; and then into a stall
(Hilly, yet pass’d to through an humble vale
And hollow dells, in a most lovely mead)
He gather’d all, and them divinely fed
With odorous cypress, and the ravishing tree
That makes his eaters lose the memory
Of name and country. Then he brought withal
Much wood, whose sight into his search let fall
The art of making fire; which thus he tried:
He took a branch of laurel, amplified
Past others both in beauty and in size,
Yet lay next hand, rubb’d it, and straight did rise
A warm fume from it; steel being that did raise
(As agent) the attenuated bays
To that hot vapour. So that Hermes found
Both fire first, and of it the seed close bound
In other substances; and then the seed
He multiplied, of sere-wood making feed
The apt heat of it, in a pile combined
Laid in a low pit, that in flames straight shined,
And cast a sparkling crack up to the sky,
All the dry parts so fervent were, and high
In their combustion. And how long the force
Of glorious Vulcan kept the fire in course,
So long was he in dragging from their stall
Two of the crook-haunch’d herd, that roar’d withal,
And raged for fear, t’ approach the sacred fire,
To which did all his dreadful pow’rs aspire.
When, blust’ring forth their breath, he on the soil
Cast both at length, though with a world of toil,
For long he was in getting them to ground
After their through-thrust and most mortal wound.
But work to work he join’d, the flesh and cut,
Cover’d with fat, and, on treen broches put,
In pieces roasted; but in th’ intestines
The black blood, and the honorary chines,
Together with the carcases, lay there,
Cast on the cold earth, as no Deities’ cheer;
The hides upon a rugged rock he spread.
And thus were these now all in pieces shred,
And undistinguish’d from earth’s common herd,
Though born for long date, and to heaven endear’d,
And now must ever live in dead event.
But Hermes, here hence having his content,
Cared for no more, but drew to places even
The fat-works, that, of force, must have for heaven
Their capital ends, though stol’n, and therefore were
In twelve parts cut, for twelve choice Deities’ cheer,
By this devotion. To all which he gave
Their several honours, and did wish to have
His equal part thereof, as free and well
As th’ other Deities; but the fatty smell
Afflicted him, though he Immortal were,
Playing mortal parts, and being like mortals here
Yet his proud mind nothing the more obey’d
For being a God himself, and his own aid
Having to cause his due, and though in heart
He highly wish’d it; but the weaker part
Subdued the stronger, and went on in ill.
Even heavenly pow’r had rather have his will
Than have his right; and will’s the worst of all,
When but in least sort it is criminal,
One taint being author of a number still.
And thus, resolved to leave his hallow’d hill,
First both the fat parts and the fleshy all
Taking away, at the steep-entried stall
He laid all, all the feet and heads entire,
And all the sere-wood, making clear with fire.
And now, he leaving there then all things done,
And finish’d in their fit perfection,
The coals put out, and their black ashes thrown
From all discovery by the lovely light
The cheerful moon cast, shining all the night,
He straight assumed a novel voice’s note,
And in the whirl-pit-eating flood afloat
He set his sandals. When now, once again
The that-morn-born Cyllenius did attain
His home’s divine height; all the far-stretch’d way
No one bless’d God encount’ring his assay,
Nor mortal man; nor any dog durst spend
His born-to-bark mouth at him; till in th’ end
He reach’d his cave, and at the gate went in
Crooked, and wrapt into a fold so thin
That no eye could discover his repair,
But as a darkness of th’ autumnal air.
When, going on fore-right, he straight arrived
At his rich fane; his soft feet quite deprived
Of all least noise of one that trod the earth,
They trod so swift to reach his room of birth.
Where, in his swath-bands he his shoulders wrapt,
And (like an infant, newly having scap’t
The teeming straits) as in the palms he lay
Of his loved nurse. Yet instantly would play
(Freeing his right hand) with his bearing cloth
About his knees wrapt, and straight (loosing both
His right and left hand) with his left he caught
His much-loved lute. His mother yet was taught
His wanton wiles, nor could a God’s wit lie
Hid from a Goddess, who did therefore try
His answer thus: “Why, thou made-all-of-sleight,
And whence arriv’st thou in this rest of night?
