By the invention of Phoebus, medicine became known to the world, as he
granted to Aesculapius the secrets of this miraculous art, who afterwards
sought to raise the dead, and while in the act of bringing {36} to life
Hippolitus, son of Theseus, Jupiter enraged with his impiety, smote him
with a thunderbolt. Indignant at the punishment which had been awarded
Aesculapius, Apollo sought the isle of Lemnos, to immolate the Cyclops to
his indignation, who had forged the thunderbolt.
[Illustration]
But so insolent an act could not remain unpunished, and Jupiter exiled him
from Heaven. While on earth, he loved the nymph Daphne, and Mercury who had
invented the lyre, gave it to him that he might the more effectually give
vent to his passion. This lyre, was formed of the shell of a tortoise, and
composed of seven cords, while to its harmonious tones were raised the
walls of Troy. In vain, however, were the sweet sounds of the lyre tuned,
to soften Daphne whose affection rested with another, and was insensible to
that of Apollo, though he pursued her with fervour for a year. Daphne,
still inexorable, was compelled to yield to the fatigue which oppressed
her, when the Gods, at her entreaty, changed her into a laurel. Apollo took
a branch and formed it into a crown, and to this day the laurel remains one
of the attributes of the God. The leaves of this tree are believed to
possess the property of preserving from thunder, and of making dreams an
image of reality to those who place it beneath their pillow.
--------------------"Her feet she found
Benumbed with cold, and fastened to the ground,
A filmy rind about her body grows,
Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs,
{37}
The nymph is all into a laurel gone,
The smoothness of her skin remains alone;
To whom the God: "Because thou canst not be
My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree;
Be thou the prize of honour and renown,
The deathless poet and the poem crown!
Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,
And after poets, be by victors worn!
Thou shalt returning Caesar's triumph grace,
When pomp shall in a long procession pass;
Wreathed on the posts before his palace wait,
And be the sacred guardian of the gate;
Secure from thunder and unharmed by Jove,
Unfading as the immortal powers above;
And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn
So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn."