CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS
Ceyx was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without
violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
daughter of Aeolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him.
Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and
direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as
if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best, therefore, to
make a voyage to Carlos in Ionia, to consult the oracle of Apollo.
But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife Halcyone, a
shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew deadly pale.
"What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned your affection
from me? Where is that love of me that used to be uppermost in
your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the absence of
Halcyone? Would you rather have me away?" She also endeavored to
discourage him, by describing the violence of the winds, which she
had known familiarly when she lived at home in her father's
house,--Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having as much as
he could do to restrain them. "They rush together," said she,
"with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict. But if you
must go," she added, "dear husband, let me go with you, otherwise
I shall suffer not only the real evils which you must encounter,
but those also which my fears suggest."
These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it was
no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could
not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered,
therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with
these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star,
that if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have
twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken, he ordered the
vessel to be drawn out of the shiphouse, and the oars and sails to
be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations she shuddered,
as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and sobs she said
farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground.
Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and
measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw her
husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She answered
his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she could no
longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the vessel itself
could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last
glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared. Then, retiring to
her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch.
Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among
the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails.
When half or less of their course was passed, as night drew on,
the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind to
blow a gale. The master gave the word to take in sail, but the
storm forbade obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and
waves his orders are unheard. The men, of their own accord, busy
themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the ship, to reef the
sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm
increases. The shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds,
and the dashing of the waves, mingle with the roar of the thunder.
The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its
foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the
color of the shoal--a Stygian blackness.
The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild beast
that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents,
as if the skies were coming down to unite with the sea. When the
lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add its own
darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the
darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare. Skill fails,
courage sinks, and death seems to come on every wave. The men are
stupefied with terror. The thought of parents, and kindred, and
pledges left at home, comes over their minds. Ceyx thinks of
Halcyone. No name but hers is on his lips, and while he yearns for
her, he yet rejoices in her absence. Presently the mast is
shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken, and the
triumphant surge curling over looks down upon, the wreck, then
falls, and crushes it to fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by
the stroke, sink, and rise no more; others cling to fragments of
the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp the sceptre,
holds fast to a plank, calling for help,--alas, in vain,--upon his
father and his father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the
name of Halcyone. To her his thoughts cling. He prays that the
waves may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive
burial at her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he
sinks. The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not
leave the heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.
In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted
the days till her husband's promised return. Now she gets ready
the garments which he shall put on, and now what she shall wear
when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent incense, but
more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no more, she
prayed incessantly: that he might be safe; that he might come
home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one that he would
love better than her. But of all these prayers, the last was the
only one destined to be granted. The goddess, at length, could not
bear any longer to be pleaded with for one already dead, and to
have hands raised to her altars that ought rather to be offering
funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said, "Iris, my faithful
messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to
send a vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to make known to
her the event."
Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with
her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the Cimmerian
country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god Somnus. Here
Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday, or setting.
Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light
glimmers faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested head, never
there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor more sagacious
goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch
moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the
stillness. Silence reigns there; but from the bottom of the rock
the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies
grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other herbs, from
whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters over the
darkened earth. There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on its
hinges, nor any watchman; but in the midst a couch of black ebony,
adorned with black plumes and black curtains. There the god
reclines, his limbs relaxed with 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.
As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that
hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god,
scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard upon
his breast, at last shook himself free from himself, and leaning
on his arm, inquired her errand,--for he knew who she was. She
answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds
and soother of care-worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that
you despatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of Trachine,
representing her lost husband and all the events of the wreck."
Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not
longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness
creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow
the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons,--
Morpheus,--the most expert in counterfeiting forms, and in
imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even
the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But he only
imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds, beasts,
and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who
turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things without
life. These wait upon kings and great personages in their sleeping
hours, while others move among the common people. Somnus chose,
from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of Iris;
then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful
repose.
Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to
the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the
form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he
stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed
soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.
Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do
you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much
changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's shade,
instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me nothing. I
am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my return.
The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea, waves filled my
mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain messenger tells
you this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears. I come in person,
a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise! give me tears, give
me lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept." To these
words Morpheus added the voice, which seemed to be that of her
husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine tears; his hands had the
gestures of Ceyx.
Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her
sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air.
"Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? let us go together." Her
own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, to
see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her
cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she smote her
breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind her hair,
but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause of her
grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers, "she perished with her
Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead. I
have seen him, I have recognized him. I stretched out my hands to
seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it was the true
shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed features, not with
the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet
with sea-water, he appeared to wretched me. Here, in this very
spot, the sad vision stood,"--and she looked to find the mark of
his footsteps. "This it was, this that my presaging mind
foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me, to trust himself
to the waves. Oh, how I wish, since thou wouldst go, thou hadst
taken me with thee! It would have been far better. Then I should
have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a separate
death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to endure, I
should be more cruel to myself than the sea has been to me. But I
will not struggle, I will not be separated from thee, unhappy
husband. This time, at least, I will keep thee company. In death,
if one tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not
lay my ashes with thine, my name, at least, shall not be
separated." Her grief forbade more words, and these were broken
with tears and sobs.
It was now morning. She went to the seashore, and sought the spot
where she last saw him, on his departure. "While he lingered here,
and cast off his tacklings, he gave me his last kiss." While she
reviews every object, and strives to recall every incident,
looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object
floating in the water. At first she was in doubt what it was, but
by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and it was plainly the body
of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of some
shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears,
saying, "Alas! unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy
wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more
nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it
approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It is
her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she
exclaims, "O dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?"
There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break
the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped
upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so) she flew,
and striking the air with wings produced on the instant, skimmed
along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her
throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of
one lamenting. When she touched the mute and bloodless body, she
enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-formed wings, and tried to
give kisses with her horny beak. Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether
it was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted,
but the body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he did feel it,
and by the pitying gods both of them were changed into birds. They
mate and have their young ones. For seven placid days, in winter
time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea.
Then the way is safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds and keeps
them from disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time,
to his grandchildren.
The following lines from Byron's "Bride of Abydos" might seem
borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were
not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing
the motion of a floating corpse:
"As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow,
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levelled with the wave ..."
Milton in his "Hymn on the Nativity," thus alludes to the fable of
the Halcyon:
"But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth began;
The winds with wonder whist
Smoothly the waters kist
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."
Keats, also, in "Endymion," says:
"O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hushed and smooth."