Improvident impudent! In my conceit
Thou rather shouldst be getting forth thy gate,
With all flight fit for thy endanger’d state,
(In merit of th’ inevitable bands
To be impos’d by vex’d Latona’s hands,
Justly incens’d for her Apollo’s harms)
Than lie thus wrapt, as ready for her arms,
To take thee up and kiss thee. Would to heaven,
In cross of that high grace, thou hadst been given
Up to perdition, ere poor mortals bear
Those black banes, that thy Father Thunderer
Hath planted thee of purpose to confer
On them and Deities!” He returned reply:
“As master of the feats of policy,
Mother, why aim you thus amiss at me,
As if I were a son that infancy
Could keep from all the skill that age can teach,
Or had in cheating but a childish reach,
And of a mother’s mandates fear’d the breach?
I mount that art at first, that will be best
When all times consummate their cunningest,
Able to counsel now myself and thee,
In all things best, to all eternity.
We cannot live like Gods here without gifts,
No, nor without corruption and shifts,
And, much less, without eating; as we must
In keeping thy rules, and in being just,
Of which we cannot undergo the loads.
’Tis better here to imitate the Gods,
And wine or wench out all time’s periods,
To that end growing rich in ready heaps,
Stored with revenues, being in corn-field reaps
Of infinite acres, than to live enclosed
In caves, to all earth’s sweetest air exposed.
I as much honour hold as Phœbus does;
And if my Father please not to dispose
Possessions to me, I myself will see
If I can force them in; for I can be
Prince of all thieves. And, if Latona’s son
Make after my stealth indignation,
I’ll have a scape as well as he a search,
And overtake him with a greater lurch;
For I can post to Pythos, and break through
His huge house there, where harbours wealth enough,
Most precious tripods, caldrons, steel, and gold,
Garments rich wrought, and full of liberal fold.
All which will I at pleasure own, and thou
Shalt see all, wilt thou but thy sight bestow.”
Thus changed great words the Goat-hide-wearer’s son,
And Maia of majestic fashion.
And now the air-begot Aurora rose
From out the Ocean great-in-ebbs-and-flows,
When, at the never-shorn pure-and-fair grove
(Onchestus) consecrated to the love
Of round-and-long-neck’d Neptune, Phœbus found
A man whom heavy years had press’d half round,
And yet at work in plashing of a fence
About a vineyard, that had residence
Hard by the highway; whom Latona’s son
Made it not strange, but first did question,
And first saluted: “Ho you! aged sire,
That here are hewing from the vine the briar,
For certain oxen I come here t’ inquire
Out of Pieria; females all, and rear’d
All with horns wreath’d, unlike the common herd;
A coal-black bull fed by them all alone;
And all observ’d, for preservation,
Through all their foody and delicious fen
With four fierce mastiffs, like one-minded men.
These left their dogs and bull (which I admire)
And, when was near set day’s eternal fire,
From their fierce guardians, from their delicate fare,
Made clear departure. To me then declare,
O old man, long since born, if thy grave ray
Hath any man seen making steathful way
With all those oxen.” Th’ old man made reply:
“’Tis hard, O friend, to render readily
Account of all that may invade mine eye,
For many a traveller this highway treads,
Some in much ills search, some in noble threads,
Leading their lives out; but I this young day,
Even from her first point, have made good display
Of all men passing this abundant hill
Planted with vines, and no such stealthful ill
Her light hath shown me; but last evening, late,
I saw a thing that show’d of childish state
To my old lights, and seem’d as he pursued
A herd of oxen with brave heads endued,
Yet but an infant, and retain’d a rod;
Who wearily both this and that way trod,
His head still backwards turn’d.” This th’ old man spake;
Which he well thought upon, and swiftly brake
Into his pursuit with abundant wing,
That strook but one plain, ere he knew the thing
That was the thief to be th’ impostor born;
Whom Jove yet with his son’s name did adorn.
In study and with ardour then the King
(Jove’s dazzling son) placed his exploring wing
On sacred Pylos, for his forced herd,
His ample shoulders in a cloud enspher’d
Of fiery crimson. Straight the steps he found
Of his stol’n herd, and said: “Strange sights confound
My apprehensive powers, for here I see
The tracks of oxen, but aversively
Converted towards the Pierian hills,
As treading to their mead of daffodils:
But nor mine eye men’s feet nor women’s draws,
Nor hoary wolves’, nor bears’, nor lions’, paws,
Nor thick-neck’d bulls, they show. But he that does
These monstrous deeds, with never so swift shoes
Hath pass’d from that hour hither, but from hence
His foul course may meet fouler consequence.”
With this took Phœbus wing; and Hermes still,
For all his threats, secure lay in his hill
Wall’d with a wood; and more, a rock, beside,
Where a retreat ran, deeply multiplied
In blinding shadows, and where th’ endless Bride
Bore to Saturnius his ingenious son;
An odour, worth a heart’s desire, being thrown
Along the heaven-sweet hill, on whose herb fed
Rich flocks of sheep, that bow not where they tread
Their horny pasterns. There the Light of men
(Jove’s son, Apollo) straight descended then
The marble pavement, in that gloomy den.
On whom when Jove and Maia’s son set eye,
Wroth for his oxen, on then, instantly,
His odorous swath-bands flew; in which as close
Th’ impostor lay, as in the cool repose
Of cast-on ashes hearths of burning coals
Lie in the woods hid, under the controls
Of skilful colliers; even so close did lie
Inscrutable Hermes in Apollo’s eye,
Contracting his great Godhead to a small
And infant likeness, feet, hands, head, and all.
And as a hunter hath been often view’d,
From chase retired, with both his hands embrued
In his game’s blood, that doth for water call
To cleanse his hands, and to provoke withal
Delightsome sleep, new-wash’d and laid to rest;
So now lay Hermes in the close-compress’d
Chace of his oxen, his new-found-out lute
Beneath his arm held, as if no pursuit
But that prise, and the virtue of his play,
His heart affected. But to Phœbus lay
His close heart open; and he likewise knew
The brave hill-nymph there, and her dear son, new-
Born, and as well wrapt in his wiles as weeds.
All the close shrouds too, for his rapinous deeds,
In all the cave he knew; and with his key
He open’d three of them, in which there lay
Silver and gold-heaps, nectar infinite store,
And dear ambrosia; and of weeds she wore,
Pure white and purple, a rich wardrobe shined.
Fit for the bless’d states of Pow’rs so divined.
All which discover’d, thus to Mercury
He offer’d conference: “Infant! You that lie
Wrapt so in swath-bands, instantly unfold
In what conceal’d retreats of yours you hold
My oxen stol’n by you; or straight we shall
Jar, as beseems not Pow’rs Celestial.
For I will take and hurl thee to the deeps
Of dismal Tartarus, where ill Death keeps
His gloomy and inextricable fates,
And to no eye that light illuminates
Mother nor Father shall return thee free,
But under earth shall sorrow fetter thee,
And few repute thee their superior.”
On him replied craft’s subtlest Counsellor:
“What cruel speech hath past Latona’s care!
Seeks he his stol‘n wild-cows where Deities are?
I have nor seen nor heard, nor can report
From others’ mouths one word of their resort
To any stranger. Nor will I, to gain
A base reward, a false relation feign.
Nor would I, could I tell. Resemble I
An ox-thief, or a man? Especially
A man of such a courage, such a force
As to that labour goes, that violent course?
No infant’s work is that. My pow’rs aspire
To sleep, and quenching of my hunger’s fire
With mother’s milk, and, ’gainst cold shades, to arm
With cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm,
That no man may conceive the war you threat
Can spring in cause from my so peaceful heat.
And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bear
Event of absolute miracle, to hear
A new-born infant’s forces should transcend
The limits of his doors; much less contend
With untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seems
To savour the decorum of the beams
Cast round about the air Apollo breaks,
Where his divine mind her intention speaks.
I brake but yesterday the blessed womb,
My feet are tender, and the common tomb
Of men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread.
But, if you please, even by my Father’s head
I’ll take the great oath, that nor I protest
Myself to author on your interest
Any such usurpation, nor have I
Seen any other that feloniously
Hath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are those
Oxen of yours? Or what are oxen? Knows
My rude mind, think you? My ears only touch
At their renown, and hear that there are such.”
This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake,
Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake,
His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eye
Every way look’d askance and carelessly,
And he into a lofty whistling fell,
As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell.
Apollo, gently smiling, made reply:
“O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lie
In labour with deceit! For certain, I
Retain opinion, that thou (even thus soon)
Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in one
Night’s-work alone, nor in one country neither,
Hast been besieging house and man together,
Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noise
Made with thy soft feet, where it all destroys.
Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st call
The feet that thy stealths go and fly withal,
For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still)
Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill,
Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears,
When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears,
And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep,
Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleep
Thy last nap in thy cradle, but come down,
Companion of black night, and, for this crown
Of thy young rapines, bear from all the state
And style of Prince Thief, into endless date.”
This said, he took the infant in his arms,
And with him the remembrance of his harms,
This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft:
“Be evermore the miserably-soft
Slave of the belly, pursuivant of all,
And author of all mischiefs capital.”
He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s face
Most forcibly; which hearing, his embrace
He loathed and hurl’d him ’gainst the ground; yet still
Took seat before him, though, with all the ill
He bore by him, he would have left full fain
That hewer of his heart so into twain.
Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing!
Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King!
Be confident, I shall hereafter find
My broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mind
So far from blaming this thy course, that I
Foresee thee in it to posterity
The guide of all men, always, to their ends.”
This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends,
Starting aloft, and as in study went,
Wrapping himself in his integument,
And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me,
Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity?
I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wroth
About your oxen, and suspect my troth.
O Jupiter! I wish the general race
Of all earth’s oxen rooted from her face.
I steal your oxen! I again profess
That neither I have stol’n them, nor can guess
Who else should steal them. What strange beasts are these
Your so-loved oxen? I must say, to please
Your humour thus far, that even my few hours
Have heard their fame. But be the sentence yours
Of the debate betwixt us, or to Jove
(For more indifferency) the cause remove.”
Thus when the solitude-affecting God,
And the Latonian seed, had laid abroad
All things betwixt them; though not yet agreed,
Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceed
Nothing unjustly, to charge Mercury
With stealing of the cows he does deny.
But his profession was, with filed speech,
And craft’s fair compliments, to overreach
All, and even Phœbus. Who because he knew
His trade of subtlety, he still at view
Hunted his foe through all the sandy way
Up to Olympus. Nor would let him stray
From out his sight, but kept behind him still.
And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hill
Of high Olympus, to their Father Jove,
To arbitrate the cause in which they strove.
Where, before both, talents of justice were
Propos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear,
In cause of their contention. And now
About Olympus, ever crown’d with snow,
The rumour of their controversy flew.
All the Incorruptible, to their view,
On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair.
Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air,
Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begun
To question thus far his illustrious Son:
“Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive here
Him in whom my mind puts delights so dear?
This new-born infant, that the place supplies
Of Herald yet to all the Deities?
This serious business, you may witness, draws
The Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.”
Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy is
The cause of all the Court of Deities,
For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weight
Of devastation, and the very height
Of spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights.
Yet you, as if myself loved such delights,
Use words that wound my heart. I bring you here
An infant, that, even now, admits no peer
In rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place,
After my measure of an infinite space,
In the Cyllenian mountain, such a one
In all the art of opprobration,
As not in all the Deities I have seen,
Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men.
In night he drave my oxen from their leas,
Along the lofty roar-resounding seas,
From out the road-way quite; the steps of them
So quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beam
Of any mind’s eye, being so infinite much
Involv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touch
Went to the work’s performance; all the way,
Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey,
Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and he
So past all measure wrapt in subtilty.
For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps,
In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps,
But used another counsel to keep hid
His monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slid
On oak or other boughs, that swept out still
The footsteps of his oxen, and did fill
Their prints up ever, to the daffodill
(Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod,
Driven by this cautelous and infant God.
A mortal man, yet, saw him driving on
His prey to Pylos. Which when he had done,
And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire,
In peace, and freely (though to his desire,
Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of these
My ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies,
Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den,
All hid in darkness; and in clouts again
Wrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eye
Of your own eagle could not see him lie.
For with his hands the air he rarified
(This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glide
About his being, that, if any eye
Should dare the darkness, light appos’d so nigh
Might blind it quite with her antipathy.
Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illude
Th’ extreme of any eye that could intrude.
On which relying, he outrageously
(When I accus’d him) trebled his reply:
‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor I
Will tell at all, that any other stole
Your broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soul
Would soon have done, and any author fain
Of purpose only a reward to gain.’
And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.”
This said, Apollo sat; and Mercury
The Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply:
“Father! I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true,
And far from art to lie): He did pursue
Even to my cave his oxen this self day,
The sun new-raising his illustrious ray;
But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued,
Nor any ocular witness, to conclude
His bare assertion; but his own command
Laid on with strong and necessary hand,
To show his oxen; using threats to cast
My poor and infant powers into the vast
Of ghastly Tartarus; because he bears
Of strength-sustaining youth the flaming years,
And I but yesterday produced to light.
By which it fell into his own free sight,
That I in no similitude appear’d
Of power to be the forcer of a herd.
And credit me, O Father, since the grace
Of that name, in your style, you please to place,
I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prest
Past mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest,
I reverence with my soul the Sun, and all
The knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall,
Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clear
In your own knowledge, that my merits bear
No least guilt of his blame. To all which I
Dare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing by
All these so well-built entries of the Blest.
And therefore when I saw myself so prest
With his reproaches, I confess I burn’d
In my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d.
Add your aid to your younger then, and free
The scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.”
This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and still
His swathbands held beneath his arm; no will
Discern’d in him to hide, but have them shown.
Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son,
Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought,
As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought;
Commanding both to bear atoned minds
And seek out th’ oxen; in which search he binds
Hermes to play the guide, and show the Sun
(All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he won
His fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’d
For sign it must be so; and Hermes show’d
His free obedience; so soon he inclined
To his persuasion and command his mind.
Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood,
But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan flood
Reach’d instantly, and made as quick a fall
On those rich-feeding fields and lofty stall
Where Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept,
Driven in by night. When suddenly he stept
Up to the stony cave, and into light
Drave forth the oxen. Phœbus at first sight
Knew them the same, and saw apart dispread
Upon a high-rais’d rock the hides new flead
Of th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said:
“O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid!
How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth,
Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth,
And a mere infant? I admire thy force,
And will, behind thy back. But this swift course
Of growing into strength thou hadst not need
Continue any long date, O thou Seed
Of honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show how
He did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bow
Strong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straight
One of his hugest oxen, all his weight
Lay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet,
All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greet
Each other upwards, all together brought.
In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought,
To rise, and stand; when all the herd about
The mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help out
Their fellow from his fetters. Phœbus’ view
Of all this up to admiration drew
Even his high forces; and stern looks he threw
At Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the place
To which he had retir’d them, being in grace
And fruitful riches of it so entire;
All which set all his force on envious fire.
All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames,
Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames,
Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with ease
Hermes could calm them, and his humours please.
Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so great
In force and fortitude, and high in heat,
In all which he his lute took, and assay’d
A song upon him, and so strangely play’d,
That from his hand a ravishing horror flew.
Which Phœbus into laughter turn’d, and grew
Pleasant past measure; tunes so artful clear
Strook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear.
His lute so powerful was in forcing love,
As his hand rul’d it, that from him it drove
All fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him still
The upper hand; and, to advance his skill
To utmost miracle, he play’d sometimes
Single awhile; in which, when all the climes
Of rapture he had reach’d, to make the Sun
Admire enough, O then his voice would run
Such points upon his play, and did so move,
They took Apollo prisoner to his love.
And now the deathless Gods and deathful Earth
He sung, beginning at their either’s birth
To full extent of all their empery.
And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne,
The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess states
He gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates.
And then (as it did in priority fall
Of age and birth) he celebrated all.
And with such elegance and order sung
(His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue)
That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat.
Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat:
“Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast!
Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest,
That all things thou canst do in anyone!
Worth fifty oxen is th’ invention
Of this one lute. We both shall now, I hope,
In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope.
Inform me (thou that every way canst wind,
And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind)
Together with thy birth came all thy skill?
Or did some God, or God-like man, instill
This heavenly song to thee? Methink I hear
A new voice, such as never yet came near
The breast of any, either man or God,
Till in thee it had prime and period.
What art, what Muse that med’cine can produce
For cares most cureless, what inveterate use
Or practice of a virtue so profuse
(Which three do all the contribution keep
That Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.)
Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all?
I of the Muses am the capital
Consort, or follower; and to these belong
The grace of dance, all worthy ways of song,
And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate set
And sound of instruments. But never yet
Did anything so much affect my mind
With joy and care to compass, as this kind
Of song and play, that for the spritely feast
Of flourishing assemblies are the best
And aptest works that ever worth gave act.
My powers with admiration stand distract,
To hear with what a hand to make in love
Thou rul’st thy lute. And (though thy yong’st hours move
At full art in old councils) here I vow
(Even by this cornel dart I use to throw)
To thee, and to thy mother, I’ll make thee
Amongst the Gods of glorious degree,
Guide of men’s ways and theirs; and will impart
To thee the mighty imperatory art,
Bestow rich gifts on thee, and in the end
Never deceive thee.” Hermes (as a friend
That wrought on all advantage, and made gain
His capital object) thus did entertain
Phœbus Apollo: “Do thy dignities,
Far-working God and circularly wise,
Demand my virtues? Without envy I
Will teach thee to ascend my faculty.
And this day thou shalt reach it; finding me,
In acts and counsels, all ways kind to thee,
As one that all things knows, and first tak’st seat
Amongst th’ Immortals, being good and great,
And therefore to Jove’s love mak’st free access,
Even out of his accomplisht holiness.
Great gifts he likewise gives thee; who, fame says,
Hast won thy greatness by his will, his ways,
By him know’st all the powers prophetical,
O thou far-worker, and the fates of all!
Yea, and I know thee rich, yet apt to learn,
And even thy wish dost but discern and earn.
And since thy soul so burns to know the way
So play and sing as I do, sing, and play;
Play, and perfection in thy play employ;
And be thy care, to learn things good, thy joy.
Take thou my lute (my love) and give thou me
The glory of so great a faculty.
This sweet-tuned consort, held but in thy hand,
Sing, and perfection in thy song command.
For thou already hast the way to speak
Fairly and elegantly, and to break
All eloquence into thy utter’d mind.
One gift from heaven found may another find.
Use then securely this thy gift, and go
To feasts and dances that enamour so,
And to that covetous sport of getting glory,
That day nor night will suffer to be sory.
Whoever does but say in verse, sings still;
Which he that can of any other skill
Is capable, so he be taught by art
And wisdom, and can speak at every part
Things pleasing to an understanding mind;
And such a one that seeks this lute shall find.
Him still it teaches eas’ly, though he plays
Soft voluntaries only, and assays
As wanton as the sports of children are,
And (even when he aspires to singular
In all the mast’ries he shall play or sing)
Finds the whole work but an unhappy thing,
He, I say, sure shall of this lute be king.
But he, whoever rudely sets upon
Of this lute’s skill th’ inquest or question
Never so ardently and angrily,
Without the aptness and ability
Of art, and nature fitting, never shall
Aspire to this, but utter trivial
And idle accents, though sung ne’er so loud,
And never so commended of the crowd.
But thee I know, O eminent Son of Jove,
The fiery learner of whatever Love
Hath sharpen’d thy affections to achieve,
And thee I give this lute. Let us now live
Feeding upon the hill and horse-fed earth
Our never-handled oxen; whose dear birth
Their females, fellow’d with their males, let flow
In store enough hereafter; nor must you
(However cunning-hearted your wits are)
Boil in your gall a grudge too circular.”
Thus gave he him his lute, which he embrac’d,
And gave again a goad, whose bright head cast
Beams like the light forth; leaving to his care
His oxen’s keeping. Which, with joyful fare,
He took on him. The lute Apollo took
Into his left hand, and aloft he shook
Delightsome sounds up, to which God did sing.
Then were the oxen to their endless spring
Turn’d; and Jove’s two illustrous Offsprings flew
Up to Olympus where it ever snew,
Delighted with their lute’s sound all the way.
Whom Jove much joy’d to see, and endless stay
Gave to their knot of friendship. From which date
Hermes gave Phœbus an eternal state
In his affection, whose sure pledge and sign
His lute was, and the doctrine so divine
Jointly conferr’d on him; which well might be
True symbol of his love’s simplicity.
On th’ other part, Apollo in his friend
Form’d th’ art of wisdom, to the binding end
Of his vow’d friendship; and (for further meed)
Gave him the far-heard fistulary reed.
For all these forms of friendship, Phœbus yet
Fear’d that both form and substance were not met
In Mercury’s intentions; and, in plain,
Said (since he saw him born to craft and gain,
And that Jove’s will had him the honour done
To change at his will the possession
Of others’ goods) he fear’d his breach of vows
In stealing both his lute and cunning bows,
And therefore wish’d that what the Gods affect
Himself would witness, and to his request
His head bow, swearing by th’ impetuous flood
Of Styx that of his whole possessions not a good
He would diminish, but therein maintain
The full content in which his mind did reign.
And then did Maia’s son his forehead bow,
Making, by all that he desired, his vow
Never to prey more upon anything
In just possession of the far-shot King,
Nor ever to come near a house of his.
Latonian Phœbus bow’d his brow to this,
With his like promise, saying: “Not anyone
Of all the Gods, nor any man, that son
Is to Saturnius, is more dear to me,
More trusted, nor more honour’d is than thee.
Which yet with greater gifts of Deity
In future I’ll confirm, and give thy state
A rod that riches shall accumulate,
Nor leave the bearer thrall to death, or fate,
Or any sickness. All of gold it is,
Three-leaved, and full of all felicities.
And, this shall be thy guardian, this shall give
The Gods to thee in all the truth they live,
And, finally, shall this the tut’ress be
Of all the words and works informing me
From Jove’s high counsels, making known to thee
All my instructions. But to prophesy,
Of best of Jove’s beloved, and that high skill
Which to obtain lies burning in thy will,
Nor thee, nor any God, will Fate let learn.
Only Jove’s mind hath insight to discern
What that importeth; yet am I allow’d
(My known faith trusted, and my forehead bow’d,
Our great oath taken, to resolve to none
Of all th’ Immortals the restriction
Of that deep knowledge) of it all the mind.
Since then it sits in such fast bounds confin’d,
O brother, when the golden rod is held
In thy strong hand, seek not to have reveal’d
Any sure fate that Jove will have conceal’d.
For no man shall, by know’ng, prevent his fate;
And therefore will I hold in my free state
The pow’r to hurt and help what man I will,
Of all the greatest, or least touch’d with ill,
That walk within the circle of mine eye,
In all the tribes and sexes it shall try.
Yet, truly, any man shall have his will
To reap the fruits of my prophetic skill,
Whoever seeks it by the voice or wing
Of birds, born truly such events to sing.
Nor will I falsely, nor with fallacies,
Infringe the truth on which his faith relies,
But he that truths in chattering plumes would find,
Quite opposite to them that prompt my mind,
And learn by natural forgers of vain lies
The more-than-ever-certain Deities,
That man shall sea-ways tread that leave no tracts,
And false or no guide find for all his facts.
And yet will I his gifts accept as well
As his to whom the simple truth I tell.
One other thing to thee I’ll yet make known,
Maia’s exceedingly renowned son,
And Jove’s, and of the Gods’ whole session
The most ingenious genius: There dwell
Within a crooked cranny, in a dell
Beneath Parnassus, certain Sisters born,
Call’d Parcæ, whom extreme swift wings adorn,
Their number three, that have upon their heads
White barley-flour still sprinkled, and are maids;
And these are schoolmistresses of things to come,
Without the gift of prophecy. Of whom
(Being but a boy, and keeping oxen near)
I learn’d their skill, though my great Father were
Careless of it, or them. These flying from home
To others’ roofs, and fed with honeycomb,
Command all skill, and (being enraged then)
Will freely tell the truths of things to men.
But if they give them not that Gods’ sweet meat,
They then are apt to utter their deceit,
And lead men from their way. And these will I
Give thee hereafter, when their scrutiny
And truth thou hast both made and learn’d; and then
Please thyself with them, and the race of men
(Wilt thou know any) with thy skill endear,
Who will, be sure, afford it greedy ear,
And hear it often if it prove sincere.
Take these, O Maia’s son, and in thy care
Be horse and oxen, all such men as are
Patient of labour, lions, white-tooth’d boars,
Mastiffs, and flocks that feed the flow’ry shores,
And every four-foot beast; all which shall stand
In awe of thy high imperatory hand.
Be thou to Dis, too, sole Ambassador,
Who, though all gifts and bounties he abhor,
On thee he will bestow a wealthy one.”
Thus king Apollo honour’d Maia’s son
With all the rites of friendship; all whose love
Had imposition from the will of Jove.
And thus with Gods and mortals Hermes lived,
Who truly help’d but few, but all deceived
With an undifferencing respect, and made
Vain words and false persuasions his trade.
His deeds were all associates of the night,
In which his close wrongs cared for no man’s right.
So all salutes to Hermes that are due,
Of whom, and all Gods, shall my Muse sing true.